Chapter Four

Part One

De Fumo in Flammam

(Out of the smoke, and into the fire)



I had escaped to the roof at every available moment, relishing in the small freedom and releasing the pressures of being a tribute, if only for a few hours. Every night I would awaken through its midst, finding myself staring out into the darkness of my room, recounting the day's events over and over, until, finally, I would leave for the elevator, giving in to the temptation of the wide, open space.

It didn't take Quincy very long to figure out where I had been going in the small hours of the morning. I heard the spurs on his boots approaching on the night before the third and final day of training, and his rough voice followed soon after.

"Can't sleep?"

"No," I say. "Haven't really slept in a while."

He nods slowly and genially, staring out into the brilliant evening lights of the city that dwarfed our own humble, wooden town. It was strange, how bright and illuminated the Capitol was, even at this hour. The moon seemed to be almost outshone by the yellow, incandescent glow of the sleek buildings. Back home in 10, electricity was a luxury only granted to the wealthiest folks, like Weston's family; my father and I spent nearly all of our time outside during the day, soaking up every last drop of the golden sun until the sky is bruised purple and black and we retreat back into our home, alone in the darkness until the blazing western sun is hot and high once more.

"You know," Quincy starts. "I really think you got a hell of a chance gettin' out of that arena. And I ain't just sayin' that 'cause I'm your mentor."

His words are meant to comfort me, to reassure and console me, words to remember when I cannot find sleep because nightmares of my death at the hands of another tribute haunt me, or, perhaps, words to remember when that time actually comes. Instead, they have the opposite effect; a dreaded, harrowing feeling creeps up and settles in my chest. The only thing that I can think about is how my victory would inevitably mean the death of twenty-three innocent children, would be directly linked with twenty-three families fractured beyond repair like mine had been nine years before.

Why did I deserve to win? Why did I deserve to return home with a healthy, beating heart when that means twenty-three white coffins return to twenty-three shattered homes? When that meant that I would never forget the faces of those who had died so I can see District 10 once more – the tiny girl from 11 with dark skin and frightened eyes; the small boy from 4 with wild hair that rivals my own; the girl from 12, leaving behind a mourning sister, broken beyond comprehension like I had been nearly a decade ago; even the arrogant boy from 2, Cato, whose entire life revolved around the Games. Neither one deserved a bloody death more than the other. So why me? Why should I be the one granted with a pass out of the arena? And then, suddenly and unsettlingly, a chilling thought strikes me.

No one does.

I study the man standing next to me, my refuted mentor, who has a pained expression over his scarred, rugged face. Quincy is classic District 10, with deep, somber brown eyes and sun-lightened hair peppered with gold. Although he is easily not much older than twenty-five, his unshaven, worn physiognomy is aged beyond his years, and reveals he is much more than a lowly farmer. And all I can think about it why he's wide-awake in the middle of the night with a distressed look, unable to sleep and standing here next to me, even though he's not the one going into the arena to face his death in less than a week.

No one leaves.

All I can think about is Finnick Odair's face when he saw me as Cass Whitlock's sister, a ghost of his gruesome past, how broken he had seemed when I stared his green eyes down. How I had heard Bonnie's screams in the middle of the night from the room over, tossing and turning, running away from imaginary demons. What would cause someone so bright and mirthful like Bonnie to produce such a blood-curdling, awful sound; I would never want to know. All I can think about is how bent Quincy is on making sure I'm the one who exits that arena with my life intact, making sure that more blood isn't on his hands, and the way the parents of the tributes look at their mentors, the way they look at their last glimpse of hope with pleading eyes. A victor of the games never leaves the arena, never sleeps a full night without survivor's guilt, never is allowed a day off from the crooked Games. It hadn't mattered whether you are from 2 or 12, it hadn't mattered whether you had been trained your entire life with a full belly, prepared, or simply lived day to day scraping up enough food, you enter and exit the arena armed with more than simply a victory – the Capitol will make sure of that.

No one wins.

"It's not fair," I think aloud, quietly and under my breath. For a moment, I had forgotten my mentor had ever been standing next to me until I hear him speak up.

"Life ain't fair," Quincy's voice is hardly audible at first. After a while, he starts again, this time louder and more sure. "Some cattle grow strong, while others are picked off by wolves. Some people are born rich enough and dumb enough to enjoy their lives. Ain't nothin' fair. Life ain't fair."

He stops once more, blinks a few times and looks down at his boots, kicking the edge of the roof, before adding in his final words.

"You and I know that better than anyone."

By the time the last day of training with the other tributes had rolled around, I am completely exhausted; beat down by my lack of sleep and hours of obstacle courses, weaponry, and avoiding confrontations with the Careers. They haven't been exactly fond of me since the stunt I had pulled with my lasso and the boy from 2, Cato. From the look they're giving Weston and me as we line up for the last course before lunch, I can tell they'll enjoy gutting us like fish in the arena. I bet they're already claiming who kills whom.

"Don't let them see you fall," Weston leans down and whispers in my ear, slapping his hand on my back softly as the trainer beckons for me to begin my run-through. I nod at him, thankful for the forward outlook of my district partner to keep me motivated.

I step towards the obstacle course and glance around; it never fails to surprise me how much effort the Gamemakers go to train us for the Games, building giant, complicated courses like this to guarantee a good show. The trainer there, a woman, is explaining what I need to do. Essentially, it's jumping, running, climbing, and trying not to fall. She wishes me luck, a kind smile grazing her lips.

"Here goes nothing," I say under my breath, and throw a quick wink to my district partner before beginning to run into the first obstacle.

Feeling the eyes of the other tributes as I push my way through, I keep Weston's words in mind. I won't let them see me struggle, won't let them pinpoint me as a weakling. The course is more difficult than I had imagined; halfway through, I'm huffing and puffing. I scale the final hill, resisting to the urge to simply roll down it, before I'm met with a giant net, and my heart drops at the sight.

Don't let them see you fall.

My first grasp on the ropes is tight, and I grit my teeth with exertion as I force my weight up. I manage to clamber through most of it without so much as a stumble, until the net begins to dip from its previously vertical state, and is now nearly completely horizontal. All of a sudden, the knots flip, and I'm entirely upside down, sweat dripping off of me. I feel the burning of the ropes digging into my calloused, worn palms, my hands much too small to fully grip the net for so long, too weak to hold the entirety of my body mass.

And then, before I can even grasp what is happening, my hands slip, and I'm plummeting to the ground.

The wind is knocked out of me fully as my back collides with the hard mat; I feel my shoulder pop and I wince audibly, squeezing my eyes shut in pain. My head is ringing as I try to pick myself up. I fail miserably at steadying myself enough to rise, and a trainer runs over to help me, but I push her aside and attempt it again. This time, I am successful; although my walk is wavering, I'm standing, and find my place back in line with the other tributes with my head held high. A few of them, mostly the Careers, have amused smirks on their faces from the sight of a weak contender, but most give me pitiful looks. Weston shoots me an apologetic glance before starting his turn. I walk to the end of the line, where the boy from 2 had just finished his run, and watch as my district partner glides along the obstacles

"I see you're going to follow in the footsteps of your sister, huh?" Cato's numbingly cold voice chills me to the bone. I'm nearly positive I shudder.

Gasps from all the other districts, including the other Careers, surround me. Even they're surprised at the boy's blatant cruelty.

"Excuse me?" I say, angry, but my voice is faltering, the effect of his words seeping in. "Who do you think you are?"

A mirthless smile tugs at his thin lips.

"I've ever been less intimidated in my life," he says, and, deciding he's finished picking on the mediocre tribute from 10, he starts to walk away from me and towards the weaponry.

Then, blind rage consumes me to no end as it feeds the stupidity numbing my common sense, and I throw everything I've been told about confrontations with the other tributes out the window as I shove him, pushing on his back as hard as I can. He stumbles forward from the unexpected act of aggression, and more gasps from the others proceed.

Almost immediately, he turns around, completely livid, breathing much too heavy for someone so well trained. His hands ball up into fists, and his frigid, icy eyes bore into me, trying to decide whether or not to ring me like a towel for all to see.

I'm not done, though. He's awoken something inside of me; I can feel it stirring fiercely as it ignites in the pit of my stomach, burning and blazing like the western sun.

"You as slow as you look, friend?" I push him one more time, my small hands meet his hard muscle, but this time, he's expecting it, and hardly moves an inch. "Come on! I ain't got all day!"

