jett vipointe || district twelve || fin

The cat beckons you from afar, a figure of familiarity and mystery all mixed up in one.

And you follow, for you wished to unravel that mystery from up close, wished to discover just exactly what it was that you recognized in the feline, for you knew it was there. It was on the tip of your tongue, something you felt you should know but didn't at the same time, something that frustrated you to no end.

And you follow, through the mines in where you work, through the many winding streets of your home, through dark alleyways where you almost lose it, and yet you are always just within sight and just out of reach no matter how fast or how slow you travel.

The cat leads you to the Justice Building, where it stops for the first time since you spotted it in front of open doors. It turns, revealing itself as a pretty brown tabby, and looks you in the eye with a gaze that almost seems human.

You stare back, blue eyes into yellow, human into feline, an exchange so familiar that it itches away at the back of your brain in frustration.

And yet-

You still do not know.

The cat meows, a sound audible even from across the District Square, and the spell is broken. You blink, but it is already on the move again, darting through the entrance to the building and quickly fading into the darkness.

You pause, running a hand through sandy hair, before following it inside.

The interior is surprisingly barren for such a large and important building, and you're taken slightly aback at how dark and foreboding it looks from the inside.

The cat is nowhere to be found, and yet you continue, one cautious step at a time.

Because at this point nothing matters except finding it, because you have to know.

Movement alerts your auditory system, quick and precise and so quiet that you almost missed it. Slowly, you turn, but where you expect to find the cat you instead catch a glint.

A glint of polished steel.

Adrenaline spikes your heart, flooding your body with liquid ice, and yet you do not scream, for the sword is not pointed in your direction. You cannot make out its wielder, only that it is tall, masculine, and almost completely encased in shadow.

You stand, frozen, and yet the shadow hasn't appeared to notice you yet. Its focus is elsewhere, staring at something you cannot see-

-and the cat flies out from the dark, hissing a storm as it latches onto the arm of the shadow, claws and teeth alike sinking into what appears to be flesh.

The shadow lets out a cry of what might be pain or anger, and with one mighty shake of its arm it sends the cat airborne. The glint becomes a flash, and suddenly, the point of the weapon is embedded in the feline's body.

You flinch, tearing away your gaze from the sight. But just as quickly, curiosity overwhelms disgust, and your gaze returns to the front-

-and this time you do scream, for the cat is no longer a cat but a teenage girl, a gaping hole in her chest and her eyes blank and lifeless and her face-

-and the pieces click together as you realize that the cat was not just a cat, but your cousin Petra instead.

The shape turns on you now, sword now dripping crimson and face obscured by the very shadow it is made out of, and you barely have time to blink before it lunges forward, blade piercing your heart-

-and you wake up, a scream dying in your throat as reality crashes down on illusion, sweat dripping from your naked torso in torrents and your heart hammering against your chest with so much force you think it might be trying to escape.

Gradually, your breathing slows, your panic recedes, and your heartbeat returns to its normal even rhythm. You roll over, back replacing chest and stomach against the sheets, and a breath that you didn't know you had been holding escapes from your lungs in one mighty exhale.

You tilt your head to one side, blinking as the solid red numbers of your alarm clock gradually burn themselves into your head. 

3:13 AM, it reads.

You stifle a groan as the meaning of the three numbers sink in. Too early to get up and prepare for the day at the mines, too late to attempt to return to your slumber.

And yet....

Somehow, you don't think that you'd be able to fall back asleep even if you tried. 

An old proverb emerges from within your mind, alongside the image of the cat and the significantly more disturbing image of your cousin.

"Curiosity killed the cat," you whisper, letting the full meaning sink in.

Curiosity had indeed killed the cat.

Only, in this life, the cat had been none other than Petra Vipointe, volunteer tribute in the Seventy Third Hunger Games, and your cousin.

And you knew, from the way that the shadow had intended to impale you in your dream, from the way that you knew yourself, so much like your cousin, that it was inevitable. 

Curiosity had killed the cat. Curiosity had killed Petra Vipointe. 

And soon, it would come for you as well.