Survival – The 54th Annual Hunger Games

"There are so many attention whores out there, prostituting for people's acknowledgment."

Jason Myers

Chariot Rides

Hypatia Dawson

Age 15, District Eight Female

"Oh no, darling...what did you do to yourself?"

If it wasn't bad enough that they stripped me of my clothes and forced me into nothing more than a paper sheet, now I have three colorful Capitolites circling me. Their fingers poke and prod me, running the length of some of my longer, protruding scars, their eyes slowly judging me. The one with the enhanced chest and purple mohawk, aptly named Jetta, kept her eyes on my newest attempt, the jagged line just above my knee. The mark I am most proud of.

"This just won't do," she pouted, as though it was her marred body, "what will we say to Empusa when she gets here?"

They remind me of parents; the great doctor and his wife. Always judging me, their eyes filled with pity when they look at me. The see me as their burden, their cross to bare. It is my siblings that they desire, the perfection that came with their combined first-born. I am an afterthought to them, but no longer. I might not have had the courage to volunteer for the games, but I am more than willing to show them why it is unwise to forget about Hypatia Dawson.

As they continue to gawk over the state of me, I imagine driving their scissors into their skin and dragging it down, all while they scream out in agony. While I never attack just any person on the street, nor my siblings, despite the fact that they deserve it, I still fantasize about what it would be like to cut them up and put them back together, better than they were to begin with. With every stitch, I am more like my father. With every wound I heal myself, I can feel him love me more than them.

In the arena, I will have my chance to gain my father's attention.

"You will be my work of patchwork art." His voice is deep, despite his feminine name. He is tall, dark, and imposing, like a Peacekeeper or bodyguard, with black, Gothic wings surgically attached to his back. Nothing about him seems to match, which throws me off just a bit. "Much like your scars, my work is stitched together to create perfection."

Perfection. I like the sound of that.

"I noticed your scars forthright," Empusa continued, ruffling the slight curl that Jetta managed to give my hair before she took notice of my chance to better myself. "My plans were tossed from my studio window, never to be seen by human eyes. You, Miss Dawson, YOU are my muse!"

Finally, someone that realizes my potential!

"Much like your cuts, mine were jagged, intersecting," he pulls a dress from the box he entered the room with, but he keeps it hidden behind him. "The stitches are haphazard and amateur, so very unlike myself. It will be the talk of the Rides, I can tell you that much."

Haphazard? Amateur?

No, that just won't do!

I go to open my mouth to retort, but he raises his fingers to my lips in an attempt to save himself the anguish of my response. He then thrusts his work into my raised hands, which were seconds from becoming fists. The colors, the jagged patches of cloth...

It's a work of art, much like myself.

"I love it," I tell him honestly, "Sincerely, I do."

With a quick kiss on the cheek, the most affection I ever showed for anyone other than my own father, I bound to my feet and start to get myself ready. His patchwork perfection fits me like a glove and flows down to my ankles before fraying out at the bottom. My hair is curled more, each one bouncing up around my shoulders and cradles my face, my makeup is spot on, matching my dress and my features pop out.

With Empusa's help, the crowd will love me. They will forget about those that volunteered for glory and murder for sport. I will be worshiped like the star I have always been. My mother might have been sucked into the faux glory that is my older, exemplary twin siblings, by my father was never fully sucked in by them. This will remind him of why I am his favorite child, his heir apparent. The experiments I did on my own body where just the beginning; the games will be my proving ground. I will rise like a phoenix from the burning rubble of this shit stain of a situation, I will be the victor of these games. I am the omega element that these games sorely need.

In the hall I find my district partner, the odd and effeminate Jarvis Sprence and he is a site for sore eyes. His suit seems awkward, his patchwork more precise and unimaginative. Of course, compared to the dress he wore to the Reapings, this is tame and he looks out of his element. His large, hazel eyes seem to have lost the sparkle it had on the train and perhaps the reality of his death sacrifice for my victory has set in. Then again, I thought I heard him crying in his compartment on the train...

His expression changes once he catches site of my flawless attire. "Hypatia! Your stylist is a genius!"

My trademark smirk comes through once again. "Of course he is, he had me to guide him."

