Gale & Katniss

We Burn

Part III

Alright. I admit it, I was incredibly lazy. It took me MORE than two weeks to post this sucker, and I can't really use the writer's block excuse again. And after all that, it turns out to be a short little transition chapter. But ANYWAYS. We're starting to get somewhere. The morbidly exciting traumas of this chapter might make up for the rather dismal length.

But more importantly, immense thanks to everyone who reviewed. That was a major motivating factor for me. Probably, I'll need a little bit more motivation later, if you catch my drift.

So, if I really do need to use a disclaimer, here's one: Suzanne Collins is the genius here, not me.

ENJOY.

At some point during the night, I notice how wet the air is here. Humidity was never something we encountered in twelve, and it's a strange sensation. It's like the oxygen's become heavier.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes, and see Gale smiling down at me, grey eyes clear. He shifts his shoulder and combs my hair back behind my ear. "Welcome to District 4, Catnip."

I sit up, a little stiff from sleeping on the hard concrete floor of our prison for the past weeks, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My back hurts from laying on my side the way I have been, and I wince. Cold, stony concrete makes my old thin, threadbare mattress seem like heaven.

But all the same, if this is the price I have to pay…

"I can smell the ocean," I say, tasting the saltiness of the air. The ocean. Big, extending all the way into the horizon. Something I've only ever heard stories about.

Gale smiles. "We'll get to see it later, too."

I don't know how my prep team manages to make me presentable. Reluctantly, I admit that they're miracle workers. When I look into the mirror after they've remade me for the speech, the transformation is unbelievable.

The dark, purple bruises under my eyes are concealed, and the puffy flesh is soothed. The ragged edges of my nails have been polished and buffed, and the greasy tangle of my hair is now silky and styled. I look fresh and healthy – not like I've been dreading my fate for the past month, shivering on a concrete floor as I struggle futilely to sleep, only daring to hope that the next day won't be too much worse than the last.

If only I had a prep team for my life. If only the outside matched the inside. But then again, I should know by now. It's all an illusion.

Once again, I'm stationed beside Gale at a podium, clutching a bouquet of flowers in one hand, Gale's hand in the other. Holding tight to him for support.

This being the seventh victory speech we've given, I had thought it would be a little easier, or that maybe I'd have gotten used to it by now.

But I was wrong, as is typical these days.

Before us, the tanned, sinewy people of 4 shift uneasily. To the left, sits the infamous Finnick Odair, lounging comfortably in his customary shirtless suit alongside the other victors from his district. Haymitch and Effie sit to the right, backs stiff. Effie's blue wig looks a bit rumpled, and I'm not sure whether Haymitch is sober. It wouldn't be too troublesome for him to find alcohol somewhere. Behind them is the glistening ocean, the waves breaking gently on the shoreline; and a row of cameramen are stationed directly at the base of the stage. Their equipment glistens in the sun, ready to capture every word of our speech. Preparing to broadcast our words to the nation.

"Thank you for welcoming us into your district," says Gale monotonously, repeating the same words for the umpteenth time now. The crowd moves again, and I hear a slight buzz when the people whisper amongst themselves.

Yes, I think. Gale was right.

"And thank you for your tributes, and their participation in our games." My line is delivered through clenched teeth, as always.

The murmurs of the crowd grow louder. They are not happy to hear these words.

These people are ready for a change. It's evident, the way they react, almost angrily, to every scripted word we say.

I look at Gale for a moment, search his concerned face, and see that he's reached the same conclusion as I have. That we might as well speak out. We might as well be truthful.

"But what I really want to say is that we're sorry. Sorry for those tribute's lives, wasted every year for some barbaric capitol entertainment."

There's a click as the cameras are simultaneously shut off. No one wants these words broadcasted to the rest of the country. Still, though. I don't doubt that Snow's listening to every word.

Peacekeepers encroach upon us.

Gale raises his voice to be heard above the tumultuous shouts of excitement and anger and fear around us as the crowd's excitement grows. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the words that will probably condemn us. "And most of all, we're sorry that the last rebellion failed."

There is one moment of absolute silence, in which we're all frozen, waiting to see the reaction to these words.

Then he grabs my arm, tugs me along beside him, and we run.

We know from experience this time not to try returning to the Justice Building and its unknown maze of hallways, with locked doors at every turn. No, this time, we charge straight through the crowd, making a break for the open sands in front of us.

The people part around us, making way for our escape. I realize that the crowd is cooperating with us, that they want us to escape.

And so we flee.

I'd always imagined what the sands of the beach would feel like between my toes, the way the soft give of the sand would slow my stride. It wasn't a sensation I had wanted to have while being chased by the district's police force. I hadn't wanted to feel the ocean's waves against my ankles while terrified for my life, and for Gale's life.

We run, heading for the docks where all the fishermen's boats are moored, unattended as their owners watch our speech. Knowing that however vain our plan might be, it's still our only hope.

I don't know what we were planning to do when we found a boat, where we were planning to go. The only thoughts in my mind at the time were escape.

But those hopes are dashed as we set foot onto the worn wooden planks, and Finnick pulls himself up out of the water, and onto the pier, blocking our paths.

His shirt is gone and his sculpted, bronzed body glistens as the saltwater runs off of him. His muscular chest heaves with exertion. It's no wonder how he gained his reputation.

I look upward, into his sea green eyes, and I see the man who was crowned victor at only fourteen. And I know that while he's spent years in the capitol, it hasn't taken away the instincts he used in the games.

I'm frozen in fear, but Gale is not. He lunges for the knife he's got stuffed into his boot, wielding it at the victor before us in one fluid motion. Ready to stop at nothing, if it means our freedom. I remember the way he faced off with the enormous Cato in our games, and I can't help but wonder what it would come down to if the two of them fought – victor versus victor.

Finnick smiles easily, grabbing a spear from the mess of fishing equipment beside us, and almost lazily turns to point it at me.

My eyes widen. It occurs to me that as beautiful as Finnick Odair is, he's also very, very smart.

"It's called an impasse, Hawthorne."

Gale knows enough about prey mentality to know it's true: the way a bear will forever protect her cub, even if it means certain death for her, the way a hunter uses the prey's instincts against it. The way that right now, he's being forced to halt his attack to keep me safe.

"Dammit, Odair," shouts Gale.

I'm unprepared for what happens next. As I'm calculating just what I can do, wondering if I can grab a spear before he's retaliated, Finnick removes his weapon from my face, and tosses the weapon into the sea with that signature crooked grin. "Take my boat – it's faster."

I look at Gale, he looks at me. We debate silently, questioning whether we can trust him.

We don't get to make the choice, though. The hundreds of armed peacekeepers behind us make the choice for us.

I look at Finnick again, and I wonder what his motives are. Why he's decided to help us, whether this could be a trap. I question why he's choosing to help us, when it'll cause him so much trouble.

"Where's your boat?" I ask.

He guides us to the sleek, shining vessel at the end of the row. The words 'Poseidon's Victory' adorn the side in curling gold writing. His vessel is the image of unwanted, unnecessary luxury.

He starts the boat for us and pulls it out of the slot where it was anchored and into the harbor, moving his boat quickly and expertly, like he's been doing this his entire life. Which, undoubtedly, he has.

He climbs onto the railing at the side of the boat, preparing to dive into the water, but he looks back at us. "You're not going to make it far, you know," he says, addressing Gale. Next, he turns to me. "Nobody escapes the capitol, sugar."

And he dives. There's hardly a splash as he enters the water, and within seconds he's yards away from us.

I move to Gale's side as the boat accelerates, contemplating Finnick's words. It's only becoming more and more evident how much trouble we're in.

Yet another cliffhanger! Hehe, sorry about that, but…

Reviews are astronomically great. My readers are amazing. Preview for the next chapter: Maybe now that Gale and Katniss are alone together, finally….i don't know. But there will be some fluff, just to give the story some more depth. Oh, and I'm having trouble with deciding exactly HOW well Gale should be able to drive the boat..he's never done it before, but how difficult should it be? And what kind of boat do you think it is?