Locked and Loaded: The 26th Annual Hunger Games

by SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn

When metal meets flesh, it's best to be the one holding the dagger. Because when you enter that Arena, good becomes bad, and bad becomes necessary. (SYOT) CLOSED! 6/24 ALIVE! Reader Sponsors are welcome!

23. As We Fall

"I can't hold on much longer

We're drifting down to the other side

Tried to pull us under

Keep holding out for the other side…"

~As We Fall (League of Legends)

o0o

Aegis Harlow (18) District 2 Tribute

"Sneak out closer to dawn," Thames whispers against my chest, face tucked into the curve of where my neck meets my shoulder. His voice is rough around the edges, and his movements are sluggish as he curls farther into me. One of his legs slides beneath mine, and he lets out a long, slow breath, muscles going loose.

"Thames, I need to go," I murmur into his ear, and he lets out something akin to a whine at my words.

"Stay," he insists. His lips move against my skin, soft against my collarbone. He plants sleepy, butterfly kisses along the side of my neck. "Come on, Age. Just a few more minutes."

"Thames," I reach up to run a hand through his tangled hair. "Thames, I need to go. We have a big day ahead of us, and I can't be missed."

He sits up then, the sheets pooling around his waist, pale and breathtaking in the moonlight that pours in from the open curtains. "Where will you sleep?" He asks, golden eyes finding mine. They're still slightly foggy, and he blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision. "The whole reason you're here in the first place is 'cause you didn't have a place to sleep. Why go back at," he peers blearily at the clock. "Three in the morning, when you could just stay with me?"

I prop myself up against the obscene amount of pillows at the head of the bed. "I'll just sleep on the couch." Ah yes. The couch. It's more comfortable than the floor, granted, but still. It's a couch, even if it's a Capitol couch, and couches were not made to be slept on for long amounts of time.

"You'd rather sleep on a couch than with me?" Thames asks, and there's still a hint of vulnerability in his voice as he looks over at me.

My heart pangs, and I soften my voice. "That's not what I meant." A wry smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "You make an excellent bedmate, and yes, before you ask, the sex is incandescent." He positively preens at this, and my smile turns into a gentle laugh. "But I need to get back to my floor. You can sleep in late here, I can't. I need to get back to my own floor so I won't miss whatever important bits of advice Anshar has to share with me before launch."

"Just a few more minutes," he wheedles. "Stay?"

"I want too-" I say, and it's the truth. There's nothing in Panem I want more at this moment then to lie back down with Thames, wake up with him in a few hours and jokingly harass him about his morning breath. A last show of domestic tranquility before we are both plunged into a whirlpool of chaos that only one of us will emerge from.

"But you can't," he finishes for me, shoulders slumping. Actually, his whole body seems to droop, as if he's a flower that's been deprived of both nutrients and water. Well. A flower that's very good at sex and likes making jokes about spearheads.

"Hey," I reach out, slide a hand over his bare shoulder. Rub a few soothing circles there before sliding out from under the sheets. "Hey, you'll see me in less than eight, nine hours, okay?" The glowing numbers on the clock display read 2:53, and Anshar told me that the launch is at 12:00 sharp. "Time'll fly by. We'll be together again before you know it."

Time will fly by. It will go by too fast, and one of us will be dead before the other is ready for it. I wet my lips at the thought, my mouth suddenly gone dry. Swallowing, I head for the door.

"Aegis."

I turn, one hand on the doorframe. Thames slips out from underneath the covers and steps forward, beautiful and unashamed. His full mouth quirks up at the corner, and he tilts his head up expectantly. Huffing out a fond breath, I take the bait and press my lips to his, but keep the kiss short, briefly biting at his bottom lip before pulling away. "Soon, okay?"

He draws in a slightly uneven breath, before reluctantly taking a step back, nodding. "Soon," he confirms, and his voice is laced with a promise and invitation. A smile flickers across his mouth. "Soon."

"Sneaking back from your last night with loverboy?" A voice asks. I freeze, jarred harshly out of memory, one foot out of the elevator. Yes, I'd gone back with Thames to his floor after the interviews, but we'd spent the night tangled together, his head resting against my chest, breaths evening out until they matched mine. We hadn't done anything besides that- he'd fallen asleep against me before things could escalate, and I had no objection. The interviews had taken their toll on him- minutes of scrutiny under thousands of eyes- under every eye in Panem. And as self-conscious as Thames is, it did him no good. Not everything about our budding relationship has to do with sex, although it certainly started that way.

"You won't be able to… express yourself in the Arena," my Stylist continues. "One last night of passion before-"

"Shut up." I curl my fingers into fists, and the gorgon begins to tug on its leash. "It's not like that." Don't say another word.

"Isn't it?" It's still too dark to see anything clearly, and I'm not accustomed to the lack of lighting for my eyes to swiftly adjust. I fully step out of the elevator. My hand finds the light switch, and I flick it on, setting my jaw against the sight of my Stylist. Her round face is red with a blood-blush, and there's a bottle on the table beside the couch that she's sitting on.

"You don't know the half of it." My voice sounds tight, strained, even to my own ears. Another tug on the metaphorical leash. A monster, straining against its bonds. I yank it back. Add another tether.

"You're not doin' anyone favors." She takes another swig from the bottle. "What with pairing up with that pretty boy from 1 'n all."

"You're a mean drunk," I say, arching an eyebrow as the doors slide shut behind me. "Don't you have anything better to do with your time?" Stay calm. If I keep my composure, the gorgon is less likely to break loose and destroy this whole damn room.

"Like what, dress you up and make you pretty?" She sneers, lips curling. "I don't think so."

"Like you could find two fabrics that go together even if they were right in front of your nose," I retort. Stop. I need to stop, to get myself under control before something bad happens. Deep breaths.

They do nothing.

"Car'ful, 'Arlow," she says, and her voice is definitely slurred now.

I clench my teeth together so hard my jaw aches, command myself into movement. Keep my head high as I stride past her couch. "Fuck you." It's an effort not to turn around and wrap my hands around her throat, squeeze until the life leaves her eyes, make her pay for what she's said. For what she's implied about him.

"I think that would be cheating, dearie," she says smugly. "Oh, wait. You're doin' that 'lready, so would it matt-"

How she knows about Leo doesn't matter. How she knows what's happened between us.

My vision goes red, and I move. Muscles tightening, bunching up before I'm launching myself across the space between us. Pinning her to the floor. "Watch your tongue." My fingers clench around her throat without my telling them too. There's a faint buzzing, somewhere in the back of my mind. "Watch it, or I might rip it straight out of your mouth."

o0o

Mic Klaus (14) District 11 Tribute

I hadn't wanted to get out of bed this morning. Granted, I haven't wanted to get out of my bed ever since I reached the Capitol, but today is different. A heavy blanket of dread has seemed to settle the whole floor, a dragging sense of finality that weighs on us wherever we go. Today is the day of the Bloodbath, the silence seems to remind us. Today is the day that you will die.

But I won't die. I won't die, I won't, I won't. I refuse to let myself believe it. I wasn't one of the ones who was selected to make the supply run at the Cornucopia. All I have to do is turn tail and sprint for cover, and I'm good. I'll meet up with the rest of the alliance and we'll be out of there faster than the blink of an eye. I won't die. I refuse. I will not accept my fate as another lifeless corpse that will be lifted out of the Arena via hovercraft. And certainly not at the very beginning of these Games. I know how to scavenge. I bet those Careers don't know the first thing about survival. I can live off the Arena- I know exactly what plants do what- which are edible, which will kill you as soon as they reach your digestive system. I know what will heal you and what is sure to speed up the process of infection. I will survive. I will not die today. I refuse.

Across the table, Nat is unusually somber, as if the same thoughts that are wearing a track in my mind are doing the same in hers. She pokes at a piece of the kiwi in front of her, frowning meditatively at it.

"I don't like this, Mic." She's still staring at the fruit as she says it. "I don't like what we're going into."

"None of us do," I answer. "You'd have to be crazy to even want to do something like this. I don't know how the Careers do it."

A humorless laugh emerges from her throat, sharp. Sharp like the edge of a sword, or the tip of an arrow. "How do you think? They've been brainwashed into thinking that this is all some honor, some huge achievement that will bring glory to them and their families. It's just a game, to them."

"Well," I catch a bitter edge to the word and don't try to dull it as I give her a sarcastic smile. "These are called the Hunger Games, after all."

She lets out another mirthless laugh at that. Stabs her kiwi, impaling it on the sharp tines of her fork and raises it to her mouth. Chews, slowly. Swallows. She blinks, hard, once or twice, scrunching up her face before her features smooth back out. "It's hard to feature, I guess." She doesn't meet my eyes, instead spearing another piece of fruit, juices sliding down her fork like blood down the blade of a sword. "That we might have to kill other people. Other children."

"Yeah," is all I can think to say. There aren't many words that we can exchange on a day like this that are meaningful. Not really. Good luck, I hope you don't die, see you in hell, are all liable options, but none of them would mean much. I highly doubt the latter would be appreciated, either.

But her words stick with me, as I eat another forkful of eggs. Kill other people. Other children. I don't know if I have the strength to do that. For all the vengeful thoughts I've had over the years, all the times I've immaturely wished someone would just keel over dead, or imagined wrapping my hands around another person's throat and squeezing and never letting go… I don't know if I could ever do it. Not when I'd be staring into their eyes, seeing their face. I couldn't watch the life drain out of them and walk away, knowing that I'd done that. I'd caused their life to end. Careers kill like that all the time. To me, though, it seems like there's some sort of sick, fucked up intimacy to a kill like that. To watch them die, to be face to face with them as they draw their last breath.

There used to be a wall of graffiti, deep in the slums of District 11, with the words 'death is a permanent end to a temporary problem' scrawled across it in massive yellow letters. All around it, there was blue sky and white clouds, skillfully done by a caring hand. A permanent end to a temporary problem. The problem that 23 of us are faced with now is anything but temporary. We cannot simply blink and wake up back in our respective beds. That's not the way this world works. An inevitable end to a permanent problem, more like.

Sometimes, during the Games, death would be a leiency. One Games, an unfortunate Tribute was bitten by some breed of a poisonous snake and didn't stop screaming for days. He just lay there, writhing in agony and begging for mercy from a God who did not save him. When death claimed him three days later, we could have sworn his last words were thank you. His screams still haunt my nightmares.

Other times, though. Other times, we would see someone on their knees before a Career, disarmed and beaten, begging for their life. Pleading with everything they had. Some made inefficacious attempts to offer an alliance, or information. Others would simply wail, beating their fists on the ground or pulling at their hair as they were held at swordpoint. Please don't kill me, I'll give you anything! Another worthless attempt. What could they give? Either they'd be dead, or the person threatening to kill them would be, and only one of them would benefit in that scenario.

There is no way out of this, a voice buried in the back of my mind whispers. Either kill or be killed. There is no alternative route.

Kill or be killed.

Such is the way of predator and prey, of the hunter or the hunted. The victim can only flee for so long until they meet their fate, and even then, it is either death by the axe or of some other cause. It always ends in death.

Death, which is the one eternal thing in life. Immortality is a beautiful lie, and hell is the bitter truth. Reality. Death is the only rule of life, in the end. In the Panem, in the world, in the Arena.

