Hey guys. Here's part three. I've been going through some real life struggles lately and have had to put this fic on hold for a little bit. If any of you have a way of making life suck less, let me know your secrets. Anyway, enjoy. --- “The Hunger Games will begin in sixty seconds.†The announcer’s cold voice drawled over the arena. The tributes always had to wait sixty seconds. There was no real practical reason for this, but the tension of the wait made for great TV. And indeed, Dell felt very tense at the moment. His muscles were quivering with anticipation and his heart was knocking against his ribcage at an erratic rate. He hadn’t even moved an inch yet and a nervous sweat had already begun to bead on his brows. He looked around at his fellow tributes. To his immediate left, about thirty feet away, the tribute from District Eight looked poised and ready to go, a cocky grin on his face. His knees were slightly bent and he was leaning forward slightly, just waiting to take off like a rocket when the gong sounded. A few launch pads to his right one of the tributes from Two, the one who could be mistaken for a shaved bear, cracked his knuckles menacingly. Everybody else was a bag of mixed emotions. Some looked dark and murderous, ready for battle. Others looked terrified and nauseous, like they were about to vomit the moment the Games started. Others, like Mundy who was almost opposite Dell in the circle of tributes, had their poker faces on. They were unreadable. Martin Graves, to his credit, had stopped looking so sad and instead looked determined, his eyes locked on something in the Cornucopia that he wanted. Dell couldn’t help but wonder which of them would be the first to die. Would it be Martin? He hoped it wouldn’t be. The first ten minutes of the Games were always the bloodiest and resulted in the most deaths. Some years more than half of the tributes were killed at the Cornucopia. One year the entire games were fought and won at the bloodbath. Lives were going to end in the next ten minutes and he just prayed one of them wouldn’t be his. “The Hunger Games will begin in thirty seconds,†the announcer said, savouring each word. Dell felt a surge of adrenaline begin to course through his veins. He needed to stop worrying about the other tributes and instead formulate a plan of attack. He wouldn’t be going right, that much he knew. He needed to stay as far away from that District Two tribute as possible. Okay, so left it was. Dell knew he wasn’t strong or fast enough to survive grabbing the supplies nearest the Cornucopia, which were always the best. He would have to stay on the outskirts of the massacre and scavenge whatever he could. After a quick survey of the field he found his target area. It was directly in front of one of the dangerous tributes from District One, but it would have to do. He scanned his target zone for anything that would be useful to him. He spotted a few small backpacks, the contents of which he didn’t know, a bundle of netting, a few food items, a small tarp, some bottles of water, a quiver of arrows and a bundle of kindling. He didn’t see any weapons he could use, but maybe they were buried in the grass. He would go for one of the backpacks and the water. If he managed to grab anything else it would be a bonus, but those two items were his goal. He needed the backpack for portable storage and he needed that water to survive. He wouldn’t let himself get caught up in grabbing as much as he could and being greedy. That would only get him killed. “The Hunger Games will begin in ten seconds!†The announcer sounded excited. As if on cue, the soft breeze that had been blowing across the clearing dissipated and the birds in the trees stopped chirping. There was nothing but cold silence and absolute stillness as she began her countdown. If he had been grinning before, the tribute from District Eight to his left look absolutely gleeful now. “Five!†Dell locked his eyes on the backpack. “Four!†He bent his knees and poised himself for a sprint. “Three!†His muscles were taught with energy. “Two!†He thought of Delilah. “One!†The gong sounded and there was an eruption of movement in every direction. Twenty three tributes rushed forward towards the Cornucopia. The tribute from Eight was like a bolt of lightning as he launched himself off his pad. Dell veered to the left. His feet pounded against the dirt harder and faster than he thought possible, his arms swinging powerfully by his side. Battle had already begun at the Cornucopia. He could hear men yelling and the clink of metal against metal. When somebody screamed out in agony he knew first blood had been spilled. He chanced a glance over and saw the black man from District Twelve drive a longsword into the gut of some poor sucker and thrust it vertically, creating a clean slice through the body at least a foot long. Dell turned away. He scooped up a bottle