[He sprawls in his seat again. She can keep practicing, or not. It's fine either way. He slumps back, legs spread.]
There's a-- there was a big ritual back where I'm from. The Hunger Games. Run by the government. Once a year, two kids from every district-- 'cept for the Capitol, but they're the big elites-- are picked, twenty-four in total. Big event, all televised. There's a whole lotta fanfare beforehand, cuz the people in the Capitol wanna get to know you, right? They pick who they like best, sponsor em, give em all the things they might need. Medicine or weapons or water . . .
[Hm. Should he switch to something sweeter? Wine goes down easier, but scotch will get him blasted faster. He's been teetering on the edge of blackout and just drunk all day, but why not shove over these last few hours? Oh, right: because someone might come and kill him. Fuck.]
I was . . . sixteen at the time. Younger than you. There were twice as many tributes that year. Half of em died just from the arena, cuz the whole place was poisoned. Some of the others took care of themselves. But I got three. And the last one . . . she'd gotten my stomach.
[Maybe he shouldn't spill the details, but on the other hand, she'd asked, and he isn't a merciful man.]
Guts spilling everywhere, but I'd taken out her eye, so it was a contest to see who'd bleed out first. But that's not exciting, right? And it's a television show, remember, at the end of the day. People bet on their favorites, pick out who the like best, and then the winner gets to be a celebrity afterwards, yay!
So she threw her axe at me. Missed. It hit the edge of the arena, bounced back, and hit her in the head, just like I figured it would. And then it was over.
no subject
[He sprawls in his seat again. She can keep practicing, or not. It's fine either way. He slumps back, legs spread.]
There's a-- there was a big ritual back where I'm from. The Hunger Games. Run by the government. Once a year, two kids from every district-- 'cept for the Capitol, but they're the big elites-- are picked, twenty-four in total. Big event, all televised. There's a whole lotta fanfare beforehand, cuz the people in the Capitol wanna get to know you, right? They pick who they like best, sponsor em, give em all the things they might need. Medicine or weapons or water . . .
[Hm. Should he switch to something sweeter? Wine goes down easier, but scotch will get him blasted faster. He's been teetering on the edge of blackout and just drunk all day, but why not shove over these last few hours? Oh, right: because someone might come and kill him. Fuck.]
I was . . . sixteen at the time. Younger than you. There were twice as many tributes that year. Half of em died just from the arena, cuz the whole place was poisoned. Some of the others took care of themselves. But I got three. And the last one . . . she'd gotten my stomach.
[Maybe he shouldn't spill the details, but on the other hand, she'd asked, and he isn't a merciful man.]
Guts spilling everywhere, but I'd taken out her eye, so it was a contest to see who'd bleed out first. But that's not exciting, right? And it's a television show, remember, at the end of the day. People bet on their favorites, pick out who the like best, and then the winner gets to be a celebrity afterwards, yay!
So she threw her axe at me. Missed. It hit the edge of the arena, bounced back, and hit her in the head, just like I figured it would. And then it was over.