Hunger games AU! If you're triggered by death, blood/gore, swearing, I'd recommend you turn back! For convenience's sake, I've made it so the tributes are all guys. I didn't really wanna fuck around with minor characters or gender-bends, and I didn't think it would be a good "quarter quell" twist, so just :/ bare with me.

A list of tributes and districts are at the bottom of this page. You can reference it there if you're at all confused. Thanks so much for reading! PLEASE REVIEW!

As soon as the canon went off, twenty four people went blind.

The air was pungent with panic and blood, suddenly, and the past few weeks didn't seem so superficial anymore. A few of them had slacked on their training; those were the first to die.

Lovino Vargas was first. The counting down was making sweat bead on his forehead, the stress making his heart hammer painfully in his chest. He leaped off the podium, with the full intent of finding his brother and getting the hell out of there. Feliciano had to be directly across from him—it was the only place they'd put a tribute from the same district.

The cornucopia battle was the worst of it, so they said. More people would die the first day than any other. He didn't want to be one of them—he'd be so prideful if he could only make it one more day than they'd predicted he would. His efforts in training had only earned him a seven; one of the lower scores. He'd seen the career's faces and the way Bonnefoy had smirked, oh god and he wanted to kill them.

He couldn't see anything; only sprinting forward, surging for the golden mass that was the cornucopia.

A breath was caught in his throat, a stone caught underfoot. He fell, face hitting the grass under him and he flipped himself over as quickly as he could. His hands scraped against the hard ground and he grunted with the effort of getting up. It wasn't fast enough. He was too close to the cornucopia; the other, stronger tributes had already reached it.

A career was standing over him. He had shining eyes, but scared ones, and he brandished a spear. Dark brown hair was blowing in his face, the sun blotted out behind him. Lovino still couldn't see, disoriented and scared and his heart; oh his heart wouldn't be still.

Lovino heaved himself upwards—trying to get a stance, trying to prepare himself to defend—but he didn't even get that far. The career, Roderich, he lunged sending the spear into Lovino's ribs. It struck straight and true; not betraying anything, not making him suffer. It thrust him backwards, into the ground. It was a hard hit, too; He felt his bones shift, and he couldn't stop himself from screaming.

Roderich grunted, pulling the spear back with violent movements, primal instincts. He'd probably trained for that for weeks. The edges of the point caught his ribs again on the way out; he was jerked forward. It had gone in deep; probably messed up every organ in his body, for god's sakes that's how it felt.

Roderich lunged again, hitting Lovino in the head with the spear. Spots hazed his already tunneled vision, the disorientation was far too much. Roderich stuck him again, this time in the shoulder. He'd narrowly missed the heart; that'd been evidently where he was going for. The spear was embedded so deeply in his shoulder now; Roderich didn't try to pull it out, only straightened his spine to stand taller and watch his first kill die.

There was a movement behind Roderich—a grey blur, and he was being shoved over. Lovino was on the ground already, and the career went down beside him. He couldn't do anything but gawk, mouth wide open with pain and shock; the person who'd shoved Roderich came into focus for only a second.

It was the boy from district ten. The one who'd been so kind to him in training, because of his upbringing in eleven; it was Antonio. He'd sat with Antonio in the dining hall, he'd trained with him, he'd gripped his hand tightly on the stage with the crowd staring them down, he'd cried to him once, or twice—to think there, they could have had something.

Roderich was screaming now. Lovino hadn't ever heard something so horrifying. It didn't take long for it to stop; from what Lovino could tell, Antonio had stomped on Roderich's head. Again and again, Antonio kicked and stomped on his skull—it had to be shattered into an irreparable state by now. The squelching sound of blood spraying from it was unmistakable. Blood was everywhere. It was his, it was Roderich's, it was a river that drowned him and the entire world. Antonio had snapped his neck now, the sound making Lovino's stomach twist and his screams increase. The canon went off; Roderich was dead.

Antonio came back into view; their eyes met for only a moment, and Lovino tried to say, please help me, please, I'll do anything, please. He tried to reach out, but could only clutch his side where the spear had been messily torn out. The fingers of his other hand curled into the long grass, feeling dry earth and sun beating down on him, his heart still trying to work harder, slowing down. It was far too slow. Antonio was gone.

Lovino couldn't scream anymore. He couldn't see, not even grey shapes like he had before. He thought of Feliciano. He prayed to god, he'd be okay. Someone will protect him, please. Please.

He didn't hear the canon go off, marking Lovino's death.

Across the field, a dark haired boy had leapt off the podium a second late. He was fast, albeit small, and his dark ponytail hit his back when he ran. His lean muscles rippled with strain while he sprinted to the cornucopia; he was no coward. He would not run from a battle.

Yao was his name. He'd earned a higher score in the training exercises, despite being one of the smaller tributes. He was eighteen; the oldest of any as well. Cunning and quick, he had a chance perhaps. He was determined to go back to his family, who needed him for monetary reasons as well as emotional ones; the same as any tribute.

As he reached the cornucopia, one of the first, he snatched a sleek black bow; it was small, the length of his arm, perhaps, and a quiver came with it. He almost spilled the arrows trying to pick it up, and that spare second allowed someone to reach him.

It was the other boy from his own district. A muscular and dark haired person; Sadik. And intimidating foe, he had a broader build than anyone but the district twelve tribute that everyone was so scared of. Yao was startled, but his trust betrayed him. He let himself go lax for a moment, thinking that since they'd been through so much together, from the same homeland, district eight, Sadik would befriend him.

He should have never come to the cornucopia. Sadik's sword came into vision far too late; Yao tensed with shock. "Sadik!" He screamed, voice inflecting the shattering terror that ripped through him. "Don't, Sadi—"

The sword hit the side of his face. The little black bow clattered to the ground as Yao's body crumpled.

Sadik couldn't help but stare for a moment at the damage he'd done; one whole side of Yao's face was crushed in. He'd swung with all his might, hitting Yao's cheekbone, shattering it, crushing in his head. Blood poured from the wound. Yao's final scream echoed in his head for the nanosecond that he stood there; he brought the sword down again on the body. The canon hadn't gone off; he might as well finish it.

It only took one swing after that, crushing in Yao's chest, before the Canon went off. The first three tributes were down. Sadik scooped up the most promising bag and headed at a full sprint for the woods, sword glistening with blood while it swung by his side.

When the tribute from district three had jumped from his podium, he'd been violently shaking. Eduard was his name; he had never been good at these sorts of things. He didn't even try for the cornucopia, but once he'd jumped from the metal onto the loosely packed soil, he couldn't help but stare at the golden object with longing for the supplies promised there. He knew it was a deathtrap, though. Only the strongest would make it out.

Eduard had only received a four after his training. He was easy pickings. Destined to die here, he nearly accepted his fate. His only hope was to be quicker, to use his wit. The wit everyone back in the electronics district had told him he possessed. He knew he wouldn't be the quickest. Yao was faster, he'd already seen, and that didn't help him when Sadik smashed his skull.

He'd watched Yao's death, seen Antonio kick at something undiscernible behind the grass. It was good that he didn't know it was Roderich.

He gathered the willpower to turn and run.

The wrong moment, perhaps, as he was now looking at the back of the tribute who'd jumped off the pedestal beside his; a tall and intimidating tribute from two. He'd probably gone a bit towards the cornucopia to grab a pack—a duffle bag hung from his shoulder—but now he was headed the other way and Eduard was so close to him. From district two. A career. Eduard screamed aloud, and then slapped his hands over his mouth.

The career whipped around, wide blue eyes suddenly narrowing. He started coming towards Eduard, and he could see someone behind the career, cowering. It was a boy from seven. "Berwald!" Said the kid, but Berwald kept coming. Eduard was backed into the pedestal he'd jumped from, and he screamed.

He shouldn't have let Berwald corner him. He could have just went around it, but he knew he wasn't going to get anywhere in this game anyways. Berwald's fingers wrapped around his throat and squeezed, Eduard gripping at his arms, still trying to push him away.

Berwald's fingers were like cement. They were like a tightening coil, like a Chinese finger trap—the more you tried to escape, the harder it would get. Eduard couldn't even make any noise, only scrape at the other's jacket with his long fingernails. He punctured it, digging in as hard as he could. The sounds around them had gone mute—Eduard could see the boy from seven screaming, but he didn't hear it. He only felt the pain of the hands closed around his neck and the metal pedestal behind him. Berwald closed his fingers tighter, finally rupturing something.

The pressure crushed Eduard's windpipe. His eyes rolled back, his fingers went lax, but he was still conscious. Berwald dropped him, and he made these painful, screaming scratching sounds. It was worse than anything he'd ever felt before. How long can you hold your breath? He asked himself.

Berwald was gone, running again, only giving Eduard a glimpse of a shorter blonde boy gaping back at him as he was huddled along. Eduard wished he could have only gone with them. They fled into the woods, and Eduard watched them go. Shaking, shuddering, trying to scream.

After a minute or so of clutching at his throat, dying on the grass, the canon went off.

After Antonio had left Lovino in the grass it was a constant reminder to him that Lovino was already dead. He was dead, the canon went off. You saw his blood. But no matter what he tried to reason, he couldn't deny that a dead person's eyes didn't widen like his had, and they didn't plead for help like he'd seen them do. He told himself he was never to go back there—he had to move forward. Always keep yourself the first priority.

Antonio raced the short distance up to the cornucopia. He saw swords, knives, bags of supplies, his eyes grazed over them until—there it is; an axe, glinting sunlight. He snatched it, and it was heavier than he thought it would be.

He saw someone coming in to his right, so he blindly swung at them. His axe struck something metal—a sword, held by someone enormous. The tribute from twelve; the one everyone had been so scared of. And Antonio had just given him a reason to have fury in his mind. The tribute, Ivan, swung at him with the sword, and Antonio ducked. He arced his axe down, hitting Ivan in the leg with blunt blow. The taller stumbled; but regained his balance before Antonio could bring the axe back up for another hit.

Ivan's sword was much quicker, even though it was pretty heavy itself. It must've been something to do with his strength. It struck Antonio in the side, sending him reeling. Antonio rebutted with a thrust of the axe; Ivan cried out when Antonio sliced his leg, the grey clothes doing nothing to prevent it from spilling blood from the wound.

Ivan only seemed to get angrier, hitting the sword into Antonio's weak attempts to block it with his axe.

Over his shoulder, Antonio could see the other big threat; Alfred, from district six. Trained with nearly every weapon the capitol had offered, skilled in combat and nearly as muscled as Ivan himself. He was fighting one boy from five; likely the physically stronger of the two. Shaggy brown curls blew into his face as he swung a sickle at Alfred, who brandished a knife.

Antonio was torn back into the moment as Ivan snarled and hit harder, this time violently knocking the axe from Antonio's hands. He'd proven a good match, but Ivan truly was the strongest tribute. Ivan swung once—it hit Antonio's throat.

Bone and cartilage and muscles were exposed—blood sprayed from the wound. Antonio had gone down so quickly after that. Ivan held the sword with both hands and brought it down once more, further severing Antonio's neck. It was too gruesome when the spinal cord was severed—Ivan already knew he had won when Antonio hit the ground. The canon had sounded for the fifth bang now, and more blood came from Antonio than anyone else that day, pooling on the ground from the messy, shredded, gaping cavity in his neck.

Alfred was still fighting the boy from five, Heracles, and he wasn't doing as well as his pride told him he would. The games were just that to him; a game, while everyone else was treating it like ragnarok. He would do the best he could.

Heracles raised the sickle above his head, plunging it into Alfred's shoulder. He didn't scream—he could deal with this. His eyes watered, but he ripped Heracles' arm off of it, letting it fall to the ground (rather painfully sliding out of the wound in his shoulder). He grabbed the taller's wrist, twisting it around so he could hold his knife to his throat.

He didn't waste time killing Heracles. The wheezing sigh he made while he died would haunt Alfred forever, probably. His body slumped to the ground just as the canon went off a sixth time.

