Determination.

"The difference between a successful person and others is not a lack of strength, not a lack of knowledge, but rather a lack in will." - Vince Lombardi.

Raven Stillman, District Twelve Male.

The night is colder than it's meant to be, far colder. I peg it down to the worry and anxiety chilling my entire body, rooting me into my chair round the dining table as I soak in the pre-morning air.

Nothing I do can conjure up a simple slumber, I'm always left staring wide-eyed at the ceiling in my bedroom, wondering when my mind will shut itself off. So here I am. Petrified yet accepting, accepting of the situation and where I'm headed.

It's why I don't cry or haven't cried since I was reaped. Tears aren't a sign of weakness, nor are they are a sign of bravery. They're just tears and I've kept them away, crying won't change anything, neither will confidently brandishing swords and broadcasting skills to either friend or foe. I don' care for all that. It's what pulled me to Graeden in the first place, his optimism and happiness that never crept into silliness or immaturity.

We just spent our last days together, together. As a pair, as two friends. I'm happy I've done that, settled ends that I never satisfied back in the District where it was easier to run away then say a simple hello. It was easier to be a shadow than the centre of attention, but now I have Graeden. The darkness of death doesn't seem so terrifying now, not as bad as it did when it was just me alone, wondering whether Kitty would speak to me or not.

I sigh, relaxing into the soft cushion of the chair. I am fine. As fine as one can be considering our location and destination. Fine... I am fine.

"Raven?"

Her voice isn't quite so harsh now that I hear it properly, without background interruption. Kitty patters down from the dark corridor, tired eyes, red streaks trailing her cheeks. She's been crying silently to herself, crying out of fear maybe? Or just crying because... well because she's accepted it? Maybe both.

"I can't sleep."

She pulls a chair out from the table, seating herself. The top is clear, without the bounty of food and drink that has always been laid at our fingertips, it's strange. Almost like it fits with what we're going through these last few hours and what lies in our future if we make it past the bloodbath.

Empty table today, empty stomach tomorrow.

Kitty rests her chin on the flats of her knuckles, staring at me. For all she's done to me, or for a better word, all she hasn't done, I don't hate her. If anything, the fact she's here right now makes up for the few days she left me wondering if I really was worth anything, or if my age had condemned me to die before I could even put up a fight.

Caesar tested that, raising the question. It was Graeden that gave me the strength to reply with nothing more than a 'we'll see' and now I feel like it could be possible. I've accepted death, I haven't accepted when it will happen just yet.

"Do you think we'll be okay today?" Her voice strains, the tears pooling at the edges of her eyelashes. The terror widens those bright brown eyes and I let a small smile curl up my cheeks.

"I can't say, no one can."

If there's one thing Kitty, or anyone deserves, it's the truth. We all deserve honesty.

She wipes the back of her hand across her nose, sniffling and letting out a single muffled sob that breaks through her fingers that she tries to cover with. Her cheeks brighten red and she peers down at her lap.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about Kitty." I reach out a hand, unsure why I'm doing this. "People cry."

Her shoulders bounce once, a laugh breaking past her lips. "You're not and you're younger than me."

The insult spikes through me, rising up the same pain from earlier, the same pain I've repressed because I am in fact the youngest of all the tributes here.

Kitty was one of the main culprits hurting me in regards to my own self-doubt. Callan pretended to look at me with hope, I guess pretend hope is better than no hope at all. It's better to be spoken to than ignored, even if I used to do that in favour of maintaining my own weird sense of confidence.

It's too late and too much to allow anything to show on my face but the same gentle grin. Kitty's terrified out of her mind, whether she knows what she's saying or doesn't isn't the problem.

"We all handle fear differently."

We both turn at the sound of timid footfalls against the corridor. The pitch black wall of darkness blocks out any light or signifies as to who it is. Neither of us are scared, Callan is the least of our worries. He's been good to us for the days we've been together, better than Graeden's own mentor Oren. It could have been so much worse.

