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Description
"You figure anyone's gonna be there?" says Rhona, poking through the bushes. "When we get there, I mean. I guess just about everyone will be there at some point or another."

The bird burbles.

"Yeah, you're right. Guess it doesn't really matter, as long as we're fast."

The bird lands just ahead of her and cocks its head.

"You don't think I can outrun those kids? Get out."

Burble.

She snorts. "What, cause I got this scratch? Bet you anything I can."

The bird lets out a series of short, chuffing noises and drops unceremoniously onto her backpack. She wiggles her shoulders in an attempt to dislodge it, wincing at the extra pressure on her back, but it stays put.

"You want to come along," she says, "you carry your own weight at least."

It ruffles its feathers, supremely smug, and nips at her ear.

"Ass," she grumbles, but she can feel the beginnings of a grin on her face again. Straightening her shoulders, she adjusts the straps and keeps moving. Around them the trees are starting to thin, rotted logs rapidly giving way to young saplings. In the distance, though she can't see it yet, the mountain is probably waiting. And somewhere, she thinks, at the foot of it, is the Banquet.

It's simple enough to hope that she'll get there first, that nobody else will make it to the Banquet before she does, and she'll be in and out before anyone even knows she was there, but that's stupid talk. She knows how this works by now. Make alliances, end up breaking them. Tag along with someone, watch their lifeblood spill out onto your hands. It'll be a bloody mess, just like the Cornucopia, and just like the Cornucopia, she's walking straight into the trap of her own volition.

"I'll be fast," she says out loud, not entirely sure if she's talking to herself, or to the bird, or to the unseen audience. To the Runners, if they're still watching.

Of course they're still watching. She almost wishes she could see them now. Wonders if they're placing bets on her. Alvia definitely would if she could; she knows all the Peacekeepers in their sector by name, she'd be popping in and out of the station like clockwork. Rhona can see it now: What, you don't think our Tribute will make it? Piss-poor team spirit. I bet you a fiver she will. And Miro and Kansen will be there to get her out when she mouths off one too many times.

"You lot better split the winnings with me when I get back," she mutters, and twitches when the bird nips at her ear again.

But of course Alvia will split the winnings with her. Rhona's not sure what the prize for winning the Games is, but it's got to be something nice. They'll get an actual room for all the Runners, and they'll each get a square meal a day if Rhona has anything to say about it. Or she'll split her square meal with everyone. They'll make it work.

She just has to focus on that. It's the only thing that will get her out of here alive. Not alliances, not friends. Anyone who runs into her now doesn't meet anything but the business end of her knives. She's tried playing nice and it hasn't earned her anything but bad deals and worse nights.

She hadn't dreamed about Ain in weeks. She thought she was done with that for good, thought the ache had faded, but this—it feels like they've torn off an old scab, and the skin hasn't really healed underneath, and it just stings worse.

But she'll keep running. She always has.

Rhona straightens her shoulders, wincing a little at the effort. A few more minutes, and the forest comes to an end, and a worn dirt path and blue sky stretch out in front of her.

It might be the same one she was on before she headed into the woods yesterday afternoon. She's not sure, and there aren't any distinguishing landmarks nearby. But it looks like it's leading straight towards the flare, and as much as she feels like the noose is drawing tighter around her neck, she knows she can't afford to go off course now.

Something soft whaps against her head for a moment, and there's a slight give in the pressure on her back as the bird launches itself into the sky. Rhona stares up, frowning as it powers its way up, wings beating like turbines. Within seconds, it's a tiny black dot, barely visible from the ground.

"Okay," she says into the stillness, feeling a little betrayed and also, okay, kind of angry for feeling betrayed in the first place. "If you just wanted me to show you out of the woods, you could've just said something."

The bird doesn't say anything. Of course it wouldn't. It probably can't even hear her.

"Freeloader!" she shouts after it, and huffs, and heads off down the path. Just like everyone else in this goddamn arena.

But the mountain looms into view minutes after, and Rhona, who has never seen a mountain up close before, has to push her sudden hurt aside and stop and stare at the size of it. She's seen hills, of course, rolled down a properly steep one near the edge of Six with the Runners and nearly cracked her head open on a half-buried piece of shrapnel, but this is different. This is vast, and immense, a giant expanse of rock like a looming giant, and she can't even see the top of it, buried as it is in a thick layer of cloud.

