Peter shook his wrists as he entered the room, pressing down at each of his fingers which made them crack.
“District Four, Peter Pan” There it was, his stage was calling. Attention still struck their eyes, watching as his shoulders rose and fell with each step he took. He was the seventh person they’d seen. Not too bad, they’d started to eat already but their attention was still his to capture, after all, Districts 1, 2, and 4 were the usual winners of the Games. It was his luck.
But he still had to live up to the title.
He quickly strode over the the archery section, taking up a crossbow. Oh he’d been waiting to get a firm grasp on that bloody thing since he got into the training room. He lifted it with ease, resting the tip on the floor as he cocked it. Pushing a bolt into the mechanism and brought himself to one knee, taking little space as he pulling the trigger, elbows tucked close. He could do this in any space his lean frame could fit in. No movement from the strength of the crossbow, he could manage the thing. Years of it did come in handy. After the pull of the trigger he checked where it had ended up. A clean shot through the heart of the target dummy. He repeated the process again, taking another shot and hitting the central abdomen. Nothing too fancy, simple and lethal.
He put down the weapon, striding over with a smug smirk to an ordinary bow, strong enough to kill a deer. Probably a human too. He wasn’t use to shooting a bow so strong without the assistance of a trigger finger, but could still do it and the fire rate was much quicker than that of a crossbow. He got through a set of five arrows quickly, it was just like he’d been instructed to do at home. Head, eyes, heart, abdomen. His shot at the right eye had ended up on the neck — he’d rested his hand in a different place on his face when pulling the string back. Peter suppressed a curse and smiled, hoping they’d take it as a shot that was meant to go there. Neck would still be death to the person, so would it really matter if it was a miss? Was there anyone in the crowd who’d noticed the slip of his arm that wavered his shot?
The time on the clock ticked as he set down the bow, moving again to the crossbows. He needed something impressive, something that’d assure him a spot on their favourites.
He took a deep breath and cocked the crossbow, resting it on a block of metal meant to be used as a bench, and wrapped a cord he’d stolen from the knots section earlier onto the trigger of the crossbow. Fingers nimbly twisted the cord into a knot and he walked backwards with the other end in his hand. His gaze raised to the spectators and he pulled at the string.
The arrow was set into motion and he heard a scream from the crowd, but he had grasped the arrow by the shaft in his hand, the tip grazing the thin fabric that separated him from death. It was a perfectly aimed shot, laying right on his chest, what would have been his heart if not for his reflexes.
That had took them in. If it didn’t he was screwed.
“Thank you,” He said, bowing his head towards the audience, the arrow still between his fingers. “And good evening.” With a dismissal he left the room, giving a trademark smirk and a twiddle of his fingers that held his victory arrow as a closing.
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