Disclaimer: I own not the Hunger Games or Suzanne Collins's works but my writing. I don't even really own the plot itself.

.Special thanks to Sole for helping me figure out weapon names. He's simply amazing with weapon-stuff.

A/N: Because I'm morbid XD Ask Sole. Anyway, this is basically a recording of all the deaths, each one has its own little one-shot. And, btw, sorry if someone did this already. And I won't exactly record all their thoughts, cuz I do know that some people have done certain deaths, for sure. Hopefully this won't disappoint you. Enjoy, review!

.This chapter is...well, gory. Very. For me, anyway. So really, if you're squeamish or queazy or etc., don't read it. Okay? And don't get pissed off if you do read it and dislike it. That's not my fault. I warned you.

Thanks to: Anda, Montague Disciple, Career Tribute, and Geth for your kind reviews!

. . .

.Never in Your Favor.

Death Eleven: Girl, District Ten

. . .

I'm strong from the farms. I've taken care of cows and horses and plowed for my entire life. People…they're smaller than those animals. They would be easier to kill. People…they think. They would be harder to trap.

Torn between two thoughts, I don't know how to turn. Killing someone isn't a big deal, I know. We're all animals, anyway, and the livestock always dies somehow. And everyone dies anyhow—killing them would just be speeding up the process. So I'm resigned to killing. I know it's what I've got to do and I suppose it's not that awful.

The hard thing is that I have to figure out how. Easily I could stab them in the necks. If they didn't have brains, if they weren't on their guards. If they hadn't gone training, too. If they had lived all their lives in a field, grazing peacefully, as if nothing ever went wrong.

For a moment, I want to be a cow. Odd wish. But they're lucky, living in calm under a sweet blue sky, eating healthy green grass, fresh from the ground, newly grown from the sun and the rain. Then I remember that they're slaughtered in a short matter of time.

I shake my head. I'll be slaughtered anyway if I'm not careful.

I hear the gong sound not far away, and I rush to the Cornucopia, my sun-bleached ponytail whipping behind me.

Granted, they won't have my farming tools. I'll have to make do with something else, a sword, maybe. No stopping now. I have to keep heading forward towards the Cornucopia or surely I'll be killed.

Feeling the sun beat down on my head, I know I'll do fine. I'm used to the sun, used to killing….

Upon reaching the Cornucopia, I grasp at the closest weapon.

There's a sniggering noise behind me, and I whirl around. A boy I don't know, maybe a Career, maybe not, swings a flail around. Its chains clank as he effortlessly twirls the handle. "Hey," he says, a sly grin on his face.

"Hey," I reply, trying to keep my cool. Maybe I can grab that flail from him.

I reach forward, my hand quick, and he bashes it down, repeatedly. In less than thirty seconds, my hand is gone—really, most of my arm from the elbow is. Ragged, bleeding flesh is what's left. I gasp. Flails shouldn't be this sharp. They and maces were designed to crush heads, not make one bleed. Must've been altered by the Capitol to add to the gore.

Looks as if I can't get that flail after all.

He laughs as if seeing blood is wonderful…. It's not as if I hate it, but I don't love it, either. This boy is insane.

"Much more fun than setting traps," he says, grinning. "Much more fun."

I wanted to keep my dignity, killing people, winning. Surely that won't happen now. Because half my arm is gone, and I am crying, bawling really, from the fear and the pain, the horrible, terrible pain. It sends wave after wave of pure awfulness through my body.

I've been hurt before. Farming's not all sunshine and daisies. But nothing ever like this. Never like this.

"Don't move," says the boy, and I whimper. "Even if you do, I'll catch you." I try to break away, sure he can't, but that awful Capitol-flail swings down and catches me in the leg. I stumble and try to get back up, but I can't. My leg is together, still in one piece, but barely. Shredded bits of flesh, like decade-old clothing.

I don't try to move again. Because I know he really will catch me.

Of course, even if I try to move, I won't be able to. I couldn't stand up for my life. Great choice of words, I think bitterly. Because it's true. And he's going to kill you….

What I'd give to be back at the farm now.

The boy smirks, his eyes gleaming cruelly, madly. I begin to try to crawl away, sobbing loudly. "Oh God, oh, God," I pant.

One goal is in my mind: Get away. But it doesn't seem at all possible.

Is this how the cows feel when we kill them? No…I'm worse off. They're not tortured before they die.

"This weapon is actually rather difficult," I hear the boy tell me casually. His voice seems distant and distorted. But that's probably just my pain blocking it out. "I'd do better with a spear. I ought to get one after this."

After what? I wonder. The way he said that seems significant. Then I know. Too late.

I vaguely wonder if slaughtering the cows was ever any different then killing a human as the flail catches me in the head, effectively smashing it inwards.