CHAPTER 7: Tell Me If You Would Kill To Save Our Lives
No matter how many times that you told me you wanted to leave
No matter how many breaths that you took you still couldn't breathe
No matter how many nights that you'd lie wide awake to the sound of the poison rain
Where did you go
Where did you go
Where did you go
As the days go by the night's on fire
...
Cato Greene, District 2. Sect 8.
It is impossible to understand the Capitol in all their strangeness. They raise and nurture a healthy blushed cheeked young girl into a sickly young woman who can barely sustain herself. They seem to support our tangled mass of young love, yet both Katniss and I, Finnick and Rosalie, Cashmere and Gloss, have been cast as pawns for yet another game. They provide thin uniforms designed for tropical weather, yet as the sun sinks in the west, the arena's thermostat is dropped, gradually but surely.
The jungle yawns with hidden shadows and hangs heavy with the overwhelming scent of rotting vegetation. The magenta carcass of an unknown creature crunches as Gloss' uneven steps land heavily to one side. Meters away, the sickly sweetness of fruit melts into putrid puddles, turned black with swarms of flies. The vines are elastic and wilting, and broad, crumbling leaves and petals litter the ground. The earth around us is dying. Strange bodies fall from the darkening canopy above, already ridden with holes and writhing with worms.
"It would be different if we knew where these were coming from." Cashmere continues to make such comments while bitterly carrying Rosalie and watching over her brother. Enobaria and I move ahead, clearing away the rare vine or two that protrude across our path. "Everything is falling down dead or rotten. It's so strange."
It is strange. Previous to entering this stretch of jungle, the scenery had been very much alive. We had not seen any animals or fruits, but the cheerful chirping of mockingjays and an occasional rustling among the trees made clear the presence of life. Now it is eerily silent, with only the breeze ruffling the dying leaves. Its unnerving.
"Let's get out of here. We'll go back to the Cornucopia and decide which stretch to hunt from there," Enobaria says, uneasy. She glances at me for agreement, which is unusual.
"I suggest we hurry, then," I add quietly. Cashmere and Gloss don't dare disagree. Enobaria was a legend, is still a legend, known for her perfect aim and tendency to remain uninjured throughout entire scrimmages. She was supposedly quite beautiful at the time of her Games as well, only adding to her base of supporters. Now most of her younger facade has morphed into callused hands and strong muscles. I know that she has a scar above one eye and several marks on her neck. The former is a souvenir of our earliest endeavors as mentor and mentored. She is no longer beautiful. But she is still a formidable ally.
"Cato, she's waking up. What should I do." It is no more a question than it is a statement. Cashmere is tired and sore from the weight of Rosalies unconscious body- she has complained often-and apparently has developed a great dislike for her.
"I personally would consider putting her down," I reply, and she wrinkles her nose at my sarcasm before unceremoniously dropping the body with a dull thud. Rosalie moans softly and after a moment she pushes herself up, eyes squinting in the darkness.
"Heheh...she thinks that she's with Odair." Enobaria snickers in my ear. "Don't say anything and see what she'll do." Even in the indigo dark I can feel the grin upon her face.
"We don't have time for this," I reply, turning away from the figure laying on the ground. Its dark and much colder than earlier, and we have agreed that spending a night in this ghastly place is unwise. There are no matches or flashlights in our bags,, and it seems that hardened biscuits are all the Capitol could spare from their lavish feasts this year for our meager rations.
I hear Gloss' strange chuckle and then shuffling that brings inquisitive fingers upon my back, pressing into my shoulder blades and then snapping away immediately with a hiss of recognition. Rosalie's eyes glow in the darkness, angry and upset, all sleep gone from their accusing depths.
"I forgot."
I look at her then, truly look at her, and in that moment I see nothing but a child in her averted gaze and rosebud lips, a child silently waiting for a moment to pass, for the eyes of others to shift, so they may cry without anyone watching.
"Of course," I say, and we continue through the dark. It is half an hour later when the sky is finally the darkest of blues, and speckled with stars. As we push through another barricade of vines, strangled squawks and the sound of rustling shakes the trees above. Everyone twitches when a rotting, turkey like creature spirals down between us. It is infested with worms as long as my arm , which squirm away from the carcass and towards our feet upon impact with the spongy ground.
Cashmere screams and jumps backwards, elbowing Rosalie, who is still tied by a rope, to the ground, where one of the pink grey parasites lay dormant. Immediately the few screams morphs into terrified screeches, almost deafening. All tributes throughout the arena are most likely assuming that the Careers are torturing some poor animal or the sorts. They always associate us with cruelty and bloodlust, when we are all just trained to do what we can.
Gloss finally untangles the two. Cashmere grabs hold of her brother's arm and calms down in that way, but Rosalie is only able to walk beside them, eyebrows knit with fear and hands twisting upon each other.
"She made her best friend go crazy, and now its her turn," Enobaria smirks in my ear, but her voice carries in the stillness of the dead jungle. There is a halting intake of breath from behind.
The anthem begins to play. The Capitol's symbol blazes brightly up on the seamless sky. At times it is difficult to remember that the arena is not reality. Every gust of wind is an illusion, and it only serves as a bitter reminder of the president's hold over our lives. We are puppets.
Eleven are dead; both from Districts 5, 8, and 9, the females from 3 and 11. The males from 7 and 10. One of the morphlings from District 6. We are silent. Enobaria may have been friends with some of the dead, but she does not say anything as their faces flash across the sky. Rosalie, however, claps a hand over her mouth. When the anthem fades into distant melody, it is too dark to see what is beneath our feet, and the wind brings new cold. It is a strategy of the Game makers; they do not like to deal with action or kills in the night. The arena is too dark, most of Panem is asleep, and most tributes should be as well. By creating a difficult atmosphere in which to travel, sponsors and mentors are given time to rest and strategize until the synthesized sun appears once again.
