The Taste of Fear - the 60th Annual Hunger Games

by TheOtherLachance

SYOT. The scent of the pine leaves would mask the stench of blood; the lapping of the gentle waves upon the shoreline would cover the screams; unseen creatures would drag them under. But was the unknown truly worse than the inevitable, which faced them head on: Death himself twirling his scythe, a hourglass in hand? Let the Games begin.

11. The Bloodbath --- You've Got Time

Okay, guys, I'll put this in place as a warning to all of my younger readers. When I say younger, I mean under fourteen, since I know a lot of you are older than that and most likely able to stomach the things that're going to make this story mature. Now, don't get me wrong, there's going to be no blatant sex. Swearing's going to be pretty commonplace, although it won't be there just for the sake of it. Violence will be strong, there will be some psychological horror, and the whole thing may just make you paranoid enough to believe that Damien "Mr Glad" Wells is hiding under your bed.

Right now.

Ahah, I've also decided on a non-metal theme song for the Games. "You've Got Time" by Regina Spektor. I started watching Orange is the New Black and, ohmygod, I'm in love with Bennett. Hah, but seriously, that's the song.

The animals, the animals;

Are trapped, trapped, trapped till the cage is full;

The cage is full, stay awake;

In the dark, count mistakes;

The light was off, but now it's on;

Searching the ground for a bitter song;

The sun is out, the day is new;

And everyone's waiting, waiting on you-

BLOODBATH - PART 1 - SAY YOUR GOODBYES, READER.

HOUR 0800 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

"Good Morning, Tributes!" There was a deafening squeal of static, before the loudspeakers set up in all four corners of the shuttle snapped to life. The words spewed forth from them echoed around the metal walls, and several of the tributes winced at the volume. Having been woken up at what many of them viewed as an ungodly hour, most were foul-tempered enough without the threat of imminent death looming over their heads. One or two of the rowdier ones snarled and made noises of displeasure, and were prodded with the guns of the Peacekeepers stationed one to every four chairs for their trouble.

After another brief crackle as the shuttle struggled to find signal, the upbeat tones of Hunger Games announcer Cicero (his real name was unknown) began ringing out once more. He sounded far too excited. "Are we all ready for a big, big day?" While some of the tributes nervously replied, he didn't seem to be expecting an answer, because he cut most of them off before they could finish what they were going to say. "Great! As you all know, I will be announcing the Games, and letting you all know what's going on in your small world. Quick rules: when you get to the Arena, you will remain on your platform until I have finished counting down from sixty. Sound fair? Good. From there, you can run to the Cornucopia, or just skedaddle off without any supplies... But where's the fun in that?" Cicero laughed. A few of the tributes were beginning to get uncomfortable. "Well, you know what to do from there. Don't reckon it's up to me to tell you." His voice then lost some of its prior upbeatness, and became remarkably more sombre. "But before we get in there, I'd just like to let you all know that you are all winners to me, no matter how things turn out. So good luck, tributes, and may the odds be ever in your favour!"

There was a sound like a whining cat, and then the Panem National Anthem began to blare out. At the sound, all of the Peacekeepers raised their right hand to their forelock and saluted, gazing straight forward with stone cold expressions. Winner Sinclair raised his hand to salute too, a small grin playing on his lips, but his district partner Audrey Syrian irritably swatted his hand back down, earning herself a warning glower from the Peacekeeper nearest her.

The rest of the flight went undisturbed, with no more input from Cicero- he would be introducing the Early Morning Hunger Games Show, sat in his plush chair in a warm, safe studio many miles away- and the shuttle was becoming almost unbearably warm. It got hotter and hotter the further they went, until sweat began to drip down the tributes' faces; since their arms were strapped into their chairs to avoid escape attempts, they had no way to wipe themselves clean. Most stared at their feet, others looked at the ceiling, and some had the audacity to watch their opponents. The Careers lounged like royals on their metal chairs. They were kings amongst peasants, wolves amongst cattle. They had nothing to fear about the hours ahead.

