#itscalledettiquettedarling

[gonnaneedacandle-blog]

Guilt

In the training academy, there was a small train. He guessed it was a little generous to call it that, it was just to get from one end of it to the other. The actual training center on one end, the school on the other. Bobby had never spent much time in the school. It was for the ones who proved young that they had no business volunteering to be a Tribute. He'd always thought they were weak, although he knew that was harsh. Not everyone could be a Tribute, anyway. Others were needed to keep the District going. They were never the kids anyone talked about, though, or at least it had never seemed like it to him.

Compared to the train to the Capitol, the academy train was wort of a joke. This might have intimidated him, maybe that he wasn't as impressive as he thought he was, either, if he was the sort of person it was possible to intimidate. Instead he just looked out the window, eyes shining with excitement. He was the model Tribute. Healthy and strong, and good to look at, too. Their stylists would have no trouble with trying to sell him and their mentor- his older brother (and the reason he had so wanted to compete, after seeing him win; Jack had punched him in the face after he had told him that)'s only advise had been to not be an idiot.

"Are you going to talk?" the girl, Hannah, finally said. "Because otherwise this is going to be a very long ride."

"Something to talk about?"

"Strategy?"

He rolled his eyes. "I've been thinking about strategy since I was a kid."

Her voice, completely deadpan. "Oh. I must be so behind, then. I've never put any thought into strategy until this I got into this train car. I suppose I should have before now, considering I volunteered before you did."

He grinned. "What did you have in mind, then?"

"Well, obviously we aren't both winning, however I can't help but think our chances would be improved if we at least waited on actively attempting to kill each other."

His eyes flicked over to her. Cocky smile. "You are a worthy adversary." The words sounded so stiff it sounded like a joke as it passed from his lips. "I'm not into the whole team work thing- seems a stupid way to go about it, but how about this? Until the final four or so, we don't kill each other?"

She looks at him- he guessed to determine if he was lying. "All right. We can work together until the final four. Then we split up, give it a few hours, then we're fair game to each other."

"Sounds fair. Better that someone from our District won than anyone else, right?" he said as if he wasn't talking about one of their deaths. Like he was discussing some sports strategy. He sort of was, for him the game was sort of some massive sporting event.

"Right."

--

First night, after the Bloodbath. The only ones confident enough to sleep were the volunteer tributes. Himself, Hannah, the others, arranged in a little circle guarding their supplies, daring anyone to come near. It would be suicide. He laid down, flat out lounging on the grassy ground, a hatchet resting on the ground by his feet, his pack filled with knives and a canteen beside his head. He rolled over to glance at Hannah, wondering if she was actually going to sleep or not. "You're going to impale yourself if you try to sleep with that knife in your hand."

"Better than someone else trying to impale me."

He rolled over so he was facing her. "No one is going to hurt you while you sleep. Relax." A bright smile, he knows the cameras are on them. He pictured Capitol girls swooning at the line. He wonders how they were selling them on television. He'd flirted with just about every girl he'd come across since the reaping, Hannah included (actually, that wasn't a whole truth, he'd flirted with just about every girl he'd come across since his twelfth birthday). Did the camera catch that? "No one is going to try and kill you while you're right next to me."

She puts the blade down by her feet where she doesn't risk stabbing herself in the stomach with it, should she roll over in her sleep, but he's not sure she ever actually shuts her eyes. He does, and wakes up, sure enough, the next morning to the bright sun.

--

It's done on an impulse while her back is turned. "What happened to final four?" she asks with the gasping breath.

"You're actually competition. I couldn't let you get that far." The words aren't rough or taunting, he's actually just explaining his own actions. He pulls the hatchet out of her back and helps her roll over onto her back into as comfortable position as she could be in, when he's basically positive he punctured one of her lungs.

"Finish it," she says, almost as if she's not referring to her own life. He grabs one of the knives from his pack and slits her throat, blood spurting at him. She spazmed and then lay still. It was the only kill he felt guilty for, of all eleven of them. Just under half of the other tributes died at his hand. Her death was the one that made him realize he had to win, because he wouldn't let her blood be on his hands for nothing.