HG-OCT R3 1/4 - Looking Through the Looking Glass

Heat blazed in Rottie's flushed cheeks, hanging in the air, infecting the very atmosphere with the fire that roiled deep within. The cold, hard surface of the wall provided some relief from the smoldering heat as she pressed her sweat-soaked forehead against the concrete, a whimper falling from her chapped lips. Blood pounded in her ears, her heart racing as she writhed in her sleep, so deeply, irreversibly disturbed by her own dreams.

Nightmares swept her off her feet like an ill-intentioned knight, carrying her into a realm of hell, where the shadows leaped and snarled at her, where no light shone down from above. There were only the screaming, shrieking shadows to accompany her as she ran through the dark corridor aimlessly, the darkness calling out her name.

Rottie! Rottie, where are you? Why did you leave us here alone?

The voices were as clear as crystal, painfully frightened and familiar. The voices of the children she had known in the orphanage, the ones that she had sacrificed so much for. One voice in particular rang out through the darkness in a shriek, turning Rottie's desperation into panic. It was Cal. Her Cal. The blonde-haired little boy from the orphanage who she had loved as though he were her own.

Rottie! Rottie!

Writhing in her plagued slumber, Rottie wrinkled her nose, her eyebrows drawn together over closed eyes that she struggled to open. In the nightmare, she heard Cal's voice crying out to her, over and over, until she finally turned and found him standing behind her, blue eyes wide with fright and dull with fear. Eyes so different from the palette of pastels that she had known on him before...

“Cal!” she cried, closing the gap between them in a single bound, throwing her arms out to embrace him as he blinked up at her. Her arms wrapped around glass instead. Startled, she jumped back, noticing for the first time the brass frame that closed Cal in on four sides, the way he seemed to glimmer in the ghastly light. Glass.

Again, she extended a hand to touch him, this time to brush a stray lock of tangled, pale blonde hair from his eyes. He lifted a hand to meet hers, and their fingers met in the middle of the mirror. The two blinked in unison as the mirror barred their path, silvery fog rolling around their ankles. She realized for the first time how alike they really were now. Her Cal, who had been so healthy and full of life upon their last encounter, had degraded to little more than colorless skin stretched over a skeleton, each of his ribs a dominant, curving shape that jutted through his skin. Her own dead eyes stared back at her from the other side of the mirror, not the eyes of the child who had still dared to hope when she had last seen him. Not the eyes of her Cal...

When she blinked once more, Cal vanished, a snarl emerging from the shadows. She was alone in the realm of nightmares, looking through the looking glass, staring into her own dead, hopeless eyes, where not even a dying light remained.

The clatter of chains tore her from her daze, causing her to wheel around in alarm, a snarl ready on her lips, a growl that immediately faded into a whimper. Three bodies dangled from some unreachable, invisible ceiling, their necks wound in nooses of heavy chain, all swaying in the smoldering wind that blew through the dark cavern.

Again and again, Rottie looked over their faces, silently naming each of them. Kallen Ward, with his own machete still stabbed through his torso, blood dripping from his wound to splatter deafeningly against the floor. Rasputen Rucks, with his noose of chain wound around the thick bone of his neck, his flesh hacked away by the hungriest of hatchets, still hanging in ragged tears between his head and shoulders.

But, it was the last name that wounded her the most to say.

Cal, with no blood dripping from a fatal wound, with no ragged tears in his flesh, with no broken bones. Her little Cal, with his thin limbs wafting weakly in the wind and his stomach caved in with hunger.

Rottie...Rottie, what have you done?

Spinning around, Rottie skimmed the darkness for the voice, but she was alone once more, alone with these three bodies, for which she was responsible. Only the mirror accompanied her, shining brightly in the darkness, as though the glass itself emanated light.

Rottie, what have you done?

In both unconsciousness and nightmare, Rottie mumbled, “No...”

No? But, Rottie, you killed them! Isn't that true? I watched you kill them, Rottie! You were the one who shoved Kallen off the roof! You were the one who lured Rucks into the streets and left him to the Gamemakers' car! You were the one who let Cal starve!

“Who are you?” Rottie demanded, staring at herself in the mirror.

Her reflection stared back at her, blinking deranged, feral eyes like those of an ill animal. Her reflection's lips twisted into a cruel smirk, unveiling sharp teeth caked with blood both fresh and dried. Who am I? Why, Rottie, isn't it obvious? I'm just you.

