𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 | 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒅𝒂𝒊𝒓

𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍.

𝐋𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧.

Rosie wasn't a morning person. Never had been, never would be. All a morning brought was bleary eyes and heavy limbs, a fog always clouded her mind and she often put stuff in the wrong places—rabbit in a vase and flowers in a sink, for instance.

But she now rose with the sun, her head was clear, she guessed because it had to be. And because she didn't think she ever truly got into a state of deep sleep, probably superficial; floating between being awake and asleep, jumping to awake at any noise.

When she woke up after the hectic day she experienced the day prior, she was happy at the fact her clothes were almost completely bone dry. Her socks, not so much. But she didn't mind as she knew, in her gut, that today would be the final day of the Games. She lost count but was confident it had spanned more than ten days, which would satisfy the Capitol's need for blood, but make them hungry for the end, to see who would be crowned Victor.

The only people who were left were herself, the girl from District 10, Jett and someone else she couldn't for the life of her remember. But each night she'd mentally cross off who posed the biggest threats, and all the people she had deemed threats—except the last two in the Career pack—were dead.

Rosie stretched out her muscles, checked over her bag, and noticed one of her water bottles was missing—she was now extra thankful at her backup—and the other was near empty, so she traipsed around and found a stream she deemed suitable and filled it up. She had no food left, the last thing she ate was the day before and was merely half a roll, but she didn't feel hungry. And, once again, she knew the Games were coming to a close.

Whilst she was searching for water she didn't have any sightings of the Cornucopia, so she found another tree and did the same thing she did the day before and climbed it. The pain in her body made every movement hurt, lifting her arms above her shoulders sent deep aches ricocheting throughout her torso. Whenever she brushed the shallow wounds on her knees, her elbows, biceps or thighs against the rough bark she had to grit her teeth so she did not elicit any noise. She was also confident that she skinned her forehead as when she pushed sweaty hairs from it, it stung. Her puncture wound seemed as if it would never heal, and until she stopped constantly using her hands, neither would the split on the side of her finger.

Rosie was beaten to Hell, the wounds that littered her body didn't take over her need to win, she was still hellbent and nothing was going to stop her.

Caked in dirt and covered in blood and bruises she smiled at the thought the Capitol would no longer see her as the picture of innocence, no longer was she clean and in pretty dresses. After the announcement that came when she'd killed the last Tribute she could drop the grateful persona she'd put on, she could be angry that she was forced to do things she never, even in her worst nightmares, thought she'd have to do.

Branch by branch she took it slow and made sure she was purposeful in her movements, once again cutting a hole large enough for her to get her head and torso through. She wasn't too far away from the Cornucopia, it wouldn't take more than an hour to walk there, even in her battered state.

She climbed back down, getting to the floor and heading for the final showdown. The fake sun almost made the Arena into an oven, the relentless heat made sweat drip down Rosie's skin. The dampness from her little water ride had dried, and now she was just sweaty.

As she neared her destination she slowed down and became cautious, she knew that Jett would abandon all reason in his need for revenge, and for all the death and destruction to mean something—but, much like the lizards, blind rage usually gets you killed. You make mistakes, like jumping into water when you can't swim. That's something Rosie counted on, his mistakes made from desperation, because she knew that in a one-to-one fight, the odds weren't in her favour.