Reap What We Sow Chapter 18: Seventeen: take my hand, a hunger games fanfic

(a/n): ...this is a doozy.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

take my hand

My brother hurtles his trident towards the Mutt. As I expect, it bounces right off of its white skin, and skids back across the rocks, just out of my brother's reach. The crocodile swings its head, hissing angrily. Its scales almost ripple. The crocodile pulls itself out of the water. I notice, in that moment where half of its body is still submerged, that it is translucent beneath the water. With a careful eye, one could definitely notice the shimmer around its body, distinct against the water, but it would be also easy to miss. It's been there the whole time, I think with horror as it pulls itself out. It is significantly larger than its counterparts, with a pink mouth that opens to reveal layers of pointed teeth.

There are no exits behind me and nothing I could bother scaling to get out of here. The only way out is to get through where we initially came, which meant passing by my brother, Lamia, and a very angry Mutt. For a hair's breadth, I have to think about going into the water and finding a tunnel to get out of here. It's a possibility, especially with this crocodile now thoroughly distracted by my brother and Lamia. But as much as my instincts are screaming at me to run, Liber's panicked expression draws me back.

His trident is just out of reach, and he keeps glancing at it. He lunges for it, anyway, and the crocodile, triggered by the fast motion, snaps its jaw threateningly.

Lamia looks between me and the Mutt, weighing her options. With an angry snarl, she steps back, still holding her wound. "We should get out of here," she says to Liber, backing towards him. "Just let that thing kill her o - "

But before I can blink, Lamia stumbles, her lips curling as our eyes set upon each other. There's so much anger and defiance in those eyes of hers that I feel myself almost falter, because I've seen those eyes before, in my own reflection back home. I had been so committed to the idea of the Games, that anything that stood in my way was an obstacle to be overcome or destroyed

The trident's silver tips pierce through the hollow of Lamia's throat, its prongs protruding out of her skin.

Liber pulls the trident out fast, and Lamia staggers forward, right into the expectant jaws of the crocodile. I can hear her bones snapping as it seizes her. The sound of the cannon is almost muffled by it. The Mutt, pleased by its prey, surges back towards the water and disappears beneath the surface. She never even had time to fathom her betrayal.

It's just us now.

I feel my jaw slowly drop. "Liber..." I breathe out.

"You used to say I could never hold one of these," Liber says, wiping Lamia's blood off of his trident with his pants. "Only one of us is getting out of this, Ceres. You said so yourself. And I remember you aptly Volunteering to keep me safe, and to die so that I could live."

I stare at him with narrowed eyes. "You're my brother."

He shrugs. "I know," he says. "You never really acted like it before the Games, though. You and dad were always out on the water, or you were with Finnick, or you were boasting about the Games. My life didn't matter until I was the one in the Games."

"Your life always mattered," I say, sharply. "Why else would I Volunteer?"

"Because you can't stand being one-upped," Liber says.

I keep feeling like I'm waiting for a punchline that's never going to come. I'm just staring into the hollow eyes of my brother, realizing that he was more of a stranger to me than I could ever have previously imagined. He's staring almost right through me, and I know that he feels the same.

"So you'll kill me?"

"We both know you won't kill me. You couldn't Volunteer for Harpee, and we both know why - so of course you wouldn't have the stomach to kill me," he says, head shaking. "And I don't think I have the stomach, either. But I can try."

"You won't be able to."

"Maybe," Liber says, adjusting the trident in his hand. "But you won't kill me."

My brother lunges then, swinging his trident out at me. I dodge it expertly. His swings are too broad and forceful, his balance entirely off. I dodge every swipe he takes at me, including every effort to plunge his trident through me. I use the butt of my spear to swipe back at him, not enough to knock him down, but to cause him to stagger. The water is close to us. Realistically I could knock him off of his feet and push him into it. But the more I dodge his blows and retaliate with mild strikes, it becomes apparent that he's right. I can't kill him.

I couldn't Volunteer for Harpee because it meant killing Finnick, thus not winning the Games. But I Volunteered to keep Liber safe, because I knew that no one from my District would show him mercy. As it turned out, he never needed help to begin with. All he needed was blind devotion.

"What about dad?" I snap as I kick at his knee. He stumbles onto it and I move aside, so that I'm out of his reach, but he can hear and see my anger. "You'd just kill me and go back to him, to mom?!"

Liber looks up, glaring. "Don't be stupid. Dad wouldn't care, neither would mom - he fished with you, didn't he?" he grits, standing back up.

"Liber. I can't kill you."

"Then that's it, then."

Liber lunges towards me. I brace on the ground, meeting his collision in what becomes a fierce array of raking nails and swinging fists. My fist collides with his stomach, and he doubles over. I reel my knee back so I can hoist it back into him, but he wraps his arms around me and tackles me down. We roll, and I go to push him away, but he slams my head down. I hiss in pain and try to kick out at him again, able to land a firm knee to his crotch. He hisses, and I'm back up again, but this time he grabs my hair.

I grab for his hands, but he's already pushing me. I have nothing to support myself with, so I land with a splash into the water. He tumbles in with me, as I was able to grab ahold of his coat. We fumble in the water, which stains red with Daisy and Lamia's blood. My brother reels his head back and slams it against mine. I push Liber away, and he seizes the chance to swim upwards.

I can see Liber staring over the water's edge at me, as I recover myself. He's just standing there, no doubt waiting for what's to come. I feel it, too. Before I even have a chance to find an exit through one of the tunnels or propel myself back to the surface, I feel that thing beneath me. Its scaly back grazes my legs. My outstretched arms move to push myself back up, but it's all too late and pointless. Within a millisecond of thought, I feel the crocodile's maw clench around my arm. Pain shoots through me, though it is nullified by absolute shock. Adrenaline masks my pain, but it also hinders my thinking. Every instinct within me says to fight and to run, but I can't do either. I can't see what has a hold on me, though I recognize the translucent shimmer against my arm, and blood is seeping out into the water; trickles of it, and then a cloud.

Without any delay, I feel the crocodile twist itself. Horror is all I feel as I realize what's to come. Death roll. I remember one of the fishermen in District 4 talking about it, when we'd had that crocodile menace killing off our men - how no one can survive it, how it's impossible to roll with or against it. I've seen creatures die like this.

But those thoughts aren't registering anymore. Everything is a whirlwind as I am twisted around, the water roaring in my ear and my arm suddenly searing with absolute pain. I can't even see the beast with its hold on me. At least the black water would mask the blood. It keeps rolling, faster and faster by the second. Everything starts to blur together.

All I know is fear.

I am truly, truly afraid.

My free hand reaches out to my belt, pawing for something. Instinct grapples me in this moment, because there are no senses sharp enough to comprehend what's happening to me. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins and instinct has its hold on me, and I am just a puppet dangling by its strings. I manage to get my rapala, which I swing furiously out, stabbing at the creature. I can't see it, even its translucent hue is gone amidst the blurring haze of its rapid spinning. But I strike anyway, feeling as if I'm hitting nothing. But then pain hits me, and I realize I am impaling myself. My mouth opens in agony.

But I strike again, because I have to try. I have to try. I have to try. I have to try.

Then I hit something, because it stops spinning, but in doing so it proceeds to jerk me back and forth furiously. So I strike again. I use a little trickle of black blood as my guide, slamming my rapala so deep into it that the hilt nearly disappears. I must have hit its eye. Its jaw clamps tighter around me, and it starts to roll again. Thinking fast, I try to predict where it will roll, and roll with it. Our bodies move in unison, in a horrible, bloodied hurricane beneath the water. Blood, red and black, pools around us like a thick fog. I can't see anything anymore, but I'm not dead. I'm alive.

