𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

── the final three

          𝔗he next day, the water supply dried up. It was clear that the Gamemakers were forcing a confrontation now, not happy with only one death. They wanted more, and so, they were forcing up towards the lake.

We debated waiting, knowing that there were pros and cons for both, but in the end, we decided to go as soon as possible. We wanted this over with.

"Two against one. It's gonna be alright." Cato pointed out, an arm wrapped around my shoulder as both of us held our weapons in our other hands.

"Next time we eat, we'll be in the Capitol." I mused.

"I can already taste it." Cato laughed at that, tugging me closer. It's now early evening and we've just reached the plain and the lake. Cato circles the cornucopia, before the both of us decide that we should finally open the pack that we'd been sent. I can't quite tell what the things are supposed to be, but the suits are lightweight and blend in.

"What are these?"

"I've seen these before." Cato pulled one out, shaking his head. "The trainers used to use them, when we were learning. It was to prevent them from getting cut up if we hit their chest."

"Like body armour?"

"Yeah, exactly like that. Pull it on." Cato urged, before he saw the smaller one. "That's not gonna be big enough for you."

"I'm taller than Clove." I pointed out, shaking my head. "He doesn't have any long distance weapons. He'd have to get in close to hit me, unless he has the bow."

"He doesn't have the bow." Cato shook his head, tugging his shirt on so that he could pull the body armour on. "I know he doesn't."

"Must have gone with Katniss then." I shook my head, eyebrows furrowing. "I'll just stay away from him."

"I'll make sure he doesn't go near you." Cato promised, leaning down to kiss my forehead. In a few hours time, we should be out of here. As we wait, I teach Cato the whistles that we use to work in the harvest, the mockingjays in the trees coming alive with sound.

"We call that one Rue's song." I told him, smiling. 

"She's gonna be very excited when you get home." Cato pointed out, listening to the music well and overlap, forming a haunting harmony that normally signaled the orchard workers home. Then it stops, or truly, something splits it. Random notes disrupt the melody, the conversation rising into a shrieking voice of alarm.

Cato and I are on our feet in an instant, me holding the spear, and Cato holding his sword, when Peeta crashes through the trees and bears down on us. His hands are empty, there are no weapons in sight as he sprints towards us.

"This'll be easier that expected." Cato steps forward, protectively standing in front of me, ready to fight, but Peeta rockets right between us. His face is red, sweat dripping from his brow. He's been running for a while, from something. But what?

My eyes scan the woods just in time to see the first creature leap onto the plain. As I'm turning away, I see another half dozen join it.

"Time to go." I call, before both Cato and I take off after Peeta, running as hard as we can. They're clearly mutts. I've never seen animals like this, but they seemed to resemble large dogs, or wolves. But what wolf can stand on it's hind legs and wave the rest of the pack forward with it's paw?

Peeta is making a bee line for the Cornucopia, and without much thought, Cato and I are following. We reach the horn first, neither of us being that injured, and still having energy left from the previous days.

"You first, Mitzi." Cato called, stopping by the golden side of it. He hauls me upwards, the gold burning and blistering my hands. Once I'm on the top, I turn and hold my hands out for Cato, helping to yank him up. Both of us flop onto the top of the Cornucopia, breathing heavily.

I take a moment to look over the side of the Cornucopia. The mutts have reached it now, scrabbling at the metal, but they can't find a hold. Not even with four inch long, razor sharp claws.

"Can they climb it?" It's Cato that calls out, and I turn to find both him and Peeta at opposite ends of the Cornucopia. I look back, something unsettled in my stomach as the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

The wolves are putting their snouts on the horn, sniffing and tasting the metal, scraping paws over the surface and then making high-pitched yipping sounds to one another. This must be how they communicate because the pack backs up as if to make room. Then one of them, a good-size mutt with silky waves of blond fur takes a running start and leaps onto the horn. Its back legs must be incredibly powerful because it lands a mere ten feet below us, its pink lips pulled back in a snarl. For a moment it hangs there, and in that moment I realize what else unsettled me about the mutts. The green eyes glowering at me are unlike any dog or wolf, any canine I've ever seen. They are unmistakably human.

