I couldn't resist. XD

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Disclaimer: Anthing you recognize, such as characters, I do not own. I don't own the images used in the cover, either, though I did put it together to make the overall cover image. So no suing, please. :) This disclaimer pretains to all the chapters in this story.

Cannons jumped back violently, slamming against their ropes and erupting in plumes of off-white smoke. The seas lapped gently at the hull, a sharp contrast to the violence on deck. The ship across from theirs was old, worn and painted a navy blue so deep it was almost black. The sails snapped and strained against the planks of wood that held them to the ship, and flapping proudly in the midst of the canvas was a pure black flag adorned with a blood-red symbol: the Jolly Roger.

Sailors panicked at the sight of the feared vessel. They flung themselves off their own ship rather than be disposed of by the pirates. Pirates who were, at that very moment, swinging across the gap between ships and alighting sure-footedly on wood and rigging alike. Like a well-oiled machine, they slashed through the larger ship's defenses as they would slash thorough tissue paper. Though tattered, the pirates' clothes were clean and well-taken-care-of, patches slapped onto holes and trouser legs tucked neatly into leather boots. Their swords glinted in the early-morning glow, shiny as newly pressed coins, and the shots from their pistols stunned all those they didn't hit. Their battle cries rang out, hoarse but sure. These were no regular pirates, just as the small but deadly ship was no regular ship.

This was the crew of the Tracker.

The Tracker, feared for its stealth, maneuverability and power. The Tracker, which decimated every ship and harbor it came across. The Tracker, named after the tracker jacker wasps which were the bane of human existence on the mainland. The Tracker, which was, at that moment, sweeping its way around to the other side of the sailors' ship, to finish them off.

Peeta clutched the wood under his fingers, watching the scene with wide eyes and a set jaw. He had been told to stay below decks- he was just the ship's cook, after all, and would only get in the way up above- but he hadn't been able to resist. When everyone else had rushed up the stairs, yelling about the Jolly Roger on the horizon, he had snuck out of the kitchen. And when cannon shots and screams reached his ears, he climbed the stairs and peered at the scene around him. And there he stayed, all the way up to the time the pirates invaded their ship.

Now, he couldn't move. The pirates had all but disposed of the crew, and the remaining sailors were dropping their weapons and backing off, eyes wild with fear. Peeta shrank back down the stairs. Maybe, if he could hide below deck, he would be overlooked and could do something- anything- to help. As long as he wasn't noticed. The metallic scent of blood, steel and gunpowder stung his throat and he almost gagged, calm as the seas were.

Heavy feet tramped back and forth above and rough voices shouted, but Peeta could tell the fighting was over. There were several splashes, presumably as bodies were hauled overboard. He wondered who it was. Was he the only one left not dead or captured?

He shook himself. He couldn't think like that. He had to help however he could. Mind made up, he strode into the kitchen and selected the largest, sharpest butcher knife he could find, along with a barrel lid for a shield. He knew he didn't have a chance against the Tracker, but darn if he was going down without at least trying.

Now the voices from above had changed in tone. They were exclamatory as opposed to fierce. Footsteps tapped across the deck, looping around in circles, as if the pirates were exploring. He could just barely make out some of what they said.

"This one's a beaut'."

"Look at 'er sails- white as summer clouds."

"Must be fresh from the port."

"Just four weeks out, I'd wager."

"Cannons are in good shape."

"Shame we had to shoot at 'er. She'd make a fine Jacker."

"Jacker?"

"Wall, what else'd we name our second ship?"

"Lookie here! The captain's cabin is fancy as all get-out! Glass- and silver!"

"Take it all. The food, too. It's worth every coin."

Peeta was so absorbed in eavesdropping, fascinated yet horrified, he didn't notice the figure creeping up behind him. Then the hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he spun around with a guttural cry, swinging his knife.

"Easy!" shrieked a young, familiar voice. "It's just me! Don't go cutting me to pieces!"

"Rory," Peeta breathed, his heart still racing from the shock.

The cabin boy's eyes were filled to the brim with fear. His brown hair flopped down over his eyes and his arms were bare, sleeves rolled up. He must have been doing some chore when the pirates attacked. He had armed himself with two potato peelers, which made Peeta smile despite the circumstances. "Are you going to skin the alive?" he half-joked.

Rory set his jaw, looking small but determined. "If I have to. Come on, Peeta, let's go up. We can untie the crew! We could get the ship back!"

Peeta ruffled Rory's hair. "Not so fast, Rory. This is the crew of the Tracker we're talking about. We wouldn't get ten feet."

Rory paled. "The Tracker?"

At that moment, a deep voice accompanied the dull thud of heavy boots down the stairs. "I hear voices," the man said.

Another voice answered, "They must be hiding down here."

"We'll find them."

Peeta and Rory looked at each other in horror. The two sets of footsteps drew nearer. A few seconds more and they'd be discovered. Not time to run, no time to hide. The only option was-

"Attack," Rory whispered. Before Peeta could stop him, he charged around the corner, bellowing in his high, not-yet-mature voice and brandishing his potato peelers as if they were rapiers.

Peeta heard one of the men swear, and the other cry out. Then one started laughing, which the deep voice continued to cuss.

Rory kept bellowing things like, "Filthy pirates!" and, "Get off my ship or you'll be sorry!"

Peeta almost smiled again.

Then a third, lighter set of footsteps descended, so quiet that Peeta almost didn't hear them.

"Look at this little pip-squeak," the second voice chuckled. "Quite the spit-fire. Like you." No doubt addressing the third person.

They didn't answer, that Peeta could hear, but suddenly the first voice stopped cussing and the second voice stopped laughing. Rory's threats wavered, his confidence slipping.

"Quiet," snapped a third voice, and Peeta's eyes widened. It was undoubtedly, without question, female. "There's someone here," she said, and Rory started up again.

"No!" he shouted. "No, I'm the only one! There's no one over there!"

Peeta dropped his face into his hand. Way to go, Rory.

And then, without any kind of warning, the butcher knife was slapped form his hand, his arms were twisted behind his back and something thin and cool appeared against his throat. "Don't move," the female voice ordered, jerking his arms so that he had to stand on his tip-toes.

He was dragged out of the shadows and into the light below the stairs. The two men were there already, restraining a beet-red Rory. One was tall, copper-haired and grinning, his sea-green eyes sparkling. The other had hair like Rory's, although stringy and tangled, and a scowl that could have melted glass. He had two nicks on his arm and hand, which looked suspiciously like they were from a potato peeler.

Peeta still couldn't see anything of his captor, except for the silver shine of the knife below his chin, but he heard her voice and the crisp snap of her fingers as she said, "I'll restrain the boy. Haymitch, Finnick, you take him." She jostled Peeta on the last word and the blade slipped, just barely cutting into his skin. He held his breath.

The two men, Haymitch and Finnick, apparently, handed off Rory after confiscating his potato peelers. Then they grabbed Peeta by the arms and whirled him around so he faced the girl.

His first impression of her was that she didn't look like a pirate. And yet, she did, too. Her gray eyes shone silvery, like stars, and her dark hair was tied back in one long braid. Her features were defined and very slightly slanted, giving an almost feline look to her face. She wore a thin, elegant sword at her hip- the kind that an Admiral might have- as well as a single pistol. Her black, cotton peasant blouse was drawn in at the waist with a simple belt, and she wore soft-looking brown pants and knee-high boots. A girl wearing pants. Peeta tried not to stare, though it was impossible.

But then, though she wore the attire of a pirate, her stance, balanced and graceful, was that of a noblewoman's. What with that and her cool, collected gaze, she could have been a queen.

She stalked forward, the knife in her hand, and pulled Rory along with her. "So," she said, "I'll make this easy."

The blade was pressed to Rory's neck. He gulped.

"Are there any more of you down here?"

"I don't know," Peeta answered honestly. "But I don't think so."

The girl surveyed him coldly. Peeta stared at the knife on Rory's throat. The knife that could bite into the young, tender flesh with one jerk. The knife that still had a line of his blood it. The knife… that was facing the wrong way. The blade pointed out, towards Peeta. The flat edge touching Rory's skin couldn't possibly do any damage.

Why? Why would the girl make it so Rory's life wouldn't be in any real danger? Why spare him? He wasn't much use to the pirates. He was disposable. Did she even realize?

Peeta was jerked out of his thoughts when the girl lowered the knife and pointed to the copper-haired man. "Finnick," she said. "Go check. Me and Haymitch can handle him."

"Are you sure, Katniss?"

Katniss. So that was her name.

"He looks pretty strong."

"I'm sure."

Peeta was handed over to Haymitch while Finnick left to sweep the place for any more loose sailors. Haymitch kept him in place while the girl- Katniss- tied his hands. Rory stood off to one side, keeping absolutely still under her steely gaze.

"The knife was pointed out," Peeta observed quietly.

Her eyes flashed towards him, but she didn't answer. Just tied off his bonds and stepped back, searching his pockets for any concealed weapons.

"Why?" he asked.

At last she met his gaze, silver eyes locked onto sky blue ones. "No need to spill innocent blood," she said coolly. Then she pushed him up the stairs.

His future was completely unpredictable, if not nonexistent, but one thing was certain: Katniss, female crewmember of the ship The Tracker, was no ordinary pirate.