Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

...Or Is It?

Why can't she? It is the sort of thing she would do. She took alliances so seriously and forgot that they were only ever a shadow, not even close to real. Maybe she even followed him around, thinking she would protect him. Yes. Except now this is the last two and she looks -

She looks as if she'd gladly kill him a thousand times over. If glares were poisonous, he'd be being ferried out of here on a hovercraft by now.

He wipes a hand over his forehead, more for the look of the thing than because it has any notable effect. What remains of his clothes is sticking to him. His heart is so loud he can hear it in his ears and feel it in his legs. He is weak. But he tries not to show it.

"What do you mean?"

Grabbing the sword, she drops down to the jungle floor and snaps to her feet, not taking her eyes away from his. His feet itch to move, even his injured ankle seems to scream for him to run. But he's not. He's come too far to run now.

Carmen points the sword at him. "You danced with Ellie, now she's dead."

"This is the Hunger Games." His voice comes out as a dry croak, so he licks his lips and tries again. There's dust in the air. He can taste it. "People die."

"You were in the house with Tyrion when the mutts came in, now he's dead."

"There were mutts!"

She makes a dismissive huffing noise and advances a few paces. "Mutts don't kill people. They aren't supposed to. Tributes are supposed to kill tributes. Mutts just make it easier. Don't they, Byron?"

She's getting close enough to strike, and he thinks if it comes to speed she'll have the advantage. Which he can't allow. So he reaches back with his foot, finds a secure patch, and moves onto it. Then another. There's a tree, so he goes around that. And all the while she's following, sneering.

She's spoken, but it's not a question. She already knows the answer. Otherwise she'd have struck quickly, mercifully; he guesses this is intended to be torture. It feels like it. The heat. His heart. His body.

She looks weak. If he keeps moving, she might tire...

They dance around another tree and dodge a lump that could have been a coach. "The victor writes the story," she says. "What story would you write?" She takes another step closer and he falters and suddenly she's closer than she has been for a long time. He raises the axe, but she doesn't seem to see it; there's a look in her eyes that scares him. He's seen terrified eyes, he's seen dead eyes, but he's never seen any like this. It looks like he could hack her guts out and she'd keep going. "What story, Byron? How a gentle boy from Ten, a rebel at heart - they can hear me, maybe they'll strike you down right now - came to win the Hunger Games? How he did it because he had no choice? How he never hurt anybody, not really? Never killed anybody?"

"Carmen!"

"Don't." It's a snarl now, hardly a voice at all, let alone hers. She's prowling towards him and he's backing away, using a hand to check for obstacles, but the Gamemakers won't watch this forever. He would swing, but any opening could be fatal. "Don't do that," she spits. "Don't use my name. I'm the girl from Five, that'll make it easier for you. I'm nobody. I'm no-one. I don't matter. Come on then!" She jabs forwards with the sword, not close enough to cause any concern.

"I-"

"Fight! Fight me, you cowardly son of a bitch. Or do you not like it when your victims might fight back? Because they weren't fighting you, were they? They trusted you. They thought you'd keep them safe, or as safe as they could be. The young. The vulnerable. They trusted you!"

Enough of this. "Then they were stupid!" he shouts.

The advance stops. The stillness it is replaced with is worse. And those eyes. Pure, undiluted fury, purpose, and hurt.

"I trusted you,, too" she says. "When was it my time to die, Byron?" She seems bigger now, she seems to take up the whole in front of him, almost six feet of barely contained anger. "When would that fit into your story? Last? You knew it'd just be us two, same as I did. It was always going to come down to us two. So I'd be last. Because it'd be the most difficult, or because it'd be the easiest?"

"Because. Because." Come on! There must be things he can say. There must be some fight in him. He's not a coward! "Because I couldn't bring myself to do it? I was hoping...I was hoping..."

He's scraping the last vestiges of reasonable thought from his mind here, and both of them know it. It's too hot. It's too much. This is not a situation where you think. This is a situation where you say whatever will give you another few seconds. He is used to saying whatever he needs to. But he can't make this sound convincing. And then he notices...

He's been too busy watching her eyes to notice the rest of her.

The words have pinned him to the spot. While he's been trying to fight them off, she's got too close.

And she's faster than he is.

"You should have killed me first," she whispers, and swings.

And then it's over.