I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.


Arena - Night One


Emery Sobel, District Three


Emery removed the metal panel and frowned at the tangle of wires. It wasn't anything impossible, à la the endless knot, but it came dishearteningly close. Red, blue, green, yellow, silver, and especially black, all connected every which-way, and not a label to be found. Whoever built this had deplorable wire hygiene.

He picked at a few of the connections, tracing the individual paths until they disappeared into the tightly-bound mess. Not a single one ran freely from beginning to end. Figuring out how the hardware system worked, let alone how to reprogram it, would probably take the better part of the evening. Sighing, he pulled a wrench from the old technician kit he'd found next to the panel. Better get a move on.

"How long is it gonna be?" Darian asked, arms crossed as he cast another glance down the hallway. The other tributes, and whatever else patrolled the frozen halls, hadn't caught up with them. Yet.

Emery unscrewed a connecting bolt and set the end aside. "I honestly have no idea. I'll probably at least have the door open within an hour."

"Have it done in thirty."

Emery pressed his lips into a line. Or what? But, as annoyed as he was, he didn't dare voice his opinion, especially with Darian acting so skittish and aggressive, so he kept his discontent to himself.

Adara rapped her knuckles on the steel-framed, bulletproof glass, eyeing the brightly lit, sealed-off corridor beyond. "We don't even know what's on the other side. I don't see why you're in such a hurry."

Darian scowled. "We're just sitting ducks out here. I'm not too crazy about getting gored by a muttation, unlike you, apparently."

"There could be mutts on the other side."

Releasing an exasperated sigh, Darian pressed his tongue against his teeth and lowered his head. "Just get the fucking door open."

"I'm working on it," said Emery. "It's just a little com-"

A cannon shot rumbled through the building, shaking loose a few flakes of snow. Another shot followed, then another and another, until nine had sounded in total. Emery hadn't paid much mind to the temperature, but he suddenly felt cold. Almost a third of the tributes were dead, and the day wasn't even out.

The anthem played, overlapping dozens of times as it echoed off the cold stone walls, and Emery bit his lip. He hadn't stayed around the Cornucopia too long after the initial violence. Adara had been the last to escape the bloodshed, and even then, she had no idea who had been killed. Emery hoped that Polly and Ace and their alliance made it out okay, along with Margery, even if Darian had never seemed too close to her.

The first face appeared on the walls, projected by some unseen contraption in the ceiling. Nynette Saghas, District Nine. Emery didn't remember much about her, although she'd seemed nice enough in training. Like the rest of the tributes, he doubted that she deserved to die. Maelyn LeBreton from District Five followed. Sadly, no surprise there.

Then came Florian Casimir of District One, whereupon Darian let out a low whistle and rubbed his hands together. "Well, there's one high score down."

Emery frowned. They were more than scores. They were more than the gamemakers' evaluations. But they were enemies, obstacles standing in the way of victory. If they lived, Emery didn't. But he couldn't bring himself to be happy over their deaths. Not like Darian, at least. Death wasn't his most favorite topic.

Twenty-fifth place belonged to Samson Galloway. Emery had seen that one, unfortunately, where Benjamin had all but smashed the guy's head in. Next was Denim from District Eight, then Aviana from District Ten. Emery averted his eyes from her picture and picked at the hem of his jacket. He'd liked Aviana. She was nice. Armand Castillo of District Eleven had died, too, and Emery hoped that Polly's alliance hadn't taken it too hard. Twenty-first place went to Benjamin Stavros, and twentieth place went to Damian Ridge.

Nine deaths in total. Districts Five, Nine, and Ten had all lost their chances at victory.

"Not bad," Adara said. "We still have Zero, Two, Four, Tristan, and Brand. And everyone else, of course, but those eight concern me the most."

"Same," Darian said, spinning a knife on the floor. "Which is why we need to get that door open and rigged as soon as possible."

Emery bit back a few choice words. "Yeah, I know. I'm getting there."