The clearing was empty now. Ivan had fled, and anyone who was brave enough to have stayed was either dead around Alfred, as Heracles was, or had collected supplies and ran in every subsequent direction. He'd seen the other from twelve, a blonde with a smudged face and thick brows, and Bonnefoy, with his blonde hair tied up, take things from the pile, but neither of them had gotten caught up in anything; they'd reached the trees without incident, at least.

Alfred was clutching his shoulder, feeling the damage where there was a hole in his flesh, bleeding freely down his back. He wouldn't die from this, no, but it needed to be treated. Maybe fortune would shine on him and his sponsors would send something—but he couldn't treat it by himself.

He kept scanning the tree line as he looked for suitable supplies. He was worried that perhaps the tribute from eight would come back; Sadik. Or perhaps even the one from his district. Ludwig was always a threat, since they weren't exactly friends. Another concern of his was that Bonnefoy would form some kind of posse. He'd rally up the remaining careers—he was from one, so he could employ the masons from two, Berwald and Matthias, probably. Alfred had spied the body of the last career, Roderich, earlier. He was glad that wasn't a problem.

A rustle among the boxes and supplies around him made him jump; he immediately brought up his arm, holding the knife out. "Who's there!" He demanded. Nothing happened immediately, but he moved closer, holding his knife in a tense arm, ready to throw it if someone jumped out from behind the boxes and packs. They rustled again, and he growled. "Come out from there!"

A blonde head full of curls lifted from behind one. The boy stood. He couldn't be older than fourteen, and he shook so hard. His hands were raised in a surrendering pose; Alfred lowered the knife a little.

"Please, please don't kill me! Don't kill me! I d-don't want to hurt anybody. Please!" The boy was crying. Was he really that weak? He had bright eyes, but they were full of tears. "I—I see you're injured. I can h-help you! I'll bandage it. P-please don't kill me." He'd probably seen the engagement with Heracles, that's why he was so afraid. That's why he was crying.

"I won't kill you." Alfred said, not really sure why. He had an urge to protect this kid, since he looked so young, and he looked so scared, and Alfred really needed to be bandaged anyways, so he could help in that way… "What's your name? And your district, too." Alfred's tone was still authoritarian.

"Raivis! R-Raivis Galante. From district ten!" Livestock, huh. Alfred guessed he didn't really need to be big or strong to handle livestock.

Al gave him a long look, before another wave of pain hit his shoulder. "…could you treat this?" He questioned. "There's supplies. Do it now." It wasn't really a question, in the end. He could still easily kill this Raivis Galante, even while he was injured.

"Okay. A-ah, okay." The boy scrambled for some medical supplies, tearing open duffle bags while Alfred slumped against the very box Raivis had been hiding behind.

A few minutes later, while Al had been trying to slow his breathing, get rid of his adrenaline high from fighting earlier, Raivis approached him. He seemed wary about touching Alfred, but it proved necessary when he had to lean the taller boy forward in order to unzip his jacket and slip the shoulder down.

The back of his shoulder had been torn into dreadfully by Heracles' sickle—the damage was terrifying, and Raivis reviewed the supplies he'd collected. A few rags, some clear liquid labelled as peroxide, and a long roll of bandage. There was nothing to cut it with other than Alfred's knife, he guessed.

Alfred gritted his teeth as Raivis tried to blot some of the blood away—it was still coming out, not having enough time to clot. Raivis just did the best he could to stop the bleeding, and then poured some of the peroxide onto it without warning.

Alfred cried out, hissing at the stinging sensation—it fizzed and bubbled and felt like burning, but he knew it would help keep infections away. It didn't stop him from cursing up a storm while Raivis kept whispering, "Sorry, I'm sorry. Don't be mad. I'm so sorry."

"Stop apologizing, dammit. You're helping me." Raivis looked up at him like he was finally realizing they were both human.

After they'd used about a third of the bottle, Raivis wrapped up Alfred's shoulder. Al was keeping an eye on the tree line, still, but no one came out of the darkness. He saw a little bit of movement, making him tense, but nothing major. Alfred felt better once his shoulder was operating again. It was stiff, and a dull, resonating pain was still there, but he could move it around without blood going everywhere. That'd worked out fairly well considering the circumstances.

"We shouldn't stay here. It's too dangerous to be around this much stuff for too long. People are gonna come back here and I can't fight them all off for us."

"So… we're an… a-alliance?" Raivis stuttered.

"Yeah. An alliance." Alfred nodded, looking into Raivis' eyes hopefully. "I'll make sure you'll be okay, if you'll help me survive out here. The only thing I'm handy with is a sword and an engine." That's right, thought Raivis. Transportation was Alfred's district's specialty.

"I'm decent with wilderness survival. Can you carry another pack? I'm not sure what's in them, and I w-wanna leave this place before someone comes back." Raivis was rummaging for a good-looking duffle bag. He handed it to Alfred, who held two, and Raivis had a backpack on. He took a set of knives for the sake of having them; he wasn't strong enough to carry a sword or anything, but he might as well have a weapon.

Alfred took them at a very quick pace into the tree line. Raivis hoped it wouldn't be the last time he was seeing the cornucopia; he snuck one last glance at the golden object as they were retreating into the woods.

It was then that Raivis really got a look at the arena; the blindness of panic didn't have him running or hiding anymore, and he could fully absorb his surroundings. He looked up to see the largest mountain he'd ever seen in his life. It stretched up almost to the clouds—snow topped, craggy, cliff covered. Just one mountain; in every other direction, there were woods and fields. He assumed you'd run out of ground if you tried to stray too far from the mountain; that's where the gamekeepers wanted you.

They were going up the base of the mountain now, in fact. The ground sloped, the trees rooting into the uphill paths between. It was hard to run, so they settled for sneaking after a while. Raivis was glad; he wasn't sure how long he could have kept up running.

They travelled like that for perhaps an hour; walking uphill without talking. The exception was when Raivis would ask Alfred about his shoulder; each time the mechanic would deny he was in pain, even when it was clear he was. The idiot was trying to be noble.

Suddenly Alfred stopped in his tracks. Raivis almost bumped into him. "Did you hear that?" He whispered.

Raivis was suddenly full of fear again. "N-no. What is it? Something bad!?"

Alfred turned his head. "I think I hear someone yelling. In that direction…" He pointed down the mountain to the right side of them.