He mockingly bows before me. "You, my dear, will steal the show tonight. I need to get my hands on something that stunning before we head into the arena."

Jarvis/Jalyssa believes itself to have a chance in this grand scheme of things, that being kind is the way to go. What everyone needs to know is that it is the perfection that wins the games and that is me. Hypatia Dawson. The formerly forgotten third child of the great District Eight doctor. No longer in the shadow of her siblings, she will invade your mind like no other tribute for her.

Even in the stable, I can hear the roar of the crowd. The other tributes gawk and stare, their jealousy seeping through. I drink it in, letting it fill me with the strength I need to get myself through it all and into the arena. Only then, will the real Hypatia Dawson. Only then, will I be free.

Obsidian Lockett

Age 18, District One Male

I've heard that us District One Careers are supposed to be proud as peacocks, but this is ridiculous.

The jewel-covered loincloth was one thing. We house the jewel miners, I get that. Honestly. The purpose of it being so...revealing...is beyond my comprehension. But still, I guess it all makes sense in the mind of a Capitolite. What seems out of place are the peacock feathers used as a rather large, floppy headdress.

My eyes find themselves on Versace, who is looking even more bitter than I am about our costumes. Her two-piece bikini of jewels is rather tame compared to what I'm currently trying to work with, but I understand her resentment. We are supposed to be viewed as savage beasts; volunteers for a game of death, and yet we are dressed in next to nothing. And feathers. On top of all of this, Felisha, my stylist, refuses to take her hands off of me. It's degrading and uncomfortable.

"Come, 'Sid," Versace croaks, grabbing me by the arm and saving me from more sexual harassment. "If we are to ensure leadership over the pack, I say we get a move on!"

...leadership? Does the girl mean me? Never once have I even entertained the thought of leading anything, let alone the Career Pack. Usually, that is something reserved for the more outgoing and ruthless of us all, for people like Versace herself or Ryder, from Two. As a District One Male, it is expected of you to make some sort of place for dominance in the Careers, but this isn't something I would ever see myself being particularly interested in.

Of course, I say nothing. I never do, honestly. Another reason why leading shouldn't fall to my shoulders.

The girl from Four is just as breathtaking in person as she was at her Reaping. It was obvious that she knew the girl she Volunteered for, as she pulled the girl in for a hug before going to the stage, and that gains her a bit more respect in my eyes. Still, all the respect in the world can't keep me from staring at her, the mermaid outfit she was poured into leaving little to the imagination and I find myself staring at her jewel-encrusted navel. She catches me staring at her and blushes, something I reciprocate.

"Micky Holder, District Four," she states as though she's done it a million times in the mirror just today and holds out her hand. "Obsidian, right?"

I simply nod in response, which seems to make the whole exchange even more awkward.

"Yes, well," she pulls her hand back slowly and I cast my eyes away. "Have fun up there, leader."

Leader? Where in the hell is this idea coming from?

Father would be so proud.

With a bottle of alcohol in hand, Versace's mentor graces us with his presence. Stone Zarvus is considered a national treasure, his victory the stuff of legends. With the highest kill-count to date, a mind-blowing eleven that no one has gotten close to, and yet, all I see is an angry, bitter drunk. The trainees back at the center dreaded the days when he would pop in to check on us. Jewel was always kinder, showing us things besides brute strength and violence. Stone would scoff at her sissified ways, believing her win to be nothing more than a fluke. Her Training Score of 11 was no fluke; the girl earned that score and did it without training. She has become a friend and hero to me in the past year of personalized training.

"Well hello gorgeous!" he exclaims, looking a blushing Micky up and down. "Under the sea indeed."

Politely as can be, she nods and saunters off, our eyes never leaving her until she is back with her District Partner.

"I was talking to Brutus about his tribute," he began, once his eyes were back on me. He takes a quick swig of his liquor and continues. "Ryder is a natural leader, a well-rounded tribute that he has taken a personal interest in for years. But you, my lad, you would make an excellent leader."

"Why is that?" I finally ask, desperate to learn what the others see that I myself do not. "I'm no leader."