Why hasn't she noticed it before? They must have put it in last night. A peak like that would have been visible from even the city, which by her reckoning has to be a few hours' travel away at the very most. And—more importantly, she realizes, once the initial awe has faded—it's vulnerable as hell. There's a platform-like something visible at the foot of the mountain now, something that has to be the Banquet, but there isn't any kind of shelter for at least a mile around. It's just flat dirt, suspiciously flat, like the Gamemakers knew exactly what they were doing.

And doesn't that just screw up her plans something awful. It'd be easy enough to hop behind a rock, duck behind a tree, wait until the coast is clear—but with a setup like this? As soon as she heads for the Banquet, she's committed—and if she isn't, anyone watching will know where she's coming from. And they'll know where she's going, if she decides to turn back.

"You're not kidding about this deathmatch thing, are you," she says out loud, as much to bolster her own resolve as it is for the audience's benefit, and flashes a sharp grin she doesn't feel. But it doesn't look like anyone is visible in the long stretch of ground she'll have to cover, at least not yet, and she can't let herself think this through. Nothing good comes of that.

She hesitates just long enough to take a slow, deep breath and let it out even slower, and then, before she can talk herself out of it, flips a knife into her hand, bounces once on the soles of her feet, and starts to run.

This, at least, is easy. This is something she can do. Each step pulls at the cut on her back and threatens to split it open again, but she's run for longer with worse. And it's only for a few minutes more, and then she'll have her medicine, and Leon can start sending things again, and from there it's just a few more kills before she's back in District Six. And everything will be all right.

She balks, a little, at the thought of killing Lykke. It's a thought that leads to places in her mind where she's spent more than enough time the last few days. But making friends with Karter didn't work, and pretending to make friends with Roarke and Caleb didn't work, and if she doesn't kill him, the Arena will. And it's not fair he's here, and there are no fair deaths, but the least she can do is give him a quick one. Better that than going out crushed by a Capitol trap.

And that time may come sooner rather than later, she realizes with a dull resignation. Because there's another figure out on the plain leading to the Banquet, and this far out she's not sure who it is. It's a boyish figure, but it's too short to be the boys from Eleven or Five and not colorful enough to be the boy from Eight, which narrows it down more than she'd like.

But it's not Lykke. It's not even close to being Lykke.

It's Rottie Beten.

Rhona doesn't slow down. She can't. Slowing down now means giving in, and her heart rate might be speeding up but she can't help feeling a surge of relief, all the same. It's not Lykke, and if she has to kill someone today, the Rottweiler's a more than acceptable opponent. And Beten will fight dirty. Of course she will. She can't have earned that nickname by accident. But it'll be refreshing, a real street brawl, and it ought to be a good show for the Runners.

She might be a mad dog, Rhona thinks, and sets her jaw. But even mad dogs can be baited.

---

By the time Rottie nears the Banquet, her earlier thoughts about sparing Ame are all but lost in a haze of irritation. The mountain is huge and clearly manmade, a testament to the Gamemakers' ingenuity and power. It's also completely devoid of trees, as if some giant hand had merely collected a massive handful of nearby earth and rock and slapped the lot together overnight. Which, considering said Gamemakers, might not be all that far off from the truth.

All that means is by the time the raised platform with its little packages comes into view, it's high noon and the sun glares fierce on her eyes. The plain around the Banquet affords precious little shelter from the elements, and the wind that blows past her is cold but dry, more reminiscent of a desert than—whatever she was expecting.

Still, unforgiving as her surroundings are, her mood lifts a little as she approaches the platform at a brisk run. Lack of supplies aside, a hot meal is just a short jog away, and best of all, she's got Sketch waiting for her back in the city. At least, until she spots another figure closing in on the platform.

Rhona Velaro. District Six. Rottie hasn't seen the other Tribute since the Cornucopia, but her clothes and hair are matted with blood and she moves like she's injured, so she must have run into something or someone over the course of the last few days. There's a backpack slung over one of her shoulders, but it bounces like it's nearly empty and the younger girl winces every time it strikes her back.

