A/N: Disclaimer

A/N: I'm glad you guys liked my Valentine's One shot 'Attack of the Incubus'. I might write more, like you've asked, but for now I'm focusing on my other stories. If you haven't read it, you should take a look, if I can tempt you, it's very smutty! ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own the Hunger Games.

This Chapter is dedicated to the memory of Philip Seymour Hoffman.

Chapter Fourteen

When Peeta woke up, Cato was asleep.

He slowly pulled himself up, his body heavy with sleep, and almost laughed at how Cato lay against the tree fast asleep. The sky was greyish, tinted with purple, indicating that the sun was rising. The air was still saturated and he had to take a large breath to fill his lungs with some oxygen. Peeta wrapped his arm around Cato's shoulders and gently pulled his head down into his lap to rest.

The pain in his thigh had dulled into a boring ache, his entire leg having stiffened to the point where he could barely move it. Peeta threaded his fingers into Cato's hair and played with it mindlessly. It was strange, since it was normally Cato who sat with Peeta's head in his lap. Peeta quite liked the change, to be the protector, not the protected.

His throat was still raw, probably residue of salt water still lingering in his system. Peeta's hand went to his throat subconsciously and he forced himself to swallow. The memory of Mya had startled him, there was no questioning that. Of course, snippets of memories had came to him before, things he couldn't make sense of or put together properly but not as vividly as this one. He could see Mya, clear as day, through the water. The same smirk, the same eyes, hair, face, it was like she was actually there.

But if he couldn't remember why she had tried to drown him, how come he remembered how to swim? It all didn't connect up right. Something was unsettled at the back of Peeta's mind, something that trying to capture his attention but couldn't break free from the carnage of the rest of brain. It was like an itch at the back of his skull that he couldn't scratch no matter how strong it became.

Finnick appeared from behind one of the trees, one of the leaf bowls in his hands. "I thought I heard one of you awake," he said. "Here." He handed Peeta the bowl, a small puddle of morning dew having gathered at the bottom. "I've already given Mags some."

"What about you?" Peeta asked.

Finnick chuckled. "Don't worry about me, I can look after myself."

Peeta narrowed his eyes skeptically but drank the water anyway, leaving some for Cato when he woke up. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." Finnick sat down beside Mags and stroked the top of her head lovingly. Peeta wondered what it was like to have a grandmother you cared for so much that you'd piggy back her around a jungle without complaint. He had never met his grandparents, both of them having died long before he was born. Wheat knew them, supposedly anyhow, but they were six feet under by the time Rye was two.

Peeta must have been staring at them for a while because Finnick had to wave his hand to snap him out of it. He blinked and snapped his fingers, deciding that thinking about his family wasn't the most of appropriate of things to be doing right now, especially when it came to building the courage to make Cato win.

"I suppose we'll have to get moving soon," he said.

Finnick nodded. "I think we should try and get back down to the beach," he said. "If it's cleared out by now, that is. The beach seems like the best place to be right now."

"If it is the best place to be, wouldn't the careers have already claimed it?" Peeta asked.

"Probably, but there's only the two of them and I'm guessing they'll be going out hunting for tributes soon," Finnick explained. "Then we can claim it from them."

"What happens when they come back?" Peeta frowned.

"They won't come back unless they have a death wish," Finnick explained.

Peeta's eyes fell on the trident that lay across Finnick's lap. If the tributes from 1 went anywhere near him then they'd very likely get speared through. Or cut open, if Cato got near them too. Peeta glanced at the quiver of arrows that Cato must have taken off him while he slept. If he tried hard enough, he could kill someone with those. The thought didn't sit well with Peeta and he felt sick at the very idea.

He looked down at Cato and he remembered the man from 5 and his stupid blade. Peeta pulled Cato closer to his body and held on tight, the fear of the older boy's death making a terrifying fear overwhelm him. Finnick watched him carefully, as if studying an animal's behaviour. "I don't know how no one else can see it," the man from 4 finally said.

"See what?" Peeta mumbled.

"That the ending of this is obvious," Finnick said.

