Ready or Not, Here I Come

by In the Blink of an Eye

The year of traps and betrayal, tricks and deceit. The arena of cliffs and sharp edges, hiding places and hidden dangers. The games ruled by an erratic fruitcake of a Gamemaker. And they wonder why the victor went delirious. Welcome to the 51st Annual Hunger Games - the odds will definitely not be in your favour.

17. The Clock is Ticking

Hey readers!

Sorry I haven't updated for a while! I had a lot of stuff happening this week. I hope you like this chapter - just to clarify, Belladie Curter and her little rebel group are a little subplot which I've introduced. Obviously as this SYOT takes place before the 74th Hunger Games, then they won't be successful, but hey, they tried.

Thanks,

*In the Blink of an Eye

...

Belladie Curter, Capitol Citizen

The aerial shots of the new arena don't give much away. They have carefully planned it so that all of us will have to tune in at the start. Even those who hate the Games. Like us.

We are a small group of five. We call ourselves 'Pentagonal' and we are rebels. We know that Capitol citizen's aren't allowed these views, but we hold them anyway. This year is the year we strike. We will bring down the President and his sadistic Games.

The clock is ticking. "Shots of the nest," I sign to Hindosa, who is sat next to me. He is deaf but we have devised our own sign language which no one else could pick up. He nods and signs back. "We are going to strike when the gong goes off?" I confirm this to him.

I haven't seen my second-in-command, Heriss, for a few days and she hasn't replied to my constant messages and voicemails. I think something is up, but seeing as the Games start in just over a day, we'll have to do it without her. I hope the Peacemakers haven't caught wind of our plan. They shouldn't have.

When the gong sounds and marks the beginning of a new year of needless bloodshed, we will strike, and we will make an imprint which will take down the Capitol for ever.

The clock is ticking.

Bronte Pratt, District Six

Butterflies. My stomach churns and my mouth is dry. It is the last night before the Games. How could I even think of sleeping? This could be my last night alive.

The only thing to console me is the gentle curves and rough outlines of art. I don't know where my pencil is taking me. My mind is in another place. But when I finally look down at my sketchbook, I gasp in dismay.

The outline is clearly me. The long flowing hair, and the angled eyes. Sharp nose and tanned skin. It is hauntingly similar, except the most obvious variation.

I am lying on the ground by the Cornucopia with a knife in my chest.