“Hello, District One.” The voice comes from behind her and she can feel his eyes all over her before she even turns. Of course. It’s Boy Two.
She rolls her eyes and lets another arrow fly into the center of the target. Her aim is perfect. It always is.
“Glimmer,” she says, by way of introduction, and it’s to his credit that he doesn’t give a lecherous little laugh and retort “Damn right you do.” (It’s more common than one would expect.)
Instead, he extends a hand and says, simply, “Cato.”
She doesn’t take it. Handshakes are for allies and to be honest, she hasn’t really seen him perform yet; he’s spent much of the morning training session picking fights with other tributes and showing off for the coaches. She spins back around, loads another arrow, and sinks it into the bullseye again.
Cato, then. Good to know.
They take her ring just before she ascends into the arena, and it feels like just another little injustice to add to the mounting pile. The see-through dress. The silly Tribute Parade costumes. Being upstaged by Girl Twelve, damned if she can remember the girl’s name. Being stuck with Marvel the whole time, who is capable enough with a spear but otherwise amounts to conversational dead weight.
She sighs as they confiscate the ring (with which she had planned to kill her districtmate) and swears up and down that she had no idea of its true nature when she put it on. There’s no way they can really punish her. If she doesn’t die in the arena - which she won’t; that simply isn’t a distinct possibility - everyone will love her. They have to.
She hates Cato. She fucking hates him with every cell in her body and yet there they are, in the woods, running with the rest of the pack and she’s giggling at everything he says because that is how you play the game: you giggle and you smile and then you slit their throats. Every time she giggles, Clove rolls her eyes, but fuck her too, she’s bound to trip and fall on her own knife sooner or later.
She is winsome. She is beautiful (even now, with her hair falling out of its braids and blood smeared across her cheekbone from the fray at the Cornucopia). She is deadly as they come.
They kill Girl Eight by her campfire that night, Cato with his sword and Clove with her knife and Glimmer sending an arrow into her heart for good measure, and Lover Boy standing back nervously, offering to finish her off once they’ve moved on. When they brush him off, he runs, and a silver parachute floats down: a gift from District 2.
The bread is still warm and they divide it equally among themselves. Glimmer takes more than her fair share, but Cato doesn’t say anything, just gives her that look. The one that says she’ll be paying him for these mouthfuls of bread later.
They’ve got Girl Twelve treed and settle down for the night. Glimmer volunteers for the first watch because she’ll be damned if Catnip Evergreen shinnies down that tree trunk and heads for the hills while she’s still got two of Glimmer’s arrows with her. She sits, her back to the tree, her bow in hand as she waits.
Cato wakes up at midnight and shifts, rolling onto one side. She shoots him a look and he beckons her over.
And, well, she’s tired. He rubs her back and she breathes in the scent of him, sweat and blood and pine sap from when he failed to scale the tree, and she feels herself drifting off to sleep, his broad hands against her body, her bow still curled in her fingers as she nestles her face on his shoulder.
She still hates him, but she’s grown quite accustomed to finding serenity in unsafe places.
They’re jolted awake by a buzzing roar and sudden, sharp pain all over their bodies, and Cato pulls her up as they scream and run. She can hear Girl Four stumble and cry out behind her but they can’t turn back, bye, nice knowing you. They run and Glimmer knows she’s got the worst of it, her vision is cloudy and she’s seeing things that can’t be real - her baby sister in front of her, screaming with blood running down her face from where her eyes should be - and yet she keeps running, her hand still crushed in Cato’s grip as he half pulls her along.
The mutts have them up atop the Cornucopia, and Cato’s got his sword at the ready. He’s fast. She’s faster. An arrow to the shoulder and his weapon is gone, and he falls to his knees.
As she advances on him, he looks up at her, and for the first time, she sees him look - what is it? Scared?
No. He cannot be scared. He is resigned.
“Come here,” she whispers, barely audible over the barking and howling of the mutts, and he chokes out a tired laugh.
“Please,” he says. “Don’t insult me.”
She shakes her head. “You knew it would come down to this.”
“I can still kill you.”
“No,” she murmurs. “You can’t.”
She pulls the arrow from his shoulder and kisses him at the same time, hard and deep, the kiss of a winner.
When she lets him fall over the side, she aims an arrow almost immediately.
"That is how you play the game: you giggle and you smile and then you slit their throats." You've written such an amazing other dimension to Glimmer, which is so her, if that makes any sense whatsoever.
my favorite part: Cato wakes up at midnight and shifts, rolling onto one side. She shoots him a look and he beckons her over.
And, well, she’s tired. He rubs her back and she breathes in the scent of him, sweat and blood and pine sap from when he failed to scale the tree, and she feels herself drifting off to sleep, his broad hands against her body, her bow still curled in her fingers as she nestles her face on his shoulder.
She still hates him, but she’s grown quite accustomed to finding serenity in unsafe places. the moment is so uneasy and half awake. lovely
“Hello, District One.” The voice comes from behind her and she can feel his eyes all over her before she even turns. Of course. It’s Boy Two.
