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.]

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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.]

[She has her hunting knife. They're in too close quarters for her to want to throw a knife. It won't have the impact it needs, won't have time to gain momentum. Besides, she wants this.

The feel of the other girl hitting the ground. It's a satisfying experience. And, for a moment, she is afraid. Afraid of something looming behind her. But, this time, she won't wait. She won't mock and taunt and gloat. She'll kill.

Because it's kill or be kill.

Clove is as good as back in the Arena. Twelve has her shoulders, and there's movement. She feels her own back hit the ground, and she throws her body first up -- a head butt if she has to -- then tries to roll as hard as she can to the side. She doesn't have hold of Twelve's shoulders, no. She's settled for a middle area. For grabbing near the collar of her shirt and one clawing for her neck.

As long as she struggles, she can maybe regain the high ground. Keep Twelve against the ground. Contain her. Hold her in place so she could kill her. Like she was supposed to in the Arena.]

[Clove grabs at the collar of her shirt, lifts her head as if to bang it against Katniss' own. Every instinct and every sensation blazes to life. She tilts her head in avoidance just as time, allows herself to fall back on her back. Then she's pushing again, flipping Clove over and sending the two girls tumbling in the now muddy grass for dominance.

Again and again they roll. She feels the dirt slick her wings, the pain once again when she forgets to flatten them on impact. Like earlier, any pain is only momentarily registered. She's lost in the fight, in the struggle for life and death. Sorrows over Peeta's departure are forgotten, anger at the Malnosso dismissed. There's only this fight, there's only Clove.

She could try and reach for an arrow, use it as the other girl would a knife. It could give her an unexpected advantage. It's been over a year since Katniss last fought Clove. She thinks she's learned more in the time since. Time spent in Thirteen's training had not been for null. She thinks she's become harder to kill. But there's no reason to be arrogant, no reason to underestimate the other girl. She remembers how close Clove had once gotten. Remembers what would have happened if not for Thresh.

Katniss scrambles for a better hold, pushing down on Clove's upper body again, trying to use her knees to pin her lower. But she's not a close-combat fighter. She's better at long range, better with her bow. Her wings ache and this time, rather than ignore, she takes inspiration. Letting go with one hand, she tries to reach behind Clove, tries to grab at the multicolored feathers. Pain. As much pain as she can cause. That'd be a good start.]

[It's not a scream. It's a hiss. Pure pain shoots through her, but it's like the trackerjacker venom. It lends her strength even as it blinds her. She can't feel anything because her body is too busy feeling everything.

Caked in mud and blind with pain, Clove, for the moment with the upper position, thrusts forward to slam the other girl against the ground again. Just to make her let go. She can't even tell if it works, it hurts too much, and her balance is upset. When her back hits the dirt, she's crying. In so much pain.

But now Twelve is over her.

The Career won't give up. Won't ask for mercy, so she wrestles as best she can. She can't get to her hunting knife, but she can get to one of her upper knives. So, she pulls it out and stabs up. There's no aim, there's no real power. If she hits it, if she finds skin and draws blood, it won't be a bad blow.

Just something to try and wound. To repay. To gain some better footing.

Something to make sure she's not the only one bleeding.]

[The hiss is the hiss of her nightmares. The drawn out 's' of a lizard-like mutt chasing her through the sewers of the Capitol. Kaaaaat-nissssssssssssss, Kaaaaat-nissssssssssssss. They caught up. People died. Finnick, poor, poor Finnick. Homes, Jackson, Carter. Dead because of the lizard mutts that Snow had sent after Katniss. So many dead because of her.

Even Clove. Dead because she tried to kill Katniss in the meadow by the Cornucopia, gave Thresh a chance to overhear her brags.

The hiss distracts her. Rain blinds her and the winds sweep her bangs back into her eyes. And for those few precious seconds, she's lost in memories. Lost in the horror of leaving Finnick and the others behind. Loss in the horror of Prim's death once more. She cries out, the heart-crushing memory more painful than any physical injury. She remembers all too well.

And Peeta, oh Peeta. How he had begged them to kill him, to keep him from being any more of a danger to their team.

The knife pierces the skin, cutting through her shirt. The tip catches below her right collar bone and cuts upward, leaving a trail of blood to her shoulder. It's enough to knock Katniss out of her nightmares and bring her back to the reality in front of her. To Clove, trying everything possible to kill her. And Katniss... Katniss doing what exactly?

She swallows her scream and presses her fingers against the wound, pulling them back to barely see the red through all the water.]

[She still expects Thresh. She expects the huge boy to grab her. To kill her again.

But that's not her concern, she reminds herself. She watches Twelve touch her wound, and she sees her chance.

A slim, slim chance, but Clove takes it. Rather than trying to roll the girl over, she attempts throwing herself up. The throwing knife is left in the mud. She doesn't need it right now, and she has others. Rather, she grabs for Twelve's shoulder and throat, seeking to topple the other girl that way.

Impractical... but unexpected. If she can get the edge, pin the girl. She can finish what she started in the Arena. This time -- fast and quietly.

Spill the blood she should have had. Take the kill she should have made. Prove to Twelve that she was stronger.]

[The blood is another distraction. She continues to stare at the red in her fingers, straining to see it through the rain and tears. It's almost as if it's an alien substance, one that she's never seen before. Blood, her blood. She's bleeding.

It's been so long since she last bled. Especially like this. Red, so red. Like the blood Snow had coughed up when he had died. Like the red that had bloomed from Coin's chest thanks to the arrow Katniss had shot.