And something stirs in Rottie, something dark and unforgiving that rears its head and whispers she's weak, an easy target, you could earn another kill right here and right now. Something she tries to push back as the two of them near the platform, both of them clearly aware of the other's presence but strangely reluctant to acknowledge it just yet.

It's Rhona who stops a few feet short of the platform proper, fist clenched around a gleaming knife, and waits, her eyes tracking Rottie.

Injured, part of Rottie's brain supplies. Desperate. That knife could do some damage, but not if you hit first and hit hard. And what's to stop you from doing it now?

Rottie forces herself to stop, closes one hand around the hatchet and clenches her teeth against the gathering turmoil in her mind. This close to the other Tribute, it's hard to ignore how small she is. How old is she? Not younger than twelve, by the Capitol's own rules, but as thin as she is, she could easily pass for ten or eleven. The same age as so many of the kids back at the orphanage. The same age as the children she's still trying to protect. It's enough to give her pause, to hold the darkness at bay for the time being.

They circle each other like wary dogs, the platform with its innocent packages between them. They're labeled by name, Rottie realizes. Eight packages. Eight tributes left. And whether it's a trick of the Arena or not, a delicious smell is wafting toward her. Some kind of grilled meat. Lamb, maybe. Enough for both her and Sketch for at least a day.

Her stomach growls, betraying her. Rhona's expression doesn't change: suspicion mingled with a strangely intense dislike. It looks odd on her young features, makes her look older than she is.

Again the thought comes unbidden to Rottie's mind: She's seen things. The same things you have. Maybe worse. What makes you think she's a kid? Take her out now before she becomes a threat.

She pushes it away. "You first," she says out loud, and Rhona snorts almost immediately.

"Not a chance," she says, dark eyes mistrustful. "You first."

"Come on," says Rottie impatiently, and points at one of the packages, the one labeled RHONA in square, neat letters. "That one's yours. Take it and get out of here."

"And leave myself open," says Rhona, eyeing her. "I'm not stupid."

No, she thinks. No, you're clever. Too clever for your own good.

"Kid," says Rottie, "Do it. Before I change my mind."

Rhona's circling closer to the platform, Rottie can tell, and she forces herself to stay still. To wait. Someone in this arena will kill the kid, she's sure, but it's not going to be her. Not today.

Rhona sneers, takes a cautious step forward. "What makes you think I—"

"Rottie!"

And she turns.

She can't help it. She'd recognize that voice anywhere, distant as it is, and the movement is ingrained, automatic. She turns, gaze searching wildly for the source, and there he is, at the edge of the plain, astride a magnificent grey horse, like he's ridden straight out of some kind of fairy tale.

Of course, she thinks dazedly. Of course the other Tributes got mutts, too. Why hadn't she thought of that?

But that thought is an unimportant one, because right now Ame is in front of her. Handsome, clever Ame Gater, looking at her like she's the only girl left in the world. Like he's happy to see her alive, like he cares, like—

Something rustles behind her.

She whips her gaze back to the platform: both her package and Rhona's have vanished. And Rhona—

Rhona is running full tilt in the other direction, headed straight for the rocky foothills that will hide her long enough to cover her escape.

Rottie freezes. Behind her, Ame has coaxed his horse (does it have four legs? six? she can't tell) into a canter, and he's riding towards her like some ridiculous prince, and some distant part of her notes he's managed to get himself a haircut of all things in the Arena, but her package is gone and she needed that food and the kid had the nerve to take it—

The smell of grilled lamb is fading into the distance, and her and Sketch's chances for survival are fading with it. In the back of her mind, the darkness stirs, uncurls itself, and sniffs the air.

"Rottie," Ame is calling again, and something in his voice catches hold of her chest and twists so hard it brings tears to her eyes. But even as she turns to look at him, even as some part of her revels at being the object of his attention for once, the rest of her is already gathering itself for the hunt.

Ame reins in his mount a short distance away, clearly baffled at her silence. She has just enough time to growl, "I told you to stay away!"

And then instinct trumps everything, that feral, atavistic urge takes hold at last, and she turns and hurls herself after Rhona.