She rolls her eyes and lets another arrow fly into the center of the target. Her aim is perfect. It always is.
“Glimmer,” she says, by way of introduction, and it’s to his credit that he doesn’t give a lecherous little laugh and retort “Damn right you do.” (It’s more common than one would expect.)
Instead, he extends a hand and says, simply, “Cato.”
She doesn’t take it. Handshakes are for allies and to be honest, she hasn’t really seen him perform yet; he’s spent much of the morning training session picking fights with other tributes and showing off for the coaches. She spins back around, loads another arrow, and sinks it into the bullseye again.
Cato, then. Good to know.
They take her ring just before she ascends into the arena, and it feels like just another little injustice to add to the mounting pile. The see-through dress. The silly Tribute Parade costumes. Being upstaged by Girl Twelve, damned if she can remember the girl’s name. Being stuck with Marvel the whole time, who is capable enough with a spear but otherwise amounts to conversational dead weight.
She sighs as they confiscate the ring (with which she had planned to kill her districtmate) and swears up and down that she had no idea of its true nature when she put it on. There’s no way they can really punish her. If she doesn’t die in the arena - which she won’t; that simply isn’t a distinct possibility - everyone will love her. They have to.
She hates Cato. She fucking hates him with every cell in her body and yet there they are, in the woods, running with the rest of the pack and she’s giggling at everything he says because that is how you play the game: you giggle and you smile and then you slit their throats. Every time she giggles, Clove rolls her eyes, but fuck her too, she’s bound to trip and fall on her own knife sooner or later.
She is winsome. She is beautiful (even now, with her hair falling out of its braids and blood smeared across her cheekbone from the fray at the Cornucopia). She is deadly as they come.
They kill Girl Eight by her campfire that night, Cato with his sword and Clove with her knife and Glimmer sending an arrow into her heart for good measure, and Lover Boy standing back nervously, offering to finish her off once they’ve moved on. When they brush him off, he runs, and a silver parachute floats down: a gift from District 2.
The bread is still warm and they divide it equally among themselves. Glimmer takes more than her fair share, but Cato doesn’t say anything, just gives her that look. The one that says she’ll be paying him for these mouthfuls of bread later.
She really fucking hates him.
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They’ve got Girl Twelve treed and settle down for the night. Glimmer volunteers for the first watch because she’ll be damned if Catnip Evergreen shinnies down that tree trunk and heads for the hills while she’s still got two of Glimmer’s arrows with her. She sits, her back to the tree, her bow in hand as she waits.
Cato wakes up at midnight and shifts, rolling onto one side. She shoots him a look and he beckons her over.
And, well, she’s tired. He rubs her back and she breathes in the scent of him, sweat and blood and pine sap from when he failed to scale the tree, and she feels herself drifting off to sleep, his broad hands against her body, her bow still curled in her fingers as she nestles her face on his shoulder.
She still hates him, but she’s grown quite accustomed to finding serenity in unsafe places.
They’re jolted awake by a buzzing roar and sudden, sharp pain all over their bodies, and Cato pulls her up as they scream and run. She can hear Girl Four stumble and cry out behind her but they can’t turn back, bye, nice knowing you. They run and Glimmer knows she’s got the worst of it, her vision is cloudy and she’s seeing things that can’t be real - her baby sister in front of her, screaming with blood running down her face from where her eyes should be - and yet she keeps running, her hand still crushed in Cato’s grip as he half pulls her along.
The mutts have them up atop the Cornucopia, and Cato’s got his sword at the ready. He’s fast. She’s faster. An arrow to the shoulder and his weapon is gone, and he falls to his knees.
As she advances on him, he looks up at her, and for the first time, she sees him look - what is it? Scared?
No. He cannot be scared. He is resigned.
“Come here,” she whispers, barely audible over the barking and howling of the mutts, and he chokes out a tired laugh.
“Please,” he says. “Don’t insult me.”
She shakes her head. “You knew it would come down to this.”
“I can still kill you.”
“No,” she murmurs. “You can’t.”
She pulls the arrow from his shoulder and kisses him at the same time, hard and deep, the kiss of a winner.
When she lets him fall over the side, she aims an arrow almost immediately.
She always hated him.
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"That is how you play the game: you giggle and you smile and then you slit their throats." You've written such an amazing other dimension to Glimmer, which is so her, if that makes any sense whatsoever.
Thank you so, so much for filling this prompt :)
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my favorite part: Cato wakes up at midnight and shifts, rolling onto one side. She shoots him a look and he beckons her over.
And, well, she’s tired. He rubs her back and she breathes in the scent of him, sweat and blood and pine sap from when he failed to scale the tree, and she feels herself drifting off to sleep, his broad hands against her body, her bow still curled in her fingers as she nestles her face on his shoulder.
She still hates him, but she’s grown quite accustomed to finding serenity in unsafe places.
the moment is so uneasy and half awake. lovely
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