#why is the merchant scavenger so far away

[raintemper]

6 hours of rain world with my friend... oh shaded citadel my unbeloved :((

[plutonium-sky]

Headcannons list for Cackling Cannoneer (and also the Abyss crew in general cause I got overboard) specifically so far because I just thought of a really stupid but funny one

Cut because the list Is Very Long And You Should Be Intimidated Because I Have More

I like to call him Thane (or Thaen)

Scottish, has an accent that gets worse the more emotional/distressed he is

nicknames everyone he likes (e.g. Abyss guide (Abby) as "Little Kitten" or Anxious Angler (Fern) as "Songbird")

Has about 5 different guns but only keeps 2 of them on hand at all times (2 different harpoon guns, one that we see in the memory that's basically a sniper and one for fishing (aka has a rope attached to harpoon), 2 flintlock pistols as backup, and another flintlock as a backup to the backups)

Has a knife on him at all times, even while asleep (so do the rest of the crew. Yes even Abby)

Ever since he nearly drowned and got eaten by the beast, he has a slight (lie) fear of deep water

Abby saved him from the beast before because she conveniently had a lighter on her when she found his boat and dived down to fetch him, freeing the manta with it

Has very small acid scars on his legs from lying down in beast stomach acid for a bit

Is the reason why a tower in Treasure Reef is missing a lot of it's structure (had too much fun with the ship cannons)

Assigned as the weapons man for the ship, looking out for threats. Otherwise he's on land watch because that doubles as looking for threats (aka spends his time in the nest of the ship)

Has never met his biological father, instead considers the Ceasing Commodore (or Alemez, as I call him) to be his dad. His mom is alive and he visits her whenever the crew comes back from an expedition

The ship IS a pirate ship, but they're licensed. They scavenge for resources, and find stuff that can be reused. They are also sometimes hired by merchants to protect them from Actual pirates

May seem self absorbed and uncaring, but that's because you haven't got him to open up yet

You don't want to hurt a crew member while he's around. You're gonna have a bad time running away or defending yourself from a very rageful Thane

Tends to play up his stories for the sake of other's entertainment

Strong Sibling Vibes with most of the crew (he would absolutely "increase gravity" on Abby)

Doesn't get seasick easily, but it does happen from time to time

Fucking hates snow. And ice. What is this slippery cold floor why is it a thing (as an extension he avoids Valley at all costs)

Don't let him go to somewhere cold, he's gonna get a fever Immediately

And another name list cause it might have been confusing: Cackling Cannoneer = Thane/Thaen, Abyss Guide = Abby, Ceasing Commodore = Alemez, Anxious Angler = Fern, Bumbling Boatswain = Ismael

And the funny joke headcannon:

Names his weapons like Heavy from tf2 does as a joke

[virtie333]

WIP Wednesday

Well, I finished my current Damerey WIP last night. The editing may start tonight, but since I have tomorrow off, I may take it easy and watch a movie instead. Or both. You never know.

Anyway, instead of offering you a snippet of the new fic, which I hope to start posting on AO3 on May 9, I'm going to direct you to part of a chapter from one of my first Damerey fics. It was the inspiration for this new fic, and as you can probably guess, it's why this ended up being a rewrite of the sequel trilogy. Because, what if it started like this..?

Another day. Another ration pack. Or two. Rey’s haul that day hadn’t been big, but it would be enough for a meal, however small. She stopped her speeder just outside the limits of Niima Outpost, the sun low in the sky, and carried her load to the cleaning station. As she did so, she noticed three unique shapes off to the south, where visiting ships usually landed. She stopped and stared. X-Wings?

She had seen X-Wing fighters before, on the rare occasion some mercenary or outrider who happened to have one stopped on Jakku. However, it was obvious those models were old junkers, damaged during battle and disposed of by their owners as not being worth the money to fix, and then being taken on by someone who had the time to repair them enough to be travel worthy if not battle ready. These three ships were far from junkers. Sleek, well-cared for, and ready for combat, they had no insignia on them to identify who they belonged to, but there was only one group in the galaxy that used X-Wings effectively these days: The Resistance. Two of the ships were steel grey with blue and red marks on them to individualize them. The third was painted a very distinctive black with orange marks.

Rey continued on to the cleaning station. While she hadn’t found much in today’s scavenging, what she had was unique enough to warrant decent ‘pay,’ and after cleaning the old compressor engine, she was pleased to have earned one full portion for it. Putting the ration packs in her bag, she headed for her speeder, but a small group of humans caught her eye. There were three of them, and though they were dressed casually, she knew immediately they were the pilots of the three X-Wings she had seen. They stood out like a sore thumb amongst the rag-tag throng of Niima.

There were two men and one woman. The woman was young, less than a decade older than Rey herself, and though she was attractive, Rey recognized a hardness in the woman’s attitude; she was no pushover. Which made sense, since flying an X-Wing was not for the faint of heart. The man she was talking to was older, a bit thick around the middle, with a beard and a jovial expression. He did not look like a fighter pilot at first glance, but the way he looked about him with wariness spoke of someone who had been there and done that in his lifetime.

The third member of the group, who was talking to one of the merchants, was probably a bit younger than the other male pilot, shorter but fit, and his demeanor spoke of confidence and leadership. Something told her the black X-Wing belonged to this man. As she watched, the vendor said something that apparently amused the pilot and he laughed. Something inside Rey clenched, and she was immediately confused. Why did this stranger affect her this way? Suddenly, she realized the dealer was pointing at her, and all three pilots turned to look at her.

Panicked, Rey turned and started walking away, trying to be casual about it. She had no clue what they wanted with her or why the merchant had pointed her out to them; she had never had dealings with the man. She turned her head a bit and was dismayed to see the woman and the bearded man following her in her peripheral. They seemed to be in no rush, but their focus was undeniably on her. She was so intent on them she didn’t see the third pilot until she almost ran smack into him. Somehow, he had gotten in front of her and was now blocking her way.

He gave her a disarming smile, his brown eyes warm. “Hey, it’s okay,” he told her. “We just want to ask you a question.” When she stopped and gave him a brief nod, he held out his hand. “I’m Poe,” he told her. “Poe Dameron.”

She looked down at his hand and then back up at him, taking it cautiously. People rarely shook hands here on Jakku. His hand was warm and callused, and his touch was comforting. She bit her lip and pulled her hand back, more than a little confused by her reaction.

She saw his gaze drop to her lips, then he looked up and behind her, motioning to his companions. “This is Snap and Jess,” he told her.

Rey glanced back at them as they nodded, then she faced Dameron again. “Rey,” she said softly.

“I know.”

For some reason, his simple response made her heart beat harder and faster. Why did he seem so familiar? And why was she acting this way around him? Plenty of hot-shot pilots had come and gone from Niima outpost, and several of them had been handsome as sin. None had affected her like this man.

“We’re here looking for pilots to recruit into the Resistance,” he continued. “More than one person pointed out you as the best pilot in Niima, maybe even all of Jakku.” The corner of his mouth tilted up. “Do you have any interest in learning to fly combat spacecraft?”

Rey was stunned. Who had told him she was a pilot? It wasn’t something she broadcasted, and she sure as heck never thought anyone in Niima cared anyway. “Fly combat? Like an X-Wing?” she asked.

“Yep,” Dameron said with a smile. “X-Wings. A-Wings. Bombers. Whatever your talents fit with best.”

Rey was starting to get excited. To be able to travel around the galaxy and fly those amazing ships would be a dream come true. “That would be wonderful!” she exclaimed, but then reality hit her.

Poe had grinned at her reaction, but when her face fell, his did too. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

She blinked and looked at him. “I’m flattered by your offer, but I… I can’t leave Jakku.”

“Seriously?” he said, his expression disbelieving. “Why can’t you leave this dustball?”

Rey hesitated. How to explain something she had a hard time explaining to herself? “I’m waiting for someone,” she said, keeping it simple.

Poe looked disconcerted. “That’s too bad,” he told her. “We really need good pilots.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Whoever you’re waiting for is very fortunate to have someone so loyal on their side.”

Rey felt her face heat.

He held out his hand again and she took hold of it more willingly this time. “If you change your mind,” he told her softly, “look me up.” He held onto her hand much longer than a simple handshake warranted, and she didn’t mind at all. With a sad nod, he let her go and turned away. Rey was barely aware of the other two pilots passing her and following him. Slowly, she made her way out of town and toward her speeder. She had mounted it and was getting ready to start it when the roar of engines caught her attention. She looked up to see the three X-Wings lifting off and heading upward toward space. She watched them until they disappeared in the dusky sky, then put her head down on the steering column and cried.

[keldjinfae]

WIP Wednesday

I was tagged by the ever wonderful @dear-massacre, so here's another snippet from my fic for the 2024 Sterek Reverse Bang:

The fox sat on its haunches, blinking slowly as it stared up at him, seemingly regarding him just as intently. Derek searched behind the fox, his brows pinched together, but the feeling of being something else’s prey was already fading, almost entirely forgotten by the time the fox took a few more steps closer, drawing his focus again. “I don’t know why you made it snow so early, and I don't want to know,” he stated firmly after a moment, repeating what he’d been saying to the Trickster for the better part of ten years.

“I don’t care if I’m marked by Fate or chosen for some grand destiny to restore the Old Gods. I did your ritual; I burned your mistletoe. I’m only here for what’s mine, so unless you can bring me what I came for, I’m not interested.” Derek folded his arms over his chest, squaring his shoulders resolutely, and stared down at the goddess of Storms as if he was merely haggling with a greedy merchant in a market stall.

The fox appeared to grin, her eyes narrowing as if she was pleased with him, whether despite or because of what he’d said. She blinked a couple of times, unhurried, and reached out with her front paws as far as she possibly could until her back was stretched out in a languid arch, then straightened just as slowly to return to her original position on her haunches. After a few more seconds of watching him, sly smile still in place, she sprang up without warning, leaping from where they both were on the ground to soar an uncanny distance and land on the snow-covered top of the wall. Rather than wait for Derek to follow after her, the Trickster didn’t even turn to look back at him before she dropped down to the other side, her only tell a teasing, dismissive flick of her bushy, white tail: go on, then.

Derek’s jaw clenched tightly, his brows drawing together in a frustrated glare at the empty space in the snow in front of him where the fox had just been. There were no traces of her left behind, not even tracks, and the absence of her presence mocked him the longer he remained standing there without waking up. He waited a few more stubborn beats, then took in a deep breath, pointedly ignoring his inability to scent the air, and resisted the urge to clench his hands into fists as he lowered his arms and moved closer to the wall.

His own jump was impressive enough, using the last few steps to gain the momentum to propel him high enough to reach out and clamp onto the top of the wall with his clawed hands. He pulled himself up to balance on his haunches, surveying what waited for him on the other side. Even for the still quiet of the presumably late hour, the city was eerily dark and lifeless, its streets completely devoid of people, the snow just as unmarred by traffic as it was in the field behind him.

His ears strained fruitlessly for a hint of muted snores or scavenging rodents, any signs of life whatsoever, but not even the Trickster made any noise as she continued to slink down the middle of the street, still unconcerned with whether or not she was being followed. Derek only had a few seconds left before she’d round a corner and disappear from sight, and this time he somehow knew that if he allowed her to slip away again, she’d release him from his dreams and he’d wake up wondering what she wanted. His claws scraped over the moonstone beneath him, his fingers digging into the wall like talons before he released his grip and dropped down onto the empty street with an explosive sigh.

The Trickster quickened her pace, now that she had Derek’s attention, darting through labyrinthine intersections and alleyways and squares, leaving Derek to all but break into a run to keep up. Even if he thought they would matter in a dream, Derek was moving too quickly to take note of any distinctive landmarks. It wasn’t long at all before he was dependent on the fox to lead them, with no scent or tracks to find his way back on his own, if backtracking was even possible.

Their destination became clear as soon as Derek laid eyes on it—not just because it loomed unmistakably over the rest of the city, but because it was literally the only building with any details to set it apart. The Citadel’s highest towers were visible from as far back as the forest, and the pale light of the moon shone on the white stone of its walls, the snow covering its domes and turrets and eaves, making it look like some kind of ghostly ice palace. Its panels of fabled Glass glimmered silver, from its innumerable picture windows to the giant, wrought iron double doors of its grand main entrance.

The fox came to a stop in front of the doors, looking particularly small by comparison, and sat once again on her haunches, as if in wait. At first, Derek assumed she was waiting on him, and he reached out to pull one of the doors open, only to find it sealed tight and immovable, even up against the strength of an alpha werewolf. He stepped away from the door, flexing his fingers and looking over the elaborate swirls of iron and stained Glass for some weakness he could bend or pry open.

While Derek searched, reaching out to trace over the cold iron where it was at its thinnest, the Trickster merely reared back to look up at the windows above them. Her eyes glowed a bright, burning orange, like two twin rings of fire, before she let out a piercing scream that sounded almost human, echoing through the lifeless streets of the city. As the clamor began to fade away, her eyes flashed, and Derek felt a charge cut through the air, making the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand on end.

He looked up at the sound of rolling thunder, finding a mass of roiling, dark clouds moving in rapidly to blot out the moon. As he watched, the fox’s fur crackled with static, as if she was gathering the storm around her like a magnificent cloak, rather than striking out against the Citadel. Once she was completely shrouded in what looked like deadly brambles of lightning, Derek realized that everything else around her had gone unnaturally dark, the eerie violet glow surrounding her only exaggerating their shadows, making them flicker and twitch like disturbing marionettes.

Derek recoiled instinctively, stepping back and baring his fangs, and regretted it almost immediately when he felt the electric charge buzz and snap against his teeth, making his tongue go numb and heavy in his mouth. He realized he was snarling, his eyes glowing bright red, and knew that he was on the brink of losing control and shifting completely. He didn’t know what the Trickster was defending against, but he could feel it encroaching on his skin, breathing down his neck, seeping into his bones until his limbs were just as numb and heavy as his tongue; once again, he knew that he was prey to whatever was lurking in the dark.

The heaviness in his limbs was also in the air, thick and oppressive, giving the darkness substance, like it was rapidly coalescing into an actual shape. The more of it that gathered together, the less Derek could hear; the harder it became to breathe. This time, when the Trickster threw her head back to scream again, Derek howled along with her, his deep, rumbling roar providing a counterpoint to her sharp wail.

Their discordant outcry cut through the air, lancing upwards like a bolt of lightning. Derek could sense the darkness regrouping to close back in, pour into him until there was nothing of him left. His muscles began to pull taut with power, preparing for the transformation that would bend and break and reshape his bones and sinews into something just as primal.

Derek felt the response from above before he registered what it was, feeling it right down to his marrow as the ground trembled underneath his feet. He clamped his hands over his ears, his claws going smooth and blunt again as a cry of anguish rang out from one of the highest towers of the Citadel. It was impossibly loud, ringing in the back of Derek’s throat and in his chest as much as it was in his head, and he could hear the agony in the sound more clearly than if he’d been able to scent the air. The entire world around them seemed to rattle with the force of it, quaking with the impotent rage of injustice that Derek knew all too well, until the doors of the Citadel unlocked. They opened on their own, their hinges groaning, and the fox wasted no time darting inside. Derek followed as soon as he was able, feeling the darkness trying to rush in on his heels before the doors slammed shut behind him.

Zero pressure tags for @renmackree @thotpuppy @nerdherderette @ephemeronidwrites and anyone who wants to share anything they've written, no matter the fandom (or if it's even fanfic to begin with)!

[oc-aita]

AITA for withholding "crucial information" from my client?

Okay so, hear me out here. I (22M) work as an on-call mechanic for this restaurant owner-chef (22F). Basically, whenever one of her appliances or machines breaks down, she calls me in and I fix it. She doesn't like me all that much, but as she lives in a desert town on the edges of civilisation and spends half her time fighting off the surrounding bird monsters for her people (long story), she has neither the time nor the resources to replace me anyway.

I don't live in the same town as she does. (It's why I'm only on-call and not a full-time employee.) In fact, I actually live much further away, in a harbour town plagued by sea monsters and illegal whalers. What my client (and most of the harbour town) doesn't know is that, at night, I dress up like a pirate and raid the illegal whaling vessels for their mechanical harpoon launchers and other equipment, and turn the loot into machine parts for my other job. Unfortunately, due to my actions, my 'pirate persona' has a rather large bounty on it from the illegal whalers, as many of them are wealthy merchants who are selling the whale meat on the black market after the king officially banned it a few years ago. On one hand, the bounty is rather flattering for a pirate such as myself, but on the other hand, I'm also the only person powerful and brave (or stupid) enough to fight the sea monsters that are also terrorising the harbour, so I can't afford to get caught because someone I know revealed my identity to the wrong person.

My client was completely unaware of my side gig for this reason, until a friend of mine (23M), who had met her while searching for an unspecified individual and was in on my work, accidentally mentioned my side job to her in an off-handed remark. Predictably, she was furious and upset that I hadn't told her about this beforehand, chewing me out for not letting her know up front that she'd hired a pirate. Which she hadn't, not at first. I first met her when I was scavenging the desert for machine parts from war machines abandoned there (again, long story), before I found the illegal whalers as a better source of ill-gotten parts.

It's been a while, and she's still upset that I withheld such 'important information' from her. After I tried to explain myself, now she's also angry that I didn't trust her with this, citing that she lives far enough away that my bounty shouldn't be a problem anyway. She calls me an asshole for keeping things from her, never mind that she hadn't bothered to ask about them or where I'd been getting my parts before. If you asked me, it's on her for not vetting her employees properly to begin with.

At least she hasn't fired me yet. She still can't afford to, after all.

So, internet, AITA?

[minigiantsgiantblog]

Index Astartes: Prædicators

Origins

The history of the Inanis Prædicators can be traced back to the terrifying times around the Year of the Ghosts. The High Lords of Terra ordered a Chapter be founded from the Gene-legacy of the Silver Skulls, the line of Guilliman. Thadru Hucno, ‘The Void Herald’, was appointed as the Chapter’s first Lord Commander. Hucno was known for his superstitions, near-ritualistically talking into the void about his Prognosticators’ divinations, and it is from this practice which the Chapter’s High Gothic name derives.

This nascent Chapter and those which were founded alongside them were created from the most stable of gene-stock; how many chapters were founded alongside the Praedicators is unclear as a great many records have been lost within the labyrinth of the Administratum. All that is known is that at least half a dozen were founded, with the Howling Griffons being the most well-known. A majority of the Chapters from this founding follow the strict organisational and tactical guidelines of the Codex Astartes. Like most of the approximately one thousand chapters in existence, the Prædicators follow the doctrines of the Codex to an extent, but are also known for occasionally deviating from some of the less stringent requirements.

Thadru Hucno started the Praedicators upon a path that, for over seven thousand years now, has earned them a cold reputation throughout the Imperium. Since their inception, they have become known for holding an especially grim and fatalistic view of Mankind, stemming from the strange and terrible knowledge that is their burden. The inheritors of Hucno’s visions fight to deny the inevitable, bemoaning the high price they have to pay for such meagre gains as can be won in the wars against the enemies of the Imperium - but they fight on because that is what they were created to do. 

It started within a few years of their founding, as brothers with no prior signs of psychic ability began experiencing vivid hallucinogenic dreams. The Apothecaries now suspect that this was due to the slow mutation of their Catalepsean Node, a dark flaw in the Chapter’s gene-seed that they were at first loath to discuss with even their fellow Astartes. These dreams were glimpses into a horrifying future, and eerily mirrored the more worrying divinations the Chapter’s psychically-attuned Prognosticators were beginning to scry.

As the dreams progressed in severity they eventually had no choice but to reach out; first to the Adeptus Mechanicus and their Genator-Magos, Abdul Hazred, and then to the Ultramarines, the First Founding Chapter whose Primarch Roboute Guilliman was the primogenitor of the Silver Skulls Chapter who in turn were the Praedicator’s forebears. At every step their emissaries were turned away, cursed for being too frightening to be believed. Other servants of the Imperium seemed unable to see the truth staring back at them from beyond the stars; of how pointless Mankind is in this universe, and how the Imperium is the centre of nothing. The confession of their genetic mutation only brought the Imperium’s scrutiny down onto the Prædicators, and with it Inquisitorial investigation along with the immediate presumption of guilt which that entails. Faced with such levels of paranoia and suspicion, the Praedicators have now learned to stay quiet, until one day they may perceive someone who is truly ready to heed their warnings.

Charged with heretical thinking and deviation from the Imperial Creed, the Chapter was sentenced to purgatory along the Imperium’s isolated southern border. Their presence might still be of some use to the Imperium, and the location of their penitent exile was carefully chosen in order to repair the power and reach of the Adeptus Astartes, until such time as they could once again call themselves true Scions of Guilliman in thought and deed. Being haunted by unimaginable visions and nightmares has profoundly altered their tale to this day. Unlike their fellow descendants of Guilliman, the Prædicators never once aspired to take the pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Primarch before his un-prophesised return. Nor have they made obeisance to him in person since, for their visions have made them pariahs and they are still shunned by the Astartes whose gene-seed they bear.

Recruitment

Settling into their duty of protecting the periphery of the Segmentum Tempestus from Xenos incursions, an expeditionary fleet led by the Prædicators was tasked with mapping some essential yet unknown areas of the Veiled Region. Without this survey, the limited levels of navigation possible in this region would have continued to make it both difficult and dangerous to travel through. The Veiled Region  is known for being unstable at best, with perennial nebulae interfering with communication, not to mention the unusual levels of psionic radiation which often leave vessels to drift for days unable to re-enter the tumultuous Immaterium. Amongst the greatest dangers is its isolation from Astropathic communication, for psychic communication is reflected and echoed with only silence being returned. It was only due to the fleet’s particularly skilled Navigators that the exploration was even allowed, and their heroic efforts certainly explain why it was successful. Without them the fleet would be unable to traverse the frequently encountered breaking points of reality, pervasive nebulae, and vast stellar clouds. It was in this seemingly unknown and forgotten area of space, that the expeditionary fleet came upon what they had been told did not exist: human settlements! Under Imperial law they were prohibited, but the populations the fleet encountered seemed to be surviving and even thriving despite their separation from the light of the Astronomicon. What was more striking was the seemingly steady flow of vessels that came and went, bringing supplies and much needed trade, despite the innumerable Imperial edicts which they were breaking to do so.

All manner of vessels, it seemed, would frequently traverse through this region of space; merchants, miners, scavengers, prison ships, vessels belonging to darkholds, and even the occasional Rogue Trader’s personal flagship and attendant flotilla. Without these many visitors the far-flung human settlements would be isolated from one another and left unprotected. The Imperium functions on the premise that most core worlds do not need to be self-sufficient, instead focussing on the manufacture or production of a few key goods or resources which are then supplemented with essential goods from off-world. Without a steady stream of starships plying their way through the Veiled Region, interstellar trade could not exist, and the weapons and other supplies needed to stop each world falling into darkness would not be obtained.

Space travel beyond the boundaries of the Imperium is arduous and dangerous, with spacefarers relying on their ancient vessels’ powerful engines flinging them into the Immaterium - a black art poorly understood by the adepts of the Mechanicus in the forty-first millennium. Once vessels have entered warp-space they can cover thousands of light years within a relatively short time, dropping back into the Materium far beyond their starting points. The Warp ever seeks to drag helpless vessels to their doom, with its constant turbulence, and treacherous warp storms. To travel any distance at all through the warp is dangerous, impressive, and not attempted lightly. To travel between the distant worlds of the Veiled Region demanded a particular kind of dedication, madness, or disregard for the safety of those onboard. The alternative - travelling through realspace without the use of warp engines - brings its own hazards and challenges. And yet here were worlds visited by privateers and merchant princes, arriving via every means and from many directions.

Those aboard space-faring vessels in the forty-first millennium are not merely star travellers but the products of many generations passed in the darkness between worlds; these are the Void Born. They are relatively few among the teeming multitudes of humanity, but singular, and form a disparate and odd collection of misfits, strangers, and other ill-omened folk, birthed in the bellies of vessels that spend entire standard centuries charting a course through the stars. On the worlds the Void Born come to they are often shunned for their ethereal quality and considered to be unlucky, ill-fated, bringers of bad fortune, secretive, and untrustworthy. Most imperial citizens and no small number of fringe-dwellers believe the Void Born in some way to have been touched by the Warp where gravitational variance, radiation exposure, genetic distortion, and chaotic anomalies slowly take their toll. Ashore they carry a strange air about them, a perceptible something that makes others uneasy.

Darkholds

The Darkholders, the Void born from the spacefaring vessels with the darkest of reputations make up a greater proportion of the chapters chaplaincy than any other source. They are couched in stories of dire curses, bleak fortunes, baleful massacres, cannibalism, hauntings and worse. They are a breed apart to those with the wisdom to see it.

.

The plight of the Void Born was seen by the Praedicators as one mirroring their own; they too were homeless, and ostracised without just cause. Empathy overcame Hucno's soul. The Void Born, too, were somehow associated with the many and unfathomable dangers of the outer darkness. Their being inured to the Warp convinced the Lord Commander that they could serve as the source of recruitment for the aspirants who might safeguard the future of the Prædicators. Without a Homeworld of their own, the Chapter otherwise risked a slow dwindling through combat losses and the decline into old age that claims even the Astartes after many centuries. Having determined how they could sustain their Chapter, the Praedicators now settled into patrolling the periphery of the vastly unknown Veiled Region. This was ever a dangerous calling, with small groups of ships navigating amongst dense nebulae and newborn stars, suffering from waves of radiation cast off by discarded stellar matter whilst being cloaked from any hope of reinforcements or communication by swathes of stellar dust, and all the while patrolling along the galactic south of the Segmentum Tempestus, from which come the raiders and despoilers of the foul Xenos. The Void Heralds learned to deal with these conditions, or they died. The survivors became responsible for the surrounding areas of space, chief among them the Ainu System, the Nahmu Stars and the Hypnis Expanse. Apothecaries and Chaplains of the Prædicators recruit aspirants for the Chapter exclusively from the vast, city-sized spacecraft that ply the depths of the void; in this way, they follow the edicts of Lord Commander Hucno in order to ensure that the Chapter recruits only the most mentally capable and genetically suitable candidates.

Recruitment is slow and arduous, with no centralised pool of potential candidates to draw from and no way of knowing when the next suitable aspirant will be found within the innumerable shoals of voidfaring vessels. Chaplains must work within the labyrinthine political webs woven amongst the thousands of ships’ crew, often becoming embroiled in complex networks of feuds, alliances, and unpleasant little wars - all while taking care not to disrupt the carefully balanced system. Removing the wrong crewmember as a potential aspirant can potentially hamper the Void Born population's ability to maintain itself and properly crew a ship, depriving the Chapter of a valuable source of future recruits.

Brought to their space-bound fortress monastery, Cetus, to be inducted into the Prædicators the Void Born aspirants will step out to breathe in its unique ecosystem. Some fall into a catatonic, worshipful state when they see its grandeur. These failed aspirants are led away to serve the Chapter in other ways. Those who can take in the sight of Cetus without being overcome gradually learn that large portions of the vessel are used to emulate different combat environments for training purposes, while entire swathes of space are given to meditation. The great chambers and vaults are often decorated with tapestries depicting the terrifying nightmares they are to expect but most numerous of all are the seemingly endless barren halls. It is here that neophytes will undergo the long process of psycho-indoctrination, submitting to grueling biological and genetic testing before being implanted with the gene-seed that will sustain them through a lifetime of nightmares, turning their meagre bodies into killing machines, recreating the Void Born as a Void Herald. A once humble and frail recruit becomes the epitome of humanity, the perfect warrior and servant of the Imperium.

Cetus

Ostracised by their forebears, the Prædicators were never afforded the luxury of being gifted a mighty relic of the Imperium. A brief change in their fortune sometime in 35th millennium however afforded the Chapter their first, most powerful, and most prized possession; a pre-Imperial battlestation of unknown origins found floating abandoned around a neutron star, its organic crew long turned to dust by aeons of inimical radiation which had somehow left the vessel’s hardened Machine Spirit intact. Upon sanctification by the Adeptus Mechanicus this gigantic warship would go on to become the Chapter's space bound fortress monastery, flagship, and foremost warship. In form and scale, it is nearer a planetoid than a conventional vessel. Its foredeck can dock a dozen Imperial Navy Cruisers around its circumference. The vessel is a hive city in space, with its great spires reaching towards the stars. It bears a striking resemblance to the trident shaped Furious Abyss-class Super Battleships of the Great Crusade, the last known example of which was slaved to the Word Bearers legion and long thought lost to the Warp. Its potential rivals that of the more famous Phalanx, and if it were fully operational the Praedicators could boast of wielding firepower equivalent to a formidable fleet. For now the Cetus’ power is untested, yet as more and more of its mysteries are explored the Mechanicus swear they are coming ever closer to bringing its weapon systems fully online. For now it remains more of a figurehead, deterring any would-be attackers with its studded surface packed with arched gun batteries, the squat shape of its singular plasma lance, and arrays of Psionic charges - alongside other more esoteric defences which have yet to be fully revealed. Restoring the Cetus has already been the labour of millennia, and it may yet be centuries more before it leads the Chapter into action once more - a prophesied return which has taken on greater significance with each new divination scryed by the Prognosticators

Battlefield Doctrine

Following the same reading and understanding of Roboute Guilliman's Codex Astartes as their Predecessors, the Silver Skulls, the Praedicators stay close to the sacred tome’s main tenets. This has protected the Chapter from any further suspicion and scrutiny from the Inquisition. The inevitably of all that they know becoming enveloped in darkness never leaves their thoughts but War is their purpose; it is what the Heralds were created for, and it is their last source of pride and satisfaction.

The tactical orthodoxy is dictated to a degree by the fact that they are a Fleet Based Chapter of the Adeptus Astartes - some would say, the truest bearers of the name “Space Marines”. Their limited numbers ensure the Chapter is not used as a blunt instrument but instead to deliver precise and lethal strikes in a manner that could never be achieved by the faceless masses of the Astra Militarum. Millennia of repeated combat indoctrination has shaped them into the force they are today; efficiency in war is their only antidote for bemoaning the cost of taking something that achieves nothing, and being unable to stop the creeping darkness.

After making planetfall on a new world the Praedicators make the most of their precognitive psychic abilities by deploying as a predominantly defensive force. Their Techmarines and commanding officers orchestrate fire bases that use skilled marksmen and overlapping fields of fire to suppress oncoming attackers. Assault forces held in reserve wait for the opportune moment to disrupt their attackers further with well executed raids, attacking seemingly from all sides at once. These attacks have the dual goal of causing considerable damage and sowing confusion among the enemy ranks. Praedicators bemoan the cost of war and, so their reasoning goes, so too will those that try to defy them. It is said the only death the Praedicators fear is the slow death through madness which is the fate of so many Void Born; it is why they give no quarter and expect none in return. As with their predecessors it is not unknown to hear of the Prædicators displaying an unwillingness to go to another’s aid. After all, no one is willing to come to theirs, and sometimes the divinations simply show the cost to be too severe. It is perhaps this single fact which explains why they have survived for so long, and yet have so few allies even amongst their Astartes gene-kin.

Some opponents make the mistake of thinking the defensively-minded Praedicators are an inert force, slow to rouse and lacking in agility. Such thinking brings the enemies of mankind only woe. When the Chapter begrudgingly determines that they have to take ground, they will seek to overwhelm their foes so mightily that they may maintain offensive momentum at all costs. Nor are their assaults rash or under-prepared; preferring to engage directly after a carefully orchestrated orbital bombardment from their vast fleet assets, waves of drop-pod infantry and light equipment arrive with impeccable timing alongside Thunderhawk-deployed vehicles and other heavy assets.

Chapter Scouts will most often be required to gather vital intelligence - a mission which can demand they face the foe under a huge range of dangerous  circumstances. This hard-won knowledge is used to confirm or expand on the information gained from the Prognosticators divinations. Scouts are further used in the disruption of enemy supply lines through sabotage and demolition actions, as well as to eliminate key targets with crippling campaigns of assassination missions and pre-emptive strikes.

Their collective actions are often mistaken for bravery and courage. In truth, the Praedicators stand before the enemies of the Imperium unflinchingly as they consider themselves worthless. It is only thanks to the Chaplains that walk among them in the heat of battle, reminding them of their purpose, their sole responsibility, that they continue to fight. Without strong leadership they might otherwise lapse into dark thoughts: the want to die, the want to despair, and the want to return to nothing.

Organisation

An outside observer would find it difficult to spot any differences between the Prædicators and a chapter rigidly adhering to the tenets of the Codex, such as the Ultramarines. Prædicators have been considered a near Codex Astartes-adherent chapter for much of their history, although the nature of a fleet-based chapter does require some flexibility in this regard, with isolated fleet elements being forced to adapt their tactics to the resources available to them. Additionally, the Prædicators fight predominantly without direct Imperial support due to their ill-omened reputation, instilling in them a sense of self-reliance uncommon in many Codex-style chapters who are more comfortably meshed in the greater Imperial war machine.

It is in the organisation of the higher levels that deviations from the Codex Astartes can be seen. All Chapters include a number of officers and specialists who stand aside from the company organisation. In the Prædicators the Chapter Master is referred to as Lord Commander, as was the way of their predecessors, the Silver Skulls. The Librarians, known as Prognosticators, share the mantle of spiritual advisors (alongside their Brother-Chaplains); these psychically attuned warriors are the seers of the Chapter, scrying for divination of the future. Wherever their visions take them, they grant the squads and companies they are attached to an undeniable edge for the coming battles.

The Chapter relies on a large support staff, and highly ranked members include the Master of the Fleet, and the senior Captains: the Keeper of the Arsenal, the Abyssal Watcher, and the Warden of the Watch. Although each Captain is a Space Marine, there are actually relatively few Brethren in the Chapter’s support staff, and most non-combatant roles are performed by the Chapter’s Human serfs. The Chapter includes a large number of support staff, many of whom are non-combatants of advanced age tasked with the day-to-day administration of the Chapter. The largest group of Prædicators Space Marines in the support staff are the Chapter’s armourers and Techmarines, who are aided in their tasks by hundreds of mono-task Servitors.

The ten companies follow the structure laid down within the Codex, with the first company being made up of the most experienced Veterans among the Chapter’s ranks. Their wisdom is invaluable, and so they are attached to the Battle Companies to share their knowledge, deployed in small units and essentially armed in a similar manner to a Tactical squad though admittedly with their enhanced scopes and specialised ammunition. Only the most experienced of the Veterans will be permitted to wear the few suits of Terminator armour available to the Chapter. Unless the need for their presence on the battlefield is dire, these suits can be seen watching over you as you enter the forge on Cetus. Prædicator Techmarines have gone to extensive lengths to recover fallen suits of Terminator armour so that they may once more see battle.

The 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th Companies are organised along Codex lines as Battle Companies. Each consists of six battleline squads, two close support squads, and two fire support squads. These four companies and their fleets form the main battle lines and generally bear the brunt of the fighting, whether planetside or in the void. Each has a degree of autonomy and with such a variety of squads, the Companies are highly flexible and tactically adaptable.

Companies 6 and 7 are reserve Companies, each consisting of ten battleline squads. These act as reserves which may be used to bolster the front line, launch diversionary attacks or stem enemy flanking manoeuvres. With such low recruitment rates these are rarely ever at full strength. The 7th company is barely seen at all, and some say it exists now in name only.

The 8th Company consists of ten close support squads. This highly mobile company is often equipped with jump packs, and is fielded in the assault role wherever a strong hand-to-hand fighting force is needed to storm an enemy strongpoint.

The Prædicators’ 9th Company follows the doctrines laid out in the Codex, unlike their progenitors the Silver Skulls, who designate their 9th Company as a siege company. In the Prædicators, this Company consists of ten Fire Support Squads. It is the most powerfully equipped in the Chapter and is used to bolster defence and provide long-range support.

The 10th Company consists of a number of Scout squads; youths who have been recruited and partially transformed into Space Marines. There is no formal size for the company as the rate of recruitment is not fixed. They are the only company to not maintain its own fleet, and instead operate directly from Cetus. Never fighting as one coherent force, they are instead assigned throughout the other fleets where they can gain experience alongside their elders. 

All of the companies, with the exception of the Scout Company, maintain transports and Drop pods for each of their squads and officers. The armoury hold onto rarer equipment more centrally, including heavy vehicles such as Land Raiders, with each of these relic war machines being allocated to individual squads as dictated by the needs of their mission or when requested by a Captain in the midst of a campaign.

Many of the Battle companies and Reserve companies include a number of Dreadnoughts. These remain a part of the company in which the warrior served before being interred within the metal sarcophagus from which he fights; his continuing presence always bolsters the company’s fighting strength considerably.

Chapter Cult and Belief System

Haunted by their dreams, and seen as secretive, the ill-omened Prædicators are Void Born and know of the unfathomable dangers of the outer darkness. Just as they did before wearing the mantle of Astartes, they continue to carry a strange air about them; a perceptible yet undefinable something that makes even the bravest of the warriors from other Astartes Chapters uneasy around them.

The Heralds know first-hand the horrors of space and the sheer multitude of the Emperor's enemies. This knowledge forces these voidfarers - plying the dark spaces between the stars while holding a deeper darkness within - to insulate their brotherhood from that which they are duty bound to protect. Thus they live a life of renunciation, rejecting what they know is always lurking in the void beyond the hull.

From deep within the Librarium, the minds of the Prognosticators look far out into the cold vastness of space, seeing further than any of their less gifted brothers’ dream-visions. Their sight will pierce the encroaching black veil for only a second, there to witness a momentary eternity of endless shrieking immemorial lunacy. They rarely speak of the eldritch contradictions of all matter, force, and cosmic order that scorch their mind. They have uncovered the abyss beneath their illusory sense of connection with Mankind; it is their gift, and their burden.

What all Brothers see is a senseless, mechanical, and uncaring universe. Mankind dissolves into meaninglessness when impermanence is the only real thing. They have tried for so long to look away and to wake from these terrible dreams, but with no understanding their minds are pulled and stretched further. The strain is too much for some. Staring deep into the void for so long, it now only stares back, as a contradicting reflection of what they have become: Reclusive, Withdrawn, Taciturn; Denizens of the Deep.

No ordinary Prædicator will be remembered, for all legacies will be burned, but the stars will live on. To recount tales of mankind’s history and achievements only delays the inevitable entropic devouring of every shred of memory, every artifact, and every settled world. Given that, the most solemn of causes is that of the Apothecarion; for their paradoxical role is to prepare for a future that does not appear to exist. The millennia of screeching divinations and torturous dreams have left the Prædicators with only a cold senseless taste of hopelessness. Their actions cannot be compared to the fate that awaits us all; it will all be dust. Humanity’s time has come, no longer belonging in the only place they have ever known.

That tenet disturbs the Ecclesiarchy for not only does it deny the existence of their God-Emperor but also all that He opposes, and all that He supposedly defends us against. It puts the Praedicators at odds with the Adeptus Mechanicus, and particularly challenges the Techmarines within their ranks who have sworn ancient pacts with the Omnissiah. To find a follower of the Imperial Cult not openly hostile to what they consider such blasphemy seems impossible. And should the Praedicators sow their thoughts into the mind of one receptive to their message… that would be the darkest day indeed. The Praedicators reject the concept of the God-Emperor because to perpetuate such an idea - of a deity that can save us from the unsavable - only serves to deny that we are alone, and hopeless in the grandest of schemes.

Realisation of the inevitable fate that belongs to us all is creeping into our galaxy, like the tendriled Void Stalker of the Warp approaching their prey. Aside from perhaps He who now sits on the Golden Throne mankind could never fathom, fully understand, or explain fate; but it is nearly upon them all, and the Praedicators believe that it will become known as a blessed release once every citizen of the Imperium realises that their fate is no longer in anyone’s hands. 

The Praedicators have no particular hatred of Xenos races, though they will gladly extinguish them if given the chance. Though all Xenos are dangerous to mankind, they are considered neither good nor evil. The greatest of the other species are merely incomprehensible, cosmic forces, that notions of morality have no significance to. They exist in cosmic realms beyond our understanding, and cannot serve as a bulwark against the darkness - but may by their mere existence hasten its encroachment. By this simple logic, they must die if mankind is to cling on a little longer in this uncaring galaxy.

While the Deathwatch and Ordo Xenos’ mode operati is considered narrow and flawed, for individual Prædicators to be assigned to a Watch Station or Fortress is celebrated, as the destruction of the Inhuman is seen as one of the last remaining noble causes in the galaxy. In the darkest millennium it needlessly stands out with towering majesty to give hope to those that have none.

Prognosticators

Prognosticators are hybrid officers fulfilling the role of Librarian, alongside tasks more traditionally assigned to the Chaplaincy in other Chapters. While the Praedicators’ Chaplains play a larger role in the recruiting and training of new aspirants, the Prognosticators guide and shepherd the veteran Brethren, administering to the psionic and mental well-being of the Chapter's warriors. 

These dour warriors are the seers of the Chapter, reading their brothers’ dreams or scrying for divination of the future, granting the squads and companies they are attached to an edge for the coming battle. The Chapter takes the readings seriously, so much so that on some occasions, the Prognosticators have successfully counselled against the Chapter becoming embroiled in a particular war. This can prove problematic, as it heaps greater suspicion upon an already mistrusted Chapter. At times this balancing act has even led to companies taking part in conflicts they know will end in defeat. 

Upon a Prognosticator’s armour, pendants, and badges of office can be found Chthonic marks and runes engraved into the surface. These are not purely decorative, as they serve to channel and concentrate the Prognosticator’s psychic powers.

Given their role as wards of the psionic and spiritual health of the Prædicators, it is a rare thing indeed for a Prognosticator to take the Apocryphon Oath, and serve a Vigil of the Long Watch with the Deathwatch, the Chamber Militant of the Ordo Xenos. In accepting a Prognosticator into his Watch Fortress, a Watch Commander gains the services of an individual of unique skill and ability. His knowledge of both the Librarian’s arts and the duties of the Chaplain are of course valuable. Yet the greatest of the Prognosticators are able to extend their ministrations to all of the Battle-Brothers they serve alongside, inspiring each and every one to epic deeds of courage, and diverting the flow of history so that these warriors can return to their chapters as heroes. It is said that it is only by the actions of those few Prognosticators who have taken the Oath that the Prædicators have gained any reputation as trustworthy allies whatsoever.

Apothecaries

The most solemn of individuals tasked with the most solemn of tasks; it is their role to mind the physical wellbeing of their battle-brothers. Not all injuries, however, can be detected with a Narthecium scan. A medic from any other chapter might be oblivious to the emotional damage that eats away at the Praedicators. The Void Born Apothecary, however, knows only too well the torment that his brothers endure, for they too are emotionally scarred from their nightmares.

Techmarines

Those amongst the Prædicators with an affinity for technology are dispatched to Mars, honouring ancient pacts formed with the Adeptus Mechanicus millennia ago upon their founding. There they are initiated into the Martian tech-cults to become Techmarines. This process divides the brothers' duality complex into a triality nightmare, but it is acknowledged as a necessary process. Without Techmarines the Prædicators would be left unable to tend to the machine spirits, to observe the rites that ensure continued operation of their wargear, to repair damage taken on the field of battle, or to attend to the needs of the Fleet.

After their training on Mars they return even more mysterious and capricious, aloof and distant. Their inscrutable ways are not easily understood by most of the battle-brothers. For many they do not understand themselves, lost in doubt, dwelling on the idea that if even their Machine-God may not be eternal then their new-found faith cannot be real. Prædicator Techmarines struggle for their entire lives to unravel their three competing ideologies: the Liber Mechanicus and the Omnissiah; the Chapter’s sacred duty; and its nihilistic creed. Eternity becomes their supreme desire, fearing that nothing is real that is not eternal. 

The Prognosticators that discern their dreams tell of only vague impressions of a sleep-addled mind but they all tell the same story. It is no ordinary nightmare. There is a prison deep below the surface, and something that stands a mile high but moves like flesh and blood. A rustle of wings, and a set of claws; how small the Techmarines stand beside those claws... They feel him beneath the sand, they see his dreams, and so they are consumed by another fear to be believed absolutely. Yet they cling to their visions for they sometimes reveal the location of priceless relics and STC files waiting to be found. In the end the fear and the doubt is all incidental, inevitable, and something to be borne stoically at all costs.

Dreadnoughts

The mightiest fallen Prædicators, those whose souls blaze most fiercely in denial of the dying of the light, are preserved and held back a while longer from their final rest. The restless memories of the ancient heroes who pilot these war machines can extend back to the founding years of their Chapter and its earliest history. They are revered by other Space Marines, not just as potent warriors, but also as exemplars who have endured and continue to resist millennia of hauntings from all that they have seen, and all they have dreamt. Unlike the interred veterans of other Chapters, these courageous warriors and fallen heroes prefer not to sleep within the ancient crypts alongside their deceased brothers in arms. Instead war continuously calls them into the service of the Imperium.

House Vibro

A once great house of the Navis Nobilite whose family estate was located within the Imperial Palace on Terra, House Vibro is now considered nothing more than a pauper house by all those in the Segmentum Solar. 

Their fall from grace was a result of petty rivalry, political subterfuge, and social maneuvering.

An event known as The Tainting came about as agents of rival House Numa tricked a key heiress of House Vibro into a marriage of state with the little-known House Nostromo. A marriage of convenience intended to consolidate power and grow the fortunes of House Vibro was revealed as a fateful error, as the insanity within the bloodline of Nostromo entered their once idyllic family tree. The repercussions took generations to reveal themselves. By the time that it became clear how many of the matriarch’s great-grand-children bore the now-undeniable genetic flaw, it was too late; for the two Houses had become inseparably intertwined. 

House Vibro abandoned their estate, seeking to escape the socio-political fallout and begin their legacy anew in a system where their reputation might not be forever marred by the insanity of House Nostromo. Having traversed the stars to find a new home, eventually establishing their small palace in orbit around Ulthar in the Ainu System; it was there, over many centuries, that they slowly adapted to the void, growing spindly-limbed, willowy-tall, and with a bluish tinge to their skin.

They conducted business by bartering their services to the captains of any vessel or fleet in need of Navigators: merchants, miners, scavengers, prison ships, darkholds, occasionally Rogue Traders, and many years later the Prædicators. The Veiled Region was tumultuous at best, and House Vibro quickly earned the reputation that there were no better Navigators to be had if a captain’s heart was set on going through it. 

The Prædicators were in dire need of expertise in mapping some of the most unstable and unpredictable areas of space within the Veiled Region, and House Vibro in turn could utilise the political capital and prestige they would gain from working alongside the Adeptus Astartes. Their association has remained intact since the start of the Astartes’ purgatory sentence, and upon successfully mapping some of the most dangerous areas within the Veiled Region, House Vibro now holds an exclusive Charter Navigae which means that they alone provide a Navigator for every ship in the Void Heralds’ fleet. An unspoken term of the contract involves the occasional lapses into madness shown by the descendants of long-dead Nostromo: with a certain rate of attrition only to be expected among the Navigators, the House takes pains to provide several replacements to each fleet, as well as a special attache to smooth over any diplomatic incidents. Navigators seconded to oversight roles include Novator Italki Vibro, who personally oversees the Cetus despite its current lack of readiness for Warp-space jumps. 

The Astartes of the Praedicators and the Navigators of House Vibro share a grim fatalism when it comes to matters regarding the nature of reality and the likely fate of mankind. Few would understand this shared common belief, and it may well be the foundation upon which their long and successful association stands. They both consider one another a most welcome asset, and for the Prædicators at least one their bond with House Vibro is one of the few true alliances they have. 

House Vibro shares with the Chaplains of the Praedicators information gleaned from across their extended family network. With the sons and daughters of the House serving alongside merchant and miner captains, scavenger leaders, prison-ship operators, and even the few Rogue Traders they conduct business with openly, there is much to be learned and passed on.  To the Chaplains, the Navigators are a bountiful source of information from across the breadth of the stars, helping them to discern what possible threats they may face, what is occurring in the wider galaxy, and (most importantly) where they should direct their efforts in the never-ending search for possible new recruits.

In return the Lord Commander attaches a ten man squad of Prædicators to the House as bodyguards which are referred to as the Starblades.  Apart from regular guard duties, the Starblades may be called upon to train or lead the troops of House Vibro, undertake covert operations on their behalf, or be present aboard one of the many Vibro trading vessels. The Starblades are sworn to serve the Novator of the house as they would the Lord Commander. Because of this ancient alliance, the Void Stalker that is the symbol of the Praedicators  is also depicted on the Vibro family crest.

Amongst the surviving elders of the House, scant few recall an earlier time when another promising alliance - likewise built upon convenience and the lust for power - turned to ash and madness as the true extent of what they had bound themselves too became apparent. The Praedicators’ visions are silent on this matter, or perhaps being deliberately withheld from their allies. Only time will tell if the most ancient of Navigators in House Vibro can see something that the Novator does not. For now, officially at least, the binding of House and Chapter remains a rare source of pride and rekindled hope.

Gene-seed

The descendants of the line of Guilliman, through the legacy of the Silver Skulls, bore Gene-seed renowned for its stability. So it was upon the founding of the Prædicators, though some may whisper that the legacy of enduring wholeness died with the first Lord Commander’s gene-kin. Whether the Gene-seed is now considered pure or aberrant, it is true that its incorporation only exacerbates the distinguishing features of the typical Void Born recruit: drawn features, pallid skin, and a characteristically haughty air.

It was not long after the Chapter’s founding that the Catalepsean Node in many aspirants began to exhibit signs of a peculiar mutation. Operationally, it still controls the Marine’s circadian rhythms and responses to any kind of sleep deprivation, allowing them to stay awake at full effectiveness for days at a time. Unusually, they often prefer to do so; for when they sleep they are consumed with potent, disturbing, and dark dreams, overwhelming them with dread. Prognosticators scry these dreams to glean small hints of the future, whose own dreams travel out so much further, giving them all cold black dancing in their eyes.

The Apothecaries do what they can to ease the burden of such nightmares. Those who find them all too much and are slowly driven insane are led away in pentagrammically warded chains to a chamber deep in the bowls of Cetus, where they will mutter nonsensically for their eternity about what placid island of ignorance we live in among black seas of infinity. Prognosticators study their cryptic words and piece together the dissociated pieces of knowledge revealed therein - opening up terrifying vistas of reality, and learning of our frightful position therein. 

Primaris Marines

Nearly every Space Marine created since the First Founding possesses nineteen specialised organs derived from their Chapter’s unique gene-seed. The Primaris Marines, however – originally engineered by the Archmagos Dominus Belisarius Cawl on the orders of Roboute Guilliman – are implanted with a further three. It was the Sangprimus Portum, a device containing potent genetic material harvested from the Primarchs, that allowed for this breakthrough. Entrusted to Cawl by Guilliman shortly after the Second Founding, this device resulted in a new breed of Adeptus Astartes that were deployed en masse in the Ultima Founding. Due to Cawl’s interpretation of his orders and the millennia-spanning labour of his task – during which Guilliman was injured and suspended in stasis – the secrets of these new Primaris organs were not released until late in the 41st Millennium. Despite being ostracized and cast out as pariahs, ultimately, as with most Chapters, the Prædicators received envoys of the Primarch.

Initially the Primaris were universally met with mistrust, although in each case the reasons were different. The first wave brought mistrust and suspicion down upon themselves, with their oft-repeated claims that the Praedicator’s own Primarch Roboute Guilliman had returned, an event that seemingly was not envisaged by the Chapter’s Prognosticators. The second wave was shunned because of the Chapter Cult itself ��� could these fresh symbols of resurgent hope ever truly understand that the ending is nigh? With time, those Primaris who have experienced the same nightmares in their sleep-addled brains as any Firstborn battle-brother have grown to be accepted and even well-received, though lingering doubts remain as to whether any of them could fall into madness - and what does it say of them that they cannot fully embrace what it is to know of the Void?

At present, the Chapter’s Cult has been reluctant to fully embrace the Primaris as equals. The Chaplains, Prognosticators and Apothecaries of the Primaris are if anything made even less welcome than their ordinary brothers, as they are seen as lacking the ability to empathise with the Firstborn when it comes to the mental torture they risk with every sleep cycle. Time will tell as to whether the Primaris become full and true Denizens of the Deep, or whether they will be left to quietly wither away and be forgotten. That said, there are those that fear the Primaris for another reason entirely; namely, that they represent the fulfilment of a long-held belief that the End of Days is nigh. Certainly, enough has happened to make some within the Chapter believe the end is coming far sooner than they had previously gleamed, and with Primarichs returning and Custodes abroad once more, perhaps in time the Primaris will be seen not as unwelcome outsiders, but the fulfilment of a prophecy scryed ten millennia ago?

Power Armour

Even with gene-seed implantation complete, there is one final stage that must take place before an aspirant can be called a Prædicator– he must be clad in the distinctive sea green armour. The enclosing suits worn by all Space Marines are made from thick ceramite plates that would be cumbersome but for electrically motivated fibre bundles that replicate the movements of the wearer and supplement his strength. The last gene-seed organ to be implanted in a Space Marine – the black carapace – rests beneath the skin, itself fitted with neural sensors and transfusion ports. These plug-in points mesh with Space Marine armour, linking the wearer’s nervous system to his suit’s mind-impulse controls and turning the suit into a second skin that moves with all the speed and precision of the battle-brother’s own body. Without the carapace, Space Marine armour is almost impossible to use, and it is therefore the most distinctive feature of a battle-brother and the true mark of the Adeptus Astartes. There are several marks of power armour with significantly differing appearances.

Having existed as a Chapter since the 33rd Millennium the Prædicators have collected a large assortment of older marks of armour. All of which have been maintained by skilled artificers who are not Space Marines, but servants who spend their lives working for the Chapter. Comparatively you will usually find other Chapters reserve the rights to wear these ancient suits of armour that have been lavishly restored to the ceremonial guards or elite units. The Prædicators on the other hand do not, and it is common to see Prædicators wear a multitude of older types of armour as well as suits composed of many different marks of armour.

[falteringknightgervais]

A Royal Headache... (Closed starter for smouldring)

@smouldring

Cloudy, with a chance of rain.

Could be worse conditions for a stake-out, especially now as he was far less likely to reflect light wet than the station of men below... difficult as it felt to admit in the moment. One was not exactly meant to be proud of the state he was in, nearly rusten to unrecognition. He’d honestly hoped to find something to contextualize his still fog-smeared memory with, but the age and whatever had made his watery deathbed, had rusted the crest on his steel into nothing but vague, wobbly shapes.  Whatever fabric had once been in between the plate had long since rotted to oblivion, only some parts recently patched with freshly hunted skins to avoid injury.

But in this particular situation, it gave him an advantage. He saw the dull looks of Godrick’s worst glance over his spot on the horizon and continue on in their boredom with little alarm. And their little camp didn’t even come with any surrounding defences, making him wonder if they just randomly decided to make tent about this little spot of road in particular.

Embarrassing. Whoever this grafted king of theirs were, he sure didn’t seem to invest much passion in disciplining his troops. Another advantage to him, he supposed, as his sword arm still felt dull and slow - like trying to slash through water, so the prospect of taking on this many men at once was still somewhat daunting, if not perhaps a little foolhardy.

Perhaps he’d been as permeable to the decay as his kit had been.

But he saw it there, strapped to the stone ahead. A map. A surprisingly hard thing to acquire in this place. As much as he wasn’t fond of the idea of scavenging, he hadn’t found a single merchant willing to part with theirs. Not even the pelt of the albino rabbit he’d caught earlier had seemed to tempt them any.

“Thy soldiers must have some form of organization.” He mutters to himself, watching some of the walking bannerposts below just... sit around, only occasionally relieving the men with the dogs once or twice.

Whether alas or luckily, only the golden-armored man in the tall pointy helmet seemed to be properly paying attention. A knight perhaps, though the development in armor for the Land’s finest seemed to have gone in a slightly... silly direction, from what he remembered. Strap a whole shield to your chest, lad, why don’t you.

He seemed to strafe further south than the rest... perhaps if he took him out first, manoeuvring the rest around the ruins should be possible, to make the task more manageable. Especially if he could lure a few to the bridge a ways away, where the path was narrower, and he could manage the crowd more easily with sword and shield...

[bexatomarama]

Rumors Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated {Whumptober oo9}

Day 9! 

Prompts: Presumed dead | (blind) rage | tears

It took her the better half of a month to get home. 

One fearful night spent easing herself from the train yard terminal, the roof creaking at every movement she made, and another army crawling on her belly out of the trainyard itself.

The day she spent under the building’s foundation, too tired to continue but too anxious to rest, was the longest day of her life. She didn’t dare make a sound, taking shallow breaths as she waited. Watching raiders mill about, learning their patterns. All this while only several feet from the pile of bodies decomposing in the sun.

She had to crawl past the pile that night, feeling eyes against her skull as she went. Sightless eyes, like stars in the sky, watching her every move. She didn’t stop crawling till the trainyard was just a dot in the distance, wouldn’t even turn her pip-boy screen on to check the map.

Crazy Wolfgang found her, a mile or so outside of Springvale. The otherwise chatty merchant was stunned into silence as she emerged over the horizon, head down and limping. Talk was small and far between as he escorted her the rest of the way to Megaton.

“Honest, didn’t expect to run into you out here,” He had commented, a hesitance unbefitting of the charismatic, if not eccentric, trader, “Or at all.”

She didn’t answer. Too focused on watching her bare feet scrape against the cracked asphalt, mourning the absence of her red high-top sneakers in silence. She tapped the empty bottle of water rhythmically against her leg as she went.

He cast a worried look her way but didn’t press her silence. It was clear as crystal that something had happened. Something awful.

As the caravanner and wanderer approached the gates to Megaton, something caught her eye. Among the debris and trash that littered the outskirts of Megaton laid a familiar pile of scrap.

She slowed to a stop, following the trail of junk with wide eyes. Pieces of scrapped Giddy Up Buttercup parts, some old motorcycle engines, miscellaneous scrap, and repurposed snack boxes that she knew housed intricate bits of computer parts. The bent visage of a very specific Vault Tec Bobblehead confirmed it.

This was her junk.

What the hell was it doing here?

Crazy Wolfgang said something, but the thumping in her ears tuned him out as she shook. Palms aching as she dug her nails deep into the flesh there. The lone wanderer stormed past, eyes watery and focused, through Megaton’s straining gates.

It was like she wore blinders, ducking through the gate before it was fully opened, feet pounding against the dirt with purpose. She shoved past gawking residences before she caught the cowboy hat in the distance.

“Simms!”

Her voice was still foreign to her ears. Husky and gruff, barely quenched from the scavenged bottle of dirty water she’d found earlier.  

The sheriff jumped, wheeling around to face the lone wanderer. Her chest puffed exhausted, labored breaths rendering her speechless as she stood before him.

Her vault suit was on the bomb.

Why was her vault suit hanging from the damn bomb?

She tasted blood again, cutting her still tender tongue up against her chipped teeth as she seethed. Was this an eviction? Was she robbed? Why would they throw all her shit out while she was away? It was only a month!

After all the shit she’s put up with, everything she’s done to help, was it not good enough for them? Were they so ready to get rid of her once the opportunity showed itself?

“You’re gonna get us all killed!”

That woman’s voice rang in her ears, deafening as that dead woman’s words shook her to the core. She tasted blood and saw red.

Suddenly she was back in the Vault, alarms blaring rendering her deft and blind as she struggled to evade guards, residents and radroaches alike. Over the alarms she can make out the words that they had screeched at her as she sobs, a lost little girl looking for daddy.

“Useless!”

“Worthless!”

“This is all your fault!”

She should have just died then. The overseer should have killed her. The raiders should have killed her. The fall should have killed her. She should be rotting away with those other women in the tower or joining them in an unmarked grave.

She was barely nineteen.

It wasn’t fair.

She felt hot tears leak from her eyes, bringing her back to the present as she hummed with insecurities and fury. Unaware of the internal struggle, Simms was rendered mute, stunned into silence at the sight before him.

“Praise Atom! Our heroine lives!” Confessor Cromwell cried from his place behind Sheriff Simms. As he raised to join the pair, she noticed flowers and candles littered the ground near his feet. Offerings of scrap and caps, parchment notes, nuka cola bottles housing flowers.

They held a service for her.

The angry tears subsided. Her knuckles cracking as her hands twitched into fists at her side. Her lip quivered, tears slowing to a stop as she takes in the scene. Knees buckling, Simms barely catching her before she thumped to the ground. Like dead weight, her body couldn’t stay up any longer.

She kneeled before the bomb, Simms comforting her and Confessor Cromwell praising her safe return as she wept.

They thought she was dead.

[auty-ren]

The Offer: Chapter 1

Introductions

Pairing: ClanLeader!Mando x Reader (no y/n)

Rating: Explicit (for future chapters)

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Mentions of violence, Blood, Injury, Longing, Pet names

A/N: After the feedback on my preview, I decided to make this into a full-fledge fic. This chapter is a little slow in terms of action but I wanted to establish some things before we dived into filth. I’m honestly so excited and I hope y’all enjoy. Comments and feedback always appreciated. ClanLeader!Au created by @magichandthing 

Chapter 2

P.S. Mira is an OC I created for this story and she will be in future chapters.

P.P.S. I also posted it on AO3 if you prefer that forum.

Summary: You run into a Mandalorian who wants to repay a debt. Little did you know you'd meet the most alluring man along the way. Din Djarin.

“Have you thought about my offer?”

“Yes, I have,” you sighed.

“And?”

“I accept"

—

You can’t recall when the calm began and the fighting ended. For most, the lines between peace and war blurred a long time ago. It certainly affected the locals of the planet you were currently living on. Manual labor was the only thing you could offer to the galaxy, picking up jobs here and there to buy rations of food. Scavenging for metals, digging, harvesting, and menial tasks were all that made up your day. You survived this long, longer than your family, longer than most of the galaxy, but it felt part of you had died long ago.

After the empire, life was truly never the same for anyone. They drained the galaxy of everything it had, leaving destruction and barrenness in its wake. The Imps had caused most of the galaxy to become a shell of what it once was, the only thing that seemed to thrive was lawlessness. You saw it in the faces of people in the market, in the seemingly empty homes that ran alongside the town, an emptiness that was buried deep in wounds trying so desperately to heal.

Everyone tried to live their lives just as they have done before. Children still played in the streets, people walked together laughing, but the happiness was only skin deep, masking the grief of the galaxy. It was something that ate away at you, an emptiness that created a growing void over time. You could feel your mind falling away, going numb to the routine of your life. Your conscious embraced something that seemed to root from deep inside you, it had burrowed into your soul one ago, slowly eating away at the rest of you. It was becoming suffocating, exhausting you past the point any manual labor could. You feared you would never escape its clutch. Living and working and dying on this horrible little planet, where no one would miss you. Your loneliness became your one solace and your worst enemy. Alone, all you could do was immerse yourself in work, trying desperately to hold onto something you never had in the first place. It was a vicious cycle you weren’t sure could ever be broken. That was until the woman happened.

You couldn’t remember exactly what transpired. How any of it happened really. It was a day like any other, just as routine and conventional as they had been since you got here. You do remember being smacked across the face with something hard, falling to the ground. The taste of copper flooding your senses, and wetness pouring down your face. You had reached up to cradle yourself, blood seeping through your fingertips.

Everything surrounding that moment was a blur. The woman had offered her hand, apologizing for the injury. You had seen her before; walking through the market and even arguing with some of the townsfolk. She was truly hard to miss, she walked with a swagger of confidence and carried practically every weapon known to the galaxy on her back. She was always dressed in a maroon color, her armor is the only thing that offsets the monochromatic trend. It was much different than anything she had seen before.

If anyone else stood in her place you would've fled fearing the worst, but your mind was muddled, unable to comprehend the Mandalorian standing above you. Something was different about her, at least from the other mercenaries that came through. You had witnessed her differing moral compass at work before. She once threatened a man who came through town, a common criminal like most who came through. Unlucky for him, he robbed one of the places she frequented, taking the entirety of the merchants’ earnings. Everyone, including yourself, just stood by, too afraid of the confrontation. She, however, intercepted him before he could leave, disarming him quickly and leaving his unconscious body on the ground. She gave the credits back to the merchant.

“There is no honor among thieves,” she had huffed, annoyed with the disturbance of her day.

As she turned to leave you spoke up, asking her why she had even bothered.

“This is the way.”

—

“How long have you lived on this planet?” She inquired, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. Her helmet glinted in the sunlight, causing her presence to practically glow in the shade of the alleyway.

“Long enough,” you huffed, holding a cloth to your nose trying to reduce the bleeding. Why would she ask such a question? Since when did Mandalorians care for small talk?

“You don’t like it?” The woman didn’t sound surprised. Her tone rolled in an almost sarcastic way.

You just huffed in response. You hoped if you seemed uninterested the woman would leave you alone. It felt like an interrogation, intimidated by the domineering presence of a Mandalorian. At this point, you just wanted to return to your day, no matter how draining it would be.

“Would you like to leave?”

Those words rang in your ears, echoing even now as you sat in the belly of the woman’s ship, being carted off to a planet unrecognizable. The dizziness from earlier seemed to subside, especially since the woman gave you a shot of some sort, claiming it would help.

“Where are we going?” you mumbled.

“To my clan,” the woman responded, busying herself with the controls in front of her.

“Your clan?”

“To my home,” she clarified, not bothering to look up. “You will be welcome there and can rest, heal.”

“You’re taking me to your home because of this?” you gestured to your face, no doubt bruised and blooded. If it looked as bad as it had felt, you were sure it wasn’t pretty.

She paused in her actions, thinking carefully about her next words.

“It is my fault you sustained these injuries, you were innocent and did not deserve my wrath. Therefore, I will make sure you are healed and it will be much more comfortable for both of us if we return to my clan.”

The Mandalorian seemed unbothered by the notion of taking a stranger back to her home as if she does it regularly. But you figured it didn’t concern you. If this Mandalorian and her clan lived up to the stories you heard, they weren’t afraid of anyone.

“What’s your name?” you asked. If you were going to be staying, you couldn’t keep referring to her as “the woman.”

“You can call me Mira.”

—

The rest of the flight was spent in silence. You eventually moved to sit with Mira in the cockpit. Watching as she worked to prepare the ship for landing. You wondered what Mira’s home would be like. The Mandalorians were known to be the fiercest warriors in the galaxy. You had heard the stories before; tales of battle, triumph, and loss. Stories of the most formidable soldiers in the galaxy.

Regret started to cloud the corners of your mind. Fear of what you had gotten yourself into seeped into your chest, tightening your rib cage with each breath you took. Truly, you had no desire to stay and heal with Mira, you mainly wanted to escape her life previously. Opportunities to leave we’re few, especially with no status in the New Republic. When Mira had offered, there was no hesitation to get off that forsaken planet. You weren’t sure if things went sour you would be strong enough to get yourself out of it.

When the ship fell out of hyperspace, Mira’s home finally came into view. It definitely wasn’t what you expected, it was such a beautiful and peaceful looking place, tucked away in the far corners of the galaxy.

The planet was covered in a green lushness, the sky littered with enormous clouds that reflected the sun giving them faint hues of color. As you entered through the atmosphere, you saw the planet was lined with dense areas of forest. Trees reached the heavens, with fat brightly colored leaves adorning them. The forests stretched for most of the planet's surface, with large mountains that loomed far in the distance.

Mira landed in a clearing on the edge of a forest. Some other ships surrounded them, you recognized a few of the models from your time working as an apprentice. You figured these probably belonged to the rest of Mira’s clan. Mira couldn’t have been the only one who left the planet.

You stood staring at the mountains while Mira unloaded your ship. You had never seen a place this mesmerizing in your life. The sun was beginning to set, painting the landscape in red and purple rays. The air was fresh and crisp, filling your lungs with a gentleness you hadn’t felt in years. Everything seemed so bright and livid compared to your previous homes.

Mira called for you, climbing onto the back of a speeder driven by an R2 unit, loaded with supplies. You murmured an apology, settling among the crates and stretching your feet in front of you, Mira did the same mirroring her position.

“It will take some time to get to the village.” Mira’s tone was passive, in a matter of fact sort of way.

You gave a nod to let her know you heard her. As you tried to sleep, cushioned by the bags lining the speeder, you were reminded of the dull ache still permeating your face. The excitement of arrival had clouded the pain, but as you sat consumed by only your thoughts, it returned. Your face was no doubt swollen and puffy. You just hoped your nose wasn’t broken, you hoped it was nothing more than some swelling. Exhaustion was creeping up, and you wanted to succumb to it but the persistent throb of pain kept you from it.

Suddenly the speeder came to an abrupt halt, jolting you to the side.

“We’re here,” Mira started getting up and slinging sacks of supplies over her shoulders. “Follow me.”

You got up to follow as quickly as your legs would let you, holding onto the crates for support, your balance became unsteady as the pain pulsed harder. Whatever Mira originally gave you was wearing off. Before you could step foot off the speeder you were overwhelmed by the presence of what you can only gather is Mira’s clan.

People rushed to the speeder to help unload, brushing past you except for a curious glance. Most of them wore helmets like Mira, some of them didn’t. Either way, it was hard to keep track of the direction Mira moved. You were sure you’d lost her until you saw the glint of her helmet ahead.

That woman moves entirely too fast.

You continued to follow her, securing your own bag across your shoulders. You tried to move quickly, bumping into people on the way. You apologized to everyone you ran into, which was seemingly the entire clan at this point. You could feel the embarrassment rising, you just wanted to find Mira and it was getting frustrating at this point. It was hard to focus on the surroundings with the pain shooting through your skull. You nearly fell and ran into something you were sure was a wall. It was firm whatever it was and caused you to wince, jolting back from the pain that pulsed in her face.

“Easy,” a voice said that was much deeper than Mira’s.

Arms came up to steady you, and a warmth radiated towards you. You looked up and saw a dark visor staring back at you that was certainly not Mira’s

He was a Mandalorian but stood out from the rest in a way that demanded attention. His authoritative demeanor rolled off him in ways. His helmet was shiny and unlike Mira’s, two large tusks jutted out from the bottom, curling around to the front of his mask. His clothes were the same deep maroon Mira donned. He wore a cape with a large fur that sat on his pauldron covered shoulders, draping down his back. His forearms were accented with sleeves made of leather and cloth that bleed into a tattooed pattern tracing along his arms. Yet, his chest was bare except for the necklaces he wore; round beads and animal teeth were woven together to sit in the middle, set off by the toned muscle of his chest and torso. At his waist was a thick belt with a large buckle resting in the middle. It shone with the same luster as his helmet, it was molded into the shape of some creature. It seemed familiar but no matter how hard you tried to focus, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was.

His fingers lightly traced your chin, bringing your eyes back up to his visor. You didn’t realize you were just standing there, ogling over him. It was entirely unintentional, you had never seen anything like him before. You felt scolded like a child, almost embarrassed by your staring. Face suddenly growing very hot under his gaze.

“You must watch where you’re going,” his hushed baritone hit her ears, “or you’ll hurt yourself.” That voice quite possibly the most heavenly sound you had heard. You willed herself to speak but nothing came out, your mind was completely blank. It was as if you were stuck, only able to stare back up into this stranger.

“It’s a little too late for that,” Mira appeared to his right, arms crossed over her chest. The man turned to her and offered Mira a greeting in an unfamiliar language. They shook, hands clasped together at the forearms as if they were old friends.

“Who is this sweet girl?” The man asked, turning back towards you. The name he called you did not go unnoticed, and you felt your face getting even hotter. Mira began to explain the details of your meeting.

Mira refers to your injuries, and gently takes your chin and tilts your head so the Mandalorian can examine it better. Your instincts told you to run, to go anywhere else but here, but you remained planted firm to the ground. They were so close to you, examining as if you were just some object. You couldn’t even see their faces and yet they overwhelmed you. You had never wanted to disappear so badly at that moment.

They continued conversing in whatever native tongue they possessed. You stood there feeling much too exposed for your liking. More people seemed to notice your presence, looking in the direction of the three of you. Some murmured, looking between you and the two Mandalorians. There was no malice behind their intentions; you knew this but standing there with all those eyes watching your every move was not where you wanted to be.

Eventually, the man gestured to something behind him, Mira nodded and took a hold of your arm leading you away.

“One of the elders will be with us to help you shortly,”  Mira led you in the direction of what you assumed was her home. You didn't even register you had moved until you were almost inside. You weren’t entirely sure if it was your wounds or the domineering exchange between the Mandalorian that left you light headed. Either way, you wanted nothing more than to lay down in a quiet place and hide away from the events of the past days.

You glanced back at the speeder, the Mandalorian was still in the same spot where he intercepted you, watching you both walk away. You turned back to Mira.

“Who was that man?” You asked much more enthusiastically than you would have liked. You couldn't lie and say he didn't intrigue you. His aura was overpowering but also enticed you in a way you couldn't explain.

“That was our clan leader, Din Djarin.”

[wipodu-ao3]

Human tastes good to a God - HTTYD fanfiction

Read it on Ao3. Join the discord!

A work in the Cannibal AU

Summary:

Hiccup got turned around in a storm and it's ruining his whole week.

An explanaition on how the chapter 'Human tastes good to a God' came to be.

Words: 2,537

[One-shot]

Getting supplies was not as difficult as it would seem. Hiccup and Toothless often brought things back when they traveled from Berk to the Edge. Storm had become more comfortable with venturing out on her own and made frequent trips to the northern markets while Eret preferred to scavenge things from nature. The northern markets were a place where Dragon Trappers visited sometimes and Eret, being an ex-dragon trapper, didn’t want to have a run in with anyone who could recognize him.

Still, Hiccup with his ‘Dragon master’ armor didn’t fancy going to the markets. His get up bringing way too much attention to himself, and the fact was that none of the merchants had his preferred meat – human. The man had stumbled onto a solution to that little problem unwillingly…

Hiccup had been traveling to the Edge when he got lost in a storm. Normally, he had no problem navigating the bad weather, Shadow and Storm were experts and they had shown Hiccup all the tricks to get out of that weather unscathed. This time, he got turned around and because he had left in the evening, night had fallen and he couldn’t see any recognizable landmarks. He had found and island with a village on in, he didn’t want to sleep with the village so close, but he noticed mountains that had to be uninhabited by the tribe, so he made his way there.

Sleeping with Toothless near wasn’t a problem. The Night Fury radiated heat and Hiccup’s armor gave him protection against the cold too. The first night was easy, in the early morning he set out, unfortunately, no matter how far he flew, he didn’t recognize anything. The man started mapping out the places he had been, using the island he was staying at as a central base in the map.

He didn’t get anywhere that day so he went back to the island. Toothless and he spent another night in the mountains and headed off in another direction when the sun rose. The whole day was spent flying again, they reached nothing again. When they went back to the island this night, Hiccup didn’t even care to steer Toothless away from the village’s wandering eyes. He didn’t care, his frustration was building bit by bit.

Another day, another try, another time he failed.

By now Hiccup was just frustrated and angry. He was practically starving at this point! Getting water was easy, the snowy mountain was a good place to get fresh water, but food was a different thing. Hiccup’s particular taste in meat aside, fish was harder to get in these waters for some reason, and Hiccup rarely ate. He wanted Toothless to have enough energy to fly and if going hungry meant he could get off of the island, Hiccup would suffer with glee.

Four days on the island.

Hiccup had been gone for four days. He knew that Storm and Eret were probably looking for him at this point, he had told them he would be at Dragon’s Edge four days ago, and he had never missed his scheduled time before.

Hiccup knew the pair would check Berk first, in case Hiccup just got held back by something there. Then they would try to recreate the path of the storm that he had fallen victim to, it would be easy for them to do that. Storm knew most of the rainstorms going around anywhere near the Edge, Shadow was a Skrill after all and the young woman always took care to fly through the storms for the dragon’s benefit.

The pair would probably separate to cover more ground and eventually stumble upon Hiccup one way or another. Still, Hiccup wouldn’t just sit in one place and wait to be rescued. Toothless could fly and he didn’t what to pretend he needed saving.

On the evening of the fourth day Hiccup heard footsteps approaching his small camp on the mountain. This wasn’t really surprising to the young man, he had stopped trying to hide himself and Toothless on the second day.

Hiccup sighed as he stood up from the campfire he had lit. He stretched and petted Toothless as the dragon got up from the ground, the Night Fury took a defensive stance and Hiccup pulled out his retractable sword, he lit it up and waited to see who would come around the corner.

It came as a surprise when a lone man appeared, Hiccup had really thought he would have a group of would-be warriors to go against. He wanted a good fight, but the man who now stood in front of him would go down in under a minute.

Even more surprising was that the man finally noticed Hiccup and fell to his knees. While the Night Fury rider knew that he made quite a sight – his helmet akin to Toothless, his armor dark as the night sky and covered in scales – but he didn’t think that he deserved to have anyone kneeling for him, especially when he hadn’t even done anything yet.

“Dragon God,” the man on his knees whimpered, “Please spare us and give us back our water. We are dying.”

Hiccup’s eyes widened and he looked at Toothless, he saw that the Night Fury was also shocked at the turn of events, so Hiccup knew he hadn’t imagined the words that had come from the man’s mouth.

“Please, Dragon God, we are begging you,” the man continued fearfully, “We will do anything!”

“Even kill yourself?” Hiccup couldn’t help but question.

The Night Fury rider was surprise he spoke, but he wanted to know how far the people would go to fix what was wrong with their island. He had noticed that the island was deteriorating, their crops were dying and their livestock were malnourished, signs of not enough water on the island. That was one of the reasons Hiccup didn’t bother hiding, he knew the people would be weak if it came to a confrontation. He had also sparred a thought on why if things were as bad as they seemed, the tribe didn’t just leave, but he then remembered that it was Vikings he was thinking about.

“If that’s what you require of me,” the man lifted his eyes and glanced at the pair in front of him.

“I do require that,” Hiccup told him.

The rider didn’t actually want the man to kill himself, he just wanted to see if he would do it for the betterment of his island. He was watching as the man pulled a dagger from a sheath and brought it closer to his neck, Hiccup was about to stop the man and look into the water problem without the sacrifice, but the sound of falling rocks stole his attention.

Hiccup quickly looked to the mountain as part of it collapsed. He caught a glimpse of spinning spikes that belonged to a Whispering death and immediately figured out what had happened on the island. To him it was clear: Whispering Deaths had taken residence on the island and had disturbed the water flow. He had turned to tell so to the man, only to find him slumped on the ground. Dead.

Hiccup looked at the body for a few minutes without blinking. Damn. He didn’t think the man would actually kill himself. Hiccup approached the dead man and turned him around, the man’s dead eyes starting up at the sky.

Hiccup observed the body, the blood freely flowing from the wound, staying the frozen ground below. The rider licked his lips as he took in the sight, the hunger he felt intensifying. He took out a sharp dagger from one of the sheaths in his armor. He found nothing wrong in what he was doing, the man was already dead and Hiccup had to eat, the fact that he now had access to his preferred food was just a bonus.

Hiccup lowered the man’s tunic and carved a chunk of flesh out of the man’s chest. The meat was juicy and mouthwatering, Hiccup licked his lips in anticipation and went back to the campfire. He sliced off a piece of the meat and took off the skin, feeding them to Toothless. Hiccup cooked the meat and ate it like he was starving, because he was.

After he ate, his eyes wandered to the dead body. Hiccup felt a bit bad for what he had done, up to this point he had only taken meat from dragon trappers or people who had harmed him, not someone who had come to him for help. Still, Hiccup didn’t let himself dwell on the situation, he needed to go into the caves and make sure the water was rerouted to the island and its wells, he didn’t want the man’s sacrifice to be in vain.

Hiccup and Toothless made quick work of the caves. The Whispering Deaths were easy to relocate. The Night Fury got their attention and goaded them to follow the pair. The aggravated dragons were easy to manipulate, there were only three Whispering Deaths and Hiccup managed to steer Toothless so that they redirected the water back to the wells. The Deaths followed them outside and to an island that Hiccup had noticed when he tried to find his way home, the island was already practically dead, its rocky shores a perfect place for the Whispering Deaths to prosper.

Hiccup made his way back to the island, when he passed by the village he heard cheers from the tribe below. It seemed like the water reached its target and the man’s sacrifice was warranted. Hiccup steered Toothless to their camp, they would need to sleep before trying to get back home again.

A shocking sight greeted the pair back at the camp. Storm was sitting at the campfire, Shadow curled up behind her. The young woman was stocking the fire and didn’t look up as they landed.

“Really, Hiccup?” she asked without even looking up as she spoke.

“Really… what?” he questioned, relief filling him as he saw her, because he knew he wouldn’t have to search for a way back himself.

Storm didn’t speak, she just gestured to the dead man on the ground. Hiccup awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck and chuckled.

“Would you believe it if I told you he did that to himself?”

“I would,” she nodded and finally met his eyes and raised an eyebrow, “But he didn’t carve his own chest.”

“He didn’t,” Hiccup agreed, “He was already dead and I… didn’t want him to go to waste.”

Storm just sighed and stood up. She kicked some of the snow onto the fire to put it out and nudged Shadow awake. The Skrill got up and shook off the sleep, he growled in greeting to the two others. Storm mounted the Skrill and looked at Hiccup expectantly.

“Get on,” she told him as she motioned to Toothless, “We’ve been looking for you for three days, I want to go home now.”

“It wasn’t my fault I got lost,” Hiccup defended himself as he got in the saddle, “The storm turned me around.”

“Yeah yeah,” Storm dismissed him with a wave, “You can tell us about it later.”

They took off at the same time, Hiccup flying a bit behind her at first before he fell into the same speed. They flew for about two hours before he finally started recognizing the landmarks. After five hours they reached Dragon’s Edge.

The Edge had grown during the years. When Eret joined them, and consequently started living on the Edge, work on the island had come easier. Because Hiccup couldn’t stay on the Edge all of the time, most of the construction work had fallen on Storm and Shadow, but now that they had Eret and Skullcrusher to help when Hiccup couldn’t, the work load lessened and everything could happen faster.

By now, Dragon’s Edge had three distinct buildings with more on the way. The clubhouse, which housed the kitchen, common space and further down, a completed library room with books being added as time went by. The other two buildings were used as huts for sleeping, one was just for Storm as her personal space away from the men.

The other was mostly Eret’s, but it was more of a guest hut and not a personal house like Storm’s. Considering Hiccup didn’t spend as much time on the Edge as the pair did, his hut was still being built, Eret’s wasn’t built yet because the ex-trapper had wanted to build Storm’s place first.

The group landed on the Edge and went inside the clubhouse. Hiccup went to their storage and took two barrels of fish, rolling them out to the dragons while Storm went into the kitchen and took out two pouches of dried meat, one clearly labeled ‘Hiccup’.

The humans sat down and the girl threw the labeled pouch to Hiccup, they snacked as they waited for Eret to get back as Storm had told Hiccup that they had agreed to meet back at the Edge after every day they had spent searching for their missing friend.

Eret came back soon enough. The ex-trapper greeted Storm first and noticed Hiccup second. Eret gave Hiccup a hug as the Night Fury rider went to take another barrel for Skullcrusher, leaving the pair alone for a bit.

If you asked Hiccup, he would tell you that Eret was in love with Storm. It was clear to him, the way that the ex-trapper looked at the young woman was unmissable. If you asked Eret, he would probably order you to shut up and tell you, you were delusional, because he feared the reaction he would get from Storm.

Hiccup was waiting until Eret understood that Storm wouldn’t mind. The only thing keeping the girl from acting first was the fear that Eret’s feelings were fleeting, so she waited for him to act first. Hiccup had decided to keep out of their business for the time being, they spent a lot of time alone together so he knew it was just a matter of time and he didn’t want to push his friends into something they weren’t ready for.

When he got back the pair were waiting for him. Eret had a notebook in front of him, it was opened to a blank page. The notebook was something only Eret could look into, he didn’t let the other two to even hold it for longer than a second. He said he was working on something, a surprise for them both.

Hiccup sat down and told the two how his disappearance had come to be, Eret writing down something once in a while.

“Next time, leave the storm riding to her,” Eret laughed as he gestured to Storm.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be entering any more storms without her by my side,” Hiccup chuckled as he assured his friends.

The rest of the night was spent with the pair catching Hiccup up to all he had missed. They talked until the sun came up, the time filled with laugher and smiles from them all. They parted ways only when the sun was already up, but none of them minded.

[veliseraptor]

this place could be beautiful

[READ ON AO3]

@mdzsnet​ told me that it was Xue Yang’s birthday today and to my immense surprise I actually managed to finish writing something for it! possibly the fastest 4k I’ve ever written, I don’t know, nobody check me on that.

The summary here is “five steps taken by Xue Yang toward domestic living, and one time he really wanted it.” A big thank you to @paradife-loft​ for the prompt and @ameliarating​ for an extremely quick beta-ing job. Remaining fuckups mine.

content warning: allusions to sex that’s inherently dubious on account of identity issues, semi-graphic descriptions of violence both actual and imagined, canonically character death/suicide, I didn’t fix anything and I’m sorry.

---

I.

Xue Yang sometimes wondered if Xiao Xingchen was aware of a-Qing’s little expeditions and just pretending he wasn’t, or if he genuinely thought she was just that good a scavenger. He leaned a little toward the former, because while Xiao Xingchen was an idiot in a lot of ways he wasn’t actually stupid, and a-Qing was only a middling liar at best.

He’d followed her the first time she’d gone out collecting scraps, mostly because he didn’t trust her as far as she could’ve thrown him and had smelled the lie on her the second she gave it. He told Xiao Xingchen he was going to take a nap and then slipped out, following after her as she pickpocketed her way through Yi City with the expertise of a great deal of experience.

His respect for her rose a notch. Though he did have to wonder how she knew which targets to hit, without being able to see.

Xue Yang was pretty sure she couldn’t. Pretty sure.

He left her to it, deciding that she wasn’t up to anything that needed to concern him. When she came back bearing a not insubstantial amount of money, claiming she’d traded fruits of her scavenging for it, Xue Yang just barely managed not to laugh.

He followed her a couple more times, just to make sure that she wasn’t up to anything other than petty theft. As far as Xue Yang could tell, she wasn’t.

Fine, then. Wasn’t like they didn’t need the money, and he wasn’t going to judge.

Xue Yang actually wasn’t following her when he heard her shrill voice saying, “are you really going to come after a blind girl? Shame on you!” And then, shriller, “let me go!”

Huh.

Xue Yang considered. If she’d gotten herself caught in some trouble, she could get herself out of it, or not. Didn’t make a lot of difference to him, really. Maybe she’d get herself killed, and then he wouldn’t have to deal with having her around all the time. If a-Qing couldn’t help herself then she didn’t deserve Xue Yang doing it.

Just out of curiosity, though, he turned and headed in the direction of her raised voice, following it into a narrow alley between buildings. A-Qing was boxed in at the end of it, three boys cornering her, laughing. One of them had her stick and was poking her with it. She didn’t look hurt yet, just spooked, at least so far.

He leaned against one of the walls and watched, head cocked.

It occurred to him that Xiao Xingchen would probably be disappointed if a-Qing didn’t show up for dinner.

One of them must’ve felt him looking and turned around. “Get lost, cripple,” he said.

“Why?” Xue Yang said lazily. That question seemed to stump him, and Xue Yang laughed. He flushed.

“Get out of here,” he said again.

“Don’t want to. Go ahead. Didn’t mean to interrupt.” The other two turned around. Xue Yang grinned at them. “Seriously,” he said. “Keep going. I’m curious what you’re going to do to her. There’s so many options.”

A-Qing was frozen. Xue Yang tapped his fingers against his leg. The good one. The other one was almost all the way healed now, if still frustratingly weak. Good enough for them, though.

“You know what someone’s skull sounds like when it cracks?” he said. The idiot who talked first looked blank, and Xue Yang let his grin widen. “Really? No?”

“What,” idiot number one said. Or started to.

“Like this,” Xue Yang said.

It was a nice crunch, the sound of bone meeting the wall with the kind of force he put into it. Good, satisfying. The second time caved in the side of his head.

The other two bolted, which was really too bad.

A-Qing was taking quick, panicky sounding breaths. Xue Yang dropped the corpse-in-process he was holding - still twitching, he’d be gone in a minute or so - and chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Wow,” he said. “Idiots, right? Thinking they can fuck with you and not get in trouble.”

She didn’t say anything.

“See you when you get back,” he said. “Steal something nice for me.”

He walked back to the yizhuang with a bit of a spring in his step. A-Qing did not bring him anything nice. It was a good thing he hadn’t really expected her to.

Well. There was his good deed for the next five years. He hoped she was grateful.

II.

Xiao Xingchen might be a famous cultivator who had poems written about him, might be a capable fighter who had suppressed countless monsters and ghosts, but, Xue Yang quickly learned, he didn’t know shit about dealing with money.

He overpaid for everything. When Xue Yang pointed it out, he smiled and said if they’re asking that much then they must need it.

Mother of fuck, it was a miracle he hadn’t starved to death after giving away everything he had.

It was funny, the first couple times he went out shopping with him. The first time he didn’t even technically go with him, just watched from a distance as Xiao Xingchen got himself fleeced and cheated, the naive idiot.

It was less funny when he came back to the yizhuang apologetic about the lack of food, and he had to go to sleep if not hungry then at least less than satisfied.

The next time, Xue Yang went with him. That went a little better, though mostly Xiao Xingchen ignored his attempts to push the prices down. At least he could keep them from giving him bad produce.

By the third time, he was genuinely annoyed by the whole process, and the hungry, anticipatory way that the shopkeepers eyed Xiao Xingchen like he was easy prey, which of course he was, but not theirs.

Mostly, though, he just let Xiao Xingchen deal with it. He never asked, anyway.

The next time Xiao Xingchen picked up a basket and announced he was going shopping, and did they want anything, Xue Yang got up and tugged it away from him. “I’ll go,” he said.

Xiao Xingchen seemed startled. A-Qing sat up, expression immediately turning suspicious. “You’re offering to do something?” she said. “Something helpful?”

“Yeah,” Xue Yang said. “Turns out. World’s full of surprises, isn’t it?” He kept his eyes on Xiao Xingchen, who paused and then smiled.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

“Course I don’t,” Xue Yang said. “You think I’d do anything I didn’t want to, Daozhang?”

A-Qing was still frowning at him like she thought he was up to something. Xue Yang had no idea what she thought he was up to, and kind of wanted to ask, but he didn’t care enough to do it.

“I really don’t mind going myself,” Xiao Xingchen said.

“Uh huh,” Xue Yang said. “What, you don’t trust me?” He pitched his voice light and teasing, and Xiao Xingchen shook his head with another smile.

“All right,” he said. “If you insist.”

“I do,” Xue Yang said, hooking the basket over his arm, and waltzed out toward the street.

“Thank you,” Xiao Xingchen called after him, and Xue Yang’s stride hitched a little. He paused, just for a moment, then called back over his shoulder, “you’re welcome, Daozhang!” and left.

Yi City’s merchants were not ready for him. It was great. It was the most fun he’d had in a while.

It wasn’t until he was on his way back that he realized that the most fun he’d had in a while was shopping for groceries. That he’d enjoyed it. Admittedly, the enjoyment had mostly come out of terrorizing the people who’d been cheating Xiao Xingchen for weeks, but still.

And he was looking forward to bringing the fruits of his work back, and dropping them on Xiao Xingchen’s lap, and the smile that would curve his lips. Thank you, my friend, he’d say.

He shook himself. It was funny, wasn’t it? Nobody else got the joke, at least not so far, but he knew.

Thank you, my friend, Xiao Xingchen would say, smiling. He’d scream if he knew the truth. Xue Yang looked forward to hearing it.

III.

Today was a nothing day.

Nobody else called them that, but that was how Xue Yang thought of them. There was one every ten days where Xiao Xingchen decided that nobody was working - Xue Yang didn’t know why, something about how it was important to take time to rest and be still. They were quiet and lazy and dull and Xue Yang had begun to really enjoy them.

Not just because it meant Xiao Xingchen didn’t make him get up early, and often the chance to do other things in bed in the morning.

(That was new. New-ish. Sort of unexpected, but the good kind of unexpected. Xue Yang was pretty sure he’d never fucked the same person this many times before, and he was getting to like it - the learning what got to him, what he liked, what made him cry, how much pressure it took to leave bruises on Xiao Xingchen’s pale skin.)

Today was this week’s nothing day, so Xue Yang nuzzled up to Xiao Xingchen and scraped his teeth against the skin of his neck, hand sliding down over his stomach.

Xiao Xingchen hummed and caught his hand before it went far.

“Ah,” he said quietly. “Not this morning.”

Xue Yang frowned against his neck where he knew Xiao Xingchen would feel it. “Why not?”

“I have to go out today,” Xiao Xingchen said. His frown deepened.

“Out?”

“Wang-furen told me yesterday that her sister is having trouble with the ghost of their grandmother,” he said. “I told her I would take care of it as soon as I was able.” Xue Yang pulled back and stared at him.

“You didn’t say anything about this,” he said.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he said. “I expect it’ll be a simple matter - it doesn’t seem the ghost is malicious. But it is several hours journey, so I need to leave soon.”

“But it’s a nothing day,” Xue Yang blurted out. Xiao Xingchen’s eyebrows knitted together.

“What?”

“You know,” Xue Yang said. “The day where we don’t work and go out and help people, or whatever. That’s ours, you and me. And a-Qing.” A prickle of irritation started under his skin, at Wang-furen and her sister, for putting this on Xiao Xingchen, dragging him out, making him take care of their problems and they probably wouldn’t even pay. Or Xiao Xingchen wouldn’t let them.

Xiao Xingchen’s frown deepened.

“Once a week,” Xue Yang insisted. “There’s always one a week. It’s supposed to be today.”

Xiao Xingchen was quiet for a moment, and then let out a bit of a laugh. “It isn’t a rule,” he said.

“But-”

Xue Yang broke off. But it should be, he was thinking, irritation edging toward anger. But it’s supposed to be. This is part of how things go. We have a routine and Wang-furen and her ghost grandmother are ruining it.

He pulled away, sharply, and rolled out of bed. “Fine,” he said sulkily. “Better get going, then.”

The frown in Xiao Xingchen’s voice was audible. “This is...important to you?”

Xue Yang said nothing. He could feel his face getting hot. This, he thought, was why you didn’t expect things from people. They’d up and decide that some stranger’s stupid problem mattered more than his good day.

“It is,” Xiao Xingchen said slowly.

“Whatever,” Xue Yang muttered. He started collecting his clothes from where he’d thrown them on the floor.

“I won’t be gone all day.”

Just most of it. Besides, it was the principle of the thing.

He heard the rustle of Xiao Xingchen rising, his quiet footsteps, and fell still, tensing. His fingers brushed Xue Yang’s shoulder.

“I said I would go,” he said. “I can’t go back on my word.”

Of course not. Xue Yang’s lips twisted and didn’t answer.

“Tomorrow,” Xiao Xingchen said after another couple moments, his voice firm. “Would you mind...tomorrow, for a...nothing day...instead?”

Xue Yang turned to look at Xiao Xingchen, eyes narrowed. He was being mocked, he thought, or worse, humored. But Xiao Xingchen looked serious.

“You don’t have to,” Xue Yang said. “It’s not that big a deal.”

“No,” Xiao Xingchen said. “It’s a good idea. I hadn’t meant for it to be...but now that you’ve pointed it out, I think it would be nice. To have a day marked specifically for ourselves.”

Xue Yang blinked at him. Xiao Xingchen smiled.

“Tomorrow,” he said, slowly.

“Yes,” Xiao Xingchen said. “If it’s fair weather we can go to the river and swim. I think I would like that.”

Xue Yang could feel the tension starting to bleed out of him, almost against his will. “Hm,” he said. And then, cautiously, “yeah, all right.”

Xiao Xingchen smiled at him, then bent his head down and kissed him in that horribly gentle way he had sometimes. He pulled back too fast for Xue Yang to turn it into something else. “If you want something,” he said, “please feel you can ask.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The bizarre urge to laugh rose up and he let it happen. “Aw, Daozhang,” he said. “You’re sweet.”

“I know,” Xiao Xingchen said brightly. He paused, and then said, turning just a bit pink, “and I’ll make it up to you when I get back.”

Xue Yang felt himself grin. “That right?”

Xiao Xingchen’s flush deepened, but his smile stayed. “I’ll certainly see what I can do.”

You make it so easy, Xue Yang thought, and he wasn’t even entirely sure what it was.

IV.

A-Qing was sick.

Coughing, puking, dripping snot, the works. It was disgusting. Xue Yang had been wrist deep in someone’s entrails, sure, but he could deal with that. This? Much worse.

It was actually a relief that Xiao Xingchen had sent him off with a list of herbs he wanted.

“Or you could just let her die,” he’d said.

“No,” Xiao Xingchen said firmly, though with a flicker of his lips like he thought that’d been a joke, which it had, sort of, but also not really.

Xue Yang was pleased by the wary glances he got from the merchants as he walked through the market. They knew by now that he wasn’t someone they could fuck with, and these days didn’t even try. Sometimes he pitched insultingly low prices just to check, smiling with all his teeth.

Nobody’d tried to argue with him in a while.

He sauntered over to an herbalist and started looking over her wares for the things on Xiao Xingchen’s list. Nothing particularly rare or expensive, at least. A few things he didn’t recognize and had needed to ask Xiao Xingchen to describe.

Maybe he’d pick up something nasty and pretend he’d made an innocent mistake. Wouldn’t have to be fatal, or anything. Xiao Xingchen would catch it before she actually took anything, though, so it’d be pointless.

“On your own today?”

Xue Yang glanced up, a little surprised at being addressed, and the shopkeeper did look a little like she regretted speaking up. Xue Yang grinned at her, bright and friendly, and she relaxed. “Looks like,” he said.

“Is your family well?” Xue Yang blinked at her, and she gestured at the herbs he was collecting. “I only ask because of your choice of purchases.”

“They’re fine,” Xue Yang said automatically, and then, “my what?”

“Your...family?” The shopkeeper began to look nervous again. “That daoshi and the little blind girl.”

Xue Yang stared. And then burst out laughing. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck, you think-”

She looked baffled, which just made him laugh harder.

“They’re not my family,” Xue Yang said. “That’s - I’m going to tell a-Qing you said that. She’ll hate it.”

“Then…” she looked even more confused. Xue Yang was tempted to reach out and pat her on the cheek. He just shook his head and smiled.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You wouldn’t get it anyway.”

He paid something almost approximating a fair price for the herbs and walked away, still laughing to himself. He made it halfway back to the yizhuang before it stopped, very suddenly.

Caught on that ridiculous word - family - he’d missed the other thing.

On your own today? Like that was a surprise. Like he wasn’t supposed to be, or wasn’t expected to be. Incomplete in himself, like people saw him and looked next to him for someone else. Someones, apparently.

Xue Yang stopped. Obviously Xiao Xingchen was his and it was good that people knew that and could see it, and if anyone was going to kill a-Qing it was going to be him, so.

An eel wriggled through his guts and then curled around his stomach.

It wasn’t...exactly a bad feeling.

He wasn’t sure it was a good one, either.

Whatever, he told himself, and picked up his pace again, heading-

(Home.)

He ended up not mentioning the conversation at all.

V.

Xue Yang was watching Xiao Xingchen weaving a basket when it happened.

The three of them huddled around a fire, a-Qing shivering even wrapped in a blanket, and he was tempted to throw something at her and tell her that if she couldn’t handle the cold she should just go inside. She wouldn’t, though. Stubborn idiot.

He leaned his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on his hand, just thinking, just - watching. A smile pulling at his mouth. Xiao Xingchen wasn’t smiling, his expression serious and focused the way he got when he was concentrating on something.

It wasn’t his favorite Xiao Xingchen expression, but it was a good one. Up there with the one he made when Xue Yang made him laugh, helpless and unrestrained, and the one he made when Xue Yang had his mouth on his cock and he was coming apart.

His eyes dropped to Xiao Xingchen’s hands, watching the sure and confident way they moved, and he wondered if they got enough materials if Xiao Xingchen could sell his work. Maybe he’d put the idea to him. Might be able to bring in some extra money, get another blanket for the winter. Maybe next year-

Xue Yang’s thoughts hitched.

Next year.

Typically, Xue Yang did not plan very far ahead. He kept his expectations for the future relatively low, and his plans fairly immediate. There was no point in anticipating a future that might never come, or might come in a shape that you could never foresee. Better to just be able to react, to improvise and adapt and change course as necessary.

The past two and a half years, he’d been biding his time, he’d been waiting and playing things out as they came. Knowing he could move on whenever he wanted, could end this whenever he wanted.

Next year.

Xue Yang dropped his hand from his chin and sat up, an alarm shrilling at the back of his head. You’ve settled, it said. You’ve been leashed, you’ve been tamed.

Get out. Get out now.

His fingers itched. The back of his neck itched. His breath caught in his chest and he rocked back like he’d been shoved.

Xiao Xingchen stopped weaving and turned his head in his direction.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” Xue Yang said automatically. “No, I’m good.”

The alarm went quiet. His thoughts went quiet. Slowly, the tension bled out of him.

So what?

So what if I stay? So what if I keep this? Isn’t it mine? Don’t I deserve it?

Besides. Next year was next year. Why worry about it now? It was just thinking. It wasn’t like he was ruling out anything else. It wasn’t like he couldn’t change his mind later. Wasn’t like he was committing to anything. And even if he was - so what?

This life was his, now. Why should he have to let it go?

“Are you sure?” Xiao Xingchen asked.

“Yeah,” Xue Yang said. “I’m sure.”

ONE.

Okay. Okay.

So that hadn’t ended up going as planned, but it was fine. He hadn’t expected Xiao Xingchen to do that, the idiot - why, why would he do that, why turn his sword on himself, why did he have to go and-

But it was fine. Xue Yang knew how to bring him back. And yes, all right, he’d be dead and not the same as he’d been before, but that was fine, too. They’d figure it out. And Xiao Xingchen would make a glorious fierce corpse.

As soon as he woke up, they’d start over.

He washed him up carefully. Cleaned the blood off his hands, washed his face and changed the bandage over his eyes to a clean one.

(Xiao Xingchen hadn’t liked him doing that. He got so self-conscious about it. Xue Yang brushed his fingers against his eyelids, collapsed into empty sockets, and reminded himself to mention that he thought they were beautiful.)

Xue Yang’s hands stuttered a little cleaning the open wound across his throat. It didn’t look too bad, really. Shuanghua’s edge was very sharp, the edges neat and clean.

He pulled his eyes away and checked the talismans again; they were right, obviously. Xue Yang knew what he was doing here, better than anyone still alive. Now he just had to wait.

Everything should be perfect for when he woke up, though. That’d been - a bad argument, ugly, Xiao Xingchen had said some nasty things that’d hurt but it didn’t matter now, it wasn’t important now. He’d have to figure out what to do about a-Qing. Xue Yang wanted her dead, but Xiao Xingchen liked her. Maybe it’d make him happy, having her around still.

He’d just carve her eyes out, make her blind for real. Settle for that.

Xue Yang cleaned up the house - their house, the house they’d shared, repaired together. He started with just the coffin home itself and then moved on to the courtyard, because Xiao Xingchen hadn’t woken up yet and he’d be happy to see that, too; he always liked it when things were clean.

He’d always liked it when-

Xue Yang’s thoughts stuttered, like his hands.

He cleaned and polished Shuanghua and then placed it carefully out of reach - he’d give it back, of course, eventually, but not until he was sure that Xiao Xingchen could be trusted with it, that he would be good.

And he would be. This was - this was better, really, than before. Xiao Xingchen knew him, now, and as a fierce corpse Xue Yang would be able to control him and keep him from doing anything stupid, like - like cutting his own throat, say. Xiao Xingchen would only do what he wanted-

He wanted Xiao Xingchen to give him that look, the amused-but-frustrated one that he got when Xue Yang said something a little too outrageous, where he felt like he shouldn’t laugh but still sort of wanted to. He’d still do that, right?

He won’t. You know he won’t.

Xue Yang bit his tongue and went to make dinner. Automatically, he started out making it for three, but he caught himself quickly enough and cut down the portions. Keeping his ears tuned for any sound, for movement, for Xiao Xingchen waking up and realizing that he wasn’t dead, that he still had his life and still could have his life, the one he’d been happy with before Song Lan had to come along and ruin everything.

Because he was going to wake up. Any minute now. It was taking longer than normal but that didn’t mean it wasn’t going to work. It had to work, there was no reason it shouldn’t work.

He laid out the food and sat down. It was dark out, it’d been hours, but that was okay. It was good that it’d taken this long, actually, since it’d given Xue Yang all this time to get ready, to make everything ready, everything in place the way that Xiao Xingchen would want it. Remind him that really, Song Lan had left him, everyone else had left him, but Xue Yang was still here and wasn’t leaving, would never leave.

Any minute now.

Everything was going to be all right.

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Colors (Soulmate AU)

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.5k

A/N: I’M ON A ROLLLLLL. I did try a little phrase at the end in Manoa at the end but I’m not sure on how accurate it is. My requests and taglist are still open. 

*Italics - flashback*

@zephyrs-from-far-lands​

Request: I hope your still taking requests because din djarin x reader soulmate au where you only see in grayscale until you meet your soulmate would be an amazing fic to read!

Masterlist // Prompts

She used to wonder what the color blue looked like. Y/N knew it was the color of the ocean, the beautiful sky; still so elegant despite the world being gray.

“Everything is just so beautiful!” Her friend would gush when she first found her soulmate. “I can’t wait until you finally see it!”

Y/N couldn’t wait either, but she waited patiently, with the firm belief that all good things came to those who were patient enough.

Though it was impossible to actually imagine the colors, let alone new ones, it never hurt to try. Y/N took every opportunity she had to dream about them, to even imagine the feel of them – she was aware herself that she was borderline obsessed with them, but couldn’t find it in herself to care.

Din was sleeping soundly next to her, back turned towards her. Y/N couldn’t help but trace the various scars and burns that littered his tan skin – which she always admired – and place little soft kisses on them. She knew he would eventually wake up because of this, but she couldn’t help herself. Especially not when she was feeling nostalgic.

Her life was pretty simple, even for a merchant such as herself. She took her work seriously, had friends, family, and little hobbies – such as training and scavenging – for herself. Y/N didn’t want to say her life was miserable, because it was quite the opposite, but yes it would be better with colors, to see the world in all its beauty; to see light among the gray ashes. She knew enough about them, could imagine what the color of the sand looked like – a tan, peach look she was told once – and the color of her hair and her eyes; her friend told her she had beautiful eyes.

Din groaned as he started to wake. He could feel soft lips trailing over the skin on his back, a welcoming feeling as he smiled and turned onto his side. It was hard at first to get used to her soft smiles and groggy voice in the mornings; it was too intimate, something he had gone without for so long. It was foreign as it was beautiful and warm.

“Good morning,” Y/N whispered, now tracing her finger over his jaw. He would have to shave soon.

“Morning,” he whispered back, leaning into her touch. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good. I’ve just been thinking.”

He hummed, scooting closer to her until their foreheads were touching; he still couldn’t get enough of her touch, to feel that she was still physically real, with him.

“About what?”

Y/N grinned then. “About us. When we first met.”

Din chuckled, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“Best day of my life.”

It was a typical day when the Mandalorian strolled through the markets with the Child and Cara Dune in tow. He was used to the gray world and had convinced himself that he would die with his vision still dark and colorless; he could dream about the day he would be able to, but even dreams can be teasers. Y/N didn’t see him at first, he had caught sight of her. She stood behind some fruit and vegetables; eyes glazed over in a daydream. The first thing the Mandalorian noticed was that his once gray world was starting to change. People were starting to become different, even from behind his visor, no longer the same gray shadows he saw every day; he could see the colors of the fruits and vegetables at her stand, the first he noticed was orange. A beautiful color.

Confused, he turned towards Cara, who he could see had black hair and brown eyes with pale skin. The Child, who was gurgling and cooing next to them, was green with big, brown wide eyes. They were beautiful too. But it couldn’t compare to how magnificent Y/N was when his eyes found her again, and he immediately recognized her as the reason for all this change; his soulmate.

Din Djarin never expected to find his soulmate, let alone have one. Didn’t believe that he deserved one either, not with what he’s done. Sure, he was a changed man now, but the insecurity was still there. He was always told that everyone had one out there, waiting for them, and that soon he would find his when he would least expect. He didn’t believe them until he saw her.

Y/N leaned in to give him a soft but passionate kiss, only pulling away to catch her breath; she still had to get used to that as well, the way her heart would pound and hammer away in her chest whenever they were in the same room together, and how quickly she seemed to lose her breath with every smile, every touch, every kiss.

“Mine too.”

Y/N was brought out of her daydream when she heard someone, a woman, call out to her.

“Hey, fruit lady!”

She quickly whipped her head towards the call, eyes trailing over a woman standing alone with a smirk.

“Got someone here who really wants to meet you,” she said.

The Mandalorian cursed as he hid against another stand. Even with his stupid helmet on, Cara could sense the change in her friend, could see the way his head wouldn’t turn away from the woman at the stand, only a few feet from them. She quickly deduced what was happening when she saw him looking around as well, his body language speaking to her in a way his words sometimes didn’t: surprised, curious, shock, realization, fear.

“Oh I see what’s going on,” Cara teased. “You just found your soulmate, didn’t you?”

The Mandalorian stuttered. “No I just… okay yes but-.”

“And it’s that girl at the stand right there, right?”

“Y-yes.”

He hid as soon as he caught on to her plan. He wasn’t sure if he was ready yet. What if she didn’t like him? Or his lifestyle? What if he was only putting her in danger? The questions swirled around like a bullet in a trapped room.

Y/N was weary but walked towards the strange woman. Her eyes caught sight of the Child, and she couldn’t help but smile and wave to the little creature.

“Hello,” she cooed to it. The baby waved back, babbling a hello in return.

The Mandalorian stopped breathing when he heard her voice. It was absolutely lovely.

“I’d like you to meet someone,” Cara interrupted, bringing Y/N’s attention back to her. “I think you guys will really like each other. Like a lot.”

He wanted to slap her sometimes. But it was too late, the young woman was already looking his way. With a deep breath the Mandalorian stepped from the shadows, body tense with anticipation.

Y/N was confused at first. Why would a Mandalorian want to see her? Then she saw it, the way colors seemed to bleed over her vision, wiping away all the gray from the world. She gasped, taking a step back as she inspected her new – the world wasn’t new, but she was – surroundings, drinking it all in. Her heart stopped when she saw the sky, and it was just as beautiful and free as she imagined it; blue and white, so calming and tempting. The next color she noticed was the color of her dress: brown with soft red designs over the middle, hugging her delicately. Despite all the overwhelming colors swarming her visions, she was able to come back to reality, the delight from her smile only faltering slightly at the revelation. Because this meant she had just met her other half!

Her eyes immediately dropped towards the man in question, who waited patiently. Cara clapped her hands, making them both jump.

“Well,” she let out an exaggerated sigh. “My work here is done. I’ll leave you two to it, the kid and I will meet you back at the ship.”

Mando could see there was no use arguing with Cara Dune, and he made a mental note to thank her later, even if the outcome was bad. But he could feel it, the instant connection between them, the curiosity underneath the amazement of their new vision.

“Hello,” Din finally greeted.

Y/N waved a shy hand, brushing her hair behind her ears. “Hello,” she greeted back softly.

And the rest was history. Din and Y/N both made sure to thank Cara for pushing them together, and the Child had taken quite a liking to her. It took some time to get used to each other, to tread the waters of a new relationship, but they had time, patience, and forgiveness, which saved them more than once. But for Y/N, being with Din Djarin was everything she ever wanted; being his soulmate and wife was one of her greatest blessings in life. She still couldn’t get enough of looking at him, his perfect dark eyes and wavy matching hair.

A gurgling coo called out to them at the end of their bed, making them both look down at the baby smiling up at them. Y/N chuckled as Din sat up to take the Child in his arms, setting him between the both of them and laying down, laying an arm out for Y/N to place her head on.

“This is all I ever need. Just the two of you.”

Y/N smiled at the baby, running her finger gently down the bridge of his small nose, humming in agreement.

“I love you.”

“And I love you kar’taylir darasuum.”

 Tags: @treehousemagicblog​, @riverquartzuniverse​, @beepbeepyabitch, @smol-flower-kiddo​, @harps-for-days​, @teenagedirtbagg2​, @goththespian

[hockeysweetheart]

So This post will be about the realitonship Between  Peeta And Katniss this will be a long one  PART 1... Catching Fire and Mockingjay will be in another post

Peeta Mellark! Oh, no, I think. Not him. Because I recognize this name, although I have never spoken directly to its owner. Peeta Mellark.

Why him? I think. Then I try to convince myself it doesn't matter. Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. Not even neighbors. We don't speak. Our only real interaction happened years ago. He's probably forgotten it. But I haven't and I know I never will. It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. Where are you? I would cry out in my mind. Where have you gone? Of course, there was never any answer. The district had given us a small amount of money as compensation for his death, enough to cover one month of grieving at which time my mother would be expected to get a job. Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Prim seemed to affect her. I was terrified. I suppose now that my mother was locked in some dark world of sadness, but at the time, all I knew was that I had lost not only a father, but a mother as well. At eleven years old, with Prim just seven, I took over as head of the family. There was no choice. I bought our food at the market and cooked it as best I could and tried to keep Prim and myself looking presentable. Because if it had become known that my mother could no longer care for us, the district would have taken us away from her and placed us in the community home. I'd grown up seeing those home kids at school. The sadness, the marks of angry hands on their faces, the hopelessness that curled their shoulders forward. I could never let that happen to Prim. Sweet, tiny Prim who cried when I cried before she even knew the reason, who brushed and plaited my mother's hair before we left for school, who still polished my father's shaving mirror each night because he'd hated the layer of coal dust that settled on everything in the Seam. The community home would crush her like a bug. So I kept our predicament a secret. But the money ran out and we were slowly starving to death. There's no other way to put it. I kept telling myself if I could only hold out until May, just May 8th, I would turn twelve and be able to sign up for the tesserae and get that precious grain and oil to feed us. Only there were still several weeks to go. We could well be dead by then. Starvation's not an uncommon fate in District 12. Who hasn't seen the victims? Older people who can't work. Children from a family with too many to feed. Those injured in the mines. Straggling through the streets. And one day, you come upon them sitting motionless against a wall or lying in the Meadow, you hear the wails from a house, and the Peacekeepers are called in to retrieve the body. Starvation is never the cause of death officially. It's always the flu, or exposure, or pneumonia. But that fools no one. On the afternoon of my encounter with Peeta Mellark, the rain was falling in relentless icy sheets. I had been in town, trying to trade some threadbare old baby clothes of Prim's in the public market, but there were no takers. Although I had been to the Hob on several occasions with my father, I was too frightened to venture into that rough, gritty place alone. The rain had soaked through my father's hunting jacket, leaving me chilled to the bone. For three days, we'd had nothing but boiled water with some old dried mint leaves I'd found in the back of a cupboard. By the time the market closed, I was shaking so hard I dropped my bundle of baby clothes in a mud puddle. I didn't pick it up for fear I would keel over and be unable to regain my feet. Besides, no one wanted those clothes. I couldn't go home. Because at home was my mother with her dead eyes and my little sister, with her hollow cheeks and cracked lips. I couldn't walk into that room with the smoky fire from the damp branches I had scavenged at the edge of the woods after the coal had run out, my bands empty of any hope. I found myself stumbling along a muddy lane behind the shops that serve the wealthiest townspeople. The merchants live above their businesses, so I was essentially in their backyards. I remember the outlines of garden beds not yet planted for the spring, a goat or two in a pen, one sodden dog tied to a post, hunched defeated in the muck. All forms of stealing are forbidden in District 12. Punishable by death. But it crossed my mind that there might be something in the trash bins, and those were fair game. Perhaps a bone at the butcher's or rotted vegetables at the grocer's, something no one but my family was desperate enough to eat. Unfortunately, the bins had just been emptied. When I passed the baker's, the smell of fresh bread was so overwhelming I felt dizzy. The ovens were in the back, and a golden glow spilled out the open kitchen door. I stood mesmerized by the heat and the luscious scent until the rain interfered, running its icy fingers down my back, forcing me back to life. I lifted the lid to the baker's trash bin and found it spotlessly, heartlessly bare. Suddenly a voice was screaming at me and I looked up to see the baker's wife, telling me to move on and did I want her to call the Peacekeepers and how sick she was of having those brats from the Seam pawing through her trash. The words were ugly and I had no defense. As I carefully replaced the lid and backed away, I noticed him, a boy with blond hair peering out from behind his mother's back. I'd seen him at school. He was in my year, but I didn't know his name. He stuck with the town kids, so how would I? His mother went back into the bakery, grumbling, but he must have been watching me as I made my way behind the pen that held their pig and leaned against the far side of an old apple tree. The realization that I'd have nothing to take home had finally sunk in. My knees buckled and I slid down the tree trunk to its roots. It was too much. I was too sick and weak and tired, oh, so tired. Let them call the Peacekeepers and take us to the community home, I thought. Or better yet, let me die right here in the rain. There was a clatter in the bakery and I heard the woman screaming again and the sound of a blow, and I vaguely wondered what was going on. Feet sloshed toward me through the mud and I thought, It's her. She's coming to drive me away with a stick. But it wasn't her. It was the boy. In his arms, he carried two large loaves of bread that must have fallen into the fire because the crusts were scorched black. His mother was yelling, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!" He began to tear off chunks from the burned parts and toss them into the trough, and the front bakery bell rung and the mother disappeared to help a customer. The boy never even glanced my way, but I was watching him. Because of the bread, because of the red weal that stood out on his cheekbone. What had she hit him with? My parents never hit us. I couldn't even imagine it. The boy took one look back to the bakery as if checking that the coast was clear, then, his attention back on the pig, he threw a loaf of bread in my direction. The second quickly followed, and he sloshed back to the bakery, closing the kitchen door tightly behind him. I stared at the loaves in disbelief. They were fine, perfect really, except for the burned areas. Did he mean for me to have them? He must have. Because there they were at my feet. Before anyone could witness what had happened I shoved the loaves up under my shirt, wrapped the hunting jacket tightly about me, and walked swiftly away. The heat of the bread burned into my skin, but I clutched it tighter, clinging to life. By the time I reached home, the loaves had cooled somewhat, but the insides were still warm. When I dropped them on the table, Prim's hands reached to tear off a chunk, but I made her sit, forced my mother to join us at the table, and poured warm tea. I scraped off the black stuff and sliced the bread. We ate an entire loaf, slice by slice. It was good hearty bread, filled with raisins and nuts. I put my clothes to dry at the fire, crawled into bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep. It didn't occur to me until the next morning that the boy might have burned the bread on purpose. Might have dropped the loaves into the flames, knowing it meant being punished, and then delivered them to me. But I dismissed this. It must have been an accident. Why would he have done it? He didn't even know me. Still, just throwing me the bread was an enormous kindness that would have surely resulted in a beating if discovered. I couldn't explain his actions. We ate slices of bread for breakfast and headed to school. It was as if spring had come overnight. Warm sweet air. Fluffy clouds. At school, I passed the boy in the hall, his cheek had swelled up and his eye had blackened. He was with his friends and didn't acknowledge me in any way. But as I collected Prim and started for home that afternoon, I found him staring at me from across the school yard. Our eyes met for only a second, then he turned his head away. I dropped my gaze, embarrassed, and that's when I saw it. The first dandelion of the year. A bell went off in my head. I thought of the hours spent in the woods with my father and I knew how we were going to survive. To this day, I can never shake the connection between this boy, Peeta Mellark, and the bread that gave me hope, and the dandelion that reminded me that I was not doomed. And more than once, I have turned in the school hallway and caught his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I feel like I owe him something, and I hate owing people. Maybe if I had thanked him at some point, I'd be feeling less conflicted now. I thought about it a couple of times, but the opportunity never seemed to present itself. And now it never will. Because we're going to be thrown into an arena to fight to the death. Exactly how am I supposed to work in a thank-you in there? Somehow it just won't seem sincere if I'm trying to slit his throat.  

Can I just say How much Peeta must be like Oh my god yes I am with the  girl I love. But how will I tell that when we are trying to kill each other 

I have misjudged him. I think of his actions since the reaping began. The friendly squeeze of my hand. His father showing up with the cookies and promising to feed Prim. did Peeta put him up to that? His tears at the station. Volunteering to wash Haymitch but then challenging him this morning when apparently the nice-guy approach had failed. And now the waving at the window, already trying to win the crowd. All of the pieces are still fitting together, but I sense he has a plan forming. He hasn't accepted his death. He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me the bread, is fighting hard to kill me.

"What's he saying?" I ask Peeta. For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling. And I must be, too. "I think he said for us to hold hands," says Peeta. He grabs my right hand in his left, and we look to Cinna for confirmation. He nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.  

IS CINNA A Matchmaker  and The others because shit I be dammed. 

A warning bell goes off in my head. Don't be so stupid. Peeta is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is. But because two can play at this game, I stand on tiptoe and kiss his cheek. Right on his bruise.  

Just you wait soon you’ll see  What Peeta’s Plan will be. 

Then Peeta totally covers for her... and They go talk on the rooftop about it and Peeta does... 

Peeta and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms. When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him. "So, Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here." He's asking for an explanation, and I'm tempted to give him one. We both know he covered for me. So here I am in his debt again. If I tell him the truth about the girl, somehow that might even things up. How can it hurt really? Even if he repeated the story, it couldn't do me much harm. It was just something I witnessed. And he lied as much as I did about Delly Cartwright. I realize I do want to talk to someone about the girl. Someone who might be able to help me figure out her story.

  Peeta takes off his jacket and wraps it around my shoulders. I start to take a step back, but then I let him, deciding for a moment to accept both his jacket and his kindness. A friend would do that, right? "They were from here?" he asks, and he secures a button at my neck.  ( UMM SURE “ friends”  do that Katniss... 

"It's getting chilly. We better go in," he says. Inside the dome, it's warm and bright. His tone is conversational. "Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" "Yes. Do you know him?" I ask. "Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something. You favor each other," he says. "No, we're not related," I say. Peeta nods, unreadable. "Did he come to say good-bye to you?" "Yes," I say, observing him carefully. "So did your father. He brought me cookies." Peeta raises his eyebrows as if this is news. But after watching him lie so smoothly, I don't give this much weight. "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys." The idea that I might ever have been discussed, around the dinner table, at the bakery fire, just in passing in Peeta's house gives me a start. It must have been when the mother was out of the room. "He knew your mother when they were kids," says Peeta. Another surprise. But probably true. "Oh, yes. She grew up in town," I say. It seems impolite to say she never mentioned the baker except to compliment his bread. We're at my door. I give back his jacket. "See you in the morning then."   

Okay Peeta I see what your doing...  Seeing if anything Is going on between Katniss and Gale... I totally almost missed this. 

When Haymitch has finished several platters of stew, he pushes back his plate with a sigh. He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table. "So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now." "Why would you coach us separately?" I ask. "Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," says Haymitch. I exchange a look with Peeta. "I don't have any secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels." I never thought about Peeta eating the squirrels I shot. Somehow I always pictured the baker quietly going off and frying them up for himself. Not out of greed. But because town families usually eat expensive butcher meat. Beef and chicken and horse. "You can coach us together," I tell Haymitch. Peeta nods. "All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch. "I can't do anything," says Peeta. "Unless you count baking bread." "Sorry, I don't. Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife," says Haymitch. "Not really. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow." "And you're good?" asks Haymitch. I have to think about it. I've been putting food on the table for four years. That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he'd had more practice. I've better aim than Gale, but I've had more practice. He's a genius with traps and snares. "I'm all right," I say. "She's excellent," says Peeta. "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer." This assessment of my skills from Peeta takes me totally by surprise. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he's talking me up. "What are you doing?" I ask him suspiciously. "What are you doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself," says Peeta. I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way. "What about you? I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred-pound bags of flour," I snap at him. "Tell him that. That's not nothing." "Yes, and I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't," he shoots back. "He can wrestle," I tell Haymitch. "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother." "What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" says Peeta in disgust. "There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" I can hear my voice rising in anger. "But you won't! You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows. You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye, as if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will finally have a winner. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!" bursts out Peeta. "Oh, she meant you," I say with a wave of dismissal. "She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' She is," says Peeta. That pulls me up short. Did his mother really say that about me? Did she rate me over her son? I see the pain in Peeta's eyes and know he isn't lying. Suddenly I'm behind the bakery and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me." Peeta's eyes flicker down to the roll in my hands, and I know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs. "People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you." "No more than you," I say. Peeta rolls his eyes at Haymitch. "She has no idea. The effect she can have." He runs his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me. What on earth does he mean? People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me! No one except Peeta. Once I had something to barter with, things changed. I'm a tough trader. Or am I? What effect do I have? That I'm weak and needy? Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me? I try to think if this is true. Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father. Besides, my game is first-class. No one pitied me!

I glower at the roll sure he meant to insult me. After about a minute of this, Haymitch says, "Well, then. Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?" "I know a few basic snares," I mutter. "That may be significant in terms of food," says Haymitch. "And Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Haymitch. Peeta and I nod. "One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Haymitch. We both start to object, but Haymitch slams his hand on the table. "Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training." I bite my lip and stalk back to my room, making sure Peeta can hear the door slam. I sit on the bed, hating Haymitch, hating Peeta, hating myself for mentioning that day long ago in the rain. It's such a joke! Peeta and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each other's strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point, we're going to have to knock it off and accept we're bitter adversaries. Which I'd be prepared to do right now if it wasn't for Haymitch's stupid instruction that we stick together in training. It's my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn't have to coach us separately. But that didn't mean I wanted to do everything with Peeta. Who, by the way, clearly doesn't want to be partnering up with me, either. I hear Peeta's voice in my head. She has no idea. The effect she can have. Obviously meant to demean me. Right? but a tiny part of me wonders if this was a compliment. That he meant I was appealing in some way. It's weird, how much he's noticed me. Like the attention he's paid to my hunting. And apparently, I have not been as oblivious to him as I imagined, either. The flour. The wrestling. I have kept track of the boy with the bread.

 OH MY GOD someone stop me before the whole freaking book is on this 

Okay I am skipping the training the Katniss shot an arrow at the gamemakers scored 11 bla bla read that in the book  and to Peeta asking to train alone. 

The stew's made with tender chunks of lamb and dried plums today. Perfect on the bed of wild rice. I've shoveled about halfway through the mound when I realize no one's talking. I take a big gulp of orange juice and wipe my mouth. "So, what's going on? You're coaching us on interviews today, right?" "That's right," says Haymitch. "You don't have to wait until I'm done. I can listen and cat at the same time," I say. "Well, there's been a change of plans. About our current approach," says Haymitch. "What's that?" I ask. I'm not sure what our current approach is. Trying to appear mediocre in front of the other tributes is the last bit of strategy I remember. Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has asked to be coached separately."

Betrayal. That's the first thing I feel, which is ludicrous. For there to be betrayal, there would have had to been trust first. Between Peeta and me. And trust has not been part of the agreement. We're tributes. But the boy who risked a beating to give me bread, the one who steadied me in the chariot, who covered for me with the redheaded Avox girl, who insisted Haymitch know my hunting skills. was there some part of me that couldn't help trusting him? On the other hand, I'm relieved that we can stop the pretense of being friends. Obviously, whatever thin connection we'd foolishly formed has been severed. And high time, too. The Games begin in two days, and trust will only be a weakness. Whatever triggered Peeta's decision  -  and I suspect it had to do with my outperforming him in training  -  I should be nothing but grateful for it. Maybe he's finally accepted the fact that the sooner we openly acknowledge that we are enemies, the better.  

Ha no sweety he has a bigger plan he doesn’t want you to know yet. 

I'm still in a daze for the first part of Peeta's interview. He has the audience from the get-go, though; I can hear them laughing, shouting out. He plays up the baker's son thing, comparing the tributes to the breads from their districts. Then has a funny anecdote about the perils of the Capitol showers. "Tell me, do I still smell like roses?" he asks Caesar, and then there's a whole run where they take turns sniffing each other that brings down the house. I'm coming back into focus when Caesar asks him if he has a girlfriend back home. Peeta hesitates, then gives an unconvincing shake of his head. "Handsome lad like you. There must be some special girl. Come on, what's her name?" says Caesar. Peeta sighs. "Well, there is this one girl. I've had a crush on her ever since I can remember. But I'm pretty sure she didn't know I was alive until the reaping." Sounds of sympathy from the crowd. Unrequited love they can relate to. "She have another fellow?" asks Caesar. "I don't know, but a lot of boys like her," says Peeta. "So, here's what you do. You win, you go home. She can't turn you down then, eh?" says Caesar encouragingly. "I don't think it's going to work out. Winning. won't help in my case," says Peeta. "Why ever not?" says Caesar, mystified. Peeta blushes beet red and stammers out. "Because. because. she came here with me."

For a moment, the cameras hold on Peeta's downcast eyes as what he says sinks in. Then I can see my face, mouth half open in a mix of surprise and protest, magnified on every screen as I realize, Me! He means me! I press my lips together and stare at the floor, hoping this will conceal the emotions starting to boil up inside of me. "Oh, that is a piece of bad luck," says Caesar, and there's a real edge of pain in his voice. The crowd is murmuring in agreement, a few have even given agonized cries. "It's not good," agrees Peeta. "Well, I don't think any of us can blame you. It'd be hard not to fall for that young lady," says Caesar. "She didn't know?" Peeta shakes his head. "Not until now." I allow my eyes to flicker up to the screen long enough to see that the blush on my cheeks is unmistakable. "Wouldn't you love to pull her back out here and get a response?" Caesar asks the audience. The crowd screams assent. "Sadly, rules are rules, and Katniss Everdeen's time has been spent. Well, best of luck to you, Peeta Mellark, and I think I speak for all of Panem when I say our hearts go with yours." The roar of the crowd is deafening. Peeta has absolutely wiped the rest of us off the map with his declaration of love for me. When the audience finally settles down, he chokes out a quiet "Thank you" and returns to his seat. We stand for the anthem. I have to raise my head out of the required respect and cannot avoid seeing that every screen is now dominated by a shot of Peeta and me, separated by a few feet that in the viewers' heads can never be breached. Poor tragic us.  

Okay How Katniss shows her love is this 

After the anthem, the tributes file back into the Training Center lobby and onto the elevators. I make sure to veer into a car that does not contain Peeta. The crowd slows our entourages of stylists and mentors and chaperones, so we have only each other for company. No one speaks. My elevator stops to deposit four tributes before I am alone and then find the doors opening on the twelfth floor. Peeta has only just stepped from his car when I slam my palms into his chest. He loses his balance and crashes into an ugly urn filled with fake flowers. The urn tips and shatters into hundreds of tiny pieces. Peeta lands in the shards, and blood immediately flows from his hands. "What was that for?" he says, aghast. "You had no right! No right to go saying those things about me!" I shout at him. Now the elevators open and the whole crew is there, Effie, Haymitch, Cinna, and Portia. "What's going on?" says Effie, a note of hysteria in her voice. "Did you fall?" "After she shoved me," says Peeta as Effie and Cinna help him up. Haymitch turns on me. "Shoved him?" "This was your idea, wasn't it? Turning me into some kind of fool in front of the entire country?" I answer. "It was my idea," says Peeta, wincing as he pulls spikes of pottery from his palms. "Haymitch just helped me with it." "Yes, Haymitch is very helpful. To you!" I say. "You are a fool," Haymitch says in disgust. "Do you think he hurt you? That boy just gave you something you could never achieve on your own." "He made me look weak!" I say. "He made you look desirable! And let's face it, you can use all the help you can get in that department. You were about as romantic as dirt until he said he wanted you. Now they all do. You're all they're talking about. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve!" says Haymitch. "But we're not star-crossed lovers!" I say. Haymitch grabs my shoulders and pins me against the wall. "Who cares? It's all a big show. It's all how you're perceived. The most I could say about you after your interview was that you were nice enough, although that in itself was a small miracle. Now I can say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet. Which do you think will get you more sponsors?" The smell of wine on his breath makes me sick. I shove his hands off my shoulders and step away, trying to clear my head. Cinna comes over and puts his arm around me. "He's right, Katniss." I don't know what to think. "I should have been told, so I didn't look so stupid." "No, your reaction was perfect. If you'd known, it wouldn't have read as real," says Portia. "She's just worried about her boyfriend," says Peeta gruffly, tossing away a bloody piece of the urn. My cheeks burn again at the thought of Gale. "I don't have a boyfriend." "Whatever," says Peeta. "But I bet he's smart enough to know a bluff when he sees it. Besides you didn't say you loved me. So what does it matter?" The words are sinking in. My anger fading. I'm torn now between thinking I've been used and thinking I've been given an edge. Haymitch is right. I survived my interview, but what was I really? A silly girl spinning in a sparkling, dress. Giggling. The only moment of any substance I hail was when I talked about Prim. Compare that with Thresh, his silent, deadly power, and I'm forgettable. Silly and sparkly and forgettable. No, not entirely forgettable, I have my eleven in training. But now Peeta has made me an object of love. Not just his. To hear him tell it I have many admirers. And if the audience really thinks we're in love. I remember how strongly they responded to his confession. Star-crossed lovers. Haymitch is right, they eat that stuff up in the Capitol. Suddenly I'm worried that I didn't react properly. "After he said he loved me, did you think I could be in love with him, too?" I ask. "I did," says Portia. "The way you avoided looking at the cameras, the blush." They others chime in, agreeing. "You're golden, sweetheart. You're going to have sponsors lined up around the block," says Haymitch. I'm embarrassed about my reaction. I force myself to acknowledge Peeta. "I'm sorry I shoved you." "Doesn't matter," he shrugs. "Although it's technically illegal." "Are your hands okay?" I ask. "They'll be all right," he says.  

Okay I have to admit that was kinda sweet  but Honey Pushing him  yeah hes gonna love that.  

There  Nerves of the Hunger Games talk is kinda cute I will admit  but Then its like wtf 

My feet move soundlessly across the tiles. I'm only yard behind him when I say, "You should be getting some sleep." He starts but doesn't turn. I can see him give his head a slight shake. "I didn't want to miss the party. It's for us, after all." I come up beside him and lean over the edge of the rail. The wide streets are full of dancing people. I squint to make out their tiny figures in more detail. "Are they in costumes?" "Who could tell?" Peeta answers. "With all the crazy clothes they wear here. Couldn't sleep, either?" "Couldn't turn my mind off," I say. "Thinking about your family?" he asks. "No," I admit a bit guiltily. "All I can do is wonder about tomorrow. Which is pointless, of course." In the light from below, I can see his face now, the awkward way he holds his bandaged hands. "I really am sorry about your hands." "It doesn't matter, Katniss," he says. "I've never been a contender in these Games anyway." "That's no way to be thinking," I say. "Why not? It's true. My best hope is to not disgrace myself and. " He hesitates. "And what?" I say. "I don't know how to say it exactly. Only. I want to die as myself. Does that make any sense?" he asks. I shake my head. How could he die as anyone but himself? "I don't want them to change me in there. Turn me into some kind of monster that I'm not." I bite my lip feeling inferior. While I've been ruminating on the availability of trees, Peeta has been struggling with how to maintain his identity. His purity of self. "Do you mean you won't kill anyone?" I ask. "No, when the time comes, I'm sure I'll kill just like everybody else. I can't go down without a fight. Only I keep wishing I could think of a way to. to show the Capitol they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games," says Peeta. "But you're not," I say. "None of us are. That's how the Games work." "Okay, but within that framework, there's still you, there's still me," he insists. "Don't you see?" "A little. Only. no offense, but who cares, Peeta?" I say. "I do. I mean, what else am I allowed to care about at this point?" he asks angrily. He's locked those blue eyes on mine now, demanding an answer. I take a step back. "Care about what Haymitch said. About staying alive." Peeta smiles at me, sad and mocking. "Okay. Thanks for the tip, sweetheart." It's like a slap in the face. His use of Haymitch's patronizing endearment. "Look, if you want to spend the last hours of your life planning some noble death in the arena, that's your choice. I want to spend mine in District Twelve." "Wouldn't surprise me if you do," says Peeta. "Give my mother my best when you make it back, will you?"

"Count on it," I say. Then I turn and leave the roof. I spend the rest of the night slipping in and out of a doze, imagining the cutting remarks I will make to Peeta Mellark in the morning. Peeta Mellark. We will see how high and mighty he is when he's faced with life and death. He'll probably turn into one of those raging beast tributes, the kind who tries to eat someone's heart after they've killed them. 

Okay The 74th Games ( shit this is long) 

   When suddenly I notice Peeta, he's about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he's looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out. And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I'm so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because I can't stand leaving with virtually nothing. 

  An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others. "We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta 

Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I've rolled sideways off the fork and I'm facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it. "Go on, then, Lover Boy," says the boy from District 2. "See for yourself." I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there's a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he's limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he'd planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had mid him to do. Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this. this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! Career tributes are overly vicious, arrogant, better fed, but only because they're the Capitol's lapdogs. Universally, solidly hated by all but those from their own districts. I can imagine the things they're saying about him back home now. And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace? Obviously, the noble boy on the rooftop was playing just one more game with me. But this will be his last. I will eagerly watch the night skies for signs of his death, if I don't kill him first myself. The Career tributes are silent until he gets out of ear shot, then use hushed voices. "Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?" "Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife." Is he? That's news. What a lot of interesting things I'm learning about my friend Peeta today. "Besides, he's our best chance of finding her." It takes me a moment to register that the "her" they're referring to is me. "Why? You think she bought into that sappy romance stuff?" "She might have. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. Every time I think about her spinning around in that dress, I want to puke." "Wish we knew how she got that eleven." "Bet you Lover Boy knows." The sound of Peeta returning silences them. "Was she dead?" asks the boy from District 2. "No. But she is now," says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?" The Career pack sets off at a run just as dawn begins to break, and birdsong fills the air. I remain in my awkward position, muscles trembling with exertion for a while longer, then hoist myself back onto my branch. I need to get down, to get going, but for a moment I lie there, digesting what I've heard. Not only is Peeta with the Careers, he's helping them find me. The simpleminded girl who has to be taken seriously because of her eleven. Because she can use a bow and arrow. Which Peeta knows better than anyone. But he hasn't told them yet. Is he saving that information because he knows it's all that keeps him alive? Is he still pretending to love me for the audience? What is going on in his head? 

  But it's too late to run. I pull a slimy arrow from the sheath and try to position it on the bowstring but instead of one string I see three and the stench from the stings is so repulsive I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. I'm helpless as the first hunter crashes through the trees, spear lifted, poised to throw. The shock on Peeta's face makes no sense to me. I wait for the blow. Instead his arm drops to his side. "What are you still doing here?" he hisses at me. I stare uncomprehendingly as a trickle of water drips off a sting under his ear. His whole body starts sparkling as if he's been dipped in dew. "Are you mad?" He's prodding me with the shaft of the spear now. "Get up! Get up!" I rise, but he's still pushing at me. What? What is going on? He shoves me away from him hard. "Run!" he screams. "Run!" Behind him, Cato slashes his way through the brush. He's sparkling wet, too, and badly stung under one eye. I catch the gleam of sunlight on his sword and do as Peeta says. Holding tightly to my bow and arrows, banging into trees that appear out of nowhere, tripping and falling as I try to keep my balance. Back past my pool and into unfamiliar woods. The world begins to bend in alarming ways. A butterfly balloons to the size of a house then shatters into a million stars. Trees transform to blood and splash down over my boots. Ants begin to crawl out of the blisters on my hands and I can't shake them free. They're climbing up my arms, my neck. Someone's screaming, a long high pitched scream that never breaks for breath. I have a vague idea it might be me. I trip and fall into a small pit lined with tiny orange bubbles that hum like the tracker jacker nest. Tucking my knees up to my chin, I wait for death. Sick and disoriented, I'm able to form only one thought: Peeta Mellark just saved my life. 

  The news sinks in. Two tributes can win this year. If they're from the same district. Both can live. Both of us can live. Before I can stop myself, I call out Peeta's name. 

I clap my hands over my mouth, but the sound has already escaped. The sky goes black and I hear a chorus of frogs begin to sing. Stupid! I tell myself. What a stupid thing to do! I wait, frozen, for the woods to come alive with assailants. Then I remember there's almost no one left. Peeta, who's been wounded, is now my ally. Whatever doubts I've had about him dissipate because if either of us took the other's life now we'd be pariahs when we returned to District 12. In fact, I know if I was watching I'd loathe any tribute who didn't immediately ally with their district partner. Besides, it just makes sense to protect each other. And in my case  -  being one of the star-crossed lovers from District 12  -  it's an absolute requirement if I want any more help from sympathetic sponsors. 

Hugging the rocks, I move slowly in the direction of the blood, searching for him. I find a few more bloodstains, one with a few threads of fabric glued to it, but no sign of life. I break down and say his name in a hushed voice. "Peeta! Peeta!" Then a mockingjay lands on a scruffy tree and begins to mimic my tones so I stop. I give up and climb back down to the stream thinking, He must have moved on. Somewhere farther down. My foot has just broken the surface of the water when I hear a voice. "You here to finish me off, sweetheart?" I whip around. It's come from the left, so I can't pick it up very well. And the voice was hoarse and weak. Still, it must have been Peeta. Who else in the arena would call me sweetheart? My eyes peruse the bank, but there's nothing. Just mud, the plants, the base of the rocks. "Peeta?" I whisper. "Where are you?" There's no answer. Could I just have imagined it? No, I'm certain it was real and very close at hand, too. "Peeta?" I creep along the bank. "Well, don't step on me." I jump back. His voice was right under my feet. Still there's nothing. Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves. I gasp and am rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs. It's the final word in camouflage. Forget chucking weights around. Peeta should have gone into his private session with the Gamemakers and painted himself into a tree. Or a boulder. Or a muddy bank full of weeds. "Close your eyes again," I order. He does, and his mouth, too, and completely disappears. Most of what I judge to be his body is actually under a layer of mud and plants. His face and arms are so artfully disguised as to be invisible. I kneel beside him. "I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off." Peeta smiles. "Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying." "You're not going to die," I tell him firmly. "Says who?" His voice is so ragged. "Says me. We're on the same team now, you know," I tell him. His eyes open. "So, I heard. Nice of you to find what's left of me." I pull out my water bottle and give him a drink. "Did Cato cut you?" I ask. "Left leg. Up high," he answers. "Let's get you in the stream, wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you've got," I say. "Lean down a minute first," he says. "Need to tell you something." I lean over and put my good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. "Remember, we're madly in love, so it's all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it." I jerk my head back but end up laughing. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind." At least, he's still able to joke around. But when I start to help him to the stream, all the levity disappears. It's only two feet away, how hard can it be? Very hard when I realize he's unable to move an inch on his own. He's so weak that the best he can do is not to resist. I try to drag him, but despite the fact that I know he's doing all he can to keep quiet, sharp cries of pain escape him. The mud and plants seem to have imprisoned him and I finally have to give a gigantic tug to break him from their clutches. He's still two feet from the water, lying there, teeth gritted, tears cutting trails in the dirt on his face. "Look, Peeta, I'm going to roll you into the stream. It's very shallow here, okay?" I say. "Excellent," he says. I crouch down beside him. No matter what happens, I tell myself, don't stop until he's in the water. "On three," I say. "One, two, three!" I can only manage one full roll before I have to stop because of the horrible sound he's making. Now he's on the edge of the stream. Maybe this is better anyway. "Okay, change of plans. I'm not going to put you all the way in," I tell him. Besides, if I get him in, who knows if I'd ever be able to get him out? "No more rolling?" he asks. "That's all done. Let's get you cleaned up. Keep an eye on the woods for me, okay?" I say. It's hard to know where to start. He so caked with mud and matted leaves, I can't even see his clothes. If he's wearing clothes. The thought makes me hesitate a moment, but then I plunge in. Naked bodies are no big deal in the arena, right? I've got two water bottles and Rue's water skin. I prop them against rocks in the stream so that two are always filling while I pour the third over Peeta's body. It takes a while, but I finally get rid of enough mud to find his clothes. I gently unzip his jacket, unbutton his shirt and ease them off him. His undershirt is so plastered into his wounds I have to cut it away with my knife and drench him again to work it loose. He's badly bruised with a long burn across his chest and four tracker jacker stings, if you count the one under his ear. But I feel a bit better. This much I can fix. I decide to take care of his upper body first, to alleviate some pain, before I tackle whatever damage Cato did to his leg. Since treating his wounds seems pointless when he's lying in what's become a mud puddle, I manage to prop him up against a boulder. He sits there, uncomplaining, while I wash away all the traces of dirt from his hair and skin. His flesh is very pale in the sunlight and he no longer looks strong and stocky. I have to dig the stingers out of his tracker jacker lumps, which causes him to wince, but the minute I apply the leaves he sighs in relief. While he dries in the sun, I wash his filthy shirt and jacket and spread them over boulders. Then I apply the burn cream to his chest. This is when I notice how hot his skin is becoming. The layer of mud and the bottles of water have disguised the fact that he's burning with fever. I dig through the first-aid kit I got from the boy from District 1 and find pills that reduce your temperature. My mother actually breaks down and buys these on occasion when her home remedies fail. "Swallow these," I tell him, and he obediently takes the medicine. "You must be hungry." "Not really. It's funny, I haven't been hungry for days," says Peeta. In fact, when I offer him groosling, he wrinkles his nose at it and turns away. That's when I know how sick he is. "Peeta, we need to get some food in you," I insist.

"It'll just come right back up," he says. The best I can do is to get him to eat a few bits of dried apple. "Thanks. I'm much better, really. Can I sleep now, Katniss?" he asks.

"Soon," I promise. "I need to look at your leg first." Trying to be as gentle as I can, I remove his boots, his socks, and then very slowly inch his pants off of him. I can see the tear Cato's sword made in the fabric over his thigh, but it in no way prepares me for what lies underneath. The deep inflamed gash oozing both blood and pus. The swelling of the leg. And worst of all, the smell of festering flesh.

I want to run away. Disappear into the woods like I did that day they brought the burn victim to our house. Go and hunt while my mother and Prim attend to what I have neither the skill nor the courage to face. But there's no one here but me. I try to capture the calm demeanor my mother assumes when handling particularly bad cases.

"Pretty awful, huh?" says Peeta. He's watching me closely.

"So-so." I shrug like it's no big deal. "You should see some of the people they bring my mother from the mines." I refrain from saying how I usually clear out of the house whenever she's treating anything worse than a cold. Come to think of it, I don't even much like to be around coughing. "First thing is to clean it well."

I've left on Peeta's undershorts because they're not in bad shape and I don't want to pull them over the swollen thigh and, all right, maybe the idea of him being naked makes me uncomfortable. That's another thing about my mother and Prim. Nakedness has no effect on them, gives them no cause for embarrassment. Ironically, at this point in the Games, my little sister would be of far more use to Peeta than I am. I scoot my square of plastic under him so I can wash down the rest of him. With each bottle I pour over him, the worse the wound looks. The rest of his lower body has fared pretty well, just one tracker jacker sting and a few small burns that I treat quickly. But the gash on his leg. what on earth can I do for that?

"Why don't we give it some air and then. " I trail off.

"And then you'll patch it up?" says Peeta. He looks almost sorry for me, as if he knows how lost I am.

"That's right," I say. "In the meantime, you eat these." I put a few dried pear halves in his hand and go back in the stream to wash the rest of his clothes. When they're flattened out and drying, I examine the contents of the first-aid kit. It's pretty basic stuff. Bandages, fever pills, medicine to calm stomachs. Nothing of the caliber I'll need to treat Peeta.

"We're going to have to experiment some," I admit. I know the tracker jacker leaves draw out infection, so I start with those. Within minutes of pressing the handful of chewed-up green stuff into the wound, pus begins running down the side of his leg. I tell myself this is a good thing and bite the inside of my cheek hard because my breakfast is threatening to make a reappearance.

"Katniss?" Peeta says. I meet his eyes, knowing my face must be some shade of green. He mouths the words. "How about that kiss?"

I burst out laughing because the whole thing is so revolting I can't stand it.

"Something wrong?" he asks a little too innocently.

"I. I'm no good at this. I'm not my mother. I've no idea what I'm doing and I hate pus," I say. "Euh!" I allow myself to let out a groan as I rinse away the first round of leaves and apply the second. "Euuuh!"

"How do you hunt?" he asks.

"Trust me. Killing things is much easier than this," I say. "Although for all I know, I am killing you."

"Can you speed it up a little?" he asks.

"No. Shut up and eat your pears," I say.

After three applications and what seems like a bucket of pus, the wound does look better. Now that the swelling has gone down, I can see how deep Cato's sword cut. Right down to the bone.

"What next, Dr. Everdeen?" he asks.

"Maybe I'll put some of the burn ointment on it. I think it helps with infection anyway. And wrap it up?" I say. I do and the whole thing seems a lot more manageable, covered in clean white cotton. Although, against the sterile bandage, the hem of his undershorts looks filthy and teeming with contagion. I pull out Rue's backpack. "Here, cover yourself with this and I'll wash your shorts."

"Oh, I don't care if you see me," says Peeta.

"You're just like the rest of my family," I say. "I care, all right?" I turn my back and look at the stream until the undershorts splash into the current. He must be feeling a bit better if he can throw.

"You know, you're kind of squeamish for such a lethal person," says Peeta as I beat the shorts clean between two rocks. "I wish I'd let you give Haymitch a shower after all."

I wrinkle my nose at the memory. "What's he sent you so far?"

"Not a thing," says Peeta. Then there's a pause as it hits him. "Why, did you get something?"

"Burn medicine," I say almost sheepishly. "Oh, and some bread."

"I always knew you were his favorite," says Peeta.

"Please, he can't stand being in the same room with me," I say.

"Because you're just alike," mutters Peeta. I ignore it though because this really isn't the time for me to be insulting Haymitch, which is my first impulse.

I let Peeta doze off while his clothes dry out, but by late afternoon, I don't dare wait any longer. I gently shake his shoulder. "Peeta, we've got to go now."

"Go?" He seems confused. "Go where?"

"Away from here. Downstream maybe. Somewhere we can hide you until you're stronger," I say. I help him dress, leaving his feet bare so we can walk in the water, and pull him upright. His face drains of color the moment he puts weight on his leg. "Come on. You can do this."

But he can't. Not for long anyway. We make it about fifty yards downstream, with him propped up by my shoulder, and I can tell he's going to black out. I sit him on the bank, push his head between his knees, and pat his back awkwardly as I survey the area. Of course, I'd love to get him up in a tree, but that's not going to happen. It could be worse though. Some of the rocks form small cavelike structures. I set my sights on one about twenty yards above the stream. When Peeta's able to stand, I half-guide, half-carry him up to the cave. Really, I'd like to look around for a better place, but this one will have to do because my ally is shot. Paper white, panting, and, even though it's only just cooling off, he's shivering.

I cover the floor of the cave with a layer of pine needles, unroll my sleeping bag, and tuck him into it. I get a couple of pills and some water into him when he's not noticing, but he refuses to eat even the fruit. Then he just lies there, his eyes trained on my face as I build a sort of blind out of vines to conceal the mouth of the cave. The result is unsatisfactory. An animal might not question it, but a human would see hands had manufactured it quickly enough. I tear it down in frustration.

"Katniss," he says. I go over to him and brush the hair back from his eyes. "Thanks for finding me."

"You would have found me if you could," I say. His forehead's burning up. Like the medicine's having no effect at all. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I'm scared he's going to die.

"Yes. Look, if I don't make it back  - " he begins.

"Don't talk like that. I didn't drain all that pus for nothing," I say.

"I know. But just in case I don't  - " he tries to continue.

"No, Peeta, I don't even want to discuss it," I say, placing my fingers on his lips to quiet him.

"But I  - " he insists.

Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him, stopping his words. This is probably overdue anyway since he's right, we are supposed to be madly in love. It's the first time I've ever kissed a boy, which should make some sort of impression I guess, but all I can register is how unnaturally hot his lips are from the fever. I break away and pull the edge of the sleeping bag up around him. "You're not going to die. I forbid it. All right?"

"All right," he whispers.

I step out in the cool evening air just as the parachute floats down from the sky. My fingers quickly undo the tie, hoping for some real medicine to treat Peeta's leg. Instead I find a pot of hot broth.

Haymitch couldn't be sending me a clearer message. One kiss equals one pot of broth. I can almost hear his snarl. "You're supposed to be in love, sweetheart. The boy's dying. Give me something I can work with!"

And he's right. If I want to keep Peeta alive, I've got to give the audience something more to care about. Star-crossed lovers desperate to get home together. Two hearts beating as one. Romance.

Never having been in love, this is going to be a real trick. I think of my parents. The way my father never failed to bring her gifts from the woods. The way my mother's face would light up at the sound of his boots at the door. The way she almost stopped living when he died.

"Peeta!" I say, trying for the special tone that my mother used only with my father. He's dozed off again, but I kiss him awake, which seems to startle him. Then he smiles as if he'd be happy to lie there gazing at me forever. He's great at this stuff.

I hold up the pot. "Peeta, look what Haymitch has sent you."

Getting the broth into Peeta takes an hour of coaxing, begging, threatening, and yes, kissing, but finally, sip by sip, he empties the pot. I let him drift off to sleep then and attend to my own needs, wolfing down a supper of groosling and roots while I watch the daily report in the sky. No new casualties. Still, Peeta and I have given the audience a fairly interesting day. Hopefully, the Gamemakers will allow us a peaceful night. I automatically look around for a good tree to nest in before I realize that's over. At least for a while. I can't very well leave Peeta unguarded on the ground. I left the scene of his last hiding place on the bank of the stream untouched  -  how could I conceal it?  -  and we're a scant fifty yards downstream. I put on my glasses, place my weapons in readiness, and settle down to keep watch. The temperature drops rapidly and soon I'm chilled to the bone. Eventually, I give in and slide into the sleeping bag with Peeta. It's toasty warm and I snuggle down gratefully until I realize it's more than warm, it's overly hot because the bag is reflecting back his fever. I check his forehead and find it burning and dry. I don't know what to do. Leave him in the bag and hope the excessive heat breaks the fever? Take him out and hope the night air cools him off? I end up just dampening a strip of bandage and placing it on his forehead. It seems weak, but I'm afraid to do anything too drastic. I spend the night half-sitting, half-lying next to Peeta, refreshing the bandage, and trying not to dwell on the fact that by teaming up with him, I've made myself far more vulnerable than when I was alone. Tethered to the ground, on guard, with a very sick person to take care of. But I knew he was injured. And still I came after him. I'm just going to have to trust that whatever instinct sent me to find him was a good one. When the sky turns rosy, I notice the sheen of sweat on Peeta's lip and discover the fever has broken. He's not back to normal, but it's come down a few degrees. Last night, when I was gathering vines, I came upon a bush of Rue's berries. I strip off the fruit and mash it up in the broth pot with cold water. Peeta's struggling to get up when I reach the cave. "I woke up and you were gone," he says. "I was worried about you." I have to laugh as I ease him back down. "You were worried about me? Have you taken a look at yourself lately?" "I thought Cato and Clove might have found you. They like to hunt at night," he says, still serious. "Clove? Which one is that?" I ask. "The girl from District Two. She's still alive, right?" he says. "Yes, there's just them and us and Thresh and Foxface," I say. "That's what I nicknamed the girl from Five. How do you feel?" "Better than yesterday. This is an enormous improvement over the mud," he says. "Clean clothes and medicine and a sleeping bag. and you." Oh, right, the whole romance thing. I reach out to touch his cheek and he catches my hand and presses it against his lips. I remember my father doing this very thing to my mother and I wonder where Peeta picked it up. Surely not from his father and the witch. "No more kisses for you until you've eaten," I say. We get him propped up against the wall and he obediently swallows the spoonfuls of the berry mush I feed him. He refuses the groosling again, though. "You didn't sleep," Peeta says. "I'm all right," I say. But the truth is, I'm exhausted. "Sleep now. I'll keep watch. I'll wake you if anything happens," he says. I hesitate. "Katniss, you can't stay up forever." He's got a point there. I'll have to sleep eventually. And probably better to do it now when he seems relatively alert and we have daylight on our side. "All right," I say. "But just for a few hours. Then you wake me." It's too warm for the sleeping bag now. I smooth it out on the cave floor and lie down, one hand on my loaded bow in case I have to shoot at a moment's notice. Peeta sits beside me, leaning against the wall, his bad leg stretched out before him, his eyes trained on the world outside. "Go to sleep," he says softly. His hand brushes the loose strands of my hair off my forehead. Unlike the staged kisses and caresses so far, this gesture seems natural and comforting. I don't want him to stop and he doesn't. He's still stroking my hair when I fall asleep. Too long. I sleep too long. I know from the moment I open my eyes that we're into the afternoon. Peeta's right beside me, his position unchanged. I sit up, feeling somehow defensive but better rested than I've been in days. "Peeta, you were supposed to wake me after a couple of hours," I say. "For what? Nothing's going on here," he says. "Besides I like watching you sleep. You don't scowl. Improves your looks a lot." This, of course, brings on a scowl that makes him grin. That's when I notice how dry his lips are. I test his cheek. Hot as a coal stove. He claims he's been drinking, but the containers still feel full to me. I give him more fever pills and stand over him while he drinks first one, then a second quart of water. Then I tend to his minor wounds, the burns, the stings, which are showing improvement. I steel myself and unwrap the leg. My heart drops into my stomach. It's worse, much worse. There's no more pus in evidence, but the swelling has increased and the tight shiny skin is inflamed. Then I see the red streaks starting to crawl up his leg. Blood poisoning. Unchecked, it will kill him for sure. My chewed-up leaves and ointment won't make a dent in it. We'll need strong anti-infection drugs from the Capitol. I can't imagine the cost of such potent medicine. If Haymitch pooled every donation from every sponsor, would he have enough? I doubt it. Gifts go up in price the longer the Games continue. What buys a full meal on day one buys a cracker on day twelve. And the kind of medicine Peeta needs would have been at a premium from the beginning. "Well, there's more swelling, but the pus is gone," I say in an unsteady voice. "I know what blood poisoning is, Katniss," says Peeta. "Even if my mother isn't a healer." "You're just going to have to outlast the others, Peeta. They'll cure it back at the Capitol when we win," I say. "Yes, that's a good plan," he says. But I feel this is mostly for my benefit. "You have to eat. Keep your strength up. I'm going to make you soup," I say. "Don't light a fire," he says. "It's not worth it."

The sound of the trumpets startles me. I'm on my feet and at the mouth of the cave in a flash, not wanting to miss a syllable. It's my new best friend, Claudius Templesmith, and as I expected, he's inviting us to a feast. Well, we're not that hungry and I actually wave his offer away in indifference when he says, "Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately." I do need something desperately. Something to heal Peeta's leg. "Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Think hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance," says Claudius. There's nothing else, just his words hanging in the air. I jump as Peeta grips my shoulder from behind. "No," he says. "You're not risking your life for me." "Who said I was?" I say. "So, you're not going?" he asks. "Of course, I'm not going. Give me some credit. Do you think I'm running straight into some free-for-all against Cato and Clove and Thresh? Don't be stupid," I say, helping him back to bed. "I'll let them fight it out, we'll see who's in the sky tomorrow night and work out a plan from there." "You're such a bad liar, Katniss. I don't know how you've survived this long." He begins to mimic me. "I knew that goat would be a little gold mine. You're a little cooler though. Of course, I'm not going. He shakes his head. "Never gamble at cards. You'll lose your last coin," he says. Anger flushes my face. "All right, I am going, and you can't stop me!" "I can follow you. At least partway. I may not make it to the Cornucopia, but if I'm yelling your name, I bet someone can find me. And then I'll be dead for sure," he says. "You won't get a hundred yards from here on that leg," I say. "Then I'll drag myself," says Peeta. "You go and I'm going, too." He's just stubborn enough and maybe just strong enough to do it. Come howling after me in the woods. Even if a tribute doesn't find him, something else might. He can't defend himself. I'd probably have to wall him up in the cave just to go myself. And who knows what the exertion will do to him? "What am I supposed to do? Sit here and watch you die?" I say. He must know that's not an option. That the audience would hate me. And frankly, I would hate myself, too, if I didn't even try. "I won't die. I promise. If you promise not to go," he says. We're at something of a stalemate. I know I can't argue him out of this one, so I don't try. I pretend, reluctantly, to go along. "Then you have to do what I say. Drink your water, wake me when I tell you, and eat every bite of the soup no matter how disgusting it is!" I snap at him. "Agreed. Is it ready?" he asks. "Wait here," I say. The air's gone cold even though the sun's still up. I'm right about the Gamemakers messing with the temperature. I wonder if the thing someone needs desperately is a good blanket. The soup is still nice and warm in its iron pot. And actually doesn't taste too bad. Peeta eats without complaint, even scraping out the pot to show his enthusiasm. He rambles on about how delicious it is, which should be encouraging if you don't know what fever does to people. He's like listening to Haymitch before the alcohol has soaked him into incoherence. I give him another dose of fever medicine before he goes off his head completely. As I go down to the stream to wash up, all I can think is that he's going to die if I don't get to that feast. I'll keep him going for a day or two, and then the infection will reach his heart or his brain or his lungs and he'll be gone. And I'll be here all alone. Again. Waiting for the others. I'm so lost in thought that I almost miss the parachute, even though it floats right by me. Then I spring after it, yanking it from the water, tearing off the silver fabric to retrieve the vial. Haymitch has done it! He's gotten the medicine  -  I don't know how, persuaded some gaggle of romantic fools to sell their jewels  -  and I can save Peeta! It's such a tiny vial though. It must be very strong to cure someone as ill as Peeta. A ripple of doubt runs through me. I uncork the vial and take a deep sniff. My spirits fall at the sickly sweet scent. Just to be sure, I place a drop on the tip of my tongue. There's no question, it's sleep syrup. It's a common medicine in District 12. Cheap, as medicine goes, but very addictive. Almost everyone's had a dose at one time or another. We have some in a bottle at home. My mother gives it to hysterical patients to knock them out to stitch up a bad wound or quiet their minds or just to help someone in pain get through the night. It only takes a little. A vial this size could knock Peeta out for a full day, but what good is that? I'm so furious I'm about to throw Haymitch's last offering into the stream when it hits me. A full day? That's more than I need. I mash up a handful of berries so the taste won't be as noticeable and add some mint leaves for good measure. Then I head back up to the cave. "I've brought you a treat. I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream." Peeta opens his mouth for the first bite without hesitation. He swallows then frowns slightly. "They're very sweet." "Yes, they're sugar berries. My mother makes jam from them. Haven't you ever had them before?" I say, poking the next spoonful in his mouth. "No," he says, almost puzzled. "But they taste familiar. Sugar berries?" "Well, you can't get them in the market much, they only grow wild," I say. Another mouthful goes down. Just one more to go. "They're sweet as syrup," he says, taking the last spoonful. "Syrup." His eyes widen as he realizes the truth. I clamp my hand over his mouth and nose hard, forcing him to swallow instead of spit. He tries to make himself vomit the stuff up, but it's too late, he's already losing consciousness. Even as he fades away, I can see in his eyes what I've done is unforgivable. I sit back on my heels and look at him with a mixture of sadness and satisfaction. A stray berry stains his chin and I wipe it away. "Who can't lie, Peeta?" I say, even though he can't hear me. It doesn't matter. The rest of Panem can.

The sound of rain drumming on the roof of our house gently pulls me toward consciousness. I fight to return to sleep though, wrapped in a warm cocoon of blankets, safe at home. I'm vaguely aware that my head aches. Possibly I have the flu and this is why I'm allowed to stay in bed, even though I can tell I've been asleep a long time. My mother's hand strokes my cheek and I don't push it away as I would in wakefulness, never wanting her to know how much I crave that gentle touch. How much I miss her even though I still don't trust her. Then there's a voice, the wrong voice, not my mother's, and I'm scared. "Katniss," it says. "Katniss, can you hear me?" My eyes open and the sense of security vanishes. I'm not home, not with my mother. I'm in a dim, chilly cave, my bare feet freezing despite the cover, the air tainted with the unmistakable smell of blood. The haggard, pale face of a boy slides into view, and after an initial jolt of alarm, I feel better. "Peeta." "Hey," he says. "Good to see your eyes again." "How long have I been out?" I ask. "Not sure. I woke up yesterday evening and you were lying next to me in a very scary pool of blood," he says. "I think it's stopped finally, but I wouldn't sit up or anything." I gingerly lift my hand to my head and find it bandaged. This simple gesture leaves me weak and dizzy. Peeta holds a bottle to my lips and I drink thirstily. "You're better," I say. "Much better. Whatever you shot into my arm did the trick," he says. "By this morning, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone." He doesn't seem angry about my tricking him, drugging him, and running off to the feast. Maybe I'm just too beat-up and I'll hear about it later when I'm stronger. But for the moment, he's all gentleness. "Did you eat?" I ask. "I'm sorry to say I gobbled down three pieces of that groosling before I realized it might have to last a while. Don't worry, I'm back on a strict diet," he says. "No, it's good. You need to eat. I'll go hunting soon," I say. "Not too soon, all right?" he says. "You just let me take care of you for a while." I don't really seem to have much choice. Peeta feeds me bites of groosling and raisins and makes me drink plenty of water. He rubs some warmth back into my feet and wraps them in his jacket before tucking the sleeping bag back up around my chin. "Your boots and socks are still damp and the weather's not helping much," he says. There's a clap of thunder, and I see lightning electrify the sky through an opening in the rocks. Rain drips through several holes in the ceiling, but Peeta has built a sort of canopy over my head an upper body by wedging the square of plastic into the rock above me

The memory of the feast returns full-force and I feel sick. "He did. But he let me go." Then, of course, I have to tell him. About things I've kept to myself because he was too sick to ask and I wasn't ready to relive anyway. Like the explosion and my ear and Rue's dying and the boy from District 1 and the bread. All of which leads to what happened with Thresh and how he was paying off a debt of sorts. "He let you go because he didn't want to owe you anything?" asks Peeta in disbelief. "Yes. I don't expect you to understand it. You've always had enough. But if you'd lived in the Seam, I wouldn't have to explain," I say. "And don't try. Obviously I'm too dim to get it." "It's like the bread. How I never seem to get over owing you for that," I say. "The bread? What? From when we were kids?" he says. "I think we can let that go. I mean, you just brought me back from the dead." "But you didn't know me. We had never even spoken. Besides, it's the first gift that's always the hardest to pay back. I wouldn't even have been here to do it if you hadn't helped me then," I say. "Why did you, anyway?" "Why? You know why," Peeta says. I give my head a slight, painful shake. "Haymitch said you would take a lot of convincing." "Haymitch?" I ask. "What's he got to do with it?" "Nothing," Peeta says. "So, Cato and Thresh, huh? I guess it's too much to hope that they'll simultaneously destroy each other?" But the thought only upsets me. "I think we would like Thresh. I think he'd be our friend back in District Twelve," I say. "Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to," says Peeta grimly. I don't want Cato to kill Thresh at all. I don't want anyone else to die. But this is absolutely not the kind of thing that victors go around saying in the arena. Despite my best efforts, I can feel tears starting to pool in my eyes. Peeta looks at me in concern. "What is it? Are you in a lot of pain?" I give him another answer, because it is equally true but can be taken as a brief moment of weakness instead of a terminal one. "I want to go home, Peeta," I say plaintively, like a small child. "You will. I promise," he says, and bends over to give me a kiss. "I want to go home now," I say. "Tell you what. You go back to sleep and dream of home. And you'll be there for real before you know it," lie says. "Okay?" "Okay," I whisper. "Wake me if you need me to keep watch." "I'm good and rested, thanks to you and Haymitch. Besides, who knows how long this will last?" he says. What does he mean? The storm? The brief respite ii brings us? The Games themselves? I don't know, but I'm ion sad and tired to ask. It's evening when Peeta wakes me again. The rain has turned to a downpour, sending streams of water through our ceiling where earlier there had been only drips. Peeta has placed the broth pot under the worst one and repositioned the plastic to deflect most of it from me. I feel a bit better, able to sit up without getting too dizzy, and I'm absolutely famished. So is Peeta. It's clear he's been waiting for me to wake up to eat and is eager to get started.

ither that or he's got very generous sponsors," says Peeta. "I wonder what we'd have to do to get Haymitch to send us some bread." I raise my eyebrows before I remember he doesn't know about the message Haymitch sent us a couple of nights ago. One kiss equals one pot of broth. It's not the sort of thing I can blurt out, either. To say my thoughts aloud would be tipping off the audience that the romance has been fabricated to play on their sympathies and that would result in no food at all. Somehow, believably, I've got to get things back on track. Something simple to start with. I reach out and take his hand. "Well, he probably used up a lot of resources helping me knock you out," I say mischievously. "Yeah, about that," says Peeta, entwining his fingers in mine. "Don't try something like that again." "Or what?" I ask. "Or. or. " He can't think of anything good. "Just give me a minute." "What's the problem?" I say with a grin. "The problem is we're both still alive. Which only reinforces the idea in your mind that you did the right thing," says Peeta. "I did do the right thing," I say. "No! Just don't, Katniss!" His grip tightens, hurting my hand, and there's real anger in his voice. "Don't die for me. You won't be doing me any favors. All right?" I'm startled by his intensity but recognize an excellent opportunity for getting food, so I try to keep up. "Maybe I did it for myself, Peeta, did you ever think of that? Maybe you aren't the only one who. who worries about. what it would be like if. " I fumble. I'm not as smooth with words as Peeta. And while I was talking, the idea of actually losing Peeta hit me again and I realized how much I don't want him to die. And it's not about the sponsors. And it's not about what will happen back home. And it's not just that I don't want to be alone. It's him. I do not want to lose the boy with the bread. "If what, Katniss?" he says softly. I wish I could pull the shutters closed, blocking out this moment from the prying eyes of Panem. Even if it means losing food. Whatever I'm feeling, it's no one's business but mine. "That's exactly the kind of topic Haymitch told me to steer clear of," I say evasively, although Haymitch never said anything of the kind. In fact, he's probably cursing me out right now for dropping the ball during such an emotionally charged moment. But Peeta somehow catches it. "Then I'll just have to fill in the blanks myself," he says, and moves in to me. This is the first kiss that we're both fully aware of. Neither of us hobbled by sickness or pain or simply unconscious. Our lips neither burning with fever or icy cold. This is the first kiss where I actually feel stirring inside my chest. Warm and curious. This is the first kiss that makes me want another. But I don't get it. Well, I do get a second kiss, but it's just a light one on the tip of my nose because Peeta's been distracted. "I think your wound is bleeding again. Come on, lie down, it's bedtime anyway," he says.

I'm not really sure how to ramp up the romance. The kiss last night was nice, but working up to another will take some forethought. There are girls in the Seam, some of the merchant girls, too, who navigate these waters so easily. But I've never had much time or use for it. Anyway, just a kiss isn't enough anymore clearly because if it was we'd have gotten food last night. My instincts tell me Haymitch isn't just looking for physical affection, he wants something more personal. The sort of stuff he was trying to get me to tell about myself when we were practicing for the interview. I'm rotten at it, but Peeta's not. Maybe the best approach is to get him talking. "Peeta," I say lightly. "You said at the interview you'd had a crush on me forever. When did forever start?" "Oh, let's see. I guess the first day of school. We were five. You had on a red plaid dress and your hair. it was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up," Peeta says. "Your father? Why?" I ask. "He said, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner,'" Peeta says. "What? You're making that up!" I exclaim. "No, true story," Peeta says. "And I said, 'A coal miner? Why did she want a coal miner if she could've had you?' And he said, 'Because when he sings. even the birds stop to listen.'" "That's true. They do. I mean, they did," I say. I'm stunned and surprisingly moved, thinking of the baker telling this to Peeta. It strikes me that my own reluctance to sing, my own dismissal of music might not really be that I think it's a waste of time. It might be because it reminds me too much of my father. "So that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song. Your hand shot right up in the air. She stood you up on a stool and had you sing it for us. And I swear, every bird outside the windows fell silent," Peeta says. "Oh, please," I say, laughing. "No, it happened. And right when your song ended, I knew  -  just like your mother  -  I was a goner," Peeta says. "Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you." "Without success," I add. "Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck," says Peeta. For a moment, I'm almost foolishly happy and then confusion sweeps over me. Because we're supposed to be making up this stuff, playing at being in love not actually being in love. But Peeta's story has a ring of truth to it. That part about my father and the birds. And I did sing the first day of school, although I don't remember the song. And that red plaid dress. there was one, a hand-me-down to Prim that got washed to rags after my father's death. It would explain another thing, too. Why Peeta took a beating to give me the bread on that awful hollow day. So, if those details are true. could it all be true? "You have a. remarkable memory," I say haltingly. "I remember everything about you," says Peeta, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You're the one who wasn't paying attention." "I am now," I say. "Well, I don't have much competition here," he says. I want to draw away, to close those shutters again, but I know I can't. It's as if I can hear Haymitch whispering in my ear, "Say it! Say it!" I swallow hard and get the words out. "You don't have much competition anywhere." And this time, it's me who leans in. Our lips have just barely touched when the clunk outside makes us jump. My bow comes up, the arrow ready to fly, but there's no other sound. Peeta peers through the rocks and then gives a whoop. Before I can stop him, lie's out in the rain, then handing something in to me. A silver parachute attached to a basket. I rip it open at once and inside there's a feast  -  fresh rolls, goat cheese, apples, and best of all, a tureen of that incredible lamb stew on wild rice. The very dish I told Caesar Flickerman was the most impressive thing the Capitol had to offer. Peeta wriggles back inside, his face lit up like the sun. "I guess Haymitch finally got tired of watching us starve." 

Every cell in my body wants me to dig into the stew and cram it, handful by handful into my mouth. But Peeta's voice stops me. "We better take it slow on that stew. Remember the first night on the train? The rich food made me sick and I wasn't even starving then." "You're right. And I could just inhale the whole thing!" I say regretfully. But I don't. We are quite sensible. We each have a roll, half an apple, and an egg-size serving of stew and rice. I make myself eat the stew in tiny spoonfuls  -  they even sent us silverware and plates  -  savoring each bite. When we finish, I stare longingly at the dish. "I want more." "Me, too. Tell you what. We wait an hour, if it stays down, then we get another serving," Peeta says. "Agreed," I say. "It's going to be a long hour." "Maybe not that long," says Peeta. "What was that you were saying just before the food arrived? Something about me. no competition. best thing that ever happened to you. " "I don't remember that last part," I say, hoping it's too dim in here for the cameras to pick up my blush. "Oh, that's right. That's what I was thinking," he says. "Scoot over, I'm freezing." I make room for him in the sleeping bag. We lean back against the cave wall, my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me. I can feel Haymitch nudging me to keep up the act. "So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" I ask him. "No, I noticed just about every girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you," he says. "I'm sure that would thrill your parents, you liking a girl from the Seam," I say. "Hardly. But I couldn't care less. Anyway, if we make it back, you won't be a girl from the Seam, you'll be a girl from the Victor's Village," he says. That's right. If we win, we'll each get a house in the part of town reserved for Hunger Games' victors. Long ago, when the Games began, the Capitol had built a dozen fine houses in each district. Of course, in ours only one is occupied. Most of the others have never been lived in at all. A disturbing thought hits me. "But then, our only neighbor will be Haymitch!" "Ah, that'll be nice," says Peeta, tightening his arms around me. "You and me and Haymitch. Very cozy. Picnics, birthdays, long winter nights around the fire retelling old Hunger Games' tales." "I told you, he hates me!" I say, but I can't help laughing at the image of Haymitch becoming my new pal. "Only sometimes. When he's sober, I've never heard him say one negative thing about you," says Peeta. "He's never sober!" I protest. "That's right. Who am I thinking of? Oh, I know. It's Cinna who likes you. But that's mainly because you didn't try to run when he set you on fire," says Peeta. "On the other hand, Haymitch. well, if I were you, I'd avoid Haymitch completely. He hates you." "I thought you said I was his favorite," I say. "He hates me more," says Peeta. "I don't think people in general are his sort of thing." I know the audience will enjoy our having fun at Haymitch's expense. He has been around so long, he's practically an old friend to some of them. And after his head-dive off the stage at the reaping, everybody knows him. By this time, they'll have dragged him out of the control room for interviews about us. No telling what sort of lies he's made up. He's at something of a disadvantage because most mentors have a partner, another victor to help them whereas Haymitch has to be ready to go into action at any moment. Kind of like me when I was alone in the arena. I wonder how he's holding up, with the drinking, the attention, and the stress of trying to keep us alive. It's funny. Haymitch and I don't get along well in person, but maybe Peeta is right about us being alike because he seems able to communicate with me by the timing of his gifts. Like how I knew I must be close to water when he withheld it and how I knew the sleep syrup just wasn't something to ease Peeta's pain and how I know now that I have to play up the romance. He hasn't made much effort to connect with Peeta really. Perhaps he thinks a bowl of broth would just be a bowl of broth to Peeta, whereas I'll see the strings attached to it. A thought hits me, and I'm amazed the question's taken so long to surface. Maybe it's because I've only recently begun to view Haymitch with a degree of curiosity. "How do you think he did it?" "Who? Did what?" Peeta asks. "Haymitch. How do you think he won the Games?" I say. Peeta considers this quite a while before he answers. Haymitch is sturdily built, but no physical wonder like Cato or Thresh. He's not particularly handsome. Not in the way that causes sponsors to rain gifts on you. And he's so surly, it's hard to imagine anyone teaming up with him. There's only one way Haymitch could have won, and Peeta says it just as I'm reaching this conclusion myself. "He outsmarted the others," says Peeta. I nod, then let the conversation drop. But secretly I'm wondering if Haymitch sobered up long enough to help Peeta and me because he thought we just might have the wits to survive. Maybe he wasn't always a drunk. Maybe, in the beginning, he tried to help the tributes. But then it got unbearable. It must be hell to mentor two kids and then watch them die. Year after year after year. I realize that if I get out of here, that will become my job. To mentor the girl from District 12. The idea is so repellent, I thrust it from my mind. About half an hour has passed before I decide I have to eat again. Peeta's too hungry himself to put up an argument. While I'm dishing up two more small servings of lamb stew and rice, we hear the anthem begin to play. Peeta presses his eyes against a crack in the rocks to watch the sky. "There won't be anything to see tonight," I say, far more interested in the stew than the sky. "Nothing's happened or we would've heard a cannon." "Katniss," Peeta says quietly. "What? Should we split another roll, too?" I ask. "Katniss," he repeats, but I find myself wanting to ignore him. "I'm going to split one. But I'll save the cheese for tomorrow," I say. I see Peeta staring at me. "What?" "Thresh is dead," says Peeta. "He can't be," I say. "They must have fired the cannon during the thunder and we missed it," says Peeta. "Are you sure? I mean, it's pouring buckets out there. I don't know how you can see anything," I say. I push him away from the rocks and squint out into the dark, rainy sky. For about ten seconds, I catch a distorted glimpse of Thresh's picture and then he's gone. Just like that. I slump down against the rocks, momentarily forgetting about the task at hand. Thresh dead. I should be happy, right? One less tribute to face. And a powerful one, too. But I'm not happy. All I can think about is Thresh letting me go, letting me run because of Rue, who died with that spear in her stomach. "You all right?" asks Peeta. I give a noncommittal shrug and cup my elbows in my hands, hugging them close to my body. I have to bury the real pain because who's going to bet on a tribute who keeps sniveling over the deaths of her opponents. Rue was one thing. We were allies. She was so young. But no one will understand my sorrow at Thresh's murder. The word pulls me up short. Murder! Thankfully, I didn't say it aloud. That's not going to win me any points in the arena. What I do say is, "It's just. if we didn't win. I wanted Thresh to. Because he let me go. And because of Rue." "Yeah, I know," says Peeta. "But this means we're one step closer to District Twelve." He nudges a plate of foot into my hands. "Eat. It's still warm." I take a bite of the stew to show I don't really care, but it's like glue in my mouth and takes a lot of effort to swallow. "It also means Cato will be back hunting us." "And he's got supplies again," says Peeta. "He'll be wounded, I bet," I say. "What makes you say that?" Peeta asks. "Because Thresh would have never gone down without a fight. He's so strong, I mean, he was. And they were in his territory," I say. "Good," says Peeta. "The more wounded Cato is the better. I wonder how Foxface is making out." "Oh, she's fine," I say peevishly. I'm still angry she thought of hiding in the Cornucopia and I didn't. "Probably be easier to catch Cato than her." "Maybe they'll catch each other and we can just go home," says Peeta. "But we better be extra careful about the watches. I dozed off a few times." "Me, too," I admit. "But not tonight." We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue's, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half." "Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm." "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," he says. "Bet that's expensive," I say. "Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring. Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it's true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there's something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn't going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then. what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then. I don't want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss.

"We're wasting hunting time," I say when I finally break away.

"I wouldn't call it wasting," he says giving a big stretch as he sits up. "So do we hunt on empty stomachs to give us an edge?"

"Not us," I say. "We stuff ourselves to give us staying power."

"Count me in," Peeta says. But I can see he's surprised when I divide the rest of the stew and rice and hand a heaping plate to him. "All this?"

"We'll earn it back today," I say, and we both plow into our plates. Even cold, it's one of the best things I've ever tasted. I abandon my fork and scrape up the last dabs of gravy with my finger. "I can feel Effie Trinket shuddering at my manners."

"Hey, Effie, watch this!" says Peeta. He tosses his fork over his shoulder and literally licks his plate clean with his tongue making loud, satisfied sounds. Then he blows a kiss out to her in general and calls, "We miss you, Effie!"

I cover his mouth with my hand, but I'm laughing. "Stop! Cato could be right outside our cave."

He grabs my hand away. "What do I care? I've got you to protect me now," says Peeta, pulling me to him.

"Come on," I say in exasperation, extricating myself from his grasp but not before he gets in another kiss. 

We finish our food in silence and then Peeta offers to take the first watch. I burrow down in the sleeping bag next to him, pulling my hood up over my face to hide it from the cameras. I just need a few moments of privacy where I can let any emotion cross my face without being seen. Under the hood, I silently say good-bye to Thresh and thank him for my life. I promise to remember him and, if I can, do something to help his family and Rue's, if I win. Then I escape into sleep, comforted by a full belly and the steady warmth of Peeta beside me. When Peeta wakes me later, the first thing I register is the smell of goat cheese. He's holding out half a roll spread with the creamy white stuff and topped with apple slices. "Don't be mad," he says. "I had to eat again. Here's your half." "Oh, good," I say, immediately taking a huge bite. The strong fatty cheese tastes just like the kind Prim makes, the apples are sweet and crunchy. "Mm." "We make a goat cheese and apple tart at the bakery," he says. "Bet that's expensive," I say. "Too expensive for my family to eat. Unless it's gone very stale. Of course, practically everything we eat is stale," says Peeta, pulling the sleeping bag up around him. In less than a minute, he's snoring. Huh. I always assumed the shopkeepers live a soft life. And it's true, Peeta has always had enough to eat. But there's something kind of depressing about living your life on stale bread, the hard, dry loaves that no one else wanted. One thing about us, since I bring our food home on a daily basis, most of it is so fresh you have to make sure it isn't going to make a run for it. Somewhere during my shift, the rain stops not gradually but all at once. The downpour ends and there's only the residual drippings of water from branches, the rush of the now overflowing stream below us. A full, beautiful moon emerges, and even without the glasses I can see outside. I can't decide if the moon is real or merely a projection of the Gamemakers. I know it was full shortly before I left home. Gale and I watched it rise as we hunted into the late hours. How long have I been gone? I'm guessing it's been about two weeks in the arena, and there was that week of preparation in the Capitol. Maybe the moon has completed its cycle. For some reason, I badly want it to be my moon, the same one I see from the woods around District 12. That would give me something to cling to in the surreal world of the arena where the authenticity of everything is to be doubted. Four of us left.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly think about the possibility that I might make it home. To fame. To wealth. To my own house in the Victor's Village. My mother and Prim would live there with me. No more fear of hunger. A new kind of freedom. But then. what? What would my life be like on a daily basis? Most of it has been consumed with the acquisition of food. Take that away and I'm not really sure who I am, what my identity is. The idea scares me some. I think of Haymitch, with all his money. What did his life become? He lives alone, no wife or children, most of his waking hours drunk. I don't want to end up like that.

"But you won't be alone," I whisper to myself. I have my mother and Prim. Well, for the time being. And then. I don't want to think about then, when Prim has grown up, my mother passed away. I know I'll never marry, never risk bringing a child into the world. Because if there's one thing being a victor doesn't guarantee, it's your children's safety. My kids' names would go right into the reaping balls with everyone else's. And I swear I'll never let that happen.

The sun eventually rises, its light slipping through the cracks and illuminating Peeta's face. Who will he transform into if we make it home? This perplexing, good-natured boy who can spin out lies so convincingly the whole of Panem believes him to be hopelessly in love with me, and I'll admit it, there are moments when he makes me believe it myself? At least, we'll be friends, I think. Nothing will change the fact that we've saved each other's lives in here. And beyond that, he will always be the boy with the bread. Good friends. Anything beyond that though. and I feel Gale's gray eyes watching me watching Peeta, all the way from District 12.

Discomfort causes me to move. I scoot over and shake Peeta's shoulder. His eyes open sleepily and when they focus on me, he pulls me down for a long kiss

The boulders diminish to rocks that eventually turn to pebbles, and then, to my relief, we're back on pine needles and the gentle incline of the forest floor. For the first time, I realize we have a problem. Navigating the rocky terrain with a bad leg  -  well, you're naturally going to make some noise. But even on the smooth bed of needles, Peeta is loud. And I mean loud loud, as if he's stomping his feet or something. I turn and look at him. "What?" he asks. "You've got to move more quietly," I say. "Forget about Cato, you're chasing off every rabbit in a ten-mile radius." "Really?" he says. "Sorry, I didn't know." So, we start up again and he's a tiny bit better, but even with only one working ear, he's making me jump. "Can you take your boots off?" I suggest. "Here?" he asks in disbelief, as if I'd asked him to walk barefoot on hot coals or something. I have to remind myself that he's still not used to the woods, that it's the scary, forbidden place beyond the fences of District 12. I think of Gale, with his velvet tread. It's eerie how little sound he makes, even when the leaves have fallen and it's a challenge to move at all without chasing off the game. I feel certain he's laughing back home. "Yes," I say patiently. "I will, too. That way we'll both be quieter." Like I was making any noise. So we both strip off our boots and socks and, while there's some improvement, I could swear he's making an effort to snap every branch we encounter. Needless to say, although it takes several hours to reach my old camp with Rue, I've shot nothing. If the stream would settle down, fish might be an option, but the current is still too strong. As we stop to rest and drink water, I try to work out a solution. Ideally, I'd dump Peeta now with some simple root-gathering chore and go hunt, but then he'd be left with only a knife to defend himself against Cato's spears and superior strength. So what I'd really like is to try and conceal him somewhere safe, then go hunt, and come back and collect him. But I have a feeling his ego isn't going to go for that suggestion. "Katniss," he says. "We need to split up. I know I'm chasing away the game." "Only because your leg's hurt," I say generously, because really, you can tell that's only a small part of the problem. "I know," he says. "So, why don't you go on? Show me some plants to gather and that way we'll both be useful." "Not if Cato comes and kills you." I tried to say it in a nice way, but it still sounds like I think he's a weakling. Surprisingly, he just laughs. "Look, I can handle Cato. I fought him before, didn't I?" Yeah, and that turned out great. You ended up dying in a mud bank. That's what I want to say, but I can't. He did save my life by taking on Cato after all. I try another tactic. "What if you climbed up in a tree and acted as a lookout while I hunted?" I say, trying to make it sound like very important work. "What if you show me what's edible around here and go get us some meat?" he says, mimicking my tone. "Just don't go far, in case you need help." I sigh and show him some roots to dig. We do need food, no question. One apple, two rolls, and a blob of cheese the size of a plum won't last long. I'll just go a short distance and hope Cato is a long way off. I teach him a bird whistle  -  not a melody like Rue's but a simple two-note whistle  -  which we can use to communicate that we're all right. Fortunately, he's good at this. Leaving him with the pack, I head off. I feel like I'm eleven again, tethered not to the safety of the fence but to Peeta, allowing myself twenty, maybe thirty yards of hunting space. Away from him though, the woods come alive with animal sounds. Reassured by his periodic whistles, I allow myself to drift farther away, and soon have two rabbits and a fat squirrel to show for it. I decide it's enough. I can set snares and maybe get some fish. With Peeta's roots, this will be enough for now. As I travel the short distance back, I realize we haven't exchanged signals in a while. When my whistle receives no response, I run. In no time, I find the pack, a neat pile of roots beside it. The sheet of plastic has been laid on the ground where the sun can reach the single layer of berries that covers it. But where is he? "Peeta!" I call out in a panic. "Peeta!" I turn to the rustle of brush and almost send an arrow through him. Fortunately, I pull my bow at the last second and it sticks in an oak trunk to his left. He jumps back, flinging a handful of berries into the foliage. My fear comes out as anger. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be here, not running around in the woods!" "I found some berries down by the stream," he says, clearly confused by my outburst. "I whistled. Why didn't you whistle back?" I snap at him. "I didn't hear. The water's too loud, I guess," he says. He crosses and puts his hands on my shoulders. That's when I feel that I'm trembling. "I thought Cato killed you!" I almost shout. "No, I'm fine." Peeta wraps his arms around me, but I don't respond. "Katniss?" I push away, trying to sort out my feelings. "If two people agree on a signal, they stay in range. Because if one of them doesn't answer, they're in trouble, all right?" "All right!" he says. "All right. Because that's what happened with Rue, and I watched her die!" I say. I turn away from him, go to the pack and open a fresh bottle of water, although I still have some in mine. But I'm not ready to forgive him. I notice the food. The rolls and apples are untouched, but someone's definitely picked away part of the cheese. "And you ate without me!" I really don't care, I just want something else to be mad about. "What? No, I didn't," Peeta says. "Oh, and I suppose the apples ate the cheese," I say. "I don't know what ate the cheese," Peeta says slowly and distinctly, as if trying not to lose his temper, "but it wasn't me. I've been down by the stream collecting berries. Would you care for some?" I would actually, but I don't want to relent too soon. I do walk over and look at them. I've never seen this type before. No, I have. But not in the arena. These aren't Rue's berries, although they resemble them. Nor do they match any I learned about in training. I lean down and scoop up a few, rolling them between my fingers. My father's voice comes back to me. "Not these, Katniss. Never these. They're nightlock. You'll be dead before they reach your stomach." Just then, the cannon fires. I whip around, expecting Peeta to collapse to the ground, but he only raises his eyebrows. The hovercraft appears a hundred yards or so away. What's left of Foxface's emaciated body is lifted into the air. I can see the red glint of her hair in the sunlight. I should have known the moment I saw the missing cheese. Peeta has me by the arm, pushing me toward a tree. "Climb. He'll be here in a second. We'll stand a better chance fighting him from above." I stop him, suddenly calm. "No, Peeta, she's your kill, not Cato's." "What? I haven't even seen her since the first day," he says. "How could I have killed her?" In answer, I hold out the berries.

Peeta's a whiz with fires, coaxing a blaze out of the damp wood. In no time, I have the rabbits and squirrel roasting, the roots, wrapped in leaves, baking in the coals. We take turns gathering greens and keeping a careful watch for Cato, but as I anticipated, he doesn't make an appearance.

Okay I skipped to the   Mutt Part with Peeta and Katniss ( After Catos down on the ground)  

I turn my attention to Peeta and discover his leg is bleeding as badly as ever. All our supplies, our packs, remain down by the lake where we abandoned them when we fled from the mutts. I have no bandage, nothing to staunch the flow of blood from his calf. Although I'm shaking in the biting wind, I rip off my jacket, remove my shirt, and zip back into the jacket as swiftly as possible. That brief exposure sets my teeth chattering beyond control. Peeta's face is gray in the pale moonlight. I make him lie down before I probe his wound. Warm, slippery blood runs over my fingers. A bandage will not be enough. I've seen my mother tie a tourniquet a handful of times and try to replicate it. I cut free a sleeve from my shirt, wrap it twice around his leg just under his knee, and tie a half knot. I don't have a stick, so I take my remaining arrow and insert it in the knot, twisting it as tightly as I dare. It's risky business  -  Peeta may end up losing his leg  -  but when I weigh this against him losing his life, what alternative do I have? I bandage the wound in the rest of my shirt and lay down with him. "Don't go to sleep," I tell him. I'm not sure if this is exactly medical protocol, but I'm terrified that if he drifts off he'll never wake again. "Are you cold?" he asks. He unzips his jacket and I press against him as he fastens it around me. It's a bit warmer, sharing our body heat inside my double layer of jackets, but the night is young. The temperature will continue to drop. Even now I can feel the Cornucopia, which burned so when I first climbed it, slowly turning to ice. "Cato may win this thing yet," I whisper to Peeta. "Don't you believe it," he says, pulling up my hood, but he's shaking harder than I am. The next hours are the worst in my life, which if you think about it, is saying something. The cold would be torture enough, but the real nightmare is listening to Cato, moaning, begging, and finally just whimpering as the mutts work away at him. After a very short time, I don't care who he is or what he's done, all I want is for his suffering to end. "Why don't they just kill him?" I ask Peeta. "You know why," he says, and pulls me closer to him. And I do. No viewer could turn away from the show now. From the Gamemakers' point of view, this is the final word in entertainment. It goes on and on and on and eventually completely consumes my mind, blocking out memories and hopes of tomorrow, erasing everything but the present, which I begin to believe will never change. There will never be anything but cold and fear and the agonized sounds of the boy dying in the horn. Peeta begins to doze off now, and each time he does, I find myself yelling his name louder and louder because if he goes and dies on me now, I know I'll go completely insane. He's fighting it, probably more for me than for him, and it's hard because unconsciousness would be its own form of escape. But the adrenaline pumping through my body would never allow me to follow him, so I can't let him go. I just can't.The only indication of the passage of time lies in the heavens, the subtle shift of the moon. So Peeta begins pointing it out to me, insisting I acknowledge its progress and sometimes, for just a moment I feel a flicker of hope before the agony of the night engulfs me again.Finally, I hear him whisper that the sun is rising. I open my eyes and find the stars fading in the pale light of dawn. I can see, too, how bloodless Peeta's face has become. How little time he has left. And I know I have to get him back to the Capitol.Still, no cannon has fired. I press my good ear against the horn and can just make out Cato's voice."I think he's closer now. Katniss, can you shoot him?" Peeta asks.If he's near the mouth, I may be able to take him out. It would be an act of mercy at this point."My last arrow's in your tourniquet," I say."Make it count," says Peeta, unzipping his jacket, letting me loose.So I free the arrow, tying the tourniquet back as tightly as my frozen fingers can manage. I rub my hands together, trying to regain circulation. When I crawl to the lip of the horn and hang over the edge, I feel Peeta's hands grip me for support.It takes a few moments to find Cato in the dim light, in the blood. Then the raw hunk of meat that used to be my enemy makes a sound, and I know where his mouth is. And I think the word he's trying to say is please.Pity, not vengeance, sends my arrow flying into his skull. Peeta pulls me back up, bow in hand, quiver empty."Did you get him?" he whispers.The cannon fires in answer."Then we won, Katniss," he says hollowly."Hurray for us," I get out, but there's no joy of victory in my voice.

A moment  not matter what I will always Watch

"Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed," he says. "Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor." There's a small burst of static and then nothing more. I stare at Peeta in disbelief as the truth sinks in. They never intended to let us both live. This has all been devised by the Gamemakers to guarantee the most dramatic showdown in history. And like a fool, I bought into it. "If you think about it, it's not that surprising," he says softly. I watch as he painfully makes it to his feet. Then he's moving toward me, as if in slow motion, his hand is pulling the knife from his belt  - Before I am even aware of my actions, my bow is loaded with the arrow pointed straight at his heart. Peeta raises his eyebrows and I see the knife has already left his hand on its way to the lake where it splashes in the water. I drop my weapons and take a step back, my face burning in what can only be shame. "No," he says. "Do it." Peeta limps toward me and thrusts the weapons back in my hands. "I can't, I say. "I won't." "Do it. Before they send those mutts back or something. I don't want to die like Cato," he says. "Then you shoot me," I say furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. "You shoot me and go home and live with it!" And as I say it, I know death right here, right now would be the easier of the two. "You know I can't," Peeta says, discarding the weapons. "Fine, I'll go first anyway." He leans down and rips the bandage off his leg, eliminating the final barrier between his blood and the earth. "No, you can't kill yourself," I say. I'm on my knees, desperately plastering the bandage back onto his wound. "Katniss," he says. "It's what I want." "You're not leaving me here alone," I say. Because if he dies, I'll never go home, not really. I'll spend the rest of my life in this arena trying to think my way out. "Listen," he says pulling me to my feet. "We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me." And he goes on about how he loves me, what life would be without me but I've stopped listening because his previous words are trapped in my head, thrashing desperately around. We both know they have to have a victor. Yes, they have to have a victor. Without a victor, the whole thing would blow up in the Gamemakers' faces. They'd have failed the Capitol. Might possibly even be executed, slowly and painfully while the cameras broadcast it to every screen in the country. If Peeta and I were both to die, or they thought we were. My fingers fumble with the pouch on my belt, freeing it. Peeta sees it and his hand clamps on my wrist. "No, I won't let you." "Trust me," I whisper. He holds my gaze for a long moment then lets me go. I loosen the top of the pouch and pour a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm. Then I fill my own. "On the count of three?" Peeta leans down and kisses me once, very gently. "The count of three," he says. We stand, our backs pressed together, our empty hands locked tight. "Hold them out. I want everyone to see," he says. I spread out my fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun. I give Peeta's hand one last squeeze as a signal, as a good-bye, and we begin counting. "One." Maybe I'm wrong. "Two." Maybe they don't care if we both die. "Three!" It's too late to change my mind. I lift my hand to my mouth, taking one last look at the world. The berries have just passed my lips when the trumpets begin to blare. The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. "Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you  -  the tributes of District Twelve!"  

And we are not done Yet...

The hovercraft materializes overhead and two ladders drop, only there's no way I'm letting go of Peeta. I keep one arm around him as I help him up, and we each place a foot on the first rung of the ladder. The electric current freezes us in place, and this time I'm glad because I'm not really sure Peeta can hang on for the whole ride. And since my eyes were looking down, I can see that while our muscles are immobile, nothing is preventing the blood from draining out of Peeta's leg. Sure enough, the minute the door closes behind us and the current stops, he slumps to the floor unconscious. My fingers are still gripping the back of his jacket so tightly that when they take him away it tears leaving me with a fistful of black fabric. Doctors in sterile white, masked and gloved, already prepped to operate, go into action. Peeta's so pale and still on a silver table, tubes and wires springing out of him every which way, and for a moment I forget we're out of the Games and I see the doctors as just one more threat, one more pack of mutts designed to kill him. Petrified, I lunge for him, but I'm caught and thrust back into another room, and a glass door seals between us. I pound on the glass, screaming my head off. Everyone ignores me except for some Capitol attendant who appears behind me and offers me a beverage. I slump down on the floor, my face against the door, staring uncomprehendingly at the crystal glass in my hand. Icy cold, filled with orange juice, a straw with a frilly white collar. How wrong it looks in my bloody, filthy hand with its dirt-caked nails and scars. My mouth waters at the smell, but I place it carefully on the floor, not trusting anything so clean and pretty. Through the glass, I see the doctors working feverishly on Peeta, their brows creased in concentration. I see the flow of liquids, pumping through the tubes, watch a wall of dials and lights that mean nothing to me. I'm not sure, but I think his heart stops twice. It's like being home again, when they bring in the hopelessly mangled person from the mine explosion, or the woman in her third day of labor, or the famished child struggling against pneumonia and my mother and Prim, they wear that same look on their faces. Now is the time to run away to the woods, to hide in the trees until the patient is long gone and in another part of the Seam the hammers make the coffin. But I'm held here both by the hovercraft walls and the same force that holds the loved ones of the dying. How often I've seen them, ringed around our kitchen table and I thought, Why don't they leave? Why do they stay to watch? And now I know. It's because you have no choice. I startle when I catch someone staring at me from only a few inches away and then realize it's my own face reflecting back in the glass. Wild eyes, hollow cheeks, my hair in a tangled mat. Rabid. Feral. Mad. No wonder everyone is keeping a safe distance from me.

I slip my legs out of bed, nervous about how they will bear my weight and find them strong and steady. Lying at the foot of the bed is an outfit that makes me flinch. It's what all of us tributes wore in the arena. I stare at it as if it had teeth until I remember that, of course, this is what I will wear to greet my team. I'm dressed in less than a minute and fidgeting in front of the wall where I know there's a door even if I can't see it when suddenly it slides open. I step into a wide, deserted hall that appears to have no other doors on it. But it must. And behind one of them must be Peeta. Now that I'm conscious and moving, I'm growing more and more anxious about him. He must be all right or the Avox girl wouldn't have said so. But I need to see him for myself. "Peeta!" I call out, since there's no one to ask. I hear my name in response, but it's not his voice. It's a voice that provokes first irritation and then eagerness. Effie. I turn and see them all waiting in a big chamber at the end of the hall  -  Effie, Haymitch, and Cinna. My feet take off without hesitation. Maybe a victor should show more restraint, more superiority, especially when she knows this will be on tape, but I don't care. I run for them and surprise even myself when I launch into Haymitch's arms first. When he whispers in my ear, "Nice job, sweetheart," it doesn't sound sarcastic. Effie's somewhat teary and keeps patting my hair and talking about how she told everyone we were pearls. Cinna just hugs me tight and doesn't say anything. Then I notice Portia is absent and get a bad feeling. "Where's Portia? Is she with Peeta? He is all right, isn't he? I mean, he's alive?" I blurt out. "He's fine. Only they want to do your reunion live on air at the ceremony," says Haymitch. "Oh. That's all," I say. The awful moment of thinking Peeta's dead again passes. "I guess I'd want to see that myself." "Go on with Cinna. He has to get you ready," says Haymitch. It's a relief to be alone with Cinna, to feel his protective arm around my shoulders as he guides me away from the cameras, down a few passages and to an elevator that leads to the lobby of the Training Center. The hospital then is far underground, even beneath the gym where the tributes practiced tying knots and throwing spears. The windows of the lobby are darkened, and a handful of guards stand on duty. No one else is there to see us cross to the tribute elevator. Our footsteps echo in the emptiness. And when we ride up to the twelfth floor, the faces of all the tributes who will never return flash across my mind and there's a heavy, tight place in my chest. 

When the elevator doors open, Venia, Flavius, and Octavia engulf me, talking so quickly and ecstatically I can't make out their words. The sentiment is clear though. They are truly thrilled to see me and I'm happy to see them, too, although not like I was to see Cinna. It's more in the way one might be glad to see an affectionate trio of pets at the end of a particularly difficult day.

Okay I know this part doesn’t really have Peeta in it but It’s super important 

Haymitch's eyes shift around my musty holding space, and he seems to make a decision. "But nothing. How about a hug for luck?"

Okay, that's an odd request from Haymitch but, after all, we are victors. Maybe a hug for luck is in order. Only, when I put my arms around his neck, I find myself trapped in his embrace. He begins talking, very fast, very quietly in my ear, my hair concealing his lips.

"Listen up. You're in trouble. Word is the Capitol's furious about you showing them up in the arena. The one thing they can't stand is being laughed at and they're the joke of Panem," says Haymitch.

I feel dread coursing through me now, but I laugh as though Haymitch is saying something completely delightful because nothing is covering my mouth. "So, what?"

"Your only defense can be you were so madly in love you weren't responsible for your actions." Haymitch pulls back and adjusts my hairband. "Got it, sweetheart?" He could be talking about anything now.

"Got it," I say. "Did you tell Peeta this?"

"Don't have to," says Haymitch. "He's already there."

"But you think I'm not?" I say, taking the opportunity to straighten a bright red bow tie Cinna must have wrestled him into.

"Since when does it matter what I think?" says Haymitch. "Better take our places." He leads me to the metal circle. "This is your night, sweetheart. Enjoy it." He kisses me on the forehead and disappears into the gloom.

I tug on my skirt, willing it to be longer, wanting it to cover the knocking in my knees. Then I realize it's pointless. My whole body's shaking like a leaf. Hopefully, it will be put down to excitement. After all, it's my night.

  The anthem booms in my ears, and then I hear Caesar Flickerman greeting the audience. Does he know how crucial it is to get every word right from now on? He must. He will want to help us. The crowd breaks into applause as the prep teams are presented. I imagine Flavius, Venia, and Octavia bouncing around and taking ridiculous, bobbing bows. It's a safe bet they're clueless. Then Effie's introduced. How long she's waited for this moment. I hope she's able to enjoy it because as misguided as Effie can be, she has a very keen instinct about certain things and must at least suspect we're in trouble. Portia and Cinna receive huge cheers, of course, they've been brilliant, had a dazzling debut. I now understand Cinna's choice of dress for me for tonight. I'll need to look as girlish and innocent as possible. Haymitch's appearance brings a round of stomping that goes on at least five minutes. Well, he's accomplished a first. Keeping not only one but two tributes alive. What if he hadn't warned me in time? Would I have acted differently? Flaunted the moment with the berries in the Capitol's face? No, I don't think so. But I could easily have been a lot less convincing than I need to be now. Right now. Because I can feel the plate lifting me up to the stage. Blinding lights. The deafening roar rattles the metal under my feet. Then there's Peeta just a few yards away. He looks so clean and healthy and beautiful, I can hardly recognize him. But his smile is the same whether in mud or in the Capitol and when I see it, I take about three steps and fling myself into his arms. He staggers back, almost losing his balance, and that's when I realize the slim, metal contraption in his hand is some kind of cane. He rights himself and we just cling to each other while the audience goes insane. He's kissing me and all the time I'm thinking, Do you know? Do you know how much danger we're in? After about ten minutes of this, Caesar Flickerman taps on his shoulder to continue the show, and Peeta just pushes him aside without even glancing at him. The audience goes berserk. Whether he knows or not, Peeta is, as usual, playing the crowd exactly right. Finally, Haymitch interrupts us and gives us a good-natured shove toward the victor's chair. Usually, this is a single, ornate chair from which the winning tribute watches a film of the highlights of the Games, but since there are two of us, the Gamemakers have provided a plush red velvet couch. A small one, my mother would call it a love seat, I think. I sit so close to Peeta that I'm practically on his lap, but one look from Haymitch tells me it isn't enough. Kicking off my sandals, I tuck my feet to the side and lean my head against Peeta's shoulder. His arm goes around me automatically, and I feel like I'm back in the cave, curled up against him, trying to keep warm. His shirt is made of the same yellow material as my dress, but Portia's put him in long black pants. No sandals, either, but a pair of sturdy black boots he keeps solidly planted on the stage. I wish Cinna had given me a similar outfit, I feel so vulnerable in this flimsy dress. But I guess that was the point.

All I know is that the only thing keeping me on this love seat is Peeta  -  his arm around my shoulder, his other hand claimed by both of mine. Of course, the previous victors didn't have the Capitol looking for a way to destroy them. Condensing several weeks into three hours is quite a feat, especially when you consider how many cameras were going at once. Whoever puts together the highlights has to choose what sort of story to tell. This year, for the first time, they tell a love story. I know Peeta and I won, but a disproportionate amount of time is spent on us, right from the beginning. I'm glad though, because it supports the whole crazy-in-love thing that's my defense for defying the Capitol, plus it means we won't have as much time to linger over the deaths. The first half hour or so focuses on the pre-arena events, the reaping, the chariot ride through the Capitol, our training scores, and our interviews. There's this sort of upbeat soundtrack playing under it that makes it twice as awful because, of course, almost everyone on-screen is dead. Once we're in the arena, there's detailed coverage of the bloodbath and then the filmmakers basically alternate between shots of tributes dying and shots of us. Mostly Peeta really, there's no question he's carrying this romance thing on his shoulders. Now I see what the audience saw, how he misled the Careers about me, stayed awake the entire night under the tracker jacker tree, fought Cato to let me escape and even while he lay in that mud bank, whispered my name in his sleep. I seem heartless in comparison  -  dodging fireballs, dropping nests, and blowing up supplies  -  until I go hunting for Rue. They play her death in full, the spearing, my failed rescue attempt, my arrow through the boy from District 1's throat, Rue drawing her last breath in my arms. And the song. I get to sing every note of the song. Something inside me shuts down and I'm too numb to feel anything. It's like watching complete strangers in another Hunger Games. But I do notice they omit the part where I covered her in flowers. Right. Because even that smacks of rebellion. Things pick up for me once they've announced two tributes from the same district can live and I shout out Peeta's name and then clap my hands over my mouth. If I've seemed indifferent to him earlier, I make up for it now, by finding him, nursing him back to health, going to the feast for the medicine, and being very free with my kisses. Objectively, I can see the mutts and Cato's death are as gruesome as ever, but again, I feel it happens to people I have never met. And then comes the moment with the berries. I can hear the audience hushing one another, not wanting to miss anything. A wave of gratitude to the filmmakers sweeps over me when they end not with the announcement of our victory, but with me pounding on the glass door of the hovercraft, screaming Peeta's name as they try to revive him. In terms of survival, it's my best moment all night. The anthem's playing yet again and we rise as President Snow himself takes the stage followed by a little girl carrying a cushion that holds the crown. There's just one crown, though, and you can hear the crowd's confusion  -  whose head will he place it on?  -  until President Snow gives it a twist and it separates into two halves. He places the first around Peeta's brow with a smile. He's still smiling when he settles the second on my head, but his eyes, just inches from mine, are as unforgiving as a snake's. That's when I know that even though both of us would have eaten the berries, I am to blame for having the idea. I'm the instigator. I'm the one to be punished. Much bowing and cheering follows. My arm is about to fall off from waving when Caesar Flickerman finally bids the audience good night, reminding them to tune in tomorrow for the final interviews. As if they have a choice. Peeta and I are whisked to the president's mansion for the Victory Banquet, where we have very little time to eat as Capitol officials and particularly generous sponsors elbow one another out of the way as they try to get their picture with us. Face after beaming face flashes by, becoming increasingly intoxicated as the evening wears on. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of Haymitch, which is reassuring, or President Snow, which is terrifying, but I keep laughing and thanking people and smiling as my picture is taken. The one thing I never do is let go of Peeta's hand. The sun is just peeking over the horizon when we straggle back to the twelfth floor of the Training Center. I think now I'll finally get a word alone with Peeta, but Haymitch sends him off with Portia to get something fitted for the interview and personally escorts me to my door. "Why can't I talk to him?" I ask. "Plenty of time for talk when we get home," says Haymitch. "Go to bed, you're on air at two."

The interview takes place right down the hall in the sitting room. A space has been cleared and the love seat has been moved in and surrounded by vases of red and pink roses. There are only a handful of cameras to record the event. No live audience at least. Caesar Flickerman gives me a warm hug when I. come in. "Congratulations, Katniss. How are you faring?" "Fine. Nervous about the interview," I say. "Don't be. We're going to have a fabulous time," he says, giving my cheek a reassuring pat. "I'm not good at talking about myself," I say. "Nothing you say will be wrong," he says. And I think, Oh, Caesar, if only that were true. But actually, President Snow may be arranging some sort of "accident" for me as we speak. Then Peeta's there looking handsome in red and white, pulling me off to the side. "I hardly get to see you. Haymitch seems bent on keeping us apart." Haymitch is actually bent on keeping us alive, but there are too many ears listening, so I just say, "Yes, he's gotten very responsible lately." "Well, there's just this and we go home. Then he can't watch us all the time," says Peeta. I feel a sort of shiver run through me and there's no time to analyze why, because they're ready for us. We sit somewhat formally on the love seat, but Caesar says, "Oh, go ahead and curl up next to him if you want. It looked very sweet." So I tuck my feet up and Peeta pulls me in close to him. Someone counts backward and just like that, we're being broadcast live to the entire country. Caesar Flickerman is wonderful, teasing, joking, getting choked up when the occasion presents itself. He and Peeta already have the rapport they established that night of the first interview, that easy banter, so I just smile a lot and try to speak as little as possible. I mean, I have to talk some, but as soon as I can I redirect the conversation back to Peeta. Eventually though, Caesar begins to pose questions that insist on fuller answers. "Well, Peeta, we know, from our days in the cave, that it was love at first sight for you from what, age five?" Caesar says. "From the moment I laid eyes on her," says Peeta. "But, Katniss, what a ride for you. I think the real excitement for the audience was watching you fall for him. When did you realize you were in love with him?" asks Caesar. "Oh, that's a hard one. " I give a faint, breathy laugh and look down at my hands. Help. "Well, I know when it hit me. The night when you shouted out his name from that tree," says Caesar. Thank you, Caesar! I think, and then go with his idea. "Yes, I guess that was it. I mean, until that point, I just tried not to think about what my feelings might be, honestly, because it was so confusing and it only made things worse if I actually cared about him. But then, in the tree, everything changed," I say. "Why do you think that was?" urges Caesar. "Maybe. because for the first time. there was a chance I could keep him," I say. Behind a cameraman, I see Haymitch give a sort of huff with relief and I know I've said the right thing. Caesar pulls out a handkerchief and has to take a moment because he's so moved. I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt." And when he kisses me, people in the room actually sigh.

For Caesar, this is a natural place to segue into all the ways we did get hurt in the arena, from burns, to stings, to wounds. But it's not until we get around to the mutts that I forget I'm on camera. When Caesar asks Peeta how his "new leg" is working out.

"New leg?" I say, and I can't help reaching out and pulling up the bottom of Peeta's pants. "Oh, no," I whisper, taking in the metal-and-plastic device that has replaced his flesh.

"No one told you?" asks Caesar gently. I shake my head.

"I haven't had the chance," says Peeta with a slight shrug.

"It's my fault," I say. "Because I used that tourniquet."

"Yes, it's your fault I'm alive," says Peeta.

"He's right," says Caesar. "He'd have bled to death for sure without it."

I guess this is true, but I can't help feeling upset about it to the extent that I'm afraid I might cry and then I remember everyone in the country is watching me so I just bury my face in Peeta's shirt. It takes them a couple of minutes to coax me back out because it's better in the shirt, where no one can see me, and when I do come out, Caesar backs off questioning me so I can recover. In fact, he pretty much leaves me alone until the berries come up.

"Katniss, I know you've had a shock, but I've got to ask. The moment when you pulled out those berries. What was going on in your mind. hm?" he says.

I take a long pause before I answer, trying to collect my thoughts. This is the crucial moment where I either challenged the Capitol or went so crazy at the idea of losing Peeta that I can't be held responsible for my actions. It seems to call for a big, dramatic speech, but all I get out is one almost inaudible sentence. "I don't know, I just. couldn't bear the thought of. being without him."

"Peeta? Anything to add?" asks Caesar.

"No. I think that goes for both of us," he says.

Caesar signs off and it's over. Everyone's laughing and crying and hugging, but I'm still not sure until I reach Haymitch. "Okay?" I whisper.

"Perfect," he answers.

I go back to my room to collect a few things and find there's nothing to take but the mockingjay pin Madge gave me. Someone returned it to my room after the Games. They drive us through the streets in a car with blackened windows, and the train's waiting for us. We barely have time to say good-bye to Cinna and Portia, although we'll see them in a few months, when we tour the districts for a round of victory ceremonies. It's the Capitol's way of reminding people that the Hunger Games never really go away. We'll be given a lot of useless plaques, and everyone will have to pretend they love us.

The train begins moving and we're plunged into night until we clear the tunnel and I take my first free breath since the reaping. Effie is accompanying us back and Haymitch, too, of course. We eat an enormous dinner and settle into silence in front of the television to watch a replay of the interview. With the Capitol growing farther away every second, I begin to think of home. Of Prim and my mother. Of Gale. I excuse myself to change out of my dress and into a plain shirt and pants. As I slowly, thoroughly wash the makeup from my face and put my hair in its braid, I begin transforming back into myself. Katniss Everdeen. A girl who lives in the Seam. Hunts in the woods. Trades in the Hob. I stare in the mirror as I try to remember who I am and who I am not. By the time I join the others, the pressure of Peeta's arm around my shoulders feels alien.

When the train makes a brief stop for fuel, we're allowed to go outside for some fresh air. There's no longer any need to guard us. Peeta and I walk down along the track, hand in hand, and I can't find anything to say now that we're alone. He stops to gather a bunch of wildflowers for me. When he presents them, I work hard to look pleased. Because he can't know that the pink-and-white flowers are the tops of wild onions and only remind me of the hours I've spent gathering them with Gale.

Gale. The idea of seeing Gale in a matter of hours makes my stomach churn. But why? I can't quite frame it in my mind. I only know that I feel like I've been lying to someone who trusts me. Or more accurately, to two people. I've been getting away with it up to this point because of the Games. But there will be no Games to hide behind back home.

"What's wrong?" Peeta asks.

"Nothing," I answer. We continue walking, past the end of the train, out where even I'm fairly sure there are no cameras hidden in the scrubby bushes along the track. Still no words come.

Haymitch startles me when he lays a hand on my back. Even now, in the middle of nowhere, he keeps his voice down. "Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be okay." I watch him head back to the train, avoiding Peeta's eyes.

"What's he mean?" Peeta asks me.

"It's the Capitol. They didn't like our stunt with the berries," I blurt out.

"What? What are you talking about?" he says.

"It seemed too rebellious. So, Haymitch has been coaching me through the last few days. So I didn't make it worse," I say.

"Coaching you? But not me," says Peeta.

"He knew you were smart enough to get it right," I say.

"I didn't know there was anything to get right," says Peeta. "So, what you're saying is, these last few days and then I guess. back in the arena. that was just some strategy you two worked out."

"No. I mean, I couldn't even talk to him in the arena, could I?" I stammer.

"But you knew what he wanted you to do, didn't you?" says Peeta. I bite my lip. "Katniss?" He drops my hand and I take a step, as if to catch my balance.

"It was all for the Games," Peeta says. "How you acted."

"Not all of it," I say, tightly holding onto my flowers.

"Then how much? No, forget that. I guess the real question is what's going to be left when we get home?" he says.

"I don't know. The closer we get to District Twelve, the more confused I get," I say. He waits, for further explanation, but none's forthcoming.

"Well, let me know when you work it out," he says, and the pain in his voice is palpable.

I know my ears are healed because, even with the rumble of the engine, I can hear every step he takes back to the train. By the time I've climbed aboard, Peeta has disappiared into his room for the night. I don't see him the next morning, either. In fact, the next time he turns up, we're pulling into District 12. He gives me a nod, his face expressionless.

I want to tell him that he's not being fair. That we were strangers. That I did what it took to stay alive, to keep us both alive in the arena. That I can't explain how things are with Gale because I don't know myself. That it's no good loving me because I'm never going to get married anyway and he'd just end up hating me later instead of sooner. That if I do have feelings for him, it doesn't matter because I'll never be able to afford the kind of love that leads to a family, to children. And how can he? How can he after what we've just been through?

I also want to tell him how much I already miss him. But that wouldn't be fair on my part.

So we just stand there silently, watching our grimy little station rise up around us. Through the window, I can see the platform's thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching our homecoming.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Peeta extend his hand. I look at him, unsure. "One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me.

I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.

[daylightisminetoconsume]

Scavenger, Half-Breed, They/Them: or, Grike’s Backstory

in honor of the Thrall Thursdays I’ve missed, have something super indulgent.

Because I am incapable of making disposable background characters.

Grike The Gruesome is a Thrall only in rank. They’ve never had their mind touched by Decimaar, never needed persuading to join Gunmar, and as far as the war for the surface goes,Grike enjoys killing and eating humans as much as any gumm-gumm.

Especially in an unfair fight. Grike’s always been partial to those. Grike learned from a very young age that ‘honor’ doesn’t fill your belly, and a good name doesn’t mean much once you’re dead.

Not that Grike’s ever had a good name to begin with.

Grike hatched plump and healthy as the son of a Quagawump spearmaker,

As a rule of thumb, male quagawumps are relatively rare and the birth of one should’ve been a joyous occasion for the tribe.

But as the other whelps hatched around him it became painfully clear that this little male WASN’T a Quagawump.

Yes, his pelt was the proper-gray green of a Quagawump’s son. And the tufts of green on his head and wrists were undeniable examples of Quagawump fluff. He chittered and hummed like the other whelps reacting to the welcoming songs of their mothers.

But he wasn’t right.

His ears were too thick, and too long. His nose stretched too high, and his jaw wasn’t the right sort of square. Normally, these things could be explained away by a bad incubation.

But unforgivably, the brand new eyes that blinked up at the world were red. 

It seemed that thirty years ago to the day, the whelps mother was woo’d by a handsome quagawump merchant passing through. They spent the warm weeks of the mating season together before he moved on, promising to return to his lover and egg once he’d sold his wares in Trollmarket. 

To be fair to the ‘merchant’, glamouring oneself as a quagawump and leaving an egg behind IS a pretty good prank, as far as Trickster-trolls were concerned. Never returning takes the prank from ‘good’ to an absolute knee-slapper.

But the spearmaker wasn’t laughing, and she only stepped forward to take her whelp when all the other younglings had been matched to their mothers.

With absolute reluctance, she took her son home and named him Grike. 

To humans, this is a simple work that means ‘cracked.’

In Quagawump tongue, it means the same thing, but more clearly translates to ‘bad stone.’

And to the Quagawumps, he was a bad stone. Grike couldn’t blend into the marsh with his bright red eyes. He could never sit still or quiet, and his voice never melted in right when the rest of the tribe sang. In spite of never meeting his father, Grike clearly took after his sire tribe.

The youngling loved comedy. .Any prank or joke that got the slightest semblance of a laugh would be repeated until the entire tribe was sick of it, and they would turn on the whelp with a razor-barbed question.

‘What are you? A trickster-troll or a quagawump? Are you us, or them?”

and Grike hated that question, because he didn’t know. If he said he was a trickster-troll, his mother would lock him out of the cave without supper. But if he said he was a quagawump, the others would look at him with their matching eyes and frowns and mumble about time passing. After all, Quagawump sons were sent away once they reached the right age.

The thought of being alone terrified Grike, and he didn’t understand why it should be so. He didn’t feel like a son. Or a Quagawump. OR a trickster-troll.

As he neared his early teens, Grike began to sense his impending exile, and decided to give up on fitting in with the tribe. Instead, he perfected more useful pranks, such as lock-picking and pick-pocketing, As a whelp, he always dreaded Quagawump singing ceremonies, but when he grew older, he learned they were the perfect distraction to steal whatever shiny things caught his eye.

With his thieving and pranking undaunted by beatings, it came as no surprise the day Grike woke up to war-drums, and his mother dragging him out of bed.

With little pomp or ceremony she shoved a spear into his hands and told him he was to join the other warriors at the front lines. Gunmar was returning to raid the tribe for whelps, and it was time for Grike to earn his keep.

A dozen of the finest Quagawump warriors (and one untrained half-breed) marched on Gunmar.

They were met with a force of fifty-strong. Trained Gumm-Gumm warriors, with no qualms about slaughtering a band of pact-troll savages.

Grike quickly learned he was not prepared for battle. As his tribemates fell in bloody pieces around him he panicked and turned to run, only to be stopped by a spear-point to his throat.

It was his mother, who would rather have a dead son than one who lived by deserting. She gave him a choice, return to battle, or she would cut him down herself. 

“Are you a warrior, or a coward?” And then, that familiar barb, “Us, or them?”

And Grike tried to grab the spear. In the middle of the battlefield, the pre-teen troll clashed with his mother, roaring his answer, over and over again.

‘Them.’

‘Them.’

‘Them.’

When the battle ended, Grike presented Gunmar with his mother’s spear, and the warlord was impressed by the craftsmanship. Even more impressed, when Grike told him where to find the camp.

It was deserted by the time the Gumm-Gumms arrived. The warriors had been a diversion, and even if Grike had proved victorious, the Quagawumps saw no need to wait up for him. But Gunmar wasn’t angry. He had a fresh heartstone and several prisoners to turn into thralls.

Grike, of course, joined willingly, And when the Decimaar blade placed the armor over their battle-worn body, Grike caught a glimpse of his reflection.

To his delight, his eyes were no longer red, but a shining shade of green. Just like the rest of his new tribe.

Grike never rose above a thrall footsoldier, but ambition had never mattered much. There were hundreds of half-breeds and mongrel trolls in Gunmar’s army. There was plenty of booze and delicious fleshbags to eat, 

Grike even earned a titled. The others caught them.picking over dead soldiers in the battlefield on more than one occasion. Like a Gruesome.

It wasn’t an honorable title, but Grike didn’t mind.

They would much rather be called a ‘gruesome’ than a son.

[vermillionage]

Ok so this is not really an analysis of any kind..

It's just an appreciation post with screenshots. We all know The Hand massage part- but this one is not far behind!

This whole side quest was so over the top weired. I thought it is hilarious. The innuendos 🤣🤣🤣

Seriously

Also spoilers if you haven't played FF7R yet, or the Madame M side quests.

So if Cloud gets to do Madame M's side quests in chapter 9, he has to find the dressmakers Inspiration...which he lost to the Materia Merchant he gave it away as well...its a scavenger hunt.

Now is where I really tried to be mature about it and failed. I way too much enjoyed this banter.

So the merchant asks you to find

The Sauce ™️

So Johnny and Cloud head out to obtain it from the vending machine at the sleazy Inn the merchant pointed them at.

They are offered a room, but Johnny rejects. He is a Tifa boy as well. Who can blame him.

Well maybe Cloud-We don't get Clouds pov..but I bet its annoyed.

Then Johnny explains how to get the Sauce™️

Just whip it out and press all the right buttons? SURE.

WHY DO I NOT THINK ABOUT VENDING MACHINES HERE. I'M ruined my mind is RUINED 😭😎

He says "and then you will be able to see everything!"

Ok. Neat.

Cocky. Cloud is smug 😌:

He gets the Sauce™️ with his expertise pushing all the right buttons...even that last one Johnny can't wait for Cloud to push....:

Put it away man!

Then brings it back to the Merchant who freaks out about the Sauce. The Sauce. stop saying"the Sauce"

Cloud doesn't get all the fuss anyhow:

*Men among men*... yeah...

Look at his smug look it's better in motion though

Oh Cloud. Don't. 😭🤣 noo don't ...

The merch then goes on about polishing his shiny balls..or something in that array...

And then it goes on to finish the rest of the quest.

I just . Can't. This whole exchange was so cringeworthy.

Whip it out. ..the Sauce...I .. am 16 again. Lol.

It sure was one of these Wall market comedic reliever moments full of ambiguity.

Sorry I just loved this.. anyone with me? 🤣🤣

[shera-dnd]

The Hunter part 1- I Hate You

First chapter of my super self indulgent Catralonnie fic

It was supposed to be a single long chapter, but it made more sense to turn it into a proper multichapter fic

Anyway here is my nonsense. Enjoy the ride

Most merchants took the long way around the Crimson Wastes. No point running into bandits or any of the natural traps hidden in the sands, especially if your cargo is of the sensitive kind, but some still tried to save time by cutting straight through the desert. Only fools or those in extreme hurry would even consider doing that.

It was in one of those shortcuts that Catra found herself. She calmly guided her cart through the wastes, her desert clothes hiding most of her defining features. Catra was no fool in a rush to die. Today, Catra was bait.

Though her normal duties as left hand of the queen meant she spent most of her time locked in Brightmoon castle with all the princesses, she still took any opportunity she could to be out in the field. Plus she was pretty sure Double Trouble could hold down the fort while she was away on this little vacation. Okay, maybe she couldn’t call it a vacation when thousands of lives were at stake, but that had become the standard over these past few years. 

Catra yawned, she just wanted those stupid bandits to try and rob her already so she had something to do. Almost on cue the bandits did exactly that, jumping out from behind rocks and dunes, weapons pointed directly at her. Catra relaxed, leaned back, and closed her eyes. Sounds of battle surrounded her for a few moments and then there was silence.

“This pass is dangerous,” A strange sounding voice informed her. Of course they used voice modulation, otherwise it would be too easy. “Whatever you’re carrying is not worth your life.”

Catra lazily opened her eyes. Around her were the unconscious bodies of a dozen bandits and before her stood the cause of their defeat, a mysterious figure known only as The Hunter. They were covered from head to toe in scavenged weapons, armor and gadgets from the war. Plates of enchanted Mystacor steel covered an Etherian Horde exoskeleton, a Clone Horde laser cannon was hanging from her back next to a Bright Moon guard spear. Their face was covered by a stylized Horde helmet. They definitely had quite the collection.

“What I carry is more important than both our lives, Hunter.” Catra declared, over dramatically - maybe she was spending too much time with Double Trouble - before tossing away her disguise “And what I carry is news.”

“Catra!” The Hunter’s modulated voice called, full of an exhausted resentment; something Catra hadn’t heard in such a long time it almost felt nostalgic. “What do you want?”

“To do my job,” She answered, dropping from her cart to meet the Hunter face to face. “And to do that I need someone minimally capable.”

“Go ask your princesses,” The Hunter dismissed her, turning around to leave. “I have more important things to do.” With a quick movement, Catra wrapped her whip around their arm, holding them in place.

“No, you don’t have anything more important than this.” Catra insisted, her expression challenging them to do anything funny. “And I’m not sending a princess to do a mercenary’s job.”

“I’m no mercenary!” They declared as they yanked their tied up arm. Catra was pulled fast towards them, but she was ready and landed feet first on their chest, before flipping back and landing on her feet.

“Could have fooled me” Catra joked as she dodged a punch to the face.

“I don’t do this for money.” They argued, blocking one of Catra’s kicks.

“Don’t tell me you’re doing this for the greater good or something!” She chuckled as she spin kicked the Hunter.

“Is that so hard to believe?” They asked, grabbing Catra’s leg and tossing the woman aside. “That some people just wanna do good?” Catra pulled on the whip, using the Hunter as an anchor to right herself as she landed.

“I was just making sure you were the right person for the job.” Catra answered, running back towards them and kicking their feet from under them. “I take it you would be interested in saving a few thousand lives.”

The Hunter jumped up in a single fluid motion. No longer in the mood to answer each other they continued their aggressive negotiations in silence. Catra had to admit that she was starting to enjoy this, there was a certain familiarity to their movements, an exhilarating back and forth that Catra hadn’t had in a long time. Not since her and Adora- No, she wouldn’t think about that.

Catra pinned them to the ground, her face was covered in dirt, sweat, and a bit of blood from a couple of hits that connected, but that could not dissuade her smug victorious smile. Looking down at the Hunter she couldn’t help but have a strange sense of deja vu.

“Do I know you?” Catra asked, releasing the Hunter, but not completely getting up.

“I hate you.” The Hunter snarled as they pushed themselves up.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Catra joked “Are all your negotiations like this?” They did not respond to this, simply climbing onto the cart and waiting for Catra to join.

“Whatever that job is,” They started, not turning to look at Catra as she climbed aboard. “I’m in.”

~~~

The job was simple. Find a group of bandits in the Wastes, kick them all senseless and destroy the giant super weapon they stole from a fallen Horde Prime ship. Easy. Of course, a group that had a giant super weapon and was on their way to hold entire kingdoms hostage was probably very well hidden, but that was nothing that Catra and her new companion couldn’t deal with.

“Why aren’t the princesses doing something?” The Hunter inquired “Or soldiers?”

“Princesses aren’t known for being subtle.” Catra explained, “We need to get this done swiftly and discreetly, otherwise they might act out and fire at random before we have the time to do anything.” They nodded along with the explanation, probably running through some other options in their head.

“What about Adora?” They asked. Adora,  not She-ra. That made it a little easier for Catra to figure out who her mysterious friend was.

“Busy somewhere else.” Was all she was willing to say. The Hunter nodded to that too.

“Huntara?” They questioned again.

“Who do you think mentioned you?” She answered and though there was not outward reaction, Catra was pretty sure The Hunter was smiling under their helmet.

The rest of their trip was completely silent. They were both more than comfortable with the sustained silence and neither wanted to share more than was absolutely necessary with the other.

Catra was the first to break the silence when she noticed the familiar pile of bones before them.

“Why here of all places?” Catra asked, groaning at her memories of that bar.

“We need supplies and information.” The Hunter stated matter of factly as they jumped out of the cart.

“If you can call drunken gossip real information...” Catra argued, but her companion made a point of ignoring her and walking into the bar by themselves.

Catra let out an annoyed sigh and followed them in. The bar was still just as shitty as it had been nearly a decade ago and it was definitely just as smelly. Catra leaned against a wall in the back, far from any other patrons, and simply watched the Hunter do their work. They had made a b-line for a lizard person in the corner - probably some contact of theirs - and began talking to them in low growls. So her companion spoke lizard? That narrowed the possible suspects even more.

Whatever the two were talking about must��ve been very engrossing as neither of them noticed a couple of shady fellows approaching them from behind. Catra made no effort to help them out as she was pretty sure they wouldn’t need any.

“There are only two rules in the Crimson Wastes...” One of the idiots announced and Catra had to hold back a groan. Nearly a decade and this shithole was still the same.

Before they could finish that tired line Catra already had her whip tied around their throat. Their friend took a knife from their belt and was immediately decked right in the teeth for it. Next thing they knew it was a bar fight.

Catra jumped over a table to join her companion and almost as a reflex they began fighting back to back, covering each other’s blind spots as they pushed back the bandits and drunkards that surrounded them. That same feeling of strange familiarity washed over Catra once again.

“Did you get the information you need?” Catra asked the Hunter, a little more joy than she would like tinged her voice.

“Not yet.” They answered “Gimme a moment.” And with that the Hunter picked up one of their assailants and put him through a table. Catra had to admit that even though she had spent all day in the desert, that was by far the hottest thing she’d seen all day.

~~~

Their campfire was the only light in the Wastes for many miles, a beacon of gold and red against the darkness that surrounded them. Their meal was not the best, but compared to Horde ration bars it was a delicacy. They ate in silence, the same way they travelled and the same way they set up camp. If the silence was broken, it was only by one of Catra’s brief snarky remarks.

Strangely Catra had become less and less comfortable with the silence as the time went on. Her need for answers was starting to overpower her need for peace and quiet.

“You’re a Horde soldier.” Catra stated. That much she knew to be true, she recognized their combat training.

The Hunter had lifted their helmet just enough to be able to eat the stew they had prepared. They lowered it back down before they spoke again.

“Were.” They corrected before returning to their meal. That simple confirmation was more than enough to get Catra thinking again. Things started falling into place as she got closer to understanding who this person was.

“You’re trying to fix things.” Catra stated, she did not need confirmation. “People accepted you after the war, but you couldn't accept yourself. You didn’t feel redeemed, so you decided that playing hero was the only way to fix that.” The Hunter stopped their spoon halfway towards their mouth.

“You speak from experience.” They answered, not bothering to lower the mask again. Their voice held an accusation that Catra made no effort to defend against.

“I guess I’ve been there.” Catra admitted “But no amount of playing hero can fix what I did.”

“You’re right.” They agreed, anger flaring in their voice “You can never fix the damage you’ve caused, and you’re not a hero.”

“Are you?” Catra asked, sincerely curious of what they would answer.

“I hate you, Catra.” They deflected.

“You have every right to,” Catra conceded “Lonnie.” The Hunter did not answer for a while, seemingly measuring their options, before finally taking off the helmet entirely.

Lonnie looked tired. Not like she hadn’t gotten any sleep or something, but there was a general tiredness that seemed to seep into every aspect of her expression. The years had not been kind to her.

“Admitting it won’t change things.” She said, before returning to her stew.

“I wasn’t expecting to,” Catra shrugged, acting nonchalantly to hide her worry over the other girl. “It’s just good to hear I’ll be playing hero with someone I can trust.”

Lonnie was one of her fellow cadets, she was among the best, she had stuck around for longer than most and what did Catra do to her? She worked her to the bone, she made her life miserable, pushed her away when she tried to comfort her. If only Lonnie had recovered, if only she was happy now, then Catra wouldn't feel this guilt.

Lonnie was also the only person who really understood Catra. The only other who, when welcomed with open arms and warm smiles, couldn’t feel anything but pain and guilt. The only one who also had to prove to themselves what the rest of the world already knew, that they were a good person.

“I wish I could say the same about you.” Lonnie spat and Catra did not argue or disagree. Catra knew she had not earned Lonnie’s trust, and more than earned her hatred, but this lack of reaction was not what the other woman expected.

The hunter sighed and looked away from Catra, deciding that her stew was much more interesting right now. Her expression shifted; it struggled to remain angry and annoyed, but it soon gave in to that exhaustion from before, and then to sadness. A sadness that stabbed Catra’s heart like a cold knife.

“If you keep staring I’m putting the helmet back on.” Lonnie declared. Catra averted her gaze.

Silence fell over them once again. This time it was an uneasy silence, a long and unyielding one, one that put Catra on edge. Only the wind and the fire dared break it.