Round One: December

I've been digging that hole tonight
On my knees beneath the moon
All I need is a place to lie
Guess a grave will have to do



Though the room had not changed overnight, December found himself less enchanted as he stumbled out from the hallway. The spacious living quarters sparkled around him, sleek and white in the morning light. The long table sat in the middle, loaded up with a fancy breakfast that should have tantalized him, but the smell only made him sick.

No one looked up as he fell into his seat. A tall, female Avox rushed to make him a plate, but he wasn’t too interested in eating. Instead, he watched the people around him, the people he might never see again.

Charlotte sat across from him, deep in conversation with Carwyn. Her hair had been pulled into two braids, same as always. December wondered vaguely if that might be a liability in the arena, but quickly dismissed the thought. If he brought up her hair, he would have to bring up his own hair, which he sure as hell was not going to cut.

The rest interested him less than his district mate. Carwyn with his somber expression and black eyes; Tawnie, their bored escort, trying to make conversation; the stylists, headed by professional Bristol.

And then December, all alone in a roomful of people.

He pushed around his sausage on the gleaming white plate and kept his head down. Around him, everyone discussed his game plan as if he wasn't there, as if he were a horse in a race. Don't get separated; don't grab anything you can't use from the cornucopia, just get out.

But December really didn't want to hear about it. He felt nauseas and tired and he just wanted to crawl back into bed and sleep until he was properly excited about the games. Wasn't this what he wanted? What he waited for every year?

The interview had gone well, he’d received a decent training score. There was absolutely no reason for December to feel anything less than excited. But something inside him had gone wrong.
“Eat,” Carwyn said, cutting through December’s thoughts. “Who knows when you’ll see food again?”

December didn’t look up as he dutifully spooned the scrambled eggs into his mouth.


December tried not to think about all the nice capitol things they were leaving behind as they spilled onto the tarmac. He kept reminding himself that he would get it all back one day. Soon they would crown him the victor and he'd get his very own house away from the common, dirty people of District Ten and make regular trips to the capitol. Maybe one day they would even recognize his fashion brilliance and ask him to stay on as a stylist.

"December, are you listening?"

His head snapped up and he blinked at Carwyn. He, Charlotte, and Tawnie stared back expectantly, and December wilted under the scrutiny. A moment passed before he nodded.

"Good. You'll be just fine." Carwyn clapped him on the shoulder, filling December with panic and dread. He had not heard a word his mentor said and was going to die because he didn't want to admit he hadn't been paying attention. It was too late to ask him to repeat, for Tawnie already had her stiff arms around December.

"Good luck," they said in unison, both of them looking serious.

"I won't need it," December said, even though he was dying on the inside and certainly going to die on the outside very soon because Charlotte knew all the answers and he didn't.

He and Charlotte turned away and the younger girl grabbed his hand. He raised an eyebrow, but she glared, challenging him to say something about it, so he kept his mouth shut.

Right. They were supposed to be allies.

"What did Carwyn say?" December asked when they were out of earshot. He tried to keep his voice neutral, but it went up about an octave.

"What did he say when?"

The panic threatened to choke him. "Right now, Char! This isn't a game!"

She furrowed her brows and cocked her head to the side, almost pitying him. "He said don't do anything stupid and stick together."

December relaxed only slightly because that was really stupid advice that he'd heard a million times and it really wasn't going to help him when he was wrestling a weapon from a pack of careers.

Charlotte let go of his hand without so much as a goodbye, leaving December feeling a little empty as he watched her walk to her own hovercraft. He tried to be enthusiastic about the upcoming ride, but his heart just wasn't in it as they helped him up into the big black ship.

A woman strapped him into his seat and pressed a needle to his arm without so much as a warning. The sting filled his eyes with tears and left his arm sore and itchy. By the time his vision cleared, she had already moved to the next tribute, tiny District 5.

He watched her get injected out of the corner of his eye, watched her little face contort and her fists ball. And then the engine started.

The noise pounded against December's ears, filling his head and rattling his teeth. For a moment he considered gauging the others’ reactions, but the liftoff effectively forced his head down.

He bit his lip, fighting back the bile rising in his throat. His stomach churned and at that moment he strongly suspected Carwyn had made him eat breakfast on purpose. He knew that December would throw it all up on the hovercraft floor, humiliating and demoralizing him.

That bastard.

December kept his head low the whole ride and squeezed his eyes tighter with every bump and turn of the vehicle. By the time he stumbled off, he thought he might fall over.

But, somehow, he managed to make it to the small room where Bristol waited.

He'd hardly noticed her absence on the tarmac, despite liking her best. Though he wanted to say they were friends and he had learned all the best stylist secrets from her, the truth was Bristol just wasn't interested in being his friend. Professional and almost cold in her ways, Bristol had taken his measurements during their first meeting with a single word before leaving him to her prep team.

And now, as December let her brush his hair in the cold, metal room, he wished she would say something.

"Alright, all done," she said, finally, pulling her hands away. She'd put his long blonde locks into a pony tail at the base of his neck. His token, a bright red silk flower, was tucked against his left temple, keeping the hair from his face.

December stood and watched Bristol as she tugged on his shirt and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Though her face was plain, she had long, fake eyelashes and striking red hair. Usually her clothing reflected that style, but today she was in simple black, as if she were already mourning December's upcoming death.

