fever robin day2

robin keeni, district 6
post-mandate

It was hard to know how to feel.

In pain, definitely. The sheepish had made sure of that. A shakily stitched scar up the side of his stomach itched with every swish of the scouts uniform rubbing against it. Soon enough the chafing would be subject to some sort of infection, but, there wasn’t anything he could do for now. It was only day two and Robin hadn’t been able to find an open source of water yet to cleanse his wounds or bathe. (Not that he wanted to soak in any sort of open water in the arena given the history.) He had a full canteen, but he knew he had to conserve every drop if it meant long term survival. The red and growing irritation of the recent sutures was hardly the cause for pouring out his only clean water. There was no guarantee that in the future he’d even be able to find anything drinkable anyways, so he relented.

Despite the pain, Robin had managed to drag himself into one of the six cabins nestled gently in the field. Their invite seemed to call for nothing less than misfortune, but given how the last couple of days had gone, Robin could hardly see how luck could favor him any less. Each step drew a whispered curse, his wound calling desperately for attention with shots of electricity to his brain. Some kids made it look so easy. Robin thought back to all the gashes and lost limbs he’d witnessed through the years and children just move on as though nothing had happened. In the heat of battle, the pain hadn’t been as incessant, but now? Woof. Maybe he didn’t draw on as much adrenaline as the other freaks who got a kick out of all the fighting stuff. Is the whole working out crazy supposed to give you some sort of magical stamina that made you no longer susceptible to pain? Fuck if he knew.

The wooden floorboards of the cabins were oddly comforting. It reminded him of home. Two poster beds sat on either side of the cabin. Robin could hear the calls of his siblings claiming top bunks as they scurried in - he was used to sharing a bedroom when he visited his mom. Sometimes it felt like the Keeni family made up half of district six. The muffled voices were nothing but a memory to the dark reality that stood around him. Everything looked fresh - probably because it was. This wasn’t an abandoned summer camp where kids had slept in these bed, told stories, made friends, fell in love - no, this was all a product of the Gamemakers invention. Even the thin layer of dust covering the metal bases of the bed frames was fabricated, all of it probably put in place three days ago, the day before the tributes had all entered.

A summer kids cabin was meant to be filled with memories, but as Robin lunged himself onto a bottom bunk, sitting as close to the wall as possible as to not be seen from the outside, he realized that the memories made this week would be the only ones haunting this camp. He looked eagerly around the room for any sort of ideas, this could definitely be a hide out of some kind. Maybe he could use the top bed as a stake out? But there was only one exit. Good, in theory, to defend, but if it became a case of four versus one and there was no escape? No. Robin knew he had to keep moving. Even though the bed called his name to nap, padding around his thighs, pillowing his aching back, Robin knew the danger that came from complicity. For all he knew, there was a tribute under that very bed with a machete, ready to ram it right up the middle and take him out.

He checked quick to make sure. All good. Nobody there.

The afternoon passed uncomfortably slow. Same as the day prior. This was the same feeling that had got him rambunctious the day before in climbing the rope. Looking across the empty landscape, there was nothing to play with here. He’d already used up most of the gifts Flynn had sent at this point, and the rest of the things he had lying around in his bag were for survival. When he saw it on tv, Robin was always shocked by how constant the action was portrayed in the Games. As if every moment in the arena was an ever-living hell for the tributes, constantly facing traps and weather and mutts and each other. The reality was much different. Hours of boredom. Seconds feeling like minutes feeling like hours. With no clock there was no actual way to assess how much time had passed in those excruciating moments. Worse, there was enough time alone with his thoughts to drive him crazy. Every second minute, Robin would crunch upwards thinking he heard a sound passing by. A creak of the deck was enough to second him scurrying to his feet, only to find no one there.

Time was the true enemy of the tribute: passing relentlessly slow, making you question every second whether or not you should be actively doing something different. Should Robin be moving around and hunting? Probably not. He was frail and could barely kill a sheep. And yet every passing breath, he wondered if maybe he could take on those boys who tried to beat him up in the bloodbath. Love and Julian? Maybe he could get them if he knocked one off-balance or something.. but Robin didn’t really want to fight them one-on-one, or two-on-one, that result was near guaranteed. And surely nature would come in and interfere somehow? Level the playing field against the career tributes to give the little guys a fighting chance? Robin hoped.

On the table in the center of the main room, he found a small plush toy with a box attached, a little dog. Robin had never met anyone who had a domesticated animal personally, but he loved the idea of dogs. Every time he’d seen one they were just so friendly and welcoming. Maybe this thing could be his friend. “Hey buddy.” Robin muttered as he picked up the cast aside toy. The whole thing screamed trap. Everything down to the “push me” label strewn in its paw. But what if it was something good? Lately, bolder tribute had been rewarded for their conquests with electric swords and ice javelins. If this was left to sit, it could easily be a prize? It was better than the posters strewn across the bedrooms wall of the Gamemakers. The level of self-fanfare was sickening. He didn’t even bother giving them a second glance.

He pushed the button and waited for a response, though nothing seemed to happen instantly, he was happy to take a friend along. Robin’s first alliance. A dog. He’d name it Flynn.