"If you're gonna die, die with your boots on

If you're gonna try, well stick around

Gonna cry, just move along

If you're gonna die, you're gonna die..."

-Iron Maiden, Die With Your Boots On

CHAPTER 25

THE FRACTURE

DAY THREE, PART 1

Crescentia Monroe (18), District 1 Tribute

6:42 AM

The stillness of the misty morning has long since crept into Crescentia's bones, her joints stiff and aching as she patrols the edge of the woods. The rain must have stopped sometime in the night - when Crescentia lay half-awake with fear burrowing deeper into her gut - the absence leaving nothing more than a thin layer of dew on the downtrodden grass.

There is a quietness after a third cannon had sounded in the night. The lack of noise feels unbearable; the booming sound of the cannon or the droning sound of rain having become painfully familiar in her ears. One-third of the competition… gone, just like that. It's a strange feeling, albeit gratifying to realize just how much her odds are improving, even despite scoring a 1 during her private sessions. And Mom and Dad thought this would be difficult. The thought makes her want to laugh, to cry or scream, a multitude of conflicting emotions taking the reins as she wonders how her parents have been processing this entire fiasco back home. What reactions her brain conjures are not pleasant, and Crescentia allows her thoughts to flicker between the others she had to leave behind in her momentary quest for vindication.

Of course, navigating the tense and stormy sea of arguments between each of her allies has been a ruinous challenge within itself, but the Hunger Games themselves seem to be a different beast altogether. A much tamer beast, at least until Castiel is proven right and the seven of us self-implode. The thought makes Crescentia shiver, though perhaps involuntarily. She stops for a moment, furtively casting a glance back at the Cornucopia. The structure gleams dully in the dim light of the morning, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding area, like black inkblots bleeding into one another on a single page.

All six of the other Careers are asleep, with Moses having gently shaken her awake for her shift of nighttime guard duty, a task doled out by Castiel. We've been far too cocky, Crescentia thinks. If we aren't careful, others are going to try to steal these supplies too… that I can at least agree with him on. There are fewer and fewer instances that she sees eye-to-eye with her district partner, something that has been worrying Crescentia since her performance in the bloodbath. And especially since yesterday. There is less and less room for error, her mistakes feeling as though they have begun to cut off her circulation. Only a matter of time before my mistakes cost me.

The intense arguing of the prior night had stopped once Castiel had left, replaced by a sullen silence that had filled the air upon his return. They had put together a small but equally filling dinner of venison and a few cans of vegetables that satisfied Crescentia's rumbling stomach, the hunger settling in just mere hours after she had finished eating the bread roll sponsored from her own district. With no note attached, it is easy to speculate as to who had cared enough to raise the funds for it. The meal had perhaps the only good thing to come out of the day's many toils and troubles, a solid twenty minutes of comfortable, replenishing silence. Tension is much too high for my liking right now, Crescentia muses. It is not a new fact, but one that she has become increasingly aware of. And one that scares me more than anything the Gamemakers could devise, she decides.

Crescentia plods along the outskirts of the clearing they are situated in, scanning the woods for any signs of movement. She periodically pauses to glance back at the Cornucopia, each glimpse brief out of fear that someone is lurking at the forest edge, waiting to plunge a knife into her throat. Or maybe I've just been on edge ever since Castiel pulled a sword on me. It's all to easy for paranoia to pervade even the strongest minds.

After all, it is a far cry from her daily experiences.

Thus far, every waking moment in the Hunger Games has been, and while Crescentia feels satisfied by the thrills that break the cycle of monotony in her life, she feels as though she has been walking delicately on eggshells around the other Careers. Would they even want to associate with me after Castiel ousted me last night? Pause. She looks back at the Cornucopia, a solitary figure emerging from the gaping entrance of the horn, stretching limber arms above their head. Castiel had to go and tell everyone it's all just a masquerade. An act. What a joke this must be to him.

