Thank you for bearing with me. I've had some medical emergencies involving swelling of my tongue. Sorry this is late, but tongue and breathing definately more important. Next update SHOULD be on Saturday barring more complications ...


Jonas Emerson of District 7

Day 3 of the Arena.

The Attack


"Every night when I get home

The monkey's on the table,

Take a stick and knock it off,

Pop! goes the weasel"

-The second verse of "Pop Goes the Weasel"


"Raindrops keep fallin' on my head. And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed, nothin' seems to fit. Those raindrops are fallin' on my head, they keep fallin'."

The probing fingers of hunger wrap around my center, shaking me away from this moment of optimism with an agonizing pang. Instantly, I jerk straight up, only to slam my head into the crumpling shelter above my head. The world jolts sideways, wobbling back and forth. The rain pouring down on my exposed lower half seems to assault me from all angles. My mind is fuzzy, the edges of sight frayed away. Becoming dizzy, I fall backwards, flat on my back, closing my eyes and trying to get a grip on reality once again. A smile forces itself onto my face and I struggle to breathe outwards.

I've never been so hungry.

I continue singing softly. It's barely audible over the hush of rain splashing across the landscape and my chattering teeth.

The people of District Seven must be in all their glory. Because, as they sit in their homes, maybe not the coziest, maybe not the warmest, they can sleep well knowing their children are safely slumbering in the other room on their bed, wrapped up in a blanket. They can sit back and enjoy the irony of watching the mayor's son squander in the mud in the midst of a warzone. I've been hungry, but never like this. Not this gut-wrenching yank that made your head spin. Is this how the poor of the district live? How could anyone stand to live in such filth and poverty?

The logical part in me reasons that this wasn't the case. People were not this malicious. Perhaps they found a small piece of satisfaction; but did they feel guilt? Would they regret having put my name down on that ballot once they saw I am not my father?

I can't believe it though. There is a constant distressing thought that refuses to be extinguished. No matter how loud my logic is, this afterthought is a subliminal message playing the same thing over and over again. I deserved this. It was more than my birth and the man I called "father" that the people decided on. I accepted my spoils. I secluded myself from my peers. The people of District Seven only watched on with curled lips and eyes glinting with contempt. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, I will always be an Emerson. I will always be the son of the district mayor.

My insides groan again, demanding nourishment. I compress my stomach, hugging it tightly in an attempt to confuse it into thinking it was full. Who cares what people at home were thinking? I had worse figures to haunt my dreams and thoughts.

And I was too busy singing a nice little ditty about raindrops!

The smile on my lips widens further and the corner of the left side twitches painfully. Everything is just A-Okay. No problems. What problems could there even be?

I lay my hand over my stomach. Gingerly, I prod the pinkie finger on my left hand. Oh yeah, there's that issue. The finger is still throbbing and it hurt to move it. I'm certain it's broken, if the blue hue of it wasn't enough of a clue. The mere thought brings my heart to pound with fright. My pinkie can't be broken. It can't be. No way. A normal person would figure "Oh, it's only a pinkie and it's on my left hand. For the average right handed person, my life will go on with only minimal hindrance." Sadly, I am not close to being of the norm. A broken pinkie meant the inability to play instruments of any variety. It wasn't a first finger or second finger, sure, but you try playing the cello suites without a pinkie and you tell me how much it's unimportant. I am now freaking out because I am musically handicapped and one of the only things I bother to care about in this damn life is fucked up. Even worse, I'm freaking out about playing instruments in a rainy wasteland where I'm as lucky of tripping over a string instrument as a mayor's son is of winning the Hunger Games!

I yell in exasperation, slamming my sand sock to the ground. I forgot I had it and hold it up to examine the stained fabric. Uh, to quickly explain what a sand sock is, it's basically a sock filled with the sand from sandbags. I lie back again and pinch the bridge of my nose. I'm not getting any awards for innovative weapons anytime soon.

"Breathe," I whisper to myself. "Breathe and think happy, fluffy thoughts." I smile and think of sunshine, of the comforting homey sound of pizzicato on cellos and the thrum of a steady bass line.

It doesn't help.

I am letting myself slip.

After the initial start of the Games, my first achievement was tripping right off my platform. Yeah, smooth. Either my mind was spinning and processing too much too fast or the world around me decided to confuse the hell out of me and tilt sideways. For a long moment, the urge to just sit there and watch the world drown in this harrowing rain swaddled me in its vast arms. However, as all great people do, I picked myself up and continued on, weaving through the battlefield, dodging bullets and boogying through the obstacles before me. I passed by crumpling walls and managed to throw myself into a scuffle with the District Three guy. I don't know what I was hoping to do when I got him pinned. He fought like an angry devil, I'll tell you that. I backed away and caught sight of Lucian Drake from District Twelve. The way the name slid off my tongue caused a mere shiver to slide down my back and you sensed something off about this dude. District Twelve tributes, with their gray eyes and dark hair, always gave off that air of mystery and aloofness to me.

Let's say, with some quick thinking and plenty of "Oh, fucks" running through my thoughts, I sprinted and leapt across expanses of trenches with Lucian Drake trailing behind me. And with one final, mighty "oh fuck", after a derogatory statement from Drake, I fumbled with my hand along the side of the trench and watch my pinkie finger bend into a painful angle. I landed flat on my butt as well.

Leaning heavily on the trench wall, I hummed and muttered as pain radiated in my tailbone. Overhead, I spotted Lucian peering down at me, a mix of humor, and possibly pity, in his face. Pity; I couldn't stand it. I, of all people, have never been pitied. Why would you? Who would?

But I hated the look Lucian cast down on me and, filled with pride, I shouted up, "Alright, so I don't play leap frog much! You going to kill me now?" He considered this for a moment. I realized how pathetic I must look. Beaten up, scarred, and soaked, I boldly stared back at him, silently hoping for…well, I wasn't exactly sure.

"Not today, Emerson." And then he was gone. I was still alive.

Add the fact there was absolutely nothing but water in the Cornucopia. I wasn't a fish or a merman so any options of chilling in there were a no go. I blame evolution. What genes ever decided be shouldn't have fins? You can't deny it'd be awesome to say "Gills, go!" and poof! Gills sprout from your neck.

Working up the courage, I crawl out from my spot, eyes swiveling back and forth in search of my competitors. Through the opaque sky, I can only guess it is daytime, judging by the light shade of gray the clouds are. I breathe in the rainy air and am struck by a hard realization; there is no rain. It had stopped. Mist clings to the atmosphere and my eyes burn with some sort of lingering acrid smoke. My vision is not completely clear and I force myself to squint into my surrounding area. Moving outwards from the Cornucopia, the arena becomes a forest but not the kind I'm used to. The trees are not meant for lumber, but meant for climbing and hiding behind, rather tropical and jungle-like. The mud on my hands isn't quite the lovable consistency of typical mud either. It's gritty, sludgy, and each time I attempt to wipe it off my hands, I succeed in only dirtying them more.

Absentmindedly, I run my fingers through my hair. At least it was already a dark brown tone. My hair worked to my advantage as camouflage. Not like Alexis, who'd stick out with her fiery red mane….

The thought of my district partner causes a painful twist in my gut that does not help my stomach pains any further. An onslaught of troubling memories bombards me all at once. It brings me to my knees, sending my mind racing and lungs heaving. No. I am spiraling into a panic attack and not a pretty one at that. Visions wash over me and for a long moment, I cannot distinguish between reality and the nightmares I dreamt while asleep. I curl up and choke down the sobs inside me, the grief swelling my heart.

I have no right to grieve for the girl; I barely knew her. The pain I hold is incomparable to what her family is dealing with. Losing one child to the murder of crazy is one thing; losing another to the murder of your nation is entirely different.

For the most part, the bloodbath was a blur. Oh, moments stood out. I risked my skin to get to the Cornucopia, knowing it was practically suicide, to find it a lousy risk. Coccyx aching and butt soaked with mud (which, for the record, still is), I ran as fast as one could in the mud and ran away from the carnage to be caused by angry Careers. They may not get the chance to kill me with pointy sticks but one cannot doubt the power of the fist. My feet slipped and slid and I fell a number of times. My mind was racing, processing too much too fast.

It was through the mist when I saw a blur of red did I finally think of Alexis.

Jonas, you idiot! I thought. How can you forget your freaking ally?!

The red smudge of Alexis was probably about fifty feet away. Off in the distance, I heard guns being reloaded and narrowly dodged a spray of gun fire. Perhaps a fine ear did help a person in this arena, if the bombs and minefields didn't make me go deaf first. I army crawl as far as I could, shrapnel digging into my forearms and my pinky finger screaming for a medic. Roughly, I tore the fragments out of my flesh and some off the ground and pocketed them. Alexis was just ahead. The red blob started turning away. I pulled myself to my feet, waving my arms frantically above my head.

"'Lex!" I called. The girl stopped at the sound. I trotted towards her, a relieved smile on my face. "Alexis, it's me, Jonas!" I was being way too optimistic too soon.

Instantly the smile washed off my face. This wasn't Alexis.

I remembered her name was sort of weird to pronounce, Atalanta. I felt the need to skip that second A. Definitely not Alexis. The District Five girl swung her head around, searching for the source of the voice. I dove sideways, ducking behind a wall of sandbags.

"Oh," I muttered. "Why, that was awkward."

Peeking up again, I tried rising to my feet but an explosion went off just to the left of me. A spray of dirt flew into the air, the gritty pieces landing in my eyes and blurring my sight. I lost balance. My body rocked sideways and I tumbled straight down a summit, rolling, rolling…oh, and right into the barbed wire.

The world twirled for a moment, up becoming down, left being right. I spit dirt from my mouth and whacked my head against the ground, forcing it to steady itself. Looking back at my original spot, I saw Atalanta was still up at the top but running away from me. Or more like running towards the action. I breathed a sigh of relief, chiding myself to be more careful next time. Wriggling my body in such a way to not be tangled in the metal, I crawled several feet before registering the area as all clear.

Geez, Lex, I thought to myself. Where the hell are ya'?

After that, I just got up and high tailed it out of there. Later in the day, having set up a neat looking fort made of sandbags and tree branches, I pulled off my boots and socks and tried shaking the sand out of them. This, boys and girls, was entirely stupid as I ended up getting even more dirt on them. I kept one sock out, though. Hell, I needed some weapon and for some reason, at that moment, I thought I was a freaking genius by trying to figure out a way to fight with a sock.

I shoved my hand in my pocket and was rudely met by the shrapnel presiding there. I hissed in pain and jerked my hand out. Stupid move, Jonas. Carefully this time, I inched my hand in, grabbed a handful of the sharp metal, and scattered them across the ground to look over. They glistened with rain and I picked through them, finding a sharpened fragment. I crawled over to a sandbag and, with the sharpened piece, used it to tear it open. The sand poured out and I held the sock open, allowing the stream to pour inside until the sock carried a decent load. Satisfied with my makeshift weapon, I gathered the shrapnel up once again.

Alexis would have freak out if she had a pocket full of shrapnel….

I felt bad for poking fun at the girl and feared for her safety. Was she dead? The arena was rough and I was pretty bruised myself. It could easily chew her up and spit her out to be left for dead. But she couldn't be dead, no way. I refused to believe it. We would meet up eventually and figure out our plans from there. We'd fight it out together. The fiery headed girl was out there, hiding under a tree or a wall or in a trench, covering that mane with mud to camouflage, wondering where the hell Jonas Emerson was.

But, oh, how the sky loves to prove me wrong.

So, insert three days' time full of hiding, running, puking, and crying, here I was with nightmares and a sock full of sand. I grip the dog tag around my neck, examining my name on the rounded metal. Do you think the Careers would collect them after each kill, bragging about how many they have?

Did one of them collect Alexis's after killing her?

It doesn't matter, I tell myself. You can't sit here thinking about a timid little ginger. Imagining what happened to her is what got you freaked out earlier. You have to focus.

That isn't exactly easy.

I brush it off like everything else in my life and thought of what to do next. I only spare one last moment of thinking about the girl who feared sharp things, the last person to remind me in any way of home. It feels like there's a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach.

Picking myself up, I swing my sand sock and sigh sadly. The urge to cry hit me but I am certain I was run dry. Any possibility of sponsors? Yeah, that was a bust. Who wants to sponsor a whiny brat who broke down in tears the first time he made camp, which wasn't actually making camp, just getting tired of walking and just lying on the ground?

"Like anyone would ever send you a gift," I laugh blandly. "Not even the dear old Mayor Emerson of District Seven."

I know sponsor gifts cost, like, a shitload of money. At day three, the price is probably getting a little up there. But would it really kill him (or me for that matter) to send something? An itty-bitty Band-Aid or a cookie? One of Ronnie's chocolate chip cookies. It could be stale for all I care. But just a little piece of home to say "Hey, I'm still here. I'm rooting for you and I have faith in you."

That's the thing about my father. I don't know if he does have faith in me. If he bet on horses, the last one he'd choose is the longshot. And he'd never bet on horses because he never takes a gamble. His life is structured and organized. He has suits for each day of the week and a schedule for the amount of time he spends doing this activity and that. This is the type of man where you know not to call for him at this exact moment since he's definitely in the bathroom. He needs stability. Everyone connected to him needs stability.

Thus, my life is as tailored as a finely made suit.

See, to best explain it, Father likes to keep all his little ducklings in a row. Especially his little boy, his shining, bright little duckling. They're brushed and waddle in step with each other, paraded for the entire pond to see.

However, all his little ducklings are in fact not in line. His second little duck likes wearing provocative feathers and messing around with other boy ducks. Basically, Bellafina is a whore. I'll be first to admit that. I'm surprised I'm not an uncle yet. Yeah, she's your stereotyped kind of girl with daddy issues.

His smallest, most rebellious duckling…she worries me sometimes. She's her usual snarky self, for the most part but there's times where she's way too quiet. It would come by for about a week and she'd lock herself up in her room, refuse to speak to even me. After that week, she was fine, her usual self once again.

But she always seemed to wear long sleeves for a while after that.

Who knows how the eldest duck holds it together? The little boy duck doesn't even know how he does it himself.

How the hell did I go from talking about sponsor gifts to talking about ducks?

"A duck walked up a lemonade stand…"

I can't remember the rest of the song. I sigh and bite my lip. I've chewed on it do often and so hard, it's raw. So now I am forgetting the words to songs.

I chuck my sand sock up in the air, bellowing all the aggravation out of me. Blood seeps from where I bit into my lip and washes over my tongue. Ouch, how hard did I bite?

I snap out of my tantrum by the sound of a surprised yell. It carries over the constant thrumming of gunfire and buzz of fighter jets. I stumble back, trip over a bush, and fall hard on the ground. My heart hammers against my chest and pulsates in my ears. Through the plants and trees surrounding me, I spy the tall tribute who had made the shout. My flustered face warms and I dig my fingernails into the ground, my left hand pinkie excepted.

A swear flies from my lips as I grasp the fact my sock managed to strike a person. The guy stares intently in my direction and I wish I had the sand sock so I could shove it down my throat. He isn't a Career but he's armed and, well, I hope the ability to wipe out competition didn't run in the family. My fingers twitch uncontrollably and I smother my nervous smile, a habit now hard to break.

The tribute I nailed with a sand sock is the one and only Sean Armani of District Ten.

His eyes settle on me, picking my dirtied face out of the muck I lay in. Slowly, hands splayed in the universal "I'm-unarmed-please-don't-kill-me" gesture, I move to my feet and rise to face him. His hand is tense around the handle of his whip and I don't doubt that he knew how to use it. It had to be a sponsor gift. Strangely enough, whips aren't just lying around here in the arena.

We stare at each other, unsure of who will act first.

The dude is in as rough shape as me. No, scratch that; he's in even worse shape. Aside from the dirt covering him, the guy is covered in blood, from head to toe. It's stained into his clothes, which are torn and tattered. A grotesque wound is visible in his right side and a nasty gash is roughly bandaged on his left arm. Blood dribbles from his nose. His eye is black and swollen. All and all, he has seen some better days. I glance to his whip once again, questioning exactly how he got it.

"So…" I say slowly. My mind buzzes like static on a television screen. Can you blame me for being a little intimidated by a dude who looked like he just bathed in blood? Speak, Emerson, speak! What will make this guy not want to kill you? "Does your sister actually play the harp?"

My heartbeat stops for a second. It picks up again and the pounding is twice as heavy in my head. It's as if it is pulsing at the same rhythm I'd face palm myself.

Jonas. You. Idiot.

That's what I come up with? No persuasion of a possible alliance or maybe a short little team effort to take out competition or find food. No begging for mercy or psyching him out by thinking I have backup in the area. Not even a short little question about having eaten anything in the past day. I ask him about his sister, the same person who killed the last District Seven guy, and if she played the harp. What was wrong with me?

It at least takes Sean off-guard. He blinks twice and lowers his weapon. I wince, ready to sprint as fast as an Amerida to an "I Hate Alexis Spurling" convention.

Sean then grins, an easy, boy-next-door sort of smile. Automatically, I can see past the gore, the war garb, to the guy who is as scared shitless as I am. It makes me want to sigh with relief. My father has drilled the importance of first impressions into me, and it applies both ways. Last name aside, he seems trustworthy and possibly caring.

The bastard is good, I'll give him that. I wasn't letting my guard down that easily.

"Uh, she plucks the strings and produces sound, if that counts as playing," he replies. I lower my hands. His hand is still on the whip.

"That doesn't necessarily equate to 'play the harp' in the sense I mean," I say. "I tried playing the harp once. Figured out how to play an amazing 'Old McDonald', if I do say so myself." My body relaxes. People. Human interaction. I need to be around people. I need to know people other than ones watching me on their TVs are seeing me be an idiot. Otherwise, I go insane.

Sean nods. "I believe this is yours." He holds out my filthy sock, wrinkling his nose slightly. I snatch it up, press the lump to my face, and snuggle close to it.

"Socko!" I cry, making a name up for the thing on the spot. Sean and I find each other's gazes and lose it. Three days of fighting and running for your life and you tend to lose a few screws.

"I should be lucky there was no shrapnel in that," he states. I consider the comment for a moment. That actually wouldn't be a bad idea.

Several replies fly through my head but I sift through them. The last thing I want is to piss this guy off. I come up with "I should be lucky I'm not cattle." Weak joke, I know, but he laughs to my benefit.

"I'm certain the only things cattle can throw are tantrums."

We laugh, only to be interrupted by a crack of thunder. The rain starts up, twice as hard, soaking me to the skin. Sean is barely visible and he's a mere four feet away from me. Wind whips by my neck and the hairs stand on end. The air is electrified with energy, setting me on edge.

Have you ever just felt something? You know, 'something', with weird air quotes around it? Like, you swear you have a sixth sense about that 'something' and it just so happens to be acting up right now? No, I am not high, and if you're just nodding along to what I'm saying right now like you completely understand, under different circumstances, I'd say, dude, stop being such a stoner. But I feel something. I swear, all my other senses are just heightened right now and I just know there's this disturbance in the force.

"Did you hear that?" I whisper. Sean furrows his brow and tilts his head upwards.

"I don't think so," he says, his voice matching my stiff tone.

I press a finger to my lips. There it is again. The grass. Someone is walking through the grass, coming straight towards us. I point in their direction and trace their path. I grind my teeth hard. There are multiple pairs of legs. They aren't making any effort of being silent. And they aren't human.

Sean Armani unwinds his whip and lets it hang loose by his side. A chill shivers down my spine like a swarm of spiders stampeding. A cold breath of air fills my lungs and my insides are frozen. Goosebumps flare up on my arm.

A terrifying, hair-raising snarl tears through the air. The grass rustles, crunching under the weight of some large creature and the mutt lunges from cover at me. In a fraction of a second, I take in the sight of its wickedly long nails, bent whiskers, and overgrown front teeth protruding from its bared, hissing mouth.

Somehow, the face of the rat is familiar.

I drop to the ground, smothering my face into the soil and draping my arms over my head protectively. The rat soars over me, its nails dragging along my back, and lands on my legs. Those overgrown teeth sink into the meaty part of my calf. Someone might as well have stuck a hot iron into my leg. I thrash about, trying to kick it off. Thunder cracks again. I scrunch up at the suddenness of the noise. It comes seemingly from the air above me. Lifting my head, I watch Sean pull his arm back and flick his wrist to send the tassel part of the whip at the attacking mutt. The creature squeals in pain and I feel a spray of warmth across my legs. Sean stares at me like I'm freaking nuts, which is probably spot-on to the truth.

"Don't just lay there," he shouts. "Help!"

Reviewing the area, I note with a sinking feeling that this isn't a lone mutt. It's a pack.

Their noses peek from behind a wall of sandbags, the tropical trees sparse in this area, and as one swift brigade, they stalk forward. My initial speculation was wrong. These aren't rats. Their necks are elongated, their snouts shorter and upturned, and there's fur on their mangy tails. It doesn't take away from the ugliness of the monsters. Where have I seen them before? The mutt closest to me hisses, capturing my attention. Its eyes are pools of black, murky water, merciless and emotionless. Its mouth bares itself, a wicked shriek coming from the back of its throat. The teeth cluttering the inside are yellowed and sharp. Long strands of saliva run from the top to the bottom.

Pools of black water….

I gasp as I make the connection.

Blackwater's ferret.

It's no secret the District Eight guy had the rodent. He mentioned it during the interviews and hasn't done a good job at hiding the fact he had it. I would say that I'd hate to think the poor creature is here in the arena but I really don't care. As of now, the bastard owed all us other tributes big time.

We are being attacked by a pack of mutant Bandit the Ferrets.

If I survived the next ten seconds, I swear, the next time I see Damian Blackwater, I'm going to punch him in the face, even if it gets me punched in the face with equal or greater force.

I climb to my feet, yet again today. First resolution of tomorrow; stop falling. Pain stabs the back of my wounded calf, warmth blooming outwards and trickling down my leg. The rain is a hard assault on my shoulders and head. It's literally painful. I glance around the area and search for a makeshift weapon to use against the oncoming swarm.

Sean kicks aside the first ferret and it lands limply in the grass. Another surges forward and he draws his hand back to strike it. In a flash, the mutt squeals angrily, a bloody line running across its eye. The ferret's thick nails scratch at the wound inflicted by Sean's whip and only worsens it. The eye becomes a bloody mess and the mutt blindly snaps at whatever is closest to it. Of course, rodents find me tasty. It dives at my exposed forearm. Seeing no other options, I swing my sock at the ugly thing, feeling the lump of sand stretch the fabric, and whack its muzzle. There's enough force behind the blow that it knocks the rat-ferret-thing back.

Its dark body (perhaps it once was white but is so caked with mud and filth that it appears nearly black) convulses in violent spasms. I stomp down on its stomach, where I can see fleas crawling in large masses on the skin's surface.

"This is gross," I say. Sean is already engaged in another fight, blood spraying and shouts being…shouted. Glancing about, my eyes settled on heap of branches a few feet away. They have all broken away from the trees. I automatically think, Weapon! A horrible weapon, but hey, a weapon! Slamming my foot into the side of the mutt's head for the last time, I scramble over the slippery grass to the wood. The mutts surge forward and as soon as my hands wrap around one of the branches, I pivot on my heel. The wood smashes into a mutt's snout, shattering on impact. The ferret shakes its head, dazed, but hisses violently. I grab a thin stick and throw it as hard as I can into the air.

"Fetch!" A few ferrets actually watch the stick fly, although, it disappears within the rain. The mutt I smacked stares intently at me and bares its jagged teeth.

I pissed it off.

I drop the broken end and scoop up another. This one is heavier but sturdier. I bring it down on the mutt and it pounded the ugly bugger into the ground. I step over it, blindly sweeping my arm from the left to the right, storming through anything in my path. Blood courses through me, but there's a considerable amount of it spewing from my leg. One after another, I bash the creatures away, keeping them at bay. It's constant thuds and the occasional overshoot where I almost fall on my face but don't. A ferret suddenly plows into me from behind and the weight of it forces me to the mud. Sharp teeth dig into my neck and I yelp in pain, throwing the creature around. I twist and grapple against the beast. My pinkie stung painfully as I held on to its massive shoulders, keeping it back. Drool trickles onto my face and I squeeze my eyes shut as it slides down my cheek. Some of it seeps into my wounds, a long cut along my cheek feeling especially painful.

Struggling to find traction under my feet, I use every ounce of strength, imagine snapping every strand of hair on my cello's bow and breaking my strings, build up all the anger and pain inside me, and thrust the mutt off of me. I straddle atop of it and shove my branch down onto its throat. The thick muscles move under the mutt's skin. It squeals and squirms but I don't budge, keeping a steady hold on my weapon.

"Heads up!"

Suddenly, Sean Armani's thick whip slashes down on the mutt, slicing through fleshy neck and its blood, so unnaturally dark, bleeds down onto my hands. I pull back, gasping for air. I was so intent on the task, I had forgotten to breathe.

I look up at Sean and the blood coating his skin slowly drips off as the rain washes over it. He looks like he stepped out of a nightmare. He might as well have.

A dark shape loomed behind him and my eyes widen at the sight. Shoving past, I throw a slugger at the beast, shouting "Pop goes the weasel!" A sickening crack comes from its skull and the body drops limply to the grass. For extra measure, I strike it once more, but it does not respond.

I look back and watch Sean take out one last mutt. It lands at my feet and I smash the butt end of the branch into its throat. The only thing I can fully process is this; the mutts are all dead. Weakly, I collapse, completely drained. There are just a few more bruises on me that weren't there before. Same goes for Sean.

Slowly, I count the dead ferrets lying around us, breathing, trying to slow my heart. It appears I have forgotten to do math and have to count and recount several times. Seven. We fought seven mutts. That's a lot of freaking mutts. That's a pack of mutts.

"You scared the hell out of them when you just started swatting," Sean states. He nudges the tree branch with his toe. "A few actually ran off." I start to feel woozy, the sudden burst of activity not combining well with lack of food. I press my palm to my neck and I probe the wound hesitantly. The blood scorches my frozen fingers. It isn't deep but the wound hurts like hell.

He stands over me, awkwardly staring down at me. I sigh, saying, "Good work, uh, killing ferret things."

"You too," he says. He grits his teeth, looking around at the carnage around us. "Remind me to call you when I need pest control." The idea of what we just did hits me like breath of fresh air.

"Dude," I say. The rain is soaking my pants and blood stains my fingers. A smirk works its way up onto my lips. "We just got attacked by giant mutant ferrets and fought them off with a whip and a tree branch." I chuckle. Sean joins in and we're back to where we started, laughing our asses off and being complete idiots. It's so strange I want to cry. Sean bends over and leans on his knees, gasping for air. I fall back and laugh like I've never had before. I at least haven't laughed like this in a long time.

Okay. We've gone insane.

Eventually, we finally calm, the only sound being short hiccups. Sean says, "I'm Sean Armani, but, uh, you probably know that already."

Like a foal walking on its thin legs for the first time, I rise to my feet, hoping not to look like an idiot and falling. I smile crookedly back. "Jonas Emerson. I'm from District Seven."

His lips become taut and his eyebrows knit together. "Jonas, right." He opens his pocket and passes over a piece of paper. It's a note card, a folded sheet smeared with mud and blood. That's not the aspect that captures my attention; in fine typewriter style letters is the name Jonah.

"It was tied to one of their tails," he says. "I'm guessing it's meant for you." His face is grim and I try to laugh it off.

"They need to hire better Gamemakers," I say, running my thumb over the black print. "The bastards didn't even bother to spell my name right."

Shakily, I peel off the sticker holding it closed.

"And the Lord appointed a great fish to swallow up Jonah. And Jonah was in the belly of the fish three days and three nights."

I frown, scrutinizing the line. How…When I was younger, my mother used to tell me and my sisters bedtime stories. Before my father was even mayor. I was little, but this one stood out. Mother would hold me close, poke my belly and exaggerate the second syllable of "Jonah". I can't tell you what this "Lord" was. She never mentioned it in the story. I'm astounded the Capitol knew I could make such a connection. I realize there is more writing and flip to the back.

Within a beast, you shall find the compassion of your gracious Lord, swallowed up for three days. Do not anger, for you understand that it is better to live than to die. This is a tool to help fulfill the task.

-Head Gamemaker Phoenix

I hand the card over to Sean, who reads it. His face looks as confused as mine.

"I don't understand any of this." His features become tense as he reads the Gamemaker's name at the bottom. A muscle in his jaw pulses and he roughly passes the note back.

I begin to explain what I know. "When I was little, my mom used to tell me bedtime stories. Her father, during the Dark Days, had spent a considerable amount of time in District Four. There was a story from there about a guy, well, he was traveling on a boat during a bad storm and the only way to calm the sea was for him to be thrown off. I have no idea why. But it worked and he was then swallowed by a whale and stayed there for three days before being vomited out onto land."

Sean Armani furrows his brow. "What was the point of the story?"

I shrug, turning away. "I don't know. It's just a tale. But the guy's name was Jonah. Maybe Phoenix was just trying to be witty."

How did the Head Gamemaker know this story? It's a district tale after all. Not even mine. How could she possibly know that I knew this story? Why would Gamemaker Phoenix send me this in the first place?

"It's a riddle," I say. "She's trying to tell me something."

"What exactly?" Sean asks. I tear the lower section of my shirt off and wrap it around my neck to bandage my cut, ignoring how stupid I may look.

It's the third day. Jonah spent three days in a whale, or giant fish, whatever it was.

Within a beast….

A thought strikes me. If I felt woozy before, I am straight up nauseous now.

I look at the mutts on the ground. My stomach drops further.

"You got to be kidding me," I mutter.

"What's wrong?" Sean says. "What the hell is going on?"

Snatching shrapnel from my pocket, I stagger to the nearest mutt and gut it open. Its dark blood stains my hands and a coil of intestines spill out onto the ground. What the hell am I thinking? Crazy thoughts, if anything. Holding my breath, I dig my hand through the warm, wet insides, scooping out each organ to search for Phoenix's gift. My nose twitches, my eyes burn, and I turn my head into my sleeve in an attempt to breathe. The stench emanating from this beast can cause milk to curdle and if there was food in my stomach, I would have puked by now. I'm soaked up to my elbows in blood, warm and sticky against my skin.

"What…what the hell is wrong with you?" I snap my eyes up to see Sean gawking at me. I forgot about him. How the hell could I forget about him when he was standing right here? I shake my head clear of the thoughts cluttering my head.

"Phoenix is trying to tell me something," I say. "She's saying there's something in the mutts."

Sean's face looks absolutely green. Soaked in blood and rain, cutting open the Bandit wannabe because I suspect a note told me to, he must believe I am absolutely insane.

"Uh," Sean presses his lips together. "Do you need help or something?"

I stare down at the mutilated body and a shiver works up my spine so fast, my neck twitches spastically as it travels through. In spite of myself, I smirk.

"Do you really want to help me, Armani?" I say. I unconsciously rub a scratch on my nose and smear blood across it. I'm a mess.

Sean hesitates and I can tell he doesn't. He says, "Why are the Gamemakers even helping you in the first place?"

I shrug. "Maybe they just like leveling the playing field. Maybe they want to see what I'd do when I find what it is they're looking for, if that makes any sense. Who knows unless we investigate?"

Sean begins to say, "I-"

I wave my hand at him. It cuts him short. Using my best, reassuring Mayor Emerson tone, I say, "Just go. I got this. I know what I'm doing." I think.

It takes a second but Sean nods. "Okay." He starts to turn away but looks back to say "Great work kicking ferret ass, Emerson."

I sigh and work up a half-hearted grin. "Thanks for not killing me."

His smile matches my own. "Thank you for not filling that sock with shrapnel." Sean leaves then, disappearing into the rain. The confident smile on my face collapses. My shoulders sink. To think, I fought alongside an Armani. He's not like his sister at all. He's actually a pretty cool guy. Bloodlines just don't help us here in the Hunger Games. For a year like this one, it screws us over. Big time.

Silently, I get back to work.

The carcass is void of anything that I think would be out of the ordinary for a ferret mutt. I shove it aside. My hands are shaking violently and when I crawl over to the next mutt, the cut is rough and I drop my shrapnel shard. I go through the process again, picking through the slime and gunk. The creature's heart deteriorates in my hand and I toss the flesh back over my shoulder. All I have to rely on are my hands and the limited skills I learned in training sessions.

This mutt is empty too.

I move onto the third and it lays mutilated with whip marks in its flesh. I rip it open and grab handfuls of its insides, yanking them out. There has to be something here, unless Phoenix is trying to mess with me. She's messed with my life enough.

Softly, I hum to myself in a meek attempt to build moral. My pinkie aches more than ever and this search proves as hopeless as the first two. Still, I keep at it. I will find something.

Onto the fourth I go. I've gotten used to the smell and I'm now humming a song I learned to play on my cello. This is completely normal. I'm like those illegal poachers my dad puts away in jail….

Okay. I'm not thinking of the douche any more. It'll only get me all worked up.

Pulling out the stomach, tangled amongst the other organs, I find I have reached the jackpot. It's dense and as big as a cantaloupe. The first three were much smaller.

I slice open the gummy flesh, disgusted by the slurping sound created by it ripping open. The skin is tough and I struggle to saw through it. A whole new sickly scent slaps me across the nose. Twisting my head, phlegmy, watery bile works up from my stomach, burning my esophagus. The taste is horrible on my tongue and makes me want to puke further.

Hey, I did have some vomit left in me.

I pull the organ apart and feel the smooth surfaced item inside it. Wrapping my hand around the handle, I shake it free and hold it up to examine it better.

It's a hand axe.

Nothing fancy or ornate, just a simple little hand axe. The walls of the stomach were so thick on the inside; it kept the axe from slicing the beast open. The sharpened head is about as long as where my hand begins to a little less than my pinky (mind you, I have long fingers). The handle travels to halfway to my elbow. It's light but durable and I swish it back and forth to get a feel of it.

I have a weapon. I'm not completely unarmed with just a sock.

I pocket all my shrapnel, break off several of the mutts' teeth, and slide it all into my pocket. Weapon ideas later. I debate trying to skin the mutts but decide against it. Too much work and what's the point if it's already wet? I'd end up cutting myself or slice the fur to ribbons.

If only I can get a fire going, I could….

No. I am not going to bring myself to eating mutant ferret meat.

I gather up my few belongings and use my newfound branch as a walking stick. The axe swings by my side. I have to force myself from constricting it in my grasp. I have a weapon. I can actually stand a chance. My mind actually opened up. Can I do this? Maybe I can win. Maybe I can fight my way home and prove I am better than the folk at home think.

Maybe.

In all honesty, I can plan and think, If I see someone, I'll kill them. But, uh, that's the thing. I'm not a killer. Sean could have easily killed me, but he didn't which confuses the hell out of me, yet still makes sense. We aren't all designed to be killers.

"Some of us just have to work at it."

The words have to hang in the air for a while until I realize they came from my lips.

I bite my lip. Could I willing give up my humanity to save my life?

Time drags on and I can only guess at the time because, according to my watch, it's half past a freckle. When I was paying attention in science class, I do remember that you could use the path and angle and insert boring science terms here to calculate the time. But, alas, there is no such existent sun in the place of No Man's La-

Reflexes save me as I dodge out of sight the moment my eyes fall upon the person up ahead. I have to stop doing that. The girl glances behind her shoulder and her hazel eyes scan the area. She senses my presence. I become tense, careful to not move a muscle. Dark, curly hair hangs down to about the middle of her back and she pushes it back behind her ears, away from her freckled face. After a long moment, she turns back and continues to work on her hands and knees. Slowly, I peek around to get a better view of what she was doing. Expert fingers picked away at the leaves of a plant, collecting a specific part. I furrow my brows. The plant is a strange color, a pale yellow. I sigh. Rule one of foraging; don't eat stuff with weird colors.

I cringe, waiting for the poor girl to die from such a pathetic mistake. I slowly realize she's not eating it; she's collecting it and, using a small stone, grinding it down to a powder.

The girl suddenly rises and starts moving away. She's scrawny and has long legs, like a deer. Matching her cautious pace, I follow close behind. My fist clenches the axe in a vise grip and I move swiftly, not bothering to bring along my branch. I recognize her as the girl from District Nine, June-something. I don't remember her entire name. All I know is that she's up to something and a natural curious itch kept me going. A loud groan rumbles within my stomach and I press a hand to it, whispering for the organ to shut up. The District Nine girl glances back again, a fleeting look. I thank my genetics for once. My thin frame can hide behind trees and my hair is close in color to the tree bark.

June's stride increases, moving faster now, but I know she hadn't heard me. She's become anxious to get to where she was heading, carelessly disregarding her attentiveness. Hurriedly, I try to follow. I wince every time a twig snaps underfoot but hold my breath when she disappears out of sight. At one point, an imposing mass of roots entangles my foot in its grasp and I'm stuck momentarily. The District Nine girl disappears entirely. I jerk and kick and resort to hacking at the wood with the axe. I'm free in seconds, however, I realize how lost I am. Raising my axe, I stumble past trees, hopelessly searching for the petite girl. My leg aches, a slight hobble developing in my stride. The trees suddenly give out, opening into an oasis. The water burbles, the leaves overhead providing a canopy. With a start, I apprehend the fact that it's a freshwater source. The rain simply cannot be caught and sipped and drinking from random puddles brought a different kind of pang to my tummy.

Clean water is vital for survival. Fresh water also meant fresher, more edible plants.

I step out and spot the dark, matted curls of the District Nine girl. Her head is bowed as she kneels beside the water. She adds the powder of the plant she ground up earlier onto a pile already collected in her hat. How many freaking plants did that take? She must have been working on it for a while.

What is she actually doing? That species had to be poisonous. But why would she be collecting it? Is she trying to create a weapon?

I observe the oasis more closely. At the far end, it branches off into a stream that moves downhill. The source continues from here. June runs her fingers through the powder, testing the consistency. She dribbles water onto it and nods, satisfied with the results. If the powder dissolves into the water…

The girl is trying to poison us.

Without much thought, I shout, "Hey!"

The District Nine girl's eyes snap up to me. So startled, she drops her hat and some of its contents dissolve into the mud. I'm at her side in only a few long strides. Snatching her collar, I jerk her back from the water's edge. She claws my wrist, screeching wildly. Her poison spills completely, but a safe distance from the oasis. Her dog tag falls onto her shirt and I can read her full name; Juniper Harris.

"Let me go!" she demands. Juniper scrambles onto her feet, making a snatch at my axe. I jerk it out of arm's reach but she presses against me to stretch for it. Knotting my fingers through her hair (while wincing at the pressure on my pinkie), I jerk her to the side. Juniper kicks and bucks and digs her nails into my skin. And I thought controlling Alexis was difficult.

"I said, let me go!" Juniper hisses.

"Yeah, because I like my water with a dash of choking and dying!"

Her nails scrabble for my face, jabbing me in the eye. I manage to keep her at bay with my left arm. My breath comes out ragged and labored. She kicks low and she's a couple of inches off from making me infertile. The girl isn't going to let me slip. Pissed off girls, they never let you get away. She'll definitely want to kill me if she escapes. It's simple really; either I die or she dies.

And like hell I am going to let it be me.

My grip tenses. Blindly, I raise my arm and swing at Juniper. The axe's sharpened end makes impact and Juniper screams; a scream that causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end and a shiver to run up my spine. My hands begin to shake as I feel her body go limp. I release my hold on her and Juniper collapses to the ground. She holds her bleeding side and moans. The tremble in my limbs is irrepressible now. Juniper turns over. Blood stains the mud.

Her hazel eyes stare at me accusingly and her lips curl up in disgust. The pale slivers of flesh are shaking, though. Tears stream down her dirt streaked face and she shutters in breath that rattles against her ribs.

The look in her eyes; I can't stand it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I heave the axe over my shoulder and bring it down on the girl. She releases a final soft shriek. A cannon fires.

My vision narrows onto the gaping wound in the dead girl's side and fatal gash in her neck. Her hazel eyes are blank. Her body is motionless. It just lies there. All I can think to do is gawk at the corpse, as if it may spring back to life and start dancing for me. I struggle to bend down and find it even more difficult to sift through her jacket. I have to stop for a moment until part of the shaking subsides. In the inside pocket is a bundle of roots and I insert them in my own pocket. Before rising to my feet again, I look closely at her dog tag. Right there, engraved in the rusting metal, is her name and district. I tuck it into her shirt. The last thing I needed was a reminder of what I did.

I stumble back, taking one shaky step away from her, and then another. My heart races and I begin to hyperventilate as my head spins. Robotically, I move towards the far end of the oasis.

I collapse at the water's edge, scooping up the fresh water and drinking deeply. It is completely untouched from the poisoned plant and quenches my thirst. Once hydrated, I wash my hands and then my face, even taking one of Juniper's roots and biting heartily into it. The tenseness jerking my insides releases somewhat.

I just killed someone.

My hands continue to shake as I stagger out of the clearing. Tears seep from my lids. I killed someone. I killed someone's daughter, someone's friend, maybe someone's sister. Did she deserve to die?

I think of my own sister, Mariska, and her final words before I left District Seven.

Don't be like those kids that just give up. Remember to be Jonas.

I killed a person…but she tried to kill me. She didn't care who she killed, since she was obviously trying to poison as many tributes as possible. The girl lost her little game. But I won. I'm still alive. And I'm someone's child too. I have sisters who want me home. Why should my family be the ones to suffer?

District Seven thought I should enter the Hunger Games. That must be a fair enough excuse for me to be here. The same goes for that girl. Her district voted her in. It is as much as their sin as it is mine.

My shoulders wobble and cave in. Still walking, I sob, screaming and yelling and laughing awkwardly. The axe is heavier than it was before. I drag it along in the grass.

"Happy now?" I say, raising my face to the sky. Perhaps all of Panem is watching me now or the Capitol has panned onto someone much more interesting. I squeeze the last few tears free, wiping the snot from my nose. "This is what you guys wanted, right?" I plaster on a smirk, choking on a sob.

The sky, thankfully, does not respond. I shake my head, staring directly ahead. "I'm coming home," I whisper. The concept of actually getting to see District Seven again is so foreign, I don't bother to enjoy the thought. My mind had to be here. Softly, I begin singing.

"Raindrops keep falling on my head. But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red. Crying's not for me. Cause I'm never gonna stop the rain by complainin', because I'm free. Nothing's worrying-"

I take a deep breath. My limbs finally stop trembling. Rain soaks my face and clothes, clinging to my skin.

"-me."