Physics exam tomorrow? Screw it, write fanfiction! :D

Part 1 of the finale, whooo! Hehe, I was looking back at some of the older chapters and laughing at the A/Ns. On the first bloodbath chapter "I was originally going to do it all in one chapter, but after hitting 5000 words and not even being nearly done, I figured I'd do it in parts. I think people would cry if they saw an updated chapter 10 000 words long"

If only I'd known how long these things would get by the end of the story :)

Anyways, for anyone who cares, the poll on my profile regarding this story has been taken down. Figure I don't really need it anymore since we're so close to the end :) However, if anyone is at all familiar with the fandom Rise of the Brave Tangled Dragons, I'd be much obliged if you checked out/voted on the new poll I have up. Thanks guys!

For those of you on summer break, happy summer and, if you had exams, hope they went well! For those of you still doing exams, we can do this, guys! Just power through 'em :)

Enjoy!


Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male

The music goes silent right as we reach the castle. At first, I think it's just shock and awe that's deafened my ears – I never, never could ever have imagined seeing something as big and, and, majestic. The four walls that had once made up my entire world hadn't led me to assume that such monumental structures could ever possibly be created.

Though as the silence draws out, I realise it's not wonder and surprise drowning out the chilling tune; the song has stopped, and suddenly everything in the arena seems a thousand times louder. Having lived all my life in my house, I'd already found myself extra sensitive to noise when I came to this place. I thought I'd gotten over it. Yet once more I'm breaking into nervous shakes; the rats' squeaking, the wind whistling, Gwen's ragged breaths and winces – it's all too much and I want to run, just run, as far and as fast as I can away from this noisy, bright, terrifying arena.

But Gwen said "us". And us needs me. Because Lore . . . Lore can't be here anymore.

"So this is where they want it," Gwen murmurs, still staring up at the castle. But she doesn't seem impressed at all by the imposing building; on the contrary, her eyes darken and she bites her lip as her eyes continue to dart over every inch of the stone building. "This is bad."

"W-why?" I ask, nervous. Is there some crucial detail I missed, something that could hurt us? Who am I kidding; of course there is. I may not have been terribly familiar with the concept of the Hunger Games coming into this place, but the cuts and bruises, the gash across my chest and the hole in my heart where my first real friend once was are all symbols of the pain that can be caused here.

"New territory," Gwen says curtly, though I assume she didn't mean for it to come out as harsh as it did. It hurts her to speak, I think. It hurts her to do anything. "I figured we'd be back at the tower and the Cornucopia for the fight. But we have no idea what this place holds. Traps or . . ."

She breaks off with a glance in my direction. Back in that awful cave, Gwen and Lore used to make guesses about what obstacle we might next face. I suppose they thought it helped to prepare us, but all it did for me was cause shaking fits and panic attacks. With an overactive imagination such as mine, I really didn't need more suggestions on how we might possibly die. Gwen seems to have remembered this, and has stopped talking accordingly, but the damage is done; already my mind is conjuring up an endless amount of horrifying scenarios, all ending with the gruesome deaths of me and my ally. Even the comforting feel of the moth necklace between my fingers can't help to calm my growing hysteria – I don't need a crushed bug wrapped in fabric, I need my mother and my father and Zephyr and Lore and someone, anyone to help me in what Gwen has described as the final fight. Where five of us will have to die.

The truth is, there can't be an us. There could never be an us. So why did Lore ever invite me into an alliance? What's the point? All it did was make this whole ordeal so much more painful.

But . . . easier, too. Think of Lore: comforting me, teasing Gwen playfully, getting us apples, saving our lives. If I hadn't had him, or Gwen, I wouldn't have even survived two minutes in this place.

"Taralo?" For once, it's my ally with the questioning tone as she continues to watch me with dark brown eyes. "You okay?"

I can't possibly express all the thoughts going through my mind, so in the end I merely respond with a weak nod. Yes; I'm shaking, hurting and more terrified than I've ever been in my entire life. But I-I have to be strong. For Gwen.

My ally opens her mouth, looking like she's going to say more, but the rats interrupt. A large pack of them had followed us all through the forest, making no move to harm us while we were moving, yet now our inactivity seems to be getting on their nerves; first one, than many jump forward, baring their fangs and emitting a growling noise so different to their previous high-pitched squeaks.

"We have to move," Gwen whispers to me and I try to nod in assent, but all my head ends up accomplishing is a nervous twitch. Still, I do manage to get my feet moving and shaking step by shaking step, we begin our slow progression to the castle.

It takes a good while for us to finally make it to the courtyard gate, but the rats don't seem to care anymore. In fact, they've stopped following us, and are hanging back with the others – another pack of the creatures Gwen and I hadn't previously noticed were seen upon our nearing the building. I can't think of why they were waiting here though . . . and then it hits me.

Gwen said they were bringing everyone together for the final fight. And if they needed to get all of us to the castle, the rats would have to be spread out in the arena. A pack of them waiting means-

"Someone's already here."

Gwen's whisper is barely audible, as though she's already trying to keep hidden from our mystery opponent. Yet I heard it all the same, though that could have just been my own thoughts, bouncing around inside my head and growing louder with each passing second. Someone's already here. Someone's already here. Who? Who? Who?!

While the rats had been pushing us through the forest, Gwen and I had tried to remember who was left in the arena with us. The only ones she could think of were the leftover "Careers", as she and Lore used to call them; the smiling girl from District 1, the two big, scary tributes from 4 and the boy with the glasses from 8. Luckily I managed to fill in the rest; before coming here, I was so used to only ever seeing the faces of myself, my mother, father and Zephyr. Just like how the girl's face, the "mayor's daughter", never left my memory on the day all this awfulness began, I've found it easier to remember the others here – their faces are each so different, it'd be hard not to.

So in addition to those four, our opponents could also be the boy with golden hair from 1, the kind-eyed boy from 10, the silent one from 12 and my own district partner, Catherine. Of course, four of those people have died – two today and two during our time in the cave. But we won't know for sure until we meet everyone inside.

I don't know what to hope for, though. At one point, I caught myself praying Catherine was all right, that she hadn't been injured or heartbroken the way the arena had gotten to everyone else I'd seen. Catherine, the anchor to District 6, my little saviour who read to calm my roaring fears during those few days of training. But then I realised that if she was still alive, Gwen and I would have to . . . would have to . . .

M-make her go. Like Lore.

So I don't want her here, then. But if she's not, then that means she's already gone, already d-dead. Which I don't want either.

But I can't have both.

"See anyone?"

Gwen's looking around herself as we enter the courtyard, but upon glancing at our surroundings myself, I can only answer her question with a shake of my head. The area truly appears deserted.

