this wild life ..squad day 3 leisure

I’ve really got to hand to the gamemakers. There was like—not even a point to the bloodbath because there’s shit all over the place to grab, nab and trip on. Guess the fans back home were tired of watching everyone get knives from sponsorship and then poking each other to death.

Variety is the spice of life or whatever.

Well like—spice is the spice of life but—I don’t know, I was trying to go somewhere lewd with that but like—there’s so much to focus on, like that Nixie had the audacity to try to interrupt my little love/hate feud with Whiskey.

Like, bitch? I have got one and a half fuckin arms, kindly step away from trying to cut more of it off?

What can you expect from a district four career though? Their idea of taste is salt and fish. Of course she has no sense of style. When she does that, I pivot behind a dune, dragging Whiskey with me and pulling the handle of a machete out of the sand, because—like I said, shit everywhere.

I’m thinking about giving him a smile since all he does is scowl, but—

Cannon.

I’m breathing heavy, and I’m flustered, and I’m flushed and I’m practically straddling this boy, but the giggle slips out anyway.

"So you think it was one of mine or one or yours?"

Fuck you, he replies.

"Promises, promises," I start to say as he boots me off away from him.

Rude, but like? All this flush in my face is not because of embarrassment.

"Told you he was the one you had to worry about." I cackle as he speeds away.

And he’s running back towards his gals, and I’m—I’m laughing, and I’m not really sure why.

Maybe it’s because Nixie is now at the top of my shitlist and I have someone to focus all of my training onto. Or maybe it’s because three days into the games, I’ve realized not everyone sees the world the way I do, and I don’t know how to deal with that absurdity.

Like—why is he upset that the little matchstick girl died? If one of us didn’t kill her, someone else would have. Maybe even one of them. Maybe even him.

Hello? Only one person can go home? Do you think I give a single fuck about any of the bodies I’ve left behind? Am I gonna care when Bastian and our chauffeur are faces in the sky? Do I still have two hands?

Like—the answer is obvious to anyone with eyes. None of us are here to make friends. We’re here to win. And have fun on the way there. So while Bastian has a pissing contest with Whiskey that has enough tension to either end in a kiss or death, I drop back to sit on the hood of the jeep.

“Call me,” I say with a grin, miming a phone with my fingers on the side of my face and swinging my legs cheerily as I put the floppy sunhat Bastian just handed me on my head.

Love me or hate me, they can’t deny that I’m one hundred percent fabulous.

So I make a gun with the hand I have left and point it at Nixie, Sinead and Whiskey in turn as they drag a dying girl away.

Bang.

You're dead.

They just don't know it yet.