Reap What We Sow Chapter 17: Sixteen: ceres alone, a hunger games fanfic

(a/n): Definitely one of the most intense and gorey chapters I've written so far! So...prepare for that.

I also want to give a huge thank you toy everyone! 69 reviews (hehe...69), 63 favorites, and 95 follows. My heart is so warm right now, and I can't thank you lovelies enough!

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ceres alone

"The rain smells weird."

My dad's lip quirks, an amused sheen in his dark blue eyes. "That so?" he says, his calloused fingers strumming idly. The guitar over his lap is made up of an old wood and strings which make the strangest sounds; it's unlike the music we hear in town. It's less beautiful and more strained sounding, probably due to the fact that it's really old, like older than he is. It also has some rotting along its wood, but he doesn't seem to mind.

Honestly, I don't mind it, either. Because it's rare that dad plays his music, and it's even rarer for there to be rain. Under normal circumstances, dad and I would be out on a boat, even despite the rain, but there's lightning in the distance, and lightning makes my mom nervous. So my dad and I are confined to the front porch to watch it all, with my dad's music accompanied by the sound of rain pattering against our roof, and thunder rumbling off somewhere. Mom says that we're lucky, because we don't have to fish to survive. I don't really understand what she means by it, but I think it's fun, anyway. But listening to dad play is fun, too.

I lean back against our porch swing, my little legs kicking out lazily from beneath the knitted blanket my mom had given to me when I'd come outside. She said I'd be too cold otherwise, but the cold never really bothered me. District 4 was always so warm, that when a chill did pierce through the air, it felt nice, and it made me wonder about all the other cold places that exist beyond our District. But my parents never tell me, even though I know my dad has been to all the Districts.

"It's weird but nice," I say, conclusively. "Like your playing."

My dad grunts, fingers strumming over the guitar to create a stream of idle musical notes. My dad seldom plays anything specific, nor does he really play anything good. It's normally his fingers moving with and against the strings to make whatever is reflecting his mood; sometimes it's soft, other times it's rough and screechy. His expression today is almost serene, so the music reflects that.

"Dad, how come you play?"

My dad taps the guitar with his palm, creating a beat. He strums several notes, pats the guitar twice, and then continues. I think this sounds nice, so I bob my head along, though I'm still eyeing him. "Because it makes me forget," he says. "Mostly."

"Forget what?"

"The Games," dad replies.

My little brow knits together. "Why'd you want to forget?"

"Regret."

"What's regret?" I ask.

Dad pauses, pressing his palm stilly against the guitar's side. "It's...to be very sorry for mistakes you've made," my dad says. "We all have regrets, and we all deal with them in different ways. Fishing is what calms me, but when I cannot fish, I enjoy music." He strums along again, humming along to a melody that exists in his head.

"Do I have any regret?" I wonder.

Dad looks a little annoyed, but he looks amused, too. "Well, that depends, are you sorry for anything you've done?"

I have to think really long and hard about that. The other day I pushed Finnick Odair off of the dock, because he was being a real jerk, and he had been so angry and had threatened to drag me into the water. But I'd already started running off of the beach, listening to his threats as he tried to haul out of the water to chase after me. But I'd already made it home well before he caught me. But I didn't regret that, because that was funny. Then there was a time where I told my mom that I hadn't spilled squid ink on her favorite scarf, which I suppose I did regret. I'd blamed it on Liber, who's still just a round faced toddler; waddling about and knocking things over.

It was a believable story, but mom saw right through it, and chastised me for even thinking about accusing my brother of anything. He was innocent, so why would I commit my crimes against someone who hadn't done anything wrong? I had my chores doubled and I couldn't go fishing with my dad for almost two weeks. Luckily my dad softened the blow and convinced my mom to let me come back out sooner than I was supposed to, which she yielded to, albeit begrudgingly.

Still, I'm too stubborn to admit it. "Nope, not yet," I say, a bit cheerily. "Maybe someday."

My dad raises his brow, clearly seeing through me. But he keeps playing his music, humming along.

Thunder roars off into the distance. I lean against my dad's side. I take a little cup of water I had positioned on a little table in front of us and take a sip, though I cough a little. "Hey, dad, do you think - "

When my eyes open, a gust of water spurts out of me. I hack on it, and my lungs scream.

For a moment, I think I'm back home. With my body pressed against something cold and sandy, the sound of water by my ear and water in my lungs, I imagine myself on the beach. I probably fell asleep fishing again and fell into the water, the tide rolling me to shore. Maybe I fell asleep by the fire when my room felt too confining, and my need to be swallowed by the sea air consumed me. But as my vision clears and I spit the last of the water out of me, I'm melt with coldness. The sunlight. The sunlight of District 4 is far, far away from me now, and I'm someplace dark. It takes a moment to register, but when it does, it comes quickly.

The Arena flooded. It returns to me all too quickly. It had been a quiet three days and I was starting to get nervous. Neither Lamia nor Jason wanted to make the first strike against Nellie and her group, as they were too unnerved to leave someplace they had secured, as well as wary of an Arena they did not entirely understand. So we stayed at the Cornucopia, taking shifts, and living off of the plentiful gifts our Sponsors were providing for us. It was almost comfortable, but comfortable equated to boring, and I knew that it would backfire on us eventually. I even warned them. They'll do something to stir things, I'd said, only to be met with eye rolls and resistance.

I had been on patrol when it happened. I'd heard the sound of rushing water before anyone, as I could recognize the sound even hundreds of miles away. I don't think I could ever have fully prepared for it to come through the hole over the Cornucopia, or for it to be as fierce as it was. It had wiped out everything in its wake, had swept us far away. I'd tried to keep a grip on Liber's hand, but the force of the water had separated us.

And I suppose, amidst it all, I'd gotten knocked around a little.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, forcing myself to take in my surroundings. My head is still stinging, but my vision is cleared, and my surroundings are, too. "No..no, no, no, no," I repeat to myself, quietly and remarkably calm.

So, this is how I die.

I'm underground, more so than we had been before. There's giant hole over my head, no doubt where I had been sucked through when the flood water drained. It's too tall to reach, but even if I could, there'd be no point. I'm surrounded by an array of treacherous rocks that glow silver, almost resembling crystals. The ground beneath my feet is dark, and I am surrounded by black water. It spreads far beyond my line of sight into a long stretch of darkness. All around me, there is quiet.