Though that all changes as we catch sight of the enormous double doors leading to the castle, one of which is open just enough to allow for a skinny child to slip through. And after spending almost two weeks in the arena with barely anything to eat, who wouldn't be thin? I've never had much to eat before – my parents always insisted on buying food for two, claiming it might arouse suspicion if they did otherwise – but never have I been able to see my ribs so clearly.

The door creaks slightly as we approach, some unseen force opening it wider and beckoning us forth. Gwen glances at me and, swallowing the huge lump forming in my throat, I nod. This could very well be a trap. Huge beads of sweat start to form on my palm as it drifts towards the small knife at my belt. Gwen's original one, which we found lying in the forest when we first set out to leave the cabin behind. She insisted I carry it, because her left arm was useless and her right was usually slung over my shoulders in an effort to make walking easier for her injured leg. But I think she also just wanted to forget the memories of what happened the last time she held that blade.

Not that I want to remember either; or carry it in the first place. I don't even know how to use a knife and the first three hours of walking with it in my belt, I was terrified it might slip and slice my leg off. Do it for Gwen, I just kept repeating. Do it for Gwen.

That same chant is playing through my head as I withdraw the knife with trembling fingers before hesitantly making my way to the door. Gwen stays a few feet back, watching and waiting for any signs of attack, but even if there was, she wouldn't be able to do much. I-I can. Well, maybe I can't. But I have to.

Do it for Gwen.

My free hand flies out and slams into one of the doors, pushing at it with a lot more force than I'd originally thought necessary – I'm much more used to the wood of my home than the stone and metal this fortress is made of. Even still, I manage to shove it open and immediately leap back as the door swings back to reveal . . .

Nothing. Just an empty room.

"Wow," Gwen whispers as she attempts to limp closer by herself. All right, maybe "room" isn't the best term. Or empty.

The hall is huge, so huge that I could easily fit my house in here three times and still have room for the castle's extravagant furniture. A long, oaken dining table, a majestic throne, intricately woven-

No. No, no, no, no, please tell me they aren't what I think they are, please, no, no, no . . .

Beside me, Gwen inhales sharply and I can tell she just realised what I discovered. I want to tear my eyes away, want to run from the castle and never look back, yet somehow my gaze continues to dart from picture to picture. Part of me realises that at least we no longer have to guess who the mysterious dead tributes are and that's a good thing, a good thing, not something to panic over.

But all my attempts at placing a positive spin on things cease abruptly as my wide eyes land on the tapestry five spots from the end.

Lore.

"We're going." The command is so harsh it manages to sever the picture's hold on my gaze, and my head snaps around to face Gwen. She's gritting her teeth, eyes determinedly trained away from the tapestries. "No one's here. We're going. Through that door."

"G-Gwen-"

"No, Taralo!"

Her shout rings through the cavernous hall, echoing over and over in one cacophonous din of severity. And with the glare Gwen's giving me now, it feels almost as though we've gone back in time, before her district partner attacked, when all she used to do was hate me.

Though all the harshness breaks as her eyes find their way once more to the tapestries. "Please," she says, and this time it's much quieter. "I want to get out of here."

Then it hits me, the reason she feels even worse in this room than I do. The initial fear these pictures sparked blinded me to each one except Lore's, which I couldn't manage to tear my eyes away from. But now my gaze is unwillingly darting to every tapestry, I realise Gwen's in one of them. The second, where she stands behind a fallen Ram and sneers as she wipes his blood from her knife. It's a huge distortion of Gwen's personality and doesn't even bother showing that she only killed the District 3 male to save Lore, but I can see how it'd still bother her. It horrifies me.

Yet Gwen's not even looking at that tapestry, or any, for that matter. No, her gaze is drawn to the end of the wall, where enough empty space lies for five more pictures. Five more . . . and then one winner.

It's just reinforcing the idea that, at the end of tonight, Gwen, me or both of us could be dead.

Gwen doesn't even seem surprised when I move suddenly to help her limp out of the hall. By the look on her face, she's come to the same conclusion as I have and it's becoming increasingly hard to ignore. I could easily at first; after all, I didn't even know the rules to these Games until my escort included them in a shouted lecture. But now I remember it every time Gwen gives me one of her frowning, sideways glances; the same type that appears on her face now as we head for a door to the side of the hall. It says that at least one of us must die to end this thing. So is there still a point in staying together?

There is for me. I can't- I can't be here alone. But Gwen . . . am I holding her back?

"People could be hiding in any of these rooms." My ally has turned away from the door we just left through, as though getting the tapestries out of sight will also make the memory leave her mind. "And they'll probably know we're here because of my . . . shout." She looks my way, eyes downcast in an expression of guilt. "Um, sorry about that. Anyways, let's check the rooms. Which one do you want to-"

"Do you want to go on without me?"

The thought just wouldn't leave my head, and I couldn't rest without knowing the answer. Gwen stares in surprise and I look down at the floor, my voice nearly inaudible. "Do you?"

There's silence for a moment, an unbearable silence that I'm sure is going to end with a resounding, "No." But when Gwen speaks, it's not in the harsh tone of finality I was picturing. "Taralo. Taralo, look at me."

There are hints of a command in the word, like how the old Gwen talked, but there's also an odd softness to it, and the surprising combination causes me to look up, my pale blue eyes meeting Gwen's own. There's a kindness to be found within those brown depths that I've never seen before, carrying with it a sense of sympathy and understanding. Like she knows exactly how I feel.

"We're a team to the end, all right?" she says, never breaking eye contact. "You got that? A team to the end. Us, remember? Us means more than one person."

I nod slowly, fully realising what she's giving up to stick with me and I wish I could possibly express all my gratitude in two words. But I can't, so the quiet "Thank you" I manage to utter comes across a lot weaker than I'd hoped. Though Gwen seems to understand anyways.

"Now, are you ready?"

I give a small nod and together, we hobble down the hallway towards the nearest door. Gwen glances at me, silently asking if I'm ready to open it and see what lies within but something occurs to me first and my hand goes to my belt.

"H-here." I slide the knife out and offer it to her. "You take it."

Gwen stares at me. "Taralo, I can't use it properly."

"I can't use it at all."

Her mouth was open to protest further, but closes slowly at my words. We both know they're true; I'd never even touched a knife at my house (Mother said they were too dangerous) and I certainly didn't take advantage of the opportunity we had during our training time. Gwen's left arm was essentially rendered useless by Rowan, but her right one still works pretty well and that's her dominant hand. It'd be of a lot more use to her than me.

"All right," she says slowly, taking the dagger. "But I can't hold it and walk with you at the same time."

Oh. I hadn't thought of that. "S-Sorry, I didn't-"

"It's fine, Taralo, you don't have to apologise." Gwen glances at the knife and a newfound resolve seems to come over her as she clenches it tightly in her hand. "I'll just walk by myself."

