So, I've started my OWN story only focusing on one tribute. Will she survive, will she win? Could go either way. =)

I hope you will like it, and review at them bottom. Thanks!

~Meghan

10/20/18: Hey, I'm back! I'm going to be going through this story and editing it to polish it up. It's pretty old, I started it back in 2012 which is CRAZY to me, that's over 6 whole years. I haven't updated it since 2015, so hopefully I can get back to it some when time allows. Anyways, I hope you enjoy if you've stumbled across this ;) Happy reading!

P.S. On October 19th, 2015, I'd left a note mentioning Spindle's name. I actually did not come up with this name, and I got it from a Finnick/Annie fic called Scylla and Charybdis by puellanerdii.

Chapter 1

Cornucopia

The Arena - Day 1

I take deep breaths as the plate pushes me up into the light from above.

Violent wind swirls swirls down into the tube. I blink my eyes furiously, the sudden, cool gale throwing my ponytail around wildly in ribbons of crimson. My head begins to emerge from the tunnel, the light growing brighter and brighter. I crouch, pressing my palms to the cool metal plate I stand on.

My boots are rooted to the plate as I suck in a breath, steadying myself on the plate. My eyes burn for a moment as the plate clicks, locking itself into place. The sting from the bright sunshine fades, leaving me to take in the arena for the full minute before the bloodbath begins.

A massive desert stretches around me, the kind I've only seen in textbooks with tough-looking, craggy earth the color of red ceder lumber. Scruffy bushes sit in clumps, rocks rising on the slightly uneven horizon. My heart starts beating even faster than before, pounding in my ears.

There isn't a forest around. If I don't have a forest, I'm going to di-

Stop.

There must be a forest around. They put trees here every year, to make sure the tributes don't freeze to death. Then again... aren't deserts supposed to be hot?

The sun sits behind the golden horn before me, sparkling in a morning yellow. It's not hot yet, and my black windbreaker is explained by the gusts still whipping around the podiums, but the sun will warm things up soon.

Before I can keep looking around the arena, or even begin to take stock of the other tributes around me or the bounty at the mouth of the Cornucopia, a familiar voice rings out over the arena.

"Ladies and gentleman!" Claudius Templesmith booms. "Let's the Seventy-third annual Hunger Games begin!"

The death count begins.

60 seconds to wait and force oneself to commit to the plans we've been thinking of this whole time.

Johanna said to fight.

She'd want to me to go for it, into the fray.

But that seemed much easier back when I was sleeping in the silk sheets of the Training Center.

I begin to stand. The arena becomes silence, aside from the low howl of the wind.

BOOM!

I gasp, immediately gripping the sides of the metal plate so hard my knuckles turn white. Something flies over my head. A few tributes scream, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

I already know what's happened as I look to the right, and see the fourth podium down coated in red and pieces of what used to be a tribute.

The girl from District 6 - a 13 year-old named Trolley, if memory serves right - wails, her face scrunching up as she looked at the podium and the blood-slicked dirt in front of it, earth churned up raining red dust over the area.

I swallow before I can get sick. I didn't even know the name of the boy from District 6. He was 17, and shy with glasses, and scored a 3 in training. But I don't know his name.

I turn away, forcing myself to ignore the first death. I can't think about it now. I could be the next.

I stand, positioning myself to run, scanning the supplies at the cornucopia. The golden horn sits an the only bright green place in the arena. It's lush grass in a perfect circle, beginning ten feet or so from our half-moon of podiums.

Like most Games, the best supplies - tents, sleeping bags, swords, bags of fruits and dried meat - are closer to the inside of the horn. But further out, things are littered around, like a medium-sized, black backpack 20 years ahead of me.

Just like that, my mind makes itself up. I curl my hands into fists, willing myself to not abandon the plan. I'm a fast runner, and I got a 6 in training, which isn't very high, but could help me to not be targeted by the Careers when other tributes with better scores are rushing around. Hopefully.

My green eyes scan the half-circle of us quickly. We must be seconds away now.

None of the Careers are near me. 14 year-old Spindle is to my left, and the boy from District 10 is to my right. Spindle isn't facing the cornucopia, she's turned herself completely around, blonde braids blowing in the wind.

I'm going to make it.

Or at least it's what I tell myself.

The gong goes off, and I'm leaping off my plate before I can change my mind. My feet pound against the hard-packed earth, my arms pumping as the other tributes become blurs, secondary as my vision seems to tunnel on the one backpack I'm after.

My boots graze the grass circle around the cornucopia, and I slide for a moment, nearly slipping, yelping.

Someone near me slips, face-planting with a scream into the grass.

The Gamemakers must have made the grass wet, just enough to make it slippery and just that much more difficult to reach the cornucopia. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to continue running, taking smaller strides in an effort to not fall. I reach down, my hand slipping through one of the backpack straps. I yank it, throwing it on my back, and start to run.

A flash catches my eye, a familiar shape that immediately gives me pause.

2 throwing axes sit propped against a crate, their silver bits glinting as if taunting me to come and try to take them. A gasp escapes my lips.

The Careers will get them if I don't. They're mine.

Mine.