It might have been peaceful, if I wasn't absolutely terrified.

But I can't stay here. If I linger, I'll die.

There's no way to climb up to the hole in the ceiling. The rocks are too sharp and treacherous to scale, even if I had any type of equipment to use to my advantage. I would be cutting myself up in the process, maybe even impale myself if I'm not careful enough. Not to mention the fact that if my blood spilled into the water, it could attract one of those Mutts. Speaking of...I look across the black water. It expands in a long stretch across the cavern, though I can tell that there's nothing but a dead end ahead and on either side of me. There's no land that I can settle on to find my way back up, leaning that there's likely only one solution.

When I had been in the clear water, retrieving my spear and Birch's machete on that first day, I was able to see the tunnels which led into black water; they had been relatively narrow, easy for a body to swim through, but no way a crocodile could. If I could find one of those tunnels down below, maybe it would lead me to the clear water, and with a chance to find a way back up. It seems contradictory, but what other choice do I have?

I just have to remember, blood catches their attention most definitely. Movement as a whole might pique their interest, though noise hadn't seemed to vex the crocodile out of hiding when we'd first happened upon the black water. If I swim concisely and remain as mindful of my surroundings as I'm able, then maybe I stand a chance. I just can't panic. But then again, there was that instance when we fell into the black water while being chased by those bats. We'd been covered in scratches and blood, yet it hadn't stirred anything. It had perplexed me at first, but the more I thought about it, the more I wondered just how much Seneca Crane's influence extended.

I wonder if I'll be receiving the same amount of luxury today.

If I'm lucky.

I try to consider the walls again. Maybe I can scale my way to the ceiling, but I need only take in the sight of the rocks which curve and twisted, with prickled edges like cacti, and I know that that is impossible. My eyes flicker to the stillness of the black water. I remember going night swimming with my friends when I was younger, with a fire on the beach, and the moon full. I had swum deeper below the surface so that I could see the reef in moonlight. The water had been so dark, I had struggled to make anything out. But it paled in comparison to the black water. My vision would be swallowed entirely by blackness. This accompanied by the water muffling my hearing would hinder my senses. My intentions to find the tunnels down below is ludicrous.

Whatever is done there could sneak up on me. I could panic in the water and lose my way to the surface. I can hold my breath for a considerable amount of time, but if my mind is panicking and struggling, then my body will do the same. But what choice do I have?

The Gamemakers must be pretty pleased with themselves, I think. I should have known when almost two days had gone off without any cannons that the Gamemakers would be planning something. The concern had been there, but I hadn't leaned on it as heavily as I should have. Now I'm separated from my brother again, and -

BOOM.

It echoes above me, the distinct sound of said cannon. I look up, wondering who was killed, and where they are. We'd all been swept away from each other, and the same could likely be said for Nellie's Alliance. So it could be anyone, maybe even my brother. I frown, shuddering to the prospect of it. I try to remind myself that we have the favor of Seneca Crane, and that maybe that favor will keep us alive even after the Gamemakers tried to tussle us. I just hope he still has his trident. If he does, then Capitolians could see it and feel nostalgic for Finnick, and, in turn, provide Sponsorships. Even though he's inept in using it, the image alone could be helpful.

"Enough stalling," I mumble to myself, realizing that I hadn't moved a muscle, and the black water was still a sheet of black glass.

My spear is gone, but my rapala is still firmly attached to my hip in its leather casing. I brush my fingers over its hilt for comfort. I decide not to detach it just yet, at risk of dropping it down there. Should I be attacked, I trust that my reflexes are quick enough, even underwater, to reach for it.

This is so stupid.

But as I'm standing at the edge of the black water, I allow my vision to direct towards the silver rocks forming along the walls and the ceiling. They glow like moonlight, and I think about what it had been like to see the trickles of a moonlit night breach the surface of the ocean. It's a longshot, but something hopeful sparks in me. I approach a set of rocks which have formed at the base of the cave wall, with one having curved outward. I adjust my stance and, with as much force as I can muster, bring my foot down. The sharpened edges of the rock don't pierce through my shoes, they're too thick for that. So I strike once, twice, thrice, until it dismantles. It clatters across the ground, glowing brightly.

A breath of relief parts from me as I crouch down beside it. I know that I can't handle it with my bare hands, as the spikes along its sides would simply pierce through my abdomen. But they aren't particularly long spikes, since they did not pierce through the sole of my boots. I pull off my jacket and, carefully, proceed to wrap it around the base of the spiked rock. Once I am certain to its durability, I wrap my hand around it. The jacket's material provides a thick layer of protection between my palm and the rock's edges.

And if all else fails, I think that this could make a realistic weapon.

Best of both worlds, I suppose.

I swallow.

I take a few steps back from the water's edge, focusing on honing my breathing. I had to swim pretty far down in the clear water to access the tunnels, so I wonder if the same could be applied here. I'll swim along the wall's edge, mindful if there are any rock formations down there, too, to see if I can access any tunnels. If I find it, I'm seizing it. If I can't find anything, I'll come back up for air and try again.

I grip my rock a little tighter. I am so stupid.

With a steady gulp of air, I lunge forward, and jump with my hands outstretched into the water. I brace for the horror of it, but the memory of the blackness still doesn't compare to what it's like being in it. My ears are instantly muffled and my eyesight torn from me, as I am floating in an abyss. I imagine this is what dying feels like. The Gamemakers would probably have plenty of ideas on what dying is like for a person, so it doesn't come as any surprise that they would create this. Still, I keep myself calm, and I slowly lift my glowing rock.

To my shock, I can see it as clearly as I saw it above water, albeit surrounded by blackness. I can see my hand, too, and even a little up my arm. Awe strikes me, as well as relief, but there's no time to celebrate. I need to get going. So I swim downward, trying to be as vigilant to my surroundings as possible. I keep my arm outstretched out, so that the light can illuminate anything in front of me. I swim blindly, reaching for things that aren't there. It's about two minds of blind searching before I have to go back up for air. I do so. I gather my breaths, and return back down.

