A/N: I've not edited this because I'm in a big hurry. There will be typos, but other than that I think it's some of my best. Enjoy!

Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor...

The Games

Sixty seconds. That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the Tributes that ring equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant horn made to resemble the ones we used to have at Thanksgiving. The mouth is at least fifteen feet high. Usually things that will give us life — weapons, food, water — are stored inside. This year though, there are only a few weapons, fire starters, and several small packets of blood— the synth-kind that tastes awful, but at least it's something. If I were brave enough to fight for all of it against the other twenty-three Tributes, which I've been instructed not to do, I could have enough for a few days.

This is a prairie, a snow-covered field. Behind me is a forest, filled with the promising scent of fresh pine and large game. I can't tell if it's cold or not, but the wind is bitter. It seems to be scattering smells, the way it whips, and I know I won't be able to tell if someone snuck up on me from behind. I glance back to the woods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between you and the others."

I begin to feel slightly drained. Almost the same way I did when Edward broke into my shield. It's more like a pressure on my forehead, and it isn't painful. I realize that the girl straight across from me, Melanie, is staring straight at me. By the glare that Edward gives her, she's some sort of telepath. She examines me from head to toe, like she's calculating my physical abilities. She glances to Edward to extract what weapon I might use to have gained me a score of ten. Her eyes, wild, not focusing for more than a few half-seconds, flash to the woods. She's afraid of me. Of course she is, she can't read my mind.

Then I see it. A silver bow with a sheath of a dozen arrows. It occurs to me that they would probably just bounce off, until I see the special stone tip. It's too smooth and extremely sharp, sharper than my teeth. It would be enough to pierce our skin. It couldn't kill us, but it would hurt. It might even slow us down. Then I find myself examining the other weapons. They all have the same tips. Of course they do, this is the Hunger Games. The audience would complain of boredom if we just beat and bit each other to death.

I want those arrows. I was pretty good at archery as a human, but I didn't have a steady grasp and my clumsiness would cause my hands to fumble. Now that I'm immortal. . . I'm sure my aim would be flawless. It's a long range weapon, unlike my teeth and my fists.

It's close to the Cornucopia and other weapons. I know I could sprint, I don't exactly tire. I'm not the fastest. But if there isn't much interest in the bow, maybe I could make it there first. The problem would be the escape. By the time I've reached it, others will be at the horn. I've never fought before, but I've seen Victoria and James torn apart. Either way, I don't know what it takes to destroy us. If it were one or two, I might be able to slow them down with an arrow to the knee, but a dozen? More?

But I wouldn't be the only target. I'm not so vain that I think that. I'm small, I'd be ignored. Most of the careers would aim for Thresh or one of the other fierce opponents. Maybe I could do it.

I hear the computerized voice, still counting, over the loud speakers. I've been ignoring it. 32, 31, 30. . .

I'm a predator. It's not in my instincts to shy away from a fight. Some of the Tributes look genuinely bloodthirsty— whether from the Capitol's liquid horror or the thought of murdering the others I can't tell.

13, 12, 11. . .

The computerized voice turns to steady drum beats. Ten seconds. I'm still staring at the pile of weapons. Haymitch has never seen me run. If he had, he would have insisted even more that I stay away from the initial bloodbath. But a weapon means the difference between life and death in these Games. The bow, the knives, even one of the granite clubs could eb my salvation. The minute is almost up, only a few seconds left, and I crouch in a position to run. They'll be expecting to use their powers, I can stop them. Then I notice Edward. He's looking directly at me and shaking his head. While I'm still pondering my options, the gong rings.

I've missed it! I've missed my chance! It's only a fraction of a second, but it's long enough to be a game changer for me. I launch myself off of the plate and start racing towards the woods. I'm unwilling to leave without anything. I reach for the nearest weapon, a small knife, and lunge for a couple of packets of the red. . . substance. The pickings are so small and I'm so furious with myself that I sprint for a rich crimson backpack, about twenty yards out, because I couldn't stand leaving without anything. I don't want to carry this bags of crimson goop and that knife forever.

Another boy, who I recognize from District 9, is already at the pack. We wrestle with it, although the fight is more verbal than physical. I think we're both unwilling to kill each other so early in the Games, but I could be wrong. This is taking too long. I pull out my knife and show it to him. He's unarmed, and he tries to run. Or that's what I think he's doing. He staggers forwards, then backwards, and then lowers himself to a crouch, grappling at his back. I see Clove, the District 2 girl, standing several yards behind him with a packet of knives. I examine it for a sixty-fourth of a second before I realize just how sharp it is. And how hard she's throwing. If it's sharp and fast enough to hurt one of us. . . I think I'm her next target.

I sling the pouch over my shoulder and prepare to run, taking a step back. The boy from District 4 lunges at the now fallen boy with one of the ultra-sharp swords and brings it down on his shoulder. Something about the material nearly cracks him in half. I fly away from there. The boy from 9 starts to scream. I swivel around as the District 4 boy twists the top of his sword. Are you kidding me? I think at the Gamemakers. It's also a flame thrower. I glance around. Flaming knives, flaming swords, fire, fire, fire.

My predatory instincts are taking over. Hiding in plain sight may not be the best option here, but, if I'm right about this, everything here is a source of fire. The girl from District 1, Glimmer, already has my bows. The sane part of me knows that tackling her is suicide. The newborn part does not. I groan in exasperation. Just get out of there, Haymitch says in my head. I dart for the woods at my top speed.

I hear a girl— the telepath, Melanie— scream and I know that Glimmer and Marvel have found her. I almost pity her. I'm halfway to the trees already. I can't turn around to help a total stranger now. But I do anyways, because I hear a cry of frustration from someone who matters. It's Edward. He's in a fight with Cato. It looks like he was trying to run but was caught in the turmoil. I want to help. His eyes find mine and he shakes his head, mouthing the word "go." I gestured a firm "no." He widened his eyes and strangled a shout, the words already formed in his throat. I know what he wants me to do, but I won't. I won't. I won't. . .

"Go!" he finally shouts at me, and this time I don't dare to disobey. I see Clove with her pack of knives converging on me and I finally turn to run back towards the haven of the trees. Clove tosses one of her knives at me. I hear the whistle and my hand instinctively raises to catch it. I grab at it and get a tight grip on it.

Part of me wants to ponder it for hours, letting myself sink deep into utter despair, the weight of my abandoning him pushing so hard that it would impale my heart. But this is the Hunger Games, and I'm not about to submit to emotion. Inside I'm screaming that leaving him is a very bad idea, but I have an idea that they won't kill him anytime soon. Cato, from what I know of him, is too competitive for that.

It is more than likely that Edward is dead.

Cato probably hates me for having a score just as high as him, and he knows that hurting Edward is like slowly digging a knife underneath my flesh. He doesn't want me to die, and he doesn't want to rip out the part of my heart where he belongs too quickly. That wouldn't be painful enough. Everything about him seems to whisper, "Let my knife under your flesh and into your heart." Cato wants to kill me softly.

I continue to hike along, refusing to break down into sobs. I didn't gather any of the sanguine fluid at the Cornucopia, and it will only be a day or two until the thirst overwhelms me. I think that might be the Capitol's plan. Most of us will be driven mad while the strongest will feast on the plasma. It isn't fair, but when have the Games ever been fair?

I refuse to slow down. At first I think that the arena must be immense, but it doesn't take long to realize that I'm not traveling at a vampire's speed. I remember the tracker they injected into me this morning and start to think that they've capped my velocity on purpose. They want the audience to see us, and that would be impossible if we moved at the speed of sound. Judging by the rate that the trees fly by me, though, I'm still moving at superhuman speed, far faster than an olympian racer.

I don't have the urge to kill humans, I can't move terribly quickly.

Am I really a vampire, or just another Mutation created by the Capitol?

I keep flying through the trees at full speed for the next few hours. I pause once or twice to check for signs of pursuit, but there's no one for miles around. The piney woods evolve into a forest of a multitude of trees, most of which are foreign to me. I keep my knife at the ready, but, despite what it did to the boy from 9, I doubt it would do much good if one of the Career Tributes showed themselves. At one point, I hear a noise. I freeze, but only a rabbit appears from the underbrush. It isn't much, but if Edward can settle for a bird, I can take the rabbit. I'll be grateful for it later. I snatch it off the ground. It struggles for only a moment before it goes limp. I felt guilt back in the woods of District 12. But not now. I take hope in the fact that there are animals out here. If there's one, there could be a hundred more.

The slope steepens. Far ahead, I see a mountain, shrouded by a lush veil of evergreens. The wind is brutal, and, though it doesn't slow down my pace, it limits my sight to less than human eyes. Snow falls in sheets around me. Everything is so white. White ground, white trees, white sky, immortally-white self. Ebony hair framing my vision. And red. Red bloodlust, marred only by self-preservation, contrasting so vividly against the ashen landscape.

