As I sit next to Peeta, my mind can't help but wonder aloud, "I wonder how they'll do it." He looks at me, pensive and silent, lost in his own thoughts of what he thinks might happen.
"Well, until they bring us together, there's no sense in wasting a fishing day," I continue. "But we should probably eat as much as we can. Just in case we run into trouble." With that, Peeta begins packing up our gear while I lay out a large meal for the two of us to share. The remnants of our last fishing trip are spread out, alongside the roasted roots, greens, and the last two rolls slathered with the rest of the cheese. The only thing I leave in the bag is the apple.
By the time we finish eating, all that's left are small piles of fish bones scattered around us. My hands are greasy and sticky, which only adds to my increasing feeling of grime and discomfort. Living in the arena has been a challenge; I long for a hot shower like the ones I used to take every day back home. In here, I've been without one for about two weeks, unless you count my bath in the stream.
As we prepare to leave the cave, an odd feeling washes over me. This could very well be the last time we're here. Whether we survive or not, this place holds memories I won't forget. I pat my hand against the rocky wall of our shelter as if saying goodbye to an old friend. I suggest heading to the stream to fill up on water before continuing on, but when we arrive, all that remains is a bone-dry bed of rocks and sand.
"The lake," Peeta mutters, "they want us to go to the lake." I know he's right, we have to go. But the thought makes me uneasy. The lake offered no cover, no protection. It was an area designed for a bloody, televised finale. I could feel doubt creeping into my mind, wondering if Peeta and I were really a match for Cato. I had no strategy, no plan for how to approach this final showdown. Do we charge in headfirst? Or do we wait until we run out of water before going?
Peeta seems to sense my thoughts and speaks them aloud. "We should go now, while we have the energy and supplies. Let's just end this thing."
I nod in agreement, but inside I feel like I'm starting from square one again. Cato still looms as the biggest threat in these Games, except now he is not my ally— he is my enemy. All the other tributes were just distractions, mere obstacles leading up to the final battle. Cato. I know this fight will be unlike any other we've faced so far.
"Two against one. Should be a piece of cake," I tell Peeta, though my stomach churns with conflicting emotions. Two against one. It should be an easy win for us, but this is the Hunger Games— nothing is ever truly easy. Peeta's eyes meet mine.
"Next time we eat, it'll be in the Capitol," he says confidently.
"You bet," I respond, trying to match his confidence, though my voice wavers slightly.
Peeta's arms wrap around me, pulling me close. We stand there for a moment, embracing each other tightly as the bright sun beats down on us and a gentle breeze tousles our hair. It's a brief moment of peace— the calm before the storm.
Without a word, we break apart and make our way towards the lake, our destination for this life-or-death battle. Our steps quicken with each second and my heart starts racing the closer we get. While I have a chance at surviving since two tributes can one, one boy and one girl, Peeta does not have that same opportunity. It's either him or Cato left standing. But knowing Cato, he'd much rather be the sole victor than share the glory with anyone else.
Peeta's fingers lace between mine, surprisingly calming me down a bit. As we continue walking, I can't help but wish for a quick and easy end to all of this. To just face off against Cato now and return home, but I know the Gamemakers won't let that happen. They thrive on drama, on prolonging the inevitable. It's their grand finale, why would they make it easy?
By the time we reach the plain, it's already early evening. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting an orange glow across the landscape. We scan the area for any sign of Cato, but there is nothing except the Cornucopia in front of us. We cautiously circle it, making sure the Cornucopia is empty. That Cato didn't decide to do what Finch did at the feast.
But as the sunlight fades and the darkness settles in, my worry begins to grow. "We can't fight him in the dark," I say, frowning, "we won't be able to see anything."
"He's probably counting on that. What do you want to do?" he asks me. "Go back to the cave?"
"Or find a tree and wait until morning. But let's give it another half hour or so, just in case," I answer.
We sit by the lake, my hand clasped tightly in Peeta's. I have no desire to hide from Cato; we'll have to confront him eventually. As I gaze up at the trees, I can spot the mockingjays fluttering among the branches, their unique songs echoing through the air. I purse my lips and whistle a tune, not the one Peeta and I used as a signal, but something new. The birds pause in their chatter, seemingly curious about the unfamiliar melody. I repeat the notes in the silence. One by one, the mockingjays join in and trill the tune back to me and I can't help but smile.
"That's incredible," Peeta remarks with a smile.