The process repeats for a while, luckily without having encountered anything. If there's something down here with me, then it must be asleep or inactive. Maybe that's my little gift from Seneca Crane. How thoughtful, if that's true.

By the fourth time of going to the surface and coming back down, I'm beginning to wonder if I'm exhausting myself for nothing. But as I'm swimming, I feel my shoulder bump against something smooth. My stomach drops and horror sets in, but it's not one of those mutts. It's too solid and unresponsive. I extend my silver rock out, realizing that this is just the cave wall. I brush my hand over it, a little alarmed by how smooth it is; solid black, too. But when I bring my rock closer, the silver light casts a strange sheen across the wall's surface.

Obsidian. The wall's surface is made up of obsidian.

For a second, I wonder if this is how the water is s black, if it's the obsidian creating a reflective surface for the water in question. It's an interesting prospect, but one that doesn't really need to be dwelled on right now. I glide down the wall, keeping my hand along its side to ensure I don't lose it. (It's so easy to get lost down here.) And then I see it.

There's a tunnel at the base of the wall.

I need to lunge for it, but even I know that I need air first. So, keeping my hand pressed against the wall's side, I guide myself upward and breach the surface. I take in several gulps of air, finding myself briefly smiling with relief, before diving back down. I found it, I found something. God only knows where exactly it'll lead to, but I know that it will take me out of here. And that's what matters.

Once my lungs are full, I prepare to pull myself down again. But something catches my attention; something striking against the silver rocks. I turn my head slowly, looking across the water, towards the patch of land from when I'd come, and I see a dark mass half-buried in the water, slowly hauling itself towards the land. The distinct orange pattern across its body causes my stomach to drop. Its long tail swings idly as it crawls across the ground, the entirety of its large body coming into view. It hasn't seen me, it hasn't seen me, I think desperately.

But I can't move, not until I'm sure what it's going to do.

It settles on land for a moment, seemingly looking towards the large open hole in the ceiling. I swear to God, if that thing jumps...it doesn't thankfully, rather leveling its huge head back towards the ground. It appears to be resting there, when it suddenly opens its mouth and lets out a loud sound that almost reminds me of the cannons, were it not accompanied by the rolling quality of a hiss. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to cover my ears. The sound lasts for seconds too long for my liking.

But then there's a responsive sound, about twenty feet away from me. I feel my breath catch in my throat. Looking slowly off to the side, I see something lurking against the wall across from me, tucked away into the silver rocks. Its body is submerged, though now that I look with sharper intent, I see the yellow eyes staring off into the cavern. They aren't on me, though. Neither creature knows about me yet. But I am still in the black water with two Mutts, who are communicating. The first one hisses again, and the second one releases an even louder roar that seems to rattle the entirety of the cave, and causes a rippling effect across the surface of the water.

When the ripple touches me, I don't hesitate. I dive into the water, and push myself as fast as I can downward.

Echolocation. I think it was using echolocation. It no doubt would have felt me, then. My point seems to be proven, because I hear the Mutt seemingly thrash and (thankfully) get stuck against the rocks as it fully realizes my presence. For a fraction of a second, as I am pushing myself further into the water, I think about how pointless this is. Even in District 4 we knew better than be to be in the water with the crocodiles we hunted. They were our apex predators, because their swiftness and viciousness underwater was unmatched, even against the sharks that patrolled our border.

Me, swimming, as fast as I could, doesn't even compare to that of a crocodile. I'm right, too, because I can feel that thing charging at me at full speed, so I extend my crystal out, just barely making out those yellow eyes as they come charging at me at full force. I duck down as fast as I am able, and the snout of the crocodile misses me by inches as it slams headfirst against the wall. It seems to daze it, just enough for me to grip my crystal tightly, and lung it forward to stab at the crocodile's eye. I remember how thick the skin was, to where my spear couldn't even pierce it. For a second, I half-expect the eye to be the same. But the crystal pierces right through, and I pull it out quickly. Blood instantly pools out of its face, as its head starts to thrash madly. I push myself down again, moving away from its angry open maw. Its head slams against the cave wall, seemingly trying to collect itself.

I seize the creature's disorientation as I push myself along the wall, groping over the smooth surface until I feel the crevice which gives way into a tunnel. Curling my fingers tightly around the entrance, I pull myself through as fast as I'm able, just as I feel a rush of energy surge through the water, as the crocodile twists itself around to try to get me. I pull myself fast through the tunnel. I curl my legs into me and use my hands to claw my way up. Although the entrance is tight and I can't see where I'm going, I can feel the crocodile jamming its head through the entrance, as much as it is able. It swings back and forth, slamming itself furiously as its jaw opens and closes, attempting to snag me.

I think about the crocodile that Birch and I killed during our first day, how we had tricked the beast into slamming itself into walls and on the ground to create enough vibrations to stir the rocks over our head, which promptly crushed it. I fear, for a moment, that this crocodile's thrashing will lead to the tunnel caving it. Because of the entire blackness, I can't for sure claim certainty in the tunnel's structural security. So I claw faster, until I can no longer feel the bubbles and presence of the crocodile's head.

My lungs start to burn.

Shit.

I try to think about something other than breathing as I feel through the darkness, still gripping my makeshift weapon and only source of light. I press it along the tunnel's edges, so I can see anything, but all I see is the smooth surface of a tunnel. I won't last much longer if I don't find a way out soon. I keep pulling myself, further and further and further into the tunnel until I start to wonder if this is how I'm going to die. Caught in a thin tunnel, where I'll drown like a fish caught in an air pocket.

I'm not dying this way. I refuse.

I push on, feeling my body start to tremble with that instinctual urge to take a breath, even though every part of me knows that's a terrible idea, that if I do so I will drown. I force it down, but it only tears harder through me, feeling as though it will tear me apart. No, no, no. My mouth opens for the barest second and I'm forced with a mouthful of the water, which tastes like neither salt nor clear water, with the rusty tang of blood.

My hand extends outward, to latch onto a smooth surface, but instead I feel a curve. The curve fills me instantly with hope, as I summon my strength and push myself through. All at once, I am met with clear water. Everything comes into vision, so much so that my eyes burn underwater, and I squeeze them shut. A part of me almost wants to recoil back into the darkness, but I don't have a choice. I found it. I made it. Hope has its hold on me and manages to pull me upward towards the surface, my legs kicking furiously.

When I breach the surface, my body refuses to take a gulp of air. I fight to keep myself afloat as I find myself suffocating on nothing, until suddenly I feel that first gulp of air pierce down my throat. I swallow it, followed by several other breaths until I am lightheaded, but very much alive.

My eyes are still squeezed shut, even blinded behind my closed lids. It takes a few minutes, but what feels like a few hours, before I'm able to crack my undoubtedly bloodshot eyes open. I'm still very much still underground, as the crystals are silver and the area surrounding me dimly hued, but it's still slightly brighter. I'm achieved some measure of higher ground, though there are no holes above me I can peer through. There is, however, a huge open cavern which curves into the Arena. The clear water pools through it.

No fully aware of my surroundings and my vision relaxing a little, I try to ignore the way my whole body is cramping and trying to stiffen, and paddle my way through the large, open tunnel. The tunnel has a slight glitter effect to it, making me wonder if it these are crystals of some variety. But, to be frank, having just faced off against an angry Mutt (and narrowly dodging the other), I don't really care about whether or not a pretty sparkly thing is a crystal or just a rock.

What I can note, however, is that this is my least favorite Arena I've ever seen.

The Gamemakers must be having a ball with all of these new and fantastical treats they get to inflict upon the Tributes. I wonder if Seneca is jovial over it, too. Logically he has to be. As the heir to the Head Gamemaker position, he has to be a man with broad, creative ideas, and open to experimentation with the Arena. This Arena is certainly unique, compared to the others I've studied. I have to wonder how much of it was planned by Lucius Crane and how much was by Seneca. Regardless, I feel angry. Seneca with his charming smile on the rooftop, promising me and Liber safety...I guess he's kept up some of that bargain, but I certainly don't feel safe right now.

I feel very exhausted, frankly.

I pause, realizing that I can't carry on at the rate I'm going. I swim to the cave's edge and wrap my arms around some of the rocks sticking out of the wall. I coil my arms around the smoother looking spikes and hoist myself up, until I'm rested over my stomach. Just for a minute, I think. Just so I can catch my breath.

"Fuck this place," I say under my breath.

After a few minutes, I wonder if I should consider trying to sleep, if only for a minute. I can try perching on one of these rocks and use my jacket, still bound around my silver rock, to wrap around me to keep me secure. It would be by no means comfortable, but it feels necessary.

With a deep sigh, I look over the rocks jutting out of the surface of the cave in long thick spikes, and find one that seems sturdy enough to hold my person, as well as having enough space above and on either side of it where I don't have to worry about ducking my head or accidentally impaling myself. I situate myself there by sitting on top of it. My jacket's sleeves are too short to properly secure in place, but I trust my balance enough that I won't fall. I just keep my makeshift weapon on my lap and try to lean back as comfortably as I can against the wall. My eyes close. Five minutes.

Just five minutes.

Truth be told, I don't know how long I sat there, whether it was for five minutes or five hours, but my eyes are suddenly flashing open to the sound of skittering. I strain my ears against it, finding my body stilling. It's a subtle little sound that scarcely echoes against the cave's walls. I look at the water, noting how the clear surface remains still, and I flicker my gaze over the rocks; to the walls and to the ceiling. I recognize that sound.

I swallow, forcing myself to strain my neck back to get a better view of the tall ceiling over me. I see it, then, that spiderlike creature with the stinger of a scorpion. Its white body moves across the ceiling, its eight legs skittering. But it's not just one. To my count, there are almost eight of them looming over me, their pinchers gripping the ceiling as they move across it. They know I'm here, just as I know they are, and I can feel their beady eyes upon me as they evaluate how to reach me.

Scorpions can swim, I think. Spiders can't.

I can figure which way my luck will turn.

Slowly, I push myself off of the rock where I'd been perched, and bring myself back into the water. At least I can see around me, above the surface and below. I push myself off of the wall, swimming backwards to keep my eyes fixated upon the ceiling. I watch them as they skitter across the ceiling, one of them approaching where I had been, and proceeding to perch on my rock. Its eyes are intent upon me.

If Birch is still alive - he should be, I haven't heard a cannon go of - I wonder how his wound is. Based on my experience in the Games, I had clocked his estimation of survival to be between five minutes to five days. It's been three since last I saw him, but what a terrible way to live. Even on the first day his skin had already begun to blister, with boils that bled with pus. His eyes had been bloodshot and his skin losing its color. He had left the Cornucopia with his head high and a forced confidence in his stride, for Rust and Daisy's sake, but I saw the signs on his body.

It was a terrible way to die and to live. So, naturally, I don't intend on being stung.

I unclasp my rapala's sheath, then, and pull it out. I tighten my grip on my handle as I swim backwards. They follow after me, but they don't jump into the water. Maybe I'm lucky.

When the creatures stop, I stop with them. They go completely still, just staring at me. Slowly, I look over my shoulder, and see land. Not just land, but I see a hole in the ceiling where a subtle golden hue reflects. Relief floods me, but I know that these things could reach it well before I do, regardless of whether or not they try to attack me. I tentatively swim towards the water's edge, but they aren't moving. Even after I've pulled myself out of the water and am on land, they just stay still.

And then they just turn around.

Minutes go by as I lay kneeling there, processing what just happened. It wasn't luck, I decide immediately. Surely it was absolutely crippling terror, but it wasn't luck. What it was, however, was likely intervention done by the hands of one Head Gamemaker's nephew. I can't know for sure, but I can't help but to feel watched - more than usual. I swallow a little, feeling myself shudder. I doubt my fellow Tributes would have received such treatment.

My eyes search the cavern for a moment, before looking down at the water. "Thanks," I murmur quietly.

I push myself to my feet. The hole above me isn't too tall, I suppose. It's certainly not within reach, but it's promising. I weigh my options between my little sharpened rock and my rapala, before deciding that my rapala is likely sharper and also sturdier. Very carefully, I throw my rock through the hole, relieved when I hear it clatter on the ground. From there, I crouch low, and proceed to try to build enough momentum to get myself up. If I could get my rapala dug into the surface above me, I could use that to help pull me up. It takes several tries, with a moment of hopelessness looming over me.

