A/N: Sorry for the long gap between updates. Here's a little taste of the arena to make up for it, and hopefully I'll ba able to get back to writing the next bit soon. Bear with me please, exams are damn stupid. x

I am in my element. No, scratch that. I am totally in my element, minus the whole Hunger Games and killing thing. Across from me, on the other side of the golden Cornucopia, stretches a lush green forest as far as the eye can see. Trees, countless numbers of trees rise from the mulch to intertwine overhead. Their strong branches call me invitingly, their rustling leaves fluttering in the breeze as though they are saying 'hello'. It could almost be home, back in the orchards of District Eleven staring out across the meadow into the unknown. It's perfect.

Except that I have to cross the Cornucopia to get there. All twenty four tributes are placed in a perfect ring around the golden horn, and I am directly across from the forest. There's no way to get there right away, not unless if I want to risk running straight through the Bloodbath.

"50!"

I spin around on my metal plate, pivoting slowly so that I won't lose my balance and fall off. It wouldn't do to get blasted into smithereens before the Games even starts, and I am not taking my chances with those landmines. As I thought, there is no forest behind me. Just an endless field of swaying stalks, some green and others golden like ripe wheat. The plants are of a sizeable height, but nowhere near tall enough to fully conceal a standing person, not even when the person is as small as me. Hiding's going to be tough in the wheat field.

"35!"

My eyes switch frantically from the field to the forest. I know where I want to be, but I also know the risks I'll have to take to get there. If only I am on the other side of the circle, standing exactly where Gwendolyn Hart is. Then it would only be a matter of sprinting a dozen or so metres to reach sanctuary. The wheat field it is. Perhaps I can detour later...

"20!"

But I need supplies. I can find food and water, but I still need a sleeping bag and water bottles to store my findings. Most of all, I need a pack so that I can carry my things around. The plump backpacks call to me again, their bulging sides luring me to the Cornucopia like sirens. No, I can't. I'm not strong enough to survive the Bloodbath, not even the fringes of it. But I need it.

"10!"

It's only three long strides to reach the bag. So about five seconds to grab it and whirl around again. Then I can head for the wheat field, and lie low until the Bloodbath is over. I bend my knees, my feet poised to spring off the platform as soon as the countdown is over. Three steps, and then back again. I can do this. I force myself to focus on the dark fabric of the pack, staring so hard that my eyes are about to water. Whatever I do, I cannot look at the other people around me. One sight of their faces and looming figures, and my plan will be as good as gone.

"3!'

Three steps forward.

"2!"

Three steps back.

"1!"

And whatever happens, don't look back.

"0!"

In a blink of an eye, the motionless circle of tributes is replaced by a squabbling chaotic mess. I leap off my platform, my legs pumping hard as I run for the dark blue bag. Three steps is all it takes, and I stoop to pick up my supplies while all hell breaks loose around me. The sound of metal against metal sends sharp stabs to my head, and the wordless screams of dying tributes spears my heart. From somewhere to my right, a girl is begging for mercy. A spray of warm liquid ends her whimpering pleas, and as I look down to my hand it is splotched in red. Her blood, so much blood, has drenched my right side, the faint metallic smell of it making me sick. I tighten my grip on the backpack. I need to get out of here.

The blue bag jerks in the opposite direction as I try to swing it onto my shoulder. I yank it back as hard as I can, desperate to get away. Clearly the other person has the same idea too, because the reply to my tug is a pull so strong it spins me around with the backpack. My fingers still clamped around the bag strap, I look up and meet the gaze of my opponent. Dark hair, green eyes. Midnight black hair that's matted to her forehead with sweat and eyes with pupil dilated so wide they almost look black. She looks half mad with fright, and I think I look the same to her. It is because of the fear swimming in her eyes that I decide to take one last-ditched attempt to get the backpack. I spin around suddenly, my arm wrapped around the middle of the bag. The girl lets the pack slips as she is caught by surprise, but I do not get very far before she starts pulling on it again. Biting my lips, I let go of the bag. I have to get out of here now, backpack or no. And seeing as luck is not on my side, then so be it.

"Rue!" yells a voice from behind me, so familiar and so desperate. I risk one little look back.

It's Thresh, his eyes wild and his left arm bleeding from a cut. He has my backpack in his hand, the green-eyed girl scrambling for her breath at his feet. He flings the bag in the air the moment he sees me looking around, and on instinct I reach out my arms to catch it. He's already running out as the bag flies through the air, another pack strung on his shoulders, his legs pumping faster than lightning. I leap up to catch the pack, groaning in dismay as a bevy of supplies tumbles out. There is no time to salvage anything. I spare one last regretful look at the bundle of food before running after Thresh, holding the backpack upside down. I'll have to fix the rip later. I just can't afford to lose any more supply right now.

