Straight to Hell ▹The Hunger Games

SIX

Winona couldn't help the smile pulling at her face as she listened to Colt's footsteps, jogging to catch up with her. He reached out and grabbed her hand, a huff leaving his body as he tugged on her arm.

"Stop walking so fast," He complained. "You're still a lot taller than me! Your steps are twice mine."

"Sorry, Shachaa," She said. "Just want to get there before everyone else does."

Colt's grip on her hand tightened.

"Well," A voice chimed in. "A little too late for that."

Winona turned, spotting the boy from four, who was pulling at the spandex on his suit.

"You again," Colt said matter-of-factly and Four let out a laugh.

"Me again," He confirmed, walking into the center with them. "So, where are we goin'?"

Winona scoffed, turning to face the boy. What the hell was his problem? How clear did she have to make it to him?

"Nin Tl'ak," Winona muttered down to her brother, who snickered.

"What's that mean?" Four asked. "Handsome? Loveable?"

"Flea," Colt corrected and he stopped, allowing the siblings to break off from him, stopping over at the plant identification center, inspecting it carefully.

"Remember what Kwàntshù' said," She whispered down to him. "Blend in. Focus on survival."

He nodded his head and stiffened his lower lip, marching toward the plant identification and taking a seat. Winona watched him for a second before taking a deep breath and walking toward the weaponry.

She took all the different weapons in, watching the tributes from One and Two crowd around the blades and bows. She moved away from them, focusing on the things they had no interest in; a small group of weapons in a box. She shuffled through it, stopping when she came across thick, hollow pins as long as her fingers.

"What are these?" She asked the expert, who looked down at her with barely hidden disdain.

"Throwing spikes," He said, taking one from his hand and showing her how to hold it. She copied him, holding it between her index and ring fingers and resting it on her middle. She crinkled her palm, the spike resting firmly in her hand as she watched the expert flick his wrist, the spike landing squarely on the bullseye.

There was only one target for this station. Winona assumed it wasn't very popular, which she understood as soon as she flung the spike, hitting the wall near the target. There was no way she would master using them in three days. She stiffened as she heard the chuckles of the careers and clenched her jaw, grip on the spikes tightening.

She threw another, hitting the wall again.

She threw another.

Right in the wall.

Again.

In the wall.

Winona did it over and over again until she hit the target; and then she kept going until the tips of her fingers began to bead with blood, skin catching on the edge of the spikes. The expert stepped in, handing her a few bandages, and quickly taping her fingers up. She took that as her sign to take a break and moved to the slingshot station and stayed there until lunch. She was much better at that, finding it similar to the bow her father made her practice with over the years. She had even managed to hit the target most of the time, a satisfied smirk growing on her face.