day one, part one: violence fetish

How do you live without playing the game? Sit on the side and expect to keep sane?
Step on up and be a part of the action; put your game face on because it's time to play.

Three… two… one…

And the world erupts. Before anyone can so much as move, before the gong even has time to sound, an explosion rocks the air as the Seven boy, overly antsy and fidgety as he's been since the Reapings, steps off the edge of his plate. Beside him, Elowyn Eiken stares wide-eyed at the mess of blood and smoking flesh that's been splattered across the floor of the courtroom - just a few seconds ago, that mess had been an innocent, over-enthusiastic fourteen year old. Her District partner. A kid she'd known, even liked, in some odd, intangible kind of way. A living, breathing child reduced to a pile of guts before he had a chance to even realize the mistake he'd made.

(Twenty-four.)

She's frozen. She wants to move - thinks she should move, shit, knows she needs to, go, come on, just go, Anani's dead and if you don't move you'll end up the same way, come on, El, get your ass in gear, you have to go, you have to -

(That could've been me.)

(Maybe it was supposed to be me.)

Her mind's going into hyperdrive, thoughts flashing by a mile a minute. Everything that's happened so far - being Reaped, the chariots, the interviews, hearing Tal threaten her family, hearing her mother cry about Finnegan when she thought nobody was listening… peacekeepers stabbing her fingers and a crowd laughing, jeering at her as she spits vitriol on television, rejecting their lust to see her blood spilled. Elowyn trembles. She feels like she's going to be sick. Her eyes wander about - she sees the Four girl, Aitana, snatching up a spear from the podium that must be the cornucopia, her practiced hands taking up the polearm with ease. She sees the pair from Eight, Kahlan and Althea, and the Ten boy, Celesto, stumbling toward a door set into the wall on her right, solely focused on their objective of escape.

They don't realize that they've caught Aitana's eye.

Elowyn watches, glued to her platform, as Aitana draws her arm back, hand firm around the shaft of her spear, and launches the weapon forward with the weight of her body. It sails through the air in a high arc - and Kahlan, Althea, Celesto… they're blindsided. There's no time for them to move.

Well, no time for Althea.

Aitana's spear impales the Eight girl, skewering her through the back and leaving her body to fold in around the weapon as she falls forward onto her knees. Kahlan stops, frozen in the same way Elowyn currently is, fixated on the body of his District partner.. His legs go weak, and he reaches for her, teary-eyed, letting loose screams and curses that fall on deaf ears.

(Twenty-three.)

"Althea!"

There are arms on his shoulders. Braced around his body (warm, so warm), and Kahlan thinks they're meant to be comforting. He bats at them anyway, twisting against Celesto's fragile grasp, his elbow catching the Ten boy in the side, knocking him backward.

But Celesto's persistent. His hand finds Kahlan's arm, taking hold of his wrist, yanking on it inelegantly to drag his unstable ally toward the door and out into the hallway that lies beyond.

"We have to go. We have to leave her."

"No," Kahlan cries, shaking his head back and forth in firm denial. "No, we can't, Celesto, we can't, we have to go back -"

"We'll die."

Their voices fade into the distance, lost within the fray of cacophonous bloodshed.

Aitana's gaze lingers on their backs until the two boys have vanished. Quiet, calm, stoic and still, she's become a statue in the aftermath of her kill.

Elowyn's done the opposite.

When Althea drops, she charges. Her arms catch Aitana around the waist, tackling her onto the ground. With the element of surprise on her side, it's easy to pin Aitana down, hands finding her throat, nails biting into pale flesh and knuckles turning white as her grasp intensifies… there's red permeating her mind, infiltrating her vision. Everywhere she looks, she sees blood and rage and hatred, and it's so deep within her body that she has no choice but to give herself over to it. Her knees press into Aitana's hips, her arms shaking as she forces the Four girl to stay down, no qualms left about choking the life from her, not now, not when Elowyn's pure anger and adrenaline, with no room left to think.