And then I'm free.

I feel myself drift out of its grasp and I push myself as far away as I can. I'm clawing up towards the water, my legs kicking furiously as it recovers from the pain below me. It must have started to malfunction when I'd destroyed its eye; maybe my blade was deep enough to severely damage its nervous system. Its jaw had just unhinged and I was free, so now I just have to swim. I need to swim fast. So I do, paying no mind to if it's trailing behind me. All I see is the glowing gold rocks above the surface, and the edge to safety.

I grab ahold of it and, with every fiber of my being, push myself onto it. My knees graze its surface as I haul myself up, then using that momentum to rush forward. Adrenaline is still working with me, as I'm able to run fast from the water's edge, until I almost hit the wall. My hand outstretches to catch myself, and my legs almost buckle beneath me. I breathe heavily, forcing myself to catch my breath. I try to concentrate on my breathing. But my mind is reeling and my arm is in absolute agony, and I can feel the warm blood against me. God knows how much I've lost. I wonder how much it will compare to the head wound I received days earlier, but that had just been from a scratch.

Daisy's voice resounds in my head like a distant echo. It's just a scratch, she'd said.

I press my forehead against the rocks.

The crocodile doesn't come after me, making me wonder if it's decided to retreat or if I've killed it. Frankly, it's a shame there are no cannons for these Mutts. It would be nice to keep track of them the way we do Tributes. Then again, I haven't killed any of them; just hindered their eyes. Well, maybe I've killed that one, which would be quite nice - nice penance for how badly my arm is hurting, and for Liber -

Liber.

I turn, but my brother is gone. He must have seen the crocodile start to take me in its death roll and have retreated. But no cannons have resounded, so clearly I am very much alive. Alive, but in pain. A lot of pain. Maybe he'll come looking for me, or he'll be smart and run as far away as he can. But I'll find him. I always do.

My eyes drift, locking onto my spear still on the ground. At least he had had the common decency not to steal it.

I push myself off of the rock and approach it, leaning down to take it when I feel myself come a little off balance. I catch myself on the ground, perplexed. I look at my hand pressed against the bloodying stone, from what was Lamia's blood and now my blood, and I follow the trickles which stain along my side to look at my wounded arm.

All I see is a bloodied stump.

I blink, yet nothing changes. I'm staring at nothing.

Well, not nothing. There's a stump where my arm used to be, with chunks of flesh hanging treacherously off of my shoulder, like old rags. Blood is pooling out of me like a waterfall, hot and gooey against my side. I try blinking again, then I use my hand to reach out, as if the crocodile made my arm translucent, too. But I'm met with dead air.

It's gone, my arm is gone.

That's not possible.

"No..." I murmur. "No.."

I touch the stump directly, but the contact of my hand mistakenly grasping my bone causes a searing pain I've never known before and I release a scream of shock and agony. I let go immediately, but I'm out of breath as the pain seizes me whole; it's like being too cold, just freezing in place as the elements devour you. I've watched Tributes freeze to death. Is this it?

I try catching my breath, but nothing is working. No breathing exercises or focusing or anything of the sort is taking my mind away from the searing pain and I am in, nor to the way that the entirety of my body is floundering to it. I try pushing myself to my knees, so I can slowly get up, but I can't. I stumble forward again, this time landing on my chest. My cheek is pressed against the rocky surface, realizing, horribly, that I'm going into shock. All of that blood is pooling out of me so fast.

I need to staunch it, but what the hell could I staunch it with?

I look around desperately, seeing nothing.

With a heavy swallow, I push myself up again, this time managing to get to my knees. I manage to get ahold of my spear, opting to use it as a cane to help bring me to my feet. My whole body is eclipsed by pain and I grit my teeth to fight against it. With a loud cry, I get to my feet again. My whole body is trembling. My vision is blurring together, though I can't tell if it's from the blood loss or tears welling in them or both. I just need to move forward. Step by step, I force myself forward. I use my spear as a cane to lean against and support myself.

Where the hell am I going?

Liber, I need to find Liber.

But where is he?

Finnick, then. I need Finnick. He can staunch my bleeding.

But he's not here.

Dad. I need my dad. He...

You're alone.

I can't be.

Oh, God. They're probably watching this right now, if the Gamemakers are even showing this right now; maybe something more exciting is happening than a girl who's just lost her arm. But undoubtedly they are readying the cannons. I wonder if the cannon will go off as soon as I die, or seconds before. Will I hear it? Will it be the last thing I hear?

What other option is there?

My own ragged breathing, I suppose, slowly fading out.

"Don't watch," I manage to grit out, just in case. "Dad, don't..."

My spear catches on something on the ground and I lose my balance, falling forward. I hit myself on my wounded side and I release a loud scream. I reach to clutch it out of instinct, hissing as the searing pain tears through me like acid. I throw my head back, eyes squeezed shut as I feel myself drifting. It's like being caught in a riptide, no reprieve, and only fear. But at least with a riptide, there is the hope that someone will come along.

I have no one.

I am well and truly alone.

I open my eyes, staring up at the golden lit ceiling, with the fireflies far above me. They're pretty. They're too pretty for an Arena like this, and given the array of Mutts that exist here, they're probably dangerous, too. But for a second, they remind me of the city lights in the Capitol, which I had looked out upon during my last night. I'd spent those final hours before bed with my brother and my dad, because it felt right. It was our goodbyes. And dad had seemingly believed us when we swore to protect each other.

I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promises, dad. Tell mom I'm coming home...with, without my shield, whatever she meant by it.

I'd spent that night with Finnick, too. We'd made love thrice that night, and I was well sore afterwards, but I'd never felt happier. To be held by him, his lips against my ear, I'd felt safe. The world couldn't touch us in that room, at least for that short time. But what a short time it was, and how much longer, and sweeter, it could have been had my pride and pettiness not kept me from seeing the truth sooner.

My breathing starts to slow.

"I'm...sorry we didn't...have more time," I manage out, and feel a mirthless bit of laughter part from me.

I watch the fireflies hover well above me, feeling my eyes start to droop, but then a shadow looms over me. My eyes close, then, wishing for my last thought to be of those fireflies; so delicate and so beautiful. I don't want the last thing I see to be the face of a person to end me, least of all when it could be my own brother. But rather than a swift or even a violent death, I feel fingers press beneath my jaw, at my neck, and then a low, feminine gasp.

"Shit."

I don't recognize her voice, but I'm already drifting far away now, so who knows. Maybe I do know her. Maybe Lamia came back to life and she's going to kill me, like she wanted.

"Okay, hang on," says the voice again. "Just...hang on."

Hang on to what? I'm already falling.

Seneca

It's quiet again, though I'm anything but bored. With my uncle off on a meeting with President Snow, I stand as temporary Head Gamemaker in his absence. "Zero in on District 1 and District 4 for me."

The screen enlarges for my viewing. I press my knuckle to my lips, considering Liber Rythe and Lamia Lowvale carefully. They're both squatted together, looking through a backpack they had found abandoned and drenched with water from the flood - an idea of my uncle's, despite my protests. The Games had gotten boring without any deaths over the course of three days, so my uncle thought it would be an exceptional idea to liven things up. He had considered several things, such as the cave crumbling in on itself and leaving various spaces with minimal air pockets for Tributes to claw their way through, or for the crocodiles to expand out of their designated water locations and hunt for the Tributes actively. He even thought to release the bats again, which tore at human flesh. But none of these ideas appealed to me, because they seemed too dangerous.

