Hi there, your OC stabbed mine in writeblr hunger games.
Rip Charlie 😔👊
ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ Utter condolences, Safia mistook him for a fowl!!
^ I realize that this isn't particularly comforting... so maybe it's better if you heard it from Safia herself...
Night One— Safia Sauda
TW: Violence, murder
Michelangelo is my spirit animal. Why? We both have terrible fashion taste, a talent for ticking people off, and the minds of visionaries. Michelangelo saw the angel in the marble and carved until he set him free. I saw a speargun in the pipe I nabbed from Buzzkill's tent, and tinkered around until I had myself a straight shot at dinner. We're practically the same person.
I'd never built a weapon before, not in my eighteen years as a human nor my ten years as an inventor. But, thanks to the bounty I scored at the raid today, it was pretty smooth sailing. Who knew Buzzkill had a whole toolbox to herself? All I had to do was weld the pipe into a horseshoe, shove in chips of a spanner, then loop it with a rubber tube as a release mechanism. By late afternoon, I had my spear loaded and ready to fire.
Unfortunately, a loaded speargun can't make hunger go away by itself. The forest is empty of game, and the waters haven't been generous either. I've been wading through the marshes for half an hour already, and the only thing I've managed to accumulate is the disposition of a wet rat. I wonder if Caide is watching me from home, laughing at how stupid I look. He has a knack for making light of the worst situations.
I cut a glance at the deepening sky. In ten minutes, I won't be able to see a thing. Mama would probably have a stroke if I dunked my face in slimy river water my first night in the arena. Caide would probably take pictures of my sodden face and make a profit circulating them across the whole District. I'm contemplating just calling it a night and going hungry when a rustle sounds nearby.
I have to turn up my hearing aid before I find the source of the sound: a dark, hunched blot scurrying through the reeds to my right. A fowl, finally. Salvation.
I dive into the reeds behind it. It's fast, slipping and sliding through the swampland like one of those jerky, lopsided marionettes from the old commercials, but I gain ground pretty quickly, thanking morning-me for dousing my soles in traction spray. My speargun clanks against my shoulder but I'm too preoccupied to even notice the weight.
The sky is darkening quicker now, bloated and purple, and the marsh writhes with shadow. I veto my frail heart's protests and force my feet to pump faster.
Finally, the reeds part. We've stumbled onto a clearing. I spot the fowl resting by a nearby tree, shadows lengthening across its figure. Seizing my chance, I hoist the speargun to my chest and fire.
I think I hear a faint "waitwaitwait—" but my spear has already struck its mark. And there I go, sprinting towards the tree, barely containing my pride, plucking out my spear and dragging my catch out of the shadow, into the dregs of light that linger in the ripening dusk.
My speargun hits the ground with a wumph. That's not a fowl.