begin the war. {big fight day 2}

The maroon river, an iconic sight of the Hunger Games, something his cousin was always related too. Ronnie’s glaive takes a fine mouthful out of the District Nine’s leg but it isn’t enough. It is like a sudden farewell of life, watching Ave being butchered by the District Five boy. If only he hadn’t changed his attack, he could have gotten to him before he got to her. It is too late, it is too late. All he can do now is strike him down, life for a life.

He raises the shark blade in the air, charging towards the District Five… “Fuck you, she was mine,” It is so swift, the District Seven works her sword on him, just a nip and he is gone. Ronnie’s teeth show, sinking into his bottom lips, containing the brewing frustration that is ready to boil over. ”Fuck you, he was mine!” Everything suddenly turns as the two cannons sound, that is seven today, Just twenty-five left…or is it thirty five? The District Six continues hitting his District partner, just a name that joined him on the train journey of hell, no loss to him.

Revenge for his ally has been taken, the only possible thing he can do now is strike down the one who stole it. ”I am surprised you are not wielding an axe, you tree hugger.” Before he guides the glaive towards the girl, his eyes wander to Ophelia and Atlas, the pair of them fleeing away from the battlefield. ”Well, I will have to catch you later then.”

Ronnie hurries up behind Ophelia and Atlas, allowing the male District One to take sole charge of carrying Ophelia. ”You are good hands, he carried me out of the bloodbath.” A smirk creeps across his face as he inspects the glaive in his hand. Such an obscure colour, yet the weapon has really done him proud in that fight, a really team the both are together…”Ah fuck!” A pinkish liquid begins to stain his hand; the weapon dissolves in front of his eyes. He tosses his hands forwards, trying to flick away the liquid. He checks his boots, canteen and everything else he drew but they all seem intact.

When they all stop for a break, he discovers that the other’s weapons that they drew have also liquefied. A far greater wave of grief flushes over him over the death of his weapon, in comparison to the loss of his ally. That could have really gotten me through the arena so easily. All he can do now is draw something else.

Memories of his days in the training centre flash by in his head as he tries to dig out a useful weapon that he once handled. His fingers wrap around a crayon marked lemon yellow as a light bulb sparks inside of his head. He begins with a thick straight line and then finishes it off with an arrow head on the top. He then guides the crayon to the left of the line near the top, a thick line curves in and then out again and is then finished off with another arrow head. He replicates the same thing on the right side. A trident, a type of spear, a very iconic weapon for a District Four, false gods of the sea and all of that.

His right hand dives into the small collection of crayons, he pulls out another yellow looking one, marked canary. He is really lacking in one important thing, medical supplies. Ronnie draws a rectangle and then divides it with a line straight across the middle, hopefully that will be enough for an opening and closing box. Inside of it he draws a roll of bandages, imagining the first aid kit his mother has at home to help with patching up various small…and large injuries. He fills up the contents with a needle and thread, something he has regularly seen used in the games before.

Ideas begin to spring into mind and well, drawing all these survival items is becoming very boring. He takes another shade of yellow, a crayon marked mango tango. He simple draws a large thick circle, hoping a hula hoop will form from it. ”It’s boring just sitting around.”

Ronnie sits down, keeping his crayons and drawn items close to him. He watches Atlas and Ophelia messing with their own crayons. ”Can you help me out?” Atlas asks Ronnie as he struggles with drawing his own armoured vest. ”Yeah okay.” He takes the crayon from Atlas, and sits close to him. Ronnie rests his left hand on the centre of Atlas’ chest. ”Don’t worry, just for balance.” A wink swiftly projects itself on his right eye but is gone within an instant. He continues tracing the outline of the armoured vest on Atlas’ back and finishes off for him. ”I hope that will do it, can you do mine?”

Ronnie hands Atlas the goldenrod crayon and sits with his arms slightly spread out so that he can draw the armoured vest torso. He relaxes at the ticklish feeling of the crayon prancing around his troso; hopefully it will conjure up a suitable defence for his most vulnerable part of his figure. Atlas finishes it off on his back, connecting all the lines. The finished result is chain mail, just as he drew it on Atlas.”Thanks.” A warm smile is what comes after his words, this is the first time he has ever been grateful since stepping onto the train.