The Undersea Luck

The Undersea Luck
Written by Tally Ragsdale 12.10.15
The peek of the sun clipped my eyes as I laid awake on the bed beside my sister. I can hear her soft murmurs of heavy breath against my ear. She has always been a deep sleeper, ever since she was born. I would often watch her until my own lids grew too heavy. But tonight it hadn’t done any good. Nothing, not even Minny’s gently dimpled cheeks, could comfort me. I had turned twelve this past winter and with that milestone came the Reaping. The past two summers have been torture, watching Maun and Moreen stand among the boys. I can remember how tense we’d all be until someone else’s name was called. If they could just hold out for three and four more years they’d be safe. But not me. I had this feeling deep inside of me that I wouldn’t escape the Games. One way or another my life would be defined by them.

“Mags what are you doing up?” I hear Maun’s voice whisper from the bed a crossed from me.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I say as I bring my knees to my chest and realize for the first time I’m shaking.

A look of pain crosses my brother’s face. The same look he gets when dad’s memory lapses back to the war or when Minny cries for more food. It’s a look of helplessness.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” his warm voice comforts me even as he sits beside me and pulls me into his lap, “It’s the Undersea luck, we never get picked”.

I buried my head in my hands. My family needs me to be strong, Maun needs me to be, but I’m scared. More than I ever was when it was just my brothers in danger. I’ve watched the Games, seen the horror. It was worse than the Rebellion had ever been. Worse than the bombs and starvation. Worse than my father losing his mind after the defeat, worse than anything I could think of. I didn’t want to die. 

“What if I am picked?” I turn my angry words to my brother, “I can’t win Maun. I’d be dead the first day.”

“You’re not going to be picked,” Maun grabs my face to stop my hysteria, “Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”
Three years later…

Luke Billion winks at me as he passes. It’s his last year in the Reaping and he knows it. That had been Maun’s luck last year and Moreen’s this year. They were both too old to participate in the Hunger Games.
I wish I could say the same. Stretching my red dress’s collar away from my neck, I look back at my mother, who’s grey eyes smile despite the tears. She still remembers last year when a girl my age was reaped from District Six and then ripped apart by a mutt in the arena. It had sent her into a nervous break-down, which only Maun’s quick words could calm. I feared she might die if I was really picked.
Turning to Maun I give a small smile and tug at my collar. He mouths ‘you okay?’ No not really. That old feeling of doom is creeping inside my joints. I can’t get over the fact that my life is over.

“Happy Hunger Games,” Simos Gilden yells into the microphone, his pink hair deflating under the hot sun.

And so it has begun.

“Now to the Reaping,” his annoying, little voice echos a cross the courtyard, “Ladies first.”

I watch unfazed as his heels clicked
across the cold concrete, but when his gloved hand reaches into the glass bowl, my heart stops.

“Our female tribute representing District Four,” he drags out the pain, smiling into the faces of terrified girls, “is… Magnus Undersea.” 

Everyone turns to me like they knew it was coming. I can see relief mingled with sympathy on their faces. They’re sorry for me, but they’re glad it is me.
I must be taking too long, because Peacekeepers, one on each arm drag me to the stage where I am placed next to Simos and his blundering foolishness.

“Congratulations my dear,” he almost touches my shoulder, but draws it back in distatse, “Now the boys.”

He clips off as I find my families’ faces. My father’s eyes are distant and vacant, which means he’s oblivious to what’s going on. My mother isn’t so lucky. She’s buried in Maun’s chest. Moreen is as white as a ghost and Maun- He’s got that look of defeat.

“Janus Fig,” I barely hear Simos call out as a boy two-years younger than me trips up onto the stage, “And here are the tributes for our district. Shake hands.”

I reach over remotely. The boy is shaking and his pants are wet. I know then he’s not coming home.

An eternity passes before I am given a chance to say good-bye to my family and even when I do it passes too quickly. By the time I’m aware of what’s going on I’m on a train with my district far behind me.

“Now since District Four has never won a Game you two have no Mentor,” Simos explained, powdering his nose, “So one of the Victors from District One will be assisting you if he can. But frankly there’s barely anytime for the Mentors to spare.”
“That’s not exactly fair,” Janus’ voice quivers.

“Shut your mouth!” the Capitol’s mouth piece losses his charm and becomes the monster he truly is, “If you kids would put more effort into winning we might have Mentors. I declare the last two didn’t even last an hour, before they were burned to a crisp.”

