Song for this chapter is "Exile," by Taylor Swift and featuring Bon Iver.

Octavia's POV

"...I can't do this anymore, Brutus! Can't you see that we did this to him!" I scream at the top of my lungs. We're standing in the meeting room of the academy, surrounded by the other Victors, but I can't contain my fury. My gestures swing widely around the room as I yell.  "And we're going to do the same thing to every kid out there. Shame on you, and shame on me for it."

I see a few people start to grow uncomfortable, but my rant is far from reaching its peak. "You know what? We all deserve to be dead. We all should have lost these stupid games and come home in a body bag like we deserved. We—"

"—Octavia," interjects Enobaria. "I think you need to take a minute."

She reaches out for me but I pull away. "Don't touch me!"

The sentiment clearly hurts Enobaria, but Lyme, being a senior trainer, is the next to jump in. "Octavia, I think it's best you go to your locker and collect your things."

I roll my eyes and give a small chuckle. Lyme hasn't liked me for a while now so I bet she got a lot of satisfaction from saying that. I give a small bow like the ones we're taught to do after our evaluation sessions in the Games. "Thank you for your consideration."

I storm off to my locker to clear it out, weaving through the halls without a second thought and open my locker.

Clink.

I look to see what I've dropped in my rage to see that it is certainly not an item of mine, but a singular arrow. I reach down to pick it up and out of the corner of my vision, I catch several pairs of eyes staring at me through the glass. Several of them wear smirks on their faces or snicker as I look up at them.

Blind, unadulterated loathing and red hot venom start to pump through my veins as I lose control of myself and my body goes into autopilot. I walk out of the locker hallway and to where the students are standing. "Who did this?"

None of them speak up.

My eyes fall on Grecius, an 18-year-old who competed against Cato for the spot this year. He keeps his eyes down, but the shit-eating grin gives it away, along with several of his friends chuckling under their breath.

I give a small fake chuckle and give my head a nod as I glance to the floor. "Funny," I say flatly.

The arrow finds itself lodged into Grecius' knee, having been flung from my hand. I hear him scream and I seem to float towards him. "Anyone else?"

No one steps forward.

I lean down and my hand takes out the arrow and points it under his chin as he falls towards the ground. "You wouldn't last one day in the arena," says my voice in a cold, dark tone. "But that won't matter because your knee won't heal by the time you graduate."

A small smile creeps across my face. "Oh, and if you want any more lessons on how these things work," I wiggle the arrow in front of his face. "Just let me know. There's plenty of where that came from."

I can see the genuine fear in his eyes and I feel the satisfaction wash over me. My breath is erratic and ragged as I realize my time is well up as I see Lyme and Enobaria in the doorway. "Octavia!" barks Lyme. "What are you doing?"

I roll my eyes. "I'm teaching a lesson," I say, pointing to Grecius. "The most realistic one they'll probably ever get."

"You're done here," says Lyme in a dangerous voice.