When she breaks through and into the light, it's not Callan. A young Avox girl almost sways on the spot at the sight of our faces locked in a gaze. She nods an apology and goes over to the television area, disappearing behind another door I never even realised existed.

"They shouldn't be the ones who are scared." Kitty mumbles.

"We're going into the Hugner Games, the majority of us will die but that'll be it – the end of our suffering. They have to live as slaves, tortured if the Capitol wants it. They aren't free."

Kitty shrugs her shoulders and pushes away from the table. If I want to stop her, I don't. Kitty can do what she likes like she always has, with her own friends and her own goals in the Games.

One thing I know about Kitty is she has a game plan, behind all those tears she's still resigned to winning this through whatever means necessary.

Some people might scorn that, but who can say anything against a girl just trying to survive.

We were both reaped, both pulled from lives we either loved or hated. Both here against our will and both here to die. We can fight how we like.

"Goodnight Raven."

She disappears back into the darkness, the sound of her door opening and closing a few seconds apart, leaving me alone. "Goodnight Kitty. "

Sabrina Calladine, District Eleven Female.

"We could talk to pass the time, if you like." Sloan drops the useless television remote on a spare cushion, his eyes staring up at me. "Or not, you know, silence is good too."

I laugh breathlessly, leaning back in the armchair. Despite the chill from outside, I'm relaxed enough, relaxed enough for the pair of us. Sloan has tried to remain absent since his altercation with Eaton, but now he's fidgeting with his hands and feet, tapping away at the base of the couch and pulling on threads that poke out from each cushion.

I'm remaining calm for myself and for him it seems, it's better than me joining him in his show of restlessness.

"I'm not one for talking you know, not as much as I'd like," I admit, smiling at him. Sloan isn't like the others here and in Eleven, he's strong but without the need to charge his way through a group and puff his chest out. It's why I reserve myself to showcasing my skills through subtler means, holding back in the right points to understand when cerebral tasks benefit over shouting my mouth off and fist-fighting.

With the Games a few hours away, it's all I can think about. Tactics, fighting, death. It's all that's been occupying my mind since I was reaped, the poison vials and the strategy from the moment I tearfully stumbled to the stage.

Now though, it's reached its full capacity. I can't even look at Sloan without seeing a corpse waiting to happen. Even myself, my own reflection, it was all bloody and messed up. My mind's screwing with me and I don't like the lack of control, even if I'm outwardly calm, inside I can't piece together a sense of the strength I'm comfortable under.

"The pair of you should get used to not talking, since neither of you took my advice."

Eaton's gruff, snide little voice blasts through as he sways over from the dining room. He plummets down into his own chair, kicking up his feet and placing them on the table in front, crossed over.

Sloan immediately sinks in, ashamed. He's trying hard not to make a fool of himself, he knows his intelligence sometimes clouds over for his curiosity. Eaton never makes it easy for him though.

"We're allowed to do what we feel is best, Eaton."

Sloan's eyes look over at me. His smile is delicate, small but visible. He won't fight his fight, neither will I, but we can do it in our own way. We're leaving in less than three or so hours, we won't see Eaton ever again unless one of us makes it out alive. Sloan will no longer need to feel as if his mind is torturing him and I won't have to put up with their pointless male posturing.

"I'm not here to cause more arguments, but you know what my stance is on this. You two are the only tributes who aren't going in with some kind of back-up."

"We have each other, should we ever meet up."

Sloan nods shyly, playing with the same ruined cushion as he has been since he came here to wait. Indirectly we'll have each other's support, and that makes it easier than outright having to defend someone other than myself. Eaton's so sure that allies are what you need, someone to protect you, that he forgets about the other role. The fact you have to protect them.

If all I have is my back to watch out for, then I'm already set to win. There is after all only one who gets to leave alive, not every alliance forms a bond that literally tears them apart at the expense of their friend's death, but I'm not risking that by going into the Arena alone. If Sloan dies, I'll mourn silently and move on until I can grieve when I'm outside.

It works both ways, I'm sure Sloan will miss me if I fall and he survives.

"I'm just saying that support is a good thing, especially if you have plans on how to work your way out a tight spot, like you Sabrina."

My mind rages at him, but the compliment does something for me. It's true, I have plans. The tributes don't see me as a threat because I've worked it out to be that way. And so I don't lose my sense of humanity, I've got it worked out so they don't suffer. It's better to be prepared, as a loner I've had to plan more than an alliance has to do.

"I'm sure both Sloan and I have stuff worked out for our benefits, don't we Sloan?" I try to bring him in, stopping Eaton from casting him aside as something weak and to be ignored. If only Sloan would rise to it, instead he shrinks in even further.

He's demonstrated his ability to talk even if he doesn't like conversation, but this is ridiculous. Maybe it's just the fear of the Games.

"Well as a mentor I'll do what I can for both of you." His lips rise slightly, maliciously almost. He's going to bring you back alive Sabrina, all the money, all his effort, it's on you. Sloan is as good as dead in his eyes. All because he questioned his almighty ego.

I see what it means for me, what it means that I am his tribute to take through the Games. It means I stand a chance. But it also means Sloan's on his own, without outside help if he gets into a spot of trouble he physically can't fight through, he's as good as dead.

I want to feel happy about that. It's a plan I never even considered but now it's here, it's just another thing to add to what's going in my favour through the course of this Capitol ride so far. Sloan's a good person. He's better than the careers, heck he's even better than me.

All I've done I've done for myself, even the promise to help Sloan if we meet. I don't doubt my plans to be alone, or my plans to fool the others, or my plans to even mercy kill.

I doubt Eaton though, I doubt his commitments. We both deserve an equal shot at this. We're both from his home, we're both just kids.

And he chose me. I'm the one who gets to live, and there's not a thing I can do for the boy who raised his voice against him.

I can't be in control of everything.

Elijah Fawkes, District Nine Male.

The fear shakes my entire body, from the base of my feet up to my head. I feel it tightening my chest, a dull ringing in the back of my skull. Atarah's hand locks with mine and I twist my neck to stare at her, her own beautiful eyes building up with the beginnings of tears and my own, attempting to stay strong.

Atarah needs me to be the rock to which she can cling onto. If I fall and shatter into pieces, then I've failed myself and Atarah. Kennedy too. We rely on each other to function as a trio, but more than anything they rely on me.

Kennedy's anger dissipates for the minutes we're together and there she stands, almost happy. Atarah's a kind soul locked away in a body that sheds its emotions no matter how hard she locks it away. Kennedy hides behind anger, Atarah hides behind her innocence. My allies are too troubled without me to anchor them, I have to be strong, otherwise… otherwise…

I shiver, a chill creeping up my spine. Atarah clasps my fingers tighter. We sit rigid in the chair, waiting for the clock to tick down to the last second and our escort to dance in, announcing it's time for hell.

I've never been so terrified, never felt so helpless. What if… what if this doesn't work out the way it's meant to? It can't, either alternative. If I win, Atarah and Kennedy die. And if either of my two friends win, I'm dead. I can't cling onto my life, something I cherish alongside companionship and the smile of friends, and save the people I care more than anything about.

It's impossible, a problem that can't be solved no matter my determination to pick it apart. I can help Kennedy shed some light in the darkness she seems to hide behind, Atarah to see herself the way the world sees her, but I can't save them and save myself.

"You look scared," Atarah giggles half-heartedly. Her shoulders bob, shaking my body. Her eyes are watery and a quiver in her lips locks my fingers tighter in hers'. "You look very scared."

I laugh, as bright as I can, betraying nothing. "It's natural to be scared."

Tick, tock. The clock's hands draw my attention, gluing it to the countdown from safety to a place with death lurking in the dark. I wonder what Kennedy is thinking right about now, with Davin by her side. She never spoke much about him, when the subject of her District partner was raised she shrugged and frowned. We've heard his laughs, like Raelyn's his jubilation is either infectious or annoying.

I like it, so does Atarah. We understand and train for the seriousness of our situation, we're in a place that taps into the soul and drains the life, quite literally for twenty-three others in a matter of days. Before it all falls apart, it's good to lock onto a sense of normalcy. We're all teenagers regardless of background.

We're all kids, from Calliope to Raven. From District One to District Twelve. Nothing can take that away.

Tick tock. A chime resounds from some kind of speaker behind the clock. A gentle song that brings about the worst kind of terror. Atarah's eyes widen, jaw hanging slightly open as her entire body wracks with fearful shivers. I try to steady her when the elevator doors open and in bounces Vanessa.

When she smiles, cracking apart purple lips in favour of her diamond-studded teeth, a sob pierces the silent atmosphere and shakes Atarah to the core.

"Atarah," I turn, worried. I grip onto her shoulder, her hair frantic and wild, slashing this way and that as she shakes her head. Atarah was always so quiet and kind, non-judgmental despite the differences and hardship allying with Kennedy bought. She's cracking, already. I can't allow it, I can't allow Atarah to hurt herself before she's had a chance to fight to save her life.

Vanessa's face loses its red hue, the sparkle fades from her eyes in the direction of Atarah. Instead, her hands tighten, sharp nails curling into her palm.

"Young lady, such a racket is embarrassing."

My head spins, her words pressing against my head. I want to scream at her, curse her for being so insensitive. She's not the one heading to the Arena, she'll stay here, waiting for us to either disappoint her or win when it has nothing to do with the little help she's brought to us. I don't shout though, because it won't help anything.

Anger doesn't solve a thing; I try to tell that to Kennedy. I won't be a hypocrite.

Atarah's body slowly stops flailing, though the tears continue to fall like a salty waterfall, dangling and hooking onto her eyelashes. Her lap is wet, the dress Vanessa suggested clinging to her skin.

"It's alright Atarah," my arms instinctively wrap round her shoulders, embracing her. "It's alright, no matter what happens. I'm here. I'm always here."

I can be awkward, I can say the wrong things accidentally, I can be overbearing. But one thing that won't ever change is how much I care and will strive to help those people who require a hand. It doesn't matter if they're trained to kill children, or they act the bully because the feeling of anger is associated with anxiety, or even if they are the kindest person in the room. People need help. And I'm here.

"Do I need to get Raul to help?"

I shake my head. "Let him drink, let Nelle keep him company. We'll walk with you."

I guide her up with one hand clasped together, the other wrapping round her waist when she stumbles upwards. Vanessa groans again. All I focus on is guiding her step by step towards the elevator, doors open, hovercraft awaiting that takes away from one to hell to the next.

"Sorry, I didn't..." Atarah wipes away the last few tears, red streaks marking her pale skin. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's alright girl, you should be happy. Look where you're headed."

"Look how many people come out," I grumble, steering clear of Vanessa's scowl and hobbling along into the metal box with Atarah clasped to my side. None of us speak for the last remnants of our journey together, Atarah I'll see within the Arena, but Vanessa I'll be glad to see the back of.

Unless I win... unless Atarah, Kennedy and everyone else dies. Then I'll see her again. I'll see her alone, without my friends.

My false smile drops. I don't see a point where I can ever accept that.

Saskia deValier, District Two Female.

I saunter past Lochlan into the open elevator, Faustine by my side. I feel his eyes burn into the back of my skull, Mastermind tagging along behind him at an almost non-existant pace. Since god knows when, Lochlan's silent Mentor has glued himself to his tribute's hip, the two being inseparable, doing everything together. From quietly discussing whatever over breakfast to disappearing whenever we appear into his room, more talking through the walls yet the content remaining muffled.

If it wasn't anyone else, I'd concede to give up and continue on with what it was I was doing. But it's Lochlan and he's my enemy. We're in opposing alliances, he received one of the highest outer Career scores, and he's a pain in the neck.

"Keep calm, Saskia." Faustine's fingers gently touch my arm. The heat leaves through the pores in my skin, almost like her hand absorbs it and brightens me up. I won't let Lochlan of all people ruin what today is. Megaera, Calliope, Matteo and Alistair, we function in the most dysfunctional way. Around them I'm either radiating my anger, struggling to keep it hidden, or laughing with Megaera and acting like long lost sisters.

It's a matter of circumstance, but at the end of it all, they're either with me or against me. And we all know we're in it for ourselves. No one volunteered to die. I volunteered for the Games, for the same reasons every other Career prides themselves on. Glory, fame, the entire package that being a Victor provides.

And your father. If he was a different man, a different guide in your life, you wouldn't even be here.

The boys reach the elevator, Lochlan purposely sliding himself between the gap that breaks apart Faustine's touch. He grins at me as if there was no animosity between us, as if he isn't going to be the first person I run through with a sword.

"Up, Tarquin." His hand hovers over the button, once then twice looking over the three of us, then the arrow flashes and we shoot upwards.

"Aw, I was hoping we could go down."

Although Faustine can't comfort me, Lochlan's words do nothing. If I rise to the bait constantly without a figure like Faustine, then I do not deserve to be the Victor. I've never required a helping hand throughout my life, not all the time. When me and my friends went on those little adventures, having fun and mischievously living a life we couldn't live when it came to the Academy's hours, I didn't need someone like Faustine to guide the way.

The Hunger Games are a solo show, for me and me alone. I have my group, a bunch of trained killers to support me and for me to support them. But there will come a time that the bonds have to break and we'll have to turn on one another. I've avoided the first knife in the back by shifting leadership over to Megaera, hopefully straining the bonds between her and Matteo even further.

Calliope and Alistair are the outsiders, maybe the real enemy. Although the connections we share as a group are strong enough to last us a few days, at least until the competition is cut down by half, those two have their own little thing going on.

Matteo both dotes on Megaera and sees the truth behind her. I planted that seed. I haven't been able to do anything to the pair of One. Not that I ever trained in strategy, but it's good to utilize skills that you might never have thought useful. The Games are a good learning curve.

The doors open with a ding, a breeze fluttering through the air and lifting up the hem of my jacket. I flatten it down quickly, ignoring Lochlan's bitter laugh, and push past and out into the open roof. A hovercraft rises a few feet from the concrete square, ripples in the surrounding sky a result of the smoke and lights coming from different sources along the beastly metal.

Before I can stride on over, a hand grips me back and guides me towards a low cut silver-planked wall. Tarquin mutters lowly to Lochlan, both their faces serious with Lochlan leaning in close to cut off the words. Faustine smiles at me, gripping onto my shoulder and comfortingly squeezing it like a proud mother.

"We've done all we can together Saskia, the rest is up to you."

"I know what I'm doing." I allow the confidence to radiate through, this moment is about me and saying goodbye to a person who has done what her role entitles. It was always coming down to what I could do anyway, Faustine is there to hand over supplies and sponsorship money when I need something. But in a fight, with a sword or a knife or even a bow, I'm there to kill. It's me who will win for me.

"I'll see you later, yeah?" I hug her, wrapping my arms tight round her slender frame. Her mane of hair tickles my face, light and dark in a messy tangle until we pry apart.

She nods, smiling. "See you later."

When she turns to leave, she pauses for a brief moment to pull Tarquin away from Lochlan and back into the elevator. A few tributes pile out, shivering, shaken up and pale white. I smirk and propel towards the hovercraft before I'm cursed with Lochlan's drivel.

