"So what if you can see the darkest side of me?

No one would ever change this animal I have become

And help me believe it's not the real me

Somebody help me tame this animal…"

-Three Days Grace, Animal I Have Become

CHAPTER 24

WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS

NIGHT TWO, PART 2

Evanna 'Evie' Lynn (15), District 10 Tribute

6:17 PM

There is a certain kind of fear that comes with being woken during the night; a fear which only grows exponentially on the whispering cusp of the next. Everything has the potential to get much worse, Evanna thinks solemnly. The sky has begun to darken, streaks of burning orange and navy blue that Evanna is able to glimpse between the trees as she trudges back to her shelter. She's been on high alert all day, ever since she had awoken in the night to an endless oily sounding rustling, her eyes frantically searching for any dark shapes beneath the moon.

But there were none, and Evanna hasn't seen a single soul in the arena since the boy from District Eight turned tail and ran away from her on the first day. Can't tell if that's a good thing or not, she muses, recalling the booming sound of the sixth cannon late in the afternoon. The sound could imply about a hundred different violent scenarios, but none of them involve Evanna, only merely concerning her. I'll find out who died when the recap plays later tonight, she thinks, reassuring herself with the only structured event of the arena. Until the Panemian Anthem plays, and the death recap is broadcasted, the arena is timeless and all-consuming.

But right now, all that matters is that the number of competitors has been reduced from eighteen... to seventeen. Seventeen is a smaller number that stands between Evanna and the crown of Victory that District Ten hasn't seen for years, the crown that would ensure she gets home for good. And then everyone will be proud of me, and everyone will know my name. It is a fruitless fantasy, but one that Evanna must taste at the back of her tongue nonetheless.

After all, there are two ways that a tribute can leave the arena.

Victory or death.

Trying to keep herself focused on the physical realities of the day - as equally mundane and worrisome as they have been - Evanna surveys the injuries that cover her frail body. The number of small injuries that Evanna had received yesterday have been replaced with new ones; the scratch on her face and the bruises from Moses' fists giving way to new scratches, scrapes and bug bites that itch like crazy. With limited supplies, she decides that none are dire enough to merit the use of a bandage. The sterile white wrappings lay untouched in her dull brown backpack, and the best Evanna can hope for is that they will stay that way.

She feels exhausted, as if a mere two days spent in the forest is enough to permanently settle a sense of weariness deep into her bones, and she slumps against a tree, taking solace in the knowledge that her camp is just ahead behind all the undergrowth that faces her. Her campsite might not be the most well-protected shelter, but the uniform clearing around the massive tree should allow Evanna to spy any tributes trying to creep up on her in the night.

In theory, anyway, she thinks, still disturbed by the noises she had heard last night.

Evanna takes a moment to just pause and sit there, her bony chest rising and falling quickly as she catches her breath. She stares into the leafy boughs of the tree above her, and spies a few small black shapes growing from the branches. Those are… mulberries? Evanna wonders, wracking her brain to remember the hours spent at the edible plants station in the Training Center. She stands up, bracing herself on the tree, and searches for a foothold, beginning the climb. I've managed to find other kinds of berries so far, she thinks, rather amused at how easy it seems to get food in this arena. Don't call it the Hunger Games for nothing, she thinks sarcastically as she reaches the lowest cluster of the berries, plucking one from the stem it is growing on. Evanna inspects it for a moment before popping it into her mouth, using her tongue to squeeze a little juice from the berry. It is sweet, with a hint of tartness that suggests she has most definitely found a mulberry tree.

Apart from the bread she had been sponsored - and promptly eaten last night - Evanna had managed to find wild blueberries growing in the undergrowth not too far from her campsite, identifiable by the five-pointed crown on the underside of the dusky blue berry, stems interspersed by tiny white and light pink flowers. Evanna had made sure to pick as many as she had seen, carrying them back to camp in the side pouch of her backpack. A few had been crushed, leaving the bottom stained a purplish color, but getting any kind of calories into her body is a priority, especially when there are heavier and stronger tributes still left alive.

She takes her time in savoring some of the mulberries, but makes sure to climb higher, pocketing the mulberries in the lower pocket of her black cargo shorts. Evanna hopes that they don't get crushed on her descent to the ground, where she has left her backpack. Once she reaches the third branch of clustered berries, she feels a droplet of wetness on her hand, and her stomach plummets. It's going to rain again, isn't it? She holds her head with her hands, breathing deeply before pulling the dusty lavender hood of her nylon windbreaker over her head as the rain begins to pour faster from the sky. It sprinkles through the branches of the mulberry tree, making Evanna hyper-aware of each droplet that hits her body. There had been a momentary respite from the light showers in the afternoon, but the resurgence of rain is enough to make Evanna groan internally.

Despite how much she hates the rain, an opportunity in the Hunger Games would only be overlooked by a fool, and Evanna chooses to take each one she is presented with. Evanna cups her hands and lets some rain collect in her palms, raising her hands to her lips to drink, her lips making an annoying slurping sound. She had been able to find water, using the spile in her backpack to tap a tree, but the crystal clear taste of the cool rainwater is much better than the warm and slightly sugary taste of the tree-water.

Once she has had her fill, Evanna carefully descends from her perch in the tree, raindrops pinging like crazy off her waterproofed clothes. She jumps the last branch, landing on her feet, though fresh mud coats the sides of her boots. Evanna checks the berries in her pocket - mostly intact - before collecting her backpack. Time to head back, she decides. The tarp will help keep some of the rain off me. She carries the backpack in one hand since it is light in weight, and takes off at a grueling pace, sprinting in the direction of her shelter.

Evanna reaches it momentarily, zipping up her black outer jacket as she does. The open clearing is an almost relieving sight, and she slows her jog as she breaks through the tree-line, setting her bag under the tarp before lowering herself to the ground and slipping underneath it. The grass is nice and dry, and Evanna peels her outer jacket off, keeping the dusty lavender windbreaker on. The rain makes a soft pitter-pattering noise on the surface of the tarp, stretched between the massive tree in the clearing and the decent-sized rock near it, between which she had chosen to create the impromptu shelter on the first day in the arena.

