Champion

by Kiliflower

"Nobody decent ever wins the Games." "Nobody ever wins the Games. Period." An anthology series dedicated to telling the stories of each of the seventy-five victors of The Hunger Games.

12. Mags

D12F

The first thing I notice is the salt.

The scent hits me like a slap. It's sharp. Tangy. Almost metallic. My nostrils flare, stung by its intensity. Not rotten, not foul, but strong enough to make my belly clench. I don't know what it is, only that it's real.

A sound rises behind me, the sound of churning water crashing against rock. I turn, my pulse racing, and the world opens up before me.

There's the ocean. Vast and sprawling, shifting in endless ripples of a deep, rich blue. It's not a picture in a history book, not a whispered story. It's real.

The waves curl, licking at the pale shore.

Beautiful.

And unfamiliar.

Where am I?

I'm not in the Capitol. I can't be. The trucks took me and the others away, far away, in the middle of the night. I don't know where we've come to, but this isn't like the other Games I've watched before from the town square. No live audience, no glass dome. This year must be different.

I force my gaze forward.

I need to focus.

Ahead, the cove gives way to something wilder than any forest I've ever imagined. The trees don't just stand - they twist, grabbing at the sky with limbs draped in thick, snaking vines. Their leaves are enormous, bigger than my head, slick with moisture that drips onto the tangled undergrowth below.

Everything is too green, too alive, humming with unseen movement. Shadows shift and flicker between the trunks, deep and endless, swallowing whatever dares to step inside.

My breath catches in my throat. This isn't a storybook forest, where trees whisper secrets in the dark. This one breathes. It watches.

I can smell it from my pedestal. Damp, rich, and unfamiliar, like rain trapped in a cage of earth and leaves. It hums with sounds I don't recognize - high-pitched chirps, clicking noises, something shrieking in the distance.

I don't like this. I don't like not knowing what lives there. In the stories, the forests are dark places where monsters wait. But this - this isn't a bedtime tale. This is real.

Maybe if I had someone to help me, guide me, I would feel better. But I don't. There was an accident, an attack… nobody explained. I was expecting Robin to be there, but our baffled and mortified escort has been dealing with - and mostly ignoring - me since the start.

I grip my lopsided, hand-sewn rabbit. My sister made it for me. She's good at sewing, and knows rabbits are my favorite. Every spring, I love to watch them bounce and nibble at the sprouts of grass behind the fence.

Rabbits don't fight, I think. They run. They live.

It's been a tradition, every year, to bring it to the reaping as a good luck charm. And every year, until this one, it has worked. Still, I snuck it onto the train and brought it to the city. The reporters in the Capitol, probing, asked me about it during the press conference they set up for all of the tributes.

One of them said the good luck might continue. Push the odds in my favor. They thought it was sweet. Cute, even. Maybe that's why they let me bring it in here.

A bolt of dread shoots through me, hot and sudden. I don't want to be here. The words claw at the inside of my skull, desperate and loud. I suddenly miss District 12. I miss my father's rough laugh, his terrible jokes. I miss the Community Home food - lumpy porridge and stale water, and whatever I could find for myself. I even miss my stiff mattress and snoring bunkmate.

If I could go back, I'd sleep on the floor forever if I have to.

Just let me go back.

I swallow hard, scanning the ring of tributes. Dangerously close to my left, I see the boy from District 2, hulking and determined. To my right, his wingman, the butcher from Ten, all scowls and sharp edges. I saw the pair of them fighting during training. They didn't just spar. They tore into each other like wolves.

Rabbits don't fight wolves.

I think of my father again. The way his rough hand rested on the top of my head when I was little. The way he smelled - of sweat and soot, of the mine, of home. He was never a talking man, not good with words, but he was always there. Until he couldn't be. He was good, even if he hadn't been able to hold me in a long time. It wasn't his fault. He was sad about mother.

I wonder if he's watching now.

From my pedestal, my straying gaze lands on the girl from Four. The one who's stolen the Capitol's attention from the moment of her arrival. She's everything I wish that I was - beautiful, graceful, charismatic. Even now, she stands proud, her posture impeccable; straight back, chin high. Shoulders squared. Her pensive green eyes are fixed wistfully, not on the Cornucopia - as so many of ours are - but the coastline far beyond it.

She looks like she belongs here, in this place. Like the sand beneath her feet, the salt on the wind, the rolling crash of the waves behind us - it's all hers, and hers alone.

She isn't fidgeting. Isn't trembling.

She's waiting.

I want her bravery. To keep some of it for myself.

The girl turns her head, and our eyes meet. She smiles, ever so slightly, and winks. It's nice. Kind. Then, her eyes return to something in the Cornucopia, and her expression intensifies. Whatever she's after, it's out of my sight.

There's so much that is.

Still, I know that's the signal. I tense my legs, balance my weight, and lean forward. It's time.

The gong shatters the silence.

My muscles coil. Every instinct screams at me.

Run like a rabbit.

And I do.

---

D9F

I've always been sensitive.

The littlest one in my big, brash family. The only girl. My brothers always make fun of me. They say I'm soft, sappy. A sugarcube. If I don't stop crying I'll make myself melt, they say.

Pops doesn't like it.

The way that I tear up so easy, how I always feel sorry for small things like me.

Truthfully, I don't know why I feel so strongly.

It's hard to explain. It's as if I'm a dish rag, soaking up feelings that aren't mine, and I can't wring them out.

Sometimes, it gets so bad I can't get out of bed.

The worst time was when my brothers found a coyote in the old, empty tool shed behind our family's cottage.

The rebels in Nine had robbed it of the scythes and sickles my grandfather and uncles hoarded before the war. It's hollow as a husk now, and in early winter it must've seemed a cozy shack to the poor creature. It was only a baby. Hadn't yet learned when to run from humans.

That was its mistake.

They cornered it, pelted it with rocks for what felt like hours. Laughed at it. I pleaded with them, begged them to stop. And I really did try. But my brother Miller's big, strong arms held me back, and his raspy voice told me to shut up, and so I did as I was told. Like always.

At one point, the baby coyote stared right at me, and its experience latched onto mine. I swear I could feel my skin absorbing its pain, my bloodstream saturating the fear.

It was so afraid, Momma, I wept to my mother hours later. So afraid. And they hurt it.

She cooed at me, consoled me, and then she cooked it in a stew.

Any kind of meat in Nine is hard to come by, so she didn't want to waste it. That coyote kept my family fed for over a week.

But not me. Oh no; I didn't eat a bite of it. Couldn't. The pain of hunger gnawed at my tummy, bad, but the alternative…

No.

Lost in my thoughts, I almost miss the gong.

As the others start running, I feel their fear. Acrid, burning, rotten. There's something else in there, too. It's hot, perverse excitement. Like spice, but wrong. Twisted.

I gag as bile rises in my throat. The scents are thick enough to choke on, the fear rolling off the smaller, weaker tributes in sour waves.

But it's the other feeling that churns my guts the most… that blistering, electric thrill. It stinks of unwashed scavengers ripping at long-dead corpses.

None of it belongs to me.

My knees lock, my breath hitches, and I know I have to move. It's the only option. That's what Brandon slurred at me on the train between swigs of whiskey. Run and just keep running, girl. That's your best shot. His self-hatred curdled in my mouth, like bad milk. But I agreed. With him, and with the others. The ones from training. I told them that I'd run with them.

I take a few paces forward, then stop.

A toy rabbit lies splayed across the ground. Its right eye, a black button, dangles by a thread.

I freeze. Stare at it.

And suddenly, I'm back in that tool shed. Back with the coyote. Its wild, desperate eyes locked onto mine. Begging me to do something, to make it stop.

And all I can do is watch.

Somebody barrels into me.

I hit the ground hard, my head snapping back against the sand. I feel a boot press against my ribs and try to scramble up, digging my fingernails into the muscle of the leg holding me down.

The foot comes down again, harder, forcing the air from my lungs.

Above me, far above me, the sun blazes blindingly against the pale sky, turning the figure above me into a shifting shadow.

Why did you stop running?

I can practically hear everyone screaming it at me.

I blink against the glare. My vision swims, finally sharpening enough to make out a face. A boy. The one from the fishing district. I know him by his sun-speckled skin, the crooked nose.

He holds aloft a slim rod, sharp at the end. It's slick, dark at the tips. Not with water. It's red.

Warmth blooms across my legs. Sticky, wrong. Staining my jumpsuit.

Oh gods, no. Not like this.

"You're scared," the boy observes, voice monotone. "Why didn't you run?"

His voice is soft. Devoid of malice. He speaks it as a fact, as simple as the tide rolling in and out behind me.

I try to respond, but only whimper. The stench of death is everywhere, paralyzing me. My heart hammers, my head pounds, and my limbs won't move. I can't think.

The boy sighs, firming his foot on my ribs. He raises his weapon, face hardening. "Sorry."

As the lance falls, I try to remember home.

The scent of my mother's apron. Fields of sunflowers. Summer days along the Wishing River.

But I only see the fisher boy's eyes, which become the coyote's. Dark and angry and fixed on mine. Accusing me.

Now you know how it feels.

The pain is hot.

I feel cold.

---

D8F

It's hotter under the trees.

As I dash under the leafy canopy, branches and vines whip and nick at my face, but I barely feel them. The scent of damp earth clogs my throat, mixing with the sour tang of sweat. The ground is uneven, roots curling like skeletal fingers, grasping, trying to drag me down.

I'm not used to them. Trees and plants. I'm more accustomed to the smoggy streets, grimy high-rises and noisy factories that make up the Loom. Our rain is sharp and cutting, but yields no life. No flowers or shrubs… not even weeds. We don't get any of that stuff.

Not in District 8.

I lurch forward, and keep running. The sounds of death echo behind me, and blur into the rustling branches. The drumbeat of my own pulse.

My mind replays everything, over and over, like I'm stitching the same pattern again and again.

I see them still. Limbs askew. Eyes glassy.

The tributes crashed against one another, their bodies colliding in a rush of limbs and bone. A chorus of screams erupting. And then, the metal. Slashing, tearing, ripping.

Chaos.

With a shake of my head, I force the images from my mind.

The trees reach upward, thick and imposing, the fronds of their limbs caressing the sky. I vault over a log, its bark slick with moisture, and I land hard, knees biting into the ground.

I push myself up, ignoring the sharp sting.

As I do so, the girl trailing me slows to a stop, and I whip around.

"Solara," I hiss at her, tired and irritated. "We have to keep moving. The boys are following us."

