I update rather fast when I have a mind to...

A\N: IMPORTANT!: As I stated in Private Messages sent to those that were so kind as to review last chapter, Mercury's illness has a cause that can be seen somewhere in the story. I'd really like it for people to figure it out before things come to a head. I suggest that, before reading this chapter, you try to solve the mystery. A clue: The cause to his illness may be found in the bloodbath chapter. If your do not find it, I will make clear during the post-Games interviews, when the victor sees the replay of their Games. But I think you can find it sooner. Best of luck to you in your search, and forgive me for not being more obvious.

Of additional note, I updated the blog with placings for deceased tributes, and changed the face claims for Willi, Zita, Emmett, and Pixie, who all had face claims that I originally was not very fond of. If you've got the time, let me know what you think!

Enjoy the chapter!

Pixie Castellano, 15

District 8 Female

Bushes thrash as something makes its way down the hill toward me. Only one group in the arena is big enough to make such noise. It's the careers. They mustn't find me! I sink lower among the bushes, praying the ivy before my face is thick enough, that they won't notice the slight disturbance where I pushed the vines aside to crawl into my hiding place.

They reach the site of my fire. Please don't find the deer, please don't find the deer, I need to eat that...

The careers pass the bushes where it is hidden away. I relax a little

"There's no one here," Atalanta calls angrily.

"The fire's still going, they must have heard us coming and run. They're still nearby." That was the girl from Two.

"Good luck finding anyone in this underbrush," the Four girl snorts.

"It'll be like hide and seek," the Two boy retorts. "Spread out and search in all different directions. When you find them, holler and we'll put on a show."

"Think it's District Eight?" I hear the Four girl ask.

"I hope so," Atalanta says. Her voice sends chills through me. "I've been waiting for us to catch up with her."

"How come you hate her so much?" Four inquires.

"District 8 killed my brother in the Quell," Atalanta answers simply. "It's revenge. Nobody gets to make my district look bad, especially not when it's my family involved."

I bite my lip, nearly ceasing breathing as the girls jog past. Looking for me. Should they catch me, I guarantee that my death will not be pretty or quick. Images of past Hunger Games, and children carved to unrecognizable, sobbing pieces of meat, bring bile to my throat. My whole body is tense with terror. They cannot catch me. I cannot die. Not now, not when I'm figuring things out. I'm so desperate to live, the strength of my desire is almost startling. I never knew how much I wanted to live until now.

Shuddering, weak with relief, I sink back as the careers pass me by. My hand lowers the sling that hung ready in my hand. Beneath it, I feel the rigid shape of a twig. I try to pull back, but it's too late.

Crack!

The sound seems to echo in the silence and I breathe in sharply, my hand flying to the knife at my side.

"What was that?"

The boy from Two.

"I thought I heard something."

Now the girl from One.

Footsteps crunch closer on the leaves. They stop, just in front of me. Through a gap in the brush, I can see the booted feet and slender legs of the District One girl, and behind her in a confused jumble, the rest of the pack.

"Look," the Two girl says softly. "There's fresh dirt on the ground. Something disturbed it."

Her District partner laughs softly. "Let's see. There wouldn't be a cave behind that ivy, now would there?" I hear the leaves shift as he steps forward.

I want to leap out upon them. I want to jump out and tear them to pieces, run through and away. I don't want to die here. It's not fair, after I found the deer and things were looking so much better! I want to take them by surprise, make the first move!

Instead, I can't do a thing but quiver in ever mounting horror as the boy's hand moves forward, a knife glinting wickedly. My muscles clench and unclench. I want to shut my eyes, but even my eyelids won't move. I can't move, not at all, though my brain screams at me to run, hide, fight, anything to save myself! My sling hangs motionless in my clenched hand, the other hand hovering above my knife, but I can't move to use them. Am I too frightened? I don't know. It's about to end. I will die.

Please, please make it quick.

The bushes are shoved aside and sunlight streams down on my face. Mercury whistles softly. "Well, well, what do we have here? Atalanta, it's your little friend from Eight."

