I went like 3 days without thinking abt h&r and it hit me like a truck. anyways that was unrelated this is not h&r dont click keep reading dont worry abt it juuuuuust trust me shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh its all going to be okay. would i lie to you?
Feinberg was bored out of his mind.
He was a bit worried, but not anxious. At least if he was anxious that would be relatively interesting. Typically it would be a bit rattling to be stuck in a position where your life was out of your hands, and most would try to minimize the level of luck involved in a life-or-death situation. However, Fein wasn't most people. He was a lucky guy, so it would probably work out. Even if it didn't, there was nothing he could do about it.
Some conveniently-timed death pings during the last week had hinted at a potential 3-stack of Couri, Fruit, and Dasnerth somewhere in the arena. They were a good team, and they were still a team of 3. They needed a fourth, Fein was alone, and Fein was good at the goddamn game. It was perfect for everyone involved. So he wasn't worried about joining up with them if he found them; there was a different part of the plan he was worried about. The arena was massive. There was no guarantee that Fein would run into them if he went looking, and he was more likely to run into an enemy team than his own prospective one anyways. So his best bet was to stay put and hope Couriway found him before some bloodthirsty randoms did.
But waiting was so fucking boring.
Feinberg was always doing something. Time was valuable in competitions, where few extra minutes of prep could win the game. 5 minutes was a few more wood planks, a water bucket in arms reach, an extra cooked steak. But there were no trees near the Cornucopia. He already sorted and resorted his inventory an hour ago. All his food was properly prepared and tucked away comfortably in his bag. He was as geared as he could presently be, he was in adequate physical condition, and he was in a relatively visible spot. In other words, he was ready to be found already.
Fein huffed and slid off his horse, descending from the ring of starting platforms down to the Cornucopia itself. He found a nice spot to sit with his back to a cool metal pillar before he rested his chin on his hand and moped. It was honestly kind of nice out. There were no birds chirping and there were no clouds, but the area was nice. The grass was green and the sky was a soft blue-grey. He couldn't see the looming neon borders from where he sat at the bottom of the uncannily circular valley, and for a moment he could almost forget he was in a Capitol creation. The Capitol didn't exactly make nice things for District citizens. But of course the arena wasn't really for any of them; the arena was built for the Capitol as much as the games themselves were. It wasn't for the tributes to enjoy, most of whom spent their time in the caves anyways if they weren't stupid. The landscape was to set up scenic wide shots for use during cutaways and advertisements. Something pleasant to play as b-roll during analysis and interviews. That's what the Capitol does. They give the horrible a pretty coat of paint and call it progress. Luxury. Makeups made of Mercury, and paints made of lead. Feinberg could do without. He and his fellow tributes could be in a concrete box and it wouldn't make a difference. But sue him for enjoying the scenery.
He picked thoughtfully at the grass for a bit before pulling a piece out root and all. The grass was real, which was nice he guessed. Fein sighed, choosing a few of the longer pieces and resolving to count how many knots he could tie in each. When that quickly became boring (his record was 9), he started trying to tie them around his finger like a ring. His gloves were pretty thick, and it was challenging to maneuver a fragile blade of grass around the padding. That's not to mention having to do it with one hand. Fein had one end of the grass pinched between his ring and pinky finger and was just about to wrap the other end around to meet it when an alarm sounded from his bracelet that startled him out of his unproductive grass-tying tunnel-vision. The first thing he did was glance around to see if anyone saw, his quick surveying concluding with a relieving 'no'. The second thing he did was abandon his previous mission, letting the grass fall to the ground as he turned his attention to the wailing bracelet. Fein hit the little 'dismiss notification' button on the side to get it to shut up and squinted at the screen, dim in the bright midday light of the arena. When he finally made out what it was announcing, his eyes widened.
Hunt & Run. They'd called a fucking Hunt & Run.
Fein knew what this meant for him. This was his chance. If he got Couri, Fruit, or Dasnerth, he could actually meet up with them. Or one of them would get Fein and decide to let him join their group. More likely, someone would get him and decide to come get the drop on him while he was alone. Even more likely than that, some random would get him and decide it wasn't worth it and Fein would just go back to picking at the grass at the Cornucopia until the weather got bad. Basically it was still up to chance, but the odds were looking a fair bit better than before at least. A second ping sounded from his bracelet, signaling the announcement of his assigned victim. He grinned in anticipation and-
No dice. That was not a player Fein would be able to drop, nor was it one of the familiar faces he was hoping to see. In fact he was sort of hoping to avoid the super skilled players while solo, other than his potential teammates of course. Fein quietly cursed his initial luck, disappointed. It was back out of his hands.