But the girl from District 5 is in shock, her hair stringy and tangled in detritus.

"The others," she gasps. Her words come out in stutters. "Georgette, we left them behind."

I don't answer, and swallow against the weight in my chest. I should say something. Anything.

But what is there to say?

That I ran because I didn't want to die with the rest of them? That I abandoned the plan the second the blood started spilling? That I knew, deep down, we were never really allies?

At least, not in the way that mattered.

Because this is all only going to end one way.

"We had to run," I tell her, my voice hoarse. "If we stayed, we'd be dead too."

Solara's eyes well up. "They killed Elsie."

I vaguely recall the mousey girl from the coal district.

"She tried to run. To meet us," Solara continues.

And now she's gone, I think.

Just like we would be.

A shudder runs through Solara's tiny frame. "I don't know what to do," she whispers.

I run my hand through my hair. It's so hot in here. "Just… give me a second to think," I say.

She watches me, gaze flicking over my face, searching, testing. We need to find somewhere to rest.

A new sound drifts across the jungle.

My lungs heave, eyes darting between the shifting leaves. Wind? An animal? Or worse… one of them?

The ones who seem to enjoy this. The ones who don't run.

I listen more closely. The noise is distant, but distinct. It's the sound of footsteps.

Multiple footsteps.

We aren't alone.

I go rigid. Solara does too.

And then, we hear them. Voices. Low, and buzzing with anticipation.

I spin, weaponless, and curse myself for not grabbing something at the Cornucopia.

Glancing through the trees, I see shapes move in the distance. At least three of them, slipping between the trunks like snakes. Even from here, I can tell who they are. It's the boys.

They're hunting us.

Us. Not Mags and the others. Not the ones who pose a threat.

They're picking off the weaklings first.

I suck in a slow, careful breath, shifting my gaze back to Solara. She's seen them too.

Her face is white, and she looks at me imploringly.

What do we do?

There's only one thing we can do.

I don't waste any time and grab Solara's wrist, pulling her with me into the undergrowth.

We move in silence through the jungle.

The deeper in we go, the stranger it gets. We navigate a sea of gnarled roots and enormous ferns, jagged rocks swathed in vines and exotic flowers that move of their own accord.

Behind us, the boys are getting closer. I catch fragments of their conversation - words like prints and near - and I know they're looking for us, specifically.

Looking to get their first kills.

Solara hears it too. Her fingers twitch against my forearm, her body tense with barely restrained panic. But she doesn't resist me, doesn't make this more difficult, so that's something.

We crest a small incline, and emerge into a clearing.

There's a pool, made from a glistening waterfall. And there, barely visible beneath a curtain of vines, is a dark hollow in the rock.

It's a cave.

The mouth is wide but shallow, dug into the base of a weathered cliff, but big enough for us.

It isn't much, but it's enough.

I pull Solara toward it, ducking beneath the swaying leaves, and we squeeze inside.

The air is thick with the scent of moss and wet stone. It's much deeper than I expected… deep enough, in fact, that the darkness swallows us after only a few feet.

Solara scrambles in behind me, pressing her back against the cold rock. She's quiet now.

Good.

I don't look outside, not yet. They'll still be searching for us. I press my lips into a thin line, and settle into the shadows.

It's not comfortable. The air inside the cave is so… thick. It's so damp, and warm, and humid. A deep, musky odor clings to the stone, something bitter and organic. It reminds me of the factories and laundry houses back in Eight, the reek of when your wet clothes begin to rot.

I sit across from Solara and draw my knees up to my chin. For a moment, neither of us speak.

The silence isn't comfortable, but it's necessary. We need it to breathe. To think.

Eventually, Solara looks up. Her eyes go wide, mouth opening like she wants to say something.

"What?" I say, snappier than I intended.

And then, I hear it.

But not from her.

The sound is slick and rhythmic.

It clicks.

I freeze, and something scuttles nearby.

It brushes against my back. A thread of saliva drips onto my shoulder, hot and wet.

Solara's mouth is moving, but no noise comes out.

I try to move, but it doesn't work. A sudden, crushing weight slams into me, knocking the air from my lungs.

My spine scrapes against the rock as I'm dragged away.

Something wraps around my torso, hard and segmented.

The clicking gets worse.

The light at the cave's entrance shrinks, twisting as I'm yanked backwards, deeper into the dark.

My world spins.

"Solara!" I scream. "Solara! Help me!"

But she's already scrambling out, as fast as she can, away from me. Leaving me.

I think she's screaming, too.

Desperately, I claw at the stone, but my hands don't catch on anything.

There's only wet heat and clicking mandibles and the endless, endless dark of its burrow.

I don't even have time to feel afraid.

There's a wet, tearing sound.

And then -

Nothing.

---

D5F

They find me seven minutes later, sitting on an outcrop of rocks by the pool. There's a lot of them. At least, I think there are.

At first, they're elated, thinking I'm an easy kill. But after, when they see my face, their glee fizzles into something else.

Disgust.

"She's puked herself," the boy from Ten laughs.

He's right. I dimly realise that my chin is slick with vomit.

Only I know why.

I didn't mean to leave her. Not like that.

The cave entrance gapes like an open wound, its jagged mouth barely visible under the curling vines.

It's silent now. Empty. As if nothing ever happened.

Like Georgette never existed at all.

But she does. No, I correct myself silently. She did. A fire of shame burns through me.

I'm a coward.

I can still feel it. The damp, musky heat. The presence of… whatever that thing was. I hear the wet clicking of its mandibles in my head, over and over, the rhythm now glued into my brain.

The thing didn't chase me. It didn't need to. It got what it wanted.

And I ran. Just like I always do.

"What happened to you?" the boy from District 1 asks, not getting too close.

Two steps forward, his arms folded. Expression unreadable. "Hey, kid. Are you alone?"

The question barely registers. I look up at him, eyelids half-open in a daze.

"Are you deaf?" His tone is sharper now. "Where's the rest of your little pack? The girls from training?"

My throat is too tight to speak.

"Maybe they're nearby," the boy from Four says, glancing toward the trees, raising his lance cautiously.

Ten smirks. "She doesn't look like she's got anyone left." He nudges me with his boot. "Right, honey? All alone now?"

I swallow hard, my hands clenched together in my lap.

Trying not to shake.

Say something, Sol, I tell myself. Lie. Scare them off.

"Where are they?" Two presses, his voice low, dangerous. He crouches beside me, peering into my face. "Nike, and that bitch from his district." He points at the boy from Four. The swearing makes me wince. "They were with you, weren't they?"

"I think she's confused," says Sky, the male tribute from my district.

I wonder if he remembers it like I do.

The sparkling reservoirs. Majestic turbines. Thrumming power plants.

Far away, my parents and grandparents are watching me from their little flat above the shop in Thornton.

I want to be strong for them.

Another boy, I think from District 9, scoffs. "Let's not be soft, boys. She's just scared. Knows that if she talks, we'll kill her anyway."

That sends a fresh jolt of panic through me. My body tenses instinctively, but I force myself to stay still.

Just like I did in the cave.

At first.

Four tilts his head. "You were all running from something, weren't you?"

I don't answer. I don't need to. I think he sees it in my eyes.

"She's seen them." Two steps closer, rolling his shoulders like he's loosening them up. "Tell us, do you know where they went?"

Ten clicks his tongue, and I jump. "Last chance, darlin'. Where are they?"

I try to say something, but a fresh wave of nausea makes me spew more bile up. Most of it splatters over Ten's boots. He jumps back in revulsion as the boy from Two laughs.

"She's useless," Two says.

The boy from District 4 sighs, disappointed, like I failed some kind of test.

I deflate, knowing what's to come.

I don't have the strength to speak, much less fight them.

Maybe it was always meant to be this way.

District 9 confirms it.

"You take this one, Commodus." The others murmur in agreement.

He steps forward, hoisting up a mace with cruel, curved spikes.

I look at him with sad, accepting eyes. He doesn't look away.

There's a swing, and I hear a crack.

The world fractures, and for half a second, I'm weightless.

And then I'm sliding off the rocks and into the water. It covers me like a cool, wet blanket.

The last thing I hear isn't the boys celebrating.

It isn't the light breeze ruffling in the trees, or the gentle bubbles of my final breaths.

It's the clicking.

---

D3F

I wake to the sound of a struggle.

There's wild, panicked thrashing. The sharp creaking of rope as it grinds against bark. A heavy body swinging, twisting, fighting for dear life.

I sit up, eyes darting about.

The jungle night is black and starless, and the air itself is thicker and warmer than it was earlier… if that's even possible.

It's the first night in the arena. The first of any, ever. My brain whizzes through statistics and deductions; the length of each Games I've seen, the median duration, the estimated running time.

The formulas are a comfort in this strange place, where even the natural landscape feels… unnatural. I imagine I'm a sample under a petri dish, and there are people in sterile white coats, some far-off place, analysing me.

I had a fleeting hope, a daring maybe, that the Games would end at break of day. That if we hadn't eliminated each other by the time the sun went down, they'd have put their hands up and let us free.

But that hasn't happened.

The eight of us made it away from the fight at the Cornucopia, somehow. I saw Georgette and Solara run off together, but where they are now, I have no idea.

I don't know how many tributes are left in the arena, even. There could be twenty, or it could just be us.

But, by probability, it's likely there's more.

Still, I wish I knew.

With a flick of my hand, I push my long curls from my face and start to sneak through our makeshift camp, low to the ground.

Some of the others are up, too. The pair on watch, plus Nike and Mags. Those two seem to always be on top of things.

Besides, I think we all know what's happened.

My snare.

Almost all the others snorted at me, investing so much time at the newly introduced station.

They're not laughing now, I bet.

Because now, it's caught something. And I know what I must do.

Assess. Analyse. Action. The three As. Every child in District 3 knows, should know, the procedural code.

Behind me, I see that the girls from One, Seven and Eleven are fast asleep still, their breaths rising and falling softly. The five of us who are awake accumulate in a semicircle around the figure, just outside the copse of trees where our little camp is nestled.

It feels tribal. Uncivilised. I don't like it.

Through the dark, I can still make out the shape of it. Of him. The boy from District 7.

He's hanging upside-down. Trapped. His axe lies beneath him, just out of reach. He must have dropped it as he was yanked upwards.

I don't move. Just stare, agog, at the sight of him dangling like a hog, swinging gently from the tree I picked, the rope I tied, the knot I wove with trembling hands.

It was my idea to set a trap, just in case someone snuck up on us. And now we've caught them.

Him.

