Finding a Way

by purply1235

Born in District Three, her future was promising: after the Reaping, she'd begin her apprenticeship, then go on to become one of the most successful inventors Panem has ever seen. Unfortunately, the Games have other ideas. 15 year old Widget Irving had her whole life planned out. Now she's a tribute in the 73rd Hunger Games. The odds are stacked against her. Can she pull through?

6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Let the Games Begin

A/N: Welcome back! I want to thank everyone who's followed and favorited this story so far. I'm actually excited to open my email for once! This chapter is longer than the others, but is also the most eventful as of yet. With that said, enjoy! Reviews are very much appreciated.

Also, am I supposed to put disclaimers on these? Because I see other FFN writers do it, but I thought it was obvious that I don't own the franchise. Just in case: I don't own the Hunger Games! I made up most of these characters, but this universe belongs to Suzanne Collins. Also I am not profiting off of this in any way- if I were, that would be a big accomplishment for a high school freshman. :)

---

I'm hungry. That's the first thing I notice when I wake up.

The second thing I notice is that my blinds are drawn, so I can't tell what time of day it is.

With a groan I drag myself out of bed, opening them and discovering that the sun is just peeking up over the buildings of the Capitol. It's early in the morning; my guess is around six or seven.

I know it's the big day. That's a fact that I haven't managed to forget. I tell myself that I can use all the sleep I can get, that if I don't get a few more hours in I might get too tired later. It doesn't work, and after about twenty minutes I decide to just head to breakfast.

I throw on whatever outfit they've laid out for me today and leave my room. When I reach the dining area, I'm surprised to find that I'm not the first one there.

Clink and Beetee sit at the table, eating plates of something that smells delicious. My mentor looks up at me as I enter, and lets out a sigh as I sit down.

"Up already? I was hoping you two would get a little more sleep, but..." he trails off, staring somewhere into space.

"Couldn't stay unconscious, I guess," I shrug, reaching for a hard-boiled egg.

"Stay away from the breads," Beetee instructs, watching me peel the egg. "That stuff won't last you very long in the arena. It's empty calories. Eggs, meats, fruit, oats - that's what you need this morning."

I take his advice, piling up a plate with everything he just mentioned. I plan on eating until I'm one hundred-percent full. After all, there's a good chance this will be the last meal I ever eat.

The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

After a little while Wiress enters the room and takes a seat next to me. Apart from a quiet "good morning," she doesn't say much. There just isn't a need for conversation.

Pretty soon my calm morning is over. Aeliana makes herself known before long, heels clicking as she bustles into the the space.

"Come now, dearies! I need you ready and out the door in exactly ten minutes!" she exclaims cheerfully, glancing at Clink and I sitting at the table.

"We'll hand them over soon, Aeliana," Wiress tells the escort. She turns to Clink and smiles ruefully. "Clink, I think we should talk for a few minutes now that you're done eating. Is that okay?"

My District partner nods and stands up, carefully pushing his chair in and following his mentor out of the room.

Pretty soon it's just Beetee and me again. There's a pause as he looks at me over his glasses.

Eventually I break the silence. "So... this is it, I guess."

Beetee only stares at me in response, an expression I can't quite decipher on his face.

"Listen, Beetee," I say, "I wanted to thank you. For everything. Because if-"

My mentor cuts me off. "Thank me when you get out."

This shuts me up momentarily. "Huh?"

"Don't thank me now. Save it. For later. Tell me this a month from now, when we're neighbors in the Victors' Village."

I don't know how to reply. I can't promise to thank him later. How can he expect me to? With Careers like Flash and Zandria- hell, even non-Careers like Maya and Ranther- how can he think for a moment that I'll make it out alive?

"No Beetee, really-" I try again, by to no avail.

"I said save it. I haven't had a tribute like you, Widget, in ten years."

"I understand, but-"

"No. You don't understand. He..." Beetee's voice cuts off for a moment, and there are tears in his eyes. When he continues, his voice is thick with them. "He was sixteen. A year older than you. Young, lively, and just so goddamn smart."

I am acutely aware of the time passing, of my last precious minutes of safety falling away. I want to tell him to stop. I don't want to spend my last minutes with him like this, talking about some long-dead boy he couldn't save.

