A/N: In this chapter, we're checking up on Bryndle, Blue, Fawn and Heather, plus the careers/"Guys Next Door" to a lesser extent. This one is super girl-centric, but I didn't plan it like that, it kind of just happened. I've been changing alliance names around; some of them might be kind of confusing, and it might be difficult to work out what they mean. A knowledge of pop music might help lol. I'm hoping to wrap up Day 1 next chapter.

I got my ticket for the long way 'round,

Two bottles 'a whiskey for the way.

And I sure would like some sweet company,

And I'm leaving tomorrow, what do you say?

Bryndle Greer, 16 / luluthefox

District 10 Female

The pounding ache in my muscles is like nothing I've ever felt before. Probably because I don't usually run wildly for my life. The adrenaline begins to wear off as the sun reaches its peak in the sky. At this point, I can actually distinguish the red circle's outline through the clouds, meaning it's at its peak brightness and warmth as well as height. I'm still chilly, but not quite so much as I was this morning.

Paranoia is more prevalent than actual fear. I move quickly, but my motions are still hesitant, as though I'm afraid I'll step on a squealing little rodent or crunching beetle. One shoe is already torn from a fall a while back, so my bare toe probes the chilly noontime air.

The fall was nothing much, really. I can't make a big deal out of it because the pain has all gone away and I don't think it'll have any lasting effects. I thought I heard another tribute behind me, though it was more likely some kind of mutt, or maybe even just the wind, and I broke into a fast sprint. Then my shoe caught on a little piece of rough stone and I was flying. It felt like I soared for ten meters before crashing to a battered and bruised halt. There are still rivers of dried blood on my legs: the little water I've found, I haven't deemed clear enough to clean out my wounds with.

Infection is definitely a concern, but worrying about that will just make me paranoid. It's still Day 1: if any sponsors have their eyes on me, they'll send me antiseptic if they think it's a concern. Radical action is not necessary, at least not yet.

The other anti-careers cross my mind as I jog straight forward, trying to ignore the searing pain in my calves. Then I start to think about home, and everything globs together into this sense of missing that hits me in the gut like a heavy punch. I try not to think about how much Monita reminds me of Cathy Pour, or how Gray has the exact same eyes as my first boyfriend. Then Rocky gets me thinking about my father, and it all gets sadder when I realize at least one of them is likely dead. I doubt it's Rocky or Gray, though anything is possible. I'll find out at midnight.

My return to the immediate situation has me remembering everything I've taken from the bloodbath. I'd like to have taken more, but being chased away by Kennedy had me scrambling for survival rather than more orange packs. I got two knives, both of which are tucked into my pockets, the handles sticking out so I can grab them at an instant's notice. I have to be ready for things like that. My little plastic case contains twelve iodine capsules and two pink pills labeled "sleep". Then I have a bit of dried beef and a useless rainbow slinky (if I ever come across a descending staircase, I know what I'll be doing.)

Every time, the gamemakers load the supply packs with something useless. It's a bit of a funny tradition for them. Last year, it was little wooden yo-yos. The year before, it was those crappy paper fans you make with a staple. They were literally made out of printer paper and the folds were haphazard and uneven. Half the staples weren't even put in correctly. It was a hot arena too, so I can just picture the gamemakers laughing their asses off. They really like to do that.

I realize I've been pulling the rough fabric of the windbreaker tightly around myself, and I let it go slightly. It starts to flap in the wind, which bothers me, but the constant noise is something to focus on. Thus far, the arena has been dead quiet. Even some kind of weather other than wind would be a nice distraction. That's a bad thought; any kind of precipitation would make this place even colder.

As the minutes crawl past at a snail's pace, the temperature of the arena becomes noticeably higher, with the thick clouds creating a kind of greenhouse effect. It only makes sense that they're thicker now than this morning; this evening, they'll probably thin out once more to let the warm air out. Unlike Gary, I'm using my school knowledge to further myself in the games, not make a fool of myself in front of the entire nation.

