Clary: A little background of this story: I did not write this alone~ Weee~ Actually, me and Lia have roomie neighbors who are The. Biggest. Hunger Games. Fans. Ever. They could tell you just how many people there are in District 13 and they'd probably be right, too! They got me to reading the series AND DARN IT, IT IS AWESOME! I stayed up ALL WEEKEND reading EVERYTHING! So~ We decided we'd write this because combining two awesome things make them SUPER-SUPER AWESOME. Yes.

Oh~ And introductions~ This is Alex and I think she is the cutest thing since Barbie dolls:

Alex: Hi! :)

And this is Kat who is just as badass as Katniss is and I personally think she should legally change her name so she would REALLY be Katniss (and she agrees with me, too!):

Kat: ...Sup.

So~ We don't own Hunger Games (BUT IT IS AWESOME!) and we hope you enjoy~

Crimson Waves

01

I awake to the loud boom of music blasting from the old, groaning speakers. I recognize it right away because the tune is as familiar to me - and to anyone living in this sad country - as daylight. I cringe at the sound, more for the ominous reminder it gives than for the horrible mix of the anthem and the groaning speakers.

It is Hunger Games season once again. My heart contracts in my chest and I curl around myself and try to think of how I would be able to survive this season this time.

Many years ago, my sister Yumiko joined the Games, became the crowd favorite, and died. I remember watching her Games in my mother's lap, too small to be able fit anywhere else, and I remember how she had been so beautiful, how she played up the crowds, how everybody in the Capitol talked about her as if she was already victor.

I remember not having a ghost of a doubt that my sister would come back.

And I remember my mother's loud cry of anguish when the tribute from District Two's axe swung a silent elegy that ended as it passed through Yumiko's head. I remember because I stayed up all night watching reruns of that particular scene until the memory of the echo of Yumiko's last laugh was forever engraved in my mind. The feed was horrible, the entire event painful, but I continued to watch until I could have no longer heard my mother's wails.

The next morning, they replayed various scenes of Yumiko's best times in the Games, and Inoue-san gave a entire speech about how they were so sad to have lost her. And I had thought, young as I was, that maybe there was good in the world, after all.

But then everything moved on, because it had to, and the people of the Capitol carried on to favor another, still-living tribute.

And Yumiko was forever forgotten.

It has been painful ever since.

Perhaps it is even more painful that my district treats this season as more of a celebration, or a party than anything else. I watch them string up the celebratory flaglets in the celebratory nets in bright, celebratory colors and I wonder why they are so happy about having to send their children out to slaughter.

I know the answer, because it is an answer that has been drilled into our heads for years.

We are one of the lucky ones. District Four is a rich district, and we didn't have any of the starving or the stealing or the poverty or other some such horror stories about the other outer districts. We have a great stock of everything, an entire pool of victors who are just as effective mentors, and strong healthy children who receive training and instruction on how to survive an arena full of scared, but ready-to-kill tributes.

Rather, the children deserving the training did.

I remember my own initiation test a few years back. I was ten, small for my age, but seething with a passion as I fell in line and thought about how my sister went through this as well. I flew through the obstacle course like a furious shark, tore away all the dummies in a show of impossible strength because I was seeing that tribute - victor - from District Two's face chopping down my sister's smile and all I think is how dare he and how much I want to kill him.

And I remember refusing their offer of training, with something akin to shocking satisfaction settling at the pit of my stomach as I watch their shocked, bewildered faces. I remember Ryuzaki-san's face most of all, because later, she approached me, patted my shoulder and told me, "I am sorry."

It was the first time anyone had ever acknowledged our grief.

I looked at her in the eyes, and saw the weariness she hides from the people of the Capitol. I had thought that perhaps those little wrinkles forming in her face were the sign of her grief at having to send kid after kid after kid to die for a group of people's sick entertainment. At having to pretend that she likes it. I know it was not what she had signed up for when she had been Reaped, but it is what she got, and what she is living with. I had briefly contemplated feeling sorry for her, before I remembered that she had been my sister's mentor.

So I squared my shoulders and drew myself into my full height. I am small, and straightening myself to my tiptoes does not help me reach even her waist. And I told her, "Don't be," because I knew nothing that would hurt her more.

I try to block out the anthem as I go through the motions of my everyday life. It is better when I am finally out in the sea. It is farther away that the sound of the anthem is diluted, and I could pretend that the people I have to live with do not enjoy the killing just as much as those people from the Capitol do. Sometimes, I sing the lullabies that Yumiko used to sing to me when she was alive, and I feel as if it is only me, the answering call of the sea, and Yumiko.

Always, in my fantasies, she is alive. Sometimes she talks to me, sometimes she does not, but all of the time she is there, all of her blue eyes and contagious laugh that sounds nothing like the way it did on television, when she was pretending for the Capitol because it is what their people want.

Perhaps I am mad. Sometimes, I wish I am.

My mother smiles at me as I go and help her prepare breakfast. Her smile is wan, but she is better now that the years have dulled the pain of Yumiko's death. She throws herself at the jewelry she (Yumiko used to) makes out of shells until she is nothing but tired every night, but she is better. Sometimes, I take to her some of the more colorful fishes I catch, and she would smile the way she used to when my sister was still alive. But the smile would be short-lived and I would go out again the next day, find her another glittery fish, feel some of the void fill up at her smile only to feel it chipping away once again when the smile disappears.

It is a vicious cycle, but it is my life.

We are both silent as the anthem still plays in the background until the sound of our door opening pulls me away from my task, and I frown.

He is there once again, twirling a strand of his hair, arrogantly stalking into our house as if he owned it. He does not, but he pretends anyway, and a part of me hates him for that.

He heads directly to where Yuuta was sprawled across the couch, where my little brother had collapsed into last night, the smirk obvious in his awful face. His hands come down in an arc stopping short of Yuuta's neck.

"Boom!" he says. His imitation of the cannon leaves much to be desired, but I turn my head away just the same. My brother wakes up with a huge thump, and I imagine that he has fallen to the floor, a tangle of fourteen-year-old limbs and blankets.

Mituli, or whatever it was his name was, laughs as Yuuta starts to grumble. "And then, Yuuta, you are dead," he narrates, and I resolve to myself to hate him even more.

I glance at my mother, but her face has become her trademark smooth, cheerful mask. "Would you like to stay for breakfast, Mizuki-kun?"

My brow twitches. No, Mother, he should not stay for breakfast, not unless you want blood, and his vile corpse littering your immaculate kitchen. I am feeling murderous enough right now that my grip on myself, and the knife, might stray. He should not stay for breakfast, if he knew what was good for him. But then again, his intelligence level had been sufficiently proven when he became Yuuta's number one trainer for the Games.

I've made it clear more than enough times, and I'll make it clear again. Misubi, I do not appreciate you primping my brother up for his death.

"Oh, no thank you, Fuji-san," he replies. "Yuuta and I have to head on out to practice bright and early." There is a pause, one which I use to wonder whether or not Yuuta had informed me about this shift in his training schedule last night. I decide that he has not told me. He only stayed up long enough to stumble to the couch. "Have to be buff and polished for the Games, after all."

"Oh, yes," my mother murmurs, though I knew she felt nothing even close to it. She didn't like them buffed, nor did she like them polished. She wanted Yuuta to not disappear into the training building every morning, and come home with a bounce on his step because he has just learned another surefire way to become a murderer. She wanted Yuuta to go to the beach and pretend to be happy with just fishing, like me, and spend the rest of his life alive and well and alive, because he does not have to 'honor' himself and volunteer for the Games so he could get himself killed.

It is a very simple desire, but it is one that Yuuta does not give in to. My mother would usually turn to me angrily in these arguments, but I am on neutral territory and I merely smile and tell her that Yuuta is old enough to make his own decisions, even though I believe none of the words that come out of my mouth. She does not ask me what I want, and I do not offer it because it is not what she wants to hear.

My wants, anyway, are fairly simple. I just do not want my little brother to die. That is all.

I do not want him with blood on his hands either, but I cannot have it both ways. He could be a cold-blooded murderer of twenty-three children and I will not care. No matter how changed he would be when he came back, at least, he still lived.

My mother sets two plates down in the table. She does not ask Yuuta to stay for breakfast anymore, because we both know what he would answer. I stare down at the food my mother has made. It is green, tinted with seaweed. My mother has been making bland food like this ever since Yuuta came home one morning and presented her with the list of foods he is and is not allowed to eat. The list still sits on the kitchen. It is longer now, and at least three pages long. There is another, newer sheet with it, containing a breakdown of what and how much Yuuta should be eating at what time on what day. The latter was given by Mirabi, and I briefly consider throwing this away just to spite him.

And then I feel his gaze directed to my back.

Here we go again, I think as I turn around to face them. Mikuri's gaze is assessing as always, with that same glint of impatient challenge in his eyes. It almost seems as if he is waiting for me to acknowledge him properly, but I could be wrong. At any rate, he should know by now that if he was going to stroll into our house 'killing' my brother, then he should not expect anything even close to acknowledgement from me if he doesn't want to incapacitate himself before his time in the Games.

Right now, a severed hand is probably all the acknowledgement I could give him that will cause the least damage.

"Perhaps," he begins, and I watch Yuuta's face slowly become sour. "Your Syusuke would like to join us?"

I do not give him the luxury of a proper answer. Instead, I stalk out of the house, and slam the door behind me. I am angry, I know, but it will not do to be angry in my house. The atmosphere is suffocating enough as it is.

My blood is still boiling as I stride towards town. Those out early raise their hands in half-waves I return with an easy smile. They smile easily back. I know it is strange to be angry and smiling, but I have cultivated this mask out of need. Much leeway was given to a grieving family of a fallen tribute, but the one thing they were not allowed to do, was inconvenience the Capitol.

The Capitol always came first.

Always.

And it only makes me feel even more awful that some of the eyes that were following me felt exactly as Mihiki's eyes did. Assessing and challenging. As if, any minute now, they expect me to stop pretending to be a normal District Four citizen and start being a Career Tribute. As if they think I do much more out alone in the ocean than catching pretty fishes and finding them pretty shells. Perhaps it will make them happy. Half of them seemed to believe that it will also make Yumiko happy, but when I watched her get pummeled down at her Games, despite her training, despite her sponsors, despite how many people believed she would win, I knew I would never want to become a pawn of the Capitol's, or anyone else's games.

I will not become a killer just so everyone could be happy.

I reach the shore just before I become desperate to get away from everybody's gaze. I stop just shy of the water's edge and stoop down, so I could watch the water hug the shore, pull back, and hug it again. The sound of the waves is familiar, more familiar than the Capitol's awful anthem would ever be, and it is a gentle, soothing sound that I love.

I stay for hours as I watch the sun slowly climb up to the sky, before my eyes, as they always inevitably do, drift to the cluster of immaculate houses on the right hand side of the shore.

Victor's Village.

More than half of the houses there are not occupied, but it does not mean that our pool of victors were any less than others. As with other rich districts, we have a wide variety of victors, many of which are still skilled, and smart enough to guide their tribute to at least survive the first few days of the Games.

And the most coveted mentor of them all, I know, was Tezuka.

Long ago, though it had not been very long, I had thought that I loved Tezuka. He had been well-principled and strong, his eyes filled with a passion that could have seared the soul of anyone looking. He had refused training with me, and together we had promised that we will never become tools or pawns or objects for people to oogle and bet at.

But that had been before he was reaped. At twelve, he had been the youngest tribute that District Four had sent in a long time. No one volunteered, because everyone had been afraid. It had been long since our district produced a victor, and the last few Games have been so bad, no tribute made it past the first few days of the Games. No one wanted to volunteer for a sure death sentence.

I remember rushing to the Justice Building after his parents had said their goodbyes, and pressing an enameled shell bracelet to his palm. It had been the last bracelet Yumiko had ever made, before she was made to volunteer in the Games, and it had been my most cherished possession. She had given it to me before she had been brought out the district forever, and I have not taken it off since. I told him to keep it, as a promise to me that he, unlike Yumiko, would come back. He promised that when he did, he would give it back to me.

But he never did. Things happened, and perhaps because he had become a much celebrated victor, the youngest in almost four decades of Games, he could no longer bear to dwell with ordinary mortals like me, but one day, he had approached me and told me we can no longer be friends.

I remember little else of what had happened after that.

Sometimes, especially on days like these, I hope he has kept Yumiko's bracelet. It is a strange thing to hope for, and it is powered by an even stranger desire, one that I cannot indulge in, so I convince myself that I want such a thing because I cannot bear it if my sister's last memento was thrown away by he who would have been my best friend.

And then suddenly, the sound of the sea is not soothing any longer.

I walk back to the house in a more sedate pace, because the worst of the anger has died out. I make it a point to pass by the back of the training building so I wouldn't have to suffer through anymore stares. The training building was huge, almost as large as the Justice Building. It is white, with a light covering of moss-like seaweed, like most of the buildings in our district. Our entire district almost seems as though it was built around this building, as if our entire lives revolved around the Games and training the children for the Games.

Technically, no one is supposed to train for it. But the Peacekeepers of the richer districts closer to the Capitol graciously look away and pretend to not be seeing anything, because tributes that were trained ahead made the Games so much more fun than having to watch scared little kids try to hack at each other. The Capitol wanted finesse, and an unseasoned murderer did not fit that description.

Yumiko had been the perfect example of a perfect tribute. The Capitol had loved her, worshipped the ground beneath her feet, and treated her as if she was their leader.

And then she had died.

I feel awful all over again.

I pause by the window just so I might be able watch Yuuta train. He would be easy to spot because he is the center of the world here. They may still be talking about the potential and the sure victor they have in his aniki, but Yuuta is present and I am not. Yuuta is fighting like fluid water, and is growing tougher and tougher every day, while no one knew if I could even fight when all I do is bring them pretty fishes and shells every other day. Yuuta, for the most part, hates me because I am his older brother. Perhaps if Yumiko had not died, and if I had been complacent, Yuuta would have been much happier.

Maybe then, he wouldn't be a Career.

...He is not here.

My brows scrunch up as I note my brother's absence. Where else could he be, but here? This has been his life and all he has lived for ever since he turned ten and worthy enough. My eyes scan the entire brightly-lit room, but there is nothing to see. The usual mentors are not even there. The sour taste returns to my mouth and then I am running.

In my mind, I play out just how long it had been since Mikuri started 'killing' Yuuta, imitating the cannons, talking about 'primping up' for the Reaping. I play out just how many nights Yuuta comes home exhausted, and does not have the energy to even get to his room. My heart is pounding in my chest, and all I think is please, no.

When I get back to the house, my mother is wailing once again. She is clutching Yuuta's shirt like a lifeline, her face completely buried in his rough tunic. Miguri is there, leaning against the wall, with a practiced air of long suffering.

So is Yamato.

Even from behind his glasses, his eyes are sharp as he takes me in. He is smiling, but it is not a comforting smile. It might not even be a smile, just a slight twitch of lips to acknowledge my presence. Under his gaze, I am ten and defiant once again, on the day I refuse to be a Career, on the day he claps me in the back and congratulates me for having the courage no one else in this damned country had.

My gaze meets Yuuta's, but he is not the younger brother I know. His eyes are steel, every bit as cold and as hard as the unfeeling metal, and I wonder exactly when I have lost him.

He opens his mouth, but I know what he was going to say before he even says it. Many years from now, if I am still alive, perhaps I will look back, and think that everything in my life has been building up to this one moment.

And I would think, it starts with this.

"I have been chosen," he says, his entire mien full of pride. "I will represent our district in this year's Games."

Clary: ACTUALLY. We don't know whether or not we should continue this. This was written on the top of our heads, on a random desire that we want to write fiction~ This could be a pretty open-ended oneshot or we could continue, but that is seriously up to you guys~ YOU GUYS DECIDE, KAY?

ALSO. The next chappie of TMOTH is actually finished, but every time I look at it, I feel so unsatisfied, and just CAN'T post it. I am hoping that one more week can give me the inspiration and magically make it sound nicer. I hope. Lia is not around coz she is busy, but she edited this for us and she says hi~ :)

SO. Review please? It's really SUPER EASY to review now, coz the review thing is at the same page~ We'd like to know what you guys think~~