Standing on the Edge (That Goat Will Probably Eat You)

Peace

Ona would swear that she's being followed. It seems like she's constantly hearing noises over her shoulder and that there's shadows flickering at the corners of her eyes. Or maybe that's because she's alone and hungry. The rat that she'd eaten before her fight with the pair from Eight was filling but not filling enough for a growing girl, and now her stomach rumbles desperately.

Hours ago, an avalanche tore down her side of the mountain. It made her jump with fright, but now there's worse consequences. It seems to have covered the path to get further up the mountain. She could probably climb the slopes, though they're dangerous, but right now she's content to just wander around looking for anything edible. Not that there is anything. A sudden burst of wind hammers into her and she wraps her arms around herself, turning her face away from the incoming snow. At the moment the snow is fairly harmless but she knows once it settles and freezes it will only make things more slippery. And she's not getting any stronger. So if she's going to climb upwards, she has to do it now.

She turns her head, but there's nothing there. She's getting paranoid. That's a good thing, she tells herself, it means that people can't sneak up on her. Not that there's many people left to do that. How many? Nine. Nine people; she's done better than she'd hoped. Her family will be starting to hope now.

Don't, she thinks, don't start hoping yet. Just in case.

But one in nine is better than one in twenty four.

Ona chooses a spot to climb. It's steeper than she's comfortable with, but with plenty of hand and foot holds. The avalanche blanket rests nearby, one long sheet of pure white. For a second, she's tempted to run and jump into it, to be surrounded by the snow. It's a silly, childish urge, but she can't resist.

Yes she can. She forces herself to. She has to do what she has to, and at the moment hurling herself into a no doubt Capitol-made snow drift is not on that list. Stay alive is first.

Speed hampered by hunger, she pulls herself onto the wall with trembling arms. Climbing walls is different to climbing trees. It's more slippery, and the hand and foot holds aren't as defined as branches. But she has to do it, so she grits her teeth and tries to stop thinking how difficult it is. It's something short-term to aim at; getting up onto the ledge. It seems so achievable, or at least it did from the ground. Now she isn't so sure. It seems to stretch endlessly above her. It would be easier to keep climbing rather than try and shuffle back down.

Her foot slips.

She dangles for a moment, her foot swinging in the empty air, adrenaline rushing to her head and making her dizzy. Her hands automatically clench, tightening her grip on the sharp, cold rocks, until she can feel the chill through her gloves. She can't keep climbing in this state, so she carefully places her foot back on the wall and waits for the tension to drain away. The wind hurls snow into her face, biting at her cheeks, and she thinks that she's never been this cold before. Cold isn't a word most people in District Eleven understand; there the sun almost always beats away, cracking the mud at their feet.

Briefly, she wonders about Garth. Is he still alive? Have the Capitol let him get this far? She knows he's a total nutcase, but she also knows he has family too. Doesn't he want to get back for them?

There, now she's calmer. She's fit to climb again. The spears that she keeps forgetting about clatter on her back.

Jackson, curled up in a little ball on the ledge with his head pressed into his knees, can barely hear anything over the noise of the wind and his stomach. The snow splatters into him, causing small spots of numbness where they hit skin. He should never have taken his hand out of the glove; even now it's colder than the rest of him and starting to go numb.

He's going to die.

At least he'll die slowly and painlessly. Well, unless you count the gawping hole in his stomach. He read somewhere, a long time ago, that you can survive nearly two weeks without food. He's been, what, four or five days? Not counting those tiny packets he split with Trinity and gobbled down yesterday without thinking. What must that feel like at the end of two weeks, if he feels so awful now? He wonders whether the cold or the hunger will get to him first.

He's forgotten about the other tributes.

He only realizes there's someone on the ledge with him when a fluting female voice mutters, "I'm so sorry, Jackson."

And by that point, it's too late.

Jackson's last thoughts are of Katy, of everything she's going to suffer because of this. He doesn't even feel the spear sticking out of his back, or the blood seeping from the wound. He doesn't feel like he's been hit at all. He just feels his life drift effortlessly away from him, waving a calm goodbye over its shoulder to welcome him to whatever comes next.

Ona hates to do this. The fact that she has killed him is bad enough. Going through his supplies makes her feel like a cannibal. But she wants to stay alive, so she has to. Jackson looks peaceful, at least. He looks calm, his eyes lightly closed, dark eyelashes brushing his cheeks. His mouth almost smiles. Wherever he is now, he's better off. He doesn't need material things anymore.

This is enough to convince her. She gentle prises the bag from his hands and finds it nearly empty. Just a pair of gloves and some little sticks that might be useful for starting a fire but for little else. This is all the kindly boy from District Three had to keep himself alive with.

For a moment, she debates taking his jacket as well, in case she needs it. But it's too much to carry, she's shattered from the climb - if he'd have put up a fight she'd have lost, she knows -  and she couldn't bring herself to take it anyway. His face is already pale, frozen in place. His cheeks look hollow and the delicate snowflakes that touch his features doesn't melt, starting to cover him in a chilly, soft shroud. With a sad, apologetic smile, she does the salute; three fingers pressed to the mouth and held up to the air. Jackson was a nice boy. He could have had a wife, a family. He could have been something, been useful.

Instead, the Capitol have given him a death sentence. And maybe she's the executioner, but there's a price on her head too. In that situation, you have to think of yourself. Ona hates herself for understanding that, but she does.

Too late, she remembers that the salute used in District Eleven to symbolise peace and tranquility means something completely different in the Capitol. It would, given that the only time they've seen it used, a rebellion was flaring into life. And of course they'll have been watching her gesture. She can't take it back; there's no point in trying.

"Rest in peace, Jackson," she mutters, "I don't know if I ever will."

"I'm going," grunts Cinder.

Dayn looks up at him sharply. Alice, twiddling with a stick on fire, almost drops it in shock.

Cinder knows he has to act quickly if he's going to outlast the others. He can't just sit in a cave waiting; besides, that's not what Careers do. They hunt. So he'll go hunt. Even with one hand he's stronger than all these other tributes, especially now Chuck is gone. Though Chuck wasn't stronger than him to start with. The 12 was a fluke; the fact that Chuck is dead and he is still alive proves it. Now is his chance to steal the show. He'll come back for these two saps later, assuming that they haven't bled to death by that point. Well, Dayn. And he reckons Alice will be useless without them.

"Go, then," mutters Dayn, "Take your mace and get the hell out."

He's quite happy with this arrangement, as long as Cinder doesn't think he's fighting them now. He would have killed him soon anyway; he's too full of himself. Not cautious enough. This way maybe he'll take out some of the others as well before that happens.

Alice says nothing.

Cinder takes his mace and a portion of the food rations and leaves.

Dayn leans back, flexing his bandaged leg and thinking.