Boo opens his eyes.
He wasn't really sleeping; he hasn't slept since he entered the arena. He's done a good job of pretending to instead. The world floods into view straight away; brisk morning light - day six - the spindly tree, the flat clearing and then the infinite grass. Something is different, though, and it takes him a moment to put his finger on it.
Splish. Splash.
Something cold and wet drops onto his hand and he snatches it out of the way sharply. The sky above is grey and mouldy; the air feels closer and heavier. The light is weaker. He can't even make out the shape of the sun pushing its way through the clouds.
Another raindrop plops onto his nose. He scowls angrily at it, but it is followed almost immediately by another, then another, squashing his hair so that it is slicked back on his head. It feels weird. He's used to his hair defying gravity, not squashing his ears. It reminds him of that horrible cold box thing he'd had to wear in the parade. Well, it felt cold, but it was too warm on the inside and he couldn't see. Not that he'd have wanted to see the Capitol leering up at him. The armour plating was good, though. He could do with some of that right now.
He regards the two female shapes dispassionately. Both are propped up against the bottom of the tree, asleep, heads bobbing forwards, weapons nearby. Savannah is muttering something, or at least, it sounds like she is. He peers into the tree and can just about make out the not very threatening curl of Ever, propped up in a fork, snuffling softly. Ever and her shovel. He almost laughs.
No, no laughing. The rain pattering muffles his footsteps as he trudges over to the pile of stuff. Useful stuff. Half-full bottles of water, a small bag of bread, some packets of dried fruit. A bunch of small knives. There’s a bag too, leather by the look of it; waterproof. Sneaking glances at the sleeping girls, he packs it all in, slinging the bag onto his back and allowing himself a smile; it’s not as heavy as he’d thought it would be. That will help him with a quick getaway.
Each raindrop is like a small blast of cold as it hits his skin, and he briefly wishes he had something to pull around himself other than this shirt. But he stops that thinking straight away and tells himself he’s comfortable, and that this is necessary. He’ll never have to be uncomfortable again if he does this. So it's fine, then.
So that's supplies. Now what about weapons? He's thought this through already; his fists are his best weapon but they'll do him no good. By now everybody is hardy, tough, and armed. So he needs something with a blade, something sharp.
Jewel's spear looks too unwieldy. Savannah's sword is an option, but it's the right height for the slim and muscular girl from Two and not for a skinny, still growing boy from Three. It's almost like the Gamemakers did that on purpose. He wouldn't trust himself to not take his own arm off with it.
The mace is a no, for much the same reasons. How stupid would it be to kill yourself with your own weapon? Although he's seen it done, back in that living room a lifetime ago. It was tragic and disgusting at the time. Now it's just stupidity.
Wait, what about the knives? They're the right size for his palm, and he's less likely to do himself any damage with them. Plus, since he's already carrying them, they're no extra weight.
Jewel shuffles, her hair falling over her face where it's coming out of the plait. He's pleasantly surprised that the rain doesn't seem to have woken them. But he should leave before it gets any heavier.
He crouches down, digging in the bag until a jab in his palm tells him that he's found one of the knives. He regards the blood carefully with chill brown eyes. It's an interesting shade of red, blood. It looks shiny and dull at the same time. He holds his palm up to his mouth, sucking on it just in case it is infected. Saliva heals wounds. He doesn't know where he's heard that before. The blood is salty and seems to dissipate on his tongue. His hand is damp with the rain, rivulets of water running down the webs in his fingers.
He says knife, but it isn't really. Nobody in District Three would give this kind of knife any purpose other than to kill people with. The blade has an elegant curve to it, the hilt carved out of some kind of smooth black material. It doesn't look painted. Trey balanced these on his fingers, as a trick, but holding it now he can see that anybody could do it. As he holds it, it feels like the weight all rests inside his palm, rather than in the handle. Carefully, watching as a scientist would watch an experiment, he places the knife facing upright in his palm, over the wound it caused. It stands perfectly.
Dagger. That's the word. This is a dagger before him. The rain has already washed his blood from it, though he watches, fascinated, as two streams of rain race down the blade. He doesn't get to see which one wins; another small movement by the tree calls his attention and he turns coolly to the job in hand, annoyed with himself for losing focus.
The rain splatters darkly on the floor, pattering onto the grass and bouncing off his boots.
Which one to attack? Jewel is the more skilled with weapons but Savannah is stronger. Both would probably attack if the other was being attacked. Jewel has quicker reactions but Savannah is quicker once she gets moving.
A small laughs bursts out of his mouth; he's just thought that he ought to flip a coin on it, if he had a coin.
He doesn't have a coin, but he has a dagger. Taking a quick check that the girls are still sleeping, oblivious - which they are - he flips it up into the air, watches it cut through the rain and come down, the tip embedding itself in the floor.
There's his answer, then. He doesn't even bother wiping the mud off it as he approaches his target. How to do this? Ideally he doesn't want her to wake up, in case she alerts the other, but he's not sure he can manage that. So he needs to stop them making a noise. Or enough of a noise.
Quickly, on his tiptoes so that he makes as little sound as possible, he takes the spear and gently puts it out of reach. His hands are starting to tremble; the longer this takes, the more likely it is that one of them will wake up. And he thinks it's obvious, what he's doing now.
The sword nearly slips from his hands as he lays it to one side.
Ever!
He glances up sharply, but she seems to still be asleep, or not watching. But now he's remembered that she's there, he needs to move even quicker. She might not do anything, but then again she could easily shout and ruin the whole thing.
He kneels next to his chosen victim, making sure that he's balanced; if they struggle and knock him off, he's got no chance. The girl snores quickly, a light snort which he doesn't expect from somebody so elegant and which almost makes him laugh again. He bites it back and gently places a hand over her mouth, hoping that it doesn't wake her up.
Her breath is moist on the inside of his palm, over the wound, as she shuffles, eyes fluttering open but not yet aware...
The first breath of panic catching in his throat, he presses the blade of the knife to her neck.
Her eyes fly open wide, alert and ready, and her hand scrambles for the weapon that isn't there, her other limbs kicking out in surprise and horror and shock. Red pours down her front, mingling with the rain that plasters her blonde hair around her face, like a frame for a picture. A picture in the sky.
Teeth bite down on Boo's palm and he nearly yelps; he can feel them ripping slightly into his skin. Hands flail at him but he just presses with his palm grimly, his other hand fending out the blows that she's aiming at him. He knows, somehow, that he's lucky she woke up when she did or she'd be stronger and easily capable of pushing him off. Her legs kick but it's not aimed; spasm. The blood stains her skin and just keeps coming, a hot waterfall from the neck, and her eyes roll desperately in her head and she's trying to say something but he won't let her, in case it's a trick. Though he can't see how it would be...
The other is sleeping on, completely clueless, back at home and not in the arena and not aware that her ally is silently thrashing out her death on the other side of the tree.
He realizes that he didn't clean the mud from the blade.
The kicking subsides, the soft punches falling flat. Blood trickles from her mouth; he can feel it on the inside of his hand, sticky and hot. The eyes stare into space, not seeing anything. The cannon goes. He removes his hand.
Boo sighs with relief; that could have gone worse. His hand is covered in bite marks, many of which are bleeding. He licks them clean, though the rain is washing it anyway, shoulders his bag and trudges away from the body, leaving the remaining two girls at the tree to fight it out themselves.
The sun moves on on the sixth day. Seven left.