"Ending of what?"

"This . . . triangle." From the way Finnick said 'triangle', it was obvious that he knew the whole thing was a sham. If he could, he'd probably use sarcastic hand gestures when he said the word but couldn't because of the cameras. "You're obviously more inclined towards him than that other guy, what's his name?"

"Harold?"

"Yeah."

Peeta couldn't help smiling, his hand stroking Cato's hair fondly as he slept. He wasn't sure why, but everytime he heard someone tell him that they could see how right himself and Cato were for each other, he couldn't help smiling. It was like a pat on a back, reassurance that their love was obvious.

"What happened the braces?" Finnick asked.

"Couldn't wear them in the games," Peeta said. "Because the metal is considered a weapon. It's also why they wouldn't let me wear my glasses."

"Yeah, about that, did you all of a sudden go blind back when your boyfriend came back from the Games?"

"Not exactly." Peeta wanted to say that the Capitol forced the glasses onto his face for an innocuous image and the lens eventually damaged his eyes. Once Cinna had taken his glasses off in the launch room, he gave him special contact lens that were customized to his eyesight and didn't need to be taken off.

There was something in Finnick's eyes-a gleam? A sparkle?-that made Peeta think he knew what he was talking about, even if he hadn't given away much. "Right, I think we should get going," the older boy announced, standing up and going to rouse Mags.

"Cato," Peeta said quietly, stroking the career's face. "You have to wake up." Cato's face screwed up irritably and he groaned, refusing to get up. Jeez, was this what Peeta was like when he wouldn't wake up? Peeta kissed Cato's forehead and gave him a little shake. "Hey, Cato, wakey wakey."

Like he flipped a switch, Cato was awake and fully alert. Maybe it was a career thing, Peeta wasn't sure. "Hey you," Cato smiled.

"Hey lazy," Peeta replied. "Here, take some water." He brought the leaf bowl to Cato's lips and tipped it, watching him swallow whatever was left of the morning dew that had gathered in it. He put the bowl down, making sure it was somewhere it wasn't going to get damaged, and brushed a droplet of water from the corner of Cato's lips.

"You look even prettier from this angle," the career flirted, smirking cheekily.

"Down boy, there's cameras," Peeta laughed. Cato sat up and pressed a kiss against his cheek. Peeta watched him stand up and stretch, only just wondering now how the heck he going to get up. His leg had no feeling what-so-ever in it. It must have been because of the lack of movement in the night mixed with the pressure that had been put on it the previous day while they were travelling.

Cato took his hands and asked, "Are you ready?"

Peeta nodded. "Yeah," he said. Cato pulled him up to his feet and he winced, biting his lip to mask the small prickles of pain that woke his leg up momentarily before dissolving into numbness again. He tried not to lean against Cato but couldn't help clinging to him a little bit.

"Okay, are you alright?" Cato said.

"Mmm-hmm," Peeta lied, putting his foot fully onto the ground and trying to put his weight on it. It crumpled instantly and he almost fell, only to be saved by Cato catching him. Finnick came back moments later with Mags, a couple of those leaf bowls speared through the points of his trident.

Once everything was gathered up, they were about to set off to the beach when Mags stopped them and tapped Peeta's shoulder. She held a thick stick out to him, made of wood and definitely sturdy. She took his hand and wrapped it over the top of the stick, giving him a toothless smile of encouragement. "T-Thank you," Peeta said, examining the stick and knowing immediately it would be able to hold his weight. Mags patted his shoulder and went back to Finnick, climbing on his back when he crouched for her.

It was still difficult to walk but it was nice to not have to lean on Cato. Peeta didn't want to seem weak and the stick gave him self dependence and he didn't feel like he was putting Cato at risk anymore either. The air was so thick while they walked that it forced them to take multiple breaks along the way to catch their breath.

"You know, before Mags gave you that stick, I was actually considering giving you a piggy back," Cato said as they walked. Peeta laughed, the thought of being hiked around on Cato's back for the entire jounrey back to the beach making him chuckle.

"There an image," he said.

