Warning: Violence/Gore (duh, it's the hunger games)
Clarke gripped the knife so hard in her fist that her fingers ached. The blade was smaller than those that her allies had hoarded, but it was just as deadly. It could kill a man twice her size if she knew where to stick it. And Clarke did know, it was a skill she had learnt just days previous, a horrible skill, but a skill nonetheless. But when the time had come to test that skill, she had faltered, failed.
The boy couldn't have been more than fifteen, and he was no stronger than she was, a lifetime of malnourishment had seen to that. By all logical reasons, she should have been able to overpower him, or at least fight back successfully until she could sink that little blade into its mark. But she hadn't, couldn't.
Instead, she had stumbled as he advanced on her and the earth had come up to meet her back with a surprising force, knocking the breath from her lungs. He was not a menacing boy, he was thin and bony with a sunken face for one so young and fear in his wide eyes. The only menacing thing about him was the weapon in his hand; a long, flat blade that was too heavy for his grasp and could've taken Clarke's head clean off if he'd swung it right.
Laying on her back on the ground, her mouth open and her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, she had lifted her arms above her head; a feeble shield against the impending blow. But all that touched her arms was a spray of dark blood as the boy sank to his knees and Wells stood over him, a sword dripping with gore and a grimace on his face.
He stood beside her now with the same grimace playing at his features as he and Clarke watched the dead boy's face flicker in the sky above them. His hand hovered awkwardly beside hers, seeking her grasp, but Clarke's fingers were wound round the weapon, too tight to let go.
His hand twitched slightly, so that the back of their palms brushed and Clarke sighed as the boy from Ten's face glimmered its last and disappeared, replaced by a skinny girl with curly hair from Eleven. Then she too was gone, leaving only night sky above them.
"He was going to kill you," Wells's voice broke the silence and Clarke turned to face him. His dark eyes glittered as they reflected artificial stars, but there was no natural light behind them, none of his usual happy glow. He was a hollow shell of the Wells she knew, loved. And she supposed she was the same. It's only the first day, how are we going to survive this place?
"I did what I had to do, to keep you alive," Wells continued; a hint of urgency to his voice. He wants my approval, Clarke bit her lip, he wants me to tell him it's okay. But she couldn't do it, he had killed someone. It was stupid, she knew, she would kill in the coming days if she wasn't killed first. He had done it to protect her! He's trying to save us, you stupid girl! Clarke cursed herself internally as she swallowed painfully.
"I know," she eventually decided on. It wasn't enough, that much was clear on his face, but he let it go.
"Oi, love birds, quit making out and give us a hand!" Russell's rude shout prevented her from saying more even if she'd wanted to. The stocky built boy gave them a leering stare as if he had caught them in intimate acts, when in fact they were stood almost a foot apart, a heavy silence between them, carrying the weight of the dead boy that Wells had killed.
"Clarke, go see what's left in the Cornucopia will you?" Atom tacked on the end as he walked past her, clapping her on the shoulder in an act she supposed was meant to be comforting. All it did was make her frown, but she did as she was told anyway.
The Careers had begun their murdering spree as soon as the claxon sounded with the aim of gaining the Cornucopia as a safe camp and all the supplies it promised. Some of the tributes had fought back as they battled to reach the supplies first; some of them had even succeeded in their escape, carrying a knife or a blanket or an apple, but most had been cut down and left to bleed out on the earth. Clarke had seen it all around her and frozen.
She thought she had prepared herself for the horror the games would be, but every new dawn took another turn and left her breathless with fear no matter how much she had planned or pepped herself up. At least checking the Cornucopia would be an easy job, she didn't suppose the dried fruit was going to jump out at her with a knife.
Her allies had already grabbed most of the weapons and divided them up, they had done so as soon as the bloodbath was done and the bodies were picked up by hovercrafts until only smears of blood remained to show that they were ever there in the first place. That, along with the image of them burned onto Clarke's retinas.