I didn't harken to the idea of a crocodile possibly getting brave and going after my Tributes, to whom I had been most generous. I'd secured an expensive and fancy trident for Liber Rythe, though he hasn't even used it, and I'd been ensuring Ceresea was well fed, though she shared it with her lesser Tributes. It was a generous sight to be sure, which also escalated her popularity and, by proxy, her Sponsorships. It appealed to the softer hearts of the Capitol, who enjoyed acts of compassion amidst the bloodshed. It was a fine complimentary balance that I also found to be appealing, for it also warmed my chest. More than a Victor's daughter, more than a Tribute, Ceresea was a kind young woman, and I found myself growing progressively fond her.

Hence, when my uncle had suggested these violent and frightening acts to stir chaos in the Arena again, a new idea had come to me. Flood it, I had said, earning a raised brow from the older man. Water exists beyond the Arena's cave structure, so I used the holographic three dimensional map of our Arena to demonstrate my idea. I used a specific code to demonstrate what a flood would look like; how high it would go and how far, as well as how the black and clear water pockets, which housed our Muttations, would be unfazed by it. My uncle seemed pleased by the prospect, as it would absolutely ensure the Tributes' separations. To say I was thrilled would be an understatement, for I knew my Tributes would fair well. After all, they were exceptional swimmers. At least she was.

But to describe my vexation when Ceresea was dumped into a lower level of the cave, surrounded by black water and having to swim through it, with two of the Muttations tracking her, would also be an understatement. I'd thought to approach my uncle about the subject, but I knew better. He is already watching me closely for biases, which is unbefitting a future Head Gamemaker. The last thing I needed to do was to add coal to the fire. Ceresea had survived the encounter, as well as her fight with Mox.

As Ceresea was fighting for her life and spilling the blood of her assailant, her brother was sitting cozily with Lamia Lowvale. Now the two are discussing their respective strategies. Both are still drenched from the flooding, though they've managed to retain their dignities. Liber still has the trident I purchased for him, though he holds it quite awkwardly. Lamia, meanwhile, still has her daggers attached to her belt, and her spirit is ever intact.

"Two cannons went off," Liber mutters. "I wonder who they were."

"If we're very, very lucky, it was one of Seven's people," Lamia replies, calmly. "Think about it, Liber. Your sister is a swimmer and Jason is a beast. They're both alive."

"There's only six of us left, Mia," Liber replies, his gaze going distant. His lips purse as he sits there, pondering to himself. "This cat and mouse is going to have to stop. Whoever we find next, we'll just have to kill them. They're our threat."

"And your sister?" Lamia presses.

"What about her?"

Lamia makes an exasperated tutting noise. Her eyes roll back into her head and she leans away from him, in an act of teenage and childish vexation. "We've talked about this. Your sister plans on keeping you alive, anyway, so no matter what she's going to die. And you know that she won't let me live, either," she says, huffing. "She'll kill me as soon as she sees me, now that numbers are going down."

"I don't want her to kill you," Liber says.

"Do you want me to kill her?" Lamia inquires.

"Should we entirely filter out their conversations, sir?" inquires one of the Gamemakers below me. "Part of the appeal of District 4 is their unity - "

"No," I reply. "Show it. This is betrayal in its rawest form, Gamemaker Maverick. Let the Capitol see what a viper looks like."

Besides, the Capitol is often stirred by the theatrics which come across in the Games, whether it be these little love affairs between young Tributes about to face death, such as the case with Liber and Lamia, or the rawer betrayals. A common favorite for the Capitol is when fellow Tributes from the same District turn on each other. It is so feral to behold, as these Tributes revert to natural instinct, and forsake a person they've likely known their whole lives. But this is something else entirely. This is a brother and a sister, whose father is a Victor.

Ceresea had made it very clear during her very moving Interview that her brother came first, and she had kept to that. So often during the Games had she insisted on finding her brother, as she protected a smaller and weaker Alliance, which had garnered her sympathy and a few gentle Sponsors. I know them all by name, of course. As Gamemakers, are monitor the parachutes, which Tribute they're for, who they're from, and the names of the Sponsors.

Liber had also sworn to put his sister first, yet he has seemingly already forsaken such promises. This will cause anger, and, hopefully, his Sponsors will move to her as an act of sympathy.

"She really must frustrate you," Lamia muses.

Liber nods. "You have no idea," he says, with a hissing breath. "All she's ever talked about was winning the Games, yet she's never had the gall to actually Volunteer. The amount of times I'd catch her watching old Archives...it was so stupid. Then a few years ago she just stopped talking about it, like that sick obsession never happened, and then she Volunteers when I'm Reaped," he says. "You know, I really could have stood a chance. If she hadn't been there, my dad could've focused entirely on me. Instead, her presence ruined everything. My dad was a wreck, and my mentors worked double time to compensate for us. So, yeah...she can die. If that's what she really wants, all for the sake of keeping me alive when I would've been fine anyway, yeah."

"Shh. You're upset." Lamia extends a finger and presses it to his lips. "We'll find her. When we do, she'll get what she deserves."

"Just don't draw it out too long, okay?" Liber says, shuddering beneath her hand. "She's still my sister."

"Just long enough for her to get the point."

Liber grunts. "Let's just move on...maybe we can find them."

"Sir, District 4, 7, and 12 are by the translucent Muttation," calls another Gamemaker, and enlarges the screen for me. "And it looks as though District 4 and 1 are heading that way."

Gamemaker Rosaline brings up the hologram of the translucent Muttation, a design that I had come up with shortly after the obsidian Muttations. The prospect of it bode absolutely well. Tributes would assume they were safe, and then they would be slain by something they could not see until it was too late. I thought it was absolutely terrifying for Tributes and viewers alike. It would be nail biting for the Capitolians to be aware that their Tributes were never truly safe. Their eyes would be glued to their screens. It provided a nice bit of danger, though I did find myself a little uneased to the prospect of setting it out against the Tributes now.

But that is precisely why I must. My uncle has stated time and time again that biases can kill a Head Gamemaker's career, if not properly utilized. I want to keep Ceresea Rythe alive, but I need to play by the rules of the Games that we forge in this room. I hope to delay it, but when Lamia enters the cave, spotting the Alliance, I see that smirk upon her features and know that my plans are void.

When the little girl from District 12 falls face first into the water, her blood pooling instantly, I know that it's time. Gamemaker Rosaline looks to me for approval. Realizing I've been staring for a second too long, I nod and point firmly at it. "Yes, yes, yes, I like it," I say. "Now activate it."

"Should we set for stun or kill, Gamemaker Seneca?" she inquires.

"Kill," a voice answers before I'm able to.

Lucius is standing over us now, looking across the circular arrangement of chairs and holograms, and the large screen between it all that we monitor closely. My uncle is leaned forward against the rails, looking out over us with an unreadable expression. There is a hard set of wrinkles in his forehead, which I know means he is angry. He removes his coat and drapes it over the railing, proceeding to roll his sleeps up. He appears mildly flushed, though no one dares to bring it up. The eyes of the Gamemakers look to their master, then back down when he casts them all a cold, unrelenting leer.

Lucius levels his gaze to us, then. "Set it for kill, Gamemaker Rosaline."

I bite back a nervous swallow.

This particular variation of Muttation is going to be all the more vicious compared to the obsidian ones, on account of its bigger size, and its camouflage having to do with its translucent skin rather than the water being solid black. I remember my father telling me once how easy it was to overlook consequences as a Gamemaker. To create whatever you willed and force it into being is a power only gods are capable of. Having that amount of power can cloud judgment. I feel that now more than ever, for these Muttations that I have worked meticulously on over the year, building in these very halls beside my uncle and several other Gamemakers, are now proving to be the source of my disdain.

I had always planned on Sponsoring a Tribute or two during the Games, as it was appropriate to do so and also expected of me. But I had not expected this sort of outcome, in which my Tributes' survival is less about show and more about detriment. Now they are to be thrust into a perilous situation.

"Do you have any other suggestions, Gamemaker Seneca?" my uncle inquires, noting my silence.

I shake my head. "Not at all, sir," I say. I pull away from the Gamemaker's side and climb the stairs leading up to the small landing looking down over everything. My uncle isn't looking at me, anymore, rather watching the screen as everything starts to unravel. "How did your meeting go with President Snow?"

Lucius is quiet for a moment. The silence unnerves me a little and I spare him a glance.

Eventually, my uncle straightens. "It went well," he replies, stiffly. "President Snow believes the Games are going off quite well, particularly now that we resolved that unfortunate lapse of silence. This is far more entertaining, wouldn't you agree? It is the ideal theatrics of any successful Game. I don't think we've had a proper betrayal in the Games for some time, wouldn't you agree, Seneca?"

My hands are clenching over the metal railing. It's impossible to watch as Ceres is squared off against her fellow Tribute and brother, as well as his lover. Birch lies dead in a pool of his own blood and acid and bone, while the girl from District 12 lays face-first in the water, but not for long. Soon her whole body is swallowed whole when the translucent Muttation leaps out of the water, sending a wave of it out, and its body slamming against the surface.

I hear footsteps behind me. "Sir," says a voice.

I turn, facing one of my assistants. Ames Cairncross is new blood in my team, though he is credible enough. He was assigned to me by my uncle, so I hadn't overviewed his file myself; only given a summary of his skillsets. I know very little about him, save for the fact that his mother is a widower to a former member of President Snow's high council, and his son was supposed to inherit such a mantle. Yet Ames had opted for a different career path, in which he would serve a future Head Gamemaker.

Ames is a tall young man with a dark olive complexion, with equally dark hair pulled back into a neat braid down his back. His eyes are an unnerving shade of pale green, also lined by a neon teal which draws out into a cat eye, and is accentuated by a silver highlighter over his cheeks.

Despite the general rule of discreet decorum among Gamemakers, the rule doesn't necessarily apply to its lesser members. I wish it did, though, for Mr. Cairncross' appearance seems rather uncouth for such an important environment. He is a distraction, most certainly by my uncle's view, who looks positively crossed to be staring at him.

At the very least, his suit suffices. It is solid white and lined with silver, with a dark purple shirt beneath it.

"Excuse me for intruding, Head Gamemaker, I didn't know you'd come back," says Ames. "Gamemaker Seneca, I'm afraid we have an issue."

"An issue?" I say, trying very hard to ignore how my uncle's eyes sharpen in on me. "What kind of issue?"

"Rheon Rythe is outside the doors demanding to speak with whomever is in charge, at the current time. You had yet to return, Head Gamemaker, so I informed him that I would bring Gamemaker Seneca to - "

"Yes, fine," my uncle cuts in, eyes still chilly. "Seneca, go deal with it. Inform that self-inclined Victor that we have no allowances here."

I spare a glance over my shoulder to the various screens depicting the Games. Jason is using his axe to successfully kill one of my obsidian Muttations, while the boy from District 12 is hiding, with a wounded leg, in an alcove. But most importantly, Ceresea and Liber are facing each other alone now, with the other girl's dead body spilling blood upon the ground. A part of me wants - needs - to stay to ensure that this ends the way I want it to, but I know with my uncle present that my influence has faded out significantly. Rather, I decide to make this meeting as brief as possible, so I can return promptly to deal with it to the best of my ability.

I walk briskly, with Ames at my heels.

"Did Mr. Rythe say what he wanted?" I ask, adjusting the collar of my shirt.

"It's self-explanatory, sir," Ames replies. "His children are about to kill each other."

"Don't be impudent," I say, sharply. "What did he say?"

"He wants your influence, sir."

Of course he does.

The doors dividing our hallowed halls to the lobby open, revealing the Victor in question.

Rheon Rythe looks absolutely horrendous.

Rheon Rythe had been considered, at least at one point in his life, to be a fairly attractive individual. With bronze skin with a pair of fierce dark eyes and a mop of curly hair, he had almost had the potential to rise to the same heights as some of his peers; yet he had squandered it by poor popularity. His Interview had gone terrible and his role in the Games had been deftly boring. Even when he had lost his eye, none had batted theirs. There was a mere widespread of disappointment.

Rheon's dark hair lays flat against his head, looking disgustingly greasy. The man has no doubt spared any time to shower during the Games - I can almost forgive him for it, for those are his own children in the Games, but the smell of him causes me to take a step back. His singular good eye is wild, though even his glass eye seems to reflect the same measure of madness. His beard, as well, is ungroomed.

"Mr. Rythe, this is extremely unprofessional," I chastise. "A seasoned Victor and Mentor such as yourself should know better than - "

"Don't let her die," Rheon cuts me off, a ferocity to his tone that quiets me. My eyes widen, and he seizes my silence as a chance to continue on. "I see what's going to happen, do not let her die - you've seen what she's survived, the Capitol loves her. I've seen and met her Sponsors. Keeping her alive would bet to your benefit as it is to ours."

I cannot dispute his logic, though I'm powerless to do anything more. To keep Ceresea alive would most certainly be to the benefit of the Capitol, as she is very much well-liked. We've watched her numbers skyrocket, between Sponsors and general word of mouth; absolute awe following her as she survives the unthinkable. Her ratings had certainly jumped when she had successfully survived the black water with two active Muttations. Although the water made everything black to her vision, to we, the Capitol, it was clear. We had programmed the water to be so.

Still, I find that her odds are leaning out of her favor, at least where her brother is standing, and a crocodile between them. I can sympathize with Rheon's concerns, for I feel them as deeply as he does, but I am also frustrated in my own inability to change things. With my uncle standing at its head, there's only so much I can do when he is present.

"I understand that you are upset," I say. "But there's nothing I can do."

"Nothing you can do?" Rheon snarls, moving closer. I lift my hand to stop the guards watching on tensely, who consider approaching. Rheon doesn't even seem to notice them. "You're their Sponsor, and you can't do anything?"

"I am a Sponsor for both of your Tributes, Mr. Rythe, but that does not mean that I play a role in shielding them from the Games. That would be illegal and go against the code of any respectable Gamemaker - "

"Then explain the flooding," Rheon cuts in. "Or why that invisible Mutt didn't attack my daughter and her friends when they fell into the water after the bats chased them. They were bleeding, but it didn't move."

I feel a little taken aback, though I manage to keep myself composed. "Coincidences or malfunctions, Mr. Rythe. Despite our best efforts, sometimes glitches slip through," I reply. "Despite what you may think, I don't have the power to - "

"I know that you have the power to keep my children alive. My son betrayed my daughter, Mr. Crane," Rheon says, with a bitterness unlike any I have seen before. His teeth clench together, so loudly that I can hear the grind. His jaw flexes, and I see veins protruding out of his forehead. "My wife has no doubt seen it, and she is far away in District 4 where I can neither hold nor comfort her. Her children are killing each other, Mr. Crane. Imagine it. I implore you."

"Your words move me," I reply, coolly. "But as a Gamemaker, I don't have the power or the influence to secure your children's safety. Even if I did have the power, I would be putting my career at risk."

"Haven't you already?" Rheon says, eyes sharp. "You met with my daughter on the rooftop."

My brow arches. "For a professional meeting, Mr. Rythe, nothing more."

"A secretive meeting that is unprofessional, Mr. Crane," Rheon says lowly. "You are a Gamemaker. So be one."