"We have no choice but to set up camp. Start a fire and unpack the sleeping bags. I'll take first watch and Cashmere will take second," I say. Enobaria, although seemingly indifferent to the deaths, is stoically silent. She nods at me when I speak and begins clearing the moldy leaves and bruised flowers away from the ground.
"Wait, we can't. We can't stay here," Rosalie nervously says. "Everything is dead."
"Of course not, those animals simply have strangely rotting appearances, they're all actually alive and well," Gloss scoffs. "Don't be stupid, Rosalie."
"Funny. I suppose you naturally appear pale with lack of air. I see no point in anyone, especially not me helping you."
"He was being sarcastic," I tell her. She doesn't seem to have understood, and Gloss is too indignant to speak.
"I know, Cato. I am not stupid." She pauses, "What I meant was, there's an unknown force at play here, and there is a possibility of that force killing us in the night."
"Would that 'force' you speak of happen to be you yourself?" Enobaria sniggers, and Cashmere joins in. They have lit a small damp fire that flickers weakly, and Gloss is the only one tending to it. He is intentionally not taking part in ridiculing Rosalie, and is quick to elbow his sister and murmur something into her ear. I would laugh under normal circumstances, but Enobaria is being consistently cruel for no apparent reason, and it is a rather personal attack.
"No one likes you." Rosalie states quietly, then she goes off as far as the rope will allow, and stares into the jungle, obviously upset. I find it amusing that she decided to retort with the simplest, most childish statement, when I know so many others were brimming upon her tongue. Minutes pass and none of us make any effort to apologize. Gloss nudges Enobaria but she has a hardset, angry expresion. We hear Rosalie sniffling, and I turn to watch her.
The first parachute appears as her shoulders begin to shake with silent sobs. Of course, the moment a single tear falls from her eyes her sponsors are tripping over each other to comfort her. I suppose there will be a knife in there, for her to sever the rope and run from us. There also most likely will be food and water.
The others are facing away from us, finally settled down. It's late, approaching midnight, and all of us are hungry and unbearably thirsty. Cashmere has speared a mutant animal and roasts the already dead body above the fire, more for her entertainment than anything else. She has had her fun with Rosalie and is bored now.
The white package billows across the ground, gently gliding to a stop beneath my feet. I pick it up, it is heavy and the cartridge is larger than usual. I walk towards Rosalie and stand behind her for a moment. She's barely shorter than Katniss and just as thin, but her curves are soft and not angular. I remember what she had said almost a year ago.
"You really should be more careful with your sponsors. Refusing their demands and then calling one scandalous…you're standing on the edge, my dear."
She had been poised and confident then, fazed by nothing and surrounded by power. I look at her now and it is a shell of that girl at the banquet. She is no longer confident or poised. There is a fissure of sadness and hate pounded into her chest and nothing will ever close it.
"You know, if it weren't for this Quell, we could have turned out differently,"
She senses me there and all of a sudden the shaking stops, and her voice is ice-cold.
"You are nothing but a Capitol pawn and a ruthless Career, Cato. It's very disappointing. I now see that even under different circumstances, we could have never become friends nor anything beyond." She seems to know what I am reminiscing upon, her voice bitter and quiet. "I'm not going to turn around, so give me my parachute."
I narrow my eyes and push one side of it into her back. She does not flinch nor make any other sound, but silently reaches over her shoulder and takes it. I am the one to retract my hand, my gaze is steel, cold and gray, pounding upon the back of her head.
"I remember the first time I met you, Rosalie." I say no more and walk back to my original spot near the fire. Cashmere looks up lazily, and smiles, watching my anger radiate through my eyes. She stands up and leans on my arm, lush and pretty. But she is not the same as the girl standing ten meters away in the dark. No one is the same as she is, and no one can convey their mistrust towards others as well as she can. Capitol pawn. Hah. Cashmere sees me looking at Rosalie again, and pushes her mouth close to mine and makes a tsking sound, eyes wild.
"C'mere Cato. You look like you need a kiss." She puckers her lips yet seems surprised when I quickly, angrily press mine to them. She is taken aback for a moment, but then smiles."You're still upset. I wonder. Heh. I didn't think you would do that, actually."
Then she sits down and resumes scraping the burnt fur off the creature with her knife. Gloss stares at me despicably. It's common knowledge among the tributes that he and his sister have a relationship that moves beyond the bounds of siblinghood. He detests me, he always has, I know. And I feel as if he wants to kill Enobaria, with the looks he gives her.
There is a sudden clashing noise behind us and we all turn, to see Rosalie juggling several water bottles. The cartridge from her parachute has fallen to the ground, and food tied in a checkered red cloth spills from it. Enobaria's eyes widen a bit as she sees the cheese and bread...in certain areas she is very similiar to Clove. Neither can resist food, and neither consider others in the process of obtaining it.
"Hello, foul insignificant savages, I come bearing gifts. Behold the holy water instilled in these bottles." We all stare at her quizzically as she hands us each one of the plastic cylinders. She doesn't save one for herself, I notice, and immediately afterwards she goes on to gesture at the cartridge laying on it's side upon the black ground.
"Now feast your oddly shapen eyes upon the bountiful harvest."
I feel the corners of my mouth involuntarily curving upwards.I'd forgotten how amusing she was. Gloss is literally falling over himself laughing, Cashmere still has a quizzical look, and Enobaria has already started taking rapid sips from her water, and the food has been spread on its napkin before her.
"This is nice, thanks Rose," Gloss says. Cashmere mutters a grudging thank you. I don't say anything, and I don't partake in the "bountiful harvest of the powerful Cornucopia" as the other three are. Rosalie doesn't eat or drink either. I wonder what her motives are, being so generous after being dealt such low blows by Enobaria.
"Of course, dear." She replies sweetly, but she then mouths something to herself when he turns away. I hate you. Go to hell.