But in her emotion, she's forgotten that Aitana's a Career. That she's trained, that she planned for the Games, conditioned herself to think two steps ahead because it was her choice to be here, and she knew what she was getting into. Her knee finds Elowyn's stomach, but Aitana's hand finds the knife she'd tucked into her belt after first charging the cornucopia. She tugs it loose, and while Elowyn's conscious mind is focused on her face, stabs it into her upper thigh.

Elowyn cries out. The pain's immense; and while she's unbalanced, Aitana, coughing and sputtering, kicks the Seven girl off of her, taking the opportunity to retreat, stumbling toward Althea's corpse to take back her spear. Elowyn tugs the knife out - shouldn't, no, Mom would've left it in, should've left it in - and half-crawls, half-drags herself over to the nearest gap in the courtroom walls, weapon clutched in one hand as she uses the wall to haul herself up, find her feet.

She runs. It hurts, oh, so much, so bad, pain, everything's pain, aching and stinging, radiating out from the open gash on her thigh, blood seeping through her uniform, congealed to the fabric, both wet and sticky as it soaks her leg. She clutches at it, stumbles, shoulder knocking against hard wood, her hand bloody as she removes it, clutches at the surface and propels herself forward with the wall as a guide. Keep moving, move, dammit, faster, further, need to get away…

She doesn't know where she's going. She doesn't know where she is. All she knows is that anywhere is better than the cornucopia. Anywhere is better than with the Careers.

She just hopes that Scrim and Ari are safe.

Aitana's throat aches, bruised around the sides with the imprint of hands. Even now, she feels like she can hardly breathe. Her hands are shaking, her eyes blown wide, and she knows if she were to look in a mirror, she'd find the white bloodshot, overwhelmed with popped vessels. She wants to cry, to clutch at her neck and beg for breath, but in the middle of the bloodbath, spear back in her hands where it belongs, she knows that she can't afford any rest.

Not to look after herself. And not to reflect on the pain she's just perpetrated.

She can still hear the Eight boy shouting.

I've killed, Aitana realizes, doing her best to swallow down the lump in her throat, to ignore the taste of bile in her mouth and the fire within her swollen windpipe. I've killed, and…

I need to do it again. Now, while I have a chance. This isn't a game, no matter what it may be called; this is about survival. It's a competition, and the less people I have to deal with later, the better.

She's a Career. She had to fight tooth and nail to even be here; Four's female tribute in the twenty-third's arena, selected from amongst a slew of other eighteen-year-olds vying to gain the Academy's honor. She broke herself down for this, bled for it, choked for it, long before she'd ever gotten to the Games themselves. This is her calling. Her challenge. Her destiny.

(But she's finding it hard to fit into the mold she'd set out for herself. A trained killer. A ruthless hunter. Leader of the pack. Everyone's looking to her, and she nearly fell to an untrained girl from District Seven, all because she hadn't taken a moment to glance over her shoulder, hadn't registered Elowyn as a threat. Her trainers must be watching - hell, her parents must be watching. What are they going to think? Is this the proof they needed to confirm their suspicions that she wasn't really cut out to volunteer, wasn't really aware of what she was getting herself into?)

No, Aitana grits her teeth as she watches the boy from Twelve dart past the court benches with a knapsack slung over his shoulder, making sure to stay on the far side of the railing that separates the outer wings of the courtroom from the central podium. Taking up her spear in one hand, she uses her other to vault over the low rail, swinging her legs over and planting her feet on the ground again without so much as flinching. No obstacles are going to slow her down, not here and not now.

She'd slowed herself down enough by quitting. It may have been for the best at the time, but… Aitana can't help but feel guilty. Can't help but remember how precarious her position was, how lacking her skills were, when she'd finally thought to reclaim the spot in her year that she'd vacated. She has to prove herself. There's no more room for hesitation. No room for running away.