She can see the sky more clearly through the trees now, almost entirely a navy color now, though the charcoal rain clouds above have a fiery tinge around the bottom edge. The sun is setting, Evanna knows, becoming hyper-aware of how much more exponentially dangerous the arena becomes once the nighttime darkness settles in.

Evanna wraps her arms around her knees, stomach still unsatisfied with the meager meal, and carefully extracts the mulberries from her pocket. She pops one into her mouth and chews silently, straining her ears to listen for any sounds above the noise of rain hitting the tarp. She finishes off the berries and wishes vehemently that she had reapplied the insect repellant around her camp before it had started raining. They've never bitten me in here, Evanna thinks miserably. Only whenever I walk out into the woods, and even when wearing the damn spray. She has used the spray more liberally than any of her other supplies, the citronella smell almost comforting to her, but it seems to only be effective when sprayed around her rather than on her.

Her musings are broken by a noise originating from the woods around the clearing, and Evanna is immediately placed onto high alert. Maybe the boy from Eight is back? Evanna fishes her knife from the backpack, keeping her rain-slick fingers wrapped around the hilt as she peers cautiously from underneath the left side of the tarp. Nothing.

The story isn't the same on the right, where Evanna is confronted by the sight of a pair of legs clad in black cargo pants and military boots. Fuck! She thinks, reeling back at the sight and stumbling back into the rain. The backsplash of rain against the tarp in-between her and the other tribute makes it hard to see them, but the tribute is smaller in stature, and feminine, with her hood raised to shield her face. There is silence, a tense heartbeat in which there is nothing but stillness. And then the other tribute lunges forward and snatches the backpack resting under the tarp, backing away quickly.

The familiar red haze begins to fill Evanna's head, and soon her irate counterpart is the one holding the knife. What does this bitch think she's doing? Evie feels her eye tic and follows the other girl's lead, bracing a foot on the rock to lunge over her tarp. Evie collides with the other tribute, tackling her hard to the ground. Her knife slashes at the other girl, but she has struggled out of Evie's grip, wrenching her leg out from underneath Evie. The knife catches the girl in the leg; it is a shallow cut, but one which tears a hole in the leg of her trousers.

Evie pushes herself up and grabs the girl's shoulders roughly, taking notice of the 08 emblazoned on her back as she slams the girl's back against the tree. "Who the hell do you think you are?" Evie roars, spittle flying from her mouth in fury, violet eyes filled with promises of violent retribution. "Is your district partner nearby?" she questions angrily, daring not to take her eyes off the enemy.

The girl from Eight shakes her head, hood slipping a little, but Evie doesn't believe her, using her forearm to push the girl harder into the tree. "Drop the bag," Evie instructs, jaw clenched. "Drop it!" she shouts impatiently, the girl cringing under her grip. It seems like she is trying to get her back off of the tree, but Evie wants to keep her pinned in place. That's when Evie feels the sensation in her hand, the strange thrumming she had felt coming from the tree yesterday.

Coupled with the sensation is the rustling noise Evie had heard the night before, and her eyes widen in fear, staring at the rough bark of the tree. Distracted, it takes Evie a moment to feel the knife as the steel is plunged into her upper thigh. "You little bitch!" she snarls, backhanding the District Eight girl across the face. Evie takes a step back and brandishes her knife, ready to charge the girl like a bull might, back home.

But Evie falters when she sees the mass of writhing dark amber shapes crawling from in between the ridges of the tree. There are hundreds of them… like some army of ants. The shapes begin a downward march down the trunk of the tree, and adrenaline begins burning like fire inside Evie. The girl. The bugs. The insect repellant is within the bag that Evie's adversary carries in her hand, and Evie's primal instincts tell her that she needs to get that backpack.

She lunges at the girl, the two falling in a heap next to the tree, but the two roll away as the inch-long ants get closer to the ground. Evie brings her knife down toward the girl's neck, but misses when the girl's foot connects with Evie's knee, sending her sprawling. "Give me-" she struggles to say, panting, "-the backpack!"

The girl - Halley, she remembers - takes a step back as Evie charges, and feints to the right, away from the tree. Evie follows the motion, knife in hand, and is surprised when the girl twists to the right, slashing the knife across Evie's stomach. Evie yells in fury and yanks the backpack out of Halley's grip, almost gloating triumphantly at the maneuver. However, with the bleeding injuries to Evie's thigh and stomach, she decides that Halley needs to pay her dues of death.

Halley Verron, Evie thinks murderously as she tackles the girl again, the two crashing into the tarp, I sentence you to death. But any gleeful words do not come from her mouth; rather, a long and drawn out scream as she feels something crawling on her leg. She flinches as she feels several inch-long ants march beneath the tapered end of her cargo pants, and a blood-curdling scream escapes from her lips as she feels a pair of mandibles break her skin.

The pain is excruciating, and Evie uses her left foot to scrape at the ants that have crawled onto her right. She crawls forward, pinning Halley's arm down on top of the tarp, and looks behind her. The mass of ants has not followed, instead seemingly frozen in place where Evie had sprayed the repellant onto the grass in the morning. They seem to line up behind one another, rows of ants in an army that is stopped by a line of citronella and insecticide. Evie shudders in revulsion before turning her attention back to Halley, knowing she is safe for the moment, even though her leg is burning white-hot with pain where the ant had bit her.

"You have two options," Evie growls through gritted teeth, her knife pointed down at Halley's face. She is painfully aware of the agony in her leg, her stomach, her thigh. Too much, too much, too much! "I kill you now," she snarls, "for trying to fuck with my supplies. Or you throw yourself to the ants and we find out if they're muttations or not." Halley scowls, her emerald green eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hatred. Evie grins cruelly back at her, shrugging and lifting her knife, the blade slick with the rain.