She sits down and dejectively stares at the fire for a while as the others eat. Enobaria offers me a slab of the cheese and a loaf of the soft, white bread. Rosalie's eyes spark with interest as I take it, as and she watches me boldly, until we are both angry again and her eyes are narrowed until only slits of blue are hidden under lush lashes. I hold the bread in my hand and examine it to avoid her gaze. And at that moment, I realize the danger we have slipped into.
"The food is poi-" I begin to say, lifting my head again, furious at our stupidity, but Rosalie has always been a lethally quick thinker. She surges forward and slaps her cold, small hand over my mouth. I quickly push her away and finish. "Stop eating, dammit! The food is poisoned!"
But I am too late, when I push Rosalie to the ground I see that Enobaria and both District 1 tributes are slumped over, food still clutched in their hungry hands and open mouths. They aren't dead yet, or the cannon would sound, but the poison is most likely working towards their hearts as I speak.
"Rosalie," I whip a knife against her cheek and pin her down to the ground, until she must completely sprawl out like a sea star to keep me from carving her face into a thousand delicate pieces.
"Cato." She gasps my name as I lean my weight upon her body, until our uniforms are pressing against each other and I can feel her sharp hips digging into mine. She can barely breathe, I know, and her shuddering, weak attempts force me to lift my chest off hers.
"You dirty little bitch, aren't you clever? Won't your sponsors be pleased when I kill you?" I growl, sliding the blade down her chin until the point is slicing at her neck. I twist the knife a bit and she finally releases her mask of courage and gives a little scream, the blood welling up on the cut and trickling down into the rivet above her defined collarbones.
"It's not lethal! It's only a sleeping powder!" she begs me, crying out when I press the tip deeper into the flesh. She's terrified of me, and her sobs get louder and her tears are mixing with the blood on her cheek. And... I realize that she is telling the truth. She's telling the truth. And I've hurt her badly.
"Do you really care about them so much?" she asks me between sobs. The words are mangled and full of fear and pain, and I feel her arm struggling to clutch at something. I suddenly think that she might shatter if I lean my weight on her any longer, and clench my stomach, still pinning her down but supporting my own weight. She closes her eyes tightly and gasps when I accidently drive the point of the knife even deeper into the fissure in her neck. It's bleeding profusely now, and I carefully extract the half inch of silver; hoping that I have not damaged her too badly.
"No," I say. My voice drops to a whisper. "No...I actually don't." And I know that it is true, I do not care for nor love Cashmere or Gloss, and Enobaria has never been a true friend. A mentor, yes, but she has told me that she would be the one to kill me nonetheless. "I will destroy you, Cato."
"Then why...?" She cannot wipe her eyes and the tears lay dormant upon her smooth skin and clump her eyelashes. She stares at me with glassy eyes, and at that moment, with the blood smeared across one side of her face and her hair tangled and full of dirt, she is more beautiful than anything I have touched. And I have a sudden urge to touch her, to breathe her in.
"Tell me. Please," she asks again, her arm finally laying still. The sapphire eyes are still filmy with a sheen of pain, and she coughs hoarsely. She's sick. The common cold. I now notice the flaws hidden under her initial sense of overwhelming beauty, and even so they are not truly flaws: the freckle under her chin, the watering of her eyes that is unrelated to her crying fits, the dryness of her lips and the pink tint to her eyes.
Yet...
I speak, leaning in closer and closer until my nose brushes against hers. There is no flinching and she maintains her cold, distant stare. I cannot help but think that Katniss would have shuddered or blushed by now. Rosalie remains the same, waiting; beautiful, motionless.
"Because I want to kill you, Rosalie," I murmur, and she is still motionless and I receive no reaction. Then, it comes, late and awkward, a small soft laugh. I turn my head to one side and indulge in her lips, kissing her again and again. Softly, ever so softly and then, suddenly I feel myself ravaging them, stealing what I can...rough in ways Katniss would never tolerate. But she closes her eyes and simply lays there, mouth closed and still. It's like kissing a statue, yet I cannot stop. A small moan surfaces out from my throat. She laughs at me, turning her head away so I must stop.
She finally speaks. "Stop...I think that your dementia is causing your mind to indulge in illusions, I'm not Katniss. I'm not the girl you love so much." she says, reminding me of who I am again. She emphasizes parts of the sentence and I wish she wouldn't.
I pause and then slowly move away. She looks the same as before, unchanged and unfazed. Her eyelids are heavy and shelter indifferent, untouched eyes. She is a statue, and I am simply another human to her. And now she is reminding me that I have other obligations to fill, expectations and promises to meet. Katniss Everdeen. I am in love with the Girl on Fire.
"Good." She sniggers uncharacteristically and coughs. "Well, I suppose you should go ahead."
I laugh. "With what? I've taken more than fair from you." She looks at me frostily and sniffs and then coughs again. I am still laying on her and I sit back now, allowing her to wipe at her nose with one hand.
"Kill me, not sexually assault me, you idiot. Don't you want to?" She is playing the part of an inquisitive child, asking about things they already somewhat understand. I can't possibly do the former, and the latter is the epitome of temptation for me. She knows. A smile fleets across her lips but quickly drowns in another bout of coughing, coughs that wrack her frame and making her arms shiver. She can't last a day in this weather, while Clove and Katniss could endure cold for days on end.
I don't answer immediately, but laugh again.
"Why? Do you? Why don't you take your best shot on me. As consolidation for earlier?"
She smiles strangely, as if the thought itself is stupid. I suppose it is, but I am here, uninjured and violating her, and she is hurt and indignant. She sits up and her mouth is open in a silent laugh, eyes closed.
"That's ridiculous, you should never promise anyone that."
I expect her to slap me or attempt to push me, but then there is an explosion of pain in my chest as she surges forwards and pushes her knife...my knife...into it. I stare for a moment, there, with the warm, scarlet blood bubbling forth and over the buried handle, my eyes narrowing with realization. Damn. Goddamn. Dammit. She plants a small kiss on my forehead, as if apologizing for the fatal wound.