A small chuckle escapes my lips as I move to push past her. "Yeah. I am. For good."

~~~~

I wake up with a racing heartbeat, though I consider myself thankful that I don't wake up drenched in sweat this time. Maybe it's the fact that the announcement for the Quarter Quell is tonight that brought on my dream about when I left the Academy, but it is certainly better than an arena dream.

I can't remember the last time I allowed myself to fall asleep and take a nap in the middle of the afternoon, but it's already dark outside. Perhaps it was Capitol a few days ago, or the fact that I woke up early to go and visit Cato and for a run that tired me out. I glance around my living room to see if I can catch a clock with the time, and find it's five minutes to seven, meaning the announcement would be starting soon.

My television is already on, as they all lose the ability to turn themselves off during certain times like the Games and special announcements like this. I consider running upstairs into my closet or something so I don't have to hear Caesar's voice that now makes me feel like my ears are being grated, but I know whatever is going to be announced will be horrifying, and I can't look away.

I run to my cupboard that is severely low on food and grab some simple and plain crackers before plopping down onto my couch. But, of course, no matter what the announcement ends up being, if it's only 12-year-olds or triple the number of tributes, it won't matter for me. As the youngest female Victor, I'll still have to Mentor some blood-thirsty teens throwing themselves at the 'so-called' opportunity.

President Snow steps out of the Hall of Presidents in a blue tuxedo and of course, his signature white rose on his lapel. The crowd starts to go wild as he makes his way to the podium and several other high-ranking officials applaud him from their chairs.

It's hard to think that the man I had such an intimate conversation with just a few days ago is addressing the nation to a crowd of Capitol cheers. He certainly wasn't just boasting about the power he wields; right now it's on full display.

Full display for Katniss and the unruly districts, I can't help but think.

"Thank you, thank you." He holds out his hand and instantly, a hush comes over the Capitol Crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the 75th year of the Hunger Games. It was written in the charter of the Games that every twenty-five years there will be a Quarter Quell to keep fresh for each new generation, the memory of those who died in the uprising against the Capitol. Each Quarter Quell is distinguished by Games of a special significance.  Now, on this, the 75th anniversary of our defeat of the rebellion, we celebrate the third Quarter Quell. As a reminder, that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol. On this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each district."

My heart drops the length it would take to jump from the top of the Tribute Centre roof before hitting the ground. And for a moment, my mind is blank, my breathing hitches, and it's as if time has slowed.

My mind gives me whiplash as it brings me to an image of the envelope that Plutarch gave me, the one with all the tiny slips of paper.

Octavia Jones.

Octavia Jones.

Octavia Jones.

My mind dawns with realization at what Plutarch was trying to tell me. My name is going to be the only one in that pot. It's me. I'm being reaped. Again. I've been through all this before, and I didn't like the ending. This isn't supposed to be possible.

This can't be possible, I try to reason to myself. I must still be sleeping.

Immediately, I know I need to find a way to wake myself up from this nightmare. I try pinching myself, but it doesn't work. So very quickly, I follow it up with a hard slap to the face, but still nothing.

Knowing what I have to do next, I make my way to the kitchen and grab a knife from the block. I put my right-hand flat on the counter and hold my left hand, the one with the knife, as I get ready to stab down through the centre of my hand.

My hand stops mid-swing when I hear wailing coming from out in the street. That's not something that would usually be in my dream.

I walk over to the window with my knife still in hand and pull back one of the curtains to see Venezia's daughter crying in the street. A few more families seem to get drawn out onto the street by the sound of her cries, all of them equally in a state of despair and dismay.

This is real. Shit, shit, shit.

Overcome with a wave of nausea, I find myself rushing to the bathroom. All of those families on the street think that their loved ones might be going back into the arena, but they don't know what I know. They don't know that one of the bowls will contain one name and one name only.

Oh god.

My mind starts to race as I think of all of the other bowls that will only contain one name. Johanna. She is likely coming to this realization too back in 7, that she and I are going to be put in that arena with one another. Against one another. Chaff, at least one more from one of the middle districts if my memory serves me right, and Katniss.

Katniss.

The pieces come together in my brain all at once. Snow has put me in these Games to make sure Katniss Everdeen dies.

But on the other hand, Plutarch needs me to keep her alive.

