Disclaimer: I do not own or claim ownership to any content related to or included in the Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins. I write this story purely for my own enjoyment and the enjoyment of others, with no intent for making money.

Life Through Sea Green Eyes

Chapter Ten

The next morning, I realize that Mags may not actually have infinite funds to help me out. Maybe she's just been sending me these lavish meals because she's really bad at picking which gifts to send when. Things do get more expensive as the days pass, after all. So I suggest this as obliquely as possible to Gemma, not wanting to sound like I'm criticizing my mentor.

"I'm sure the good people of Capitol are being very wise with their choice of gifts," she says staunchly. In response, another silver parachute floats down out of the sky – beef jerky, to sustain us through the morning.

Okay Mags, I think, looking up at the sky. I get it. I'll focus on killing the other tributes, and trust in you to keep me alive while I do.

I contemplate killing Gemma right now – I hardly need her when I have an ally like the entire female population of the Capitol on my side – but I decide to keep her around for a bit. Who knows? She might come in useful. And I've seen her making those lovesick eyes at me, so I doubt she's planning on doing any backstabbing. Not to mention that I'm actually sort of enjoying her company.

The avalanche has narrowed the playfield considerably. Everything but the forest is washed out now, so the other tributes must be close. I'm about to suggest trying to track them down to Gemma, when her eyes widen. "Do you hear that?" she whispers.

Fearing another avalanche, I turn instinctively toward the mountains, but that's not what Gemma heard. She's referring to the howling that's getting louder and louder, coming in our direction. "Muttations?" Gemma asks.

"Run!" I shout. We don't really have a destination in mind – just away from the howling. It's hard going in snow – knee-high in some places – and I figure out pretty quickly that we're not going to outrun them.

"What about... a tree?" Gemma gasps as we race through the forest.

"Sounds... better than... this!" I return, and we start to look for a viable tree to climb. Since neither of us are slouches at climbing, we pick a tall, sturdy looking oak and shimmy up it. We position ourselves about fifteen feet off the ground, where the branches are still thick enough to hold us but where we should – hopefully – be high enough to be out of the mutts' reach.

I have knives and spears, two of each, while Gemma has one spear and a half dozen knives. "Don't throw unless you have to," I tell her. Although, for all I know, Mags will just send us a parachute full of exactly the weapons we'll need to beat these mutts. But somehow I doubt the Gamemakers will allow such blatant cheating.

The muttations burst into the clearing, still howling their grotesque little heads off. They are about waist height, and look like a cross between a wolf and a howler monkey. Their jaws are elongated and filled with jagged teeth, but they have prehensile tails and fingers. I realize instantly that hoping they can't climb is no longer on the table.

"Those bastards are better climbers than we are," Gemma complains. I can feel her shaking beside me, and I don't blame her. When they howl – there are five of them – every hair on my body stands on end, and I get this visceral urge to run as fast as I can. But since I'm kind of up a tree, running isn't an option.

"Five of them," I say, waiting for more to burst out of the trees. But there do seem to only be five – does that count as a stroke of luck? I'm sure these five can rip us apart just fine on their own. They sniff the air, spot us up in the tree, and begin to stalk toward us.

"Take them out before they take us out?" Gemma suggests.

"I like how you think," I grin at her, then heft a spear in my hand. "Now!"

We both let our spears fly. Mine hits the haunch of the lead one, and it goes down with a yowl of pain. Not dead, but it will take a while to recover from an injury like that. Gemma has better aim, and gets the one at the back of the pack straight through the neck. It slumps over with barely a sound.

The remaining three are pissed now, and they rush at the tree. Gemma and I reach for our knives, and we just manage to get them up when the mutts have scaled the tree and launched themselves at us. Much like I did at the cornucopia, I sink my knife into the belly of the first mutt that comes for me. It gives a pitiful moan and falls off me, fifteen feet down to splat on the wispy white ground.

Gemma isn't so lucky. She has to raise her knife to block the mutt's fangs, and the force of its leap carries them right off the branch. I start to turn and see if she survived the fall, but then the third mutt is on me and suddenly it's me falling through the air. I hit the rock hard ground with a dull thud, and my body feels like it was just run over by one of the Capitol's trains.

I push Gemma out of my mind, focusing on my body. My left arm feels like it's going to fall off, so I write it off as broken, possibly worse. But I can struggle to my knees, and it's just in time, because the mutt has also regained its feet and it's coming back for a second round.

Somehow, I managed to keep a hold of my knife as I fell. I notice it's stained with blood – did I manage to stab the mutt when it hit me? The mutt does seem to be favouring its left side. Instead of charging straight at me, though, the monkey-wolf takes a more cautious approach. It's learned from its last mistake, and now it's taking me as a serious threat. Which is fine by me. It gives me a few more seconds to recover, get my breath back.

Then it leaps forward. Without thinking, I pull free the second spear that was strapped to my back and let it fly. It flashes right past the mutt's fangs and sinks down its gullet. The mutt gives a bloody gurgle and collapses.