But I can't bring myself to say anything. Something tells me this is important, to Beetee at least. The man in front of me has spent time with so many kids and watched each and every one of them die. Just imagining having to do that every year breaks my heart. The least I can do is listen to him.

"He was an apprentice," Beetee tells me. "Like you. Just like you. He was the highest tested bulb in his year, and I still think if he'd been just one year older- you know, if he'd had just one year to make a name for himself- they wouldn't have dreamed of-"

At this Beetee stops himself, eyeing the room warily. After a deep breath, he continues in a quieter voice. "His name was Callum, and he almost made it. He killed four tributes at once by vaporizing the deadly substances in a flashlight battery and gassing their shelter. It was a plan even I couldn't have thought of. Do you know how he died, Widget?"

I stare at my mentor blankly, not daring to say a word.

"He was eaten alive by carnivorous plants with only two other tributes left. The gamemakers placed them in the cave where he'd been sleeping, and he was a goner the minute he woke up."

I still don't know where Beetee's going with this story, but continue listening anyway.

"The thing about Callum," my mentor says, "is that he had a big mouth. All the smartest people do. He had an opinion on anything and everything, and wasn't scared to voice it. He had several complaints in particular about the whole Hunger Games system. Complaints he didn't keep a secret, and that the gamemakers didn't particularly agree with."

I finally understand the point of this story. "Complaints that got him killed," I whisper.

Beetee nods, and grasps my shoulders. "That Arena will terrify you. It will make you sad and confused and angry all at once, I can guarantee it. But you can never, ever, ever criticize it. Play the game, Widget. But play smart. More importantly, play to win."

The sound of approaching high heels signals the end of our discussion time, and Beetee lets me go. I don't really feel like hearing Aeliana's voice any more than I have to, so I don't wait for her to summon me.

"Coming, Aeliana!" I yell in her general direction.

I give my mentor one last hug. "Goodbye," I say into his shoulder.

"Play to win. I'll be watching," is all he says before retreating into a corner. I look at him one last time before joining my escort at the elevator. Clink walks up to us seconds later, and before I know it we're all off to the next stop on this gruesome journey of ours.

—

Saying goodbye to Clink and Aeliana is easy. She drops us both off at some platform where two hovercrafts soon came to whisk us away to our respective launch rooms underneath the Arena. A targeted electric current freezes us to the ladders as we are hauled aboard, and I find myself once again momentarily fascinated with Capitol technology.

This fascination is replaced with an anxious dread as soon as a Capitol medic jams a needle into my arm.

"A tracker," is all he says. Soon I am dropped off at my destination: a small underground room containing only a closet, my stylist, and a wide glass tube.

It's the tube, meant to lift me into the Arena, that I stare at as my stylist practically tears my clothes off my body.

"You only have ten minutes to change! Hurry up!" she growls, thrusting a shirt into my hands.

It takes me longer than it probably should to put the whole outfit on. The shirt is short sleeved and dark beige in color, made from the same light material as the pants.

This can't be protective, I think to myself. The boots, at least, are sturdy; those feel like they could handle anything.

My stylist looks at me and rolls her eyes. "Another hot year," she says annoyedly. "Can't they have a colder climate for once? Hot weather is so limiting in fashion. Winter coats..." She pauses, sighing wistfully. "Now those would be stylish."

So the Arena will be hot. The information is interesting, but doesn't change a thing right now. I have to stick to my plan: find Mukta, then get the hell out of the middle as fast as possible.

My stylist glances at her watch and sighs. "Afraid we're out of time. Sorry we didn't get you a better Arena outfit, darling. Oh, but wait!"

The woman reaches into her pocket, pulling out something very familiar. It's Dash's gear necklace. I snatch it from her hands, not caring about her reaction. I can't believe I almost forgot about my token. I put it on hastily. The small weight of the gear around my neck is a comfort, and reminds me once again of home.

I love you, Dash. I love you, Coyle. I love you, Mom and Dad.

I turn just in time to see the door to the glass tube swing open. My time is up.

I inhale one final deep breath before taking my last risk-free steps. The door swings shut behind me as soon as I enter the small chamber, trapping me inside. I can feel a rumble, and then the platform beneath my feet is rising. The last I see of safety is my stylist on the other side of the glass, waving at me nonchalantly.

—

The first thing I notice about the Arena is that it's hot, just like the woman who dressed me said it would be. I haven't been on the surface for ten seconds and already I can feel the heat beating down on my skin.

Everything is sand-colored. The semi-circle of pedestals is wide, and around me all of the other tributes seem to also be examining their surroundings. As I register the familiar faces I am relieved to discover no immediate threats to my left or right. The boys from Six and Twelve are on either side of me, and neither one received higher than a four in training.

A look behind me reveals what looks like miles of dry grassland, dotted with large sandy, beige stone structures. The scene looks like something out of a history book; it's what I would imagine the ruins of the country that existed before Panem looked like after the war that destroyed everything, hundreds of years ago.

In front of me, beyond the golden Cornucopia, is a small cliff. A stone bridge, broken in places, provides a way to cross over the drop-off. On the other side of it are more ruins, but there are also tall trees surrounding the buildings.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 73rd Hunger Games begin - and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

The voice of Claudius Templesmith booms clearly throughout the arena, and the countdown to the start of the Games begins.

The Cornucopia is about a hundred feet away. Inside the giant golden horn I can see countless weapons and backpacks. I spot a giant gleaming sword right at the mouth. A large duffel bag also lies inside the horn, and I can only imagine what's inside. A tent, probably, given the size of it.

My eyes hurriedly scan the tributes for the small girl from Eight. I locate her nine tributes away from me, on a pedestal next to Clink. She's staring right at me, and I can tell she's been thinking hard about the next move.

Just as the countdown reaches forty seconds until the start, she nods ever so slightly behind us. She wants to head for the grasslands.

There's no time for any other plan. I reposition my feet to sprint as soon as the gong sounds, but something familiar catches my eye before I can fully turn myself around.

It's a small light gray backpack, sitting about twenty feet away from my pedestal. At first glance it looks normal: just another supply item to help in the arena. However, one small detail sets it apart from the other packs scattered around.

Stitched into the strap facing me is a bright red PATT logo, the very same one I've stared at almost every day of my life since I was three years old. Beneath it is a symbol used in the labs to represent power sources.

My mind is immediately filled with posibilities. This bag was placed here for me, I'm sure of it. Who else in this Arena could recognize that symbol? They were smart, the gamemakers; the backpack is placed just far enough to put me in potential danger, but just close enough to get my attention. They want me to go for it.

In my heart I know I have to risk it. Inside this bag could be my only hope of survival. There's a generator of some sort inside. Either that, or a battery pack. I would have so much more potential with either one of those things at my disposal.

The countdown reaches ten seconds. Not taking my eyes of the backpack, I shift my feet in that direction.

Three, two, one. The gong sounds and I am immediately off of my pedestal, racing headfirst towards the bag.

I almost make it.

The boy from Twelve seems to have made the same decision I have, and unfortunately for me, he's a fast sprinter. He reaches the pack half a second after I do, snatching the thing from my hands and high-tailing it in the opposite direction.

I want to scream at the unfairness of it. That's my backpack he's running off with! He won't understand what to do with the power sources. The contents are useless in his hands!

Shock overtakes me when I see what happens to him next. He's a good fifty feet away when seemingly out of nowhere an arrow shoots through the air, piercing the side of his neck.

My hands fly to my mouth in surprise and I am paralyzed, too shocked to move. The boy's hands do almost the same thing as mine, except his come back drenched in blood. Within moments he drops to his knees before crumpling to the ground, where he lies unmoving.

The girl from Ten is quick to the scene, scooping up the backpack with the hand not holding the bow.

How did she even get her hands on a weapon like that so soon?

A loud scream brings me to my senses.

What am I doing? I have to move!

By the time I finally begin running again, the Cornucopia is a scene of death and destruction. The ground is soaked with blood and littered with corpses. I spot Flash near the mouth, skewering the boy from District Five with a spear.

Most of the usable supplies have already been taken away. The only thing I spot is a small bundle of rope, which I scoop up hurriedly in one hand before sprinting onward. When I reach my pedestal I almost vomit at the sight of the boy from District Six sprawled out on his stomach. His neck is twisted at an odd angle and there's an arrow in his back. It's no doubt the work of the curly blonde girl from Ten.

