A/N: After this, there will probably be two more chapters of the Games. A lot of you urged me to do another SYOT after this, so I'll be opening submissions for that after we finish the Games. And then we have a couple of Capitol/epilogue chapters for this SYOT.

The Arena

0723 hours

18:21:23:13

District 10 Male C: Woody Young's POV:

Yesterday there were no deaths. The Capitol will be getting anxious for blood, and the Gamemakers will take out their bottled energy on us, the eight tributes who have so far avoided death at their hands.

Three days, twelve hours and eleven minutes. That's how long it has been since Woody Two last took control. I have been in charge since then. Me, determining everything I do, seeing to it that I don't throw caution to the wind and charge down the street swinging my sword at anything that moves.

His thoughts have been in my mind, though. I can hear him down there, hissing at every sound, wanting so badly to bust out my sword and take the crown. Wanting to show the Capitol, to show everyone, who is the strongest warrior in their midst. Too long we have been denied as a weak, unstable child, puny and helpless. A sharecropper runt.

My mother hates him. So do I, to be honest, but not for his thoughts, not for his impulses. I hate him because of his control. Because my body is not my own. Because people hate me because of him. And most of all, because I understand him all too well. His feelings are the ones I have always denied, the ones that have always been part of me, and yet have not.

I understand all too well the urge to rise up from the depths and show everyone who ever doubted or was cruel to me who the strong one is, the urge to hack through anyone and everyone who stands between me and where I ought to be. Contrary to the beliefs of my mother, of the "psychologists" back in District Ten, Woody Two is not about meaningless blood and slaughter.

Woody Two is about revenge. About surpassing the weak. About surpassing everyone.

And an arena is no place for him to be let loose.

I am wary as I walk down the street, knowing that a misplaced footfall could set off a land mine and blow me sky high, and even the slightest noise could attract another tribute. I must be mobile, of course, but I make a point of never spending too much time on the streets.

Woody Two hums a tune as I walk, a song invented during the Dark Days that had been increasing in popularity ever since the Mockingjay Rebellion twenty-five years ago. It depicts the story of the infamous Battle of the Cattle, wherein District Ten's rebels brought the district's sickest cattle north and catapulted them over the Capitol's walls. It had caused quite a panic, apparently.

Tentatively, I reach out for his consciousness. You like the Cattle Song? I ask him.

When Woody Two answers, he sounds surprised. Of course I like it.

I recoil involuntarily. Only sparingly have we made mental contact before, and never before has it been over something as trivial as a song. You just don't strike me as the type to enjoy music.

It depends on the music. Isn't that true for everyone?

I shake my head to clear it. I shouldn't be conversing with him. I shouldn't be inviting him closer to me. He is not someone to embrace. I must push him away, as I have always done.

But I do not. Yes, I suppose it is.

For a moment Woody Two is silent. When he speaks again, he sounds almost sad. It is funny what ties people together.

It is.

But people will look for any reason to set you apart.

Never before had Woody Two seemed any more than the dark, inhumane instincts that I had separated myself from so painstakingly as a child. But now he feels almost human, with a light side as well as a dark, a side that makes him wonder why things have to be the way they are.

There's a reason they don't like you, you know, I tell him.

I know, Woody Two says. I don't care what they think. I don't care about them. They push you down hoping that they may boost themselves up. I'm not going to stand for being pushed, and they don't like that.

But why? I ask. Why can't you work it out with words rather than fists? Try the peaceful route for once.

The boy in my head sighs, and I can feel him mentally shaking his head in both exasperation and sadness, as if I have asked the most ignorant of questions but he knows all too well where it is coming from. You don't get it, do you. Words don't do squat. I don't strive for peace because it can never exist between me and the world. Either they push me down or I push them down. They'll never accept us, Woody. You keep trying, and you're holding us back.

I clamp my hands over my ears, as if it will stop the flow of words and emotions. Stop it, stop it, stop it. I hate you!

I try to drown him out, but Woody Two speaks over me. If you want to get out of here alive, you'll have to work with me. I can save us. He pauses, and then speaks again, his voice urgent now. Shut up and take your hands off of the ears!

Startled by his sudden urgency, I obey. I still, wondering what has provoked him, and then I hear it: the sound of soft snoring, coming from the stout, broken down building just to our right. I take a step away from the door, my hand going involuntarily to the hilt of the short sword strapped to my hip. It doesn't matter if this is an unarmed five-year-old or a Career. Woody Two will want to go after them.

Someone's there, Woody Two mutters. There is the all too familiar feeling of vertigo as my consciousness is pushed aside. My limbs go numb, and I watch, helpless, as Woody Two draws our sword and starts towards the door.

You don't know who that is, I say. We shouldn't go inside. It's too dangerous.

So is staying on the streets, Woody Two points out. This is the Hunger Games, Woody. Everywhere is dangerous. At least here we'll have the opportunity to get one step closer to home.

We check the first room. Empty. Same with the second, and the third. The fourth room we look into does not yield such disappointing results.