"At least I missed your heart." And then she cuts the rope and is running away before I can do anything else.
I see her morph into the gloom before I can no longer ignore the pain and need to bow my head in order to stay conscious. My hands are slick with my own blood and I taste it in my mouth, a bitter copper.
"I don't think so, Rose." Drops of red fall to the ground, splattering against the black. I chuckle ruefully.
"Cato, you will be killed by one of two people. Me, or that wretched girl."
Something flashes and shakes the arena, originating far from where we are. I look up at the sky.
And then, spots and colors dance.
...
Katniss Everdeen, District 12. Sect 8.
The sky shakes with a great peal of thunder and there is suddenly a electrifying, buzzing sound from nearby. The darkness is broken...the mass of jungle before me is illuminated with the lightning that descends down like a pale phantom among shadows. It must be near midnight now, the report was over two hours ago and the sky is a deep indigo clothed with cold stars. It's terribly cold, and I rub my hands together and try my best to cover them with my sleeves. Each breath as I walk appears as clouds of fog, and I wish that I had made camp earlier in a tree half a kilometer back. That particular tree was a towering, branched king compared to these smooth-trunked saplings. But now that the opportunity is past, I might just find a hidden pocket of air somewhere in these tangled vines and try to sleep.
It's strange to travel alone. Actually, not strange, really, but different. I am used to silently moving as one body, as two with Gale; and I am able to observe small things: the rustle of a bush as a salamander slithers away, how the vines slowly begin to regrow as soon as I pass...and the fact that there were exactly twelve lightning bolts that met the earth moments ago. I thank those years hunting for my sharp senses and adjust the bow on my shoulders as I slowly cut through a large vine blocking my path.
Yet, while I am used to this solitude, it is different, and unnervingly so. There is not another tribute nor ally to speak with, and I have moved dangerously slow today and have fallen over wayward vines consistently. There is no Clove, and her absence seems to balloon in this silence and linger in every crevice of the arena. I remember her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when Cato spoke to her, the tears as she died in his arms. And now, now a year after, I realize that she had loved him. She had loved him more than anything in the world and I had taken him from her. And yet, as she died she looked at me with mild, beautifully fragile eyes and told me that I was a good hunter. Cato said what I wanted to but couldn't. I love you, Clove.
He did love her. He loved her more than he could have ever loved me, and I feel sick all of a sudden. Had I deprived them of a lifetime together? Their love for each other was subtle and indirect, but it was unmatchable.
I miss them both so much. I miss her, and I miss him too. He's stubborn and proud, and was so arrogant and obnoxious in the beginning; yet now in training and interviews he has changed. He is more careful with his words and actions and I see that he is no longer a boy, he has grown and with him the snickers and jests have gone. I wonder how he is doing. Cato Greene and his pack of careers. They must be feasting upon some rich meal now, with all his sponsors.I heard that he got all of them back somehow... Johanna said that he slept with the wealthiest, most important ones and won them back that way. Goddamn no. I should have smacked her in the face when she had told me. Because all the nights we were together on that train for the tour, he didn't do anything but look at me and smile that sad smile of his.
Plus, I suppose they still have Rosalie alive and captive as well, and with the thought a pinch of anger appears and plagues me. It's obvious why, she has mastered manipulation a thousand times over, and no amount of beauty or kindness will ever change that she has promised love to dozens of men and destroyed them when she left for another. Its all a game of sorts for her. She really only cares for appearances anyways, while Finnick seems to vary between beautiful and ugly, young and old; she only is seen with young, handsome men. Johanna told me that she currently has three affairs going on, and Finnick has two. Johanna indeed seems to keep rather accurate information on certain persons of the night.
Finnick must be devastated. I laugh out loud suddenly with the thought, and the sound reverberates back to me off the trees. He is extraordinarily thoughtless at times, with that vase of blooms that is forever fresh and sits dormant on the very same ledge; the way he recites a love poem when only moments ago Rosalie had come in with another man; the way he taught me, of all people, to use a trident. It strikes me as amusing that the very thing, the lone thing that can make the notorious Finnick Odair happy is the very person who I despise the most. It is the only opinion that President Snow and I share. Coriolanus Snow has taken me from my family twice and has murdered thousands of people. He has cast children into brutal entertainments and corrupted the minds of the Capitol. And yet, we have this one thing in common. Its a rather honorable goal to work towards...achieving her death.
Another of the bright red salamanders crosses my path and I nearly step on it, my mind many kilometers away. As an instinct I shoot at it, and there is a squelch as it is pinned to the ground, and disgusting interiors begin to slither out. I feel foolish for soiling my arrow with such a vulgar creature, and immediately crouch down and remove the arrow from the gaping, bleeding hole. I snap my hand back and stifle a scream. I need to choke back the bile rising in my throat at the sudden decaying smell and sight of the insides. There is not normal flesh... It is putrid, rotting flesh that hides hoards of worms, who emerge and wave about like a sea anemone(something I have only heard of) or grass in the wind. I am so disgusted that I simply run forwards, running to put distance between that half dead salamander and I, not even bothering to get the arrow any longer.
When I stop, I look around and realize that something is terribly wrong. The leaves are no longer full and luscious, and the air is no longer humid nor filled with the nighttime chirps of birds. It is silent and there is only the sound of the withered leaves scraping against each other in the breeze. It's so eerie and unnatural that this can only be some type of trap designed by the Capitol. I wonder what might be lurking in here, perhaps a beast or a deadly type of plant? Of course not a plant, everything here is dead and going grey. The very ground seems like glass beneath my feet, and my uneven, injured steps seem ten thousand times louder than they are.
