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When the shell goes off she tastes blood in her mouth, to which she is sure isn't her own. You would expect her to love it. You would expect her to elate in the sensation it sends to depths of her mind and the pit of her stomach, like gasoline to a fire, like blood to a shark. Instead, it feels gritty on her tongue, a mixture of dirt, blood and sin. Because this blood—a glory she had trained day and night for, just so it could be her calloused hands and her sharp-edged sword to attain it—belonged to innocence and that in itself is a wicked act.
The boy it once brought life to is already dead when he comes to land in amongst greener tuffs, the rest of him diced by the blast showers her and the boy now adjacent in a sprinkle and pinch of glory. It takes her a few seconds to register while she battles back the air she had lost. There is so much blood, she thinks, why? the gong hadn't even gone off yet. The voice in the back of her head knows all but she refuses to listen.
The boy from district 7—although she can't recall his name—locks his gaze on hers, eyebrows knotted together in scepticism because he, like her, doesn't trust his mind. The girl is certain her face resembles something close to his own although less poignant. Together they silently agree that what they had just witnessed had in fact happened. Gasoline to a fire, blood to a shark, this has made her hungry.
Maybe it was error, comparable to faulty programming. Blood loss shouldn't want to be met by more blood loss and yet she rages for it. The chaos that was the explosion must have blurred the sound of the gong because by the time her legs have left the platform her allies are already halfway in their dead sprint to the cornucopia. She passes Tyne, the girl from district 4, tackling a young boy into the soft grass. She doesn't quite remember his name, her mentor had told her not to bother with those unworthy and by the sound of his screams, it was clear he was not of value. The phrase is bitter to her lips and yet here she partakes.
The bitter taste gets stronger as she catches sight of someone trying desperately to scale the single lone tree in the vicinity. Or maybe it's just blood. There is a scream then an arrow is shot in her direction. It lands meters off, too short and angled too far to the left. The dainty girl from 7 uses shaky hands to notch another but her targets gone by the time she looks up. So is the arrow—picked up in a tumble roll.
Anastasia and Nero have reached the mouth by now and Leon remains busily engaged in a fistfight, their hands are tight whether they hold nothing or metal, ready to attack the daring. A flash of dark colours dares, darting behind the piles, scampering like a mouse.
It is in this moment that she risks a look behind her only to see the boy from 7 not far following. But he's too heavy footed, the forgiving ground swallows his leg like a snake swallows its prey, bringing him down in one go falling with a small yelp. Or at least she thinks its small. Her ears still ring from the blast and the wind battering her face doesn't help. It also doesn't help her spot the approach of a large boy who barrels his way towards her with a long sword. She wonders for a moment as she twists her body, where he had gotten it.