Rottie shook her head in denial. “No...no, I'm not like you! I'm not!”

Deranged laughter tearing through her teeth, her reflection grinned like the devil himself and jabbed an accusatory finger in the direction of the three bodies, still dangling from their chains. Who killed them, Rottie?

Rottie bowed her head.

Nothing to say about that...? So, you don't deny it, then? Good. Because I know who killed them, Rottie! I know who did it! It was you!

Her laughter echoed throughout the realm in a haunting chorus with the leaping, snarling shadows. This had to be hell, Rottie told herself. It had to be.

As consciousness tore Rottie from her horrifying nightmare with a frightened shriek, the voice spoke one final time, You still want to be the Rottweiler, Isabella?

Ragged pants turned to gasps as Rottie sat up in the hotel room, sweat dripping down her forehead, the sudden sunlight stinging her wide eyes. One hand of unmaintained nails was clawing at the floor, concrete long since stripped bare of its carpet, while the other was tightly clutching the torn remains of her jacket, discarded during the night.

Just a dream, the tribute told herself. Only a dream. She said it aloud, just to hear her own voice echo off the concrete wall and bounce back to her. Skimming the corners of the room to reassure herself that there were no cameras strained on her, she pulled her knees to her chest and allowed herself to tremble, her heart still throbbing.

The nightmare had been a painful reminder of home, of the orphans she had left behind in District 5. Without her, there was no one to provide for them, to feed them, to watch after them. Without her, they would simply die.

With a shudder, she shoved the thought aside, swiping a hand over her forehead to mop the sweat from her face. A warm breeze wafted through the room's one broken window, stifling her. Just yesterday, five days after Rucks' death, it had been unbearably cold in the arena, with a nearly constant rain pattering against the world of concrete that waited outside. Now, it was hot. Uncomfortably, unbearably hot.

The tribute swallowed hard, her mouth and throat dry and her tongue feeling thick, painfully parched. How she wished she hadn't left her backpack behind in the forest during her encounter with Rucks.

Heaving a weary sigh, Rottie swallowed hard and leaned her head back against the cool surface of the wall, staring out the window and at the silvery, overcast sky beyond. A dense quilt of clouds blanketed the sky, blotting out the sun, allowing only the palest of light to seep through. By the looks of the darkening clouds, another thunderstorm would soon rake the arena, providing much needed relief.

Suddenly, the sky darkened, as though night had suddenly fallen on the arena. The girl closed her eyes, expecting to see another display of the Fallen. Instead, the familiar, magenta-eyed face of the Head Gamemaker looked down on the arena, a smirk lingering on his lips as he glared down at the remaining tributes. She sat upright, scrambling over to the window for a better view of the projection.

Cassus Ludus smirked down at her from the dark sky as the Capitol's anthem played, gradually fading into his voice, “Greetings to our remaining tributes in the Hunger Games, and congratulations on making it this far! As your Head Gamemaker, I can see that some of you are having a bit of trouble and are in need of some assistance. This is where I would like to step in and offer my own help to you all.”

An image of a staggering, brown-flanked mountain appeared onscreen, Cassus' face fading into the darkness as the photograph solidified in the sky. “At the base of a mountain near the center of the arena, there will be a banquet. At this banquet, you may find an assortment of necessities that can range from food and water to toiletries and medication, though I won't spoil exactly what will be waiting for you there.”

The blue-haired man replaced the image of the mountain as he continued, “You are free to decline my offer, but should you choose to come to my banquet, I encourage you to act with haste.” His smirk broadened. “Good luck and may the odds be ever in your favor.”

Rottie watched as the Head Gamemaker dissipated, the dark sky gradually fading back into dense, silvery cloud coverage that promised another rainstorm soon. A banquet. A banquet with food and water and medicine, all supplies that she had long since run out of. The sponsorship gift that she had received immediately after Rucks' death had held her hunger and fever at bay for awhile, but both were inevitably returning. She had devoured that food almost instantly, and the ointment that the sponsor had included in his or her package had long since run out. The shallow wound that Kallen's machete had left behind on her left shoulder had sealed over, leaving a patch of tender, pale pink flesh behind on her fair skin. She looked to the wound now, the pink skin scattered with a dozen tiny scabs that had cracked and began bleeding during the night. It smoldered in the overwhelming heat, stinging, burning, the fire reawakening and roaring back to life within her shoulder as her flesh began to fester once more.