Just as I reach the first pile of rubble on the outskirts of the Cornucopia, I feel a sharp, stinging pain in the back of my leg. I look down to see a the handle of a small knife embedded in the earth, the blade of which managed to tear a hole in my pantleg.

"Where you going, Three?" a girlish voice calls from somewhere behind me.

I don't dare to look back. Desperately I try to speed up my footsteps, to put as much distance between myself and that voice as possible. Unfortunately, I trip over my own boots in my haste.

The ground is scratchy, and the fall stings my hands as I come down. There are desperate tears in my eyes as I try to pick myself up, to get it together before they're upon me.

I'm just not fast enough.

I remember once when I was seven and Dash was nine, he put me in a headlock. I had been getting on his nerves all day because I had tested into a more advanced circuitry course that day, and I just wouldn't shut up about it. Eventually, my brother had had enough: after I opened my mouth to brag once more, he came up behind me and locked his right arm around my head.

Mom would have none of it and quickly sent him to our room, but the memory of the incident never left me. I can still recall with perfect clarity the moment when I realized that I couldn't move; that if he wanted to, he could have probably ended my life right then and there with a well placed twist of his arm. I knew he wouldn't have killed me, but the fear was present nonetheless.

That is the feeling that overcomes me when the girl from One yanks me up and wraps her arm around my neck. There's a knife in her other hand; she dangles it just inches away from my face.

"What's this? Did you think you could just leave?" She snarles.

I can't breath.

"I really wish I could make this one quick, but I happen to be in a very bad mood right now. I haven't had any kills so far! Can you believe it? That boneheaded boy from Two took out both of the tributes I was working on." The girl loosens her grip a little with these words, and I gasp for air. My relief is short-lived, however, as I can soon feel the tip of the knife's blade graze my cheek.

"Please..." I beg, though I'm not sure for what exactly.

Please don't drag it out. Please don't make my little brother watch his sister get cut up to bits on live TV. Please just get it over with.

"You better hurry," I wheeze instead, "or your friends'll steal me from you, too."

The girl laughs as if the idea is ridiculous. "Oh, no," she responds, "they're sorting the supplies back there. After I finish up with you, I'll head right back and we'll go hunting. I would love to get my hands on that witch from Seven..." She sighs in longing. That's when I struggle feebly, drawing her attention once again to my impending death.

"Tsk, tsk. Maybe I will take pity on you. I could start with the eyes; take away those and you won't have to see me. That'll be better, right?" She cackles maniacally.

I steel myself for the knife. Seconds pass, and I find myself willing her to just get it over with already. Why has she gone silent?

I can't do it. I can't just wait for her to kill me. Something inside me tells me to move, and using all of my strength I wrench myself out of the girl's arms.

To my surprise, she doesn't make a move for me. When I turn to look at the girl, I find her staring at me slack-jawed, eyes wide open in surprise. At first I don't realize what's wrong.

It's only when she falls to the ground do I see the two throwing knives lodged in her back.

"I've been wanting to do that for a long time."

That voice. Of all the tributes for me to bump into now, why him?

The blue eyes are sparkling with mirth. He knows I stand no chance. He must be jumping for joy on the inside. A double kill at the bloodbath- what luck. Actually, it's probably more like quadruple kill, knowing him.

I make no move to run as he comes closer, bending down to retrieve the knives from the girl's back. After doing this he stands up and looks at me appraisingly.

"Well, aren't you in a bad situation? Maybe I was wrong about you. Maybe you're not as smart as I thought you were."

The words sting. I, Widget Irving, am many things. Plain-looking? Yes. Unathletic? Definitely. Stupid, however...that is the one thing I know I'm not.

I don't think before responding. "I was right about you. You're just as barbaric as I thought you were." The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I brace myself for an attack.

He doesn't lunge at me, though. Instead his brow furrows and his mouth twists into a frown. "You know nothing about me," he says.

"I know that you're deadly. And I know that you don't hesitate to kill people. In fact, I'd even say you enjoy this. Killing innocent children. Given your training score you've probably been training for it for years."

And suddenly he's livid. In the blink of an eye he has a hand around my throat and is backing me up into a pile of sandy rock.

"You little bitch. Don't you dare make assumptions about me. You. Know. Nothing," with every word his hand gets tighter around my neck.

"I should just kill you right now," he growls.

There are black spots in my vision and I hopelessly gasp for air. The Capitol audience must really be enjoying the show.

Unexpectedly, he lets go. I crumple to the ground, clutching my neck. It hurts like hell, and there will definitely be bruises tomorrow.

When I finally regain enough breath to think straight, I lift my head and look up at him. Ranther glares at me for a moment, then kicks one of the throwing knives in my direction.

"I'll agree with you that I'm deadly," he says menacingly. "But I'm also honorable. And I don't like killing helpless little girls."

He takes a step back before continuing. "You, Irving, are in a bad state right now. Ending you would be too easy. When I face you next it'll be a fair fight. Unless, of course, you manage to get picked off by then." A wry smile follows these words.

I stare at him stupidly until he raises an eyebrow. "I'm doing you a favor here. Don't make me change my mind. Get the hell out, right now."

I don't hesitate after that. I stumble a little on my way out, but eventually manage to pick up my few meager possessions and head for the far-off rubble piles.

So many things have happened in the last ten minutes that I don't think I've fully processed any of them. I should be dead right now. That girl from One had me cornered! She should have taken me out easily.

And Ranther...

What happened? The most terrifying person in these Games, the boy who not three days ago threatened to take me out the first chance he got...spared me?

Never in a million years did I think those eyes could hold anything akin to mercy.

The thoughts run through my brain at a million miles a minute, and I shake my head to clear it.

The grasslands make me nervous. The only cover is provided by the piles of rubble and occasional two-story stone structures. There would be almost nothing to stop someone from seeing me here.

After about ten minutes I begin to tire. There must not be very many tributes in this area; I've been walking for a while now and I haven't seen anyone since Ranther. My eyes still survey the landcape for my runaway ally, but I see no trace of the little girl from Eight.

Eventually I decide I can't walk anymore. The heat from the sun makes every step I take seem like a mile. There is sweat pouring down my face, and the stinging in my leg is relentless.

Needing a moment of rest, I collapse next to a bush a few feet from what looks to be an abandoned castle. The stone entryway is dark, the inside of the structure a shadowy abyss. I assume no one is inside because I can't hear anything, but I may very well be wrong.

Ranther was right. I am in a bad state. The only things I have are a throwing knife and some rope. My backpack is in the hands of some girl from Ten who knows nothing about its contents. I have no food or water, and no safe place to rest overnight. My only ally in the arena is nowhere to be found.

It'll be a miracle if I even survive the night.

When my heartrate finally slows and the sweat stops dripping down my face, I start to evaluate my options.

I need to find water. That should be my number one priority, I decide. Without some sort of water source I won't last very long out here in this heat. If I come across Mukta along the way, so be it. For now, though, I have to assunme that I am not going to find her.

That is if she's even still alive. I'm fairly sure she is, given her position before the gong sounded. She must have made it out.

Then something occurs to me. Shouldn't the cannons have sounded by now? The Bloodbath has to have finished, and they usually reveal the number of people dead after the initial fighting has wrapped up. Why would they wait so long? Could there still be fighting going on?

It takes a lot of willpower to pick myself up again, but the building dryness in my throat serves as motivation. I know I need water, but where am I going to find it?

I turn to the bush beside me. With all that's happened to me already since these Games began, I hadn't really thought of it as a plant. Now that I look closely, however, I see that it's a berry bush.

If only I'd been better at that damn berry station!

The berries are small and grow in tiny clusters, a vivid red in color. As tempting as it is to just pop a few in my mouth, I can't take the risk. I want to say that they're aridberries, but there's a good chance I'm wrong. Poisoning myself on the first day would be a very dumb way to go.

My thirst seems to intensify, protesting my movements as I wrench myself away from the bush. The berry juice would feel so good right now...

Then something occurs to me. Berries need water, too. How else would they get so juicy in the first place?

I scan the area once again, this time taking note of the landscape. Where I came from, back towards the Cornucopia, dry grass is all I can see. This berry bush is the first actual plant I've come across.

Then I turn my head the other way, and mentally cheer. For just forty feet away from me I spy two more bushes just like the one next to me.