He does nothing to restrain me, but still I can't move. Triumphant, the girl from One bears down on me, triumph burning in her eyes. Her spear weaves back and forth before my face, like a snake waiting to strike. I have only moments left before I die. I ought to think something brave, or say one last message to my mother or brother. Perhaps tell him to take care of her. Instead, I can only think, cowardly, selfishly: I don't want to die!

The spear lunges into my eye.

With a strangled shriek I come upright, and my head slams into the wood above me so hard I see stars. Gasping I press both hands to my face. There is no blood. No spear. I am unhurt, alive, it was just a dream.

Just a dream.

I repeat the words over and over like a mantra, a theme to march to. They seem hollow, and not at all comforting. Only the part about the careers finding me was a dream. All the rest happened. And what didn't happen easily could have. What if I had betrayed myself? I would be dead right now. No longer in existence. I can't stand the thought.

Standing, I stumble out of my cave-like refuge beneath the draping ivy, and suck in deep breaths of the windy air. It carries misty rain driven from the sea, and a bitter, salty tang. It tastes like tears.

I could have been killed easily. Butchered a hundred different ways. I try to stop the images flooding to my mind, but they only intensify. How can I keep going in the face of this? The ever-constant threat of death, and not noble death, or peaceful death, or even just death, but sick, terrifying, twisted death at the hands of monsters, for the entertainment of the masses.

I dont understand heroes. I tried to defend Cotton, to warn him in the heat of the moment when he was in danger during the bloodbath. He died anyway. It all seems so pointless.

That's another time I could have died, I remind myself. Right at the outset, trying to defend a boy I didn't even know. I am selfishly glad that I got away. That I lived to fight another day. That blood still pumps through my veins. That my heart beats, and I breathe and think. Instead, I could be nothing but a stiff, mutilated corpse on the floor of a Capitol hovercraft, and a splash of blood, already dry, coating the plants of the arena. I shudder, sinking to my knees. I can't live like this anymore!

I can't!

Ricotta Erripe, 16

District 10 Female

The night is waning when I make my move.

Yesterday evening I hid myself in the bushes a few hundred yards from the lake, at the side where the cattails grow. I nearly fell asleep several times waiting until I thought the careers would be becoming sleepy and careless in their watch, but I managed to stay awake and now it's time.

I can barely believe my own audacity.

Creeping along, I have several scares as twigs snap under my feet. It's hard to avoid the natural booby traps of the forest in the pre-dawn darkness. I'm managing, though. No broken bones yet.

Somewhere in the woods, an owl hoots and I jump, then relax and continue on my way. Minutes later I reach the lake. The reeds look like dry, discolored skeletons in the moonlight, with their pale grey-brown stalks and ghostly waving heads. They sound like bones too, as the wind blows their dried-out husks together. The breeze carries misty rain, and it wreathes the cornucopia out near the center of the water. On the far shore, frogs croak, though near me they are silent. The scene is perfectly ghostly, and I suppress a shiver.

No one stirs, and I make my way as quietly as I can to the water's edge. Reaching down into the muddy water near the bank, I begin to pry cattail roots from the cold mud and place them in the bag made of the poncho scrap. The rest of my poncho impedes my movement as I dig, but I ignore it. It was too wet out not to wear it.

The muddy roots don't look very appetizing, but they will no doubt be more appealing peeled and baked in the coals of a fire. My family used to bake potatoes that way, among the coals of our stove back home. Most of our cooking and heat in District 10 is supplied by coal, as we are too far from District 5 for power to be efficiently transmitted from the dam and other generators there.

I can almost smell the potatoes now, warm and mealy in their brown skins. Colby was always too eager, and would burn his fingers and tongue trying to eat them before they cooled down. I feel an overpowering wave of homesickness as I think of my family. They are probably crouched around the television now, holding their breath at my proximity to the careers. I wonder if they miss me as much as I miss them.

Anything much farther from hot, dry District 10, with its ever-present animals and homey, barney smells is hard to imagine. Even the slow, careful, hard work of repairing a barbed wire fence or shearing a sheep is preferable to this wet, erratic, alien world, one moment hot and the next wet and miserably, bone-achingly cold.

Something flitters in the reeds and I jerk upright, all thoughts of home gone in an instant as I wonder whether I will be fighting for my life. A moment later the noise comes again and a blackbird perches atop a reed. I relax. Then I have a thought: perhaps there are nests among the reeds?

I have almost decided to search, when I reflect that the awakened bird means that morning must be coming soon. No doubt the careers will be waking up in not long, and I have no time to waste. All the same, the idea of leaving with nothing more than a pile of muddy roots nags at me. I gather them up, and make my way along the water's edge, hoping to find something more worthwhile before I leave. It seems silly to have risked so much for so little.

Chancing to glance toward the cornucopia, I see a sight that sends an audacious thought to beat all others flying to my mind. Seated atop the golden horn is the girl from Two, her bow lying at an odd angle, her head sunk on her chest, unmistakably asleep. No doubt she is their guard.

There, underneath her, are the snoring forms of the other five careers, and behind them...

A wealth of supplies. A veritable treasure-trove of weapons, survival items, perhaps even luxuries! Food, clothing, tools, weapons . . . they are all there, all mine for the taking.

I could do it. I could raid the cornucopia. I could.

Before I have time to think better of it, I have stuffed the bundle of muddy roots beneath a bush, and am lowering myself into the water. The going is tricky, with the mud and water weeds, and I'm a little frightened as I don't know how to swim. The water is shallow, though, I remember that from the bloodbath. Even the little girl from Three was able to keep her head just barely above water. Otherwise it wouldn't have been fair.

I snort at the notion of fairness in the Games.

Reaching the cornucopia, I heave myself from the water as quietly as I can. I am shaking with excitement at the thrill of the danger. Perhaps I am a fool. But I feel like a heroine.

Tiptoeing inside so as not to wake the sleepers, biting my lip with the tension, I move lightly inside. My foot catches on something, but I snatch out and manage to keep it from falling. By the feel of the cold shaft, it is a spear.

Gradually my eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and I no longer worry about bumping into things. Instead, I worry about how to transport all the things, or rather, since I can take only as much as I can carry, what to choose and what to leave behind.

I fill my pockets with packets of soup, jerky, dried peas, chocolate powder, and a number of foods that will feel like luxury. Then I take a pot, for cooking, and inside it stash several bottles of chlorine tablets, a bottle of disinfectant, bandages, a pair of knives, and a jacket. Seeing an empty backpack near to hand, I stuff my things inside and add a waterproof blanket. Oops, nearly forgot matches! I turn around, grab a tin, and add them to my loot bag. I am reaching for canned food when a choked sound startles me and I turn around.

The boy from District 2, on his hands and knees, is trying to get toward me. He tries to call out for help, but his voice is hoarse and barely a whisper. Frightened nearly half to death, I run straight over top of him to the exit, swinging the backpack onto my back. The boy falls with a gurgling cry, and I jump into the water and wade for shore with all my speed, thrashing in an effort to go faster. All attempts at stealth are abandoned. I can hear cries of alarm behind me. My only hope is to get out of sight among the darkened trees and disappear into the shadows before they can follow.

Adrenaline pumps through me, giving me a ridiculous strength as I plow through the water, tearing my feet free of the mud and weeds that seek to hold me back. With a heave, I leap in among the trees.

I can't believe what I just did!

Mercury Medall, 18

District 2 Male

I could feel myself fading yesterday evening. The vomiting and blood stopped their torrent at last, but I feel like death. Every movement sends pain like a lance ripping through my abdomen. It hurts more than anything I have ever felt, more than the worst blows I ever took in a fight, more than the strongest punch or kick to the jaw or chest. All my mental defenses crumble against it, and the most my spent, ravaged throat can muster are gasps rather than cries.

All night long I have lain rigid, simply trying not to move. It is hard to define sleep and waking. I simply float somewhere in between. Sometimes the pain is from knives that butcher me in dark dreams, and when waking it is no better. Whatever it is is inside me.

