Hey everyone! We have finally finished editing chapter 11, so here you go!

P.S. Remember to tell us what you think of the story! Any and all feedback is appreciated.

"Damn it!" Mr. Ratcliffe shouted.

Mr. Wiggins jumped at the sudden outburst. He was nervous, as he always was, when he had to deliver bad news to Mr. Ratcliffe when he was in a bad mood.

"That ugly brute was supposed to kill Mulan!" he cried, hurling a coffee cup at the wall. It shattered.

"B-but sir, I thought you said—"

"I know what I said!" Mr. Ratcliffe bellowed. "But I will NOT let the people control the way I run the Games! There will be only ONE victor! ONE!" he cried, shaking his pointer finger in the air. "And that victor WILL NOT be Mulan!"

"Uh, but sir? Why not Mulan? All the polls suggest that—"

"Shut up, would you! It's obvious isn't it?"

Wiggins blinked.

"She is too selfless," Mr. Ratcliffe sighed. "If Pocahontas dies, she will most certainly lead a rebellion against us! And that would spell trouble for the whole country, because as your beloved polls suggest, people love her and will be willing to fight with her!"

"And Pocahontas won't?" Mr. Ratcliffe asked timidly.

Mr. Ratcliffe glared at his assistant as if he were some revolting bug that needed to be swatted. "No, it's much less likely."

"Oh," Mr. Wiggins squeaked, sweat running down his temple. He was dying for an excuse to get out Mr. Ratcliffe's office, but no excuse presented itself. He took a deep breath, then said very quickly, "Well, sir, the latest polls show that 83% of Panem believes that you're targeting one tribute too much." Mr. Wiggins shrank back, ready for the inevitable outburst.

"WELL HOW THE HELL ELSE AM I SUPPOSED TO KILL THAT GOD-DAMNED GIRL?" Mr. Ratcliffe cried. "There's only two tributes left, for heaven's sake! How can we not target one?" Another innocent coffee mug was hurled at the wall.

Mr. Wiggins glanced around quickly for any other cups, then said, "Well, sir, if you don't mind me saying this…" Mr. Ratcliffe certainly looked like he minded, but Wiggins continued anyway. "But like you said, Mulan is more selfless than Pocahontas, so… if you were to target Pocahontas with the next obstacle, then the people can't accuse you of targeting just one person. And, if Mulan really is as selfless as she seems…"

"…then she'll try to die in Pocahontas's place!" Mr. Ratcliffe finished. "Wiggins, that is the smartest thing you have said in a long time!"

"And I mean, a loooong time," he added as he made his way to the door. "Send someone to clean that up, will you?" He asked, gesturing to the shards of coffee cups that were scattered around the floor.

Pocahontas grabbed Mulan's hand and pulled her to her feet. She was expecting Mulan to be dead weight in her arms, but to her surprise, Mulan managed to stand on her own and released Pocahontas's hand.

"Hey, this is probably not the time, but, I uh," Mulan began, twisting her fingers together, "wanted to thank you for being my ally, and…saving my butt… multiple times…"

Pocahontas was distracted by Mulan's burned skin, fresh cuts, and blood-adorned figure. She blinked a few times, still staring, with a knot of guilt and anger in her stomach.

"…so… thanks for that," Mulan finished, wiping some crimson blood off her shoulder. Pocahontas stared at her now bloody hand, feeling a jolt of hatred shoot through her.

The Gamemakers. The Capitol. They did this… to a sweet, endearing, and impossibly brave sixteen-year-old girl. Who had saved her life. Whose intentions were all so perfectly good and Pocahontas hated herself in that moment, hated herself with every ounce in her body, for becoming close to this stupid, reckless, altruistic girl who never once thought about preserving her own life rather than others'. Pocahontas hated herself for allowing Mulan to continually injure herself for her sake, and hated how Mulan—stupid, reckless, altruistic Mulan—never stopped to think about how Pocahontas might feel knowing that she could never be as good as her.

"Pocahontas?" Mulan's voice jolted Pocahontas from her thoughts.