She's seen the bickering and brutality that previous Career Packs have displayed against each other. Against outsiders. Seen it from our own, during the bloodbath. She shivers at the memory of the bodies of the three twelve year olds, each broken beyond repair. Mercedes' smashed skull, and Reynolds' neck, ringed in a dark purple line. Brutality… it's what keeps the show running. She takes another few paces, coming around the back of the horn, and glances behind her to see which one of her allies has woken up so early. Crescentia feels relief unravel the knots in her stomach when she sees the familiar voluminous black hair belonging to her closest ally. Siren. She is tempted to beckon the other girl over to where she is walking, but presses forward instead, eyes peering into the gray morning shadows that criss-cross the ground where trees block the sultry advances of a rising sun.

The point of guard duty seems fruitless to her, especially with Castiel's impassioned anger towards her abilities yesterday. "You wouldn't be able to throw that in a straight line to save your life," his voice nags in her ear, Crescentia resisting the urge to hurl one of her throwing knives at a nearby tree to see just how true her aim really is. What the hell does he want me to do, scream if I see a tribute? Crescentia shakes her head, as if in an attempt to rid it of the dust and grogginess of whatever little sleep she had been able to get. The longer I stay with such a volatile group, the harder it's going to be to make sure I don't wind up with a knife sticking out of my back, she realizes. It would be next to impossible to stay awake every hour of the day, even with Siren acting as a double to help them watch each other's backs.

For the Careers, it is always a numbers game, a thin layer of strategy acting as a guise for underhanded tactics and ruthless machine-like killing. Castiel needs the numbers on his side, but how many would I have on mine? She and Siren are a solid duo, Crescentia feeling close to the girl after their integration on the first day of training, or the waltz they shared once the lights had winked out of existence that night in the Capitol. I don't have Moses or Alton, she understands, knowing that their primary allegiance - should the alliance be dismantled - would be quite simply to each other.

Crescentia sighs deeply, wishing that the four of them had ditched Hela and Castiel and let the two of them duke it out for supremacy like a pair of junkyard dogs from Six. We'd certainly be in a much better position.

But the pawns have already been moved, she knows. It's just impossible to tell quite where they have moved for sure. "Something's brewing on the horizon," she recalls Castiel mumbling, silently agreeing once more with her district partner. Whether or not he had acted as an unwitting catalyst in aggravating the tensions on all sides, or if it was purely intentional is unknown to her; the outwardly projected mirth and laughter having dissolved into something much more sinister. Was it always a facade? She wonders, remembering how vulnerable she has seen Castiel. Like when I mentioned Charms, whoever that is. Secrecy and lies have become the unfortunate glue between the seven of them, and Crescentia wants nothing more than to escape before the overdue eruption arrives and incinerates the living shit out of her.

Escape… it is the only viable option left.

Death has never been something to tick off on her bucket list, despite the stunts she and her friends may have pulled back at home. All tame compared to impulsively volunteering for a death match, Crescentia surmises. But the decision is one that she still stands by entirely, her beliefs just as rigid as they had been when her hand shot up and her voice rang thunderous across the town square. "I volunteer!" Two words meant to forever change her life, thrusting her into the spotlight to prove her point, to absolve a grudge.

I'm not about to waste all of that effort just because I can't read the room properly, she thinks with a huff, absently scanning the treeline. Even if it is as confusing as this one. Her social skills have always been honed into a perfect edge, and right now the only thing they tell her to get the fuck away from this disaster of an alliance. After all, the sole thing guaranteeing that she survives the inevitably messy split is how much distance Crescentia can put between herself and the rest of them. And that's assuming I have a head start.

She finishes her third circuit around the Cornucopia this morning, rounding the edge of the horn to complete the routine. Once Siren comes into view, Crescentia chooses spontaneously to forfeit her duties, making a short beeline for the haphazard ring of logs around the Cornucopia where Siren has seated herself, clearly waiting to speak to Crescentia.