"That's exactly it, my lad," he pats me on the shoulder. "Those that deserve power are those that do not seek it."

Well, that is a philosophical answer to such a question and not something you'd hear out of the misogynistic drunk's mouth. I can't say I disagree with the answer, because it is something I would have thought had the question not been about me, but for once, it doesn't apply. The thought of being leader does nothing for me.

"Let him have it." There is little to my voice and it wouldn't surprise me if didn't even hear it. "I'm no leader..."

And with that, I turn my back on him and enter my Chariot. Within moments, Versace joins me, her face contorted.

"District One needs to lead the alliance this year, Sid," her voice is pleading, so very unlike the girl I've spent the past year competing with. "We need control over these guys."

I sigh, looking down at the caramel colored horses they have pulling our chariots this year. "If you want District One to lead the alliance, do it yourself. I don't want it."

I glance up and catch her eyes go wide for just a second. Since being chosen to represent District One last year, this is the most I've spoken to her. Usually, I leave her rant and grumble, all the while listening with a patient, but uninterested ear. I've always been seen as the quiet Career, so focused on training that I have no room to muddle what I am doing with trivial things like words and thoughts. I just go out there and do what is expected of me. I can't do that here, though. What if my silence is seen as a sign of weakness? And, to bring it back to the problem at hand, how can I lead a group of trained killers if I don't open my mouth? To be the Career I am expected to be, it seems as though I'll have to change the person that I am.

And what if I refuse?

"We can settle the leadership debate tomorrow," Versace cackled, a lopsided smile growing in the wake of the roaring crowd. "Tonight, we are gods!"

Verity Laraine

Age 17, District Five Female

Power plant workers.

Why am I not surprised?

You would think they'd have a lot more to choose from, what with supplying Panem and the Capitol with all the power they will ever need and more. But, alas, no. It's Power Plant workers again for us, decked out in what looks like silver and black tinfoil, our hair spiked to look as thought we were shocked by the electricity we work with (or possibly, the idiocy of our costumes). Well, at least that part makes sense...I was shocked to see that someone called a stylist had no style.

I find myself more offended by my costume than I do about being here in general and I have no idea why.

Without saying a word, Ion takes my hand and helps me into the chariot, his callused hand is rough against my softer, smaller one. Why would a victor, a man of leisure other than his Capitol trips have workers hands is beyond me. Then again, a lot about Ion Finch is questionable. He is the youngest tribute to date, winning a mere two weeks after his thirteen birthday, and yet, his games are the only one you can not view at the Justice Building and are never part of any highlight reel. Boothe's labyrinth and Rush's castle are there for all to see, but Ion...he was a fluke win and the Capitol doesn't want a repeat.

Next to me, Lyle smiles softly, his eyes a little lost and sad. Like Ion, there is something more to Lyle than he is letting on. Both peak my curiosity, but I can not let it drag my focus away from the most important thing right now; winning. Going home means more than just the chance to live my life, to grace District Five once again, but to finally forge the relationship I've only dreamt of with my mother and father.

Maybe that is why I am taking such offense to these costumes?

No time to think about it now. Our chariot lurches forward, slower than a crawl at first, then the pace gets faster and faster until we are thrust into the light and the roar of the crowd. The colors and sounds overwhelm my senses, burning my eyes and pulsating in my ears. My body must have wavered, even slightly, because I soon find Lyle's hand on the small of my back, keeping me steady and, most importantly, on the chariot.

On instinct, I jerk away from his touch, refusing to look at him for fear of seeing the hurt that I know is in his eyes.

"Just...don't."

He seems to get it, as he backs himself away from me, leaving my mind to focus on the other tributes.

The Careers are imposing, each one of them older than myself; their costumes revealing. My eyes quickly find the chiseled, glowing body of the proud peacock from One, his cheeks a noticeable shade of crimson from the stares and catcalls from the men and women in the front rows. In the chariot next to him, the boy from Two is the complete opposite, dressed to kill as a golden god, he drinks in the admiration of the crowd, his face showing nothing but pure pleasure. In all honesty, the Careers are a mixed back this year, age seems to be their only similar trait.

"VERITY!" The mention of my name, lost in the sea of Career names, catches my ear. "VERITY LARAINE!"

Suddenly, I am wanted. It's a feeling I am unaccustomed to, yet always coveted and now, it only brings about conflicting chords that thrash about in my stomach. The breakfast I picked at on the train threatens to rise, bile peaking its unwanted head in the base of my throat. Once again, Lyle is there, keeping me grounded, his words are kind and his smile matches. But I can't help but feel like something is off.

"Smile, Verity," he coos, speaking as thought I am nothing more than a child. "Sponsors are watching."

Smile. Easy for him to say.

Instead, I manager to nod and wave in the general direction of where my name is being called from. To my despair, I end up waving at the chariot from Seven, as it happens to be standing between myself and my admirer. The boy, gorgeous and imposing, winks at me, causing my body to shake and my stomach to flip once again. My eyes dart forward again, refusing to even glance back at him. Part of me wants to laugh, though. The poor guy and his smiley District Partner have a stylist worse than ours.

Once again, the poor souls of District Seven are trees.

This prompts me to inspect and pick apart the other non-Career tributes in the parade. The pair from Three look amazing in their sleek black jumpsuits, complete with lights that seemed to be blinking in a pattern of sorts. Eleven are gods of the land, the girl gorgeously wrapped in golden hues, her partner matching and twitching nervously. I remember his Reaping and the circus it became once he reached the stage, my heart breaking slightly for the boy. The little children from Six and Nine shine through, their costumes catching my eye almost as much as their innocence. While I know I should never count out the smallest tributes in these games, especially with my Partner's mentor being the youngest to date, I can't help but picture them dying painfully and early; the girl from Nine pierced by One's spears, a throwing knife to the back for the budding monster from Six. Their kind breaks the hearts of all in Panem every year and yet, we do nothing about it. It's a vicious cycle.

A vicious cycle that I am now a part of. Those children, the ones that I just expressed concern over the loss of their lives, could possibly be killed at my hands or the hands of a potential ally. The Careers that volunteered their lives away, the littles, even Lyle himself, all have to die in order for my dream of acknowledgment to come to life. To gain what I deserve and desire, I have to get my hands a little more than dirty. Only once has a winner made it through the games without a single kill to their name, a feat that I doubt I can replicate. If I am to go home, I'm going to have to kill. Someone's blood will be on my hands in some way, shape or form.

Ahead of us, Coriolanus Snow stands at his podium, his hair matching his name and demeanor, his eyes boring into my own. He may not have created the Hunger Games, but they have been transformed into the fear tactic that they have under his watch. I shutter under his gaze and once again, there he is.

Lyle.

Can I honestly kill him if it comes down to him and me?

The answer scares me more than Snow's eyes watching us all.

Taurus Betail

Age 16, District Ten Male

Irony.

Here I am, on a Chariot, on display for all of Panem and I'm dressed as a sheep. Fluffy white body, white and black face, the works. While I should be happy that I'm a sheep before it's been sheered, I still can't find a real silver lining in this. Irene seems equally uncomfortable, her frilly blue dress leaving much of her legs exposed, but at least she can try to pull off the sexy thing while she's in the Capitol and gain sponsors that way. Me? I'm a laughing stock, especially back home. I know the people that know me, that know the real me, are laughing at me behind my back. But no matter, I'm going to own this costume, fake wool and all.

Names of other tributes hit my ears and I can't help but feel a little sad that not one of them is my own. The Careers are the loudest of all, of course they are, but even the smaller tributes are getting shown some Capitol love. Ones like the boy from Six, the youngest of us all. His Reaping was insanity at its best and showed us all not to count the youngest tribute out this year. There was just something about him that stood out...

I couldn't help but stare at him; his silver jumpsuit is blinding, his hovercraft headgear hilarious. The girl seemed annoyed by him, constantly rolling his eyes as he became more and more animated. In an act of defiance, he flips off those that call his name and they love him more for it. He's an accidental superstar and I need to be a part of it. That kid is good for sponsors.

"That kid is going to get himself killed very quickly."

Her voice was monotone, steady, unlike the rest of her body. She was going to be eaten alive once the training starts tomorrow, I just know it.

"No, he is standing out, making a name for himself," I correct her, my eyes never leaving him. "Something I can't do in this thing!"

She sighs, but never moves her eyes from directly in front of her. She's robotic, frightened. I feel sorry for her, honestly I do, but I know that nothing I can do will save her. If I ally with her, she'll drag me down. A large part of me feels guilty for thinking that way, for almost wishing for Irene to die, but in the end, it is the nature of the games. If the guys back home knew how genuinely sick that makes me feel or felt the bile of shame that is burning a whole in my stomach, they would toss me out on my ass. To them, I'm just another follower, another bully. I hate that word, I hate everything about the person I have come to be.

If I can win this, maybe I can change everything. Maybe...

I swallow down the blame and cowardice that threatens to spill out of my mouth and give into the adrenaline of the crowd. Part of me can see why the Careers break arms and fight tooth and nail to hit the stage; the rush is like little else. Here, everyone knows your name. From the oaf from Two, to the boy that went from flipping them off to now mooning the crowd, to even robotic Irene, they know each and every one of us. Everyone, except me-

"-BETAIL!"

What? Me?

Irene nudges me and points to the left, where a pair of girls my age stand; their faces painted and signs made with care and grace. Fans. The coward of District Ten, the sheep amongst the wolves, the motherless son...they are calling my name! This was all I needed...this was the push I needed!

"LADIES AND GENTS, IT'S TAURUS BETAIL!"

My district partner let out a slight shriek as I pushed myself up onto the front of the Chariot. My knees ache and my hands hold the wood for dear life; one slip and I'm a hoof-pressed meat bag. Behind me, Irene bellows at me to come down, but the high I am on doesn't let me. The attention, I need it. If I am going to live, I have to make a stand right here and now.

I won't be like that boy that made it to the end and took his life. Good or bad, I'm going home a victor.

The speed we are traveling at doesn't allow me to do much else by stay in my position, so after only a minute (which feels like forever), I dropped back down to where I'm supposed to be. However, that minute was all I needed. The focus of the crowd is no longer on the Careers, the youngest tribute, the girly-looking guy from Eight...no. It is on me. Well, that is, until we pull around the town center, where President Snow looms above us. His slicked back hair and full beard give him the distinct look of a bleached lion and the bloody rose in his breast pocket reminds us that he is a lion, only a lazy one. Instead of hunting us down himself, he'd rather rely on the rest of us to do the dirty work for him. Pathetic.

"Welcome, one and all, to the 54th Annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd pops and its louder than any of our names, reminding me that we are only as good as what we do in the games. Murder, backstabbing, general awful behavior, that is what they really want from us. Friendship, team building, and love are to stay behind, for they do not make this story worthy of their money. At the end of the day, we are a slave to them, just as we are back home.

"Tonight we salute your bravery and your sacrifice."

His voice...it's like glass being shoved through your skin slowly, you can feel the torture and anguish with each syllable. I half expect my skin to bleed, but instead, I find it quivering. From high above us, from behind his podium and power, he stares at me. Ice blue hues bore a hole through me and I skin into my shoes, my face turns the same shade of white as my costume.

In my race for glory, I made an enemy of the one person I shouldn't have.

In the arena, a Career can kill you. An ally can kill you. A Gamemaker can kill you. All of those things are true, but never certain. What is certain? If President Snow wants you dead, that is it for you.

I am a dead man.

Elias Auberon

Age 16, District Three Male

These people are seriously mental.

The boy from Six, the youngest tribute with the hilarious name, has taken to acting out as a way of gaining himself attention from the Capitol, while the sheep from Ten seems to enjoy following suit. Even now, they seem like two peas in a pod, bonding near the sugar cubes for the horses. Pathetic, really. Normally, I wouldn't give enough for a shit to point out their behavior, but where we are going, I have to give everyone a look over. Saves me from having to do the work for it later on. Granted, there isn't very much to go on here, but it's a start. Tomorrow, I can start to really take them all in.

The girl from Twelve is an interesting one. Her blonde hair is shocking, especially when compared with her Partner and the other tributes I've seen come and go from her District. The scar that seems to go from the side of her face to the back of her head warrants my attention, as does the crazed look in her eyes. Her Reaping was an interesting one, with the thrashing about and string of obscenities. It was one of the better Reapings to watch on the train ride here and certainly more entertaining than listening to Beetee finish the dingbat's sentences because she's too nuts to do it herself. And don't get me started on Tesla...

As if on cue, she moves beside me; her blue eyes vacant, her walking and overall stance differs from that of the girl on the train. It's almost as though there are two different girls inside of her, fighting for supremacy. Normally, I'd find it funny or, at the very least, fascinating, but in her, not so much. She's a definite player in these games, that much is certain.

"Got an alliance in mind?" Her voice is sweet and just a pinch higher than her normal tone. For some reason, I notice that and it doesn't sit well with me. "The girl from Twelve, perhaps?"

I shrug my shoulders, knowing that it is best to keep all of my cards in hand before tossing them to the table and discovering a hole in my poker hand. "Who knows. Training seems like a better way to discover what these guys are really like. For all we know, the klutz from Eleven is a tech wiz and the girl from Nine can bench press three times her weight."

Her eyes flash confusion, as though she is unable to grasp if I believe my own words or not. This lasts for only a brief moment, as she shrugs her shoulders and walks past, making a bee-line for the elevators and leaves her mentor behind her. Of course, in her absence, they decide to corner me with their ridiculous questions. Beetee might be a genius and the first proper male winner of the games, but he's an idiot for sticking by this lost cause and even more of an idiot for saddling me with her. Wiress twitches as she walks towards me, a nervous tick made worse in the arena and her eyes never meet my own. A hopeless mess if ever I've seen one and I've seen all kinds of people in District Three.

"So, did you learn anything out there?"

I shrug my shoulders. "The names of the other tributes. I'm pretty sure there's one running around here named Ryder."

Wiress twitches and shuffles her feet. "What...what he meant was-"

He cuts her off, which irritates me to no end. "Did you watch the other tributes, learn anything from them? Potential allies?"

"Let the lady speak, man," I scoffed, making Wiress twitch some more. "Yes, I learned a little bit about my opponents."

"It might help of you don't refer to them as your opponents," he sighed, adjusting his glasses.

Once again, I find myself scoffing. "And what should I be calling them, oh fearless leader? Future victims? Death buddies? SERIOUSLY?"

Soon, everyone is staring at us. District Three has finally stolen the show.

"Whatever. Meet me upstairs."

And with that, I find myself in the elevator alone.

Sometimes, I don't get our mentors. They are victors, survivors, and yet, they act as though they have no clue as to what they are doing. Maybe Decimal held them together. I don't remember Gideon really having a chance to mentor before he kicked the bucket long before I was born, so she must have been the glue that held them together. Without her, they are lost and I am fucked. Seriously fucked.

Thanks for killing yourself, lady!

It's not long before I am our suite and joining a silent Tesla. Her outfit that completely matched mine and sent out the "District Three Rocks" Morse code message that was just super originalis now gone, replaced with a simple nightshirt and sleeping pants. She is silent, sans for the sound of her chewing away at her apple. I can't help but gulp loudly as she slowly cuts each piece with a larger knife than needed for a job likes this. The juices run down her mouth, her stare vacant.

This girl is legitimately freaking me out.

"They want to help us, you know."

I look up from my muffin and notice that she is staring right at me. No, not staring at me, looking through me, as though she doesn't see me there and is speaking only for herself. Then, just as quickly as she shook me to my core, she turns. A light comes back into her eyes and she smiles at me. If I wasn't so comfortable in my spot, I probably would have bolted for my room right then and there. Plus, if I am to be honest, I am intrigued by her.

"I know, but lucky you, you didn't get saddled with the headcase," I remind her, tipping my muffin towards her out of respect. "I guess they feel that you need more help than I do. Wonder what the means for us in the long run."

Honestly, I don't see Tesla making it far without their help. The girl screams issues and I can see her zoning out in the arena and ending up with a knife to the back. But something else bothers me about her, as though this isn't her first time with a knife in her hand and I don't mean to peel an apple. She is touched and I can't be on the receiving end of it. In my line of work, I've seen all kinds of people. None, however, are like her.

And, frankly, that isn't a good thing.

I remember when her brother died, the kid they called Sparky. His murder was never solved and he casket was carried through his neighborhood to the cemetery, per the District Three tradition. The family, Tesla included, followed behind it, his parents barely making it to the cemetery. I was only a kid at the time, but I remember catching the ghost of a smile on Tesla's face. Even then, at nine years old, I knew it was wrong. And now, I'm trapped with her, trapped with a sociopath, a headcase, and a guy trying to keep it all together, at least until we hit the arena and come back in a pine box from Seven.

Maybe I'll get lucky and she'll try to make a break for the weapons early. Wouldn't be the first time someone got antsy before the clock hits zero, but I doubt I'll have that kind of luck. No, if I'm going to make it out of this place, I'm going to have to go against everything that makes me...me. I'm going to have to give a shit and try.

I am so fucked.

Elvira Amaro

Age 14, District Nine Female

They are at it again.

Right off the bat, I could tell our only remaining mentors were miles apart one what we, as tributes, should be doing. While one wanted us trained together, an alliance right off the bat, the other has different plans and the shouting match has commenced. The tension is so thick one could drown in it, which one would only have to look to Chester to see exactly that. His face, usually so full of life, is growing pale and torpid, as though this was a part of his everyday life and he thought he could escape it in the Capitol.

Well, sorry Chester dear, but things are tough all over.

A book goes flying across the room after escaping the metal clutches of our last victor, narrowly missing the head of my own mentor by inches. "If you had just listened to me last year, they would have made it further."

"Come off your high horse, cyborg!" His words leave a pained expression on her face that I can't help but grin at. "Your way or my way, the outcome would have been the same. But if you just listen to me, I can bring one of these two back home. We will have another victor!"

"You? You didn't bring me back! I BROUGHT ME BACK!"

His voice, barely a quiver, goes overlooked by the shouting pair. "Why don't you ask us what-"

"STAY OUT OF THIS!"

Drama. I usually relish in it, let it absorb itself into my skin. It's so easy to manipulate and mold into just the thing you need to make it to the next day and yet, just as easy to use as your distraction. Back home, it was my bread and butter, sometimes literally, as I could work it all to my advantage. Maybe that is why I feel as though I am thriving here. I should be scared, like Chester, worried about getting my mentors on the same page, worried about them getting me out alive. But Lulu is right, she got herself out of the arena and in the end, I will have to get myself out as well. My mother isn't here to preach her gospel to me, my sisters aren't here to save me. I'm alone in all of this.

I can't help but feel sorry for Chester. His story is a well-known one in the District, even from someone who lives and spends her time on the fringe of the Grain District. He's awkward and gawky, his cheeks grow rosy when you stare at him for too long, a sad sap from the beginning. An injured bird that might be just the type that you want with you in the arena; he'll be at your beck and call, while not having the strength or will to defy you. But first, I must gain his trust.

My patented wail pierces the air and I drop to the ground, letting my limbs twist and turn like ragdoll parts. While Lulu, immune to my dramatic ways just scoffed at me, Wheatley was at my side and holding my hand before I knew it. Taking the cue, Chester took Lulu by the hand and asked to leave the room and discuss a play for tomorrow. Thanks, I hope you remember that when the we are battling to the death in the arena.

"You're fine, ignore Lulu and her childish ways," his voice is silky and unnerving, sending a shiver down my spine for some reason I cannot describe. "What we need to do is get you ready for an alliance. Now, did you see anyone worth teaming with?"

I racked my mind, replaying the events since entering the Capitol. Domenico undressing me, his team poking at my ribs, commenting on my boney frame. The dress made of grain that left my body itchy and red, while poor Chester was left in a grain loincloth and headdress. The horses, the cheers. The Careers looking as though they would spear me without a second glance. Focusing on not falling off the Chariot, while trying my best to pull in sponsors. The noise...so much noise. But an alliance?

Never crossed my mind.

My silence was all the answer he needed. "Teaming with Chester might not be in your best interests, mainly because Lulu will most likely poison his mind. She would turn you two against each other just to spite me." He pauses for a moment, his face contorted in thought, then continues. "Now, there were a few potential tributes that I noticed from the Reaping alone that might work for you."