I find my blood starts to boil at the thought of Plutarch. My friend, my 'uncle,' my confidante, and now Gamemaker has ensured that I will be sent back to an arena of death. I find myself more mad at him than Snow because I at least expected a betrayal from him. Not from Plutarch.

A part of my brain wonders if it was Plutarch or Snow, the chicken or the egg, who's idea it was to fill the ballot bowl with my name, but it doesn't really matter because deep down, I know it's a messy mixture of both. I've become an important chess piece in both their games, but I am the one who will suffer the consequences.

I start to go over the other districts and who might be reaped when my mind brings me right to where I don't want to go. Finnick.

There are only four living male Victors from District 4, still more than some districts with both genders combined, but Finnick is the youngest by far. And if the slips are set to be rigged here in 2, I can't see Snow passing up the opportunity to get rid of either Finnick or I. Or both.

How can Plutarch expect me to put Katniss before Finnick? Putting Katniss before myself would already be a struggle. But before Finnick? That is asking too much.

I can't watch Finnick die. Or Johanna. And for the first time in a while, I admit to myself that I don't want to die either.

I can feel a certain centre of my brain slowly start to power on after about seven months of dormancy.  Johanna is going into the Games for certain as the only living female Victor from 7. Finnick has a one in four shot of being reaped. But knowing that the bowl of slips that will be here in 2 will be filled with only my name, it doesn't make it hard to imagine that all four slips in 4 will have Finnick's. But then again, maybe Plutarch isn't so insane after all and has found a way to keep Finnick out of the Games. Maybe he told Snow that they shouldn't risk losing the money Finnick makes the Capitol or that I'd be too distracted on my mission to 'kill' Katniss if Finnick comes in with me.

That leaves about a seventy-five percent chance that he doesn't go into the Games. I begin to wrack over my brain to think if there is anyone who might even volunteer for Finnick should he win. The next youngest Victor from 4, Marin Irving, is twelve years older than Finnick and I which puts him at thirty-six, even though he won only eight years before Finnick. He's always been jealous of the attention Finnick gets, but I don't think he's jealous enough to land himself back in the arena. No. I'm sure this is the one place Marin will be happy to be beat out by Finnick in.

My mind continues to go over volunteers and suddenly it pops into my brain. I'm a Career. And what happens every year in a Career district? Someone volunteers. The person whose name is in the bowl hardly ever ends up going.

And I've managed to piss off every single person who might volunteer for me. But maybe, just maybe, their Career instincts are kicking in right about now, and they're starting to get the itch to throw their hand up during the Reaping. After all, being the Victor of Victors is quite the carrot.

I quickly grab and throw on my coat as I take off towards the one place I know the Victors will be gathered: the Academy.

Even though it's late out, a small crowd has gathered outside of the Academy which I can't say I've ever seen happen before, save on things like Graduation day. As I get closer, I can hear the sickening words that they're chanting. "Victor Victory!" they shout, followed by five rhythmic claps. "Victor Victory!"

The few peacekeepers in front of the Academy let me through and I push my way into the building I haven't been back to in a long time. Contrasting to the outside, the inside of the Academy is eerily quiet. I round the corners of the halls until I begin to hear trails of the conversation happening in the war room. "...if we want to have the best chance of someone coming home we need to host the Trails for all of us." I hear someone say. "It's only fair."

"Don't talk about fair," I hear a male voice say, "This whole thing is against the rules."

"They make the rules," says Lyme. "And we have to follow them."

I round the final corner and come into view of everyone in the doorway, all of them seeming to notice my presence. "Look who finally decided to show up," says Zenobia under her breath. "Now that she's here, can we please talk about the trials?"

"Trials would be pointless," says Enobaria. "It would be impossible to know if someone is throwing the competition to try and stay home."

"She's right," says Brutus. "And there's no way to guarantee that whoever does win actually volunteers."

"So what are you suggesting?" asks Lyme.

"I say we all train. We come up with designated picks still but if that falls through then everyone is at their peak."

"Alright," says Venzia. "I think we need to look at our youngest. They're the strongest still. The most athletic. So Enobaria and Octavia, and Otto and Trenton."

The room grows extremely tense, especially for those of us whose names are mentioned. I don't dare make eye contact with Enobaria. I know that neither of us wants to go back. There's—

"—I think it should be Octavia." I'm pulled out of my thoughts to see Enobaria standing there with her arms crossed, having thrown me under the bus. My brain tries to form words but promptly fails to put any of them together and Enobaria continues. "She's younger than me and even though she's taken the past six months off, she's still in better shape. Not to mention she's more popular in the Capitol and will pull in more sponsorships because of who she is and her brother."

I feel a sharp sting at the comment about my brother, but things are moving too fast for me to even keep up with.

"All in favour of selecting Octavia Jones as our designated pick, say aye," says Lyme.

My heart skips a few beats and I finally manage to speak up, not wanting to let everyone steamroll me into an arena of death. I would go down as the stupidest person in history if I can't get my shit together and sat in silence as I was voted into the Hunger Games. "—now hold on. I don't know if any of you noticed but I'm a little mentally unstable."

A few people seem to be considering my argument and nod at my statement. Until Lyme counters me that is. "Yes, but your mental instability seems to heighten your aggression. Case and point, Grecius who you sent home packing. You hadn't done any training in two months, yet, you threw an arrow like it was nothing managed to tear his ACL."

"You can't honestly expect me to compete against Finnick," I huff.

"The odds of you and Finnick being put in the arena at the same time are literally five-percent Octavia. It's very low," says Zenobia with her eyes narrowed at me.

But she doesn't get it. None of them here get it. They don't understand what's happening behind the scenes. They don't understand that there's a rebellion afoot or that other districts are in the midst of revolt. All they understand is the only thing they will ever truly understand: being a Career.

I give out a loud scoff, thinking of how ridiculous this whole conversation is. "Oh come on. You're all bloodthirsty. I literally quit the Academy because I couldn't raise kids for slaughter anymore, yet, here you all are telling children about how great is to be a Victor when you won't even volunteer a second time? It sounds like cowardice to me. Or maybe hypocrisy is more like it.—"

"I seem to remember you also winning the Games and volunteering," says Enobaria. "So I would stuff it about hypocrisy."

"Lest we forget how not too long ago, you voted for sending your brother to the Games. Don't come crying to regret to us, young lady," says Lyme who is practically seething. "This Academy made you. Now that you've gotten your riches and had a little dalliance with a boy and had some sort of 'moral awakening,' it doesn't mean you get to abandon your home. Your people."

I have no response that could possibly make them understand so I sit in silence. Lyme takes the opportunity to call us to a vote once again. "All in favour of selecting Octavia Jones as our designated pick, say aye."

The room fills entirely with ayes, save a small no from Brutus. I give him a small smile of thanks but I know it's a pity vote.

I want to tell them that I won't be volunteering, but it will only cause tempers to flare even higher, and I know my name will be written in there five times anyway. There's no point in fighting it because I know that I'll be picked and Enobaria won't volunteer. But as far as they all know, I'm likely not going to be picked, and I think they sure as hell know that I wasn't about to volunteer for them.

Sensing my tenseness, Brutus speaks up after clearing his throat. "As I said, we're all training anyway. We can't force someone to volunteer. Otto, Trenton, are either of you itching to go?"

Trenton doesn't seem eager, but Otto does. Eventually, they work out that all the men will also all train, but Brutus and Otto will be competing for the men's spot for the rest of the year. The meeting finally starts to wrap up and Lyme gives some final words. "With the recent news, I say tomorrow morning we send all the eighteen-year-olds home. That much is obvious. But because we're all going to be training, we're going to be severely short-staffed, so we should send everyone home except a small handful of sixteen and seventeen-year-olds who can be trained by those who are not Victors. And, all the students with nowhere else to go will be kept here on a room and board basis only. We need the facilities and the time for us to be able to train."

The meeting is called to a close and I don't feel like talking to anybody. They may not know the truth, but I do. Letting whoever is Reaped from the women's side go with no volunteers means that I am guaranteed to be going back into the arena. The odds are not only not in my favour; they're impossible.

There are only a few things in my life that are now guaranteed. I am going into the arena in less than six months. I will be competing in the 75th Annual Hunger Games as a tribute. And I am about to be caught in the middle of a war.

_______________________

That's all for this chapter folks!

What will Octavia be up to until the Reaping? And speaking of the Reaping, what will happen? Which of our favourite tributes will end up back in the arena? Find out next chapter!

Merry Christmas to those who celebrate! As a question for this week, what's been your favourite moment in the story so far?

Also, fun fact, I wrote part of this chapter in 2014 (before this book even came out)!

Onto the only reason I'm holly and jolly, the chapterly memes: