One cannon had gone off that day. Six tributes left, and counting. Wytt Marsuul had been keeping close track of every remaining tribute, growing even more nervous with each death. Not much time was left now. Soon, there would only be two tributes left, and the winner would be decided. One person would go home, the other five would die. Wytt was afraid he would fit into the last group. How could he win? He had managed to stay in the shadows throughout the games, and though that was usually a decent strategy for awhile, it could never get you all the way. And did it really matter whether you died first for twenty-third? You still ended up dead.

Wytt had an important decision to make. Sooner or later, he would need to step out and showcase his skill, establishing himself as a worthy victor But the question was when he should do it. He could wait until it came down to the final two, then face off one-on-one against the other survivor, perfectly healthy, while his opponent was battered and bruised, battle-weary and most likely exhausted. Or he could go out and face the music now, jumping in early and risking death.

It didn't seem like a difficult choice, but Wytt knew that there was more to it. His luck couldn't last. It was likely that the others were keeping track of the remaining tributes just as closely as he was, and as they went through the possible threats, all eyes would turn to him. The guy who had been totally invisible throughout the entire games. Who had scored an eight in training, and looked like a threat before the games. There was no way they would keep on ignoring him.

Wytt knew that he did not want to risk an attack when he was not fully prepared. Charging into battle only to die was one thing, but being stabbed to death in your sleep was a cheap way to go out and not the way Wytt wanted his life to end.

So "Charge into battle" it was. He checked that his rope was tied loosely enough around his waist so that he could remove it easily, and lifted his sword to check it out. It was funny how much muscle he had built in his right arm since the start of the games. He had always been very muscular, but he now wondered if carrying around a sword as heavy as this one pretty much 24/7 had made his body go all lopsided, with one side twice the side of the other. Or at the very least one giant arm that was about the size of the rest of his body. He was now able to carry the sword without any trouble at all and the blisters on his hand had mostly gone away. He checked his supplies. His sponsors had raised enough money to get him a water bottle and purifier, and he still had a bit of squirrel meat left, hanging from his belt.

Luckily, Wytt knew enough about snares to keep himself alive during the games. Though his father raised mostly cows and pigs, he often set traps around the property so that he could catch the small rodents that liked to eat their unimpressive garden. Usually, this was Wytt's job. So though he had had to improvise a bit before receiving a coil of wire, he had managed to pull in a decent haul and dry out most of the meat so that it would keep well. This part, he was especially good at.

So Wytt was well prepared for a long journey, but the question remained where to go. Should he go back the way he had come and hope to find someone? Build a fire and lure people toward him? He had no idea where any of the tributes were, so how could he expect to find them himself?

Though the mere idea of it terrified him, Wytt knew where he had to go. The cornucopia. The center of the arena, the universal meeting place, the landmark that everyone knew how to find. It was where the final battles were held, and the best place to find the other tributes if he was looking for a fight.

But maybe he could walk slowly. Hope to find someone else along the way, or wait until at least some the careers had been killed off already. From the death recaps, he knew that there were three remaining members of the pack: the two tributes from two, and the girl from four, who probably wouldn't be a threat. Of course, someone had already died, so it was quite possible that it was one of them. Wytt dearly hoped it was the girl from two (Skyler, was it?).

He had been walking for awhile now, practically in a daze. It had been long enough that it would be stupid to turn around now, as someone would probably find him after all. He stopped, momentarily, sure that he had heard a rustling up ahead of him. He listened. Nothing. Carefully, he continued walking, trying not to make too much noise. He stopped again. Were those voices? He shook his head. He was just paranoid.

More purposefully this time, he trudged in the direction of the cornucopia. He recognized some of the buildings around him. He was still really far away. Surely, there couldn't be someone after him all the way out here?

The footsteps were behind him now. No, to his left. His right. Directly in front of him. Even the slightest noise made him jump. He wished he wasn't so big and clumsy. Surely, it couldn't be anything other than small animals watching him. Right?

It couldn't be mutts. He refused to let the thought even cross his mind. Dammit, he couldn't help it! Not mutts. Please, gods, not mutts. Not mutts. It wasn't mutts. But how could they be everywhere?