The grin is wiped from her face when she feels the knife enter her body for the second time, pain flaring in her chest like a supernova. Evie chokes and drops her knife in the grass as Halley pushes the knife deeper, the girl's eyes wild with terror and fear. Evie groans in pain, fighting the urge to scream, but it's all happening too fast as she loses her grip on Halley and falls roughly onto the grass, her eyes facing the army of ants frozen before her.

Victory or death. The words echo from some empty chamber in her head, the latter ringing endlessly in her ears as her vision darkens and she is no longer able to distinguish the ants' shape from the grass. She is only able to feel alight with pain, a symphony of aching agonies that send her over the edge.

There is a freezing kind of numbness, and then the darkness obstructs her vision and mind completely, her consciousness slipping into hazy nothingness.

A cannon fires, and the ants retreat.

Asher Foster (17), District 11 Tribute

6:39 PM

"I'd sooner slap the living shit out of you, Wolfchild." Castiel shakes his head in disdain, his expression mocking. There is a thick layer of tension that has fallen upon the seven Careers, sitting huddled underneath the chilly metal structure of the Cornucopia as the second storm of the night rages around them.

"Is that a threat?" Asher asks menacingly, his eyes narrowed at their golden-haired leader. His verbal foe is sitting across from him, his throat bared as he rolls his eyes exasperatedly toward the ceiling. It would be so damn easy to tear his throat out, Asher thinks. He's done it several times on the streets of Eleven, using his canines and jackal claws to render a rival helpless to do anything more than choke on their own lifeblood.

It's a guilty pleasure, he thinks darkly.

Castiel's lips turn upward into a sneer. "Not an idle one," he avows angrily.. "I sure as hell don't remember asking you to link up with the rest of us." And I sure as hell don't remember electing you to lead us, Asher thinks grimly. Sure, he hadn't been formally invited to join the Career Pack until the first night of training, when Hela had sauntered up to his apartment floors in the dark, her head held tall and proud.

"We'll take out the Careers, from the inside out. Starting with Castiel," he recalls, the words resounding dark and residual inside his head. "I'm all for it," he had agreed, excitement pumping through his veins. A real chance to stick one to the Capitol and all their machinations, he thinks gleefully.

"We can take them."

It's simple. When you're in charge, your followers are eventually going to want you dead.

The clear and booming sound of a second cannon breaks through the sodden sky above, the first having shot off in the late afternoon. A second cannon? Asher ponders. Things are speeding along nicely, he thinks with an internal chuckle, exhaling briefly from his nose. The less competition that I'll have to face once the volatile Career Pack has been disbanded and dealt with, the better, Asher thinks ruefully. The Careers sit in silence for a moment, listening for a second cannon through the noises of rain and thunder.

"Only one. Must have been one of the loners," Moses assumes. There aren't any alliances larger than ours, Asher thinks, but it'd be easier for Hela and I to take on a lone tribute rather than two or three.

Less room for error. In the Hunger Games, there are no do-overs, as Asher has begun to learn the hard way when District Five slips from their clutches earlier in the morning, with both injured and he and Hela breathless from exertion, his ally - and maybe his partner, though he doesn't want to go down that line of thinking - trying to mask her feelings of shame from losing their hunting quarries. "Someday you'll choke on the shit you talk, Castiel," Asher offers, a cocky grin on his face. It's easier to joke than to gibe at his opponents, though the same mocking undertone remains present in his speech.

"Fuck you," Castiel groans. "I'm so sick and tired of everyone treating me like I'm some kind of villain," he complains, running pale fingers through his tousled hair, still wet from the rain of the first storm. Asher and Hela had later, it would seem, once the first rainstorm had passed and the two had worked their way up and out of the valley again, both tight-lipped and silent the entire time. What does she feel anymore? he wonders, the thought as fleeting as it has been for the past two days; two days of cat-and-mouse, neither openly admitting anything regarding the momentous kiss they had shared on the balcony the night before launch, with the city lights dim and dazzling around them.

"Oh, is that why you were so quiet yesterday?" Siren pipes up, her normally calming attitude gone. I would have never expected her to get so worked up, Asher thinks, surprise forming unspoken words at the front of his lips. She's normally so reserved and calm. "And why did both of you force us to skin your deer?"

Asher glowers at her. "At least we actually killed something worth eating. Castiel and I did something today," he says bitingly, ready to shut Siren down and out of the argument. "But it would seem like the three of you wasted time rather than actually cooking the venison so we would have something to eat right now!"

"Don't blow smoke up your own ass," Alton says, his eyes furious and his voice condescending. "We aren't the pariahs here, you are."

"That's a bit rich coming from you," Hela says coolly. Her emerald green eyes are full of livid restraint, and Asher can see her biting on the inside of her lip to stop herself from saying more.

"Oh shut the hell up," Castiel says offhandedly, gesturing with his hands. "Don't attack Alton, you didn't even pull your own weight during the bloodbath," their leader says, criticizing her. He's trying to win over support from District Four, Asher notices, his keen eyes seeing right through the tactic. Diplomacy and politics on the streets are much the same, but with weapons and a stake in surviving to see the next day on the line. I suppose it's not much different. "I mean come on," Castiel continues. "That fucking loser from Ten beat you in a fight, and you let him run away!"

"Like your fighting style was so successful," Hela says coldly. "You focused on some helpless little girl because you knew that she was the only one you were remotely capable of handling." Castiel looks affronted at Hela's words, but she presses onward, her tongue sharp with razor wit. "Seems like there were four twelve-year-old girls in the arena after all," she says, staring pointedly at Castiel.

He moves as if he is going to stand up, eyes blazing, but Crescentia takes a hold of his wrist to keep him in check. "Don't escalate things, Castiel," she mutters. Asher snorts derisively, and he can feel a few sets of eyes burn into him. We're a bunch of Careers. It's what we do, escalating things. Asher escalated things in the bloodbath himself, with Arley writhing in his grip before he drags the knife across her throat. It is a kill that feels different than the lives he has taken back home in Eleven, the lives that earned him a warrant from the officials. Killing for survival must be different than killing for sport, he thinks, a sick and twisted feeling creeping low into his chest.

"You all underperformed too," Hela says out defensively. "Both of you," she continues, eyes centered on the pair from District One, "let the two lovers from Five get away, not even mentioning Alton joining in to chase after them." Asher bites his tongue, grateful that she does not mention the failed exploit to hunt down the two Fives. Luck can't be on their side forever, he decides. If we're lucky, there'll be another cannon later tonight for Sorrel. The wound didn't look deep enough, but Asher prays that they don't have bandages on hand. Then we can at least say we were successful.

"Really?" Alton retorts. "I crushed a girl's skull." His voice shakes slightly, a hitch in his breath that has Moses holding his hand tighter. Asher notices that Siren is wearing Alton's jacket, and furrows his brow. Why are the three of them so close all the sudden? "One of the tributes you told us to eliminate," Alton says quietly, any normal ounce of flamboyant confidence lost from his tone and replaced with the same terse aggression that seems to permeate every pore of the Cornucopia.

"You told us to defend the Cornucopia," Moses accuses Castiel. "So how is it our fault for 'underperforming?'" he asks, cutting Castiel off before the other boy can reply. "I'm sick of you relegating the bitch work to the three of us and then getting all worked up over us for jobs we haven't been able to do," Moses finishes. Clearly the argument has spanned much longer than what Asher and Hela had played witness to, with the aggression turning on them after less than a fifteen-minute respite from the storm. Alton nods fervently beside Moses, but Siren seems lost in thought, her eyes wandering outside the Cornucopia.

"And you let Ruben get supplies from it anyway," Castiel says. "If you all can't work as a team, then how am I supposed to lead?" Classic manipulation.

"Are you really still mad about the bloodbath?" Crescentia chimes in, looking in awe at her district partner. "Just let it go. We have a long road ahead of us and we don't need you hanging onto the past!"

"No," Castiel says sharply. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated that we haven't made any progress as a team! I mean come on, there are seven of us for crying out loud!"

"And you lost track of what today?" Asher asks mockingly, feeling powerful as the words leave his mouth. "The little girl from Twelve and the little girl from Eight? Maybe Hela was right."

"Well of course you think Hela was right!" Castiel groans, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "The two of you are practically joined at the hip." Asher glances sideways at his ally, who looks like she is going to open her mouth to protest the fact before Castiel continues. "And did Hela whittle down the competition at all?"

Asher clenches his fists in anger. He's used to shoving his insecurities and doubts deep down, locked away behind the bars of his ribcage, but listening to Castiel attack Hela is like having his own ego slighted.

"There have been two cannons today and neither was caused by us. Let's all just agree that we've been a bunch of useless Careers and call it a day," Crescentia says, clearly trying to keep the argument civil and contained. She's too polite for this kind of shit. "I'd rather stay out of this argument," she explains, exchanging a glance with Siren. There is some kind of message relayed between them, but Asher isn't able to discern what it may have meant.

Hela fake-coughs beside him. "Leadership issues," she mumbles under her breath, making sure she is easily heard by all parties present.

"Like you could have done any better in my stead," Castiel gripes. "You think you're God's gift to mankind or something, and it's sickening."

"Castiel, you're being unreasonable," says Moses, his eyes betraying a sense of concern and slighted pride. "You don't have to insult the rest of us, you know. You aren't better than everyone here."

"I just want her to accept the fact that she's lying to herself!" Castiel retorts, pointing an accusatory finger at Hela, whose eyes darken with the gesture.

Hela sneers at him, a loud and haughty laugh escaping her lips. The mocking noise echoes in the empty horn, only to be drowned out by the drumming of the rain above. "If you'll accept the fact that you're a deranged and scared little boy," she retaliates. "What's with the open grudge against Seven? Or are you planning on not telling any of us why you have a stick up your ass?"

"It's none of your business," Castiel growls. "What's with the grudge against me?"

"You aren't my idea of a leader."

"Not a bone in your body screams 'leader' to me," he taunts. "Might as well have been doing something more productive with your sad little life than wasting it training for an event you know you'll lose."

"You take that back, you fucking bastard!" Hela shouts, her composure snapped in two and stitched back together in the frame of a second, her expression filled with fury. Asher feels unnerved by her reaction, and sits himself closer to Hela, who doesn't flinch at his new positioning.

"Low blow, Castiel," Asher snaps back. "I may not be trained, but you two have and that was uncalled for."

"Oh, stop being so egotistical, Wolf Boy," Castiel says, using Hela's nickname for him. Asher can feel the anger bubbling in his chest, but chooses to remain calm and keep his wits about him. It is always an effective measure, anyway.

"I didn't vote for you for a reason, Castiel," Moses chimes in. "You remember the night of the parade? I didn't need to vote, but if I had, we wouldn't be in this mess," he says, voice as hard as iron.

"Oh, really? Well consensus picked me and I have the highest score-"

"Moses, stay out of it," Alton tells his partner quietly.

"See? He's deranged," Hela laughs. "Absolutely deranged. My score was the exact same."

"And you're deluded," Alton remarks, making Moses' eyes widen in confused shock.

"What do you mean, stay out of it? You literally just…? It's just as much our fight as t-"

"Listen to Kersey," Asher says snidely, breaking into their conversation. "That way you won't get your pathetic little head torn off."

"Excuse me?" Moses asks angrily, standing up. "I'm not fucking pathetic! Don't ever call me- what kind of f-" he splutters, his insecurity practically bleeding through the air. Asher gives him a wolfish grin and lazily pulls out his titanium claws, the metal tips stopping Moses in his tracks as they dig into his chest. The entire mood of the Cornucopia shifts

"You're really going to pull a weapon?" Siren asks incredulously, bringing six sets of eyes squarely onto Asher. Peace was never an option, not with them.

"We can take them."

"Ugh! We've got bigger targets to worry about," Castiel says, throwing up his hands and pushing himself off the ground and into a standing position. There is nowhere to go but out, and Castiel throws up his yellow ochre hood, stepping into the rain.

"Whatever you say, you maniac," Hela shouts, the last laugh taken and placed into her pocket. Castiel flips her off as the rain begins to pelt him, and Moses and Alton give each other a look before getting up to go and join his quickly retreating figure, with Siren shrugging off Alton's jacket and handing it back to him before retrieving her own, clothes looking disheveled beneath it.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter if the conflict between the Pack has been resolved or not.

Lines have already been drawn in the sand.

Darnius Paisley (16), District 8 Tribute

9:00 PM

The blue luminescence of the death recap blinks gradually into existence, the twilight forest around him awash in a somber blueberry glow. Darnius bites the inside of his lip, chewing on the skin behind his teeth in silence as the Seal of the Capitol is projected into the sky, the Panemian anthem blaring from the inky nighttime sky. Halley rests against his side, her cheekbone on his shoulder. She has barely said a word to him since she reappeared late in the afternoon - Darnius having felt panicked and alone at her departure - save to present him a medicated bandage for the hand she had cut last night, which had already begun to scab over.

"Why did you come back?" he wants to ask her, unable to fathom why his distrustful district partner had returned a second time, after their promise for the first night had been fulfilled. Both of the cannons had sent shivers through a sedentary Darnius; shivers of fearful anticipation that he would see Halley Verron's face in the sky, silhouetted in the same serene blue glow.

The anthem fades, and like last night, skips across the Careers from One and Two, instead forming the headshot of the girl from District Three. Damn, Darnius thinks, a mixture of pity forming in his stomach. Three doesn't have anyone left to root for. He remembers briefly considering an alliance with Brita as the countdown wound down to zero, the two of them the only tributes facing away from the allure of the great golden horn. And now she's dead. Her face fades out and is replaced by another, the second cannon of the day, and one that causes Halley to inhale sharply beside him. The face of the girl from District Ten is broadcast into the sky, with the sweet smile she had displayed during the interviews rather than the irate grimace she had worn when Darnius ran into her just yesterday. I didn't even see a hovercraft for her.

The Anthem of Panem gradually becomes quieter, until the projection blinks out of existence, the dark impermeable gloom of the forest creeping back into Darnius' peripherals. The two of them sit quietly, Halley stilling her breathing until the only reason he knows she is there is because of her weary weight against his arm. She had been out of breath when she found me again, Darnius thinks. Halley's face had been almost as ruddy as the red ochre coloration of her windbreaker, her eyes wild and clutching a second backpack - a new one - her old backpack looking heavier than it had on her back.

Did… did Halley take one of their lives? He wonders, casting a sidelong glance at his district partner. Would she even be capable? An iota of paranoia sparks in his brain, quelled by the unfamiliar feeling of the bandage wrapped around his hand. She has saved me, though, Darnius thinks. Regardless of the dark places his district partner may have needed to go today, she came back for him with a number of small salvations that Darnius knows he will forever be grateful for. And what have you done for her in return, Darnius?

"Two deaths today," he says, breaking the silence and effectively ending his own trail of thought before it can turn deeper. "We're down to just seventeen, Halley." The odds are beginning to improve, he thinks, ever hopeful for the outcome despite the crushing speed at which he is hurtling toward the inevitable abyss of his own death.

"Seventeen…" Halley mumbles. "Are we numbers, or sheep? Tributes? People? I'm not so sure anymore, Darnius," she says hoarsely, eyes cast listlessly toward the river just a short distance from their perch, his view partially obscured by the low-hanging branches of its neighbors.

"Seventeen people," Darnius offers helpfully, though the sudden foray into a more profound emotion has him squirming with uncomfortableness.

"Sixteen corpses," Halley says quietly, looking slumped. "Darnius, I… I just… know how the girl from Ten died, and it wasn't pleasant," she manages to choke out. "For either of us."

"Is that where the second bag came from?" Darnius asks, likely a little sharper than he needed to be. "Gross, but I guess it's pretty commendable for you to sneak in and take it once they were done with her," he says, the insinuation of bloodthirsty Careers being just enough an explanation for him.

"Darnius, you don't understand. I killed her." Halley breaks into a sob, the emotion completely unexpected from this battle-hardened girl, and the weight of her words fall heavy between them. "The worst part," she begins, gulping a lungful of air, "the worst part is that I don't feel bad for doing it. I just feel so, so tired."

Darnius blanches, despite his earlier assumption, and awkwardly watches Halley wipe thin tear tracks from the corners of her eyes. Darnius wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close to his chest, as they had been before launch, both tearful and locked in an embrace; the maw of death looming low over their heads. "You think we'll be joining them soon? Our parents?" Darnius had asked, each pushed to the brink and trying to remain strong. Trying to keep my head on my shoulders.

"My mom died when I was very little," Darnius says, faltering with his sudden divergence from the issue at hand. "I never got the chance to remember her apart from the horrible story my Dad used to tell me when he was drunk, about how he had found her the morning after, bled out on the streets with enough whip marks on her back to count a census for all of District Eight. Like her death was the only thing in this world that mattered to him, and not the fact that he had a son to look after," he says with a breathy pause.

"Like it was my fault she died." Halley looks up at him, the moon reflected in her vibrant green eyes, and Darnius bites back the emotions he has fought so hard to control all his life, feeling unsure now that the dire straits of the Hunger Games threaten to bring them crawling up to the surface of his skin. "It's not entirely your fault she died," he says, clenching his jaw.

"You distance yourself to stay sane," Darnius adds pensively, sitting as still as a statue. "The nightmares get easier if you pretend it wasn't your fault. If you know that that is what it took for you to survive, then it has to be worth it somehow, right?" Halley nods quietly, detaching herself from him.

"If you say so." She draws her jacket closer, the chilly rain only feeling colder now that they are apart, separated by a chasm that has been worn and refilled more times in this last week than Darnius can count. "I just… I feel numb. I don't really want to talk about it, I guess," she says. The pair sits in a stifling silence for a moment, listening to the rain drip down between the leaves, and Darnius mulls things over in his head.

I can't be my own sovereign if I'm staying with her, he ponders. Every single person you let yourself love takes away part of that mobility, that self-control and reliance. But this is someone I can't leave on her own, even if she has been for the last four years. "Halley?" he asks, looking down at the girl with the weathered eyes as if she has seen too much rain and not enough sun; "Would you feel comfortable if I finally proposed an alliance?" Uncertainty laces his voice. It's hard to trust others, and clearly harder still for Halley. But we'd stand a better shot at getting one of us home if there were only fifteen people we each had to worry about.

Halley nods solemnly, as if mirroring his thoughts. "Better one of us than neither of us," she nods, wrapping her arms around her knees. Truer words couldn't be said, Darnius thinks. He's been yearning for the comfort and familiarity that his shattered life somehow provides him, a thought persistent with him throughout. There is hope. There is hope. There has always been hope, even if Darnius has been too blinded to see it, lost in the sullied recession of pining after the things that the Capitol has taken from him. There isn't a clear way out, and the only way out might be through. Through the darkness, the untimely troubles and the charade of death; the scales tipped entirely out of his favor, but Darnius will be damned if he doesn't find a way to make it work for him.

"One can hope," he says quietly, knowing that if nothing else but the guise of spite, hope is what has kept Halley alive and kicking on the uninviting streets back home, where clouds of smog linger low in the air and there is more than enough misery and despair. "Make me a promise, Halley?" he asks, the words spinning faster than he can articulate them. "If one of us is to get back… and you return in my stead, look after my dad, okay?" he pleads, the words raw in his throat. Look after someone who stopped caring about me. Look after him so that Dad doesn't lose whatever fragmented hope he has left.

"I promise, Darnius," she says, the words slow to form on her tongue, as if a promise bears another burden for her buckled shoulders. She shifts into a crouch, gripping the tree and beginning to descend into the gloom; away from the skyscrapers of the rich and into the same unrelenting situation. "I've got to take a piss. I'll be back," she says calmly, though Darnius is more than aware that what she seeks is the oppressive silence in which she can contemplate their exchange. She deserves more than a life of solitude, he decides, wondering if he should follow her into the darkness.

Although he knows Halley is coming back, seeing his only tether to reality leaving again is not an easy emotion to process; the girl who he had helped clean vomit off her dress, who had punched him after the parade and whom he'd held close the night before they launched into this accursed forest. It doesn't matter for the moment that there can only be one victor. I just want the two of us to survive as long as we can, Darnius thinks mournfully, dipping his head.

Her departure spells a return to the normal gloom of the nighttime forest, and Darnius shifts slightly in the tree, catching a beam of moonlight across his knees, unfolding the small, worn piece of paper he keeps in his pocket. Darnius scans the hastily written words on the page, reminded of his girlfriend's rough scribbling on paper; his arms wrapped around Arya's waist, planting fleeting kisses in her neck, her fiery red hair, until she slips the paper into his front pocket with a desperate kiss to match his own. His eyes well up with tears, salty and unbidden, hands shaking despite having read her words each night since they had been separated by whatever behemoth challenge he faces.

A thousand words won't bring you back, my love

To the smoke-filled sea, upon which my tears do dissipate.

Embrace the darkness, and walk in the shadows

Know I'll wait for you, with all my heart, back home in the light.

Darnius closes the paper, his eyes wandering to the porous moon shining down from above. Is she watching the same sky as I am? He wonders, softly reminiscing about the brief whirlwind romance with Arya, falling head over heels so quickly for the girl who had turned her nose at first glance, judging the ragged boy with his poetry books. From different walks of life, Darnius muses. And she still managed to be all the sunshine in my life.

Darnius closes his eyes and exhales, feeling grounded and at peace with the twisted world around him. And then he hears the noise; a sharp solitary clicking, like the ghostly sound of someone snapping their fingers.

It is accompanied by the muffled snap of a broken branch and the rustle of leaves that suggest a much, much bigger presence than his district partner.

Axel Richthofen (16), District 6 Tribute

10:01 PM

The dark and shadowy trees offer Axel a small semblance of coverage as he creeps lonesome and unseen through the undergrowth, keeping his eyes trained on the lone boy sitting in the crooked embrace of a tree. The other tribute's silhouette is barely visible in the weak silvery light of the moon that struggles to illuminate the silent sentinel in which he is perched. Axel holds his karambit tightly in his hand, the weapon having been sent from an anonymous sponsor earlier in the day. The canister had woken him, late in the morning, the curved and wicked black metal blade fitting perfectly into his trained hand. It's familiar, he thinks wanly. It'll do the job right for once, he muses, pausing to catch his breath as the rain drizzles all around him.

Axel's breaths are quick and shallow; noiseless and as ephemeral as the rushing river behind him, his limbs fluid and sinuous like the curling snake tattoo on his left arm as he maneuvers quietly through the brush. Strike fast, strike hard. Get them down when they least expect it. Humiliate them. Make them pay. He's done it hundreds of times, knife and fist connecting with the various debtors and druggies created by Yorusco's illicit drug transfers. Like clockwork.

His hood is drawn to shield his eyes from the downpour, both covering his dirty blonde hair and making him melt into the shadows, the familiar weight of fabric on his head almost comforting to him. He can't tell if his target is sleeping or not, but creeps forward anyway, working his way toward the base of the tree. Once directly beneath him, Axel snaps his fingers, a muffled clicking noise barely audible above the nearby river. He hears no movement above him; no shifts in position, and decides to begin climbing. I'll cut his stupid fucking throat and take his supplies, Axel runs it through his head. After all. he is merely a survivalist.

"There's an art to fighting dirty, Axel," he had been told. "You do anything to paint the world red and survive another day. That's all there is to it."

He pulls his military overcoat off and uses it to cover the backpack he had secured from Mercedes, leaving both at the base of the tree. His nylon windbreaker blends into the bleeding gray shadows of the night, the coat matching the gloomy and colorless scenery. Axel grins and lifts his knife, biting it between his teeth, keeping pressure on the blade as he begins the climb. Like a pirate, he thinks with a devilish grin. Axel has lost count of how many times he had slipped into the abandoned theater two blocks from his father's rundown apartment - life falling apart and crumbling with the ashes of his transportation empire - to tinker with the projector, squinting to watch the flashes of color and light dance across the torn screen. The intricacies of the act aren't lost on him, and Axel's thoughts wander momentarily into the dark as he continues up the length of the tree. His hands seek crevices in the tree bark, hoisting himself as quietly as he can. Strike like a snake. Quiet. Dangerous. Axel stills his breathing, listening intently above him. A lethal weapon, he thinks with a suppressed smirk.

The target is definitely alone.

Target. Tribute. Boy. Three words, each interchangeable when the corruption of the human race has cornered and condemned him to this hellish prison, a dirty penance he is unworthy of. The drive of survival is what sets the neurons in his brain alight; it's always been a sense of survival and self-righteousness that fueled Axel. Driven with a purpose, he thinks ruefully as his hand grips the branch above, his muscles straining to haul himself up onto the slick branches.

He completes the ascension and crouches low on the tree, the shape of the other tribute barely visible, a silver curve of moonlight softly rising and falling with his breath. The danger and unease of the situation is thrilling, a pumping of pure adrenaline sparking a fire into his limbs. Axel gingerly removes the knife from between his teeth, jaw sore from clenching it too hard, and slinks around the bulk of the tree trunk to come face-to-face with his target.

Whose eyes are wide open.

The target does not move, but inclines his head toward Axel, warm cider orange undertones barely visible underneath his jacket. The boy's eyes bore into Axel's own, and they stay locked in a silent ceasefire for one heartbeat, two.

"Get out of my tree and I won't stab you," the boy says, furrowing his brow into a scowl. Axel says nothing, instead keeping a close and tense watch on the boy's empty hands, waiting for him to produce a knife. As if. Axel immediately dislikes the boy, the harsh words crashing into the deafening silence. Unbelievable.

"Your knife," Axel monotonously states, outstretching his palm. "Give it to me."

The other boy looks up in disbelief, slowly sliding one leg off of the tree. "Cat got your tongue, or is the pleasure mine?" Axel asks, a condescending tone shifting in his voice as he looks down at the boy beneath him, whose eyes flick desperately to the forest floor. "Go ahead," Axel says quietly. "Break a leg."

The target slips from the tree, dark shape disappearing from Axel's view with an ensuing grunt. He shakes his head and follows the boy - whose jacket allowed Axel to read a miserable 08 on the back - to the ground, dropping like a lynx as his boots connect onto the mossy floor with a wet noise. He straightens his spine, the two of them standing tensed, facing each other as Axel walks in a predatory semi-circle around the boy from District Eight.

His eyes never leave Axel, and Axel's never leave him. No weapon. No backpack. Worthless to me.

Easy pickings, Axel thinks scathingly.

"Let me go my own way and I'll let you go yours," Darnius says, voice taking on a hard edge of aggression. His hands are curled into fists, knuckles white from tension. The boy is slightly stockier than him, but without a weapon, Axel is confident that he will have the edge in combat.

"No," Axel says, tilting his head to the side, a smug smirk finding its way onto his normally unemotive face. Just like insulting Mercedes, he thinks, the memory of his ill-fated district partner crushed beneath his heel.

"What do you want from me?" Darnius asks, fists balled tighter. Cute, Axel thinks sarcastically. Nothing like delaying the inevitable.

"The flock needs to be winnowed a little," Axel says candidly, spreading his arms. "You seem to have the shortest end of the stick, wouldn't you say?"

"Not at all, bitch," Darnius retorts sharply, spitting and taking a firm step backward. Bitch? Axel grimaces, hostile words forming on the tip of his tongue. It might be a paltry insult, but an insult unchecked is one that damages Axel's reputation.

All I wanted was his supplies, Axel thinks savagely, stepping toward his own and slinging them onto his back, a plan forming in his head. Think on your feet. "Talk back to me again," Axel taunts, inclining his chin. "You'll end up in the same place either way."

Six feet under.

"You're just a rotten asshole," Darnius mumbles, taking another step back as Axel advances, the stealth of a predator in his movements.

"Good. Bad. Asshole. I'm the guy with the knife, Darnius," he says, hissing the name as if it is poison on his lips. He lifts the karambit and lunges at Darnius, who staggers further backward, righting himself against the tree he had fallen out of.

"Not anymore," a trembling voice calls out from Axel's left. An ally? Axel wonders, almost laughing when the new voice reveals itself as belonging to Darnius' little district partner, Halley. She hands him a knife, a second already gripped tightly in her own fingers. May the odds be ever in your favor, Axel thinks wryly.

"Little twelve year old coming to your rescue?" Axel asks bitingly. "Look who's a little fucking bitch now?"

Darnius roars in anger and charges Axel, a surge of confidence brought by the knife that he hadn't been expecting. Axel thrusts his arm out, the curved blade of his karambit catching Darnius fully by surprise. The boy throws up a bandaged hand, foolishly, to block it, and the smooth black blade gets its first taste of blood as the metal sinks deep through the palm of Darnius' hand, going out the back. Darnius howls and draws his knee in to kick Axel's thigh. Axel falls backward slightly, tearing the knife out as he falls. And then the little girl from Eight is on his shoulders, a flash of silver moonlight in Axel's peripheral, and he jams his elbow into her ribs, sending her sprawling down the slope of grass toward the winding and lazy onyx-blue river.

The three of them stand tensely for a heartbeat under the luminescence of the moon, with Darnius to his front and Halley to his side, both clutching their knives. Relax, Axel. Don't tense up. Fluid motions. Advice from

Volvo comes streamlining to his brain, and Axel releases the tension from his shoulders, waiting for either tribute from Eight to attack him. He can feel Halley's footsteps vibrating through the earth, and swings around to attack her, using his leg to sweep her feet from underneath her, while simultaneously throwing a punch into her skull on the way down.

There is no cannon, but Halley stays down, unmoving and immobilized. Good. One less asshole to focus on.

Axel rounds on Darnius, pivoting on his heel, and the other boy takes a matching step forward, lunging at Axel. "What the hell did you do to her?" He cries, provoked and angrier, the knife swung in a loose arc at Axel's head. Axel ducks down and thrusts the karambit into his stomach, the blade glimmering with droplets of scarlet, like a waterfall of rubies shattering upon the earth. Darnius grunts as the karambit comes out of his skin, biting back an animalistic scream; and Axel is reminded of exactly what they are.

Two animals cornered into a fight.

Two animals broadcasted onto a show.

Two animals enter, one animal leaves.

Axel smirks and takes a step back down the grassy slope, backing himself up against the swirling river. Hours of action flicks viewed in a dilapidated theater race through his memory as Darnius follows suit, clutching the knife in one hand and his stomach with the other, tides of scarlet and ichor pumping between his dirty fingers. Darnius takes a defensive stance, and Axel half-crouches to the ground, moving in a wolf-like circle around Darnius. The other boy looks wary, and keeps glancing at his compromised District partner. Axel lunges inward, but Darnius blocks the attack with his own knife, dragging it down the length of Axel's blade until it sinks into his thumb.

Axel bellows in pain and brings his knee up, connecting with Darnius' groin, the impact as hard as he can make it. Darnius doubles over and Axel yanks the can of insect repellant from his backpack, spraying it wildly into the other boy's eye. He howls in pain and stumbles backward, and Axel thrusts upward, the wicked blade of the karambit connecting with Darnius' eye socket. His scream is otherworldly, piercing and full of agony. Darnius falls to his knees and tries to crawl away, blood soaking the moss beneath his boots.

His eye is punctured, the ruptured globe leaking a chunky crimson mess from his eye socket. Darnius howls in pain, tearing fistfuls of grass out of the ground. Axel grabs Darnius roughly and drags him to the water's edge, fending off weak protests from the boy. A grim smile has set into Axel's face as he begins holding both of Darnius' hands behind his back, the boy's face inches away from the water, the rain hitting the back of his skull and blood creating ripples in the water where his face shields its surface from the onslaught.

He's just another druggie who hasn't paid Mr. Yorusco, Axel tells himself. He needs to be humiliated. He needs to pay the price.

He will pay the price.

"Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker," Axel says monotonously, cutting off Darnius' ensuing scream by dunking him into the onyx water. The current drags at the weight of Darnius' head and shoulders, but Axel plants a knee on the backs of the boy's calves, pressing him further with a surge of much-needed strength as he thrashes and bucks for air. Keeping a grip on Darnius as he thrashes against Axel's vice grip is agonizing, but grows easier and slower as time drags on and the target finally goes slack. Getting what he deserves at last, Axel thinks vindictively.

A cannon fires and Axel stands up, the current tugging Darnius' body away to leave the shallows stained a deep red with his lifeblood. Axel lifts his fingers to the sky and lets the rain wash the blood from under his fingernails.

In the Hunger Games, you do what is necessary, or you die. It's a simple math, really.

EULOGIES:

18th: Evanna Lynn (15), District 10 Female (Submitted by PopcornAndFanfiction). Killed by Halley Verron via a knife to the chest. Ouch, so our second post-bloodbath death has been revealed in the form of Evanna! I will say I did enjoy the dynamic she brought to this cast, in terms of her emotions and interactions with others, especially Ruben and the running arena plotline with District Eight. I will admit that I never did my proper research when I first got her character, and as such I feel like my portrayal of her Dissociative Identity Disorder was a little skewed. I'll miss Evanna, but I feel like as the plot wears on further, I couldn't find a way for her to fit into the puzzle - RIP.

17th: Darnius Paisley (16), District 8 Male (Submitted by Flammifera). Killed by Axel Richthofen via multiple stab wounds / drowning. - Another victim of overarching plot relevance, Darnius is the eighth victim to go, and I'm a little stunned that I've already killed off a third of this amazing cast, even if it has taken a long time to get to this point. Darnius was amazing! I loved his philosophical nature, the aggression vs sunshine dynamic of his personality, and his not-really-an-alliance with Halley. This is one of the few deaths that has truly hurt writing so far, and I know it'll only get harder from here - RIP.

ALLIANCES:

Career Pack: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)

Angsty Teen Romance II: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F)

The Beans Are Dead: Winston (D7M), Padds (D9M)

Shooketh: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)

Flying Solo: Axel (D6M)

From Ember to Flame: Halley (D8F)

The "Apex Predator": Ruben (D10M)

Author's Note: As promised, the second half of the chapter. Like I said, I doubt it'll be as back-to-back as these have been in the future, but working with more manageable chunks of the story should increase my productivity especially since I'm back to school (online), filling college applications and working a job. Yay me. Anyway, we got a muttation reveal, and some poor editing on some of the POVs; clearly a real treat for you. The "poem" if you can call it that, is something I slapped together, so it doesn't need any copyright credit added to it. Moving on...

Chapter Questions:

1 - Which fight scene was written better, Halley vs Evanna or Axel vs District Eight? Any tips to help me improve writing combat sequences?

2 - Thoughts on Asher's POV? I'm kind of proud of that argument segment.

3 - How do you feel about the two deaths this chapter?

It's late as all hell where I am, so I'm keeping this brief. Have a wonderful day/night you guys. :)