The Falling Ashes

Book Three of The Hunger Games (fanfiction)

Disclaimer: I am not Suzanne Collins. I do not own the Hunger Games or any rights to it and I do not claim to. (Hope that's an okay disclaimer thingy)

Okay, so… welcome to my version of The Hunger Games, Book Three. Hope you enjoy it.____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chapter 1:

I am woken up by screaming, and for a second I think it is me. Then I realize that it's coming from the next room over. I sit up straight in my bed, now awake, accidentally smashing my head into the low ceiling. My eyes water and I grit my teeth.

The screaming continues, and after a moment I can hear whom it is coming from. Finnick. Finnick Odair.

He was one of my fellow tributes in the Third Quarter Quell, one of the victors. We teamed up, I thought to stay alive, but it turned out that I was wrong.

My tired mind conjures up a short song from memory, and I remember it as Rue's mockingjay melody. In the Seventy-Fourth Games, we used it as a signal to each other. It fits.

The mockingjay. They were a crossbreed between a regular mockingbird and a jabberjay, a muttation created by the Capitol during the rebellion as a war weapon. They were able to mimic human voices and had a remarkable ability for remembering conversations. But they turned out not to be any use, and the Capitol tried to get rid of them. Instead they mated with mockingbirds and created the mockingjay, an animal which was never supposed to exist. It became a symbol of the second rebellion against the Capitol, the first being the one in which District Thirteen was supposedly destroyed and the Hunger Games were formed because of.

District Thirteen. I had been lied to. District Thirteen was not completely obliterated as had been previously thought. Apparently, as I had been told, it was still a thriving city.

My train of thought is broken as I realize that the screaming has stopped. Instead a faint, barely perceptible sobbing is coming from Finnick's room. I try not to listen to it.

Unable to get back to sleep, I climb down the ladder that leads up to my small bunk and onto the floor of my room. It is dark and I am unable to see what I am doing, so I navigate by touch.

The metal ladder is cold, but the floor is carpeted so I am glad when I reach ground… if it can be called that. I am actually thousands of feet above the ground, in a large hovercraft. District Thirteen's.

There is a knock on my door. "Katniss?"

Haymitch. His voice is slurred and I think he is drunk. When I ignore him, instead crossing to the small refrigerator and searching for something to drink, he keeps knocking in an irregular fashion. "Katniss? Katniss?"

Something hard slams against the door and the knocking stops. There is a low gurgle. Haymitch must have passed out and fell into the door. I am not surprised. Ever since the Quell, he has been more drunken and irritable than usual. I don't know where he finds the liquor, but he has more of it than ever.

I finally decide on a can of some fancy fountain drink. It is metal and has a green covering, with the name of the company that made it emblazoned on the side. I ignore this, pop the top, and drink.

It has a strong lemon-lime flavor, one that apparently is popular among the people of District Thirteen. It makes me gag and spit it out onto the ground. There is a tingly aftertaste in my mouth, which is slightly fetching.

Fortifying myself, I take another sip. This time I can enjoy it. It is bubbly and feels a bit like it is burning my tongue, and it has a sour but sweet taste. I like it a lot and drain the entire can in a few large gulps.

I take a contended sigh, fully awake now. There is a small light coming from the fridge, but nowhere near enough to provide any real illumination. Instead I switch on the lights.

My room is small and a bit claustrophobic. The ceiling is low, only about a foot higher than me. Gale admits, when he comes in, that he worries he'll hit his head. The four walls, which are close together, are made of metal. There are no windows. I sleep on a small bunk uncomfortably close to the ceiling, which I have to climb a small ladder to reach. There is also a refrigerator, a closet, and a small chute through which I throw the clothes I have already worn. They come back later that day, washed, dried, and folded.

There is a groan from outside my door, and with a sigh I go and open it. There is a thunk as Haymitch's head, which before the door had been supporting, falls to the floor. Haymitch himself is lying on the floor, an empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. His clothes stink with his own puke.

The small carpet just outside my room (I don't really understand the need for it) has been messed up. With a hiss of disgust, I shove Haymitch's body to the side, off of it, and put it back into its place.

"Can't stand a bit of a mess, can ya, sweetheart?" comes Haymitch's drawling voice. I must have woken him up. Damn. "Just relax. They fix it all up in this fancy…" he gives a grunt and some spit dribbles out of the side of his mouth, "Place." He finishes lamely.

"Go back to your room, Haymitch."

"Now," Haymitch replies, and then burps. "Now, I don't see, sweetheart, that you have the ability to boss me around so," he is interrupted by his own hiccup, "So… rudely. Now, you know who would have helped me? Peeta. He's a good boy." Without further ado, he vomits onto the floor. The sickening smell rises up towards me, but I don't realize.

Peeta… I have been trying not to think about him, not to think about where he is, whether he's alive or whether President Snow has had him killed, to keep him tucked away in the back of my mind. But Haymitch's drunken rambling has pushed it to the front, and it is impossible to ignore.

I quickly walk into my room and lock the door behind me, leaving Haymitch vomiting on the floor of the hall.


It's not a very long chapter, and it only took about twenty minutes to write. I didn't do too much editing on it, but with any luck it's okay… Please review with your opinions, I am a sad, paranoid, worried person who needs kindness and criticism. A little hate I don't mind either, as long as it's justified.