Haus Der Toten; The 95th Hunger Games
Day Two

Pearlana Singh, 26
Senior Gamemaker

So far, the reception to this year's Hunger Games has been spectacular.

Apart from the rather tame opening bloodbath, preliminary reports show that this arena and all its strings have captivated the audience. Although it's too early to conclude, these Games are looking to top the previous four that came before it. With Hyperion gone and the arena under the direction of Gideon, more . . . 'ideal' Victors can be attained. Yes, Ainsley Tisdayle of District 12 was as crafty as Joyceta Rodriguez and Francisco Noriega of Isla Nieve were strong-willed, but it's debatable to say they fit the mold of a Victor - strong, confident, and bloodthirsty.

Then again, we Capitols can be a little . . . 'overzealous' when it comes to imagery!

I continue to sip away at some French Vanilla instant as my colleagues trickle in from their five hour breaks. Thank Snow for the likes of Vi and Pax. I swear within a couple years' time, Gamemakers will be obsolete due the holographic duo's versatility.

"Top o'the morning, Pearl."

I turn to see Gideon, mug in hand, as he steps onto the command turret and swivels in his chair.

I offer a bright smile in return. "Good morning, Gideon."

He wags a finger my way. "From what I remember, I sent you away on break a couple hours back. You did go, right?"

"Yes yes," I reply, dismissing him with a friendly wave of the hand as I take another sip from my mug. "I just thought that you could use the extra hand, so I came a little bit early."

"Alright, as long as you can tolerate being active." he says, as the turret rises into the air with a soft hiss. "I hate seeing a woman in your condition doing all the work you do, but if you insist."

My hand instinctively darts toward my stomach as I offer him polite thanks for his concern. I turn to my chair, stopping as I pivot back to the turret in which the Acting Head Gamemaker resides.

"Say, you're the president's right hand man, what do the other departments think about this whole arena idea? You think I'd know, but that stuff seems to be above my pay grade."

He shoots a spry grin my way. "The Ministry of Health objected to this idea at first . . . you know, with the whole use of bio-hazardous material in such an important District such as Eleven. Then you have the issue of tributes coming in contact with the infected. If tributes were to die and we bury them, they claim it would be a 'risk to the other interments'."

I roll my eyes. Some people have been watching too many motion pictures. On the other hand that's quite the amusing image - formerly deceased persons rising out of their graves once more to feed on the living!

"That's why we gave them an anti-virus, correct?"

"Exactly." answers Gideon. "In an attempt to prevent the spread of the virus to the already interred and to dilute the manifestation of the virus itself . . . We at least want their parents to have the option of an open casket without them looking like a biohazard themselves."

That sounds about right. In the event they want to view their fallen one last time, we could at least grant them a pretty face.

"So," I say, gesturing to all the Gamemakers currently assembled. "Day two is upon us. What do we have planned for today?"

"Well," the older man begins, "As of twelve o'clock our time, we'll be forwarding all primary arena functions to Vi and Pax until a Victor is named. All other functions, including maintenance and sponsor packaging, will be regulated by us." He clears his throat, leaning into a microphone. "Vi, Pax?" he calls, smiling as the two holographic children faze into view before us.

"Good Morning, Mr. Montresor!" they chime in unison.

"Good Morning Doctors. Please continue dropping tidbits about our arena and its contents to our tributes." Gideon nods as the two holograms bow and curtsy before dissipating.

"Melchior, please aid Vi and Pax in enabling 'WAVE 2' of the bio-hazards. I'm going to have the children deploy the second wave of biohazards by having them come through from the north and south - let some of the outliers get their hands dirty."

Melchior nods with gusto. "Of course Mr. Montresor, Yvette, the team and I will get right on it."

"Good. Vontavius, I enjoyed your ambient music, as did many spectators. Please, keep it up as the day goes. "

Vontavius shoots a mock salute his way. After issuing various commands to different departments and adjusting his browline glasses, Gideon turns to me.

"Pearlana,"

"Yes Gideon?"

"Unlike a certain recently deceased Head Gamemaker, I liked your most recent proposal. Prepare to deploy them soon."

I flash him a smile. I'm starting to like the old man already. "Of course Mr. Montresor, I'll have them prepped and ready to deploy for Vi and Pax by mid-day."

Tybalt Moranthyfis, 16, District 10

I guess our little plan was easier said than done.

Held up in a nifty looking apartment-like room, I tend to Herrick's neck wound. He's damn lucky Nine's knife didn't slit his jugular or something. Snow, I'm surprised he's still among the living with such a close call like that. I'm surprised that I managed to escape. All things considering, that bloodbath was a disaster on my end. What was supposed to be a show of competence turned into our asses getting handed to us, Cian getting killed and barely any supplies between the two of us.

It was supposed to be a walk in the park. The arena sure looked that way - a generic forest with a mansion of sorts. The rain, fog and those gosh damn zombies had to ruin what was a decently thought out strategy.

What a convoluted concept from such a convoluted class of people. Like seriously, the walkin' dead?

"Thanks Tybalt," groans Herrick, hissing as he rotates his right collarbone where Adele's knife struck. "What about you though, Aliyah wailed on you pretty hard."

I glance at my own wound - a circular stab wound from D-2's knife after she slammed me to the floor. Thankfully the remainder of the cream and gauze offered me some escape from the pain. I wince as I gently tap the material, causing a slight bout of pain that flares up in waves before coming dormant again.

I cast my glance towards the floor. " . . . I'll live I guess."

"Speaking of living," he replies, grimacing somewhat. "I'm still kinda baffled both of our partners didn't make it. Evara and . . . Joelle was it?"

Not caring much, I offer him a slight shrug. Evara and her group were foolish enough to fall for the trap Careers tend to lay every year - too much exposure almost always paints an enormous target on your back. Joelle was weak, but still, better for her end to have happened now rather than later when the Games truly heat up. I had her brother in history class, they seemed like good folk. Maybe when I win I'll send some of my wages their way.

"Better them than us. It was bound to have happened anyway." I affirm, adjusting myself on the couch.

"At least now our mentors can focus their efforts on us alone."

Herrick nods, albeit uneasily as we fall into a deep silence. While digging into a can of fruit, I watch from the corner of my eye as he raises a finger in euphoria. Taking our packs, he empties them - watching as its contents splay across the old coffee table. What was he trying to prove? I'm not quite sure, but I'll humor him regardless.

" . . . Let's see here," he hums, rifling through our items. "We got two cans of beans, a liter of water between the both of us, minimal gauze . . . a short-sword for me, a serrated one for you and that's about it. That seems good enough.

I scoff, mustering enough control not to flip the table entirely. "'Good enough' - two cans of beans are good enough for you!?"

He seems to disagree, shrugging with a mix of anger and frustration as I continue my glare towards him. "I'd think they are? I'd rather some items than none at all - or would you rather be one of the six faces in the sky?!"

I roll my eyes, another scoff escaping my lips. Why is it that I'm always surrounded by people who always settle for the bare minimum?

"Listen my friend," I drawl as kindly as I can muster, jutting my fork toward him. "There's more to this than the feeling of 'safety'. What image does this show to potential sponsors, two grown boys cowerin' in some room like tweenagers as we lick our wounds and clutch our beans for dear life?"

I allow my trademark smirk to play on my lips as my ally casts a glance at the can of beans currently in his hand. "A typical run-of-the-mill tribute can't settle for less," I continue, "None of the big names made it out of this arena alive by settling for less. Phox Yule, Goldie Locksley, Gloss Ritchson, so on and so forth."

Herrick gives his head a shake. "Overt force doesn't get you anywhere. Like everrryone says, all you need to do is look back to the Victors that came before us. Gwen Faraday, Zinnia Parsons, all of D-6' Victors . . . I could care less about playing for 'glory'. I just wanna get out of here, like everyone else."

A sigh escapes my lips. Calm yourself Tybalt- you're coming on a little too strong. A little 'visual persuasion' would go a long way. Wordlessly, I stride toward the window and motion for him to follow. I jut a finger towards the window - pointing towards the war-torn fields, cornucopia and cluster of walkin' dead shambling towards the estate.

"Herrick, 'playin' it safe' won't save us this year." I hiss, leaning in towards him. "Just look at the theme they're going for. No useless tribute without a little . . . 'chutzpah' will be coming out on top. They've had five of them in a row."

Listening, he regards me with a hearty glance. I can tell by the resignation on his features that he knows I'm right. Things are only about to get worse. If we put in a little work like we agreed on, we'll be set for the potential storm.

"Alright," he sighs, adjusting his windbreaker. "What do you suggest we do?"

That smirk I adore so well creeps onto my lips once more, as I level my serrated sword toward him.

"It's about time we started going on the offence."

Lumina Reiss, 17, District 12

My arrow pierces the chest of the undead soldier as it crumples to the ground with a pained wail. Jai moves to stab it three times before it stops withering altogether. With a labored grunt, he hands me my arrow -a wry grin on his face as he twiddles the bolt between his fingers.

"Here ya go, Townie."

I waste no time in playfully snatching it back, loading it into my bow. "Thanks-a-bunch, Seam rat."