No, they were too quiet. He was probably imagining the sounds, anyway. And they seemed so human. It was human voices he heard. He was certain of it. He kept walking. The noises grew louder. They must be ahead of him. He couldn't avoid them, anyway. He would have to face them eventually. God, he was terrified. Someone was yelling. He couldn't imagine that, could he? Wytt couldn't decide what was real and what wasn't. It was like his imaginings were just getting stronger and stronger, but he couldn't think of something that realistic, could he? The voices were quieter now. But he was approaching them. They were no longer all around him, only directly ahead. That was a bad sign, wasn't it?

Silence.

The voices stopped. Everything went still. All of a sudden, the absence of noise seemed heavy, loud. Wytt stopped in place without realizing it, then forced himself to take another step forward. He recognized this place. He could see the path he had taken on the day of the bloodbath, the footprints, the crushed vegetation. The buildings were bigger here, perfect for hiding behind. Wytt felt like he was being watched. He was torn between wanting to stay in place to try to make himself as small as possible and running away as fast as he could.

He forced himself to take a step forward. Then another. He kept looking behind him. His back felt vulnerable. He still had the distinct impression that he was being watched. He needed to get out of here, and soon. God, he almost wanted someone to jump out already and confront him, before the waiting drove him crazy.

It all happened so quickly. His eyes wandered to the ground a bit off to his left. Amid the bright white of the ancient greek ruins, their colour slightly toned own by the brown and black of the dirt, was a splash of bright orange. Attached to the small body of the female tribute from district two. He hardly got the chance to process this information before she had launched herself at him, swinging a giant stick. It almost knocked him over.

Never before had Wytt felt so clumsy. His sword was in his hand for all of a minute before Skyler managed to take it away from him, by manner of cleanly breaking his wrist. She fought dirty, and Wytt's sheer size and strength could do no good against her superhuman agility and bloodlust. She picked up his discarded weapon, sliced at his legs, his chest, everywhere she could think of. It wasn't long before she had overpowered him.

Wytt was dizzy. He thought he was lying on the ground, but he wasn't sure. The pain was blinding. He was bleeding from who knows how many different places. His vision was going splotchy. He heard voices, but they were fading out. Were they whispering? Had they gone away? Why weren't they yelling anymore? Why hadn't they killed him? He was still alive. He was sick, but alive. He would be okay in a few hours... Wouldn't he? He was just tired, that's all… really, really tired…

A cannon sounded across the arena, announcing one more death to the small pool of survivors. Nineteen tributes dead. Five left to play.

Keelan Sanders did not think for a minute that he had gotten away with his little stunt. No sign of the careers yet? Ha, like that would last. A cannon had sounded, meaning that someone had died? Probably unrelated.

He had stolen the weapons from the career camp, and there was no way he was going to get away with it. There was not any doubt in his mind they they had been after him ever since they had discovered their missing supplies, and though it was quite likely they had wasted time looking for the weapons, they would not have let him get too far ahead. He knew careers, and they weighed revenge over practicality.

Which was why it was stupid that he was running away. What exactly was he trying to accomplish with this? Tire himself out? Distance himself from all the other tributes, so that he would have to run farther to get to the cornucopia once it came down to the final two (which was likely to happen soon, what with there only being six - no, five - tributes left now).

The careers would not rest until they found him, that was certain. Come to think of it, they probably thought he had taken their weapons himself rather than hiding them. And though his escape plan was ingenious (go in the same direction for a long time, then veer off track suddenly once they became confident in the direction he was running in, so that they would get lazy and continue that way), he doubted the careers would stay away forever. Besides, they would have to die at some point, anyway, and who was better suited for the job than Keelan Sanders, demigod hero, master at sneaking up on people and the most powerful tribute in the arena?

Okay, so that may be an overstatement, but Keelan liked to pretend he was that awesome, and self confidence had to count for something in the arena, right? He could imagine himself, calmly and fearlessly challenging the careers, his bow slung across his shoulder while they had nothing. He would have to trouble holding his sword and all his other stuff at the same time. They would cower in fear as he shot them down one at a time, then left them to bleed out as he went looking for other tributes.

Actually, Keelan knew that it was much more likely he would find them fully armed thanks to their sponsors, and end up missing spectacularly every time he attempted to shoot them down because he didn't really know how to use a bow, or at least not well enough to be able to shoot anything on the first try. Then he would be forced to fight them and they would outmatch him.

He was trying, though. His battle plan was to start by shooting them down, and then, if necessary, jump into battle with his sword. He had set up a target in a tree, though you could hardly call it a target when it was nothing more than a few leaves of various colours held on with an arrow directly in the center, which made him look a whole lot better than he was. Keelan had hit the tree only a couple of times and hit the target only once, though he had improved considerably since the beginning. He had learned to shoot at camp, even though the bows were usually reserved to the Apollo kids, so it wasn't like he was a total amateur, but he was still pretty awful. If he continued to improve at the rate he had been in the past few hours, there was a slight possibility he might not totally embarrass himself in front of all of Panem.

Why had he even chosen a bow? The lightweight weapon had seemed like such a good idea in the moment, but in hindsight, it probably wouldn't even do him any good. He was actually pretty bad with it.

But it was no use thinking about it now. Keelan had made his decision, and he was going to stick with it. He loaded an arrow, closed one eye, aiming for the tree a few meters away from him. Both his arms were steady now. He knew the bow tended to pull to the right, so he tilted it just the slightest bit to the left, then a few milimetres upward, knowing that the arrow would begin to fall once it approached the tree. He took a deep breath, and released.

It just barely grazed the left-hand side of the tree, but Keelan didn't stop to think. He already had another arrow in the string, which he released without making any adjustments. It flew wide. The next one hit the tree well above the target. The next fell out of the air before it got far enough. The next bounced harmlessly off the tree. His final arrow hit the very edge of the target, and stuck there.

Keelan released a deep breath and lowered his weapon. He was getting there, but not quickly enough. He didn't have time to stay here and continue practicing. He scrambled to pick up his scattered arrows and put them back in his quiver. He checked to make sure he had everything he would need. He did.

His stomach fluttered. This was it. He was going off to find the careers. They could kill him. Oh gods, they probably would. He forced himself to breathe.

He took one cautious step forward. Then another. Back the way he had come. This was the finale, or close to it anyway. He was going to confront the most dangerous tributes in the arena, once and for all.

He looked up at the sky, and remembered the night he had seen his sister's face up there. Tears welled up in his eyes. He couldn't do this to his parents. He had given them hope by surviving so long, and he couldn't tear that away. He had to make it home, so that even if they lost one child, they could still keep the other.

He remembered Dahlia, former head of the Hermes cabin, who had died brutally and unfairly in the bloodbath, before even getting the chance to do anything in the games, when she totally would have kicked ass. How he had never really liked her that much until they had been put into the games. He wondered if his cabin had done something special for her. He wondered if they would have to do anything for him.

Thunk. Thunk. His shoes sounded duly on the dry earth, scattering debris and rocks all over the place. Was he getting closer? How long had it been?

Keelan wondered what was going on in the outside world, what with all the tributes being demigods. Were the gods angry? Had Camp Half-Blood revolted? Suddenly, Keelan wanted to win, if only because of an overwhelming curiosity and a desire to know what was going on. Was he seriously going to die without ever finding out? That was so lame. Would the people in Elysium know, or would the question haunt him for the rest of his afterlife? He wanted to go back so, so badly. More than he had ever wanted anything before. More even than he had wanted that super cool magical sword in the Hephaestus cabin last year.

He kept his ears open for any sounds that would indicate nearby tributes. After years of sneaking around to prank his cabin mates, he was an expert at that. His hearing was perfectly trained to recognize even the slightest indication that someone was coming. Keelan Sanders was totally in his element.

And suddenly, he saw them. Two tributes, one big and one small, just barely visible, way off in the distance. They looked like they were arguing. Keelan's stomach twisted into knots. He crouched down behind a building, making sure that the other ruins shielded him from view while he still had a clear view of the careers. Suddenly struck with an idea, he carefully took off his shirt, wadded it up, and stuffed it in his backpack, making sure not to make too much noise, even though he was sure they would never hear him from this distance. The luminescent orange would stand out like a beacon against the stone.

Keelan told himself to stay calm. He steadied his breathing. Wiped the sweat of his palms. Gripped his bow, but not too tightly. He wasn't used to this kind of thing. This idea of waiting for the enemy to come to you. But he told himself it was just another game of capture the flag, that he had no reason to be worried.

They were getting closer. How had that taken so little time? He could hear their voices now. Skyler was yelling at Bryce, saying that she was going to leave him as soon as possible. Bryce was saying that it was her fault they had gone off track. Did they think they were off track?

They were really close now. Close enough that they would be able to see Keelan if they looked really carefully. They would probably be able to hear him too. His bow was already loaded.

He took aim. Remembered everything he had ever learned about archery. Called on Apollo and Artemis, asking them to please, please help him if they cared at all about the tributes in these games. Angle a little to left, but not too much. It was pointed straight at Skyler's heart. He wanted to get her first.

He released the arrow.

It hit her in the gut, and she let out a piercing scream as she went down, dropping her sword (Sponsors? Or another tribute? He decided not to think about it). Before Keelan could even reach back to grab another arrow, Bryce had noticed him, and was advancing quickly. Keelan scrambled backward, trying to make himself as small as possible, and pulled out the arrow. He shot it, but it flew wide. Bryce was too close anyway.

His sword. Keelan needed to get to his sword it he wanted to hold his own. He dove to the right as Bryce swung his weapon down, narrowly avoiding being chopped in half, and felt his finger touch something metallic. He grabbed it, and managed to swing it upward and across his stomach just in time to block Bryce's second attack. The career was stronger, but he had to reach down to attack, so Keelan managed to push the blade away from him, giving himself just enough time to jump ungracefully to his feet and raise his sword. He dodged the next swing.

Then his sword met the older tribute's, and Keelan let his instincts take over. He managed to match Bryce every step of the way, countering every attack as they battled viciously, but it was clear the career was the superior swordfighter. Keelan thought about how badly he wanted to win, and let that thought overwhelm him. He managed to cut his opponent in the left arm, and then in the chest, but was the victim of a few blows himself. His adrenaline level was so high, he forgot to feel any pain.

Bryce looked at something behind Keelan. And yelled. "Skyler!"

Oh, crap.

Now in full-out panic mode, Keelan tried to move to the side, so that he could get a better view of what was going on behind him, but Bryce would not allow it. Keelan ducked to avoid an attempt to take off his head, and chanced a look behind him.

Never before had he been so grateful for his ADHD. In one quick glance, he registered Skyler walking painfully toward him, bleeding from her stomach but with her sword back in her hands.

He spun to his right and managed to get a good hack at Bryce's leg, but it didn't last. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Skyler approaching quickly. He still had his hands full. Oh gods, what was he going to do?

"Behind him!" Bryce was yelling. Skyler had disappeared from view. Oh gods oh gods oh gods what was he going to do? Any minute now. In a last-ditch effort, he swung his sword at Bryce's head.

Pain in his back. He stopped mid swing. He couldn't move his arms. Why couldn't he? He coughed, and blood sprayed out of his mouth, dribbled down his chin. His vision went black.

A cannon sounded.

A/N: And we're down to four! The end is near. Keelan was always my favourite tribute, I hated killing him off! Fun fact: I had planned to write that scene from Skyler's POV, and it wasn't until I was about halfway through that I realized I had subconsciously started writing from Keelan's POV instead. Hahaha oops. I hope it wasn't too repetitive at the beginning.

So, I think I may have finally started to get over this horrible hockey season by listening to the song "f*** you" by Lily Allen and thinking about the Bruins. (especially $ %$ Lucic and Marchand) *Sigh*. An awesome song and a highly recommended strategy if you're ever angry/frustrated/upset, especially if you get the chance to kill off a bunch of characters afterward.