of water without stopping and started heading for the nearest backpack when he saw something glint in the grass off to the right. It was a decently sized hunting knife, good for a host of other things besides killing. He wasn’t great with knives, but it was better than nothing. He made a quick change in direction, an action that probably saved his life. He didn’t know when, but one of the quicker tributes had managed to sneak up behind him with a thick wooden club and had swung it down towards his head. If he hadn’t made that last minute change in direction his skull would probably be a caved in mess right about now. As it was, the club caught him in the left shoulder and sent him tumbling to the ground. For a brief moment the sense was knocked out of him and he lay motionless on the ground, trying to figure out what had just happened. He was just attacked. He had thought all of the tributes ran for the Cornucopia but he must have been mistaken. One of them had snuck up behind him and walloped him good. He had to get to that knife but it was still a good ten feet away. He began crawling towards it as quickly as he could, ignoring the throbbing pain in his shoulder. Before he managed to grab it, though, the club struck him again, this time across is back, flattening him to the dirt and knocking the wind out of his lungs. It was over. Dell had no weapon to defend himself with and hadn’t recovered from the second blow long enough to fight the man off with his fists. His brains were about to be splattered across the ground. He rolled over onto his back. If he was going to die he didn’t want to last thing he saw to be a patch of dirt. He wanted to see the blue sky, maybe a few fluffy clouds. Something cheerful. The tribute, a muscular man from District Seven, loomed over him with the club. He didn’t look the least bit apologetic as he clutched his weapon high over his head, readying himself for the deathblow. There was a quiet zip of air, a soft shuck and suddenly an arrow was embedded in the man’s chest. The man looked shocked and in a fit of panic ripped the arrow from his chest. As the man’s lung began to collapse, a rush of air exhaled from the wound in his chest, spraying Dell with a fine mist of blood. A second arrow flew through the sky and embedded itself in the man’s heart. He had no time to panic this time. He was already dead. His heavy corpse fell backwards and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Dell was completely shocked at the turn of events but knew he had no time to waste. He crawled the last few feet towards the knife, grabbed it and slipped it into his pocket. When he peered in the direction the arrows had come from he saw Mundy standing at the treeline lowering his bow. He raised a hand over his head and waved. “You owe me for that, Bookie!†he called before spinning around and disappearing into the forest. That he most certainly did. A quick glance around told him that none of the tributes were headed this way. They probably thought he was already dead. If he was quick he could probably gather a few extra supplies before they noticed that he was actually up and moving. He grabbed the club his attacker had dropped and darted for the backpack. He slung it over his good shoulder, saw that the tributes hadn’t notice him yet and ran for the netting. He shoved it inside the bag, along with a nearby packet of beef jerky. He made one more stop to pick up the quiver of arrows before making a beeline for the forest. His back and shoulder were screaming in pain, begging him to stop moving, but he wasn’t going to take the risk of stopping, or even slowing down, until he had gotten far deeper into the woods. He ran at full speed for a good five or six minutes, crashing through bushes and pushing branches out of his face, until the pain in his back became too much and forced him to slow down. He wouldn’t stop moving but he felt as though he was a safe distance away from the Cornucopia where a brisk walk would be okay. He had done it. He had survived the bloodbath. Barely, and even then with a little help from a friend, but he had survived nonetheless. It wouldn’t be exactly easy from here on out, but he felt as though he had overcome a huge obstacle, probably the biggest he would have to face. And if he was going to die in the arena, at least he knew he wouldn’t be the first one. There had to be some sort of pride in that. Even though he was already completely exhausted, Dell decided that he would continue walking until he heard the cannons go off. Usually a cannon was set off immediately after a tribute was killed, but the Cornucopia was such a massacre that the Gamemakers had a tough time telling when somebody was dead and who that person actually was. Once they had removed the bodies from the field and identified the remains they would fire a cannon for every person who was killed in the bloodbath. Since