(I like reviews thank you XD Their appears to be a problem with fanfiction not showing updates until much later... I think this chapter went down well, I think. So read on and review on!)

Girl #6 AKA Bertha Iglesias sat huddled against the wall, her arms over her knees, mumbling something incoherent. Her pigtails were becoming unravelled, and grime covered her feet, hands and face. Whenever she glanced at her hands, she let of another gasp and shook even harder, covering her face, constantly saying: "Dirty. Unclean. Dirty. Unclean." As if it was some kind of chant. Tears streaked down her face, and Bertha bit her lip, once more glancing at her hands and flinching back.

Back in District 6, Bertha was known as a 'clean freak' in her school, as well as having OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. While in school she had it controlled, the Games had opened it like it was a sore wound, and Bertha hated it. She was tapping on her knee, and had to tap on the next. She had to bite her lip two times in opposite directions. Overall, she was affected mentally by the games.

"A-Are you okay?"

Bertha's head shot up, and stared at the figure in front of her. The girl was thin, but sturdy. Her hair was tied back into a blonde bun, and concern was etched over her face.

"DIRTY! UNCLEAN!" Bertha suddenly exclaimed, shaking much more vigorously, her feet tapping against the floor.

Girl #3 AKA Sharon Nussbaum hesitated, before reaching out. "Are you sure you're okay?" She touched Bertha's shoulder, and she flung herself to the side, crying, her tears mixing with mucus from her nose.

"Away! Go away! Away! Away!" Bertha shrieked, causing Sharon to look around nervously.

Was it really worth the effort to see if she were okay if she attracted everyone on the island? To Sharon, she was conflicted. Back at school in District 3, she was always the nice girl, who made friends with those who weren't popular or liked.

In fact, her very best friend, Stacey was back at home, most likely watching her. And thinking about Stacey caused Sharon to think of her parents. But she instantly shook the thought off. They'd be no thinking about them in the games, not until you win.

Sharon kneeled down next to Bertha, ready to try once more. "Come on, it's okay. Do you want to talk?"

Bertha suddenly lashed out, her nails gouging through Sharon's cheek. Sharon gasped in surprise and fell on her haunches, already blood beginning to well from the wound and drip down to the ground.

"See what I get for my troubles." She muttered, before running up the small alley, leaving Bertha to tremble even more.

Sharon jogged lightly, adjusting her back, and quickly made the decision to go outside of the town. What if there were more people who had fell to the Games Psychological effects? What if they were more twisted? Sharon shook slightly, remembering the Games last year. Xavier King was mad, and brutal. But he wasn't the only one. The person, who came third, James Total, had been driven crazy. Her dad always said that if you let the games get to you; you wouldn't come out in one piece, if at all. He had said that if James did win, he wouldn't have been able to live outside the games.

Sharon shivered as she came to the Outskirts of the town. She didn't want to become like James, or like Bertha. She didn't want to be driven crazy. No, all Sharon wanted was to go back home, and if that meant killing...

Well, she didn't have a choice, did she?

XXX

"Come on Donald, come on! You can do it!"

"I don't want to mama, I don't want to..."

"Nonsense, it's only a river. You need to learn to swim sometime."

"But I'm gonna drown, mama, I don't want to die."

"You won't die, come on."

"Mama, no! No! NOO!"

Donald Lubin AKA Boy #2 sat up suddenly, before groaning in pain. It all came back to him in a rush. All he was doing was walking in the forest, when he was charged by some great oaf. Next thing he knew he was tumbling down a hill and knocked his head on some tree trunk.

Donald sighed, looking at his bag once again. He was disappointed, that was for sure. What was his random weapon? A gun? A sword? Even a fork? No, all he got was a damn plunger.

Donald cursed out loud to the game makers, before standing up, his head pulsing.

"Damn, stupid..." he muttered, looking around. Donald appeared to be in some pit, the hills rising all around him.

The sound of trickling caused Donald to freeze. His breaths grew shallow, and he looked to a pipe in the hillside. Water.

Oh god... Donald gulped, painful memories, harsh memories. Then he noticed something even worse.

The water was rising in the pit. He realised that the green hills weren't hills at all, but moss. Where was he? Some kind of... oh no... Donald knew what it must be. A trap. A trap waiting for one of the Tributes to fall into it.

As the water touched his foot, Donald jumped half a mile and tried climbing the wall, to no avail. The moss was slimy and wet. More water.

Donald jerked his hands back, breathing heavily.

"Come on, Donald m'man. It's water, just water... Just like the water you almost drowned in... No! Don't think! Donald, climb, climb!" It was a technique Donald had learned from his psychiatrist.

When Donald was 5, his mother had been trying to teach him to swim. Donald couldn't, and despite his protests, his mother threw him into the water. 'Actions speak louder than words' she said. Too bad Donald nearly died that day; in fact he had, for a few moments, before he was rescued by his dad. After that horrifying near-death experience, Donald had freaked out at any water. Be it the shower, from the tap, or the rain.

The rain was the worst. The way it pinged of the roof, the torrents of it, the completely different and unpredictable way it could fall. To Donald, it was torture. Complete and utter painful torture. His dad had got the psychiatrist a week after the event.

Donald was taught to talk to himself out loud, give commands out loud, and who knew, it actually worked. Donald could even walk out in the rain after a month of therapy.

He had thought he had quelled his fear, but as the water from the pipe got heavier, it reminded him of the small waterfall near the river in question, and the water was up to his knees now. His waist when he was a small child.

Donald backed up against the mossy wall, where strands tickled his neck, and clenched his fists.

Perhaps it was a trick? A mental one, one to see if he would panic. Perhaps the water would stop at his neck, and he could rise with it.

As if reading his thoughts, there was a clatter. Donald looked up, and his brain seemed to convulse.

"No! No no NO!" Donald yelled as a metal square slid from the wall forming a lid. Sealing him in. "Don't do this, no! No!" Donald felt himself crying, but he didn't care. All he cared about now was the fact the water was up to his waist. Pulling at his clothes, hundreds of small hands wanting to take him down the abyss.

Donald screamed and thrashed, hit the wall until his fists were bloody, and tore great chunks of moss from the wall in his frenzy. Nothing stopped the water, and soon, Donald's head touched the metal lid.

"God, no, don't do this, please..." Donald sobbed, tears falling down his face in salty strands. Thoughts covered his mind. His father, the only person who understood him. Apart from the psychiatrist, of course.

Then the water was over him suddenly. He didn't even have time to hold his breath.

Donald sputtered and tried to breathe, but all that achieved was water flushing into his lungs. He scrabbled at the lid with his hands, but nothing worked.

This was it.

Donald felt his eyesight fading, hearing the words of his mother once more in his last thought.

"You won't die, come on."