The 1st Writer Games: Powers

Task #4 - Responses (Males)

.: Jasper Vaz-Merille - District One :.

And just like that, it’s cold again. Only this is a different sort of cold, the kind that misses the skin and goes right through to the bones. We don’t often have cold this like in District 1. Mind you, we don’t have trees that look like freaking huge icicles either. 

I groan and stretch. Nothing will live or grow here. No hunting. So I’m going to have to go elsewhere. Where else is there? The mountain. I don’t like the sound of that. Heights aren’t really my thing; I prefer to be underground in the jewel mines. The beach. Well, at least it might be warm. I can’t take any more cold. It’s actually started to feel normal; it’s going to feel boiling when I get back home. Because I will get back home. I can’t think otherwise.

Heat exhaustion is no longer a problem, luckily. But I’m still starving and thirsty. I wonder if I’ll get to the point where I have to drink my own urine to survive. Disgusting, I know, but I’ve spoken to people who have had to. The new arrows are good and I amuse myself by balancing them on my fingers, until there’s a small cry from somewhere out to my left. It stops instantly, and I carefully climb to my feet. They might have supplies. Tiny spikes in the ground dig into my feet, poking through the thick soles of my boots and pricking the tips of my toes. Annoying, but not too painful, though there are huge stakes big enough to impale yourself on scattered every so often.

A shape with dark hair, probably once silky smooth but now matted and twisted (though I can’t talk), glides eerily between the trees. It’s got to be the girl from 8. I hear rather than see her pass behind the tree behind me, biting my lip to hold back any noise that might betray fear. This girl is dangerous, I don’t doubt. But I have to think that I’ll win; there’s no point being defeatist. My throat is achingly dry and my insides feel hollow. That’s motivation enough for me.

Something sharp prods on my hand; I barely feel it through the numbness. Expecting a hand, I grab for it, but it isn’t. It’s some kind of rope, thin and sharp to the touch. Of course. District 8 can control fibres.

It digs into my finger, circling it and tightening until it has drawn a ring of blood. I grit my teeth, determined not to cry out, as it gets tighter and tighter. Eventually it will chop my finger off; I need to think past the pain and do something before that happens. A low voice chuckles behind the tree.

“Tricky situation this, isn’t it Jasper?” she drawls, in a voice colder than the air. I refuse to acknowledge that she’s there. Who does she think she is, messing with a Career? Though I suppose I’m the only Career left so she might think I’m easy prey. 

The rope digs in a bit more and I can’t help myself from crying aloud.

“Oh, Jasper, is it painful?” she giggles. Sick kid. Even Careers like me aren’t this twisted. We just want to win; she wants to cause people pain.

“I’ll show you painful!” I promise through gritted teeth.

“I will!” chirps a female voice. My knees nearly give way, partially from pain, partially from shock. That voice...it has an accent I’ve grown up in, the diamond-rough tones of District 1. Which means...

“Tiamera?” I gasp.

“You’re dead!” exclaims the girl from 8, and the rope relaxes enough for me to strike while she’s distracted.

“Funny, I don’t feel much dead!” giggles Tiamera’s voice. I spin around the tree, ending up face-to-back with the girl from 8. She has a backpack. Tiamera stands in front of her, twirling a knife in her hand. Rayla’s glance snaps from one of us to the other, and back again.