Bad Blood? [Marchello and Zeki]

.: ZEKI WEBB :.
{district five : 69th tribute}

"You. Watch it, yeah? You could have taken my toes off." The boy yells. Actually, he didn't yell. The fact that he wasn't yelling scared me even more. How could someone not even let out a yelp when an arrow nearly strikes them?! And better yet, how could they not flip out at the person that shot the arrow? In some sense, that's comforting. That shows he's relatively rational. Or at least had an idea of what had happened before he decided to react.

"Unless you were trying to do that?" the boy says as he marches toward me angrily. His fists clenching into balls. Maybe he's not as laid back as I thought he was. Maybe he's about to pummel me.

My grip on the bow tightens. If he's going to punch me, at least I'll have something to keep him farther than arm's distance away. Then what he says registers in my brain. He thinks I shot at him on purpose! Well, I guess there's reason, he was standing in a place that would make it incredibly hard to hit him with an arrow unless I was trying. I wasn't though!

"No! No, of course not!" I blurt out instinctively. I don't even try to sound calm about it. I don't even sound reassuring. I just sound like I'm trying to get myself out of a dangerous situation. "I really didn't. I swear. I'm really sorry!"

I don't know if that's enough to keep him at bay or not. I just hope it makes him stop to think for a minute so that I can think up an explanation. We definitely don't need any injuries before we enter an arena where injury means death. I look into his eyes to try and figure out what he's thinking. If he even is.

.: ZEKI WEBB :.
{district five : 69th tribute}

I'd already made a mistake. Blurting out apologies never works. It only makes you seem inferior. And that's worse than not being sorry. At least when you act like you're not really sorry, the person sees you as a threat. Nobody sees inferiority as a threat.

But maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that means that they won't think much of you. And that really plays well in this place. In these Games seemingly like nothing much definitely plays well into the hands of some. But I'm too proud. I won't just let people think I'm inferior. I won't just let myself get beaten up. Even if he does end up pummeling me, at least he won't think I'm a coward. At the worst he'll think I'm an idiot. And sometimes, those are the most deadly kinds of people.

Now the boy stands over me. Stands like a man who has years of wisdom under his belt. Stands like a father. My father. I hate my father. I don't hate him, necessarily, but he's most certainly not my favorite person. I stand up to look him in the eye (or as best as I can, because for an eighteen year old he certainly looks like he could pass for someone a few years older). His eyes have the kind of glare that chills you. But it's not the scary kind of glare that makes you scream and fear for your life, it's the threatening kind of glare, that makes you nervous, but somewhat angry. The anger overpowers me and I respond to his annoyingly father-like remark,

"Of course it's not a toy, but you can't expect everyone to be perfect. Especially when we're here training to kill each other."

I feel a short and small pang of fear. If he is in fact angered by this statement, I will suffer injuries, if he's pacified, if at all, I have a chance to reason with him. I'm assuming the worst, though. That's always the best way to go. Because if you assume the worst and hope for the best. When you get the worse, then you get exactly what you expected. And if you assume the worst and get better, you're happy that you got what you hoped for. At least with this philosophy, you're never disappointed.

I await his response in a state of anger, fear, and anxiety. Because I don't want to get injured before I even thought I'd have to worry about it. One thing that consoles me is that the Capitol will stitch me up as good as new no matter what happens to me. Short of death.

.: ZEKI WEBB :.
{district five : 69th tribute}

Before I can do anything, it moves. His fist. It moves in slow motion for me, but so do I. Actually, I don't even move. I can't. Despite the sluggish rate the fist moves for me, I know it is much too fast for anyone to avoid in real life. And then it collides with my face. It hits my mouth, specifically. I stumble backward and land on my butt. The pain doesn't register. But I know it's there. I'm just more in shock. Shock that I was hit in the face. Who on Earth would ever dare hurt another person like that?!

It doesn't even cross my mind that I'm here training to do even worse things than this to people. The adrenaline is too powerful in my system. Now it courses through at such high amounts that I'm not even sure it's healthy.

My hand darts to my face and there's a small twinge of pain. I bring my hand away and there is a little bit of blood on it. And the second I see the blood, I taste it on my tongue. The metallic, hot, liquid taste and feel of it drives me forward. But it doesn't register as my blood. It registers as his. I taste his blood in my mouth. He will pay. I can't stop myself. The killer instinct has taken over completely and there not even a trace or a sliver of any rationality.

I look up at the boy. The evil being who tried to inflict pain on me. The thing that thinks I'm inferior. I am not inferior. He doesn't appear to be looking at me. I mean, his gaze can be followed directly at my face, but he doesn't see me. He's thinking of something else. Something emotional. What an idiot. He doesn't even have the wit to pay attention during a fight. And that plays to into my hand.

