The Bloodbath

It's a little bit surreal, really, just how fast the rest of my life has gone by.

One moment my name's getting called and I'm saying my goodbyes to the only person in my life that ever mattered for more than a few months at a time, the next I'm here, the whole Capitol experience a blur in my memory. Flirting with Avriel on the train, messing with a couple of the Careers in more than one definition of the word, finding unexpected friends in the Sixes, it was every bit of debauchery I could have ever wished for, magnified by ten.

And what do I get at the end of this glorious round of wealth and opulence? Well, I get my death, the very same thing I've always known was just around the corner for years now. Cause see, we street kids in Nine have that seventh sense, that little itch in the back of our head that just knows whenever someone is about to die. I mean hell, with the amount of shit I've put my body through it's a wonder I haven't kicked the bucket yet already. Funny how that works out - you got kids dyin' from malnutrition and gang violence and drugs and preventable diseases and whatnot all the damn time and yet it took the Hunger Games to really solidly off me. It's funny, too, because I knew that Gunner was seriously considering it - has seriously considered it, at least, he always did have a flair for the dramatic that I never found the taste for, yet it's me that got roped into it, as if Fate herself decided she was done having me be a cockroach that's long outlasted my time and decided to end me herself.

Eh, as I said, I knew this was coming. Death, I mean. It's rare that a kid like me makes it to twenty one, let alone into their thirties. Always knew it, kinda expected it, because what can I say? Life itself is pain, and it's up to you to dull that edge however you can.

That's why I fucked with that blond muscly Career boy, Bastian. That's why when it came time for me to trade blows with Cedric from Twelve, I let my own ass get beat. That's why I'd flirted with the wirey Career, Iden. And though I'm not sure that's why I ended up teaming with the Sixes, well, there's still them. Jack and Aurora, instilled with a loyalty to their own district that me and Aneesa never seemed to develop.

I hope she wins, for poor Avriel's sake. Cause it sure as hell ain't gonna be me comin' home.

It's with a certain amount of acceptance that I find myself raised to the platform, a certain amount of calm that's rare to see. And what can I say? I'm a punk ass bitch, raised with little manners and even littler fucks past the literal kind, but there's one line that even I won't cross, and that's the line of death herself that's prickling at the base of my spine.

And believe me, if death isn't in the air today, then my name ain't Zane Holbrook.

Heart burn torments his chest as the cylinder around him begins to rise up to the light. Tyrone feels ill. Pepper told him as she dressed him up that it was the butterflies catching him in his nerves. It's worse. Wasps swarm all around his torso, poking and prodding as if they want him to open up and let them all out. If it were medically possible from a tube five-feet in diameter, he would.

Tyrone massages his chest and stomach with his fingers to try and soothe the pain. The leather jacket wrapping his back feels heavy. He picks at the buttons on his white shirt, twisting them around to pass the time. The light is getting closer. His fear dims with every new ray that strikes his eye. It's all becoming more and more real. He's in the Hunger Games now, no longer messing around with weapons like toys against dummies and simulations. The weapons promise danger now, and the twenty-four people holding them have no incentive not to use them to their full potential.

The walls surrounding him eventually turn into open space. The arena. Everything feels larger than life, from the fences and gates closing the tributes in to the blades of grass almost as tall as a human. The fresh air brings relief to Tyrone's senses, which have been on overload since the moment he stepped onto the train toward the Capitol. For some reason, he feels more comfortable here than he did in the confines of the Training Center building. There are no authoritarian figures to enforce the rules. In fact, there are barely any rules at all.

Just twenty-four kids, sent into an arena with one rule and piece of guidance underlined twice in red ink: be the last one to survive.

The numbers ahead of Tyrone dwindle as he mulls what to do. Run away? Hide? Get a weapon? Could he survive without the least bit of supplies from the center? The debate in his head goes on as he finds himself ready to take his first strides on the path before him.

Three..

Two..

One..

His feet lift off of the platform, still unsure of their destination.

[d8m tyrone hope-less enters the bloodbath0