I feel dizzy and light, floating above myself, but not above the pain. That accompanies me everywhere I go.

It is hard to believe that I am even alive. It seems the pain ought to have killed me. I want it to go away, at any cost.

The beeping of a parachute cuts through the dark clouds around my mind. Instantly Enzo is awake, running over to me and catching the parachute that floats gently down. He unscrews the cylinder beneath it, and gives a grateful gasp when he sees what's inside. I watch, pleadingly, as he removes the syringe and looks at me.

"It's from District 2," he says excitedly. "They've sent medicine."

I try to sit up, but the pain defeats me and I fall back, grabbing a knot of sleeping bag tightly to keep from making noise. I cannot be weak. I must stay strong. Stoicism is looked on well in the Games. I'll get more sponsors . . .

It hurts to much. I moan.

Hands moving swiftly, Enzo inserts the needle into my arm. Blessed relief flows into me through the puncture. I feel more light-headed than before, but the pain is removed. I float above it, dully knowing that it is there, but not feeling it. Almost it is blissful.

"Not medicine," I say hoarsely, startled by the ragged sound of my voice. "Morphling. Painkiller."

Enzo nods once, then turns away suddenly. He must have realized what I am beginning to feel: whatever is wrong with me, it cannot be sponsored away. Real fear flickers across my bravado. I am dying. I must be. They have sent me the medicine to ease me out of the world.

I fight my exhaustion tooth and nail, afraid that if I close my eyes I will never wake up again. But after a sleepless night yesterday, there are stronger pulls than my fear, and the next thing I know I am waking up. I curse myself for falling asleep, when a sound, a quiet ping of metal touching metal, sounds behind me. As quietly as I can I roll over, reassured when the pain does not cripple me. Morphling.

Startled, my eyes widen. The girl from Ten is standing in the back of the cornucopia, stuffing things into a backpack. I lunge to my feet, but I underestimate my weakness and fall, landing painfully atop a water bottle. It digs sharply into my stomach and then tips over, releasing the pressure. It feels as though my body has burst and with a gurgling cry I fall, barely supporting myself on my arm. Tears sting my eyes. Ah...

The girl runs forward, her boot striking me in the face and hurling me onto my side. Hard shoes strike my back, grinding my face and pain-wracked body into the ground. Spent, I lie, shaking, my abdomen tight with pain.

I cannot move. I cannot breathe. It hurts...

Pull yourself together!

With all the effort I can muster, I raise my face. "Girl...from Ten...thief..." I croak, and the others spring to life around me. I hear them rush outside, their voices angry. Caspar's is raised above the other's, yelling. I wish they would quiet down. I want to be alone. I want the pain to stop. Desperately, my fingers scrabble on the floor, finding the syringe. Empty, of course. Why don't they send more? Something snaps.

Outside, the voices intensify to angry shouts.

Heat engulfs me. I throw away the blankets that still cling to me, tear off my shirt. My stomach is distended and tight, and every movement covers it in waves of fire. My legs twitch and will not stop. All my mental power is useless against the pain engulfing me, and my pulse pounds in my ears. I am going to die!

No. Not death, anything else. I am not ready to die. I always win. I never give up! A sob tears through me. I want to escape the pain. I put a hand on my stomach and press down, down, wishing I could drive it away. My arm shakes with the effort. At last I cannot hold the pressure and I scream aloud as the pain surges back with double force. I cannot take this a moment longer. I cannot!

Forcing myself to my feet I try to run, anything to get away, but the room tilts crazily and I stagger sideways. The back of my head slams against the wall of the cornucopia. Spent, I lie where I fall. No more. No more running. I am found. I am caught. I cannot get away.

Shivering and burning alternately, floating in a surreal world, I drift off. Oblivion does not find me. Nothing finds me. Everything. I cannot escape. If I go dark, I will never wake up. I must not fall asleep...

Enzo Garrix, 17

District 4 Male

Mercury. Is he dying?

I spring to my feet as a choked sound cuts my sleep short. A shadowy figure plunges into the lake with a splash, Mercury lies writhing, moaning, delirious on the floor. All this I take in in a heartbeat, then cry the alarm, rushing after the fugitive.

I plunge into the water and go after the girl, but the seconds I hesitated were precious. Swimming with utmost speed, I catch up to her just as she reaches the bank, but as she heaves herself from the water, her heel slams into my nose. Gurgling, reflexive tears starting to my eyes, I go under. Curse her luck! I don't think she even knew I was there.

Behind me, the cornucopia has come alive. Mad as hornets, the other careers swarm outside behind me, just in time to see the girl from District 10 vanish into the shadows of the forest.

Bleeding heavily, sputtering, I heave myself from the water and back onto the ledge of the cornucopia. Caspar is the angriest. His face is flushed and his eyes bloodshot. For a moment I think he is going to attack me, blame me for letting her get away, but his furious gaze lands on an easier, softer target.

Eleanor is just waking up atop the cornucopia. "What's going on she?" she calls, voice a little frantic.

Caspar's tone is icy. "What's going on? Perhaps you should tell me. You're the guard, after all. Perhaps you should tell me how a plump, untrained girl raided the cornucopia under your very nose!" His voice rises to a shout. Eleanor, flushed and angry now too, opens her mouth to respond but Caspar isn't finished. "Perhaps you should tell me, since your the cook, why one of our best fighters, your district partner, is dying in his sleeping bag. You lowdown, treacherous, lazy coward! What have you contributed to this alliance? You managed to nearly get yourself killed the first day, sat around at the cornucopia, and now, you think guard duty is nap time! Why you-"

"Caspar, stop." It's Atalanta. "You'll only make things worse. She messed up, but that doesn't make her-"

"Yes Caspar, listen to Atalanta. Stop." It's Eleanor, her eyes narrowed and angry.

Dread suddenly clutches my heart. Her tone is ominous. I have a very, very bad feeling about this.

"Stop insulting people whenever you feel the need to bluster. If you're trying to impress sponsors, let me tell you something. You're very ugly when you're angry. Your ears turn red. And-"

"You overbearing-" Caspar shouts, before Eleanor cuts him off.

"You what? What new insult have you thought up? It's sad that you're so dissatisfied with the hunting lately, you're picking fights with your allies. Why don't you focus on tracking down a tribute? For all your bluster about my lack of contribution, you haven't killed anyone since the bloodbath, and those glorious engagements consisted of a thirteen year old who impaled himself on your clumsy sword, and a wounded Twelve you finished off. Impressive. Statistics fit for a District 1 king and future victor, yes? No. Statistics fit for a luxurious, lazy sod. I've actually got a hit, someone I hunted myself, likely dying right now."

"You mean Mercury?" Caspar hisses.

Eleanor's face becomes covered in terror and her eyes widen. "I mean the girl from Eleven!" she cries, frightened.

Almost as though unconsciously, her hand snatches an arrow from her quiver.

"Oh I bet you do," Caspar yells, running toward her. She nocks the arrow and brings the bow up. Someone has to intervene, or the alliance will shatter! Still holding my sleeve to my bleeding nose, I leap between them, putting a hand on Caspar's forearm. "Calm down," I hiss. "You can't break the career pack now."

"Oh, can't I?" he snarls. "Just watch." He wrenches away, but I grab onto him again.

"Don't be a fool," I counsel. "She's insulting you. Maybe even baiting you, but if you do something stupid you're going to get us all killed." He jerks away again, but this time he doesn't try to move forward. Speaking in a raised tone, but still looking at me, he chews Eleanor out.

"She's a hellcat. Probably a poisoner. We're not safe as long as she's alive."

"A hellcat? You're playing a dangerous game Caspar Ophir!"

Still holding the bow, she bends her knees to leap from the cornucopia, and everything happens at once.

