Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Before the Storm - 4

The clouds are just starting to turn purple when the now familiar blare of the anthem sounds across the arena sky. The noise cuts through Benji’s dreams with a crash of trumpets and he jerks awake, lurching up from where’s he’s been lying on the ground. His mouth feels all gritty with dirt and his arm is throbbing painfully. He prods at it experimentally as the anthem reaches its crescendo. The limb twitches in protest and he stops, and tries to wiggle his fingers instead. It hurts, but it’s still possible. Not broken then.

The music dies away in a brazen clash of cymbals and there’s a moment of silence before the voice rings out, impossibly loud and smug sounding.

“Good evening, tributes.Welcome to the final four of the Hunger Games. Your families and friends have all asked that I inform you how proud they are of you. You have provided us a good show in the week that you have been here. And now we owe you a reward. Tonight, after the announcement of today’s death toll, the Cornucopia will be restocked for five minutes. It has been a hard week and none of you are unscathed. This will be your last chance to collect weapons or supplies for the final few days, unless you want to risk stumbling across leftover equipment, of which the chances are small. The arena feels large with so few of you in it, but you should all be able to make it to the Cornucopia in plenty of time. See you then.”

The voice dies away, and the evening’s silence falls over the buildings again. Benji’s head is whirling. His arm throbs as if to remind him that out there somewhere, there’s something to help. Something that can give him back that tiny slim chance of winning this thing. How he’s made it to the final four, he has no idea. It’s not been through any real skill of his own, that’s for sure. Still, he’s here, and now they’re offering him hope.

A part of his brain is shouting that this is a trap, that he’ll not make it out of there alive. He’s watched enough Games to know that it usually means the Games are nearly over, and the Gamemakers are anxious to wrap things up. He shivers, remembering the year the final massacre had been atop a mountain-top, all whipped with snow and wind and ice. At least it's warm here. He tucks his injured arm against his chest and leans back against a tree, eyes drooping closed again. It’s dangerous, he knows, but he’s so tired. Just a few minutes rest, then he’ll head out to the feast’s location.

Besides, all the others will be heading there already. This area is empty but tension hangs all over it. Somewhere out there, three other tributes, hungry, exhausted, are trekking across the broken buildings, back to where it all began.

No. It began when his name came out of the bowl. His heart seems to sink. Yes, he's done well so far. But he must be at a disadvantage now; unless the cannon wasn't somebody getting to Abi while she was just lying there, he's the smallest, the youngest.

"My name is Benji Star," he says as loudly as he dares, "My name is Benji Star and I got an eight."

He closes his eyes and sighs, letting the tendrils of sleep curl around his mind.

Overhead, the edges of the clouds go gold as the sun slides behind them.

***.

Abi is huddled in the mouth of the Cornucopia, watching a butterfly loop and flutter through the air outside. It’s cool and dark inside, and it feels safe, even though she knows it’s’ not really – there’s only one way in and out, and if anyone comes at her now, she’ll be trapped. But she’s not seen anyone, not even a sign, not since Benji ran off after shoving her down those stairs. That’s got to be what happened, otherwise why wasn’t he there when she came around?

Her head thumps at the memory, and her fingers trace over the bruise she can feel flowering under one eye. She still can’t believe he’d pulled a sneak move like that. Didn’t even have the decency to end things properly - no goodbyes, or thank yous or anything at all! Just a shove.