Arena, Day Three.

Amara Williams — 17 years
District One Female

I wake the beginning of the third day and I know things are probably going to get bad again.

It can't be good, knowing that I'm just constantly waiting for someone to snap. It doesn't help that I'll be powerless to stop it when it finally does happen. Maybe that's sad, resigning myself to the fact that something is going to happen, rather than thinking it only might.

I'm the first one to blink awake, save for Ross, who's leaning against the far wall, keeping watch. I don't think he's slept much since they got back, if at all. He was supposed to switch off with Sheridan halfway through the night but she's in the same spot she was last night, fast asleep. He glances over at me slowly when I push myself slightly upright, and then resumes his vacant stare out the opposite door.

It kind of feels like I'm alone in this. They're not trying to push me out, or at least the girls aren't, and Ross when he involves himself, but they don't push to have me around. They know I'm close to useless. I'm not contributing, I'm not killing, I'm not doing much of anything but letting them care for me when they remember to and not-really guarding when someone leaves.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair, shifting carefully until I'm in a better position. At least Sheridan did a solid job of stitching me up.

Slight shuffling catches my attention and I turn, just managing to catch the eye of the Eleven kid as he ducks back down behind his crate of choice at lightning speed. Mulberry, I remind myself. I can still feel him trying to stare at me through the crate. That or burn a hole right through it.

"You alright?" I ask quietly. It takes a moment, but eventually he re-appears, just enough so that the top half of his eyes are visible, glaring spectacularly.

"Fan-fucking-tastic, thanks."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah, let me go."

I pause, gnawing at my lip. I want to. I really do. And I know I'm not the only one.

"You know I can't," I respond. He scoffs, nearly disappearing again.

"You volunteer for this and then you're too cowardly do to anything about the situation? Nice. Real nice," he spits out, still under his breath.

"I don't want to die," I snap a little more loudly than I intended to. Ross glances over at me. Hariwin rolls over and opens one eye, takes note of the situation, and promptly goes back to sleep. Mulberry freezes.

I feel like crying. There's only so much I can do, and what people are expecting of me is passing that by miles. I'm supposed to fight, yet be merciful, survive and stay sane. There's no medium to this, no middle-ground.

"Listen to me," I whisper. "Mulberry—"

"Bear."

"What?"

"It doesn't— it doesn't matter."

"Listen to me," I repeat. "You will get out of here. I promise you."

"How can you promise me that?" He asks, and there's genuine confusion in his voice. He's peeking over a little bit more than half, now. Misery's written everywhere on his face. And I can't promise him anything, can't have any certainty that he'll be able to get out before the bomb drops, or if he'll be able to pull himself out of the rubble. But I need to try.

"Because faith is all I have left right now," I admit, and his shuffling falls silent. I peer over my shoulder and he's staring at me, eyes wide and even more confused than they were before. He ducks back behind the crate again, and I feel more than see him lean back against it, mirroring my position on the other side.

"Thank you," Mulberry says quietly, so much so that I barely hear it.

"Don't thank me yet. Fight's not over."

"Good," he whispers, and this time, it's even quieter.

Kiero Mearlove — 16 years
District Eight Male

Thump.

I startle so violent I nearly smack my head against the wall, and then freeze. Elora freezes. Spens is nearly as still, pushing himself to his feet so quietly it's a miracle I even noticed him.

We all stare at the door in silence. There's the faintest sound of something sliding against the wide, metal door, and then nothing.

I scramble to my feet, wincing when my foot knocks against one of our packs. My sword is shaking in my hands. Who am I kidding, really. If there is something dangerous out there, the chances of me being the one to kill it are probably in the negatives. Either way, I still move to Spens' side, hoping that I'm at least prepared for whatever's on the other side.

We're still in the bunker. Maybe Elora was right. Maybe we should have moved somewhere else. Now we're trapped in here with no way out but the door, the door that none of us really want to test right now.

Elora grabs the back of my arm when I move to follow Spens, eyes wide. I shake my head at her. I'm not a coward. I'm not a killer, either, but I'm not making him go out there alone. My attempt to dislodge her arm fails spectacularly, and I only succeed in dragging her after the two of us.

Spens stops just at the threshold, spear in one hand, the other reaching for the wrought iron handle.

We all go still. Maybe one of us should've gotten a gun out.

He rips the door open so fast I barely manage to hop out of the way. Elora nearly chops my arm off at the elbow with her sickle. I expect to launch myself out after him, sword at the ready, only he doesn't move, silhouetted in the doorway, spear only raised half-heartedly.

"So," Elora says suddenly. "Are we dying?"

All of my breath leaves my lungs when I see the barely perceptible shake of Spens head. He crouches down, reaching out a hand for something by his feet. I lean around him, taking a cautious step outside. Silver. A parachute.