I caught him.

"Please," he urges us, eyes wide. "Let me down."

I should feel triumphant, or proud. But I don't.

All I can feel is the hum of calculation, the machine in my head spinning and untangling its wires.

Carly grumbles. "He's going to bring the others down on us."

She's right. As his body flails, his back arching and muscles jerking in a violent struggle, every flex and twist makes the rope bite harder into his ankle.

He grunts and screams more, and louder. The branches above him groan. Leaves shudder.

Too much movement.

Too much sound.

"He wasn't attacking us," remarks Oxalis, a burly girl from District 10. "He might've just been wandering nearby. Got caught by accident."

Nike clears her throat. "Or, mre likely, he was sneaking up on us. Scouting for the other boys."

"I wasn't!" he protests.

This doesn't convince Nike, and she shakes her head. "We need to get rid of him."

I shift uncomfortably at her implication. "You mean… kill him?"

"I thought people from Three were meant to be smart," Carly says, rolling her eyes.

Oxalis glowers at her. "Watch your mouth, Six."

Carly opens her mouth to retort, but goes quiet as Mags raises her hand.

"That's enough," she says. Her voice is calm. Stern. "Arguing isn't going to help things."

We all fall into a deferential silence, bound by mutual respect.

The fisher girl put herself at risk to wrangle and guide us through and out of the bloodbath, so the least we owe her is our ear.

The boy from Seven continues to swing, panting hard now, sweat glistening on his brow.

Mags takes a breath, her eyes flicking from face to face, reading us. She doesn't speak for a moment. Only watches. Then, slowly, she turns her gaze to me.

"It's your snare, Sigrid," she says simply.

My mouth goes dry. I glance at the others expectantly, waiting for someone to speak for me. To interrupt. To defend me. To say no, it's not fair to make her decide.

That's what I want them to say.

But nobody does.

Mags doesn't flinch. "You caught him. You decide." At the look on my face, she says: "I'll do it for you, if you can't."

My world stops.

And I can feel them looking; Nike's stare hawk-like, Carly's judgemental, Oxalis' impatient. Even the boy watches me now, torn between resignation and defiance.

"Please," he urges me. "Don't."

I swallow. My fingers twitch against my thighs, itching to reach for some kind of equation, a calculation that can make this easier. But there is no formula for this. No spreadsheet or probability model to quantify the weight on my shoulders. No equation to tell me who I am.

I think of the three As.

Assess. Analyse. Action.

If I let him go, he might lead others back here. He might kill one of us before the next dawn. He might not. There's no certainty. Only risk.

And If I don't let him go, he dies. And I'm a murderer.

So I make my decision.

Kneeling beneath the tree, my fingers shake like a loose battery, fumbling at the complex knots. As the last coil slips loose, the boy crumples to the forest floor.

No one moves.

He just lies there, gasping, staring up at me with something I don't know how to read. Gratitude, maybe. Or disbelief. I glance at Mags. She gives me a single, almost imperceptible nod, and steps forward, levelling her spear at the boy.

"Leave," she says firmly. "And don't come back. You understand?

District 7 pushes himself up on his elbows and staggers to his feet. He's leaning on his good foot, the one that wasn't constricted and mangled by rope and metal only seconds ago.

"Thank you," he says, breathlessly. To me.

We watch him hobble into the dark, the trees swallowing him whole.

When he's gone, the air is thick with words unsaid between myself and the other girls.

Carly stalks back to the camp, refusing to look at me.

"Thanks for killing us, Three."

The others trail after her, not openly agreeing, but I can feel their disappointment. All of them say nothing.

Only Mags rests a gentle hand on my shoulder, understanding.

"You did good," she says.

I walk back to camp alone.

As I curl into the dirt, trying to think of anything else, I think of things that make me happy. Copper wire. Static lullabies. The predictable, safe patterns of code.

But all I see is his face.

And I tell myself I did the right thing. The merciful thing.

I close my eyes, hoping for rest.

It doesn't come.

---

D1F

We spend almost two days mapping the arena.

It hasn't been easy. Trudging through vine-choked gullies, marking paths with twine, cataloguing every ridge and ravine with careful eyes and bleeding hands.

It's not the kind of role I ever imagined myself playing. I always dreamed of being a performer. A musician, of sorts.

Sometimes, on market days, I sneak uptown and put down an old basket, and I sing. The kindly Pavilion ladies toss me a spare denares as I perform old district folk songs.

Diamond Of My Eye. Calborough Square. The Little Burnish Boy.

You know, the classics.

Capitol approved.

On occasion, I'd make them cry. Happily, of course. The lyrics are sentimental. Romantic. It's hard not to be brought to tears.

Besides, more practically, having extra cash means we don't have to risk our right hand - or worse - by rooting around in the Fairfax or Gatsby's trash for more food.

Still, it wasn't so bad. Much better, at least, than where I am now, covered in mud and blood in a jungle that never stops humming.

Maybe if I make it back, they'll let me sing at the Victory Ceremony.

"Celeste? Are you listening?"

The sound of Nike's bullish voice stirs me from my daydream.

"Sorry," I mutter. "Go ahead."

The attention is back on the girl from District 4. We're doing what Mags call a terrain analysis. I have no idea what that means, but I'm not arguing with her.

We just followed her lead, because frankly, it's the only option we have.

And besides, we trust Mags.

Or at least, I do.

Since the first night, when we caught the boy from District 7, things have been different. The next morning, Mags pulled us together and has made us move like a unit, together.

Always staying ahead of the boys, who we know are trailing us.

And there have been some close calls, honestly, but we've made it through.

Thanks to her, and Nike.

The girl from District 2 has been Mags' second-in-command, reinforcing her command and quashing any disruption.

Still, there's tension in the air. Carly and Kimber spatting, Sigrid keeping quiet, and Nike herself just watching… but none of us want to end up dangling from a trap, either. Or worse.

So we've been planning. Preparing.

And now, apparently, we're ready.

The fisher girl crouches low near the ashes of a long-dead fire, features scrunched in concentration as she drags the smaller of her two spears through the dirt, drawing lines.

A type of map, maybe.

"The boys will come from the north," she says, her voice low and measured. Like a conductor guiding an orchestra. "We've seen the pattern, just like Meadow reported back." She nods at the girl from Eleven. "Their loops are tightening. They're going to find us, eventually."

Oxalis scoffs under her breath. "Let them. I have a bone to pick with Albero."

Her voice curls at the sound of her district partner. She loathes him, and hasn't been shy about it.

I'm not sure why, but it sounds personal.

"No," Mags replies coolly. "We don't wait for them to find us and pick us off one by one. We choose the ground. We set the pace."

She taps the stick against a rough line in the dirt. "Here. The gully by the ridge from yesterday."

Nike steps forward, arms crossed. "The funnel zone. It's dense, for coverage. One way in, one way out."

Mags nods. "Exactly."

Sigrid leans in, peering at the rough sketch. I look at her. She looks exhausted, her words coming slowly. "Correct. It's a pinch point, with a treefall…" She struggles for the word. "Barrier on one side. And a rock face on the other."

"The roots are thick enough to keep them from flanking," Mags says.

Meadow looks worried. "Flanking?"

"Attacking us from the side."

This doesn't seem to ease her anxiety, but the little girl doesn't say anything further.

"We lure them in," Mags continues. "And force them together. Then we go on the offense."

Oxalis smiles. "Finish them."

"That's right," says Mags, not missing a beat. "Kimber. Celeste." She looks at me. "You're the bait, laying the false trail. We want discarded gear, heavy prints, signs of panic. Lead them where we want them."

Kimber nods, jaw clenched. I keep my expression neutral, but I feel the pit in my stomach tightening like I'm setting a gem.

I've already memorized the trail that Sigrid marked out for us.

Twenty paces, cloth scrap. Thirty-five paces, boot prints. Seventy, broken branch.

I practiced placing them this morning until my fingertips were raw.

I hope this works.

"They'll smell the bait," Kimber mutters, flexing her fingers. "They want the chase, right?"

Mags nods again. "So we give them what they want."

"What they think they want," grins Oxalis.

Carly shifts nervously. "And if they don't follow?"

"They will." Nike answers before Mags can. "They're overconfident, and think we're scattered prey, running away when we hear them coming. That's why the ambush is going to work."

Mags continues. "Nike, you're holding the fallback path, in case there's a problem. Sigrid and I will watch the ambush area, since we know it best. Oxalis and Meadow, both of you are to scout ahead, and keep your eyes sharp for movement."

"And me?" Carly asks, her voice tights and arms folded. Almost sulking.

"You're the perimeter watch," Mags replies, relaxed and final. "On the east side."

Carly purses her lips. "That's just lookout."

"It's important, and it's what you're suited for."

A flicker of heat rises under Carly's cheeks. "You don't trust me."

"I trust you to stay alert, and send up the signal when the boys arrive." Mags replies, cool as stone. "And if the boys suspect anything, we'll need you there to warn us." She turns to the rest of us. "I wouldn't give any of you these roles if I didn't think you could do it. I promise."

Nobody speaks for a moment.

Kimber breaks the silence. "So if something does go wrong, or the boys don't follow the plan, we're exposed. What then?"

Mags looks up, meets her eyes directly. "If we get stuck, we follow our trail back to the beach and fight them in the open."

"What if we lose?" Meadow whispers.

Mags doesn't hesitate, and adopts the gentle tone she saves for the girl from Eleven.

"Then we lose. But we take as many of them with us as we can."

Nike nods. "They'll come in a pack. We've seen how they move."

Kimber rolls her neck. "The risk is, they might not stay in formation," she murmurs. "If they split, someone has to draw them back."

With a nod of acknowledgment, Mags looks around the circle. "If that happens, we're going to make noise. Force pressure. Look, even if this works out, it won't be clean. We'll feel it."

Some of us must look doubtful, because she doubles down hard.

"Guys. We're not going to survive because we're lucky. We'll survive because we're stronger. Smarter. Okay?"

No one argues.

For the first time, looking at her, I realise she could almost be from One. High cheekbones, doe eyes. A mane of lovely, curly brown hair. She's smart, too, and resourceful. Fished. Kept us fed.

And the alliance was her idea. She came up to us all at training, told us that after ten boy winners, an all-girl team would attract attention. Or sympathy, at least.

She was right. At the press conference, the Capitol went wild for it.

Unfortunately, the boys didn't.

And now they're trying to get us before we can get them.

Mags looks around the group. "Any other questions?"