The tribute traced a cautious finger over the delicate flesh, wincing slightly as it blazed a path of flame over her skin. It had been two days since she had opened the tin of ointment to find it almost empty, and it had taken only a few hours for the infection to resurrect itself inside her, gripping at her shoulder with fierce, unrelenting fangs that sent a stab of pain through her left arm with every movement she forced it through.

Rottie leaned back, still staring at the pink patch on her shoulder, weighing her options meticulously. The banquet promised medicine, food, water. All the supplies that she so desperately needed. After Rasputen's death, she had wandered out into the streets only twice, fearing what she might uncover there after the car's unexpected attack. She had long since discarded the hope that she would find medical supplies hidden somewhere in the arena; all of the doors were locked, and the lowest floors of all the buildings had been stripped of their windows. She had checked the trashcans for packages of food, but they had all been picked clean of their contents, presumably by the stray dogs that had led her to their findings in the first place. Her thirst, meanwhile, relied on the rain for satisfaction. Should the rain never come, she would perish, or at least be forced out into the streets, at the mercy of the other tributes with hunger gnawing at her depths and her left arm rendered useless by infection.

She nodded to herself, her decision final. Her left arm hanging limply at her side, the young woman staggered to her feet, tying her jacket around her waist, where her cherished hatchet still dangled from her belt.

But, even as she headed down the stairs and out into the dreary streets, the Head Gamemaker's voice echoed in her ears: If I were you, I would make haste.


~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~


It would have been difficult to not spot the staggering mountain, even through the gray maze of buildings, punctuated by the occasional oak tree or dark patch of sweet-smelling pines. Creeping through the shadows of the streets, Rottie watched as the mountain's peak, swathed in a dense drape of fog that seemed strangely dark, came more and more clearly into view as she neared the outskirts of the city that had become her personal territory.

She breached the final street, pausing on the crest of a hill to wipe the sweat from her smoldering brow, staring at the brown mountain in dismay. Towering pine trees flanked the mountain on all sides, their sweet, musky scent drowned out by something rancid and acidic, something that the tribute couldn't identify, like the biting smell of manmade chemicals. With each inhale, the stench clawed at her nostrils, emanating suspiciously from the trees that guarded the mountain and the banquet that waited for her there. For a moment, she lingered on the hillside, tinged pale brown with dead grass and wilted wildflowers, hesitating. Then, with a determined glimmer in her eyes, she headed down the hillside, in the direction of the Gamemaker's feast.

Soon, pine trees were closing in on Rottie from all sides, their dense branches and close-growing trunks casting a shadow on the forest floor below, providing some relief from the sweltering heat. The needles muffled her clumsy steps as she stumbled over roots and tangles of growth, brambles catching in her clothes, twigs snapping underfoot in an obnoxious chorus with the rustle and crunch of leaves.

The forest floor sloped underneath her, the pine trees growing farther and farther apart as she scaled hill after hill, the canopy overhead thinning until it provided almost no relief from the sweltering, smothering heat. Sweat beaded on the girl's forehead, her hike made tedious by the maze of gnarled brambles that laced over the sun-baked earth, the handle of her hatchet persistently jabbing her in the thigh with every step.

The coverage of pine needles vanished into sun-baked soil as Rottie stumbled up another hillside, pausing to wipe the sweat from her brow, smoldering with both heat and fever. On the other side of the slope, a staggering field of wheat that would reach above her waist awaited. Inwardly, she felt herself sigh. The towering stalks could conceal venomous vipers, ravenous wild dogs, and all the lethal woes of the wild. But, she had no choice. Even if she waited until the next rain to collect water or found a half-rotten carcass to fill her hollow stomach with, the infectious wound in her shoulder would claim her life within a week if she didn't seek further medical attention, care that could only be found at the Gamemaker's banquet.

A moment of hesitation passed, then the tribute scampered down the slope and into the field of golden brown below, each of her steps wary and meticulous, her nose twitching. Once, she thought that she heard someone call out to her, but, when she turned, she found herself alone in the wheat field with only the warm wind to keep her company.

To say that she was miserable would have been an understatement. Every movement of her left arm sent a crippling pain through her shoulder, reminding her of her infection. Her forehead blazed with fever, her brow drenched with sweat as the sickly sunlight glared down at her through the silvery clouds, the overwhelming heat remaining even as the sky darkened with rainclouds overhead. She could see the brown-flanked mountain in the distance, mere miles from where she stood, a distance easily walked, even in the unbearable heat. Every step fueled the acrid odor that danced on the air, lacing every ragged breath she dared to take, lighting her lungs on fire.

Her breath coming in uneven pants, Rottie paused in the midst of the field, her parched throat pleading for water. Head bowed, she stood still and panted silently, snapping to alert once more when she heard someone call out her name. But, when she lifted her head to look around, skimming the field in all directions, there was no one there. She was as alone as she felt, the images of her nightmare still fresh in her suddenly fragile mind.

She was still scanning the field for signs of life when the pounding of hooves on the sun-baked earth filled her ears, the twin heads of blond dancing into view from the scanty patch of pines to the far left.

She froze, gaping, as the eight-legged horse bounded towards her, tall stalks of wheat crushed underfoot as the stallion blazed a path through the field, the sickly sunlight catching on its silver fur and lush mane. Its torso was dressed in gauze traces, which its rider tightly clutched as he rode through the field, short, silken locks of blonde bouncing about his fragile features as the stallion galloped onward.

He was a knight in shining armor mounted on horseback, like a golden-haired prince charming from the age-old fairytales that she eased herself to sleep with at night. It had to be an illusion. He had to be an illusion...

Hey, dumbass! Don't stand there like a cussing idiot! Move!

Jarred back to life by the unexpected voice, Rottie rolled aside, yelping loudly, as the eight-legged stallion reared up before her, shrieking in alarm. A cloud of dust filled the air as she crashed into the wheat below, the stalks crushing easily underneath her. The horse's rider cried out, digging the toes of his boots into the stallion's ribs and tugging on its gauze reins as he struggled to calm it, his passenger's arms locked around his waist in a desperate attempt to hold on.

Trembling, the black-haired girl laid on her side in the wheat, choking on a cough as the dust cleared. She listened in silence as the horse's hooves crashed down on the earth, the rider's voice murmuring to it in a soothing voice as he stroked its silver mane. The trauma still fresh in her mind, she closed her eyes, only vaguely aware of the two voices whispering back and forth in a language that she didn't understand. The prince's boots hit the ground as he dismounted his steed, leaving his passenger behind to take a slow, cautious step towards her.

She scrambled to her feet, suddenly alert as she stumbled backwards.

Before her stood no one other than Ame Gater, an unimpressed expression heavy on his features, his arms crossed. “Are you blind?” he snapped, “Didn't see the horse coming, did you?”

Rottie opened her mouth to speak, but choked on her words. “I...”

Rottie...

The color faded from Rottie's features as the painfully familiar voice whispered in her ear, murmuring to her from somewhere in the back of her mind. She knew that voice. She knew it. Knew it from her nightmares!

She could see Ame's mouth moving, but his words fell silently on her ears, as though he were not speaking at all. He must have noticed the expression on her face then, for he instantly fell silent, the harshness melting from his gaze, his smirk fading into a frown of concern. “Rottie, are you...alright?”

Rottie...

Kill him.

The District 5 tribute choked on her own voice. “N-no...,” she managed, her brown eyes turning wild underneath high-arched brows, “No! I won't! You can't make me!” Throwing her hands over her ears, she clutched her head, digging her fingernails into her tender temples as an agonized moan tore through her lips. Hot tears brimmed in her closed eyes as she fell to her knees at his feet, feeling his smoldering stare on her even when she could not see him. What thoughts were reeling through his mind in that agonizing instant...?

“Rottie!” Ame exclaimed as he watched her sink to her knees in the dust, “Rottie, what's happening? What's wrong?”

Oh, how touching. He's pretending that he cares!

Rottie opened her eyes, glaring down at the hard, red earth that stared back at her through the crushed stalks of golden wheat. “S-shut up!”

Ame started, surprised. “Rottie...?”

What's the matter, Isabella? Still can't cope with the truth? Well, sorry, sweetheart, but it's time to face the facts.