I pivot on my feet, wary and ready to leave from this frightening place. What is wrong with this stretch of arena? Why is it not lush and healthy as the rest is? I have been traipsing through the jungle for hours and not once had I seen such a spectacle. Yet about six hours ago there had been screams, horrendous screams that left my skin crawling- from this direction. Those screams were of no human, they were the screams of an animal ripping a tribute apart. I'm sure of it. And then there were the shrieks of a female tribute from around here only a few hours ago. They quickly faded, and I had assumed that it was a kill by the Careers...but was it? There may be some type of horrendous creature lurking through the undergrowth right now, and I am simply musing.
I string my bow and turn, ready to leave this place, but in the time I have taken to ponder, the vines have grown back, thicker and stronger than before.
"What." I say flatly. "That's just ridiculous."
I have only one knife, and it is already dulling from the constant use of it throughout the day. My hands are freckled with blisters and cuts, and the skin is raw to the touch. I sigh and walk along the newly grown wall of vines, looking for a weak spot. It is solid, and I angrily set about cutting through one section of vines, my hands burning with the effort. Purposely manipulating the arena in order to disadvantage certain tributes should 't be allowed. But of course it is, and of course President Snow must hate me enough to do so.
"You've dug a deep hole for yourself," Haymitch said. And now the Capitol plans to throw my dead corpse into that hole. I have done too much to be forgiven and disregarded. I am the mockingjay, and they have killed...they have killed my stylist for my actions last night, and now they will kill me as well. But no, they will not. I will win and I will help the rebels destroy this society. Every last card of that small, glass box of cards will be ripped apart and the Hunger Games will be of no more. I will win. I promise myself that.
There is rustling.
It is that feeling of knowing something is about to appear and not being fast enough to prepare for it. I drop the knife and it falls backwards somehow and slashes through my uniform to cut the flesh beneath. The rustling is louder now, closer, closer. Everything is going wrong and my bow catches on my braid and I rip it out and string the bow as quickly as humanly possible. The metal makes an obvious clanging sound when I pull the arrow taut and even in the epitome of fear I send silent death wishes to the Capitol.
There is eerie silence again. I am afraid to let go of my arrow, lest I never find it again or it miss. By the time I am stringing another ready, I may be dead.
Then it comes, and I shoot and roll to one side to avoid it. The jagged knife bites into my ankle and remains stuck in the flesh when I am crouching in pain to one side, perhaps whoever threw it anticipated my actions, or they were simply lucky.
I was not lucky though. I was golden. My arrow hit the target.
I am sure of it and after a minute or so of silence there is weak rustling in the direction of which I shot, as if the offender is trying to escape. I force myself up and fall to the ground again, but I am quickly gritting my teeth and tightening the muscles in the other leg in order to support myself. The image of the teeth of of the knife sunken into my skin is sickening and I roughly extract it.
I hobble to my left, bow ready and ankle sending me to hell and back. I feel as if the bone is about to break in two and shatter, the shrapnels of pain piercing me is unbearable and I must remember Cinna's death in order to move forward without crying out with every step I take.
They leave a trail of blood, which is foolish. The sensible thing to do would be to attempt to stop the flow from the wound, but I can see myself and others forgetting to do so in moments of extreme tension like such. Strangely I am unafraid and the throbbing of my wound numbs and sends shocks up my body as I see the scarlet blood, a great pool of it that paves a drying path. I feel almost eager to find the tribute from whence the blood came.
I've become like a Career. Is this was Enobaria and Clove and Cato feel when they are about to make a kill? This calm and this confidence? It's like morphine, the thrill and pain can be soothing. Soothing, dangerous, and deadly.
I follow the trail, the smell of copper, the smell of blood overwhelming and dizzying. My ankle may have succumbed to numbness, but the catches and branches in the path still cause me to wobble and buck. Although I don't feel it, I see my blood trickling out of the wound and mixing with that of the ground. Finally the rustling stops in front of me and I burst through a curtain of swaying branches.
"Hello Katniss. Have you come to kill me?"
Her voice is weak and unsurprised. Her entire front is a mass of matted blood, and one side of her face and neck is badly wounded. I study her momentarily and conclude that my arrow had completely punctured through the tendons adjoining her shoulder to her chest. Rosalie Darling is at my mercy, and already perniciously hurt.
"I suppose it's karma. A wound for a wound...a death for a death," she laughs bitterly without humor, and drops to her knees, clutching at her shoulder. The arrow that still protrudes from it. She does not have any weapons or supplies with her, and looks like nothing I have ever seen before. What is it that Cato called me on that last interview we had together? She is a dying swan.
"A death?" I ask coldly, and seeing that there is no possibility of her overtaking me in her current state, I lift her head with one end of my bow. She looks at me with anger and regret brewing behind cloudy eyes. I am able to tell if she lies this way.
She doesn't answer but only asks again, desperate this time as if finally letting go of her pride at an attempt to save her own life."Have you come to kill me, Katniss?"
"Explain yourself." I move my arm so that the pointed metal is not at her throat, but directly nudging the arrow in her shoulder, causing her to wince and shudder with pain. It might be immense, she's tottering like she might pass out and the blood begins to drip down her uniform with the sudden action.
"No! Why should I when all you do is hurt me when I have done nothing wrong to you!"
I think for a moment, my cold, steel gaze fixed on her equally serious, glittering one. She is most definitely going to pass out or die in the next dozen minutes, and I need to think quickly. She is sincere, she believes that she has done nothing wrong and is ready to defend that with full conviction. And now that I truly reminiscence, the only reason I detest her so much is because of her relationship with Cato.
"You know why I hate you, don't you?"
"I am a sex symbol, Katniss. You see how Finnick acts, he and I are the same. If we see something that we want, we will not hesitate to take it. Through what means we acquire it is irrelevant."
"Go to hell with your excuses," I snap, and bring the bow back. She flinches enormously, scrambling backwards. She thought that I was going to hit her. She's afraid of me and I realize that right now I have become little more than a ruthless Career tribute, indifferent to others' suffering and fear. I am not the Mockingjay right now, I am a killer. And that should not be true. How can I lead a rebellion when I am torturing the people's' favorite tribute? No one would support me and I would be known as the uncompassionate girl I want to be right now, not as the Girl on Fire.
Out of the corner of my eye something dives towards the earth. I do not shoot although it is my instinct to, and when the body of a ratlike mammal splatters near Rosalie's head, pink organs flying through the air to finally hit against her unwounded cheek, I am glad that I had not.
Her face wrinkles into a scowl and then unknits with extreme frustration. She wipes the liquid off her chin and then stands up suddenly and screams, furious. In the unbearable silence the sound is easily piercing, and I must cover my ears after mere seconds because they begin to hurt, straining to either hear or ignore the shattering noise.
She wails several times more and even through my tightly clamped hands I can hear her, and without doubt, so can the rest of the arena.
When she is done I cautiously uncover my ears and force her down again with my bow. I take out a knife from my belt. Mercy will breed nothing but regret, it is better to simply end this controversy of a life now and face what consequences there may be later. I drop the knife and it sinks point first into her ribs. She shudders and her entire body tenses with pain.
"Get it over with and perhaps you'll still have time to see Cato once more before he dies." She coughs out, voice raspy, she looks as if she is suffering beyond anything right now, her face is completely pale and the contrast of red, white, and black make her look like a doll.
"Excuse me?"
"Two birds with one stone, Katniss. We both die and you won't need to worry anymore..." She stubbornly grabs my wrist and pulls herself up.
"Or I suppose it could be the other way around. I'm very wealthy, and medication is very expensive. Do you know that?" she whispers.
I am on my feet in an instant. It was obvious that she escaped from the Careers in some way, they would never simply release her... but she is telling me that she fatally wounded Cato? What if she is lying? Yet, I will regret not going tonight more than any spared life if she is indeed speaking the truth.
Do you know that?
I wonder if Haymitch would approve of this.
"If I spare you, you will send medication in for him, if you are telling the truth at all. Understand?" I growl at her and pull the knife from her bloody side. She gasps with pain.
"Yes. Go, and Taye will take care of it. Thank you, Katniss Everdeen."
I am gone as soon as yes passes her lips.
…
The Capitol, Twenty Miles Away
"I feel like I'm going to die, Taye. I never knew that knives hurt so much."
Brutus begins to laugh when the District 4 tributes voice comes murmuring through his headset. Its nearly two AM in the morning and only that fretful Capitol woman and President Snow's nephew are still in the mentor room. The surfaces of their desks are littered with mugs of coffee and pieces of paper with messages and plans scrawled across them. The nephew, Taye Helistin, anxiously watches his screen. The other 9 mentors-or representatives depending on where they were chosen from- are refreshing themselves with the small feast in the viewing room, sleeping, or fishing for sponsors next door.
"Don't laugh at her." The dark eyed man coldly stands up and passes through the double doors at the end of the dimly lit room. It is warmer in the sponsor room, and much brighter. The sudden lighting of a dozen chandeliers causes him to squint until his pupils dilated. His uncle had lawed that the sponsors should be in ultimate comfort and luxury as they were used to, and his promise stood in the mahogany tables and rich leather sofas. One screen spanned an entire wall, split into twelve different viewpoints. Each aristocrat had headphones streaming the voice of their chosen tribute, and many were clutching their purses and wallets in exhausted silence. They had been arguing, cheering, fretting and crying for hours, and finally at twilight their hysterics are exhausted. The nightly round of insomnia pills would be delivered at exactly three o'clock in the morning; completely refreshing and restoring the minds and bodies of the tired. When he enters the room, the sponsors at the District 4 tables, turn and stand up. They are all very beautiful and several are very old. He had attended nearly all grand events in the Capitol, and he could clearly pick out those who had recently had their bodies reformed.
The Career sponsors made up more than half of the occupied tables. This year District 12 had accumulated quite the collection though, and the far tables are still rowdy over Katniss Everdeen's scramble with his own tribute.
"Food and water," he orders quietly, and a bronze-haired man stands up and passes him with a cold look, off to compose his note and purchase what had been asked of. Taye goes on to list the needed sponsor gifts.
Bandages. A knife. A new uniform. A rucksack of supplies.
"Medication," he finally says. Not one of the young men speak up. They cannot afford the medication that their tribute needs, and even together the cost is too high, although only one day has passed and the rates are at the lowest.
"We can send in antiseptics and painkillers for her cuts, but the healing lubricant costs-"
"Don't call it lubricant," Taye suddenly snaps, and the man speaking takes a small step back, his silver irises narrowing with confusion. "It's medication, not lubricant. She might die tonight and still all you think of is how she would look naked?"
Once again the group is silent, calculating and guilty. One, the spiteful golden haired one, smirks. He's one of the few among the group who can testify to that. Only two nights ago, while her district partner searched for her across the Capitol, he and Rosalie had made love under the skylights on the rooftop of his skyscraper.
She was a strange girl, acting like she ruled the world; getting enormously upset when she couldn't pretend any longer. In reality she was in control of nothing but the fragments of the people's minds. She did not own anyone. Her family was dead, and the people of District 4 began to despise her the day of her biggest mistake, and also the day she brought havoc by sea. A fleet of Capital ships went and set fire to her house and many others.
No one knew about it except for him. She talked in her sleep. And in one night he had heard enough to know that she sat on a false throne with false supporters. She had no friends, and all the men in the world wanted her for the very thing he had received. They did not love her nor care for her. He did not love her or care for her. He had gotten what he had dreamed of, and since the possibility of getting more was impossible, she was no longer anything to him.
She would not be coming out of the arena this time. He didn't even know why he was sponsoring her. It would be a better investment to spend his money on Katniss Everdeen or Johanna Mason. Perhaps he would transfer as soon as Rosalie was dead.
The others are oblivious to his thoughts. They talk among themselves softly while Taye Helistin, the president's successor and nephew, watch them with proud, angry eyes.
"It's alright. It's alright Taye. Buy the medicine for Cato and just forget about me if you can't afford both."
They all hear the voice in their headsets and laugh a bit sheepishly. To put another district's tribute above their own? It was unheard of. Taye hated Cato anyways.
"Go send your parachutes; I'll pay for her medication." Taye snarls in disgust at their perverted expressions, his dark eyes exotic and worried. He storms into the mentor room. Brutus glares at him expectantly when he enters, and gestures at the central screen, which focuses on the main scenes of action, if any. The District 2 tribute, Cato Greene, lays on his back, blood running down his sides. The knife is cast to one side and his lips are losing their color. He looks like he is in tremendous pain, and his body tenses tightly and then shudders into relaxation in unison to his slowed and labored breathing.
"He's had worse wounds, Brutus. She's never had any. And she's my ultimate priority. I won't be sending medication for your tribute; it's expensive and useless. He's punctured a lung and the blood loss is nearly irreversible." There was another thing. Cato had taken advantage of Rose and...
He falls silent with anger. Then he stalks past Effie and her sad, made up eyes, back into the sponsor room. The clock was ticking. The eighth sect would decompose itself in less than six hours.
…
Katniss Everdeen
It's ironic, it's the drying spots of blood and disturbances in the dust and mold that lead me to the Careers. I had studied the patterns made by wounded animals fleeing, and this track is no different. There are soft indentations, barely there but still distinguishable, in the layer of crumbling things, and I follow these footprints.
Everything really is dead. Unknown creatures melt into the ground, faces webbing away to show the black flesh underneath. The last leaves on the brittle branches crumble upon touch, and I leave in my wake a perfect tunnel of dust. The silence has fallen into the chasms of my mind, and I no longer painfully notice it, but indulge in the calm it brings. I feel as if I own the world, as if nothing is impossible.
It's by mistake that my ankle finally gives way and I stumble through the wall of vines.
Then they are before me. The Careers. My frantic eyes are only searching for one, although I immediately notice that all four are laying on the ground, seemingly asleep. They have the embers of a fire and very much food and water.
He is closer to me than they are. His body is stained with deep red, and his face is gaunt but beautiful even in this state of annihilation...lips blue with cold and cheeks defined and sharp. Is this what Rosalie meant by "a wound"? This is not a wound. This is death.
I find the strength to stand, and walk forward and collapse by him. He does not move, and even at a closer range I cannot detect the rise or fall of his chest. I place my head down over his heart, and hear a low, hauntingly slow beat. Only centimeters away is the mutilated flesh that is his wound. It seems very deep, the cut, and being so close to his heart, I can only guess that some organ or another has been destroyed. I want to help, but my expertise-if in other times, I would laugh at my use of the word-is limited, and this would be a challenge for even the Capitol's greatest surgeons. Where is the medication Rosalie promised? It's already late, and the edges of the gash are starting to swell with cold. He's unconscious, and his fists lay clenched and frozen at his sides. He must be so incredibly cold, and I can only imagine what he endured before being reduced to this state. At this moment, I wish I had killed Rosalie Darling. I wish I had known the extent of her doings and had damaged her beyond repair. The Capitol does not approve of amputations or excessive maiming, that is why they tend to neglect Johanna Mason; but I would gladly rip her to pieces and scatter her remains.
"Bandages and medication," I direct upwards. I have inferred that the other Careers are not asleep, but drugged or unconscious. It is impossible that they would be unaware of what has been done, and the possibility of one small, female tribute escaping their seasoned hands is nonexistent.
There is a delay of several minutes, during which I carefully peck him on the lips and begin to undress him. I use my knife and cut away the remains of his uniform, mindful to only peel the tight fabric down to his hips. I wonder what he would do if he was awake.
Katniss, usually the male is the initiator. Or perhaps he would say, How tempting, Katniss.
I feel like he wouldn't speak at all really, just send me a knowing, provocative smile. And then...and then I cannot guess any more. I don't know him well enough too.
His body is usually tan, but now it is very pale and cold to the touch. Of course the litheness in his muscles and agile structure of his bones is still there, only more evident against the dark, ominous wound. I'm afraid that he will freeze, so I take the sleeping bag from my backpack and drape it over his naked frame and sit back and watch the shadows dance about his fine features as the wind buffets the trees.
Several parachutes come at once, each large and bulky. All of them are printed 2 on the white silk clouds drifting them to the earth. I begin to lose hope in all chance of the promised medication arriving, clearly Rosalie was only saving herself by agreeing to my terms earlier, although I had truly expected her to come through. Where was the philanthropic side of her now? It's most likely that her own medication and ointments were already depriving enough to the wallets of her sponsors.
The first parachute is a large woolen blanket. The next is a bottle of water and several loaves of bread-which I don't quite understand at first. There is an entire basket of food to the left of the fire...but perhaps that is how Rosalie drugged them all. I wonder if she stabbed Cato before or after drugging him, and if he had been fooled by her at all. I feel like he saw through the entire scheme. But then, why would he be injured so badly?
I sorely hope that the last cartridge has at least some type of salve or at least a cleaning solution. It contains both, and a roll of heavy gauze. There is a note in this one- Damn you.
"Damn you too," I snap at the sky. Probably one of the wealthy Capitol women that Cato won back. I move the sleeping back off of him and even though he is unaware, his skin prickles up in goose bumps with the sudden cold. I look around, and take the checkered handkerchief from inside the drugged food basket and use that to wipe away the blood from around the wound using the cleaning antiseptic. It really is worse than anything I have seen, I find the knife a foot away, eight jagged inches. With a painful jolt, I realize that it is familiar. It's the knife that Clove let me borrow last year for protection while she and Cato were out hunting for the District 3 boy. I drop it and blink away the memories, I can't be distracted.
