Fluid Heart, Firey Soul (Peeta Mellark x Reader)

Chapter 15 - The Career Pack

Sixty seconds is all we have before the Games begin. Sixty seconds we're required to stand on our metal plates before the sound of the gong releases us. Deviate even a fraction of a second before the minute is up, and the landmines beneath the platform will blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to size up the ring of tributes encircling the Cornucopia, a colossal metal horn in the center of the arena. Its curved tail stretches toward the sky, while its mouth, towering at least twenty feet high, spills over with an array of essentials: food, water, weapons, medicine, and tools. Around the Cornucopia are other supplies; the closer to the horn, the greater the spoils. At my feet lies a modest coil of rope, maybe five to ten feet, which could prove useful to make a few snares or secure myself up in a tree. Yet in the mouth, I can see a whole spool of rope which I could use to make nets to capture fish swimming downstream, traps to catch the other tributes, and an abundance of snares to catch rabbits or squirrels. However, I would need the guts to go in and fight the other tributes for it, which I've been instructed against.

We're located on a flat and open stretch of ground. To my left, there's a lake, a tempting promise of life-sustaining water. It's good to know where an immediate source of water is but it won't be safe to go near alone. To my right, there's a dense expanse of piney woods. It'd provide me with safety and concealment. Finnick would undoubtedly tell me to directly run there.

The temptation is undeniable, an immediate bounty laid out like a feast before my eyes. And I know if I hesitate, somebody else will seize the opportunity and take the Cornucopia for themselves. The Careers are certain to survive the initial bloodbath and divide up these life-sustaining spoils among themselves. The realization hits me— Cato sees me as an ally, guaranteeing me a share in the Cornucopia's riches.

A glint of sliver snags my attention— a trident, perched atop a stack of blanket rolls, gleams invitingly. It's just waiting to be used, destined for my hands.

Instincts tell me I'm swift; I could likely outpace most tributes in reaching the Cornucopia, but how fast could I escape? Is bolting the wisest move, or does it brand me as a coward in the eyes of the Careers?

Finnick has acknowledged my agility, but he's never seen how fast I can sprint. Maybe, had he witnessed my speed, he might have told me to go for it, to claim that lone trident beckoning from the pile of weapons. With just one available, time ticks away and I must quickly decide what I'm going to do.

My stance subtly shifts, my toes pointed not away into the safety of the woods, but toward the cache of weapons. I look to my left and my gaze locks on Fletcher, stationed about six tributes to my left. He shakes his head, disapproval evident in the way he's looking at me. He's planning to run into the woods and he wants me to do the same.

I find myself torn, weighing the risk against the reward when the sound of the gong rings out. On instinct alone, I lunge toward the mouth of the Cornucopia— I'm not settling for scraps, the trident is my goal. I'm the first to make it inside the mouth, securing my weapon. But now what? In just a few seconds, the other tributes will be here and I'll have to decide to run or make a move.

Cato and Clove materialize next to me, adding urgency to my dilemma. Cato's hand wraps around a sword, while Clove seizes a handful of throwing knives. My eyes are fixed on her; I've seen her throw those knives before and she's never missed. Does Clove know I'm meant to be her ally? The weight of uncertainty presses down; my fate hinges on whether she's been informed or if I'm viewed as nothing more than an easy target, a mere five feet away.

"Thanks for the weapons, small fry," Cato chuckles, a disturbing prelude to the brutality that follows. In a swift motion, he bolts out, slashing a young boy in his path, a cruel execution that extinguishes life in an instant. Relief washes over me when I realize I'm not their target, yet intertwined with that relief is a haunting twinge of horror as the boy crumples to the ground. He couldn't have been older than thirteen or fourteen.