it usually took several hours for that process to be complete, Dell knew he still had a ways to go before he could finally rest. Still, he decided that a quick five minute break couldn’t hurt. He had no idea where he was, no idea what was in his backpack and he really just needed a second to catch his breath. After a few more minutes of walking he found a fallen tree and sat down on the trunk. Almost immediately he could feel his muscles began to seize up from being overworked and beaten with a club. The rush of adrenaline was starting to wear off and the extent of his injuries was beginning to become quite apparent. Just sliding the backpack off almost made him yelp in pain. He placed the quiver of arrows by his feet and started going through his backpack. He removed the netting, the bottle of water and the beef jerky to see what had actually been inside the bag he picked up. It wasn’t much. There was a thin blanket that would keep the wind off his skin but probably wouldn’t keep him warm if the temperature dropped. There was also a small coil of copper wire, a roll of sterile gauze, and a plastic container that was empty. When he took inventory he realized that he had actually come out better than he had hoped. He had two weapons to his name, the club and the knife, a little bit of food and water, a blanket that would take the edge off the cold, a piece of netting, a small amount of medical supplies and a quiver of six arrows he had no idea what to do with. He was sure he could figure something out. He started packing away his things neatly, making sure that each item was easily accessible if he ever found himself in a pinch. He knew he had to conserve water but he desperately needed to quench his thirst after the bloodbath. He unscrewed the lid, took a few deep gulps and packed it away before he was tempted to finish the bottle off. He knew he couldn’t carry both the backpack and the quiver of arrows with any sort of efficiency, so he grabbed a nearby piece of vine, wrapped the six arrows together and threw the quiver itself behind a bush. He slid the arrows into his bag away neatly, zipped his pack up and hoisted it onto his shoulders. At least it wasn’t that heavy. He decided to keep the knife and the club out at all times. The club he would carry but the knife he slipped into his belt. As he did so his hand brushed against something fuzzy. It almost shocked him when he noticed that Teddy Roosebelt was still attached to his hip, a little dirty but otherwise in one piece. He had been so caught up in surviving and getting away from the Cornucopia that he had forgotten the little guy even existed. He was glad he made it through. He unstrapped the teddy from his belt and held it in front of him for a moment. Miss Pauling would be glad that he was trying to maintain his image but that’s not why he wrapped his arms around the bear and hugged it close to his chest. He remembered his promise to Delilah. Every hug he gave the bear was meant for her, to tell her that he was thinking of her. Image be damned, he wanted to let his daughter know that he hadn’t forgotten about her. If he closed his eyes he could almost pretend it was his daughter in his arms and not the teddy. After a few precious moments he released the bear from his arms, gave it a kiss on his little hard hat and strapped it back to his hip. It was time to go. His muscles felt like unstretched taffy as he stood, stiff and painful, but he knew that the more he moved, the looser they would become. He would walk until he heard the cannons. Once that happened he would stop and take survey of his surroundings. If it looked like a place he could camp out for the night he would do just that. If it didn’t look promising he would move on until he found someplace suitable. He prayed he wouldn’t run into any other tributes today. He wasn’t sure if he had the strength to fight. Dell set off down the trail at a slow walk, proud of his accomplishments but worried about what was still to come. *** Mundy was tucked in a small depression in the soil, hidden behind a log about ten feet away from the main trail. He didn’t dare move. He even thought about stopping his breathing but he didn’t need to go that far. As long as he was completely still and completely quiet he should be okay. He wasn’t sure which gods were working against him, but not three hours after the initial bloodbath he had his first encounter with another tribute. Another two tributes, to be exact. He had heard their plodding footsteps long before they had a chance of seeing him so he had plenty of time to tuck himself away behind the log. He could have tried to run, but running away wasn’t really his style. Hiding wasn’t really his style, either, but he figured he might learn a thing or two if he stuck around. The footsteps grew louder as they approached, crunching dead leaves and snapping twigs beneath heavy boots. By the footsteps alone he knew that one of the tributes was the heavyset ogre from District Two. That much was obvious. The other pair of footsteps he had yet to identify. Since neither of them was currently trying to kill the other, Mundy assumed they were in cahoots, or at least working towards it. Luckily for him, they decided to pause nearby so they could each have a sip of water. “Tell me why I should not crush puny head with my fist right now,†the heavy guy said menacingly. “Because together ve vould make an unbeatable team,†the second tribute replied. That was unmistakeably the medicine man from District One. Mundy heard them packing away their bottle of water and starting to walk away. If he really wanted to he could probably take the medicine man out with his bow right now, but the threat of the other tribute was too big for him to risk it. Another time, then. “How? I do not understand,†the heavy replied. “Vell, why don’t you let me explain it to you,†the medicine man said. Before Mundy could catch the rest of the conversation they had walked out of earshot and their words had become mere mumbles. That was interesting. If he didn’t see the good doctor’s face projected into the sky later that evening during the death recap he could assume he had talked the heavy into a partnership. Mundy had seen them together at the Cornucopia. He hadn’t been sure if it was his intention to save the doctor, but the heavy had buried his axe into the chest of a tribute that was looking to stab the medicine man from behind. Likewise, the doctor had staved off an attack on the heavy by cleanly slicing a tributes abdomen so deeply with his knife that his intestines had spilled out onto the dirt. They were both highly dangerous and together they made quite the formidable team. Mundy waited patiently behind his log as their footsteps faded into the distance. It would be foolish to jump out of his hiding space so soon after they had left, so he made himself comfortable and settled in for the next little while. To fill the time he began recounting the events he saw at the Cornucopia, making mental notes on who had killed who and what weapon they possessed. The cyclops from Twelve had at least one kill with his longsword, the first death of the Games. He had seen the heavy bury his axe into a man, so he had a kill, as did the doctor who had effectively disemboweled a man with his knife. The other tribute from One, the smooth talker, had made a clean slice across someone’s neck with a dagger before he had disappeared. He himself, of course, had taken down a tribute from Seven with a couple of arrows. After that he had decided it was time to leave the bloodbath and missed the rest of the kills. He wondered how many there were. As if on cue a cannon fired, indicating the death of a tribute. There would be one shot for every tribute killed at the Cornucopia. A second cannon fired, and then a third. A fourth. A fifth. All the way up to ten shots. So that was it, then. Ten tributes dead, fourteen still left in the arena. He couldn’t be sure until he saw the death reel later tonight, but he was confident that all the tributes he had marked as threats while in training were still alive out there, and unless something had happened after he had left the Cornucopia, Dell was somewhere out there, too. Good. Mundy spent the next few minutes taking a mental inventory of the supplies he had. It wasn’t much. He managed to grab a bow and a quiver of arrows but missed out on some valuable items in his dash to secure his weapon of choice. It wasn’t worth it to stick around the Cornucopia gathering supplies, not with the amount of bloodshed that had been going on. Still, on his flight to the treeline he managed to pick up a machete, an empty canteen, a sleeve of crackers and a pair of yellow tinted sunglasses. It would have to do. He didn’t plan on actively hunting any tributes down tonight, anyway, although he would deal with the unlucky ones who crossed his path. No, tonight he would search for supplies and some shelter from the night chill. Most importantly, he would begin his search for Dell. *** Dell nearly jumped out of his skin when the cannons fired. His mind and body had gone numb from hours of endless walking and he had grown used to the relative quiet of the forest when they sounded off. Ten shots, ten dead tributes. Fourteen left to go. The cannons had been his signal to stop his flight from the Cornucopia and try to find a suitable campground for the night. There was still several hours until nightfall, but if he could find a safe place to hunker down quickly he could spend the rest of the day searching for a source of water. What he had left in his bottle would probably last him until noon the next day and not much longer. Dell took stock of his immediate surroundings. There were trees in every direction as far as the eye could see, but the ground was relatively flat with only a few bushels dotted here and there. This area wasn’t very good. There was nowhere to conceal himself. He’d have to keep walking until he found some thicker foliage. He took a small sip of his water and continued his march forward. It was hard to imagine that only that morning he had been sitting with Miss Pauling, eating warm eggs with buttered toast in an air conditioned room. It hadn’t even been twelve hours since then but it already felt like a week had passed. It was only the first day of the Games and he was already starving, exhausted, sweaty and in a good deal of pain. And he was one of the lucky ones because at least he was still alive. Another hour of walking had passed before he finally stumbled upon something that perked him up. The landscape was still too flat to be a good place to camp for the night and he hadn’t seen any indication that water was nearby, but he had spotted something useful. Growing around the base of a tall deciduous tree was a small bushel of Arctus Eth. “Well, ain’t you a sight for these sore old eyes,†Dell said as he crouched down beside the plant. The leaves of the Arctus Eth could grow to be the size of a dinner plate, but this sample seemed to be in its infancy. These leaves were no bigger than the palm of Dell’s hand and still had the icy blue hue to them that went away as the plant matured. Dell had never seen this plant in District Three, he wasn’t even sure if it existed naturally in any of the districts, but the encyclopedia he had read during training had outlined the usefulness of this plant. If you ingested the leaves it wouldn’t kill you, but it would certainly give you intense cramps for the rest of the day. The purpose of this plant was medicinal. It wouldn’t seal wounds or encourage healing, but when the sticky enzymes in the leaves touched human skin it had a chilling effect that was perfect for swollen muscles. Dell slipped the knife from his belt and hacked at the stem of the plant until he freed it from the ground. He slipped his backpack off and undid the first few buttons of his shirt, rolling the fabric away from his injured left shoulder. This was the first time he had seen what the club had done to him and extent of the bruise took him by surprise. His skin was yellowed across his entire shoulder and down to his bicep. As it got closer to the point of impact the skin turned from yellow to green, then red, then a deep shade of purple that had Dell worried. As he plucked the leaves off the Arctus Eth he could feel the icy sensation in his fingers. The leaves had more potency in their infancy and they were so cold it almost hurt to touch. After he had stripped the plant bare he started placing the leaves against his bruised skin, starting from the outside and working his way in. It was quite painful at first as the blood vessels and wounded muscles contracted from the cold but by the time he had finished covered his bruise everything had gone more or less numb. He wished there had been more of the plant that he could pack away and take with him but he had already used every leaf. Still, the juices that flowed from the leaves were sticky so as long as he didn’t move his shoulder too much they should stay glued to his skin and keep the swelling down for a few more hours. Dell rolled his shirt back on, fastened the buttons and hiked the pack onto his good shoulder before moving on. Dusk would be upon him soon and if he didn’t find a campsite for the night quickly he would have to abandon his search for water until the morning. Unfortunately for him, it took yet another hour of searching before he finally found a place he thought would be safe enough for him to stay for the night. Eventually the relatively open, flat landscape he had been trekking through met with a decently sized slope uphill that he would have to make do. Running along the bottom of the slope was a collection of forest debris, dead leaves, old branches and the like. To Dell, that meant materials he could bury himself under to keep hidden from view. Water would have to wait until tomorrow, but he still had enough time to set up a few simple traps around his campsite. Nothing elaborate enough to kill or even injure, but a few basic contraptions that would make some noise to warn him if somebody was approaching. Twilight had settled in comfortably by the time he was finished with his protections and the forest was starting to come alive with night creatures. He realized that he should have set up a few snares along with his traps just in case there were rodents around that he could skin and eat but it was too late for that. As the light rapidly disappeared it was getting harder and harder to see what he was doing, so he headed back to the slope, ready to keep himself hidden for the night. Just then the anthem that preceded the nightly death recap blasted across the