She uses the advantage of her weapon's reach to knock Twelve's feet out from under him. He doesn't get a chance to fight back. The spearhead's in and out, just like that, and his body goes still, blood spilling out of the hole in his throat. But with a severed carotid, he can't have felt much. Quick. That's as much as anyone can ask for, here.

Tears roll down Aitana's cheeks, and she uses her sleeve to wipe them away before any of her allies have the opportunity to see them. Most would probably think it's foolish, weeping over two kids she doesn't know, never will know now that they're dead and gone. Two kids that were her competition, in a fight she'd personally signed up for, agreed to partake in. They're dead, and she's alive - it's how the Games work, and Aitana learned that long before she'd ever entered them.

It has to be done, she reminds herself. Me or someone else, regardless. And at least if it's me, there's no unnecessary suffering.

By the time the gong struck, Madigan, Kellie and Virian were too far away from Calvin for him to signal them.

The pair from One rushes past him on the right, the girl practically flying off of her plate toward the nearby defendant's podium, piled high with weapons and unopened sacks. The boy's more cautious - but he, too, doesn't bother sparing so much as a glance in Calvin's direction, not when he's weaponless, and not when Henrietta's standing between the two of them, frozen in silent fear, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Cal's never liked Henrietta. He can't even bother to pretend that he does. But seeing her freeze like she has - caught off guard, left stalk-still and rooted to her pedestal, her cheeks soaked with tears and the sudden scent of urine permeating the air an indicator to just how frightened Henrietta is - gnaws at him. He should go; it's the logical thing to do, and now that the threat posed by the Careers is momentarily gone, it'd be easy enough for him to make a break for the door.

But… the thought of just leaving his District partner to stand around in shock, an easy target for anyone seeking blood… it doesn't sit right with him.

"Henrietta."

Her head turns to face him, breath labored and coming out in small, short gasps. She's trembling, so much that she can't even move enough to look at him. Cal inclines his head toward their left, where three tall archways are positioned to lead off into other areas of the arena. He doesn't intend to go that way - wants to see if he can find some way of regrouping with his allies first - but it's Henrietta's safest bet.

"Run," Cal tells her, and then he's slipping around her, using his short stature to his advantage as he ducks down behind one of the long, high-backed benches, trying to give his position cover as he scouts out the territory around him.

Most of the Careers are gathering up supplies, but the Four girl's rushing down the central aisle with a spear, pursuing the pair from Eight and the boy from Ten. The tributes from One, so close to him at the beginning that they'd had ample opportunity to launch an attack, are hanging back closer to the judge's seat, each of them with a sword in their hands. They don't seem eager for a fight like the Twos or Fours, but they're still a menacing sight.

(Stay away from the cornucopia, Cal remembers Theron telling him. You'll have opportunities to get supplies later, but only as long as you aren't dead. Find your allies and run.)

And… Madigan.

She'd had the same idea as he did - weaving a path through the benches, using the environment for her own protection, but she's still too far away. Several rows back on the right side, Cal deduces as he ducks down even further, cheek nearly against the floor as he watches her crawl along. He wishes he had something - a marble or a coin, or… anything that would signal her without another tribute picking up on it. He parts his lips as if to speak, only to realize no matter how much he might will his voice to come through, no words want to slip from his throat. Too risky. This is too risky.

He eases himself back into a crouch, looking to Madigan one last time, and then to Kellie, so far away he can only just make out her frizzy mop of light hair. Then he backpedals.

There's a stairwell near the far end of the courtroom, by where the tributes' launch plates were; it's tucked away in the corner, so obscure in the arena's dim lighting that Cal wouldn't have seen if he hadn't actively been checking during the countdown for escape routes. He pops out of his hiding spot, checks the area around him, then makes a break for it.

"There!" Someone yells. It sounds like the boy from Two, but Calvin's not going to turn around to check. He throws himself behind a column, back to the wall, working his way along the hard barrier of brick and plaster over to his intended destination. There are no footsteps nearby, and Cal lets out the breath he'd held after hearing Sylvain's shout, relieved to know that he's off his competitors' radar for the time being.