"What is it?" Elora questions, shoving her way in-between us. Now that I'm kneeling beside him, with the warm light of the morning washing across the ground rather than the gloom of the inside, it's a wonder it didn't make more noise when it smacked against the door. The staff attached to the parachute's strings is long and elegantly carved of dark wood, although it has a look about it that suggests it's almost impossible to break, unless the person breaking it had superhuman strength. Both of the ends are tipped with iron, molded into dangerous points

Elora lets out a low whistle.

My mind goes into overdrive immediately. We haven't done anything, not a single goddamn thing, to deserve this. To deserve any of this, really. Spens killed Astrid over two days ago. If they wanted to reward us then, they would have. Which means they're not rewarding us for what we've done. They're rewarding us for what we're going to do. The sponsors, the Gamemakers, they're telling us to get off our asses and move.

Spens must come to the conclusion at the same time I do, sending me a look over the weapon on the ground. He stands up, ripping the parachute cords off the weapon and taking it with him. He slings the spear over his back and keeps the staff in-hand. Elora's already gathering our supplies and packs from the bunker.

I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. I'm too busy screaming inside my head to notice when Spens move, but when he puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing tightly, I nearly fall straight over. When I look up at him, there's something calm in his eyes. Prepared. But of course he is, because he volunteered for this. I sure as hell didn't.

"We're gonna be fine, hey?" He says simply, holding my eyes until I nod back at him. I know it's not true, but looking at him, I want to believe it. I really do.

I let him haul me to my feet, shoving my sword back in it's sheath, securing it across my back. I have no choice but to accept my backpack as Elora hurls it at my chest, grinning. The smile I give her back isn't near as close, nor convincing, but she must deem it satisfactory, because she grabs my arm, hits Spens lightly in the shoulder, and takes off down the nearest trench.

"C'mon, boys. We got business to take care of."

We're gonna be fine. As long as I keep telling myself that, we'll be fine.

The delusions nice. But I've never been one for believing in them.

Estelle Galore — 17 years
District One Female

I'm scared of the only ally I have in this arena.

And on top of that, she's twelve.

Maybe I should've stayed with Amara and Camilla. At least I knew what they were capable of. Instead I got to watch my very small, very capable twelve year old ally shove a knife into someone's throat and walk away with barely any remorse in her eyes.

The only reason I haven't left her yet is because I'm scared of what will happen if I do. Will she kill me the second I try? Or worse, will she let me go, let me wander this arena alone until something hurls itself at me, and I'm left alone, dying in the mud, choking on my own blood.

We don't sit still for long. Cassia insists we keep moving, but I suspect we've been going on circles. That's what it feels like. I've stopped complaining. I'm smart enough not to, now.

It keeps hitting me that I didn't even know the Three girl's name. Didn't know how old she was. Not a single thing about her, other than the look of blatant fear in her eyes before she died. I don't want to end up like that. I won't.

We've definitely been going in circles. I've seen this specific tangle of barbed wires at least three times now.

Fuck it. Fuck it all, I'm not doing this.

"Cassia."

She doesn't slow, doesn't break stride, doesn't even turn to look at me.

"What?"

"I'm done. Done following orders. There's no point to this, anymore."

She does stop, this time, glancing over her shoulder at me. For the first time since that first night, there's something other than that careful blankness in her eyes.

"What do you mean?" She questions softly, eyebrows furrowed. She genuinely looks confused. Dammit, she's so young, and she shouldn't be here, but she also shouldn't have killed someone, had no right to.

"This whole charade. Being scared to fucking ask you something because I'm scared I'll end up with a knife in the neck. What are we even doing anymore?" I demand, voice rising. I told myself not to get angry. That I'd have to kill people to get out of here. But it doesn't matter anymore.

Cassia just stares back at me. "You think I wanted to?"

"All I do know is that I've watched these things for as long as I can remember and I've never seen someone like you so eager to do it. We could've walked away, she would've never known! She wouldn't have died!"

"She had to!" Cassia yells. "Everyone has to, don't you get that? Only one of us is getting out of here. I don't know why you're questioning it, Estelle. Look where you grew up. I'm sorry people like you, people who train for it, people who volunteer to slaughter others, don't get why I had to. You wanna see people who are eager to kill others? Have fun going back home, then. That, or look in the mirror. Because you trained for it too."

It's probably the most I've ever heard her say in one go, and I'm stunned into silence. Something like fury rises up in me the next second. I'm nothing like anybody back in One. God, anyone here can see it, everyone in the Capitol can. There's almost no one at home who even wants me back. Cassia must see something in my face change, or realize that she shouldn't have said it. Her face falls. But I know that she didn't regret it.

I don't know if I'm talking about the words, or her killing the Three girl. It doesn't matter anymore.

I turn around and start walking in the opposite direction.

"Estelle!"

I don't turn around. Don't even give any indication that I heard her.

"Estelle!"

No footsteps follow me. My heart's in my throat, and the overwhelming feeling to cry that plagued me during training is coming back. I keep telling myself it doesn't matter. Not anymore, not ever.

I don't need her. I don't need anyone. I never have.

Hariwin Saylor — 17 years
District Four Male

My axe slams into the back of the last mutt's head, effectively crushing it's skull. It's brain is splattered across my shoes. If that's what that even is. I poke the corpse with my foot, head tilted. They're rats. Giant rats, that almost come up to my knee. Their teeth are as long as my fingers and they smell like a dumpster.

There's a pile of them around me. Terron's got an equally big pile about 30 feet away. Judging from the silence from the other side of the Cornucopia bunker, Camilla and Sheridan took care of that side. There had been a swarm of them, presumably because Ferrox Mervaine was a dick and got bored of his Careers sitting and doing nothing for a day. They're easy to kill, though. One kick in the right direction and they run away squealing, if you didn't snap their ribs like twigs.

More of a nuisance than anything else, really.

It occurred to me that we shouldn't have left Ross and Amara with the Eleven kid, but considering the rats would probably be the same size as him, I don't think he would've chanced it. Good thing, too. Would've gotten messy, and I'm not in the mood to clean up.

I kick another one of the corpses out of my way, shuffling back to the bunker.

"Hey, man, you wanna go do something?"

I glance at Terron out of the corner of my eye. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Throw a party. Rob a bank. Find somebody to kill. What do you think?" He says, throwing his hands in the air. He's really dramatic, I've noticed. Guarantee there's some people that find it endearing. I do not.

"Not really in the mood."

"Since when are you not in the mood to kill someone? Don't tell me you've gone all soft, Saylor."

I ignore him and resume clearing a path for myself. I swear the bodies of these things keep getting bigger. My foot's starting to hurt.

"Jesus, Astrid fucked you up more than I thought. Or were you just more badass than you thought? Can't take the heat anymore, now that you've gotten in here? There's gotta be a reason," Terron muses. I keep ignoring him. Or try to.

I'm tired. More tired than I thought I'd be.

"I could kill you," I say thoughtfully, out of the blue. Right now, it's the only thing that sounds remotely satisfying. Terron shuts up. I just barely glance over my shoulder and he's grinning maniacally. It's a smile that's made for war, too dangerous to be anything other than downright insanity.

"You're fucking crazy, you know," I point out.

"They used to say that about you, you know," he fires back immediately, still grinning. I do know that. Nobody tried to make it a secret.

I don't feel crazy. I kind of used to, now that I think about it. Like I was striving for something that was never even close to me.

Terron claps a hand on my shoulder, hard and too strong to be friendly. His grin's way too close to my face. It's unsettling. Like a shark's about to eat me and I can't do jack shit about it.

"So join the club, dude. We're all crazy here."

Finnea Mason — 17 years
District Seven Female

I remember what I thought, about fate. After I got reaped I managed to convince myself that it didn't exist. That, or it was just extremely unkind to our particular family and any other random person it chose that day. To Acacia. To Porter.

He started hallucinating in the middle of the night. Nearly woke up screaming, if we hadn't managed to stop him. It had taken what feels like forever to convince him that he was safe, that he was going to be okay, and I knew how bad it was when he finally slumped back to the floor and believed us.

Acacia's been tense all morning. She rotates between sitting on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, watching the ragged rise and fall of his chest, and pacing across the room, careful not to wake him. I've taken to sitting in silence by his side, using whatever scraps of fabric we can find to wipe the sweat off his forehead and cheeks and across his entire body.

"Acacia."

She stops and turns to me, running a hand through her hair. "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"No, not— not that. I can't stop, because I don't know what the hell else I'm supposed to do," she admits, resuming her pacing. "Is that what they want? I don't know what the fuck to do, because he's dying, we're watching him die."

She's Johanna. Not me. She's all fire and adrenaline and she's angry and has every right to be. We're sitting ducks, in here, and we can't move with him. We're stuck here, and we've run out of options. If we don't do something soon they'll send something after us and then we'll all be dead.

Porter stirs beside me, mumbling something unintelligible, fingers tightening uselessly against the ground. Acacia slides to a halt just in front of me, watching as his eyes snap open, wide and frantic. Instantly I shuffle the last few inches of distance towards him, clasping one of his hands in between both of mine. I feel every muscle in his body tense, confused, until his eyes land on me. It must take him a few seconds, but then the terror in his eyes fades out when he realizes who it is. Acacia crouches down beside me, carefully, and the panic nearly blossoms back up again until she puts a steady hand on his arm, trying to pull the corner of her lips into something resembling a smile.

He opens his mouth to speak and breaks off into a fit of violent coughing, pain twisting across his face at the slightest of movements. More beads of sweat roll off his temples and I can see his hands shaking, tightening as he tries to bring himself back.

"You know," he starts, voice strained. "My sister always said I'd die doing something stupid, and then my dad would jump in and say that it would be my friends daring me to do something, and they'd come knocking on our door and have to apologize to my parents for daring me to jump out of a tree. Or something."

Porter tries to laugh but it comes out as more of a grimace. Acacia, who shuffled a bit closer as he was speaking, does smile, barely there.

"Think they're both right," she says softly, and I'm surprised at how steady her voice is.

"Probably," he responds, and I can see the moment where his gaze just disappears again. Still conscious but barely there, in the true sense of the word. "You have to tell them I'm sorry, alright, just tell them because I don't— I don't know what's going to happen and I'm so fucking scared—"

I hush him gently, feeling tears burning at the corner of my eyes, because I never thought I'd hear him admit defeat, or terror, or anything that wasn't strength. He trails off, eyes half open and mumbling something under his breath, probably nonsense and things that only make sense to him. I raise my head and meet Acacia's eyes, almost wincing as I do so. She's got nothing in her anymore, no expression, no sign that there's anything happening to her.

My eyes land on the knife in her belt just as she looks up at me, eyes steely. I swallow hard, feeling the burn of the tears harder in my eyes. I nod. For a second we're both still, like we're trying to will ourselves away from this place, but all we have is the silence and his mumblings and the thought of his whole family back home, clutching at each other and crying.

Acacia moves to his other side and takes his free hand, lacing their fingers together. I don't think he even registers her presence, anymore.

Talk, she mouths at me. When she slides the knife soundlessly out of her belt, I can see that her fingers are trembling.

"Uh," I croak weakly, and the half-hearted glare Acacia shoots me is enough for me to swallow back the sob rising in my throat and blink back the tears. "Y'know, you always talk about your siblings, but you've never asked about mine. Guess your ego's too big. I've got two, though, both younger sisters. Ainsley, she's uh, a bit of a handful, but I love her. A lot. I mean, we fight, but it doesn't really mean anything, at least not to me. And there's Rosalind. At the goodbyes she didn't even know why I was going, probably thought it was a vacation or something."

Acacia shifts the slightest bit, knife clutched in her hand. I trail off, noticing how Porter's fever-glazed eyes are locked on me. He almost looks content. Probably doesn't even see the danger, the knife.

"I think they're gonna be okay, though," I continue, for his sake. "With or without me, they'll survive. And yours will too, alright? They're related to you, they have to be."

Porter smiles, faintly and wavering, in the same moment Acacia slips the knife in-between his ribs, straight into his heart.

I can't help the sob that rips its way out of my throat, the tears finally spilling over when his eyes slip shut, breath stuttering to a halt. On his other side, Acacia is stone, completely still with her hands still wrapped around the knife. She won't even look at me.

I don't know how long the two of us sit there, but eventually the cannon sounds, slamming into the walls. We both remain in silence.

Eventually Acacia rises to her feet. I notice she leaves the knife. I watch as she steps over his legs, careful, and gathers up her backpack, shoving the few items on the ground inside and slinging it over her bag.

I wait for her to leave, listening for the sound of the door slamming shut. More silence.

"Are you coming or not?"

I freeze and look over my shoulder. Acacia's standing in the doorway, turned away from me, but still here. For a moment I don't even know how I'm going to get up; my legs feel like they wouldn't work even if I wanted them to. I force myself to unlock Porter's fingers from mine, laying his arm down on the floor beside him. Shakily, I rise to my feet, brushing my knees off and trying to ignore the blossom of blood across his chest.

I shoulder my pack and blink away the last of the tears, crossing over to Acacia's side. She yanks the door open. In the split second of sun we get before it disappears behind the clouds, I see the tears wavering in her eyes.

"We should bring him outside," I say quietly. The hovercraft won't be able to get him in there and I don't want to imagine how long these Games could last.

"No," Acacia decides instantly. "No. They don't deserve him. They never will."

Together, the two of us let the door slip shut, and we leave him behind.

17th. Porter Crankshaw, District Seven Male.

I'm sorry? No I'm really not.

I am sorry for how long this has taken. Truth is lots of stuff was going on and I hit a major block. Three out of these five POVs were written tonight, actually; I got a big surge of inspiration at a really random time. I don't know if updates will occur every Sunday for the next little bit, because that inspiration could go away any second now. I've already started the next one, and I'm going to try my best to keep this on track, but please don't hate me if it doesn't.

Anyway, I'm the President of the Hariwin Saylor Defense Club. The end.

Until next time.