Hello, everyone! I have some definite apologies to make regarding this fic: First, sorry that it has taken so unbelievably long for me to update this chapter...if it can be called that. The best excuse I can offer is...well...college :/ I have been completely swamped all semester...but that's okay! Somehow I managed to squeeze in a bit of writing this weekend, which brings us to the pitiable chapter before you. I know it's short, and not much happens, but I felt the need to go ahead and post it, just so you knew I hadn't abandoned this fic...and to help me get over my writer's block. Forget 13, I'm pretty sure 17 is the unlucky number, here...
Anyway, that's enough of my groveling ;) Enjoy the chapter, for what it's worth!
Downs
Sound rushes back slowly, as though trickling somehow at full volume, and my body launches itself from the pedestal without needing to be commanded by my brain. I fly over the grass, hardly even able to register that I've started moving, and it's hard to tell if my body reverberates with the thud of my feet on the grass, or the pounding of my heart. One way or another, I seem to have suddenly developed selective tunnel-vision; the tributes around me, all converging on my own destination, have come forward in vivid contrast to the green blur of everything else. Nevertheless, even their pinpoints in my awareness dim compared to my focus on the cornucopia—no, on that black pack, maybe ten feet in front of me. Seven, now…
The pack is within reach. If my brain had caught up with the rapid-fire stream of motion, I would have marveled at the life still flowing through my veins. I'm already farther than I truly anticipated getting, if I'm honest with myself. But if my brain really had caught up, it would have counted its chickens too early, because just as I reach a hand out to snag a strap of the backpack, something is hurled full-force into me from the right. I am thrown sideways with a guttural scream of mixed alarm, terror and fury. Still reacting on instinct and an adrenaline spike, I push myself to my feet with a snarl, spin to face my attacker. The boy from District 7 looks positively petrified as he rises to his knees, having been knocked to the ground at our collision. For a moment we lock gazes, and I imagine my expression mirrors his: eyes round, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows hidden somewhere in the stratosphere of my forehead. Cowards. He's clutching an axe to his chest, though it looks far too heavy for him to lift, and I envy his good fortune at having snagged such a valuable weapon. The feeling quickly vanishes, however, as before my eyes his expression flips rapidly from terrified to shocked, to utterly blank. He falls forward, buries the axe in his own chest. A small knife protrudes from the middle of his back, between his shoulder blades. It's so deeply embedded that only the hilt is visible.
I stare at him for a long moment, frozen. The tips of my fingers tingle, and I've stopped in an awkward sort of half-crouch, so my legs begin to burn. Nevertheless, I remain utterly motionless, locked on the dead boy in front of me. I wonder how it is that he could be alive one moment—the same as me in every aspect, even the expression—and the next, lying face-down in the grass. My heart gives a fierce thump, and I've never been so grateful for adrenaline in my life as I abruptly stand, spin away from the…body. Somehow, accident has left me alive; and one tribute closer to staying that way. I shake the thought from my head, take off in a dead sprint toward the cornucopia. This trauma has cost me valuable time, and already most of the other tributes have converged on the brassy, towering monstrosity. After its rather obnoxious thunk, my heart seems to have completely disappeared from my ribcage, having taken a broken elevator down into my shoes. I notice in horror that almost half of the tributes are already dead—the ones left are either careers gathering around the cornucopia, in the throes of struggle or long gone. If I was an intelligent person, I would be firmly in the last group. Unfortunately, I find myself stuck awkwardly between the cornucopia and the tree line, glance desperately between the two indecisively even as my feet continue to carry me forward. Worse, the longer I deliberate, the slower my pace gets, the more tributes die and the more obvious it is that I'm still here. Great timing, Tobi…
My eyes land on the black pack—by some incomprehensible miracle, it's still there, and seems to taunt me from beyond the leftover chaos of the bloodbath. Finally, after what felt like eons but could have been no more than a few, fleeting seconds, I pick up speed, determinedly head for the pack. In the blurry portion of my vision beyond the pack, I catch something moving toward me at high speed, but adrenaline kicks in and I ignore it, intent on the pack. For the second time, I make a grab for the strap, feel the thick canvas condense in my hand and yank it triumphantly from its slightly indented patch of grass. I barely stop myself from whooping ecstatically as I swing the much heavier-than-expected pack onto my back—it would be just about right for me to draw attention and get killed right after snagging this treasure.
In a stroke of typical misfortune, however, my tactful silence proves in vain. It so happens that the flash of motion beyond the pack was none other than Clove, mean face buckling in vindictive determination as she brandishes a silver knife. If I continue on my current trajectory past the cornucopia, I'll run smack into her; so I slam on the emergency breaks and try to backpedal…with no success. I end up tripping over my own feet, landing on a combination of the pack and my tailbone. No land legs…my internal cynic sneers as I stare, terrified, at the approaching tank of Clove. For an agonizing instant, I am sure I'm going to die. And yet, when Clove at last, with a nearly evil grin, launches her knife, it's not me that she hits.
Another boy—I can't even remember his district—has somehow managed to run blindly between Clove and myself. I gape as he pitches forward with a muffled whimper, sure that I have just used up the last of my luck for the games. I gulp. How many knives can she have left? If I just dodge…sadly, the blooming strategy proves utterly pointless when I find that my knees are little more than jelly for the moment. I stare at them, aghast; all I have to do is clear the field, and they choose now to give out?! For a moment, sounds seem muted—a vague, twisting mesh of odd thumps and murmurs to match the swirling colors of my vision. Panic is kicking in…I'm going to die…
"Move!" I don't know who yells at that instant—a guy, definitely, with a deep, bass voice—regardless, it works like magic. Clove's eyes snap up, away from my face, find a new target more worthy than I, and I am able to spring to my feet. With a fleeting glance over my shoulder, I watch Katniss Everdeen catch Clove's knife in her bright orange pack, but afford no more time to observation as I jackrabbit back the way I came, away from the cornucopia and towards the relative safety of the trees.
I don't stop running. I can feel the stagnant air of the arena burning my lungs, catching at my throat. I would cough if I had the extra breath to do so, but as it is I merely choke on congealed saliva that pools on the back of my tongue and threatens to clog my windpipe. The trees seem to fade into a dull blur as I run, eyes shifting endlessly between unidentified points in an undefined spectrum, searching for any sign of enemy threat...or of water. For better or worse, neither appears, but I'm running out of steam. I risk a glance over my shoulder, nearly gag on my relief when I see that no one has followed me, and the cornucopia is long out of sight. Perhaps I can slow down, take a breath and assess the situation—
Wham.
Not again…I slam into something hard and distinctly human, and both of us are thrown back. I land painfully on my back, but waste no time before scrambling to my feet, sending dry leaves scattering in all directions. A few orange-red fragments remains clinging to my hair, hang in my face, and for a horrifying instant I image them as oddly dried chips of blood. I'd be toast if I got a head injury this early…
A shift in the leaves pulls my attention back to the present situation. Still on all fours I face my adversary: lean, olive-toned face, dark hair gathered into an intricate braid, grey eyes wild. I gulp, wonder with terror whether I really escaped the bloodbath just to be killed within the first ten minutes, anyway. Worse, I know all the cameras will be on the two of us right about now—or, rather, they'll all be on her, the girl on fire.
Katniss Everdeen.
See? Damn short...but at least I worked in a touch of drama! So now what? Who yelled at Tobi to move? Could it have been Cato? ;) And what will she do now that she's run into the girl on fire? How will Katniss react? Ugh, so many questions! Haha...let me know if you have ideas. Needless to say, the next chapter will need to be quite a bit more substantial than this one, so your input is exceedingly helpful!
~Downs