There's nothing I can grab around me to serve as a stepstool, so I'm shit out of luck.

I give myself a couple of running starts, though they don't do much good. It's not until my umpteenth try that my rapala finally secures in the surface above me, and my hand latches onto it, too. Now currently dangling, there's no time to waste. I pull myself through the hole, alternating between digging my rapala in a few inches ahead of each piercing, and using my hand to claw my way up. It's a unified back and forth effort, until I'm able to use my feet to kick off the back of the hole and push myself all the way to the surface.

I roll over onto my back, breathing heavily. I pocket my rapala, then, and lay my sore hands on either side of me. I'm now surrounded by golden hued rocks, back on the surface where I started.

But the girl from District 6 is standing a few feet away from me, looking dumbfounded. I stare back at her, still on my back. This passes on for a moment, both equally wide eyed, but that moment of shock doesn't last long at all. Before I know it, the girl is shouting and lunging towards me, pulling a knife out of her belt. In a completely vulnerable position, I scramble back to my feet. I push myself as far from the edge of that hole as I possibly can, and just barely dodge her attack. A part of me hopes she'll stumble down the hole and the Arena can do its job for me. But she seems to be aware of this probable danger, because she avoids the hole altogether.

Her eyes are feral.

I don't want to kill her, but I know I have no choice. If she's going to keep lunging at me with a weapon, there's not much else I can do. It's self-defense. Well, generally speaking, almost everything done in the Arena can be chalked up to self-defense, save for some of the more obvious examples. (Like Lamia talking about how she likes to watch the lights go out of one's eyes.) It's a part of the Games I'd never taken seriously when I had been fantasizing about it. For all I cared, the deaths and kills would never stain my hands. I would have the Victory, and that would be it.

I was stupid back then. Arguably I still am, as I am currently standing, scarcely armed with anything more than a rapala which is in very poor shape, thanks to my digging it into the ground, and a sharpened rock that I threw up here, but have no idea where it is. Meanwhile, this girl has a strong looking knife with jagged edges, and her eyes convey none of the reluctance I'm feeling.

She swings her arm at me, and I dodge her blows to the best of my ability. My body is still cramping from overexertion, even with adrenaline pumping through me. I manage to stagger out of her line of fire. She pauses, visibly trying to recover herself.

"Kill the Careers before they kill us," she says, her voice scratchy.

"I'm not a Career," I say. "And I'd rather not have to kill you."

Her lips twits into a sneer. It is then that I notice the silver rock, which has received some damage; its pieces now laid out in chunks (though its purpose as my flashlight and makeshift weapon were on its last days, anyway). Its silver glow is dulling more and more, until it looks like a plain white rock with bloodstains. The girl from District 6 follows my line of sight, noticing the blunt, spiked object wrapped up in my jacket. She leans down fast, grabbing ahold of it. She grips it through my jacket. I see what she's planning even before she does it herself.

With a yell, she hurtles the rock through the air. I dodge it, and seize the chance of her at this small disadvantage, of her arm propelled forward and her balance off, to tackle her down. She lets out another shout, but my hand is over her wrist, squeezing it until she lets go of the knife. I push her down, using my free hand to grip at her throat. But she's clawing at me, and flailing her body as madly as a fish out of water.

I knee her in the stomach.

But even despite my advantages over her, in the grander scheme of our physicality and experience, I am hindered by my exhaustion and my sore body, because the girl from District 6 somehow manages to flip us over. I grunt as she slams me back against the ground, her legs straddling my torso, and her hands wrapped around my throat. I hiss in pain, using my own hands to claw at her face. Eyes, go for the eyes. I do, raking my nails over her face, but as she howls in pain, I see Harpee. Harpee is staring down at me with an arrow lodged in her eye, blood pooling down her face. My hands still, feeling my heartbeat accelerate.

The girl - not Harpee, not Harpee - seizes this opportunity to slam my head back, rekindling that absolute fire of pain from when I had been injured a few days prior. I open my mouth in a stalled cry of pain, and she appears contented by this. Her face and Harpee's face flicker in and out of each other like a flickering candle, and I try to find what's real. She's dead, she's dead.

But she's looming over me, blood pooling out of her eye.

I feel my breath hitch. No, no. No. No.

You can't think of Harpee when you're in the Arena, I hear Finnick's voice say.

I reach out, trying to claw at her face again. My nails rake across her cheeks and over her eyes, but I feel no arrow, despite very clearly seeing one. She digs her own nails more into my neck and slams my head down.

Harpee is dead.

I grit my teeth and tighten my nails over her ear, and pull hard, until it's tearing.

There's no point in thinking about how she died or if you had Volunteered instead of her.

The girl screams in pain, her grip slackening.

It's you in the Games now.

I reach out and claw at her eyes, until I feel blood pooling between my fingers.

She forgave you, remember?

I kick her off of me, and she releases her hold on me just enough that I'm able to grab ahold of my rapala currently attached to my hip. I snap the clasp open, my fingers curled around its hilt. The blade is damaged, but it's still a blade. My rapala pierces through the soft skin of her stomach. I can hear her gasp in pain over me, but I can't bring myself to stop now. I tighten my grip on the hilt of my knife, twist it, and then slice it as hard and as fast as I can across her abdomen. I feel her blood spill across me as it pours out of her, followed by something wet and heavy. I keep my eyes locked with hers, which are torn up, bloodshot, and wide with horror, as her entrails spill out of her.

Blood pools out of her mouth. She coughs it out, splattering it over my face. I feel her wet entrails fall heavily out of her and on top of me. The warm blood seeps through my shirt and against my skin. But our eyes are locked, her gaze desperate. The face of Harpee is gone, the girl from District 6 is staring at me with raw fear. I push her off of me. I roll over quickly, moving away from her as she lays there upon the ground, entrails spilled out and blood pouring out of her mouth like a faucet. I'm covered in it, all of the blood.

My stomach twists inside of me. The rapala is still gripped with an iron vice in my hand. I remember coating it with that pufferfish venom, with the vial still being located in the pouch in my belt. I think about the boy I killed with my knife and how he had bled from every orifice of his face when I'd cut him with it. But the venom must have washed off, because the girl's death is none without its theatrics. She just lays there, helpless.

When I blink, it's not the girl from District 6 laying there, it's Harpee. Her body is laid on the ground, her face frozen into a perpetually startled expression. She never saw the arrow coming. When I blink again, it's the girl from 6.

The cannon goes off seconds later.

The girl doesn't look anymore than fifteen years old, like my brother's age, but her youthful face has been marred with scratches and her eyes are red and bloodied, and her stomach is split open. She looks like a gutted fish more so than she looks like a human being. The longer I look at her, the more it occurs to me that I was the one to do this. The blood which trickles across the ground was spilled my own hands. I did this. I did this.

My hands are shaking, but I scarcely notice.

This feels so different.

I sink deeper into myself, thinking about how helpless and horrified I'd felt when I'd watched Harpee die on the screen in town's square, while I gutted fish with Neleus. I remember wanting to be swallowed by the golden sky over my head, and feeling tears in my eyes. Neleus had told me it was okay, but it wasn't, because Harpee's body twitched after she'd been shot, and the girl in front of me is twitching, too.

I remember hating Finnick when he grabbed their supplies and left her body there, because how could he leave her? She had been my friend, and he'd just left her.

Did this girl have a friend? Were her friends watching the screen now, taking in the sights of this girl whose name I never knew dying? I imagine how I felt in the center of District 4, watching everything unfold, and I feel sick to think someone else is feeling that now. Her eyes had been feral, but they had been so afraid, too. She was afraid of me.

It turns out she had good reason to.

I close my eyes.

I need to get far, far away, I assert.

When I open them again, I force myself to focus. I take my rapala and I return it to its leather sheath. I then approach the girl's body, reluctantly searching her pockets for anything useful. I find nothing, save for an empty flask in her jacket. I then take her knife. I attach the knife to my belt and place the flask into the pocket of my torn up jacket, which I keep wrapped around my waist, but under my weapons so they're easily accessible. From there, I walk. I follow the cavern and walk on.

There were twenty-four of us. Now eight stand.

I walk for some time, until I hear the distinct sound of a bell, followed by a thud. I round the corner of the cavern cautiously, unsheathing the knife the girl I had killed had used. I find no one on the other side, but I do find a gift. In silver packaging, with a note that simply reads, "Live," I find a spear. But it is unlike the spear I used earlier, from the Cornucopia. This spear is dazzling. The hilt of the spear is long and a fine metal, interwoven with gold at the base of the spear, which thread down the base in little vine-like designs. The spearhead is obsidian, with a sharp point and sides that I imagine could pierce through even the thickest skinned of sharks back home. Embedded into the obsidian tip resides little sapphires, which form a triangular shape. I would have to be an idiot to ignore the fact that it was the same color as my eyes.

The weapon fits snugly in my hand, albeit weighted down by the unnecessary embellishments. This is surely a most expensive gift, but I have to wonder how much of it was customized. In my studies, I've seen some Capitolians favor their Tributes with gifts with fancier designs which mirror their Districts or personalities. I remember Cashmere from District 1 receiving a throwing knife with gold in the hilt.

A part of me wants to throw the spear aside and leave it, because I understand what this gift means. I don't want to, but I do. But I also can't set it aside, because if I do, then I'll risk angering my Sponsor and likely others. I have a feeling as to who could have sent me such a luxurious gift, and I can certainly gather why living would be important to him.

My grip on the spear tightens.

So be it.

I've been walking for a little more than an hour, when I hear it; someone running in the distance. I press my back against the wall of the cave, pressing myself into a little indent in the rocks which can conceal me. The running sounds frantic, certainly not committing to any efforts to remain quiet. I have my hand around my spear, keeping it firmly pressed against my torso as not to stand out. I level my breathing and hold it, so that I become invisible. The runner draws closer. I notice immediately that the person sounds small, so it certainly can't be Jason, who I gratefully haven't run into yet.

I can only imagine where the Careers are, along with my brother. I can only guess that they're alive, since I've only heard one cannon so far, aside from the one that I had triggered. With any luck, it was Lamia or Jason having killed one of the other Tributes, and Liber is someplace safely tucked away. The footsteps stagger closer towards me, and I recognize a little gasp and squeak which parts from the figure. Feeling my eyes widen, I push myself from out of the crevice and into the open, immediately laying eyes on Daisy, who's holding Birch's machete, and looks like a drowned cat; like she did when we first met.

Her dark hair is clinging to her heart shaped face, with those dark eyes of hers wide like saucers. When she sees me, she squeaks again and jumps back, lifting her machete threateningly.

"You're alive," I say.

Daisy is stiff, eyeing me as if I were one of those Mutts that came from the black water. I imagine that my appearance leaves a great deal to be desired. I'm covered in still wet blood, after all, and I can only imagine what bits of the girl from District 6 remain on my figure. But I'm too dazed to care, at least for the time being. Daisy, however, seems to care very deeply - and for that I can't fault her. When I go to take a step forward, she takes two back.

"I won't hurt you," I say.

"You're covered in blood," Daisy says. "It's not yours. Who'd you kill?"

I decide to be honest with her, even though I don't want to be. "The girl from District 6," I say, flinching. "She attacked me."

"Her name was Mox," Daisy says. "Birch said that she was with Nellie."

At the mention of Birch, I feel my chest tighten. "Is he still alive?" I ask.

Daisy hesitates, but ultimately nods.

"What are you doing out here? Why aren't you with him?"

"I was trying to find supplies. He's not doing well," Daisy says, and I can hear her stomach grumble from where I'm standing.

"I don't have anything," I admit. "But take me back to him. Maybe there's something I can do."

When her eyes narrow suspiciously at me, I feel a small measure of pride. At least she was less trusting that Birch had been. She has some sense on her shoulders, and it's good that she doesn't trust me fully. It's likely, this paired with Birch's presence, is how she's survived as long as she had.

Still, she seems to regard my expression and demeanor with a little acceptance, and she nods. She leads me through the cave, until we reach an opening which leads to a large open space with a clear body of water, with a subtle shimmer against the golden lights. Birch lays on the ground wheezing. I can't even make out his face anymore, because it's buried beneath layers of blisters, and the skin has swollen so greatly that it has rolled over one of his eyes. He has a hunchback now, from all of the buildup of venom inside of him. His legs seem in fair enough shape, but I can't possibly see him supporting this type of weight alone. His torso has almost tripled in size since last I saw him, and there are patches of red and pink all across his skin.

Daisy approaches him, though keeps a small bit of distance.

"How did he survive the flood?" I ask, reaching out to touch his forehead.

"Don't," Daisy says, quickly. "His blisters bleed acid. See how burned his skin is around the area?"

I withdraw my hand to my side, and it clenches. "How'd he survive?" I ask again.

"I don't know," she says, softly. "We got separated during the flood, but I managed to find him here. I just haven't moved him."

"And Rust?"

Her expression turns saddened. "He's alive, but I don't know where he is. Have you...?"

I shake my head.

Birch's head lolls in our general direction, his bloodshot eye regarding me. There's dried blood along the rim of it, as well as a couple of fresh droplets gently peeling down the side of his cheek. "Good...to...see you..." Birch wheezes.

"Don't speak," I say.

"Ru...ust?"

"I don't know," I reply. He wheezes in distress. "We can find him, though."

Birch tries nodding, but hisses in pain. "It's...dang...erous..."

"I know." I look to Daisy, who looks visibly horrified and sickened, though she's keeping herself together pretty well. "Where are the Careers?"

Daisy shakes her head. "Jason killed the boy from District 9," she says. "And then you killed Mox. That just leaves us, Jason, Lamia, your brother, and Rust. I want to find Rust, but I can't make Birch move..." Birch starts to wheeze again and one of his blisters pops, causing a small sliver of acid to slide down and burn his skin. Daisy winces. "Maybe if we get him some fresh water," she says, drawing a flask from her jacket. She stands and walks towards the water's edge, dipping the flask into it. "I just...I can't use that ointment. His blisters are like ac-" There's a slink sound, which echoes throughout the cave. Daisy sways for a moment before falling forward, landing with a loud splash in the water; blood pools instantly around her. Embedded into the back of her head is a knife.

I barely hear the cannon go off.

Lamia is standing there, barely even sparing a glance to the little girl she had killed so mercilessly and efficiently. She looks between me and Birch, who is still howling in horror over the sight of a little girl's body floating in the water. He lumbers to his feet, his whole body grotesque and bleeding and spewing with acidic pus, yet he is to his feet. I see a fire in his one good eye as he sets it upon the girl from District 1, who watches him with repulsion.

"It's amazing you're not dead already," Lamia says. When Birch sways, nearly toppling over on himself, she laughs. "Sit back down, District 7. I'll make it quick."

"Y...you...ki-killed...her," Birch wheezes. "I...pr...protected...them..."

"Pretty poor job of it," Lamia says.

Without even thinking twice about it, I grab my knife from my belt and, with absolute fury, hurtle it towards Lamia. She seems a little taken aback by the assault, so her reaction time is slowed. She manages to avoid the weapon lodging itself in her chest, but rather it settles into her shoulder. She snarls, looking less like a delicate girl and more like an angered beast. She yanks the knife out of her without any hesitation and smirks at me, but it's too late. Birch is already charging towards her, with a surprising pace despite his terrible boils and rolls of acidic fatty deposits.

Lamia seems to brace for Birch's charge, though it seems I've damaged her throwing arm. So she reaches for a sword attached to her back with her left hand. (I remember reading somewhere that the academy teaches dual fighting with both hands, to ensure true capabilities.) But before the gap between Birch and Lamia can be closed, a new voice pierces through the echoing cavern.

"LAMIA, MOVE!"

Lamia's whole body falls, and there my brother stands behind her, his trident in hand. The trident is thrown sloppily, my brother's aim absolutely poor, but it doesn't need to be accurate. All my brother has to do is barely graze Birch's side, which has swollen tenfold in open blisters which bleed acid like pus and bodily fluids. The trident's edge cuts through his side, and all at once, it spills over him. Birch lets out a horrible scream as the blisters open in full, the acid spilling across him and sizzling over his skin, burning and melting clean off of his bones. I feel bile rise in my throat as Birch spreads across the ground, his hands, fingers as thick as sausages and wrists like balls, try to paw at the ground. He's gargling something, but I can't understand. I can only imagine. Calling out for his loved ones. Pleading for help. Crying for mercy.

It lasts for far too long, and my brother's trident is becoming damaged with Birch's waning body. The metal melts, and the ground beneath Birch's body also seems to sizzle. My brother keeps a hand on Lamia's shoulder, pulling her back as if it would spread towards them. Her eyes are upon the trident, clearly disappointed. She scarcely even pays a glance to Birch's body, as his sounds fade out. When she does, it's with disgust.

When the cannon goes off, I feel it in my bones.

Lamia presses her hand against her wound, to staunch the bleeding, and when her eyes lift to find mine there is nothing but absolute hatred in those hazel eyes. "I see where your loyalties lie," she practically hisses. "I told you, Liber."

My brother looks down at Lamia with a measure of acceptance. "I know," he replies.

Liber moves passed her and advances towards the gooey pile of flesh, blood, and pus that had once been Birch. Mindful of the acid which still sizzles upon the ground, my brother reaches to claim the trident. He dips it into the water to clean it off, at least having the decency to look guilty when his eyes level on the little girl his girlfriend killed.

All I can do is watch my brother, struggling to piece together what he's doing. He stands before me still drenched to the bone from the flood, trident in hand, and yet he has never looked less than our District. He's nothing like the way Finnick was during his Games, when he wielded his trident and crafted nets out of vines; all of his deeds had been necessities, yet even still he was no monster. Looking upon Liber now, I feel as though I am looking at a husk of my brother; his presence a ghost, not even of a memory, or even a person. When my brother reaches to take the ointment out of Daisy's pocket, the very same that she had used on me and Liber a mere three days ago, I feel all color leave my face.

"He was going to die, anyway," Lamia says, as blood seeps through her fingers. "So was his friend. Damn it...glad you have that ointment, Liber. I'll be needing it. But first, we have a few things to take care of."

Liber looks at me, then, with cold blue eyes.

I meet his gaze evenly. "So that's it, Liber?" I demand. "You're going to kill me?"

My brother adjusts the trident in his hands, at least not aiming it towards me, or directly charging. For a moment, as horrible as it is, I'm grateful for Birch's acidic body serving as a barrier between us. Whether not this is what is deterring my brother, I can't say. I don't even know if I find that comforting. My brother is staring at me with absolutely chilling eyes. He hasn't even flinched to the deeds of his girlfriend, or the mere suggestion of his sister dying. I have to wonder now how much of this has been apart of his plan, if he's already processed it well before it happened.

He watched his girlfriend throw a dagger into the back of a little girl's head, and he stole from her pockets.

"We both know only one person leaves," Liber says.

"I want to kill her," Lamia says, still gripping her wound. She looks at Liber, whose eyes are still on me. "Incapacitate her, then we'll use that ointment on my shoulder. I want to be able to enjoy killing her. And, besides, she deserves to hurt for this. Don't you think?"

Liber doesn't reply right away, but after a moment he nods. "She deserves a lot of things," he admits.

I deserve...I feel my thoughts trail, the shock of it all coming at me with full force. There are hundreds upon hundreds of things I want to shout, to release a great roar of anger into the cave, and every instinct inside of me is saying to jump into the water and swim as fast as I can to get away from them. I know I can outswim my brother, who's always been a mainlander rather than a swimmer, and with her wounded shoulder Lamia wouldn't be able to keep up with me. Every instinct that I have built upon years of surviving on the open seas, against any weather conditions, as well as from my years of studying in the Games, is screaming loudly at me. But I can't bring myself to move.

My brother, who is a head taller than me and lanky and who used to roll his eyes relentlessly over everything I ever did, is now staring at me, trident in hand, prepared to hurt me. He would bring me down for the benefit of a girl he's only known for a few weeks, who is looking at me like I'm a meal. He doesn't even blink, not even a reflection of remorse or reluctance in his demeanor. His eyes are cold and his back is straight.

I choose my brother, always.

I choose my sister.

Liar. Liar.

I can only imagine how dad is feeling, which rips right through my heart. But I can't think about what my dad must be feeling right now, because what he's feeling is minimal compared to what I am living through. Talk my way out of it. Fight my way out. Run out of here. There are dozens of solutions flying through my head, yet I can only stand there and gape at a little brother I threw everything away to protect.

"Why?" I ask.

Liber opens his mouth, but closes it just as quickly. "Because," he says, lifting his trident, "you reap what you sow."

But before my brother can hurtle the Trident in my direction, with myself bracing to dodge the impact (likely a poor one), the ground rumbles. The clear water quivers in place, jostling Daisy's floating body. I watch as something translucent moves beneath the water, swiftly for a fleeting moment, and then a large burly creature leaps out of the water, claiming Daisy in its jaws. I stumble backwards, as do Liber and Lamia. The creature lands upon the water's edge, his terrible jaw clenching against the little girl's body, causing all of her bones to snap and crunch at once.

It's a Mutt, but it's white. Its body seems to shimmer, reflecting almost like a rainbow, and its pale blue eyes are like ice. The white crocodile tilts its head back, and Daisy's body disappears into its enormous maw. It is twice the size of the orange crocodiles in the blackwater and its scales are near blinding against the golden lights. It throws its head back, releasing a loud and horrible shriek which resounds off of the cave walls.

And when I lift my eyes off of it, I see Liber throwing his trident.

(a/n): ...we, uh. We all knew Birch was gonna die, right? So this chapter was actually a lot of fun to write. I actually originally planned for Birch to kill Lamia in a blaze of glory, like a kamikaze pilot. He was originally going to charge at Lamia and the result was going to be an acidic explosion, which would have killed her instantly, and given justice to Daisy's murder. However, as much as I loved Birch successfully avenging Daisy, even if it meant dying, it also didn't feel realistic. Justice doesn't exist in the Hunger Games. If it did, Primrose wouldn't have died in Mockingjay. So I decided to take a more melancholic and bitter approach to it, which I feel like has a stronger impact. It also gave me the chance to properly portray the long awaited moment for me: Liber choosing Lamia. I always knew that Liber would betray Ceres, so to write it out felt so damn good. There'll be a lot more to unravel and unpack in the next chapter, believe me.

The next chapter is a chapter I have been waiting to write for SO DAMN LONG, and will include so many twists and turns that I hope will satisfy you guys. It won't be for the faint of heart, but it's already my baby. That being said, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! And I hope you guys look forward to the next one. Hehe.

Please, please, follow, favorite, and review! These give me confidence boosters and help motivate me to write faster, better, and all that good stuff!

Review replies

tomeii: Haha! Liber has always been a complicated and fun character to write, and I can say, with giddiness, that I was thrilled that you caught onto Liber's betrayal. There is a lot more to be unpacked in the next chapter, but I've been dropping hints since the beginning that this is where things would go, so I'm very pleased you caught on. ^^ And thank you so much! Seneca is honestly a pretty fun character to write. The idea of him being strictly evil is just generic and boring to me. Based on the movies, primarily his scenes with Snow, I always saw him as kind of a young businessman who flew too close to the sun. He has to have ambition, but he's clearly naive and unseasoned. I tried to capture that, plus provide context and add my own spin to his character, which I'm glad is paying off so far!

the. apple .seed: Truth be told, writing the scenes between Tributes was quite fun. It's easy to forget that the people Reaped for the Hunger Games are literal children and teenagers, so I tried to capture that youthful characterization and arrogance, like with Lamia openly admitting she'll kill Ceres, but then behaving childishly over Jason's actions. Finnick's POVs are always tragic to write, and I try to do so as delicately as I can. There'll be some interesting moments for him coming soon. As far Ceres...things got way worse, and will get even worse next chapter. *evil laugh*

cars form the sun: Thank you so much! ^^ You will be seeing some more POV moments from, so far, the main three, but down the line we'll also be seeing someone else. There's a POV character who's going to be featured heavily when we reach canon. Hehe. As far as the crocs go...;)

TRIBUTES OF THE 68TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES

DISTRICT 1

- Jason Ironjaw (18)

- Lamia Lowvale (15)

DISTRICT 2