Fein slumped against the metal pillar behind him with a loud groan, uncaring if anyone heard him. God this game was boring. The Gamemakers made the arena way too big. And they'd split the player pool into different arenas as well, so it wasn't like it was to accommodate the massive number of players this year. Another Capitol L. Incompetent motherfuckers. Honestly Feinberg was embarrassed for them. All the viewers were surely on the edge of their seats with all this action-packed gameplay to enjoy. Whatever. If Fein managed to avoid being picked off by some random 4-stack long enough to make it to the borders around mid dropping, things would surely get interesting then. Surely. His gun was staring to dig into his back uncomfortably due to his petulant slouch, and he sat up long enough to pull it around to his front before promptly returning to his sulking.
God he missed Couriway. He'd probably make fun of him for being bored half to death. 'Feinberg is going to die of boredom before he dies to the arena' he'd probably snark, a teasing giggle in his voice. Then Fein could chuck something at him in retaliation and watch him ruffle indignantly. Fein snorted at the thought. That would be fun. It would be a whole lot better than just sitting still at least.
He hadn't seen Couri or Fruit in 2 weeks at this point. Not since they'd all been put into different starting arenas. Fein hadn't anticipated the change, and it hadn't been announced beforehand. Though in retrospect, it sort of made sense. The whole appeal of the games this year was its huge roster of players. To have a quarter of them slaughtered in the first 10 minutes by pre-established career alliances would really ruin the point. Though it would've made for one hell of a spectacle. Probably would've driven home the Capitol's message a bit better than the comparatively lame bloodbath they actually got. Bloodpuddle more like. Gottem.
Now that he was thinking about it, Fein pondered that it seemed like the Capitol was looking to draw out the games this year. Most games only lasted a week or two, including pregame events like placements and interviews. This was on average, excluding a few outliers. The first Hunt & Run only lasted 15 minutes for example, and most don't even consider the first dozen or so games to be "canon" when determining stats. The first games were barbaric, no bells or whistles to mask the core gameplay: You hunt, and you run. The Capitol was still finding its stride in the early games, and it was very obvious in the beginning that they weren't really hosting games. They were more like executions, all but lined up against the wall to be gunned down. Uninteresting. Horrifying.
Games normally just went on until there was one player standing. That was another thing strange about this Hunt & Run. This game had a timer. During other games if the Gamemakers felt things were dragging on they weren't afraid to use hazards to funnel players together for final confrontations. In a way, the border shrank in every game. But there was never a timer. Never a number. Honestly, Fein was relieved when he saw that his Capitol-provided bracelet actually tracked the border. One of the things he had been more worried about was the Gamemakers randomly deciding that they were bored and trying to force players together. There was no way to know for sure when this would happen in every other Hunt & Run, and Fein had been a bit worried about getting stuck in a cave or something when the Gamemakers wanted him to move. But he had a definitive number. A clock to keep an eye on. He was a bit less at the mercy of the Gamemakers' whims, and he certainly appreciated it.
The Gentleman's Agreement was also new. The Capitol clearly wanted a longer Hunt & Run this year, with the 3 weeks in the arena on top of the 1 week of pregame. It was one hell of an endurance test, especially compared to every other game before it. It was different, but Feinberg was nothing if not adaptable.
Of course Fein knew all this in the first place because he'd reviewed and analyzed every single Hunt & Run game to ever air. Couri had joined him for some of the earlier games, though he stopped trying to pay attention when they got to the games they'd already seen before. The Hunt & Run games were a core memory for every Panem citizen after all. Fein himself still remembered the first Hunt & Run game he ever saw. It was the first time he'd ever watched someone die. He'd seen corpses before, but he'd only seen them long after their death. Stiff, cold, inhuman things. It was a stark contrast to watching the moments before a death. He still remembered how the camera had lingered on an unfortunate tribute as they twitched and bled out. Limp, warm, and human.
Fein shook himself out of his dark train of thought and focused back on the sky. It was mostly grey now, most of the blue faded as suspiciously dark clouds rolled in from seemingly nowhere. It was still plenty bright out however, and Fein decided not to worry about the looming storm just yet. He was staring absently at the skyline when he started to hear distant voices. Fein snapped back to himself, unwrapping his gun from his body and shooting to his feet. On a not-too-far-off mountain, Fein observed 3 figures descending a relatively steep cliffside on horseback. He raised his gun, aiming at the player closest to him with a steady hand. The group hadn't seemed to notice him yet, so he could get the drop on them if they'd just come a little closer, and-
Feinberg's breath hitched as he caught a glimpse of familiar purple and round glasses through the scope.
They'd finally found him.
