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Chaos ensued. The clear sound of a gong emitted throughout the arena, and at once, twenty four
tributes sprinted from their plates, the sounds of yells, shouts, and screams floating through the air. Most ran toward the Cornucopia, determined to get the best supplies. England, however, knew this would lead to almost certain death. Instead, he ran the perimeter of the circle of plates, snatching up a few items that lay on the ground. Although they weren't as good as what lay in the large golden horn, they were still worth scavenging, and better than nothing. He grinned as he saw a meduim sized, bright green pack laying just a few feet in front of him. Packs always held good supplies. He lunged for it.
But just before he reached it, another figure dashed forward and picked it up. Just as they did so, thy paused momentarily to look up at England, standing just before them. The Brit narrowed his eyes, and kicked whoever it was right in the face. They let out a scream, and clasped their hands tightly over their mouth. For good measure, England kicked them once more in the stomach, causing them to keel over, whimpering weakly. England snatched the pack and hoisted it onto his back. The figure started to get up just as a long, sharp metal blade dug into their back, and they crumpled to the ground, never to rise again.
Quickly wheeling around, England looked at the slain figure. It was a male, with shaggy blond hair, not France, as England might have liked, but Poland. His killler was nearby. With a mighty roar, a tall male wrenched the knife out of Poland's back and turned toward England, it was Germany. He grunted and appraoched the Brit, waving his knife, around. England looked at his surroundings for anything to defend himself. There was nothing. Germany narrowed his eyes, and jabbed at England, who squeaked in fright. That was when his defensive instincts kicked in, as adreneline charged through as veins. He held up the pack in front of himself just as the knife sank into the fabric. Germany gasped, and England smacked his hand away and wrenched out the knife.
"Prussia!" Germany shouted. Right on cue, the tall albino man ducked out of the Cornucopia, a malicous grin on his face, and a bloody throwing knife in each hand. Smirking, the egocentric albino threw them both. Not wasting a moment, England ducked and ran away, his feet carrying his as fast as they could. He heard the panging sound of knives sticking into wood. That must mean he was fleeing into the forest...and that Prussia had missed.
"No, he's not worth it! We should just finish off everyone here!" Someone shouted on a thick German accent from about fifty yards away. Another voice growled in agreement, and England sighed in relief. He was safe. For the time being, no one was frantically chasing him. Panting heavily, England leaned back against one of the many tall oak trees that made up the forest. The leaves were a pleasant orange color, and the provided shade from the hot sun. Cool, soft dirt and fallen leaves lined the floor, and a gentle breeze rustled the tree tops. The sounds from the Cornucopia were getting softer. The opening blood bath must be coming to a close. There were always a large amount of tributes that died on the first day, but England hoped desperatly that Sealand wasn't one of them. He would find out in the sky later tonight.
"I should probably get deeper into the forest now, though..." England muttered to himself. He checked out the items he had snatched from the Cornucopia. A loaf of bread. It was still warm, and was dark brown with little seeds in it. He also got a water bottle that was, luckily, half full, and a brown military blanket. His pack contained a bottle of water purifier, that was quite useful, and a small tin of dried meat. England put all his items into his pack, and set off again. holding his knife in his right hand, and listening for any sounds or signs of other tributes. The forest remained calm, execpt for the cheery tweeting of birds. Birds. How could birds still sing in this horrible place?
As he headed deeper in the forest, the trees became thicker and more tightly packed together. Occasionly, small rays of sunlight were able to penetrate the thick canopy, making spots of light on the ground. Squirrels scampered up tree trunks, and furry rabbits hopped across England's path. He smiled every time he saw one of the cute animals. They reminded him of flying Mint Bunny back home. Mint Bunny could always cheer England up, no matter what. Most of the other Hetalians thought England was crazy, becuase they couldn't see Mint Bunny or any of England's mythological friends, but they were probably just being asses as usaul.
He sat down on a flat rock, taking a short swig from his water bottle. England knew he had to be careful to make this water last as long as it possibly could. The same went for his bread and dried meat. "This looks like an okay place to stay..." England mused. The tall oak trees provided plenty of cover and shelter, and there was a large hole in the ground a few feet away. Perfect. He could cover up the top with his blanket, and place dirt and leaves on top of that to make it blend in with the rest of the forest floor. No one who passed would ever suspect his hiding place. He could even made a small peep hole to see the faces in the sky, and to be warned if anybody else came nearby.
Grinning to himself, England set to work; spreading his blanket out on top of the hole, covering it with dirt and leaves, then slipping inside, and carving a small hole in the blanket with his knife. He used his pack as a pillow, and leaned against the dirt wall of the hole. He took out a litttle bit of bread and meat, and ate as he observed the sky darkening outside through his peep hole. Soon enough, Panem's national anthem blared through the whole arena, and its bright seal flashed acrosss the sky, followed by th faces of today's fallen tributes. England held his breath as he saw them pass. Poland, who he had seen killed at the Cornucopia, was a given. Then there was Finland and Saborga, a girl who England didn't really know anything about, Wy, the one who painted the hotel walls, and Seychelles.
England let out a sigh of relief. Sealand had made it past the first day. Maybe tommorow England could go out and find him. But regardless, five tributes on the first day was a meager number compared to previous Hunger Games England had seen. It wasn't even uncommon for half of the tributes to die on the very first day.
"Nineteen of us left..." England murmered, settling down onto the ground, as his eyes began to droop. "Nineteen left."