Audrey Syrian was the only Career who was not reclining lazily. Her back was straight, she looked straight ahead with the military precision of the Peacekeepers around her. Stationed directly under one of the fierce blue lights of the shuttle, she appeared almost ghostly, and certainly unwell. Whether this was just an effect of the lights, nobody could tell. Next to her, Winner Sinclair seemed remarkably at ease with the situation. While his dark eyes did not linger on anybody for too long, he panned them over the tributes opposite him with the lazy yet predatorial look of a lounging cat. Korina Mawer, separated from them by a few filled seats, was almost unreadable. Beneath her shell, however, one might have spotted a barely noticeable tremble in her set jaw, or a wretchedness to her blank eyes. Damien Wells had none of that: he grinned cheerfully, same as ever. Derisive. Cruel. Empty. He eyed those around him, shot what appeared to be encouraging smiles at some of the younger assembled, even winked once at a female Peacekeeper, who cleared her throat uncomfortably. Rio Seymour and Exotica Scott shared a look of aboveness to the whole sitaution, from their place at the far end of the shuttle. While Rio seemed cool and unconcerned, Exotica was merely lofty, her eyes narrowed and her teeth clenched.

It was getting hotter still. Skylar Onset tilted her head to the side, and the droplet of sweat heading towards her dry lips was diverted from its path, and slipped down her neck. She shot a nervous glance around, and her eyes met those of Finley Quill, who had been gazing dreamily into space. Upon realising that they'd locked stares, Skylar offered a tiny yet apologetic smile, and Finley nodded rather brusquely at her. Despite the hardness of her expression, there was a gentle spark to her eyes that promised no true evil. They communicated silently, their faces saying it all.

"I'm scared."

"I'm scared too."

Beside her, Spectre Wishart was fixated on the loudspeakers in the corners, his mind whirring. How were they connected to the Capitol Radio Stations, he wondered? If the shuttle was in flight, surely signal would be difficult... His mind wandered momentarily to the thought of the Games, before he sent it snapping back to the technology. Things were easier that way. The fear pulsing through his every pore was enough to make him cry like an infant, and he couldn't have that. Better stick to the loudspeakers, he thought.

Nearest to the doors, Mim Fuze had her eyes shut, drifting between the realms of sleep and awake. She felt boneless, her mind practically numb, as she attempted to think of better things. She ran through the plan that she was almost certain would save her life, thinking of Lukas, and silently hating him. Lukas Bright was a chessmaster. She could use him for her own benefit, as long as he could use her too. They were locked in a battle of wits: he had the ideas, Mim had the smarts to put them to good use. Under heavy eyelids, she glared at him, seething silently.

Avien Featherling and Isabella Dennis sat side by side, their hands inches away from touching. He could have outstretched his hand to cover hers, to comfort her, but Avien most of all wanted to comfort himself. He wasn't ready to enter into a battle like this, where all he had would be put to the test. Killing someone was not in his nature, but natures would be changed here, he told himself, natures would be changed. If he emerged... what would he be? The normally optimistic Avien wallowed in his own misery for a few moments, before turning his head as far as it could go, and glancing at Isabella.

If anybody looked worse than he did, it was her. Her eyes were screwed tightly shut as she struggled to keep herself under control, and when Avien lowered his eyes a little, he could see that she was shivering. Her whole body went into occasional, barely noticeable spasms, as she desperately tried to keep a poker face. Isabella's fingers, long and fine-boned, drummed restlessly against her thin thighs.

Charlie Zion and Rowan Woods had managed to get seats together, carefully timing their arrivals the night previously. They'd discovered that they weren't the best team: Charlie was too blunt, and Rowan tended to dramatise things, her manipulation leaving much to be desired. But there was a strange, opposites-attract kind of liking there, that was beginning to blossom into friendship. Perhaps it would all end in tears, Charlie thought, as she took a doubtful glance at the snoozing girl in the seat next to her. Perhaps I'd have a better chance on my own. Lone wolf. But then again, she's alright. I think she'll be loyal. A good guard. But we can't be friends, not like this.

Close to where Finley Quill sat, were Marcus Delavega, Reel Autin and Nelson Mann. While they hadn't managed to scrape themselves seats next to their other alliance member, they'd arrived in perfect unison, and had been seated across from one another. Shooting one another encouraging looks every few minutes was comforting enough, so they left it at that. Their bond was not the strongest, and was certainly not one of friendship, but it was stable enough. They trusted one another.

