Day One: First Blood

"Kill him." Laurel's eyes widened with something. Shock, maybe, fear. Confusion at being told that this was her duty. Her duty, with the blades in her hands, to kill a boy who'd never done anything to her that she hadn't done back to him. She looked at the figure opposite her, still moving in with that slow, wordless pace. Still tightly gripping the knife in his hand, as he lurches at her.

It had all started this morning. When her Patron, Citrine, had stepped into the room with a slip of a frown on her lips. When she'd been told that there was a final test, and that she'd be escorted down to the room where it would happen.

Her blades had been lain gently on a table when she'd been invited in. Sat, waiting for her hands. Gleaming sharp, as always, as they'd slipped through the air. A quick round of applause at the initial demonstration, before Citrine and Midas had stepped behind that shimmering wall. One-way glass, maybe, or a forcefield. She was prepared for a training exercise, or the exam it was rumoured girls had to do orally to explain their weapon.

Laurel wasn't prepared for the doors opening. For a boy, small and dark and armed with a knife, to be pressed in at spearpoint. Tears run tracks down his cheeks, while he feebly waves the gleaming blade at her. She doesn't know who he is, voices as much in a slightly panicked tone to the shimmering wall. There's no response, save for that cold voice rattling through speakers somewhere. "Kill him."

And she doesn't want to, because yes she's been training for the Hunger Games but to take a life, to really take a life is so real. Especially the life of the boy who's stumbling towards her, door he'd come through sliding shut behind him as if this had been prepared.

He doesn't speak a word. That's the strangest thing. She knows, she hopes, that the C sewn onto the chest of his shirt stands for criminal. Instead of speaking to her, trying to convince her as she bows that there's no reason to kill him, he just steps forward. He swings the knife, incompetent, Laurel watching as it sweeps past her face and stops several seconds later. Several seconds she uses to backpedal, pressing herself under the far wall.

Dancing out of his way, a desperate plea. "Stop this! Please! We can talk, we can make this quick, we don't have to..." Her words die in her throat as another knife slash comes far too close, and she has to step back again, before making a slash blocked with ease. She doesn't know where this boy, looking too much like just an average child, has got these skills. She doesn't know why, instead of just stabbing up and finishing this, she darts under his swing and returns to the center of the room. The words echo through the speaker, and she grits her teeth.

She does have her own abilities. She wouldn't have gotten this far otherwise, and given the Capitol love for the pretty, deadly Ones with their unique weapons. Well, she's spent enough time drilling, fighting with her blades until she can parry sword and trident, dodge axe and thrown spear. It's not perfect, nothing is ever perfect, but it's enough that when he strikes towards her she can step around the blade and into his inside, into the place where the tanto come into their own and by now it's all over. She's been told to be playful, to giggle and to toss her hair as she makes a kill. This doesn't happen. For the moment, at least, she's too focussed on the fact that she's actually going in for the kill.

Her blades are flitting in arcs, now, and moving in patterns he's clearly unable to track. The first one, barely, caught on the edge of his blade. The second, slashing up at his wrist and scoring a deep cut. The third, as she sidesteps a final swing of terror, cuts off a lock of hair rather than going for his face. The fourth slips through his throat like a hot knife through butter.

Laurel hesitates a moment. Stares down at the still, warm corpse as if it's her own family lying there, rather than a boy she'd not known, never would know. Then, raising one of the shimmering blades, she slashes down. Lifts her arm, and slips it down again with the giggle and the toss of her hair as the blood splatters in crimson patterns across her dress.

The blade is still being brought down when her Patron, Citrine, steps across the floor, catching her arm in the downswing before slowly forcing the blade out of her hand. Weapons gone, it took only a second before Laurel received a hug, silently returning it before looking up. Reaching one arm up, and feeling something wet in dark hair.

"Does it get easier?" Such a simple question hanging so heavy in the air. It does merit a response, if a heavily measured response. "No. It gets smaller, less consequential when it's only one more rather than your first, but not easier. But, dove, I'll be here for you. Every step of the way. You can't hesitate, you hear me? Don't get hung up on this or you're dead."

The nod, from a head pressed against a shoulder, would merit a quiet pat on the back. Laurel isn't sure how long the embrace lasts, before Citrine pulls away and hands her a kiwi. A small reward, but one Laurel takes great pleasure in slicing with blades that just minutes ago had drawn blood (after a quick cleaning) and finishing off.

Author's note: Shoutout to my friend Justice for actually getting the Careertober prompts done and posted! This won't interfere with regularly scheduled programming, most of the chapters for October are already handled, but I was drawn to it and as such expect this to be a daily thing! Unless said otherwise all of these are canon to the Pipesverse, albeit I won't be marking down Games numbers.

Many thanks as per usual!

Pipes