Thread:DrXax/@comment-27277443-20160718010259

'''A/N: Well, here it is! I finished! You asked for a fanfiction, I gave you a fanfiction. It's short, but it's... Well, not sweet. You never said I couldn't write a death scene. Mwahaha. I didn't take too long writing it, so it may not be the best, but yeah. '''

'''P.S., you may now be called "Xax the Adorable" at times because iT'S TRUE. Ha. Told you.'''

'''Anyways, here's some Katon to soothe the soul. Quick note to remember: The other fanfiction I wrote a while back was where Katy and Boston danced on the train together, so keep that in mind as you read this. It refers to that a lot.'''

'''Oh, and they're allies. Other than that, just read on and have fun! Lmao'''

They always killed the weak ones first. It was simply a fact of the Games - the strong survive and the frail crumple to the ground and are crushed beneath heels like leaves on a sidewalk.

Luckily for Boston, he wasn’t weak.

But he couldn’t help but think to himself that the girl pinned to the ground looked frail. Pitiful. She was staring up at a boy from Three, her blue eyes watery and her hands outstretched. A halo of brown hair had pooled around her head, her once long and soft locks now tangled and dirty. Her opponent was big, practically a foot taller than her and probably double her weight, and he had already flung her kakute away so that she couldn’t even attempt to fight back. The girl was a deer staring at the steel edge of a shotgun. Looking death straight in the eyes and knowing that nothing could save her from the boy with the knife locked in his hands.

The girl was Katherine McKay

Boston’s feet moved faster than his thoughts and he found himself running. Running into a bloodbath. Running into his grave. But he couldn’t help it, for the look on Katy’s face was so frail that it made something inside of him click. An instinct he hadn’t known he possessed. The boy from Three didn’t even look up. He was too busy digging his blade into Katy’s cheek and sketching flowers into her skin. Flowers that Katy would never again get the chance to touch. Boston remembered the night they’d danced on the train. The way that she laughed when she found something funny. Her smile, oh that beautiful smile, that she shared when she wasn’t just using a grin to be passive aggressive. She was a treasure and her blood was spilling onto the ground.

Her eyes met his just as Boston collided with the boy from Three and knocked him to the ground. They rolled, Boston finding himself on top and struggling to grasp the blade he had sworn he’d tucked into the back of his pants. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Katy drag herself to her feet and take a step back in fear. Her cheek was bleeding badly now and she would need treatment later on. But she had to escape first.

Run, Katy, he thought as he fumbled with his knife. Get out of here.

There was no time for struggling. Just as he got the knife in his hand, the boy grunted and pushed Boston off of him. They both were strong. Physical prowess was Boston’s specialty, though, and he refused to let it go to waste. He gripped the handle of the weapon tightly, knuckles going white. You mess with the bull, you get the horns.

But then it all crumbled.

She was there again, wearing the deadly pieces of jewelry like a soldier might wear war medals. Katy slammed her fist into the side of the boy from Three’s face, blood bursting from his lip the second that the kakute touched it. His dark eyes caught on her. The girl from seven was fighting in a battle that didn’t belong to her anymore and Boston knew the only place she would end up in was a world of pain. He tried to tell her to leave without pulling his eyes from Three. He was panting like a dog. Eventually, Boston just gave up silently communicating and barked, “Katy, get out of here!”

Katy looked over at him. She wiped more blood from her cheek, then mouthed, “I’m sorry,” and ran at the boy from Three again.

The fight was a dance like Boston had never seen. When he had waltzed with her on the train, her hands in his and his heartbeat mimicking the music box’s beat, it was nothing like this. She was slashing and scraping, attempting to dig her nails into the tribute’s arm. But he grabbed her by the neck and slammed her into the ground, a whimper escaping her lips. Boston stepped forward, ready to intervene, when she shut her eyes and yelled, “Boston, for the love of god, get out of here before I have to kill you, too!” And he didn’t know if she was being serious or not.

“I can’t.” He was shaking, watching her pull herself up. Boston was weighed down by cinder blocks that forced him to stay in place. Why couldn’t he move? Why was it now that his body had tensed up and his mind had gone blank?

And then it all came back. His senses. His strength. Boston ran forward just as the boy from Three did it.

He spun his knife in his hands.

He gripped it tightly.

He plunged the blade into Katy’s stomach.

The girl’s slender figure crumpled to the ground, her chest still rising and falling but her breaths coming out in odd wheezes. Boston grabbed the boy from Three from behind, tearing him away and unsheathing his own blade. The boy’s hand jutted forward and his weapon carved into the boy from Three’s neck. He felt the blood spill over his hands, but he didn’t look down at the knife. For a split second, he wanted to watch it happen. See the life fade from his eyes as he got what he deserved. But there was no time. The girl was dying. Katy was dying.

“Boston,” she called from the ground, her voice a throaty wheeze. “I thought that I told you to get out of here.” She had a steel edge to her voice, but the boy knew it was because she didn’t want him to watch. Didn’t want him to see her cough up her insides and curl into a little ball like an animal.

Unconsciously, he started shaking his head. The boy sat on the grass, moving Katy from the ground into his arms. She was too weak to protest. “It’s the Games,” she would’ve said with a scoff. “Not the Bachelorette.” But she didn’t speak and that was just one more sign to Boston that she was fading from the world like the stars in the morning light. “Are you insane?” he began, voice wavering. “I couldn’t’ve left if I had wanted to. We’re supposed to look out for each other, remember?” He picked up her hand, lacing their fingers together. “Allies.”

She smiled a wan smile, but there was blood in her teeth and it just looked depressing. “Allies,” she repeated, the life in her voice fading but the brightness of her eyes remaining. She waited a few seconds before closing her eyes and whispering, “Boston?”

“What is it? What do you need me to do?”

“Do you remember the music box on the train?” Her voice was so quiet that he had to strain to hear her. The boy nodded. “I want you to win the Games, get that music box, and play that song for me one last time, alright? I want you to dance for me and know that I’m not leaving you. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.” She was shaking now. Blood was seeping through her shirt, making the wound on her cheek look like nothing. The knife was still in her stomach and Boston was too afraid of hurting her further to get it out. He wasn’t a medic. He didn’t know what would help.

But he did know that she wanted this. A music box. A memory of the night that they had danced together, not as tributes, but as a boy and a girl who never would stood a change against the challenges life would thrown at them. And he nodded, vision blurring with tears of anger and tears of sadness. They say that men don’t cry and that’s all just a load of bull because Boston couldn’t help it. Katy reached up, trembling, and wiped a tear from his cheek with her thumb.

“Don’t you dare forget me, Boston Van Ackerton.” And she laughed that pretty little laugh of hers, blood clogging her throat and making it sound more like a cough. Gore threatened to spill from her mouth and some splattered on Boston’s shirt, but the boy didn’t care. That didn’t matter.

“How on earth could I forget you?”

And he meant it.

Then she leaned forward, pain shooting across her features and a gasp escaping her lips, but when Boston tried to help her down, she shook her head. Katy adjusted herself and closed her eyes, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. Maybe, in another time, things would’ve been different. But this was Panem. There was no safe place anymore. “You have to win. For me,” she whispered, eyes threatening to shut. “For everyone back home. For you.” And then that little smile crossed over her features and she laid back down, her body stiffening, then going limp.

Boston was, once again, alone in the forest.

But, this time, the silence was so much emptier without her laughter. 