Description
"You figure anyone's gonna be there?" says Rhona, poking through the bushes. "When we get there, I mean. I guess just about everyone will be there at some point or another."

The bird burbles.

"Yeah, you're right. Guess it doesn't really matter, as long as we're fast."

The bird lands just ahead of her and cocks its head.

"You don't think I can outrun those kids? Get out."

Burble.

She snorts. "What, cause I got this scratch? Bet you anything I can."

The bird lets out a series of short, chuffing noises and drops unceremoniously onto her backpack. She wiggles her shoulders in an attempt to dislodge it, wincing at the extra pressure on her back, but it stays put.

"You want to come along," she says, "you carry your own weight at least."

It ruffles its feathers, supremely smug, and nips at her ear.

"Ass," she grumbles, but she can feel the beginnings of a grin on her face again. Straightening her shoulders, she adjusts the straps and keeps moving. Around them the trees are starting to thin, rotted logs rapidly giving way to young saplings. In the distance, though she can't see it yet, the mountain is probably waiting. And somewhere, she thinks, at the foot of it, is the Banquet.

It's simple enough to hope that she'll get there first, that nobody else will make it to the Banquet before she does, and she'll be in and out before anyone even knows she was there, but that's stupid talk. She knows how this works by now. Make alliances, end up breaking them. Tag along with someone, watch their lifeblood spill out onto your hands. It'll be a bloody mess, just like the Cornucopia, and just like the Cornucopia, she's walking straight into the trap of her own volition.

"I'll be fast," she says out loud, not entirely sure if she's talking to herself, or to the bird, or to the unseen audience. To the Runners, if they're still watching.

Of course they're still watching. She almost wishes she could see them now. Wonders if they're placing bets on her. Alvia definitely would if she could; she knows all the Peacekeepers in their sector by name, she'd be popping in and out of the station like clockwork. Rhona can see it now: What, you don't think our Tribute will make it? Piss-poor team spirit. I bet you a fiver she will. And Miro and Kansen will be there to get her out when she mouths off one too many times.

"You lot better split the winnings with me when I get back," she mutters, and twitches when the bird nips at her ear again.

But of course Alvia will split the winnings with her. Rhona's not sure what the prize for winning the Games is, but it's got to be something nice. They'll get an actual room for all the Runners, and they'll each get a square meal a day if Rhona has anything to say about it. Or she'll split her square meal with everyone. They'll make it work.

She just has to focus on that. It's the only thing that will get her out of here alive. Not alliances, not friends. Anyone who runs into her now doesn't meet anything but the business end of her knives. She's tried playing nice and it hasn't earned her anything but bad deals and worse nights.

She hadn't dreamed about Ain in weeks. She thought she was done with that for good, thought the ache had faded, but this—it feels like they've torn off an old scab, and the skin hasn't really healed underneath, and it just stings worse.

But she'll keep running. She always has.

Rhona straightens her shoulders, wincing a little at the effort. A few more minutes, and the forest comes to an end, and a worn dirt path and blue sky stretch out in front of her.

It might be the same one she was on before she headed into the woods yesterday afternoon. She's not sure, and there aren't any distinguishing landmarks nearby. But it looks like it's leading straight towards the flare, and as much as she feels like the noose is drawing tighter around her neck, she knows she can't afford to go off course now.

Something soft whaps against her head for a moment, and there's a slight give in the pressure on her back as the bird launches itself into the sky. Rhona stares up, frowning as it powers its way up, wings beating like turbines. Within seconds, it's a tiny black dot, barely visible from the ground.

"Okay," she says into the stillness, feeling a little betrayed and also, okay, kind of angry for feeling betrayed in the first place. "If you just wanted me to show you out of the woods, you could've just said something."

The bird doesn't say anything. Of course it wouldn't. It probably can't even hear her.

"Freeloader!" she shouts after it, and huffs, and heads off down the path. Just like everyone else in this goddamn arena.

But the mountain looms into view minutes after, and Rhona, who has never seen a mountain up close before, has to push her sudden hurt aside and stop and stare at the size of it. She's seen hills, of course, rolled down a properly steep one near the edge of Six with the Runners and nearly cracked her head open on a half-buried piece of shrapnel, but this is different. This is vast, and immense, a giant expanse of rock like a looming giant, and she can't even see the top of it, buried as it is in a thick layer of cloud.