I raise my hand, verbalising what's been on my mind for days. "I got one. How do you know how to do all this stuff, Mags? I mean, I'm impressed by the plan, but they sure as state didn't teach it in training."

At first, she doesn't respond. After a moment of thought, she decides to share.

"My mother was a general, in the army. During the Dark Days."

A few of the others glance at one another.

Even Nike's expression shifts, curiosity flickering at the edges of her normally impassive face.

Mags shrugs. "It's in my blood, I guess."

She's not looking at us and for a second, I think she's going to say something else.

But then, she just taps the stick once more into the dirt, marking a final point.

Carly's eyes narrow. "And what side did she fight on? Your mother?"

A few of the other girls lean in, interested.

The girl from Four smiles reassuringly, but doesn't answer. Her sea-green eyes hold a different feeling, one that I can't quite place. But it weighs on her. I can tell. She stands up straight.

"You should get some sleep, Carly. All of you should." She nods at the girl from Two. "Except you, Nike. We're both on watch tonight." She looks at the others. "We move before dusk, and remember - stay sharp, stay fast. And no mistakes."

No mistakes.

That may not be possible.

My fingers move to my pocket, where I find the crisp, elegant sheet music that my mentor, Gold, gave to me the night before the Games began. He definitely wasn't allowed to do it, but he did.

Maybe it wasn't anything, in terms of strategy, but it was comforting.

And besides, it was more than Gatsby did.

The paper is folded into neat pieces, its numerous melodies and countermelodies, harmonies and cadences hiding beneath the cloth.

My little secret.

Deep down, I know I have to keep it hidden at all costs.

Because this is not a place for music.

It reminds me of something my grandmother told me, once. A song that the rebels in District 1 used, back during the Dark Days, to identify one another. It was a type of secret code, you see.

She wouldn't tell me what it sounded like, but she said that when the Capitol found out about it, they outlawed it and executed anyone caught singing it. And so it became known as the swan song.

Maybe that's what my final song will be.

A swan song.

But even if it is, I swear by every gem in One, I'll sing it loud.

---

D6F

They don't need me. They never did.

I tag along at a snail's pace, a few steps behind the others as we move through the trees. Mags looks back at me, gives me a wink. I think it's meant to be encouraging.

I return it with a tight smile, forcing my lips upward.

Honestly, she reminds me of the girls at school, the ones who are all encouragement and compliments until you hear them laughing at your hand-me-downs in the bathroom stalls.

Still, she's kept us alive. I'll give her that.

Wheh Mags turns back, we start to fracture, splitting off toward our assigned positions.

No one looks back at me. No one checks I'm still there.

Of course they don't.

Mags didn't even hesitate when she handed me lookout duty. She said I was suited for it. Liar. She's playing a game, milking the grand dame, she-hero act.

What she meant was you're not useful for anything else. Just like the kids in school, the boys who'd rather be reaped than be seen with oily, smelly, ugly Carly.

Not even the Capitol stylists and pampering teams, who did our hair and clothes up nice for the press conference, could hide their discomfort. Gabbing about Mags' lovely, voluminous hair, Celeste's perfect skin, even boring Sigrid's hipless, fashion-forward figure.

But with me, they just stared and pursed their lips and squinted their eyes and said that it was probably the best I ever looked. How unconventional my looks are, with my piggy nose and bushy eyebrows and tiny chin.

Nothing we can't fix, if you win! That's what they said.

Yeah. I know what that means.

The ones here don't say it, not out loud. But I hear it in the way they talk around me. Always Nike this and Mags says that and Kimber thinks we should. No one ever asks what I think.

If they did, we would never have let the boy from District 7 go.

Even the thought of that annoys me.

I wonder, do they notice that I'm the one who pulls the most night shifts? That I always, without fail, sleep with one eye open, all for the rest of them? And who was it that knew when the boys had found our first camp, and prompted Mags to make us move?

But of course, it was all her idea. Perfect, flawless, lucky Mags.

Well, screw that.

The anger and paranoia swirls in my mind, flowing like petrol, and noisier than a bad car engine.

I stop suddenly. In the near distance, I can see the eastern perimeter watch. A gentle uprise, and then a dense wall of trees. Enough to cover my waifish frame, but running far enough for me to sprint ahead and warn the others of when the boys are en route. That's my only job.

Do they even expect me, trust me, to fight when the time comes?

Or am I too scrawny and craven for that, too?

I clench my jaw, fists curled at my sides.

And something inside me shifts.

No.

I keep on walking, but now, I veer slightly east - not to my post, but away. I'm not sure where to… maybe the beach, or the waterfall, or the Cornucopia.

Anywhere but here.

Let them screw their stupid ambush up without me.

Let them see what happens when the lookout isn't there.

I'm not dying for them. Not for a group that can hardly spare me a look, or that glances away like I never have anything good to say. Even Meadow, the runt of the litter, barely acknowledges me. And Celeste? Well, snobby is as snobby does. She gives me this weird, affected little smile every time I say anything, as if she's just waiting for me to embarrass myself.

Like I need any help doing that.

No. No, I'm done.

I must be walking for half an hour when the trees thicken, brush clawing at my ankles, humidity gluing my hair to my neck. I don't know where I am. It's a part of the arena we didn't cover.

The light is different here… not sunny like where we camped, but grayish. Like rotten tesserae bread. Or the paste we use in Six to protect new automobiles from scratches and bumps.

It even makes ugly, polluted District 6 look good.

All I can feel is hatred.

Hatred for this place, hatred for others. Hatred for myself.

And I just want to leave.

I'm just thinking about how hungry I am, regretting not saving more of my fish for later, when I feel my foot sink.

I stop, confused, and the earth gives under me with a thick, wet slurp.

What?

I try to jerk my leg free, but in a panic, my other foot slips out from under me. I drop hard, and the quicksand is up to my knees in seconds. The ground glistens around me, alive and moving.

My tummy drops like a faulty crane.

"Okay," I mutter, "okay, okay..."

I throw myself forward, reaching for a nearby root, rock, anything. But it's all too far away, and I can't feel my legs, and then my waist, as the mire begins to rise.

Oh please no.

The more I struggle, the deeper I go. The wet earth drags at me, like a hungry predator with a mind of its own. It's hot and thick, and as it reaches my upper torso, I abandon all sanity.

"Help!" I scream, finally, not caring who hears. "Help me! Please! Somebody!"

There's no answer. Only the distant, unanswered call of a bird I don't recognise.

I scream again, but my voice is smaller this time. Weaker.

This wasn't supposed to happen. I didn't mean to go this far. I just - I just wanted them to worry, maybe. Realise I wasn't useless. Maybe they'd be scared. Maybe they'd miss me.

My fingers tremble as I reach up to the vines, almost grazing them, but they're hanging just out of reach.

My arms are getting heavier. My body feels stretched and heavy and full of stone.

I don't want to die. Not like this. Not alone.

"Mags!" I sob. "Celeste! Please - somebody, please -"

But no one comes. I don't even know if they notice I'm gone.

I should've stayed. I should've just stayed at my post. I wasn't useless. I can be good. I wasn't -

It's up to my throat.

I tilt my head back, straining for air. Above me, the leaves sway gently in the breeze.

Mocking me.

I imagine the girls now, crouched in silence, waiting for the boys to come. Waiting for my signal.

A signal that will never arrive.

And I wonder if they'll notice when the attack fails. When they realise no one ever saw the flank coming.

I wonder if they'll think of me. If they'll hate me.

Of course they will. If they don't already.

The sand is in my mouth. My eyes. My stomach. I can't hear or speak or breathe. I can't think.

For a split second, I swear I see a pair of eyes, familiar, watching me from afar, behind a tree.

But it's a hallucination. Must be.

I don't die screaming. Or crying.

My last thought is simple.

I've killed them all.

---

D11F

It's happening.

Finally, it's happening. For real. And I don't know if I'm ready.

I crouch low in the brush. My limbs are trembling so hard, against my will, that I'm terrified they're shaking the leaves around me. Giving away my location.

"Relax," I hear Oxalis say gruffly.

Sweat slicks my palms. I try to wipe them on the front of my trousers. Can't make too much noise. When this happens, it has to be a surprise. And it has to happen fast.

I recite Mags' instructions in my head like a lullaby.

Stay quiet. Watch for the signal. Hold your nerve.

We have to hold our nerve back home, too. During harvest, when the Peacekeepers prowl the orchard rows, ready to swing their batons if they catch you slowing down. I've seen it happen too many times to call their bluff.

Luckily for me, I'm good at picking the pears and the apricots, keeping one eye on the trees and one on the officers' boots. It stops me from getting in trouble. That, and silence. Silence is safer.

Quick hands, quiet mouth. That's what Mama used to say.

I try to imagine her now, standing beside me. Her cracked, calloused hands around mine. Her bright, sad eyes unblinking. The sound of her voice.

Oh, I miss her voice. I miss the songs we'd hum when no one was listening, even if the Capitol doesn't let us sing much anymore.

I still hear her.

I believe in you, Meadow, she says.

That's what Mags said, too, as we ran for our lives through the jungle on the first day.

She said she believed in me. And she knew that I was brave.

It felt like she meant it, too.

I can do this, I think, shuffling slightly in the damp leaves. Because I want to be brave. I want to help us.

I'm just worried I might be too little.

Right now, the others will be scattered in the trees around what they've called the funnel zone. I can't see most of them, but I know where they're meant to be.

Nike is above the path in the overhang; Sigrid and Mags are near the roots, ready to pounce; Celeste and Kimber will be at heart of the ambush point, to draw the boys in.

I keep scanning to the far end of the ridge, searching for any sign of movement.

They aren't here yet.

And worse, Carly hasn't signalled.

I try not to fidget. I can't panic. There's a lot of reasons why we haven't heard from her. She might have gotten delayed, or run into a mutt. Or maybe she had to steer around the other tributes.

Yes, that's it. She's waiting for the right moment, being cautious. Carly's not dumb, we all know that.

But still, I don't like this. The silence.

Oxalis mutters something from behind me. She shifts, low to the ground, eyes narrowed.

"Too long," she whispers, about loud enough for me to hear her.

I don't move my body, but respond quietly. "What do you mean?"

"The boys are late. Carly hasn't sent anything. Something's off."

I want to say she's wrong, but the look on her face tells me otherwise. I hope she isn't right.

"Maybe the boys are…" I squeak, not able to say the word dead.

Oxalis curses under her breath and rises. "Gods damn it, I'm checking on her. Hold your position."

Before I say anything, or convince her not to go, she disappears into the undergrowth without another word.