"Hey, girl," Siren says softly, her eyes slightly puffy around the edges. She must have been crying last night, Crescentia guesses. Neither of us knew just what we were getting into. The protection of being surrounded by trained killers does have a price or two, after all. "How did you sleep, Crescentia?" Siren asks her politely. It's a simple question, yet somehow loaded at the same time when coupled with the inquisitive look Siren gives her, the beauty from Four tilting her head slightly to the side.

"Not very well," Crescentia admits, though the words make her feel low. "Fear of what might happen kind of kept me awake." She sits down beside her ally gingerly, the log creaking underneath her, eyes flicking to the sleeping forms inside the structure to make sure that their conversation is not being overheard by any unwanted parties. "Siren, I know you feel attached to Moses and Alton," she begins, "but even with our connection to them, I think it's about time you and I-"

"Left," Siren interjects calmly, erasing the need for superfluous chatter. She lifts a hefty-looking backpack Crescentia hadn't seen from behind the backside of the log. "If you hadn't beat me to the punch, I was going to ask you the same thing," Siren explains. Crescentia nods pensively, searching within Siren's jade eyes for an unspoken affirmation. We're leaving now.

Right now.

Crescentia stands wordlessly, brushing off her pant legs, and ducks carefully inside the Cornucopia, retrieving her bag from just inside the entrance. She folds her sleeping roll in half as well, having seen Siren's latched neatly to the top of her backpack. Crescentia freezes when she hears incoherent mumbling, but it's just the Wolfchild rolling over in his sleep. She takes a moment to get one last glance at the faces of her allies, all peaceful and serene when sleeping, a feat she knows none could accomplish while awake. For what it's worth, I'll miss them, Creacentia thinks as she rolls the mat up underneath one arm and straps it to the top of her backpack.

"Ready?" asks Siren, voice a near-inaudible whisper from outside. Crescentia nods and steps out onto the dewy grass, morning mist chilling her skin, and scans the sodden frontier ahead with a new intent. She might miss the strange company of her allies, but the risk of leaving heavily outweighs the reward of staying trapped in a cage with five dangerous beasts.

Crescentia Monroe won't ever look back.

Winston Thorn (18), District 7 Tribute

7:01 AM

Pain flares up in his leg as he walks, like subcutaneous needles pricking him in the calf as he follows Padds closely behind. Despite the application of a bandage to the wound Hela had inflicted upon him - an event he does not remember being conscious for - the distinct lack of proper medical care means that Winston is in for a long next couple of days. They have kept checking the wound for infection, cleaning it with filtered water but being forced to reuse the same cloth bandages. It's almost a miracle when it begins to scab over, for at least there is now a barrier against potential infectants.

Winston struggles to match Padds' pace, but after the events of yesterday morning, he is more than happy to stick by his ally's side. Even though we ditched the girls, Winston thinks mournfully, he has done a great job at helping me keep myself alive. Winston is certainly indebted to his ally, especially when faced with the two close calls they had encountered thus far. The arena today seems quiet, and Winston finds himself hoping for a respite. Three cannons yesterday is quite a lot, he decides solemnly. But a respite means restlessness from their audiences. And restlessness means Gamemaker interference. Despite how simple the forest may seem - reminding him, in fact, of the woods he had to chase his sister through the morning of the Reapings - Winston understands that it is more than likely that the Gamemakers have something in store for their tributes. And I can only wonder what. I mean, Bloom's brother was decapitated by some kind of grizzly bear. Except it wasn't a grizzly bear; instead standing taller and stronger, with rows of sharp canines and blank, soulless eyes that seemed to bore into the screen, Bloom burying her face in Winston's chest as the creature's muzzle was bloodied and her brother's cannon sounded.

No, the thought of muttations scares him more than anything. There is a curious whooshing noise from up ahead, and Padds freezes, producing the only knife they have secured between them and pointing it in the direction of the noise. Winston clutches his stick, a hefty branch they had broken off a tree so that he would have the means to defend himself if the occasion arose, the tip poorly whittled into a blunt point. It's a bird, Winston thinks darkly. They've sent the muttations after us at last, haven't they?