Before I know it I am sprinting eagerly towards the bushes, knife and rope in hand. The running isn't doing much for my thirst, but my excitement seems to have overshadowed that issue for the moment.

Sure enough, I spot several more bushes just a little distance away from the new pair. Walking up to those bushes leads me to even more.

As I follow this trail I notice the area around me evolves. Trees begin popping up here and there, and the grass under my feet becomes brighter. I even spot flowers sprouting up from underneath a piece of rubble.

A rustling from the trees brings me back to reality. All at once I stop, reflexively clutching my knife. I hold my breath as I listen, waiting for the threat to reveal itself.

The rustling becomes louder, and I prepare to run.

Suddenly a furry brown squirrel appears from the leaves of one of the trees in front of me. It lifts its tiny head and sniffs the air experimentally before scurrying down the trunk and disappearing into a neighboring bush.

I let out a sigh of relief. No tributes. No Ranther or Zandria or Maya. Just a squirrel.

After I calm down a bit, I resume the trek. The heat continues to suffocate me a little more with every step I take, and I can only hope I reach the water soon.

My surroundings have become almost jungle-like now, with trees obscuring my view of everything. It's bizarre, to say the least, to have gone from dry grasslands to jungle in such little time.

I am too preoccupied with my thoughts to notice the trees thinning, so when I do enter the clearing it takes me by surprise.

My eyes take in the sight before me. The clearing is a decent size, with beautiful flora bordering the edges. In the center is a breathtaking pond, the surface of the water sparkling like diamonds.

I don't think before running towards it and taking a drink. The water is clear and I can see all the way to the very bottom. The liquid is cold despite the heat and feels delightful on my throat.

In the back of my mind it occurs to me that I should have disinfected it first, but I quickly cast that thought aside.

I don't know how long I sit there, drinking and drinking, but eventually I sit back and take a break. From somewhere in the trees I can hear bird calls, and the sound makes me feel somewhat peaceful.

It's then that I hear it. Breathing. Slow, tortured, labored breathing, the sound of someone or something struggling to stay alive.

My heartbeat picks up again in my chest and I scramble to get to my feet. I clutch the knife so tightly that my knuckles go white, and for a moment I stand there, anxiously searching for the source of the sounds.

After about three seconds my eyes finally locate it. I hadn't seen it before in my haste to get water, but now that my head's cleared I spot it easily.

Partially concealed by leaves and branches, a small dark form lies in the shadows. I approach the thing tentatively, still unsure of what exactly it is. As I get closer I make out limbs and a torso.

My breath catches in my throat.

This struggling form is a person. A tribute.

I pause a few steps away from this person, taking in the sight before me. Blood stains the ground, dyeing the surrounding green grass a dark red. The person is turned on their side facing away from me, so I can't tell exactly who it is without going closer still.

Every nerve in my body screams at me to flee. Whatever or whoever did this could very well still be nearby. I know where water is now. I'll just come back later, at a safer time.

But then I see something that fills my heart with dread.

The person's head moves a fraction, drawing my gaze to the tribute's hair. Hair that is done up in one of the neatest, most familiar braids I've ever seen.

All at once I am running towards her. "Mukta!" I gasp frantically, hands reaching to pull the girl towards me. She lets out a pained moan as I roll her over, and I instantly let her go.

Her shirt is soaked with blood, and the fabric is torn in several places. As gently as I can, I roll the fabric upwards until her stomach is exposed.

A powerful dizziness overtakes me upon seeing the full extent of her injuries.

There's blood, so much blood. Her stomach is slashed open so drastically that I wonder how on earth she's still alive. She must have lain here for some time, though, because on some parts of the wound the blood has dried already.

Three long gashes run all the way down her stomach, and I avert my eyes from the worst parts of the wounds as quickly as I can. My gaze turns hopelessly to her face, where I discover her eyes are now open a crack.

"Widget?" she croaks.

I take the girl's hand in mine and brush a tangled strand of hair from her face.

"Mukta..." I whisper. Her name is the only thing I can think of to say.

The girl's eyes open a little wider then, and she squeezes my hand feebly. "You came," she says hoarsely.