It seems like the only sound in the arena is screaming. Battle cries of murderous tributes fill my ears as I jump into the wheat field, punctuated by the soul-ripping yells of others as they take their last breath. My boots plough through the field with desperation, trampling on the broken stalks left behind by Thresh's feet. The wheat and grass are taller than I anticipated, their swaying tips brushing my shoulders as I run along. The blades of the plants slice into my forearms as I push through them, leaving behind crisscrossing scars. But no matter how hard I run, my heart is still racing at a million miles an hour, pumping so hard that it's threatening to explode any moment. No matter how hard I run, I can still hear the screams of the dead and the dying, along with the heartless cries of the soulless. No matter how hard I run, I am still in the Hunger Games.

At last the field comes to an end, the rippling ocean of wheat narrowing down as it touches the base of a rocky foundation. The hill rises steeply, almost as if it is a cliff and the swaying wheat is the sea lapping its foot. Here and there are little indents in the rock, bigger than holes but not big enough to be called caves. Thresh is at one of these small hollows, crouching to stash his backpack into a corner of the crevice. I walk over to him, my feet light on the soft earth. He only turns around when he hears the sound of my bag hitting the ground. My eyes widen as I take in the large rock in his hand and the guarded look in his eyes.

"Oh, it's you," he says, lowering his arm, "You got out alright?"

"Yeah," I reply slowly, still a little shocked at Thresh's instant reaction to my presence, "Only a couple of scratches. Your arm doesn't look so good though."

"The girl from Four tried to take me down," he says grimly, "She's not the best with a knife, thank God. I knocked her out, didn't kill her but maybe I should've. Would've probably been better than the other kinds of death waiting for her in the Bloodbath. I got her pack though."

"The cut looks pretty deep," I say, not wanting to comment on his ordeal at the Cornucopia, "I'll go find some plants to bind it up. You shouldn't be losing blood so early in."

"It would only end this nightmare quicker though," he says, yanking hard on the zipper of his bag to open it, "Besides, you'll be one step closer to home if I go."

"No, don't say that!" I say a little too loudly. Taking a deep breath, I lower my voice, "You tell me to be optimistic, and you're as hopeful as Moping Myrtle. I'll go find those plants now."

"If only people have such integrity and hope as you do," says Thresh as I stand up, "Want me to unpack your bag too while you're away?"

"Thanks for offering, and thanks for the bag," I tell him as I inch along on the cliff's foot, looking for some familiar mosses, "But there's not much in there."

"I'm so sorry," he says as he eyes the gaping hole in the bottom of my pack, "I must've ripped..."

"No, I ripped it when I ran away from the Cornucopia," I cut in, not wanting to make Thresh feel bad about anything else, "Doesn't matter, I only need a bag, that's all. I can manage the food and water."

"We'll share mine, once I get this damn thing to open," he tells me, "It should be good. God knows it is heavy enough to carry."

I return to scrutinising the rocky edges, running my fingers over the damp moss and climbers that managed to dig their roots into the jagged cliff. They are refreshingly cool, their leaves soothing my hot fingertips like a lovely dose of iced water. All the blood in my body has rushed to my limbs during my flight from the Bloodbath, and the heat they bring makes me feel like I am burning. I yank a familiar-looking moss out from the rocky walls, prodding the green handful with a finger. It feels alright, and it smells like the regular moss we get back home. It won't heal Thresh's wound, but at least it'll staunch the blood flow. It'll have to do for now.

"Give me your arm," I command, returning to his side with fistfuls of the moss and a winding vine over my arm.

He does so obediently, holding it stock still as I place the moss over the wound. I watch his face as I wrap the vine around the staunching moss, ready to stop as soon as he shows signs of feeling too much pain. But his eyes are dazed with something akin to disappointment. He doesn't even realise that I'm finished until I tell him so rather loudly.

"Thanks," he mutters, lowering his injured arm.

"What's with you?" I ask, my concern overriding my politeness.

"Huh? Oh, it's just my pack," he tells me, pointing over to the full pack lying abandoned on its side, only a few metres away from us.

"Don't tell me it's ripped as well," I say, standing up to look at the bag properly.

My heart sinks as I realise what he means. Thresh's full pack is indeed filled to the brim and heavy. But not with the supplies that we both hoped for. Spilling out from the open zipper are rocks, smooth and rough, large and small, rocks of all sizes and shapes. I pick up the straps at the bottom of the pack and shake it, praying that something useful will tumble out. Stone after stone falls at my feet, until I am surrounded by a small hill with an empty backpack in my hand. Between my ripped bag and Thresh's empty one, the Capitol sure has District Eleven struggling mere hours into the Games.