They advance slowly toward the noise - as it is better than turning their back to it - both armed and ready to fight for their lives. But it is neither a muttation nor a tribute; instead two canisters sitting side-by-side, forest-green and purplish-gray, their silver parachutes deflated on the ground behind them. Winston's face breaks out in relief, his first smile in the past two days. We've been sent something. He and Padds cautiously approach the canisters, but Winston's normally patient attitude is lost to curiosity, with his fingers deftly unlatching the clasp to reveal what potential goods were sent inside.

The smell of fresh bread hits his nose, and Winston is transported instantly back to his mother's bakery, her helping a younger Winston learn to knead dough with his tiny hands, one ball of dough left plain and the other sprinkled with cocoa powder, both marbled together to look like the rings on the inside of a felled tree. The sight of the bread is enough to hit Winston like a sucker punch to the gut, and though he remains stoic, he can feel tears well up in the corners of his eyes. This is the hardest thing I'll ever have to do.

Padds stands beside him, his canister also containing a single loaf of bread. For the district that produces grain, Winston never expected them to have a nondescript loaf of bread; a simple boule-shaped loaf with a few lines scored on the top to resemble stalks of wheat. Winston's mouth waters at the combined scent of the bread, their dwindling bag of dried fruit having been consumed the previous night.

I'm hungry, Winston thinks, the smell making his stomach growl with a nauseatic twinge. It's odd to think about the true implications that Winston has never felt as hungry as he does right now, tearing a chunk off of his own loaf, the marbled colors holding a slight hint of cocoa sweetness. Winston closes his eyes and inhales deeply, feeling comforted by the taste and aroma.

It reminds him of home, plain and simple. The smell of baking bread lingering even through clouds of sawdust in the air, the smell of woodsmoke and the fragrance of lilies both heady and strong, like the bouquet of white flowers he hands to Bloom, the gesture rewarded with a soft kiss from his broken girlfriend. What's left of home once I am gone? He wonders quietly, the bread suddenly losing its appeal. The mental picture of his family sitting quietly around a table, holding hands in prayer; his girlfriend Bloom sobbing uncontrollably in a dark room, or the thought of returning home just to pass by the Ridgewood restaurant with its doors closed out of dejection all make Winston feel very, very tired.

And very alone, as well.

Winston brushes his long brown hair out of his eyes, the wavy length tickling the back of his neck. It's still damp from last night - it seems like 'dry' is a curse word for these Gamemakers - and tries to ignore the depressing thoughts that have started to grip his mind in two hands, never quite letting him go. If I don't make it back, what will happen to everyone I care about?

He clutches the blunt-headed spear, the crude weapon no longer feeling comforting in his hands, as if his present reality has been distorted with the shattered dreams of his future, of a quiet life raising a child with Bloom… he leans on the stick for a moment, gasping for the air Winston didn't know he needed. "Are you alright?" Padds asks alarmedly, reaching out to place a hand on Winston's shoulder. "Winston, are you…?" Padds glances down at his ally's leg, the bandage having been stained a thick crimson color since both awoke, but Winston shakes his head.

"I'm fine, Padds," he gasps. "Not the leg. Let's… lets keep moving," Winston says with a nod, gesturing to the general direction they have been following the last day, winding alongside the river as carefully as possible. One and done, Winston thinks tiredly as he recalls their altercation yesterday morning with the boy from Ten. If he catches us again, he'll give us hell. Something in the boy's eyes felt like a warning shot, as if their survival is a game of cat and mice for him, watching everyone else scurry about his paws with malevolent eyes.

"Let's be careful then," Padds says genially, making Winston bite back a scornful response. Padds? Being careful? The mere thought makes him want to laugh, the kind of hysterical laughter that comes with a life-or-death situation such as this one. Coming around the bend of the river, Winston can see the metallic glint of the Cornucopia. He looks up at the sky nervously, trying to avoid staring at the death trap in front of them. Why are we here? Winston wants to ask as Padds continues forward, unfazed. Shouldn't we turn back?

