A/N: Scarlett's POV

The very day after Maggie died was a very interesting day.

The camera was on Draven Dupre from almost the first moment of coverage. Finnick handed me a glass of orange juice when I came rolling in after a very late night out with one of my demanding clients and gave me a tight sort of smile.

"Haymitch says it's nearly done," Finnick said softly when I took the juice and sat down beside him. "Says he can smell it."

It all smelled the same as usual to me, but I didn't question it. Haymitch was never wrong.

Draven was stalking something, a rope ready. I couldn't figure out what he was tracking, or if it was even possible to tract something in such a desert, but he seemed to be more than a little bit clever.

Despite my best efforts, Draven Dupre had managed to impress me over the course of the Games. It was too bad, really. Maybe in a different world I could have given in to my curiosity and maybe we could have been happy together, if he was really sincere with his interest in me. But in the world I lived in, the world I had to live in, there was no place for caring about anyone.

"What is he looking for?" I asked Haymitch, who had just sat down on the other side of me, drink in hand. "Is he hunting lizards or something?"

Haymitch shook his head slightly, taking a long drink. Finally, he said, "Naw, he's looking for the other tributes. He's mad that Maggie's dead, I think. I think he's guilty that he didn't put her out of her misery or something like that. He's acting like he feels guilty. Anyway, you can see it in his eyes. He's ready for it to all be over."

There was something more determined in the way Draven was carrying himself, that was true. Who he was on the trail of, though, we couldn't be sure. Luke was just waking up in his part of the arena, wherever that was. Charlotte was lying in the sand, blinking up at the sun. I knew she would die of thirst sooner rather than later, if she was lucky. Draven wouldn't be so kind if he found her before she died of her own accord. And Alexander was watching a pack of lizards hungrily, trying to decide how best to kill one without getting attacked.

Back to Draven with his stalking something or someone... It wasn't my imagination that every one of us leaned forward a bit when Draven was brought back onto the screen, rope in hand, knife in the other.

I couldn't help but be impressed with the way Draven had killed every one of his victims with a different weapon. Colin from District Five had been a longsword. Vin from District eight was a harpoon. Now whoever or whatever he was killing would be going down by knife. That sort of versatility was rare in the games.

"It's Alexander," Jonas groaned, seeing the shadow of a male in the distance, with lizards beyond the shadow.

He was right. Unless Luke had also come across a herd of lizards in the short time from when he was waking up to the point we were at, it had to be Alexander.

"Do you suppose he'll sneak up on him?" Blight asked no one in particular.

"I don't know," Mags said with a shrug. "It's certainly possible to sneak up on someone in sand, and Alexander seems so hungry I doubt he's thinking about anything but those lizards."

Preoccupation could mean death in the Games, and it looked like it was about to spell Alexander's.

"He'd be throwing into the sun," I said softly. "If he threw it, he'd be throwing into the sun, and it's different than a spear or a harpoon. Knives and axes are hard to aim into the sun. If he misses, he loses the element of surprise and his weapon, plus he might rile the lizards. If it were me, I'd risk getting close enough to kill in hand-to-hand combat. He's big enough to overpower Alexander, easily."

"You guys are forgetting the rope," Finnick said, just as Draven began making his lasso as he crept forward.

Of course, how could we forget?

Within moments, Draven had the lasso ready, he'd gotten within range, and it took just a bit of twirling a flick of his wrist to have Alexander tied up and helpless on the sand.

And there was something infinitely impressive about that sort of finesse. He could bring down beasts three times the size of Alexander, at least, with little more than a flick of the wrist and proper timing.

I couldn't help but be impressed and jealous all at once.

Draven made his way casually over to Alexander, whether because he could or because he didn't want to attract the attention of the lizards, and then he knelt beside the boy.

"Hey," he said.

Draven was my age, seventeen. Alexander, if I remembered correctly, was only fifteen, and although that was only a two year difference they looked so far apart in age it was more than a bit disconcerting for Draven to be kneeling over Alexander with a knife in his hand, poised to stab.

"Please just do it quickly," Alexander whimpered, looking at the long blade.

With a nod, an almost kind nod, Draven took the knife and gave it an expert thrust, probably hitting the heart given the timing of the cannon as Draven pulled it back out, wiping it off on the sand. He untied the rope, looped it up for storage, and then went over to kill a lizard before he went on his way for the day, but with none of the urgency he'd had that morning when he'd gotten up.

Perhaps he didn't know where to look next.

The hovercraft came for Alexander's body before the lizards could finish it off, and Draven began wandering the arena aimlessly, searching for signs of other tributes.

Thankfully, we saw our second and final death of the day just before it was time to visit with sponsors.

Charlotte was lying in the sand, and we knew it was only a matter of time once they moved from Luke hunting lizards to her lying motionless, rasping and twitching her fingers defiantly in the sand.

"Scarlett," she managed to rasp, and I shivered slightly.

I'd never particularly liked her saying my name, but it sounded eerie and angry as she lay dying, and I wished she would just get it over with and give up. There was nothing more I could do for her, and I was sick of watching her hold on to life when I knew she had to die eventually. I didn't like feeling like I'd failed at something.

"Water," she gasped out. "Could get me water?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and Finnick leaned to whisper in my ear, "Don't pay any mind to it. She's desperate and bitter because she failed, but there was nothing you could do. Okay? Don't blame yourself for her failings."

Finnick was one to talk. Luke still had a chance to win.

And it was more than that. Finnick would likely not be a mentor for too awfully long. District Four was a career district, with more winners than Seven had ever had, and by comparison I was probably going to spend the rest of my life watching the people I mentored die without there being anything I could do.

I was going to become Haymitch, I realized, bitter, alone, unfeeling, uncaring, unable to do anything for his largely pathetic tributes.

Except Haymitch wasn't entirely unfeeling or uncaring, he just seemed to prefer to be where most people were concerned because it was easier than being attached. It was safer than being attached.

"Scarlett Delannoy," she rasped again, and I shivered slightly, hardly noticing that Finnick had wrapped his arm around me in a comforting gesture. Once I realized he'd done it I wished he hadn't, but I didn't want to tell him to take it away, or to push him away, because it really did feel better with his arm around me. "If I don't make it, it's your fault," she whispered through her chapped lips. "I hope my mother kills you."

I snorted.

"I wouldn't be so flippant if I were you," Blight cautioned solemnly. "Marley and Alon Jacobsen are the apothecaries," he added by way of explanation.

"So?" I retorted. "I've never gone to them when I was sick."

"You went to your father," Blight said with a nod. "But your father is dead. You might need Marley Jacobsen someday, the crone that she is, so I would go out of my way not to anger her if I were you."

I hadn't thought of that, of course, hadn't thought of how much my life would be different without my family, and the reminder of their deaths was like a hard slap to the face.

Finnick pulled me closer and I hadn't realized I was crying until he wiped the tears off my cheek.

I got the feeling he wanted to kiss me, but didn't want to do so in front of so many people, and I was grateful for that. It wasn't that I didn't like it when he kissed me, but I felt so guilty about crossing that line Haymitch had warned me about in the heat of the moment, and I couldn't bring myself to tell Finnick about the boundary in case he got the wrong idea.

And was it the wrong idea? After all, I had enjoyed his kisses, enjoyed his touch even more than Haymitch's, and he made my insides twist when he looked at me like he wanted me. Was that what love was supposed to feel like?

And if it was, could I let him know anyway? Would that put him in danger, or me? Or would the Capitol make us marry to fulfill their sick entertainment purposes? I wouldn't put it past them to do it if they found out there was even attraction between us, make us marry and raise a bunch of children who would 'end up' in the Hunger Games.

The cannon fired and I looked up to find the hovercraft carrying away Charlotte's limp body.

I had failed her. She was dead and it was at least partially my fault.

No, even if it was love, the feeling that I had toward Finnick, I couldn't possibly let it show. That wasn't going to be my daughter someday, dying of thirst in a desert, or my son dying of hunger for the pleasure of the rich Capitol pigs.

I'd given enough of my life to the Capitol. They weren't getting anything else from me.

I mentioned that I was feeling tired at that point, knowing that I wasn't going to be needed for anything else for the rest of the Games, except for sleeping with my clients, of course.

Maybe I could take a nap.

I made my way down to the seventh floor with Blight, who seemed to be worried about me. Maybe he should have been. Maybe he shouldn't. I really didn't know much of anything at that point, about my sanity or anything else. I stepped into my room and frowned.

No envelop. No room. No client. Just a single white rose.

Snow had given me the night off, whether because of Charlotte's death or because of some other reason I didn't know enough to realize...

But I really didn't care as I peeled off my clothes and fell into bed what the reason was. I could sleep, I didn't have to do anything but sleep.

The faces of the dead that appeared every time I closed my eyes and the scent of the rose that wafted sinisterly from the other side of the room made me toss and turn all night, though, and I couldn't shake the feeling that Snow was just making it so that I was somehow in his debt.