"Was that a threat, Mr. Rythe?"

A noise catches our attentions, cutting through the tensions. We both turn our heads towards a large screen located in the lobby, divided into three separate visions; one of which depicting Jason in the middle of trying to harvest teeth out of the now very dead obsidian Muttation, the other showing the girl from District 7 weaving through various halls, and the middle one depicting Ceres Rythe as she's knocked into the water with the Muttation. It's a sight to behold, for the screens allow the Muttation to be made visible, albeit with its slight translucent sheen so no one forgets what it is. We watch on, both falling silent, as the Muttation proceeds to roll with her, creating a cloud of blood that almost entirely fogs up the cameras.

Yet Ceresea keeps fighting, using her little knife to stab at the creature. The knife doesn't make a dent against the skin she cannot see, and I notice how she stabs herself a few times in the process. Rheon takes a sharp breath beside me, and I can practically hear my uncle now. Ready the cannon. I swallow thickly, my hands clenching at my sides. One of the screens show Liber standing over the edge, watching it unfold. He turns and walks on, sparing a glance towards Lamia's dead body before he starts to run.

It carries on for so long, yet suddenly, in an absolute burst of blood, Ceresea manages to pull away from the monster. She manages to breach herself over the edge, manages to run until she finds the wall to lean herself against. I see her stump, then, which gushes blood. From the now changed angle, I can clearly see the ripped muscle and flesh scarcely covering her bone, which in turn is near hidden by the amount of blood pooling out of her. She doesn't seem totally aware of it, her expression dazed.

She even manages to walk on to find her spear, but that is when she falls. When she sees it.

How fierce she is, how determined, in how she uses her spear as a crutch and tries to walk on.

"Don't watch," she says, in a rasp. "Dad, don't..."

Her spear catches on a little indent in the ground and she falls forward. She lands on her wounded side, and releases a cry of pain that sends a shiver down my spine.

"I'm...sorry we didn't...have more time," she says.

Ready the cannon, I hear my uncle say, far back into my head.

I hold my breath, as do the few people currently residing in the lobby. As Ceresea lays bleeding out, each breath closer to her last, a new person enters the cavern. The girl in question is from District 7, who looks across the carnage with wide eyes, and I see her almost wheel back around to depart. But then she hears Ceresea speak, watches her breathe. Confliction spreads across her face, until she sighs deeply and irritably and rushes forward. She uses her jacket to act as a tourniquet, and from there, she tries to hoist Ceresea up and take her away.

There are no cannons, only silence. Slowly, I look back to Rheon, who has gone several shades paler.

"My daughter is a survivor type," Rheon manages out, staring sharply into my eyes. "Look at her. Look at her."

I swallow. "You're asking me to secure the safety of your children, Mr. Rythe. Even if I had the power to do so, only one of them can leave the Arena. What you're suggesting is keeping them both alive, only for one to kill the other, anyway. And in your daughter's current condition, I'm unsure the odds would lean in her favor. If you would prefer we eliminate them immediately, we'll take your influence into account for humane purposes. Otherwise I suggest you think and behave realistically. You are not the first, and won't be the last, person to lose a loved one in the Games."

"You chose to meet with my daughter on that rooftop, Mr. Crane. I'm not blind enough to not see why," he goes on, causing my face to flush. "I've seen how she's survived, so have you. People love her. If she dies, think about how they'll feel. This could be a death that'll cost you or a life that'll make your Games memorable. Please, Mr. Crane. Please."

These aren't my Games, not really. Most of it is sculpted my own ideas and my work, but it's Lucius who helms it. Still, the thought of these Games leaving an impact does cause my brow to raise. It's promising, it's very, very promising. Certainly I couldn't plead to my uncle's humanity, because it doesn't exist, but I could sell this type of story to him; a memorable rise. She's not dead yet, after all.

Besides, a handful of Tributes have lost limbs during the Games and have lived.

When I meet Rheon's eyes again, I feel powerful. "Choose then, Mr. Rythe," I say. "Choose. If you could use my influence save one, which would it be?"

A flicker of horror moves across his face, contorting his features into something animalistic. I watch him calmly, and this seems to anger him all the more. It is then that the old Victor reaches out and grabs ahold of the front of my shirt. This does startle me. The guards advance from off of the wall, but I lift my hand again. They stop, though I can tell they're reluctant. I am not worried, though. To be caught in Rheon Rythe's angry grasp, in my domain, is scarcely a frightful thing.

Even still, I bristle beneath his gaze, which has turned from angry to hateful.

"You would have me choose between my own children?"

"You asked for my help."

Rheon's eyes are searching mine, so I deliberately look towards the screen. He slowly follows my gaze. Upon it, Nellie has placed Ceres' unconscious body in an alcove, tucked away from view, and is treating her wounds. Blood pools around them, spreading widely until Rheon's eyes snap back to mine.

I arch my brow, expectantly.

"Ceres...save my daughter," Rheon manages out. "Whatever you can, please. Please..."

I push myself out of his grasp then, smoothing out my front. "This conversation never happened, Mr. Rythe. I suggest you go back to the Training Center to the rest of your Mentors. And take a bath," I say. "You're disgusting."

I leave the Victor standing there, watching on in horror. I hear him storm out, though I don't spare a glance behind me.

"That was quite a show, sir," Ames says.

"Yes, it was," I say. "Ames, send a hefty Sponsorship to Mags Flanagan to buy medical supplies with. I suggest you do it quickly."

Ames nods. "Of course, sir."

I push ahead until I return to my uncle's side. He's watching the screen intensely. Upon it, Jason Ironjaw has just received an impressive battle axe as a Sponsored gift. It is curved and almost maddeningly large, though for a man of his stature and strength, it fits perfectly. Meanwhile, Liber has settled down to treat what few wounds he has, with the ointment he had pocketed from the dead girl's body. As it were, it was the ointment that I had Sponsored for Ceresea.

"What was it that old Victor wanted?" my uncle inquires, coldly.

I clear my throat, leaning forward against the rails. Upon the screen before us, I watch as my Tribute is being tended to, no longer by the dangers of the water's edge; her unconscious body someplace safe. The sight of it still worries me, for I cannot fully trust any Tribute to look after the other - nor should I in general - but, for now, I am content. "He tried convincing me to save his children," I reply. When he casts a questioning gaze, I shake my head. "I told him no. You said so yourself, uncle. The Games are very unforgiving. No leniency, right?"

"No leniency," my uncle echoes. "Now, Gamemaker Rosaline, keep a cannon at the ready. Just in case."

Ceres

"Look, little fish. Dolphins."

I cling to mom's hand, though I long for nothing more than to let go and rush towards the dolphins leaping out of the water. Their bodies are glittering in the sunlight, sleek and grey. They jump so high and land with enormous splashes. I try to lurch forward to join them, but mom tightens her grip on my hand and pulls me back. When I try to wriggle free, she simply scoops me up and balances me on her hip. Her stomach is super round now, so it's a bit of an uncomfortable position for us both. But it's the only way to wrangle me. I just keep flopping around like a fish out water, hence my mom's nickname. But she only tightens her grip on me.

"Hold still now. Just enjoy it."

I keep fussing, threatening to cry as I look across the smooth ocean surface to where the dolphins are playing and bounding. I long to join them. They jump so high and swim so fast and look so free. I wonder about all the places they have traveled, what corners of the oceans they've seen. It amazes me, and I want to see it with them. But my mom is holding me back. When I make a fuss again, she kisses my rounded cheek.

"Always so restless. You can't sit still, can you? I don't intend on letting you go anytime soon."

She sets me down, nevertheless. In my jubilation and newfound freedom, I immediately run as fast as my little legs can carry me towards the water's edge. The waves which lap at the surface of the beach coil over my ankles. I consider running father out, but the dolphins have stopped jumping, and when I look down at my feet I see that my feet have grown. In fact, I am significantly taller.

But more so than that, there's blood at my feet.

In fact, the ocean itself has turned red.

I whirl around. Mom is still standing there, her belly still swollen, but blood is pouring out of her mouth and there's an arrow in her eye, and a trident is impaled through her neck. She doesn't even sway, merely staying in place. My breathing starts to intensify. This can't be happening. This is supposed to be home. I'm safe. I'm supposed to be safe here. So is mom.

She takes a few steps closer to me, until we're inches apart and I can smell rotten fish and blood on her.

"It's time to wake up now," she says, leaning forward to press a kiss to my forehead. Her hands rest upon my shoulders, and she shoves me back into the bloody water.

I taste blood in my mouth, I feel it everywhere. I -

I open my eyes.

I feel peaceful, oddly enough. Despite the fact that my heart is hammering madly and my head is convulsing, I feel almost alright. My vision is blurred, though I can distinctly make out a deep pink and orange like hue before me, glowing richly. So pretty, I think in my haze, my gaze drifting around until my vision starts to settle. Once it does, and my gaze locks upon bloodstained rocks on the wall, I remember. I remember everything.

"You're awake," I hear a feminine voice say.

I turn my gaze towards it, locking eyes with a girl whose face is blank, if only for a moment, but then I recognize her. Nellie Baumbauch, who had been Birch's District partner. I'd seen Nellie during Training, though I hadn't really paid much attention to her physically. I knew she was my age and stood almost a head taller than me, which isn't saying much, but the finer details of her - the humanity, I suppose - hadn't been a priority. When I saw my fellow Tributes in the gymnasium, I was studying their habits and their techniques.

Her dark hair hangs in tight ringlets, a few strands dawdling at chin length over her heart shaped face. The rest of her curls are pulled back into a bun, which is messy and dried with blood and sweat. Against her her golden skin is a set of hazel eyes, which look bloodshot and have bags beneath them. Nothing about her demeanor, as she squats beside me, conveys any sort of threat. But my instincts are in prey mode, and I find myself reaching for a weapon that isn't there. Feeling frantic, my hands - hand - goes to touch my belt, only to find it empty. My rapala had been embedded into the eye of the Mutt and my other knife had been thrown at Lamia. All I had was my spear, but it wasn't there, either.

My eyes widen and I try desperately to push myself up, but a sharp gust of pain tears through me and I fall back. I release a low cry.

Nellie appears genuinely apologetic, if not unsurprised. "Sorry. I figured you'd do that if you woke up," she says. She gestures towards a pile in the corner, where I see my belt and weapons collected along with a pile of parachutes. There are a pile of silver parachutes in the corner, all of which opened. An array of weapons are leaned against the wall, including a few different spears (including the glamorous one I had received earlier), a sword, half a dozen daggers, and even an archery set. I don't particularly like the latter, for numerous reasons, but the sentiment is appreciated. "I opened them while you were asleep. Hope you don't mind."

I remember that Finnick received incredible parcels during his time in the Games, with the most prominent being that incredible trident, which was one of the more expensive items available. He had also received ample food and water, as well as various other resources that had done well for himself and for Harpee when they had traveled together. But once it was just him, with nothing to share, his survival instincts had kicked into full. He became unstoppable, without any source of distractions. He was, by all accounts, an apex predator. It came as no surprise to anyone, least of all me, that he had been showered with such gifts.

However, I am surprised for myself. After all, I'm staring at dozens of various silver parcels, weaponry, and other variations of gifts. It seems outlandish to consider that even half of these would be for more me. I'd done nothing to earn the. I haven't killed that many people to warrant this sort of attention, have I? I go far back into my aching head, forcing the faces of the fallen back into being. I'd killed Mecha, which in turn had drawn the crocodile out of the black water and had killed the girl from District 2. Maybe I killed her by proxy, or maybe my hands were clean of her blood. I had killed the boy from District 8 when he had attacked us. And it goes without saying that I'd killed Mox.

But none of those deaths had been significantly impressive, at least by comparison to kills of the past. I wasn't a refined fighter the way a proper Career was. Mine was more visceral violence, but maybe that's what the Capitol enjoyed so much. The thought of it almost makes me sick, that people out there are thinking about my kills, and enjoying them. They have to be, if I'm being lathered with such extensive gifts. But, then again, Finnick's array of gifts surely didn't have entirely to do with his prowess in the Games. Definitely they were a contributor, but it was his looks, his charm, which had beguiled the Capitol, too.

And now he stands as its darling, revered as its sex toy.

I swallow dryly, averting my eyes from the piles upon piles of gifts. Nellie doesn't seem to notice the way my face has shadowed, because she's still staring at the pile with a rather pleased gleam in her eyes. "That's the least of my worries," I say. "Why am I here?"

"You're healing," Nellie says. "I changed your bandages a couple of hours ago and checked on your stitches. Somebody sent in a pretty impressive healing ointment, but it needs to be applied generously and frequently to work, and, God, for a wound like that it's going to be taking quite a bit more."

A wound like mine.

"How long have I been receiving these parachutes?" I ask.

Nellie scoffs. "You're very popular," she says. "These have been flooding in since after your fight."

"I've been unconscious the whole time," I say, too uncomfortable to meet her gaze, but also refusing to look over at the parcels which are arranged too widely across the space of the cave. I opt to look up, where jagged rocks look pointedly down at me. I dare you, I think with some exhaustion and anger. "I never expected the Capitol to place their bets on an unconscious, likely to die one-armed girl."

"They like survivor types," she says. "Once I got ahold of you, and was actively trying to staunch the bleeding, the parachutes just started flying in. All types of supplies, honestly - gauze, some needle and thread...you name it. Food, too, and then weapons. Somebody, or a lot of somebody's, are really interested in keeping you around. Then again, I've seen you fight. If I were a Capitolian, I'd want to Sponsor the girl who squared against those crocs, too."

Despite myself, I feel my face go a little red. "I haven't done much," I protest.

"That's what you think," Nellie says. "I think Birch was smart to Ally with you."

Nellie moves across the cave, pulling out one of the parachutes. She pops it open, revealing some sliced fruit. It has held up impressively so, but even I can see that the apple slices have started to brown, as well as the grapes and kiwis and strawberries that are accompanied with it. The parachute itself is half empty, though I don't mind. For all I cared, Nellie could have all of it. Still, my stomach is hollow and I did lose a substantial amount of blood. The fact that I'm hungry and dehydrated won't do me any good, though it curdles my conscience to be eating something that was bought with blood money.

I just have to remind myself that my Mentors purchased these, whether at the behest of the particular Sponsor or if they had free reign over the money in question. I try to see that fruit bowl as a gift from my dad, but when I see my dad's face in my mind's eye, I feel sick all over again. What must he be feeling, watching the Games? He saw his own son actively betray his daughter, then his son reverting back to her side again. Even I feel whiplashed by it.

Nellie hands me the bowl and I accept it. Although I'm hungry enough to shove every bit of food into my face and just swallow it whole, I know I'll get sick doing it that way, and likely result in more pain. I set the bowl on my lap, balancing it with my thighs, and I lift a sliced apple to my lips. It's a green apple, but I desperately wish it were red; red was sweeter, whereas green was so tart. It makes my face pucker a little, but I eat it, anyway. Once I've consumed some apples, then a few overly moist and softened strawberries, I raise my gaze back to Nellie.

She's eating some dried jerky she's had in her backpack, reminding me of the backpack my Alliance and I had had before we'd been chased off the edge of a cave and into the black water. We'd lost it to the fathoms below, but it had been worth it, because Birch had been able to keep a hold on Daisy, and I'd been able to pull them both to the surface.

Keeping them alive made sense, but Nellie keeping me alive was nonsensical.

"Birch is dead," I say.

She nods, expression falling a little. "Yeah, I know. I saw his body."

I clear my throat. "So, why am I alive?"

Nellie looks a little amused by my query, even snorting over it. "Maybe you aren't alive. Maybe you're just dead," she says, looking at me with an almost expectant look, as if I would laugh. When I give no such response, she sighs. "It didn't feel right to kill you. I mean, I really thought about it, and I came close. You were unconscious and bleeding out. I'd just seen a crocodile tear your arm off, and you just swam up, like it was nothing. That's a Tribute to be afraid of, but when you fell over, you were just a person. A very easily killable person."

"But I'm here. So why didn't you kill me?"

Nellie shifts, appearing visibly uncomfortable. "I'm an idiot," she says. "Besides, you've been keeping me indirectly alive thanks to all of your Sponsors and gifts, so why shouldn't I keep you around?"

"That's an awful lot of effort just for some parcels, when you consider me so dangerous," I counter.

At that, I see her whole face fall. She looks down into her backpack, distant for a second, before looking back at me with narrowed eyes. "You saved Birch's life," she says. "I guess that counts for something."

I flinch.

Birch had been a strong young man and I had admired him for his ambitions. It was poor luck to be Reaped and brought into the Games, yet he had been a boy with nothing else to live for; no one to fight for, no one to go home to. He had hinged everything on keeping those children from District 12 safe, as insane as it was. Maybe he did it to secure his own sanity and humanity, or to have some semblance of control in an environment that strips us down to our bones. But he had done it, he had kept true to his word. And when Daisy had been killed, his first instinct, with his dying body, had been to enact revenge. It's a shame that he didn't reach Lamia in time, at least be within the line of fire for that small explosion of blood, bones, and acidic blisters.

I lick my dry lips. "Birch said that you would have killed him and the kids," I say. "So I'm a little surprised you're grateful that I helped keep them safe. Seems like an oxymoron to me."

Nellie shakes her head, looking a little offended. "No, Birch was right. I probably would have," she admits, though I can see the way her eyes flicker in revulsion to the thought of it. Her shoulders shudder, as well. "Funny thing, yeah? I couldn't justify keeping those kids alive. It seemed cruel. They're from District 12, so they stood no chance, and they could've died immediately, instead of dragging it out. That girl didn't have to die like that, or have the false gift of hope looming over her head the whole time. It could've been quick, for her sake and for her parents. Same with the boy, wherever he is."

When Nellie sees the way my face tightens, she sighs.

"You can't tell me that Birch's actions were wholly justified, Rythe," Nellie says, eyes narrowing. "That little girl died, anyway. The boy is lost somewhere in this Arena, and if the Tributes don't get him then those crocs or those spider things will. Birch was buying time with fake money, we both know it."

"I can't justify it, no," I say. "Not anymore than I can justify trying to protect my brother, as good as that did for me. But what he did was brave, I think. He at least gave them a chance. It's more than what the Capitol does for us."

Nellie's brow raises at my treasonous statement. No doubt it has been cut out of the broadcast - maybe this whole conversation has, with the Gamemakers sweating themselves. They're listening, though, and I hope that they hear me. Their Arena did this to me, and I'm not exactly going to be expressing my praises for the few times I've been shown some variety of mercy in this hell scape. I think I'm far beyond making pretend, especially knowing now that my desires to keep my brother alive, my intentions to die for him, mean nothing. He had been so ready to kill me, yet also had rushed to my aid after he had killed his girlfriend.

Liber is a husk to me now. I know his face, but not what resides beneath it. I do, however, wonder if he is receiving Sponsors; likely some, as betrayal and bloodshed do stir the loins of the Capitolians. But I have to wonder if he's receiving as much as me, or if he's been receiving donations from a particular Gamemaker's nephew.

"I watched your Interview. Your whole thing seemed to be keeping him alive," Nellie says. "So...I'm sorry that happened to you. Unless, all that talk wasn't..." He brow raises, questioningly.

"It was real," I say, forcing myself to eat a mushy kiwi. Nellie hands me a flask, which I take and drink without question. If it's been poisoned, then so be it. I'm likely as good as dead anyway in the Arena now, even with all of these insane gifts. I down the water, and find myself coughing after a few swallows. I press my hand over my mouth, keeping everything down to the best of my ability. But the coughing causes my body to jerk, which in turn causes searing pain through my shoulder and through the rest of me. It's so painful it's almost nonexistent; like a ghost. But then it resurges itself, and I feel almost blinded. "I did...mean to keep him alive."

"If my brother did to me what your brother did to you," Nellie says, "I would kill him."

It just might come to that, but that thought is so terrible that I have to push it away before it can violate anymore of my thoughts. I clear my throat, wiping my mouth and setting the flask down. I try to eat a few more bites of fruit, which are satiating my stomach, but it's making it angry, too. The ache is already starting to set in. When I was seven, I'd managed to convince my parents to let me live on a boat with minimal provisions for a few days, to test my survival strategies and abilities - in preparation for what would be my most epic of Hunger Games victories - but I had only lasted three days, having not rationed correctly, and hunger setting in so stupidly that I had become quite sick.

When I came home, I'd eaten everything on my plate during supper. I had felt quite full and content, but I had upchucked everything less than an hour later. My mom, in one of her rare moments of affection, had held my hair back and even held me afterwards. But then she had properly chastised me, since it had been my decision to go out on that boat for three days in the first place.

That's how I feel now, though far, far worse.

"How's your arm?" Nellie asks.

Against my wishes, my head turns and looks down at the wrapped stump where my arm had been. Once again, I feel crippling horror to the sight of the stub, without even an inch of my arm left to show for it; the round curve of the bone where my arm would have popped into place creates an interesting shape with the amount of gauze and cloth currently keeping my stitches in place. If my memory serves, the Victor of the 45th or the 46th Annual Hunger Games had been a man named Chaff, who had lost his hand during the process. It had been from the wrist down, yet he had survived the ordeal. I've seen him on television before. He's usually found sharing drinks with the only Victor of District 12.

I think about what that must have been like during his Games, losing a hand. I imagine the shock and the horror he felt when it happened and when he'd survived. But it had been towards the end of his Games, and the loss had not been grossly substantial. Certainly a great loss, but it had not been as debilitating. His arm remained, though with a stump at the end from where his hand had once been. Am arm, even without a hand, was always useful.

I have nothing but an empty space and a phantom sensation of curling fingers that aren't even there.

I have pain, as well. It would be quite unfair to not include that.

"Well, it's not there," I say.

Nellie looks sympathetic for a second, though it fades into firm understanding. "I did the best I could. Even with what fancy Capitolian products they sent, I'm not a healer. I've patched wounds before, but never quite..." she looks away, struggling for a word that is floating far out of her reach. She grunts, looking back to me, presumably without it. "It was quite bad, let's say. You bled a lot and your skin was so mangled, I had to cut some loose bits off."

I should be more disgusted over the finer detailing of my loose torn bits of skin, but, mostly, I'm wondering where those bits of skin are. "I'm not blaming you," I say. "Thank you, for all that you did. I mean that. It's just a little jarring that my arm isn't there. I can feel it, but - "

"Phantom sensations, I know," Nellie says. "Some guys who work in the lumberyards lose their fingers or whole hands, sometimes even their legs, thanks to our equipment. I've heard them say the same thing. They can wiggle their toes and almost feel like they're picking something up with a hand that isn't there."

"A lot of good phantom-ly picking up a weapon will do me during the Games," I say. "My advantage was swimming, but that's gone now. How can I swim one-handed and with a wound like this? It won't matter if it's clear or black water, because those Mutts live in both. And I can't scale anything, even if my arm - stub were healed. My chances of survival are next to none."

My admission weighs down on me as soon as I release it, like it just wants to go ahead and suffocate me now. Realistically, I knew my chances of surviving the Games were moderate. I knew how to fight, how to strategize, and how to be quick on my feet. I was in an Arena I'd never seen before, so that was my disadvantage, but I still felt like I knew what I was doing. I wasn't entirely off balance or lost to the undertow. But I was going to keep my brother safe. My chances of survival were arguably higher because I had something even more important to fight for, at least until the end of things.

But now my brother is actively trying to kill me. Right now he knows I'm alive, because my cannon never went off, and my picture was never shown during the evening broadcast of the dead. He would certainly see Lamia's face, though, and I wonder if he felt any remorse for it.

It sits like acid inside of me that Liber, who used to openly mock me for my intrigue in the Games, is now playing the Games viciously.

How could he hate me that much, though?

I sigh. "If I had the opportunity to train, maybe I could survive this," I say.

Nellie hesitates, staring at me for too long. "So...would you prefer if I just killed you, then?" she asks, sincerely. "Say the word and I will."

Despite myself, I laugh. It doesn't sound like me, not at all. It's mirthless and it's cold, and it spills out of me like an overflow of champagne. Nellie eyes me warily, though makes no movements. I force it down, though, and clear my throat. "Do you want to kill me?" I ask.

Lamia had wanted to kill me. She had wanted to kill me very badly.

She shrugs. "I mean, at the end of it, only one person is getting out of here. But I'd feel guilty for killing you just because I wanted to win, after everything you've done - even if that's completely stupid of me. You're not a threat, anymore. If I'm lucky you'll die of infection or someone or somebody else will come kill you," she says. "But if you want me to do it, I will. If you think that'd be easier than going back out into the Games like you are..."

It's tempting. It's a gentle deliverance out of this place, a reprieve from the endless days of screaming and blood and wondering how I'm going to protect my brother. He's proven now that he can well take care of himself. He has the stomach for it, the type of stomach that I never had, nor had Birch. Nellie called me a survivor type, and to some extent I agree. But the true survivor's instinct to cut losses and to run had never really boded well with me.

Despite everything, I can't leave Liber alone in the Arena, at least until the end of it. It's like what Tilda said, no loose ends. I need to knot them together before I make any sort of critical decisions. Besides, I let visions of my father and mother pass over my vision, and then of District 4 during sunset, and then Finnick with his cocky smirk, leaning forward to call me Sea-Sea.

I shake my head. "No," I decide.

Nellie nods. "Alright," she says. "But we are going to have to get out of here eventually, as nice as it has been mooching off of your gifts. There's only you, me, District 1, District 4, and District 12 left. Unfortunately, we're going to have to find them before they find us. You spent a lot of time with the Careers. Any suggestions?"

"Jason stayed near the Cornucopia because it was familiar, and Liber stayed there, too, because of Lamia. Lamia had been Jason's Ally, too. But now that she's dead he might feel desperate enough to actively start hunting down Tributes. But the Cornucopia might be the best place to start to find Jason."

"And your brother? He'd be near water, right?"

"No. No, my brother was never a good swimmer, and he'll avoid water now that he knows what lives in it," I say. "I don't know where he'd go. Without Lamia, he won't go near Jason."

Nellie seems to accept this and pushes herself to her feet. She starts collecting various things of food and packing them into her backpack. "We'll bring as much of this as we can, plus medicine. And then we'll bring some of those weapons, too," she says. She looks at a pair of dual wielding daggers and averts her gaze quickly. I stare at them, annoyed. "You won't like hearing this, but you really shouldn't go wandering out, but you can't really sit and heal, either," she says. "Do you think you can walk?"

I don't reply. Rather I press my palm against the ground, keeping myself steady as I tuck my leg underneath me. Slowly, I use my leg to push myself up, and lean against the wall behind me to act as a guide. It's slow and a wave of dizziness overtakes me halfway through, but I'm on my feet, albeit still tremendously unsteady. I remain there for a few minutes as Nellie packs our things, pocketing food into her jacket and then attaching some weapons to her belt.

The world is spinning for a solid minute, but when it starts to slow down, I take a step forward. My legs sway beneath me, but I manage to stay on my feet. If it came down to being chased, I can safely say that I would be well and truly screwed.

Nellie looks back at me, looking a little surprised. "For the record," she says, "if you collapse, I won't try saving you again."

"I understand," I say. "But if I do collapse again, don't hesitate."

"Glad we have an agreement," Nellie says. "Alright, Four. Let's go find old friends."

(a/n): So I've been actively foreshadowing this moment for a while now. An example that comes to mind is when Ceres watches the first crocodile jump out of the water with District 2's arm in its mouth. It's a moment that I've been yearning to get to, for a number of reasons.

Also as a side note, I was rereading my story (which I do every two to three chapters to make sure I'm keeping up with my plans/foreshadowing/and general developments), and I realized I accidentally used Johanna Mason's name instead of Blight's. Johanna's Games aren't until the 71st, sooo. XD I went back and I edited Johanna's name mentions to Blight! (I also gave Blight the surname Thicket, since he doesn't canonically have a surname.) I shall no go wallow in my Fake Fans corner.

Anyway...review please. X'D This chapter I'm excited to hear opinions on.

Rheon: Oscar Isaac

Demetra: Kate Siegal

Nellie: Aisha Dee

Ames: Damiano David

Review replies

scars from the sun: OH MY GOD! To say I howled with laughter when I read your review is an understatement. I've been saying "Liber, you little bitch," since back in 2017 when I first started mapping this story out. XD It was always my plan to have Liber betray Ceres, and then to turn back around and betray his kind of girlfriend. I always imagined Liber, an annoyed as hell fifteen year old bitch, as seizing his chance to enact revenge on his annoying ass sister. Ceres was purposefully made obnoxious early on in the story, as well as portraying their dynamic always being tense, to transition into the betrayal. THANK YOU! I do love Lamia. I imagine her as what Ceres might have been if Ceres had never seen what the Games can do to a person. Lamia Volunteered at fifteen, which was what Ceres wanted to do at fourteen, and both are very haughty and full of themselves. As far as the white crocodile...I realized early in development that I wanted zero advantages in the Arena. So a translucent crocodile which blends into the water thanks to florescent lighting was exactly what we needed. I always knew it's what would take Ceres' arm, too. ^^ And as far as Ceres' popularity...oh, yes, very. Very. Even with her arm gone and now at a very serious disadvantage, she is quite popular.

the. apple .seed: Thank you so much! The scene was so much fun to write. I used to read articles about divers talking about how pitch black the ocean gets when you get far enough down, and the idea of being underwater and not being able to see anything is absolutely terrifying to me. So I'm so glad that I captured that terror for you, too! ^^ I actually have saved in one of my old ass notes dating back to 2017: "LIBER SAYS 'REAP WHAT YOU SOW' WHEN HE BETRAYS CERES." XD As far as who's POV we shall be seeing...*LOUD ASS CACKLE* I'll neither confirm nor deny your theories.

TRIBUTES OF THE 68TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES

DISTRICT 1

- Jason Ironjaw (18)

- Lamia Lowvale (15): DECEASED

DISTRICT 2