Only an hour or so, not long and you can do him for all the pain he's caused you.

The thought brings relief, which in turn brings happiness. The Peacekeeper ticks me off at the announcement of my name. I hurry on up to a beam which locks me in place, and up I go to a hovercraft of waiting victims.

They'll all fall down, one by one, paving a road of blood to my victory. Maybe this was never my goal in life from the start, but it's my goal now. A promise I've made to myself and to my family, the people I trained with and everyone else who has supported me on the road that being a career has been.

If I have to carve through both cruel and innocent kids alike to secure my word, then so be it. Sacrifices have to be made, they're all means to an end.

My end. My dream. My promise.

Ada Bertrand, District Three Female.

Raelyn expels a quick, sharp breath when the straps belt us in. Through the still scene of the air outside the hovercraft, I see the Capitol skyline illuminated through the sun peeking behind clouds.

Without the twinkling lights of the Capitol, it really is a beautiful sight. Raelyn's hand tightens around my own, bringing me out of my haze and back into reality.

Immediately my heart starts beating harder, my stomach churning with the uplift of our transportation. What was once a beautiful sight tears apart in the blur as we dart forwards, the air outside a message of our speed but inside not a single belt sways in motion.

"I'm scared Ada," Raelyn's upbeat voice has died down to a muffled murmur. Kitty sits opposite, her face a mask of confusion and fear to match my insides. For once, we aren't conflicting in who we are, how we present ourselves and the bonds we try to make, we're united in fear and terror of the end of this journey. What it brings, what it means, and who will be coming back this same way once it's all over.

"It's... it's fine..." I can't hold back the warble in my voice, I don't even try. The lie taints my tongue and I look down at my lap. This entire journey through the Capitol has been a mess of my thoughts, what I wanted Raelyn and Kitty to see in me, how I came across to the Capitol, each and every footstep and word to any individual. Now, it's silent, everything except the fear has come to a standstill. The peace isn't welcoming, I miss the confusion. I want it back, I want myself to seek Raelyn's approval, but all I see is a cowering girl strapped to a death seat.

She's not smiling anymore.

"It's not fine, Ada." Kitty's broken voice rises above gentle mumbling from the other tributes. We've been separated into three different compartments, eight of us sitting here and talking to our friends. No careers, I thank our lack of passion for this destination, the Careers were the first ones here.

"I'm just trying to comfort Raelyn."

Kitty's face twists, sadness in her eyes and a tremble in her upper lip. "It's not fine though, nothing about this is fine. I'd rather honesty than a lie."

"I... I-" I stutter, fumbling for words. My tongue dries up and hangs in my mouth like a lead weight. It's coming back, the mismatched process of working out how to speak and who to talk to. If I'm coming across too much or not enough. If people like me for my quiet self or if I should be louder and more welcoming.

"Kitty I appreciate what Ada is doing," Raelyn's voice rises a level in volume, snapping me from my fighting thoughts. "Even if I know it's not fine."

Her lips rise in a small smile, reminiscent of the Raelyn we've all come to love to hate or hate to love. She starts fidgeting with the strap tying her to her chair, Kitty going back to looking out the blue and white blur of the sky. All I can do in the silence is listen in to the others. I don't like intruding, it doesn't feel quite right to listen to what other people are thinking or feeling.

But this time, in the absence of my allies' talking to one another, it's all I can do.

"-stupid enough to go after her."

The boy from District Two mutters to the girl from Six, the one next to me on my right. Tyndall isn't here, he lost his place in this compartment to the lonesome boy from District Eleven. I hear further mentions of bloodbath strategy, Tyndall's name interspersed amongst Lochlan's dedication that he won't tail his District partner and that Tatum will secure supplies as best she can.

It feels wrong of me to listen, but a part of me knows it's right. Or wrong in a sense that can only be right in the Hunger Games.

"We're slowing down..." Kitty shifts in her seat, turning to us all with wide brown eyes. Tears appear, streaking her cheeks as she shakes in her seat. Whatever strength she had has fled her, the image she presented to us when holding that spear and the fact she was so bold in trying to dictate our every move whilst maintaining a friendly stance.

It's all crumbled down, even Raelyn starts sobbing to herself when we descend. The blue sky gives way to a block of concrete, and down and down we go.

"We're going underground." The distant voice of Sloan drifts through the air. My hands fumble together, as if attempting to grip onto something that isn't there. I feel my entire body suffocating inwards, constricting in pain and fear. Without tears, though, nothing that my two stronger allies show outwardly.

The light from the outside world folds in on itself, giving way to the darkness of underground then the gentle illumination of bolted bulbs attached to the walls outside. Down again, one more lurch and we freeze.

We're here.

A choked cry bubbles up from Raelyn's throat when the doors open outwards. The sight of the Peacekeepers bring about the gentle tingling feeling where the woman injected the tracker into my arm. I can't feel it beneath my skin but knowing it's there feels an invasion of my privacy.

Your life is the Capitol's now. I nod, allowing a Peacekeeper to pull me out my unbuckled seat and out through the door.

"Ada!" I hear Raelyn's strangled voice, calling for me. I can't turn in his iron grip or even call back. I'm pulled too far away down a brick corridor, doors lining the walls until we turn another corner and we pause in front of one with my District bolted to the midsection.

"In."

The door is pushed open and I'm forcefully guided through. My stylist stands there, my Arena outfit and the clear, transparent tube. My launchpad shimmers in the light, a silver circle, a hole in the above ceiling.

I still don't cry.

Kennedy Ames, District Eight Female.

"You aren't trying hard enough."

The collar of the black jacket muffles my face, stopping my flow of words. Trilla tugs harder to get it down my petite form, the tightness of the stitching breaking the rhythm of my breathing. It's uncomfortable when I finally pat down the harsh material, noticing patches that don't quite fit the rest. Sort of patchwork except the entire thing looks a one piece outfit. The jacket covers a plain white top, the buttons fastened. For our bottom half, black boots, black trousers with nothing but a belt to hold them up.

It's good to know the Capitol has catered to us starving tributes, it's nice they've truly put into their design plans something that fits our emaciated forms.

I groan and sit down on the bench, Trilla staring down at me, half amused and half angry. Similar to always, then. We've gotten better together, since the day of the Chariot Rides and I recognised the difference between being blindingly stupid and just being angry. But boy does she still push my buttons, again and again, over and over, a non-stop tirade against each and every little action and word I do or say.

"It'll only benefit you in the long run."

"Not if we die right now, in the bloodbath." I try to ignore the somersaulting feeling in my stomach at that, the uncomfortable tightening that I know for a fact isn't my clothes anymore. Death, killing, all of that. I've gotten into fights, heck most teenagers have in their quest for survival in District Eight, but we've never killed.

Never taken a life of another person around our age. I've tried to hold a knife myself and envisage it, make it out to be nothing different. Not even I can accomplish that, not even at my hottest moment of rage.

"Elijah's a tough one, kinda cute too." I roll my eyes. She just had to add that, of course she did. She notices me staring at her, eyebrow raised skeptically and she blushes slightly. The first sense of humility I've seen her demonstrate to me. "And that Ontarah girl, so cute."

"Atarah," I correct.

"Elijah and Ontarah are good allies Kennedy, better allies than I daresay I predicted for someone like you."

I'd ask what she means by such a statement, but who am I kidding. Even I'm surprised Elijah of all people stood up to speak to me. It's been one of the highlights so far, securing my... friendship. Elijah calls us friends rather than allies, or at least to our faces. I haven't worked out which they are to me yet, a means to an end or companionship that I need.

Maybe a bit of both, in the long run, it really depends how we even do in the Arena.

"The pair of them are good people. Nice people that only want what's best for you. You stand there like you've got a hot poker shoved up your..." She blushes again and I can't help but burst out laughing, regardless of the very room I'm sat in and the launch pad only a few feet from where I sit. Trilla stares at me ashamedly and pats down a ruffle in her dress.

"Well anyway," she clears her throat, me still chuckling. "You still need to make more of an effort."

"I did tell them I can be mean. It's not like I go out of my way to be a bitch-"

"You aren't a bitch Kennedy."

My eyes narrow at that, even if it makes me feel a little bit lighter. "I'm just aware of my own faults, better than people who are arrogant and up themselves. At home I was better at making friends, they either stuck with me through my attitude or left me well alone. Here I tried to avoid it because enemies could result in killers. It's simpler in Eight, strategy of survival could be left down to my elders."

How many times have I told myself off for biting back at someone, hurting them emotionally or physically? I've repeated the idea of peace over and over like a mantra that if I didn't stick to, I'd end up hurting someone to a point that I couldn't return from. A point of guilt that would shatter everything inside of me.

But now, Elijah and Atarah make do with who I am, they even seem to like that part of me. Elijah's awkward but confident at the same time, bashful and strangely cute in a welcoming way. Atarah is quieter, sweet and gentle yet there's also a strength to her as well. We all bring together a trio of skills and qualities that Elijah likes to see as the greatest of our chances to make it out of the Arena alive... well, at least one of us.

I'd like to think it would be me.

My stomach falls, over the ticking and Trilla's words. Me. I want to be the Victor more than anything in the world, it wasn't what I wanted before I was reaped, but now it means the difference between an unknown future if I do die or a future as a Victor where I get to keep my own life.

Survival means the world to me, it means the world to most of us tributes and we're prepared to do what we must to secure it.

Elijah and Atarah have to die, I've known that before Elijah even secured me as a member of their alliance.

"Ten seconds."

I'm snapped out of my thoughts at the robotic voice. My heart lurches up, my entire stomach almost bursting out my skin. A lump bubbles up my throat when Trilla gasps and drags me over to the tube. Shoving me inside, she apologises for losing track of the time and clasps her hands together when the two sides close, encasing me in my cage.

This... this is really happening, isn't it?

My palms begin to tingle, with fear and the sweat that prickles my entire body. I can hear a pumping in my ears, all the anxiety, adrenaline and terror rising and rising up my body. Trilla waves happily, though I see the tremble in my lip and raise my own hand.

There's nothing I can do to will a smile, my emotions hold that back. But Trilla nods at the gesture and then my entire being is forced up the chute. It's dark, all I can see is blackness surrounding me.

No need to be scared, no need to be scared.

I freeze in place. The Arena comes into view, a simple room, me standing somewhere in front of a door and the other tributes no where to be seen. Over the noises raging in my skull, attacking my ears, I hear the crackle of a speaker coming to life. Then the words I've dreaded are spoken, the start of the Games, and the countdown begins.

One quick advertisement in case no one has seen my updated profile or reads my other story :P I'm starting a new 24 author collaboration, if you aren't aware what those are, go check the forum out and ask any questions you might have and I'll answer them. I hope to see some of you applying :D

Moving on...

Well it's finally the end of the Capitol! It's been hard, what started off as early updates moved into me taking too long breaks because I either lacked motivation or... yeah it was pretty much I lacked any sort of motivation to write. Sorry about that :/

Now that I'm here though at this point, hopefully I can get back into the swing of things with weekly updates. The Games are fun and I've been looking forward to starting them.

Also check out the new poll on my profile, results will be posted with the bloodbath!

Favourite out of these six and why?

Who do you want to die in the bloodbath?

Who do you think will die in the bloodbath?

As of this point, just before the Games are beginning, who is your bet for Victor?

Next up: Bloodbath time! ;D