The Hunger Games: Staying True. (Completed)

Chapter One; This Will Not Be Fun. [Edited]

"Emerald!"

I whirl just in time to see Silver hit the floor, a rebel astride her hips, bearing down on her throat, dirty hands digging into her clean, delicate flesh.

My feet carry me, my hands lash out, and the rebel tumbles from Silver, eyes rolling in his head as he hits the street. I don't spare him a glance, don't wonder if I've killed him or damaged him beyond repair, my focus captured entirely by the task at hand.

The current task is to get Silver somewhere safe.

"My shoulder." She gasps, pale face turning a sickly green as I heave her up. She stumbles drunkenly, and I hoist her arm over my shoulders and lead her at a bruising pace to an unoccupied doorway which offers shelter.

We duck around Peacekeepers and rebels alike, and nobody thinks to stop two young women hurrying out of the chaos of it all. Silver is not built for this, not for the explosions or the gunshots or the screaming, not for the smears of blood or the broken rubble or the littered bodies.

It washes over me, this wretched world, and I let it. Breathe it in. This chaos was my home not long ago.

I ease Silver down against the closed door. A shop front, it seems, but the windows are barred and I don't reckon the doors will be opening any time soon. Still, it offers enough cover and shadows for us to separate ourselves from the fighting.

Silver squeaks as I assess her shoulder, feeling gently for broken bones. I find none, deeming it nothing more than dislocated, but blood matts the metallic grey curtain of her hair, and a head wound is enough to make me pause.

"Emerald," she snags my wrist and squeezes, but I'm not looking at her. I'm looking instead out onto the battlefield, at the mess of human violence. People hit the ground hard, and some of them rise again but most do not. Many stay on the ground, the lucky ones are vacant, quiet, the truly cursed are trapped on the street, screaming, dying slowly and painfully.

"Emerald!" Silver's got a hand under my chin and she's wrenching my face round. "You can't go. You can't. You're not strong enough to fight."

I stare at my friend, at the dearest person in the whole world to me, and I realise I cannot listen to her. Not this time.

The song of violence sings too sweetly.

"I've got to help." I tell her, and wrench her hands free of my clothes as she tries to anchor me at her side. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."

"We both know I shouldn't have followed you out of the house." She shakes her head, squeezes her eyes shut. "Promise you won't die." She grits out, snagging my collar and yanking me in close. "Promise you'll come back to me, and I'll let you go without a fuss."

I smooth a hand down her face, watching as dust from the crumbling buildings settles on her pale eyelashes, on the swells of her cheeks. I take a good long look, saying goodbye to this sweet soul, thanking her for all the years of company. If I say it out loud, she won't let me go.

"I promise." I say, my voice firm enough that she nods. Her hands slide from my collar. "Don't move. Don't try to get home. Stay here, when the fighting is done in this street medics will probably arrive to round up the wounded."

"Be careful." She snaps as I stand, as I step out of the safety of the shadows. "Be strong."

I turn away and walk into the chaos, and I am washed into the sea of surging bodies, panicked flailing, vicious tussling, horrified yelling. If I could take a moment to breathe it in, I would, but at the sights, at the smells, at the sounds, my whole body hums with... Energy. With eagerness. For the first time in a long time, I find calm amongst the heaving crowd.