After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

Boo - 8

Boo opens his eyes.

He wasn't really sleeping; he hasn't slept since he entered the arena. He's done a good job of pretending to instead. The world floods into view straight away; brisk morning light - day six - the spindly tree, the flat clearing and then the infinite grass. Something is different, though, and it takes him a moment to put his finger on it.

Splish. Splash.

Something cold and wet drops onto his hand and he snatches it out of the way sharply. The sky above is grey and mouldy; the air feels closer and heavier. The light is weaker. He can't even make out the shape of the sun pushing its way through the clouds.

Another raindrop plops onto his nose. He scowls angrily at it, but it is followed almost immediately by another, then another, squashing his hair so that it is slicked back on his head. It feels weird. He's used to his hair defying gravity, not squashing his ears. It reminds him of that horrible cold box thing he'd had to wear in the parade. Well, it felt cold, but it was too warm on the inside and he couldn't see. Not that he'd have wanted to see the Capitol leering up at him. The armour plating was good, though. He could do with some of that right now.

He regards the two female shapes dispassionately. Both are propped up against the bottom of the tree, asleep, heads bobbing forwards, weapons nearby. Savannah is muttering something, or at least, it sounds like she is. He peers into the tree and can just about make out the not very threatening curl of Ever, propped up in a fork, snuffling softly. Ever and her shovel. He almost laughs.

No, no laughing. The rain pattering muffles his footsteps as he trudges over to the pile of stuff. Useful stuff. Half-full bottles of water, a small bag of bread, some packets of dried fruit. A bunch of small knives. There’s a bag too, leather by the look of it; waterproof. Sneaking glances at the sleeping girls, he packs it all in, slinging the bag onto his back and allowing himself a smile; it’s not as heavy as he’d thought it would be. That will help him with a quick getaway.

Each raindrop is like a small blast of cold as it hits his skin, and he briefly wishes he had something to pull around himself other than this shirt. But he stops that thinking straight away and tells himself he’s comfortable, and that this is necessary. He’ll never have to be uncomfortable again if he does this. So it's fine, then.

So that's supplies. Now what about weapons? He's thought this through already; his fists are his best weapon but they'll do him no good. By now everybody is hardy, tough, and armed. So he needs something with a blade, something sharp.

Jewel's spear looks too unwieldy. Savannah's sword is an option, but it's the right height for the slim and muscular girl from Two and not for a skinny, still growing boy from Three. It's almost like the Gamemakers did that on purpose. He wouldn't trust himself to not take his own arm off with it.

The mace is a no, for much the same reasons. How stupid would it be to kill yourself with your own weapon? Although he's seen it done, back in that living room a lifetime ago. It was tragic and disgusting at the time. Now it's just stupidity.

Wait, what about the knives? They're the right size for his palm, and he's less likely to do himself any damage with them. Plus, since he's already carrying them, they're no extra weight.

Jewel shuffles, her hair falling over her face where it's coming out of the plait. He's pleasantly surprised that the rain doesn't seem to have woken them. But he should leave before it gets any heavier.

He crouches down, digging in the bag until a jab in his palm tells him that he's found one of the knives. He regards the blood carefully with chill brown eyes. It's an interesting shade of red, blood. It looks shiny and dull at the same time. He holds his palm up to his mouth, sucking on it just in case it is infected. Saliva heals wounds. He doesn't know where he's heard that before. The blood is salty and seems to dissipate on his tongue. His hand is damp with the rain, rivulets of water running down the webs in his fingers.