And that revelation has barely registered when I notice the collar with the number 1 inlaid with jewels and the whole horrible thing hits me. The blonde hair, the green eyes, the number...it's Glimmer.

A shriek escapes my lips and I'm having trouble not being sick. The mutt has begun to slide backward, unable to find any purchase on the metal, and I can hear the slow screeching of the claws like nails on a blackboard.

"Mitzi?" Cato's hand is on my arm.

"It's her." I spit out through trembling breaths.

"Who?"

My head snaps from side to side as I examine the  pack, taking in the various sizes and colors. The small one with the red coat and amber eyes...Foxface! And there, the brown hair and grey eyes, 12 woven onto the collar is Katniss! And worst of all, the mutt, with dark glossy fur, huge brown eyes and a collar that reads 11 in woven straw. Teeth bared in hatred.

Thresh.

"Mitzi, what is it?" Cato grabbed onto my shoulder, forcing me to look at him and away from the mutts. 

"It's them. It's all of them. The others. Thresh and Foxface and Katniss and...all of the other tributes," I choke out. Cato goes silent, staring at them.

"You don't think..." He trails off, and for a moment, he sounds like a boy. "You don't think those could be their real eyes?" 

Their eyes are the least of my worries. What about their brains? Have they been given any of the real tributes memories? Have they been programmed to hate our faces particularly because we have survived and they were so callously murdered? And the ones we actually killed...do they believe they're avenging their own deaths?

Before I can get this out, the mutts begin a new assault on the horn. They've split into two groups at the sides of the horn and are using those powerful hindquarters to launch themselves at us. A pair of teeth ring together just inches from my hand and then I hear Cato cry out, feeling the yank of his body, the heavy weight of both him and the mutt pulling me over the side. 

If it hadn't been the grip on my arm, he'd be on the ground, but it takes all of my strength to keep up both on the curved back of the horn and more tributes are coming. I let out a scream, feeling my shoulder pop at the weight of what I'm holding.

"Cato, kill it!" I'm shouting, tears streaming down my face. Although I can't quite see what's happening, I know he must have stabbed the thing because the pull lessens. I'm able to haul him back onto the horn where we drag ourselves toward the top where the lesser of two evils awaits.

Peeta has still not regained his feet, but his breathing is slowing and I know soon he'll be recovered enough to come for us, to hurl us over the side to our deaths. I roll away, holding my shoulder, as Cato uses the remaining daggers to begin to take out the mutts. He's turning back towards me, to help with my shoulder, when something yanks me away from him.

Peeta is using me as a shield, holding me tightly in some form of a headlock as I struggle to breathe, scratching at his arm. Cato is watching us, one arm out of action from the mutt, and the other holding onto my spear. 

Peeta just laughs. "Shoot me and she goes down with me."

I know he's right. If Cato kills Peeta, I'll die too. We've reached a stalemate. All of us are still, as I look upwards, trying to ignore the snapping of the mutts beneath us and instead staring at the stars. They're the same as back home, and if I close my eyes, I'm there with my parents. I'm at the farm, I'm safe. 

I had been so close to winning, so much so that I could already feel the wind in my hair as I became free, but maybe I wasn't going to win. Maybe I'd never go home?

But, I promised my mother, and my father, and Rue, and Katniss and Thresh, that if I could get out, I'd get out. I wasn't going to let them down.

Opening my eyes, I met Cato's, who was holding the spear to his cheek, ready to throw. He wouldn't miss, I knew he wouldn't miss. Cato had never once missed a shot. Raising my finger, I drew an x on the back of Peeta's hand that's clutched around my waist.

He only realises what it means about one second after I do the gesture, and I can feel him tense up behind me. But it's too late, because the spear has already sailed from Cato's hands, hitting Peeta dead on and the man cries out. He drops his grip on me, and I gasp for air, before both Peeta and I go rearing back.

My foot slips, wind brushing through my air, as I look at the stars. I didn't want to see the mouth of the mutts who would kill me.

But it wasn't meant to be. I'm brought to a yanking stop as a hand grabs the front of my shirt, and cold blue eyes meet mine.

"We're not done yet." Cato hisses, pulling me upwards until I land flat on top of him, both of us breathing heavily. We're waiting for the cannon, for the sign that this nightmare is over, that we're free and we can go home.