The duo clears the treeline with relative ease, though tension laces the air thickly with every step around the outer edge of the field surrounding the Cornucopia. What if they see us? We should have taken the long way, Winston thinks, knowing that he should have voiced his objection against Padds' second reckless idea. Only a matter of time before he makes us take the plunge, Winston thinks, the unshakeable sort of disconsolate attitude returning to his head.

Padds steps quietly around the outer few podiums, his movements cautious as if the land-mines could still blow him into smithereens. Winston follows suit; not out of superstition, but rather the observation that the less noise and movement he makes, the better their chances of crossing the field in the low-level morning light will be. Don't do anything stupid, his mother had told him, arms wrapped tightly around her son. You're a smart boy. You'll come back. Winston shakes his head, freezing for a moment when he thinks he sees movement near the mouth of the Cornucopia. His fingers close around the red poker chip in his pocket; a gift that his sister gives him in the dismal atmosphere of the Justice Building. Everything centers on luck, he comes to realize. Luck that Padds came to rescue him. Luck that Ruben chose not to chase after them. Luck that they had been sent a sponsor gift of bread right when things had begun to take a turn for the worse.

We're just gambling our odds, Padds and I. Reckless or not, that's all we can do, isn't it?

Winston sees another metallic glint from the field and narrows his eyes curiously, irises flicking back and forth between the lion's den and the object on the ground. "If it's a weapon… one of their weapons, then we'll double our odds," he mumbles to Padds. Perhaps we are both rolling the dice. Winston changes directions, his ally falling carefully into step behind them. Winston kneels next to the object, half submerged in the thick layer of mud that covers the ground. His fingers close around a dull copper tine, and Winston's heart sinks low into his chest. It's Arley's crown, he realizes, feeling a deep ache inside him at the thought of her tortured screams ringing between the trees.

"Winston, there are two of them out already," Padds warns urgently. "They might not see us now, but there bound to sooner or later."

Winston solemnly unearths the crown, brushing the slathered mud off of its muted surface. "Padds," he says gently. "You're going to want to see this." His ally stops looking over his shoulder at the Cornucopia, and Winston can hear the absence of his breathing, Padds being dumbfounded by the discovery. Winston gazes at their grisly prize, which Hela must have been knocked off Arley's head with the toss of her net. And none of them bothered to pick it up, Winston thinks. He wordlessly hands the crown to Padds.

"For safekeeping," Padds says for him, breathy words echoing Winston's own thoughts. After all, he is the one with the backpack. Padds stands for a moment, the crown held mournfully between two hands, before he unzips his backpack and nestles the crown inside.

There is a sharp murmur from across the field that has the hairs on Winston's arms raising. Voices. His eyes widen urgently and the flat of his palm connects with Padds' shoulder. "Let's go!" he mouths silently, nodding to the treeline in the nearby distance, the late-morning mist providing just enough obscurity to be their salvation from any predators stalking the woods.

They're stopped by the indistinct silhouettes of two of the Career girls, the low gray mist of morning hanging between the four of them. "Siren, we've got a problem," the girl from District One says, the shape of a knife materializing in her hands. Winston gulps, clutching his makeshift spear and aiming it toward their figures. Siren has a spear too, a weapon he notices when she shifts to the side, the black outline of the weapon looking twice as deadly as his own.

They're caught halfway between the Cornucopia and the treeline, with two trained fighters ready to attack them at a ranged distance. Siren darts forward with her spear, lunging left for Winston's exposed flank, and he dodges, the maneuver clumsy but quick enough to save him from being gored. The lithe girl from District Four slides across the wet grass, throwing herself at behind Winston, at what he can only assume is Padds.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! He uses his crude weapon to the best of his ability, lifting the wood above his head and slamming it down onto the back of Siren's calf as if it were an axe, the girl hurtling forward and colliding with the ground at full speed. Padds should be okay handling her while she's down, Winston thinks triumphantly, his spirits instantly sucked out of him once he turns around, jerking his head in the direction of their other adversary. The second Career has circled him, arm extended to the side, the imperceptible glint of her throwing knife at the ready.

All of Winston's poker chips are on the table.

She snaps her arm across her chest, sending the knife flying through the air. This time, he isn't quick enough.

Pain. Searing and white hot, it flares in his neck, and he drops the spear, spots forming at the edges of his vision as Winston gingerly lifts a hand to the hilt of the knife, buried where his neck joins his clavicle.

Winston sinks to his knees, lifting his eyes to watch a second airborne knife coming straight for him.

Time and time again, he loses.

Siren Thalassa (17), District 4 Tribute

8:07 AM

She sees the first knife out of the corner of her eye, Crescentia's weapon flung at a breathing target, and she flinches when it makes contact with Winston. The skirmish is off-puttingly silent, the slickness of mud underneath boots and the grunts of exertion being Siren's only physical reminder that she's locked in another fight, burning with adrenaline and a fever of fear toward what she has become.

The back of her calf burns with a residual ache from where the Seven boy, Winston, hit her with his stick, the hefty piece of wood sure to leave a score of deep purple bruises on her skin. She grimaces, testing her leg gently on the ground as she thrusts her spear toward Padds, the movement intended solely to drive him back rather than to end his life. "I don't think I'm ready to put another kid in a coffin," she thinks, the words resounding in her head with a gradual crescendo until they are the only thing she can hear; her combat becoming sloppier and more forced with each fatigued movement.

The erupting sound of a cannon firing in the sky almost makes Siren stumble over her own feet. It clearly registers with her that the altercation is bound to result in one side winning. However, the shock of hearing cannonfire in the air - signalling the rising death toll - has never ceased to make her feel disgusted, as if something minute is crawling across her skin. It's totally unreal, she believes, wholeheartedly yearning for the cliffside near the sea, for the gaudy lights of the run-down and ramshackle buildings clustered by the marina. For the boats with their imposing white sails and the smell of brine on the wind.

Now all I can smell is death.

Padds gasps in front of her as his ally crumples to the ground, body lax and lifeless, Crescentia standing above the fresh corpse with a look of horror and determination crossing her soft features. Siren turns her back on Crescentia, remorse for a death she had nothing to do with flooding her veins. Unable to watch Crescentia retrieve her knives, as thoughts of the deer are all that fill her head; of sinew, muscle and bone that would look all too familiar.

She gags and fakes a stumble, lunging with the spear. She plants it in the ground between Padds' feet, and he shouts, the sound crisp and clear against the oppressive silence of the morning. It's a conundrum, Siren thinks pessimistically. I don't want to be the one who dies, but I don't think I can find it in myself to be responsible for someone else's cannon going off.

Nothing, in truth, could have prepared her for the ecstatic highs and manic lows she has felt by simply existing among the greater scheme of things, life tethered impossibly to the concept of good performance on what is essentially a fucking game show. Siren's danced with Crescentia, she's strangled a suicidal boy a year younger than her, butchered a deer and had sex in the arena… life has been turned upside down this past week, slathered in a sweet golden honey that only attacts vile little flies.

Siren swings her spear half-heartedly at Padds, catching the edge of his jacket and causing the material to tear. He casts a fearful look over her shoulder as Crescentia appears, turning tail and running into the woods without a second glance thrown behind him. "He got away," Crescentia surmises dryly. Siren nods, leaning to rest her body weight on her spear as she massages her bruised calf. Siren adjusts the weight of her backpack, the sleeping roll digging into her neck with each step toward the treeline. "Do we follow him?" Siren's ally asks curiosly, putting away the throwing knives that she has already cleaned off, looking pristine. But you can't erase blood, she thinks darkly, her hands tingling with the thought.

"Let the others deal with him," Siren suggests. "We need to get out of here before anyone else wakes up."