I tighten my grip on my knife. Well, knife is a generous title. Mags made it for me. It's just a piece of sharpened rock, but it feels heavy and dangerous in my hands.

We all discussed this plan. Committed to it. Only one person is going to get out of here, and this is the best way to make sure it's one of us.

Maybe a girl will finally win, I think. The thought makes my lips flicker into what could be a smile, for just a moment.

What if it's me?

I'm just thinking of how Mags made us practice for hours, running drills, mapping exits, when I hear it.

Them.

Their footsteps.

I freeze, my breath catching.

Four shapes emerge on the northern trail. Boys.

The boy from District 1 comes first, his good looks tainted by the jungle heat, hair slicked back and shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Behind him comes the boy from Five, long and thin, with that sharp, narrow face. And at the back, leading the rear, are the boys from Districts 4 and 9.

I can't remember any of their names. Honestly, with what's about to happen, I'd rather not.

I see them point at the figures of Celeste and Kimber, who are crouched facing away from them, playing the unwary prey.

They're naturals at it. Especially Celeste. She could be an actress, really.

The boys are talking, but gently, so I can't hear what they're saying. Moving slowly inward.

They're taking their time, I think.

But I know I have to wait. Like Mags would want.

I look up, straining to see her, and the others. I catch the barest glint of movement - Mags is there, the metal spear she nabbed at the Cornucopia poised and ready to strike. In her other hand, she clutches a smaller spear, one she made herself from bamboo and stone.

Sigrid is next to her, crouched like a coiled spring. In her hand, she clutches a mallet she's fashioned from a stick, a thick rock, and the wire from her snare.

We're supposed to wait until all of the boys hit the marker, and then we jump them.

I count their steps. I'm used to counting. Our hut in Zone F isn't far from the loading depot and sometimes, I count them as they leave. It's fun. I know that if one truck can carry twenty-eight crates, how many crates are hauled off to the Capitol each week.

I wish they kept some for us.

I enjoy doing it, though. Auntie Cherlize told me once, while we watched my baby cousin chasing grasshoppers, that it's one of those things that helps us feel in control, even when we don't have any.

I remember that now, as I count the shapes on the trail. One. Two. Three. Four.

Four?

My eyes flit to the boys. Yes. One, two, three, four of them. Is that right? Was that all of them?

I try to remember what I saw on that first day. The boys that dominated the bloodbath. Those four were there, alright. And the boy from Oxalis' district. The one she hates. Another from District 8, the one Mags killed.

And someone else.

They're twenty steps away, and there's someone missing.

Ten steps.

Who is it?

There's a bad feeling in my gut. Something's wrong, and Oxalis knew it.

I should have begged her to stay.

I'm about to shift forward, to make sure I didn't miss anything, when I hear it.

A twig, snapping. But not from the trail.

From behind me.

I freeze.

There's no birdsong. No wind. Just breath.

Mine, and someone else's.

I turn. Slowly. Carefully.

It's a boy. District 2. The biggest of them all.

His eyes are flat. Focused. He doesn't raise his mace yet. Instead, he's looking at me like I'm a puzzle he can't quite figure out. Like I'm not supposed to be here.

My fear goes cold. Disappears into a void, deep inside of me. I don't know how, or why.

But it does.

And I realise, faintly, it's because I don't have a choice now.

Mama and Mags' faces appear in front of me in a burst, and combine into one.

Be brave, Meadow, they say.

So I move.

My knife slices through the air.

I miss. I knew I would. The boy flinches, ever so slightly, but the distraction has bought me the few seconds that I need.

Empty-handed and doomed, I do what I can.

I scream.

Not words. Just raw, terrified noise, as loud and as carrying as I can.

And I scream again. Words, this time.

"They're here!" I cry, even as Two's hand seizes my wrist.

In one punch, he knocks the breath from my lungs, and I go down hard in the soil. It smells earthy and damp.

I try to scream again, but the air's already leaving me, and his hand is over my mouth.

But I've sounded the alarm. The girls will know, and this boy knows that. He knows what I've done.

And so he doesn't waste time speaking. Doesn't hesitate.

The mace crushes my ribs, and I feel my own blood, red and hot, rushing down my front.

Everything stops. I think of life.

Honeysuckle. Grasshoppers. Crates.

I glimpse the sun through the tree-tops, flickering gently.

My skin burns. My arms go light. The jungle hums around me like Mama's song.

And I think: I warned them.

Yes.

I mattered.

---

D10F

It feels like the arena is alive.

No. That's not true, I tell myself.

What's alive is me.

Breathe in, breathe out. Just reminding myself I'm still here.

The heat clings like it does in the dry season back home, when the cattle cry for shade and the elders whisper to the dust for rain.

It's an old, familiar curse, stitched into my skin so tight the air can't get in. Sweat pools down my spine, soaking the light cotton I'm wearing.

I can't stop moving, and Meadow's fear has rubbed off on me, like sap. It clings. Sticky and wrong.

I don't like leaving her alone. I don't. But something's wrong, and we all know it.

No signal from Carly. No birdsong. No wind. Just… stillness.

Like the jungle knows we're waiting.

I trudge east, toward the edge of the trap zone, past the twisted roots and creeping vines. I swear I see them move intentionally, curiously, as if of their own accord. I blink and shake my head. It's the heat, the stress. Getting to me.

As the trail curves, I spot the slick stones we marked with chalk. The lookout point should be just ahead, right past this cluster of broad leafs.

When I reach the ridge, no one is there.

No rustle of branches. No crouched figure. No sign that Carly ever took her post at all.

I curse under my breath.

Traidora.

I need to get back to Meadow, to the others. Tell them what's happened.

But when I turn around, he's there.

Leaning against a tree, one boot pressed lazy against the bark like he's been waiting for me. He probably has.

I've been waiting for him, too.

Albero.

Of course it's him. The Capitol's little traitor-son.

He hasn't changed. Smug face, light brown skin darkened by the jungle sun. Greasy brown locks clinging to his temples. A jagged blade, covered to the hilt in dried blood, rests in his hand, like it was grown there.

"Fancy meeting you here," he drawls, voice thick with mockery. "Didn't think the Kaw girl would be first to sniff trouble."

I don't flinch. "Didn't think a Porla brat would have the spine to leave his pack."

That gets his attention. His lip twitches.

"Still playing rebel in the trees, then?" he sneers. "Your whole clan's been picking at bones since the war. I thought maybe you'd died with the rest of 'em."

I grit my teeth. "I'd rather starve with pride than sell out my people to the Capitol for a few scraps," I say. "Like your daddy did. And your granddaddy before him."

He pushes off the tree, rolling his shoulders. "Careful, Oxalis. Someone might think you're still bitter."

"You turned them in for rations." I stalk toward him, blade gripped tight. "Neighbours. Friends. Family. Let them burn our camps and take our women. You think I forgot that? Do you think we forgot?"

"My family survived," he says simply, as if that explains it all away. "Yours bled out in the desert. And for what?"

That's it. I jump towards him -

But halfway there, I freeze.

Meadow's scream rips through the air like a war horn. High. Wild. Real.

We both whip our heads toward the sound.

Albero straightens, expression sobering just for a heartbeat. He heard it too. Knows what it means.

His gaze darts back to mine.

And in a moment, all civility ends.

"Looks like the party's started without us," he says, slipping into a crouch. "Let's make it fun."

I snarl. "Let's end it."

We lunge, and I go to meet him.

I meet him with the ghosts of my sisters.

My mother.

My stolen land.

Albero comes at me with the force of every family who's ever spit on our names, every child from the Pale who threw us scraps and called it charity.

He swings wide, trying to drive me back. It works - a little. He's stronger, but I'm faster.

I duck under him, score a line across his thigh with my machete. He grunts. Slashes back. A shallow nick at my side. We trade pain. Blow for blow.

I imagine our mentor, the mulo Victor from half a decade ago, watching us, as remote and unenthusiastic as the day on the train. Watching us fighting each other. Hating each other.

I wonder if he cares.

"Your people always thought you were better," spits Albero. "Just because you got there first."

"We were!" I yell, slamming my foot into his knee. He collapses for half a second. It's enough.

I grab the curved hook of my blade and swing.

Albero catches my wrist. Grins, gums and teeth bloodied. "You're going to die here, Kaw."

I grin right back. "Not before I take you with me, traidor."

We hit the ground, limbs tangled, snarling like wild things.

Somewhere, I hear another scream - maybe Celeste's. Or Sigrid's. Maybe the Games have just come down to the two of us, Albero and me. Doesn't matter.

Right now, it's just me and him.

Past and present. Betrayer and betrayed.

We slam into the undergrowth.

His weight crashes down on me, but I twist, using his momentum to roll us. Dirt fills my mouth. My machete is gone. Doesn't matter. I grab a stone and slam it into his temple - once, twice - but he's faster than I thought. He roars, catching my arm, jerking it back until my shoulder pops.

I scream.

He grins again, a mouthful of blood and ugly teeth. "You always scream," he growls. "You Kaw bitches love to scream."

He thrusts, and I feel the metal between my ribs, serrated and cold.

For a moment, my vision goes white. I elbow him in the throat, scrambling up just enough to reach - yes, there - the blade, sunk half in the jungle floor.

I lunge for it, and he does too.

Our hands close on the hilt at the same time.

We look at each other.

There's no pause.

No mercy.

We drive the blade forward together, him with his raw male strength and me with the dying rage of a hundred ancestors.

Both of us aiming for the other.

Only one of us wins.

---

D7F

"They're here!"

Meadow's voice, so small and delicate, carries across the clearing. I can't see her, but it's from exactly where she was positioned.

High, urgent, terrified.

A warning.

Celeste freezes beside me, her whole body stiffening. My mind whizzes like a woodchipper. The boys aren't supposed to be this close - not yet.

The signal should've come from Carly.

Carly, not Meadow.

What's happening? Was she intercepted, or did she abandon us?

Within seconds, I realise I don't have time to think about it.

With a twist toward the path, I see them already moving.

Running.

The boy from One leads. Reavan, Mags' district partner, trails behind with the lad from Nine, spear aloft. She told us to leave him last, unless he gave us no choice. And between them, is the weird one from Five - thin, mean, unsettling. His eyes don't blink.

They're swarming. Faster than they should.

And in a crash, Commodus, the giant from Two, skids down the brush to our right, all discretion abandoned. A spray of fresh blood across his chest. He's charging straight at us.

Celeste says something, but I don't hear her.

"As we planned," I whisper to her, and we both raise our swords.

The ambush isn't fully over, I think.

Not yet. Not while we're still good bait.

The boy from One has just reached us, his grin wide, when Mags and Sigrid burst from the trees behind.

And now it's five against five.

Evenly matched.

Already in motion, Mags throws her smaller spear. The boy from Five ducks, and it ends up skewering the surprised boy from Nine. He drops slowly to the ground with a sad, confused whimper. I almost feel bad for him.

Sigrid stands there, frozen in shock.

With her other spear, Mags swipes at the boy from One, catching him off-guard. He swivels, which instead of losing him an organ, earns a nice, deep cut across his side. With a shout, he counters, his cutlass singing as it displaces air.

Mags blocks it easily.

"Together!" she screams, and our ambush dissolves into all-out warfare.

Nike drops from her perch above with the precision of a hawk, and Five springs forth to engage her.

It's her saber against his longsword. It's mesmerising to watch. I look around for Oxalis, but she's nowhere to be seen.

Where is she? Did her and Carly run off together?

No, I think. Oxalis wouldn't do that. She's too proud, too loyal. I trust her.

As I'm thinking this, Reavan tries to surprise us. But, thank the gods, Celeste is more ready than I am.

I'm angry at myself, disappointed, for not taking her seriously from day one. For thinking she was some pretty little trinket with sawdust for brains, just because she winked and giggled her way through the press conference. I thought she was just fighting for attention. Only attention.

More fool me.

Celeste uses Reavan's momentum against him, kicking him in the stomach and driving him backward. He spits at us, his eyes now sparkling with annoyance.

He moves on me, too, and I bare my teeth at him.

No more running, I think.

"Go on then," I growl at him. "Prove you're the big man."

He's quick. Surprisingly quick, spinning and jabbing his weapon at our exposed areas. It takes the two of us to keep him at bay, even as we try to circle him.

From the corner of my eye, I see the boy from One beginning to tire. Mags is winning.

It's time for her to go in for the kill.

And then, Commodus ruins it all. He's on her, pushing his ally to the side, and goes on an all-out offensive. Mags is holding him off, both of them, and scores a few jabs either side, but Commodus is moving her forward, forcing her back against the thick wall of branches.

I want to help, but I'm too focused on Reavan. So is Celeste.

Nike and Five are still doing their dance of steel, neither spilling the other's blood.

And then, I see her. A slight, black-haired figure darting right past me.

I realise it's Sigrid.

She's sprinting through the melee, not away but towards Mags, who's cornered now. Two is on her, mace high. Mags' expression is defiant, courageous, and she's not giving up. That isn't her.

Commodus raises his weapon, and I see Sigrid make her choice.

"No!" she shrieks.

And without hesitation, she leaps.

Her wiry frame latches onto Commodus' back like a snake. She's tiny but relentless, viciously biting and clawing at his neck, his ears, jamming her tiny, self-made mallet against his temple.

For a fraction of a second, it works.

And then, with a snarl, he reaches over his shoulder and grabs Sigrid by the scruff of the neck and, with hardly any effort, throws her to the ground.

She goes to scramble away, to let Mags use the opportunity and the distraction to finish him off.

It's a smart idea. A good idea.

But it doesn't work. Because we've forgotten that the boy from One is there.

He's weakened, yes, his right hand holding back the blood pouring freely from his side. But the other is holding his sword, which near-decapitates the girl from Three in a single fell swoop.

Mags give an enraged scream.

I want to go to Sigrid. To comfort her. To tell her that she was smart, and courageous. To offer her our rites, as any godsman would. To see her off safely into the next life.

I don't know if she'd want it. If she believes in it.

But she's already gone.

And there's no time to mourn, no time to let the grief or shock in… because to stop, to feel, would mean death.

So we keep fighting.

To my left, Nike still dances with District 5. Ahead, Commodus and Mags are fighting again, but she's gained ground. And Celeste and I are locked with Reavan.

His razor-sharp javelin comes at me. I dodge it once, twice. The third time, it catches my shoulder, and I scream.

I see the rest of this happen before it does.

Reavan is going to finish us. He'll kill me, then Celeste, and then Five will kill Nike and he and Commodus will kill Mags and all of them will hunt down Oxalis or Carly or both.

And then, they'll turn on each other. And that will be it. Our plan failed. Another boy Victor for the Capitol to worship and adore.

I block an incoming attack with my sword, feel the shock run to the hilt as it's driven downward.

The boy from One starts to limp over, ready to join Reavan in the death blow.

I dig my feet into the ground, get ready for the end.

Thunk.

A blur of iron splits the air.

The boy from One jerks as the axe hits his skull, spewing chunks of bone and brain matter across the jungle floor.

He twitches and falls forward, dead before he hits the dirt.

I whirl around, breathless.

Out of the brush steps a figure I haven't seen in days. Who I thought I would never see again. Dirty, blood-streaked, eyes steady. He's breathing hard, face now tight with focus, not fear.

Douglas. My district partner.

He doesn't look at me. Or any of the girls. He doesn't say a word.

They told me he got caught in our snare, but Sigrid let him go.

Why is he here?

He just walks forward, retrieves his axe from the One's corpse, and joins the line beside me and Celeste.

"I know you said not to come back," Doug says, motioning at Mags. He looks at Sigrid, sprawled pale and bloody on the ground. Dead as a duckling. "Just wanted to return the little girl's favour."

So there it is.

I feel myself swell with pride.

He's District 7, through and through. And in Seven, we don't leave our debts unpaid.

Suddenly, in the jungle, with my district brother beside me, surrounded by my sisters, I change.

Something arises inside me. It's always been there, but I didn't need it. Not until now.

It's not courage, exactly. It isn't showboating or the thoughtless action that the Capitol loves, the type of recklessness they broadcast with fanfare and medals.

No. This isn't about me.

It's quieter.

Older.

It's the knowledge that lives beneath the bark of the oldest trees, in the redcedars and firs and spruces back home.

It lives in the wrists and the hands that swing axes and make paper and carry logs not for power, but for their kin, for the hope of a warm hearth and fresh bread and clean water.

It's loyalty, plain and simple. The kind we don't question.

I look at Douglas. He's standing tall, steady, like the last tree in a razed grove.

He gives me the smallest nod. The same nod we shared at the reaping.

He knows. He knew the moment he stepped out of the brush.

We both did.

We are District 7, our roots go deep, and we will not be moved.

I flick my eyes to the sky, briefly. I hope they all see this. The Gamemakers, Fen, the people back home.

All of Panem, gods damn it.

"Get them out," I yell, my voice cracking through the sound of the chaos. Reavan has fallen back a few paces, realising he can't hold all three of us off. "The back-up plan! Like we talked about!"

Celeste turns to me, blinking like she's not sure she heard right. "What are you talking about?"

"We'll hold them," I say, already turning towards Reavan, who's trying to close in again.

I hear Celeste begin to protest, but my expression silences her.

"Mags! Nike! Go!" I shout.

With that, Douglas and I split up, marching on Reavan and Commodus and Five, our weapons swinging.

They split away from their intended targets as we encroach them, forcing them towards the wall of trees. Away from the path that leads to the cove, past the Cornucopia, and to the beach.

Back where this all began.

Behind us, Nike is already on the move. Celeste is moving back, but her face reads conflicted.

Mags won't move.

"I'm not going without you," she says, firmly. "We face the storm together, remember?"

Her words to me from the first day in the arena moved me when she first said them.

Now, I want to scream at her.

"Stop wasting time!" Our eyes meet. "We'll be fine. I'll find you after, okay?"

The words are wind, but they're what I have to give.

Mags doesn't believe me, I can tell.

She can't leave. Or she won't.

I look at her, this girl who came up to me during the dress fittings, making some pithy, dry comment about how dull the whole affair was. Who found me at training the next day, not wanting to mingle. Who killed a boy to get me out of the bloodbath, that very first morning.

And so I remind her.

"You took care of us this far," I say, swinging at Commodus, who's limping toward us. He grunts and steps back. "Now let us take care of you. We'll find you after."

She doesn't move a muscle.

Her eyes are locked on mine, wild with refusal. Because she knows what this is, and wants to argue. Wants to fight it. But we don't have time for an argument. Not here. Not now.

I'm faintly aware of Doug beside me, grunting as he wields his axe at Reavan. A deterrent.

"Mags," I say, just enough for her to hear me. "Please. I'm a big girl, okay?"

It's the one thing she can't argue with.

She's still staring at me, furious. No, not furious. For the first time, I see the mask slip, and the exhausted girl beneath the hardy, ballsy young woman shows herself. And she isn't angry. She's heartbroken. At having to fight, at having to kill. Having to leave us.

But still, she nods.

It's the smallest movement. But it's what I need.

Celeste reaches out and grips Mags' elbow. "Come on," she says. "We have to go."

And for the first time, our leader lets herself run away.

It takes everything in her, I can tell, and she allows Celeste to half-drag her after Nike, away from us. Her spear is still clutched in one hand, like maybe she'll turn back, and run straight toward the danger. As if she'll change her mind, follow her instinct, and fight the tide after all.

But she doesn't.

She disappears into the trees, her brown hair flashing once in the green, and then she's gone. Like mist in the water.

It's just me and Douglas now. We turn, shoulder to shoulder, to face what's left.

Commodus. Reavan. The boy from Five.

They hulk forward. These boys, who thought their domination, their victory, was an obligation. Who would sell each-other out in a second, just for another turn in this game. They don't know what it means to stay behind. To stand up.

I feel sorry for them.

"Bad move, District 7," snarls Commodus.

I laugh, mockingly, and ready my blade. Douglas lifts his axe.

We don't run. We don't charge.

Our killers come to us.

And we hold the line.

---

D2F

I'm the first out.

I stagger into the cove, lungs burning, legs aching. My blade drags through the sand behind me, slicing a crooked line in my wake.

The jungle is gone now.

In the sunlight, the Cornucopia shines, spurts of days-old blood splashed up its curved walls. I walk straight past it, not sparing it a second glance.

It's quiet, I think. The sounds from the jungle - the birdcalls, the clicking, the heavy rustling of leaves - have stopped.

This is the end.

I can feel it.

I keep going, on and on and down, down the declining slope of rocks until it's just me and the beach.

It stretches out before me. Pale, sun-bleached. Empty.

Peaceful.

It doesn't last long.

Celeste and Mags are with me in less than a minute. They half-fall down the slope, collapsing near a line of driftwood as the girl from One tries to catch her breath.

"I saw Oxalis," she pants. "Both of them. Her and the Ten boy. Dead."