I take a step towards them-

A boulder slams into me, throwing me onto my back the backpack breaking pat of the fall. I cry out as my head slams against the hard earth, my vision blurring as I stare up at the blue sky.

For a moment, I can't even process thoughts. There's screaming and yelling but I can't breathe and things are so blurred, why are they blurry?

A boy appears over me, raising a shiny object.

Adrenaline shoots through me as I remember where I am and realize that the District 3 boy above me is holding a knife, and that it was him who crashed into me.

It's pure reflex when I kick him in the shin, but it's enough to make him buckle on the one leg, the knife sinking in the dirt beside me.

I kick him in the face, fear and anger flooding through me as this one boy, this one person who's trying to kill me, outstretches a hand. He yells, blood pouring from his nose and soaking the front of his windbreaker, red dirt on his face. I throw myself forward onto my knees, grabbing at his wrist with the knife as he tries to yank it from the dirt.

He grabs the neck of my windbreaker with his free hand, scrunching up the fabric as I dig my nails into his hand, trying to twist it.

He looks over my shoulder, hazel eyes widening.

A flash of silver glints beside me, and then a slender knife is stuck in the boy's throat. He gasps, dropping the knife and me as he pulls the throwing knife from his throat, scarlet blood flowing out through his hands.

I whip around, scrambling to move behind the boy.

The dark-skinned girl from District 11, Vine, raises another knife, her dark eyes focusing on me.

I don't even think as I grab the boy from 3, throwing him in front of me as he spits out blood, scratching at my hands. I don't wait to see what Vine does, instead getting up to my feet and stumbling towards the axes still sitting there.

A young blonde girl, small at nearly five feet tall, trips, falling onto the grass. The District 9 boy, one of the tallest competitors, appears with a sword, raising it over his head. Before he can, a tribute barrels into him, sending the boy and his sword crashing to the ground.

"Don't touch her!" the boy who tackled 9 says, glaring at him.

The boy from 9 grabs a sword, clenching his teeth, face contorting in fury as he moves to slash at the other.

The blonde girl gets up, grass stains on the shins of her beige cargo pants, eyes wide as the boy who saved her snaps the neck of 9 in one quick movement.

My vision blurs again for a moment, almost tilting as the blonde girl reaches for the boy's arm and he turns, pulling her along as they run for the horizon with the sun. My vision tilts further and then I'm on the ground, cool, dewy grass pressed against my neck and tickling my cheek.

The corpse of the boy from District 9 lies a few feet away, another tribute nearly tripping over him as she sprints away.

I close my eyes, trying to breathe.

The dead boy's twisted neck flashes through my eyes.

I can't breathe.

Footsteps thud close to me.

"Her?" someone says, sounding as if they're underwater.

"She's dead, look at that gash. Hurry up! Get the others!"

The footsteps leave, an almost quiet settling over me. I swallow, gulping in a breath, opening my eyes. The world is fuzzy and green and blue and dark orange. But up ahead, the glint of metal makes me take another breath.

Mine.

I reach my arms out, digging my pale fingers into the grass. I pull, dragging myself along, muscles in my arms straining. I manage to get a knee under myself, crawling across the wet grass, the knees of my pants soaked. I don't dare look at the dead boy from District 9 as I crawl past him. My breath comes in ragged gasps through clenched teeth, too loud to my ears when I barely hear anything else. Someone, many someones, are yelling and there's metal clashing but I don't care. All I care about are the axes that are like a promise of life here in this arena.

My right ear is warm. Something warm slowly runs down my neck. It must be sweat.

I reach a hand out, my other arm shaking as my fingers wrap around the smooth silver handle of the first throwing ax. I almost laugh, a smile twitching on my lips. I've reached them... they're safe. I grab the other, curling my hands around the familiar tools.

But they aren't tools here. To the Gamemakers, they're weapons.

But to me, they're life.

And then I'm standing, dragging the throwing axes off of the crate, taking comfort in the feeling of the axes in my hands. I stumble forward on the grass, away from the bloodbath. My boots touch the tough dirt of the rest of the arena, and I walk faster and faster away. Adrenaline floods my veins again as someone screams so loud behind me, it leaves my ears ringing.

I walk past the tribute podiums, the wind washing over my face and cooling me. I shiver, though I don't feel that cold. Cliffs I hadn't had time to look at stand half a mile from the podiums. Beyond that, so far it could just be my eyes playing tricks on me, look like the tops of dark green trees.

But instead I turn a bit to the left, at large rocks that stand near the cliff, like a field of boulders. The forest is far. But the boulder field is close.

My feet move as I jog towards the field, my vision blurring with every other step like it's a fuzzy television screen.

I just have to make it to the field. I'll be fine then.

I suck in air, blinking my eyes as they want to close, forcing myself to keep going.

I don't know how long it takes me to reach the field of boulders, or how many I walk around. They stand taller than two of me stacked, blocking out the horizon as I venture deeper and deeper into the maze of them.

I trip, not even able to throw my arms out in front of me as I hit the hard ground, my head slamming into the earth. Pebbles dig into my scalp, and I breathe in red dust, coughing and sputtering. The axes stay in my hands.

My body doesn't move. I can't move anymore. My chest heaves and I squeeze my eyes shut.

The world is silent.