stadium. High up in the sky the seal for the Capitol appeared over the arena for the tributes to see, bright enough to illuminate the forest around him. These nightly recaps let them know how many tributes had been slaughtered that day and which ones specifically had been killed. Simple headshots accompanied by which district they were from shone into the sky, starting with District One and working its way to District Twelve, regardless of the order in which the tributes were killed. The first face to appear is a man from District Four, which meant that both tributes from Districts One and Two were still alive. Amazingly, it also meant that Martin Graves, Dell’s fellow tribute from Three, had survived the first day. “Would’ya look at that. The sonovabitch made it!†Dell exclaimed. The more dead tributes there were the better it was for Dell, but he couldn’t help but get some satisfaction out of Martin’s survival. The next two faces were both from District Six. After that was the man who would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Mundy and his bow, a tribute from Seven. There was a tick beside the man’s face, indicating that he had already made a kill before he himself was taken out. One tribute from Eight was dead, both from Nine, none from Ten and both from Eleven. The last face to flash across the sky was a man from Twelve. The death recap finished with the Capitol seal and a musical flourish before the forest was plunged into darkness again. Back in the training facility, Mundy had given him a heads up as to which tributes would cause the most trouble in the arena. They all seemed to still be alive. The effects of the Arctus Eth leaves had started to wear off so he rolled down his shirt and brushed them off his skin. He couldn’t see the bruise without any light, but just by touch he could tell that the swelling had gone down considerably. The pain, too, had been alleviated somewhat. Dell found a particularly large collection of fallen branches at the bottom of the slope about fifty feet from the main trail and decided to make that his home for the night. It wouldn’t conceal him completely, but it was his best option for now. If he covered himself with his blanket and a bunch of dead leaves he should be okay. After he had settled in and camouflaged himself with foliage he decided it was in his best interest to have a few pieces of jerky. After all the punishment his body had been through today it needed the protein to start the healing process. He had fifteen pieces of jerky. He decided to eat seven of them. He didn’t expect to sustain the injuries he had today or travel the same amount of distance anytime soon so he could better ration them off in the days to come, but tonight was all about healing and preparing his body for tomorrow. And besides, he was hungry. When he finally closed his eyes it didn’t take him very long to fall asleep. *** Mundy was stalking his prey. Night had fallen and the death recap had already come and gone. Most tributes had probably settled in for the night, but not him. A few hours after his near run-in with the Heavy and the Medic, the nicknames he had assigned to those two, Mundy had stumbled across a third tribute. He hadn’t come across the tribute himself, but rather the footprints he had left behind in the soft forest floor. He had been tracking this tribute for miles, keeping a keen eye on the footprints but making sure to check his surroundings every so often. Eventually the footprints on the trail disappeared, replaced by the broken stems of small plants as the man veered off the main path and into the foliage. Mundy followed this new trail as quietly as possible, cringing every time that his boot snapped a dead twig. His best guess was that this tribute had decided to find a place of the beaten track to rest for the night. If his target was now stationary, he would probably catch up to his prey quite quickly. Indeed, not ten minutes after he had left the main path he could hear the tribute up ahead rustling around in the brush. Mundy crouched down low and proceeded forward on his hands and knees. He needed to make a visual on his target for he decided what his next move would be. Before too long he could see a clearing in the trees, about sixty feet in diameter with a small pond in the middle. The tribute he had been tracking was off to the side of the pond, striking at a piece of flint, trying to start a fire. The pond water needed to be boiled, of course, but Mundy thought it was exceedingly irrational to do so at night. A campfire in the middle of a dark forest was like a lighthouse, announcing to everybody in sight exactly where you were. Still, Mundy could use this situation to his advantage. If he could kill this tribute after he had already boiled the water, Mundy could grab it and run before anybody else showed up and keep the fire going as a distraction. He decided