Mason Maverick and Hiroko Ren had been sat near one another, much to their shared displeasure. While they both certainly remembered the conversation they'd shared on Training Scores day, and both seemed to have mixed reactions to it. Hiroko felt a repulsion towards him, feeling him to be unnatural for an Outer District dweller, much like herself. And Mason? Mason didn't like the budding attraction he was growing to her. It was not love, certainly not a crush; it was an attraction to her demeanour, and to her looks. Perhaps not even slightly romantic, but certainly at least a little sexual. It bothered him, since he'd never felt anything of the kind towards anyone before. Great timing, hormones.

Patchouli Kevi, Aela Cureton, Rose-Mary Telesco and Nickel Peppersmith, then. Patchouli Kevi was at the far end, twiddling his thumbs almost impatiently. While some of the others shot him odd looks, he couldn't quite summon up the energy to care. His eyes were fixated on a bar a little way above his seat, and he traced out patterns onto it, too tired and too broken to bother thinking about back home, and what he was missing. What was happening back home? How was everybody? How many more cattle had been minced, how many more people had keeled over from drug ovedoses, how many more children had starved to death on street corners?

Rose-Mary Telesco was near tears. Her bottom lip was trembling, her eyes glassy, and she bowed her head in a weak attempt to hide her weakness. While she could feel predatory gazes upon her, marking her out as easy prey, she numbed herself to them. Instead, Rose-Mary thought about the arena. It was warm; perhaps it would be a jungle? Yes, a jungle, like the ones in the storybooks. She thought about that: long, winding vines reaching down from dizzyingly tall trees. Crystal-clear streams running through muddy banks, and the droning buzz of insects. She pictured herself lying on a hammock made of huge green leaves, eating plump fruits plucked from bushels. The little girl smiled to herself dreamily, as she created a fantasy world to lose herself in.

Beside her, looming high above, Nickel Peppersmith was a completely different story. His mind was empty as ever, not even bothering to appear frightened or threatening. He would do, he supposed, what he was supposed to do. Nothing more, nothing less. As he had always done, he would follow instructions to the letter, whether he liked them or not; he had no particular feelings about these new rules he would be following. Was he a good man? No. Was he a bad man? No. He was just... a man. Not a hero, not a devil, just a man. Or, as might have been more appropriate, an animal.

And Aela? Well...

BLOODBATH –- PART 2 - READY...

HOUR 0900 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

Aela Cureton was one of the first to disembark the shuttle. Along with the rest, like a group of badly organised sheep, she was herded by the Peacekeepers down a ramp that extended from the side of the shuttle like a robotic tongue. More than once, she glanced sideways off the side of the ramp to look for an escape- despite her admittedly quick mind, she hadn't come to terms with her own imminent death. Upon sidestepping a foot or so to the left in order to get closer to the side, she had been met with a glower from one of the Peacekeepers, and a gun aimed pointedly at her chest.

Narrowing her eyes at him, she scooted back towards the centre of the group, and permitted herself to look around a little. They were, Aela noted, in a huge underground chamber with a rounded roof and metal walls; it was clearly military orientated, and she had no idea how the shuttle had gotten into it. Hovered downwards, maybe, through a hole in the ground? She looked up at the roof to search, lost her footing, and almost stumbled. Her toe hit the heel of Exotica Scott, who turned round and snapped at her: "Watch where you're going, District 8!"

Aela did not reply, merely narrowed her eyes further until they resembled slits, and gave the girl her best 'I may be half your size, but I will happily disembowel you as you sleep' look, which didn't seem to intimdate her. Instead of cowering and begging for mercy, Exotica sucked her teeth threateningly, before turning around and flouncing away to the head of the group.

After thirty seconds of walking, the Peacekeepers began directing tributes down passages leading off the sides of the chamber. Outside each one stood who Aela presumed were the stylists, stood to attention. There didn't seem to be a particular order in the way the tributes were being sent away, because the first to leave was the boy from District 7, Marcus Delavega. He mumbled what sounded like a goodbye to his allies, before shambling off. This continued in similar fashion, until only Aela and Patchouli Kevi were left, at the very end of the room.