Poison Chester against me?

Poison his mind?

Poison...

That's why he gives me the willies, when all he's trying to do is help me. His games were rarely shown in our district, but I remember catching them once as a child. He played his role of protector quite well, suckering in the weakly pair from Twelve and the girls from Five and Three. During his interview he gushed about want to keep his new friends safe, his 6 made him fade into the background. Hell, he still played his part during he bloodbath, getting most of his alliance out of the Bloodbath and into the Funhouse his arena was set in. Through the maze of mirrors they went, losing the second tribute from Twelve and he mourned for them. Days they went, just himself and the girls, making it past one obstacle after another until finally, he was sent a box as they slept. Under the cover of darkness, he toiled away, pouring different colored liquids into a larger vial until finally adding his concoction to their food. Curled up by my mother's legs, I watched through covered eyes as they munched down his food, which he so selflessly gave up for them.

He killed his own allies with a poison he made.

I didn't understand it then. The smile that grew across his face as they choked and vomited blood all over themselves entered my dreams every night for weeks and I saw him as only a monster. But now, I see it for what it truly is.

Survival. Be or be killed.

"Do you see anyone that I can easily manipulate?"

A smile, the same one that haunted me all those years ago, spread across his face. "I knew there was a reason why I wanted you as my tribute."

Poisoning won't work with me, as I'll never be able to get the vials just right. No, much like the rest of the tributes from my District, a sickle will do me just fine. What I can do, however, is find myself an ally or two, strong, trusting. Of course, a little naïve. Someone that can carry the small, God-fearing girl from District Nine through the games and keep me safe from harm.

Until my sickle finds their throat.

The Elvira I used to know wouldn't dream of turning on her friends and slaughtering them as they sleep. Then again, I never dreamt of myself actually being reaped and entering the Games. I guess I always thought one of my sisters would come to my rescue, saving me from certain death and taking my place, but familiar bonds are never that strong, not even in my family.

If all of this goes as I plan, will they understand why I did it? Will they be able to look me in the eye and be in my presence? Wheatley's family abandoned him after his win, denouncing him as a son. Will my mother and sisters do the same?

Will I even care if they do? At least I will have my life and the riches I always dreamt of having.

"Well, I do have someone in mind..."

Well, look who FINALLY came back? I know I have a lot to explain, what with this FIVE MONTH hiatus, but please hear me out.

As most of you might have noticed, with the exception of my duties as a writer on the 24-Author project I am a part of (It's All In Their Hands...CHECK IT OUT!), I have disappeared from Fanfiction. There is a reason behind that. Well, a few. At first, I was a bit overwhelmed with general life crap. As a single mom, things happen and my kids come first. But usually, it doesn't effect my writing. However, in the beginning of July, I lost my father. Without getting into too many details, my daddy pretty much died right in front of myself and my two kids. This happened right in the middle of writing this chapter. After dealing with the funeral and the general outcome of his death (especially with dealing with my kids, who lost a man they were extremely close to), I just had no desire to go back to this story. I tried, over and over again, to write this and I just couldn't do it. Then, I kicked myself in the ass and realized that I could use this story as a way to kind of forget my feelings for a little while. So yes, I plan to finish this story. I put too much effort into building a universe around this, creating a blog for not only these 24 tributes, but for the victors as well. I have sequels planned, going beyond the 75th games and going all the way up until the 100th games at LEAST! I won't let this die out. However, you may have noticed a slight change in what I had promised of this chapter. Instead of TWELVE POVS a chapter, I am doing SIX. I also have most of the next chapter written, so expect that very soon. Oh, and check out the blog for the victors if you haven't already. Just a little score sheet for each victor, from Adela, the first victor to Blight. forgive the children we once were . blogspot Just eliminate the spaces (there are ten).

I am dedicating this story to my father, who would have wanted me to finish something I started. This first step is for you!

As always, I have a few questions I'd like you, the review, to answer. If not, no biggie. Whatevs! ;D

Out of these six, who stood out?

Who do you want to see next?

Thoughts on the Victors blog?