Cato has had enough. I can tell the only thing he's thinking about right now is how lovely I would look torn apart and strewn in pieces on the ground. It's blatant that he's wondering which would be the most satisfying way to kill me as his nettled eyes fix onto mine. I haven't, in my entire seventeen years of living, seen anyone look this thoroughly infuriated. Fear begins to replace the insistent resent burning in my gut as he raises a hard fist and I shut my eyes tightly, bracing myself for the impact.

It never comes.

The head trainer, a hardened-middle aged man with graying hair but a ripped physique, is standing in between the two indignant tributes. He looks like he's about to murder us both before any of the others can even lay a hand on us in the arena. Hotly and assertively pointing to the direction of the exit doors, he speaks in a deadly voice that reminds me of the warning hiss of a desert rattler.

"You two. Now."

After a long, painful lecture from the head trainer about fighting with tributes before the Games that leaves my ears ringing, Cato and I are left alone in the cafeteria to have our lunch in silence. The others have already eaten and begun their last hours of training. I can't tell whether we're more resentful at each other, the fact we wasted some of our precious training time, or that we had to sit through someone yelling at us for about half an hour like we were some small children who had drank more than their fair share of water, instead of warriors sent to fight to our deaths.

He's stabbing the food so indignantly, I'm nearly positive Cato is imagining the piece of steak is my face. Nervously, I glance at the clock above. We have another five minutes alone in the cold cafeteria before we're reunited with the others in the training room. I never thought I would miss Weston's warm company as much as I do now. Sighing loudly, I decide I might as well make some conversation with the boy who is going to be bent on ending my life in the next few days.

"So," I say, tapping my finger anxiously against the metal tray. He doesn't even glance up at me, and continues to shove food in his mouth. I clear my throat, and try again. "So, you're from 2?"

Oh, God...

He looks up from his plate and to me, his rigid face incredulous as to how I could be so blatantly stupid. A giant, bright red two is stitched onto his shirt. The boy doesn't bother to reply, and instead, picks up his glass of water.

I realize that I have absolutely nothing in common with the brute who sits in front of me; I realize that I do not understand the Careers in the slightest. They dedicate theirs lives in an academy, wasting away fighting and training, and for what? Nothing can prepare them for actually taking the life of a fellow youth. Those who prevail in the Games don't fully leave, forever tied to the bleak life of a victor, and those who perish in the arena, die having never really lived. I ponder what possesses them to voluntarily lead such a double-crossed life, until I find the strength to ask the boy another question.

"Why did you volunteer?"

Cato sets his cup down loudly, the sound echoing against the empty walls, some of the liquid sloshing and spilling over the sides onto the table with the force.

"Don't ask stupid questions," he barks at me.

"Come on," I say. "Was it for honor, fame, money? All three?"

He sits still for what seems to be forever, staring at the puddle of water next to his plate as if it might hold the answer to my question. For a moment, I wonder whether or not the Careers are as smart and strong as the facade they put on as Cato can't think of a single reason why he voluntarily offered himself up for the Games. Perhaps, he really is that foolishly confident that he will be the one to leave the arena; my suspicions are confirmed as he speaks.

"Because I was ready. Because I'll win."

"But why?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Something flashes in eyes as he tries to decide whether or not to tell me, but it dissapears in a fleeting moment. I think it is something of lament, but before I can speak, he picks up his tray in a huff, and chucks it at the trash can before stomping out, his boots pounding against the floor so hard I'm surprised the earth beneath him hasn't split. His coarse voice is the last thing I hear as the door slams shut.

"I said don't ask stupid questions."

Contrary to popular belief, bulls aren't angered by the bright red hue of the sheets the cowboys wave teasingly in front of the creatures. It's the sudden movement and the sheer fact that the stupid rodeo clown would even dare tease such an aggressive animal. I remember going to a rodeo once, held in celebration in honor of Quincy's victory, where I shuddered in fear at the huffing beast with such burning anger in his eyes that was unmatched by anything I had ever seen in my life. Until now.

Quincy had been screaming at me, shaking his fist, throwing things, and threatening me with violence for what seems like hours, until Bonnie, who had been watching silently from the sofa this entire time, finally rests her hand on his shoulder. He is breathing hard through his nose, still impossibly outraged and boiling inside, reminding me of the bulls I had feared so much back home. Quincy is infuriated, and with good reason; I had ruined my chances of making it home, probably for both West and me. I was going to be another white coffin sent home, another death on Quincy's conscience. I'm sure he saw me as a second chance to get it right with Cass, a second chance at getting her home safe and sound. And I had thrown it all out with one stupid, rash decision.

"You and Weston should go ahead and get washed up," Bonnie tells me, a painfully disappointed look on her face. "Your private training session with the Gamemakers starts soon."

Nodding, grateful for her interference, Weston and I rise from our spot on the couches, and make our way to our rooms.

"I'm sorry," I hear Weston say. Sorry for what? Sorry that I'm much too impulsive, sorry that I won't make it home alive, following in the footsteps of my sister, just like what Cato had said that drove me over the edge? "I don't blame you for attacking him. I should have stepped in when he said that, I should have been there."

"You were on the course, West," I remind him. "You didn't even know."

"Yeah, but still," he shrugs. "We should have been in it together. Us underdogs gotta stick together." He says the last part with a sheepish smile, and I would have snorted at the ridiculousness of the statement in any other situation. Weston Hughes, who probably lives in a room bigger than my entire ranch, who never had to feel the burning itch of a thirsty throat when the water supply got thing, who never had to watch the scalding sun burn your father's skin as he worked to the point of collapse to ensure you wouldn't have to risk your life with the tesserae, an underdog? But right now, in the crooked world of the Capitol's game, he was. He was just as untrained and unfit as I am, just as unprepared to enter the arena in two days. Weston admits it so easily and so freely in an attempt to comfort me that I almost hate myself for judging him before.

"Yeah, I guess we do."

I grin widely at him as we stand outside our bedrooms, wondering how I got so lucky with such an incredible district partner. As I reach my palm out to him, an old saying from the ancient days of District 10 comes to mind; an old saying from when my home was simply the wild west, where cowboys roamed the prairies with nothing but a revolver and a trusted steed, where the laws were as much as a rarity as cold water in those parched lands, where the morals of the men were so crooked they could swallow nails and spit out corkscrews. My father had told me the adventures of the outlaws on the western frontier so many times, they are engraved in my mind; they are stories I was sure to pass on to my own children, stories from when man was as free as the wind that blew through the dry, amber grass of the desert.

"Outlaws to the end?" I ask him, quietly but surely.

He smiles at me, and takes my hand.

"Outlaws to the end."

The waiting room is cold and biting, the chill of the metal bench sending goosebumps through my skin. I so much hated this artificially frosty air, and I find myself sitting back against the wall and shutting my eyes, trying to remember what the sweet heat of 10 felt like. I'm aching to be home again, aching to be within the safe perimeter of my ranch, aching for when I was simply a child growing up in 10, not some gladiator sent to fight my ancestor's battles. I wonder what Cass had felt like, going in to the private training session; all I knew was that I felt like I was willingly going into one of the bear caves we have around the steep, rocky hills of 10.

Suddenly, an old memory of my sister rises out of some dusty part of my brain, and I find myself replaying it in my head.

I couldn't have been older than seven; Cass was probably around sixteen, the year before she was Reaped. She picked me up from school one day with a picnic basket, hauled me up on August, and we trotted along for a while. I remember resting my head against he back, holding her tightly, endlessly comforted by her presence. I remember being an irritating little girl with an infinite supply of curious questions, but Cass answered each one through the duration of the long ride with kind patience.

"Do you believe in God?" I had asked her softly.

"No," she replied quickly and surely. "I don't. Faith is a luxury I'm afraid I can't afford, sweetheart."

"Oh," I said. "Well, neither do I. I don't understand how he can be such a nice man and all if he lets bad things happen. Why do people believe in Him, Cass?"

She let out a long sigh before she answered my question.

"Well, Willa," she began slowly. "All folks have to look for answers somewhere. Some in big ol' books, others in big ol' bottles of whiskey."

"Whiskey?" I asked her. "Like what Mr. Hudspeth drinks?"

I remember she stiffened slightly at the sound of the 62nd Hunger Games victor's name. When I was small, my father would sometimes take me into town with him to pick up feed for our cows, and I would often see Quincy, our beloved champion that District 10 held with such great pride, intoxicated in a saloon, drinking away his life at only nineteen, the strong liquor he favored the same color as his soft eyes.

"Well, yes, I suppose," she said briskly. "So it would seem."

