A Song for Snakes and Rats

Day 8 in the Arena

Male Tribute from District Seven, Proteus Anche

I stay by the Cornucopia, waiting, eating the bread from the table. It doesn't taste sweet. It tastes of nothing, not even the raisons making a difference. Rahni is dead. It plays in my mind with each bite. It echoes as my jaw clenches, chewing, breaking down the bread into nothing.

I feel tears threatening to spill from my eyes, as I think about being alone, as I think about the bread. The stupid bread. And how I'm not much different. Breaking down with each bite from the arena. First Blair. Then Zenna. And now, Rahni. Each death taking a part of me.

There's nothing I could have done, I tell myself. The hovercraft picked her up, leaving me alone, leaving me with a feast. All I can do is eat. And wait, ready. For when the others come. No, for when Tassia comes for me.

She'll come soon, too. She'll come at night probably. There's no reason for her not to now. I'm all alone. Lost with no where to hide or no one to lead me.

A part of me wants her to come. A part of me wishes that I'd died in the fire she'd created. Then I feel selfish for thinking that with Rahni dead, with Denim being killed at my hand. But then I'm wondering how much of me will want to live after this? After I kill the others so I can get home? Who will I become once I kill kids that weren't trained.

Denim wasn't trained. . .

Attempting to distract myself from the thoughts, I look over to the horn, covered in burns. The vines dead and dried up. Denim's bones are probably in there somewhere, too. Seems I hit him with my axe. Good, I want to tell myself. He was a traitor, but I can't help feeling guilty, I can't help wishing he was alive and Tassia was who I killed instead.

Of course, she led us into the trap. She's the reason why Rahni was so wounded she couldn't fight off Rowena. And yet someone killed Rowena too? I haven't worked it out if it was Rahni or if somehow Tassia had a part to play in all this. She could have. Seems I underestimated her enough already.

But why is that surprising? She thought me lost, dumb, easily manipulated. I led my allies to slaughter by letting her back into the group. By believing her little story. Rahni and Denim's blood are on my hands.

Denim betrayed me, I know, but he wasn't operating alone. Rahni said they couldn't trust them, I remember. She'd been planning to betray them, too. She'd caught on to something. Or maybe she just thought it best to take them out, giving us better odds. Which doesn't make her innocent, I think. But then again, none of us are at this point ever are. So I suppose I should be thankful for Tassia, for killing her, for taking out competitors so that I could get home. No, I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be thankful that one of my friends is dead. That's twisted thinking.

That's survival, I think. No, that's being a career. Either way, I'm still breathing, still fighting.

I sit down in the ash. I don't know what to do. My head seems to spin a little with the heat, so I grip the club tighter, hoping it'll hold as some anchor. But I feel lost. I don't know what to do on my own.

I need someone to tell me a direction, an angle, an order. Like grease down your body. Chase after Chime. Charge into the Cornucopia. I look back at all the orders. I look back at my life and how it's always been orders and following them. I've always done what they've said. Before the Games, it was my parents, my friends, even strangers. I became what they wanted.

But what have I become. . .

What will I be if I win this? What will the Capitol want of me? And will I become it. Of course, I will. I've never known when to say no.

I swallow down the disgust, the self-hatred, the doubt that comes with all my decisions. Every day, I work so hard to contain. I work so hard keep boxed up. But slowly it swirls out the box, busting through, and I can't shake it away. Not this time. Of how I joined the anti-careers because Rahni insisted. Of how I followed Yorik blindly. Of how I killed Nile because Rahni told me to. Of how I killed Denim because of Tassia's roping him in to her schemes. Of how I'm sitting down, shoveling in bread, instead of hunting down the other three tributes.

I'm not a career, I whisper. The memory of Chime comes. "Of course, not. You're Career killers." I swallow. I just want to go home. But what are you willing to do to get you back there?

Conflicted, I stand. I start to pace, and that's when I see it, the parachute descending down on me. I grab it, taking in the gift.

I open it up. The scent it strong. Medicine most likely. I take to wiping it on the burns, on the places that I've sliced open. Instantly, there is relief. I smile, thinking of what it must have cost everyone to get this to me.

But then I think about what comes with the gift. What orders. What people pleasing will I need to do afterwards? Who will I owe for this? And will I obey them like I have everyone else?

Am I trading the arena for just another cage and glossy title?

I look around. For the first time in my life, I have no one to please. I have no one to obey or to ask what to do next.

And this isn't me. . .this independence. . .this not wanting to blend myself into whatever anyone asks of me. I was prepared to do anything to get home. Isn't it why I let Panem see me practically naked? Isn't it why I greased myself up with oil? So the gamemakers would notice I was willing to play by their rules. And didn't it get me a ten? Didn't doing what everyone tells me to do get me this far? Wasn't it their guidance that kept me alive? I mean, when I did my own thing I ran. I left Zenna to die. I let Tassia back in to the group.

I can't trust my judgement. I can't make the calls needed to get me home. So what do I do? I win. Sure, okay. I become a victor. Then what? Who do I listen to? Me, my mentors, my parents? The Capitol?

You can decide that later, I tell myself. Right now, you just need to live.

Female Tribute from District Nine, Tassia Morrone

I watch as Proteus rubs himself down with medicine. I smirk as he takes off his shirt, greasing himself up with the stuff. Admittingly, he isn't in the shape he was. But still, I imagine the audience is loving it, seeing a boy they find attractive undressing himself.

Disgusting. The lot of them.

Proteus sits back down, back resting against the side of a burned up Cornucopia. He's confused and I know it. Come nightfall, I'll have to kill him. It only makes sense. I can't let him get healed. I can't let him gain momentum or more sponsors. Because despite everything I've done, he's still their choice for victor. Not me. Not the boy, Viridian, who scurries away like a rat. And not the girl from District Six, Tressa, who I haven't seen since the bloodbath. They've made it here by luck. No, they've made it here because we were too fixated on the Careers and the Careers too fixated on us.

I take out the blowtorch from my pack. I could attempt to burn up more of the filed, blazing it all to ashes and smoke. There's also a knife. I pull it from my jacket pocket. All I have is two of them now, the third remaining in Rowena. They're probably shocked that I hit her. Now, they'll be trying to piece it together, how some kid from District 9 made it this far. How did she kill a trained tribute? Easy, I led her into a trap. I let Rahni do my dirty work for me. Of course, I knew she was on the edge of the jungle. I saw her. Could've taken her out then, but then there was Rowena edging around the brush, too. I watched them both. Carefully. Quietly. Like I've done for years the people around me.

Except back home, I would tell myself stories. Old Ry wonders around until nightfall because he can't be in the house his wife died. Missel doesn't bath because he almost drowned a few years back in the south river. Sometimes, I'd tell my brother stories about our neighbors, about our father. About our neighbors making bread with honey butter. About our father riding a wild mustang. About our father saving a pet pig from a burning house. About our father fixing a well so that the neighbors could get water to drink. The stories were never true, though. My father, despite all he's done to save us, can't be described as a hero.

He isn't a villain, either. Just a man that didn't show emotions. That saw solutions and made the changes.

Just like me. I suppose that's where I get it. My father. The logical side of me comes from him. I try not to think about what he's doing. About if he's baking bread for him and Louis to eat. If he's still crying because his little girl is so close, yet so far away. I wonder if he remembers saying, "I love you," in the goodbyes and how big his eyes got in that moment. I'd never seen him cry before. But in that room the tears didn't stop.

Then I'm thinking about the word villain. My mind digesting it slowly, methodically.

Of course, I'll be a villain. I betrayed my allies. I got Denim killed. Orpah will call me devilishly cunning or sly or ruthless because of my stunt with the fire. And after I kill Proteus and the others, that will be the story they tell of me. I'll be a snake in the grass who bared her fangs at the last second. I'll be some villain that only the Capitol and my district chants for.

But I'm not a villain, either. I'm just desperate.

Not everyone can be a hero, saving people, attempting to be the better person. Perhaps I get that from my mother, knowing she stole, lied, flirted, basically did whatever to get her fix. Maybe there's more of her inside of me than I want to admit. I attempt to swallow down those nerves, but my throat feels dry. My teeth hurt as I clench them together, desperate to swallow. I don't panic. But I can't help feeling afraid that I'm like my mother. That after I win these games I'll resort to alcohol. That I'll abandon my brother just liked she abandoned me and my father.

No, I swore I wouldn't and I won't. I swore I wouldn't be my mother. I wouldn't touch the stuff.

And I'm not going to leave Louis. I won't let him be hungry. The memory comes to mind of me laying, curled underneath one of my father's old shirts, crying. I was six. It was just months before my mother died. I was starving. Some days my stomach hurt so badly I couldn't walk, could only lay there half curved, half slanted. I survived off grain and water those months. Barely eating anything, though, because I fed most to Louis.

Never full, he cried and wanted more, I remember. I swallow again. She always left us so hungry and scared. At seven I shouldn't have had to be that scared. I shouldn't have had to be my own mother, telling myself I'm okay. I shouldn't have had to stroke my own hair and whispered, "Be brave. Be quiet. I love you." I shouldn't have had to do any of that.

It's easier this time to push it away. To not let home and my mother crowd my thoughts. I need a rational mind. And thoughts of her and what she put me through are anything but that.

I need to think of a plan to take out Proteus. Should I just kill him in his sleep? It'd be easy enough. And with night coming soon, it'd be over quickly. It wouldn't need much planning. Maybe I could just throw a knife in his back like I did with Rowena. It might work. I might get lucky again.

All I know is that I can't win in a fight against him. Not unless I've turned the odds in my favor. Not unless I've given him a few more wounds to add to the then will the odds really be in my favor. So what to do? Not knowing the answer just yet, I lean back into the bush, hiding, waiting, thinking, watching as I always do.

Proteus takes off his pants, rubbing his legs down with ointment, completely oblivious to his surroundings. It's just him, I think. It's just him standing in my way of going back home to Louis.

A/N: Sorry, this chapter was probably boring given the pace we've been going in this story. A death every chapter and all that. Well, next chapter will resume that speed. Only three more chapters left of us story. It's wild. Next chapter, then the finale, then the chapter in our victor's POV.

Thank you everyone who has reviewed this story. I really appreciate it and I didn't expect it, given this story is like a year old.

We're so close to the end, ya'll. It's insane.

Questions/ Interaction:

Proteus received that gift because Sophia guessed the right number. He was number 3. Just thought I'd explain that and how the interaction part of this story plays out.

Thoughts on the chapter?

Who was your favorite tribute in this story?

Deaths are based on realism, plot development, and if I struggled to capture the voice of your tribute.

No deaths.