Would I rather meet my end here, or back in District 11? It's inevitable, either way, and I was futile in my previous thoughts of how I might evade it.

Welcome to the real world. The real world, where the only rule is death.

The only thing I can do is decide when to meet it.

o0o

Thorne Raven (16) District 12 Tribute

After breakfast, the only thing to do is wait. We're to be taken to the catacombs beneath the Arena via hovercraft at 11:15, and the launch is at 12:00. Sharp. Amber hasn't shown herself since last night, and Aveline is nowhere to be seen, having promptly vanished into her room after we'd eaten. She was shaking uncontrollably at breakfast, and it was all I could do not to reach across the table and steady her trembling hand beneath my own.

As the allotted time draws nearer, the steady silence of floor 12 becomes far less bearable. I want the comfortable chatter of the cafeteria of the training room, not this… chilling stillness that freezes my blood dead where it flows through my veins. Running my hand over the bare skin of my arm, I feel goosebumps prickling against my fingertips for no apparent reason. My insides are squirming, in the way they do before I have a particularly big show coming up, or I'm about to perform a trick I haven't done in public before.

See, there's a kind of waiting that's like the gentle breezes kissing well-worn pavement, or sweeping through the leaves of trees in a forest. It's not warm, persay, but there's a sense of calm there. Of nature, of things expected. Then, there's the kind of waiting that feels as if a morningstar is swinging rampant in my stomach and my head has taken a thumping with a rather heavy piece of soaped wood. This kind of waiting is the latter. My hands begin to shake in a way that I can't control, and all I can do is shove my hands under my arms, and hope the feeling passes.

The hours tick by. I force air in and out of my lungs, each breath shakier than the last. The clock strikes 11:00.

Half an hour. It's a half-hour wait until I will be on my way to the Arena. I want to get this over with. The training, the interviews, the launch time… it is all part of the game the Capitol is playing with us. They want us high-strung, jittery and flighty so that it'll be that much more of a spectacle once the blood begins to flow.

Amber doesn't appear until exactly 11:14. Aveline's next to her, dressed in a simple shift that's almost identical to mine. My final dressing and preparations will be done in the catacombs under the Arena. Our Stylists, Patch and Niagara, are beside her. "Ready to go?" Amber asks. Her shoulders are slumped, and her hazel eyes are dull as she trudges towards the door that leads to the rooftop.

"Ready as I'll ever be," I mutter, and even though Amber shows no sign of hearing me, Aveline's lips twitch up into a beautiful, impossible smile. We reach the rooftop, and Amber almost visibly runs into a large gust of wind. She scowls, before hunching her shoulders and stalking out of the stairwell and onto the roof. Aveline and I trail after her, closely followed by Patch and Niagara. I shudder in the cool air- the sun is shining high above our heads, but drifting clouds are blocking its warmth from reaching us, and the frigid gusts chill my skin.

"Be thankful for the wind," Amber calls over her shoulder, as a hovercraft materializes out of thin air beside the roof and a ladder drops down. "This may be the last time you get to feel it in a long, long while."

Aveline and I exchange looks. What's she going on about? Does she know something about the Arena? I didn't think that Mentor's got inside sneak peeks on what the Arena was going to be, lest they train their Tributes for the exact landscape to give them a distinct advantage over others. Then again, I think I know a lot of things, and it turns out that I've just been misinformed.

"Get on," Amber tells us, placing her own hands on one of the ladder rungs. Aveline and I quickly follow suit, as do Patch and Niagara. Instantly, it's as if I'm frozen. Some sort of current holds me tight to the ladder, ensuring that I reach the carrier safely. Once I'm inside, I'm expecting someone to approach Aveline and me with a needle. Amber had mentioned being stuck with a rather large needle that was supposed to be her 'tracker' when she'd first gotten on the hovercraft. But no one comes. The current releases us, and a red-haired Avox boy comes to lead us to a large room, where games, an assortment of food, and other amenities have been laid out.

"The ride will be about half an hour," Patch gestures at the spread before us. "Make yourself comfortable. It's the best you'll be for a long time yet."

Aveline instantly moves towards a chair, collapsing down into it. She remains silent the whole ride to the Arena, the flicker of her eyelids the only movement she makes until the windows darkened. We must be nearing the Arena. We land, and Patch and I go back down the ladder. Aveline and Niagara will be deposited at another location, and Amber will be dropped back off at the Capitol. I assume she only came with us out of courtesy- she was as silent as Aveline on the way here. Patch leads the way, this time, and I follow him through a dark tunnel, lit by the occasional fluorescent orange or blue lightbulb flickering weakly overhead. We walk for what could be half a mile, maybe more, until Patch reaches a door at the end of a long hallway, gesturing for me to go inside. This is what the Capitol calls a Launch Room. Back in 12, we call it the Stockyard. The place where animals go before slaughter.

I open the door and step inside. Everything is brand-new. The make-up table, the closet, the chairs, all of it. I will be the first and only Tribute to use this Launch Room. The Arena's are preserved after the Games are over and become popular attractions for Capitol residents to visit. Rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, reenact deaths, maybe even talk to a few Victors, if it's a special event.

Patch jerks his chin towards the bathroom. His dark eyes are sympathetic, but his voice is cold as he says, "Get yourself cleaned up. Fifteen minutes till launch."

o0o

Scythe Tonium (17) District 9 Tribute

The ride here via hovercraft had been short. Too short. I had expected it to take an hour, maybe two. It took half of one.

Once Sunset and I had been dropped off, she'd led me to a small room, with a metal plate at the far end of the room, a door that presumably leads to a bathroom, and a few chairs. I swallow hard.

"Okay?" Sunset asks softly. Her hair- or wig, I can never tell with these people- is dyed to fade from a blood-red into a soft golden color, and it matches her make-up today.

"No," I reply, just as quiet.

Tears glisten in Sunset's eyes. "Go shower, Scythe. We need to get your ready."

I nod, once, sharply. As much as I can manage without breaking down. I walk into the bathroom. Shower. Brush my teeth. Sunset comes in when I'm done, unaffected by my nakedness, and stands behind me, braids my hair back behind my ears, keeping it loose. Her movements are jerky, almost robotic, and I try to remember how many years he's been doing this. Ten? Twelve? The number eludes me. When Sunset is done with my hair, she helps me into my outfit. It's tight and black, with strange lines of hard material done in patterns down my chest and the front of my legs.

"Can you move?" She asks, and her voice briefly catches on the last word. I raise my arms over my head experimentally. Roll my shoulders. Bring my knee up to my chest. The suit is surprisingly flexible and does nothing to hinder my movement. I nod, and Sunset lets out a relieved huff. Removing my crystal moon necklace from her pocket, she gestures with one hand for me to turn around. I do so, and she clasps it around my neck.

"There's a button on the back, just below your neck. It will trigger a helmet with a visor." Sunset's voice cracks again, and I bite my own lip to keep from saying something stupid or sentimental. There is no time for things like that. I reach back. Sure enough, there's a small button, right at my nape, above the top bump of my spine. I press it, and the helmet unfurls around my head, the dark faceplate snapping down.

I look to Sunset in confusion. I doubt she can see my expression through the visor. "What's this for?"

"I don't know," Sunset admits, stuffing her hands into her pockets. "I was given this late last night, as well as this." She holds out a remote. "Stylists usually don't get a say in what their Tribute wears into the Arena besides make-up and where their token is worn. The outfit is uniform for all Tributes. But it seems as if there was an exception." She nods to the remote. "Press it."

I do so, and my suit suddenly lets out a slight hum. I stumble back, and Sunset steadies me with a slender hand on my back. My outfit is now emanating a faint, dark glow, and the lines of strange material I had noticed earlier are lit up.

"What…?"

"I can only assume that it's a form of identification," Sunset says. She has one more thing in his hands- a circular object with a hole in the middle, almost like one of the CDs I saw in a window of a shop in the wealthier part of 9. "You weren't injected with a tracker because this is it." She attaches the disc to a hook on the back of my suit. "I don't know anything about it beyond that."

Nervousness seeps into terror as he steps back, and motions for me to follow him out of the bathroom. Over hidden speakers embedded in the ceiling, a pleasant female voice announces that it is time for launch. There's a circular plate on the far side of the room. Sunset nods towards it.

"I-"

"Yeah." She takes one of my hands and enfolds it in both of hers. "I know you've been staying strong this whole time, Scythe, and that means something. You'll be alright in there. Someone like you won't have a problem up there. You'll be back out before you know it." Her voice is gentle, and she leads me forward like one would guide a skittish horse. I keep pace with her on suddenly shaking legs until I'm standing on the plate.

"Really?" I rasp.

"Really." Sunset squeezes my hand. "Good luck, Scythe Tonium." And then, just like that, a glass cylinder is lowering around me, and Sunset is forced to let go of my hand. She gives me a watery smile through the glass, raising a hand in a farewell. A goodbye. Not a farewell. She said I will be in and out in no time. I have to believe her.

The cylinder begins to rise.

I start to count the seconds.

One.

Ethan's advice on the ride here had been blunt, simple. Straight to the point. Stay alive. Initially, I had doubted him- surely, the key to winning wasn't so simple.

Two.

But… it is though, now that I think about it. Because that was all Ethan had to do to win his Hunger Games.

Three.

Stay alive.

Four.

My breath catches in my throat, and I can begin to hear the faint roar of the crowd, live from the Capitol as I rise.

Five.

The noise steadily gets louder. Louder. Screaming and yelling and cheering, thirsty for blood.

Six.

The voice of Tiberius Hearthstone booms somewhere above me, announcing other Tributes as they rise. Aegis Harlow. Aveline Wren.

Seven.

Cold sweat begins to bead on my forehead. I clasp my hands tightly in front of my stomach, but my fingers are restless, twitching uncontrollably. I clench my hands into fists until my nails dig into my palm. I barely register the pain.

Eight.

The only thing that I'm really aware of is the pounding of my heart against my ribcage, thrashing like a butterfly pinned under the claw of a massive wolf.

Nine.

The pedestal chinks into place. I am standing in a huge circle of 23 other Tributes, all lit up and glowing like lanterns on a dark night.

I am in the Arena.

I am in the Hunger Games.

The clock starts ticking down.

o0o

Athena Shier (18) District 2 Tribute

Fifty-nine.

My teeth sink into my lip, and I taste the metallic tang of blood. I can't halt the ticking of the timer. Everything hinges on my actions in the next minutes. Once done, it can never be reversed. I'm either dead or alive. One of the canons that will go off at the end of the hour will be for me, or it won't.

Fifty-eight.

I couldn't think straight this morning. I put my ring on the wrong finger and panicked when I couldn't find it. Today could be the difference between walking away from the Cornucopia with a bow in and a shallow grave back in 2, with Harmony and Bloom crying over my corpse. My hands spread like pale starfish against the scaled material of my suit, a gray glow shining through the gaps between my fingers.

Fifty-seven.

