Sixty seconds was all Haymitch had between the beginning announcement and the gong to signify the real start of the Games.
Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight.
He shook his body loose of any pain or stress, aware of how odd he must look to his surrounding tributes. But did it really matter, now?
Thirty-three. Thirty-two.
If any single tribute stepped even a toe off their pedestal before the time was up, they'd be blown to smithereens. It was the only thing stopping the tributes from giving themselves a head start, as they had in the first outdoor arena.
Suddenly, the sound of a ringing gong echoed through the arena, and Haymitch felt adrenaline surge through ever muscle in his body. He propelled himself off of his pedestal with a start, flying forward and pumping his legs as hard as he possibly could towards the huge, golden Cornucopia.
The other tributes had seemingly snapped back into it, and were making for the same destination, though Haymitch had a couple of metres on them.
You can't die. Not now, not ever. But not now, especially, Haymitch's head yelled at him, repeating itself over and over as he dashed towards the centre of the clearing. The moment his feet met the shaded grass under the opening of the Cornucopia, he realised there was no turning around, no distractions. It was life or death. Literally.
Still power-packed with epinephrin, Haymitch made a direct beeline towards the left hand side of the Cornucopia, which was heavily stocked with an array of weapons, small and big, and several backpacks. His right hand clasped the handle of a knife similar to the one he had used in his individual assessment, his left slinging the closest pack over his shoulder, before bolting back out of there just as Maysilee arrived.
He didn't have time to look back and make sure she made it. He didn't have time for anyone but himself. His head was pounding, his heart racing, his legs pumping. Haymitch ran until his legs were numb, sprinting into the surrounding forest like – no, because – his life depended on it. He drowned out the cries of fallen tributes as he bolted, the backpack thumping against his back, and slowed only as he felt far enough away, and as his breaths grew wheezy and his knifed-hand clammy.
He glanced in every direction before letting his guard down, though no one came into sight, and his hands fell to his knees as he puffed. He'd made it through in and out of the Bloodbath before it had even really began.
He had survived the Bloodbath.
It was an unusual achievement for a District 12 tribute, and Haymitch was sure he'd never run so fast in his life. He didn't even know he could run that fast. Though how far had he actually gone? And how long was he safe here for? He snapped back upright all of a sudden, doing another scan of the woods around him.
He could hear vague voices and screams of terror in the distance, though most likely from back at the Cornucopia, where it was a slaughterhouse, no doubt. Haymitch imagined the piles of bodies on the ground; he imagined Glitz Lurox driving her axe into their heads, and shuddered. What a horrid thing to think about.
Suddenly, a closer noise startled him: a splash of some sort. Could this arena possible get better? Might there actually be a fresh water source nearby?
Haymitch followed the splash of water and the trickle of a gentle current through a fence-like plantation of trees and shrubs to his left, and suddenly found himself standing on the bank of a beautiful crystalline stream, which ran through the woods endlessly, it appeared. But it wasn't only the stream that took him aback. It was the boy who knelt on the edge, cupping a handful of crystal-clear water. A boy he knew a little better, now.
'Quince!' he hissed, probably a little too loudly, and Quince turned to look at him as he took his first gulp of water. 'Oh, thank—' Haymitch hesitated as Quince suddenly lurched forward, face buried in the muddy bank. 'Quince?' he whispered again, before sudden voices faded into earshot behind him, of which were definitely closer than the Cornucopia, and his heart began to hammer.
Haymitch climbed all the way through the fence of trees and bushes, ducking down behind it and tucking himself at such an angle that he could just see the forest from where he lay. He tried to ignore the body beside him of the boy he'd just started to tolerate only the night before, desperate to help him, as soon as whoever the voices were left.
Finally, two tributes appeared between the trees where Haymitch stood only five minutes ago: two girls, one short and brunette, but older-looking, and the other muscly and tall, yet obviously younger. Haymitch recognised them from their reaping – these were the two females from District 9.
The first – the older-looking one – held what appeared to be a can of some sort in her hands, and was chucking it from her left to her right in a fun sort of way. After a moment, she paused her little, personal game of catch, and Haymitch almost thought she'd caught a glimpse of him, peering through the shrubs, but as it turned out, she'd only stopped to yank open the can she had been throwing so recklessly, revealing what was presumably food.
'Pears,' he heard the girl – Savory Dammann, if he remembered correctly – mumble to her district partner as placed one in her own mouth.
'Can I have one?' The second girl, Fennell something – Haymitch's memory had failed him this time – murmured, glancing pleadingly up at her partner, who shook her head.
'Have you risked your life to get these at the Cornucopia? I don't think so,' Savory taunted, waving the tin in front of Fennell's face with a smug grin.
What a peacock, Haymitch thought to himself as the pair wandered back out of sight. This thought immediately averted his attention back to Quince, who still lay – unconscious and face-down – in the muddy bank beside him.
Quickly, Haymitch shifted to his knees, turning so that he now peered over Quince's limp body. His hands fumbled with the weight of his broad district partner, pulling in an upwards tugging motion until he could finally roll Quince over. Conscious Quince's now-muddy state, and of the wet mud likely marinating in his mouth, he bent towards the stream, cupping his hands and reaching for a good scoop of water to clean the both of them up, before he noticed something, and hesitated.
Quince's mouth and hands looked red. But not a natural red – a raw, bloody red, which stretched from the skin around his mouth to his lips, and slowly dissolved the skin off his hands.
Warily, Haymitch glanced from Quince to the crystalline stream to the bush which he hid behind, of which he plucked a leaf and dropped it gently into the water. Nothing happened for a moment, but then it all did at once: the leaf began to bubble, sizzling like rabbit in a pot, before dissolving into nothing on the surface.
Poisonous. The water is poisonous, Haymitch thought, standing up with a start and taking a cautious step back from the bank. After what he'd seen the water do to that leaf, there was no doubt that Quince was dead. There was no use trying to help him. It hurt, but there was nothing he could do, and it was far too dangerous to stay this close to both the Cornucopia and the poison stream for too long.
'I'm sorry, Quince,' Haymitch murmured quietly, as the canon signifying Quince's death sounded, and he took a couple steps back as a run-up, propelling himself over the stream in one leap. He landed awkwardly, hurting his ankle slightly in the process, but not badly enough to prohibit him from moving on. It was only twisted; he'd be fine.
The forest on this side of the stream was a little thicker than the other, growing denser as he moved further in, until it became a tight squeeze in between branches and trees and shrubs. Haymitch was agile, and fairly fit, so the trees weren't a problem, however past them lay a much harder obstacle to overcome: a huge, tightly-woven hedge, which stretched as far as he could see in both directions.
He ploughed his knife in at first, which proved useless, as the winding branches were too thick for any idle object.
Frustrated, Haymitch kicked the hedge with the cap of his boot, immediately regretting it as its steel-like branches hurt him more than he hurt it. But he couldn't stop moving. Because if he stopped moving, he'd start thinking, and all his brain thought about was Quince; how he could've saved him if he'd just gotten to the stream earlier, how his face looked, cold and inflamed and... dead.
He'd simply knelt for water, and he'd gotten whatever toxic, leaf-singeing liquid flowed in the stream down the forest from where he was now. Suddenly, Haymitch's brain pinged like a lightbulb, and he jogged nimbly back toward the poisonous stream.
At this point, a fair few more tributes were visible: two a couple yards away, collecting what appeared to be apples – or some other miscellaneous round fruit – from one of the arena's many fructiferous trees, and another body, which now lay beside Quince's on the bank of the stream.
Haymitch hovered in the shadows until he was sure the apple-pickers were too far to notice him, and moved out from the trees and towards the stream. Leaf-singing liquid. How hadn't he thought of that earlier? He'd use the water from the stream to burn a path through the hedge for him. It seemed easy now.