I look back at the sea. "They finish each other?"

Breathless, Celeste nods.

Atta girl, Oxalis, I think.

Mags leans on her spear, her eyes fiery. Haunted. Before the arena, I would've called it weakness. But now, I see it for what it is.

The lust for vengeance, and fear. Not of danger. But of what that feeling, that poisonous, self-destructive feeling, brings with it.

I've fought it all my life. I understand it, but can't indulge in it.

Not now.

"So Carly abandoned us," I eventually say.

Mags looks at me. "You don't know that for certain."

I try not to roll my eyes. She's strong, yes, maybe the strongest of us. But she believes in people too much.

"Do you think she's still out there?" asks Celeste.

Nobody answers her. She probably isn't, but nobody wants to speak it into actuality.

We don't say anything else for a little while.

When the girl from District 1 does raise her voice, it's quiet. Thoughtful.

"It's weird," she says. "I thought, when it came to this, I'd be thinking about my parents. Or dying. But all I can think of is this bakery cake I saw when I was little, shaped like a swan."

We're both looking at her - me strangely, Mags curiously. Why is she telling us this?

Celeste shrugs. "Anyway, they couldn't sell it." She hesitates. "Not even to the rich folk. So the bakers just handed it out for free, to some people who had never tasted cake before." I hear the tremble in her voice. "It tasted good. I guess what I mean is, I just remember it made me happy. Like… properly happy. Felt like things were getting better. I thought it might always be like that."

Mags doesn't answer right away. She's watching the horizon, brow furrowed.

Then she says, almost to herself: "I wanted to be a boatbuilder. My dad was a marine engineer before the war, see. He was really good at it, and I wanted to be like him. Back home, we live on the edge of the dockyard, so I thought…" She trails off. "But we had to eat, and the trawlers needed deckhands to make the hooks and fish, so I forgot about it." She shrugs. "Just a dream."

The two of them look at me expectantly. I don't know what to say.

I didn't have a dream like that. Or any dreams, really. Not ones that I can remember. In Two, if the war left you without anything, you join the Peacekeepers or the Program. If you're smart.

There's no time for dreaming.

I watch the trees. The ocean's louder, now.

Or maybe it's just the quiet's gotten bigger.

"At the start of this, I didn't know if I'd stick with you," I admit. "I thought it might be stupid, or sentimental. I thought you might all slit my throat in my sleep the first night."

Celeste looks over, her eyes tired, but clear. "And now?"

I glance at her. Then Mags. I see them, and think of the others. The closest things to friends I've ever had.

"I think you're okay," I say, and they both chuckle.

Mags snorts. "That's generous."

"High praise from Nike," says Celeste.

"Yeah, don't get used to it," I mutter.

We laugh, quiet and short. But it's real. And for a second, it feels like we're just three girls on a beach, lying in the sand and talking about our lives. Boring, meaningless chatter.

I wish that was all it was.

"Only us now," says Mags, and the air of solemnity returns.

She's right. All the others are gone. The ones who made it to the ambush, and those who didn't.

Maybe they were the lucky ones.

I get to my feet. So does Celeste. We're covered in jungle filth. We're aching and half-starved and we look nothing like the frilly, pampered things that the Capitol was introduced to.

Lank hair, sweaty bodies - tired, beaten, bloody.

We're just three smelly, half-dead things.

But here we are.

I remain standing, saber at the ready.

"They'll be here in a second," I say to nobody in particular.

No one argues.

I look at Mags. "Any last advice, captain?"

She doesn't blink. "May the best woman win."

I almost smile back.

Mags adopts her commanding, leader voice. "Nike - you take Reavan, like we talked about. He's good, and River has taken an interest in him. But you're just as good. Better, even."

She doesn't say it, but I know she doesn't want to kill him. Not unless she has to. Mags is no hypocrite - she won't force me to do the same to Commodus. It'll be easier when we go home.

If we go home.

"Celeste, you're on Five."

Celeste nods attentively. "I can take him."

She's not wrong. We all know Five's dangerous. But his confidence cracked when Kimber stood her ground. And with that, he'll be a lot easier to crack now.

Besides, she's ready. And always underestimated. I think she likes it that way.

Mags gives a single nod, then stands up, shifting her grip on the spear. "Leave Commodus to me."

And that's it. There's no dramatics. No flowery speeches. Just a plan to get things done, the way only a fisher girl from Four can say it. Straightforward, practical, clean.

It doesn't take long for them to come.

They're not discreet. They don't care about sneaking around anymore, and neither do we.

We all know where we are now.

I step forward, and Celeste falls in beside me. It feels natural, effortless.

Mags is ahead of us, the point of our triangle. Her spear is low, her grip tight. She's watching.

Waiting.

They're coming down the ridge now, in their own little triangle - Commodus at the front, Reavan beside him. And behind, the boy from Five.

All of them are blood-slick and battered. Five is limping. Whatever Kimber and that boy did, they put them through it. I feel bad for suggesting to kill him a few days ago. I'm glad that we didn't.

The boys stop a dozen feet or so from us.

None of them speak at first.

We don't, either. Everybody just looks at each other - six tributes, two sides. No games left. No pageantry. Just… whatever this is.

Commodus sniffs, and spits a wad of blood into the sand. "You girls look like shit."

Celeste gives him the finger. "Speak for yourself."

They start forward again, and we tense. But they aren't charging, just walking. Measured.

I shift my weight.

When I realise that I don't feel afraid, I'm glad.

I'm ready.

Commodus grins at our reaction. "Looks like the sorority stuck it out."

"No choice," Mags says loudly. "All the boys kept dying."

That wipes the smirk from his face.

Reavan shifts, eyes flicking to Mags. He doesn't speak. He never really needed to.

But now he does.

"You're smarter than this, Mags," he says.

Mags lifts her chin, sticks her chest out. Proud. "We still are."

Commodus lets out a short, ugly laugh. "You girls should've stayed hidden. Could've lived a few hours longer. Maybe even until morning."

I roll my eyes. "Is that supposed to scare us, Commodus?"

"Just being honest," he shrugs. "This isn't personal, girls."

Celeste leans in slightly. "Not for you, maybe."

Commodus looks at me. "It's not too late to join the right side, Nike." He grimaces at my allies, like they're not worth his time. "Show these jumped-up wannabes what a real Victor looks like."

Folding my arms, I look him dead in the eye.

"I fancy our chances."

He scowls and goes red, his muscles bulging in anger, and Mags looks him up and down.

"I always knew you'd be the first to crack, Commodus," she says. "Shouldn't be surprised, really. You've got all that weight on your shoulders and nothing between your ears to hold it steady."

He snarls. "Say that again, bitch."

She flashes him a perfect, patronising smile.

"Did I stutter?"

For a moment, everything goes still. No wind. No gulls. Just breath and silence.

Then Commodus speaks again, quieter this time. "You really want to do this?"

Mags meet his eyes. "We already are."

And so the end begins.

Commodus comes at us like a battering ram.

He's fast, faster than you'd expect for someone that big, and he's not holding back. Mags meets him with steel. Literally. Her spear spins, glints once in the light, and strikes downward. Their metal rings and clangs, a song of two leaders.

I don't have time to watch, because Reavan's already in front of me.

He isn't a berserker, like his comrades. He seems almost rational. Resigned to the situation.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly.

I don't answer.

Our weapons meet mid-swing.

Reavan is good. I knew he would be. Quick with the wrist, careful with the footing. But the Program hasn't been for nothing. I've sparred against tougher, meaner, angrier boys daily.

Telemachus taught us that pain is weakness leaving the body. Reavan never learned that.

We circle each other. He plunges his curved lance at my shoulder, and I let him graze it. The pain sharpens me. Grounds me. I slice back and score his thigh. He stumbles, but doesn't go down.

Celeste lets out a roar somewhere to my right. Her and Five are tearing into each other, conscience to the wind. She has agility and accuracy, but he's… gods, he's relentless. Brutal. He fights like someone who doesn't care how he wins, even if it's ugly. Like the street kids that live in the lowest, most impoverished ring of Marbletown, gnashing their teeth in hunger.

But I can't watch them.

I have my own battle to fight.

Reavan steps in close, uncomfortably close, and I half-duck a blow that shears off part of my right ear. I ram the hilt of my saber into his ribs. He grunts, and I press the advantage, slashing low, tearing his belly to ribbons. He slashes back, and gut-wrenching pain tears through me.

Fresh blood darkens the space between us.

"You can still run," he pants. "Take your chances."

I ignore him.

Because I can't. Because one of us, one of the girls, has to win. Like we talked about it. And as much as I want it to be me, if I'm going to die, it sure as the state can't be one of the boys.

We clash again. Harder. Reavan is slowing. My blade finds the meat of his arm, then his side.

He's bleeding. Bad.

When he looks at me, I suddenly see him. The young boy from District 4. A life lived.

About to end.

The new side of me, discovered in the arena, wants to let him be.

But the old me has been around too long.

"Please," he says.

He tries to say something else, too. I'll never know what it is, because I don't let him finish.

I think of the girls. My first friends. Who ran together, hid together, fought together.

Died together.

And my saber drives forward, sinking into his chest.

His eyes go wide, stunned. Like he didn't really believe I'd do it, until I did.

I don't watch him fall.

Instead, I look for Celeste. She's still fighting Five, her arm soaked red. His eye is swollen shut, streams of blood pouring from his scalp. Her sword is snapped at the tip, but she's still swinging.

Still breathing.

He lunges, and she stumbles.

It's one mistake, her only one, but she suffers dearly for it.

His sword plunges into her stomach.

I move without thinking, grabbing my saber with both hands, and sprint.

Five doesn't see me until I'm already there, driving my saber through his neck.

He gurgles, blood in his throat, and collapses sideways into the sand.

I move toward Celeste, who's on her knees, panting. She's bleeding too, a lot, and from too many places. I kneel beside her, hold her up. Press my forehead to hers. She's cold.

"You got him," she whispers.

I shake my head. "We got him. We got both of them."

She lets out a laugh that's barely more of an exhale, and fixes her eyes on me.

Her gaze softens. "I'm glad you stuck with us, Nike."

Something catches in my throat.

"Me too," I answer.

She smiles weakly, a single tear running down her cheek.

"I wish… I wish I could've..."

I never find out what Celeste wished, as her head falls forward against my shoulder.

And her very last breath warms my neck.

For a moment, I hold her. Just for a moment.

And as the tide comes in, saltwater lapping at us, I sign the foreman's cross over her body.

Mags is still fighting Commodus. I need to help her.

But when I try to stand, to get to her, my legs don't hold. They buckle beneath me.

The light changes. The sun dims.

My hands are shaking.

No.

There's blood. So much blood. Celeste's, and Reavan's and Five's.

And mine.

The wound from earlier. Reavan got deeper than I thought.

Mags is already running toward me. I don't hear her voice. Just the ocean, and Commodus' screams. She's done something to him. Something painful.

I look at the sky, and then to Mags kneeling in front of me. Her face is fierce. Frantic.

"You're okay," she tells me, her voice a whisper. "You're gonna be okay."

It's a lie, I know it is. But it's a kindness I'm not used to, so I take it.

With the last of my strength, I put my saber into her hand.

"May the best woman win," I say.

Mags doesn't cry. I'm glad. She can't let the pain, the weakness, out. Not now. Not yet.

She just holds her hand, calloused and bruised and crusted with blood, in mine.

I lost, I think, as the world blurs.

But looking up at the sky, holding my friend's hand, it doesn't feel that way.

So I close my eyes.

And let myself go.

---

D4F

I take Nike's blade from her.

It's still warm with her blood. The handle is sticky, slippery, but I don't drop it.

Can't.

I tighten my grip until the hilt bites back, just like the pipe wrench I used to hold for Dad, when the ballast tank rusted through. The wisdom of his words come to me, his voice deep and gritty.

Keep pressure on the weld, Mags, or the whole damn thing goes down.

It's what I've done this whole time in the arena.

You hold, you brace, and you bleed if you absolutely have to.

But you don't let go.

I should say something for them. The dead. A song, or a prayer. But my voice is gone.

So I listen to the sea instead.

The tide knows what to do. It takes the blood away, washes us clean. Doesn't ask questions.

In, out. In, out.

When I was a kid, I would sneak down to the dock to watch the waves from the deck. Waiting for my father to come back from his shift.

I was always scared he wouldn't come back.

Our boats still sink. They capsize from overcrowding, or lack of repair, or when they hit an undetected sea mine. Their crews are arrested for not meeting quotas, or for when the Capitol needs to make an example of someone… regardless of whether they've done anything or not.

But watching the waves? It grounded me, funnily enough. Put me at ease.

So I watch them now, too.

And as I do, I realise something.

I'm not just Mags anymore.

I am Nike and Celeste. I'm Kimber and Sigrid, Meadow and Oxalis. I'm Carly.

I'm Elsie and Cornelia and Georgette and Solara. The girls who never found us. The girls who tried their best, but didn't make it.

I'm every girl dragged or launched into the arena, every mother who had to watch them die.

I feel them.

High above me, a lone albatross glides through the air, and I smile.

When you see an albatross, it means someone you care about is watching over you.

That's what Mom told me. It gives me comfort here. Right now. Right when I most need it.

With some effort, I lay Nike's body down, gently, beside me. Celeste lies there, too.

Their faces are still, eyes closed, and lips parted ever-so-slightly.

They look like angels.

I fix their loose strands of hair behind their ears, the way my mother did mine on storm days.

There.

Perfect.

Once I've done it, without warning, it hits me.

The pain. The loss. It all rises inside my body like a scarring, poisonous fog.

My body wants to cry and scream and have me beat my breast and howl at the moon like some wild thing.

My mind wants to cuss out the Capitol, and their gods damned Games, to curse them and hope storms take them and drown them to the bottom of the darkest sea.

Without my allies, I feel rudderless, like a captain without a crew. Before I'd even know what's happening, the slightest current could take me far out.

But I can't let it.

Because I have to finish this. It's just me left.

Almost.

Me and Commodus.

Of course it is.

Reavan's body lies in a heap by the rocks, a trail of blood behind him marking his slow, last attempt to flee.

His fingers are stretched toward the shoreline, the foaming seawater, as if he wanted to feel it, touch it, just one last time. His eyes are still open.

I don't look at them.

Five's corpse is still twitching, as if it's refusing to understand the person within is gone. I stand and wander over, put him out of his misery with one clean, precise stab between the ribs. It's quick and merciful, like killing a fresh catch.

Sky, I remember. His name was Sky.

I wonder who he was fighting for.

But then its body - his body - stops moving, and I have to turn back.

To face Commodus.

Keep the pressure, Mags.

He's struggling to his feet, staggering like a drunk. Crimson leaks from his side. He's already injured, I made sure of that. His knee is bad, and I saw the way his swing was lagging, slow and heavy. Like wet rope.

But he's still strong as a whale. Still massive.

Still a threat.

Commodus grins when he sees me, wild and red-toothed. A long, dripping scar runs along his left eye from where I almost cut it out.

He throws his head back, and laughs maniacally.

He's lost it, I think.

"You're gonna be begging for death when I'm through with you, bitch," snarls Commodus.

I cock my head. "I'll believe it when I see it."

"You will," he sneers, eyes darting to the girls' bodies. "They went down soft, didn't they?"

It's the wrong thing to say.

I race at him, and almost regret it.

He lumbers to meet me, his mace swinging through the air. Instinctively, I duck, feeling its spikes pass over my head. Barely. It almost mashes my skull to a pulp.

My heart hammering, I stumble back, lining my spear at him, my saber - Nike's saber - arched in the air for a follow-up strike.

Time to finish this.

When we collide, it's water against fire.

My spear moves fluidly, ringing against the power of his mace. Sparks fly, and I swerve and move; twisting low, jabbing with the spear again. He avoids my attacks, adding an extra kick which makes me stumble forward.

I manage to turn it into a roll and come up swinging, ducking another attack that would've caved my chest in. I carve a line across his forearm - it's shallow, but it buys me time to create some space between us again.

"Little scrapper, ain't you?" he grunts.

I grin at him. "You have no idea."

He lunges. I sidestep, slash at his ribs. The saber bites deep this time.

Good.

"Should've killed you on day one," he snarls, sweat and spit flying.

I smirk. "You tried, remember?"

He swings again, this time aiming high. Instinctively, I raise my spear to block it, and it snaps at the base, shattering in two.

Shit.

Slashing out with my saber now, I slice the front of Commodus' knee. He drops to one leg with a roar. I use the butt of my broken spear to jab at his collarbone with all my force, and something cracks.

I feel a lift of satisfaction that quickly dissipates. Because now, we're too close, and Commodus slams his head into mine.

Stars explode across my vision. My nose breaks, and I stagger. Drop to one knee.

He raises his mace.

In panic, I blindly throw the broken spear like a javelin.

It hits.

A lucky shot.

The metal goes straight through Commodus' bicep. He screams and swings out again, downward, and I don't have time to do anything as the mace makes contact with my knee.

I hear it, maybe my entire leg, break.

No, worse.

It shatters.

And now it's my turn to scream. Long, loud, harrowing.

The collision has ruined my leg, but it's the spikes that are the worst. They pierce my flesh, ripping out skin and muscle as Commodus pulls the mace back.

It's excruciating.

He trudges forward to finish the job and I realise, very clearly, that I am about to die.

You can't. The voice comes from deep inside of me.

Because I have to live. Because they can't all have died for nothing.

And so, as Commodus towers above me, lying on the ground helplessly, I take a cheap shot.

A desperate shot.

I lunge with Nike's saber, driving it forward, straight into his groin.

The noise Commodus makes is inhuman.

"Bitch! You evil fucking bitch!"

His mace slips from his fingers, falling with a thunk into the sand beside him, as his hands instinctively drop to cradle what's left of his pride. He stumbles back a few paces, and falls on his knees, weeping, as blood pours in a heavy gush down his thighs. Soaking it like oil.

Unable to stand, I can only force my body forward. It's utter agony. Every nerve is on fire, and limbs and muscles are begging me to stop, telling me I shouldn't be doing this.

But I know I have to keep the pressure.

Dad's voice urges me on.

Keep going, Mags.

I grip Nike's saber with all my might and crawl the last few feet on my stomach. When I reach Commodus, he's scrambling for his weapon.

I can't give him time to find it.

Pulling myself up by his shirt, he tries to stop me, twisting my hand away. His rage is shaking us both violently, and he pulls me close, closer, until his laboured breath is hot and foul in my face.

Forcing my hand still, I raise my blade to his throat.

My voice is steady. "Any last words?"

Commodus laughs. I'll never know why.

"You're just some girl that got lucky," he says.

I press the metal against the soft, tender flesh of his neck.

His pulse.

I can feel it through the steel.

"No, Commodus. I'm the girl that beat you," I say.

And I lean in, eliminating the space between us.

Because I want him to hear this. I want them all to hear this.

I look at the sky, where I know they'll be watching.

The boys. The men. The Gamemakers.

"I'm the Victor."

I pull the sword back.

His blood sprays forth, wetting my face, my chest, my hands.

Everywhere.

But it's not just his. It's theirs. It's mine. It's everyone's.

Tribute blood.

District blood.

I lie back in the sand. To live. To die. To let the tide take me, because I have nothing left.

For a moment, the beach is silent.

And then, the trumpets blare all around me.

"Ladies and gentleman!" a ceremonious voice announces. I can hear crowds cheering, somewhere. "I give you your Victor of the Eleventh Annual Hunger Games - Mags Flanagan!"

It echoes across the beach, the cove, the jungle. Across broken bones and blood-pink water.

I don't pay any attention to it. Right now, I just want to be here, with them.

To say goodbye.

Alone.

I look back at their bodies. They're so at peace, they could be asleep, and for a second, I imagine them rolling over and waking up. Laughing at how dramatic I'm being.

But they won't.

None of them will.

I will make it up to you, I think. To all of you. I promise.

They don't answer me.

Only the sea does.

In, out. In, out.

As the hovercraft descends slowly, ready to take me away, I swear I hear their voices in the air.

My sisters.

They all say the same thing.

Keep fighting for us, Mags.

So I close my eyes.

I seal their words with salt and blood.

And I never break my promise.

---

The doors to the infirmary burst open, and our district's first Victor stomps in.

I turn my head away from the gods-awful Capitol soap opera on the television screen, where a plot of embezzlement and adultery is unfolding.

It's so bad, it's good.

And River looks just as bad, like he hasn't slept in days.

His mouth is agape, and he has nothing to say. I can tell. But if I were him…

I'd be feeling pretty dumb now, too.

Lazily, I pick a strawberry from my fruit salad. Pop it in my mouth. Take my time. Chew it slowly.

River just keeps staring.

I return his bafflement with a devilish smile.

"And you said girls don't win the Games."