stillplaying | 9th Game

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9th Game

[Action]

[She woke up to an empty bed, an empty bed and an empty house. That was not necessarily unusual. Some mornings, those following nights she'd usually be unable to sleep, she'd usually slip out to the woods. Those mornings would be spent checking or securing traps, harvesting for nuts and autumnal plants. And, of course, hunting. Losing herself in the thrill of the pursuit, of that sweet moment when her arrow sinks into her prey. It wasn't just her. Even without the events that were to come later, Peeta's dreams could be just as haunted and his sleep just as restless. What hunting did to soothe her nerves, baking did for him.

He'd be at the bakery. She was certain of it. Even if, the past week, they had barely left each other's side, making up for the three weeks lost while Peeta was unconscious. But honeymoons and vacations couldn't last forever. Today was as good a day as any to break it.

After a quick shower and brief breakfast, she heads towards the bakery. But the building is still empty for the day. Lights off, oven cold. There's no sign of him.

The sinking feeling in her stomach grows and grows as she searches the village. She checks all the stores, the restaurants and bars, even the welcome center and school. Nothing. There's nothing. If he'd gone any further, he would have left a note. Unlike her, Peeta's responsible. He knows how easily she worries.

Mid-morning, she conducts a second unsuccessful search of the bakery for signs of her boyfriend. If he had wandered away for supplies earlier, he'd be back now. Back for a full day's work. But there's nothing. There's nothing. She manages to get outside without crying. Manages to make it halfway back to the house before sinking to her knees behind the weapons shop. She leans back against the wall, fumbling in her jacket for her journal. Frantically, she searches it.

Nothing. No sign of him. He's gone.

After what seems like forever, when all the tears are done, she opens the journal again. Without a pen, she's left little choice but to speak. Her voice is a little shaky but otherwise devoid of emotion. Monotonous. Its too hard to feel right now.]

[Voice]

Peeta Mellark has returned to Panem. He's not here. I can't find him anywhere.

For those that knew him -- he'll live.

[There's a long pause. It's stupid to say, she thinks. But she remembers his arrival. Remembers how he thought this was the 75th Games. He was from her past, from a past with a horrible, horrible future to look forward to.

But he'll live. She has to cling to that. Even if he'll hate her, never love her like he did here. It was a love she didn't deserve. And a love that she'll never, ever have again.]

Rapunzel, the bakery is yours.

[Action]

[She has to force herself up to her feet. There are other things she needs to do, belongings she ought to sort through. Somehow, she makes it back to House 43. The door is left open as she goes upstairs to his studio. Paintings. She should get rid of the paintings. The art gallery. Or something. But as soon as she sees the half-finished portrait of herself, of a girl that appears infinitely more beautiful than she's ever felt, she knows she can't stay.

The door is slammed shut to the room, Buttercup ignored as she runs down the stairs. She grabs a backpack and stuffs it with a bare minimum of clothing and provisions. Her quiver and bow are slung over her arm and she steps outside. She turns around to regard the house - the house once shared with the small girl from District Eleven and the boy from her own District, her everything. On afterthought, she locks the door.

And then she begins her trek in the western woods towards the treehouses by the Western Lake.]

[ooc: regarding action sections - feel free to catch her in any of the bolded areas!

Also - WARNINGS for the Katniss and Clove thread. Please do not read if you have troubles with depressive and suicidal thought and violence and death.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Her gaze flickers away from the boy again to watch the other Career fidget a little. It's the slight movement that caught her attention. For all she doesn't care right now about being that excellent hunter, some instincts are hard to ignore. Catching the fluttering of small movement could mean the difference between returning home with food or empty handed.

But she's not the only one doing the watching. Clove is watching her in return. Understandable, really. For all the trust that now exists between them, there is a limit.

It should be unnerving but it isn't. She only watches a little bit longer, lost in her own thoughts. It's not fair. Not fair that she still has him. Her District partner and fellow tribute. Someone to keep her from being alone.

What did she do to deserve this loss?

Everything. Everything.]

You have a refrigerator.

So what?

[She can't explain it. She doesn't even understand it.

Maybe this place has finally done enough damage, hijacked her enough times. Maybe there's something wrong with her brain now.

But Twelve's part of the pack. Can't trust her, not when everything's on the line, but sometimes there can be something like goodwill. It's not. It's not like that. But it's close. Sort of.

Besides, even before Twelve, Lover Boy was in the pack. And... Well. That's what he'd asked her, wasn't it. Shortly after she'd shown up here. When the truce was being negotiated. Would you have died for him? Of course not. I would for her.

Love. Like the stories her grandmother told her. Unconditional, unwavering, selfless. It doesn't exist in Clove's world, but if it does in Twelve's... Well. She can leave a bowl of stew when she's alone.

No one should be alone here.]

[So what? So she doesn't want compassion. Not from her. Not from a girl who should be dead, who she saw die in the grassy meadow near the Cornucopia. A girl who would've killed her once without a second thought, without any remorse. A girl she would've killed in return, just like she killed the girl's fellow tribute. An arrow in the head. How could she forget? How could she ever forget those horrible moans and screams and the begging. Oh, the begging. And through out it all, the knowledge that she could end it. End it if only she were willing to risk Peeta's life, risk him bleeding out were she to undo the tourniquet.

She glances at him, at the blonde haired boy that cost Peeta his leg and feels nothing. No anger, no remorse. Nothing. He should be dead, too. Dead and not sleeping so peacefully, almost innocently as he lies there on the ground. It's not fair. Not fair at all that they have each other and she's been left alone.

First Rue. Then Rick. Now Peeta. One by one, she's losing them. All the people here that meant something to her. Her family.

She wants to scream. Wants to fight. Wants to do something, anything to get him back. Or to join him in Panem, away from this place, this Game. She's had a taste of it, a taste of that other hunger, of what it's like to really let someone love her. More than anything, she wants that back. She wants that chance for Peeta, the hijacked Peeta who had just rejoined her in District Twelve, to love her like he did here.

So what?]

I won't owe you.

[She and Twelve manage a relative ease with one another in the forest. Their camps are closer than either of them like, she knows. Clove didn't know about Twelve's place in the trees when she made the first camp. Once that was established, though, she wasn't goiing to give Twelve the victory of moving this camp. So, they settled for the uneasy truce.

Now, the ppredator sense tells her something's wrong. Twelve has nothing to lose. She has no need to show caution. And Cato is asleep. One sharp word would rouse him, put the odds firmly in their favor, but that would risk spooking the other girl, upsetting this delicate balance they've gotten so used to.

Clove stands.

She gives a single jerk of her head, toward the trees. She doesn't care if her motive is obvious. She wnats Twelve away from Cato, alone with her. Plus it gives her movement, lets her stretch some. Without a word, Clove begins walkng.

After a few steps, she finally speaks again.]

You don't.

[Her head tilts a little to the left as Clove stands, as if to inquire as to the girl's choice in actions. Otherwise, her expression remains impassive. Why should she care what the Career chooses to do? They have the truce. A stupid truce, she finally realizes. What does it matter if one kills the other in a place where the dead come back to life? She's seen people mention it on the journal repeatedly. Witnessed it first hand with Rue's arrival, with the arrival of Clove and of Cato.

The truce is stupid. A damned waste of their time. Remember who the enemy is. She remembers. She'll always remember that. The Malnosso, the new Gamekeepers that came and stole her from any peace she might have known in District Twelve. And why? So she could be a pawn for them, too? To fight in their drafts or participate in their stupid hijackings and experiments. It's ridiculous. All of this ridiculous.

And suddenly, she wants to fight. All the sadness has given way to anger. They had no right bringing her here, bringing any of them here. And then giving her a chance to feel settled, to feel happy, before taking the one thing that meant to most to her away.

Damn the. Damn them all.

She's too caught up in her own thoughts that at first she doesn't notice that Clove has begun to walk into the forest. For a moment, she hesitates. It would be easy to wake Cato now, to have that fight that he practically promised her when Peeta was still in a coma. But then Clove would come running. Then, the odds would not be in her favor.