I lift him only enough to quickly loop the gauze around his back and over the wound several times after applying the salve. It is most definitely not high tech and will do little more than prevent infection...the true damage is internal, and I can only fathom how much he is bleeding on the inside. This is a fatal wound, and I'm an amateur. Without Rosalie's promised medication, he will die. There is no chance of him lasting it out until he can get proper treatment-only a day has passed!-and more than half the tributes are still alive and well.
When I am done he is still barely breathing and he has not moved once. With great difficulty, I force his long, cold fingers to unclench- the nails have made deep crescents in his palms. I think about trickling water into his mouth, but it might obstruct his breathing or something else might go wrong.
I can do nothing more. And there's only a matter of time before he either dies or the other Careers wake up. I feel tears building and wonder if this is perhaps the last time I will see him. No...I shouldn't think that way...how can I possibly win the Quarter Quell and help the rebellion if he remains alive?
I watch him for several long, silent moments. The sky is a bit lighter, and as if the sound is wrapped in several sheets of heavy velvet, cry of a far-off mockingjay somehow makes its way into this barren cocoon of death.
I'm so ridiculous; I should just kill all of those Careers now. But inside of me the same conscience that stopped me from shooting Rosalie tells me that it's too early for so many deaths. I could. I could, but I'll abstain for now. The image of Haymitch with a wide smile and a thumbs up flashes in my mind like a Capitol banner. Haymitch approves! I imagine it would say.
I stand up, ready to leave. To stay would only be torture to me, especially if there's the possibility of the Careers finding me out. I could never stay so close to him and know that he is suffering anyways. It would be best to simply go.
I begin to walk away. But then, shrouded in the mist that now engulfs and mystifies the dead landscape, comes a final, small parachute. I receive it in my hands, as careful as if I were catching a falling dove. The silk finally billows down and falls over the cartridge. I turn my hands. There is the number 4 printed on one side of the metal. Is this the medication? Could it be?
At first when I see the four clear syringes, I am convinced that Taye Helistin really did send in the expensive medication on behalf of his tribute. But I am quickly mistaken. A note flutters out and I must lunge to catch it before it blows away in the wind, and my ankle rips in two with enormous pain as I land on it hard.
I grit my teeth and read.
Hello District 12 female, (Katniss)
This is sleeping syringe. Since we cannot afford medication for both the District 2 male (Cato) and Rosalie, this is all we can spare. Have your night with him. It might be your last. (There is a scribble here that vaguely resembles a smiling face)
-Taye Helistin
I want to rip the note in pieces, and I do, angrily. Of course they can afford both! Taye Helistin is one of the wealthiest individuals in Panem, and Rosalie's estates are worth a gold mine. I bet that it's merely spite that stopped Taye from buying the medication. And then there's the way he referred to us, as if our names were not Katniss and Cato, but District 12 female and District 2 male.
"Who does he think he is?" I mutter to myself. Still, I quickly inject the serums into each of the Career's arms. I wonder why he gave me a fourth one, unless he expects me to put Cato into a deeper sleep. No, that's too dangerous. "Damn...damn damn damn. What am I going to do?" I whisper. This is completely out of control, and Cato is virtually beyond saving without the proper treatment he needs.
All of a sudden another parachute comes gliding down. It is another District 4 one. Inside is nothing but another note.
I am your, well not your, because you'll be dead by then... future President, Katniss. And I suggest you solve your conflict with Rosalie and take her as ally. Perhaps then... (Another smiling scribble)
The subject of concern has punctured a lung, he can live for exactly 36 hours in the state he's in now, but you should get out of that place before sunrise. Good luck tick tock!
-Taye
I understand exactly why Rosalie loves this man, this heir to Snow's baneful throne. He is much more manipulative and cunning than I had expected, and he has the most particular sense of humour. I rip this note up as well. Cato has thirty six hours, am I'm so exhausted and cold...I can barely think. Tick tock. I suppose that was only to remind me that the time is running out. And why sunrise? I suddenly wish that I hadn't ripped the note. Was there some sort of hidden meaning in his message?
I hesitate for a moment, with one hand on Cato's arm. Then, careful not to jostle him, I climb into the sleeping bag with him and drape the wool blanket over us all. He's still cold and his body seems tight and tense, as if unable to relax.
I press myself as close as I can to him, until my chest is against his arm and my lips are a millimeter away from his cheek. He smells like that familiar cologne. And something else, another type of expensive perfume, heavy and light at the same time. I don't have time to ponder. The warmth slowly spreads and I fall asleep next to him, feeling his open skin against my hands and the heat of illness pulse from his chest. I don't care, I decide. I don't care if the world has to come down to keep him alive, it would be worth it.
I'm tired of getting pessimistic, negative reviews. They are very disheartening and hurtful to read, as the author who has put countless hours upon hours into this project. Let me remind you all that this is a fanfiction. I have written this to make myself happy, not to please anyone else. If you don't like this story, leave. I don't want to hear your complaints or hate, and they certainly will not influence my writing. My goal in this fanfiction was to improve my writing, not to be shot down by people who hate my stories or characters. I am always open to constructive criticism or suggestions, but when you tell me that one of my characters should die immediately, it really does hurt.
On the other hand, I just read through Formidable and the previous chapters of Insurgence. I made Cato seem like a brat, and I'm proud that I've come so far from then. It's been close to a year, I think. I'm sure that you're all glad that I'm not using the words "smirk" and "snicker" every other sentence, eh? It's funny, I had completely forgotten the plot of Formidable, and I literally had to force my way through the chapters because the writing was so bad. And in regards to chapter length, yes, this is ten thousand words and three times the length of the last chapter. I only update once a month or so now because I've gotten so busy with my first year of highschool.
Thank you for reading, and I hope that you'll leave me a review telling me what you think!
