[slightly stronger language in this chapter]
Splish.
Splish splash.
Splish splash splosh.
Ever perks her head up eagerly, her nose twitching. Rain! It's raining! It was raining when she left home, but this is different. This is nice rain, soft rain.
This is cold rain. Her arms and clothes are drenched in it and she shivers unhappily. She's not used to cold rain. They had hailstones once, when the tornado ripped through the district, but all she remembers about it is being worried that the animals out there might get hurt.
The rain plinks like music off the handle of her shovel.
"It's raining," she announces to nobody in particular. She just feels like she's being watched by something, so she may as well talk to them, in case they're there.
Maybe...maybe it's the Capitas!
Her mind springs into life. The Capitas! They must be around somewhere; they were in the potatoes earlier and they've probably been following them all the time! She brushes the rain from her eyes and leans out of her little bed-branch to ask the people below if they've seen them.
There are only two, the girls. She frowns but she can't remember their names. Both of them are asleep but one looks like she's been in a fight. The Capitas can get you in your sleep; they'll crawl in your ear!
"The Capitas!" she shouts down over the sound of the rain. One of the girls - the one who doesn't look like she's been fighting - mumbles something and turns up to her, screwing up her face as the rain falls in her eyes.
Ever waves the shovel, giggling as she almost overbalances. "The Capitas might get you in your sleep!" she tells her. The girl rolls her eyes and slumps back against the tree, and says something. Ever can tell it's aimed at the other girl. "She looks hurt!" she explains, "She won't answer!"
After a pause, the girl darts to her feet and rushes around to the other sound of the tree.
"Shit."
"That's not nice!"
"Shut up. No, wait. Did you see what happened?" She looks worried, looking around everywhere like she's expecting somebody to jump out of the sodden grass. Her clothes stick to her with the rain and her legs are muddy. She must be cold but she doesn't even seem to be shivering, like she's used to the cold.
"No! I was asleep!" Ever calls back down. The girl runs a hand over her soaking hair and breathes out, one long breath. Then she stands tall, gasping.
"Boo!"
"That's not scary!"
The girl turns back up to look at her briefly, before scanning the arena. Her heart sinks. It's exactly what just crossed her mind.
"He's taken all the supplies too!" she spits. This is bad. This is very bad. The boy has made a fool of both of them. At least she's still alive for it.
Ever, holding the shovel just in case, watches curiously, almost laughing. She doesn't seem to know what to do. She takes a few steps in one direction, then wheels around to look in the other, and all the time her mouth is moving though she's not actually making any noise. Not over the rain, anyway. Ever shivers; it's still cold. Once the sun comes out, though, it will be warm. And the sun has to come out. It can't rain forever. So she can wait.
"Listen...erm...Ever? It is Ever, isn't it?"
The girl is shouting to her, one hand cupped around her mouth. She has two weapons now; one is a long pointy stick with a strap on it, slung over her shoulders like a strange kind of bag. The other is called a sword; she knows that. It's like a straighter shovel.
"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."