I know! I took more than the week I wanted this to take. In my defense, I've been distracted by tech week/performances of a show that I was in, which left me little time to write. HOWEVER! I have made a lot of future-plot work in some spare time, and this thing's going to be an EPIC, I swear (or at least relatively original?).

Without further adieu...


Chapter III

Intellectually, Annie knew that she should have been feeling at least marginally upset about being sent off to the Hunger Games to fight to the death, but she found herself startlingly clearheaded. Mingling somewhere in a state of mild shock.

It was probably a good thing, to be so empty and numb. She was a Career. Careers didn't show things like fear and grief to the crowds. Careers didn't leave the Justice Building with bloated, reddened eyes. And Annie was a Career, so she wouldn't either.

Instead, she ran her eyes along the pale walls of the Justice Building, ran her fingers along the velvety couch she'd taken a seat on. Although she'd heard of velvet and seen it enough to identify the rich cloth beneath her as such, Annie had never actually had a chance to touch it the way she was now, and she found herself fascinated by the way its texture changed. At first, it was ruffled and ragged beneath her callused palms, but then it was soft and rich and Annie understood the term velvety more than she ever had before.

Unbidden, the duality of the fabric on the sofa reminded her of Terrence Littoral, who all at once seemed arrogant and compassionate. Of Finnick Odair's face, so young and attractive with those eyes so weathered and sad.

Thinking of that "victor's look" had Annie blurting out her next words as soon as she heard the door creak open from across the room.

"I'm not killing anyone."

"Annie…" Gilbert Cresta gathered her up in his arms. "You have to, honey." He buried his face in her hair. Annie could feel her hair dampening with tears, and she was reminded that this man was the man who gave her life. He was the man who loved so fervently and lived so strongly that the last time she had seen him cry was at her mother's death.

She maneuvered herself from her arms, carefully holding his watery gaze. "I don't have to kill anyone, Dad." At this, she glanced at Max, who was standing just beyond the door, looking so small and so twelve.

"You have to win," he said. "For the district."

For us rang silently between them.

"And I will," Annie replied, beckoning Max towards her. He gingerly dropped himself beside her on the velvet sofa. "But I'm not going to kill anyone."

"How are you going to win without killing anyone?"

Whistling a bit through her front teeth, she turned to her father. "Any suggestions, Dad?" This was, after all, the same man who managed to regularly hide bycatch on his boat with a Peacekeeper on deck.

"I…" Too shaken to even think, Gilbert Cresta gave his daughter a pleading look. "Why can't you just try your best to win, sweetheart? No one could possibly blame you for killing anyone when you're in the arena…"

For the first time since she had stumbled into the Justice Building, Annie felt a spike of pure feeling dance through her bones. She had to take a moment to quell her indignance and understand her father's own desperation. "It's not about what people think of me. It's not even about what I think about myself." Admittedly, it was, a little bit about that. Annie knew she couldn't bear it if she had to see her own eyes morph into victor eyes. "It's about what's right, and you can't justify killing, especially when it's only for entertainment."

"Don't say things like that, Annie," Gilbert Cresta hissed.

"Why?" Annie asked. This wasn't the first time she'd said such. In fact, her mother had always said the same, all the way until the day she died.

"We're not at home, Annie," her father murmured. "We're in the Justice Building."

It struck her that – from now until either her victory or death – she was being watched.

"You have a token?" Max asked, the look on his face enough to show that he was deliberately steering the conversation away from such thoughts.

Annie swept her eyes over her person. "Umm…"

"Why don't you take your bracelet? It's not long enough to choke anyone with or anything, right?"

Rubbing the tough rope between her fingers, she nodded. "Good idea, Max." And she forcibly yanked him into her arms, threading her hand into his dark, curly hair. "I'm going to miss you."

"Me too," he whispered. When Annie pulled away, his wide green eyes were magnified by tears. "Win, okay?" He disentangled himself from the hug to make room for their father before she could answer.

Her father's hug was different from Max's, less soft and hopeful and more filled with a strange, sorrowful intensity. Nose against his tanned neck, Annie inhaled his scent, as if taking his smell would take him with her. He smelled like sea salt and fresh fish and drenched rope.

