Deceived: The 500th Annual Hunger Games

Chapter 82 - The Arena: Day 1

RHYMER RAWDAWG'S P.O.V

This is the second time.

For the second time, I say goodbye to my stylist; they haven't done too much this time around, but as normal, traditionally, they send us off to our death.

Hopefully I don't die. I wanna live. Then again, Hydra is my priority. She has to make it home, I don't want her to die.

Never have I put someone else's safety before my own; I've seen it in movies, and now, I know first hand how it really feels, I relate to the emotions the actors show on the screen.

Cynder must hate my guts right now. Our stylists, also brother and sister, have desperately tried to get us to make up, but ending up resorting to ignoring each other because we'd scream at each other otherwise.

It's weird to think that just a week ago, I said that I'd try and make it home to her. That I cared about her.

"60 seconds."

"Rhymer," my stylist whispers. "You've done it before, you can do it again. Believe in yourself."

"I don't wanna make it home. That's Hydra's job," I whine. He just tuts as he adjusts my coat. Why am I wearing a coat?

"Put yourself first for once," he says, walking over to the tube with me. The thirty seconds timer goes off.

He pulls me into a hug; he pats my back. "Thanks for everything." My whisper echoes around the room as he lets go of me.

"No problem. I'm relying on you to come out. You have the strength, the authority. Please, try. For me?"

His eyes, brimming with tears, cause me to weaken. Finally, I tell him that I'll try if Hydra dies. "I promise that I'll put myself after Hydra. Before Kristov or Eunia."

He thanks me and ushers me onto the podium. Ten seconds passed relatively fast; I'm soon concealed inside the glass tube.

My breathing becomes shallow as I start to panic. No, I can't enter again. That place made me lose my mind last time, enter the world of insanity.

But what choice do I have? It's not like my words make a difference. I'm a tribute, no one of importance.

Unless I win. Victors have a say.

But Hydra has to win, and I know she feels the same way as I do about this barbarous situation. If Hydra can make it out alive, then she can tell the world how we felt, how we feel. Or would feel if we didn't die.

The podium begins to rise, subjecting me to the arena. Already, I clog why I've been given the faux coat I'm wearing - through the minute gap in the roof that provides me oxygen for the minute I'm underground, the air is frozen, algid.

If Casio wasn't a tribute, he'd have a lot of money right now, I'm guessing. Because there is no way this arena is going to be sunny, not warm. This has to be a snow biome.

My heart thumps against my chest; I wonder if it would be audible to anyone else who happened to be trapped in this pipe with me, on the verge of suffocating.

It occurs to me that all the others are in pipes like I am, worrying about who the first to die will be, wondering if they'll live to see the sun - or whatever weather we're provided with - when, if, they wake up.

The gap in the roof gets significantly bigger, revealing nothing but a bleak sky accompanied by antarctic winds. My body freezes up, despite the number of layers I've been given.

My head finally pokes out of the hole; there isn't an inch of snow. Maybe Casio would've have won any money...

As my eyes adjust to the outside world after being consumed by the darkness for a minute and a half, I notice the people I can see are dressed in numerous different outfits.