So far, we seem to be doing pretty well for ourselves. Unlike the children that came before us, I can't help but feel 'lucky' to have made it past the initial bloodbath. Even now as I creep around the ruined hallways of this abode, Mother and Father must be worried sick. I try to pay them no mind, as we cast a glance at our communicuffs as a rather peculiar and eerie tune emits from them. The 'WAVE 1' on the bottom-left corner of the screen is replaced with a 'WAVE 2', as another round of moans ring out throughout the arena.

"Wave two, what's a wave two?"

"You know the Underwood family - the general store owners?" I ask as he nods vigorously. "Well, Adam has a Game Block. When he played a game on it and beat a 'level', the level would go up a number."

Jai continued to bob his head in typical 'Jai' fashion, while regarding me with a incredulous eye. "So . . .?"

I clutch his arm, pointing towards the trio of zombies that stagger to and fro down the hall before hastily tugging him towards the nearest door.

"So - things are only going to get even more difficult as the days go by."

Our boots clicking rapidly against the tiles, I quickly swing the door open and fling my partner inside- only for him to gag and reel backward. Only as I force him back inside with myself in tow - do I realize why he retched the way he did. In this meeting room, situated around a gargantuan circular oak table, were multiple decomposed bodies. Baring the uniforms of rebels and D-13 uniforms - some remained slumped against the table while others could be found laid out on the floor. One could only imagine having a body or bodies locked up in a room without the elements of the outdoors to claim them smelled like.

The stench was beyond description, I don't believe there are any words to describe it.

"What in . . . Snow's name happened in here?" I gasp, fanning my nose and bouncing in place. "Blech, ugh . . . oh my-"

I stumble towards a corner, my hands clutched around my stomach as I prepare to dry heave its contents. Before I could 'toss my cookies', Jai tugs me upward - plastering a salve under my nose while caressing my back.

"It's happened in the Seam many times." he says gruffly. "Sickness, starvation . . . the PK's had to wear hazmat suits just to get inside and take them out. When it came to folks like me, we used vaporrub."

I muster a thank you as the dry-heaves subside and the putrid scent is replaced with a minty one. I've never dared enter that part of town, on warning from Mother for me to stay away. I suppose she was right in that regard. From what I remember, no one necessarily died of starvation. From the grumbles of Father's workers in his many factories, they only had the minimum to get by. The more Jai and I talk, the less . . . 'stuck up' I become.

While I regain my bearings, something catches Jai's eye as he makes his way toward the table. He reaches out in front of a decomposed skeleton to retrieve what appears to be an audiodisk.

"Take a gander at this thing," he says, tossing it to me before blowing off the excess dust. "Looks like one of them chips Francine and Ainsley sponsored us. Plop it in, let's see what's on it."

I shrug, inserting it into the back of my communicuff as I wait for the chip to download. "If you insist . . ."

Tape title: "A Toast"
User: Sgt Merlin Bellrock
Date: 9/11/2143

Private Calhoun: Sergeant, those moans . . . they're only getting closer and closer. The comms are dead silent, I think we're the only ones left . . .

Private Tarson: I haven't heard any shooting for the past hour . . . My gods, we're really gonna die in here are we . . .!?

[*Fervent murmurs of agreement, slight sobbing*]

Corporal Lipp: So that's it then, we're just gonna cower in here like children!?

Sergeant Bellrock: . . . If you wanna go out that door into the unknown, then please, be my guest. If you make it past those things, then you'll have the Capitol to contend with. If they could make the dead walk, imagine what they'll do to a POW. Do you still want to go out guns blazing?

[*Silence*]

Good, because I have an alternative that would be fitting given the 'circumstances' brought upon us.

As a combat medic, I am entrusted with copious amounts of nightlock to euthanize troops beyond the point of return. In your canteens, I squeezed the juices of said berries into your water. If you ingest the toxins by water it will guarantee quicker expiry. If you believe you have a chance against those freaks of nature - Private Jobin will see you out. If not, you may claim your canteens.

[*Silence, followed by rusting*]

No one then? Very well.

Soldiers, it has been a pleasure to have fought by your side for a free and just Panem. Before we drink, allow me to offer up a toast. I toast to the mockingjay and those who continue to fight under her banner. I hope that our predicament was but a rare case, and that the fight for liberty and justice for all continues on.

The Platoon: To the mockingjay!

***END TRANSMISSION***

Even now, as I gaze at the rusted canteens and tattered uniforms do I realize the cruelty of it all.

Surely some of these men and women had families, District 12 houses thousands of District 13 citizens. What do the viewers think - if they even thought at all due to possible Gamemaker censorship? I can't imagine anything positive coming of it. Private Lipp, Lipp . . . did she belong to the Lipps in town? They serve as the district haberdashers. The missus - Eden seems like a charm to be around. However, the mister was always a broody type, especially when it came to holidays pertaining to the Capitol's triumph against the Rebels. Didn't the Lipp family come from District 13?

I'm brought back to earth by a firm grasp on the shoulder by Jai. In his free hand he clutches an old rifle, an imposing bayonet attached to the lug.

"I think it's time we leave, Townie." he nods sternly, the rifle gripped firmly in his hands.

...

Instead of roaming the hallways, we opt to crack open a window and take our chances on the roof and its slippery shingles from yesterday's downpour.

It turns out this estate is much bigger than what the front facade has to show. Where Jai and I stand, there appears to be multiple wings of the mansion. According to the map on my communicuff, we appear to be standing over a large square yard surrounded on all sides by a two-story walkway deemed 'The Plaza'. Though barricaded and wired from the battle decades prior, the defenses can be torn down by those . . . zombies quite easily. In this gigantic plaza are a dozen square planters and a central statue offering some interior cover and block sight between the four main entrances - which happen to be iron gates. The area looks like the ideal location in which a possible feast could be held.

If one were to be called, me and my friend here could be in a prime spot. It looks like Ainsely's advice worked after all. I suppose all the pills and talking to figments of her imagination passed for just a brief moment enough to give us something useful.

"You know Townie; you're doing quite well for a gal of your stature." Jai muses as we make our way from the shingles to the upper-walkway. In a bout of confusion and irritation, I turn around - nearly slipping off the edge.

"My stature, what do you mean by 'my stature?'"

In the face of my frown he retorts with a cocky smirk. "For a townie, I'm surprised you didn't die in the bloodbath and held your own. Y'know, town folk aren't built for strenuous work - especially the daughter of one of the richest men in our district, just sayin'."

You know, I've always despised that stereotype leveled against me - that 'sheltered rich girl' label and all its attributes. Throughout my almost twenty years of living, I was constantly taught to keep a stiff-upper lip. As I assume throughout the country, one's status - especially that of a family, means everything. Now imagine being a woman in such a coveted family such as mine. Being continuously told to be careful how I portrayed myself has led me to have a very . . . 'conscientious' nature.

Being in the Hunger Games allows me to be . . . well, 'me' so to speak. My current predicament serves as a blessing and a curse for obvious reasons.

"As you can imagine, being the child of weapon designers in District Twelve of all places - there's not much room for leeway in terms of 'self-expression'."

"Now that you're here, whaddya have to lose, right?" Jai says, smiling all the while.

I return his gesture with a sad smile. Let's see . . . we have my status, the loving embrace of my Mother and Father, my friends Cordin, Leonardo and Hedy . . .

"A lot, unfortunately."

"Well," he returns, clasping my hand in his as he helps me onto the walkway. "If it means anything, I enjoy this Lumina more than the princess I knew back in Twelve."

I suppose I better relate the rumble and tumble of the middle class even more with Jai by my side. Just two weeks prior, I wouldn't know the first thing to say. I suppose the Hunger Games has a way of bringing out the best (or the worst) in an individual. It's always been a wonder to look at all the tributes and see how they grow or fall during the pockets of peace before the storm. I wonder where I would be without Jai as a companion.

I grip his hand, my weak smile replaced with a stronger one as I lightly bow my head.

"Thank you, Jai." I say, "Now let's proceed down this walkway, maybe now that we're up here - this 'WAVE 2' can be better dealt with."

Although as we proceed down the walkway, I can't help but continue glancing at the imposing wave of fog fast approaching the estate. Jai appears to have noticed as well, his bayonet is at the ready as my crossbow is leveled to my chest.

Adele Havillard, 16, District 8

Something tells me things are only going to get more difficult as the days go by.

Rianne and I saunter through the forest east of the cornucopia with no clear destination in mind. We pick off a couple of straggling undead with ease, however. As soon as the sky began to lighten up a bit, Rianne insisted that we explore the surrounding area no matter how much I protested.

"Usually, Gamemakers aren't so lenient on idle players." she said while trudging her way through the light fog.

I retorted by bringing up the fact that we're only on day two, only for her to bring up the ghouls. Imagining the Gamemakers unleashing an army of undead muttations on us, I didn't offer a retort after that. If I plan on getting back home, then I better get used to moving around.

Speaking of 'home' . . .

"How are you feeling otherwise?"

I raise my eyes from off the ground to meet her grey ones. "I'm sorry?"

"Like you said," Rianne continued, her hands jutting into the air. "We've made it another day. How are you feeling?"

"Well, unless you're a Career I doubt any of us are feeling 'peachy' about spending yet another day in this place." I mumble, kicking away a fist-sized rock. "I miss home."

Having such a pleasant upbringing, I can't help but feel petrified at the likelihood of never seeing my friends and family again - having everything ripped away because of something our ancestors did a century ago. Rianne encourages me to speak about home, which I do.

I talk about my boyfriend Trystian. He was so kind and responsible.

We were each other's first in terms of you know . . . having someone that you really, really liked before. Who knows - maybe we would've been wed once we both turned eighteen and beyond reaping age like most young people did? From Trystain I went on to reminisce about Mom and Dad and our 'flower shop' which is actually an apothecary-slash-urban garden.

And to think I was actually going to end up running that apothecary someday - I guess not anymore.

"Will this year be an outlier one?" I ask aloud, my eyes trained on the sky for nothing in particular before focusing on Rianne. She offers a shrug as she continues to sift through the debris. The fog seems to be getting thicker, but I pay it no mind.

"Try to relax as best you can. All we have to do is look at those who came before us. They weren't axe-lugging Careers and look where they ended up?"

Rianne was right, who else to draw inspiration from than the likes of Malachi or Ainsley of District 12? Then again, at least the Careers had experience with killing and were most likely desensitized to violence - the perfect remedy to such a grotesque arena like this.

Our little trek through the fog-stricken woods appears to have paid off - as we reach what appears to be an old highway and open field. Just like the cornucopia, it seems to be ravaged with the scars of war. As I glance around at the shells of military trucks, pieces of skeletons and not to mention the mutts - it makes me wonder. . .

A sharp gasp from Rianne is enough to bring me back down to earth. "Psst, Adele, come get a peek at this!"

I jog over to the field where she stood. "What, what's wrong?"

She juts a finger downward, while holding up a tattered mockingjay armband. " . . . Something tells me this arena isn't based on fiction."

As I follow her finger, my eyes land on a mass grave of charred bones strewn about in a rather large crater. Mixed in with the fragments are pieces of fabric and plenty of moss caked in. Seeing the horrendous sight reminds me of school. Back in school, our history teacher would take us on a field trip to view the location in which the Rebel troops fighting in District 11 surrendered in District 8 after its 'pacification'. The fields and the highway looked very much like this.

Which means home isn't very far away.

We find ourselves frazzled by a menacing series of wolf-like howls that echo throughout the arena. As I quickly find myself clambering onto a tank and gluing myself to Rianne's side, the fog that once inhabited the forest now finds itself enveloped around us like a smothering blanket.

"Go on my lovelieees," coos a child's voice much like the holograms, warped and deranged while maintaining their supposed innocence. "SIC 'EM!"

Rianne frowns. "Oh boy . . ."

With my knife drawn and the sound of metal unsheathing as Rianne readies her sickle, we wait. With our sight impaired by the mist, all that could be heard was the padding of feet, or was it paws?

In front of us explodes a plume of fire, and out of that fire appears a dog. This dog isn't any ordinary one - with one of its eyes an unnatural off-white as it bulges out of its socket. Just like the undead rebels, they also appear so - resulting in exposed muscles, tendons, and even bones as well as a significantly decomposed face.

The dog rushes, baring its fangs as it lunges into the air towards Rianne. She doesn't hesitate, grunting as she geared up her stance and swung with all her might. The hound could barely make a pained yelp as it's separated from the mouth sideways in a spray of blood. One decides to pounce my way, albeit too high as I counter with three stabs to the stomach - prompting the dog to crash onto the ground in a bloody heap. Three more hounds explode into view, hair raised and fangs bared while Rianne staves them away with a couple swings from her sickle.

I move to assist - only to feel a sharp twinge in my ankle.

I could only wail in agony as the hound unclasps then doubles down again - latching its fangs into my leg as I sink to my knee. I plunge my knife into the base of its skull once, two times as it slumps downward. I barely have time to react as another hound pounces onto me - knocking me off the tank and onto the concrete road. Clasping its jaw shut, my hands scramble blindly around the ground in search of my knife, but to no avail as the hound breaks free of my grasp and sinks its fangs into my neck. As I scream out in blinding torment, I feel the gushing of blood from out my mouth instead of my voice. I try and try to escape from the hound's vice-like grip, only for the mutt to sink its teeth deeper.

Rianne's sickle splitting the dog in two was a welcoming sight. My hands instantly shoot up to my neck, my very being sinks as they're greeted with wetness. The air smells of copper for some reason...

"Adele!" she wails, dropping down to my battered form. She places a finger to my lip as she secures my arm around her shoulder. "You don't talk, try to relax while I get us out of here, okay?!"

I nod, grunting as she tugs me on my feet and proceeds to drag me back toward the tree line.

More difficult it did.

Valentina Noether, 15, District 5

"I'm not quite sure how much longer I can keep this up!" yelps Cveta as we leap onto a dining room table.

"Occo said to give him time!" I grunt as I swing my chair towards a flinching trio of mutts. "Errm, nice doggies!"