A young boy is curled up on the ground. His head is propped up on a small backpack, and a thin woolen blanket is wrapped around his thin shoulders. He must be at least two or three years younger than us.

Jonan, I murmur to Woody Two. He's only eight. Please, leave him alone. He'll die soon enough without our help. We don't have to do this.

Woody Two's annoyance settles down on me like a thick cloak. Yes, we do. He's going to have to die at some point if we're to survive the week. Why not now? He steps forward to the sleeping child, raising his sword above his head.

No! I scream, shoving my way forward from the recesses of my mind. I force our arm to the side, away from the still form below us. "Wake up!" I cry aloud. "Run!"

Jonan jerks awake, his brown eyes widening in horror as he sees the sword above him, swinging wildly as Woody Two and I fight for control. He looks around him, confused and terrified, his lips mouthing out a name. Jeffane. Woody Two takes a step closer, and he scrambles to his feet, backpedaling until his back is pressed against the wall.

"Run!" I almost sob. "I can't control him for much longer!" And it is true. Woody Two has regained control over one of our arms. Soon he will take back our mouth, too.

I try to release the fingers that hold our sword, but Woody Two latches the fingers of our other hand around my wrist. You want to be unarmed in front of a tribute with a knife? he snaps. Great idea, Woody. Jump out of the window while you're at it, why don't you?

As if hearing our mental argument, Jonan looks out of the window behind him, at the two story drop to the ground far below. He could survive the fall, maybe, but most likely at the cost of his legs. His only chance is to get to the door behind us, and he knows it. He pulls out his knife, his hand shaking furiously.

"Planning to fight, are you?" The words slip out of our mouth, sounding rather amused. "Bring it on, kid."

Jonan curses at us. Woody Two laughs as the foul words leave the young boy's mouth, but the child does not look nearly as peaceful and innocent as he did whilst asleep. His eyes dart from us to the door. He feigns to the right and jumps left. I fall for it, but Woody Two does not. He forces our arm to the side, and the blade of our sword bites into Jonan's ribs.

The eight-year-old cries out, more in disbelief than in pain. He falls to his knees, somehow still gripping his knife, his free hand going to the bloody line across his chest.

"Tell me," Woody Two says, "did you actually think that you would win? That you could beat us?"

He begins to say something else, but his words are mangled as I force out, "I'm so sorry. So sorry, Jonan, so sorry."

The child's wide brown eyes stare up at us. "You...you..."

"I'm so sorry, Jonan," I sob. "I tried to stop him, I swear I did, I swear..."

Jonan struggles to his feet, his face turning white. He raises his knife, propping his back against the wall. Slowly he inches over to the door. I try to force the body over to the far corner, but Woody Two's anger and determination wash over me in dizzying waves of emotion. He walks over to the young boy and for a moment only stands there, smiling slightly. Jonan meets our eyes, a final act of defiance.

Woody Two does not like that. He strikes as quick as a viper, lashing out with the sword. Jonan tries to parry, but our blade sinks into his ribs.

Jonan screams, his knife clattering to the floor. He falls beside it, his hands grappling at the bloody wounds on his torso. His breaths are harsh and quick, wheezing, straining to bring in oxygen. He coughs, turning his head, and blood drips from his lips. He lifts a shaking, red stained hand to his mouth. It comes back even bloodier than before, and he goes limp.

"Please," he whimpers, his small body shaking with sobs. "Please..."

To my surprise, Woody Two begins to sink away, allowing me to take full control of the body. I'll leave this to you. What're you going to do, Woody? Are you going to try to save him? Or are you going to do what's right?

I stumble backwards, nearly dropping my sword. I want so badly to take out my first aid kit and bandage Jonan up. But that will only prolong his misery. I could leave him here to die. Or I could kill him. I could end his misery, right now.

I drop to my knees beside him. "It's going to be okay," I promise, not knowing what else to say. "You'll be going home now. No more of this. You'll never have to see a Career again, or a sword, or blood."

"Please," Jonan whispers one last time. "Please, make it end..."

Feeling oddly numb, I get to my feet, glancing at my red stained blade. I take a deep breath and close my eyes, and bring my sword down with all of my strength.


The two Careers walk down the street. At the side of the male swings a short sword with a bronze hilt and a gleaming metal blade. The female carries a long spear, and a dagger is strapped to her waist. Quiet words are passed between them, and neither is smiling.

"How much longer, then?" the girl asks. "You know we can't put this off forever, Sage. It's inevitable."

Sage's fist tightens around the hilt of his sword. "This alliance has stood since the day we met in the Capitol. I'm not going to break it off now."

"You want it to be the two of us at the end then? You want to fight me?"

Sage's eyes flash. "I'm not going to leave, Gemini. It's not happening."

Gemini shakes her head. "You really want it to come down to you and me?"

"I want one of us to win," Sage says. "If I don't win, I want the victor to be you. And the Capitol will enjoy a final battle between two...friends."

Gemini stares at him in disbelief. "You're doing this for the Capitol?"

Sage turns towards her, his expression unreadable but for a hint of warning.

She realizes what she has said, and instinctively scans the area for cameras. She finds none, but she knows they are there. "I mean, of course you're doing it for the Capitol," she blunders, knowing all too well that her words could mean the difference between life and death. "We all are. But I wouldn't have thought it of you to coordinate your actions to best benefit the viewers."

For a moment she thinks she detects the slightest hint of mirth in Sage's expression, but is gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. "Be careful what you say, Gemini. Not all are as forgiving as you may wish."

On any other day she might have laughed at him for this, for he was hardly a suitable consultant, but she knows he is correct.

After a good thirty minutes of walking in silence, she hears it: a distant laugh, and then a male voice hushing someone. She gestures for Sage to stop.

"What?" he says, annoyed.

"Two," she murmurs. "Not far, a block or two at most."

Sage's face lights up. He draws his sword enthusiastically and starts down the street.

She stops him at the corner. He resists, but she jabs her finger at the street perpendicular to theirs. He nods, though exasperated.

The first tribute rounds the corner, and Sage falls on him. The second backpedals, terrified, when he sees Gemini. The tribute under Sage screams for him to run, and he obeys, turning on his heel and sprinting away from the Careers. Gemini picks up chase, but her bag and weapons weigh her down. He is faster than she, and she knows it is useless to pursue him.

Sage pulls his captive to his feet and shoves him against the wall. It is a boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen.

Gemini's eyes widen when she sees him. "Tristan?"

The tribute sighs in relief. "Gemini!"

Sage glances between them in confusion. "Gem, you know this kid?"

"He's from Four," she says. "You can't hurt him."

Sage shakes his head, smiling. "No, Gemini, you can't hurt him. Me, I can, and frankly, you have no say in the matter." He clucks at the tribute in mock disappointment, raising his sword. Gemini starts down the street, but she knows she will never get there in time.

And then Tristan is in motion. He pulls a long dagger from the inside of his jacket and launches himself at the older boy. Sage is caught off guard, but he moves his blade in time to parry Tristan's strike. He attempts to counterattack, but Tristan twists behind him, dodging the blade and giving a strike of his own. Sage moves just enough to avoid a fatal blow, but the dagger cuts into the flesh of his upper arm, leaving a three inch long bloody incision.

The Career hardly notices the pain, but his energy is renewed, furious that the younger tribute was able to touch him at all. He lets out a yell, bringing his sword down with all of his might on Tristan's smaller blade. Tristan tries to pull back, but he is too slow, and the dagger falls from his hands to the floor. Knowing that it is his only chance to beat the Career, he bends down to retrieve it. It takes him only a moment, but a moment is all that Sage needs.

The Career pins Tristan to the floor for the second time that day. "A good effort," he says, on his face the smile of a hunter who knows he has finally caught his play. "Not good enough, I'm afraid. Look around you, boy. This will be the last sight you ever see, the last time you'll ever have need to use your eyes. Cherish the moment."

"It's not like I can see anything," Tristan says, his voice somehow steady. "You're sort of blocking everything."

Gemini comes up beside them. "Let him up, Sage. You really want your ugly face to be the last thing he ever sees?" Her voice is quiet, dangerous.

Sage glances up at her, looking almost nervous. Then he sighs and roughly pulls Tristan to his feet, pinning him to the wall, his arm against the boy's neck, slowly squeezing the air from his throat. "Time to die," he says.

Tristan shakes his head as much as he can with the Career's forearm pressing into his neck, and a faint smile plays on his lips. "I decide what I do," he says softly. Before either Career can react, he twists his arm up and shoves his dagger into his chest. He cries out in pain, going limp in Sage's grip.

Sage yanks out the dagger, but it is too late. The damage has been done. He casts the bloody blade to the ground, shaking his head in disgust. "You coward," he spits at the trembling body sprawled on the ground. "You coward."

Blood pumps from the wound on Tristan's chest. The fourteen-year-old forces his eyes to meet Sage's. "I decide my own fate," he repeats. "My life is my own, and you will not be the one to end it. You cannot kill me."

Sage's face contorts in fury. He raises his sword, but Tristan's cannon blows before he can strike. Still he brings his blade down, bisecting Tristan's face, cutting just between his blank eyes.

"He's dead," Gemini says, annoyed. "At least let them send him back to Four in one piece. We get too many shipped in five, six different pieces. Once we only got the head."

"I want to see him go up," Sage insists.

"Fine."

A hovercraft appears overhead. Two large metal claws descend silently from the vehicle, closing around Tristan's limp body and lifting him into the air. For a moment he lingers in the air, a small dark figure against the deep blue sky, a bird flying through the clouds. And then he is gone.


A/N: Down to six.

8) District 6 Male B: Jonan Spoke, 8 - Killed by Woody

7) District 4 Male A: Tristan MacNeil, 14 - Suicide

Thoughts? Please review.