Pocahontas cleared her throat. "Yes?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine, totally fine—" she started, then stopped. She stared at Mulan, who was struggling to stay standing. She cast her eyes over the angry cuts and burns, the dried blood all over her, and then back to her eyes.

"I'm fine, really." Mulan said, and Pocahontas almost laughed at the absurdity of the statement.

"No," she stated, blinking her eyes once, then twice. She cleared her throat. "You're not."

Both of them cast their gaze to the ground before Pocahontas spoke up again.

"I just don't want you to die."

"Well," Mulan looked up, a small smirk on her face. "Thanks. I don't want you to die either." She paused, serious again. "But the dragon… it came for me. What if the next one—"

"Comes for me," Pocahontas finished, not even phrasing it as a question, because she was so sure of it, she so wanted to be sure of it. "Then it comes for me. And you—" stupid, reckless, altruistic girl "—will NOT try and protect me."

Back in the Capitol Theatre, Mr. Wiggins nervously scooted a few inches away from his boss, steeling himself for the inevitable outburst.

Even with the loud chatter inside the room, Wiggins could swear that he heard a growl from the poor man.

"How can those two ruin things more than they already have?" he boomed, his voice ringing through the theater and causing every head to turn their way. Wiggins cringed, inching away.

"Oh no, you stay here, Wiggins," Mr. Ratcliffe snapped, grabbing his shirt sleeve. Wiggins let out a squeak of nervous laughter.

"Heh heh, well, sir, you really cannot be sure of anything yet," he chuckled. Mr. Ratcliffe was not amused.

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT OUR CITIZENS'—"

"You finally said it, I knew it all along," Mr. Wiggins agreed, wilting under the subsequent glare he received.

"—THOUGHTS ON THE GAMES."

Wiggins let out a tiny 'oh' before laughing nervously again, shrinking away from Mr. Ratcliffe's gaze.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures. Please inform everyone that I have made an executive decision to target Mulan again," Mr. Ratcliffe said decisively, giving a crisp nod of his head to make it official.

"No!" Wiggins blurted out, desperation blooming over his already scrawny features. "You don't know if Mulan will actually listen to Pocahontas!"

Mr. Ratcliffe shook his head. "What can she do anyway? She's about a hair away from passing out. In case you haven't noticed, Wiggins, we don't have a whole lot of time left in the Games to kill her!"

"We...we could send her medicine!"

Mr. Ratcliffe scoffed. "So you, Wiggins, are suggesting we heal the very person we are trying to kill, just so she will be strong enough to save the person we want to be saved...and then die in her place, all so we don't look like we're targeting anybody?"

Wiggins gave a meek nod.

"That," Mr. Ratcliffe groaned, "is—" He paused as if something had occurred to him. "—perhaps not such a bad idea after all. But with a few revisions."

"How dumb do you think I am?" Mulan asked, breaking the silence. She swung her sword, which she'd recovered after the water had subsided, at a particularly thick patch of shrubbery to create a clear path.

"We are in the middle of the Hunger Games, and a new, life-threatening obstacle could appear at any time." She waved her hand around in the air to emphasize her point, then immediately regretted it as a new wave of pain washed over her arm. "And you decide that now—" she slashed viciously at another bush, "is a great time to take a bathroom break."

Mulan stopped, raising her eyebrows at Pocahontas, who refused to meet her gaze. "I'm not an idiot, you know," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "I know that the second you or I go off for some 'privacy'," she hooked two fingers in the air in quotation marks, "you'll take off, luring the obstacle out to you."

Pocahontas remained silent. Mulan took this as a cue to continue her rant.

"Well you know what?! I" Another slash. "DON'T." Slash, Slash. "GIVE." Slash, slash. "A." Slash. "CR—"

Pocahontas turned around in surprise when Mulan didn't finish, just in time to watch as Mulan's limp body pitched sideway onto the muddy ground.

"MULAN!" Pocahontas ran forward. She fell to her knees next to Mulan's body, placing her head on her lap and desperately shaking her shoulder.

Nothing.

"No! NO! Nonononononono…" she started gasping, fingers frantically searching for a pulse in her wrist.

Nothing.

Pocahontas let out a body-racking sob and slowly backed away from Mulan's lifeless body until collapsing against a tree.