We'd been prepping our electric tripwire when the fog seeped in from outta nowhere. He'd taken refuge in a closet while we drew the attacking mutts away, telling us to stall the things long enough so that we could test our invention after he made some final tweaks. Since then Cveta and I continue to stave away packs of ravenous . . . 'hellhounds'. They sure look that way with their deformed appearance, split jaws and the trail of fire they leave as they gallop around the table – looking for open spots to attack from. We've been warding these mutts off for at least half an hour! The smoke emitting from our canine friends reminds me of burning sulfur from District Five's factories.

"Back off fido, I'm NOT on the menu!" grunts Cveta, using her boot to kick back a mutt who climbed up too far.

Dogs in District 5 were always nice . . . I would always feed them and show them my flashy ring. How come these little guys aren't? How could the Gamemakers be so cruel!? One decides to try its luck, lunging at me with its fangs bared. The dumb mutt earns a chair to the head as a gift. I end the poor dogs life as I bring the chair down once more with a sickening *splat*.

Bad dog!

No matter how many we beat, two more would take their place – constantly clawing at the table as they bark all the while. My feet teeter back and forth, flinching back at each paw and fang that swipes and bites my way. Cveta lets out an angered growl, her hands clutching a nearby curtain. With a grunt she gives the fabric one last tug, clasping the iron rod in her hand as she sifts through her pockets.

Another swing from my chair causes a mutt to collide into a painting with a pained yelp. "What are you trying to do?"

With a deranged grin on her face and a lighter in one hand, she casts the curtain alight. With a twirl, Cveta swings the burning fabric towards the hounds as they recoil in fear – hissing as she leaps from the table, motioning for me to follow her lead.

"Yep, that's right you stupid mutts," she seethes, jabbing the rod towards the pack of hounds as they recoil once more. "You stay back if you know what's good for you!"

And stayed back they did - until Cveta and I slowly started to slink toward the exit. With each step backward, the dogs would continue to encroach - no longer afraid of Cveta's fire. I can't help but let out a squeal as their jaws split apart into four jagged tendrils of flesh and teeth.

Sparing only a single glance toward one another - the word 'run' doesn't need to be said as we book it out of that dining room as fast as we can.

With my heart pumping like a locomotive and my mouth tasting of iron, Cveta and I round a corner as a mutt collides against a table before joining the pack again. I feel my boot shatter a discarded piece of glass, yet I don't hear it shiver due to the constant scampering, jingling of collars and the chorus of angry barks that emitted from our friends behind us.

Just up the hall, Occo's face peers from out from a doorway, his features frantic as he rapidly beckons toward us.

"It's ready, bring 'em this way!"

With the sense of elation washing over me, I grip Cveta's hand as we renew our strength and powered forward. A mutt takes its chances and attempts to pounce on us - prompting the two of us to duck as it tumbles to the floor. We pay no mind as the hound is trampled under our feet, ignoring the sharp wail and crunches that come from it.

We round the doorway into the room we've called home for the past day, leaping over the patch of insulators and crashing into the back wall - waiting with fervent breaths. Occo, his form trembling, clutches a power switch in his hands – his thumb hovering over the trigger as his eyes remained glued on the entrance in front of us.

The barking and jingling of collars comes ever so closer until one lone mutt makes their way into the room – leering at us from the entrance.

"Occo . . .?"

"Yes?"

Cveta jabs her elbow into the side of Occo, her expression urgent. "Press the button Occo . . ."

Occo remains fixated on the entranceway. "Just a moment, please."

With its snout raised into the air and its head rotating like a hand on a clock, the mutt lets out a resounding howl as the rest of its pack gallops into the room – their jaws split open as they power towards us.

"Occo, press it now!"

Just as the pack of muttations prepares to leap over the insulator, Occo slams his fist against the button. The room glows alight with blue as the electrical current from the insulators wash over the dogs. Their yelps of pain turn into full blown shrieks as their bodies dance with the current. Just like with our display to the Gamemakers, the room explodes in a heap of smoke – the smell of flesh and sulfur heavy in the air.

As the smoke and fog clears, the dogs are nowhere to be seen.

Occo adjusts his glasses, as we inch our way up against the wall. "It worked, again."

Cveta lets out a cackle. "How'd you do it?"

I let out a cough, overwhelmed by the stench the dogs created. "Using the panels Vi and Pax use to 'project' themselves, we used the electrify from that and concentrated it with those fuses to make a 'wall of electricity'."

Occo raises a tentative finger. "We'll need something to make it more . . . thorough." He rubs his chin. "Water would be our best bet."

I raise my hand. "I'll get some, tomorrow. According to my communicuff, there's a pond east of here."

We each give a nod of agreement. There we have it, our trap works. All we need are some tributes to test it on, then we can truly move forward.

Orville Mullen, 13, District 6

This seems to be the last of them.

I wince as I plunge my dagger into the eye of yet another muttation. As I twist the blade deeper, the dog stills then slumps to the floor - lifeless as I kick it aside. Marcia seems to be wrapping up as well, fending off an attacking mutt by jutting her spear towards it. She slashes the tip across its cheek, sending a boot into its muzzle as it bleats out a yelp of pain. We both descend on the dog now, enclosing the poor thing while it limps into a corner - helpless.

"Just a second ago, it was all bloodthirsty and stuff . . . now this?" Cia gestures to the hounds defeated form. "Should we just leave it be?"

As we stare into the eyes of the dog who continues to whimper with its head inclined, my feeling towards the thing hasn't changed from the other dogs that almost tried to maul us to death. In District 6, there are plenty of feral dogs running around, as I would imagine in any other city in Panem. Maybe it was corralled and experimented on for this very purpose. Like Cia and I, he probably didn't have much choice on the position he's currently in. He was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My boot raised - I proceed to send my foot down on the mutts head. The first stomp came with a sickening crunch as the dog let out one final cry of anguish. The second and the third came with a wet squelch.

As I raise my boot for the fourth time, Marcia placed a hand on my chest. "Look the fog . . . It's disappearing."

She was right. As if on command, the fog that accompanied the muttations continued to seep away through the windows and nearby vents - with an ominous tune replacing it. As we glance down at my communicuff, the 'WAVE 2' was now replaced with a 'WAVE 3'.

Exchanging glances, I nod towards the stairwell. " . . . Let's say we head back to the kitchen."

...

After leveling an old fridge against the base of the kitchen door I slump against the cabinet with a haggard groan, my hands rubbing the length my somewhat sore neck. It feels slightly better now since Marcia gave me her aching cream from her rucksack. If we had it any other way, like her listening to me and fleeing toward the woods, who knows where we would've ended up? Casting a glance at my jovial ally now, I watch as she digs into a can of stew - her hair now in a messy brown bun. She looks up from her meal, a smile etched on her lips as she digs back in.

It's almost too good to be true, being among the living that is. If history hasn't shown us, District 6 isn't all that great in the tribute department. Outcasts and vagabonds almost always seem to be over-represented within our pool. With all this luck, everyone back home should still have an eye on Cveta and me - especially Mom. Mom, Mom, Mom . . . without me, I wonder what'll come of her? With morphling on the brain, I'd only imagine that would be her only care in the world – Snow, it probably already was.

If I were to go, I can only imagine her following my lead shortly after.

"Psst, hey Orville, check these out!"

Marcia's foot playfully jostles mine as she parades a brown package across my vision. Tearing it open, she presents a white carton with a red top – her lips twisted in an impish grin.

The package she proudly presents seems to be that of cigarettes – not just any cigarettes. They're Lucky Drags- Panem's Favourite Cigarette! You'd think that they would take out cigarettes from those meal rations but I guess not. The package reminds me of those candy cigarettes I would buy at the factory cafeteria for eighty-five cents a pop when I had a break. "Candy Cigarettes – Just Like Dad!"

"Look . . . a pack of Luckies!" she gushes, tearing open the package. "At least if the worst happens, smoking would've been one thing I got to experience in my thirteen years of life." she giggles – somewhat sadly.

"You're actually going to?" I say, returning the smile she sends my way.

She shrugs, striking a match. "Why not, everyone does it? Not to mention our current situation . . ."

With the match lit she brushes it against the end cigarette, causing the tip to glow in a bright orange hue. She takes a hearty inhale – holds – then exhales a plume of smoke through the small 'o' of her lips. She mews out a slight hmph then bursts out with a giggle mixed with a slight cough.

"Not bad I guess . . ." she extends her hand toward me – the cigarette in tow. "You wanna try?"

I glance around for the cameras I know are there. "What about your parents?"

Another shrug paired with a giggle. "Like I said, you only live once. Sorry Mom and Dad!" she whispers, waggling the cigarette towards me.

I find myself caressing my chin. Everyone from students, Ms. Buick in the teachers' lounge at school, various Victors on billboards to the factory workers on break smoked cigarettes. Might as well see what all the hubbub is about? So I do, taking the cigarette from her fingers and plopping it in my mouth – inhaling its contents.

The feeling is delightful, in my opinion, and it's like having your lungs wrapped in a warm, minty blanket. Then again, when I think back to the likes of my Mother and her daily battles with vices such as these - I quit while I'm ahead.

Cia nods toward the gigantic fridge door behind us. "You wanna see what's inside that fridge? We've been here almost three days; we might as well be acquainted with all our surroundings?"

I wobble my head, standing back up as we walk toward the fridge. "Why not, although I blame you if this place starts to stink."

"I'd imagine that freezer must have one helluva stench." She agrees.

With a steel bar lying around I break the lock protecting the door, moving to aid Marcia as we slowly hoist the door open. With a slight creak, we're surprised to be greeted with a wind akin to a wintery day – which is weird given the history of the arena and its current state.

Marcia beat me to it. " . . . Snow's Roses, what in Panem's name happened here!?"

As we slowly saunter into the ice box, we're astounded to find multiple bodies perfectly preserved where they huddle and lay. If my years in middle school history class have taught me anything, their black and grey uniforms denotes them as rebels from District 13. 'NEATH', 'POWELL' and 'ORSON' were just some of the names I could make out on their uniforms. All of their faces are frosted over, except for one female. The soldier is perfectly preserved, with moderate frost caking her features. She's oriental like me – with her slanted eyes and pale skin. 'P. NEWMAN' was the name stenciled onto her uniform.

Marcia lets out a gasp. "I know a Newman family . . . I wonder if –" she trails off with a shake of the head.

"Were they Oriental as well?"

She gives her head a shake. "Well, yeah, but they were half-breeds." she says with a casual air to her voice.

I recoil at her choice of wording; however I pay it no mind as I wrestle a silk bag out of her frigid grasp. Inside was a holodisk – with the title being 'I'm Sorry' as I plopped it into my communicuff. The audio was filled with various topics such as her love for her parents and siblings.

' . . . And here I thought we were winning, I suppose not anymore. In conclusion, Mom, Dad, Theta and Thom . . . I'm sorry I didn't make it." Newman continues to weakly sob until the transmission concludes.

"That sucks." Marcia frowns as I pocket the microchip and continue padding down the body of the soldier. From the leg upwards, her pockets were devoid of anything useful, until I pat her chest. As I feel a black satchel strapped across, Marcia and I could only gasp as I force the clasp open.

In my hand for both of our eyes to see, was Newman's Mauser.

Paisley Linscott- Gordon, 36, District 11

Co-Victor of the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games.

As soon as that boy held up that pistol for the world to see, I nearly done jump for joy.

"Woo hoo, lucky them - they found a working gun!" Zenobia Scoffs, pressing her cig into an ashtray as she exhales excess smoke. "If I dislike anything in the highest, its goody-two-shoe alliances like theirs who coast through their Games like no one's business."

It seems that her fellow Career Victors agree, with the likes of Cessna, Glisten and Marissa nodding along with them dumb grins on their lips. Abigail and ol' Berglind tend to their tea in a corner. I'm glad to see the elders have some common sense.

Zinnia, our latest Victor at fifteen years old, prepares to say something to the Seventy-Seventh Victor, only for me to raise a quaint finger. She smiles and reclines back into her stool.

"Oh gee, I dunno 'bout that Zenobia," I begin, pointing towards the holovision as the Careers come into focus. "Maybe it's because my alliance has a little somethin' somethin' called 'cohesion'."

Smirking, I watch as Marceline and her panel speaks on about how the Careers are off to an 'unsatisfactory start' - y'know, with the lack of actual tangible kills except dozens of walkin' dead? WHOO-WEE, how I just love Careers without a focus!

Zenobia scoffs with a playful eye-roll. "Sooner or later, the Gamemakers will flush them out of their hidey-hole, and then nature will work its course."

I return the gesture with an equally as playful wave. That's all it is at the end of the day, veiled banter. "Whatever you say, Zenobia."

With a shake of her head and a smirk on her lips, Zenobia turns back to her gaggle of Victors while I focus back on the holo in front of us. Nearly three days in and so far, so good. Who would've known a poor, thirteen-year-old busker from the heart of District 11 would make it as far as she has. Then again, Cian would most likely still be alive if Clarence weren't so uppity.

"They work very well together." Murmurs Zinnia as she continues to glance at the holo. "I hope for nothing but the best for either of them."

Koller seems to agree, his finger rose into the air as he finishes off the remainder of his drink "You're learning quick Kid. First rule of mentorship - keep your expectations to a minimum."

Zinnia glances toward me for confirmation, nodding when I send a stern nod her way. What Zenobia was trottin' on about is true. Things will only get more difficult as the Gamemakers plan ahead. As long as Cia and Orville play it smart, they'll have very little to worry about.

That's the thing about the Games, there's always that one tribute you get that seems destined for higher things - only for them to go the way of the twenty-five. You want to believe in the tribute under your wing, but after being burned year after year, it helps to be 'hands-off'.

They ain't outta the woods yet, but top-tier supplies and a handgun paves the way.

And if there's one thing I've learned after twenty years of mentorin' - it's the smaller victories that prep them for the final push.