He drops back to the ground, hands on the wood of the floor, swinging his legs around so that his feet are on the stairs. Once they are, he's up again, grasping the cool metal of a thin railing as he makes his way down into the darkness below. It's too early to say if the stairwell was a good call - too early to know what horrors there might be underneath the rest of the arena, or how well he's going to fare in facing any of them on his own. For now, however, he's escaped the immediate threat. He's not safe - Cal's not going to delude himself by pretending he is - but he's alive.

That's about as much as he can ask for.

Amidst the chaos of the bloodbath, Madigan can pick out Scrim where others can't; she knows them and their tricks, and she's unsurprised that when she first spots them, they're weaving their way around the Careers, slipping past turned backs and using the outer podiums as cover to reach the cornucopia. It's so sneaky it's stupid - an unnecessary risk that she's sure they would've dragged her into in a heartbeat. And she hates how much she admires them for it.

From behind the high-backed bench she's ducked into to avoid notice, the Six girl casts a wide eye over the room, scouting for her allies. She doesn't know why the plates were positioned the way they were, so different from the traditional line-up of other years; One next to Five, Seven next to Three, Six next to Ten… Calvin had been across the room from her, and by the time she'd recognized his position, it would've been too risky to call out. With the abrupt descent into fighting, she'd barely gotten a glimpse of him slipping away into an obscured stairwell behind the starting plates, too far away for her to reach.

There goes my alliance, she thinks. So much for sticking close and pulling through together.

She isn't upset, though - not really, at any rate. Madigan's not so prideful as to say she wouldn't have made the same choice, striking out on her own, abandoning her allies because there was too much risk in trying to group up with them. No, judging Cal would make her a hypocrite; he simply made the choice that was best for himself.

Madigan needs to do the same.

Gathering her wits about her, she keeps low to the ground as she maneuvers her way out from the bench she's hidden behind, slipping through the wide gap of two wooden bars in the railing, crawling over to the wall. Once she's reached it, she takes a few seconds to survey the area around her, needing to make sure that it's clear of threats, that she hasn't been seen.

And she hasn't. She's alone, no pursuers, nobody looking in her direction. Good, this is good. Where do I go next?

Up ahead, she can see the Threes; Kellie's hidden herself by pressing against a pillar, is sneaking around the side, her back pressed against the immovable pillar of stone as the Two girl, Ardelis, approaches the other side. Virian's tucked himself into the open space of the jury box, too far away from Kellie to properly reach her, though he's armed with a small knife, and a tiny, burlap bag.

Madigan waits with bated breath as Ardelis circles the pillar, hoping, despite knowing how futile it is, that she's dense enough not to spot Kellie.

As if. Luck has no place in the Games -

"Kellie!" Virian shouts, and Ardelis whirls about, turning on the Three boy as he darts out from his hiding space, raising the bag over his head. Her eyes widen, and then narrow into near-slits, lips pulled back in a menacing growl that seems so theatrical she probably practiced.

"Big mistake, Three," the Two girl hisses, and leaps at him.

But Madigan realizes - as does Kellie - that Virian didn't make a mistake at all.

He made a sacrifice.

The bag sails through the air, as their soon-to-be-dead ally cries out, "Catch!"

Kellie's on the move the second his hand pulls back. She dives for the supplies, pulling the bag up and clutching it to her chest as she high-tails it away from the gruesome scene behind her. Madigan checks over her shoulder again, finding nothing.

"Kellie, back here!"

Her ally - potentially the only one still breathing, for all Madigan knows - drops to her knees as she reaches her side, panting for breath, her cheeks stained with wet droplets, redder than Madigan's ever seen them.