Why hasn't she noticed it before? They must have put it in last night. A peak like that would have been visible from even the city, which by her reckoning has to be a few hours' travel away at the very most. And—more importantly, she realizes, once the initial awe has faded—it's vulnerable as hell. There's a platform-like something visible at the foot of the mountain now, something that has to be the Banquet, but there isn't any kind of shelter for at least a mile around. It's just flat dirt, suspiciously flat, like the Gamemakers knew exactly what they were doing.

And doesn't that just screw up her plans something awful. It'd be easy enough to hop behind a rock, duck behind a tree, wait until the coast is clear—but with a setup like this? As soon as she heads for the Banquet, she's committed—and if she isn't, anyone watching will know where she's coming from. And they'll know where she's going, if she decides to turn back.

"You're not kidding about this deathmatch thing, are you," she says out loud, as much to bolster her own resolve as it is for the audience's benefit, and flashes a sharp grin she doesn't feel. But it doesn't look like anyone is visible in the long stretch of ground she'll have to cover, at least not yet, and she can't let herself think this through. Nothing good comes of that.

She hesitates just long enough to take a slow, deep breath and let it out even slower, and then, before she can talk herself out of it, flips a knife into her hand, bounces once on the soles of her feet, and starts to run.

This, at least, is easy. This is something she can do. Each step pulls at the cut on her back and threatens to split it open again, but she's run for longer with worse. And it's only for a few minutes more, and then she'll have her medicine, and Leon can start sending things again, and from there it's just a few more kills before she's back in District Six. And everything will be all right.

She balks, a little, at the thought of killing Lykke. It's a thought that leads to places in her mind where she's spent more than enough time the last few days. But making friends with Karter didn't work, and pretending to make friends with Roarke and Caleb didn't work, and if she doesn't kill him, the Arena will. And it's not fair he's here, and there are no fair deaths, but the least she can do is give him a quick one. Better that than going out crushed by a Capitol trap.

And that time may come sooner rather than later, she realizes with a dull resignation. Because there's another figure out on the plain leading to the Banquet, and this far out she's not sure who it is. It's a boyish figure, but it's too short to be the boys from Eleven or Five and not colorful enough to be the boy from Eight, which narrows it down more than she'd like.

But it's not Lykke. It's not even close to being Lykke.

It's Rottie Beten.

Rhona doesn't slow down. She can't. Slowing down now means giving in, and her heart rate might be speeding up but she can't help feeling a surge of relief, all the same. It's not Lykke, and if she has to kill someone today, the Rottweiler's a more than acceptable opponent. And Beten will fight dirty. Of course she will. She can't have earned that nickname by accident. But it'll be refreshing, a real street brawl, and it ought to be a good show for the Runners.

She might be a mad dog, Rhona thinks, and sets her jaw. But even mad dogs can be baited.

---

By the time Rottie nears the Banquet, her earlier thoughts about sparing Ame are all but lost in a haze of irritation. The mountain is huge and clearly manmade, a testament to the Gamemakers' ingenuity and power. It's also completely devoid of trees, as if some giant hand had merely collected a massive handful of nearby earth and rock and slapped the lot together overnight. Which, considering said Gamemakers, might not be all that far off from the truth.

All that means is by the time the raised platform with its little packages comes into view, it's high noon and the sun glares fierce on her eyes. The plain around the Banquet affords precious little shelter from the elements, and the wind that blows past her is cold but dry, more reminiscent of a desert than—whatever she was expecting.

Still, unforgiving as her surroundings are, her mood lifts a little as she approaches the platform at a brisk run. Lack of supplies aside, a hot meal is just a short jog away, and best of all, she's got Sketch waiting for her back in the city. At least, until she spots another figure closing in on the platform.

Rhona Velaro. District Six. Rottie hasn't seen the other Tribute since the Cornucopia, but her clothes and hair are matted with blood and she moves like she's injured, so she must have run into something or someone over the course of the last few days. There's a backpack slung over one of her shoulders, but it bounces like it's nearly empty and the younger girl winces every time it strikes her back.