Well, the joke was on her. December wouldn't be dying anytime soon.

His stomach had calmed down and his confidence was slowly creeping back into him. Who really cared if some hack didn't wish him all the luck in the world? When he got back, he would become the new stylist and Bristol would be out of a job.

When she finally stopped fussing with his drab arena clothes, she hugged him quite unexpectedly. But it was mechanical and perfunctory and she pulled back before December had a chance to reciprocate.

"Good luck." The words sounded hollow in her mouth as she gave December a little smile. "I'm rooting for you."

December gave a little shrug and muttered, "Thanks," before turning to the large glass tube behind him. No one here genuinely liked him. That was okay. He was used to that. When he got home, everyone would like him.

He would make them like him.

The glass slid open and December stepped inside. He turned as it closed in around him, making him feel very small and uncomfortable.

Bristol waved, but her mind was already wandering, he could tell that much by the look in her eyes. Maybe she was thinking about what to have for lunch or who she should secretly bet on in the arena. Whoever it was, it sure as hell wasn't him.

Which was why December had to win. No one in their right mind would bet on him. If he won, it would be all over the news.

LONGSHOT WINS, EVERYONE LOSES MONEY.

December grinned as the lift slid up.

But as the ground opened up above him, a wave of heat floated down, pressing against him, drying up his mouth and drawing sweat from his skin.

Sand blew into his face as he breached the surface. He forced himself not to panic as he sputtered and wiped the abrasion from his watering eyes.  

"Thirty."

December's eyes snapped open despite the sand stinging and messing up his vision. He blinked rapidly, getting the last bits out and squinted into the tangible heat.

Girls stood on either side, one a career and the other younger than Charlotte. All he had to do was out run both of them to the middle and snap up something cool, something deadly. He gazed in the middle, having a hard time making anything out in the sand. It all blended together, shiny things catching the light and drawing him in close.

Bingo.

"Twenty."

He thought to look for Charlotte. His eyes darted around the circle before locking onto her across the way. They would have to meet in the middle in order to leave the circle anyway, so he wouldn't worry about her too much.

Though December toyed with the idea of sprinting to the heart of the cornucopia, he knew that wasn't a good idea. He would be destroyed in five seconds.

"Ten."

December braced himself, feeling the anxiety building in his stomach again. Or was it excitement?

"One."

Sand fill the air as twenty four kids took off at once. It swirled in a frenzied cloud as he coughed and surged forward. Maybe this would work to his advantage. Maybe...

Maybe we would trip over a freaking kid.

December went face first into the sand and inhaled out of reflex, filling his mouth and nose with coarse sand. It burned his lungs and choked him, sending him into a coughing fit the moment he pulled his face out of the dust. He sneezed painfully and had to duck as the career (Oliver? Oliver.) vaulted over him.  
As he lay there, prone in the sand, he spotted a pair of sunglasses just lying a few feet away. He lurched forward for them just as something hit the sand hard behind him. He scrambled around to see Angel, just having missed stomping on his back.

He stared at her, wide eyed, and rolled away, holding the sunglasses to his chest. But a kick to his shin let him know she was still there. The sharp crack stung, but nothing was broken, or so he hoped. He managed to spring up to his feet only to be knocked down again by an elbow to the face by another tribute. He had no idea who it was, but that one had him spitting blood and more sand.

“Later~”

That was Angel. Had she really given up on him? Was she teasing him, only to kill him later? December didn’t have time to think about it much, for someone crushed his fingers under their boot, causing him to inhale more sand in pain.

Shit. He really was going to die here.

The thought had occurred to him, sure, but now, bleeding and bruised, it was suddenly a tangible reality. And what had he grabbed from the cornucopia so far? Freaking sunglasses.

December pulled himself out of the sand again and coughed violently as he surged for the middle items. Kids screamed around him, blood splattered onto his clothes, but he had to focus now if he was going to survive.

There, gleaming in the sand in front of him, was a jagged sickle. He scrambled for it and plucked it from the earth with his unmarred hand. The handle was smooth and comforting, but he couldn’t relax now.

Now he had to find Charlotte. But as he looked back to where she had been, his blood ran cold. There was Angel, right there, fighting with Charlotte.

December had the sickle. He could stick it right between Angel’s shoulder blades and make quick work of her while she was preoccupied. He could do that, but his feet wouldn’t move. He was rooted to the spot, staring at the fight with a sort of detached fascination. If he were at home watching the games right now, he would be rooting for Angel.

A sharp, sudden jab to his shoulder snapped him out of it and sent him into flight mode. It felt like he’d been hit by a rock but he didn’t have the nerve to turn and look at his attacker. He pelted like a bat out of hell, down the hill, sunglasses in one hand and sickle in the other. Many others were taking this path too, all running and stumbling, but not December. At least he had basic obstacle course training. He still was not very coordinated, but he managed to make it out of the cornucopia without being completely out of breath.

That came on the path out.

He couldn’t breathe in the oppressive heat and the constant pain in his fingers didn’t help. At least one of them had to be broken. All the breath had been driven from his lungs, but he didn’t want to stop until he was totally alone.

And then he would have to figure out how to survive in the desert with a sickle and some cool shades.

Right after he collapsed into a bloody, sticky, heap and threw up.



Won't you give me two minutes please?
Just let me cover my eyes
All the hammer and scrape has been chipping away
At the luster of life