I stagger to my feet, half-blinded by the pain stabbing through my whole body, although mostly concentrated in my left arm. My first thought is for Gemma – did she survive? I find her a few yards away, lying on the ground with her limbs twisted at unnatural angles. A mutt is lying on top of her, and I can see that her right hand is still clutching the hilt of a knife that she must have driven into its heart at some point during the fall.

"Gemma," I say hoarsely, falling to my knees beside her.

Her eyes flutter open. They're blue, like the sea I love so much. I can't believe I never noticed that before now. "Hey, Finnick," she croaks. There's a pool of blood seeping out from under her body, and even with the mutt contributing to it, I know that the pool is too big. Gemma's not going to survive this.

Gemma stares up into my eyes. "Are you hurt?" she gasps.

"I'm fine," I tell her. I reach down and gently break her hold on the knife hilt. Clutching her hand in my own, I feel real sorrow for this girl, because even though she was a Career who might have tried to kill me eventually, I know her now, and she died trying to save our lives.

"I'm not," she whispers.

"No," I admit. "You're not." I see no reason to lie to her – she knows she's dying.

Her hand spasms in mine. "I love you," she tells me, as if this is some big surprise. Almost every girl I meet falls in love with me. But for a girl like Gemma, who has probably spent all her life with weapons and training regimes instead of real people, this must be a huge leap for her.

"Sleep now," I tell her softly, tracing her cheek with my hand. "You're safe."

I kiss her forehead, and she gives a long sigh. When I look down, her eyes have shut and she really does look to be at peace. A cannon shot fires, and I realize that I need to collect any weapons I want and then vacate the area so the hovercraft can remove her body.

My left arm is still on fire, so I tug all the spears free with my right hand. There's one still stuck in the side of the first mutt I hit, and it's whimpering but alive, so I drive a second spear into its head. Then I pull them back out, clutch the three spears as best I can, and stagger off into the trees. The hovercraft comes down a few minutes later, and then Gemma is gone.

I look up at the sky, and realize that it's only mid-morning. That entire encounter can't have taken more than five minutes. Emotionally numb and at a loss for how to proceed, I drop my spears at the base of a tree and sit down, leaning against the trunk. I've been putting it off, but I need to look at my arm, see how badly damaged it is, maybe figure out a way to salvage it. I'm no healer, but even I can manage a tourniquet if it's absolutely necessary.

My arm is a mass of red, so I scoop up snow with my right hand and gradually wash away the blood. Underneath the ripped snow suit, there is a jagged tear up my arm, and I can see bone poking through. No wonder it hurts so much. With herculean effort, I try to manoeuvre my bones back to where they are supposed to be. Then the pain becomes too much and I black out.

When I come to, the sun is low in the sky, and I realize that several hours must have passed. My arm is still bleeding and horribly disfigured, and my head is pounding. My stomach is rumbling but otherwise alright – I'm relieved that I didn't throw up, because that is about the farthest thing from sexy that I can imagine.

Then Mags, the miracle worker, comes to my rescue again. A silver parachute floats down and lands right beside my uninjured hand. It contains a small vial of frothing red liquid. I have no idea what it is, but it must be medicine of some kind – why else would Mags have sent it? So I pop open the top with my teeth and down the disgusting concoction in one gulp.

Immediately the pain lessens, and I'm able to breathe properly. My head clears, and when I look down at my arm, I can see that the wound already doesn't look as bad as it had a few minutes ago.

"Thank you," I tell the sky sincerely.

My best guess is that this medicine will eventually knit my arm back together and make it whole – it's amazingly powerful stuff, and I only feel a slight tingle in my left arm now. But I don't know how long it will take to do that – I'm betting on about a day – so I decide to find somewhere to rest up and recuperate while my arm heals.

I head deeper into the woods until twilight falls, at which point an electric heater floats down from heaven to keep me warm through the black night. By some amazing stroke of luck – not that I haven't had more luck than all the past victors of the Hunger Games, combined – I find a small cave nestled in one of the low hills scattered throughout the forest. After making sure there aren't any nasty surprises inside, I scramble inside and pull some branches over the entrance for camouflage.

After I curl up around the heater and finally let myself think about Gemma and the mutts, it occurs to me that this cave is tiny – it's unlikely that the Gamemakers bothered to plant a camera in such an insignificant space. It's as if this realization unlocks some part of me that I've been ignoring since my name was called at the Reaping, and suddenly I'm crying my eyes out. I'm crying for Gemma, and for Calliope, and for all the evils that the Hunger Games have brought to the people of Panem – myself included.

When the tears subside, my agony is replaced with determination. Nothing substantial, just a thought that replays in my head. The promise to myself that if there's ever a chance to make the Capitol pay for what they've done to us, we helpless slaves in the Districts, then I will do whatever I can to help bring about their downfall. Even if it means waiting decades, I swear to myself that I will see justice done.