So she follows, knowing she made the right choice when she hears Clove finally speaks. Her own response comes on the heels of the girl's statement.] Then why?

We're even.

[She dislikes gratitude. It is debt at its very core. She owes no one, and no one owes her. She will never barter hypothetical favors. Actions are exchanged immediately. Even with Cato.

She pulled the things from him, he made her food.

This birthday was the only slight hypothetical. When his came, she's reppay. Balance would be restored. No debt.

And what does she owe Twelve? Happiness. A blank memory, and Twelve had been beyond merciful. She could have told her everything, told her how little room for emotion and humanity she really had. But Twelve had let her be happy. Clover had been grateful for what help Katniss had offered; Clove was grateful for those moments of understanding peace.

A bowl of stew didn't settle that.

But she could pretend it did.

These woods are familiar by now, but Clove still looks up as she walks. She's never far from the Arena. Like checking for trackerjacker nests. And with Twelve, she's even closer. The pack used to pad through the forest, hunting. Someone at her back meant Clove was more careful than ever. That's why she continues to lead a path away from the camp. Because she trusts Twelve less than Mina but more than Glimmer.

A slight clearing makes Clove stop. Far enough away. She feels safe with this distance. They can talk without chancing Cato waking.

He won't worry. She likes to wander the woods, practice hunting or trapping or fishing. She has her knives, too. Her vest is only off when she sleeps. And she has her hunting knife at her hip. He won't worry; he'l just go home.]

We're even now.

[Even, she says. We're even now. Katniss comes to a halt at those words, brow furrowing in confusion. It's not the answer that she expected. It's not an answer that she knows how to respond to. It makes the anger dissipate for a few moments as she wracks her brain for an answer. What has she possibly done for Clove that would make her think they had a score to settle? A score, at least, that needed to be settled by stew instead of by blood.

If she's referring to the recent hijacks, how the girl from District Two lost her memory, that's ridiculous. Clove owes her nothing from that, nothing at all. She had been hijacked, mentally disoriented for some stupid experiment beyond all of their control. Katniss wasn't a good person, felt as if she lacked a number of morals most others possessed. But there were some lines you didn't cross. She remembered how Delly had treated Peeta with nothing but respect and kindness after his hijacking. That was the right thing to do. Not lying to Clove had been the right thing, too.

She shakes her head and scowls again. She's being ridiculous. Stupid. utterly stupid. Even now.

Is this supposed to be pity? She doesn't want her pity. She doesn't want pity from anyone, let alone a sixteen year old girl who should be dead.]

For what? [She doesn't quite scream the words, but they're angry. A little strangled. She doesn't understand. She wants to understand.] What are we even for, Clove? You don't owe me anything.

I don't. Now.

[Clove looks right at her. At the girl who killed Cato. The Girl who was on Fire. The girl from the outlying district who got an 11.

This is respect.

Because this girl is what Clove isn't. Has -- or had, but will have again -- what Clove won't.

Peeta Mellark is one of a kind. Not that she was ever interested. No. Cato's her type. But she'd gotten to know Lover Boy. That charm, the care. The heart. That was what a lot of tributes lacked, either from the time they went in or by the time they died, but even she knew that the boy from District Twelve was good. It had always made her uneasy, but there was something... admirable about it. Desirable, too, in a way. Enough to provoke just a streak of envy.

Not a dangerous one, though.]

We measure debts differently, Twelve. I was in yours. Now I'm not.

That simple.

No.

[The word is barked, harsh. The numbness she had felt yesterday had started to disappear during the night. Grief had taken its place. Grief akin to the grief she felt when her sister had died. That overwhelming sadness that had made the Mockingjay a mental Avox. She had been recuperating them, the fire mutt with the burns and skin grafts that made patchwork of her skin. Recuperating and struggling to understand the loss, to reconcile with the fact that she would never see her Prim grow old.

And then Snow had opened her eyes. They had promised, hadn't they? To never lie to each other? She was confused at first, she didn't believe him. But there was no excuse for a thirteen year old to be in the front lines. Prim never should have been there when the bombs exploded.

Revenge hadn't satisfied her. All she had wanted after was to join her sister. To be done with this existence. What was left for her, anyway? Execution? Banishment? The Mockingjay had served her purpose. She had become a liability to the new government after killing Coin. More so, she had outlived anything worth living for in her own life. She'd never look at Gale the same way again, Peeta no longer loved her like he once did, Prim had gone.

The decision had been so clear at the time.

It wasn't as clear now. Her head was a whirlwind of thoughts. But the emotions were clear. The grief, the anger. Especially the anger. How she wanted to hurt them, the Malnosso. Clove and Cato for still being here. Together. Haymitch, for once again failing as a mentor. Hurt someone, anyone, the way she had been hurt.

And here, Clove was talking about debts. Claiming that she had actually owed Katniss something. For what? For keeping polite during the hijacking? It had been in her best interest to be honest with her, to not take advantage. However right the actions had been, she knew by then how these games worked. How they did not last. Clove would eventually remember. She wouldn't risk the treaty in any way, especially when Peeta had been unable to defend himself.

She shook her head and snorted.] No.

I don't believe that. I killed him. [Her voice breaks a little, howls of mutts with the eyes of lost children filling her head.] How could you possibly ever consider yourself in debt to me when I killed him?

[How could you possibly ever consider yourself in debt to me when I killed him?

The words have an odd, numbing effect. Because they remind her. She and Cato are playing their own game here. Living together, sex, even things like her birthday. They're as much act as reality, they both know what each other is, what they are. They are tributes from District Two, trained at the Academy to kill and good for little else. They would leave each other to die if threatened at all, kill each other if it came to that. What Twelve did with the berries never would have happened; they would have fought tooth and nail to win. They were not noble. There no love, not really.

So why should it matter at all? Twelve had killed Cato. She would have done the same thing.]

Easy.

[As east as throwing a knife or weilding a mace. As easy as leacing behind a screaming pack member swarmed by trackerjackers. As easy as lying in wait for a trap to spring.

Easy.

Clove never looked away, eyes locked on Katniss.]

Don't you get it, Twelve? [It was so obvious to her.] I'm not like you.

[She would never have volunteered for someone. She would never have protected a badly wounded ally. She would never have risked her life to save Cato. She would never have defied the Capitol.

That was the difference between Careers and not. Humanity. She didn't feel human. She knew what empathy and sympathy were, of course, but any experience feeling them was weak and very fleeting. She had never had any need for them, so her capacity for them was diminished, at best. She doubted it even amounted to that.

Which made her a good Career.

Which was all she was ever supposed to be.]

I don't care.

[Not about Cato dying. Not, her cool and even voice suggested, about even Cato himself.

She'd miss him... but this place was a Game like any other. Someday, it would be "kill or be killed." Someone else killing him would only mean she wouldn't have to do it.

So, she can't care.

She won't.

She doesn't.]

[Her hand tightens on the grip of her bow and she scowls, furious.

How could she say that? How could she not care about him? She had seen them in the arena. She had seen how Cato reacted to Clove's death. How the other girl had screamed for him to save her. How he had cried her name as she died. In his arms? She didn't know. She had fled by then, not willing to take the chance that Cato would catch up with her. But the anguish had been clear.

She had seen them here, too. Noticed how much time they spent together. The way the hijackings always seemed to indicate that they might mean something more to each other than just allied Careers. Clove had seemed to understand when Peeta was sick. Seemed to understand Katniss' utter mortification when Cato had announced to all of Luceti that she had slept with Peeta.

How could she possibly say she didn't care? How could she?

And right after Katniss had just lost Peeta? The boy that would die for her, the boy that she'd sacrifice everything to save. She went against every instinct she had to survive in the Quarter Quell because Peeta didn't deserve to lose his life. Then, she had thought she had been selfish, if not maybe a bit noble. Someone so good as Peeta didn't deserve to die in a bloodbath.

Gale had been wrong. She knows that now. The choice between the two boys had never been about survival for her, about who would extend her longevity the most. It never came down to a cold calculation or an unfeeling assessment. It had been about love, about who she would die to protect. And maybe she had felt it all along, that hunger and desire and love for Peeta Mellark. She had just been too stupid, too caught up in her own worries and problems, to really see.]

Do you have any idea how lucky you are? He's still here.

[He's here. They can have... whatever it was that existed between them. She had someone from home to stand by her, someone more than an old drunk mentor. And she says she doesn't care. That she's not like her. In all this time stuck here, Katniss has reached the disturbing conclusion that they are more alike than either would care to admit.

Her lips press together in a thin frown and she looks back in the direction that they had come.]

I could kill him again. Easily. Would you care then?

[Is it to her credit or disadvantage that she has to think about her her answer?

Clove isn't sure. She doesn't want to know, really, what the hesitation says about her and Cato.

They are in a Game. People have to die. If Twelve kills Cato, that just means she won't have to later. Her district partner. He's only that. But more, too. they'd promised to go to the Games together. He'd volunteered to keep that promise. Debt. They'd promised to have sex if they went to the Games. She'd been waiting for him after the parade. Even. She'd pulled stingers from him. Debt. He'd made sure she got her fill. Even. He'd held her and comforted her as she was dying. Debt. She'd been here to comfort him when he'd come. Even. They'd exchanged rings, essentially promising they would never marry, at least not happily. Yet, unknown to anyone but maybe their parents, they took their vow to the grave.

It's a sudden, unanswerable question, and it threatens Clove's blank appearance: Did they have us buried beside each other?

She has to fight to keep her voice even, to be a Career. But perhaps there's a shine to her eyes as a roll of thunder sounds in the distance.]

We have a truce.

Break it, and I will kill you.

[Her hand is already at her hip, in answer to the grip on the bow, touching -- but not yet grasping -- the hilt of her hunting knife.]

[With every second that passes, every second that it takes Clove to reply, her hand tightens on the grip. It would only take a matter of seconds. By now, she has the action perfect. It's more reflex than anything else. Slide the bow off her shoulder, pull an arrow from the quiver with her left hand. Nock the arrow and draw the string back with her fingers. Aim and let it fly. All in a matter of seconds. Before Clove could even touch her, she could kill the other girl.

It would only take seconds.

But then the girl from District Two speaks and, for the moment, the previous thoughts are dismissed. The truce is brought up and she thinks back to her earlier realization. How the truce is stupid, pointless. People can't die here. Somehow, the Malnosso manage to bring them back. So they can fight, they can harm each other. But there's no point if death is not a threat.]

What's the point?

[She shrugs a little, looking almost calm in compared to that irate expression from minutes ago. It's a deceptive calm. Underneath the surface, she feels anything but.]

The only real loss you can suffer here is when someone goes home without you. And I've already lost him.

He'll live. You said you yourself. He lives, and the Games end.

[She said that. The first day Clove was here, Twelve told her that.

Now, it's Clove's calm that is staggering. Maybe it's the rain that starts to fall. Very light, just a few drops here and there. But they start the ripples, disturb the surface of her placidity. Now, her voice falters. She's almost angry. Or maybe she is angry, just masking it. Or trying to.]

He'll live.

And we'll all leave eventually.

You'll go back. And he'll be alive.

[Don't call me lucky.]

[The words freeze her.

That's what the other boy said. The boy that had reminded her a little of Peeta, who claimed that where there was life, there was hope. He'll be alive. He'll live. There's hope.

She almost wants to laugh at the thought. Hope. They don't know what's yet to come for Peeta. They don't know how many people will sacrifice themselves to keep him alive in the Quarter Quell, how in the end, it doesn't matter. Because they'll leave him behind for Snow. And he'll be tortured, because of her. Because it's the one leverage he had over the Mockingjay. The one thing that could break her.

He succeeds, too. Or nearly does. The hijacking changes Peeta, the effects permanent. It's not like the hijackings the Malnosso do, where the memories may linger but little else changes. Snow's hijacking is much worse. That good Peeta, that boy with the bread, is gone, replaced instead by a Peeta who can't stand the sight of her. Who tries to kill her when they're finally reunited.

They don't know that. They don't know the horrors that come.

They don't know how confused he becomes, that a game is invented to help preserve his sanity. Real or not real. They don't know how he'd rather die than harm anyone else, than become the monster Snow made him into. The monster that only has one goal: kill Katniss Everdeen.

And despite everything, he and Gale discuss who she loves more. He still agrees to help her with her assassination of Snow. And he saves her life, stops her from biting down on the nightlock tablet and dying.

Hope. Maybe there's hope. He'll be alive. He had just returned to District Twelve when she had wound up here. Planted the primrose bushes around her house in honor of Prim. Had been deemed mentally stable by Dr. Aurelius.

Maybe there's hope that Peeta will once again be okay. But she's not naive. He will never, ever love her like he did here. The girl who was on fire, the Mockingjay -- she doesn't deserve that kind of love anyway.

Why couldn't he have just let her die that day? Why wasn't she dead? She should be dead. She shouldn't have anything to return to, nothing at all. She should be dead, her usefulness used up. She should have died in the clock arena, left behind in place of Peeta. Driven mad by Snow's torturers, an unfortunate end to an unfortunate life. And Prim, dear Prim, should be alive.

Tears sting her eyes. Her voice is hoarse. More and more rain drops start to fall, a light sprinkle now as opposed to the scatter from minutes earlier. Somehow, she chokes out the words:]

He'll live. But he'll never love me like that again.

[Clove laughs.

It's a harsh, sharp sound. Something that verges on a sob.

Love. What does love matter? Love doesn't exist. Or, if it is, it dies. Hard, fast. Everything crumbles. Love dies before the gong sounds. Before the parade. Love dies the day you learn about the Hunger Games. The day you watch and understand your first one. You know then, if you're smart, that if you love someone, you or they will go into the Arena. One of you will die.

And even if you live, nothing will be the same.

But--]

He'll live.

[She wants to shout, but it won't come out. Her voice is quiet, something between rage and hurt.]

He'll be there. You'll go back. And he'll be there.

He'll be alive.

[She stares at Katniss, fingers slowly curling around the knife, holding it tight now. Now, the anger is rising. A slowly building rage. Because it's become angry or cry, and she will not let District Two see her cry.]

Don't you get that?

You don't need this place.

[Yes she does, she wants to shout. She needs this place, needs it as much as Clove might. Or Cato. Here, she has no notoriety. No one knows of Katniss Everdeen, the girl from District Twelve who volunteered for the Hunger Games in place of her sister. The girl who was on fire. The Mockingjay. Coin's assassin. No one has ever heard of her. Even with the hijackings and the drafts and the games constantly being played by the Malnosso, she clings to that. Clings to the fact that she can live her life without worry of being watched by Panem's new government, without fear of being judged for taking Coin's life.

For taking all those lives.

And she can be loved by the boy that she loves without worry that he might someday kill her. Peeta hadn't faced the Quarter Quell yet. Hadn't been hijacked by Snow. This had been the boy with the bread here with her, the boy that she had fallen in love with. Maybe someone as unfeeling as Katniss Everdeen didn't deserve that. But for those couple of months, she could pretend. She could try.

But all that was gone now. She still needed this place, still needed him beside her. A boy that loved her unconditionally, that reminded her of the dandelion in the spring rather than all the fire that blackened her heart. Life had been good here. And now?

It's too much. It's all too much. The accusations, the reminders. He'll be alive but he won't be the same. She'll be under the watchful eye of Dr. Aurelius again, of the Capitol. The nightmares that haunt her every night here will be made all the more real, the reminders of the Hunger Games and the uprisings everywhere.

If she ever gets back there. If.

In the end, it really only does take seconds. To select the arrow, to pull back the string, to fire the projectile in Clove's direction. Her aim is immaculate despite the tears clouding her vision and the water falling around them. It barely grazes the girl's sleeve, just enough to rip at the threads and leave a gaping hole. The girl is already dead. There's no reason to kill her again.]

[Philosophy -- thoughts of love, life, death, fear, hope -- vanish the moment the arrow is drawn. Clove's body isn't as fast as her mind, but she knows what this means. She prepares to dodge, and it slices through her sleeve. Poor aim? No. Twelve's too good for that. A warning. The stand-off between one pack member and another.

She'd done it in the Arena, among the Careers. They all had. Establishing how far they could be pushed and when they wouldn't stand for it any more. Always, they fell into silent disharmony, ignoring each other.

So, Clove does what she did once to Glimmer. She pulls out a knife from her vest and, in the very same movement, throws it. The blade buries deep into the ground ... right in front of Twelve. If it hadn't been angled down, it would at least have gone into the stomach. The throat, if she'd aimed higher.

Without another word, she has her hand on another knife. Not pulling it out, but ready to, and her whole body's changed. Her muscles are tense, she leans forward, and her knees are bent, her weight on the balls of her feet. She is ready to attack, the most intimidating she can look.]

[She remembers the very first time Clove threw a knife in her direction. She had been lucky then, the orange background with the odd mix of supplies thick enough to act as a shield. Instead of killing her like the girl had intended, it had provided Katniss with her first useful weapon in the arena. A weapon that wound up becoming a lifesaver when she used it to drop the tracker jacker nest on top of the Careers that had cornered her in the tree.

But she had been afraid then, so afraid that the girl's aim would have been just a little better. Would've gotten her in the neck or the face and that would have been the end of it. The girl who was on fire, the tribute who had gotten the impressive score of eleven, dead within the first few seconds of the Games.

This time, when the knife flies in her direction, there is no fear. Katniss remains perfectly still. She doesn't once think for a moment that Clove will miss. The girl is too good. But what she doesn't expect is for the blade to bury itself in the damp grass at her feet. It's almost as if she's mimicking Katniss' actions with the arrow. Not aiming to kill, only to frighten.

It's too bad, she thinks for a moment. It would've been so easy. Peeta's not here anymore to interfere. He's not here to stick his hand in her mouth and cause her to bite on flesh rather than the oh-so-desired nightlock tablet. Clove's knives could finally find their target, the target that Thresh had denied them so long ago.

Katniss wipes at the tears now falling from her eyes. She's not afraid, not even with the intimidating look on the girl's face. It's a look that means business. Clove can kill her easily, oh so easily. And yet, Katniss is still unafraid. She wipes at her face again, now pushing wet bangs out of her eyes. Why didn't she aim higher? Why?

She shakes her head. She doesn't understand.]

Why? You could've killed me just now.

I'm not that stupid.

[She's ready, tense, and waiting. No different, she tells herself, than her one stand against Cato. More staged than anything. She'd known when she'd done it that he'd shrug her off, give her what she wanted without actually surrendering. He'd decide that what she asked was reasonable.

That Lover Boy was useful to them.

...Even when it had been only a small girl with knives standing between the Career pack and the battered boy from District Twelve. The cool, simple: I want him.

That's all this is, Clove knows. It's proving she won't be frightened but isn't over the edge. It's about practiced, controlled rage. Being able to kill and showing the awareness not to. It sets boundaries and will be over as fast as it began.]

Why should I?

[She pulls another arrow from her quiver and nocks it in the arrow rest. She doesn't aim it, barely plucks at the string. But there's no mistaking the tension in her arms, how in any moment, she can snap. She can send another arrow flying. And even as the rain begins to pour, the look in her cool grey eyes promises that she won't miss.]

You said it. I don't belong here. [The words as stated simply. A repeating of a fact she doesn't believe but thinks, hopes, the other girl would want to here. Would she lunge then? Would she try to attack?

It could feel good, oh so good, to fight her back. To release all this anger and sadness and tension that's been building inside of her every hour and every minute since Peeta left. And Clove would give it to her. She'd give her the fight that Katniss yearned for.] I don't deserve to be alive.

[There's the same laugh: sharp, short, and unsteady.

The victor doesn't deserve to be alive. Eleven districts think that, too. It should be our children, not you. No one who wins deserves to be alive.

Clove snorts.]

You want to play?

[She pulls out another throwing knife, crouches further down, legs moving to give her a good position to dart forward if she needs to, similar to her pose on the pedestal as the countdown flashed in front of her, daring her to run early.

If this really is just a test, she'll pass it. If Twelve wants a fight, she'll give her one.]

Let's play, Twelve.

[Let's play, Twelve.

Always Twelve. Always the Mockingjay. Always the girl who was on fire. Never Katniss Everdeen. When was the last time she got to really be just Katniss Everdeen? Just a girl from a district the rest of Panem looked down upon so much, their fence had never been repaired, their Peacekeepers the most crooked or, forbid it, friendly. No one looked closely at District Twelve, not until a girl came and lit a spark in an arena to save a boy she had pretended to love.

A boy she now loved more than she could bear it. A boy who's not hear any longer. Who was stolen from her yet again. How could she possibly live with that? How could she, knowing she might never see him? That if she does get that chance, it won't ever be the same.

Her mind keeps flashing back to him. Keeps conjuring the image of his golden hair and blue, blue eyes. Of how happy he looked the first time they made love, how impossibly he smiled when she told him that she loved him. The way he looked caught up in his painting or the attention he would pay to a loaf of bread. It hurts. It hurts than the worst pain possible, more than any of those many burns she sustained in the blast that killed her sister.

How could it be nearly a year since that? A whole year without her sister, her little duck. How could the time have passed so quickly?

Her eyes narrow in on the knife and the girl's stance. She would react in an instant if Katniss made a quick move. She'd play. And maybe, just maybe, Katniss could find a way to make all the anger and pain and sadness go away for a few minutes.

She shoots the arrow, repeating the shot from earlier. But the tip cuts deeper this time, staining the metal with blood.]

[Clove does it to herself.

She expects the blow to come elsewhere, to have to dodge a differently placed area. This is why the Academy always told her not to imagine what would happen. They said it would be her death, and her pre-emptive move means that an edge of the arrow that she'd tried to dodge... cuts into her cheek rather than her arm. She'd meant to duck to the side, keep low, then spring up. But instead, like her knife on Twelve in the area, she gets it in the face.

The blood pours. Head and face wounds always bleed heavily, even if it's a minor injury, but it doesn't matter. It's blood.

It's blood streaking her face, along with the rain water. Blood. She sees it in her mind. All the blood near the Cornucopia. Clove looks up, sharp, and her body is tense. Her foot twists, finds a hold against the dirt turning to mud, and she lunges suddenly, straight at Twelve.

Her knives aren't out, but they don't matter. What she needs right now is leverage. To take the girl to the ground. Just like the Arena. The kill Thresh denied her.]

[She watches as Clove dives in the direction of the arrow. Watches with wide, observant eyes. There's no reaction. Her face is passive. She should be surprised, maybe even upset. That hadn't been her intention. She had meant to draw blood this time, yes. To violate the treaty once and for all. But someplace inconsequential. Someplace that really wouldn't matter all that much in the end.

But Clove ducks and the arrow scratches her cheek. The red blood, so very, very red, pours down her face. It's partially the rain water, partially the expected result of a head wound. She stands there and watches mesmerized. All the blood. When was the last time she saw that much blood come from a human being? The draft, she thinks. That stupid, awful draft where she had been nothing more than a pawn in a war again. At least the last one she had cared something about.

When the girl lunges towards her, she stays still. The attack is expected. What's not is the lack of knives. But it works to Katniss' advantage. She lets go of her precious bow and lets Clove tackle her to the ground. The grass is wet against her wings, the fall painful. But she doesn't let that phase her, pushes the sudden pain away. All she can do is react. Her palms press against the girl's shoulder, trying to over take her and flip them over. Get on top or keep them rolling in the muddy grass.]

9th Game

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