trust issues.— [double homicide (post-bloodbath)]

He’d hauled ass outside the walls of the corn toward the eastern gates. By the time he’d shoved his see-through backpack with goodies there’d been blood accumulating at his feet, so it hadn’t surprised him when he’d heard the sound of cannon fire. Two bangs in quick succession had sent pinpricks up and down his arms and a trickle of sweat at his pits (though it could’ve been the sweltering humidity that threatened to choke him). He couldn’t find it in his stomach to care about who they’d been, although he’d hoped not Tsara. His last remnant of home deserved to stick around until he had become settled in the arena.

Should he have been more afraid? Perhaps. No one else had offered a helping hand in the bloodbath and a few kids had tried to get a piece of him. He pressed a hand to his swollen lower lip. Adrenaline swam over anxiety and drowned his fear, leaving Arthur Rollei sanctified. He hadn’t died, hadn’t even lost a limb. Two more cannon shots rang out and he marveled that he was already doing better than the last district three that had been in the arena.

He uncapped the cover to his camera and twisted the lens into focus. The clouds overhead parted and he caught the cornucopia bathed in a pale yellow light, marking the end of the beginning.

As he meandered along the edges, parsing through the remnants gamemakers had scattered, he took note of the used and worn appearance of the metal and bridges in the distance. His stomach turned and the turgid air caught in his throat. Every arena had its secrets, but Arthur imagined far more lurking on the horizon. Something old, perhaps - something ancient.

Arthur hurried his pace as he scooped up his bounty: a box of crackers and processed cheese, a tin with a gauzy cream, a knife. He found a bottle of medicine marked only as antidote, as though generic elixirs could fix any and all sorts of poison. He’d been most unnerved by the bullets he’d stashed, but then, his ears were still ringing from the gunshots moments before.

He knew that his competitors were ready for battle but he’d never imagined they’d point a gun. As though this were violence beyond the pale, as though he hadn’t seen a boy’s head been cut off at the neck or a girl’s heart run through on-screen before. And yet the forcefulness of the gun, the ease of pulling the trigger made the act less human (which it was, to flick a switch rather than heave an axe would always put distance between killer and victim).

His haul left his backpack misshapen and he struggled to zip the thing closed. Arthur grinned at the weight of it, as though a heavier backpack would shield him from dangers he might face that afternoon. He tied his handkerchief around his neck with a flourish imagining raised eyebrows in three that Arthur Rollei hadn’t been put into a casket yet.

When he’d spotted the boy from Eleven, his first thought had been to turn the other direction. Arthur had taken a swing at him in the bloodbath, and he didn’t need to start a fight then and there. But he wasn’t a little bitch and he wanted to head East and Abel was standing in his way. Which meant he either needed to move or be moved.

“Well, well, well.” Arthur pulled at his backpack straps as he spoke, looking like a child on his way to primary school, “Abel O'Malley, you old snake in the grass. Smart headband, bud. You know, I had a feeling I’d be seeing you again. They tend to leave the easy kills for the first couple of days.”

Arthur had tucked his knife into the belt loop behind his back, though he kept his hands on the backpack straps where Eleven could see them.

“You’re in my way. Why don’t you stand aside and we can just forget we ever saw each other, hmm?” Arthur leaned forward. They’d a good twenty, thirty feet between them. Enough time to draw his knife and gut Abel if he needed.




[Arthur Rollei performs the following actions:

-Collects items from the bloodbath (backpack, blowdart gun + 10 darts, sparkly hoodie, -antibiotics)
-Collects scope from 10 score
-Collects canteen, iodine tablets, and flint from sponsorship
-Collects lunchables, water (unpurified), antibacterial cream, knife, antidote, ammo (6)
-Purifies water with iodine tablet]

Perhaps there had been a slight miscalculation. Abel twisted his fingers tighter around the axe and refused to move. He’d become much like a cat backed up against a wall in an alleyway, ready to slash at Arthur no matter the cost to his own body. And as much as he’d wanted to doubt the eleven, his training score had said otherwise. He had the sort of dogged determination Arthur lacked, a stick-to-itiveness without nuance. Abel wouldn’t bluff, and so he’d never win at a hand of poker. But he’d surely do something he’d regret if Arthur pushed too hard, too fast.

“Come on, man,” Arthur spat out. He rolled his shoulders back and let out a raspberry of air between his lips. He wiped away the sweat from his brow and shook his head. He didn’t have time for the back and forth, the will he or won’t he. The fact remained that they were both non-fighters who’d do a hell of a lot better getting as much of a head start as possible. “Don’t be a moron. We got about five minutes or less before whoever’s left back there start heading this way.”

Arthur was half surprised Abel had wound up alone as it were. Maybe all his preaching had turned the rest of the tributes off, or they’d sized up the beanpole of a boy and decided he wouldn’t catch enough arrows to be of enough use. At least Arthur could claim that he’d had no interest in allies. No one here had the range, or so he’d mused to Risky.

“Look, I’m not trying to follow you and I couldn’t give a shit less if you die today, tomorrow, or I have to kill you eight days from now. I’m trying to wedge myself into a spot somewhere so I can wait until a few more of these assholes die. And maybe have some fun. You know, a little uninhibited cave sex before I get my neck broken.” He pulled the straps at the end of his backpack and drew it tightly against his chest as he spoke.

Honesty had been the best policy, and Arthur had that in spades. He wouldn’t mince words about the sort of shit sandwich both had been dealt, nor the fact that Arthur’s plan was not to rush headlong into battle, but to be shadow flitting through the arena. He’d strike when he could be certain of the outcome, and failing that, to rain as much pandemonium throughout the arena as possible.

“Just take a deep breath with me,” Arthur held his arms away from his sides and breathed in, one, two, three. “… and exhale.” He breathed out, “Expel all the dumb thoughts going through the thick skull of yours and just take it easy.”

He opened his eyes.

“What do you say?”