A/N: This story is getting long! Seriously, the games have just begun, and we're almost to the complete length of Broken. The games are officially in full swing, with the fourteen remaining tributes scattering around the arena. They have no idea what's coming for them. Seriously, these games are going to be awful. Now that we're to the real meat of the story, POVs will be longer and overall more interesting (I hope lol). Every day will be split into multiple chapters, so this isn't the entirety of the first day. Anyway, enjoy these POVs of Rocky and Gwyneth :D

P.S. I randomly remembered a review from liliblossoms saying that different characters gave her different Hogwarts house vibes. To the Potterheads reading this: if you were to sort these characters into the four houses, where would you place them? A random thought, but I want to see what you come up with.

P.S.S. So many of these chapters have a P.S. that I might as well make the P.S. part of the author's note itself. Oh well.

Everybody's been there, everybody's been stared down

By the enemy.

Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing

Bow down to the mighty.

Don't run, stop holding your tongue.

Maybe there's a way out of the cage where you live,

Maybe one of these days you can let the light in,

Show me how big your brave is.

Rocky Morgan, 17 / Tyquavis

District 6 Male

What do you say when you and one other member of your four-person alliance just narrowly evaded death at the hands of five sociopathic killers? I'm lost for words as Monita and I jog away from the cornucopia.

The thick blanket of clouds is a brighter shade of red than ever before, which implies it's around noon. My internal clock tells me something similar. Being completely separated from everything that helped you keep yourself in order is more than a little shocking, I'll admit, and I'm not just talking about time. Showers, effectively infinite food supply – it's all really, really shocking. But I can't let myself get caught up in old times. That's a great way to lose my will to live.

And the will to live is extremely valuable. Even weak, defenseless tributes without a weapon, without a skill in the world – if they have the will to live, they're halfway there. That's how I see the world. That's how I've been forced to see it. My family will eat today, I always told myself. Willing something into reality is a great way to make it happen. It doesn't make sense, but it works.

While we were at the horn, the weather and the angle of the ground made it seem like we were at the very top of a mountain or similar feature. Monita and I have found it to be more of a saddle, steep at first, then levelling out to flat ground.

"You know what's funny?" Monita says, breaking the silence. "I don't know what to make of this arena."

"I do," I say, and laugh a little. "And if I were to write about it, the entire essay would be the word NO in black ooze."

Monita rolls her eyes. "That's not what I meant. I mean, sure, it's terrifying. But I don't know what kind of terrifying."

"The deadly kind."

"There aren't spikes," Monita says, stopping to spread her arms, "and there haven't been any signs of mutts thus far, except for that first howl, which was probably meant to scare us more than anything. This place is more barren than anything. Too bare to feel dangerous—for any reason other than just because it's dark."

I want to agree that the gamemakers are just trying to confuse and terrify us, but keep quiet. It isn't like the gamemakers have their eyes on us right now—we're doing nothing interesting—but still, it isn't the time for big risks just yet.

We're pretty well-off. I have my mace and Monita has her spear, which I can't help but envy because it's the much lighter weapon. We have a decent food supply too, and some medicine in case things go wrong, which they most certainly will come hell.

But I'm starting to feel thirsty. And I don't know how long we can keep walking until our single shared thermos runs out.

"Worrying about water as much as I am?" Monita asks, and it's a relief I have someone to talk to. To make things just a smidge more bearable.

"Yes."

While talking can make things more bearable, the pain of thirst is a hard thing to distract myself from, and talking about water isn't going to cut it. We actually need the clear stuff. Five minutes later, I give into the urge and ask Monita for a sip. I drink just a tiny bit more than I'm supposed to. Now it's just over halfway empty.

"Well, if there's water, it's down here. Gravity and everything," Monita says.

And, as if on cue, my feet land in ankle-deep, freezing-cold water. "Speak of the devil." And it's the biggest relief of my life. I stare at the large lake for two seconds, and my heart sinks. "No."

"No," Monita agrees.

It's a picture of death. I realize it must be an extremely large lake, because waves crash against the shore and there is literally a beach of bones stretching left and right before disappearing into the foggy shroud. The fog rising from the lake has an earthy, watery smell. But something is off about the stench, like an image flipped in a mirror. It's the calmest water I've ever seen, and the lack of light makes the surface look like black glass. Sharp stones protrude from the water, forming clusters of dry land reminiscent of spikes. The kind that makes a ship sink.

"There is a zero percent chance that water is safe to drink," says Monita.

"We'll never know until…" Our eyes meet.

Monita tilts her head. "Not it."

"As soon as our thermos is empty, we can fill it up with this stuff. Then we can test it slowly to see if it's deadly or not. Anyway, I need a break. Let's sit down and go through our things. Hopefully we grabbed something helpful."

And we did. In addition to my spear, I got a few knives, coils of rope and wire, a magnifying glass (like the sun is bright enough to start a fire), and…"

"Holy Stinn, I have a flashlight."

I can't help myself from slipping two batteries into the device and flicking the switch. Monita squints as the beam lands on her face, which is covered with sweat and grime.

"Sorry." I tuck it into my pocket. "What did you find?"

"A lot of food and a big plastic sheet."

"Food is always a good thing."

"And the sheet? I doubt we'll find the opportunity to make a slip 'n slide in the near future."

"Hold onto it. You never know what might come in handy."

Things come to a standstill as we dig into the dried beef. As soon as I taste the salt, I recognize the gamemakers' trick. I've always heard of people kicking themselves, and I thought it was silly, but I literally pinch myself.

"Dried beef dehydrates you."

Monita scowls. "You don't say." And when she reaches for the thermos, it's completely empty.

We've got to investigate this lake. At least fill the thermos with the water and check for obvious signs of contamination. The thought crosses my mind that getting some iodine from the bloodbath might have been nice.

"I'm not touching that." Monita crosses their arms. I grab the clear thermos and dip it in the water. Part of me expects my hand to burn or decay at the touch of the evil water, but it just feels like cold water. Figuring I'm not going to die, I dip the entire thing under and then screw on the cap. Then I set it between us.

"Shine the flashlight on it," Monita says. "See what it looks like."

I put the light to the bottle. "Holy shit."

The liquid is literally a glossy black color. Eerily similar to ink. "I don't know what that is, but it isn't water."

I like the way we talk—like friends. So, so different from the way we talked in the training center. That train of thought gets me thinking about Gray and Bryndle. Bryndle especially. She just disappeared. Deserted, maybe, but I doubt it was intentional. I saw her chased away by Kennedy early on in the bloodbath. If she died, Monita and I will find out tonight. Until then, fretting is no use. If she finds us again, great. If not, one more competitor doesn't make a huge difference. Or one less, if she's dead. Which she very likely might be.

I start to lift the thermos, then stop as my mind kicks in. There's a difference between being brave and being stupid. I'm not drinking straight out of that thing.

"Do you have a dropper?" I ask, referencing the little tool kit Monita just unearthed from her orange backpack.

"I don't think so. Let me check."

Lo and behold, Monita hands me a little pipette. I unscrew the thermos' cap, carefully measure out some of the liquid. And I'm surprised to see the pipette filled with completely clear water; liquid fits into the tiny hole of the pipette, while whatever colors the water black is unable to slip through.

I drip it into my mouth, and it's extremely refreshing.

Monita sits in silence for a few moments, waiting for me to die. I don't, and she's fast to drip as much as she can into her mouth once she accepts it's safe for consumption. The water is practically freezing cold, which makes it an extremely satisfying treat.

"There's gotta be a more efficient way to do this," Monita says as she moves her hand back and forth between the thermos and her mouth.

"Yeah. But we're working with what we've got. That's something we're both good at."

I had fifteen year dances, church basement romances

Yeah, I've cried.

Spilling my guts with the Bowery bums

Is the only love I've ever known,

Except for the stage, which I also call home

When I'm not

Serving up God in a burnt coffee pot for the triad.

Gwyneth Lenaisse, 18 / LiveFreeOrDie

District 5 Female

I can't see my feet while I walk, and that bothers me. Keeping my head down is how I spent most of my time back home. It's how I got past peacekeepers without being questioned. It's how I avoided being mugged and raped every day of my life on the streets. When I looked at them so much, my feet always felt like my friends. Even at night, I could see them. This arena is even darker than night, which is strange, because at eye-level I can distinguish Newt's outline clearly. I try not to confuse myself wondering how that works.

We make fast progress over the lightening field of barren rock. Newt looks more and more worn out by the hour. I feel something similar, but do my best to ignore it. I've gotten pretty good at that. I have an advantage that way.

Newt wordlessly motions for the thermos, and I hand it over, pretending not to notice that he drinks much more than he's supposed to. I've been doing it too. The cold is very dehydrating, in a way.

"Doing alright?" Newt asks.

"Well enough," I respond. Our voices sound similar. Everyone's voices do when they're hushed, weakened. And it feels like some sort of connection. We're both suffering through this together.

"We'd better take a break soon," Newt says, and it's difficult to say no. My muscles ache with every motion.

It takes me ten seconds to respond. "No. The careers are probably out. It's too dangerous to stay still just yet. But…"

"But what?"

"But if I had to choose between death by knife and exhaustion, I think we can both agree the knife would be a lot faster."

I let Newt drink some more water, then suggest we start looking for a nice place to stop. Water would be preferable, and I admit I'm a little picky at first. But five-star hotels are pretty scarce in these areas, so we settle on this little flat space between two spiky rock columns.

"Homey." That's all he says, his voice hollow.

The warm, honeylike bliss of relaxation makes me forget about the shivers and my thirst for just a little while. I actually laugh as I lie back, sighing as the backpack slips off of my shoulders. How about we lie here forever, side by side?

Shit.

Nope. Not happening. No snuggles or smooches for this gal. But that gets me thinking, and—I never thought I'd say this—I wouldn't complain if he got closer.

The thing about romance in the games is that it never ends well. Every games in history has had one victor, a formula that doesn't bode well for partnerships. I know what they say about love – it's irresistible, bla bla bla. It's idiots that let it distract them at the bad times. Such as right now.

Lying around gets me thinking about my past, the parts I've gradually closed out of my memory with the years. Instead of being covered with dust like the top of an old shelf that's never touched, the memories are quite fresh when I reach them, like something bright closed between book pages.

The man from the Thieving Magpie, whose name and face I still remember after all this time, stands out the most clearly in my memory. He was reading a newspaper when I walked in, clutching the paper in his left hand with a drink in his right. It took me a while to get his attention, so long I considered giving up.

Casual conversation isn't usually my strong spot, but when the situation is so precarious, you sort of have to power through things without looking back. I recall the frosty crunch of the stone pathway we took home. I remember the icy chill of the rain.

He really did have the worst breath.

Justice, not payback. That's what I've been telling myself all these years.

What the hell does a barely pubescent girl do when there's a dead body in her house? She runs. I can't remember exactly what I packed with me when I hit the streets with no intent of returning home. I know I can't expect my brain to hold onto such things, but I remember so much of those days that it's a bit shocking. This little gap in the experience.

"What time do you think it is?"

It's not until I open my eyes that I realize I've shut them. "Still morning." That's all I can say for a while. "It's still getting brighter."

"And warmer," Newt notes, and I guess I am shivering a bit less than I was when this whole thing started.

I have a lot to be thankful for right now. First of all, the arena isn't terribly deadly all by itself. It's hard to say something like that when it's literally pitch dark before noon and everything is made out of freezing cold stone. But I have to be glad this isn't a burning desert or a tundra or a big palace with only stone maces, or a big net of stretchy yarn or a giant replica of the human body (yes, those have all actually happened before. Don't ask me, the gamemakers have some crazy thoughts).

And I'm grateful to have an ally. I'm grateful for Newt, and I'm grateful for the way he makes me forget about the loss of Edamame. I try to keep the list going, but things get hard. All of that is just being optimistic if I ever say to myself that only one of us can get out of this arena.

We lie there for a while, just me and him, and I kind of let everything envelop me as the thoughts disappear like butterflies, like a cloud of dust or smoke. It isn't just the exhaustion that makes relaxation feel so good.

"Newt?"

His coat scratches against the ground, and I think I've woken him from a light nap.

"I need to tell you something. A long story."

I think he deserves to know about my past. Having someone to open up to really feels so nice. Especially when a sizable portion of my life has been spent skirting around seedy back streets. Getting out the entire story takes a while. I imagine the cameras are trained on us, with all of those Capitolites screaming "Kiss! Kiss!" while they shovel themselves with whatever extravagant food they eat. Out loud, I tell him some made up story about my made up brother. Then I inch closer, close enough that he could hear me if I whisper.

"They can't hear this, Newt. Nothing louder than light whispers."

He nods his head, and I start to tell him the story. From a bird's eye view, I imagine it might look like we're cuddling. My heart sort of jumps at the thought. They're definitely watching us, all of them. Just a pair of unassuming outliers, destined to be something more.

Maybe I want us to be.

Remaining Tributes (14): Jade, Midas, Kennedy, Monita, Dock, Gwyneth, Newton, Rocky, Blu, Bryndle, Arien, Fawn, Heather, Turner

Alliances:

Careers: Jade, Midas, Kennedy

Anti-Careers: Monita, Rocky

The Guys Next Door: Dock, Arien, Turner

Mosaic Broken Hearts: Gwyneth, Newton

Let's Hate Everyone Together: Fawn, Heather

Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle