Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games. They belong to Suzanne Collins.

Note: You know what they say, three is a crowd and in this chapter we meet the third Victor to join the 'Victor family'. A fair contrast to Mizar and Pliny I would say, but more variety is always a good thing in my personal view. Might be hard to make every single Victor 100% unique, but I am more than up for undertaking this particular challenge. Not much to really add, so let's begin and meet the 'Hermit Crab'!

Katniss raised an eyebrow, having to repeat the words once again.

"Hermit crab?" Katniss asked, confusion dripping from her words.

"Yeah, that's what they apparently nicknamed him," Peeta said, nodding.

"How? I mean, look at that. It says right there he got five kills... that's not what a hermit of any kind would do," Katniss said, shaking her head. "No way did this guy hide."

"Well, you're right, he didn't... he wore a big hermit crab shell as armour," Peeta explained, glancing down at Museida's fierce face. "That's what Finnick once said, anyway."

Katniss stared, uncomprehending for a few moments.

"...What?" Katniss said, about as a dry as the desert from the Fourth Games.

3rd Annual Hunger Games

Name: Museida Selkirk

Gender: Male

District: 4

Age: 18

Kills: 5

My jaw aches as I chew on the raw clam meat. Beastly stuff, but I know I've had worse in years gone by. Not like it's going to matter once I get out of here anyway. If it meant cheating death then I'd eat an entire truckload of raw clam meat, to be perfectly honest.

I knock back the meat with a gulp of water. Not gonna be long until I'll need to boil some more of it, but at least I'll be fine until sundown tomorrow so long as I'm careful.

I stand by the sea, letting the waves come up to me and cover my feet in the salty water. In this arena it's really the one reminder I've got of home. The one thing keeping me from going crazy like that kid from Five did. At that point I was really just doing him a kindness, taking him out of this place.

That's what I keep telling myself anyway. I mean, straight up calling myself a monster sure won't make getting home any easier.

Just one more reaping and that was it. Just one more reaping and then I age out. Only had to do it twice before, so what was one more time? Unlucky, that's what. I remember standing on that stage, smouldering in anger as the Escort babbled on and on and on.

At least my District Partner, already dead, wasn't anybody who I would call a friend. I'm pretty selective about company.

Eventually I move on from the sea and start aimlessly walking down the beach. It was a tropical island that we got thrown into this year and already we've reached the sixth day. By default, it's now the longest Hunger Games there have ever been. I can't help but wonder what the record will end up being in years to come. Weeks? Months? I make myself sick just thinking about this shit keeping up for so long.

Eventually I settle down behind some boulders near the waves, laying my back on the sand. Sighing, I drink more water.

"Just a few more days," I tell myself. "A few more shitty days and you're free, Mus."

I guess it could be worse than it is. A tropical island suits me just fine, easily better than the past two arenas would have been, and I'm not exactly weak or anything. Six foot four, plenty of muscles and, not that it matters if you ask me, a fine tan that had the Capitol women giggling. The life I've led in the care home full of constant hard work at the dockyard has really forced onto me the fact you have to work like a dog if you want anything in Panem.

It's worked out for me so far. I managed to work hard enough to get my own place in Four – not much, but it's mine – and it's helped me survive to the top six of this year's Hunger Games. I guess my odds are looking pretty good right now. Besides the throbbing cut on my left hip and the bruise on my forehead I've not got much to complain over. I have food, I have water, I have a trident.

I'm alive.

If Four is ever gonna have a Victor, I'm gonna be the one to pull it off. Compared to the previous tributes from my District I'd say I'm the strongest, no contest.

In the first Games Kai was a restaurant worker and Brooke was just a quiet kid.

In the second Games Shrimp was constantly crying and Paddle was blind.

As for this year, my District Partner was called Bait – a lanky girl with frizzy hair and thick glasses – and she got gutted like a fish at the Cornucopia by the girl from Ten.

I didn't know that girl's name, but I broke her neck about five seconds after she killed Bait. I never knew Bait, but I'm still loyal to my District.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the memories of the shit that went down at the damn Cornucopia.

"Just five to go. Just relax," I tell myself, settling down for a small nap.

The sound of scuffling wakes me up in an instant. I roll around, grabbing for wherever the hell I left my trident, spotting a figure running off down the dark beach. I'm about ready to just let the poor bastard leave – they don't seem very big or scary anyway – but the fact my backpack is gone has me on my feet.

Of course, they just had to take my shit. Of course they did.

"Get back here!" I yell as I start to run after them.

They don't say a word, fleeing desperately towards the top of the beach where I'll no doubt lose them in the thick tropical forest. My black backpack won't be easy to see in the darkness.

I don't know who this person is, the darkness making it impossible to get a decent look at the colour of their uniform, but what I do know is they robbed me and I might die without the contents of that backpack.

I act on instinct, rearing back to throw the trident.