Well, it would've, had he thought the plan through far enough to consider the fact that we wasn't entirely sure what to carry the water in.
All of a sudden, Haymitch remembered the backpack slung over his shoulder, which he hadn't yet explored, and knelt down to take it off, rifling through its minimal content.
An apple, a sleeping-bag, and a flask. Only one flask. A flask of which would be unusable for the remainder of the games, should he fill it with toxic stream water now. Was it worth it? Probably not. He couldn't be sure whether or not it might rain later on in the Games, though, based on the rain jacket every tribute was given in the Launch Rooms, it most likely would, and then he'd need something to collect rainwater with.
Haymitch's eyes fell to the other body now beside Quince, whom he recognised as Rasher Marrow, one of the male tributes from District 10.
At first glance, it appeared that both Rasher and Quince had just mistakenly taken a sip of the water, and succumbed to their quick fates. Though, as Haymitch stepped closer, climbing carefully back over the stream to the bank on which the two dead tributes lay, he noticed the lack of redness around Rasher's mouth. It looked as if he hadn't even gotten to contact the poison yet.
A million initial thoughts ran through Haymitch head – Could the water have a poisonous aroma, too? Could Rasher have merely inhaled it, and died? Should he get out of there? Was he about to die as well? – all of which disappeared as he noticed one other minor detail.
A small, pin-prick-looking wound on the right hand side of Rasher's neck.
The thing had begun to swell immensely, making it obvious that something had come into contact here. Or maybe someone.
Haymitch's head perked up immediately, glancing at his surroundings for a possible inflictor of such damage, but remained alone by the bank. But what sort of weapon could have made such a mere prick, yet done so much damage? And how?
Haymitch decided that this was his cue to leave. He'd come back for the water to singe the hedge as soon as he received something from a sponsor that would comply. A bowl, maybe. Or a container of any sort. That was if he even had sponsors. Haymitch prayed Connell was charming the Capitol, right now, like he had promised, urging them to sponsor him. If anyone could, it'd be him, so clearly Haymitch had hit the jackpot there.
Standing up, he moved back through the bushes on the edge of the stream, his attention suddenly averted by a loud thump, followed by a cry of terror, followed by another loud thump. Haymitch whipped around in shock, searching for the source of the distress, but saw nothing but two bodies in the far forest. The rest of the woods sat still, as untouched as ever, and there was no sign of any movement or life.
Frowning, a horrible feeling sunk into Haymitch's stomach. He had two options: the first was to turn around, jump right back over that stream, and head back towards the hedge. The second was move further into the forest towards the Cornucopia to find out what had happened, and risk getting killed.
There was an obvious correct answer, but some strange, tingling sensation urged Haymitch on, past the bushes lining the stream, and back into the thinning woods.
After a couple metres, Haymitch quickly realised that the two lifeless bodies, which currently lay, slumped, under a shady tree, belonged to the tributes he'd seen harvesting fruit only moments ago. His conscience scanned the area for danger as he broke into a slow jog, but a sense of intrigue kept him going, and he reached the apples trees in no time at all.
As the bodies came closer into view, Haymitch stayed a couple steps back in wariness – just in case this was some kind of hoax, or held some sort of danger – and began to inspect the situation.
The deceased – or unconscious, he couldn't be sure – tributes were a female and a male, both of whom Haymitch recognised as District 3 tributes, Alva Copper and Aimond Kuiper. A scattering of apples lay around them like confetti, as if they'd both had an armful each, but suddenly dropped them all. It almost looked as if the two had just spontaneously dropped dead.
With one last glance around him, making sure some silent danger didn't lay, hidden, in the surrounding Haymitch moved in closer, his eyes catching something out of ordinary. One apple beside the male, Aimond, had a large chunk – presumably a bite – missing, with signs of tooth-marks. Almost immediately after, Haymitch spotted an almost identical apple beside the female, Alva, though she'd eaten a little more of hers.