"Hm?" asks a voice coldly from behind her. Siren freezes as she feels the icy steel tip of a sword against the back of her neck. "Shouldn't have sounded the cannons then," the voice intones, with Castiel's cold smugness filling the devoid words.

"Leave her alone," Crescentia snarls, leveling a knife at Castiel's head.

"Oho!" Castiel snorts, the usual mirth making a twisted return to his vocal ensemble. "Looks like you've finally stepped up to the plate, Crescentia," he says bitingly, nudging Winston's corpse disrespectfully with his boot.

Siren can hear the sound of footsteps plodding through the mud, and her heart sinke, knowing exactly who they belong to. Alton and Moses. "Let us be on our way," Siren says as civilly as possible, raising her chin defiantly and cutting off any potential retort from her ally. "After last night, it's clear there isn't a place for us here anymore," she explains, voice catching hoarsely in her throat. But there is a place. Alton's arms. Moses' arms. Siren is almost glad that Castiel has approached her from behind; the angle means she doesn't have to look her onetime lovers in the face.

Or Crescentia's side. Whatever promises she had made Alton on the train - while the chrome doors slid open to reveal their first taste of Capitolite revelry - have to be pushed out of her mind. Crescentia was her first true ally; maybe her first true friend, if the word can be properly expressed in a fight scrambling for promises survival over the certainty of death. Her own personal feelings cannot stand in the way of the logical choice. Alton and Moses would ditch me if it meant keeping each other alive for another minute or two, she thinks, brain spinning a mile a minute. It's a cold hard truth; one that Siren does not like telling herself, but one she cannot dispel either.

Things are just going to be the way they are, she thinks calmly. Let them roll off your back, like the waves. At the end of the day, the only thing that truly matters anymore is that Siren is alive and breathing.

We've been caught, but that doesn't mean we're dead.

Not just yet, she thinks vigorously. From the corner of her eye, Siren can see Moses and Alton advancing on the two of them; Moses carrying his battleaxe and Alton with his morningstar, all three boys looking disheveled from being woken up to the blast of a cannon. "Why would you run away from us?" Moses queries, sounding hurt and betrayed. Too much passes between them unspoken, but perhaps it is better that way, better than reigniting the feelings Siren has decided to suppress. Live with your choices.

Thankfully, Crescentia answers on cue. "Because we didn't have any other choice, not after Castiel exploded last night," she says bluntly, the words crashing in the air like jarring whitecaps on a rocky shore.

"Don't you think it's a little early to be running?" Castiel sneers at his district partner, his sudden contempt making Siren feel pissed off. Like she did anything to earn his wrath. She feels the point of his blade press into her neck, adding another slight degree of pressure; and Siren gulps inaudibly, giving Crescentia a fearful look. If last night was bad, we're wading through shit this morning, she decides.

"We're supposed to stick together," Alton says grimly, his mouth set into a hard line. "Do you not remember your promise to me?" he asks Siren, guilt blossoming in her chest. We were supposed to get away.

We can't just die like this, she decides. "If you want to leave so badly," Castiel grins, and Siren feels pressure on her back as his hand grips the fabric of her backpack. "You can leave. But you aren't taking our supplies with you," he murmurs, gentle tone masking a bite of steel. "Leave them, and we'll give you an hour head start before we hunt you down," Castiel says, presenting an ultimatum to the two girls. "Unless you'd prefer a sword through the back of your skull," he whispers in her ear, the words dripping with venom.

Moses shifts uncomfortably behind Crescentia at the statement, but does not relinquish his grip on the battle axe. Lines have been drawn… and I don't think the two of them will be joining us. It breaks Siren's heart, in all truth and honesty, but getting attached in the Hunger Games is a clear and simple way to get yourself killed.

Perhaps it's for the best. Her only lingering wish is that she could have helped Moses and Alton escape the death match they're walking into. But they know what they signed up for. Me and Crescentia… we didn't.

Hell, Siren didn't sign up for this. She didn't volunteer, didn't train and didn't expect to find allies, let alone ones she would care for. But if Siren is to bite the bullet, she's going to die fighting.

Siren lunges forward, boots digging into the ground as she pivots, the butt of her spear slamming into Castiel's abdomen before he has a chance to thrust his sword through the back of her skull. He shouts in surprise and guttural rage, springing up from the ground with streaks of mud running down the side of his jacket where he fell onto the marshy ground.

Siren hears a swooshing noise in the air and feels hands on the small of her back, pushing her forward, and she crashes unceremoniously to her knees into the mud. Suddenly Crescentia is beside her, Moses' axe having narrowly missed her head. The mud is cold on her knees, and clinging, similar to how her ally clings to her arm, dragging her away from the fight. Moses has a look of steely determination on his face as he lifts the axe again, its head strong and sharp. Crescentia lifts her knife as Castiel rounds on the two of them, panting hard, but stops herself. Siren twists to look at them, spear clutched in hand.

Emerging from the gloomy mist is the variable that Siren hadn't remotely considered this morning, especially not after Castiel had come calling for their necks to be axed and delivered on a silver platter to his dinner table. It's Hela and Asher, wearing massive packs on their backs, and absolutely armed to the teeth. Hela clutches her spear, two more strapped on her back with a small assortment of knives fitting snugly into a bandolier on her chest; and Asher has both claws out, a sword strapped across his back and a knife sheathed to his backpack.

"We're fucked!" Siren yelps without thinking, speaking her mind aloud for all to hear. Everything's going downhill so damn fast. Like a ship breaking upon the shore, Siren is unable to stop the splintering.

A fracture.

"They're fucked," Crescentia retorts, shoving Siren into the direction of the sodden frontier ahead, all hell breaking out loose behind them with shouting and the clangor of steel and skin. Siren casts one last terrified glance at the skirmish before turning away forever, the two of them taking the plunge into the morning mist permeating the eerily quiet woods. She feels gratefulness blossom in her chest for Crescentia's actions, knowing that even with any potential selfish motivations, without her interference Siren would be the next cannon to have fired.

Taking Reynolds' life is something that has weighed heavy on Siren's conscience ever since the bloodbath, but Crescentia seems almost liberated once her knives sink into Winston's throat. As if something is unlocking inside of her, Siren wonders curiously, her eyes trained on the back of Crescentia's head as the blonde girl pushes through the undergrowth, a few dead stalks of thistle and brush crackling in the assault.

We've taken the plunge into freedom, and out of the cage, Siren thinks, feeling as if she can relax once they put enough distance between them all. Maybe there's a lake or a river somewhere nearby, she ponders.

But for now, Siren will listen for the sound of cannons with a great heaviness in her heart.

EULOGIES:

16th: Winston Thorn (18), District 7 Male (Submitted by districtfours). Killed by Crescentia Monroe via a sequence of knives thrown into the neck. I hate to admit that I was never truly as invested in Winston as I could have been. My cast had a lot of genuinely nice characters, and while that within itself isn't a bad thing, Winston found himself among the ranks of the expendable; never truly fitting into any overarching plots and plans. Despite how he may have felt, I don't think he ever really had a killer instinct either, so here he lies, a little earlier than I had planned way back in September - RIP.

ALLIANCES:

The Fracture: Castiel (D1M), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Asher (D11M)

Parley in Pas De Deux: Crescentia (D1F), Siren (D4F)

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

Shooketh: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)

Flying Solo: Axel (D6M)

From Ember to Flame: Halley (D8F)

Ya Blew It, Bud!: Padds (D9M)

The "Apex Predator": Ruben (D10M)

Author's Note: We've broken 200k! I think smaller chunks works better for me - potentially - although as the workload for school increases, I fear a recession back into old habits struggling to juggle all of my obligations, hence… this chapter being about a week later than I had originally intended. There are no chapter questions for this chapter.

Have a great day/night you all!