James breathing became more rapid as the tube rose up into the arena. Crisp wind chilled her as he caught his first sight of this year's Quarter Quell. A snowy forest sprawled out in front of him, beautiful yet sad. There was the Cornucopia, weapons and backpacks spilling out the front of it. He found it cruel that they would the Cornucopia filled with weapons, when in history it was filled with food. It was a painful irony.
Few birds perched, unmoving upon the bare branches. 23 other tributes stood on their marks, gazing at the arena. It was a scary wonder. "20. 19." Tributes eyes left the arena and stared intently on weapons, or backpacks in a hungry way. Everyone wanted to live. But James eyes stayed on the bare forest ahead. "6. 7." His body tensed in anticipation. Everything was planned, there was no reason to worry. James took a deep breath, swallowing his fear. "3. 2. 1."
The shrill sound of the buzzer came on, buzzing in his ears. The arena seemed soundless, only the buzzing was there. His body was in the air for a second as he leapt from his pedestal. Tributes ran, grabbing weapons and bags. Some staying and fighting, other's trying to flee. James feet flew effortlessly over tree stumps and other obstacles and he made his way through the forest. He didn't notice a single tribute other than himself make it out.
Grabbing onto an icy branch of a tree, he hoisted himself up and climbed high. His eyes caught sight of Tributes killing each other without mercy, grins spread across their faces. Their eyes were lit up and blood thirsty. So many bodies littered the ground. The snow wasn't white for even a minute.
James forced his gaze to the sky as the first parachute of the games glided down gracefully. The silver parachute latched onto a tree limb, just above his head. James steadied himself and reached up, prying it free. He opened the container, and retrieved his weapon: a revolver complete with ammo. He just looked at it for a moment. The dark color of the gun, such a contrast against the snow covered tree. He grabbed the ammo, and closed the container.
Most of the time, such weapons weren't added. But the game‐makers never said sponsors couldn't give him this. The tribute jumped from his tree, ignoring the pain that shot through his feet and up his legs at the sudden impact. He walked back to the blood bath, eyes frozen in front of him. Stopping at the edge of the clearing, she counted the tributes. 12 dead, the other 11 fighting.
Slowly, he loaded her gun and raised it, aiming at his first victim. With an intake of breath, he closed his fingers around the trigger. A bullet sped through the air, only stopping when it impaled a tribute as he lobbed a knife at a young tribute. Blood erupted from the side of his head as he fell to the ground. His first kill. He glanced around, aiming at other candidates and shooting as he sliced the head off of a boy from district 3. His body landed next to his head in a gruesome manner.
James kept shooting, a silent assassin. Soon, it was him and the 12 year old boy from his own district. His eyes were glimmering with tears, and he was clutching the stump of an arm. Someone had disabled him... Blood dripped through his fingers, like raindrops. How sick the Hunger Games was.
James walked forward, eyes set on his last victim. He had nowhere to go, so he cowered in fear. Silent tears rolled down his flushed cheeks, his eyes stuck on her weapon, not her. James smiled in a sad way, watching as the last tribute made his final stand. "The Hunger Games is no place for two tributes." he whispered. He aimed at his head, planning to make his death quick and painless. "Sorry." He said aloud, just enough for him to hear. His blue eyes caught her gaze, asking the unasked question: Why are you doing this? Then, before he had a chance to respond, he killed him. His small body hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. James heart thumped against his chest painfully. This was the shortest Hunger Games in history.
James smiled as snow melted against his bare skin on his arms. "James Gomez has won the Quarter Quell." Said the announcer in an amazed voice. James slid his last bullet into place, lifting the gun to his head. "There's no Hunger Games without a victor." He mumbled. His heart raced, he didn't want to die. "Please, win. Won't you?" His brother had asked the last time he saw him. "I promise to try." he had replied. But he broke that. He didn't even try to live. His hand tightened around the gun, finally gaining courage. He'd never have to go into the Hunger Games. Not after this.
A single tear fell down his face, falling into the snow as James fingers closed over the trigger, sending the bullet into his skull. His limp body fell to the ground, dead eyes staring into the sky. The arena dimmed the lights, and everyone watching was surprised. Was this the beginning of a rebellion? A light snowfall covered her, the snow beneath her stained red. There was no room for a tribute in the Hunger Games.
"I call this piece James: the alternate ending of the hunger games. In this story you see we have weapon, such as guns. I mean who uses bow and arrows and more those are underrated. I wanted what inspired this piece was the fact that Katniss in Catching fire drop the dome and escaped to really start her rebellion. James on the other hand is doing somewhat of the same thing but gives his life up for a revolution instead. I wanted to create this story because I wanted another ending, another option. "