An uncomfortable mixture of confusion and apprehension seeped into Haymitch's system as he glanced back at the bodies, his eyes searching for signs of injury or struggle, and finding none.
Unwilling to directly touch him, Haymitch leant down to grab a nearby stick and gave the boy's head a gentle poke. Immediately, it fell to the side, his idle mouth dropping open, and a puddle of bright green liquid leaking out to create a puddle on the grass below. Haymitch let out a gasp, dropping the stick in shock. Poisonous. The stream and the apples were poisonous.
Realisation hitting him like a ton of brick, Haymitch glanced around the forest, his eyes flickering from one gorgeous fruit, to the next, from the clump of fluorescent, yellow flowers, to the flock of brightly-coloured birds flying above.
Everything in the arena was poisonous.
Glancing back down at Aimond Kuiper, his mouth still dribbling green liquid, he noticed the small backpack in his hands, and immediately yanked it from his stiff, colorless fingers, tearing open the zip.
Inside was only one thing: a bowl. Perfect.
Adrenaline now surging through him, Haymitch secured the bowl tight in his fingers, sprinting back for the stream and leaping it like it was only inches wide. Though as he ran, travelling further into the thick forest, he noticed the sky begin to darken, and he paused, frowning. Dusk? He'd only been here for a couple of hours, possibly less.
Though the Gamemakers ran the games, not him. They could end the day whenever they wanted, which usually meant early. It helped the viewing rates to speed it up.
But the darkening woods meant Haymitch would have no time to make it back to the hedge tonight; he'd have to stay where he was. Which, as he admitted, however, wasn't so bad, as the trees were thick enough to hide him from any passing tributes or wildlife, but not so thick that he couldn't see through them at all.
Sighing, Haymitch swung the backpack back off his shoulder again, this time searching for the sleeping bag inside. It was compact, and took up only a small amount of the bag, though also incredibly thin, granting Haymitch no comfort at all, nor refuge from the sea of rocks and sticks under his back as he lay.
After a couple minutes, Haymitch groaned silently, unable to take another second on his back, and sat up, shuffling backwards a little and leaning against the tree behind him. Almost as soon as he did so, the arena finally succumbed into full blackness, and an instrumental version of the Anthem of Panem began to play.
Haymitch craned his neck in an attempt to see around the trees ahead of him, and, remaining unsuccessful, shifted to his right slightly, adjusting his vision until he had a good view of the arena dome, where a projected slideshow of the day's fallen tributes had just begun to play.
Haymitch felt himself holding his breath after a couple seconds, and released it, counting up the tributes as they appeared. Fleur Revere, District 1. All tributes from District 3.
The victims of the apple trees.
Lake Redfern, 4. Mynah Smith and Rutherford Hintz, 5. Fannie Enfield and Ressor Sheer, District 6. Prune Cresston, Brier Lindley, and Root Berthold, 7. Magenta Taylor, 8. Siylo Malek and Aniss Linville, District 9. All from District 10.
The boy beside Quince on the bank.
Mint Arbery, Cicely Evins, and Weeder Avian, District 11. Zinnia Verne, District 12.
Zinnia Verne. It wasn't heartbreaking nor surprising to see, but just the thought of a girl Haymitch had spent the previous week with now lying, dead, in a field, was haunting. Though it wasn't until the final face appeared, huge and solemn, on the projection, that Haymitch felt his insides clench in guilt.
Quince Everly, District 12.
So Zinnia and Quince were dead, which left Maysilee still alive out there, somewhere. Maybe, should Haymitch not make it, District 12 had a small chance, after all. She'd clearly done well for herself, this far. Besides, that was all Haymitch wanted, right? To not be ridiculed any longer. To finally have a known District 12 victor.
Haymitch wondered where Maysilee was now.