My hands immediately grab the bow laying at my side and before I even know what happened I'm standing up and I've swung the bow. It bludgeons the side of his head. I don't see what happened. I just see red. I feel everything now. Everything is solely physical. There's no thought, no sight, no hearing. Just feeling and taste. The taste of blood and the feel of another's pain. It's so much sweeter than I ever dreamed of.

And I don't know why nobody has stopped us. Why haven't any trainers come to retain us. To reprimand us and then to send us to the doctor's office to heal up anything that will interfere with our ability to succeed in the Games.

Until then, I'm going to enjoy this fight. The rage that has taken over. This killer inside of me that has never shown itself before.

.: ZEKI WEBB :.
{district five : 69th tribute}

Suddenly his hands are around my throat. My hands claw at his, scratching, trying furiously to peel skin from his hands. But my nails aren't as long they needed to be. As I try desperately to throw a kick in the ground, slice open his wrists with my nails that are just too short, he pulls back his fist and...

One.

I lose the air in my lungs. Now it's just a game of trying to stay conscious. I gasp for air, but his gigantic, muscular hands restrict the amount my neck can expand to take in the necessary air. As I begin to enter a state of reduced hyperventilation, I feel...

Two.

There's no more air. None at all. I thought the first punch to the gut was bad. Now pain was registering. Registering all over. Now that my body had nothing else to focus on, why not focus on the pain. It was something to distract me from the fact that he was preparing his third punch. I couldn't get in any more air. It was too difficult.

Three.

I barely have enough time to give him one last hazy glimpse before he shakes me.

I come to when I hear the crack of the bow, which he has just splintered, somehow. He had said something, I don't remember what it was. I don't really have the energy to think of what it was. I'm too busy coughing, hacking, wheezing, and inhaling as much as I can. I need air. I need air. Before I can do anything I need to get rid of these dots that cover my vision.

Finally, I take in one last gasp of breath before I attempt to stand up again. It's hard. My legs quake under the pressure of my body. I try to stay stabilized, but it's too hard. I look around, nobody's looking. Everyone's pretending this hasn't happened.

That's unacceptable. I try to shout, but I can't. I don't have the vocal capacity just yet.

Rage. Rage. Rage. That's all I feel. He beat me. He beat me and that's not allowed. He can't just get away with that. I glare at him. I glare with all my might. Because that's all I can do. All I can do but whisper as loudly as I can,

"I hate you."

And in my head, I scream as loud as I can, And I'm going to kill you!

.: ZEKI WEBB :.
{district five : 69th tribute}

It was obvious I wasn't going to win in physical warfare. That pained me so much, even more than the bruises and wounds he'd left me to stand there with. My wounds ache now so badly. I can almost feel the blood pooling where the bruises form. What a horrible person. What a wretched, evil, horrible person. I hope he dies right as soon as the bomb goes off. I want to watch him die. Hopefully he'll trip off his pedestal and just explode. That'd be the pathetic death he needs. It matches his entire personality.

Then it hits me. As he turns to walk away. As he turns, like he's won, like he's better than me. I know he can still beat me up. But at this point, if he tries anything else, someone's bound to stop him. From what I've noticed he's not entirely popular around here. Nobody wants to stand up to him though because nobody wants to get injured before the Games. But by now, everyone in here knows what's happening, and the trainers are just waiting for a chance to retain us.

But what hit me was that I was much smarter than he was. I could win in psychological warfare. I'm not necessarily smart at picking up on social cues. And I certainly have not proven that I am the least bit smart to this oaf. For Heaven's sake I shot a bow in the wrong direction. But someone who has a memory and a brain as powerful as mine, has some tricks up their sleeve. And if I'm all out of ammo, I might as well reload. The Capitol will have me stitched up by tomorrow morning anyway if he does end up hurting me worse.

"I just have a question," I blurt out. Not as loudly as I'd like, but my breath is coming back. "Can you point out to me every person in this room who doesn't want to kill you? I don't mean those people who don't want to kill, but have to. I mean the people in here who sincerely, honestly don't wish you would die right now?"

I motion to the entire training center.

"Because judging from these past couple of days, you don't look too popular around here."

And he might come charging back. He might pummel me. He might just keep walking. But whatever he does, I know I will have won. Because even if right here and right now he shrugs off what I say, it will come back to haunt him in his most desperate and helpless time. He'll regret his actions someday. But once he finally does, it will be too late. And my words will be the last words that ring through his head before his life comes to a halt. Hopefully an abrupt one.