Cirrin sat on a fallen moss-covered log, his hood covering his short black hair to keep his head warm against the rain. In one hand, he held a long stick near one end, which he was sharpening to a point with the survival knife in his other hand. He figured if he got in a fight with an armed opponent, they'd probably have the reach advantage if all he had was his knife. It wasn't balanced for throwing, so a spear was the only way to keep an opponent from getting close enough to strike him.

He'd grabbed the knife from the Cornucopia. It was fairly close to the horn in the middle, but not close enough for him to run into any Careers on the way. Still, just after grabbing it and a backpack filled with supplies, he'd suddenly found himself face-to-face with a fairly muscular boy hefting a medieval mace. As the boy swung the mace at Cirrin's head with a yell, a word flitted through his head.

React.

He'd ducked, skirted the boy, and run off. Agility was one of the few advantages he had in the Hunger Games. His slim fourteen-year-old body didn't afford him much strength, but he could move it quickly. That, combined with his quick reflexes, made evading attacks easier. Between his agility and the reach advantage afforded by his spear, he thought he might even stand a chance if someone attacked him. Unless, of course, that someone was a Career. But he hoped he wouldn't fight anyone, Career or not, because it would most likely end either with Cirrin dying or Cirrin killing. Both thoughts chilled him, but he'd kill if he had to. He'd done it before.

It wasn't on purpose, of course. He was young, only eight or nine. His older brother had seen him sometimes come home with bruises, black eyes, and the like. His brother questioned and interrogated him until he admitted that yes, kids at school were bullying him. No, they didn't always take things from him. Sometimes they hit him just because they knew he wouldn't hit back. He was afraid.

His brother had taken it upon himself to teach Cirrin to defend himself. Their impromptu self-defense lessons mostly consisted of his brother (who was untrained in any form of fighting) pretending to strike Cirrin and coaching Cirrin on how to defend himself from each attack. "You can't attack first," he'd say. "If they hit you first, they're the bad guys. You can hit them without getting in trouble. If you hit them first, you're the bad guy. You need to wait until one of them tries to hit you, then react. Okay? When they try to hit you, react." He'd punch and kick from different angles, stopping his blows just short of Cirrin's skin. He shouted "React!" just before each fake strike, until it was drilled into Cirrin's head.

The next time the bullies confronted him, Cirrin was shaking. They took it to be a sign of weakness, of brokenness. He was shaking because he was nervous about the fight that he was sure would ensue. One of the bullies taunted him, shoved him back, and stepped forward to deliver a wide haymaker. For a split second, Cirrin seemed to see the punch coming in slow motion.

React.

He had ducked, stepped forward, and thrown his own punch. He didn't mean to hit the bully's throat. He was aiming for the chin, where his brother had told him to aim. But he hadn't fully risen back into a standing position, and he had failed to take that into account. As a result, his fist sailed under the bully's chin and connected with his throat, collapsing his windpipe. The bully collapsed, and starting rolling back and forth, hands on his throat, his face turning blue. Cirrin and the other bullies all stared, wide-eyed, uncertain of what to do, and they watched him suffocate.

Cirrin didn't know it as he sat on that log, but he was one of only two tributes that year that had killed a human being before the Hunger Games.

He tested the spearpoint with a finger, decided it was sharp enough, and laid it aside. He opened the pack he'd collected from the Cornucopia and looked through it. He found a folded-up blanket, a hefty magnifying glass, and a guidebook on useful rainforest plants. The guidebook was in a small plastic pouch to protect it from rain. He pulled it out, skipped to the section describing edible plants, and memorized the pictures of a few that he thought he'd recognize if he saw them. With a sigh, he put the guidebook back and stood up, sticking his knife in the leather sheath he'd clipped to his belt. He hadn't gotten a good look at the entire arena while being beamed down; he'd had other things on his mind. He'd have to settle for wandering aimlessly through the forest. He sighed again, picked up his spear, chose a direction at random, and walked.