"Aela Cureton, to your left. Patchouli Kevi, to the right." The Head Peacekeeper said in a forced monotone, his shoulders rolled back, and his head held high.

Dutifully, Aela turned to her left and marched straight towards the door, entering through it without saying a word to her stylist. Although the two of them had spent what was, in Aela's opinion, an inordinate amount of time together, they had barely exchanged two words. While Aela liked this, easily preferring it to the constant quibble of her Prep Team, it seemed sinister at times. Kaisar was a man with a striking resemblance to a corpse, with his drooping eyes and limp features. The way he moved reminded her of the agonizingly slow shuffle of the walking dead.

As she entered the room, Kaisar followed behind silently, and the door slid shut behind him. Swiftly, he side-stepped and overtook her. While he technically walked by her side, he was several paces ahead. She followed him down a long corridor, her tread conspicuously loud in the silence. The walls were sterile white, the floor the same shade. About fifty metres away, was another metal sliding door, and she presumed they were heading towards it. The whole place stank of cleaning fluid, but carried the earthy stench that came with any underground dwelling. It was not a pleasant aroma, and the sharpness of the cleaning fluid smell caught in her throat, adding an uncomfortable bulk to the nervous lump that was already growing there.

Eventually, they reached the other sliding door, and ventured through it into a small, four-walled room with walls and floor as white as the previous corridor. There was a glass tube in the corner in an indent in the wall, a stainless steel table in the centre of the room, with two hard-backed chairs beside it. Laid out on the table were a pair of black leggings, a black t-shirt, tough woollen socks, a pair of study looking leather boots, and a goldenrod yellow jacket. A small jug full of water, two plastic mugs, and a plate with two bread rolls and a gravy boat full of butter filled up the rest of the space on the table.

"You've showered?" Kaisar asked, in his dull voice. Aela nodded the affirmative, a nauseous feeling growing in her stomach, and stepped forward into the room. She walked straight over to the table, and picked up the leggings first, immediately shucking off her own soft cotton trousers, and switching them over without being asked. "Good. Are you hungry?"

"Yes." She said directly. While she wasn't hungry at all, her stomach too full of butterflies to take anything else, she understood the gravity of the situation. If she did not eat, she only put herself at a disadvantage. If Aela was going to do this, she was going to give herself every advantage she could. She quickly finished dressing, before snatching up one of the bread rolls, and splitting it open with her bare hands. Then, she dipped one finger into the butter-boat, and scooped up a fingerful. Taking a moment to briefly dissect the roll, removing the white insides, she rolled them into a compact ball. The ball went into her mouth, and she spread the butter from her finger onto the outer shell.

Kaiser watched, although seemed unamused. He scrunched up his face, before straightening himself out, and walked over to the glass tube. When he turned back around, Aela was drinking straight from the jug. "Wonderful manners. What a cultured young lady you are. Bound to do well in the Hunger Games."

Her mouth full of bread and water, Aela glared at him. Very deliberately, she swallowed, and then took the other bread roll. She stuffed it whole into her mouth, not stopping until her cheeks bulged obscenely. Kaiser snorted in disgust and turned around; at that, Aela quickly removed the soggy roll from her mouth, and tucked it into her shirt while he wasn't looking. She made a face- it wasn't the most pleasant feeling in the world- but couldn't help but feel a spike of satisfaction. When he looked back round, she nodded at him smugly.

"Swallowed it?" He asked, and she nodded.

"Chewed it up, first. Can't swallow something like that whole."

"Hmph. Good."

For a few moments more, Aela merely stood, hovering nervously, her heart thumping with anticipation. The realisation that by taking the bread with her she was cheating was enough to speed up her heartbeat, but she supposed that it didn't really give her anything to fear. Her family was all gone. She didn't have any friends. What were they going to take away from her? It was only a half-chewed breadroll the size of her fist, anyway. It wasn't like it was going to sustain her particularly well.

All of a sudden, a voice came cleanly over some hidden speakers, and Aela almost jumped out of her skin. Heart racing ever faster, she didn't have time to prepare herself for the incoming words: "All tributes to the tubes. The Games are about to begin."

BLOODBATH - PART THREE - SET...

HOUR 1000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

Charlie Zion stood tall, her chin raised high, her lips pulled back to bare her sharp teeth. Her tongue was tucked in place behind them, her eyes wide and frightened, her muscules tense. While she might have been putting on a display of fearlessness previously, the realisation that the moment was upon her was enough to send her quaking in her boots.

As the tube slowly ascended from the ground, she flexed and unflexed her hands, bowing her head. She was in complete darkness, and the sound of mechanical whirring was so loud that she couldn't hear anything else. For a brief moment, she was afraid that she might go deaf because of it; she clamped her hands firmly over her ears, her eyes scarcely open. When she looked up, about ten metres above her was a circle of light, growing larger and brighter by the second.

When she was only a few feet away from it, and her eyes were beginning to ache from the contrast, she took her hands away from her ears and let them hang loosely at her sides. Charlie could practically feel her heart in her throat so fast was it beating, and had to fight to stop herself vomiting. Her stomach was cramping painfully, and all of her muscles were so stiff that she felt a sudden burst of paranoia that she may not be able to run, which was an absolutely terrifying thought. What if, when it came down to it, she'd freeze up with nerves? What if she wouldn't be able to run?

With that thought, Charlie burst out into the sunlight, and slammed a hand over her eyes. The suddenness of the movement made her wobble, and she placed one foot backwards. Her heel was met with thin air, and her arms flew out, windmilling, as she began to tip back. Gravity pulled at her, as she remembered the words from Cicero- "You will remain on your platform"- and let out a high-pitched squeal, as she tried to right herself. She was falling, she was falling...

Crouching down, her fingernails found the front of the circular podium and clung to it, just in time. She hovered inches away from the sandy grass, and it took all of the strength in both of her arms to hoist herself back up. When she had righted herself, feeling physically sick from fear, she leaned over and dry-retched. Her eyes popped, and she shut them, feeling the sudden sting of tears. She squeezed her eyelids together, dug her fingers into her stomach, before standing back up properly. While she had regained some of her previous pride, she noted that a few of the tributes were looking at her contemptuously, now. Charlie had to hide the humiliation from her expression, and distracted herself by looking around.

It was very warm, and the sun shone in a cloudless blue sky above them. Colourful birds flew above green trees- it wasn't a jungle or anything, merely some kind of forest- and she could hear the sound of waves lapping against a shore. The air was salty, with an underlying scent of earth and fish, and wasn't wholly unpleasant. They were in a clearing surrounded by trees, although she was certain they couldn't be too far away from the beach, thanks to the sandy grass and the relatively close sounding waves. All of the tributes stood on small, rotund platforms roughly thirty metres away from what appeared to be a giant, golden metal horn: the Cornucopia. In the mouth of the Cornucopia, and scattered in a fifteen metre radius around it, were backpacks and weapons, the best goodies nearer the giant horn.

On her right side, was Finley Quill, the girl from District 10. On her left, was Winner Sinclair from District 1. She followed their gazes: Winner was grinning, ready to run, and looking straight at the Cornucopia. As a member of the Career Pack, he would be fighting there for the best weapons and supplies. Finley, meanwhile, was eyeing her allies, mouthing things at them. While Charlie couldn't make out what she was saying from this distance, she supposed that they were making plans to meet up. That reminded her about Rowan, and Charlie glanced around eagerly only to find, to her dismay, that she couldn't see her. She must be on the other side of the Cornucopia, out of her sight.

Shit. Did we make plans? We were just gonna find each other... We didn't-

"Tributes, tributes, tributes!" The unmistakeable voice of Cicero exploded from various loudspeakers, his voice as upbeat and cheerful as ever. He sounded like a spoilt child on Christmas, such was his infantile glee. "All ready to go?! Good! Just a little advice for you all before the show starts. Direct from me, Cicero, to you. First of all, play nice now. No dirty cheating, or we can make life reeeaaall difficult for you in there. Second, I wouldn't eat all of the food in the houses you may find. Might make you sick, which ruins the fun. And third? Keep out of the water. Ready? We're on."

An ear-splitting fanfare erupted from the speakers, as the tributes began to ready themselves, staring at the Cornucopia with hungry eyes. Charlie followed their lead, searching out her targets: a backpack that nobody else seemed to be looking at, and a hatchet lying a few metres further in. From there, after snatching them up, she'd go and find Rowan, being as careful as possible. If that wasn't possible, then, well...

"Sixty... fifty nine... fifty eight..." The timer began. The person doing the countdown was not Cicero, the voice was deeper, and sounded like robotic. Perhaps it was a computer speaking, and not a real person; Charlie had heard about how voices could be programmed into computers. It had made her nervous at the time. The thought of computers being able to speak and think for themselves was a worrying one. "Thirty one... thirty... twenty nine..." They were getting close, now. Most of the tributes had descended into running stances, as they prepared themselves to make a sprint for it. Charlie suddenly noticed that she needed to pee very badly, and felt the fear growing inside her to inside proportions. It was like a beast growing from an egg inside her guts, throwing back its head and roaring. "Seventeen... sixteen... fifteen..."

She might be dead soon. In less than twenty seconds, she could be a corpse on the floor. Tears began pricking back in her eyes, and she felt the sour taste of vomit in her mouth. For a girl who thought of herself as brave, the idea that she might be dying soon was taking quite an effect on her. Although, who was to say that it wasn't taking a worse effect on others? Rose-Mary Telesco, several tributes to her left, was visibly blubbering. At least she wasn't showing her fear, no matter the effect the roaring beast may be having on her innards.

"Five... four... three... two... one..."

BLOODBATH - PART FOUR - GO!

HOUR 1000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 1. 24 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

And then, everything went mad.

Finley Quill found herself one of the first off the podiums, much to her delight, and she rocketed towards the Cornucopia, bypassing almost everybody else. The only person ahead of her was Isabella Dennis from District 6, who was pelting so fast that she was a blur. Finley watched out of the corner of her eye, as Isabella scooped up a knapsack, turned around, and ran off into the trees.

Her attention was quickly diverted, though, as her feet began to slip around on the sandy grass, and she almost did the splits as one foot slid forwards and the other back. Using this to her advantage, too full of adrenaline to feel fear anymore, she dove forwards towards a knapsack. Before she could reach it, however, she found a pair of feet running blindly into her path, and without meaning to, she took them down. The person collapsed on top of her with a shriek of terror, and Finley let out a piercing yowl as all of the breath was knocked out of her.

Without taking time to look back and see who she had tripped, Finley continued crawling forwards through the fray, and snatched up the knapsack with a victorious, wild grin. A few feet away, she caught sight of a broad machete lying there, glinting in the sun. Without a second thought, and without truly realising the gravity of taking a weapon, she crawled towards it and took it in one hand. The metal of the handle was warmed by the sun, and felt pleasant in her grip. She flexed her fingers around it once, and felt a rush of primal power.

A loud scream of agony told her that the fighting had truly begun, and Finley felt a pang as she realised that the scream meant that somebody was dead. Who it was, she did not know, but she wholeheartedly prayed that it was none of her allies. Reel, Nelson and Marcus were all special to her in their own way. But then again, what if it was the little girl from District 11 who had died? The kid from District 3?

She would mourn later, privately. For the deaths of those she had never spoken to.

"Finley! Finley!" In the chaos, she heard somebody calling her name: Nelson, she thought, Nelson. He was nearby, so nearby that he was nearly shouting in her ear... Looking up, she saw him standing over her with an axe in one hand, a look of horror on his face. "Come on, they're waiting, come on!"

With the hand not holding the axe, he reached down and helped her up. The feeling of his calloused skin against her dry palm was pleasant, and oddly comforting, especially the way he squeezed her fingers a little. But she had no time to dwell on it, before Nelson- who was still holding onto her hand- began pulling her along behind him, heading for the treeline. While running, Finley managed to get the knapsack firmly onto her shoulders, still gripping the machete. The sunlight sent light shimmering off the blade, reflecting onto all surfaces.

