Well, I'm almost done! Hopefully I can write the last chapter in two(ish) days.

I would like to thank Lunaria Celeste, CleoKatra Emerald, and pjoy11 for reviewing! Please review! Because if you don't review by the time I update, you won't get recognized in the author's note... like you actually care about that. :)

I don't really have anything else to say... so enjoy!

The claw gently dumped me onto a stretcher. The patch on my arm that bound my tracker to my flesh was peeled off. Someone or something examined my body for injuries, and, finding none, wheeled me deeper into the hovercraft.

Before, I wasn't really sure what to expect after my staged death. I guess I thought I'd just be packed into a coffin and sent away to District Five.

Well, I was wrong.

A hand grasped a hunk of my hair, and rolled it in its fingers. It held the scarlet strands up—probably to get better light. And that's when I heard a voice—a shrill, female voice that spoke with the distinctive Capitol accent, very close to my head.

"It's red, very red. No, not that disgusting fake red red, Domitius."

"I know, I know." replied a male Capitol voice, most likely Domitius, annoyed. "Just let me get to the district colors."

"They're not called 'district colors'," retorted the female, "they're natural colors."

"Same thing."

"No it's not!"

"Just keep looking at it. Hey, does this shade look good?"

"Ugh, no! It's all… all… ugh!"

Domitius let out an exasperated sigh. "Why can't we just use the actual hair?"

"We're not allowed to alter the body in any way, you know that."

"But it would be so much easier! And anyways, who cares about the condition of the body?"

"Well, I care, because if we cut off her hair, and our boss finds out, I'll be fired! And so will you! And then guess who won't be getting a Cashmere tattoo with inlaid jewels on their—"

"Okay! Okay! Fine!"

They continued to bicker, fighting over every detail they typed into the machine. When they were satisfied, bony hands pulled back my eyelids.

I found myself staring at impossibly thin fingers that had iridescent gems instead of fingernails. A woman with teal eyelashes that were literally a foot long, indigo irises, navy pupils, and bright green hair that was a perfect column over her head stared into my eyes. I made sure not to look anywhere else other than straight up.

"Oooh, these are so pretty!"

A man with glossy black feathers for hair, polka-dotted lips, and no eyebrows leaned into my view. "Mmm, I wouldn't mind having those myself!" I noticed that his eyes were a natural-looking brown, but the whites of his eyes were the same color. "Are you sure they're natural?"

"Eh, who cares?"

They took measurements and argued about the exact shade of my eyes. I wasn't even sure what color they were, since I didn't know how the animal blood affected them. From what I heard, they were a dark amber.

When they were done, they wheeled me off muttering things like "finally, we're done." and "Crane better be pleased with these mutts, we spent forever on them."

They left me in a room with a bright white ceiling. At first I thought I was alone. Then I heard the chatter.

"I was getting my eyebrows gelled when she died!" screeched Hilaria. "It was so annoying! I was only able to get one done, so my left eyebrow is spiky, but my right eyebrow is," she paused for effect, "flat."

Glaucia and Iunius consoled her. Then, they got to work.

One pair of hands did my hair, while another put on small amounts of makeup. The third pair of hands did my nails. When they were done, they replaced the dirty outfit I wore for the Games with a dress and flats. After that they just walked away, talking about how fish scales were passé, and feathers were so much more fashionable.

Two people walked into the room. I realized that they were Avoxes when one—a dark-haired man—leaned over to gently close my eyes. Then they hoisted my off my stretcher, and placed me into something that I assumed was my coffin.

I don't really know what happened next. I was jostled a lot, and I think I was moved onto a train. Time passed. I thought about random, insignificant things that I can't remember now.

Eventually, I was deposited on the ground. I heard voices that I couldn't place, but were familiar. Someone opened my coffin. People stroked my cheek and patted my head. Someone fingered strands of my hair, like the Capitol lady did, and said "I was always jealous of her. She was so pretty."

A funeral ceremony was carried out. Children that I had lived with, but whose names I didn't know said nice things about me. The adults who ran the orphanage told everyone that they regretted allowing me to take so many tesserae. They sang a song in a minor key as my coffin was closed, I was put in a pit, and buried.

I heard footsteps. They slowly faded into the distance until my world fell into a complete silence.

More time passed. Because, believe it or not, even if they're buried, even if they have nothing else to live for, even if they believe that have done their job for this planet, vampires live on. I thought about the tributes of District Twelve. I thought about the mystery girl from Five who still lived because I was reaped. I thought about why Domitius and that woman needed to copy my hair and eyes. I thought about the sharp yet somehow satisfying taste of the poisonous berries.

But most of all, I thought about my sister.

I remembered her mischievous smile, the way her vivid red hair would shine in the sunlight. I recalled with a sad smile how people would call her Veronica, and call me Victoria. I chuckled to myself, with tears pouring down my cheeks as I recollected innumerable tiny memories. The whole experience was surreal—I was trapped in a wooden box that didn't give me any breathing space, but I didn't need to breathe; I was feeling countless emotions but didn't know if it was day or night.

I needed to hunt. The animal blood I had received in the arena had given me a brief respite from my thirst, but that was over.

Rain, drumming on the ground above, reached my ears.

I pushed on the lid of my coffin, and it slowly opened. Droplets of water caressed my face, cleansing it of dried tears and causing my makeup to smear more than it already had.

I stood up, and stepped out of the coffin onto solid ground. The full moon shone brightly, illuminating the cemetery. I snuck out.

Creeping along the road, I felt strange, like I didn't belong in that world. I laughed at myself silently. Of course I didn't belong. I was a monster. Wearing a simple black dress, with mascara and eye liner smudging on my pale cheekbones, I looked the part too.

I heard the soft whimpers of a starving child. Peering through a dirty window, and seeing his emaciated body, curled up on a ragged blanket, I knew I would be doing him a favor.

I was thirsty. Six painful lives were peacefully ended that night.

I lay down in my coffin and closed the lid.

That cycle repeated. It repeated for a long time—maybe months, maybe years, maybe decades.

I speculated if anyone would be in the graveyard as I got ready to hunt. But no one ever was.

One day—or maybe it was nighttime—I heard a noise. An explosion. A bomb. And screams. I don't know how far away it was. I'll never know. But I do know that it happened many, many times. I stayed in my tomb longer than I should have after that, unsure what was happening.

And another time, I looked at the small plaque behind my grave, wondering what it said. I think I expected some sentimental quote that would describe my life. But all I read was "Veronica 'Foxface' Wolfe—74th Hunger Games"

Well, at least they gave me a nickname.

Time passed. I stayed in my coffin until my thirst was unbearable, reminiscing. I hunted the suffering. I returned to my coffin. Bombs exploded. People screamed. Time passed.

Occasionally, I would hear snatches of clips on televisions, but nothing ever meant anything to me.

There came a time when there were always cries of pain coming from everywhere. When the words I heard most were "rebels" and "mockingjay" and "katniss" and "snow". When I thought I heard "District" and "Thirteen" in the same sentence.

So it was only natural that I would start listening for it before I hunted, mainly so that I could somewhat tell what was happening in Panem.

After one of my longest periods of time without blood, I strained my ears for bombs, for screams, for monotone words coming out of the televisions, bringing bad news.

I heard nothing.

I frowned, and then listened again. And then I heard it. A mumbling, a pause. And gasps, many gasps. Then a sentence, a simple sentence that was spoken clearly and came from all directions. A sentence that meant nothing to me, but obviously meant something to the people of District Five.

For the first time since I was buried, I heard cheering.

For the first time since I was buried, I hear laughter.