"He's dead. Madigan, he's dead, it's my fault, he was trying to save me, I didn't mean to -" Kellie gasps out as she hugs the bag to her chest, her journal nearly hidden behind it. She's sniffling, shaking as she tries to collect herself. Madigan takes the opportunity to watch Ardelis as she draws one, then two knives out of Virian's body, the color drained from her face. Something's up, but it doesn't really matter what - she's distracted for the moment. Distracted enough that she's not going to bother with chasing Kellie down.

"Hey, listen - I know a lot's going on right now, but -"

"We need to go." Kellie nods, resolute, her hand finding Madigan's. She laces their fingers together and tugs, no other words passed between them before Madigan's up, letting the Three girl lead her over to the long corridor only a few feet from their resting place. Despite the losses they've suffered - Virian's death, Cal's disappearance - Madigan's grateful to realize that neither she nor Kellie seems willing to let emotion overtake them.

Can't afford to lose sight of what matters; the shitstorm's only just begun.

(And who knows how long it's gonna last?)

It's chaos.

Chaos, and Ardelis is enraptured, caught up in the center of it, the running bodies and bloodspill and metal-striking-metal, spears, tridents, arrows flying through the air. When she first hears the boy from Three calling out - first spots him, leaps toward him with nothing on her mind but tribute, go, tribute, mine, a fight, it's a fight, I'm supposed to fight - the adrenaline seizes her before sensibility does. Her feet pound against the wooden slats of the floor as she lunges for him, knives clutched in each of her hands, heart thudding as her blood pumps faster, faster, faster still…

I can do this, she tells herself. Stone thinks I can't, Mom would've said I had no chance, but I do, I'm the predator and he's the bloody prey and I GOT THIS, SHUT UP, I'M STRONG, I'M TOUGH, I'M VICIOUS, I'M YOUR WORST FUCKING NIGHTMARE -

The knife in her right hand plunges into his chest, while the one that's shaking in her left finds his neck, draws across his throat and cuts. There's blood spraying her face, a thin film of it hanging for a moment in the air between them, and then Three drops, dead weight and lifeless on the floor at her feet.

Ardelis feels sick.

I did it. I did it, I'm strong, I can survive. I'm a Career - yeah, I'm a Career, bitch! Who's a worthless waste of space now, Two?

Bile pushes against the back of her tonsils, and Ardelis reaches out to press a hand against the side of the jury box to keep her body upright. She can't even take a full breath. She killed someone. She's a killer - she's a killer, fuck, I killed someone, that kid had a family, he was someone's brother, he had people that cared about him, oh shit, what have I done, what have I done, what did I…

Her head droops, gaze finding the Three boy without even meaning to. He's so white, it's phantasmagoric. Like she's looking at snow, or marble, or something trussed up to look real, not even human. There's a gash in his throat, and the blood… the blood's so pretty, gloriously red, she wants to rub it across her hands and coat her uniform with it, I need it, swatches of color, my artist's palette… but the wound's gaping, winking at her, open and hollow and black underneath, exposing muscle and sinew and I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna puke, not here, fuck, I'm a Career (I'm a murderer), I'm strong (I'm disgusting), no, no no no no no.

(Alec, I'm sorry!)

(This is how it's supposed to be. She's from Two. She's trained, maybe not for years, but before, when life was simpler, it was something she'd done, something she was almost passionate about. Training to fight. Training to kill.)

(Training to live.)

Survival of the fittest, Ardelis tells herself. Maybe if she thinks of it like that, it's not so bad. She's killing to protect herself. Killing to make sure she survives. Even if she's a… pathetic, childish waste of space… a junkie that nobody wants around, that even her mother wishes was never born… even if it's tarnishing Alec's memory, creating death from life, making corpses when she failed to revive his…

Red. Focus on the red. This is color, art, aesthetic. Dance with the blood, don't think about the husks. Once they're gone, they're gone.

Ardelis bends down to grab the knife still in Three's chest, ripping it out and raising the blade before her face. She can see her reflection in the metal, her face covered in little droplets of scarlet, crimson soaking the silver of her blade along the serrated edge.

