A/N: Next chapter is the bloodbath: A.K.A DIE DIE DIE! As sad as I feel that a good chunk of these characters will be dying soon, I've got some great stuff planned and I'm excited to get the games into full swing. As usual, it'll probably take a while. I mean, it's the bloodbath. I don't want to do it averagely. Until then, here are the launch rooms. Stay tuned!

You better lose yourself in the music, the moment

You own it, you better never let it go

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow

This opportunity comes once in a lifetime you better

Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis

District 6 Male

The utter silence is the most disturbing thing of all. Not the harsh white lights of the room, not the long shadow of the rack holding my uniform, not even the little desktop with a single piece of paper and a pen. Absolutely everything is padded. Wouldn't want sharp corners tempting any hopeless outliers.

I've been sitting on the plasticky white bench for I don't know how long when the air conditioning kicks in, jets of freezing cold air that issue seemingly from nowhere. A sign from the Capitol, no doubt. Starting getting ready or you'll regret it.

Is it really? Am I overthinking such things? Thoughts race through my head at lightning speed. Just one more would probably kill me.

It's certainly difficult, but it's possible to remain calm throughout the pre-games festivities. If you can keep your cool at the reaping, on the train, in the training center, and during your interview, it's possible to develop this false image of how ready you are. That's what I did. Every time I made the audience laugh, every time I won a minor victory, a piece of a giant image fell into place: an image that spells out "I'm ready".

It lies. Absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for this.

I stand up and stretch, barely able to coordinate my limbs properly due to shaking. At the lemon cookie machine, aligning the cookie with my mouth takes numerous attempts. In the time leading up to my death, my heart beats faster than ever before, dutifully keeping me alive.

I don't even hesitate to say those words in my head. Then I say them out loud. I say them over and over and over.

"I'm going to die." And I accept them immediately. For the first time, they feel completely real.

But no! I'm supposed to fight to stay alive, fight to win, fight to keep breathing!

"No," I say, as loudly as I can muster. My voice quivers and cracks with the single syllable. It's the fakest syllable I've ever uttered.

I run the rough black jacket through my hands, turning it inside-out before putting it on; the material is clearly meant to deflect heat. When I start to sweat, I know I've made the right choice. The plasticky black boots remind me of something you'd wear in a rainstorm.

Still quivering, I near the cookie machine and stuff at least a dozen more down my throat. I'm still just as hungry as I was before: do the cookies lack nutritional value, or am I just nervous? Of course I'm nervous. I'm terrified because I'm going to die.

Monita, Gray, and Bryndle don't cross my mind as I pace anxiously around the room. Then I sit down on the bench and start to think. The thought of death hovers over me like a blanket. What will it feel like? How much will it hurt? I struggle to breathe under its grip. It's ten seconds before I'm literally crying.

"Sixty seconds until launch."

My eyes dart to the clock, and I rub the back of my neck, groaning. The minute hand sits on 59. It's 5:59 A.M. The red second hand continues to dutifully glide around the clock.

"Forty-five seconds until launch."

I try to stand up, but my legs won't allow me. No. No, no, no. I won't get up. I can't get up. I'm going to run to that door and break it down and run away. I won't enter the Hunger Games.

But I will. And I'm going to. And as the voice announces thirty seconds until launch, I know it's no use biding my time. Suddenly able to move, I step into the glass tube and close my eyes, allowing myself to float off into space.

These days I haven't been sleeping

Staying up playing back myself leaving

When your birthday passed and I didn't call

And I think about summer, all the beautiful times

I watched you laughing from the passenger side

And realized I'd loved you in the fall

And then the cold came, the dark days when fear crept into my mind

You gave me all your love and all I gave you was goodbye

Fawn Weed, 17 / Annabeth Pie

District 11 Female

After I've taken the final red pill, there's nothing left to do but wait.

It's all said and done. I've eaten all the lemon cookies my stomach can carry, I've put on my tribute uniform, and I've taken the last pill. I feel like I've been moving down a checklist ever since the reaping. People to talk to, places to be, things to get down. Now that I've reached the end of the list, everything is shrouded with mystery.

Up until this point, my life was laid out hour-by-hour. From this point onward, that won't be the case. I lie down on the padded bench and try to still my rapid breathing. May as well savor the final moment of order.

My wandering eyes land on the desk. It's tinted brown, and off-white color that's actually quite pleasing. I head over to the padded green wheelie chair and close the pen in my fingers. Will I be able to form coherent words and sentences? I hope so.

I spend at least a minute staring at the plain white paper. I have no idea what to write.

Another minute. And a third minute. By the time I look up at the clock, ten minutes have passed. It's now 5:53. Seven minutes until launch.

District 11. That's all I write down.

I head over to the machine and swallow one last lemon cookie. I lie down again, facedown because I can't bear to look at the light. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. The breath shakes and rattles both ways, in and out.

What must it feel like to die? It's a generic question, but it keeps my mind occupied. Anything to focus on. I try to remember the last time I fell asleep comfortably. It seems like a million years. I laid there under the blankets, cool night air on my face. My breathing was drowned out by the trickling of the creek. Next thing, the sun was in the sky and all of that was nothing but memories. I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep until I'd woken up. But if that nothingness had no end, if it stretched on forever…

Forever. My mind jumps back in time to a story I was told when I was young. Beatrice, the nice girl at the bookstore, lended it to me because I liked the pictures. I asked a friend to read some of the words aloud:

Far north of here, there is a great rock. It is a hundred miles high and a hundred miles wide. Every thousand years, a little bird taps her beak on the rock. When it is thus worn away, the rock is replenished and a single drop of water is removed from the great sea. When it is thus completely dried, the seas are replenished and a single sheet of paper is added to a pile. Even when that pile reaches the stars, not a single instant of "forever" can be said to have passed.

Forever. I get tired of trying to comprehend it, so I give up.

"Sixty seconds until launch."

I don't say anything as I step into the glass tube. There's nothing to say. Nobody to exchange words with but myself, and even she probably wouldn't listen.

You told me you love me

Why did you leave me all alone

Now you tell me you need me

When you call me on the phone

Girl, I refuse

You must have me confused with some other guy

The bridges were burned

Now it's your turn, to cry

Edamame Stanton, 15 / 2017tnt

District 11 Male

Elevators don't move sideways and they don't accelerate at the speed of a train. I'm most definitely not in an elevator.

The vehicle comes to a screaming halt, making my stomach turn. I grab onto the handlebar. I can't tell if I'm trembling more from the wild ride or from fear of what's ahead. As the circular wall begins to lower, I decide it's the latter.

For a solid five seconds, I don't see anything. The only sensory input other than the breathing and foot stamping of the other tributes is the cold. I start to turn my coat inside out but change my mind when my arms are halfway out of the sleeves. The last thing I want is for the thing to drop.

The ground is made of rock. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I make out strange sculptures and carvings standing out of the stone, slabs of jet-black rock engraved with nonsensical symbols. The thick clouds are a deep, muddy red; the sun is clearly out, but the tightly-knit blanket of clouds keeps its light from shining through.

The cornucopia, which is earthy and laden with moss, is connected to each pedestal by a line of glowing blue rocks, making a shape like a wagon wheel. Torch lit, the various supplies surrounding the horn are illuminated by nothing but an eerie red glow. The same blue rocks litter the place, forming large piles and sometimes blocking one another's light. The way the paths of the rocks seem to bend with distance implies we stand at the top of a hill or mountain. The heavy wind suggests something similar.

The flashing countdown above the cornucopia reaches 10. The last thing I hear before the gong is a bone-chilling howl that rolls over the stone landscape like thunder.