"Can you?"

"I did a bit before." She moves her injured leg forward and winces in response, but manages to stand strong. "Besides, I'll kind of have to, won't I?"

It takes a moment for me to realise what she means – yes, of course, the big battle that these things apparently always end with. I guess Gwen can't be hanging onto my shoulder while we're trying to survive that.

The thought of a fight makes me want to start shaking all over again, but I know I have to keep it together, for Gwen's sake. So as she readies the knife and I stretch out my hand to open the door, I try to think of every positive, comforting thing that might keep me from melting into a mess of fear. Home. Mother. Father. Zephyr. The moth.

Lore.

BAM!

The door swings more than I'd originally figured and the force of my push is enough to make it hit the wall as it opens. Gwen thrusts the knife forward immediately, shifting it back and forth in preparation for an attack. But none comes.

Instead we're facing an enormous room, filled with shelves upon shelves of books. Back home, I'd loved to read – it was really the only thing to do in my house – but we only had two novels in our possession. I didn't know this many books existed.

"I don't like this," Gwen says, her gaze moving to each narrow corridor between the shelves. "Someone could be hiding anywhere." She starts moving and I jump immediately to follow her, but a shake of her head stops me. "I think you should watch the door. We don't want someone coming in and catching us off-guard."

A chill seeps into my veins at her words, as though my blood had been turned to ice. We shouldn't split up, we can't. The last time Gwen left me, she was nearly murdered by her district partner. And when Lore didn't join us in the hole, he was m-murdered. We have to stay together.

But I'm worried saying that would make Gwen think of me as a useless coward. Which . . . I am. The scared part, though, I can't help. The usefulness, well, I can try.

And if that means following Gwen's orders, s-so be it. "Okay," I manage to say, glad I kept the stutter from my voice this time. Still, she glances at me in concern before she goes, and I try to twist my lips into a weak smile, to show her I'm all right. It must work, because the next second she's limping off and leaving me alone.

All alone.

It's all right, I tell myself, trying to wipe the sweat off my palms. Like Gwen said, there are plenty of places for people to hide. If you head someone coming, you can just duck behind the shelves. And Gwen'll be coming back soon anyway. You'll be fine; you'll be fine.

Oh, God. Was that footsteps I heard? Someone's coming, someone's coming, what do I do, oh, God, what do I do, I don't know, I-

Stop it! This isn't helping. I'm not hearing footsteps and no one's coming down the hall. Taking a deep breath, I try to ignore my fear and, when that fails, reach to my moth for comfort. The gesture has gotten less and less helpful as each horrible event passed in the arena but it still brings me some comfort.

What I need is to take my mind off of my panic. Every few seconds I'm jerking head this way and that, positive I'm hearing someone heading for me. And telling myself to relax isn't helping – relaxing means clearing my head and a clear head means plenty of room for fear to set in. I need to be distracted, need something to focus on instead . . .

Is that what I think it is?

After another nervous glance down the hall, I take a few hesitant steps into the library until I'm standing right next to the left wall. Yes, yes it is! A Collection of Fairytales – somehow, Summer's book has ended up on this shelf. Even just the sight of its familiar leather-bound cover is enough to force the fear away slightly, making room for happier memories when Catherine was reading the stories. I liked them a lot back then, but now, my love for the fairytales has grown tenfold. This arena may share quite a few similarities with the book, but in there, you can always find a happy ending when the tale ends.

What I wouldn't give for a happy ending right now.

And maybe it's this thought, or the idea that I need to distract myself, but whatever the case, I find my fingers stretching out towards the book, relishing in the idea of flipping familiar pages between them once more. My hand wraps around the cover and it's as though someone has flipped on the warning signals in the back of my mind. Because something is wrong; the book is warm. Why is the book warm?

But the sudden realisation, the worry and the notion that I should stop touching it right now occur to slowly, and my arm is already in motion. Before I can stop myself, I'm pulling the book off the shelf – but it doesn't come off. It stops halfway out, as though something is keeping it semi-attached to the bookcase. And I have just enough time to think, Trap! before the floor shudders, the shelf jerks and suddenly I'm spinning around into a cold, stone corridor with the library disappearing at my back.

"Gwen!" It's the first thing I can think of to shout, and once I say it, I can't stop. "Gwen, Gwen, Gwen!" The bookcase is still in front of me and I pound on it as hard as I can, but it doesn't twist back, the semi-circle of floor attached to this mechanism doesn't spin around once more and I'm trapped, I'm trapped. "Gwen, Gwen, Gwen!"

"Who's Gwen?"

My voice, so loud and hysterical just a moment ago, shuts off completely as I hear this new voice. For a few seconds, I can't even get my body to react; I'm frozen in place, mind screaming to turn yet legs doing nothing about it. I can't look, I can't look; because I know if I do, I'll see death rushing straight towards me.

It's this thought that breaks my stupor and all of a sudden, I'm whirling around to face the speaker, arms squeezed tightly against my chest and back pressed so hard against the bookcase that I can feel the outline of each book behind me. It's dark in the corridor, but I swear my face is so pale it's illuminating the entire corridor. It doesn't matter though – wherever the minimal lighting is coming from, it's enough for me to see him.

"I-Is she your district partner?" Calican Sareamer rises from his crouched position on the floor, wincing and clutching his midsection with his hand as he goes. His left hand. Because his right holds an enormous butcher's knife.

It's so similar to Rowan's it makes me want to throw up.

"And is she d-d-dead?" He's standing now, towering a good few inches of me and I can feel my heart threatening to beat right out of my chest. He's big and he has a knife and his eyes aren't normal – they're broken, lost. Crazy.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die.

"You see them too then?" I can barely register any of his words, too terrified to do anything but stare. "The d-dead ones. I see them at night. A-all the time. And they talk to me sometimes too. Yell at me." I can feel my knees buckling of their own accord, forcing me to slide slowly down the bookshelf but the motion stops when I'm shocked out of my fear for just a moment. Because Calican begins to cry.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, and I don't think he's talking to me; his dark brown gaze is focused on a point somewhere above my head. "I'm so, so sorry. I never . . . I never wanted you to die. I just don't want to either. Please."

Now he looks at me, and I can feel all my fear come rushing back, clouding my vision and nearly obscuring Calican's guilt-ridden face. Each breath I take is shorter, faster, with almost a hysterical whine to it. I'm going to pass out, I'm going to pass out. And die. "You understand though, right?" Is he looking at me now? I can't see, I can't see, it's all going black, I can't see. "Please, please tell me you understand. I know you don't want to die but I can't- I can't-" Mine aren't the only hysterical sobs echoing through this corridor; vision wavering in and out of complete darkness, I can just make out Calican trying to choke out his words. "Death hurts. I've seen it. I-I-I've . . . caused it. I'm terrible, horrible. But I just can't die. Please, I just want to get back to my family. Please understand. Please don't come back to haunt me."

For a moment, I almost believe my vision is clearing, that I might not faint from terror. Then I see the enormous knife come swinging straight for my head.


Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female

I try to remain absolutely silent as I search the library, yet my ragged breathing is still cacophonous in my ears. The winces, the groans, I've tried to suppress them all but I just can't. Maybe I should have asked Taralo to help me walk.

No, you can do this! I scold myself, forcing my feet around yet another bookcase. I need to be able to rely on myself, like I always have, if I'm going to get out of here alive.

Just the thought brings me to a halt. It didn't seem real until we came in and saw those tapestries, saw those five empty spots and realised there truly were only six of us left. And the Gamemakers wouldn't go through all the trouble with those rat mutts just to have more than one person leave this place alive. No, this is it. The winner will be decided tonight.

How can I keep my alliance with Taralo going then? I just can't wrap my brain around the idea that in a few hours, one of us will be lying around cold and lifeless while the other . . . well, isn't like that, hopefully. I never used to understand, when I watched the Games, how allies would always tell each other, "If I don't win, I hope you do." It was a stupid concept to me; you might as well be saying, "Ultimately, I want you dead, but if that's not possible, well, I guess it'd be nice for you to live." It was dumb – if you die, you don't care who wins because you're dead.

Even now, I can't bring myself to utter the kind ally words. Lore would say them to us all the time and Taralo would hesitantly nod in agreement, but I could never bring myself to do it. Even now, with six of us left. I don't hope for Taralo to win. I don't hope for him to die, but in praying for my victory, am I not essentially doing just that?

My mother always plans ahead; she's the mayor's advisor, it's her job. Until coming here, I'd never understood the notion of dealing with things as they cropped up.

"So, you couldn't resist joining the alliance after all?" He smiles that cheeky grin I've already come to hate as we lean back against the trunks of some old oaks. Taralo's already fast asleep. "Couldn't resist after our impressive display in the bloodbath?"

It's self-deprecating humour, meant to lighten the mood and yet for me, it does anything but. "I don't even know why I did it," I say harshly, trying to kill any idea he has of me wanting "friends". "At least two of us will have to die in the end, what's the point of sticking together now?"

"Help each other. Stay alive longer."

"While prolonging the lives of our opponents. Seems counterproductive to me."

He stares at me, gaze curious, not hurt. "If you're so opposed to it, why'd you save me back there?"

It's a question I've been trying to answer myself for the past few hours since the bloodbath. But yet again, no suitable response comes to mind. "I . . ." Desperate not to let my uncertainty show, I try changing the subject back to a topic he's been avoiding. "So, what are you going to do when we get down to the final few? We all going to fight it out amongst ourselves or make a pact not to kill each other and let the Gamemakers pick us off?"

His eyes show no hint of worry at the idea, but I swear I detect a hint of doubt present. It disappears almost immediately though, and he relaxes casually back against the tree trunk. "Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Over and over again, Lore would repeat that phrase and over and over again, I'd disregard it. Why put off dealing with a problem? It's not like it'd go away.

I see the value in that now, though. Thinking about death, mine vs Taralo's specifically, it won't help either of us. I told him we were a team to the end, and at the time I thought I was just trying to keep him around to help me walk. But now I realise that it's more than that. I do like him and I don't want him to die. Though I don't want to either, and I can't have both.

But I guess we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

With this in mind, I feel fully prepared to head back to my ally; after weaving my way through the numerous shelves, I've decided there's no one hidden here. Or, if there is, they're awfully good at it – though in that case, I'm not too concerned about them. Thanks to those horrific tapestries, we now know the unspecified deaths that had occurred both today and during our journey through the cave. If that little twelve-year-old Catherine, or even the boy from 10 want to hide for as long as they can, that's fine with me. I'm much more concerned with two aggressive Careers remaining.

Of course, eventually I will have to find the hiding tributes and . . . deal with them. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it.

"Taralo," I whisper as loudly as I dare, heading back in the direction of the library entrance. "Taralo, we're all good here. Tara-?"

Nothing. I can see bookshelves, couches and an open door but no white hair, no pale skin, no hint of my ally. "Taralo, it's Gwen," I hiss, thinking that he might have heard my voice and, so terrified of the fight to come, panicked. "Taralo, where are you?"

The unwelcome waves of fear are beginning to pool in my stomach but I force myself to ignore them. There's been no cannon yet, so whatever has happened, Taralo's still out here somewhere. I can't see any signs of another tribute, so I'm assuming he just let his paranoia get the better of him. And in doing so, he would have had two places to run: deeper into the library, where I definitely would have heard him. Or out into the hall.

Cautiously, I creep towards the open door, knife aloft and ready to use. Back during training, I was no good with close combat and with my injuries now, I know I'd be even worse. But I could throw pretty well; hopefully I'll still be able to.

The next closest door is a little ways down the hall from the one I'm stepping out of, and it's likely the place Taralo might have gone. Assuming he wouldn't head for the area with all the tapestries which, judging by his earlier reaction to them, is a safe bet.

My knife lowers slightly as I approach the new room; don't want to scare my ally to death by looking like another tribute coming to murder him. However I soon realise that I have to put my knife away completely – my left arm is in no shape to be opening doors. The act of sliding my one weapon into my belt makes me feel naked and vulnerable, a sudden tremble running down my spine as I do so, but I force myself to ignore it. I'll just grab it again later.

My now free hand wraps tightly around the door handle and slowly pushes it open just as I'm about to call my ally's name. But I stop dead in my tracks.

There is a boy in the room, but I can tell even before he whirls around to face me that it's not Taralo. The boy's taller with brown hair, and as he turns I find myself staring straight into the vibrant, green eyes of Janaff Skye.

For a moment, the two of us just stare at each; then the weapons come out, him grabbing for the closest thing he can find while my fingers fly to my belt. And then we're back to watching each other, knife and sword help in our respective grasps.

"You're early," he says, breaking the tense silence. But I know it's just a ploy to lower my guard, and I respond by doing the opposite.

"I didn't know there was a set time for the murdering to start."

He doesn't respond at first, his eyes leaving my face for a moment to take in the meaning behind my bloodstained uniform, and I'm surprised to see him grimace in something not unlike repulsion. He's a Career, a monster; he should revel in my injuries. "I guess Rowan did end up finding you."

Normally even the thought of my district partner is enough to get me shaking as bad as Taralo, but this time, I'm occupied by another thought. He's a Career . . . and so is the girl from 4. Oh, no. "Where's your ally?" I nearly shout, trying to resist the urge to take my eyes off Janaff and search for her myself. If I let him out of my sight, I'll be dead; but if I let her sneak up on me . . .

"Rowan?" My outburst seems to have almost confused him. "Dead, like all the others. Didn't you see-?"

"Not him. Her. Meredith." I'm about to add, "And the dragon," but I stop myself short. Such a creature is impossible, and I refuse to believe the Gamemakers actually managed to create one for these Games. The tapestries are just lying; Noah, Cordelia, Achilles Perrin – they all must have died in some other fashion.

It's funny; the mention of Janaff's old ally sparks a reaction quite similar to mine with Rowan. His face pales, his hands twitch and yet he clenches his teeth in an effort to hide his fear. "We're not allies anymore."

And then, he lunges at me.

Two things save me. One: he's not entirely without injuries himself, and his bandaged ankle slows him down. And two: I've spent my whole life dealing with animals. I know exactly what to do when approaching a cornered one and how to tell when it feels so threatened it's going to lash out. Turns out in the arena, people are pretty much reduced to this animalistic behaviour.

Which is why I have enough time to throw my knife in the boy's general direction before turning on my heel and limping as fast as I can out of the armory, slamming the door as I do so. It's almost as if my brain as gone into hyper drive, seeing the tall candelabra nearby, analysing it as something useful and then commanding me to jam it through the door handle. A drop of hot wax spills on my hand as I do so, but the burning pain goes unnoticed; I'm already running off down the hall.

But it's not a run; no, it's an awkward hop/slide that sends surges of pain through my system that scald a thousand times more than a single splash of wax. Ignore it! I shout to myself, Ignore it!

Because if not, I'll die.


Janaff Skye, District 8 Male

Damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it!

I should have known, should have remembered that girl was good with throwing knives. We practiced side by side during training. But the mention of Meredith made me lose track of everything.

My shoulder erupts in pain as I slam it into the door again, but still the solid oak doesn't give. How did she manage to bar it like this? Her aim with the knife was off, but it did still manage to slice my arm as it flew by and the cut was enough to distract me for a moment. Apparently that was all she needed.

Bam! Come on, give! Bam! Come on! I can't afford to be trapped in this room with another tribute knowing where I am; that gives her time to plan, to come up with an easy way to kill me. Worse, there's nowhere for me to run if this place is suddenly attacked by, say, a dragon. Before, I took comfort in the thick, solid stone walls of the castle, figuring that nothing could break them. Now, though, I'm not so sure.

Damn it, I should have grabbed a knife too! I was pretty accurate with them in training, if I had a dagger in my hand this whole thing might not have happened. But, idiot that I am, I left the knives on the racks, figuring I'd have plenty of time to grab them if need be.

When the music stopped plunged the castle into chilling silence, I knew it could only mean one thing; someone else was near. All it took was running up a few flights of stairs to look out a higher window, and from a safe distance I could watch as Calican Sareamer stumbled closer. He was definitely injured, though how I couldn't tell – still, just the thought was enough to ignite a small blossom of hope in my heart. Besides Meredith, who I've come to think of as the ultimate enemy, Calican is tied for being the oldest with me, and I'd certainly label him as the next biggest threat when thought of along with our other three competitors. The fact that he was injured bad enough to be walking as he was and that he didn't seem to have any weapons on him meant I actually might be able to take him in a close combat fight.

But running back down the stairs took time, and by the time I'd made it to the lower level, I'd had just enough time to hide and watch him emerge from a room I knew to be the castle's kitchen, clutching a rather large butcher's knife in his hand. Idiot that I was, I hadn't brought any weapons with me, and leaping out to attack Calican now would be suicide. I had to get back to the armory, to my weapons; but that room was just down the hall, past the kitchen and Calican was heading straight for it.

Except he'd passed it, instead choosing to go farther down the hall and enter the door to the library. I couldn't guess at his motives, but after hearing alternately muttering and crying softly to himself, I was willing to bet his mind wasn't all there.

Whatever the case, I was willing to leave him in the library if it meant gaining the time to plan. As soon as he'd closed the door, I'd run from my hiding spot and into the armory, forgetting my previous plan for defense against Meredith in light of this new threat.

I just hadn't expected the others to show up so quickly. It is a big arena, after all.

Bam! I wince as pain jerks through my shoulder once more, but it's necessary, I tell myself, it's necessary. I can't afford to be locked in here and I can't lose now after coming so close to getting home again! I just . . . I just want to see my grandparents again.

Wait. Janaff, you idiot. Fear and adrenaline are apparently not a good combination for thinking.

If my shoulder could sigh in relief, I swear it would as I back away from the door and grab the double-bladed axe that I'd previously used to comfort me. Now, though, I don't use it as a metaphorical weapon to chase away my fear; instead, I heft it as high as I can with my scrawny arms and swing straight at the door.

Yes, now we're getting somewhere! The weapon is brutal to lift and even harder to use, but after three solid hits the door cracks, enabling me to kick my way through the splintered wood and back out into the hall. Too concerned with the threat of other tributes, I don't even think to grab a more manageable weapon, just taking the axe and running as fast as I can with it.

I was so worried I'd lost her when I first got out, but almost immediately after leaving the armory, I realised that wouldn't be a problem; Gwen must have been pushing her injuries past their limit in her attempt to get away, because there are splashes of crimson all down the hallway. I just need to follow the blood.

The axe might slow me down, but after sprinting through a few corridors and turning one last corner, I see her, one hand on cool stone of a window sill while the hangs limply at her side. My pace slows as I near her, and even with the padded carpet, she seems to hear my footsteps. Her head twists quickly, a jerk of fear. But the rest of the turn is slowed by the heavy weight of finality. She knows there's no way of getting out of this.

That doesn't stop her from backing up a step as I approach, though the motion ends quickly as she gasps. The air is thick with the scent of blood while her leg is coated in the scarlet liquid. It's amazing she's managed to stay conscious for this long.

"Please." All the determination, all the attempts at appearing fearless disappear as I come to a stop two feet from her, both of my hands clenched tightly around the axe handle. "P-please, not yet, not now, I'm not ready, I can't-"

She's breaks off, choking on her own sobs and I shake my head. "I'm sorry." The axe rises and . . .

. . . stays there. Why can't I bring it down? I'm so close to home, there are only five people standing between me and District 8, and here's one of them now, injured and defenceless, an easy kill. Why can't I do this?

Morality. That wasn't a variable I accounted for. I technically haven't killed anyone in these Games, unless you count Code getting in the way of the bomb. But somehow, somehow that was different. It was the heat of the battle, a chance to eliminate someone ruthless and crazy while saving myself and Perrin in the process. This is me, just me, about to kill a hurt, crying little girl. And for the first time since the reapings, I feel like my parents; tired of death and, more importantly, sick of letting the Capitol treat us like slaves. What right do they have to make us do this?

My parents' belief in their cause was so strong, they were willing to give their lives for it. I was reaped because people were worried I might truly be their son, share their opinions and ideals. Which I do, I really do.

But I can't die for them. I just . . . I can't.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again, although I'm not sure exactly who I'm talking to this time. My eyes feel hot and wet, and it takes me a moment to realise why. Tears.

I don't cry, I've never cried. And yet my vision is blurring from the moisture, though still clear enough to see Gwen's eyes widen as I prepare to swing the axe down on her once more.

Then someone rolls through the window, distracting us both completely.


Catherine Street, District 6 Female

I thought I was being smart. When I reach what seemed to be the last tree in the forest, I saw it. An enormous, beautiful castle. Just like the one from the pictures in Summer's book.

That's when the rats stopped pushing me sideways and instead forced me down the trunk. Oddly enough, I was kind of relieved; once I'd realised the rats had no intention of killing me, they became less like terrifying muttations and more like a horde of little, irritated escorts, always poking and prodding you to do something or go somewhere or walk a certain way.

Once I'd gotten close to the castle though, they'd backed off. I guessed I was at the designated area, though I couldn't see any of the other tributes. Which, I figured, was good. I didn't know exactly who other remaining tributes were, what with two dying earlier today, but one thing I could be positive of was that they were all older than me. And more skilled with weapons. And most likely had more fight experience.

It made me sort of wish I'd never left Achilles. Standing out here, alone, completely dwarfed by the enormous stone walls of the castle; I feel so lost and vulnerable, like I could drop dead at any moment. Which, I guess I could. And that's just . . . really, really terrifying.

But I have to force the idea from my head right now. The rats have kept their distance, but are chittering angrily at my lack of movement. They just want me inside the castle, though; once I'm in there, I could find a nice, safe place to hide and hope the fighting continues on without me. Maybe I'll get lucky, and won't even have to use my weapon to get home.

Although the odds of that happening are really not in my favour.

My hand unconsciously goes to my bow, slung over my back, and I reassure myself that everything will be all right. I mean, I'm a twelve-year-old girl, my life can't just end now, can it? I want to believe the universe is fairer than that.

Still, no point in testing the universe's justice by walking straight into the castle and seeing what happens. Odds are some tributes have already made it here; maybe there's even a fight going on right now. So no, the front door probably isn't the best course of action.

Do castles have back doors, though? I'm not sure, and circling around this whole thing to check for one doesn't sound like an appetising plan. But what else is there? The windows?

The windows.

Yeah, there's that.

The agony in my overworked arm muscles triples just at the thought, but my brain has yet to discard the idea. Ivy crawls its way up and down the castle, even the smallest of vines as thick as my arms. And the closest window isn't that high at all, actually. This is totally possible.

Though my arms and legs disagree as soon as I grab the first vine and trying to hoist myself up. Immediately, I'm met with screaming complaints from my muscles, nearly relinquishing my grip on the vine in the process. But I can do this, I can. If the alternative is walking through the front doors and straight into a fight, then this has to be the option I choose.

I just keep repeating that to myself as one hand goes in front of the other, slowly but surely pulling me up the wall of the castle. Just like scaling the tower back at the Career base, I tell myself, wincing at the effort. That was at least three times as high and you managed it no problem! Come on, Cathy, you can do this. Just think of the nice hiding place waiting for you up top. Think of home – this will help you get home. So just reach one. More. Time!

This time my hands grab, not the rubbery surface of the vines, but rather the cool, hard stone of the window ledge. My only thought is that I've made it, I'm up, and without thinking, I use every last ounce of energy my arms have to pull the rest of me up and through the open window, tumbling onto the soft carpet of the inside hallway.

Then I look up and realise exactly what I've fallen into.

"Ahh!"

The boy from 8 and girl from 7 seem too shocked to respond, but I react without thinking – after all, that boy has an axe poised to swing down and chop me right in half. My leg shoots out, footsword hitting Janaff right below his knee, and not only does his leg buckle, but new blood begins to stain the already rust-coloured bandage that wraps around his calf. I don't even have time to realise what I've done, though; I'm already scrambling to my feet, trying to get as far away from the boy and his axe. Until my back hits the girl from 7.

I whip around and, for a moment, we just stare in shock at each other. Then, in sync, we take off in opposite directions.

My feet carry me past the boy from 8 as I sprint down the hall, trying to get as far away from the two older kids as possible. I don't know about Gwen, but I know Janaff is a Career and would have definitely killed me if I hadn't reacted. But, oh, God; if he's a Career, are his allies around? Both tributes from District 4 could be lurking anywhere in this castle, and the thought forces everything from my mind but sheer panic. Both of them are eighteen, huge, muscled and deadly. And if they find me . . . if they find me . . .

I'm forced to stop running as the hysteria takes over, hyperventilation made worse by running for my life. But the threat is far from gone, and my head whips around in fear that I'll see one, two or all three Careers round the corner after me. There's nothing yet, but I know at any moment, death could come for me. My first instinct is to climb a tree but, idiot, there are no trees, just stone walls and stone floors and nowhere, nowhere to hide.

I should have just stayed outside and taken my chances with the rats.

There! Not a tree, but a door, and at this point, I'll try anything. My breaths are still coming in short gasps, but I force myself not to stop as I lunge for the door and wrench it open before diving into the room.

My back presses instantly up against the door as I close it, as though all seventy pounds of my body could prevent the Careers from breaking in with weapons raised. And despite the fact that I know I should be poised and ready to move at any instant, I can't help it as my legs buckle and I slide slowly to the floor. This is too much, it's too much! I knew the end fight would be dangerous when I got here, but my mind hadn't fully been able to comprehend the idea that I could be dead in less than an hour. How am I supposed to accept that? I'm twelve. This isn't . . . this isn't fair.

A sudden noise distracts me from my thoughts, and my head shoots up as the sound of stone grating on stone echoes through the room. I hadn't realised it when I first came in, but the door through which I entered led to a lavish bedroom, complete with a four-poster bed, ornate, golden chandelier and a gigantic fireplace. It's from here the noise seems to be coming, and as I look closer I realise the back wall to the hearth is moving, sliding back to reveal a narrow tunnel. My hand searches weakly for the doorknob above my head, mind filling with thoughts of traps and mutts and whatever else the Gamemakers might have rigged for this room. I haven't experienced anything like this so far in the arena, but Achilles and I heard the deafening roar that had echoed through the arena a week ago. Oh god, what if they're sending something like that after me?

My fumbling fingers can't find the door handle fast enough, and without realising it, I start screaming as something stumbles out of the fireplace.

But my cries quickly stop as the thing falls on all fours before crawling quickly away, as though it's just as scared of me as I am of it. Then we both get a closer look at each other and my jaw drops.

"Taralo?" He's covered in soot from the fireplace and it's a bit hard to tell, but I grew quite familiar with those wide, terrified blue eyes during our stay in the Capitol.

"C-Catherine?" It is him, and for a while, all either one of us can do is stare. Then, forgetting where I am, forgetting every rule the Gamemakers established, I run over and kneel to hug him as hard as I can.

"Taralo! I was so scared, I was so, so scared!" Never mind the fact that I had to play the adult in the Capitol, now I just want someone's shoulder to cry into. It doesn't matter if he can't offer soothing words or calming reassurances; he's from home, and that's comfort enough.

"G-go . . ."

"What?" I look up at him, bloodshot eyes just barely able to make out his look of terror, aimed straight at the fireplace.

"We have . . . Catherine, we have to . . ."

"Devera?"

That's not- that's not Taralo's voice. Slowly, my head turns, and my eyes widen as they land on the new arrival, also sooty from the fireplace but with what is unmistakably a knife clutched tightly in his right hand. "Devera, is that you?"

Taralo pushes me into a standing position and then we're both up and running, the pounding sounds of footsteps and shouts from the boy from 10 only serving to spur us on. Taralo follows behind me as we run through the corridors, and dimly I realise that I'm taking him right back to where I saw Gwen and Janaff. My mind can't stop my feet in time and before I know it, we're down the hall I first entered, but neither tribute is anywhere to be found – Janaff must have followed Gwen when she ran off. And though I feel bad for thinking it, for wishing a crazy Career on another person, I can't help but think, Thank goodness.

Taralo's fallen behind a bit and after glancing quickly over my shoulder, I can see why; his shirt is stained a dull red from what must have been a previous injury to his chest, but there's a fresh one dripping blood down his arm that he hasn't had time to even wrap up. I just hope he can take care of it soon.

But he might not get the chance; the crazed boy from 10 is still chasing after us, desperately calling the name "Devera" over and over and frankly, it terrifies me more than Janaff did. Back in District 6, my parents treated all kinds of patients, some for physical injuries and some for mental. I always used to run and hide when the latter was in our house; something about their eyes, the way they spoke, the words they said terrified me more than a broken leg or a bruised rib ever could.

Luckily Calican seems to be suffering from a physical injury too, because he doesn't gain any ground on us, even with Taralo slowing. Still, I won't relax until his voice has disappeared from my ears, and in a split-second decision I make a left at the next intersection of corridors, which takes us straight to a set of stairs curving around up and up and out of sight. Right now, though, I don't care where they lead; I just want to run and hide and live.

Taralo doesn't question my decision as I bolt for the stairs and cover the first few steps in a flying leap, leaving my district partner even farther behind. And part of my mind, a very small part, is scolding me. Your parents raised you to take care of those in need. Are you really going to leave Taralo behind like that?

I shouldn't, I know I shouldn't. Yet I can't make my legs turn around to help him.

He'll be fine, I reassure myself. I can still hear his footsteps. He'll be fine.

Unless those are Calican's footsteps, pounding ever closer after already taking out my district partner with that deadly sharp knife now covered in blood.

The thought of Taralo's lifeless corpse, with mine soon to follow, is enough to drown my mind in panic and suddenly, all I'm aware of are the steps passing beneath me and the warning signals blaring in my brain. I can't even bear to turn my head and check to see if Taralo's all right; I'm too afraid of finding him dead with his murderer taking a swing at me next. And I can't help it as the tears return, ten times harder than when I cried in the bedroom. No, no, please, this isn't fair, it's too scary, I want to go home, please!

The stale, unmoving air of the stairwell disappears as the claustrophobic space opens up, the stairs leading up to the floor of what I assume to be one of the castle's towers. The full meaning of this hits me as I realise that there will be nowhere to go, nowhere to hide and yet, I'm still running. Because I can't turn back. Turning back is death.

But as my feet clear the final steps, something pushes against my left shoulder hard, shoving me to the side. And that's when I realise how close I am to the edge of the tower. My arms windmill as I try desperately to keep my balance, but the force of the push was too much and my legs are bending over the low, stone blocks that rim the tower's edge. But not tall enough, they're not tall enough.

Somehow, my eyes manage to find the horrified gaze of the girl from 7 before the weight of my upper body becomes too much and I'm forced to stop my desperate attempts at regaining my balance as first my head, then my shoulders, then the rest of me tumble over the edge of the tower.


Calican Sareamer, District 10 Male

I-I didn't think it was possible. Devera, could that really be Devera I saw? Her hair and skin are lighter and her freckles are missing but she's little and she's here and she needs my help. When I first saw the boy in the passageway, I didn't know what to do. No, I did. I just didn't want to be the cause of more death.

But I attacked him all the same, because I knew that was the only way I'd get home. Except, my swing missed. Because he'd grabbed a book from the bookshelf behind him and threw it at me.

The pain shouldn't have been much, after all I'd suffered, but I'd discovered that, instead of growing used to the agony a cut or bruise brought, I was only becoming more sensitive to it. Getting hit in the head with a book reminded me of all the pain this arena had brought and I just, just couldn't take it. My next swing had been a blind one, my eyes still screwed up tight thanks to the throbbing agony in my forehead, but I heard the cry and saw the blood when I finally managed to get up and follow the boy. I didn't want to, please, believe me, I didn't want to. It was just the only way I could get home.

Then I saw him after he found the way out of the passage and he had Devera in his arms, like Meredith had Devera when she threw her over the tower. But if Meredith had thrown Devera over the tower, what was she doing here now?

I didn't know and I didn't care. Seeing her there, though, sent a jolt of feeling through my system, an emotion so foreign I'd almost forgotten what it had felt like. Hope. Like the universe had brought Devera back, and was giving me a second chance to save her, to be selfless, to do the right thing. I could understand why she ran from me at first – after all I've done, I would have run from myself too. It was all right though, I'd shouted after her. I'd protect her now.

She's currently out of my sight though, and it worries me. These curved stairs are dangerous, she could stumble, she could trip, she could fall. Like last time. Devera, Devera, I can't let you die again, please, I can't! If I help you maybe, maybe everything will go back to how it should be. We could both go home to District 10, and my parents would love me and my friends wouldn't hate me and everything would be all right. That could happen, couldn't it?

The thought of having an actual happy ending to everything terrible that's been happening gives me enough strength to speed up, and soon I'm emerging into fresh air, with a glorious sunset painted out before me. That's exactly what a happy ending looks like, right?

But it's not. Because the moment I skid to a stop, I realise too late what's happening to Devera. The boy from before is staring in horror, a new girl I'd never seen before standing with her arm still outstretched – I've arrived just in time to see Devera's tiny body go plummeting over the tower edge. All over again.

"No!" I run to the low, stone blocks that separate castle from precipice, but it's too late. She just keeps falling, falling, falling . . . and then, with a crack I swear I can hear from up here, her body breaks across the ground below.

BOOM!

That sound, that awful sound. The sound that robs me of all hope, of all faith that I might get a happy ending out of this. Why, why did I even get my hopes up? I should have known.

Monsters don't get to live happily ever after.

But I'm not, I'm not the only monster. No, there's also her. Meredith, who's murdered Devera twice now. At least, I think it's Meredith that I see, as I turn to gaze upon the pair of tributes frozen in shock and horror. This girl's hair might be lighter, her eyes brown, not blue, but it's all the same, isn't it? She killed someone, and that means she's a monster. I-I'm one too. But maybe I can redeem myself just a bit by saving others from her.

She sees my swing coming too late, and her step back to avoid it does nothing as my blade slices through her already battered shirt. But the knife doesn't go far enough, and instead of dying she just falls to the ground, clutching her stomach and crying out in agony. That's . . . that's not right though. Because now she's not Meredith, but Malia, bleeding and sobbing due to pain I caused. Again. Oh god, I've hurt someone again, killed them, no, no, no, not the guilt, not this, not this, not this again, oh god, no!

It's almost a relief when I feel the sword slip through my back. But then I fall to the ground, fading eyes catching sight of the boy from 8 as he stares at the other two remaining tributes. Mouths are moving, people are talking and no, no, what about me? Someone needs to help me, please, please, I'm dying and I'm scared and it hurts so, so much. I k-killed Malia, but I helped her, too. I made death less scary. Why isn't anyone doing that for me? Please, please, someone take my hand and hug me and tell me everything's going to be all right, PLEASE! I'm not ready, I can't do this by myself. Mom, Dad, I need you, please, I love you and I'm sorry, I know I did terrible things but I . . . I'm so . . . so . . . s . . . sor . . . sorry . . .


Gwen Watkins, District 7 Female

My body and mind are screaming as one, in pain, guilt and shame. It hurts! I'm injured, oh god, it hurts!

You killed a girl! You killed a little, defenceless girl!

It hurts!

I didn't know! I thought she was . . . I thought she was the boy from 8! That's who I wanted to push, that's who I figured would come up the stairs next, I thought he was right behind me!

It hurts!

That wasn't some bloodbath fight! That was an innocent twelve-year-old! Did you see her face when she looked at you? She didn't want to die, same as you! She was twelve!

It.

But she had to eventually, didn't she? I can't die, I don't want to, so doesn't that . . . please, doesn't that justify it?

HURTS!

"D-don't . . ." That's Taralo's voice. Taralo, Taralo, I need you please! Everything in my body is frozen with pain, yet somehow I manage to open my eyes, though my vision is dark and I can't make anything out at first. "Don't hurt her."

Slowly, my eyes start to focus, and I manage to see Taralo, standing just a few feet in front of me, his hands stretched out at his side as he stares, petrified at the boy from 8. But he stands his ground. Janaff opens his mouth to speak, but a cannon rents the evening air before he can utter a word, and instead, his gaze in drawn to the unmoving figure of the boy from 10. The sigh our opponent utters as he turns back to Taralo is one of complete and utter defeat.

"I'm sorry. But please, it's time to end this." He hefts his bloody sword in one hand and takes a deep breath. "It's time for someone to go home."

I want to, I want to so bad. Please, please! I just want to go home.


Taralo Hicken, District 6 Male

The shaking in my body hasn't stopped since I got to this castle. Even after I thought I'd lost Calican in that secret passageway, even when I found the way out, even when I met Catherine again – the trembling never stopped. And now both Calican and Catherine are dead. I want to throw up, I want to faint, I want to run. But instead, I stay between Gwen and the boy from 8.

Until I was forced into this arena, I never really understood what death was. The only people I had in my life were my mother, my father, and Zephyr, and none of them had ever left. B-but here, Lore has gone, along with Catherine and Calican and Rowan and Ram and the others who I didn't see die. I've seen death now and it's h-horrible. I don't . . . I don't want to experience it.

And yet, Gwen shouldn't have to either.

Lore, I think, remembering my ally who achieved the impossible, who fought every instinct he had to save Gwen and me. Lore, please, help me. Help me stay strong for Gwen.

So I stand here, frozen with fear, and wait for the final blow to come.

"Oh god . . ."


Janaff Skye, District 8 Male

This is it. This is it. No qualms about morals or humanity now, I just want to go home. The remaining two tributes are defenceless; I lost Gwen at first when she gained that head start, but after searching through a few rooms, where I'd found the sword hanging above a fireplace like some sort of prize, I'd realised where she'd gone and, coincidentally, where all the other tributes had gathered as well. The District 10 boy was easy to kill with his back turned, a lot easier than killing should be. But it's good, it's good that it's easy. I have to do it twice more to get home.

For once, I don't feel like the calm, collected District 8 genius I've been all my life. Now, I'm a lost child, whimpering for their mother. Mom, I've been playing a game, a terrible, no-fun game. It's gone on for real long. And I want to go home now.

So my knife raises, my eyes focus on their target and I watch the District 6 boy flinch in fear as he prepares for his life to end.

No. No, no, no, no, wait.

"Oh god . . ."

I forgot. With all the fighting and pain and death, I completely forgot. About her.

Taralo turns around just in time to watch the dragon swoop down from the sky, fire bathing the boy's ally in orange and red before flesh turns black and slides off charred bones in puddles at his feet.

And over the sound of the cannon, over the sound of the District 6 boy retching and over the sound of the dragon's roar, I just barely manage to hear the words that freeze my heart with fear.

"Hello, boys! I can't believe you started the killing without me. Well, we'll just have to make up for lost time. Won't we?"


10 Bonus Points That Ultimately Count Towards Nothing if you can guess what the title of the next chapter will be called :D

OH! Also, I was debating on potentially starting up a story alongside this. Like a fanfiction to my fanfiction, which seems kinda conceited, so I wasn't sure if I'd actually do it or not. But anyways, I got a lot of people who were interested in the mentors I introduced a few chapters back and who were potentially wanting to see more. So I was thinking of starting a collection of one-shots about the mentors' and events in their lives up to this point, since, if all goes as planned, a lot of them will feature more prominantly in my sequel to this (yes, there will be a sequel :D ). I dunno, would that be something people are interested in? Just let me know :)