After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

The Beginning of the End - 7

"I'm Ever Greenmore!"

"I thought so. Look, Ever. Next time we meet, I...erm...won't be so nice to you. Okay?"

Ever frowns; that doesn't sound nice. But nobody is being nice to each other here, so that's okay. People here want to hurt each other, like she's seen on screen sometimes. "The Capitas might get you first!" she says, serious.

The girl sighs, and without another word, trots quickly into the grass.

Ever watches the stalks break out of the way as she cuts a path through. All the other paths are moving; it's like watching ants. One path has split two ways. Others have stopped and not moved in a while. Two join up at one place. She giggles. The grass likes her; it hides her path. She doesn't try and hurt it.

Her stomach grumbles slightly at her, angry at being ignored. She pats it, to reassure it. But it has a point. This isn't a fruit tree and there's nothing to eat here. Rain makes things grow but it won't make them grow quickly enough.

Ever swings down out of the tree, landing neatly on her feet even though she's dropped from twice her height.

The other girl still hasn't woken up, even over all of the shouting. Her head lolls forwards, her chest covered in blood, runny with the rain. Her hands are slightly blue; if she doesn't move soon, Ever knows she'll die of cold.

She prods her with the shovel blade.

"Hello?" she calls, "Your friend has gone. You need to wake up." But the girl doesn't move. Very carefully, and still using the shovel, Ever pushes her head back to tip her to the sky, in case the rain will wake her up.

And she scuttles back straight away.

The girl is already dead. There is a big long red gouge in her throat.

Someone told her not to touch dead people, in case you disturbed their peace. And she's done that and now she feels mucky.

"I'm sorry!" she squeaks. Her fingers flutter to her lips and out, the gesture that people do to dead people. A long time ago a fuzzy familiar face said not to because some people didn't like it, but everybody still does. And she remembers that she saw people doing that to her as she was pushed into the building.

"I'm not...I'm not dead?" she says aloud.

The rain and the grass patter and whisper, telling her she isn't. Suddenly, the space between her and the grass feels scarily big and wide and empty. Clutching her shovel close, Ever runs for the grass.

"Martin?"

He's just sat there, staring into the frothing water. The rain drips down his face and arms, his clothes stuck to him, strands of dark hair clinging to his cheeks. He looks like he's nailed to the rock; he's probably been there all night. Mercedes yawns and stretches. At least somebody has been on guard, then. "My back fucking kills," she moans.

Nothing. Not even telling her to mind her language. He doesn't even twitch.

"I hate this fucking place; the fucking Gamemakers can all go fuck themselves..."

Still nothing.

"And it's fucking raining. What kind of fucking joke is that? Some twat thought that up. Some bastard who thought it would be a brilliant joke, the fucking bastard twat."

Nothing.

"Martin, for Snow's sake say something!" she demands.

Only his mouth moves, as he whispers over the roaring water, "Somebody else died last night."

"It doesn't fucking matter. It's not one of us." She has to say that. His voice is so cold that it sends cold shivers chasing raindrops down her back. So dead.

"It matters."

The water rushing past him is powerful. It could snatch him away, batter him until he hits peace. Better than a wound, right? Better than slowly bleeding, better than somebody else having to deal with the mental baggage of killing him. Because even the Careers can't be oblivious to it. They must hurt too, deep down. He's older than all of them.

How would any winner do this? How does any family handle this? He's lucky; so far he's not been touched by the Games. But now, now it's touched him, grabbed him by the collar and forced him along and he...he doesn't want to play.

The water calls to him, whipped into a fury by the unbeatable forces of nature and the Capitol. Mercedes can look after herself. And if she can't, at least this way he won't have to see her die...

"What the fuck are you doing?"

The world fades in around him.

"It's easier..."

"Oh no it fucking isn't," she snaps, "You put up a fucking fight, Christopher Martin, do you hear me? You're still alive now and that means you can fucking win this." Her voice is calm and strong, the woman she could be. Proud and intelligent, if a little abrasive. She needs the chance to be that woman.

And himself. He has a future, beyond this. If he can get to it. Why throw all that away? Mercedes is right; why go down without a fight? People are watching. Kids. Why should they watch him fall to pieces?

"Let's go. To the Cornucopia," he suggests, and his voice feels like a long way away, "Get a head start on the feast."

Last seven. Both from Six are in the last seven. That's something, right? Seventeen have died - died, Martin, dead and gone - and they're not them. And they have sponsors. Somebody wants them to live. There must be a way.

He stands up, backing away from the siren call of the Capitol water, taking the solid sickle in his other hand. He won't use it. Not unless he has to. Not unless Mercedes is in danger. And himself, he supposes.

Mercedes gives him a smile. "Now that," she declares into the rain, "Is more fucking like it."