I put my arm over my eyes, not wanting to see what comes next. But I sure hear the shit that follows the whoosh of the trident through the air, every fucking bit of it. The other tribute, a boy based on the agonized voice, collapses in the sand with the trident pierced right into his back. By the time I narrow the gap and see the tomato red jacket – District Six, then – he's already almost gone, the sand around him coated a terrible red.

I sigh, shaking my head. One pull has the trident back in my hands. One more downwards stab has the boy dead and the cannon firing across the arena.

"Four to go," I mutter, grabbing my backpack and stalking off further down the beach.

I try to act tough, putting on cold look for the cameras that are surely pointing right at my bruised face. Better they see me looking tough than looking tearful. That's three kills now. Maybe I won't have to make any more.

Fuck that. Just a childish hope. I know full damn well I'll have to make at least one more. After what Pliny did last year I swear they've been setting off some traps on people who stay still for longer than an hour for any reason besides a quick nap and even then there's little patience.

After eating more clam meat, raw per the norm, I settle on the sand to collect my thoughts. The finale is probably gonna be soon and so far the Gamemakers seem to like making things get far more dangerous when hardly anybody is left. Then again, there's a new Head Gamemaker this time around so maybe he'll take it easy on us.

Yeah, right.

"Just four left out there," I mutter, glancing around in all directions. "Might even be watching me right now. Shit, they might even be better armed."

I never went back to the Cornucopia after the first day. The way the white sand that surrounded it ended up crimson as far as the eye could see was more than my stomach was able to take. It's entirely possible somebody has the lion's share of what's left at the horn and is geared up perfectly.

I'm not the suicidal type, so I'm not planning to storm the Cornucopia. If I'm gonna arm myself more than I already am, I'll have to find something laying around. Maybe a big branch or some sharp coral?

I mark out the numbers of each District on the ground, One through Twelve, trying to work out who is left. The easy part is knowing the District and gender of those left aside from myself – girl from Two, boy from Seven, both from Eleven – while the hard part is remembering what they even looked like. It feels like an eternity ago that we started this thing.

I can't help growling, remembering how we got two days of training this year and got outright ordered to thank them lest we face a whipping. Six tributes got whipped, myself included.

Best I can remember is that the pair from Eleven were lifelong friends, so they're probably together right now. I think the girl from Two was related to Peacekeeper, so she probably has some idea of how to fight. Boy from Seven, who the fuck knows?

I figure it's getting close to the point where staying still will get me punished, or fucking killed, so quickly flat out the sand again and set off down the beach.

It must be an hour later when I find a large shell on the sand. A few vicious pokes inside with my trident confirms it's empty. A few test lifts shows me it's not overly heavy either. Still, it's a thick shell and has a few spikes on it too.

Looks like I just found my armour, if I could just think of a way to strap it to myself...

"Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea?" I let out a sigh as I waddle my way along through the tropical forest, practically crab walking.

It had seemed like a good idea, using vines and my knowledge of knots to bind the large hermit crab shell to my back, but now I'm wondering if it might actually be possible to die of embarrassment.

Probably still less painful than what I did to that boy last night. Not to mention the way that Ten girl screamed right before I broke her neck or how the boy from Two met his end when I impaled the trident in his guts on the third day.

I need to just think less and focus more.

I've probably been performing the world's most embarrassing walk for two hours before thunder booms through the sky and rain begins to falls upon the island.

I narrow my eyes, my trident gripped hard. Doesn't take a genius to know that the finale has begun.

"Ok, where are you guys," I mutter, slowly turning in a circle. "Come on out... let's end this..."

Nobody comes out to fight me, but the wind sure picks up after a few moments. It's nudging me to the left, so that's where I start heading. It's never wise to swim against the current, or I guess walk against the wind in this case.

I'm not willing to test the Capitol's patience any more than I'm willing to let a tribute gut me.

My waddle turned into a desperate speed walk when the trees began to catch on fire. A few flames fell onto the shell, harmlessly, but at this point I'm sweating from the combination of humid rain and the fire closing in every second.

"When this shit is over I'm never going near fire or out in the rain for the rest of my damn life," I hiss, my teeth gritted.

I force myself into a run when I hear a scream ahead of me. Just as well since the fire is getting faster now. The once tropical paradise is starting to look like what the care home's owner, Mr Barb, calls a 'holiday from Hell'. Still, better this hellhole than being stuck at the Capitol.

My gasp in air, forcing my legs to keep working all the harder once a cannon booms. Three left to go and I can get back home.

I don't get any time to wonder who it was that just died when I crash through a cluster of hedges and start falling down the muddy hill. A cannon fires by the time I am midway down, shouting and cursing myself hoarse.

A third cannon fires by the time I hit the bottom, a sickening crunch filing my ears. For a while I just sit here, gasping for air. One left, Just one more to go and I'm free.

Back to the slow life on the docks, the hard work I've always enjoyed, filling my hours with plenty of tough distractions. I'll... why are my pants getting damp?

I'm recoiling in horror the instant I see the blood pooled under me. Shit, shit, shit! Fucking fucker! It takes a while before I realise it's not my blood, not that this cheers me up. Not when I see the bodies of the pair from Eleven laying dead, bloody faced on the ground.

I lose the clam meat I ate earlier when I see the pile of crushed gore that used to be the girl from, Two. The vile scent of it is worse than low tide, sending me crashing off through the woods.

I'm a man, practically. But the blood on the shell and soaked into my pants has me shaking like a little boy.

One left. One left. One left.

After a night of staggering through the woods, hardly even thinking, I finally find him back at the place this shit all began. The Cornucopia.

The boy from Seven is perched atop the Cornucopia with a crossbow in hand. He looks scratched, raw even, as he tiredly glances around. Lucky for me he doesn't spot me or I'd be no better off than the pair from Eleven.

"No good ever came from a crossbow in the Games," I mutter, shaking my head. I can't help thinking of the massacre two years back and the way the Elevens killed the boy from Three last year when he picked one up. "No good at all."

I'm seated here for a while, lost as to how I can get closer to him and not get seen. The wind picking up comes off as a warning for me to get moving.

The moment the Seven boy turns away to take a bite of his bread is when I make my way into the bloodstained clearing, taking care to not make a sound. I only dare move a few meters before I freeze, turning around and ducking down. I'm tense, silent as a still sea.

He doesn't seem to react. When I carefully back up a few steps, earning no reaction, it occurs to me that the boy doesn't even realise I am here. The shell is the perfect camouflage.

"I'll be home soon," I hear the boy say.

He's wrong. That fact is made clear when I turn around and step closer to the Cornucopia, finally in range. I hurl the trident with whatever might I've got left.

He'd dead before he falls off the Cornucopia, sprawled out in the bloody sand.

I spit out some of the trickles of blood in my mouth, casting away all my gear. I don't care about the cannon, I don't care about the victory trumpets and I sure as fuck don't care about any of the bastards in the Capitol.

I just care about going home, back to normality. Back to how it all was. Back before this entire nightmare ever got started.

It's hours before I get any peace at the after party, away from those stupid Capitolites clamouring for a picture with me. Here on the balcony things are a lot quiet, just me and the night air.

Nobody can see me cry out here.

It's never gonna be the same ever again. Already I've been told my old place has been destroyed, my things all taken to the Victor's village. Already I've heard over and over how the accidental kill with the giant hermit crab shell is the 'best death of the Games so far'. They keep calling me 'the hermit', they keep talking about the way the families cried 'when their District lost'.

When did this world get so fucked up?

I don't know how long I hide out on the balcony crying - surely not long enough – but I'm not even close to done with crying this shit out when the doors open.

I'm quiet as the dead tributes themselves when Mizar and Pliny, the two Victors prior to myself, step out. They don't speak, just standing quietly for now.

"We understand the feeling," Mizar says, quiet. His wide eyes are about as haunted as they were the when he got out of his own arena. "The guilt, the pain... we get it."

"Yeah..." Pliny adds, softly yawning. "We do."

I shake my head, about ready to leave.

"How? I'm not like you," I say, tears in my eyes. "I fucking killed people. Not when there was just one left like you two. I killed five people, even when I could've walked the other way."

I make my way past them, not wanting any company. Solitude suits me better, always has done and always will. I ignore them as they call after me. Maybe I'll be more up for talking in the morning before we all leave, maybe I won't be.

If people are calling me a hermit, then that's what I'll be. A hermit, all alone. I don't think I want any company again after all this shit. Not after what I did to those kids.

"They say that he never left his house except for Games season," Peeta said, sympathetic. "I guess he really took to the hermit label. I can't blame him. Killing... it really gets to you."

"It does," Katniss agreed, looking away. "Nobody really wins the Games in the end."

The pair were silent as they moved onwards to the fourth face on the sidewalk. A calm looking young man looked back up at them, an eyepatch over his left eye.

"Baron," Katniss said, looking down at the fourth Victor. "The first ever Volunteer."

"And not the last either. Do you know why he volunteered, specifically?" Peeta asked, curious.

"No," Katniss said, shaking her head. "Do you?"

Peeta simply shook his head, lost.

Not all tales have happy endings, or even bittersweet ones. Museida survived the arena, but he sure ended up as quite the broken young man. Even the oldest and strongest tributes have their demons after all, and many don't cope particularly well with them. An isolated sort of man, what might lurk in his future when we next see him?

Stats

District 1: N/A

District 2: N/A

District 3: N/A

District 4: Museida Selkirk (3rd Games)

District 5: N/A

District 6: N/A

District 7: Pliny Aransio (2nd Games)

District 8: N/A

District 9: Mizar Aldjoy (1st Games)

District 10: N/A

District 11: N/A

District 12: N/A