In the ten hours I'd been in bed last night, I must have woken up six or seven times. Not for that long each time, just a few minutes, but enough to break my sleep into unrefreshing chunks. With every disturbance, there is a new nightmare. I get stabbed in the chest with a knife, repeatedly, and I remain conscious and alive throughout the whole thing. The Careers turn on me for no apparent reason and Aegis snaps my neck. I'm being eaten alive by little tiny rodents. I'm being burned at a stake. Then, my bedroom was light and my mind was racing faster than a cheetah can run like it's stuck on fast-forward and the volume is jammed right up to the max.

Fifty-six.

I want to douse my brain in ice water, to chill the whole thing right out and keep it from overheating and combusting on the spot, but I can't. My heart is racing, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

Fifty-five.

Stop. Thinking about what might happen will do nothing for me. I can't bring back all the bad feelings I've had for the last 24 hours. There is no time for distraction. Not here. Especially not now. What's around me? Look at the Arena, Athena. Awareness is the first thing that separates a good Tribute from a dead one.

I push all thoughts of the clock out of my mind. Thinking about time will do me about as much good as trying to stab someone with a wet noodle. What's around me? Come on, Athena, think!

From where I'm standing, most of the Arena seems to consist of a flat, dark platform with glowing blue, cyan, or white ribbons of light covering it in a vast latticework. There are city spires in the distance, also lit up. A digital frontier. That's what this place is. We're in the world of a computer. Alright. Computer world Arena. Weapons. I direct my focus towards the Cornucopia.

A bow. There's a bow about 100 yards in front of me. Right there, practically begging me to pick it up and shoot. That's my weapon. It's propped up against what might be a tent as well as a collection of what looks to be five spears. Thames stands beside me, the golden hue of his suit casting a circle of light on the ground below him. Sure enough, his gaze is set on the bundle beside the bow.

Arena evaluation, check. Weapons, check. Now… Who's around you? I ask myself. Where are your allies? Where are the threats?

To my left, Scythe Tonium stands stock still. Her helmet is away from her face- perhaps she realized that it will only hinder her vision and peripherals. It seems that many of the Tributes have had the same thought. The visors do a good job of hiding out facial features. The only way to distinguish who is who will be the colors on our suits. I have to memorize this as soon as possible. Scythe is in black, and it almost looks as if she's not glowing at all. I'm a dark, slate gray, and to my right, Thames is a brilliant gold. A quick scan of the visible part of the circle reveals that Aegis is in blood red, and Halliday, standing only a few Tributes away from Thames, is a striking green that brings out her eyes.

A few pedestals over, Sash shifts his weight, hopping from foot to foot on the platform. He's a gorgeous purple color, and his eyes are set on another bow, leaning against a pack. The weapon and supplies are right up against the Cornucopia, and he rises up on the balls of his feet, ready to spring at a moment's notice.

Halliday has her emerald gaze set firmly on something towards the other side of the horn- which is made of a solid black material, patterned with the same glowing lines as our suits. It's a longer dash for whatever weapon she has her eye on, but I've seen her flit through the agility course that rings the Training Center at the speed of sound. If anyone can get there, it's her.

I spare a brief moment to wonder if Harmony and the rest of my family are watching me live at home. I bet they are. Harmony would be perched on the arm of the couch, chewing on her nails, while my parents would be sitting on the floor, clasping hands. Bloom is almost certainly watching me, through the screens in the Capitol, alongside Anshar. She's probably clenching her fists and trying to give me last minute advice through the screen.

I almost smile as I imagine the sight- Bloom yelling at a screen, while Anshar tries to deal with the Sponsors who have already lined up for Aegis and I, while diverting their attention from his fellow Mentor.

What would Bloom tell me now? Well, for starters, she'd tell me to stop looking so much like a rabbit and more like a Career. Chin up, shoulders back, eyes on the prize. You're not some loser from District 12, you're a trained Career from 2. Act like it. Tough love is very much Bloom's thing- she'll rarely dole out praise, which makes it all the sweeter when she congratulates me on making a shot or finishing a form.

But the help Bloom will be able to give me is not under her control. She's not the one in charge of handling that.

All my hope, for now, rests on the shoulders of some unstable Victor from last year, with violet eyes and a trembling hand.

The clock continues to count down. Each tick sounds like a laugh.

Forty-seven.

Forty-six.

Forty-five.

o0o

Asher Foster (17) District 5 Tribute

Silence settles over the circle of Tributes like weighted blanket as the clock hits forty-five. The live feed from the Capitol has been cut, and theonly noise is that of my beating heart and steady breathing.

Forty-four.

There's a swirling black vortex that's waiting out there. Swirling just beyond human sight, waiting to suck 23 of us into its depths. I'm going to do everything I possibly can to ensure that it's not me. Granted, I only have a few more years to live, but I'd rather not die at the hands of some spoiled brat from 1. My nostrils flare as I meet Thames' gaze from across the circle. His words echo around in my head. You are nothing more than a coward.

Nothing more than a coward.

Coward indeed. I'll show him who the real coward is, once one of my knives is buried in his throat.

Forty-three.

The only person who might be able to help him is that Athena girl from 2, and I know that I'll be able to get my hands on a weapon- any weapon- faster than she can claim that bow that she's eyeing up. Ambrose had mentioned something, once, when she'd come to my room on the day of the private sessions, about a bow. That she might try some shooting. It had taken every ounce of self-restraint not to laugh at her. The girl's arms are noodles. I'd be surprised if she could draw a fifteen-pounder.

Forty-two.

Speaking of Ambrose… I spot her halfway across the circle. Or, a person who might be Ambrose. Their visor is down, obscuring their facial features from view. Smart, but a risky move. I had considered leaving the helmet on for the Bloodbath- with the way Aegis Harlow is glaring at me from across the circle of Tributes, I might be his first target once he gets his hands on a weapon- but it blindsided me to anyone coming up beside me, and I can't let my guard down at any time in this Arena. Aegis narrows his eyes at me. Ha. As if he could fight me. While the Careers might be trained, I have been raised among wolves, and certainly know how to fight like one.

Aegis tilts his head to the side. His whole posture seems to ask, think you can take me, pup?

A slow smile spreads across my face. Anytime, District 2.

He smirks back at me, and there's darkness at the edges of his smile. Shadows that linger in the inky blue of his eyes.

The flashing numbers above the Cornucopia read thirty-five.

I set my jaw. There's a bandolier of knives right in front of me. If I can get to those, I'll do just fine.

All thought eddies out of my head, drains away and leaves my mind blessedly blank, white as a fresh page in my sketchbook.

And in that space, I begin to plan. Imagine myself launching off the pedestal the moment that timer reaches zero. Sprinting across the ground, grabbing up the knives and sending the first one straight into Aegis Harlow's back. The next through Thames Venturi's throat.

You are nothing more than a coward.

There are packs, loaded up with supplies, scattered all around the Cornucopia. Surely, I can get one and be back out of the fray in no time. All it will take is five extra seconds to down two of the most dangerous Tributes in the Arena. The girl from 2 is not to be underestimated either- I've seen what she can do with a bow. But judging by her posture and the way she's looking around like someone's going to jump on her and slit her throat at any given moment, I can't imagine her aim's going to be all that on target.

I can't assume that, though, even if overestimating your opponent isn't as bad as underestimating them. At least, if I overestimate her, I won't be the one paying for it. The girl from 1- the one who Jordan Wheaton implied he was in love with- is on the other side of the circle. She's a real threat, with those knives of hers, but she prefers to fight all up close and personal, not throw. Besides, from this distance, you would have to be superhuman to make a kill shot with a dagger, whether it was meant for throwing or not.

Sash, though… the rockstar is an archer. A good one. He never missed a target, from the little I've seen of him. And he's used to pressure- he's been Rollag Stone's bassist for what, three years now? Performing can't be easy. He's standing a few pedestals down, and sure enough, his shoulders are rising and falling at an even pace, and his weight is evenly distributed. He's ready for anything. He's the reason why I have to be so fast about this. If I linger for too long, I'll be shot down before I can blink. After that… episode on the very first day, they've surely marked me as a target.

Bitterness rushes through me for a brief moment as I survey Sash. They chose him for an ally and not me? I'm not terrible with a bow, and I earned a 9 in training, good as any of them. They're probably too proud to admit they fucked up. My lip curls. Just like every do-gooder back home on the streets of 5, just like every other white dog dressed up as a Peacekeeper. Fuck them all. I'll show them.

The clock reaches the halfway point. And as the number thirty flashes on the screen, the air around the Cornucopia seems to ripple.

Ripple, and fade entirely, a curtain being swept away in a great reveal to display the grand surprise underneath.

Someone to my left screams.

I thought I'd been ready for this. That there wasn't anything left in Panem that could hurt me or bring me down.

But for all that… my heart stops cold in my chest. Screeches to a grating halt the sight of a massive, metallic wolf, come out of nowhere with eyes lit red, crouched directly in front of the mouth of the Cornucopia, teeth bared and ready for blood.

o0o

Lancia Carrera (13) District 6 Tribute

There's a dog. There's a gargantuan, metal dog, with claws honed into razor-sharp points and fangs bared in a snarl, hunkered down in front of the Cornucopia. Shit. Shit, this is bad. Really, really bad. I don't want to take my eyes off it to look around to see who's nearest to me, afraid that it will spring at me and rip my face off the moment I look away. The landmines will keep it away, though, won't they? There are mines beneath the circle of raised platforms that we're standing on- sensitive enough that they'll be set off by the bounce of a wooden ball. A dog of that size would trigger them for sure. But I'm not sure that those mines will do any damage to it whatsoever- the armored plating gleams in the harsh blue light that emanates from the patterns and lines that cover almost every available surface. Besides, how did it even get there without triggering them? It just… appeared. Out of thin air. Does it have some sort of built-in cloaking device?

Each Hunger Games, as I recall, has had a mutt. Usually more than one, but there's always one that stands out. This must be ours, although mutt isn't necessarily the word I would use to describe this thing. It's large enough to come up to a grown man's waist, maybe higher.

It couldn't have gotten in here unnoticed. One of the Gamemakers must have put it there. Which means it has to have a cloaking device of some sort. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Every muscle in my body feels tight, ready for action, and I can't even take a step. My body is screaming at me to sprint in the opposite direction- to get away from this thing, whatever it is, to spend this restless energy that's been building up ever since I reached this stupidly beautiful place. Even my face feels tight. Smiling isn't going to be an option any time soon.

Run, my body tells me. Run, run, run, it's what you always do, it's what you're good at. Run away. Run, run run. But I can't run away. Not now. I'm one of the ones who has been chosen to make the dive for supplies at the beginning of these god-forsaken Games, and the Bloodbath is mere seconds away. I can't drop the ball now. I have to go through with this. I'll be letting my whole alliance down if I don't. I'll be letting myself down. Scythe is ready to run- I can see it in her posture, the way she holds herself as she watches the clock intently. She's not going to be running away. I can't run away either. I can't leave Scythe on her own. She's the only one of our alliance on the far side of the Cornucopia- the rest of us are almost all bunched together, right at the mouth of the horn.

I can't back down. I didn't back down during the interviews, I can't do so now. I was built to run- if they want to kill me, they have to catch me, and I'm very, very hard to catch. Years of fleeing from that witch, Magda, have taught me that. I won't back down. I have to go through with what I promised the rest of my allies I would do. Even if it gets me killed, maybe I can get the supplies to one of them and then lead the dog away from the Cornucopia. That threat needs to be gone. It needs to be gone, and it will be if it's the last thing I do with my life. The idea of dying has always been a terrifying one. If you're not scared of it, you're not human. But fear is not the same as acceptance.

All I've been doing, ever since the Reapings, is denying what's obviously going to happen. I've been running from death, and all that's turned out to be was a huge fucking waste of energy. A huge waste of mind space that I could have used for planning, for developing a strategy. Now, I've finally come to my senses, and it seems as if everything's in high definition. Vibrant color, with everything turned up to the max. Hopefully, not too late.

The clock is still ticking.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-one.

Twenty.

The neon lights cast a harsh glow over the face of the horn.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

Seventeen.

I'm through with this. I'm finished running from my fate. What I need will never come, and no matter how hard I search for it, it will remain stubbornly hidden. I wasn't born for great things. Wasn't born to find my place in the sun. I can still try, every day, hunt and forage and hide, work for what I want, what I need, but in the end, there will be no paths to success that will allow me to tread them. Not from here. I always thought that I could dream my out- that all I had to do was find a version of myself who only sees the opportunities and ignores the noise. A version of myself who can't hear the distractions, the people who say 'no'. I convinced myself that they said no because they didn't believe in themselves, so there was no way that they could ever believe in me.

Fifteen.

My life has been built on lies. Lies forced my parents apart, lies brought the witch and my father together. Lies have been what I've relied on to cover my escape, and lies were what I told when I rebelled against the Capitol last night.

Fourteen.

I'm done. Take away the well-mean words, the illusions of grandeur, the reassurances that don't help, and the smiles that aren't real. Call it despair, if you want. I can't even identify what I'm feeling anymore. Call it despair, but when it comes right down to it, something fake hurts more than anything.

Thirteen.

It's time for me to live in the real world.

Twelve.

Eleven.

Ten.

o0o

Killian Doppelmen (15) District 6 Tribute

Ten seconds left. Ten seconds until the world explodes in fire and brimstone. Ten seconds, until the gates to hell burst open and the devil and all his lackeys come rushing out. Grim satisfaction and a whisper of contempt tug at the corner of my mouth. The gates of hell will be thrown open, and I will be the one leading the charge.

The wolf in front of the Cornucopia doesn't faze me. If the Gamemakers want this Hunger Games to be quick, they wouldn't send a mutt to do the killing for them. Why not just make the Arena the size of the circle we're all standing in? Arm every Tribute and hand us some sort of ultimatum that would force us to kill each other within the first ten minutes of the Games? The possibilities are endless. Why choose this way to kill us? No one likes mutt deaths, it's common knowledge, ever since the 15th Games, where Capitol citizens almost went into revolt because of the lack of Tribute-inflicted deaths in the Games. The machine is here to add to the fear factor. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The tension that has wrapped dark, grasping fingers around us is thick enough to cut with a knife. It ties knots in my stomach, and despite my determination to not cry, tears are welling in the corners of my eyes. It's not me who's reacting to this situation. Those two weaklings who share my body, Phoenix and Arianna, are thrashing somewhere in the corner of my mind, locked behind unshatterable iron bars and an unbreakable lock. And you'll stay there, for as long as I like. It's been so long since I've felt the wind on my face or the heat of the sun on my skin. I have no plans on waiting this long again.

It would certainly be nice to get a kill off here, before making for the shelter of the strange, digitalized trees on the opposite side of the Cornucopia. Behind me, city spires loom in the distance, and I have no intention of finding out what dangers the Gamemakers have laid out in store for us there. The run there will force me into a sprint that will last for who knows how long. Distance in places like these can be deceiving. I don't do well running distance- but this short, burst of speed that will carry me to where I need to go… that is what I am built for. But in order to get to the forest, I will have to run straight through the carnage itself.

My breath hisses out from between my gritted teeth. There, in the very center of the Bloodbath, is where the chance of my death reaches nearly unbeatable odds. I earned an 8 in training- and that makes me a potential target. None of the Careers have looked my way yet, but if they see me bee-lining for what they must surely think of as their stash, I will be put down.

But that will not happen.

I am not afraid.

The worst thing one can be is a coward. The coward will sacrifice anything to save themselves from physical pain- even at the price of emotional death. To keep themselves from bodily harm, they will become a monster.

I will not be afraid.

Five.

It's a forty-yard dash to the mouth of the Cornucopia. Enough weapons are scattered in and around the horn of plenty almost guarantee my chances of being able to snatch up a weapon on the run. All it will take is a quick slash across the throat, a stab in the back, a blade sunk into a vulnerable chest. I will not be afraid.

Four.

There will be no going back when the countdown is finished. Either I turn tail and run, or I risk everything for cover and a kill. Supplies are mandatory at this point- if I leave with nothing, I will have nothing when the shadows poised on the edge of the Arena begin to close in. I am the one who arranges the blocks, and the structures I build will not come tumbling down anytime soon. I will not be afraid.

Three.

I will be able to do nothing against starvation, or dehydration, or any natural cause that poses a threat to my life. If I get my hands on a pack, pick up a kill, then the Capitol will have their eyes on me. The initial chaos will provide enough cover for a sneaky blade between the ribs. No one has to know until my knife is pressed against their throat, and I am the one who will be going home. I will not be afraid.

Two.

I set my eyes on a pack- a few knives are sheathed in its pockets, easy to draw, and wield at a moment's notice. The muscles in my legs tighten, and I rise up on the balls of my feet, ready to run. I will not be afraid. I do not yield.

One.

The clock hits zero. Tiberius Heathstone's voice booms out around us.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the 26th annual Hunger Games begin!"

o0o

Athena Shier (18) District 2 Tribute

I'm moving before I know that my legs are in motion. Launching myself off my pedestal and making a bee-line towards the horn. Forty yards. That's all there is between me and the bow. Thirty. I don't know where Thames is, but I'm guessing he's beside me, sprinting for the spear. Twenty. Ten. I dive for the weapon.

I never get there. An unknown force slams into me and knocks me sideways. I can hear a low grunt off to my right and can only guess that it's Thames, intercepted as well. My unknown assailant and I tumble and roll across the ground, them scrambling for purchase, me searching for leverage to get them off me, off me, off me. I thrust my elbow up, and it hits something soft but firm, and the someone above me lets out a wheeze. Tucking my legs up to my chest as best I can, I thrust up and the pink figure rolls off, back on their feet immediately. I rise as well, realizing that it's the young girl from 6. Her brown eyes are wide with terror, but she holds her ground, between me and the bow.

"Watch yourself," I warn her. Lancia's eyes narrow at that.

"Back at you," she snaps. "You want that weapon, you have to go through me."

I heave a sigh. Even with the chaos raging around us, I don't want to hurt this girl. She'd shown spirit during the interviews. She also mentioned something about a father, an abusive mother- stepmother?- and a friend who needed her help.

"I don't want to hurt you," I start.

"You're a Career, aren't you?" Lancia squares her shoulders. "Deal with it. It's what you're trained to do, isn't it? Hurt people? Kill them?"

The words hit their intended mark. They sting, and I want nothing more than to deny them, even though I know they're true.

"You're young," I try again. "I don't want-"

"Oh, so you don't want the death of a 13-year-old girl weighing on your consciousness, is that it?" Lancia rolls her eyes. It would almost be funny, in a dark morbid way, if it wasn't for the howl of agony somewhere behind me and to the left. "Very kind of you. Listen here-"

I'll never know what she was going to say. A blur of orange knocks her off her feet before the rest of the words can leave her mouth. I catch a glimpse of fiery hair as Lancia goes down. The Wolfchild.

"I'm listening…" Another voice says right by my ear, and I wheel around, fists up, to see Thames standing next to me. There's a trail of blood running down one side of his mouth, and he has a scratch on a cheek, but other than that, he seems unharmed. "Come on." He starts back towards the Cornucopia. "You're on defense, we need to get you a weapon."

We make it to the Cornucopia together, me grabbing up the bow and strapping the quiver across my back, him snatching the spear. He whirls towards me just as I turn towards him. His spear is raised, wicked tip glinting against the lights of his suit. A brief flood of panic washes through me- we're allies, he wouldn't go rogue. Not now, after he'd guarded my back during the short, but deadly ten-yard spring here. Not when Aegis is running towards us, sword in hand, yelling something I can't quite make out. Still, Thames' arm is back, and his focus is somewhere over my left shoulder.

"Duck," he bites out, and it's so different from his usual seductive rumble that I drop to the ground before I have time to really think about what I'm doing. His weapon goes sailing over my head, and I glance back just in time to see the young boy from 3 go sprawling, Thames' spear protruding from his chest. Thames' chest is rising and falling fast, but he shows no signs of shock as he picks up another spear. "Go around towards Halliday," he barks at me, no sign of the joking, sarcastic tone he'd used just seconds earlier. "Aegis and I will take this side."

"What about Sa-"

"Sash is fine." Aegis reaches us, panting slightly. His dark eyes are halfway wild, and his voice is low, almost a growl. "Go help Halliday."

"But-"

"Don't argue," Thames snaps. He doesn't stick around to see if I do as I've been told. He and Aegis dive right back into the fray, steel flashing various colors in the glow from Tribute's lightsuits as Aegis dives on top of Sierra Encantada from 10. I watch for a moment longer, tracking the Thames as he pursues Harold Lachin from 3. I don't think- just act. I load an arrow into my bow and draw the string. It's second nature as I focus in on my target and let the arrow fly. Harold lets out a shrill scream as the arrow goes clean through his shoulder, and then Thames is there, spear driving through his chest.

Bile rises in my throat, but I turn away from them and rush towards the other side of the black horn. There, I find Halliday and Sash. Halliday's green eyes are ferocious, and one of her long white knives is dripping blood. I raise an eyebrow in a wordless question.

"Got away," Sash says for her. "She got him in the leg pretty good though, 12 won't be going far."

"Aveline or Thorne?"

"Thorne," Halliday breathes. She cuts a glance towards Sash. "We need to get you a weapon."

"There." Sash points. I risk a glance in that direction, and see the girl from 9 hightailing her way out of the fray, a pack on her back, quiver at her hip and a bow clutched in her hand. Those weapons belong to Sash. The only other bow is in my hands, my first arrow still embedded fletching-deep in the shoulder of the young boy from 3, who lies dead with one of Thames' spears through his heart.

"Athena!" This time it's Thames, emerging from around the side of the Cornucopia, his spear, still bloody from his previous kill, flying through the air and embedding itself in the girl's pack. I'm the only one in range now. The girl looks back, dark hair wild around her face. My arrow goes straight through her throat. She's dead before she hits the ground, crumpling like a marionette with its strings cut. My first kill. I don't give it time to sink in. The one thought in my mind is to secure the Cornucopia, a single track that plays over and over again. Secure the Cornucopia.

I refuse to look over at the limp body of the girl from 9 as I nock an arrow and fire a warning shot at the boy from 6. These are the Hunger Games, and I am a Career. I am a hunter, and hunters kill. I have to do whatever it takes to get out of here alive. If that means killing, then I must learn to stomach it.

We scatter again- Thames, Aegis, and Sash going one way, Halliday and I going the other. Halliday takes a defensive stance before the mouth of the Cornucopia as I duck inside. Take stock of what's inside.

Food rations. Fire starting materials. Weapons of all shapes and sizes. Bags and backpacks, simply begging to be claimed. I spot several more quivers, loaded full of arrows, but no more bows. Those are ours, I realize with a rush of satisfaction. We have those. The only two in the Arena. Several containers are stashed in the very back of the horn, and as I near them, the distinct smell of gasoline hits my nose. Why would they keep gasoline in the Cornucopia?

I don't know how much time I spend inside the horn, stashing everything away, putting everything into easily accessible piles. This is something we could have done after the initial bloodshed, but something about sitting on top of the horn and shooting every moving target dead makes my gut turn over. So here I am. I keep my bow loaded, both it and the arrow tucked against the string emitting a faint gray glow.

When I duck out of the Cornucopia, the massive dog that I'd seen before the timer had counted down (a minute ago? An hour? I didn't know) is gone, and I know I have to look for it. We can't lose track of such a major player. If we want to survive, we're going to have to keep tabs on that thing. I scan the area. Left. No sign of it. Right. Still no metal dog.

"Where's the beast?" Thames reaches us, the golden tint of his outfit still shining brightly, despite the blood that now covers him. Aegis is right behind him, a wild light in his eyes, His sword is drenched in and dripping blood, but he makes no move to wipe it off. Sash rounds the right side of the Cornucopia a few moments later.

"Did you see the dog?" Aegis demands as soon as Sash is within earshot. The bassist shakes his head, shrugging apologetically.

"Nope. Sorry, I was a bit busy trying to not get my head taken off."

Aegis lets out a short bark of laughter at that, but the sound quickly dies. "Does anyone have any idea where it is?"

"I'm going to go look," I'm already moving as the words leave my mouth. "Stay here."

I slowly inch around the side of the horn, blocking out the screams. There's a body lying not five feet away from me, glowing a frighteningly familiar shade of pink, but I don't let myself look. I peek around the edge of the tail of the Cornucopia and spot the massive war machine.

Spot it, just in time to see the thing rip a screaming Elwood Liang clean in half, one of its massive claws still embedded in his lower stomach.

o0o

Asher Foster (17) District 5 Tribute

Lancia Carrera lets out a harsh gasp as I barrel into her. A grim smile works its way across my mouth as we roll across the never-ending plain of black and blue. You never saw me coming, did you, 6? She's bucking and fighting beneath my weight, thrashing against my grip as I pin her to the ground.

"Stop struggling, District 6," I snap. "It'll only make things worse for you."

Once I had gotten over my initial shock at the hugeass metallic wolf standing over the horn of plenty, I'd developed perhaps one of the fastest, riskiest action plans I've made in my entire life. The timer had hit zero, and everyone had burst into movement. Some towards the horn, some away from it. I took a rather indirect route to the horn, keeping low and trying to stay behind Athena Shier for cover.

It hadn't done me much good, though, in retrospect, because the dog hadn't even moved. All it had done was stand there and watch us with those red, unnerving eyes, ears swiveling from side to side as Tributes screamed in agony nearby. Well. Since that's not a problem anymore.

Lancia squirms a foot free and slams her leg into my side. My breath leaves me in a whoosh. She's up in a flash and running for the horn, swinging the nearest pack over her shoulder.

Not so fast. I run after her. You're already dead meat.

It isn't hard to catch her again. She's smart- I'll give her that, zigging and zagging to prevent me from leaping at her as I did with my initial takedown. But she's slowing, weighed down by the pack she's picked up, and whatever's in it. I'm going to need whatever's there. Weapons, food, survival supplies… I'll take anything I can get. The bag's lit up the same magenta color as her suit. Will it change colors when I take it from her dead body, or will it stay the same?

I shove the question from my mind. The only that matters right now is to take Lancia down. I'm wasting precious seconds chasing after her, but the pros, if I get this kill, outweigh the cons. If I kill her, the Capitol will be watching me- they always keep a closer eye on those who get the kills. Usually, it's the Careers who take down most everyone at the Bloodbath, but fuck me if I let them get all the glory.

You are nothing more than a coward.

I grit my teeth, push more speed into my legs, thigh muscles burning. But I'm gaining on her, and there. Her steps slow- falter slightly, as she bends down to pick up the bandolier of knives I'd set my eye on at the very beginning. One for Thames. One for Aegis. One for every god-damn Career in these Games.

I pounce.

We collide, and the breath is knocked from my lungs at the impact. Hers does as well, the air leaving her in a massive whoosh that goes past my ear as I slam her into the side of the Cornucopia. She stumbles in my hold, thrashes like a hellbeast. I grip her shoulders fast, though, and wrench her towards me before throwing her back against the unyielding surface of the horn. The breath she'd managed to gather rushes out of her again. "Let me go," she snaps. Her knee comes up, aiming for my groin. I let go of one shoulder just long enough to get out of the way, and this time, clench my hand in her hair.

"Not likely, sweetheart," I snipe back, and her head makes a sickening thump as it collides with the Cornucopia. She howls, and I drive my fist into her face, driving it back again. Again. Over and over and over. This is wrong, a voice screams in the back of my mind. This is wrong, this isn't you! But isn't it, though? This is who I am now.

Blood pours down Lancia's face and the side of the Cornucopia, muting the brilliant blue light. It drips from her nose, from multiple cuts on her lip, from her temple. Her head hangs limp in my hands. I can't tell if she's breathing or not, and the roar of blood is too loud in my ears for me to think straight, to check for a pulse.

I shake her. She doesn't respond, and when I step back, keeping my hold on her, she crumples towards me without a sound. Dead?

I shake her again, more violently than the last time, making sure to put extra pressure on her head. She lets out a little sound, nothing more than a weak whimper.

An incomprehensible sense of something floods through my system. Why don't you just die already? Another strike against the Cornucopia will almost surely kill her, but I can't take any chances. I'm unarmed. All I have is myself and the Cornucopia.

Myself.

I shove her back against the side of the horn, slick with her blood, and force her head back via a yank on her hair that draws a pathetic whine out of her. Tears are streaming down her battered face, now, and there's evidence of early bruising on her jaw and bloodied cheekbone. Without her helmet up, the full, long stretch of her throat is right there, bare and vulnerable before me.

I don't let myself think twice.

I crack my jaw. Take another look at the long stretch of her throat. And rip the whole thing out in its entirety.

There is no cannon as I let her limp body fall, blood streaming from her neck. Her pack is over my shoulders and the knives strapped across my chest in the next three heartbeats.

I ignore the blood staining my face, the taste of it staining my mouth. There is no time to process what I've done.

Any idea I'd possessed of taking down any of the Careers flees from my mind. One word replaces them, and my flight or fight instinct is kicking in. I need to get out of here. The screams are dying down, the sounds of steel against steel are fading. It won't be long until someone spots me. If I want to make it out with my life, I need to run.

I turn away from Lancia Carerra's battered and broken body. Her blood is metallic and salty on my tongue as I start running. Guilt is eating its way through my stomach, and I feel like I want to throw up. It takes me down the old, painfully familiar path. I want to refuse to walk it. Refuse to accept that I don't know every twist and turn by heart and pretend that I am the person that I demand myself to be. I want to see myself in pastels, not perfect color. I want to clear my ledger, wipe every bit of red and black off of it, leave it white as snow, innocent as a newborn babe or a young lamb. But if I would turn the page- rewrite my own story, tell my own, new, beautiful tale, no one will ever know what I've gone through. People will never know the real me, and it is who I am that makes me the Wolfchild.

They will forget me, and, with time, I will forget myself. And I can't bear the thought of that.

I have to keep my face turned towards the sun, and my eyes focussed on the sunrise.

It is time to replenish.

My name is Asher Foster, and I am a Tribute of the 26th Hunger Games.

A scream cleaves the air behind me- young and male, but I do not look back.

I'll show them. Prove them all wrong.

I am so much more than a coward.

o0o

Aegis Harlow (18) District 2 Tribute

My breath is coming hard and fast when I reach Thames and Athena, and a fierce sense of pride rushes through me as Thames' first spear goes straight through Harold Lachin's heart.

The gorgon has been yanking on its leash ever since I'd run into my stupid, moronic Stylist early this morning. You're not doing one any favors, pairing up with that pretty boy from 1 and all. The way she'd said pretty had grated on my nerves. Like it was an insult. The subtext in that statement had been infuriatingly clear as she'd sneered over the lip of her bottle. Not worthy, unclean, how could you love someone with a face like his

Fuck that.

I'm tired of holding myself back. For pretending to be something that I'm not. I've been fighting against this caged monster that lives inside me for my entire life. It hasn't gotten me anywhere, not when it really comes down to it- the beast still breaks free of its leash. Still shatters the iron bars I've built around it with maddening ease.

I'm exhausted from fruitlessly attempting to tame my monsters, and honestly, I'm beginning to forget why I even try in the first place.

I forget because it feels good. It feels so, so good to open myself up and let the dark side feast on my soul.

Why don't we let the monsters come out and play for a little while?

There has been a timer counting down ever since I stepped onto the pedestal this morning. The gong that signaled the beginning of these Hunger Games was only a warning bell.

My clock is ticking, and it's about to reach zero.

An impossible smile tugs at my lips at the prospect. Freedom. It's been too long- far, far too long since I've ever indulged myself on anything I've ever truly wanted. I'm about due for something like this.

Beside me, Sash seems to have picked up his preferred weapon- and the bands of light on the bow have changed from the dark glow of Scythe Tonium to his own dark violet.

There is no emotion on his face as he runs his fingers over the cool metal of the bow, running his hands lightly over the curves and drawing back the string.

I hear her before I see her. The sound of harsh breathing reaches my ears, and I spin around. I fling out my sword arm on an impulse, my knuckles whitening as I hold the blade steady, and Santeena Paige lets out a shriek as my weapon rips into her arms. She stumbles to a halt, turning towards us, her fingers already going to her arm as tears begin to slide down her face. Her breath is loud and harsh as it comes in sharp gasps between her gritted teeth.

Stupid. She should have kept running. Her eyes lock onto something over my left shoulder, and something like relief softens her posture. Her second mistake.

He won't save her.

Sash's eyes are flat, cool as ice as he looks over at his District partner. The girl's shivering and her hair is matted to her forehead with sweat. The dark orchid color of her suit throws her face into shadow. "P-please," she stutters. Sash doesn't even blink as he nocks an arrow to his bow and pulls his arm back. His voice is as cold as his gaze. "Please, don't kill me!"

"These are the Hunger Games, Santeena." A shrug. Careless and negligent. "You shoulda learned how to play."

Her brown eyes widened.

Sash doesn't even flinch as he sends his arrow clean through her throat.

A grin smile crosses my face as she crumples to the ground. Sash meets my eyes, and there is no emotion there as he dips his head in a slight nod.

"I'll take the right, you take the left."

Understanding flickers through his dark eyes and he's moving, already reaching back for another arrow as he races for the opposite side of the horn. Thames doesn't move for another heartbeat. Then, "I'll take the far side, you take near. Clear everyone in the area." He glances at my sword. "Can you pick up another one of those? I've run out of spears."

I mutely hand over the weapon, although it's a colossal effort to let go of the hilt. Words are beyond me, A foreign concept, and all I can do is nod back as Thames takes the sword and starts chasing after the girl from 4.