The illusion of solitude rejuvenates me. I'm tired of being constantly viewed by people from all over the Capitol. I'm still on-screen right now, or at least off and on. At least they're swathed by canopied cameras. At home I'm only showed at random intervals, enough for them to see than I'm alive. A lone Tribute on a trek through the woods isn't much compared to the deaths of today. But, in the Capitol, you can subscribe to your favorite Tribute's television station. If someone really likes me, they could watch me whenever they wanted to. One of the heaviest days of betting is the opening, when initial casualties come in, so the wealthy keep their eyes on those with promise. I know by the faint ghost of a tingle on the back of my neck that someone is watching me. Always.

It's mid-afternoon when they fire the cannons. The tradition stems from the twenty-one gun salute at military funerals. But this isn't out of respect. Each shot represents a fallen Tribute. The fighting must have come to a halt at the Cornucopia. They collect the bodies and fire the cannons after the killers have dispersed. I pause to listen. Edward's face flashes through my head once. I push it away and don't think of it again. One. . . two. . . three. . . like war drums or the stiff procession of a funeral march, they abhorrently continue until they reach six. Then silence. Six dead. Eighteen left to play.

Stopping to listen for the cannons has drawn my attention back to my thirst. Perhaps the rabbit wasn't such a good idea. It quenched the burning at the time, but my newborn mind aches for more real blood. Perhaps the flavor at 732 E. Avenue was better, but there's something more satisfying about hunting something yourself.

I need something to distract myself. Hunting turns your brain off, and, in the Games, that's something that should best be kept on full power. I kneel down next to my pack, breathing deeply to scent any enemies. It's far too red, a color that will be a rich contrast against the white. I'm beginning to sense a pattern here.

I flip open the flap. In vein I hope for a few packs of blood in it, but I know I would have scented it by now. I find a box of wooden matches, wooden stakes that make me snort— probably a trick for the less supernaturally educated— and a half-gallon plastic bottle for carrying liquid that's bone dry. It wouldn't be much use, unless there was a stream of blood. That's an encouraging thought, but I still have a feeling that the intent here is to drive us mad. I remember the rabbit before I can panic, but I'm not terribly happy at the thought of another herbivore.

I've been moving all day long. Twilight is closing in. And my throat is burning like the Sahara Desert. It's worse than it has been for the entire week. If the whatever-they-gave-me took away some of my superhuman speed, maybe they've also stolen my lack of newborn thirst. At the thought my mouth flares, venom pooling excessively in my mouth. I swallow. The poison burns on its way down, a sting that makes me beg for something to drink, to relieve the pain. I'm swallowing razors.

I'm paranoid by the time night falls. I spin in obsessive circles as I walk. I'm certain that someone is stalking me. Or even worse: something. Perhaps the Capitol made a sort of Mutt, something we couldn't smell, with claws sharp enough to tear through our iron skin. Something. . . like werewolves. Stronger, faster, stupider, permanently canine wolves. I know there wouldn't be any reasoning with them if they were Capitol bred. It would be no Jacob, there would be no warning, and there would be no mercy.

Crap. Somehow I know I'm right the moment it occurs to me. I detect a hint of a scent, just behind me. And then another one, directly in front of me. I try to reason with myself. How could wolves burn me if they aren't even sentient? I hear a howl and jump. I'm at a slow, human pace, afraid for my life. Breaking into a run would only stimulate them to attack.

Okay. I know they aren't werewolves. As far as I know, the Treaty still stands. And what werewolf in his right mind would let themselves be thrown into the Games? So these are real wolves. Immensely large, enormous, wolves with razor sharp claws and teeth.

So what do I know about wolves? I've already established with myself that wolves would attack me if I tried to run. Eye contact or showing my teeth would be taking as a sign of aggression. Their noses are sensitive areas. And wolves are afraid, deathly afraid, of fire.

But those are real ones, not the Capitol synthesized Mutts. I hoist my pack over my head, trying to make myself look as big as possible. I hear a snarl from behind me and I swivel around.

I'm face to face with the Alpha wolf.

Yes. Cliffhanger. Get used to it now that we're in the games.

Regardless, I hope you enjoyed! I'll edit and repost later. I'll see you guys Wednesday!

~Sun