“Shut up...” The tears burned in the young woman's eyes, threatening to spill. “Shut up...”

He doesn't love you and he never will! Are you blind, Rottie? Look at him! A creation of the Capitol! If you sacrifice yourself for him, do you know how he'll thank you? By frolicking with every pretty little lady in the Capitol, and then some! You fucking idiot! He will never, ever cherish you!

The words sinking in, silence fell on Rottie's lips. The voice's words stabbed her through the heart with every bit of the force of a bludgeon that clubbed her in the chest. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, dripping off her chin as she murmured, choking on her own whisper, “I hate you...”

“Rottie.”

Ame's voice pulled her from her daze as he extended a hand to help her to her feet, a frown creasing his delicate features. Behind him, the eight-legged horse huffed, pawing at the red clay with one black hoof, seeming to grow more and more restless with each moment its rider spent in the desolate wheat field. “C'mon,” he urged, shaking his hand in her direction once more, “Arod is getting anxious.”

A dead expression on her features, Rottie accepted his hand mechanically, allowing him to heave her to her feet, her eyes devoid of all emotion.

“What's the matter?” Ame persisted, releasing her hand, “You look like you've seen a ghost!” He extended a cautious hand to touch her shoulder, but this one small act of compassion was enough to push her over the edge.

Throwing her arms around his neck, the girl erupted into a fountain of tears, burying her face in the nape of his neck without his consent, sobbing into the warmth of his skin. In the back of her head, she could still hear the voice, laughing like the devil himself as she chanted those agonizing words over and over and over again...

“Make it stop,” Rottie pleaded, eyes closed as she buried her tears in his expensive-looking clothes, indifferent to the toil she was likely taking on them, “Please...please, make it stop...”

Lips still parted in a gasp, Ame was stiff in her arms, his own limbs extended as though he intended to catch and embrace her, but was held back by some invisible, unknown force. Again and again, the voice reminded her of how little he cared, of how slim the chances of him ever returning her affections were, until she was spending every breath on a hysterical sob, giving herself no chance to breathe. Every taunt in the back of her mind made her want to hold him tighter and never let him go.

“Please...,” she gasped, finally allowing herself to breathe, “Please...I don't want to be alone...not again...please, don't leave me, Ame...stay...”

Silence fell, interrupted only by the erratic rhythm of the female tribute's ragged sobs. There was a long moment of hesitation before Ame finally wrapped his arms around her, giving her a half-hearted squeeze, patting her on the back awkwardly. “It's okay, Rottie,” he tried to reassure her.

But, the damage had already been done. Rottie could feel his hesitation, could sense all his reservations. In that instant, she knew that what the voice said was true. He would never love her. Her Ame would never be hers.

Fresh tears dribbled down her cheeks, the last fragment of life falling out of her dark eyes, shattering like china on the floor. She had never felt so alone as she did in that agonizing moment, even when her arms were wrapped around the neck of the boy that she loved more than she had ever loved another human being before. His hands lingered on the small of her back for a moment longer, his every movement cautious and reserved, as though he expected her to strangle him instead of hold him in such an affectionate embrace.

See, Rottie? What did I tell you? He doesn't love you. He doesn't even like you. Leave.

The words echoed through the girl's mind, as if the voice was intentionally repeating them over and over again. Her sobs had turned to howls of complete and utter obliteration when a new voice reached her ears. Not Ame's. Not the one that taunted her in the back of her head. A new voice.

Her vision still thick with an unrelenting stream of tears, Rottie looked down and started, noticing for the first time the small, blonde-haired boy that had joined them. A distinct look of confusion crossed his features as he blinked blue eyes up at her, murmuring something to Ame in the strange language that her mind registered as gibberish.

The disheveled locks of light blonde and the light blue eyes were the spitting image of Ame, but reminded her of something else, something that caused her knees to buckle underneath her, wheat stalks crunching underneath her as she collapsed.

“Cal.”

Ame blinked, then shook his head. “No. His name is Garrett. He's from District Six,” he explained.

Rottie looked from Ame to the blonde-haired boy. “Garrett...,” she repeated with the slightest nod, “I'm sorry. It's just...he reminds me of someone very dear to my heart.”

Ame cocked an eyebrow at her. “Do you have a brother?”

“A brother? No, I don't even have parents.” Her expression suddenly begrudging, she added, “Not that you would know that, Ame. You never took the time to get to know me. Not even while we were in the Capitol.”

“You're...an orphan?” Ame prompted, still frowning.

The girl stood, reflexively running a hand through Garrett's hair. His blonde hair was soft. Just like Cal's. “That's what I just said, isn't it?” she replied, wiping the tears from her eyes before she swiped the back of her hand over her smoldering forehead, “I never even met them. I've lived in that decrepit orphanage all my life.”

“Oh...I'm...,” Ame began.

She cut him off, “You're sorry, right? Well, I didn't see you ever volunteering to help me out, pretty boy. You watched me rot with all the others.” Her eyes narrowed as she added, “It's a real shame that I care about you too much to leave you here and let you die with the others.”

Jabbing a finger in the direction of the brown mountain that loomed only a few miles away, she prompted, “You're going to the banquet, aren't you?”

Ame nodded. “We were on our way there when Arod almost stepped on you. I wouldn't be surprised if our supplies are already gone when we get there because of the delay.”

Rottie snorted. “You better be grateful that you bumped into me, pretty boy. That banquet is going to be a bloodbath.”

A smirk fell on Ame's features as he leaned down until their foreheads were almost touching, ocean blue eyes gleaming knowingly. “But, you'll protect me, won't you, my dear?”

A blush rising in her already flushed cheeks, the young woman looked down, focusing on the crushed stalks of wheat and the toes of their shoes instead of on his face. “I know your kind,” she stated, “This is some kind of sick joke.”

“But, what if it isn't?” Ame continued, his charming smile torturously unrelenting, “Is that a risk you're willing to take?”

Rottie hesitated. The voice chimed in, He's a manipulative bastard, isn't he?

“I thought so,” Ame stated, turning to the eight-legged horse that was awaiting his orders patiently, pawing at the earth with one hoof. A moment later, Ame was hoisting Garrett onto the horse's broad back, its powerful muscles writhing with each move it made. Then, he was pulling himself onto the stallion's back, clutching a fistful of its gauze traces in one hand.

Ame extended a hand to her. “C'mon,” he urged, “We wouldn't want someone to steal our share of the supplies, would we?”

Rottie looked from her district mate to the silver stallion, eyes wide. “What is it?” she demanded.

“Have you never seen a horse before, babe?” he asked, winking at her flirtatiously as he offered her his hand once more, “His name is Arod.”

“A horse?” the female tribute prompted, “He's huge! He has eight legs! Horses aren't supposed to have eight legs!”

“Thank you, captain obvious,” Ame chided, shaking his hand at her, “C'mon, are you coming or not? We haven't got all day!”

There was a moment of hesitation before Rottie seized Ame's hand, whimpering as he hoisted her onto the horse's back. He sat her on the horse's broad shoulder blades, his arms flanking her on either side as he grasped Arod's reigns. Garrett's arms were wrapped around his waist from behind, the horse's back suddenly seeming crowded in the presence of an extra person.

Ame clicked his tongue. “Arod.”

The horse neighed, rearing up on four legs terrifyingly. The orphan shrieked, digging her fingers into the horse's back as it bounded through the field, the wind whipping in its mane, whistling in her ears. Ame laughed and prompted, “Is the almighty Rottweiler scared?”

Rottie opened one eye to look at him, smiling sheepishly. “Maybe a little,” she confessed. Behind them, Garrett piped up, clinging to Ame's waist diligently, but his foreign words fell on deaf ears. She looked at Ame and prompted, “What's he saying? I can't understand him.”

“He's speaking French,” Ame explained, “He doesn't speak much English. But, he says that it's alright, that he was scared the first time, too.”

“Oh.” She closed her eyes, the wind buffeting her short, tousled mess of hair, providing much needed relief from the smothering heat.

Ame watched her, a look of concern suddenly crossing his features. “Hey, Rottie...you don't look so well. Are you alright?”

The orphan opened her eyes, but didn't look at him, offering only a slow, hesitant shake of her head in response.

“What's the matter?” Ame asked, noticing for the first time the reddish-pink color that blazed in her feverish cheeks, the glazed look in her wild eyes.

When Rottie replied, she had to chuckle at the irony of her own words. It was a statement that was true in so many ways – in too many ways.

“I'm sick.”