Jeopardy: The Fourth Quarter Quell

Bored - Jay

Jay

“Grant!” I hiss, “Grant, where the fuck are you?”

Granted, I’m not expecting an answer. This place is freaking massive, I bet, and even though it looks sort of like home – only without the random patches of stumps – it’s impossible to forget that here people are trying to kill me. Okay, so it’s not like Ma didn’t threaten to kill me at least once a week, but she was never serious about it. Even the stuffiest Peacekeepers with faces as wrinkled as oak bark don't want me dead, just taught a lesson. Well, the joke's on them now.

Even Grant isn’t dim enough to advertise his position. But if I don’t say anything, it’s silent apart from the trees. Not even the ‘jacks shouting ‘Timber!’ in the background, far away, or the crack of a whip at the Clearing.

My back itches, the scars wriggling uncomfortably. They still hurt occasionally but it’s no big deal. The itching is worse.

Struck by a genius idea, I snap a branch from a nearby tree. It’s a good, solid thing and probably makes a satisfying thunk when it hits somebody. That’s all I ever need to do; hit and run. Nobody would dare call me a coward for it – not to my face, anyway – and I’d rather live to punch another day. Besides, often the first punch is enough to knock someone cold.

It’d have been fifty lashes if they’d caught me, but Elmer never once squealed. And he never dared to come near me again. Probably he couldn’t remember. I did get him quite hard.

Anyway, that’s not what the stick is for. Not right now, anyway. I probably should have got something from the bloodbath, but I wasn’t risking anything. Grant did, but Grant’s crazy and lucky and of course he got away with it. I saw him disappearing into the woods with a bottle of water and some kind of sharp thing.

Water. At the thought of it my tongue burns. I mean, this is a wood and things are growing and the ground is slightly damp and marshy, so there’s got to be water somewhere. But I haven’t been on the lookout for it and so far the occasional blackberry thicket has been enough to sustain me. My palms are stained with blotches of sticky purplish juice, and I’ve even streaked some over my cheeks because in bad light it might be mistaken for blood. Also because there’s nothing to do here, short of looking for Grant.

I would never have thought the arena could be so…boring. Action-packed, yes, definitely. Constantly having to run from hulking, drooling Careers, icy or dangerous terrains, the ever-present threat of being attacked. So the third is still here, I suppose, but it doesn’t feel like it at all. It feels like it could be just me on my own.

The itching on my back is getting unbearable.

In one quick movement, I rip off my shirt and reach around with the stick, sighing in relief as it scrapes down the scars.

Whoops. Melody and the terrifying troupe of stylists said to keep them covered.

Ah well. There’s no point trying to hide them now, and maybe they’ll just make me look tough and persuade some sponsor somewhere – because I have to have at least one, with my odds – to send me some fucking food and water already. Despite the blackberries, I’m hungry. What I wouldn’t give for one of the Capitol’s meat feasts right now.

The sun through the trees feels nice and warm on my skin, so I sling my shirt over my shoulder and wander on, looking for nothing in particular. Apart from Grant, of course. If I run into another tribute, I don’t want it to be two against one. I like my fights to be fair. Or have bait. One of the two.

My eyelids are drooping with boredom. I’ve been walking for hours, past when I would have had breakfast, past when I’d have nicked an apple from the Clearing. My stomach delights in reminding me every two minutes, grumbling away to itself, which at least covers up the deafening noise of absolutely fuck all.