to hide in the shadows and bide his time. After a few minutes the tribute had a small fire burning, the light of which finally revealed to Mundy his identity. It was that strange little bugger from District Five, the one who always had his hoodie pulled so tight that it covered most of his face. Mundy knew next to nothing about this tribute, except that he was shockingly adept at firemaking. Even at the interviews he had mumbled unintelligible responses and shied away from the cameras. Mundy had to make a plan of attack. He had both a bow and a machete at his disposal. One for distance killing and the other for hand to hand combat. He really didn’t know what this tribute could do if it came down to fisticuffs which made Mundy want to take him out with the bow. However, he only had seven arrows left and didn’t want to waste any if he could prevent it. He could try to sneak around the edge of the clearing to get closer and stab the man from behind but he was afraid the light from the fire would give away his position. Arrows it was then. Mundy waited patiently in the bushes as he watched the tribute build the fire into something much larger than it needed to be. It was almost a bonfire at this point. Bleeding idiot. Once the blaze was roaring the man took the metal water bottle he had in his supplies to the pond, filled it to the brim and carried it back. There was no rack to put the container on, so the he simply pushed it into the embers of the fire and sat back, waiting for it to come to a boil. It only took a couple of minutes. Once the water had boiled, the man used some thick leaves as insulation and pulled the bottle from the fire. He rushed it over to the pond and submerged it up to its neck, sticking it in some mud so it would cool. Now was his chance. The water was already boiled, there wasn’t any sign of other tributes and the man in front of him didn’t seem to think he was in any danger. As the tribute stepped back in front of his fire, Mundy very slowly removed the bow from his shoulder and notched his arrow. He could probably make the shot from where he was, but it was dark out and it would be tricky. If he wanted to guarantee a kill he needed to expose himself and step into the clearing. As quietly as he could, Mundy lifted himself into a standing position and took a step into the clearing. Two steps. Three. The tribute had his back to him, facing the fire. It should make for an easy kill. He raised his bow, pulled the string back and took one more step into the clearing. Underfoot, a dry twig snapped. Bloody hell. The tribute spun around at the noise and Mundy was forced to shoot before he had wanted to. The arrow soared through the darkness and struck the man in the gut. It wasn’t a kill shot, but it was enough to knock the tribute off his feet and backwards into the fire. Mundy expected a scream. He expected the man to roll out of the flames and dive into the pond. He has expected something. Instead, the tribute just seemed to curl up into a ball on top of the fire and accept his fate. It was just as well, Mundy supposed. He wouldn’t live very long with those types of burns anyway. What was the point of extending your suffering when you were going to die anyway? In any case, Mundy had just lost another arrow. Somewhere in the distance a cannon fired and Mundy knew the man was dead. He slung his bow back over his shoulder and stepped forward to grab the man’s supplies, trying to ignore the scent of burning flesh. He plucked the metal water bottle out of the pond. The water inside was still warm but not hot enough to burn. He took a sip and grimaced. It certainly tasted like pond water, but at least it was safe to drink. He brought out his own canteen and carefully transferred the water over, tossing the metal water bottle into the pond when he was finished with it. Other than that, the dead tribute didn’t have many other supplies. He had the flint, which Mundy pocketed, a large blue tarp, which he decided to leave behind, and a can of baked beans, which he had to force himself not to crack open and eat at that very moment. He was famished but he also knew now wasn’t the time to eat. The fire was still burning brightly and he needed to put as much distance between it and himself as possible. Time to get a move on, then. Before he left the clearing he took a moment to pause beside the fire. The dead man’s skin was already starting to char, the hoodie he was wearing completely incinerated by the fire. He tried to get a look at the man’s face but the fire had already warped the skin beyond recognition. “Sorry about that, mate. Burnin’ up has got to be a poor way to go,†Mundy said to the corpse. He wanted to win the games. He would kill every tribute in the arena if he had to, but there was no need for pointless suffering. From now on he vowed to be as efficient as possible with his kills. It was only polite.