But it doesn't happen. Not yet. Because this is the climax of the Hunger Games, and the audience expects a show. I don't watch, but I can hear the snarls, the growls, the howls of pain from both human and beast as Peeta takes on the mutt pack. I can't understand how he can be surviving until I remember Thresh's pack. It was the same size as mine, and I bet that Thresh's one had a body armour suit like Cato's and probably one meant for me as well. Peeta probably stole it from his body.

The District 12 tribute must have a knife or sword or something, too, something he had hidden in his clothes, because on occasion there's the death scream of a mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade collides with the golden horn. The combat moves around the side of the Cornucopia, and I know Peeta must be attempting the one maneuver that could save his life — to make his way back around to the tail of the horn and rejoin us. But in the end, despite his remarkable strength and skill, he is simply overpowered. 

I don't know how long it has been, maybe an hour or so, when Peeta hits the ground and we hear the mutts dragging him, dragging him back into the Cornucopia. Now they'll finish him off, I think. But there's still no cannon. 

Night falls and the anthem plays and there's no picture of Peeta in the sky, only the faint moans coming through the metal beneath us. The icy air blowing across the plain reminds me that the Games are not over and may not be for who knows how long, and there is still no guarantee of victory. I'm still rushed with adrenaline, so much so that I can't even feel the cold.

"Mitzi. You've got to get up, you're hurt." Cato points out. 

"What?"

"You're hurt." Cato points out, and I look down at the gash on my stomach. 

"Where? When?"

"Peeta. You were daydreaming or something, or maybe your brain didn't want to process it because you were already in pain. I accidentally got you with the spear. I put too much force into it, made it go through his hand and into you instead of just stopping at the hand." Cato mutters, beating himself up as he searches for something to use as a bandage, for both my stomach and his arm, that the mutts had taken a chunk out of. All our supplies, our packs, remain down by the lake where we abandoned them when we fled from the mutts. 

Although the wind is biting, Cato pulls his jacket off and then his shirt, putting his jacket back on in the process. That brief exposure sets his teeth chattering beyond control. We take turns, both of us bandaging the others wounds, though I can't tell if the bandage was good enough on Cato's arm. My own shoulder was still dislocated, and neither of us dared touch it lest we injure it even more.

"Don't go to sleep," He whispers, both of us huddled at the end of the Cornucopia, trying to find shelter from the wind. We're clinging to each other, sharing our body heat, but the temperature will continue to drop. The night is only young.

Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice.

"Peeta may win this thing yet." I mutter to Cato, who shake his head and pulls both of our hoods up. He's shaking more than me, face pale as I try to keep him warm.

The next hours are the worst in my life. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Peeta, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at him. After a very short time, I don't care who he is or what he's done, all I want is for his suffering to end.

"Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Cato, trying to cover my ears though a dislocated shoulder isn't making it easy.

"You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him. And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers' point of view, this is the final word in entertainment.

It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change. 

There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn. It would haunt my nightmares for years to come.

I doze off now and then, but every time I do, Cato wakes me up. I'm trying to fight it, trying to fight the feeling of sleepiness, knowing that it would soothe the pain that was radiating from my shoulder and now my stomach, but I had to stay awake for him.

The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Cato begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again. 

Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Cato's face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.

Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Peeta's voice.

"Mitzi..." Cato trails off, before flicking the knife in his hand. "I-you have to kill him. He's closer now, and I can't. Not with my arm."

He's near the mouth now, and this would most likely be an act of mercy. I've already killed one person, but to kill another feels like I would be tipping the balance. However, I have to. I can't lose Cato, not when we've come so far. If Peeta dies now, then Cato gets the help he needs and he's already lost far too much blood from his arm.

I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Cato's hands grip me for support.

It takes a few moments to find Peeta in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is please.

Pity, not vengeance, sends the knife flying into his skull (though I admit that I throw it like a spear and hope for the best). It works though, miraculously, and Cato pulls me back up.

"Did you get him?" he whispers.

The cannon fires in answer.

"Then we won, Mitzi," he says hollowly.

"Hurray for us," I get out, but there's no joy of victory in my voice.