Then, there was a sound like an axe hitting a tree trunk, that seemed to come out of nowhere. Thunk. A flash through the air, as quick as a silver fish through water, and then another thunk, this time accompanied by a loud groan. Finley suddenly became aware that she was being dragged to the ground, as the hand that she had been holding was suddenly a great deal lower than it had been before. Nelson had stopped, for some reason, fallen to his knees. In the haze of battle, she had not noticed. Looking down at him, she saw that his eyes were open in wide-eyed astonishment, a river of blood spewing down his chin from his gaping mouth. His pupils were dilated, and he looked up at her with blatant horror in his expression. In front of her very eyes- for it felt like everything had suddenly slowed down- Nelson Mann keeled over and fell face down on the ground.

BOOM!

At the sound of the first cannon of the Games, everybody seemed to pause for just a split-second. Barely even a moment, just to recognise the fact that they were well and truly damned, now. Nelson would not be the last death, they realised, as they began to resume their fighting. Well, few of them even realised it had been he, the kindly boy from District 12, that had been the one to fall. Even less of them cared. The fact that they were still breathing, still exhaling carbon dioxide into an atmosphere than needed no more of it, was enough to satisfy them. So, they kept up the swinging of their swords, the brandishing of their weapons, the spilling of blood. They tore at one another like animals, breaking one another, as Finley kept hold of Nelson's hand. He was dead, the warmth slowly being sapped from his skin, but she didn't know what else to do. Rigor mortis was setting in, and his fingers were stiff around her.

"Shit!" Fear settled in her and gradually took hold, as Finley Quill pulled desperately at her hand. He was holding it firmly, although long since passed, and seemed to have no intention of letting go; it was a nightmare. A true, true nightmare.

"Finley! What're you doing?!" She could barely hear Reel over the roaring of blood in her ears. Eventually, she realised what she would have to do to get him off her. There was no time to prise his fingers away, not in their current state. With barely moments to spare before somebody took notice of her situation, Finley looked at the broad machete in her hand, and then at Nelson's extended arm. She flexed her fingers once more, sour bile rising in her throat and tears pricking at her eyes.

"I'm sorry. S-s-s-so sorry..." She murmured, her voice hoarse and sickened, as she raised her hand, and brought it down on the corpse's arm. Again and again, her strokes hard and unclean, blood from the wound she was making flying everywhere. There was a disgusting crack as she finally hit bone (she'd had to look away when the wound had first started bleeding properly), and tremors were sent up her arm. It didn't take her long to hack through, nearly vomiting with disgust, and she was free.

When Finley Quill, Reel Autin and Marcus Delavega later reached safely, she did not stop vomiting for ten minutes, even when her stomach had fully emptied itself.

Four corpses lay in the evening sun, as the fighting finished. Everyone else had dispersed, some licking their wounds, some fully healthy. The first corpse was of Nelson Mann, the boy from District 12. His disembodied hand, fingers curled wretchedly, lay a few feet away from the rest of his body. In his back, were two throwing knives, embedded up to the handle. In the mouth of the Cornucopia, lay another figure: Mason Maverick, the boy from District 8. He'd died fairly cleanly, a sword to the gut, and appeared almost peaceful in death, despite the many cuts and bruises on his body from a long and bloody fight with Rio Seymour. Far away, almost at the edge of the forest, was Rowan Woods. She was sprawled out, one hand extending beyond the border into the trees, a look of desperation on her beautiful face, an arrow shot straight through her neck. And the last was that of Charlie Zion. She lay collapsed on Rowan's back, blood splattered all over her chest and shoulders, from a sword through the shoulder.

And thus, the Games began.

24th - Nelson Mann, District 12

23rd - Mason Maverick, District 8

22nd - Rowan Woods, District 12

21st - Charlie Zion, District 7

Ugh, should I tone this down? The part with Finley was probably overstepping the mark, so sorry if I have disgusted any of you with that. Like I said, gore will not get any worse than that, that's probably the most extreme we'll go. I am SO sorry if any of your characters are dead, I legitimately loved all four of those characters, and was extremely sorry to see them go. This was due to the results of the POLL, not my own choice. Once again, I am so sorry (particularly to Nelson's owner, lol), and when I next to a SYOT, I would love it if you would submit again.

Thank you all for reading, and apologies if I have given anyone nightmares. You guys are seriously awesome, and if it makes you feel any better, I accidentally set fire to my fringe today. Luckily didn't seem to have much of an effect, since my friend threw water over me very quickly (yes... all over me...), but it was a drama all the same.

Will update very soon!