Atalanta Bliss, 18

District 1 Female

Eleanor's foot slips, and with a cry, she slides down on her back, her hands releasing the bow and by extension the arrow as she falls. Something hisses past me viciously, and with a gurgling cry Caspar falls to the ground. I whirl, and see him lying half in the water, an arrow standing in the middle of his chest.

Horrified, I turn back to Eleanor who is scrambling into the water and away, bow still in hand.

Raising my spear, I turn and run after her. She must not get away. Accident or not, she has killed one of the members of our alliance. I have had my own suspicions, and it seems that, whether a poisoner or not, she is becoming increasingly dangerous. Besides, district loyalty demands that I avenge Caspar's death. I never liked him, but the realization that he is dead fills me with righteous anger. Everything is going wrong!

Someone seizes my arm before I reach the water. Terrified, acting on blind instinct drilled into me by years of training, I turn and drive my spear upward into my attacker.

Blood squirts out in a fountain as I wrench my spear free, and through the blurry red specks of my vision, I see Enzo Garrix gasping in the mud as twin streams of red flow from his ravaged throat. His eyes are wide in shock, and choking, gasping noises wrench from him. I turn away from the sickening sight, and come face to face with Cyma. Her eyes are wide with horror, and I am barely in time to block the strike as she bares her teeth and shoves her knife in for my throat.

"Cyma!" I cry. "Cyma, listen to me, I didn't know it was him!"

She strikes again, and again I block her blow. "I thought he was attacking me. It was self-defense. Listen to me, we are the last careers! We can't kill each other!" A cannon fires, emphasizing my point. I wonder whether it was Caspar or Enzo.

"We have to stay united, or one of the outer districts will win!"

That seems to hit her hard. She lowers her knife, and I lower my spear, though still holding it in a defensive position. Another cannon sounds.

"I don't want that," she says slowly.

Satisfied that she won't attack, I ground my spear in a rest position. "Allies?" I ask, with a little smile, extending my hand.

"Allies," she answers shortly. Then: "Enzo."

Reluctantly, not wanting to see what I did, I turn. The mud around him is red with blood, and one of his legs twitches reflexively, though he is surely dead. His eyes stare sightless at the sky. I fight nausea. I have seen death before in the Games, but I didn't mean to kill him. The accident has left me shaken.

"He's dead."

I nod once. "I'm sorry," I say.

"I'm going to kill Eleanor," she snaps, eyes suddenly blazing.

"That makes two of us," I assure her.

"Then what are we waiting for?" holding her knife, she plunges into the water.

I go to follow her, when I realize something. Weren't there two cannons?

Where is Caspar?

A\N: Well, well, aren't I evil! This is where not adding eulogies or kill statistics until after the death recap starts to come into play for real...

Kills list:

Atalanta Bliss-1 (credited with Wilhelmina Dye)
Caspar Ophir-1.5 (credited with Cotton Ombre and finishing off Liam Cox)
Eleanor Bradford-.5 (credited with partially killing Phoenix Hemlock)
Mercury Medall-2 (credited with Wyatt Foster and Hunter Robinson)
Enzo Garrix-.5 (credited with finishing Phoenix Hemlock)
Wyatt Foster-.5 (credited with fatally wounding Liam Cox, Caspar delivered death blow)
Venna Wilcox-1 (credited with fatally injuring Shahid Howe)
Cyma Dolore-1 (credited with killing Venna Wilcox)
Leon Rayner-1 (credited with killing Alabaster Parker)
Alabaster PArker-1 (credited with killing Leon Rayner by triggering his fatal infection)

Alliances:

West Side Story II - Zita Moreno and Byron Calvert
Amazons - Atalanta Bliss and Cyma Dolore

That chapter had some action. What was your favorite bit?

Who do you think is dead?

What consequences will these events have?

Are you seeing a victor yet?

A final five?

Final eight?

Any particular ideas for something your tribute should\could\would do?

*I will not necessarily use any ideas you have, but I am curious. If someone is becoming a static character, your ideas might liven them up. I probably won't use requests like: 'Capri Kane goes berserk and massacres the remaining careers', or 'Danny Sparks blows up the arena', just so you know :)