Clarke had ended up with a collection of knives when the weapons were sorted; she had also claimed a small backpack which was still resting on her shoulders. She didn't want to take it off; that was her life in that bag, hers and Wells's life should they make the move to escape, break off from the Careers. It was something they had discussed before the arena, an idea that had formed before they were thrown into the nightmarish mess of the games, but it was something Clarke was stuck on. They would have to stay with the others a while of course, until they had figured out a plan, a way to break free. But Clarke already had some food, some water purification tablets, a coil of rope and a blanket stuffed into her backpack. At her hip was a smaller pack, filled with all the medicines she could find and two delicate syringes. They were decidedly unhelpful, as there was nothing to fill them with, but she took them anyway. Perhaps some Capitol sponsor would send her the medicine required if she or Wells fell ill.
She was glad Atom had given her the task of searching the Cornucopia once more; it would give her the chance to hoard anything useful before the others even knew it was there.
It was cold beneath the metal of the Cornucopia and dark, Clarke had to feel her way around crates and boxes with her fingertips. Outside, she could hear the others laughing, taunting one another as they set about building a fire. She hoped they weren't being too hard on Wells. Inside, there was only her breathing, soft and shallow, and the rasp of wood and metal as she moved things around.
There was decidedly less than she had hoped, the good stuff had already been taken, put to use or hidden in a bag or trouser leg. The majority of what was left was empty packaging, extra spearheads or arrows, or small pouches of food. They could be useful, Clarke was no hunter, she could tell if a berry was food or medicine or poison, but they would need meat to survive too. She scooped up the little packet and rearranged her backpack so that she could slip it inside without fully removing the bag from her body. The zip was fitting back into its lock when something caught her eye. Was that...? Clarke stopped short, the sound of her rustling and breathing dissipating into silence. Only it wasn't silent.
Quick, rasping breaths filled the air and Clarke swallowed, releasing her own breath in a huff. Her heart began to pound as she struggled to see the shape through the half-darkness, but now she had seen it, she couldn't go back to pretending she hadn't.
Ahead of her, at the very end of the Cornucopia, there was a large box; the largest of them all, it had contained nets of fruit and vegetables when it was full, but the Careers had emptied it quick enough. They hadn't thought to move the box though, why would they? What should it matter how big it was, that it was big enough for someone to hide behind should they want? Who would be stupid enough to hide right in the middle of the Career's camp? Clarke gripped her knife, about to find out, for peeking past the corner of the box, almost invisible in the darkness, was a shoe.
She could still run to the others, call for help, turn back. But she didn't. Whoever's hiding behind a box is no threat to me, she thought, suddenly bold as she flexed her fingers around the knife, holding it out in front of her as she edged forward.
Her heart skipped as she approached, wondering which tribute was about to meet their end at her hands, or end her. It was possible they had a weapon of their own, but Clarke didn't deem it likely; the Careers had cleared out all the weapons and anyone who had swiped one beforehand would be long gone by now. It didn't calm the furious beat of her heart, though.
For a wild second, she wondered if it were Bellamy, District Twelve's angry male tribute, but she brushed it aside. He wouldn't have left his tiny counterpart, and they couldn't both fit behind there.
She was only steps away when the shoe pulled back an inch. She lunged forward, thrashing her knife arm out wildly. She wouldn't freeze this time, she couldn't.
The blade snagged on flesh as she tumbled forward and the tribute grunted in pain, throwing his arms up in front of his face. Clarke gripped his wrist with her free hand, dragging it sharply downward, and holding the knife close to his face.
It was the boy from Three, his mouth twisted and dark eyes shining with fear. Clarke was so close she could feel his breath on her cheeks, see the blood beading on his thigh where she had cut through cloth and skin.
"Please," The boy whispered, and Clarke flinched, twisting the fingers that held his arm. "Do it quickly then. I don't want them to see anything bad," For a moment, Clarke thought he meant the other Careers, but pain stabbed at her chest when she realised the boy wasn't referring to anyone in the arena, but rather the people watching the screens, any family he might have back home. He didn't want them to see him face a gory death.
Her breathing came hard and fast and she could feel her eyes widening. She wondered if she looked insane – she felt it. The knife trembled in her fist and the boy risked dragging his eyes from hers to look at the weapon.
"Clarke," The Adam's apple in his throat bobbed and Clarke's breath caught in her throat.
"You know my name?" She pulled the knife back a centimetre, her grip relaxing. Don't, don't, keep your guard up. But the boy wouldn't hurt her, she was sure of that. Almost sure.
"I know all their names," He replied slowly. She could almost see the cogs working in his mind as he wondered how to buy himself more time, an escape. His eyes flickered back and forth across her face, as dark and shiny as his hair as he licked his lips lightly.
"I don't know yours," Clarke confessed out loud, she didn't know why. She should kill him, no need to converse with the boy, kill him, kill him! But she couldn't, she knew it, the boy knew it. She could see the fear leaving his eyes at the realisation. She wasn't one of them, a career, not really.
"It's Monty," He licked his lips again, a nervous habit, Clarke thought, as she bit at her own. "Are you going to kill me now, Clarke?" He was teasing her, but his voice shook lightly, a reminder that he wasn't quite safe.
Clarke pushed the knife against his skin lightly, but her throat tightened at the movement. She didn't have to kill him, did she? She could use him; he was from District Three, where they dealt with electronics and technology. He must be smart. Three was better than two, wasn't it? Her mind was hurriedly making up images of adding Monty to her alliance when she and Wells left the Careers. He could help them, they could help each other.
He couldn't have been older than her, maybe even a year younger. Monty. He had a name, he was a person, he had a family; a life. A life that she couldn't take away. I'm weak, Clarke knew, I'm weak, and it will get me killed. But she lowered her knife arm anyway.
"Are you going to attack me if I let you go?" She asked. Monty shook his head and Clarke nodded, moving away. "I'll distract them," She lowered her voice to a murmur, "You'll have to run for it, okay?" Monty nodded his assent.
Clarke stood, tucking the knife into her waistband.
"Clarke?" A female voice drew Clarke's head up sharply. Standing a few foot away, net clasped in one hand and spear in the other, with her eyes narrowed and lips pursed, was Anna. "Clarke... who's that?"
"No you can't!" Clarke struggled against the thick arms that held her back as she yelled. "He hasn't done anything; let him go, let him go!" Her voice was hoarse from shouting, but it did no use. Illuminated by the glow of the fire, a grim scene was panning out before her.
The Careers were huddled around the fire, variant expressions on their faces as Monty knelt before them. Anna stood with a sneer playing at her thin lips the other side of the flames as June shoved Monty in the back, so hard that he toppled forward, his face meeting the earth. They had tied his hands behind his back so he couldn't even stop his fall. Atom was biting the inside of his cheek, but did nothing. Russell was a hulking shadow with eyes that glinted in the firelight, like the blade he swung back and forth, so lazily it might have been a toy. Wells's face was hidden from her, for his arms were locked around her waist, holding her back. And she hated him for it.
When Anna had come across Clarke and Monty in the Cornucopia she had screamed, high pitched and loud until the others had come running, and dragged Monty outside, Clarke running behind. June had even gone so far as to congratulate Clarke on her find, her snubbed nose wrinkling when she smiled. But that was short lived, once the Careers discovered what Clarke's real intentions were, June's face had turned to a snarl.
At first Wells had defended Monty too.
"Let him go, he's no threat, he's not going to come back," He had said, but his reason was cut through by cries for the boy's blood. Now, his arms tightened around Clarke's middle and his lips pressed against her ear.
"Clarke, you can't save everyone. You'll get us killed," His thumb brushed against her arm in a quiet affection as Clarke stopped her thrashing. "I can't lose you," She felt him swallow; "I'm sorry," Clarke gritted her teeth to prevent a sob from spilling out.
"Please," She bleated, as she looked between her allies and the boy on the floor, struggling to get up, to die with dignity. "You don't have to do this,"
"Yes we do, Princess," Russell grinned at her and Clarke tasted bile. He wasn't the first to use that name. Princess, it's a term of endearment, a man's voice filled her mind, can't you feel the love between us? Clarke's body began to tremble. He couldn't use that name, not him, not like this. Murderer, she wanted to scream. But they would all be murderers by the end. The boy clutching her was a murderer, sweet, kind, brave Wells. A killer. She loved a killer. Her best friend was a killer.
It's different, she argued with her thoughts, he was protecting me, this is different.
In front of her, Monty had struggled to his knees once more, meeting her eyes through the dancing flames. They were dark and unreadable, but to Clarke, they screamed hatred. You did this, they said, you did this. And she believed them.
"Don't look," Wells's deep voice warned her as he turned her body easily and Clarke's face fitted into the groove of his neck, the way it had always done when she was sad or afraid.
"Any last words, Three?" Russell's voice taunted and the girls laughed in mockery.
Monty said something that Clarke couldn't hear, but she could hear the next sound as clear as anything. She'd be hearing it the rest of her life. The swoosh of a blade and the thud that followed it as something hit the ground.
Wells's body convulsed and he tightened his grip on her.
"Don't look, don't look. Come on," He began pulling her away. "Don't look," But she couldn't help it, she had to, had to.
The view was marred by strands of golden hair and crimson flames, but there was no mistaking the sight; the boy's body was slumped on the ground staining the earth, as blood gushed from a wound where his head used to be.
The corner of a crate dug into Clarke's back, the pain between her shoulder blades intended to keep her awake. She didn't need it; she didn't think she would ever be able to sleep again. Her eyes stung with tears that wouldn't fall and her lip was bitten raw. It would be her fingernails next.
It had been easy for her to take the first watch; sleep would never find her in this state. It wasn't easy taking the watch with Atom who sat stiffly by her side, picking at calluses on his hands. You stood by and watched, Clarke wanted to growl, you're as evil as they are. Monty's body was long gone, carried away by hovercraft, but Clarke could still see it. Her eyes kept being drawn back to the spot where it had lain and the others that lay sleeping around it.
"I'm sorry about your friend," Atom finally spoke, his voice breaking in the middle. Clarke looked at him through narrowed eyes.
"He wasn't my friend," She sighed, pushing her hair back from her face as she thought about Monty's family mourning him. Did they appreciate her efforts to save him? Or did they hate her for standing by when it counted? They were selfish thoughts. Clarke certainly felt selfish. She wanted to scream and run and burst into tears at the boy's death. But it was all wrong; she should cry for his family who have to carry on without him, she should cry because he lost his chance at life. But that wasn't the reason. Clarke wanted to cry because something terrible had happened and she had seen it, and the thought had her frowning at her lap. "I didn't even know his name until today,"
"Oh," Was all Atom said in reply. There was a long silence that could've been minutes or several hours, Clarke didn't know. She watched the bodies of the others rise and fall in their sleep. Anna tossed and turned and whimpered into her blanket. Good, Clarke thought icily, she hoped the girl was dreaming of Monty, of what had happened to him, what she had let happen. Atom frowned as he watched his district partner thrash in her nightmares, but he did nothing.
"Did you know her before?" Clarke said softly, as the pair watched the girl.
"No," Atom's voice was like a stone through the quiet, "I didn't." Clarke wondered if he would cry when Anna was dead, and what the reason would be. Did he care for the girl? Or was she just a comfort? Just a little piece of home?
"They don't trust you, you know. Especially not now, not after you defended the boy," Atom spoke quietly, turning to look at her, his usually grinning face turned grey and serious. He seemed to have aged ten years in a day.
"He didn't deserve to die," Clarke retorted.
"None of us do," Atom picked up a stick and began twirling it in his fingers. "But here we are," Clarke looked at the hulking forms of District Two's tributes, of Anna curled up in a ball, and didn't agree. They're just children, all of us are, a compassionate girl within her spoke, they're doing what they have to do to survive, just like you. But it was hard to see that with the picture of Monty's body still burning her eyes.
"Here we are," She agreed drearily. She looked at Wells, lying at her feet. His face was young in sleep, innocent. He's killed today, Clarke knew, and yet she couldn't hate him for it. Because as she watched him lying there, his shoulders rising and falling with gentle breaths and his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he dreamt, she knew why. Clarke wasn't a killer, she wasn't even a career, but the people you are, and the people you need to be to survive are not always the same and even good people can do bad things.
And Clarke knew then, that if one of her 'allies' or anyone else turned on sweet, kind, brave Wells. Her Wells. She wouldn't hesitate to save him.
We need to get away from here, Wells. Clarke sighed at his sleeping form. We need to get away soon, but how?
A/N *evil laughter* Sorry this story is turning out to be so sad, but really, with a Hunger Games AU, it's bound to be. Thanks so much for all your support, it's so lovely to hear your comments. I hope you liked this chapter! - J x