"The Capitol would probably have creamed their pants," Finnick added from up ahead. "You know, at one point they're expecting you two to fuck."

"Shut it Odair!" Cato snapped. Even Mags swatted Finnick's head for the comment.

"They really don't, do they?" Peeta whispered, suddenly worried.

"Of course not," Cato assured him. "And even if they did, we're in the arena, we aren't obligated to do anything they want us to anymore." Peeta nodded, relieved. "Plus, I doubt anything as explict as that would be broadcast to them anyhow."

"You'd be surprised," Finnick called back. Mags clipped his ear and snapped something garbled at him. "Hey, I'm just saying." Mags replied with something that sounded like, 'Well, don't!'

A loud, bloodcurdling scream tore through the air and stopped them in their tracks. It was close, so close Peeta could almost feel it rattle his bones. Cato slowly pulled his sword out of its sheath, just in time for a cannon, persumably the owner of the scream's, just in case the killer came their way. Finnick had put Mags down and had his trident bradished, ready to attack anyone who came by.

Everything was completely silent as they waited for any sign of attack. All Peeta could hear was the soft chirping of birds in the distance and his own breathing. He could feel the blood beating in his ears, beads of sweat sliding down the back of his neck, the ache in his leg that had been muted down into a dull ache. It was so silent it was almost unbearable.

The hair on the back of Peeta's neck stood up and he felt the presence of someone coming up behind him. He wasn't sure why he reacted the way he did. Fear? Impulse? The idea of dying so horrifying that all of his self defense suddenly came back to him? He spun around and used the branch Mags gave him to nail them around the head. The force knocked the tribute over but they were quickly up again and tried to grab the stick from him. Peeta yelped and jumped out of the way, swiping it under their legs to trip them up.

When the tribute landed face first, Cato turned around and widened his eyes in horror. It shocked Peeta how quickly it then took him to act, which was only a second before the career jammed his sword into the attacker's back. Their body went still and the cannon fired, two within five minutes. The thought made Peeta feel sick.

He didn't want to look at the body, the body he helped kill, and hobbled on a couple of metres until it was out of sight. He stood and took a couple of calming breaths, soothing his frayed nerves and trying to relax himself. He just helped to kill someone. Well, he beat them with his stick so they wouldn't hurt him, ultimately knocking them over which lead to Cato killing him.

Peeta didn't even check to see if he knew them. He barely noticed what the person looked like, whether they were angry or scared, he just reacted on instinct and hit them with the stick. He had barely been in the arena a day and he had already aided the murder of one of the tributes. How much longer before he conformed and became a cold blooded killer?

No. Not cold blooded. Cato killed people. In these Games and his last, and he most definitely was not cold blooded. Sometimes survival just meant that you had to do what was nessecary. Peeta was going to get nowhere with his mission to keep Cato alive if he couldn't be emotionless. Eventually he'd have to kill someone, not just aid in the killing, and he had to be able to pick himself right back up again and keep going.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know."

Cato sighed and sheathed his sword, going to Peeta and wrapping an arm around him. "It's okay," he said.

"No, it's not. It's murder."

"It's survival."

"What's the difference?" Peeta looked at Cato, his gaze as sharp as a knife. What was the difference? There's no survival without winning and there's no winning without suvival. And even if there was, there was a thin line between them both that wasn't too hard to cross.

"The difference," Cato began, "is that one means life and the other means death." Peeta shrugged helplessly, already having known that, but that not having been what he meant. "Babe, I know it's going to be difficult but you're going to have to harden up a little. There's still fourteen people left."

Peeta deflated. "Ten are dead already," he murmured. "Ten people." He started walking again, hoping that they came out onto the beach soon as he couldn't handle any more of this humid air or he was going to scream. He heard Cato following him and was pretty sure that Finnick and Mags were close behind as well. His stick got stuck in some mud and he tried to pull it out, having to stop and give it a good yank to pull it out. As he did so, something caught his eye.