Cass continued to answer my pestering inquiries, until, finally, we reached our destination. It is a beautiful spot that we visited annually; it is a small lake, on the edge of the perimeter of 10, much farther than we're supposed to go, but it is so wonderful and so different than the rest of the dry district, that we were willing to risk it.

"Cass," I had said. "Why do we go out here every year?"

"It's your momma's birthday, little girl," she replied, laying out a thin blanket in the shade of a lonesome tree, right in front of the shallow water. The sky had been colored in breathtaking hues at this time of day, streaks of orange and red throughout, the bright sun shook like a fist as it had began its descent, and tweeting birds flirted with the whistling, warm breeze.

"Oh," I said quietly. "How come Pa isn't with us?"

Cass's eyes hardened.

"Some people like to celebrate in different ways, Will," she said soberly. "Pa just likes to be alone 'round this time."

I nodded, pretending like I understood.

We probably sat there for hours, chattering away, sipping on wet glasses of sweet tea, chewing on salted pork and warm bread, until our laughter is interrupted by a low, uneasy whinny from August. Cass stands up slowly, and steps in front of me instinctively.

And then we heard it.

A low, roaring, groaning, growl. The sound of an anxious bear. I remember nearly shaking with fear as I saw the brown fur approaching closer and closer, getting larger and larger, until it stood fifteen feet from us. I remember my eyes widening as I see two cubs rolling around in a dry bush behind their mother.

Cass stood her ground in front of my trembling body. She speaks up, slowly.

"I see you, too, have a family, friend," Cass began with a steady, low tone, her voice like warm milk. "And so that we both may see our families again, I suggest we part ways amicably."

The bear stood still, unwavering, breathing heavily. I was sure it was going to charge at any minute and eat us both up.

"Now," Cass started again. "I'd hate to spoil such a beautiful evening on such beautiful land with further unpleasantries."

I felt the creature gaze directly into my eyes for a long time, who was sitting behind Cass this entire time, trembling with fear and peeking through her legs carefully. Slowly, the bear had glanced back up at Cass, boring its brown eyes at her. My sister had stood strong and still, hands at her sides calmly. I swear, to this day, I saw the bear had nod at Cass, before it turned around, and walked away, back from where it came.

We packed up quickly once it was out of our sight, hopping on August in a jiffy, and speeding away at full speed.

"If you ever find yourself in a hole, Willa," she told me on the way back. "First thing you gotta do is quit diggin'."

I had sighed once more, then, wishing I could understand what on earth she had been talking about.

"You do so love to talk in riddles, Cass," I said quietly, pressing my tired face against her back. "I wish I could be as smart and brave and old as you."

Cass laughed bitterly.

"Don't be so eager to grow up, little girl," she said. "It ain't as much fun as it looks."

Suddenly, I'm out of District 10 and back in a frigid, metal room as a warm hand shakes my shoulder, and I let out a heavy breath.

"We're almost up," West tells me. After a little while, he speaks up again. "Are you nervous?"

Now, I understand the meaning of Cass's words. If you're met with a bear, don't go on attacking it or provoking it or even running away. Stand still for a little while, quit diggin'. Right now, this bear is the group of Gamemakers awaiting a wonderful performance.

"Don't worry, West," I say, patting his hand softly. "You'll do fine. Just throw everything you can."

He glances over at me, and I can tell my words don't do much to comfort him. Instead, he looks worse than before I had spoken up. I hear a robotic voice call my name.

"Willa Whitlock."

I suck in my breath, and I feel my district partner's hand on my shoulder once more. He nods his head; his eyes hard and impermissible, much like Quincy's are most of the time, daring me to do above my best. Unspoken words are exchanged between the two District 10 tributes, before my name is called once more, and I find myself walking through those heavy double doors, not entirely sure I'll make it out in one piece.

The Gamemakers are bored now, I can tell the minute I walk in; they're watching this from their little glass stage for about the twentieth time now. Weapons and various items such as rope and kindle are strung around the room, available for my usage. There's a line of dummies about thirty feet away.

"Willa Whitlock," I speak as softly as Cass, voice like warm milk. "District 10."

I snatch up a long piece of rope and tie a lasso; with steady hands, I swing it above me, and then, resisting the urge to shut my eyes, I throw it, and it lands around the neck of middle dummy with near perfect precision. I stand back for a split second, pleased with the results, before I tighten the slack and the dummy's neck snaps. A small, relieved smile spreads across my face as I continue to throw the lasso another time, and it lands with the same perfection around a blade similar to the one Cato used resting in the weaponry case, clamoring on the ground.

Rope, however, isn't enough to earn me a solid number. I look around until my eyes fall upon the knives, and I grab a few, standing back to throw them. Each at least hits the dummy somewhere it would hurt; most hit them in the chest or the neck. I'm giddy with pleasant surprise with how masterfully I am propelling these knives at the desired targets.

I glance up at the Gamemakers. They haven't dismissed me yet. Instead, they continue to watch me, eager for more from the girl whose sister had perished in the Games nine years before. I grit my teeth angrily, and walk over for the axes that lay on a metal table, reaching my last resort. I had failed miserably the first time I picked these bastards up, why do I think this will be any different? Throwing caution to the wind, I release the hatchet.

It makes a satisfying sound as it slices through the faux flesh of the dummy, straight through the shoulder. I let out a shaky breath.

"Thank you, Miss Whitlock," I hear the head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, dismiss me. "You may leave."

I nod my head towards the group before making my exit, but I'm stopped by Seneca Crane's sharp voice once more.

"Just one question," he says. "Do you think you're going to be able to take down that boy from 2 in the arena?"

I rack my brain, searching for a clever answer, a mean answer, something. This wasn't supposed to happen. I was just supposed to go and show them what I can do and leave. They must want to know what is going on in the mind of a girl my stature who attacks a boy of Cato's size. And then, I remember what Quincy and Bonnie are painting me as – a careless cowgirl who lives without doubts.

"Well, sir," I begin. "As it turns out, it's either me or him."

I manage to spread a slow, wicked as I utter my finishing statement.

"And, hell, way I see it, might as well be him."

I awaken to Bonnie hitting my shoulder hard, and Quincy yelling at me to wake up in the back. A groan escapes from my mouth as I come to, realizing I'm on the leather sofa in the television room of our floor. My head hurts and my mouth feels dry. I now remember I had crashed on the couch in pure exhaustion after the private training session.

"Wake up, idiot," Quincy says, plopping down next to me, rubbing the hair on my head. "You've been nappin' for hours. They're broadcastin' the scores already, kid."

Turning to the television, I see Claudius and Caesar sitting behind a table and in front of a black screen that shows the face of the boy from 1, Marvel, and almost immediately after, a nine appears next to him. His district partner, Glimmer earns an eight, and Cato and his district partner each a ten.

As the commentators rattle off the rest of the numbers, fear sinks in. If someone like the strong boy from 5 only earned a six, what will I get? A five? Maybe even a four? I had left the training room with such elation, sure that I have done an excellent job. Now, that joy is as fleeting as the tributes left until Weston and myself.

We sit in anticipation, waiting for our turn. I hadn't gotten the chance to discuss what I had done and said in the training room in front of the Gamemakers with Quincy or Bonnie, and now I'm worried that I made an utter fool of myself. I should have replied with something deadly and biting, maybe even just scoff and walk out. Quincy frowns at me as he notices my hands trembling.

Finally, after the girl from 9 gets a seven, it's our turn. Weston's face is as white as a sheet as they show his picture.

"Weston Hughes, from District 10, received an eight."

Bonnie lets out a gleeful yelp, and smacks Weston on the back, congratulating him. Quincy smiles at the boy and tells him he did good.

"Willa Whitlock, from District 10, received a ten."

The room is silent for a moment, and then, joyous laughter erupts. Quincy lets out a whoop of joy, picks me up and spins me around, hugging me tightly. When he sets me down, he plants a huge kiss on the top of my head, grinning from ear to ear. Hope is back in his brown eyes, sparkling as brightly as the Capitol lights. There's a chance I might make it home now. Weston and I did it; we made it through. Sponsors will roll in much easier for Bonnie and Quincy.

"What the hell did you two do in there?" Quincy exclaims. "No, wait, I don't care! Hot damn, Willa, you and West are the finest tributes Bonnie and I have yet to come across."

I look to my district partner, and see he has the same gleeful expression as the rest of the group.

"Well, look at you," Bonnie says with a proud smile on her face. "You two are grinnin' like a possum eating a sweet potato. Let's celebrate! 'Cause right now I'm as sober as a preacher on a Sunday mornin'!"