This is who you are now, Ardelis. The crazy artist baptized in blood and reborn anew, killing on television in front of an audience thirsty for a show.

"My show…" she mumbles, light glinting off the surface of her blade as she tilts it, flashing technicolor. "My exhibition. I'm setting up display…"

Make them see you. Make them respect you.

"Welcome to the twenty-third Hunger Games…" she cackles, a manic grin splitting her face. "Ardelis Nerolia's gonna give y'all an opening night worth remembering."

Althea's dead.

Kahlan's sobbing as Celesto drags him down the hall, arm secure around his body as he helps his older ally along, trying to put as much distance between their position and the courtroom as he can. He can't stop crying - can't stop thinking, wondering if he could've done more, pushed her out of the way, saved her, she was his responsibility, his, he let her down, failed her, and she's dead, she suffered because of me, because I wasn't tough enough, wasn't quick enough, wasn't capable enough, it's my fault, Althea's dead and it's on me!

(Aubrielle... Aubrielle… god, I'm so sorry. I couldn't save you. I failed you… I'm supposed to be your big brother, your guardian, and yet here I am, incapable of even standing upright, let alone protecting the people who need me. You're dead and I'm just stumbling around blind and feeling sorry for myself, what's wrong with me? I'm not the one who's dead. I'm not the one who had to endure the pain of dying, of uncertainty, of shock. I need to keep it together, but I can't, I can't, not when I could've prevented this, could have…)

… Celesto. Celesto needs me. Hah… here I am calling myself his ally, his friend, and I didn't even bother to thank him for pulling me out of there. Didn't bother to think about how he's feeling, how he's coping with all of this… come on, Kahlan, come on. Say something. Say…

He can't. The words won't come. His voice is dead in his throat (dead, like Althea) - silent, decomposing, left behind at the cornucopia with the bodies of all the children the Games have just taken. Kahlan wheezes, using the arm nearest to his ally to clutch at Celesto's back, keep him close. Celesto flinches, but Kahlan can't even bring himself to register it. He needs proximity. Needs to know that he isn't alone, that Celesto's not dead, too, that he isn't hallucinating the entire thing - Althea's death, their escape, the look on Aitana's face as she'd watched his sis-his District partner take her last breaths.

She never had a chance, he thinks, solemnly. Not against a Career. But it doesn't really help, even knowing that. Althea's still dead - and Aubrielle could be, too, who knows what his family's gone through since he was carted off to the Capitol, who knows what his parents have done? How much has their fighting escalated, how much has the structure of their home crumbled? Have their threatening words finally pushed into active violence? Have they themselves finally broken, the tumultuous atmosphere too much to bear? Is Aubrielle okay? Is someone looking after her? Is she watching this right now? She can't be, it's too much, I can't - I can't break in front of her, she can't see me like this, it'd hurt her, I'm hurting her, hurting all of them…

The hallway around him suddenly goes dark. It takes a moment for Kahlan to adjust, to realize Celesto's pulled him into an unlit room that appears to be some sort of office, lined with tall bookcases, a desk fixed at its center.

"We should be safe here," the Ten boy tells him, dragging Kahlan over to one of the chairs sitting in front of the desk, relaxing his hold on his ally as he helps him to sit. Kahlan's lips press together, and he swallows, eyes wet but throat parched.

"Thanks…"

"Don't sweat it." Celesto takes a seat in the other chair, sizing him up, his expression solemn. "Are you going to be alright?"

"I…" No. No, well, I don't know, I can't tell - but no, not right now. This isn't alright. I'm not alright.

Kahlan forces himself to smile. "It's… a lot to process."

Celesto turns away, one hand raising to rub at his shoulder, eyes closing. "Yeah… I know."

"Althea…"

"We made it," Celesto cuts him off. Kahlan can see now that he's trembling. "We're alive. And I'm sorry about Althea, but… we can't help her. We have to focus on the two of us. Can't help the dead."