Niko Sundita, District Thirteen


Niko was half-convinced that, if he squinted hard enough, he could see the waves of seething hatred rolling off of Tullus, contaminating the run-down cell where they'd temporarily set up camp. Like Niko, Tullus had seen Armand die. Unlike Niko, Tullus didn't accept the fact that Armand wasn't the sort of kid who survived long in the arena. He'd taken Armand's death as a personal failure, and it seemed to have knocked something loose in the big guy's brain.

"Tullus?"

His head swiveled to Polly, eyes colder than frozen stone. "What?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She looked away, drew a deep breath, and tried again. "What happened to Armand wasn't right, but you can't... you can't pin that on yourself."

His response was low and controlled, rage straining at the reins. "I'm not pinning it on myself, Polly."

Niko flinched. Tullus spat her name, as if it were some sort of curse. As if tasted bad.

Recoiling from her ally's words, Polly drew her eyebrows together, biting her lip to suppress a quiver. "You just seem really down on yourself. That's all."

"I didn't kill Armand," Tullus said, pointing at his chest. "And I'm also not the one who picked a fight with Tristan. I'm just the guy who couldn't save my idiot ally!"

Polly shrunk away. "All I'm saying is that no one blames you."

He smacked his hand against his face and pulled down, stretching his mouth down in a sick grimace. He forced a slow breath through his nose, and let his hand fall. "Thanks, Polly." His voice was calm, and it seemed he actually meant it. "I'm going to go take a walk. Maybe I'll find something useful."

Before anyone could argue, he left the cell and closed the door behind him. Niko tried to conceal his sigh of relief. Tullus had seemed normal enough before launch, but now that they were in the Game? Now that they'd been locked in a cage together? The guy had no chill. Anxiety, grief, guilt... all of the bad stuff only made him mad.

Back in Thirteen, Niko had dealt with a lot of people who used anger as a defense mechanism. In fact, most of the people he fought hand-to-hand used their negative emotions as some sort of crutch, trying to take the thing that made them weak and turn it into a strength. Sometimes it worked. Usually, though, they let the bad thing consume them. Become them.

Tullus was still a stranger. Niko didn't know how his ally would sort through all of his hatred and resentment, but for the time being, he would give the guy from Two a wide berth.

"We should to do something," Ace said after a short silence.

Niko's eyebrows drew together. "About Tullus?"

Ace gave him a strange look. "What? No. We just need to do something interesting, like explore or fight or get some stuff from the Cornucopia. The gamemakers might start messing with us if we sit still for too long."

"But we've only been here for a few hours," Polly said, jokingly incredulous. "I'm sure that the other tributes are interesting enough to distract them for a little while." Her smile faded. "I'm sure Tullus is off doing something interesting, anyways."

Ace groaned. "But I'm boooored."

"Go to sleep, maybe?" Niko said, regretting the note of whiny irritation in his own voice. More coolly, he added, "We can explore tomorrow."

Polly nodded, even as Ace rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "It's getting late, anyways," she said. "We can do more when all of the lights are on. When Tullus gets back, I'm sure he'll give us an idea of what the layout is like."

"Yeah." Ace slumped down on one of the creaky cots. "Okay."

Niko looked down at his hands. He wasn't looking forward to exploring nearly as much as Ace was. He just had a bad feeling about it.

Then again, he was in the Hunger Games. The whole deal was a bad feeling.


Tristan Vorassi, District Six


He lay on the stiff cot, peering into the solid wall of black above him and willing himself to fall asleep, though his efforts were largely in vain. The prison's advanced darkness only served to frighten rather than soothe. Things were lurking just beyond the cell, sharp-toothed nightmares pacing silently back and forth, waiting for their opportunity to strike. He could feel them watching.

Or maybe he was going insane. At this point, both scenarios seemed equally likely.

Ryder had volunteered to take first shift, but considering how much adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he probably should have volunteered instead. That would have been the right thing to do. He wasn't going to sleep any time soon.