Once more, I find that sleep eludes me in the middle of the night, and I'm up on the cold rooftop again. This time, however, I am not awake because of ill feelings that creep up and settle quietly and uncomfortably in my gut, but instead, it is the leftover giddiness of our small after-party. I find that I'm still smiling, even as I clamber into the elevator and ascend to the roof.

Quincy is already there, sitting on the solid edge, staring out into oblivion. There's a distant look in his eyes, as if he's straining or hoping to see something in the blackness of the night sky, perhaps an answer to a prayer of some sort, and an empty, desolate expression crosses him. I'm confused; he had been whooping with joy nearly a few hours ago.

"What's wrong?" I say, trying to lighten the mood. "Did Bonnie drink all the liquor?"

The cowboy grins at me, his morose state broken, and pats the spot next to him.

"I knew you would come up here sooner or later," he tells me. "Just can't get enough of me, huh?"

"Whatever you say," I roll my eyes. "You're the mentor, aren't you?"

Quincy chuckles, and we sit in silence for a long while, admiring the quietude of the Capitol at nighttime. The reticence is broken by my voice.

"I'm turning into Cass," I say with a light laugh. "She used to sneak around in the middle of the night, only come home before my Pa wakes up."

Quincy stiffens visibly.

"Do you know what she was doin'?" he asks me wearily.

"Nah," I reply. "I bet she was with some boy, though. They loved her to bits back home. She was so tall and beautiful."

"Yeah," Quincy says. I notice his eyes are shut, as if he's trying to imagine something. "I bet they did."

There's a long pause where neither of us say anything, until Quincy breaks it.

"You know you gotta do good tomorrow in the interview, right?" he says in a strained voice. "You gotta do good so you can get sponsors. And go home."

"Yeah, I know," I reply. Then, I remember my high score, and grin. "I wish I could have seen Cass's face when I got that number. I think I beat her!"

He's quiet for a while; the only sound is my heel as it taps the stone edge. Then, he speaks.

"She got a nine that year," Quincy's voice is as cold as the wind that blows across the top of the building. "A nine."

We are sitting still for what seems like forever, the light mood dampened by the mention of my late sister.

Quincy's voice is hardly audible, shaking and pained, and I'm nearly positive I wasn't supposed to hear when he thinks aloud.

"I was so damn sure she would make it home with me," he says. "So damn sure."

The next morning, after a quick shower and breakfast, I'm sitting in a cushioned room with Marcy Millington, alone with her. She doesn't seem to be aware of the awkward silence from my part as she trills on and on about this and that. Marcy is supposed to be training me for my interview, making sure I make a good impression; right now, though, I'm nearly dozing off, falling asleep as she continues to speak about the importance of manners and grace.

She gets up suddenly, and thrusts forward a pair of shoes with tall heels, similar to the ones she had on.

"Lord," I say with a sly grin. "I can use these as a weapon tomorrow. You sure I ain't allowed to keep these?"

Marcy rolls her eyes at me, not in the mood for my games.

"Up, up, up! Put them on! We don't have all day!" She pulls me to stand after I slip on the wretched things, and nearly tumble when she does so.

"How on earth do you walk on these?" I ask her incredulously, steadying myself with a hand on the couch. I tip back each time I release my grip.

"Keep your legs straight," Marcy advises as I totter my way through the room. "Step with your heels first, then shift your weight forward. Good! Keep your legs close together!"

After an hour in the blistering shoes, I'm finally released from Marcy and now spending an hour with Bonnie, my mentor, as she tells me who I'm supposed to pretend be to best gain the Capitol's attention, and in turn, sponsors that might end up saving my life over the next three weeks. She waltzes in, the door slamming shut behind her, and stands in front of me with her hands at her hips. For the first time, I appreciate how beautiful Bonnie really is, despite her pained, pale blue eyes. Her short blonde hair is pulled back in a perky ponytail, and her blue blouse is tight around her torso. A playful smiles tugs at her lips as she glances down at my torn feet.

"Looks like I got here just in time, huh?" Bonnie winks at me. "Marcy almost killed your feet, there. Sit on down! We got work to do."

I comply, and find a seat on the plush sofa, Bonnie sitting across from me.

"I think you already know what we're doin' with you," she tells me. "Where we're goin'. You're a rough and tough cowgirl from 10 who just wants to get this over with 'cause you sure as hell gonna be the victor. You're mean and brutal. But you look so damn adorable the Capitol and their rich-ass sponsors won't be able to help themselves!"

Bonnie is so enthusiastic about all of this that I even find myself smiling as she lists all of the things I must do, say, and feel to gain the affections of the "rich-ass sponsors".

"All right, now, let's give it a go," she says as she grabs my hand, fluttering her eyelashes at me, a sickeningly sweet smile spreading across her face. "Pretend I'm Caesar."

I nearly choke holding back laughter.

"So, Willa, dear," she says in a deep voice. "What did you feel when you came up on stage here?"

"Well, Caesar," I say. "To be honest, I was thinkin' that you're starting to look more and more like a woman everyday."

Bonnie rolls her eyes and swats my shoulder, but I hear a light chuckle rising from her throat.

"You're just like your damn sister, Willa. Quincy was right about you."

My eyebrows furrow at the sudden, out of place mention of Quincy, but I ignore it as Bonnie speaks once more.

"Looks like we ain't gonna have no trouble with you."

Eventually, after Bonnie nearly has my throat raw from both ridiculous laughter and practicing speaking, I'm escorted to the prepping room where my stylist, Tertia, awaits me with open arms.

"I heard how well you did with the Gamemakers!" Tertia wraps her thin, pale arms around me, careful not to bump me with her long, red fingernails. "Now, eat quickly so we can knock them dead out there, too."

I stare longingly at the array of food on display at the coffee table in between two leather loveseats. Eagerly grabbing at a plate of meat, throwing the hours of lessons about table manners with Marcy this morning out the window, I chow down while Tertia is shuffling through racks, looking for something.

"Ah! Here it is!" Her voice is as excited as Bonnie's had been a few hours ago, and I can't help but grin as she pulls out a long piece of fabric.

It really is stunning and Tertia really is talented; it is a long, sleeveless jumpsuit, flowing and loose, but tightened around the waist with a deep, provocative cut in the front and back. The suit is a darker shade of what my dress from the Ceremonies had been, the color of dusk in the west, and is a sheer, soft material.

"I know what you're thinking," Tertia says, handing it to me to try on before they make alterations. "It's not a dress. But you are a strong, fearless cowgirl who has no time for such things. All you need is your boots and your horse."

At the mention of my boots, I visibly lighten up. My stylist smiles at my perking up brightly, and pulls out a pair of riding boots, complete with spurs, made of supple leather and encrusted with expensive studs.

Eagerly, I finish putting on the jumpsuit with the help of Tertia, and try on the boots. She stands back proudly, looking me over.

"You look so much like your sister," she says quietly. "I remember having her my first year as a stylist. You're her spitting image. Poor Quincy must be driving himself insane."

I frown at her mention of Quincy, not fully understanding what she had meant. She breaks me out of my wonder, though, and points to my feet.

"Your suit is drops over your shoes anyway," she tells me. "But they're going to hear your spurs."

"Just like at the Reaping?"

Tertia nods her head eagerly.

"Just like at the Reaping."

Weston and I sit in a white room with all of the other nervous, apprehensive tributes, waiting once more, but this time, it is for the interviews to begin. District 1, Glimmer, dressed in a thin, nearly transparent gown, is up first. She shoots me a deadly look before climbing up the stairs in impossibly high heels and even more impossible grace after she had been called up, ready to be interviewed.

The roar of the crowd is deafening on the large television screen in front of us, but I ignore it, not eager to watch her incredulously sweet performance.

I glance around at the other teens, admiring their outfits, each one more flattering then the rest. My eyes fall on Cato, and he sees me looking. Once more, we are in a silent tussle, not tearing our gazes from one another. He is the one to look away from my eyes first, though, and instead, his stare travels down to my costume. My face reddens immediately, realizing how deep the front cut of the jumpsuit is and how much it reveals; I instantly scoot in closer to West, hiding behind him.

Weston is confused by my sudden actions for a moment, pulling back slightly, and then he sees Cato staring me down. My district partner narrows his eyes at the boy from 2, who scoffs and looks away, deeming us unworthy of his attentions any longer.

"You all right?" Weston asks me. "Should I get Quincy?"