"Should we… go down there?" Raivis hoped Alfred would say no.

It never would have ended up that way, it seems. "Yeah. We should be able to find someone. I want to make these games quicker." A chill ran down Raivis' spine when he said that. Did he really think that little of someone's life so as to play the capitol's game? Apparently so, but there wasn't even an option to run from Alfred now. He'd catch him, and there was no clear advantage to keeping him alive.

Alfred set off in that direction, careful not to trample through the leaves as loudly as it could have been. He was still pretty loud, although, Raivis was starting to hear that he was right. It was the sound of a fight. Rustling and grunting, screams of anger and cries of pain. Raivis recognized only one of the voices, identifying it as Toris, the boy from nine that had befriended him. He suddenly was glad that Alfred decided to come this way. They could help him out of this fight; they could string him along, and they could start a group alliance.

The duo approached the sounds, evidently taking place in a clearing below them. A low cliff and some bushes separated them from the fight below; and Raivis didn't want them to go away.

Ivan, the giant from twelve, was swinging a blood-covered sword at Toris, who was dodging each swing with tactful and premeditated moves. He was breathing hard, trying not to show his exertion, evidently only trying to think of a way out.

Ivan's sword hit the dirt and leaves on the ground with clamorous noise. Toris knew he couldn't run uphill, and Ivan would cut him off if he tried to go downhill. The craggy surface of the cliff faced him to the right, and to the left the underbrush was thick—but it was the best chance he had. Toris made a break for it. He sprinted on legs that felt like gelatin.

Ivan wasn't having any of that. He wouldn't let Toris escape; He ran after him at full speed, tackling him to the ground, listening to his panicked cry for help.

Raivis looked over to Alfred. Wasn't he going to help? Even if he was injured, wouldn't he do something?

"Alfred!" He half-whispered. The taller turned his head only briefly, enraptured by the fight at hand. His eyes glowed with interest.

"What." Alfred didn't inflect any emotion in his voice. It struck Raivis; Alfred was really a lot different from him. Someone he'd just met, someone he didn't know anything about, he could just be a killing machine. Alfred… already had a kill, didn't he.

Alfred didn't care what happened to Toris because he couldn't do anything to help him. Saving him would be trouble for Alfred; Ivan was a strong and intimidating opponent, and there would be no positive outcome other than karma. Who needed karma, in hell like this? "A-aren't you doing to do something?"

Alfred's eyes were cold, but no colder than they'd been before. The tautness of his gaze was something Raivis was only noticing now. He quickly glanced back over to the fight; Toris was flailing, screaming, trying to get Ivan off of him, but they both knew it was futile. "If he's dead, our chances only improve." That's what he said, but Raivis only heard 'my chances only improve'. He didn't react.

Ivan was shaking. They couldn't tell what it was at first, but soon he started to shudder and his shoulders quaked. Toris' face was hidden from view, but his legs were braced, trying to push up and knock Ivan off-balance.

Ivan was laughing.

Alfred grabbed Raivis' arm. "We should go. Quickly." He pulled him away, and Raivis' eyes lingered on what he could see of Toris' body. Ivan was poised, the sword ready to swing down—

Alfred yanked him away before he could watch, but he heard the canon. That was enough.

As the two of them fled from the scene, Ivan was staring down at what he'd done. Toris' head was open, flowers of red bleeding, flowing onto the leaves and the dirt. Someone's head should never bleed so much. One eye socket was completely smashed in, the other eye closed. It looked relaxed, since the muscles could no longer tense.

He'd made his second kill. In one day, he'd ended two lives. He wondered if this made him the top competitor. He hadn't wanted to do this. He couldn't stop shaking. The noise he heard—he was uttering some sort of nervous laughter, chopped short and manically, horribly uneven.

He put dropped the sword which felt cemented in his hands. Adrenaline was keeping them tense and shaking still. Clutching his chest, a bit of blood smearing, he got off of Toris' body. He wanted to leave the sword there; but it was too important. Someone could attack at any point in time, and the back of his mind wouldn't let him leave it, smeared with Toris' blood or not.

He had never wanted to kill anybody. He just had to get back to district twelve. The poor coal mining district needed him—this generation of miners was meager and small, and he was a six-foot standing man (or, nearly a man. Still just a boy). His family would make better wages, he could bring home food and he could provide protection. His sisters needed a better life.

His tall stature also made him a target—the careers, particularly from one, were plotting to take him down. They knew what an important thing his alliance could be, so he made a mental note to not ally with any careers. It could end badly. They'd use him until Alfred and Ludwig and Sadik were dead, and then dispose of him.

This didn't feel like he was giving them one. He wished he could take it back. Pull the warmth back into Toris' bloodstream; piece his smashed-in face back together. The body lay on the ground a short distance away, and Ivan couldn't look at it.

He stumbled away, feeling sorry for himself.

He didn't really know where he was going. He thought he'd just head around the mountain—the arena was centered on it. Where they'd all started was to the side of the mountain in some direction, and the available area was presumably just the surroundings of the landform. Everyone in their right, competitive mind would be headed to the peak. He knew that's what they'd all do. Better to stay on low ground, where fewer tributes will remain.

The environment was a forest. Mostly coniferous trees, tall and lean, pine needles crunching under his feet. Somewhere, he could hear a few birds, but the noise wasn't overwhelming. It was a near silent forest.

Somewhere in the woods he felt hairs prickling on the back of his neck. The blood drops on his jacket's breast were like a marker—this person is dangerous, they're scared and unpredictable. The red on their jacket will dry and crack off, but the thick hands will never stop being so dangerous.

Ivan started to whip his head side to side—trying to catch someone walking behind him. There had to be someone. This feeling of unease didn't come on its own. Or maybe it did for a boy who'd just committed a murder.

Ivan stopped completely. There was a rustle—only a whisper, but it proved it to him.

"Come out!" He yelled. "Stop being a coward!" His voice cracked. He was panting—he didn't realize how worked up he was still. He saw an image of the lifeless body on the ground, the smashed eye socket. He spun, looking all around him, catching a glimpse—

A blonde head, peering from behind a tree. They'd been tailing him for a while. They met his eyes—guarded heavily, they looked just as scared as he felt. The person held their hands up in a surrendering motion, before stepping out from behind the tree.