Then again, he apparently didn't know how to do the right thing.

He'd killed someone. He'd watched the light leave their eyes. Yeah, Armand had tried to knife him first, but for fuck's sake, the kid had been twelve. Twelve. What a big man Tristan was, killing little boys who threatened him with bread knives. Murdering the youngest kid in the Game had probably even gained him a few sponsors! That kind of depravity excited them, didn't it? Watching kids die at the hands of other desperate kids.

Not to mention the fact that Tristan had almost been skewered by Armand's much bigger, much more dangerous accomplice, and that one of his allies had actually been skewered by Dabria. Worse yet, the gamemakers didn't seem to care about the bodies this time around. He and Margery had moved Benjamin's body to an adjacent cell, since letting a dead ally decompose in their shared breathing space didn't seem like the wisest or most sanitary decision. None of them needed the constant reminder of their own mortality. Their morale was low enough already.

Tristan had failed to keep his ally alive. He wanted to care, and he did. But death was the new normal, and he understood that as well as he could, if not accept it outright.

The only thing he didn't understand was why Dabria hadn't shot him when she'd had the chance. Sure, he probably could have dodged from that distance, but she hadn't even tried.

Maybe she'd had enough killing for one day?

And maybe the gamemakers will let us all live.

Tristan rolled over and squeezed his eyes shut, imploring the dreams to come and give him some peace. He'd probably never know Dabria's motives, and at this point, it didn't matter. The moment had passed. It was over. What mattered was right now, what could happen, what would happen. He couldn't waste what precious little energy he had left obsessing over things he couldn't change.

Armand was dead. Tristan had killed him.

Benjamin was dead. Dabria had killed him.

And for some reason, she hadn't killed Tristan when given the chance. Lucky for him, not so lucky for her.

"Tristan?"

The whisper drifted over from the other side of the room. Tristan propped himself up on his elbows, and in the dim shaft of clouded moonlight, he made out Ryder's silhouette, staring at him as she leaned against the bars.

"Yeah?"

She didn't respond at first, and in the interim silence, something groaned deep in the depths of the prison. "What are we going to do?"

He furrowed his eyebrows. Her voice carried none of its usual lightheartedness, and it wasn't even day two. "We're going to fight," he said. "As long and as hard as we can."

"Oh."

She spoke heavily, as if she'd expected him to impart some groundbreaking nugget of enlightenment. But he had none. He was just Tristan, as confused and scared as she was.

The only difference was that knew how to hide it better.


Sinora Midori, District Eleven


Sinora ran her gloved hands up and down her arms. It didn't help much in the way of heat, and the jacket hardly did anything.

During the bloodbath, she'd managed to grab a backpack and a knife from the Cornucopia, but the backpack had only contained a day's worth of food and water, as well as a thin scarf that she'd promptly wrapped around her neck, even though it was more useless than the jacket.

She wished at least one of her allies had survived. Their deaths had been cruel and unnecessary, but almost every tribute in this stupid arena would be dead within the next week or two, anyways, probably including Sinora if she was honest with herself, so the injustice wasn't specific to Nynette and Maelyn. They'd earned their deaths just as much as the surviving tributes had earned their lives.

But for the first time in many years, Sinora just wanted to be with someone. She didn't want to be alone in a place like this.

In the distance, a door buzzed, opened, and slid into place with a metallic clang. Footsteps echoed down the corridor, crisp and even as a metronome. Something clattered against the bars as the footsteps grew closer, and Sinora retreated into the darkest corner of her cell, hoping that whatever it was would pass her without notice. She tried to swallow, but her throat wouldn't cooperate.

A uniformed figure strolled into view, pace measured, hand held out to touch the bars. The clattering came from the thing's claws as they slipped along the corroded metal. Moonlight from the cell across the hall backlit the creature, throwing it into stark relief and revealing the shape of a man with talons for hands. Something was off about its face and neck, too. Sinora blinked a few times, trying to focus in the low light, and the thing stopped mid-stride. It spun on its heels to face her, shoulders squared and black eyes glimmering.

Sinora flinched at the wet sound of lips peeling back from teeth. A silver grin, shockingly bright in the low light, split the creature's face from ear to ear. Its fingers played along the bars, tapping out more of a taunt than any recognizable tune.

A few agonizing seconds passed before the creature either decided she wasn't entertaining enough or wasn't worth the effort. It pulled away, completely nonchalant, and continued on its way, still running its nails along the bars.

As soon as the creature's footsteps began to fade, Sinora allowed herself a shallow, silent breath. The mutt could probably still hear her, but if it really wanted to hurt her, it could have unlocked the cell door. It had a uniform, which meant it had some semblance of authority in the prison, right? Probably had the keys to the cell locks. It was an important player in the Game, that much she knew. Something to be avoided.

How would the encounter have played out if the mutt had met her in the hall? If there wasn't a wall of steel bars between them? Maybe it was just supposed to scare them, or keep them in one place at night, or even kill the tributes who were dumb enough to creep around after dark. If so, that wouldn't be a problem. For her, at least.

Sinora pulled her knees closer to her chest. For now, she wasn't going anywhere.


Medea Torrell, District Two


Despite the myriad supplies that still remained, the Cornucopia was completely deserted. Unlike most of the arena, the gamemakers left the lights here on overnight, which made the room seem even more abandoned than the rest of the prison, as if the overseers had up and left halfway through their shift. Save for the electric hum of the florescent lamps, the main hall was silent.

Seven bodies lay where they had fallen, some half-hidden by boxes and others in full view, surrounded by sheets of frozen blood. The subfreezing temperatures would prevent decay, at least for a while, but that didn't change the fact they were surrounded by dead kids. A shiver ran up Medea's spine and she cast her eyes upon the ground, questioning why she and Evelyn had chosen to come back to this awful place. Didn't they already have enough supplies? They could have lasted a few more days, surely. But she knew it was necessary. Sooner or later, they'd run out of food and water, and with the Cornucopia deserted, it would have been imprudent to waste the opportunity.

Medea picked through the setup, trying and failing to avoid the dead tributes. She spotted Florian, who lay slumped against a bench and table, clouded eyes upturned, unseeing. Dabria had split him open from shoulder to navel, spilling blood and gore down his front and across the floor, splattering the nearby boxes and backpacks. Medea swallowed hard and something in her throat clicked. Was she getting a glimpse of her not-so-distant future?

They probably didn't need those supplies, anyways.

From another table, she grabbed an empty backpack and started cramming in all of the useful things she could find. She rifled through a few other nearby crates and picked out three bottles of water and a can of iodine tablets, as well as a nifty little pocketknife with about fifteen different settings. She found a few packets of dried beef and fruit, along with a bag of beans and a vial of cooking oil. Probably two day's worth of food when split between them.

She gathered her newfound supplies and set her sights on finding Evelyn. This place was giving her the creeps.

Her ally had paused in front of one body in particular. Of course, Medea had no trouble recognizing the crumpled form. She'd left him there, after all.

"You killed him," Evelyn said, as if she'd only just remembered. She knelt down and brushed the hair out of his eyes. "You killed Denim."

Medea's blood ran cold. Evelyn had never seemed concerned with the well-being of her district partner. It's not like Denim had given her much of a choice, either. Self-defense was a good reason, right?

"He attacked me."

"He hit you, and you killed him."

"And you killed Aviana." Medea drew a sharp breath, trying to collect her swarming thoughts. Maybe that hadn't been the best thing to say, but Evelyn was being rather quick to judge. "We both did what we had to do."

Tracing her fingers along the concrete floor, Evelyn looked up and gave Medea a heavy-lidded stare. "I suppose so." Rising to her full height, knees cracking as she dragged another full backpack up from the ground, she ran a hand through her hair and pressed her lips together. "Let's go."