A hole opens in the plain and as if on cue, the remaining mutts bound into it, disappearing as the earth closes above them. 

We wait, for the hovercraft to take Peeta's remains, for the trumpets of victory that should follow, but nothing happens. I grow annoyed, twisting around as I stand beside Cato on the Cornucopia.

"Hey!" I shout into air. "What's going on?" The only response is the chatter of waking birds.

"Maybe it's the body. Maybe we have to move away from it," Cato's eyebrows crash together. 

I try to remember. Do you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on the final kill? My brain is too muddled to be sure, but what else could be the reason for the delay?

"Okay. Let's try and get to the lake, where our packs are."

"Good plan." Cato nods, knowing we have medicine there that could help both of us. We inch down to the tail of the horn and fall to the ground. I rise first, swinging and bending my arms and legs until I think I can help him up. Somehow, we make it back to the lake. I scoop up a handful of the cold water for Cato and bring a second to my lips.

A mockingjay gives the long, low whistle, and tears of relief fill my eyes as the hovercraft appears and takes Peeta's body away. Now they will take us. Now we can go home. We can heal.

But again there's no response.

"What are they waiting for?" I huffed, as Cato motions for patience, leaning back against the tree, holding his arm up above his head to prevent more blood loss. I turn back to him, rifling through my pack to find the bandages and the cream for healing, as Claudius Templesmith's voice booms into the arena.

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."

There's a small burst of static and then nothing more.

Cato and I stare at each other in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history, two lovers fighting it out. And like a fool, I bought into it.

"If you think about it, it's not that surprising," Cato says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he's moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt, pushing it towards me. Tears well up in my eyes. "Do it."

"No..." I shake my head, backing away.

"Mitzi, do it." He stands up, pressing the knife beside me into my hand and then against his chest. "One of us is going home, it should be you."

"I can't." I shook my head, trying to drop the knife but he still has some strength left, and he won't let me. "I won't. Cato, don't make me do this."

"Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Peeta," he says, as his eyes flash. It reminds me that he's just a boy, both of us are just kids. "I don't want to die like that. Let me go on my own terms."

"Then you kill me." I shove the knife back at him, anger filling me for a moment. It's cruel to ask me to kill him, and I despise it. "You kill me, you go home and live with it. You deserve to win, Cato."

"I'll go first anyway." He mutters, his arm dropping as the blood begins to cascade down his arms, across his palms and drip from his fingers.

"No, no, you're not killing yourself." I bat his hands away, holding his arm up as he tries to stop me, both of us standing there and glaring.

"Mitzi, it's what I want."

"I don't care."

"Let me die."

"You are not leaving me here!" I shout at him, and Cato pauses as I try not to cry. "You are not leaving me here, alone."

If he dies, I won't ever be myself again. One part of me will be stuck in this arena, waiting for Cato to come back. One part of me would be clinging onto his ghost, stuck in a limbo of sorts. I wasn't doing this without him.

"Listen," he says, pulling me into his arms. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me. Let me die." He's talking about other things but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around.

We both know they have to have a victor. Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces. They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country.

If Cato and I were to die, or they thought we were...I unzipped Cato's pocket, finding the painted berries inside. Cato's hand catches mine, his eyes hardening as he shakes his head.

"I won't let you."

"Trust me, Cato, please." I whispered, my hand touching his cheek no matter how much my shoulder burned in the process. I pour the berries into his hand, some of them in mine as well. They just looked like blueberries. "On the count of three?"

He leans down, kissing me gently before his forehead came to rest against mine.

"The count of three." We stay, with our foreheads pressed together, as I lay my hand flat out, him doing the same. With the other hand, I stay clinging to him.

I give Cato's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One."

Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." 

Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at Cato Hadley. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare. 

The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above us. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Mitzi Kennedy and Cato Hadley! I give you our victors!"

We won.

──⭒─⭑─⭒──

Hiya,

So, bit of a rollercoaster there. Peeta's dead, Mitzi killed him, Cato's pretty grieviously injured, he accidentally stabbed Mitzi with her spear, and she dislocated her shoulder. Good times all around guys, and sorry for the long chapter.

Let me know what you think,