Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

Finale

It’s around mid-morning when the rain starts, if you could even call it rain. The drops seem to float through the air instead of falling, almost like the mist in the graveyard yesterday morning. Only much damper. Carmen sighs and wriggles her thin shoulders in her jacket. It’s hanging off her a little now, the sleeves flapping loosely against her wrists. When was the last time she ate properly?

When this is over she will be able to eat again. Real, proper food. Her mouth waters as she allows herself to imagine the taste of hot meat, juice dripping from it. She’d caught a small rabbit like animal earlier that morning, but it’d been pointless to try cook it with no fire, and she’d given up on eating it raw after one tiny nibble.

She shouldn’t complain. At least there’d been water in the boxes she’d scooped up. She’d been less impressed with the bits of body armour, thinking they looked fairly flimsy and weak. Then she’d taken a swing at one of the arm guards with her sword and it’d bounced right off, leaving nothing but a tiny scrape in the surface. The chest plate is designed for a boy, and it’s too tight, but she wears it anyway. It’s still something, and it doesn’t restrict her movements. Too much. Trust the Capitol; it’s light but tough, and after a few hours she can forget she’s wearing it. If only there was something for her back and stomach. And something for her face would have been nice, but at least this way her vision can only be obscured by her hair.

She runs a hand through the tangle, wincing a little as her fingers drag at the knots. She knows she must look completely wild; little bits of bark and twig sticking out of her hair, face smudged with dirt and blood. She doesn’t care. If you win the Games with looks, one of the kids from One or Two would always win. Although the girl from One this year had been a bit of an anomaly as far as stereotypes went. Not blonde, not tall, not graceful. Good with the weapons though, Carmen admits to herself grudgingly. She knows that she’s only made it this far thanks to a lot of luck and the shell she’d started building around herself the moment her name came out of that Reaping bowl. Each death had meant another layer to keep the thoughts at bay, and now she wonders if she’d ever be able to find her old self under it all.

Her old self. Just a week ago, and now she’s changed forever, and part of her doesn’t care because it was either change or go mad. Another part just wants everything to back to the way it was before. Back when she’d laughed about things and had friends, not just allies…she stops.

There had been a cannon earlier. She’s got no idea if it had been the boy from Six or Byron, but whoever it is, the hardest fight is yet to come. She’s almost surprised to find herself hoping that it had been Byron’s cannon – that he’d fallen down a hole or been attacked by the mutts. She doesn’t want to fight him, doesn’t want to kill him.

She will, if she has to. But she still hopes it’s Benji she meets.

At least that way, this will all be over fast and she can go home.

She’s just pulling her collar up around her ears to stop the water trickling down her neck when she feels the first tremor roll under her feet. Instantly every nerve in her body snaps tight, and her sword jumps to attention. Another shudders rips through the arena and somewhere off to her right she hears a crash as a trees topples. For a moment she stands, slack jawed, then her mind catches up and she starts to run.

She’s barely gone ten paces when the ground bucks underneath her and she goes sprawling, the sword flying out of her hand. Her face smacks into the ground, there’s a pain in her lip and a moment later she tastes the blood. She ignores it and pushes herself up, scrambling for the sword hilt. The air is filled with water and leaves as more trees are sent crashing to the ground. A creaking groan behind her forces her to spin around, shoving her wet hair out of her eyes so she can see. She wishes she couldn’t.