Medea nodded, more eager than she'd like to admit. She just wanted to get away from the killing field.


Enoch Emeris, District Zero


A frigid breeze pushed its claws through the barred windows, carrying a few stray flakes from the weak snowfall outside.

Enoch rolled over onto his side and exhaled, watching his breath billow in the muted pre-dawn light. He cracked his eyes open and ran his tongue across frozen lips. Even his teeth were cold. Prying his hands from under his armpits, he rose to a sitting position and attempted to yawn, but his lungs couldn't take a full breath without catching on the ice in the air.

"And so he awakens," Owen droned from the corner, not bothering to cast him a glance. "Enjoy your beauty sleep?"

"If you can call it that," Enoch said, rubbing his eyes. He blinked a few times, and set his gaze on Owen.

The night hadn't been kind to the boy from Four. He sat in the same position as when Enoch had fallen asleep, but now, snowflakes clung to his jacket, purple clung to his lips, and dark circles clung to the underside of his eyes. His gaze carried no warmth, no interest. Perhaps it was simply the lighting, but he seemed paler, too. Almost pallid.

"Hey, Owen... you alright?"

His eyes remained fixed on the wall outside the cell. "I'm fine."

"Don't you want some sleep? I can take watch."

"No."

On the other cot, Brand rolled over and sucked in a deep breath. Enoch jumped with surprise, but Owen made no indication that he'd even noticed. He just kept staring at the wall.

Pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes, Brand said, "I think my eyeballs are frozen."

Owen gave her a dead-eyed stare. "You would be blind."

Enoch cupped his hands and tried to breathe a little life into his fingers, but didn't enjoy much success. "There's this little thing called hyperbole."

Mouth turning down in a scowl, Owen's expression clouded over, and it almost seemed he would retaliate, but he just slumped his shoulders and let out a bitter sigh. "Yeah, okay. I'm just tired."

With a nod, Enoch said, "That's why you should get some sleep."

"I'll sleep when I'm dead."

Brand pulled her knees closer to her chest. "Don't even joke about that. It's not funny."

Owen turned to her, the corners of his mouth trembling with a fragile almost-smile. "I'm not joking."

"You said you were alright," Enoch said, "but I get the feeling that you were lying."

"Lying or not," Owen said, shaking his head, "at this point, it's moot. 'Alright' is the kind of thing we aren't allowed to be anymore."

"Okay," Enoch clapped his hands together and stood. He didn't know if Owen's weird behavior had anything to do with staying up all night, but it was starting to unsettle him. "I would tell you to chill out, but considering the circumstances, I think 'lighten up' is a more appropriate request. Either way, you need to quit it with the melodrama. We've got enough to worry about, and I don't want you to go crazy or die of sleep loss halfway through the Game. Pick a better mountain to die on."

Glaring at his intertwined fingers, Owen's shoulders rose and fell with an exasperated sigh. "Look, Enoch. I hear what you're saying, but I'm not going to sleep. Not right now, at least."

Enoch gave a tentative nod. His ally's behavior made a strange sort of sense, even if it was irritating and more than a little off-putting. Owen was stressed out, had his life on the line, and didn't trust Enoch or Brand as far as he could throw them. And rightfully so. They were all untested strangers, just as likely to help him as they were to stab him in the back, and a sleeping tribute was a vulnerable tribute. Still, Enoch didn't want to deal with a paranoid, sleep-deprived giant. For now, though, he had to be diplomatic, at least until Owen settled down.

He'd probably have to wait a while.


Hey, look. No deaths! I generally dislike having no-death chapters after the bloodbath, but considering all the people who've already died and all of the stuff I needed to set up, the tributes got an unexpected breather. Not too sure how I feel about this chapter, but I suppose it was more for putting things in motion and revealing character than advancing the plot or showcasing action.

The blog had been updated with the deaths from the bloodbath. After each new chapter I'll update the blog with the deaths from the previous one, to keep spoilers to a minimum whilst giving everyone a for-sure death order.

Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!