It was a pale boy from district seven. Lumber district. He had toned arms and a lean frame. His hair was long but not pulled back, an odd choice by his stylist. Most of the time hair was cut short for utility purposes, but this style made him look very notable.

He still held his hands up in surrender. "P-please don't kill me." He whispered, but Ivan heard him. "I j-just want to go with you. Say no, and we'll both walk away. Please, I'm so scared out here."

Night was going to fall soon, anyways, and Ivan didn't want to be alone any longer. He didn't want to hurt anybody in the first place, but Toris' dead fucking face kept appearing, overlapping with the long-haired boy's face.

If someone attacked, he would kill again. That was how these games went. That was what he said he would do. Being as large as he was, he wouldn't be put down easily. He could endure what any other human could—he could almost do whatever he wanted, here. But he knew the careers would be dangerous, he knew the strong tributes from outlying districts would be challenging. It was unusual for a strong person to come from district 12. They needed him back there. He wanted to live in the victors' village with the old woman and his mother's cat.

Ivan stuttered. "W-walk with me. I don't want to fight… I don't…"

He felt dizzy, so he sat on the ground. A tree close to his side had a root sticking out under him, the shape of the earth providing a resting spot that invited the other over to him. He seemed very cautious about it, staying a good ten feet from him, but it was still closer than before.

"Are you alright?" asked the boy. Ivan clutched his head, but looked up at him.

"What is your name?" Ivan inquired, seemingly randomly.

He spoke in a smooth and calming voice, very, very quietly. "My name is Matthew. I'm from seven. Y-you're Ivan, aren't you?"

He was somewhat of a celebrity amongst tributes, he guessed. His stature made him such an intimidating foe that Matthew was probably scared of him so very much. He just didn't want to hurt anybody anymore. He didn't want to have killed Toris, he didn't want to harm a hair on Matthew's head. He wished he could remember how he killed Antonio (had he killed Antonio for real, in the sprawl of battle and adrenaline he could really have missed, he could have just imagined the canon).

Ivan nodded. "From twelve."

"Are you okay, Ivan?" Matthew was looking down at him, speaking in the softest voice. Ivan was painfully aware of the cameras capturing this moment. He curled up tighter, moving against the tree. He shrugged his shoulders.

Matthew backed away, and for a moment Ivan was afraid he was leaving. But Matthew simply leaned against another tree, across from Ivan perhaps fifteen feet or so. He removed a black backpack from his back, setting it on the ground next to him. Ivan had only his sword.

"What is in that bag?" He asked, voice quavering embarrassingly. Matthew didn't react to that, though.

"Food. Just food, really. Bread and oatmeal and stuff. There's a flask too, but I'm not sure what's in it."

Ivan didn't ask the question that was hanging in the air—were they going to be allies? Would Matthew share this food in return for protection? Matthew had seemed like quite the pacifist during training, and during the cornucopia battle, it was like he wasn't there at all. Stealth seemed to be his strong suit.

Matthew inched closer to him, dragging the backpack. Only ten feet separated them, then five. The boy was reluctant to come any closer to him, since Ivan was the only one with a weapon anyways. "C-come on. You should take some. We can be f-friends."

Oh. Yes, he'd like that very much. Ivan did his best to smile, the look on Matthew's pallid face lightening a bit.

He started to unzip the backpack, and Matthew became more relaxed. They ate in the woods together, keeping an eye out for anyone who might stumble through the coniferous forest. The blood on the sword had dried.

Only a short ways up the mountain, one of the remaining careers was headed the wrong way.

He was walking away from where Ivan and Matthew were calmly sitting—his name was Francis Bonnefoy, and he was on a mission.

He was a career, yes, so he was almost entirely certain he or one of the brutes from district two would win these games. At age seventeen, he'd volunteered a year early. He'd forgone his neighbors and cousins, who'd all turned eighteen this year. He wanted to bring honor and respect to his district. It was so very important that he win these games.

He honestly hadn't been prepared for the forest. Coastline, yes, desert yes, swamps and hostile tundra yes. But something so tame hadn't been on his list of options. The mountain was an interesting dynamic in respect to the 'high ground' rule—one with the higher ground always wins, right? So whoever gets to the top of the mountain must have some advantage. Maybe there would be something up there for whoever gets to it. You never know what the game makers are going to do.

His mission was to take out the biggest tributes. Top of his list—Ivan Braginski. The six foot tall seventeen year old from district twelve.

He just didn't know how to find him. In reality, if he'd just known to turn around, he would have found him. It probably would have been an unwise choice, however, as Ivan was tense and threatened, if not bloodthirsty. Francis would have been easily overpowered by him. Perhaps he would have killed Matthew; but Ivan would avenge him, as he would not forgo a chase.

Francis was becoming analytic of his surroundings; the trees were numbered, the paths were memorized. If he had to come this way again, he knew what to look for to get his bearings. Large outcroppings of rock jutted out occasionally, and particularly warped or damaged trees would be easy landmarks.

Francis eventually came upon a stream—a fortunate thing, though he didn't have a flask or bottle. So he decided to drink what he wanted then, and follow the stream. Streams began at the high ground, didn't they? That was where he was going, in an effort to find Braginski. He followed it uphill for a while before drinking—watching the color, the clarity and smelling it first. He wanted to make sure it was pure enough. He didn't want to be the only one poisoned in these games.

Drinking from the stream was refreshing. It cleared his mind, made him sharper than ever. His wit, his knives, his thoughts were all sharp. Everything about him was.

He followed the stream up, thinking about home, thinking about the best way to fight someone taller than he. He stepped over rocks and vines. He watched the path ahead of him intently. Everyone was very close together right now, unless they'd all sprinted in different directions, and even then, the game makers wanted something to happen. They wouldn't let them all stay apart forever.

Soon after that, he heard something—a splash in the water, a crinkle of leaves. He spied someone. They were crouched by the stream on their knees, their hands cupped to bring water to their lips. They were shaking. Spiked, blond hair and the same grey uniform, their head snapped up. Green eyes met his immediately, as he hadn't been stealthy as he approached them.

So, it was the other from twelve. Arthur Kirkland. He palmed his knife.

Suddenly Arthur was already up and running away, on the other side of the stream. Water splashed as he tore his hands from the surface. He carried only a small pack, probably something he'd snagged as he ran into the woods. Francis tore after him.

Catching him could end up in two ways; one, he kills him. It would be an easy kill, earning respect from sponsors and perhaps saving his own life later. He could do it. Two, he coerces him into an alliance. He had to know what Braginski would do—where to find him. He could use Kirkland to get his location.

It didn't take him long to catch up to Arthur with his longer strides. Leaping over the stream, he thundered with the longest steps he could manage. Branches crunched under his painfully flexible shoes—it hurt his callouses. He reached out to grab the other blonde—he grasped at the collar of his shirt, but narrowly missed it. A second grab yanked Arthur's shoulder back, slowing him enough for Francis to slam him to the ground. They both fell with a thud and a cry, louder on Arthur's part.

He had the wind knocked out of him, and soon Francis was sitting on his chest with a knife pressed to his chin. Arthur's voice quavered as he screamed, "Get off of me, you bloody bastard! I'll kill you!" Francis' breaths labored as Arthur yelled at him. Even after he had his bearings these profanities kept up—he seemed more and more desperate as the smaller blond yelled them out.

Francis arched an eyebrow. "I don't think you're in any position to say these things, Kirkland. This knife is really, really sharp."

"Shut up! Shut up, I know it's sharp! It's a knife, you fucker!" Arthur struggled beneath him, wriggling his torso to try and knock Francis off of him.

The career only pressed the knife into Arthur's chin, drawing blood and making the other scream. Francis only dug it in deeper as this happened—but he probably shouldn't be so loud. However, the cut was getting too deep and poured blood down his face and neck.

"Stop screaming so much! Stop it. I'll let you get up if you stop screaming." Francis was really annoyed with this guy, but it was the only way he'd find Ivan. Arthur heard this, and he breathed hard as he tried to stop making noise. Eventually the screams trailed off into groaning and later panting. That was better. Francis yanked the knife away roughly, his chin still pouring blood.

The career got off of Arthur slowly, letting him reach up to wipe at the beads of blood rolling down his chin. Facial wounds always bleed a lot, but the cherry red liquid was everywhere on him. He'd need to wash it in the stream. Francis didn't stand up, but crouched a few feet away. Arthur sat up, now, bracing himself with an arm and revealing rugged rocks and vines Francis had tackled him onto.

"You're kidding me? You're the worst m-murderer ever." He stuttered a bit.

"Shut up, or I really will murder you! You don't even have a weapon!" Arthur didn't seem to have a retort to this, but he looked mildly annoyed amongst his shock at Francis' sparing of him. The two didn't meet eyes.

Arthur now covered his chin with his hand, blood welling up behind it and messily pooling on his knuckles. "Really, why not murder me, bastard? You're not seriously letting me go, are you?" His tone was cynical.

Francis growled. "I don't want the blood on my hands now, alright? You seem to have enough on yours," He paused to chuckle. "Sorry about all that. It's my instinct, right?"

"W-w—Instinct?" Arthur exclaimed. "What the hell do you mean? Whose instinct is to tackle someone to the ground, frog?"

"I'm a career, jackass. District one, Francis Bonnefoy!" He said his name with a flourish and a smile that he used when winning over sponsors. He knew the cameras were watching.

Arthur apparently hadn't known. "C-career!? Is that why you're so—so quick to pull a knife?" The boy from district twelve was more than a bit shocked. He hadn't known in the slightest. Why was it always the tributes from twelve that were uninformed? Francis internally shook his head. Shooting his idea and then subsequently trying to work with this fool would be challenging in and of itself.

"Yes, yes, whatever. You're from twelve, aren't you? Of course. I need you to help me with something…" He hadn't finished his sentence before Arthur was up and walking back the way they came. Blood dripped onto the ground where he went. Francis knew he was just going to the stream, and he could see him the whole time, so instead of following immediately he kicked some leaves over the blood droplets. Seeing that would get some other tributes very excited.

After he'd covered the trail, he met Arthur at the stream. Not caring if he spooked him or not, he sat down right next to him. Arthur flinched, but kept pulling up water to his chin. Francis wondered if someone would see the blood washing down the stream, then figured it wouldn't matter. By the time it got down that far, it'd be a half mile away and they wouldn't know that.

Arthur didn't have a bandage, and neither did he, so they were forced to leave the wound open. It didn't stop bleeding for another ten or fifteen minutes, and Francis worried more about the blood.

"I need your help, Kirkland. I want to find Braginski." He was forward and straight to the point.

Arthur looked stunned. "Y-you…? Why?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "He's the largest tribute; the biggest threat, dumbass."

"And why would you need me to help you find him? You seem capable enough to track me down… A-and I'm not a threat. Sorry for not being enough of a fucking competition for you," Arthur was missing the point, spitting out more insults that Francis resented him for.

"You idiot, he's from your district. You've got to at least know his tendencies, or have just talked to him before." Snapped the career.

Arthur was silent for a minute, thinking about what Francis had asked him. If he said he didn't know, which was what he was going to do anyways, Francis would have no reason to keep him alive. He nursed the cut on his chin with the fear that it wouldn't be the last.

The thought that everyone was having would be a good one to supplement this lie—he didn't know Ivan at all. In fact, not a conversation had occurred between them. Not back in twelve, not on the train or in the two weeks since they'd arrived in the capitol. But this thought was easily believable, since Francis himself had thought it just minutes earlier.

"He headed uphill. I'm sure of it. We should go up there—together. I can't goddamn stand you—but nonetheless, let's make an alliance."

Arthur suddenly had a much better chance in these games, with such a trained ally. He'd have protection, he'd have control—after all, he was the one with the 'knowledge'. As Francis met his eyes, he smiled, and more blood poured down his chin.

Ludwig was already over the mountain.

He hadn't wasted any time since the cornucopia. When the canon went off, he was scanning the tributes no matter how much the sunlight burned his eyes. He was thundering across the field, towards the woods a minute later. He didn't grab any supplies, any weapons except a knife that'd been thrown in his direction—it was all just 'get as far away as you can, as fast as you can', to him.

He hadn't left without his ally, though. He wasn't doing this for himself. Had he been alone, he would probably have stuck around and tried to take out some of the weaker tributes. There was no way he'd end up making any alliances in the arena—too abrasive of an atmosphere and he'd just shut himself down. Not a chance in hell of making it. He wasn't alone, though.

The proof of this trudged beside him in the form of a short red-headed boy who was nearly clinging to his arm. He wasn't, though, hands simply hovering around Ludwig's sleeves and sticking close to him. This was Feliciano. He was rather useless—as a fighter, he was useless. Ludwig knew this, and he didn't know why he allied with him. Perhaps it was that, during all the times they'd talked, Feliciano was the best at getting him calmed down. The best at keeping his head. Ludwig just needed someone to protect.

He stuck close to him only because he was so nervous. When they got so high Feliciano's ears popped, he started to get a little more relaxed.

The two of them had forged an alliance during the two week training sessions. At first, when things were relatively ambiguous between all the tributes, Feliciano did nothing to train. He didn't have any special skills except for cooking and housework, and that wasn't anything he'd probably ever need again. Eventually, Ludwig got tired of seeing him moping in the corner of the gym, resigned, and approached him.

During all his time in the transportation district, number five, he built up lots of muscle, lots of brawn and moderate brain, from the engine work. His hand-eye coordination was impeccable—a wonderful blessing for Feliciano. Ludwig would be hard to beat.

He started to train the boy from district eleven. His brother, Lovino, hadn't liked that, because of the obvious mistrust he had of other tributes, but he let the training happen anyways because it couldn't really hurt anything. It would only slightly improve Feliciano's chances, and Lovino's making a fuss wouldn't be productive, even if he didn't like Ludwig.

Feliciano really didn't know Lovino was dead. Ludwig had pulled him away as fast as he could—he didn't know what he'd do if Feliciano died in the cornucopia battle, so he just decided to run with him. "Ludwig. Ludwig, what about my brother?"

The larger shrugged tensely. "I don't know, Feli. We'll find him if we can." He grabbed onto Feliciano's hand and kept walking up a steeper hill.

The terrain here was mostly craggy rock, the sun beating down on them and the air rushing through their lungs, uncomfortably thin. Ludwig worried about Feliciano fainting, but determined that possibility amongst the tamest things that could happen. He could deal with that.

He felt as though he were obligated to care for Feliciano. Now that he trained him and rescued him from a battle that certainly would have meant death for the redhead, he carried a certain degree of responsibility as well as attachment. He'd managed to win him over in such a short period of time. Ludwig wanted them to survive until the last possible moment. He wasn't sure what he'd do then.

As soon as the mountain started to slope down again, Ludwig determined that they were too far to the east to hit the peak; which was good. If they wanted to avoid people, they'd have to be on the lowest possible ground as far to the north as they could be. He kept them going down, descending from the thin air and coming back into tree-level—he didn't want to go back into the forest, though. It had too many places to hide, and made him so nervous.

As they headed down the slope, Feliciano recommended they find a place to hide, or to rest. Both. "Let's set up a base of operations. We have to find food. If we have shelter, Capitan, we don't have to worry about moving around."

"True." Agreed Ludwig. "Let's look for an overhang or a cave even. Do not make a fire. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!" Feli nearly smiled, but Ludwig saw the expression slide off his face. The mood was still too thick for him to be happy just yet. Once they would be out of danger for a while, he'd start to smile again. Ludwig was sure.

A suitable overhang was only a few hundred yards away—a craggy, grey rock jutted out from the mountainside and barren, scratchy bushes grew around the sides of it.

They decided to go into the forest down below and get some branches to cover the rest—to lean the branches against the top of the overhang would make good walls, disguise them while they slept, and keep them hopefully warmer during the night. Ludwig would try to light a fire and turn it to coals inside the man-made hut—yes, that sounded good. That would keep Feliciano warm.

The first part of the plan ended up working splendidly—they went down to the woods together, because neither trusted each other enough to leave them to fend for themselves. Ludwig carried full branches with leaves and all, and Feliciano gathered smaller sticks and lots of leaves to make it look more natural. It only took them two trips to cover the whole thing.

By the time Feli was putting on the final touches—spreading the leaves more naturally, moving one of the larger sticks so the interior would he larger, knocking some dirt down from the overhang so it covered the side pretty well— it was already getting darker. Ludwig had left an opening by the side the overhang was against the mountain; this would be their door. It was only just big enough for him to slip through, but Feliciano could pass with ease.

The two of them surveyed the inside, just for a moment, before they heard the trumpets of the capitol's song start outside. Ludwig watched Feliciano's eyes turn into dinner plates— He scrambled for the door and Ludwig followed him as quickly as he could manage, as not to knock the entrance to their cave out of its position.

The logo was projected in the sky. Ludwig's stomach turned. This was when they'd see the names and faces of the people who died just a few frenzied hours ago.

The trumpets wailed still, and the projections started.

A career came onto the screen. No one had expected that—it was rare for a career to die so early, but it wasn't unwelcome. They were terrifying when they were coming after you, of course. He had dark hair and cool eyes. Emblazoned under his picture—Roderich Edelstein.

As his photo phased out, another came up—this time a blonde boy from district three. He wore glasses. His blue eyes betrayed nothing, and had nothing to betray. He was dead now. Under his photo was Eduard—the photo disappeared before Ludwig could read the name.

Third was a boy from district five with tired eyes and a long face—dark eyes and dark brown curls dominated his features: Heracles Carapusi. Ludwig hadn't known him before, but he swore now to remember all the names.

Ludwig tensed before the next face appeared—but district six did not appear on the projection. Alfred, who'd come here with him, was still alive. Instead appeared a small and thin boy from district eight—his eyes were narrow points and his nose was flat and rounded. His hair was long—thin, flattened to his head. Ludwig remembered seeing him in the training rooms sometimes. His aim with a bow was impressive, and he was stronger than he looked. Ludwig was disappointed when Wang Yao's name appeared below the photo.