And something stirs in Rottie, something dark and unforgiving that rears its head and whispers she's weak, an easy target, you could earn another kill right here and right now. Something she tries to push back as the two of them near the platform, both of them clearly aware of the other's presence but strangely reluctant to acknowledge it just yet.

It's Rhona who stops a few feet short of the platform proper, fist clenched around a gleaming knife, and waits, her eyes tracking Rottie.

Injured, part of Rottie's brain supplies. Desperate. That knife could do some damage, but not if you hit first and hit hard. And what's to stop you from doing it now?

Rottie forces herself to stop, closes one hand around the hatchet and clenches her teeth against the gathering turmoil in her mind. This close to the other Tribute, it's hard to ignore how small she is. How old is she? Not younger than twelve, by the Capitol's own rules, but as thin as she is, she could easily pass for ten or eleven. The same age as so many of the kids back at the orphanage. The same age as the children she's still trying to protect. It's enough to give her pause, to hold the darkness at bay for the time being.

They circle each other like wary dogs, the platform with its innocent packages between them. They're labeled by name, Rottie realizes. Eight packages. Eight tributes left. And whether it's a trick of the Arena or not, a delicious smell is wafting toward her. Some kind of grilled meat. Lamb, maybe. Enough for both her and Sketch for at least a day.

Her stomach growls, betraying her. Rhona's expression doesn't change: suspicion mingled with a strangely intense dislike. It looks odd on her young features, makes her look older than she is.

Again the thought comes unbidden to Rottie's mind: She's seen things. The same things you have. Maybe worse. What makes you think she's a kid? Take her out now before she becomes a threat.

She pushes it away. "You first," she says out loud, and Rhona snorts almost immediately.

"Not a chance," she says, dark eyes mistrustful. "You first."

"Come on," says Rottie impatiently, and points at one of the packages, the one labeled RHONA in square, neat letters. "That one's yours. Take it and get out of here."

"And leave myself open," says Rhona, eyeing her. "I'm not stupid."

No, she thinks. No, you're clever. Too clever for your own good.

"Kid," says Rottie, "Do it. Before I change my mind."

Rhona's circling closer to the platform, Rottie can tell, and she forces herself to stay still. To wait. Someone in this arena will kill the kid, she's sure, but it's not going to be her. Not today.

Rhona sneers, takes a cautious step forward. "What makes you think I—"

"Rottie!"

And she turns.

She can't help it. She'd recognize that voice anywhere, distant as it is, and the movement is ingrained, automatic. She turns, gaze searching wildly for the source, and there he is, at the edge of the plain, astride a magnificent grey horse, like he's ridden straight out of some kind of fairy tale.

Of course, she thinks dazedly. Of course the other Tributes got mutts, too. Why hadn't she thought of that?

But that thought is an unimportant one, because right now Ame is in front of her. Handsome, clever Ame Gater, looking at her like she's the only girl left in the world. Like he's happy to see her alive, like he cares, like—

Something rustles behind her.

She whips her gaze back to the platform: both her package and Rhona's have vanished. And Rhona—

Rhona is running full tilt in the other direction, headed straight for the rocky foothills that will hide her long enough to cover her escape.

Rottie freezes. Behind her, Ame has coaxed his horse (does it have four legs? six? she can't tell) into a canter, and he's riding towards her like some ridiculous prince, and some distant part of her notes he's managed to get himself a haircut of all things in the Arena, but her package is gone and she needed that food and the kid had the nerve to take it—

The smell of grilled lamb is fading into the distance, and her and Sketch's chances for survival are fading with it. In the back of her mind, the darkness stirs, uncurls itself, and sniffs the air.

"Rottie," Ame is calling again, and something in his voice catches hold of her chest and twists so hard it brings tears to her eyes. But even as she turns to look at him, even as some part of her revels at being the object of his attention for once, the rest of her is already gathering itself for the hunt.

Ame reins in his mount a short distance away, clearly baffled at her silence. She has just enough time to growl, "I told you to stay away!"

And then instinct trumps everything, that feral, atavistic urge takes hold at last, and she turns and hurls herself after Rhona.