My blood ran cold, I’d known both of last year’s tributes. To even think about dying like they had was almost too much.

“So this is the fifth Hunger Games- I can’t believe five years have past already. It seems like only yesterday Hira from District One impaled her last victim, becoming the first Victor. Her tributes have won two of the past four years; the other two victories going to Dictrict Two and Eight of all places. This year Hira has two of the best tributes yet. Of course we won’t know for sure until after the trials. A District One tribute has never gotten a score under eight- In fact, Hira got a twelve. The first and last time that will ever happen I’m sure.”

And that’s what the rest of my ride to my death consisted of; a blow by blow account of the life and loves of Hira. It was becoming apparent that I was on my own. No Mentor and no escort. Just me and my fear and my wit, which one would win out in the end I couldn’t tell.

The Capitol looked nothing like the destruction and pain they blasted on the television 24-7. I couldn’t find the mounds of dead bodies or burning rubble they constantly talked about. To me it looked like the Capitol hadn’t even gone through the dark days, but skimmed around it. In my district you still couldn’t go into some places for fear you’d trip over a bomb or booby trap. But that was in Four and the Capitol is as far from there as I am from the moon.
Simos was overjoyed when he passed Janus and I over to our designers. I was plucked, waxed and pulled until I couldn’t even recognize myself. My crinkly, black hair was cut short about my tan face. And now that my eyebrows were all but gone, all you could see were my doe like eyes. I thought I looked like a Capitol clown, but my designer assures me that I am the prettiest girl they have ever brought him. I suppose that’s a good thing, since someone is far more likely to sponsor a pretty tribute.

The night of the parade I chafe under the meshy, golden net they informed me was a dress, and wave stiffly to the crowd. I realize too late that I should be trying to make these people like me.

Training with the other tributes wasn’t fun either, but none of this is designed for enjoyment. Tributes from District One and Two are your classic careers; big and predictable. They tried to intimidate me on the first day, but gave up when I remained silent and even a little slow. I don’t want anyone to know me. No allies. I know that if I’m going to win I will have to kill every signal one of them and the sooner I start seeing them as the enemy the better. That includes Janus. He’s completely lost in this world of the Games. At first he tried unsuccessfully to make friends and then he made the stupid mistake to show the whole world he couldn’t hit a target. I could have given him a few pointers or advised him on what skills to learn, but I held back. He wasn’t going to make it anyway.

Finally our trials came and I, for lack of a better option, made my dad’s favorite fishing laurel. He had taught me how to construct the delicate hook when I was just a baby. It was the one of the only things my father could remember to do. Tears fell unheeded from my eyes as I finished and walked away. I got a five.

The night of my interview, I’m squeezed into a pale, blue gown and covered in thick make-up, before I’m shoved before Antonio Morzova and all of Paneam. Antonio, a dark man, who at the most is five years older than me, is loud and charming. But I keep getting the uneasy feeling that he’s laughing at me. I roll with the punches and even crack a joke or two. Antonio must like me, because he keeps me on stage longer than anybody else and even asks some vaguely interesting questions. By the time I step-off of the stage I am exhausted but hopeful. That is until I get back to the silence of my room and lay awake, wishing for the warmth of my sister. 
What does she think of all of this? Does she think I can win? Or does she look at me and see a Janus? I don’t know whether I want them to root for me or not. Maybe if they just accepted the fact that I’m not coming home, as I have, they’ll be happier. Still I don’t like thinking of them without me in they’re arms.

Before I’m ready for it, it’s dawn and I’m flown to some base, where I am locked in a room with my designer. He shoves me into a grey jumpsuit and thick, black boots, before yanking my unruly locks into an uncomfortable bun.

“There you’re ready for the cameras,” he grins.

“Thanks,” I say gruffly.

I head for the glass tube in the center of the room. My feet are sluggish in the heavy shoes. Slowly the tube encases me and I know there’s no going back. My designer blows an unfeeling kiss, before he leaves without a backwards glance.
I begin to panic. Sharp, uncontrollable gasps escape my lungs as my knees quake. The platform begins to rise and at that moment I know if I can’t think my way out of this I’m not going to win. When I reach the top my hysteria has stopped and I am scared enough to kill.