Toris Laurinaitis from district nine followed—his eyes were bright in the photo, different from everyone else's. They were a vibrant green, even in the slightly faded projection. Brown hair and a thin face—a pointed nose. He was kind, to Ludwig's knowledge. He hadn't spoken to him directly, but from seeing him around, Ludwig just tried not to be to shaken. All these people are dead.

Feliciano was shaking beside him. Ludwig could only figure why—he didn't want Lovino to be dead. Ludwig gripped Feli's shoulder to steady him, and Feliciano held onto the hand clasped there.

District ten came up—prolonging their wait. There appeared a boy with prominent cheekbones and taut, tan skin. Green eyes and wild brown hair. Here was Antonio Fernandez, as was listed, another tribute who'd been rather skilled in the training room. Ludwig could do the math, however. This meant that Sadik was alive, Alfred was alive. Berwald and Matthias were alive, and still a threat.

District eleven. Ludwig's stomach did flips.

There was Lovino, his almond-shaped eyes and curly hair and mouth downturned like he always looked. Feliciano made a sound—a cross, like a wail and a scream. It bubbled from his throat and spilled from his lips as the Vargas name was shining in the sky like a star. His own brother was dead already, the stronger brother was the first to die. Feliciano fell to the ground, not crying, not screaming. He only let that sound echo, to match with the tacky capitol theme resounding around them.

Ludwig kneeled beside him, watching the projection close, and listening to the theme die down, sinking into an overwhelming silence.

They were settling down for the night—more than one precarious alliance had been made that day. No packs had formed, but that didn't mean these two weren't formidable when they worked together. Matthias, from district two, and Lukas from four. One trained well with an axe, and another that could probably kill you with his gaze.

They'd made a business agreement—that's what they called it—during training that said they'd work together for at least the first few days. Until Lukas could find his brother, it would be the two of them. Matthias was bewildered at his unyielding determination to find him—personally, he hated the other boy who came from his district. Berwald might be a strong ally, but that didn't mean he wanted anything to do with him and his sniveling attitude. He was weak minded—killing wasn't on his platter, and as a career, that was foolish.

Lukas told him all about how to survive in the wild—to find food, to fish and to set traps. And to fish. That seemed to be what he knew the most about. Coming from four, the place where that was the main export, that wasn't surprising. Stupid fishboy.

Matthias personally just wanted to kill something. Do something fun. They had to sleep under lousy trees and keep watch for the night, take shifts and all that fuckin' jazz.

Lukas—Lukas won't shut up. Stop talking, dammit. "I just want to do my district something proud, alright, man? I'm gonna make a kill during these games or die trying."

"That's the idea, dumbfuck." Lukas threw a rock at Matthias' head, but he caught it.

Matthias had grabbed a bag during their flight, and it ended up containing a blanket and an empty flask. During their day, they'd walked up the mountain, only encountering someone briefly. It was some blondie from district nine—they paid him no mind unless he approached them, but he ran away.

They were about halfway up the mountain now. Lukas decided it was a bad idea to go up any farther until daylight, and Matthias agreed with him for once. Fighting was one thing, but fighting in the dark was only for people who really wanted a challenge. Matthias didn't like challenges, only victories. Lukas thought that one of them could sleep on the blanket for a few hours, then the other could keep watch. They'd wake them up for their shift after a few hours.

Matthias was stupidly trusting, but Lukas had no intention of murdering him. Who would kill the career offering them alliance? If he was with Matthias, his chances were improved tenfold already. It was a symbiotic alliance—Lukas was the brains, Matthias the brawn.

Now, in the dark, Lukas trusted Matthias a fraction less. He offered to take the first watch. Matthias sighed, took the blanket from the bag and laid it on the ground. He flopped down on top of it, his shoulders curling in as he slept on his side. Lukas sat only a few feet away, listening to his breathing become calmer, mellowing out until it was clear that Matthias was asleep.

It would be so easy to kill him now. Take the axe—bloodied, leaning against the tree—swing it down— shut up. You're not here to kill him, Lukas. That's not the directive. Finding Emil is the directive.

A rustle in the bushes interrupted his internal argument—Lukas was standing, his eyes adjusted to the dark. Someone's thin shoes crunched some leaves as they stepped into the clearing.

A boy with dark hair and black eyes came into view, his features fuzzy in the shadows. Lukas recognized him from district three—Kiku. He clutched something by his side. It looked like a sword.

He looked exhausted, and to be honest, that's how Lukas felt. Kiku wasn't running, but he wasn't attacking either. They met each other's eyes for a while.

It felt like forever, actually. They just watched each other, standing there for a while. Lukas trying to determine what Kiku wanted. Was it to join them? Or to kill Matthias? The larger was still sleeping, as his breaths revealed.

Eventually Kiku started to set his sword on the ground, and Lukas returned to the tree he'd been sitting at. He felt the knobs of his spine against the grooves in the bark, his jacket not thick enough to shield him. Kiku sat down at a tree directly across from his—they made peace, without speaking a word.

Kiku eventually laid down amongst the leaves, trusting Lukas to watch over him.

Afraid Matthias might kill him if he woke, Lukas kept watch all night. He didn't sleep even a wink. In the filtering light of the cold, foggy morning, he watched Kiku's dark eyes flutter open. He collected his sword, attaching it to a belt, and then stood.

He met Lukas' eyes, and bowed deeply. On the cracking dawn of the second day, Kiku Honda walked into the foggy woods behind him. Hours later, Matthias would wake up.

Writing this stuff is such a trip. I'll have long chapters, so long waits. Each chapter takes up a day in the story's time. Be back soon, please please please review.

District = Specialty

(tributes)

District 1 = luxury items
(france + austria)
District 2 = masonry
(denmark + sweden)
District 3 = electronics
(estonia + japan)
District 4 = fishing
(norway + iceland)
District 5 = power
(greece + prussia)
District 6 = transportation
(america + germany)
District 7 = Lumber
(finland + canada)
District 8 = textiles
(china + turkey)
District 9 = grain
(lithuania + poland)
District 10 = livestock
(spain + latvia)
District 11 = agriculture
(italy + romano)
District 12 = coal mining
(england + russia)