Well here it is guys, what you have (or adamantly haven't) been waiting for.


Veronica runs.

The way to go is obvious. There is a wall of fire and some very deadly looking lightning bolts behind her. So she can just focus on putting one foot in front of another, trying not to stumble as she continues through the darkness, hands stuck awkwardly in front of her so she doesn't end her Games by charging headfirst into an unexpected tree.

It doesn't rain this time so there is nothing to mellow the scorching heat and the overwhelming smoke. But she's different too now, she doesn't need his hand guiding her through the woodland to survive. The fire licks her so closely that it sets her bag alight, she cuts it quickly off her shoulders and continues on, letting it drop to the floor, she's not going to need the supplies anyway, just the knife in her hand. She feels no fear, not at any of this, this is just another obstacle she needs to get past before she reaches her final destination.

They'll all be watching her now. Everyone in Panem. Her exhausted face will be on every TV and blown up on giant screens in all the Central Squares. She has watched 16 years of the Games, she knows what it will be like at home, in any of the districts. Despite the early hour (Peacekeepers make sure they're up when the Games get this tense), the Central Square will be teaming with people, but still eerily silent. It is hard to even breathe when it gets to this point, to watch the final few use whatever pathetic strength they have left to try to win, to wonder whose weeks of suffering will be entirely for naught.

In the Capitol they're probably just putting on popcorn and making bets, a perfect double homicide to end their all-night parties. They don't know, they don't know anything. She wants them to know what it's like to be pulled from their families, to be pitched against other innocents until they all have blood on their hands, she wants to see them suffer, like she has seen so many others, wants to corner them, watch them quiver at the blade in her hand, wants to kill them, slowly, painfully, for what they have done to her, to everyone. And it is that hate that spurs her on to continue, to face her final battle.

She will not be forgotten. She will not just be another number. She is Veronica Sawyer and she wants to win.

The forest foliage gets thinner underfoot and the light of the dawn spills through the trees, even with the acrid smoke polluting the air. She stumbles on for a few minutes more, until the woodland stops and the flames go no further, she feels the uneven texture of sand under her feet, around her are stacks of large boulders.

I'm in the desert, she realises, I am as far north as the arena goes.

It feels like the end of the world, in more ways than one.

She clings onto her knife, like her life depends on it, (because it does, of course it fucking does), and looks for her opponents. She appears to be the first one here, she tries to spot tell-tale footprints to reveal anyone hiding behind the rocks, but sees none. Anyway, she knows both the people she's about to fight uncomfortably well and sees no reason why either wouldn't go straight for the offensive.

She feels the sweltering heat go up another notch, the only relief a light breeze on her face. When she turns to look back at the flames she finds them tree-high and having completely devoured the woodland. Further walls of fire are approaching her in every direction. There's no mistaking it, this is the place where they will have their final battle. This is the place where two of them will die.

Just as she starts accepting her new reality, watching the blaze move ever forward, waiting for someone to arrive, the breeze turns to wind, which turns to a gale, forcing the smoke towards her and blowing the sand into the air. The grains sting as they whip her face and arms, and it's all she can do to force her eyes open as she squints, trying to see anything that will help her in the inevitable battle.

But all she sees is flame and smoke and sand. In the red light of the dawn, it looks exactly like hell.

Maybe it is. Maybe she died sometime in the last few weeks and is unable to tell the difference.

A shadow appears in her vision, getting larger and larger and more solid, until, before she can react, it descends on her, pushing both of them into the red hot sand.

She knows it's Heather before her eyes catch up, she's so much stronger than JD even at his angriest and her hold is practiced and iron-hard, not letting Veronica move an inch.

Heather doesn't bother to get out the knife, tucked into a rope she's tied around her waist, just punches Veronica, once, twice, three, four, five, six times in her face. Veronica feels two teeth fall into her mouth and her nose crumples under Heather's fist. There is a second's reprise from the blows as the blood trickles down her face and into her hair and, for a mad moment, she thinks the blood might have triggered Heather's feelings of nausea, but one look at her feral expression and she knows she is mistaken. The girl before her is not Heather, but an unrepentant killing machine, her entire consciousness consumed by the desire for revenge and to leave the arena alive.

You aren't a monster Heather, she dares not say, or at least you weren't before you entered the Games. None of us were, not really.

Well, maybe one of them was. But who knows how he would have turned out had he not seen his mother disappear into flames, while his district watched and did nothing.

And really, having watched the needless death of friends and done atrocious deeds just to stay alive, all in the name of an authoritarian regime myself, am I any less scarred and broken than he is now? I am damaged beyond repair too.

Veronica's own knife flaps aimlessly in her weak grip until it falls out of her hand, the pain too much to do anything but shriek, and there is no way to stop it when Heather's hands move around her neck and push down, mercilessly. Veronica's screaming comes to an abrupt and unpleasant halt as she struggles hopelessly, clawing at Heather's face in a vain attempt to let even a gasp of smoky air into her lungs, until her strength fails her and she goes limp on the sand.

She will die here. In the hands of this girl with madness in her eyes. Heather's grip on her windpipe tightens, black dots obscure her vision, she is overwhelmed with dizziness. So much for a painless death, she thinks, as her throat and lungs burn, desperate for air. She closes her eyes, determined not to show the world how scared she is.

Abstract images float in the forefront of her mind, as the roar of the fire and wind fade into the background, even her pain subsides as the pressing need for air becomes overwhelming. And then there is something else. A noise, still faint, penetrates her fading consciousness and there it is again, louder. A horn? A howl? A yell.

There's a jolt and Heather's hands loosen with a cry. There's the all too familiar sound of a blade hitting flesh and Heather's ponytail whips Veronica in the face as she turns towards this new distraction, her hand moving automatically to her knife.

Veronica barely has time to take an experimental breath before she hears a scream of frustration and Heather is pulled roughly off her.

"No," hisses the newcomer, "she's mine."

He's not talking about Heather.

JD manages another cut to Heather's arm before she throws herself at him, and they tussle on the ground, clanging knives glinting in the light of the early sun.

They don't care about killing each other, they just want to make sure they're the one who gets to kill me, she realises, huh... I always thought two hot people fighting over me would be sexier than this.

Her body automatically takes in large gulps of air, it makes her throat burn, but the fogginess in her vision clears and the strength returns to her body. Veronica forces herself up so she's in a sitting position, spitting out her loose teeth, she spots her knife lying close by and grabs it quickly.

She wipes the blood from her face with her sleeve and looks at the boy she'd consider her saviour if she didn't already know too much about him.

He looks no better than he did when she left him two days ago, his clothes hang in bloody rags from his body, underneath she can see a tapestry of scars and bite marks painting his skin.

She tries to pull herself to her feet, but her body is still doing its best to restore oxygen to her system, and she can't focus on moving her legs. She tears her eyes away from her two potential killers, to see if there is any way of escape, but of course there is not, the flames that circle them are now so high they appear to reach the top of the arena.

His piercing scream cuts through the chaos, and her attention snaps right back to the fight in front of her, he is grasping his hand, blood flowing down it in waves.

"You bitch," he screams between bursts of anguish, as he writhes on the ground in pain, all clever conversation gone, "that was my finger!"

But Heather's attention is no longer on him, she carelessly grabs his knife and tosses it in the impenetrable flames and then gets up heading straight for Veronica.

You couldn't have just finished him off for me, could you Heather?

Veronica's legs start working, just fast enough to viciously scissor kick Heather, sending her tumbling to the ground. Veronica throws herself on top of her, managing a few almost harmless stabs to Heather's side before Heather grabs her by her injured shoulder and rolls them over so she is on top of her. Veronica's knife is knocked out of her hand with a practiced ease when she tries to retaliate.

Next Hunger Games, Veronica thinks, I am going to spend all my time training in the art of keeping hold of a knife.