The red of the flames that had engulfed Prim. The red of the blood that leaked from Peeta's tourniquet, that damn tourniquet she destroyed to grant mercy to a boy who would have shown them none. Memories. So many memories. So many painful memories.

Why didn't they just let her die?

Like before, this distraction gives Clove opportunity. Before Katniss realizes what is happening, she's on her back again. One wing crumples beneath her her back and the dirt at the impact. Fingers close around her neck and her hands pull at them, desperate to be free. She's tosses and turns, bucks her hips - anything to get Clove off of her.]

[Clove gives a sound. It's not a scream, but it's like one. In its infancy, almost. It's a sound of desperation, maybe more animal than human. Something caught between predator and prey, something all the more dangerous for its uncertainty as to where in the hierarchy it actually belongs.

Clove does her best to keep her hand on Katniss's throat, squeezing, even though that arm hurts from a fall on it. Her face is still bleeding, and she can't care.

While she tries to hold there, she also tries to use the whole of her body to pin the other girl. All except her right hand, which fishes out her hunting knife from the loop at her hip. Clove's green eyes are wider than they usually are, and she's struggling to see through tears of pain and... everything.]

[She continues to struggle and flail, nails digging into the flesh of Clove's hands while legs try to kick against the body covering her. Katniss screams wordlessly as the grasp on her neck tightens. She spits and hisses, a wild animal caught in the possession of a predator she never intended to encounter. Everything inside her screams to survive. To fight until she regains the upper hand and then go in for the kill herself.

That is, at least, until she sees the hunting knife. The silver gleams in the corner of her eye and she remembers. Remembers how painful another knife once felt against her cheek. How cold the blade had been against her throat.

She should have died then. She should have died in the very beginning of the Games. By the tracker jacker stingers or when the fire wall had chased her back into the middle of the arena. Should have been killed by Thresh or by Cato, should have eaten the nightlock berries and let Peeta be the sole victor of the 74th Hunger Games. Snow could have killed her any time afterwards. She should have killed herself before ever going back into that arena. And once there - the corroding gas, the dangerous monkey mutts, Joanna, the chance of lethal electrocution when she completed the circuit to destroy the force field surrounding the clock arena. She should have died fighting in Distict Eight or the bombing of Thirteen. When Peeta tried to strangle her or the bullet she took in District Two. And then, during the assassination attempt -- all those many moments when it should have been her dead instead of one of her teams.

But when she really should have died was when the parachutes exploded again. That hummingbird snare that Beetee and Gale had perfected, the lure to take as many victims as possible. Died then, a burning human torch like her sister. The girl who was on fire should have died in a fiery blaze.

She never had that chance. She had been saved instead, the uprising's precious Mockingjay. Worked on by the Capitol's best medics to preserve what was left of her ruined skin. They hadn't let her die. But at least she had been given the chance to take her vengeance. After that, what was left? Her last real chance to die, stolen from her by Peeta Mellark.

But he wasn't here anymore. There was no one here, no one aside from Clove. No one to stop the girl except Katniss. Death isn't permanent here. Do the people who die go elsewhere? Get sent home? How could death not be permanent? It was the most permanent thing she knew of. How could she possibly survive if Clove finally slashed her throat? But then, how could the dead be brought here - brought here with those memories of their final moments in tact?

Maybe, maybe if she gave up and let Clove kill her, the Malnosso would see that she wasn't worth keeping around. That she wasn't the soldier and pawn they thought she was. That without Peeta, she was absolutely nothing.

It was a wild chance. A risky gamble. As risky as the stunt with the berries had been once upon a time. But if it got her home, got her back to Twelve and Peeta... anything was worth the chance for Peeta.

Her mind races. All that in a matter of moments. But she lets go. Falls limp. Her eyes stay open even as she's forced to squint in the falling rain. She's going to die now. Clove will finish what she couldn't in the arena. But if she's going to die, she'll face it head on.

There's nothing left to lose.]

[Clove stabs.

Somewhere in her, the Career knows it will miss. It's a wild stab. If it does anything, it will be a glancing blow to the writhing creature beneath her, an attempt to do a little damage to slow her down. Wear her down cut by cut until she can go for the kill. It will be nothing, perhaps even fodder for a new kind of mockery. Twelve will laugh at how inefficient she is when she actually has her chance.

...But it finds soft flesh and buries deep...

She doesn't pull the knife out. Doesn't get up. Doesn't move.

For a moment, as she stares down at Katniss Everdeen, she looks lost. Young and confused and scared. Those green eyes ask the question she's been asked so many times today by this very girl.

Why?

This isn't what she wanted. It's not what she wants. A fight. That's what this is supposed to be. She didn't have an obvious advantage. It wasn't a hopeless struggle. Twelve could have toppled her if she'd tried. They both know it. She'd been so close to doing it.

Why?

Clove doesn't know what to do with confusion, though. She can't understand the answer that someone else might see. And since she can't be weak now, can't be lost, she twists the knife and wrenches it out before stabbing again. After a third. fourth. fifth. blow, she makes sure. She has to make sure.

She slashes the throat.

And stabs again.

The rain is pouring by now, and the blood is everywhere. On another stab -- how many now? she's lost count -- she feels the knife slipping from her hand. Blood and rain are making it impossible to hold on.

So she gets to her feet, even though she can't feel her legs. She manages two steps back and stares at what she's done. Not the first body she's left... but it's the messiest. Clove drops the hunting knife at her feet, takes another step back, turns, and runs.]

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9th Game

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