"Do what you think is right," Gilbert Cresta said, giving Annie a chance to breathe a hushed yes into his ear.

And they were gone with the tears Annie couldn't shed, leaving her to stroke the velvet fabric of the sofa again.

Her next guests came in the surprising form of Nicolas Abyssal parents, the mother sobbing and blubbering and the father standing grimly beside her. Most of the family resemblance between Nicolas and his parents was lost in the unnaturally elfin quality of his features, but Annie recognized the gleaming grey of the father's eyes and the slightly crooked set of the mother's ears.

"I don't… I can't… My Nicolas!" Mrs. Abyssal wailed, upset enough to fall into a heap on the ground had her husband not kept a steady hand on her arm.

"We had to thank Terrence," Mr. Abyssal explained, pulling his hysterical wife to his side. "For taking our son's place. He said volunteered because that he knew he was going to win, but I think we all know the truth."

Annie nodded, then whistled through her teeth. "Then why are…?" She trailed off, unsure of how exactly to ask them why they were visiting her without sounding at least somewhat rude.

Taking a single, great step forward, Mr. Abyssal took her hand and placed something in it, carefully closing her fist around it. "Nicolas wanted you to have this. He collects them."

Opening her hand, Annie inspected the object. It was a shell, white and grainy and ribbed with a faint crack that ended with a jagged, good sized hole. "Thank you," she murmured.

"Nicolas has a way with remembering faces," Mr. Abyssal replied. He stroked his wife's hair. "He said that this shell was your smile."

"Here." Annie unwound her rope bracelet and pulled the end of it through the hole in the shell. "It'll be my token. They shouldn't make people like Nicolas eligible for the reaping."

Nicolas' parents looked aghast, and Annie had to remind herself again that she was doubtlessly being watched.

"I'd tell you I'm going to win," she said. "But I don't know if I will. And it might be better if Terrence wins. He deserves it for what he's done for your son."

Clutching her husband close, Mrs. Abyssal gave Annie a watery smile that couldn't seem to reach her bloodshot eyes. "You're a good kid, Annie Cresta. Don't change."

Annie's returning smile was more polite than anything else. The words were vague enough to leave her puzzled but clear enough to have her understand. "I don't plan to."

Reaching to give her hand a light squeeze, Nicolas' parents left as abruptly as they came.

Nautia was the next to open the door. She practically pounced onto the sofa and sat beside Annie, disregarding the deep color and rich texture of the chair. The tight auburn curls in her hair bounced, as if to display enthusiasm or jitters. "Here's how it's gonna work, Annie," Nautia began, and Annie knew it would do little good to stop her now. "You're a Career, so you're gonna go in there, dazzle everyone, beat all the tributes, and come home so you can tell me all about your time with the yummy Finnick Odair. You're not bad with a knife, so –"

"Nautia," Annie said.

"What?"

"I'm not going to be using a knife or... anything." Hands fluttering – catching the soft crimson sofa fabric, tracing the coarse ivory smile-shell – Annie furrowed her brows. "I'm trying to think of a way to survive without killing anyone."

"What?" Nautia hissed. The end of the word was now sharp and accompanied by a smattering of spit. "Why?"

"Because I don't believe in taking another's life," Annie replied, earnest. She was still looking at Nautia when the door opened to the quaint scent of ocean air. Without sparing a glance, she could sense the tall, broad form of the Peacekeeper, his burly shape taking up the doorway from where he stood on the threshold.

Nautia, however, couldn't bring herself to notice him. "Is this about your mom, Annie? I know no one ever talks about it, but I have to say this: this – what's happening right now – isn't even close to what happened to your mom. I mean, it's not like she had some violent death. And I don't think that you should just give up and have yourself slaughtered because your mom died in childbirth. That doesn't even make any sense!"

The Peacekeeper in the doorway cleared his throat.

Eying him warily, Annie squeezed Nautia's hand and said, "It's not something I can explain to you, Nautia. Watching the life drain out of someone – no matter the circumstances… I don't want to see that again."

And Annie followed the Peacekeeper out of the Justice Building without a fuss.


Annie's put herself in a difficult situation, hasn't she? I don't know, being someone with a moral compass that always faces due north seems like a good way to explain future events without making Annie a weakling.

Thoughts?