Hanging from a tree, about three metres off the ground, was a girl who's name he couldn't even remember. What he could remember was seeing her while stroking his horse before the chariot rides. Her hair was beautiful, it was so long and firey red, at the time swept up into a high ponytail with pieces of straw keeping it up. Even if it had been red, like Mya's, he couldn't help thinking about how pretty it looked all sleek and shiny.

Now she hung from the tree, the two long braids her hair had been tied into coiled around her neck two or three times and knotted on a branch, leaving her body hanging like a rag doll. Her face was purple, her eyes bugling out and bloodshot. Her neck was bruised and cut up, her lips swollen up. She was dead. It was a gruesome sight and Peeta felt sick, backing up into a tree opposite and covering his mouth with his hands.

Cato saw her moments after and even he looked digusted. "Oh my god," he said.

Finnick put Mags down, his face a picture of horror. "She must have been the other cannon," he said. "Killed by the guy Peeta hit with the stick."

The girl stared dead ahead, her unblinking eyes feeling like they were burning into Peeta's soul. He turned his head away and could spy the beach in the distance. He stumbled on and broke the treeline out onto the sand just in time before he started retching. He hadn't expected to witness something so cruel and horrid. That girl was strangled with her own hair and strung up onto a tree just for show. It was such a disgusting way to go . Peeta retched again and pressed his hand against the sand.

"I hope she put up a good fight," Finnick muttered as he broke the treeline as well.

Cato crouched beside Peeta and rubbed his back while he retched. "Sssh, baby, it's okay," he soothed.

"No, it's not, she's dead!" Peeta snapped back. "It's horrible!"

"I know, I know," Cato sighed. "You'll get used to it."

"I don't want to get used to it!"

Cato didn't answer. He just sighed and said, "Come on, sit up. Slowly." He wound an arm around Peeta's shoulders and gently pulled him up to sit. The retching had eased but Peeta still couldn't get the image of that poor girl out of his head. It stayed there like someone had burned it there with a brand. He felt the beginning signs of tears coming but he swallowed them down as hard as he could. He wasn't going to cry, he wasn't going to look weak in front of the entire Capitol and the districts.

"There's a release in death," Finnick said, giving Mags the dew bowls from his trident. "To get out of this . . . arena, I'd say she's pretty lucky."

Peeta knew he wasn't talking about the arena. He was talking about Panem. The girl was lucky to escape the corrupt government, the oppression of President Snow and his allies. She was set free, to fly away like a bird no longer in its cage. Kind of like the jabberjays, when they were left to die but fought back and mated with the mockingbirds, setting loose a whole new species, mockingjays.

"Does anyone even remember her name?" Peeta asked. He was answered with painful silence. "What about the guy's name?" More silence. "How can we kill people without even knowing their names?"

"Because we know if we don't, we'll be the ones who are killed instead," Cato answered.

"We don't even know them," Peeta said, almost to himself. "1712 people have died in the Games, how many of those people do you think were killed by complete strangers?"

"Fuck, that's quick math," Finnick said, sounding impressed.

"Math was his best subject in school," Cato explained. "I don't even know my mutliplcation sums, let alone be capable of doing quick math like that."

"I didn't even bother completing school," said Finnick. "I ditched the whole thing at the first opportunity, like I'm sure any fourteen year old would do if given the option. How did you get 1712 anyhow?"

Peeta shrugged. "23 tributes killed mutiplied by 74 games is 1702, then the 10 people who have died in these Games added ontop of that makes 1712." He traced a smaller version of the sum into the sand. Math had always been so relieable. Each sum had one answer, that was it. No complications or triple meanings. Just one, solid answer. "It's too big a number."

"I never really thought it was that much," Cato said quietly. "I mean, sure, I knew 23 people died and there had been 74 games up until now but it didn't seem like there had been 1702 people killed . . ."

"1712," Peeta corrected.

As he spoke, another cannon fired.

Finnick sighed, his expression grim. "1713."

A/N: Sorry if the math is wrong, I'm not like Peeta and I suck at it. It's seriously my worst subject so I just guessed on how you would work that sort of thing out. So again, sorry if it's wrong.

Please R&R with your thoughts!