The arena was nothing like I had imagined it. Last year the tributes fought on the side of a mountain with most of them falling to their deaths. The Capitol had loved that landscape, especially since a seventeen year-old boy from District Eight had won. He hurled rocks down on the competition, eventually causing a landslide. But there would be no epic landslide this year.

Stretching like an unending nightmare before me was a thick bog. It’s horrid, decaying stench curled up from the ground in visible wisps and everything; from the moss covered trees to the enormous rocks, were coated in flesh-eating gnats.
This place suited no bodies’ skills. It was going to be a blood bath.

Looking to the podiums around me, I see tributes from Districts Seven, Five, Eleven and Twelve. Good no threats. I train my eyes to the Cornucopia, planning what I’ll grab and how I’ll get away once I have it. There’s no way I’m getting caught in the massacre that is the Horn of Plenty.

Eight… Seven… Six…

My palms are starting to sweat, but I’m not shaking or gasping. I’m ready.

Three… Two…

Suddenly the boy from Twelve jumps down. He gets maybe a step or two, before the ground beneath him explodes and sends him flying in every direction. The start gun and his death cannon go off at the same time. For a moment no one knows what to do, but only for a moment.
I fly from my podium, my boots sinking eight inches deep in mud and water. I understand my need for such cumbersome shoes now. My shoes sink deep as I try to pull them up and I have to invent a form of high-stepping to get anywhere. The tributes with smaller frames are having an easier time at it, but others, like the careers, can barely keep up right. 

Finally I reach steadier ground and am able to bolt for the nearest weapon, a heavy metal spear. It feels like dead weight in my hands, but it’s sharp and it can kill. In the end that’s all I care about.

Since I’m the first to reach the Cornucopia I have time to scavenge. I am able to collect a canteen and satchel , before Janus appears behind me. He doesn’t attack though, he smiles and sorts for his own gear. I hesitate, should I kill him? I could do it. It would be so easy. Besides if I killed him it might save him from the cruelty of the careers. I could make sure he doesn’t suffer.

Quickly I make-up my mind and take-off. I won’t be the first to kill today. One by one the cannons start to go off, until fifteen have sounded. Never in the history of the Games have so many died so fast. But somehow the fact that only nine of us remain doesn’t fill me with any comfort. The added bonus that Janus survived the first day doesn’t help me.

It’s day six in the arena and there’s only six of us left. A girl from Three died the second day, when she ran into an alligator. Her screams could be heard for miles. Yesterday a boy from Seven met one from Nine by accident. They killed each other within minutes. That leaves me, Janus and the careers. But we’ll probably all starve to death soon. On day three it started to rain and has only just stopped. The Cornucopia was flooded and is now several feet underwater. So we’re out of food and water. Funny how I never pictured starvation or dehydration as the cause of my death. Blunt force trauma, blood loss, decapitation, yes, but never hunger. On top of that I’m tired. I haven’t slept since I got here and my body can’t keep up under the strain. I just want this to end one way or another.

I must be half dead when I hear it the unmistakeable beeping of a parachute. My eyes scan the trees and see the silver chute falling behind a thick clump of thistles. It’s not for me, but maybe I can steal it. It’s hard work to get my feet moving and I stumble twice before I can manage to get around the thistles. Janus has just reached the parachute , his sword clanking on the ground as he hungrily opens it.
This is the moment when it’s time to decide who goes home first. If I walk away I will be dead before nightfall, but if I kill him I might have a chance of winning. My stomach growls at the thought of eating again. Janus looks up in surprise, his hand lowering for his sword. But there’s no hate in his eyes, no murder. 
He won’t kill me, so I kill him. I throw the spear with a strength I didn’t know I had. Janus’ cannon goes off before he hits the ground.

I dive for the life-giving parachute, ripping it open. Inside is a small roll, a fried fish, a bottle of water and a note. My hands shake as I read it, ‘Hold on Janus. District Four is behind you.’ I look to the boy I just murdered, shame coloring my pale face. My district, my friends, chose this boy, who got a three in the trials and who’s interview was awful, over me. What must they be thinking? They couldn’t have imagined their gift would result in his death. But could they blame me? I don’t want to die. I want to go home! Who gave them the right to decide that Janus should live over me?

I scarf down half the fish, but hesitate to eat the roll. I drink more of the water than I intended to, but it’s still not enough to quench my thirst. These provisions will have to last for as long as they can-
Who am I kidding? This food will be gone before the day is through. I’m dead with or without it. 
Setting back on my hunches my eyes rest on the strange leaves of the thicket. I pluck one and rub it between my finger, an acid smell assaults my nose. All at once I know how I am going to win. 
Pulling back out the roll, I stuff it into the parachute along with twelve of the leaves. I have just restarted the beeping when I hear them. They brake through the trees behind me; all four careers. I take-off as if startled. They cheer and let me go. Just like I hoped their eyes are focused on the beeping booby trap. Managing to scurry up a tree, I eat the rest of the fish and slurp the water as I watch them eat the roll, leaves and all. By evening the last cannon has gone off and I am declared the winner of the fifth annual Hunger Games. I won by killing five people, five kids, in one day. No one, not even the great Hira can boast of that many kills.

Going home is not as easy as the Capitol makes you believe. My Victory Tour is over and I am giving my last speech to my district. To the family of Janus Frig I want to apologize. I hate what I did and I wish that I had died instead of him. I realize now that if I had asked Janus for a bit of the bread he would have given me the entire roll. He was descent and kind. Not a murderer, not a part of the Games. But I can’t tell them that. The day I got home from the arena a letter was waiting for me at the Victor’s Village. It was from President Snow. It was very simple and straight forward, “You’ll pay for the parachute.” I realize now how using a device of the Capitol to win their Games isn’t exactly wise. They don’t like being insulted. They proved that when Moreen contracted some rare disease and died within days. He suffered terribly for my victory.

So now I only give the speeches Simos gives me and they are as unfeeling as he is. I know my whole district hates me and would love to see me dead. I am the first tribute in the history of the Games to kill her follow tribute. Even the careers aren’t that stupid or cold blooded. I’m setting a lot of firsts.

What can be said of the years following? Of my time spent watching my family die? Or my years mentoring in the arenas? 

My mother and father died in an unexplained fire my second year back. That year the boy I mentored won. The next year Minny fell accidentally from a tree. She lived for a couple of months just enough time for another one of my tributes to win. Back-to-back wins for District Four. My people slowly start to forgive me, because I am bringing at least some of their children back to them. I’m training them to do whatever it takes to win, to be careers. By the tenth Hunger Games I’m exhausted. I’m only twenty but already I have wrinkles and grey strains of hair. Maun is my last hope, but he’s not going to make it. The Capitol said they would make me pay, so they draw out his death to the last breath. There I’ve paid.

Fifteen years go by and I’ve brought home six tributes. I seem to have this gift, I can tell who’s going to win. It’s kind of like picking a winning race horse, I know which one is coming out alive. And it’s not always my tributes, though I wish it was. I wish I could bring home both boy and girl, instead of having to pick. I choose who I think can win and leave the extra tribute for the other mentors. Just like in the arena I work alone. Most tributes complain that it’s unfair for some middle-aged, grey haired woman to be their mentor. They complain that is until they realize they got the better end of the deal.

I was thirty-five and almost dead. I had played the Games, but I was done. No more Reaping, train rides or arenas. No more death, except maybe my own. On my empty, hollow days in Four I’d sit in the surf and watch the fishing boats go by. The waves beating against my silky legs and soaking my shorts. It was a small comfort to my raw nerves.

“Are you going to sit there all day?”

I spin around to a dark colored man, mending a net and watching me.

“Why do you care? I’m not obstructing your view,” I turn back to the ocean.

“Hay I don’t care if you want to waste valuable time,” the man plopped down in the water beside me and tossed half his net in my lap, “But if you’re gonna just sit here you might as well do something useful.”

Silence settles between us as I pick-up the work. I haven’t worked on a net in years, but there are somethings you never forget.

“I suppose you’ll be leaving soon,” the man’s voice carefully breaks the silence, “First Quarter Quell. Any ideas what they’ve got cooked up?”

“I don’t want to know,” I refuse to look up.

“How do you do it? Go there year after year and try your hardest to bring a kid home, only to have him die in the end?”

My eyes flash-up to his pale, brown ones, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I know. I’ve watched you go from your house to this beach to the train station. You never talk to anyone and you don’t let anyone talk to you. Mags, you’re not an island even if you want to be,” tears prick my eyes and he smiles, “So why not burden me with some of it. I’ve got nothing but time with my bum hand,” he holds up his left hand that’s been ripped open by shark teeth and sown back together. A common injury in Four.

It happens slowly at first and yet in time I’m not alone. I have a friend in Martin, but not just a friend, a husband and soulmate too. We weather the storms of our lives together and the old Magnus begins to reappear. No longer do I just pick the tribute who I think can win. I start to picking the tribute who needs me.
The next twenty-five years are a blur to me. They say we won five of those years and yet it’s the years we didn’t win that stand out to me. It’s time for the second Quarter Quell, the first one; where they removed the Cornucopia, leaving the tributes to kill each other with their bare hands, being just a distant nightmare.

This year they’ve reaped twice as many tributes. I’ve picked a witty boy from Twelve to win. True no one from District Twelve has ever won, but this year is different. This year there’s Haymitch Abernathy. Martin asked me how I knew he was going to win. Simple I asked him, I say. Haymitch and his follow tributes from Twelve didn’t have a mentor, so I couldn’t help but to try and give him some friendly advice.

“Are you going to win?” I asked him one day, when we had run into each other at the elevator.

Haymitch eyed me, “There’s no one who says I can’t.”

“I say you can’t,” I look into his face, “Not unless you think,” I tap his chest twice. They call it the Undersea Tap, that’s how they know who I pick to win. Haymitch must know this because his face floods with color, “Remember in the arena only your wits can help you.”

And he won. He won and out thought the Capitol too. He played their Game too well and I knew he was going to pay. His Victor lIfe became filled with drink, especially when his tributes died. They didn’t get that it was up to them, not him, to win.

Time slowly ticks by and with it the life of my beloved friend grows dimmer. Martin’s never had a strong heart and of late it’s irregular heart beat has given him constant pain. The doctors in Four can’t give him anything more than pills to sooth it. And I am not taking him to the Capitol surgeons, even if he wanted to go.
Like everything in my life major events come in pairs. Martin dies one afternoon sitting in his rocking chair, an ice tea beside him and a sly smile on his face (the clown must have thought it was funny to die first, when I had specifically told him that was my job. But he never listened to me.) and Finnick Odiar was reaped. At fourteen he was handsome, strong, charming and arrogant. But too young. Maybe if he had been reaped when he was older he might have a better chance of winning. To be sure no one was writing him off, it’s just the odds are not in his favor. I undertook his mentorship with the same vigor I’m famous for and to Finnick’s great credit he listened to everything I said. But even I wasn’t prepared for when he proved himself unstoppable with a trident. In three weeks it was over and Finnick was free, or at least so we thought.

I’ve known for years that awful things happen to the Victors in the Capitol, when no one is watching. How awful I didn’t want to know. If they can kill off my whole family, they’re capable of anything. I can remember in one of my earlier Games meeting the infamous Hira. I expected to be introduced to a bloodthirsty killer, instead I met a broken, albeit beautiful woman. You could see in her eyes she was being abused. Her hands shook with slight tremors and she never smiled or laughed. I pitied her, realizing that my fate could be so much worse. Her torture went on for years, because she was naturally beautiful and even wrinkles or dark circles couldn’t diminish it.
Kind of like Finnick… Naturally beautiful. I had been uneasy when he was ‘invited’ to the Capitol, I was devastated when he got back.

“Is this why I won?” he raged, throwing a vase against the wall, “Is this my reward? Is this my Victor’s life?”

His eyes streamed tears and his hands shook. I knew what had happened.
“I’m so sorry,” I took a step toward him, but he backed away.

Since he’d won the Games we had grown closer together. Neither of us had anyone left. He took care of me and I took care of him. He was like the son my body had been unable to give Martin. I loved him. He was my son.

Finnick stopped raging, his eyes filled with wide horror as he looked at me, “Mags?”

I couldn’t clear my thoughts. I think I was talking, but my words slurred together. Something wasn’t right. I collapsed, Finnick rushing to catch me. 

I suppose it was inevitable, I had had a stroke. Almost died they said… Almost. I was laid up for months and Finnick worked tirelessly to make me grow stronger. He didn’t want to let me go and I didn’t want to leave him yet. His life would be filled with misery from here on out, he needed someone to talk to. To love. 