"No," she kept repeating, unable to accept this new turn of events. Mulan couldn't be dead. There was no way this was happening. It was trick, it had to be a trick! A trick devised by the Capitol to distract her from the next obstacle. But Mulan stayed where she was, lifeless and unmoving, and Pocahontas couldn't bring herself to look at her body any longer. She closed her eyes shut and started massaging her temples.

She waited for the anthem to play, waited for Mulan's lifeless body to be lifted out of the arena, waited for when she would be able to mourn over the death of her friend away from the prying eyes of the Capitol.

But deep down, in the selfish parts of her heart, Pocahontas also couldn't wait to go home. That small, selfish part of her was so relieved that this was finally over that she waited a full minute before realizing that nothing was happening.

Staggering forward rather tiredly, she once again knelt by Mulan, avoiding eye contact with her face, and then she noticed Mulan's fingers.

They were blue.

What Pocahontas had originally dismissed as hypothermia from the water was, in actuality, ice poisoning from Elsa's magic. She realized with a jolt that without the warmth from a fire to stop the ice from spreading, like Pocahontas had done after she had been hit, Mulan was susceptible to ice poisoning. Pocahontas gingerly lifted up Mulan's fingers and shook them in an attempt to regain their usual color. When that didn't work, she brought them up to her mouth and started blowing on them. And when that didn't work, she placed Mulan's fingers delicately in her mouth and closed her mouth, gently.

Crack! The faint sound of Mulan's brittle fingers starting to snap off stunned Pocahontas. Maybe, she thought, if Mulan can't feel her fingers…

Gasping as realization hit her, Pocahontas lay her head on Mulan's chest, where she heard the most wonderful sound in the whole world—the rapid, but present, beating of Mulan's heart. Pocahontas's body was once more racked with sobs, but this time, they were of relief. She had found a pulse, and there was still a chance, no matter how small, that there could be two victors this year.

Mulan, the stupidest, most reckless, and most altruistic girl Pocahontas had ever met was still alive.

Now Pocahontas was faced with a decision. She knew that leaving her ally unconscious could ensure that Mulan emerge victorious, as long as Pocahontas could draw the obstacle, whatever it was, away from her.

But then again, leaving a girl unconscious in the woods would not be helpful if the next obstacle was a flood. And there was always a possibility that Mulan might wake up before Pocahontas had… left. And furthermore, Pocahontas knew that it would be just like the Gamemakers for them to switch targets, just to spite her. After all, one mad, broken tribute was much easier to control and manipulate than two fierce girls, bonded for life with enough hate for the government to fuel a rebellion.

And then, of course, there was one idea that had crept into Pocahontas's subconscious mind earlier, but now was the only thought consuming her brain.

There was only one, foolproof option that would ensure that the Games ended now. Yes, she could kill Mulan, but Pocahontas wouldn't even consider that anymore.

For the next few minutes, Pocahontas had only one word in mind. It consumed her thoughts.

Suicide.

"This makes matters much easier for us," Mr. Ratcliffe declared, laden with relief. "I had almost forgotten about the ice poisoning, but this is wonderful news; Mulan will not last another fifteen minutes like this! Then Pocahontas will be the winner, the citizens cannot accuse us of anything—after all, we did give them a chance to both win, didn't we, Wiggins—and we will be perfectly in control again without being held accountable for Mulan's death!"

He twirled around his seat in relief, even swooping in and grabbing Wiggins in a bone-crushing hug for good measure.

"Now all we do is wait," he stated, mentally applauding himself on having done such a great job on running this year's Games, despite the mess that Pocahontas and soon-to-be-dead Mulan had caused.

"Sir," Wiggins squeaked from the inside of his boss's embrace. "I don't think it… will work that way—"

Wiggins was cut off by a sudden release that nearly sent him sprawling face first onto the ground.