Heather's grin is manic as she holds Veronica down with one hand on her chest while using the others to press non-fatal but painful as hell cuts on her torso, relishing in Veronica's cries, desperate to punish her, to make sure someone, anyone, suffers for all she has had to endure.

Veronica, weapon-less, flails and then grabs the only thing she can find. Heather's ponytail, her fingers tangle with the red scrunchie, so she pulls it out of her hair, flinging it into the flames, and for a moment Heather is distracted as her tangled auburn curls fall into her eyes.

With all the force she can muster, Veronica brings her hand down onto Heather's left thigh, exactly where the giant eagle pierced her, scraping her nails along the cut, doing her best to brutally pull all the stitches, that she once had so gently sewn, out.

Heather screams in agony and moves to swat her away, but Veronica pays her no attention, instead, she goes straight for the knife, now loose in Heather's hand, snatches it from her and stabs her in the side of her neck.

It takes Heather a second to realise what has happened. It's only once she has instinctively pulled the knife out that she registers the blood spurting from her neck. So much blood. Unquestionably fatal.

If Veronica thought she could see no more hate in Heather's eyes than was already there, she is proven wrong as they meet hers with alarming focus, using the last of her strength to toss the knife into the flames.

"You fucking cunt," she spits at her with her final raspy breaths, "you could at least have let someone who had a life after this win. In my district, victors are honoured, all you have to look forward to is your district distrusting you and being some rich Capitol man's whore."

Unlike the other Heathers, there is no fear in Heather Duke's gaze in her last moments. Even as they glass over, her eyes glare at Veronica, cold, accusing.

There is no time to mourn, she pushes Heather's body off her and scrambles to her feet the moment the cannon booms, last time she stared too long at a dead Heather he had a knife pressed to her stomach and she doesn't intend to repeat that experience.

He is on his feet just as fast, blood pouring freely down his left hand from where he used to have a finger, his knife lost to the flames, but she is weaponless too and his dominant hand is still very much in play.

She wonders if it should feel easier when it gets to this part. Her odds have been slashed from near impossible, to one in two, but it doesn't feel like that. Whatever she does, however she may fight, in her heart she knows that she's never going home.

His eyes, as cold, calculating and merciless as ever, take her in, looking for weakness, as if the last week they spent together meant nothing to him at all. Even as the wind and fire rage around him, she thinks his grimace is somewhat smug. He's done it. Whatever part of his plan that involved them being the last two alive was successful. Now there's only one more step to carry out.

She feels the fury rise within her. He's taken away her freedom, her innocence, her sanity, her soul, she won't let him take her life too. Not without a fight.

They circle around each other, waiting for the other to make a wrong move that would put them at a disadvantage.

All she can hear is their footsteps, everything else has been tuned out. Perhaps it has been for all of Panem too, but they don't feel it like she does, for them there will be another year, another Games, but for her this is it. The final battle. The one she has been waiting for all her life.

Good vs Evil.

Evil vs Evil.

Slave vs Slave.

God knows the Capitol has taken as much from all of us as he has from me.

And it will continue, she thinks bitterly, Heather is right, winning will not set either of us free.

She already knows how pathetic a life she will lead if she leaves the arena alive and, if it were even possible, if he lives his will be worse. After all that treason, all that business with his mother, all the hate for the Capitol he so easily spouts out, all he'll get for winning as an armed guard as soon as he leaves the arena and a convenient accident the moment the publicity dies down. Surely he knows this? Maybe he thinks all the death he's caused is worth it.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees something glint on the ground, reflecting the little fire light that has made its way through the raging sandstorm, and she risks breaking his stare to see what it is.

Her heart leaps.

Her knife! The one Heather knocked out of her hand! She dives towards it, desperate to have a weapon, an advantage in this final, deadly fight.

Unfortunately, he has also followed her gaze.

They both reach it at the same time, grabbing the hilt and pulling it towards them with such force that they end up chest to chest on the ground, tussling together violently like they have so many times before, except now there is a diamond-sharp blade between them. They viciously scratch their nails against each other's flesh, pull hair and leave teeth marks in skin, in an attempt to get the upper hand…

And then he hisses, breath coming through his teeth, and his struggling stops. She feels the now alarmingly familiar sensation of blood: warm, wet and sticky, soak the fabric covering her abdomen. And, for a moment, time stands still.

Carefully she peels herself off him and looks down at the damage.

Both of them simply stare at the red pool growing around the knife lodged in his stomach.

And then the world moves again, and she grabs the knife with both hands, wrenches it out of him and plunges it in again and again until her breathing is ragged and her hands are bruised from the effort.

Tears are streaming down her face and she's no idea why, but she's sure it's justified. Blood is everywhere once she is done, but his eyes are still alight, following her, calculating her next move. She kneels on top of him, pointing the blade straight at his heart.

"Go on," he gargles, blood spilling onto his lips as he speaks, somehow even now it still feels like he's mocking her, "one more move and you win."

Her knife hangs still. She's been fantasising about killing him, about escaping, for days, but now it's here, now he's entirely at her mercy, she's not sure she's ready.

He might disagree with what she thinks, he might use it against her, but he understands her.

Once he's gone who else will? She has friends and family back in District 8, but she can't imagine they'd be anything but horrified at what she's turned into, and even if they treated her like they did before – she's not the girl they once knew. Certainly the people in the Capitol who take bets on them and relive their favourite moments will never know what she does. Perhaps some of the other victors might come to understand her – but she's never seen a victor quite like her, they normally are either Careers or similar, who revel in the attention, or victims, who pretend to hold it together despite not really getting over their trauma.

She feels different from them all. She hates the Games, she hates the Games and the people who enjoy them like nothing else in her life. They're horrific, she wants them to end – she wants to have never been reaped. But there's a joy in killing, a rush of power knowing you have changed the future. Here, the sole survivor of a massive crime scene, she can admit that to herself. There had been so many chances to run, to take herself out, and she had ignored them all because somewhere in her head she had wanted to win – not for the prize of the life she no longer knows what to do with, but the pride of knowing she could, to know she hasn't died without making any difference to the world.

He's a murderous asshole with no conscience, and she doesn't know who she is without him. There's always going to be a part of him whispering in her ear for however long she lives.

Part of her is pleased.

She holds her breath and presses the blade down.

He lasts longer than Heather, she gets the impression he's consciously trying to. He lives long enough to pull her close, his gaze nothing less than reverent, gripping her with a strength that a dying man should not possess, and whispers in her ear so quietly the microphones can't pick up, "You win Veronica, you have power they never expected, that I never expected, the question is, what next? Now that you're dead, what are you going to do with your life?"

He slips his other hand down onto her ass, underneath her underwear, at first she thinks he's just trying to cop a feel, obnoxious down to his last breath, but then, out of view of the cameras, she feels him drop something. Yet, when she looks at him to question his actions, Jason Dean is gone, and she is left with even fewer answers than she had the day she met him. She slumps, exhausted, against his lifeless body.

The final cannon booms.

xxx

It's sooner than later that I'm six feet under.
It's sooner than later that you'll be alone.
So who will you turn to tomorrow, I wonder?
For when the bell rings, lover, you're on your own.


The Capitol Presents: the Surviving Tributes, Day 12

District 1
Heather McNamara
Ram Sweeny

District 2
Heather Chandler
David Remington

District 3
Betty Finn
Peter Dawson

District 4
Heather Duke
Kurt Kelly

District 5
Shannon Lucas
Rodney Bulb

District 6
Cathy Stone
Al Springer

District 7
Tracy Hophead
Bobby Young

District 8
Veronica Sawyer
Brad Richards

District 9
Courtney Chadwick
Keith Harrington

District 10
Shelly Little
Dennis Grundy

District 11
Phyllis McCarthy
Dwight Archer

District 12
Martha Dunstock
Jason Dean

Deaths today: 2
Survivors: 1


The song is from Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes (the Hunger Games prequel that came out earlier this year), you can find the best rendition of it here (add this to youtube) /watch?v=63TUmIZCVaI