"I wish we had these back in District Four," I say wistfully, "they're such beautiful little creatures." I close my eyes and let myself be enveloped by the melodic chorus of the mockingjays' voices. But dissonant notes cut through and the birds' cries turn into a frantic shriek of alarm.
I release Peeta's hand and spring to my feet, ready for whatever comes next. Peeta's holding tightly to the knife while I'm gripping my trident in a white-knuckled grip. Cato crashes through the trees towards us, He has no spear, no knife, probably relying on his sheer strength to kill us. I brace myself, but he rockets right between us, running faster than I've ever seen him move. His face is purplish and drenched in sweat as he runs. He wasn't running towards us. No, he's running away from something.
Instinctively, I turn to follow his gaze and my blood runs cold as I catch sight of the monstrous creatures leaping towards us from the shadows of the trees. They have to be Muttations. Capitol-made creatures. They resemble wolves, but they're no ordinary wolves. They're wolves that can stand and balance effortlessly on their hind legs. Wolves that can beckon the rest of the pack forward with their front paws.
Cato makes a beeline for the Cornucopia and without hesitation, I follow suit. At this point, I trust Cato's instincts, and if he believes the Cornucopia is our best chance against these mutts, then so do I. I might be able to outrun them, to climb up into the trees and escape their grasp, but there's no way Peeta could make it.
Peeta! Amidst the chaos, I had completely forgotten about him. I frantically scan the area and spot him about thirty feet away, limping as he tries to outrun the mutts closing in on him. My mind screams at me to rush back to him and help him, but he waves his hand and urges me to climb the metal structure. "Go, (Y/N)! Go!"
With every muscle in my body screaming in protest, I begin to climb the metal structure. I realize that I'm not all that great at climbing, but the adrenaline and fear of being eaten by mutts drive me up clumsily, my fingers desperately searching for spots to grip. After a full day in the sun, the scalding heat of the metal sears through my palms, making it nearly impossible to hold on.
As I reach the top of the horn, Cato lies gasping for air. This is my opportunity to finish him off and secure our victory. Just as I aim my trident at him, I hear Peeta cry out and everything else seems insignificant. He's just reached the tail end of the Cornucopia, but the mutts are right behind him. I scream at him to climb as I turn to face a mutt that's placed its paws on the metal structure. I thrust my trident into its skull before it could harm Peeta, but its dying thrashes cut open several other mutts that were too close for comfort. That's when I really get a good look at its claws. Their four-inch, razor-sharp claws that could easily rip us to shreds.
Panicked, I grab Peeta's arm and yank him up the Cornucopia. But then I remember Cato, still up here with us, and snap my head back in his direction. He's writhing on the ground, doubled over with cramps, and more preoccupied with the creatures than with us. He spits out something incomprehensible, drowned out by the growls all around us.
"What?" I shout at him, trying to make sense of his words.
"He asked if they can climb it," Peeta mutters, barely audible over the cacophony of snarls and howls.
My attention snaps back to the base of the horn as the beasts begin to assemble. Hunched together, they stand on their hind legs, mimicking human-like figures. Each mutt is different, their fur ranging from silky black to golden blonde, but something is unsettling about them that I can't quite put my finger on. As they advance towards us, a sense of dread washes over me.
The pack of mutts snarl and growl, their sharp teeth scraping against the metal surface. They communicate through wild yelps and barks, backing up in unison as a large mutt with silky blonde fur emerges from the shadows. With a ferocious leap, it lands on the side of the horn snarling its pink lips. It stares us down with its uncanny green eyes, my heart sinking as I realize what makes these mutts so unsettling.
The green eyes are unmistakably human. I take a step back in horror as my eyes register the collar around the mutt's neck, adorned with sparkling jewels and a number 1. The blonde fur, the green eyes, the number... it's Glimmer.
My eyes scan over the rest of the pack, taking in the different sizes and colors of each mutt. The large, brown mutt with piercing blue eyes. My suspicions are confirmed once I see the number four woven with seaweed on the collar... Fletcher. The small, red-furred one with amber eyes... that's Finch. The smallest mutt, with dark curly fur and huge brown eyes. They turned sweet, innocent Rue into one of these grotesque creatures.
A cry escapes my lips looking at all of them, horrified by the mutts even more than before. How sick and twisted must the Capitol be to turn children into monstrous killing machines? My breaths come out as ragged gasps as I try to make sense of it all.
