The Elites . (2/2) Event. Ratmas day 1

If mum was still alive, this is exactly the kind of thing she’d have dragged me along to.

I can see it now, all too clear. She would have dug her taloned nails into my arm and shoved me forward, parading me through the District Square, ready to present me as District Two’s newest success story. She would be parroting on about making lasting impressions, that we’ve worked too hard to fall apart, but I’d know she’s mostly talking about herself.

A few other competitors have already stepped up, the first kid managing to bag 9 points of a total of 12. Infuriating, really – he looks about 8 years old, and I’d much rather burn my eyebrows off than go down to a pipsqueak like him. I don’t need mum’s mocking to spur me on – my own pride does the job just fine.

Admittedly, I’m rusty. That’s what I tell myself as I look down at the weapons strewn across the bench: knife, axe, javelin. In that very order.

But my hand doesn’t shake as I balance the first two blades in my fingertips. Rather, it feels like coming home. I don’t blink twice as the face of the dummy in front of me morphs into the ghost of my own mother’s.

Hit!

Hit!

I smile to myself. Double bullseye. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised, but I probably shouldn’t be – after all, knives had always been my strong suit when it came to armed combat.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that luck can change as swiftly as the wind. And I swear, I had every intention of keeping a cool and level head, was determined to not let my first successes trick me into a sense of false confidence.

But then this bitch decided to show up and push in front of everyone thinking she’s top shit or something.

Like, jeez, wait your damn turn!

“Excuse me!” And maybe she doesn’t mean to shove my shoulder – hard – out of the way, but I’m sure as hell going to take it personally.

“Excuse yourself! I wasn’t finished there.” She ignores me, my protests falling on deaf ears as she lines herself up, weapons held loosely in her hands. I roll my eyes and clench my teeth, rocking back on my heels to watch her – closely – thinking that maybe, if I stare hard enough, she’ll feel off-balance and manage to fuck this up.

It’s a good theory, and proves itself to be true as the impatient bully manages to hit only four of her targets – most of which are barely shallow cuts.

I grin. Karma, bitch.

“If you’re done here,” I rasp out, moving forward once more to finish what I started, hoping I won’t end up regretting my fighting words.