"Yes, it will!" Mr. Ratcliffe's voice boomed at him as Wiggins struggled to regain his breath. "You, my friend, have no idea how much I have had to deal with this week. Sending out letters of assurance that we would have a fair Hunger Games, despite being complete BS, took a lot of work to make them sound sincere! And figuring out what to do with those polls… if it wasn't for me, my ingenious idea, and maybe about an ounce of help from you, we'd be about as dead as the seafowl in the Gulf of Mexico! And that, you useless idiot, is not even to mention the hordes of people from District 2 and 11 trying to send gifts into the arena every day! If I hadn't dealt with them—"

Wiggins squirmed as Mr. Ratcliffe continued his rant, a frightened look on his face.

Mr. Ratcliffe finished his tirade, and upon seeing that his words had left their desired effect on Wiggins, managed to calm down a little, satisfied for the moment.

"Do you understand now? So don't you try to tell me that it won't work; she'll be dead in ten minutes—"

"Sir!" Wiggins cried. "Just look!"

And Mr. Ratcliffe turned his head towards the screen, and to his horror, saw Pocahontas lift Mulan's sword up to her chin, preparing for what could only be suicide.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Pocahontas concentrated on her breathing, the only thing she could control at the moment. Her heart beat erratically, her palms sweat, and her mouth went dry as she prepared herself for what she was about to do. As she lifted the sword to her chin, she did what she always did when she had to make a big decision—in this case a very big decision—she weighed the pros and cons.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Pro - Mulan will be alive.

Breathe in.

Con - I'll be dead.

Pocahontas let out a shaky breath after thinking about that. She almost wanted to laugh at the frankness in with which she talked about her own death. Almost—but she didn't.

Breathe in.

Pro - Mulan will get to see her family again.

Breath out.

Con - I'll be dead.

Pocahontas took a moment to study her friend. Her stupid, reckless, altruistic friend.

Mulan was in terrible shape. Burns covered her skin, and blood had dried and crusted in places, while in other places, it oozed out of the cuts and scrapes that covered her body.

If I'm not going to go through with this, she thought, biting her lip, I better decide fast, because Mulan is going to bleed to death in a minute.

Shaking her head, Pocahontas turned her attention back to the debate that was still raging in her head.

Breathe in.

Pro - I'll be a hero, maybe even… a symbol of rebellion?

Breathe out.

Con - I'll be dead.

Pocahontas thought about her home back in District 11, and was almost immediately overcome with emotion. She choked back her sobs and reminded herself that what—and who—she would leave behind would, without a doubt, benefit from a rebellion.

And Mulan was most certainly a better leader than Pocahontas.

Wasn't she?

Pocahontas shook her head, as if she could physically shake away all thoughts of her family from her mind, and tried to focus on breathing again. Her breaths at the moment were coming in short bursts, and she pressed a hand to her chest to press away some of the tension building up there.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Okay. Pocahontas took a few more deep breaths and started again with her debate.

Breathe in.

Pro—Mulan will get medical attention much sooner than if she'll have to wait another 10 hours or so.

Breathe out.

Con - ...need I even say it anymore?

Now that her life was on the line—and quite literally in her own hands—Pocahontas couldn't comprehend how people were willing to give up their lives for a person, let alone a cause.

Ugh, off topic again! She reprimanded herself. One more glance at Mulan told her that she didn't have much more time.

She turned the sword over in her hands, considering it thoughtfully.

Then, she angled her body slightly away from Mulan and brought the sword up to her heart.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and she could just picture her friends and family all yelling desperately at the screens for her to stop. She could even hear Mulan, with her quiet, yet somehow assertive voice, telling her to stop.

ooo

Mulan watched through half-lidded eyes as Pocahontas turned around to face her, and she once again commanded, "Stop!" She would've have done something else, but she was worried that if she tried pushing Pocahontas, she would fall onto the sword, thus skewering herself.

Pocahontas started, then placed the sword more firmly against her chest.

"Pocahontas, you can't—you shouldn't—I won't let you—" Mulan trailed off as her eyes rested on something else, just over Pocahontas's left shoulder.

Her eyes widened in fear as she clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the half-wail, half-gasp sound she made, and she resisted the urge to just lie down and let herself sleep.

Pocahontas watched in dread as a virtually fearless girl's eyes widened in alarm and fear. She turned around slowly, terrified as to what would make the unshakable Mulan, well, shaken.

The second Mulan saw those eyes bore into hers, she knew.

She was going to die tonight.