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Alliances: Part 3

Chris's POV

It appeared disturbing that I wasn't even remotely perturbed nor considerably concerned despite the seemingly dismal circumstances. Not to exhibit irrationally that I was pleased in any manner, but somehow, quite contemptibly, the imminent imprevations of death had grown numbingly nonchalant, no longer affecting me with the evident terror displaced amongst my peers.

I had been walking with no discernible intentions for an insensibly protracted amount of time, oddly, without having encountered any other tributes. I hadn't slept substantially, and now, the prospect of dormancy seemed laughably unorthodox.

There remained no doubt that I had lost all senses of incubated sanity; even the most implausible hope or opportunity of redeeming what had been embezzled when I'd witnessed Hannah, my acquaintance from 7, so brutally decapitated. Mortifyingly scarred was too docile an explanation for the inhumanity conveyed within the bounds of the retched mockery of soulless horrid that was the Hunger Games. Blindly I continued my trail of inescapable agony, and I pondered impudently and with undeterred loathe how the treacherous demons evaluating our suffering considered this entertainment. Who could comprehend the impenetrable fear, the inevitable deaths of all but one of us, and for what? For whom? Well, I refused to comply with their satanically sinister malevolence that was portrayed so normally, it was glossily sickening. How many family friends had died because of the Games? How many tears solemnly hindered?

I wouldn't join their ranks. I would be insubordinate. I couldn't lose. I couldn't.

And as consumed in my own considerations, unbeknownst to the cameras stalking me, a throbbing recollection of implemented nothingness dissented. The void in which I had already ventured, so ruthless and vile, deploring aspects of what would unavoidably be the end of my reign of silent superficiality, victory at the greatest possible cost. I had already conceded to that which was unacceptable, yet accepted.

Suddenly, I was brutally and unprecedentedly interrupted by a misperceived and seemingly unintended noise of ambiance originating from an otherwise piecemeal rustle in the shrubbery. Inadvertently, painstakingly, I swung a cleaver towards the perpetrator, expecting as my startled demeanor dissipated naught but a squirrel. But from the aforementioned bush emerged a thoroughly terrified human, from what I gathered was approximately the same age as me. His height was practically identical to mine, and he sported unruly, curled brown hair, darkened by the glint of debris. His clothes, in addition, were impressively camouflaged: his entire person obscured in inconspicuous colours. However, the masquerade could not hide his startlingly green eyes. Taken aback, I recoiled abruptly, prior to the blade making contact with the boy. Evidently, I still retained the natural reluctance to kill.

I found myself incapable of speech, and fortunately enough, the other tribute, who I interpreted to be the male from District 8, consecrated our interaction.

He extended his hand, all indications of shock wiped from his face, and grinned inexplicably.

"Hello, Christopher Kendall."

Joe's POV

I had always been relatively familiar with the inhabitants of District 5, and Caspar and Louise, their two selectively condemned tributes, were no exceptions.

Accordingly, Louise had ran in a distressing fret from the Cornucopia immediately as the Games had instigated. However, my sister Zoe and I had exerted ourselves to locate Caspar Lee, the male tribute, to accompany him.

"The more allies, the better," Zoe insisted pertinently, whenever I had queried her essential necessity to socialize.

And so, as the days bore on so relentlessly, I had already lost count of their hazy myriad, I conversed strategies with Sis and Caspar, and, if not discussing the games, we attempted desperately to brighten the stoically melancholy atmosphere.

"A pact," Caspar had announced one night when the frigid quiet overwhelmed the arena.

"To remain loyal and never resort to killing one another?" Zoe inquired.

"No." Caspar shook his head disaffiliatedly, "to make sure that Caspar gets all the food."

The laughter that erupted at that remotest implication of humour was most rare and genuine; a silent, subdued aura of a plea affirmative of the desperation of our delinquencies.

The remainder of the night warranted a ghost of factional eras, rustling genially like the moderate trepidation of nothingness strewn at our heels. I had not slept for even an exhaustingly enterprising hour when I was awakened by a terrible, blood-curdling scream, succeeded by ominous giggles and a foreboding roar of the canon.

My eyes jolted awake in a frightful preeminence, and as they adjusted to the tactical darkness, I witnessed that which only provided more immaculate evidence of the sadistic perpetrations of the Games.

There, rested haphazardly at the foot of a tree, lay Zoe's cadaver, horridly mutilated with scourges of blood secreting from the drawn neck, eyes still fixated on their final, mortified gaze, and the perpetual impression carved into her exposed torso with a knife:

Melix