The world spins as Peeta's voice breaks through the haze of my thoughts. "What is it, (Y/N)?" I turn and blink rapidly, trying to focus on him.
"It's them. It's all of them. Fletcher and Rue and Finch," I choke out.
Peeta's own gasp of recognition echoes as he takes in the mutated forms of our fallen tributes. His concern seems to be on their eyes, while mine goes a bit deeper. Have these creatures been given any of the real tributes' memories? Do they remember us and hold a grudge for surviving while they died? And the ones we've killed... do they believe they're avenging their own deaths by killing us? I feel uneasy knowing that three of the mutts could be linked to me, each one seeking revenge for the tribute I killed.
Before I can express these thoughts, the mutts divide into two groups and begin launching themselves at us. One of them lunges at me, its teeth snapping together just inches from my hand as Peeta lets out a cry of pain. Before I can react, I feel the brutal tug on his body, his weight combined with the mutts' strength pulling me closer to the edge of the Cornucopia. His grip on my arm is excruciatingly painful, but it's the only thing keeping us from tumbling over the side to our deaths.
"Kill it Peeta!" I yell at him, struggling to stay on top of the Cornucopia. I feel my wound reopen, warm blood oozing down my side. I push through until I feel the pull to the ground lessen and I'm able to haul him back on top of the metal horn.
Cato is still lying down, but his breathing has slowed down and it's only a matter of time before he's up again. I aim my trident back at the boy, only to be met with another mutt that's lunged close to us. Its dark fur, large build, and terrifying ability to jump so high— that one had to be Thresh. I drag Peeta and myself towards the top of the Cornucopia, knowing the mutts won't be able to reach us up here. I begin to turn and face Cato when I feel Peeta jerked from my side. I panic, almost certain he's been taken by the mutts until I feel blood splatter my face. Cato is holding him tightly, suffocating him with his grip. Peeta claws desperately at Cato's arm, gasping for air but unable to break free. That's when I notice the flesh-colored armor covering Cato's body; it must've been in his pack from the feast. It'll protect him from my trident strikes, but there's no protection for his exposed face. I raise my aim, ready to throw it.
Cato's laughter echoes in my ears, mocking my terror and desperation as I stand before him. I feel pathetic, trying to survive, trying to defend myself and my supposed lover from the monstrous figure before me. The audience must love this. "Go ahead, throw it!" he taunts, "If I go down, he's coming with me."
I know he's right. If I strike Cato and he falls to the mutts, Peeta's fate is sealed. But if Cato kills Peeta, he'll meet the same fate from my trident. We're trapped in a deadly game of cat and mouse, frozen like statues as we weigh our options.
Peeta's lips are turning a sickly shade of blue and I can feel panic rising. If I don't act fast, he'll die and I'll have lost him and Cato will likely use his body as a weapon against me. In fact, I know this is his plan because while he's stopped laughing, his lips are twisted in a sadistic, triumphant grin.
Peeta makes one last desperate move, raising his fingers slick with blood from the mutt's bite on his leg. But instead of fighting back, his finger draws a deliberate X on the back of Cato's hand and I know exactly what he's asking me to do. He realizes too, as his smile falters. But my trident has already pierced through his hand and he screams in pain, his grip on Peeta loosening. Peeta slams into Cato and for a moment I think they're both about to fall. I dive forward and catch hold of Peeta before he falls as Cato loses his footing on the slick blood and falls to the ground with a sickening thud. The mutts snarl, advancing on their prey that has just fallen.
Peeta and I cling to each other, desperate for the end of this competition. But it doesn't happen. Not yet, anyway. This is the climax of the Hunger Games and the audience needs a show. I can't bear to watch, but I'm forced to listen to the screams and howls of pain from man and mutt as Cato takes on the pack; he won't go down without a fight. I don't understand how Cato is still alive until I remember the body armor protecting him from ankle to neck. He has to have a weapon because every so often there's a death scream from a mutt or the sound of metal on metal as the blade collides with the Cornucopia. He fights on and time seems to slow as we listen to the sounds of battle, until suddenly there's the sound of him hitting the ground and the mutts dragging him into the Cornucopia. Still no cannon. The night drags on and the anthem plays, but there's no image of Cato in the sky, only the faint moans of pain echoing inside the metal structure.
I turn to Peeta and notice blood seeping through his pant leg. We don't have any supplies; we had taken our bags off while waiting for Cato, and now they lay uselessly by the lake. Though I'm shivering, I quickly strip off my jacket and shirt, throwing the jacket back on and zipping it up as fast as I can. This brief exposure leaves my body trembling and my teeth chattering. I make Peeta lay down and wrap the shirt tightly around his leg, hoping to stop or at least slow the bleeding.