"I wish I'd come sooner," I reply tearfully. "Mukta, what happened to you?"

When my ally closes her eyes and doesn't reply for several seconds, I panic. "Mukta? Mukta? Can you hear me?"

Finally they open again, and I can tell even this small action takes a lot of strength. "The girl from Seven," comes her reply, barely audible. "She and Eleven...they followed me from the Cornucopia. I tried to run, Widget..."

"Shh..." I tell her. "They're not here anymore."

"They thought I was dead. I've been here forever..."

"It's okay. It's fine. You're gonna be fine," I tell her.

She shakes her head at this, then hisses in pain. "No, I'm not."

I don't bother saying anything else. I know she's right.

Her eyes open fully now, and she looks terrified. "I don't want to die, Widget," she gasps. "I haven't even started living yet."

Those words make me angry, but not at her. This is all the Capitol's fault. I hate them for this. If I hadn't shown up, Mukta would have bled out alone in a pile of foliage. No one deserves to go like that. No one deserves to die here at all!

They're probably delighted. I wouldn't be surprised if there were Capitolians at home smiling right now, satisfied by the bloodshed. Or maybe the more emotional ones are shedding fake tears, pretending to care about this girl's death.

Well, I hate each and every one of them. Every single one of those people. How can they do this to children?

"I hate this!" I yell. "And I hate them!"

Upon uttering these words I hear Beetee's voice in my head.

That Arena will terrify you. It will make you sad and confused and angry all at once, I can guarantee it. But you can never, ever, ever criticize it.

Nuts and bolts! Dammit, Widget, bite your stupid tongue!

My mind races now, trying to come up with a way to correct my mistake. "I hate those girls who did this to you. I hate Maya and that other girl."

There. That's what I meant, Capitol. Please don't kill me off.

"Do you have anyone on the other side waiting for you?" Mukta whispers, eyelids fluttering shut.

It takes me a second to understand what she means.

"Yes," I reply. "I have my grandmother. She died when I was ten."

Mukta smiles faintly. "I'll say hi to her for you."

A tear slides down my cheek, landing on our clasped hands.

"Are you crying? Don't cry..." my ally says faintly.

"Her name was Jasmine," I tell her.

"Noted."

Both of us go silent. Mukta's breathing is so quiet I can barely hear it now. Her eyes have been closed for a few minutes, and I can tell she won't last very long.

I hum softly to fill the silence, squeezing her hand gently every so often. I want her to know she's not alone.

After about another minute Mukta exhales a little too loudly. I listen, waiting for her to take in another breath.

She never does.

The boom of the canon is loud, and makes me jump a little. I stand up, taking one last look at her before I leave. I feel too numb to cry.

It's then I decide that maybe dying won't be so bad after all. Because how can I live now, with Mukta's pained little face haunting me every day of my life?

Boom. Boom. Boom.

More canons sound now, one after another. I count eight more in total before the silence resumes.

So this is why the canons didn't sound until hours after the initial fight at the Cornucopia. They were waiting for Mukta to die so they could count her as an official Bloodbath death.

It's dark now, and this makes navigation a little more difficult. Eventually I find a what I deem to be suitable shelter- a wide hole in a tree trunk, just big enough for me to crawl into. I cover the entrance with leaves and branches just as the anthem starts to play and the faces of the fallen are broadcast in the sky.

The girl from One is first. Seeing her face, arrogantly smirking at me from the sky above, is still surprising to me. Who knew I'd outlast a Career?

Next comes the boy from Five, and then both of the tributes from Six.

They skipped District Three. So Clink is still alive, then. Maybe he managed to find an ally, after all. Wiress must be happy.

Pretty soon Mukta's sweet face is staring at me, and I have to blink away tears. Her last moments are too fresh in my mind. The boy from Eight follows, and then the girl from Nine. The boys from Eleven and Twelve are last to appear, and then the sky goes dark once more.

The heat seems to be subsiding. I try to make myself as invisible as possible, burrowing myself deeper into the tree.

I hope my dreams are pleasant tonight. I could use an escape right about now.

—

A/N: A big thanks once again goes out to Mihica, my editor, who makes me twice as excited to get these chapters out. And thank you once again to all my friends whose names I borrowed for this story. Sorry I have to kill you all off…