I look over at Quincy and Bonnie who are conversing loudly with some of the other mentors; I think one is from 12, and the other from 11. Lower districts stick together, I assume. Finnick Odair makes a sudden appearance, walking through the metal elevator doors, and I hold my breath as he walks by and towards the other mentors.

Quincy, almost instantaneously, stiffens at the sight of the victor from the fishing district. I frown. Hadn't it been him who defended the man who killed my sister in the Games nine years ago? I ponder the strange reaction until I hear my name being called from the stage.

"Please welcome, the rough and tough cowgirl from District 10, Willa Whitlock!" Caesar's voice is booming through the microphone as I make my way up the stairs, breath hitched in my throat, trying to remember what Bonnie had told me before the cameras find me.

Walk tall, walk smooth, walk with swagger.

Each time my heel hits the colored floors of the stage, my spurs rattle. Somehow, they overpower the cacophonous, ear-splitting crowd. I manage to walk carelessly down the stage and to the seats, where Caesar takes my hand just as Bonnie had earlier today, and I bit my lip to hide my amused laughter.

"Well," Caesar begins as we both sit down. "You look simply remarkable. Unforgettable! You surely stand out."

"Thank you," I lean back in my seat, kicking back, and crossing my boots at the ankles. "I really tried."

The crowd laughs eagerly, eating up my fake confidence.

Caesar laughs whole-heartedly. "Now, dear, tell me. How did you feel when you heard your name being called at the Reaping?"

I lick my lips and pretend to ponder deeply for a moment, before starting to reply.

"To be honest, Caesar," I tell him, playing up my western accent as Bonnie had told me to. "I'm a semi-literate farmer. I ain't really in the power game."

More laughter at my humorous, humble honesty.

"But, I must say," I continue, a cocky grin spreading across my face. "After seeing some of the kids from the other districts..." I shake my head playfully. "I don't think I've been less showed up in my entire life!"

The crowd applauds, waves of ringing laughter echoing through the building.

"So," Caesar grins at me. "Are you saying the other tributes are less than adequate?"

"Well, Caesar, stupid is the word we use back home," I retort.

It takes a while for the audience to calm down, howling in amusement. Even Ceasar is practically guffawing at my blunt insult. I grin brightly at the cameras, hoping that I'm making Bonnie and Quincy proud.

"Are you, Willa, a worthwhile competitor? Are you going to win?" Caesar asks me, leaning in slightly.

"I'll tell you one thing," I say, pointing to a litter of scars across my chest and legs from ranch work, breaking in wild horses, and simply being a rowdy child. "It ain't no secret I didn't get these scars fallin' over in church. I won't go down without a fight, that's for sure." I wink at him, and the crowd goes absolutely wild. The rush from so many adoring shrieks and laughs is absolutely exhilarating. My nerves are nearly completely gone along with the quiet, restless girl from a rickety ranch; in her place stands a tough, tall, confident goddess of a tribute named Willa Whitlock.

"I must ask you, Willa, before you leave, about your sister," Caesar's voice is sober and quiet now, and I stiffen at the mention of Cass. I feel like the goddess is withering away, and slowly, I'm back to the being the meek sister of a fallen tribute. "She had been in the Games nine years ago. Is there anything you would like to say for her?"

I swallow heavily, my breath starting to become shallower as hysteria seeps in. I try to remember something, anything Bonnie had told me, but my mind is blank.

Shakily, I start to speak.

"I think the only thing I can do for her, now, Caesar," I say. "Is win."

Caesar nods at my answer, content, and starts to clap along with the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the headstrong Willa Whitlock from District 10!"

Adrenaline is still coursing through my veins as I make my way backstage once more. Before I process what is going on, I feel Quincy pull me in for a tight hug.

"You did fantastic, Willa," he tells me, kissing the top of my head. "No one's going to forget you for a long time."

"Damn," Bonnie says with a wide smile. "You had me in stitches!"

We step back now, Quincy and Bonnie to the mentors, and I to the tributes, to watch Weston's interview on the television. He is dashingly handsome, in a clean white shirt, unbuttoned slightly, his hair ruffled and roused. I glance at the girls in the Capitol crowd, and some are literally swooning as West's deep voice rumbles through the speakers.

"Atta boy, West," I hear Quincy say. "Knock 'em dead."

"Literally," Bonnie coughs under her breath. She's trying to be quiet, but I can hear her from fifteen feet away, and the entire group of mentors laughs at her bluntess.

I chuckle lightly at my bumbling mentor; my fleeting moment of mirth, however, is completely wiped clean once I notice I'm standing close to the boy from 2, Cato.

"Nice job out there," he says with monotone sarcasm. "I was trembling with fear. You were about as tough as a chewed up piece of meat."

"Well, well, well," I say, rolling my eyes. "You're not much of an image of bravery, either, then. Because something reeks of coward back here."

All I hear is a heavy, angry huff of breath, and then he pushes me back against a wall. He closes in on me, sandwiching me tight.

"Listen, Willa," he spits out my name with enough venom that rivals the rattlesnakes back home. "I don't know what the hell you did in that room to earn that number, but you're not fooling anyone with that act."

So that's what this is about; he's furious that some small girl from a lowly district earned the same number as him. I bite my lip to try to keep from the last quip from slipping out, but I fail, and Cass's words come to mind.

If you ever find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is quit diggin'.

Looks like I'm not ready to put my shovel down just yet.

"I think the school is a few blocks down from here," I say back in a deadly voice. "There must be some children you can go and frighten down there."

His face twists in anger, and he's about to bite back, when I hear a low, purring voice.

"How about you take a few steps back, kid."

Cato and I both glance up and see a gloriously handsome man with brassy hair and green eyes, nearly shining with perfection as he glowers above us. Finnick Odair. Protecting me. It's nearly laughable, really.

"I'm fine just where I am," Cato barks back, and leans his warm body into mine even closer, glaring at Finnick daringly, as if to say, "come and make me".

"I wasn't asking, boy," Finnick's voice is now clean of any low seduction; it is deadly and biting. The blonde boy from 2 eyes me up and down once more before silently storming off, scoffing arrogantly.

"I didn't need saving, you know," I tell him quietly, straightening out my jumpsuit.

"I know," Finnick says quietly. "You don't seem like the type that does."

He walks away from me, and I am alone once more.

Weston and I had been walking to our rooms in silence in the midst of the last night before the Games, unsure of what to say before such a harrowing event. Right before I'm about to tell him a quick goodnight as we stand outside of our rooms, not eager to draw out the difficult farewall any longer, he speaks up.

"I've never ridden a horse," he says suddenly and bluntly. I'm taken aback.

"How?" I ask, truly puzzled. "You live in District 10!"

"Promise not to tell anyone," he says in a low voice. "But I'm kind of afraid of them."

Although I'm confused as to why he had decided to share this detail with me, I'm grateful at the lightened mood.

"My, my. Weston Hughes is afraid a little pony?" I can't help but let a small giggle slip out.

"You're mean," West rolls his eyes, but soon joins into my snorting laughter. I'm eager to admit something as well, now.

"I've never been inside of the cafeteria at school," I tell him. His eyes widen.

"Why? Are you afraid of the lunch ladies?" He retorts.

"Oh, yes. It's those hairnets," I grin. "But, no, that's not why. I've just... never been really comfortable with that many people in such a small room. I eat outside with my friend every day."

"Lorelai Bailey?" he asks. I nod, surprised he knows the name of my best friend.

"I've never gotten a detention before," he admits. I let out a small laugh as I imagine Weston Hughes, number one in his class, a teacher's pet.

"I've never been kissed," I say, and immediately regret it the second I do.

We stared at each other for a long while after what I had said. The light mood from a few seconds ago is completely gone. My face reddened; I just now realized what it sounded like I was asking for. A kiss from Weston Hughes. What had meant to be a fearful confession, that I might die with uncharted lips, turned into this. Weston's brown eyes are unreadable and hard. Finally, he takes a step forward and reaches for me, both hands on either side of my face, holding me steady. West looks into my eyes for a few seconds, and leans towards me. I hold my breath and shut my eyes, waiting.

Instead, I feel warm lips resting against my forehead, and broad arms pulling me in. Weston holds me there for god knows how long and I think I might be crying as he speaks once more.

"You're gonna get that kiss, Willa Whitlock," his voice is constricted and feels pained. "You're gonna get that kiss someday. You're gonna go back home to 10 and find yourself a handsome cowboy to give you that kiss."

It had taken me a while to fully comprehend what he had meant with those solemn words. I clutch at his shirt tightly, digging into his embrace, not eager to let go of this poor rich boy. I know the second we part, the second we climb back into our rooms, alone, that we are no longer two teenagers holding each other in a moment of raw emotion; we will become tributes, out for each other's necks. Puppets of the Capitol.

"How did we end up so much on the bad side of things?" I ask quietly.

"Our side wasn't chosen, Willa," he replies soberly. "It was given."

Right after I clean myself up, washing my face and ridding it of dried tears, I change into sleeping clothes and exit out my bedroom door. I need to speak with Quincy before tomorrow morning comes, and this is my last chance. I need to not spend the last night before my impending death alone. I need to tell him everything I haven't done, everything I'm afraid of, everything I want to know. I need to tell him I don't want to die without falling in love first. The daily outings on the roof had comforted me to no end, and I long for one more conversation.

I dash out quickly, and walk down the hallway until I reach his door. Rapping on it lightly, I'm surprised when he answers the door. I had been expecting no reply, and was getting ready to go back onto the roof.

"What do you want?" he says gruffly, but his eyes soften when he realizes it's me. "Oh. Come on in." He opens the door, and I walk in briskly.

"So," he says, standing back and leaning against a wall, holding an empty glass in his hands. "What do you want?"

"Have you ever been in love, Quincy?" I ask him, a certain sense of urgency evident in my voice. "Do you have anyone back home?"

"Look, darlin', if this is your way of comin' on to me-"

"Shut up, Quincy," I say. "I'm serious."

He sighs deeply and sits down on the bed, running his hands through his hair.

"Yes, once, a long time ago," he says. "When you were just a little squirt."

"Who was she?"

Quincy's expression hardens at my question.

"It don't matter," he says, looking away. "All that matters is I ain't got her anymore." He adds, under his breath, "Damn Capitol took her away."

I stand back now, thinking, trying to ponder what he had meant with that quiet statement so full of remorse and regret he nearly smothered the glass of liquor in his hands.

And then, suddenly and abruptly, without warning, everything falls into place and I nearly stumble back as realization slaps me across the face coldly. What Bonnie had said, what Tertia had said, even what Quincy had said about Cass coming home with him; why he had stiffened at the mention of her, why he had stiffened when Finnick Odair made his way over to him; why Cass had been sneaking around in the middle of the night, not bringing home her boyfriend for us to see, and the way she had sobered when I mentioned him on our ride out to the lake.

Everything made sense, now. Quincy fell in love with Cass. I don't know when, how, why, but he did. It's clear as day when he's glaring into the wall downing a glass of burning liquor. He fell in love with her. And he had failed to save her. He's been chasing down bottoms of whiskey bottles, searching for the answers he will never find.

"It was Cass, wasn't it," I say, not really asking. "It was you and Cass."

Quincy glances up at me in surprise and shock, unsure of what to say next, and looks back down, with something of lament in his eyes, holding his head in his hands. I think he might have opened his mouth to say something, maybe some sort of rebuttal or contradiction, but he snaps it shut once he sees the look on my face.

"You were nineteen when she entered the Games," I say, connecting the dots. "And you were her mentor. She was Reaped, and you couldn't do a thing."

He is silent, confirming my thoughts without a single word.

"And now, you're bent on making sure I make it home. As what, some form of.. of.. restitution?" I realize I'm yelling now, not really sure why I'm angry or who I'm angry at. More than anything, I'm furious I've been kept in the dark for so long.

"So it would seem," Quincy's voice is strained and constricted, sounding like he needs a glass of water instead of the alcohol he holds shakily in his large hand. "So it would seem."

"Why the hell did no one tell me? Why didn't you tell me? We've been here almost a week, and you didn't even think of sharing the fact that you had my sister's heart for nearly a year? That you had loved her?"

Quincy stands abruptly, throwing the glass against the wall in sudden anger.

"Do you think I like relivin' it, Willa? Do you think I like remindin' myself there's a gapin' hole in my chest that ain't nothin' can fix? Do you think I wanted you to know that I blame myself for every damn thing that went down in that arena, so you could blame me too? I drown myself in whiskey 'cause there ain't nothin' else that can be done."

We're both quiet. I'm taken aback by his sudden outburst. And then he speaks again.

"Do you think I don't know it was my fault? I watched her die and couldn't do a thing. I watched the only thing I got slip outta my hands like dust."

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. So I let him talk.

"Why do you think I'm wide awake right now? There ain't no difference from night and day to me, Willa. Just darkness," he says. "I wanna see the sunshine again, but my only sunshine has been gone for a while now." He sniffles as though he's crying, but his eyes are dry. "It's just darkness now."

Chapter Four

Part Two

Alea Iacta Est

(The game is afoot)

I am stirred awake by a solemn, sober Bonnie, bright and early in the morning, who doesn't say a word other than a quick good morning. She hovers by the door for a few moments, staring at me with somber eyes, until she says something about breakfast and shuts the door briskly.

Sitting in bed for another few minutes, I realize I don't even remember going to sleep. I'm nearly positive I had dozed off on Quincy's bed as he told me warm stories about him and Cass; I hadn't been eager to spend my last night before the Games alone. He must have carried me back into my room and tucked me in. I had understood that night that Quincy really and truly loved my sister, loved her wholly and in bits and pieces, loved her honestly and rigidly. Every single thing that puzzled me about the enigma of a mentor clicked into place.

I remember one of the stories Quincy had told me last night, the story of when he had first laid eyes on her.

"She sat down next to me in some dusty saloon in the middle of town, and ordered a glass of dry whiskey," Quincy smiled at the memory, fiddling with his own glass of liquor. "She called me Mr. Hudspeth the entire time."

"What were her first words to you?" I asked him.

"Do my eyes deceive me? A devil walks among us," Quincy says in a deep drawl, mimicking Cass's. He laughs longingly. "I think she was the only damn person in that dive that wasn't afraid to look at me, let alone speak to me. She was really somethin'. I recall that I told her that was quite a strong drink for a lady, and she laughed and reckoned she could say the same to me."

We both had sat silent for that moment before warm smiles broke out from remembrance of the girl that was Cass Whitlock.

"She was really somethin'," he repeated, this time an acrid edge to his voice.

The dreamy moment of rememberance is fleeting as I'm pulled back into reality by Marcy's incessant knocking. I'm back to being a tribute now.

"Hurry up! It's almost time for breakfast!"

Reluctantly, I throw the covers back and rise from my bed, stretching my aching back. I shower briskly, and braid my hair back neatly, before dressing in some cotton shirt and cardigan. Tertia will be supplying me with the clothes for the arena later anyway; there was no point in choosing my clothes carefully, and I would like to spend less time thinking about it either way. Maybe it will seem less real if I ignore it for a while.

I make my way to the quiet breakfast table, and notice Quincy is the only one not to look up and greet me. Sitting down next to Weston, I pack my plate full of food, just in case this may be my last meal. The bloodbath at the Cornucopia is brutal; countless lives have been claimed in the first few minutes of the Games.

"Listen, kids," Quincy says. "When you first get off of your platforms, run for it. Don't even stop to pick something up if it's along the way."

Both West and I nod, but Bonnie interrupts Quincy.

"Well, if it's on the way," she says. "Then just grab it. Quickly, and then be on your way again. Don't linger."

"No," Quincy says. He doesn't want to take chances, especially with me. "Run."

Bonnie bores her blue eyes at the side of Quincy's head before huffing and continuing to eat her breakfast in silence.

"Ain't gonna be my fault when they end up in the middle of a goddamn forest with nothing but their lonely souls in possession."

The elevator ride to the rooftop where a hovercraft awaits us is quiet and still. Bonnie and Marcy had stayed back in the apartment, parting with West and I right then and there. Bonnie's pale eyes filled with tears before she looked away, whisking us with her hand.

"Leave already," she said with a troubled smile. "Leave before I make a damn fool of myself."

Sunlight fills my entire line of vision when the doors slide open, and the loud humming of the craft drums through my ears. Weston and I are supposed to leave Quincy now, depart from our doting mentor. My district partner tries to give ol' Quince a hand shake, but he pulls him in for a tight, oxygen-depriving hug.

"Make us proud, kid," he says, swatting at his bottom playfully as Weston heads for the craft, leaving Quincy and I alone for a moment.

We stand there, staring at each other; I, at the man who was unquestioningly devoted to my late sister, and he, at the only sibling of said sister, about to be sent off to war. Some feeling runs through me that I cannot pinpoint, but I do know that I'm glad our paths have crossed as Quincy stares at me with a hard expression. Whether or not the bright sun had been playing tricks or those had been real tears pooling in Quincy's eyes, I would never know, but he pulls me in tightly, and kisses the top of my head one last time.

"Go on, Willa" he said, letting me go from his warm embrace. "They've taken enough. Go and win. For all of us."

I nod gravely, and lean in one more time against his chest before he tells me it's time. Wearily, and holding back a sob, I begin my death march, my walk to the hovercraft. Before I'm halfway there, however, I notice someone running towards me – Finnick Odair. I try to decide whether or not I would make it in time to escape him if I sprinted to the hovercraft, but he ends up standing beside me with a stringent expression on his beautiful face.

"I'll be watching for you, Willa," he says, bringing two of his fingers up to his forehead in a mock salute, a sad smile tugging at his perfect lips.

Before I can reply, not even sure I was going to, a Peacekeeper grabs hold of me, the last tribute to board yet again, and escorts me inside of the hovercraft. There's a strange, foreboding blue glow about the innards of the craft, and I find my seat next to Weston, praying that I won't pass out from sheer terror before we reach the launch station. Thankfully, it seems as though I'm in a delirious state, dazed before the commencement of the Games.

A woman in a white medical coat is walking around and inserting a thick needle into each of the tributes arms. I hear her tell the girl from 12 that it's a tracker, and a scowl forms over my face. It is a cruel device, an invasion of privacy. It's not until the woman's steady hand takes my own that I realize I'm shaking uncontrollably. Weston grips my knee tightly with his hand, and I'm not sure which one of us he's trying to calm down as the craft parts from the ground and lifts away.

By the time Weston and I part ways to our private launch rooms, I am nearly completely paralyzed in terror. Tertia, waiting for me in the cold room, sees me struggling to simply walk through the door, and runs over to help.

"Come on, dear," she says. "Let's get you dressed."

She pulls a green, weather-proof coat over my clothes, fussing over the zipper for a long time before I notice her eyes are puffy and she's sniffling.

"I'll be alright, Tertia," I say, trying to console her. "I'll be fine. I'm a Whitlock, you know."

Tertia smiles at me kindly, a sad laugh erupting for a moment between the two of us. We stand in silence, not sure of what to say to comfort the other. Then, a cold, robotic voice exits from the speakers.

"Twenty seconds."

She seems to have remembered something, and pulls out a crude necklace, the silver blackened by time. Tertia places the small token in my hand, and at closer look it's tiny a horseshoe on a thin chain, with the word 'TEXAS' engraved onto it. I nearly drop it as it places itself amongst the memories in my mind. It is Cass's old necklace, the one she had worn every day for as long as I have known this earth. The word on the horseshoe feels foreign on my tongue, but I remember her telling me it's what District 10 used to be called before Panem.

I glance up at Tertia questioningly.

"Quincy gave it to me to hand to you before you leave," she explained, dabbing a tissue at her white skin damp with tears.

"Why hadn't he just given it to me himself?"

"Men are complicated creatures, Willa," she says with an uneasy laugh.

"Ten seconds."

I could have probably counted on my right hand how many times fear has struck me real and deep in my entire life before my name had been read on the day of the Reaping. I could have probably lived the rest of my years without knowing what if feels like to hold back tears of sheer terror as it penetrates you as you stand, helpless, shaking uncontrollably. Now, I would need a long sheet of paper to tally it all.

After the Reaping, the Ceremonies, the first day of training, the interview, and the private training session, this feels like a culmination of the terrible, shattering events it all in one horrible, raw emotion as it rocks through me.

Tertia bids her farewell to me as I make my way over to the circular launch pad. The clear glass cylinder engulfs me, and as I rise up to the white light, I think, this is it.

This is it.

From the second we rise to the arena, wide-eyed and dazed, trying to adjust to the bright light, we have exactly one minute to prepare before the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, only one minute to gain a sense of our surroundings.

The foreign smell of trees and wet dirt are drifting throughout the entirety of the Cornucopia; a thick forest of green and brown surrounds us. My heart immediately drops. I knew close to nothing about such climates; I can't help but say I was praying for lands similar to 10. The tributes from 7, the lumber district, visibly brighten at the sight of glorious, tall trees, and I'm undeniably jealous.

50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45...

The countdown is drumming through my ears, drumming through my mind, drumming through my core. I gulp down my fear and try to squint and make out what supplies are strewn around the metal mouth of the Cornucopia, and then I remember Quincy's words.

Run.

But all I see is a backpack in the corner of the Cornucopia near the forest's edge, full of rope, a few knives sticking out of the side pocket. A hatchet lies nearby. Maybe if I run hard enough, pull through...

20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15...

My heart aches suddenly when the faces of my father, Lorelai, Quincy and Bonnie flash in my mind; I think of them all watching me on the edge of their seats, their stomachs churning, hoping for me to pull through at least for the next ten minutes, hoping that I won't get tangled up in the bloody battleground that is the Cornucopia. I try to steady my breathing and remind myself that I am not just another tribute – I am Cass Whitlock's sister.

I look over at Weston in the last few seconds; he's dead center in the middle of the tributes, farthest away from the forest. He's going to need to run, and fast. Cato is standing next to him; he is leaning forward, ready to pounce when the numbers roll back to zero. He catches my gaze, and winks. The simple act chills me to the bone when I realize how unaffected he is by the situation.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

Zero.

The last thing I remember is the wind whistling behind me as I sprint with every muscle and every ounce of energy I have in my body towards the dense thicket of trees. I reach the Cornucopia before anybody else, but I remember Quincy's words and continue to run, further and faster than I had thought my legs to be capable of.

I falter, though, near the backpack, and in a split-second of impulse, I snatch it up along with the hatchet, and run. I halt at the edge of the arena, noticing the cease of footsteps behind me, and scan the war that is occuring behind me. The rest of the tributes are a good thirty feet from me, not even noticing that I had gotten away so quickly. Nobody notices the small girl from 10 as they fight. The thick scent of blood slowly starts to waft its way through the arena. Gingerly, I put up the backpack and the hatchet, and turn around, ready to run back into the forest, before I hear Weston's scream as it pierces the air.

Nothing had prepared me for this moment. I had forgetten, so worried about my own safety, that my district partner is as vulnerable as I am. I had left him there.

Everything is moving slowly, the foreign colors of green and brown swirling on either side of me as I turn around, just to watch the girl from 2 throw one of her knives into the side of his abdomen. Blood immediately rises, rushing and raging, red and rapid. He wavers for a moment, and then Weston, sweet, sweet, Weston falls forward to his death.

In a moment of impulse, anger, and pure, pure rage as is pulses through me like an electric shock, I pick up my axe, and throw it with an almost inhuman screech; I throw it with so much fervor I'm nearly positive I hear my shoulder pop.

The sickening sound of metal meeting flesh as it slices through the back of the small brunette from 2 makes me almost double over. For all else tributes, the sound falls on deaf ears as they fight their way through the Cornucopia. For me, it echoes in my eardrums, sure to haunt my dreams. Nobody even notices, too busy protecting their own lives, as she falls forward to an unnatural death, thick, gushing blood pooling around her like a halo. Her back is mangled and reddened. I want so badly to shriek, to scream, to cry out in anguish, but I pick up the pack and run away from it all.

Blood, blood, blood.

I run and I run and I run for what seems to be miles through the never-ending green of the forest, the colors mixing beside me as I sprint at full speed. Something is coursing through my veins as I dash along the tall trees, but I don't dare stop to feel it, don't dare and stop to make the events that had just proceeded before my eyes any more real than they are. I run and I run and I run; I run in and out of consciousness as I step on packets of sunlight strewn through the damp floor of the forest, wondering whether or not this could be just another nightmare.

No, I think. I had just watched Weston Hughes die.

I run and I run and I run because I don't know what else to do. Maybe if I run far enough, fast enough, death won't be able to catch up; maybe if I reach the edge, I think in a state of deliriousness, I will be able to escape these wicked Games.

Something beneath me stumbles my legs, weakened by the miles of running, and I tumble forward, rolling and rolling and rolling my limp body until I hit a rock at the bottom, darkness as thick as the blood that gushed out of the murdered body of the tiny brunette filling my vision.

And then, nothing.

I know I am asleep as I dream what I dream. I am aware of my unconscious state, but I cannot bear to bring myself out of it.

I dream I am back in District 10.

A parched, dusty trail cracks through the barren, empty landscape, twisting around in strange tendrils, weaving between dry trees and boulders as I wearily walk along it. I walk along it carefully and cautiously, as though the crack might deepen at any moment and swallow me whole.

I furrow my brows as the amber grass of the desert slowly begins to thicken and deepen into a lush emerald hue. The plants in 10 were hardly ever green; it was only a golden yellow and brown watching over the land steadily through all four seasons. I realize I'm no longer in the deserts of my home.

I'm barefoot as the cold grass tickles my toes, gliding through the rich vegetation.

And then, I see her. I see the girl from 2, plunging her knife through Weston as he falls into the forest floor, disintegrating into it, never to come back. Seething with anger once more, I throw my axe again. I am reliving the harrowing scene.

It slices through her, but this time, before she falls, she turns around to stare at me.

I gasp so loudly and fully, the sudden intake of breath dizzying me. It's no longer the girl from 2.

It is my sister. Cass Whitlock. Her blonde hair swaying in the wind, her blue eyes watery with tears as she touches the blood that begins to rush forward.

Looking down, I realize the grass is gone and replaced by damp sand. The distant sound of crashing waves. I am still barefoot, but my feet are no longer mine; they are large and boyish. I see my reflection in a lonely puddle in front of me.

I'm reminded, soberly, of what my sister had said once when I yelped out in the middle of the night, afraid of the monsters underneath my rickety bed. I had asked her why she could sleep so soundly and without fear; she answered me soberly.

"You stop being afraid of the monsters under your bed when you realize the monsters are inside you."

I am Finnick Odair. I am Finnick Odair in the 65th Hunger Games. I am Finnick Odair as he kills my sister.

Cass stumbles forward a little, clutching at the spear inside of her. She stares into me, a stare so deep and so motionless, so real and harrowing, and all she does is stare, stare, stare. I found myself withering under her gaze, falling to my knees, holding up my hands, trying to shield away the judgment of that cold, sober stare that bore into my very soul, which penetrated me so deeply, understood me so fully and improbably that it caused my sister's voice to ring in my ears, pounding and pounding like a the thudding, angry ocean waves, but louder and more urgent and demanding; it recalled every moment, every raw emotion, every promise in sisterhood between us.

I give in to sobs that rack my body violently, clenching my stomach and holding me captive under its painful grasp. Something real and deep is cutting into my chest, something that hurts more than anything I've ever experienced. I howl in pure anguish, begging and begging for someone to stop. But no one is there. I am alone. So I scream and I scream and I scream until my throat is raw and bleeding, bleeding with the rest of me, praying that the ground might open up and swallow me.

Finally, I am pulled away from my wrecked slumber, stirred awake. My head is sore and my throat dry, but I try and sit up against the rock. I think it is something of a miracle that no one has killed me in the time I had been out, but I realize it must have been no more than an hour. The sky is darkening now. I could only imagine the mess Quincy must have been as he watched me, helpless as I had been, laying vulnerable and out cold.

I stand up now, and the sudden movement causes me to throw up in ugly, shuddering heaves, puking out the contents of my stomach. Leaning back against a tree to steady myself, I realize I'm covered in scratches and there's dried blood on my forehead. I must have gotten cut up by branches during my sprint through the forest and the rock must have hurt my forehead pretty bad.

Water.

Picking up the backpack that lays a few feet away, I realize I need water. After stumbling around the forest, impossibly on edge, I find a gurgling creek nearby, and fill up the water bottle that lays in my backpack. All of the arena is so new and unfamiliar, so green and lush, I cautiously snatch up a patch of soft grass to wash the wound on my forehead. It stings, but I clean it up.

Then, I glance at my hands. They are entirely intact and unhurt, just as they had been a few hours ago on the hovercraft. They are still white and soft, clear of blood or scratches. But I know they're not; now, they are the hand of a murderer. I start to tremble as I dip my hand in the cold stream, rubbing away at nothing. I rub my hands raw, scrubbing and scrubbing, trying to rid my hands of the invisible sin. Silent, eerie tears spill over as I realize the sin is here to stay, no matter how long they're dipped in the icy creek. Sin spills from my hands, spreading to the rest of me, swallowing me whole.

I don't dare start a fire as the sky begins to darken quickly. Instead, I pull myself together and march on until I find a wide, hollowed out tree and climb in, wide-awake and on edge as I flinch at every moving creature in the rustling forest.

Hunger is surprisingly absent from my stomach, so when I glance into the contents of the backpack, I don't bother opening up the bag of dried meat or packet of crackers. Eating them now would be a reckless decision. I sit in silence for a long time, trying to put my mind off the death that surrounded me this afternoon, trying to form some sort of game plan for the rest of my time here. My mind is empty though, jumbled up, only flashes of today's events coming up in fuzzy, non-chronological fragments.

The sound of the anthem stirs me suddenly. The faces of the fallen tributes start to flash in the darkened sky, and I wince, gripping the boulder, preparing myself to see Weston's face right after they show the girl from 9; instead, it closes with her, and then the only light is the glowing moon.

Weston is alive?

I throw common sense to the wind as I begin sprinting to the Cornucopia. The Careers must have cleared out already, and Weston couldn't have gone far. I run as hard as I can through the dark thickness of the forest at nighttime, but it's not much; I am weakened by the marathon I had pulled earlier and my tumble into the rock, but I push and I push and I push, and soon, I break through the thick trees and into the clear, dark space of the Cornucopia.

"Weston?" I hiss quietly as I walk around, straining to see in the blackness.

Then, a trail of blood. Leading to him, leaning against a tree near the metal structure, clutching at the open wound, covered in an impossible amount of the red that sustained his body.

I run to him, crying out his name, forgetting that we are in a game to the death. The only thing I can think about is him, laying there, pale from the blood loss, so close to his death. Sitting down and leaning against the tree as well, I pull his upper body into my lap, cradling him. He lets out a moan of pain and holds his abdomen tighter.

"Willa," he says.

He's improbably ashen, as white as the moon above us. He's struggling to say something, and it comes out in a low, pained whisper.

I try to console him, tell him it's all right as run my hands through his matted hair, clutching at his soaken shirt, silent, hot, burning tears rolling down my cheeks, but it comes out even thinner than his words, my throat still recovering from my dry heaves from before.

And then I hear it. His voice is raspy and light and hardly audible, but I hear it.

"Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie."

Weston is singing; he is singing an ancient song from when District 10 was the name on the horseshoe, when cowboys gathered around fires with a trilling banjo to sing songs such as this. I remember my father once had sung it around a roaring flame in the dead of night, strumming his guitar. It had been light music, then, words about a dying man's last wish behind the beat of a thudding instrument.

I am chilled, though, as Weston sings the tune in a pained, hoarse, cracked voice, seeping through in severe tones, and it strikes me harshly how fitting it really is, how acrid and sober the song tastes with only the cold forest breeze as a backdrop.

I hold back a dry sob to push out the words, singing along with him:

Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie

Where the coyotes wail and the wind blows free

And when I die, oh, bury me

Beneath the western sky on the lone prairie

Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie

These words came soft and painfully

From the pallid lips of a youth who lay

On his dying bed at the break of day

I feel it then, the life go out of him. For a moment, he is impossibly light in my hands, and then, infinitely heavier as he slumps down. Tears are angry hot resentful burning searing smoldering scorching and I nearly flinch as they roll down my cheeks bitterly;I try to push the rest of the song out of a clenching, constricted throat.

So we buried him there on the lone prairie

Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free

In a shallow grave, no one to grieve

Beneath the western sky on the lone prairie

Oh, bury me out on the lone prairie

These words came soft and painfully

From the pallid lips of a youth who lay

On his dying bed at the break of day

I must have sat there for an hour, screaming into his chest, sobs as real as the ones in my dreams racking my body as I shook uncontrollably. I clutch at him so tightly, praying that maybe if I hold him tight enough he won't slip through my fingers. The sky is dark and enveloping, and I'm grateful he had perished in the cloak of the night so I can mourn him properly.

Harshly, I realize he must have been in pain for hours until I had reached him. My head is so pounding and my throat is so dry. I forget for a dazed moment where I am, and I remember soberly; I am a tribute. I am to fight to the death.

Quincy's words echo in my mind as I stand from Weston's lifeless body, my heart torn and bursting at the seams, the grip around my knife so tight and clenching as I walk through the thickness with weary eyes. I am so tired of the death and the blood and the sickness.

"Go on, Willa. They've taken enough."

Hope you enjoyed this beast of a chapter. It was supposed to be three separate chapters. There must be mistakes littered throughout, so feel free to leave constructive criticism!

Thanks,

fortes fortuna iuvat