"Are you cold?" he asks. I try to shake my head, but my tense, shaking body betrays me. He unzips his jacket and wraps it around me as I press against him. It's warmer, sharing our body heat inside a double layer of jackets, but with the night just beginning, I know the temperature will only drop further. The once blazing Cornucopia is now slowly turning to ice.
"Cato could still win," I whisper to Peeta.
"No, don't say that," he says, pulling my hood over my head in an effort to shield me from the wind, but I can feel him shaking harder than I am.
The next few hours are pure torture. The cold seems to seep into every part of my body, numbing me to the pain. But the worst part is not the freezing temperatures, but rather the sound of Cato's anguished cries as the mutts work away at him. I can't bear to listen to his suffering any longer. All I want is for it to end.
"Why don't they just kill him," I ask Peeta, my voice trembling with fear and disgust. He pulls me closer, his arms wrapping tightly around me. We both know the answer to my question. No viewer could turn away now, not from the final act. This is what the Capitol calls entertainment.
I try to distract myself by thinking about going home. The image of Wren's bright smile, Bea's infectious laugh, and my father's comforting presence flicker before Cato's guttural groans consume my mind. His guttural groans erase everything except for the cold and fear and all I can think is that this will be my life forever.
Peeta struggles to stay conscious, but each time his eyelids droop, I scream his name with increasing desperation. I'm terrified that if he closes his eyes, they'll never open again. He fights his exhaustion, for my sake more than his own, but I can see the toll it's taking on him. I refuse to let him go. I just can't.
I hear Peeta whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and see the stars fading into the hazy sunrise. The faint light reveals just how pale Peeta's face has become. How little time he has left. I have to get him back to the Capitol, but there is still no cannon signaling Cato's death. I press my ear to the cold metal and barely make out his voice.
"I think he's closer now. Can you hit him?" Peeta asks, handing me his knife. If Cato is near the mouth of the horn, I might be able to strike him down. At this point, it would be an act of mercy. I crawl to the edge and dangle over it, feeling Peeta's trembling hands gripping to support me. It takes a moment to spot Cato, but once I lay eyes on him I'm horrified by what I see. What used to be my enemy is now a torn and mangled mass of flesh. A noise escapes his mouth and I think he's trying to say please.
My mind flashes back to the first day of training where Finnick drilled into us the importance of allies. And so, I sought out Cato as my first potential ally. I remember the feeling of his hand guiding mine on the knife, teaching me to throw it. And now, I feel him guiding me to aim at his own throat. I release the knife and watch it hit its mark before Peeta pulls me back up.
"Did you get him?" he whispers. The cannon fires in answer.
"We won," I say hollowly, unable to find any triumph in our victory. I'm a killer now, and the weight of that realization hangs heavy on my shoulders. Victory may be ours, but at what cost?
A hole opens up in the plain, swallowing the last of the mutts and hopefully erasing them from existence. We stand there, waiting for the hovercraft to retrieve Cato's remains, waiting for our victory to be announced with trumpets. But nothing happens.
"Maybe we have to move away from the body?" Peeta suggests. I don't remember if this is a rule. If you have to distance yourself from the dead tribute on the final kill. But my mind is too foggy to argue. What other reason could there be?
"Do you think you're strong enough to make it to the lake?" I ask Peeta.
"I have to try," he says. We slowly make our way down the tail of the horn and collapse onto the ground. My limbs feel stiff and heavy, but I manage to pull myself up and help Peeta to his feet. With every step towards the lake, I can feel my muscles protesting. How Peeta manages to keep going is beyond me.
As we reach the edge of the water, I scoop up a handful of the cold liquid for Peeta to drink and take a second scoop for myself. A mockingjay gives a long, low whistle and the hovercraft appears to collect what's left of Cato's body. Finally, we can go home. But as we wait for their response, there's still nothing.
"What are they waiting for?" Peeta says weakly. He's barely holding on at this point. His wound must've opened back up because the shirt wrapped around his leg is damp with blood. I don't know what they're waiting for, but I can't watch him lose any more blood. Claudius Templesmith's booming voice fills the arena and I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The previous revision has been revoked. Upon further examination of the rule book, it has been determined that only one tribute is allowed to win." he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor."