Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

A/n: I have just two left from the Girl on Fire ficathon to post, and almost forgot about them! Here's the first, and the second I plan to post later this week. This a is a bit of an AU, where Katniss and Cato are the last two standing.

Prompt: cato/katniss; I'll pull the devil down with me one way or another. (For magic_knickers)

The Way Out

"What if we didn't have to?" she asks.

"What?" He's positive he didn't hear her correctly.

She doesn't lower her bow and he doesn't lower his sword and he's too busy wondering why she hasn't just killed him already. He's great with a sword, but she's out of his range (though he's not out of hers). But she's lost too much blood from that slice in her head, he's limping and bruised, and they're both broken, both have more or less accepted defeat. All she has to do is let go of that arrow and it'll be over (finally).

"What if," she begins again, a bit slower, softer yet more deliberate. "What if we could end this, without either of us winning?"

She's crazy, he decides. The head wound, the blood loss – it's gotten to her. Perhaps she's got a fever, an infection. There's no other explanation for the words coming out of her mouth right now. Something snapped and 12 went nuts in the arena (it wouldn't be the first time it had happened). And besides, what good would it be if neither of them win? The entire point of this stupid horror show is to win. That's it, there's nothing else. One of them has to come home in a pine box with a letter of regret from the powers-that-be, and the other one goes home amid riches and luxury and honor. Besides, she comes from the poorest district, so all over again he's struck by the absurdity of her suggestion (doesn't she want this? Need this?).

And yet, despite this, he can't help himself.

He smirks, snorts as if this is funny. "What d'you mean?"

"Ever since I stepped forward to save my sister, everything has been out of my hands one way or another. They control every little thing." She lowers her bow just the tiniest of notches. "What if we took control, for once? For one last time?"

He doesn't know how to respond to this, still isn't completely sure he gets what she wants to happen here. But her words are resonating, even if he knows they shouldn't. He's never had the chance to decide his own fate, not once. Even when he volunteered back in 2 for the honor of being in the Games, it was all prearranged – it's your year, they'd said and he'd been so ready to win. His clothes, his meals, where he lives, who he interacts with, trained with, is trained by, what he's trained for… He's never done it without being told or ordered, convinced or persuaded, or just doing it because he knows he should, because that's how it's always been done.

And that, he realizes with an overwhelming cold shudder and a deep sickening thud, will never change. They own him. Always have, always will.

Suddenly he doesn't see another tribute about to kill him or be killed, he sees a way out.

Cato drops his sword, heart hammering in chest. (He can imagine the shock of those back home, of those watching, crying out what the hell is he doing!) Even if she was screwing with him and she shoots him here and now, he's choosing to die, he's choosing not to fight. (A feeling that's terrifying and terrifyingly liberating.)

The girl on fire doesn't shoot, however, but lowers her bow and drops it. She reaches into her pack and pulls out a handful of dark berries wrapped in cloth, holds out them out. They each take some into their palms, the juices dying their hands purple and he likes this color better than blood, he thinks.

"Together?" he asks.

She nods and they tip the berries into their mouths at the same time.

Katniss bites down and lets the berries slide down her throat. I'm sorry, Prim. She thinks and hopes her sister will understand. She's too hurt, she can't beat Cato. She could try hitting him with an arrow, but if she misses or doesn't kill him right away? No. She realized when the sun came up and they were face to face, the only two still standing, that she couldn't win. But she's not going to let the Capitol – or 2, or Cato, the monster who murdered Peeta and so many more tributes – win either.

It's the one last thing she can do, can control, can decide...

Can choose.

The world is getting foggy and she feels herself crumbling to the ground, is aware Cato is too. She thinks she hears frantic voices – Claudius, perhaps – and hopes they die before they can be "saved".

-end-