The following day I made my way up to the twelfth floor feeling anything but refreshed, and I hoped that it would all be over soon. I didn't think I could handle too many more nights in the Capitol, and I couldn't leave until the Victor was on his way home, Luke or Draven, whoever survived.

Haymitch seemed to sense my exhaustion when I came upstairs, and he poured me a bit of coffee and a large amount of liquor.

"Drink it," he demanded.

I hesitated. If I drank the concoction it might make me feel better. I did trust Haymitch. But I didn't want to become Haymitch, did I? Was there even a point making a distinction there? Eventually, though, I did take the cup from him, sipping it slowly.

The taste was strong, burning, and almost nauseating, but I managed to hold it down. I would have been mortified if I hadn't at least been able to do that.

And I found as the liquid made its way down my throat, settling in my belly, that it felt good, that burning sensation.

The fact that I enjoyed it was not a comforting feeling, though, so I swore to myself not to drink liquor any more than I absolutely needed to.

We all settled down and I realized that there were only two people left, that it would be over any day now.

Draven and Luke, and one of them would be the victor of the 67th Hunger Games.

"Who do you think?" Blight asked Chaff and Haymitch as they filled up glasses of liquor and settled on one of the couches beside each other.

"Draven," both men said in unison.

I pressed my finger to my lips as the Games began for the day, with Luke going through his routine.

"I don't know if I can watch this," Finnick said with a wince. "I mean, we all know how this is going to end."

"You don't know that," I said softly. "Nobody would have bet on me, but I won anyway. I don't think anyone would have picked you over Stella, but you killed her anyway. Sometimes you just don't know."

They were moving toward each other across the dunes, probably completely unaware they were doing so. The room was tense with silence as we watched them come near to each other, the hot arena sun burning down over them. Claudius and Caesar were chatting, speculating the outcome of a showdown, should one happen that day.

"We're certainly getting to that part of the Games," Caesar said. "It could be over any day now, and from the look of the way they're walking, it could be over in a matter of hours, easily."

"I think that Luke's a bit stronger at the moment," Claudius said with a knowing voice. "He's been kept a bit better fed and a bit better watered, but Draven has such size over him, and he can work from long-range, which Luke has proved he's not as good with."

It was a good point. But before I had time to talk Finnick down, since he'd started fidgeting, we heard Draven mutter, "Gotcha."

And my blood ran a bit colder at that.

He knew he was on Luke's trail, and it really was going to be over in a matter of time. Without thinking about it, I grabbed Finnick's hand, squeezing it tightly, and I only noticed I'd done it when he squeezed my hand back gently.

They grew closer and closer, with Draven moving purposefully, getting glimpses of Luke, but apparently not liking his angle of attack, moving away a bit, then moving closer again.

Finally, he took out his rope and prepared his lasso.

It was about twenty minutes later when he came up from behind Luke, the rope poised and ready.

Luke turned at the last second, perhaps hearing the sound of the snapping rope as it flew through the air toward him, but he had no time to move out of the way. It was looped around him, pulling him to the ground before he had a chance to react.

"No," Finnick moaned. I squeezed his hand again.

Draven walked over to Luke casually, a smirk on his face as he took off his pack, setting it on the sand and kneeling down to take the knife out of Luke's hand.

"I actually liked you, you know," Draven said softly. "I didn't want it to come to you and me, but I guess it's the way it had to be." He tossed the knife to the side in the sand, opening his pack and looking inside it for something.

"Just kill me," Luke moaned. "Please make it quick."

"Oh, I will," Draven said casually, still fishing through his bag. "I have no interest in making you suffer. You should be proud of yourself, Luke. You made it so far."

"But I didn't win," Luke muttered bitterly. "I couldn't win."

"You're right," Draven agreed softly, pulling something very familiar to me out of his pack. "That was always my right."

"Is that a hand ax?" asked Caesar's voice.

"No," I whispered, sitting forward slightly as I took in the smooth curve of the handle. "It's a hatchet."

"Recognize it?" Draven said, turning to Luke. The bound tribute shook his head slightly, confused. "It's a hatchet," Draven explained. "The second I saw it in the stack of weapons, I knew I needed it, needed to get it for my last kill... For you, I suppose. Homage, I suppose you could say, to Scarlett Delannoy last year. Fitting, don't you think?"

Luke opened his mouth, maybe for a retort or to tease him for paying homage to me, but before he had a chance for words to escape his mouth, Draven drove the blade of the hatchet rather forcefully into the center of Luke's forehead, letting the glassy eyes to be covered with blood as a cannon blast was sounded and Claudius announced that Draven Dupre was the victor of the 67th Hunger Games.

And everyone in the room turned to look at me.