Aw, Gary. He was a sweetheart. I have no idea whether he's still alive; I only stuck around to watch two deaths before I was chased away. Suzuki and Edamame are the only ones I'm sure about. Other than them, the field of competitors is shrouded in mystery.

Before long, the faint outline of the red sun begins to fade, and I realize it must be darkening; the first day is now drawing to a close. Part of me is looking forward to tonight, just so I'll know who's dead and who's alive. Sometimes knowing the morbid is less torturous than not knowing anything at all.

A few more hours pass, and I'm still on the hunt for water. It's moments like these I feel a tad grateful I'm all by myself. Even if I had just one ally, my thermos would most likely be empty by now. As it stands, the waterline is around the halfway point, which means I've got maybe one more day before dehydration starts to set in. The thought is worrying, but I resolve to keep up my search until then.

A loud clicking noise makes me freeze in place, and for a moment I know what a helpless younger tribute must feel like. For a few seconds, my mind goes blank of everything, even my instincts. The next click draws me back to my senses, and I grab my knives, scuttling behind a large rock formation and waiting. My heart already thuds in my chest like a jackhammer. My breathing is making too much noise. I try to hold my breath, to inhale and exhale more evenly, but my closed lips burst with the force of so much air.

The clicks continue for at least one minute, though they're growing closer together, and it isn't long before the little mutt comes into sight. My mind jumps toward spider, but it's hard to assign a single word to the odd creature. Eight long legs burst from its body, broad at one end and narrowing out to the short tips that click against the crowd as it moves. I can't describe the thing as mechanical, but it definitely has an artificial element to it. The details of the abdomen are too faint to distinguish. The two curved fangs hanging from its gaping mouth are its clearest feature. They literally drip with poison. As the mutt draws closer, I notice the various lines of hooks running down its abdomen.

I will not run. I will not scream. I turn over those two instructions in my head. If I'm quiet enough, still enough, there's a chance I could remain unnoticed. The moments stretch out into minutes. It comes to a rest, relaxing its long spindly legs slightly and clicking with satisfaction as it falls to a halt.

Instinct tears at me, screaming for me to flee. No, I tell it. I will not run. I will not scream.

By the time an hour has passed, my limbs are sore and trembling. Maintaining the awkward position for so long has been difficult, with a few of my fingers bleeding from holding tightly onto the rock. Just when I consider fleeing, the creature lifts itself up and scuttles away. Dead silence returns.

For an hour, I don't dare to move. I hardly even dare to breathe. After what feels like a hundred years, I let myself slide down the rock. I can't help but sigh as I fall into a comfortable position. Both of my hands are bleeding.

I shout out in panic as my foot crashes downward, creating a resounding boom as it lands on the stone. The noise echoes for several seconds before fading to silence. Then I cough. The creature is gone, and I'm safe.

I don't think there's very much infection risk, but I don't want to take any chances, so I tear off part of my undershirt and wrap it around my left hand. Then I do the same thing for my right. In this position, I could easily force the bandages off at a moment's notice. I hope nothing got cut too deep.

Feel my blood running,

Swear the sky's falling.

How do I know if this shit's fabricated?

Time goes by and I can't control my mind.

Don't know what else to try,

But you tell me every time:

Blu Vixen, 16 / Professor R.J. Lupin1

District 8 Female

I saw Gary die. The scene loops over and over in my mind, and I see it whenever I shut my eyes, the image tattooed to the back of my eyelids like some strange work of art. The boy from District 1 was responsible. I know his name is Midas, but my scattered brain likens it to Mighty and makes me giggle nervously, so I try to avoid the thought. I wish I could block the other thoughts out just as easily.

The funny thing about this arena is that it doesn't feel like a threat. That's a stupid sentiment, given that my life is in danger every waking (and otherwise) moment, but the entire thing feels like more of a challenge to me. You know how your heart beats when you jerk awake at night? The first time I rode the zip line was like the slap that woke me up, and it's interesting to speculate whether I'm actually a more fearless person or if adrenaline is blocking out everything that could damage my hopes of survival.

For now, I'll go with the former: if for no other reason, than because adrenaline wears off and that's the last thing I need in this arena.

Running keeps me from panicking. It makes a lot of noise, and the amount of echo is definitely scary, but I don't think the noise will carry any kind of distance. The only way I could be heard is if the careers were a few meters away. They are not, and if they were, I would know.

Being light means I can move quickly. The load I'm carrying: an orange fanny pack containing a thermos, some dried beef, two sheets of plastic along with two rubber bands, and a bowl, bounces regularly between my shoulder blades. The faint tapping sound keeps me grounded. My only weapon, a small pocketknife, sits in my left pocket. I would put it in the pocket of the windbreaker, but its pockets are extremely small and I don't want it falling out. The weapon is so small it could hit the ground without making a noise. Even if it made some sound, it would no doubt me drowned out by the cacophony of my footsteps.

I'm not thirsty right now. Mainly, I feel very nervous. I found a small stream a while back, but the water was far too black for my tastes, so I didn't risk drinking any. These clouds are bound to let loose some rain in the coming days—just look at them—and when that happens, I'll have my bowl for the purposes of collection. It almost never rains on the first day, so that isn't much of a concern right now, but I'm prepared to stop and grab the wooden bowl anyway if I have to.

Thinking about the rain reminds me of home. More practically, it reminds me that rain isn't always safe. District 8 is terribly polluted, more so than any other district of Panem. The complete lack of wildlife helps add to the dreary feel. Sure, it's home, but I always got this resounding sinking feeling standing on a rooftop and gazing over the mosaic-like lines of factories and grey slum buildings. Reliably, school was cancelled one day a week due to smog. All bodies of water were disgustingly polluted. Any fish you cut open would have some kind of trash inside, nine times out of ten. And then there was the acid rain: the kind that could look like blood sometimes. Food for rumors that spread through the younger students like infection. Stinn's blood, we called the red rain. The dusty grey snow was called Cory's ashes. Cory because no little kid can say Coriolanus.

My thoughts come to a halt as something concerning appears in my path: footprints. The sight makes me jump, and I'm ashamed at how terrified I am for a few moments. Wait: if the ground is made out of stone, how can there be footprints? Except the ground isn't stone now. It's dirt. I remember pebbles flying out from under my feet a while back: that must have been part of the gradual shift from stone to dirt. The dirt is damp—it squelches under my feet—and I leave my own footprints as I travel.

A small detail of the alien footprints catch my eye: each of them has a small pattern at the sole, almost as though there was something protruding from the bottom of the tribute's shoes. My heart falls as I realize what the marking says: 10M.

I immediately lift up my own foot, and sure enough, 8F appears on the bottom of my shoe. I turn backward, running my eyes over the path I've already left. There must be dozens of footprints in the mud behind me, my identity stamped into every one of them. Now I have another reason to hope for rain.

I suddenly realize what the plastic sheets and the rubber bands are for. I sit down on a pile of blue rocks and wrap my left foot in one of the sheets, then secure everything with a rubber band. I do the same thing for my right foot. Because of the rubber bands' strength, the squeezing sensation on my feet is rather uncomfortable, but I'm sure I'll get used to it in due time. I take an experimental footstep, and the footprint lacks my district number and sex. Phew.

Now, I have something else to be worried about: the District 10 male is in my immediate vicinity. His footprints look fresh, and as I follow them, I notice two more tracks not far to his left: 4M and 12M.

Arien, Dock, and Turner. How didn't I realize sooner?

That's when I decide to abandon ship. Arien and Turner aren't very threatening, but something about Dock tells me he would not be very welcoming to an outsider like me. Just the vibes I picked up in the training center. Even if they did let me in, it would all feel so uneasy. Besides, it would feel like I was replacing Gary, and that thought hurts part of my soul. In the games, alliance is a ruthless game unless it's played good and right.

Just then, I hear the noise of footsteps squishing in the mud. I think they're my own, but they keep going when I freeze. I decide to stay where I am until I can tell who it is. If it's a career, I'm hauling ass out of here. Otherwise, I might react differently. Until then, I draw my pocketknife and duck behind a small stone ledge, heart pounding.

I'm more taken aback than I should be when multiple tributes come into sight: three of them, the boys whose footprints I spotted back when.

"Do you think we've lost them?" Arien asks, panting.

"Doesn't matter," Dock responds. "We have to keep running."

Turner doesn't talk much. He looks just as exhausted as the other two, but not quite so run-down. They're all messy and caked with sweat. Turner speaks up after a few seconds: "I think it's safe to rest now."

Dock gives into the pleas of his allies. "Fine, just for a few minutes. But you know how those gamemakers are with tributes who stay still."

"Not right here," Arien says, and he actually laughs. "Let's move somewhere with fewer blue stones. It's too bright here."

Dock points straight in my direction, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. "See where it drops off over there? I bet it's dark down there."

I immediately jump to full height. Running will make me look like a target, and even turning my back on the boys will give them an incentive to kill me. Maybe, just maybe, I can work something out with them. Besides, the careers are probably nearby. They'll want me for extra protection.

They stop dead in their tracks and draw their weapons. Not a very promising first sign. I'm tempted to draw my pocketknife, but something warns me against it. Even so, I take up an increased awareness of its position in my pocket, creating a bulge in the material.

"Look what we have here," Dock says.

"The bottoms of your feet. Cover them up somehow."

He squints his eyes, more confused than anything else. He might think I'm playing dumb so they would feel bad killing me. But this is my best bet.

"The bottoms of your feet. Look at them. Right now."

I guess I sound commanding enough, because Arien lifts up his shoe and sees 10M printed there. "Stinn. Anyone who sees our tracks will know it's us, guys."

"Yeah, they will."

The spear comes flying out of the darkness, and he boys scatter. As Dock runs past me, he hisses, "Come on, 8. We aren't letting you go just yet."

"Stay close!" Turner shouts. "We can't lose each other."

I run toward the center of the group but Arien shoves me away. I guess their group does not include me. My fighter heart tells me to turn around and fight, but I'm smart enough to realize how excessively reckless that is.

We run together for at least five more minutes, and then, like a coward, I slip away. Just abandoning them to the careers. The landscape grows thick with this spiny black undergrowth. My prime concern early on was not leaving footsteps, but there are no footsteps to leave in this region of the arena: anything marked onto the ground is covered up by the undergrowth. I don't think any of them realize when I leap sideways and dash away into the dark cover of the distance.

I immediately feel the bite of guilt in my gut. That entire affair was very spontaneous of me, I'll admit, but couldn't I have at least helped them fight off the careers? I couldn't help Gary, and I wouldn't help his allies. What kind of tribute am I?

It's so excruciating to see you low.

Just wanna lift you up and not let you go.

This ultraviolet morning light below

Tells me this love is worth the fight, oh.

Fawn Weed, 17 / AnnabethPie

District 11 Female

"Your interview," Heather says. "Mind explaining why you chose that route? I've been wondering."

Just thinking about my time in the Capitol makes me mad. My entire life, my survival has been dependent on the Capitol: for electricity, for security, and for food. Sure, we only had electricity a few hours a day, peacekeepers cared more about kids stealing loaves of bread than they did about murderers, and the tesserae grain tasted like dirt, but I can't deny the help they've given District 11. I still remember the day the food trucks came nine years ago, when our girl Flower beat down four of her competitors to make it home with her life. Even so, there was always this big distance between us, and it gave me this odd peace, like the big flat world of 11 was floating on its own, connected to the Capitol by nothing but a fraying silver cord. Being in the Capitol itself made me feel like a baby when I was trying to show strength. It's kind of hard to describe.

But I don't say all that. I just answer with, "I was really, really mad," and keep walking. Which isn't a lie.

"Oh, I understand," Heather says drearily. "Hey, look. The sun is in front of us. It's setting. Soon it'll be pitch black, and we'll be left in absolute darkness with fuck all help from the Capitol."

Heather can be frustrating sometimes. I understand her indignation; it's nobody's cup of tea to be torn from their family and thrown into a deadly arena to fight to the death. I'm pretty damn irritated about the whole thing myself. But the real deal is now upon us, and there's no point crying over spilled milk. Not anymore. Anyone the Capitol doesn't like from now on is dead. I can try to make Heather see the truth, but at the end of the day, it's her choice whether she wants to live or die.

I suggest we take a break, because I think we both need to unwind for just a little while. "How about here?" Heather suggests, stopping in a rocky field of rough, jagged ground.

"Are you blind?"

"No. We're going to look through our supplies, right? Here, nothing can roll away and nothing can get lost as easily. The rough ground kind of keeps everything in place, you see?"

She has a point. Getting seated comfortably is a challenge, so we end up sitting on our packs. I'm concerned they'll tear or break somehow, but the material holds up under our weight.

"One first-aid kit, one empty thermos, a knife, a strip of dried beef in a little bag, a compass, and some rope. Enough for one tribute, sure, but two?" Heather unceremoniously dumps the contents of her pack onto the ground.

I want to tell her to stop complaining, that we've done our fair share of moping and that we need to play with the hand we're dealt, but I keep quiet. It just seems like the smart thing to do.

"Hey, don't get all Debbie Downer just yet. We have my own supplies to look through."

Heather frowns. "That's literally the smallest pack on earth. What could be in there? I wouldn't complain about a flashlight and some batteries."

That's exactly what I pull out the pack. My heart jumps as I slide the batteries into their places and turn on the flashlight. My joy quickly turns to horror. The large circle of ground lit by the flashlight beam is crawling with little black worms. The worms swarm over my legs and Heather's, so numerous but so tiny I can hardly feel a thing.

"What the hell are those?" Heather cries out, jumping to her feet.

The tiny mutts hold on tight to my clothing, making it a huge challenge to tear them away. There are literally hundreds on me already. Picking them off could take hours.

Suddenly, a searing pain jolts through my body, originating from a point on my left knee. One of the worms has bitten through. My vision starts to go foggy.

"Fawn!" Heather shouts, panicked. "Where is it?"

I fall to my knees, crying like a baby as pinpoints of searing agony take form on my legs like popping popcorn. My vision grows cloudier with each moment. Then the world slips away and there's nothing but a buzzing sensation throughout my body.

The next thing I know, I'm lying flat on my back. I remember where I am, and the sight of a girl kneeling over me causes me to panic. The girl lays a hand on my chest. Heather, I remember.

"What happened?" I gasp out, hyperventilating.

"I just saved your life."

I pull the flashlight out of my pocket and take a look at my wounds. Both my legs are covered with tiny red spots, and they've started to flare up, oozing green pus in some places. A thin coating of white goop covers my legs in an even coat. Some kind of medicine.

"Used up the whole jar," she says. "It isn't your time to go. Not yet."

I sit up and take a look around. I don't know how far we've relocated, but I hope it's far away from the mutt colony. Heather has all of our supplies laid out in a neat row. Everything is covered with the crushed worms.

"Gee, thanks, Heather." I try to sound as sincere as I can. "You saved my life."

"Sure did, girl." That's her entire response.

"Hey, where did you get this medicine from anyway? I don't recognize it from the first aid kit."

Heather gestures toward the empty silver tray and parachute in her lap.

"This early?"

She nods. "You need some water. And sleep."

She brings a blue thermos to my lips, which is funny, because I remember our thermos as being both black and empty. Then I remember the parachute. Someone in the Capitol must really like me.

"Sweet dreams, princess," she says sarcastically as a dark wave of sleep washes over me. "Don't kill too many Capitolites in your dreams."

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

NASA: Fawn, Heather

Loners (For Now): Blu, Bryndle