"I know." Kahlan whispers, hating that it's true, hating himself for just dismissing his District partner - his friend - like her death's meaningless. She deserves better. She deserves mourning.

And he can't give it to her. Not here. Not now.

Kahlan slumps forward, arms resting on his legs. His hands ball into fists, his eyelids fluttering, muscles weak and chest feeling hollow. It's not right, it's not fair, it's not, she's gone and I can't do a damn thing. I don't understand. I don't understand, I don't understand, I don't understand!

He doubles over, head pressed against his knees, and weeps.

Bang!

The first cannon is enough to freeze Angelo mid-motion, his sword shaking in the grip of his right hand, the blade untarnished by bloodspill.

It's over. It's over? No - can't be, not yet. Not like this.

Bang!

Another cannon.

"Damn it," Angelo curses under his breath, his hold on his weapon faltering as he's beset by a wave of nausea. This can't be happening. Impossible.

(I haven't even gotten a kill.)

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Six more cannons erupt in succession. Eight in total - eight, enough to match the eight bodies littering the courtroom's floor in plain sight.

Eight dead, and sixteen left. Angelo's one of them.

But he may not be for long. Not after the error he's made.

(Arms flailing; a sword slashing at open air, rather than the solid presence of a body; a thick boot jamming into his knee hard enough to disrupt Angelo's footing. His hand fumbles for the bench behind him, not worried about being on the offensive so much as he is staying upright. His elbow smacks against wood - too high, not that high, something's off, something's -

Eleven breezes past him, her feet too loud, too far away as she turns tail and bolts.

There's a thud. Something squelches.

Angelo's on the floor. There's blood on his clothing… his head. He hardly has the mind to raise his hand to his brow, draw it back to see the scarlet liquid painting his fingers.

(What happened?)

"He's getting away!" Sylvain's shouting. Angelo can hardly make out the figure that vaults over the rail behind him, darting off toward one of the open archways. He can make out Ambrosia; crouching at his side, leveraging a palm under his skull to try and ease it away from the floor.

"Don't," he winces. Everything's spinning. The room… his allies… his thoughts… they're centrifugal. And then, for a moment, they don't exist at all.

Black.)

Angelo grits his teeth. He doubles over, arm braced against the seat he's only just pulled himself up from, weapon clattering against the ground at his feet, his muscles weak, his constitution lacking. He feels drained. Heart beating too fast to be normal… each pulse sending a new wave of pain through his body, mixed with nausea.

"Hey, take it easy." Ambrosia. Angelo almost laughs. Doesn't she understand how bad this is, for both of them? One of them injured, the other neglecting her responsibilities to assist him? Neither of them with a kill, after they'd had ample time to try and make one? Forget the rest of it… Eleven should have been an easy target. Should have been his easy target. But instead…

"Got both from Eleven," Sylvain sounds so smug that Angelo can practically hear the smirk he's wearing.

"Boy from Three." And there's Ardelis. No less smug, but certainly more proud.

(She doesn't even have the same training that the rest of us can boast, but she's already showing me up. Showing both of us up.)

"Eight and Twelve." Aitana. Solemn, but composed, her tone stoic enough not to convey anything more than the facts. That's five.

"Girl from Five!" Lazaro's cheeriness sounds contrived. False. (But it doesn't really matter whether it's real or not, does it? Lazaro's not useless. Not a failure. Not like Angelo. Blast the less adept members of the pack have managed to prove their talents… managed to cement themselves as threats.)

(And all Angelo's proven so far is that he's dead weight.)

"Boy from Nine killed his partner, and the kid from Seven blew himself up," Sylvain continues. His boots clack against the wooden slats of the floor, drawing nearer to the Ones. Angelo straightens his posture, turning around. Ambrosia tries to ease him back down onto the bench, her arm hooking around his back as he pitches sideways.

(Pathetic.)

"Which means that neither of the Ones scored any kills at all."

Lovely. Now he's smug on top of being a philistine. As if we needed further ire from District Two.

"They have time for that," Aitana says before either Ambrosia or Angelo can respond. "At least neither of them are dead, Sylvain. So long as our pack remains intact, we'll all find ample opportunity to prove ourselves."

Sylvain's sigh exudes disapproval. But he relents. "Yeah. Suppose that's fair enough."

"We were caught off guard," Ambrosia pipes up. "Six threw a backpack at my face and then blitzed Angelo in the head. He climbed on top of the cornucopia to get the drop on us."

"Smart," Aitana says.

"It was." Ambrosia agrees. "Surprising, too. But it won't happen again. You have my word."

"And mine." Angelo seconds, finally allowing his District partner to push him back into a seated position. That explains why my skull is screeching. But it doesn't explain why I didn't notice him before he struck. No - the only explanation is that I allowed myself to be distracted, let my confidence override my cautiousness. It's my error. My fault.

"How's your head?" Aitana again, but closer. Angelo realizes she's standing in front of him, crouching so that she's closer to his height while seated. There's a hand turning his head, and Angelo's pretty sure she's looking him over but hells, whatever she's done has amplified his migraine to eleven.

"Not particularly pleasant," he mumbles, reaching up to ease her hand away, barely touching her wrist before Aitana's withdrawing on her own.

"Well, that's not a surprise. You've got a concussion."

"Ah."

He'd figured as much. Still doesn't make the circumstances any better, but perhaps -

"You can't keep watch like this. You'll need rest." Aitana turns around, resting a hand on Angelo's shoulder. "Let Ambrosia look after your head. You practiced first aid during training?"

"Yes," Ambrosia answers. "But I'd need -"

"Bandages," Aitana agrees. "We have some. Laz and I can pull watches tonight. Make sure he sleeps."

"I'm adept enough at looking after myself," Angelo says.

I don't want to drag you down with me, Ambrosia, he thinks.

"Angelo, I get where you're coming from - believe me, I do - but I really don't think you should be-"

"I'm fine," his tone is snappish this time, sitting up once more while doing his best to ignore the throbbing of his cranium. "Perfectly adequate. I can handle this."

Aitana shoots him a look.

"Alright," their leader concedes. "I trust you to know your limits." She's lying. "But if you start to feel fatigued, nauseous, light-headed… any of it, you tell Ambrosia. Okay?"

"Yes." Angelo doesn't want to talk about it anymore. Doesn't want to think about it, everything spiraling out of control when they haven't even been in the arena for a day…

(What must they be thinking of me right now, back in One? The Academy… my parents… Palmer…)

(I have to do better. I have to be better. I have to…)

His vision blurs once more, and the world is covered by a veil of darkness.

24: Anani Morrisey, District 7. Killed by self.
23. Althea Pembroke, District 8. Killed by Aitana Cavine.
22. District 11 Male. Killed by Sylvain Fournier.
21. District 12 Male. Killed by Aitana Cavine.
20. Henrietta Daniels, District 5. Killed by Lazaro Lazarre.
19. Virian Ballard, District 3. Killed by Ardelis Nerolia.
18. District 9 Female. Killed by District 9 Male.
17. Ari Calais, District 11. Killed by Sylvain Fournier.

A/N: Chapter title from Violence Fetish by Disturbed.

So, we made it to the bloodbath! Impressive, right? Clearly none of our main cast are going to be going early, but hopefully some of the action served the purpose of being surprising anyhow. Shockers of the chapter? Any predictions for where we're going next? Would love to hear y'alls thoughts.

Status Check is now active on the blog; it's a page made solely to keep track of tributes' kills, injuries, supplies and whatnot. If you wanna keep tabs on their status pre-death and are unclear on details in the chapters, please check there!

Big thank you to Firedawn'd for acting as beta on these Games chapters. You're amazing!