Eventually I regained use of my left side and my face didn’t sag, but never again was I able to talk. Not that it mattered. Finnick did enough talking for the both of us. He was my partner in the Games. We mentored together and for the most part agreed on everything. Except when it came to Annie Cresta. I don’t think we’ll every agree on her. 
When Annie was reaped everyone saw a girl, who was dumb enough to cry on live television. A girl who wouldn’t last the first day. I saw Janus all over again and I wanted her.

“Mags no,” Finnick shook his head, when I asked him, “She won’t make it. You’re still too weak to be investing yourself in a girl, who’s only going to die.”

‘I want Annie,’ I mouthed.

Finnick sighed, “I won’t be able to talk you out of this will I? Fine pick the girl,” he leaned over and kissed my forehead.

I patted his cheek and got to work. Between the two of us we were able to coach Annie to a six with the Game Makers and her interview with Caesar wasn’t devoid of merit. Especially when the dear girl stuttered and blushed upon being asked how she liked Finnick as a Mentor.

“I like him,” she blurted, “I mean I like him as a Mentor.”

“I think we all understood what you meant,” Caesar winked and laughed, the audience joining in.

“You gotta admit she’s a doll,” Finnick gave me his classic half smile, “I hope she makes it.”

The Games were awful. They seemed bloodier then normal. Annie followed our plan and hid, running from the Cornucopia and the careers. She made it to the top ten, when the Game Makers decided to have fun and flood the arena. It rained for days and nights, while us Mentors watched helplessly as the cannons went off. Finnick and I could barely stand it, but still Annie hung on. Her strong legs keeping her head above the water. Finally the last cannon went off. Finnick and I jumped up; him screaming, me crying. She had won, she’d actually won! The Game Makers emptied the arena, until Annie’s knees snuck in the mud, the dead strewn about her. As they declared her the winner, Annie fainted dead away.

Her family didn’t know how to handle her, when she got home. They didn’t understand her hysteria and her nightmares. They sympathized, but didn’t understand. I did, that’s why I invited her to live with me. She would often crawl into my bed and sob into my chest. I had become the mother to another survivor.

“I know you’re the reason Finnick chose me,” she whispered, “You saved my life.”

‘No,’ I shook my head and tapped her chest.

“I’m in love with him you know,” she looked into my eyes.

I knew.

“But he doesn’t see me,” she smiled in a sad, wistful way.

If only that were true, but Finnick did see her. He’d always seen her. It had become obvious to me that he was falling in love with her. I didn’t want to impend his happiness or hers, but it was so dangerous for Victor’s to marry. Especially for Finnick. The Capitol would never let such a dramatic opportunity pass by untested. They couldn’t leave us alone. They had to have ultimate control over our lives. That’s what the Games are all about. And I was so tired of it.

That’s when perhaps the most important Games took place, the seventy-fourth. I watched the reapings and the parade and I picked my winner. A sixteen year-old girl from District Twelve named Katiness Everdeen. Just looking into her eyes you could tell she was going to out think everyone. I didn’t realize that included out thinking the Capitol. That brave, stupid girl went far beyond anything Haymitch or I ever did- Or ever dreamed of doing. In a blatant act of rebellion she brandished those berries. 
Maybe she didn’t know what she was doing, maybe she did it out of love. To me it didn’t matter, she’d beaten their Games and I was ecstatic!

After that the mood in Panaem changed. Hope became the norm. Katiness and Peeta’s Victory Tour proved it. That’s why the Capitol reaped from the remaining Victors for the third Quarter Quell. They needed to kill Katiness and regain control.
All my tributes agreed if they were reaped they’d stand with Katiness, they’d rebel. They’re my legacy.

The day of the Reaping I stood among the few remaining woman. That old feeling rose up; I didn’t think I was going to survive. Funny how it didn’t scare me this time.
The men were reaped first. It wasn’t surprising when Finnick was chosen. He knew things, too many secrets. President Snow was cruel though, when he selected Annie to go in with him. I felt sick and knew she couldn’t go. It would destroy them both. I raised my hand and tapped fiercely on my chest. I was going. I’d die, not Annie.

Finnick rapped me in his arms, whispering ‘thank you’s in my ear. I shook my head, unwilling to cry as I tapped his chest choosing my winner. He’s always protected me and Annie by cooperating with the Capitol, well now it was my turn. I’d seen the beginning of the Games, I was ready to see the end. Let the Rebellion begin.

The End

Lots of loves,
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