Every wolf, every dragon, every monster that sleeps inside me is about to awaken. And I will show them all what hell looks like when it wears the skin of a Tribute like me.

The nearest Tribute is only ten, maybe twenty yards away. She's hauling a bag over her shoulder, her back to me. There's a sword strapped across the back of the pack as well. How convenient. I cover the distance between us in the span of four even breaths.

The only metal I have on me rests against my throat.

(Hard edges digging into my already bloody palm. Screams forced down, stomped into nothingness, and blood flowing down instead of tears.)

Foolish. Foolish of them to let me bring something like this into the Arena. Because everything can be a weapon, depending on how one holds it.

I've almost reached her when a solid weight slams into me, nearly taking me off my feet. A snarl works its way out of my throat. There is nothing that will stop me from killing this girl.

I shove Brandon Scorn off me, and we face off. He holds a sword in his hand, and I momentarily wonder why the hell he didn't slam that into me instead of his body. Whether it was the heat of the moment, inexperience, or his own idiotic conscious telling him that 'it's wrong to kill people', I'm fucking grateful for the next breath I take.

I don't have much time. Lucky for me, Brandon's already moving, his sword up and a yell on his lips. "Don't you dare touch her!"

He's unbalanced, though. I can see it in his stride, the way he runs at me. His hold on the weapon is basic, and won't allow him room for error. If he's going to strike me down, his first blow will have to land, and I have no intention of standing here like a good little boy and letting him kill me.

Brandon swings his sword, and it's an easy sidestep out of the way of the sword, towards him. My fist connects with his jaw before he has a chance to react, and he drops like a stone. He won't stay down for long.

I move fast. I'm on the girl from 10 before she has time to react, and I yank the necklace over my head and loop it around her own neck instead. I pull tight, the pendant digging into her trachea, and satisfaction is a song in my very veins as a drop of blood blooms on her skin and trickles down her neck.

Sierra stares up at me, aquamarine eyes full of terror. The chain of my necklace digs into her throat and she wheezes for air. I think she says please. I ignore her, and simply only tighten my grip. There is no time for mercy.

She bucks against my hold, but I refuse to let up. Her hands scrabble uselessly at the silver chain, at the emerald-eyed serpent, but her struggles slowly begin to weaken. Her efforts slow, growing more and more sluggish before her body begins to convulse. Death throes. It won't be long now.

The buzzing that has begun in the back of my mind is growing stronger. Building, coalescing into a single word, one that pounds through my blood in time to the beat of my heart. Kill. And who am I to ignore that crimson-drenched call? Someone screams, somewhere off to my left, as I let Sierra's limp body drop to the ground. I turn to face the young boy as he gets to his feet. Unsteady, but still upright. Blood trickles from his nose, and his jaw is already swelling from where I punched him earlier. He raises his sword- stupid, I should have disarmed him once I knocked him out- and lunges for me. I rip the sword from the backpack and raise my own weapon. Smile. And lead him into the first steps of my dance of death.

He's learned a little, in training, at least. An amateur. His strikes are too heavy, he puts too much weight into one swing. His parries are weak and ineffective at best. I let him play, for a few minutes. Let him think he's getting somewhere. That he's holding his own against a Career. Against me.

As if. Keep dreaming.

Then it gets boring. He gets progressively sloppier, strength flagging from the weight and heft of the weapon. I move. A blow to the base of his sword, near the hilt, and it's skittering out of his hands. Another strike and his head is rolling across the black ground. His body remains standing on its own for a moment longer, before falling in a limp heap.

It doesn't matter who else has gotten a kill on this battlefield.

In the end, I don't intend for there to be anyone else walking out of here alive. Not even Thames.

Aegis: 2.

Everyone Else: 0.

o0o

Mic Klaus (14) District 11 Tribute

The screaming is painfully loud in my ears as I race away from the Cornucopia. Even if I want to get a look at the bloodletting going on behind me to check on my allies, I can't risk it.

I don't look back. I can only pray that Scythe and Lancia and the rest of our runners have made it out alive. The line of glowing trees isn't far off, but it seems like miles as I charge towards it. There will be no cannons to alert me to the body count that is sure to pile up within the next half hour. With the bloodshed and slaughter that is sure to take place, it's probably too hard to keep up with who dies and how many cannons to fire. The human survival instinct is a wondrous thing, and even though it often kicks in far too late, we are surprisingly hard to kill.

I can only hope that the majority of our alliance makes it out unscathed.

There are screams ringing in my ears as I flee. Cries of pain, some surely for mercy that will not come. Not at the hands of the Careers.

There are hardly any people in front of me as I hare towards the trees. Almost there, almost there, almost there. There's only the girl from 4, her long legs eating up the ground.

Do I need to move? Maybe I should change course. There's a pack on her back, and she is from 4. It doesn't appear that she has a weapon on her, so unless she plans to wrap her hands around my throat and squeeze the life out of me, we won't be doing each other much damage. She's fast, though. And she's not going to stop once she reaches the trees. The Careers will be hunting tonight, and if they find someone, it's lights out, especially the first night in the Arena, when most of us are still adjusting and are scavenging for supplies and materials.

The first night is always the deadliest one, Natalia had told me. The Careers will usually still be running on the high of the bloodbath and will be eager to kill again.

We aren't allies, I remember saying. Why are you telling me this?

Natalia'd laughed a little, then. Even if we're in different alliances, we should still look out for each other.

We should still look out for each other.

And as I watch, Marina skids to a halt. She stumbles to her knees where she stands, shaking her head, hands coming up to rub at her temples.

I can't stop myself from calling out her name, concern gnawing at my insides as I near her. "Marina?"

She doesn't answer. An arrow goes flying over her head, and I'm forced to throw myself out of the way as it whistles for me. I'm up and running again within the next breath, but I can't watch an arrow go through her throat.

The next shot, the arrow glowing a slate gray color, embeds itself in her pack.

What's going on with her?

"MARINA!" I repeat, yelling at the top of my lungs. She's still on the ground, clutching at her head, her hair, clawing at her skull as if she needs something out.

I shouldn't go to her.

She's not even part of our alliance, and she's from 4. Everything I've been told over the last week has revolved around one main idea: avoid the Careers, and I'm more likely to make it out alive.

Marina screams again, tipping her head up to the endless black sky above us and howling as if her soul is being torn straight from her body.

No one's made a move towards her yet, but it's only a matter of time.

I sprint for the girl, urging speed speed speed into my legs. "Marina!" I skid to my knees beside her, gripping her under the arms and hauling her up. "Marina, we've got to go, you're going to die if you stay here any longer!"

She offers no response and is a dead weight in my arms. She stopped screaming at the first brush of my hand against the bare skin of her shoulder, exposed by the cut of her suit, and now simply shudders. Her blonde hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat and her brilliant blue eyes are dull and staring at something far off in the distance. Her lips are moving, but I can't understand a word of what she's saying. Her breath, which smells like sea salt and something distinctly feminine, works its way into my nostrils as I pull her along behind me. Come on, Marina, you gotta move, work with me here!

I could always let her go. I could let her drop to the ground and leave her to fend for herself against the five armed Careers that have most likely secured the Cornucopia. It would be easy for me to run then, and without the extra weight of her dragging me down, I could probably still make it to the tree line without getting caught out. If I play it smart, I might be able to get out of this alive. And yet…

I can't let her die like this.

The rest of my allies will have to go on without me. I can only pray that some of the dark shapes that are vanishing into the forest are some of my allies and that they'll make it farther than I will.

The only thing I can control in these Hunger Games is when I decide to meet death, and I've stepped right up to its door and rung the bell. It's out of my control whether they answer or not. Invite me in. And the moment I step over that threshold, there will be no more going back.

I hear shouting, voices behind me. I hear them, and my heart, the coward's heart beating in my chest, urges me to run. Run away. Leave her here, let her die, and live to fight another day. Survive this. But I can't. Who knows what they'll do to her, especially someone as beautiful as she is? She's no fighter. If there's one thing I've come to realize about this girl, it's that she wasn't made for bloodshed. She's a free, roaming spirit, meant to be dancing among the waves and walking the beaches of 4. She's not supposed to be here.

Then again. There aren't a lot of us who are.

Stupid. I am a stupid, stupid fool for doing this, as well as a dead one, to boot. But if I can get them away from her, get their attention on me, maybe that will give Marina Bloyster the opening she needs to survive. Maybe. It's a risk I'll have to take. Better my life than hers.

"RUN!" I yell into Marina's ear. She staggers as I let go of her, blinking fast. But she remails upright. "RUN!" I repeat and shove her towards the forest.

Death opens the door. Takes the form of Norman, with his graying hair and straggly beard, with a huge smile on his face. 'Welcome home, Mic.' He holds open his arms.

I turn to face the Careers. Suicide. This is suicide.

No.

Not suicide.

A sacrifice.

The last thing I see is Aegis Harlow's frozen smile and the blade of his sword coming straight towards my throat.

o0o

Marina Bloyster (18) District 4 Tribute

There is nothing I can do to stop the voices. To stop every single one of them as they invade my head, wriggling their way through my brain like parasites and infecting my every thought, my every movement with negativity. I can't even breathe without something shouting at me, telling me I'm worthless.

'Cowardly girl.'

'You're useless'

'You shouldn't have Volunteered for this, how could you have been so stupid?'

"Shut up," I whisper as I run. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!"

'Why are you running away?' a voice demands.

'She's scared,' another answers.

'She can't stomach the Bloodshed. All she did was grab a pack and run. She's no Career girl.'

It's an effort not to crumple to the ground right then and there. It takes all my willpower to stay upright, to keep my legs moving. Moving, I have to keep moving.

I've always been dreading this moment. Some dark, brutally honest corner of my mind had known this was going to happen. Is this it? I wonder helplessly. Is this the moment I finally snap? Go mad? I certainly feel like this is it. The voices are clamoring around in my head, and it's a herculean effort to separate my thoughts from theirs because there are simply too many of them.

I have to keep moving.

They steal into my mind like deranged thieves, taking everything that I value, adding new dangerous ideas, seeding new personalities and muddling up the rest. New sparks of ideas that I once would have dismissed as insane and bizarre have grown roots, deep roots, and begin to make sense, in a horrifyingly fascinating way. They become clear in a single revolutionary moment of clarity, one after the other, cascading out of control. The voices forge a path so alluring, with the promise of ecstatic immortality glowing at the end, luring me away from the path I have chosen for myself, until I am so deep that I no longer recognize the world around me. The voices have woven me an inescapable maze, a prison with no walls.

I am trapped inside my own head, and there is no way out.

There is no way out.

'There is no way out, Marina, you are trapped.'

'Why don't you just give up already?'

'Stupid, foolish girl.'

I collapse to the ground.

The voices grow louder, a single beat, boring into my skull. An ever-evolving monster that I cannot contain nor control.

"Get out!" I shriek. My fingers tangle themselves in my hair, winding around the strands and tugging. The pain offers no relief. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!"

Darkness is swimming at the edges of my vision, but I know it's not because my eyes are clear. There is no reason for me to be feeling dizzy or disoriented.

The voices reach a feverish pitch, shouting and overlapping and making my head spin.

Distantly, I know that someone is calling my name. Dragging me to my feet. What are they doing? Why would they help someone like me?

'You do not deserve to be helped,' winds through my thoughts. 'You deserve death.'

My legs are like rubber beneath me and try as I might, I cannot get them to move. The same voice sounds in my ear, again. My name? No. No, it is another word entirely.

Then the support falls out from under me and I stumble back. Regain my footing, but only because of years of standing among the surf and its unpredictable currents.

"Run!" someone is yelling in my ear, and all the noise comes rushing rushing rushing back and I am no longer floating in darkness.

Run. Run, run, run, run, run. I am in the Hunger Games, and the only way to survive in the Arena is to run. Whether it's away from a hunter, or towards your own prey. Never stop moving. I can never stop moving.

There is still sound in my head, there will always be sound in my head, but it fades back for a heartbeat. Run.

I stagger into a run. I don't know who it was that helped me. I don't know whether the voice was male or female, whether they even existed, and if they did, whether they are alive or not.

The backpack thuds against me as I haul ass towards the forest. There's an arrow sticking out of it- when did that happen?

I get my answer.

I get it, in the form of a searing pain up my leg. Like getting stabbed with a needle, but much, much worse. It buckles beneath me, and I'm on the ground before I can blink.

'Up!' a voice roars at me. 'Up, get up, you stupid girl!'

It's too late for that. Footsteps sound behind me. A heavy tread, along with a lighter, easier step. Both still distinctly male. I roll over onto my back.

I'm not going to die facedown. That's the one thing my voices and I can agree on.

Thames and Aegis stand over me. Both Careers are armed with swords, although Thames doesn't look as comfortable wielding his as his companion does. That doesn't stop him from nudging the tip just under my chin. "Move, and I spill your throat on the ground." His grip doesn't waver as he glances at Aegis. The question is clear: which one of them will get the honor of killing me?

"I killed Mic," Aegis rumbles. His voice is dark, slightly rough, deeper than it usually is. "This one's yours."

Thames looks down at me. His hazel eyes are awash with an emotion I can't say I've ever seen on any Career before- pity. And it's not the mocking kind, that a hunter might give his prey, although that is exactly the situation we are in: I am the helpless deer, caught in the predator's trap, and there's nothing I can do to break free. Instead, there is a great expanse of sadness pooled in those hazel eyes. Regret lingers there as well. Just under the surface. Unnoticeable to anyone who wasn't looking.

More off-putting than Thames Venturi's expression though, is the name. Mic. It clangs through me. Mic. He must have been the one who helped me. Who pulled me out of my haze, back into the real world. I force myself up onto my elbows.

Aegis' boot connects with my ribcage, and I drop onto my back with a grunt of pain. It was enough though. The brief glimpse I'd caught.

A boy's body.

His head lolling at a horrific angle, with blood streaming from his neck, or at least what's left of it. He wasn't quite decapitated, but it came close.

Decapitation or not, aside. Mic is dead.

The boy who saved me, sacrificed himself so that I might have a chance to live, is gone, and his death will be in vain.

There is no way I can escape this.

Shame, hot and panging, rushes through my blood. Heats my face.

'You stupid girl,' they repeat.

This time, I do not argue.

Aegis kicks me again, and I try to stop the whimper that crawls its way up out of my throat and flops pathetically on the ground beside me.

There is nothing left inside but a chasm of humiliation and regret. A dark abyss yawns just behind my eyes, threatening to swallow me whole.

I will be glad to let it devour me.

"Get her on her back." Thames' voice is impassive as he continues to hold his spear level at my throat. Readying for the death blow. The look I had seen on his face has vanished, like dewdrops in the morning sun. It is quite possible that I had just imagined it.

'Foolish girl.'

Aegis delivers another stinging blow to my abdomen, this time to the left side of my body. I wheeze around it and roll onto my back. Exactly where they want me.

The spear has vanished from where it was threatening to shred into my throat and instead is poised over my chest. Right over my heart.

I don't try to get out of the way.

I force my head up. Focus my eyes on Mic's prostrate, limp body.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, and Thames' spear plunges down. "I'm sorry," I whisper, one last time, before darkness washes over me, and claims me as its own.

o0o

Thorne Raven (17) District 12 Tribute

My lungs are burning, and my legs are begging for rest, but it's as if someone's lit a fire inside of me and instructed me to run, run, and never stop. Distance is all that matters. Distance between me and the Careers, between me and those who want to end my life. I almost can't think past the wicked pain in my leg, spearing up my left side whenever my foot hits the ground, but I can't stop running. They've marked me as a target, and they will be hunting me once the bodies have been removed and the Careers assemble a plan.

Boom. Boom. Boom, boom, boom. Boom. Boom. Boom, boom. Nine canon shots sound in the distance. Nine Tributes, dead already, and it hasn't even been more than an hour in the Arena. My heart drops somewhere low in my stomach. There's no way I can survive this. Not when there are this many people dead already. Things usually slow down after the Bloodbath, and there's a lull where the Capitol viewers are satisfied and revel in the bloodshed, before coming back stronger than ever, chomping at the bit and clamoring for violence.

Don't stop running. I continue to limp through the strange, dark forest-like place. The trees are lit up like glowsticks and will do nothing to provide cover for someone like me, even with the dark hue of my suit that might let me fade into the shadows if it weren't for the latticework of blue light that covers the ground.

The pack and square of tarp that I'd picked up at the Cornucopia are heavy against my back as I continue my desperate race through the trees. The Careers. I have to get far enough away from the Careers in order to survive this first night.

In other Hunger Games, tributes with sleeping bags would climb trees and strap themselves into sleep at night, so they might have the cover of foliage and darkness on their side when they were most vulnerable. Here, in this digital, glowing frontier, that is not an option. Here, there is no room for error. None of us who want to make it out in one piece can even consider failure as an option.

I'd counted four other figures vanishing into this strange, luminescent forest. There are four of us among the trees. I can only hope that I don't run into anyone else. I'm devastatingly easy prey for even the weakest Tribute, all they would have to do is press their fingers into my leg until I pass out from the agony and then snap my neck.

As if in a vicious reminder, the wound in my leg is sending constant pulses of agony up my side, and I can't quite breathe around the pain. My head is swimming, thoughts blurring together, overlapping in a dizzying rush of cans and can'ts and don'ts.

Gritting my teeth, I walk myself through a basic group of commands. Now you need to sit down, Thorne. Now you need to drink a little bit of water, Thorne. I perform both actions carefully, lowering myself to the ground gently, so as not to disturb my injured leg. Now you need to look through your pack, Thorne.

Slinging the bag over my shoulder, I open it and shake the contents into the ground. A package of crackers, about a half-pound of dried fruit, a bottle of iodine pills, a liter of water, and a sleeping bag tumble out. Not too bad, but I'm going to need more supplies if I'm going to make it through the next few weeks or so. Especially with my injury. Without medicine, I run a higher risk of infection. If the wound gets infected, then its lights out. A very slow, very painful death. There is always the chance that I will be able to outlast the contamination that would work its way through my body, but nothing is a given. Who knows how long these Hunger Games will last?

I begin to cram everything back into the bag. Luckily, it's the same dark color as my suit, and the muted purple doesn't stand out as much as the blue that lines the entirety of what might be the whole Arena. I need to find a place to camp for the night. I'm not nearly far enough away from the Careers as I would like, but I have to hope that they won't come for me. I saw Asher Foster scamper away from the horn on my way here- there are bigger fish to fry in this Arena than some wounded magician.

Magician.

Magic and sleights of hand will be no use to be here unless I can awe my competitors so much that they want me for an ally. Yeah, no. Magic is for children, the people on the streets say. Magic is for the innocent, for those who are still untouched by the dark leeches and parasites of this world.

No one who comes out of the Games is innocent. It is rare that any of the ones who go in are completely unscathed, too.

Unscathed indeed. My leg barks in pain as I haul myself to my feet. The trees, bright as they are, are dense here. If the God of Good Fortune and the Lady of Luck are looking down upon me today, they will provide enough cover, at least through the night hours. I send a quick prayer up to the starless skies. Let me fear no evil. Feel no pain. The ancient words are often said before a death, but in this time and place, I feel that they are equally suiting.

I eye the trees. This forest is ancient. The trees are thick and old, their roots twisted every which way. The neon blue light is cold in this place, and it seems like this place has no palpable reason to exist. It's a creaking shack created by the Gamemakers to remind us that things can get much, much worse in the Arena then they are right now. The mist that swirls through this place is unnatural and choking and is the first thing about this place to speak of some sense of wrong. The sickly substance seems to possess liquid properties which only remind me of the maggot-like texture of the eyes of a dead man who has been forgotten in the back alleys of 12 for a few months, ready to burst at the slightest touch. This place can't be good for a Tribute. I won't be able to stay here long.

I have no choice, though. I physically cannot go any farther, not today. Not with the condition my leg is in, the lower side of my calf shredded to ribbons from where Halliday Frost had momentarily taken me down.

I study the long, reaching branches of the trees around me. They wind towards me, stretching and grabbing like bony gray fingers. Trees aren't supposed to be this color, a distant part of my mind supplies. They aren't supposed to look like this, like skeletons that sway only in a supernatural breeze.

This place had looked welcoming on the outside, and perhaps this is some trick of the Capitol, to create a forest of death to lure all of us into and force us into slow painful deaths. I wouldn't put it past any of the Gamemakers, especially not Valkyrie Summers.

There's nothing I can do about it right now, though. Tomorrow morning, I will retrace my steps to the very edge of the treeline and look for more suitable camping grounds. For now, though… for now, I have to tough this out, grit my teeth, and weather the storm.

Climbing a tree will be excruciating, but like so many other things, I have no other choice. I select one with the lowest branches and fix my gaze on a fork between two thick, hopefully stable branches. Here goes nothing.

Gritting my teeth, I grip the branch, my pack heavy on my shoulders.

And then the rain starts pouring down.

o0o

Killian Doppelmen (15) District 6 Tribute

I'm far, far away from the remnants of the carnage when the cannons begin to sound.

I only wish I'd gotten a kill off at the Bloodbath, but judging by the cannon shots in the distance, it's better that I'd run. Nine dead. Nine. Fifteen left to play the game. Which means fourteen targets that have to be eliminated.

I tilt my face up to the dark, endless gap that makes up the sky of this Arena. With the helmet off, the electric blues of the Arena are almost blinding against the stark black.

A massive city looms before me. Domed buildings, skyscrapers, with ramps spiraling throughout the entire metropolis. Who knows what the Capitol will have in store for me here? Mutts, traps, whatever they've thought up, my death will not be quick if I'm not careful.

Pursing my lips, I start towards the nearest building. I wasn't able to pick anything besides a small bag that contains an apple, five bouillon cubes, and some water. Sparse supplies, but I'll have to survive on them until I can find something else worth eating.

The three colors of this Arena so far appear to be black, and lambent blue and orange. The forest yields no lush greenery, and although the shapes certainly look like trees, they are the same black as the ground and the Cornucopia and the buildings, with lit-up patterns running their length. The ones on these look like interlocked circles- a short line between each one. I briefly remember something of identical design running down the side of Head Gamemaker Valkyrie Summer's face when I saw her on the day of private sessions. That can't be a coincidence. Nothing is a coincidence, not in the Hunger Games.

I've just barely ducked inside the arched doorway of my selected building when the deluge begins. There are no doors to this particular establishment, but the raindrops, despite being blown this way, do not pass the threshold of my safe house. Interesting. Rain hammers down out of the sky, falling like it means to wash any unfortunate souls away. It falls in crazy, chaotic drops, the howling wind out of nowhere carrying them in wild vortices one moment and in diagonal, pounding sheets the next. Thank whatever god is listening that I'm not the one caught out there and having to deal with that mess.

While the Gamemakers are having their fun, fucking with the other Tributes and soaking them to their very bones, I might as well explore, while I am safe and dry. The safe part may not last for long- I count on the fact that it won't- but what can one expect when they are a Tribute in the Hunger Games. What bothers me most is that I am unarmed- there is no way for me to defend myself if something were to attack me then use my own body as a shield or a weapon. It's not necessarily a position one wants to find themselves in.

If there are any mutts in this place, I won't be able to hear them coming, given the racket that the rain is causing outside. Exploring isn't the smartest thing to do, but I need to scout the area. If there's another way in this place that I don't know about, another Tribute or the Careers could sneak in and slit my throat during the night, and I sure as hell am not going to let that happen. Not on my watch. A single ramp- what's with this place and ramps?- leads up to what must be the second floor. I chose a shorter building for a reason but based on its height as I approached it, it has to be at least three stories.

Ramps are easier on the legs than stairs, I suppose.

There are five floors in all. Five floors. No visible entrances or exits except the one I'd come through. There isn't even any furniture to speak of- no rooms, no nothing, just one big space. Alternating blue and orange lights guide me up the ramp each floor until I reach a hatch that must lead to the roof. There isn't anyone who can scale a building like this in the Arena. Not the smooth material the walls are made of, and especially not after a rainstorm like this. During my expedition, in which I had not come across any mutts, the rain and stopped as quickly as it'd come. As long as the sloped roof doesn't defy physics and have a shit ton of water sitting on top of it, just waiting to flood through this place, I should be safe to open the hatch.

I do so, and clamber out onto the roof.

I catch my breath.

Up here, it's like looking down at the world. I can see the strange black trees, the whole grid-like floor of the Arena that stretches on for as far as the eye can see. Up here, it's like standing on the back of a giant in one of the ancient stories back home, and exploring the world with awe. It's beautiful up here.

I stride to the other side of the roof. Look down, and my breath hitches in my chest. The Arena's city is spread below me. Lights glitter everywhere, like stars dropping to the earth, huge and small buildings colliding in a mixture of shadow and geometry, the lights of the ramps that serve as streets creating twisting threads of light - they all intertwine together in a magnificent mess of a dream.

A breathtaking, marvelous, frightening dream that makes me feel as if someone's split me wide open, that my blood is made of glimmering starlight and gemstones and its spilling onto the rooftop below me.

Shame it won't last. It won't last, because we are in the Hunger Games, and behind every exquisite thing, there is something tragic.

Here, it is do or die.

Kill or be killed.

Hunt or be hunted.

In this Arena, dreams become nightmares and your worst fears become reality. Hidden under all the beauty and gorgeous aesthetic, there is darkness. Blood can still mute the radiant blue and orange of this place. It surely stains the ground all around the Cornucopia and the suits of more than one unfortunate victim and the hands of all five Careers.

The 26th Hunger Games have begun.

o0o

EULOGIES:

24th: Harold Lachin (12) District 3 Tribute (Submitted by Luthien'sLight) Killed by a spear through the heart, courtesy of Thames Venturi. Oh, Harold, buddy. I think we all knew that you were a Bloodbath, considering Beren's other submissions. You were so innocent, and I loved you dearly. Lauren did her very best to nurture you and to help you grow, but it was always your destiny to have a heart of gold and a body that would eventually turn to dirt. Rest in peace, Harold Lachin. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

23rd: Scythe Tonium (17) District 9 Tribute (Submitted by ShippingGoddess56) Killed by an arrow through the throat, courtesy of Athena Shier. Scythe… Scythe, Scythe, Scythe. Not even Valkyrie could save you here. To be fair, you were a bit more trouble than you were worth, Shipping and I are very much in agreement of that. Six feet under is where I've always known I would put you. You're in good company, at least, as the rest of your alliance fell with you. It really is a shame that your talents have been wasted, because you probably could have led that alliance a long way into these Games, if fate had not chosen this path for you. (I am now known as Fate, apparently.) Rest in peace, Scythe Tonium. May you fear no evil and feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

22nd: Lancia Carrera (13) District 6 Tribute (Submitted by thorne98) Killed by getting her throat ripped out courtesy of Asher Foster. Lancia, I'm sorry it had to end this way. Such a violent way to go, although there would have been worse deaths waiting for you had you survived. And you were such a rebel… perhaps it's better that you died here, in the initial chaos, instead of at the hands of the Gamemakers. You were so much fun to write, you little spitfire you. Rest in peace, Lancia Carrera. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

21st: Santeena Paige (13) District 8 Tribute. (Submitted by dsalazz) Killed by an arrow through the throat courtesy of her District partner, Sash Radcliffe. Santeena, you were another young Tribute, and it's unfortunate that you had to go so soon. But this was your time, and fun as you were to write, I just ended up burying you six feet under because there wasn't any real way I could see you surviving the rest of these Games. Writing you absolutely broke my heart, because Sash, in any other world, would have saved you. Would have, could have, should have, yeah? Rest in peace, Santeena Paige. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

20th: Sierra Encantada (14) District 10 Tribute (Submitted by sherzade96) Killed via asphyxiation courtesy of Aegis Harlow. There are so, so many younglings here that I didn't want to see go, but found it implausible to keep them longer than this. I apologize to Julia, Tempest, and Kit on your behalf. I wish there was some other way, but your alliance was destined to die. Rest in peace, Sierra Encantada. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

19th: Elwood Liang (14) District 7 Tribute (Submitted by thorne98) Killed by literally being ripped in half, courtesy of the mutt FANG. Elwood, you tricky bastard you. Thorne, you dubbed him as the human firecracker for a while, and I was tempted to just blow him up somehow. But then FANG wormed his way into my head and blam, Elwood just provoked him and that was the end of that. I would have liked to have seen where you, Elwood, could have gone if you hadn't pissed off my dog. Rest in peace, Elwood Liang. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

18th: Brandon Scorn (16) District 10 Tribute (Submitted by Team Shadow) Killed via decapitation, courtesy of Aegis Harlow. And that does it for District 10! Gone, dead, no more. I wrote you as an intended Bloodbath, and thus you were flat, boring, and unnoticeable, and also part of the Bloodbath alliance. For that I apologize- no one deserves that. Your sense of humor was much appreciated in the darker moments in the Capitol, but there are other jokes to crack in the Arena. One of which was your head. (I'm really sorry for that. That was bad. I'll shut up now.) Rest in peace, Brandon Scorn. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

17th: Mic Klaus (14) District 11 Tribute. (Submitted by Percy Ross Vlucha Uchai) Killed by a sword being put through his throat, courtesy of Aegis Harlow. You, Mic, should be proud of your almost headless self. You were the last surviving member of the alliance you founded with Elwood. You certainly could have become a villain, with the way your thoughts were going, but I couldn't bring myself to turn you dark, so you had to die. Your trains of thought were always fun to follow, and I would have been perfectly content just hopping on one of them one day and seeing where it all would take me. Rest in peace, Mic Klaus. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

16th: Marina Bloyster (17) District 4 Tribute (Submitted by Percy Ross Vlucha Uchai) Killed by a spear through the heart, courtesy of Thames Venturi. Oh, Marina. You poor, schizophrenic girl. My heart goes out to be, it really does, but there wasn't any way I could see you making it any further into the Arena and keeping your wits about you. You didn't deserve anything that happened to you, and I wish you all the best wherever you are now. Your voices were probably the hardest thing to write about you, but it's not so hard imagining all the negativity of other people and putting them into someone else's head. Thank you for being such a fun, easy write, in the short time I had to enjoy you. Rest in peace, Marina Bloyster. May you fear no evil. Feel no pain. [KDA: 0/1/0]

o0o

Alliances:

We're Wide Awake Now (Careers): Thames Venturi (D1M), Halliday Frost (D1F), Aegis Harlow (D2M), and Athena Sheir (D2F), and Sash Radcliffe (D8M)

Touching The Stars: Lauren Silver (D3F), Danielle Oakwood (D8F), Natalia Oakly (D11F), and Aveline Wren (D12F)

Among The Hidden (Loners, for now): Mikail Drakil (D4M), Asher Foster (D5M), Ambrose Volta (D5F), Phoenix/Killian Doppelmen (D6M), Jordan Wheaton (D9M), and Thorne Raven (D12M)

o0o

A/N: And there's the Bloodbath! It was really, really fun to write, and it's probably one of the chapters I've most been looking forward to when I started this SYOT (this and the final, I think). I hope you all enjoyed it too, with the massive kill count of 9 people dead. Yeah, that's, like, 15 people left, oh boy.

The next chapter, detailing night one in the Arena, will be out sometime next week. Maybe. I don't know anymore. I promised this one within a week, and look where we landed ourselves. I might need to take some time off after this 20k monster. A few days or so. I've gotten a little bit already written for the next chapter, so I feel like I can allow myself that much. Thank you so much for sticking with me throughout this, and I'm so sorry for the late update. I wrote this in about… oh, five, six days or so, nowhere near as impressive as 18k in three days (Thorne, I applaud you and don't know how you managed to pull it off, you might just be magic). But still. Man. *yawns* I'm worn out.

But all that aside, I'm so glad we've gotten here. It makes me feel a whole lot better to know that I've actually got a chance of finishing this thing, you know? We have, about, I think 12-15 chapters left, but don't quote me on that.

As for… well, at least one of you, yes, I DID DO SOME RESEARCH before writing Lancia's death. It is possible for someone to get their throat ripped out, although getting it 'ripped out' isn't entirely accurate in my opinion, because then they wouldn't have very much of a neck then. But if someone's strong enough, they would be able to pull it off, and hell, Enobaria did it in the canon for the series, so why shouldn't Asher be able to do it here, yeah? Heh. If any of you caught the Oscar Wilde quote in there, that's 10 Sponsor points towards the Arena because his stuff is so amazing that I can't even put it into words. PM me the answer, to keep things fair and to foil anyone lurking in the reviews!

Also, this story now has a website! I finally got my shit together and made one, and although it's the bare minimum, it's still there! You can find it at: locked - and - loaded - 26th - annual - hunger - games . weebly . com (just delete the spaces)

15 Tributes left! Who will make it out alive? There's a poll on my profile if you'd like to take your vote. Please fill it out!

One more reminder: SPONSORING. Things are gonna get hella rough if you think you can just stack points and have a shit ton of them in the next game. Starting the next chapter, items will begin to increase by 10 points in value every update. If you would like to Sponsor someone, PM me. Thank you!

With that, I will close out my long-winded author's note with my usual signature farewell, until the next time!

Over, out, and may the odds be ever in your favor,

-SetFires (Vixen)