Day 1: Aftermath

Cleodora Mulroy, 18, District Four Female

As the Seven girl disappears into the woods, Zeus and Devrell go to fetch the supplies laid around the perimeter of the Cornucopia circle to bring them to the mouth. Jasmine drops to the ground beside Lannister's fallen body, knocked out by the Seven boy, who's now lying in a pool of his own blood where Jasmine cut into him. My stomach lurches, confirming my growing dread that I wasn't ready for this, at least not mentally.

"Lannister!" she screams, shaking him. "Can you hear me? Lannister!"

I grunt as I tie the gauze into a knot over my upper arm where the Nine girl swiped me with her ugly flail. It hurts so much; I can think of a couple choice words to describe it, words that my crew back in Four would've haphazardly tossed around. But I won't. The Capitol doesn't like profanity for whatever reason, so I'll keep my mouth shut.

Frickin' flail. I searched all the first aid kits, but none of them had any pain killers. Of course there wouldn't be. This is supposed to be violent and gory. No relief allowed.

I stoop down beside Jasmine. "Is he okay?"

She looks up with panicked eyes. "I… I hope so. He's still breathing, so I think he's okay, but he's not responding or anything…"

"Let me see." I place my ear to his open mouth, and true enough, his breathing is steady. "He doesn't look hurt… just knocked out."

She sighs, her eyes drifting off into a depressive, aimless gaze. "He'd better be. I don't know what I'd do…"

Is there something going on between them? I raise an eyebrow, but I don't pry. "Let's move him to the shade. The hot sun can't be good for him."

"Oh— of course!" she says, snapping back to reality as she brushes a few blonde strands out of her eyes.

I grab his upper body, she grabs his legs, and we carry him over to the mouth of the Cornucopia.

"What do we do now?"

I place my hand on his forehead. It doesn't feel abnormally hot or cold; it's a good sign that he doesn't have any kind of heatstroke. "We wait. He'll wake up soon."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Then we have a serious brain injury."

Her face falls, but she nods slowly, biting her lip and looking longingly down at Lannister's body, mostly unmoving save for the rising and falling of his chest. It strikes me that this basic level of first aid never registered to the One girl. Of course it didn't; District One kids don't have the real-life work experience we do in Four. Perhaps this is our advantage. We work and train simultaneously, while they only train.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Five dead. Jasmine gulps, as if trying to count to make sure Lannister isn't one of them. I sigh. Either she's dumb since we clearly established that he isn't dead, or she's just overly attached to him. A heavy atmosphere settles over us. It's completely appropriate, considering how many people just lost their lives.

Suddenly, a groan rises from Lannister's body and his eyes creak open. "What… happened…?"

Jasmine gasps and drops down beside him. "Oh my gosh! You're okay!"

"Of course I am…"

A tidal of words bursts forth from her mouth. "Some boy hit you with a flashlight and knocked you out and I got him off of you but you were still there on the ground and I thought you were dead but—"

"Geez, Jasmine. I'm fine."

She hugs him. "You'd better be!"

A perky voice interrupts. "What's going on?" It's Devrell. The other two boys are back, their hands full of bags and bottles and backpacks. "Oh… I see. It's a kissy kissy."

I glare at him for Jasmine because she's too relieved at Lannister's not-death to care. "I don't have much patience right now." He frowns but thankfully doesn't question it. In the corner of my eye, I catch a glance of the Eight girl's body, her abdomen shredded by Alia's scythe. My stomach lurches again. "Let's move over to the river. We can fill our water bottles while the Capitol collects the bodies."

None of them argue. We come out with ten empty water bottles as well as two drop bottles of purification liquid, and we trudge over to the rippling river that runs by the Cornucopia field, whose clear waters ripple onwards as if everything were okay, as if nothing had happened, as if life was still good. Part of me wants to leap in and forget about the screams, the killing, the blood—but I restrain myself.

Devrell pokes the water with a stick. Nothing happens to the stick, so the water must not be corrosive. "It's not salt water, is it?"

"Taste it," Zeus grunts, standing off to the side with his arms crossed and a glare in his eye. "Mountain streams are clearly salty."

That's the most words I've heard him say thus far—of course it's snarky. Devrell seems to miss the sarcasm, so he eagerly dips a finger in and puts it in his mouth. "Seems fresh."

Zeus snorts. Lannister begins filling water while Jasmine watches him with a nervous eye. At least she got that right; even though he wasn't out for long, there's always a chance of brain injury.

I glance back to the Cornucopia field, where Alia stands aloof, drinking from a bottle of energy drink. I sigh. That girl… what's up with her? Is she mad at us? Or does she have something up her sleeve? Something's so… off about her. For the most part, when she hung out with Devrell in the Capitol, she seemed friendly enough. Where did this coldness come from? Either way, she'd better move out and let the Capitol collect the dead bodies as soon as possible. I sigh in relief when she backs away, though it's to the other side of the clearing. I'll talk to her later. For now, I'll focus on steeling myself to brave the rest of the Games.

Five cannons. Five dead. There's the Seven boy, the Eight girl, the Twelve boy, the Eleven boy, and the two that the girl from Twelve killed when she went psycho. Her despicably gleeful smile as she stabbed the boy from Five will forever be burned into my mind—

That can't be right—I just listed six dead. There were five cannons. Either one of them is still barely clinging to life, or someone's playing dead.

"Are you okay?"

I jolt back to the present moment, where Lannister's watching me with concern. Do I tell him? I should, but that means we'll have to check the dead bodies—and I don't know if I can handle that right now. "I… I'm fine. Just thinking."

"If you say so."

I glance back at the Cornucopia field, watching it carefully. Do I go back? Maybe I should…

That's when a dark figure springs up from the ground and dashes towards the pile of supplies.

Naaman Rhus, 18, District Eleven Male

I hurl myself off the ground towards the pile of supplies, a machete in hand.

Our plan worked!

There's a yell. I've been spotted—but they're so far away; I'll be fine. Most of them are at the river. The Two girl is also distant. I smirk, grabbing two full backpacks. How nice of them to gather the supplies together for me!

Footsteps approach; the Two girl's coming after me. I break for the woods in the direction the Cornucopia points, shoes pounding against the hard dirt ground, brushing past the ring of tall blue flowers. I glance back—the Two girl's still after me, but I have a huge lead.

"Thank you!" I yell before I burst into the woods, trampling branches and leaves as I fly away from my pursuers. After a few minutes,I toss the backpacks into a dense bush and dive into a patch of tall ferns, in which my green jacket will camouflage me perfectly.

My heart pounds; my blood rushes loudly through my ears. My body's stiffer than a log as I listen for any sign of the Two girl. A minute passes, and then another. It isn't long before the only sounds are the birds singing and the leaves rustling.

Now where's that b— —?

I slowly climb to my feet, inspecting the forest all around me, my machete held up, prepared to strike. No one. No one at all. Not even Anetha—who agreed to meet me where the horn points after she pretended to kill me, all according to my plan. Cautiously, I dig the backpacks out of the bush.

"You 'round here, girl?" I say, barely louder than a whisper.

A flock of birds lifts off from a treetop, filling the air with fluttering wings, but there's no response.

"Girl? You betta not be playin'."

The voice sounds from behind me. "Right here, dog."

I whirl around. Anetha's ugly face pokes out from behind a tree. "I said it before and I'll say it again—you're a player."

She steps out and rolls her eyes. "Whatever. Now give me a bag."

"Come get it yourself."

"Don't make me regret pretending to kill you at the Cornucopia when I could've killed you right then and there."

"Is that a threat?"

She's staring at me. I'm staring at her. She grips her shovel. I raise the machete. What's she tryna do? Fight me for both of the bags? We stand frozen, eyes locked.

She speaks first. "There ain't no way we're stickin' together till the final eight."

"You surprised?" I laugh. "Seeder can take her stupid friendship and teamwork and stick it up her—"

"Watch your mouth!"

I narrow my eyes. "You don't tell me what to do."

"Then just give me a bag and we'll split up."

I toss a backpack to her. "Fine. Now get out of my face."

She watches me warily. "I'm not bendin' down to pick it up until you get outta here."

"You're hard to deal with, y'know?" I say, taking a few steps backwards. "Happy now?"

She walks towards the bag cautiously. I give her a smile to unnerve her. When she realizes I don't intend to move, she swoops the backpack off the ground, slings over her shoulder, and quickly backs off. "Thanks," she says. "Nice doin' business with ya'."

I nod. "And with you too." She steps backwards, eyes locked on me. I wave. "I ain't gonna kill you yet."

" 'Course you won't."

"Believe what you want."

And then she's gone, trekking through the underbrush. You could follow her and kill her right now. That'd be a plot twist. But no—I'd rather not go home to the wrath of District Eleven. For now I'll let her go. She probably won't make it that far anyway.

I check my bag—there's an empty water bottle, some rope, bags of jerky, and a flashlight, as well as a box of matches and a set of gloves. Fitting for a backpack found at the mouth of the Cornucopia. My mouth is parched from that run for my life, so I'll need water. Since the Arena seems to be two forested mountains with a river valley in between… Is the river the only source of water? It appears to be so. I take a breath to forget Anetha and head back towards the river.

Barrett Adler, 18, District Ten Male

Ahead of me, Bryson keeps charging up the gently sloping mountain. He's been like this since he got up from cryin', and he hasn't looked back once.

"Bryson!" I call. "You okay?"

He doesn't respond, only pressing forward, refusing to look at me.

"C'mon buddy. You can talk to me, you know?"

"Just leave me alone!" he snaps.

My eyes drop to the ground as he shoots more words at me, but I grit my teeth and force myself to keep talkin'. I can't let him go on like this. "At least take a moment to think about what you're doing." And give me a moment to get my stuff together, I want to add, but I doubt the mess of stuff I'm carrying bothers him as much as it bothers me.

He pauses and slashes at a low-hanging branch. "I don't want to think."

"Buddy, you can't just charge up the mountain without a plan."

"Don't call me buddy."

"Sorry." Dang it, Barrett. Old habits are hard to break. "But take a moment to rest. Rushin' up this mountain ain't gonna do you any good."

He huffs and slashes at the branches again, sending cut leaves flying away in the breeze, but he stops moving. Improvement.

"Good." I settle down on a large rock and let everything fall to the ground. The whip. The backpack, which I unzip and turn upside-down, shaking everything out. A box of gauze. Some water purification pills. Plastic bags of jerky and dried fruit. A half-full water bottle. And most importantly, a magnesium fire starter.

Now that everything's out in front of me, I can figure out where everything goes, all while keeping an eye on Bryson to make sure he doesn't run off. He's not okay and both of us know it—but he's awfully tough for a thirteen-year-old. Something tells me he's been through some kind of trauma, 'cause he hardly ever really talks to me. I'd ask him to tell me and get it all sorted out, but I figure it's wiser to let him talk when he feels comfortable.

Or maybe you just don't want him to snap at you again.

I shudder. He's only a thirteen-year-old; I got nothing to be 'fraid of. I shake my head and focus my brain on the supplies. Most of it is food-and-drink related, so they can all go in the main compartment. Gauze and water purification are both about health, so they get their own pocket, while my whip needs to be easily accessible. If an attacker gets up close, its handle makes for a nasty club, but I'd rather scare them off at a distance if I can. That leaves the magnesium striker.

"What's that?"

"This?" I say, spinning the striker in my hands. "It's for starting fires."

"Not that— look!"

I lift my head—he's pointing at something about a hundred feet away, up in the trees. I squint. Is that—

"A treehouse!"

He's up and gone before I even get a chance to tell him to slow down, and so I sigh, zip my bag up, grab both of our bags, and follow him. I catch up to him at the base of a tree, and we stare up at the treehouse, which sits on a foundation of wooden planks nailed between three close trees, about eight feet off the ground. A rope ladder hangs down from its entrance. I could probably build this myself back in Ten.

Before I can protest—what is it's a trap, what if there's a mutt up there, what if—Bryson's already clambering up the ladder, all traces of moodiness now replaced by excitement.

"Wow!" he calls down from above. "This is so cool!"

I grin—this is the most childlike-ness I've ever seen in him, and it's relieving to hear him just be a kid. He's thirteen; he shouldn't have to make serious life-or-death decisions!

He pokes his head out. "C'mon!"

"Here—take your bag." I toss his backpack up to make climbing a bit easier and carefully climb up, making sure that the ladder holds my weight. I grunt as I pull myself up, stooping because the ceiling isn't high enough to let me stand. "Woah—this is a treehouse, alright."

"Can we stay here?"

"Maybe." I look around the wooden box. It's not a large space, perhaps about eight feet square, with a square cut-out window in the wall opposite the "door."

"There's only one way in, and we have the height advantage," he says, "If anyone tries to climb up, we'll just shove them."

"Well…" It's true, but if a larger group comes knockin' up these trees, there won't be much we can do. My whip is useless in such a small space. Bryson has a knife; I have the club. What can we do against a sword or spear?

"We can also pull the rope ladder up—we'll be safe."

Ultimately, it doesn't even matter what the reasoning is. It only takes a few more moments of looking at his hopeful face to crumble any bit of resistance inside. He's been depressed this entire time; I can't rob him of this excitement. Being in the trees at night also seems safer.

"Okay." I sigh. "Let's stay here tonight."

Tommy "Chaos" Chassis, 16, District Three Male

The river's crystal clear, flowing down idyllically, sparkling in the sunlight. It's also deadly to me since I can't swim, and as fun as it sounds, I don't know if a deathmatch with a deadly landscape is the place to learn. Now I wish I asked the Four boy to teach me in training. He seemed fun enough.

I settle for grabbing a smooth, flat stone off the ground and spinning it at the water's surface. To my great disappointment, it plunks and sinks. I know it's possible; I saw the Four boy skipping flat things across the swimming pool in training, but I still can't get it to work.

This Arena is such a bummer. I had hoped for something more like the concrete jungle of Three, where I'd be able to navigate the huge playground with ease. Not these trees. What do you even do with trees? There go my hopes of playing with a pressure washer. From what I could gather, pressure washers need an electrical outlet and a hose for water—and I don't think either of those exist in forests.

I round a bend, and my eyes light up. There's a fork in the river, and between the two distributaries are dilapidated grey shacks, mostly concrete with prominent rusty bars poking out from collapsed roofs. Each of the two branches of the main river has a bridge spanning the watery gap further down, and so I pick up my pace.

As I cross the bridge, it strikes me that this isn't just a random cluster of buildings. It's a small town, with a wide, weedy main street running down two rows of shacks. I amble down the street, kicking at pebbles in the way, and peek into one of the buildings, whose door must've rotted away. There's the metal husk of once used to be a stove, and I try the knobs. Nothing works. I also try the refrigerator, but I don't see what's inside because a foul smell spills out the moment I crack it open and I slam the door shut, coughing and backing away.

After the dud that was the first building, I poke my head into the smaller one right next to it. Amidst a pile of landscaping supplies—rakes, shovels, clippers, and the like—there's a red and black machine with wheels and a black wand, attached to the machine by a spiraling cord or tube. It looks to already be on; it's hooked up to a generator behind it.

A generator! A power source!

If I find a pressure washer, I could bring it here. I grab the wand, but I must've hit some trigger because part of the handle bends inwards. The machine brrrrrs to life and a stream of water shoots out of the wand, hitting the roof before it rains down on me. A laugh rips up from my stomach and I barrel over.

What luck is this?

I have a pressure washer!

Lannister Saint, 18, District One Male

Cleo rubs the disinfectant over her wound, wincing at the pain. I wrap the gauze around her arm, careful to press down hard enough but not too hard. "Good thing you got us to try the survival stations."

She grunts, only present enough to make sure I'm doing it correctly.

"Otherwise, you'd have to do this yourself," I say, thinking back to training. Jasmine and I struggled to apply it to our own arms because the angle was so awkward. We ended up giving up and just helping each other. "That's so much harder."

"I did it before."

That's right; she's from Four. She probably knew all this first aid stuff before she came here. "Then you know how annoying it is."

"I suppose." Her voice is absent; though she's physically present, her mind has wandered off elsewhere.

"What's on your mind?" I say. She gives me a wary look, searching my eyes. I shrug. "You don't have to say if you don't want to."

She sighs. "I'm just… not having a good time."

"Me neither." I flashback to the conversations with Jasmine, our breakdown early this morning, Jasmine's sparing of the Six girl. I can't argue with Cleo.

She cocks her head, watching me curiously. "Didn't you want to be here?"

"Didn't you?" I say, chuckling bitterly, "I thought I did, but…" I catch myself. Cameras might be on us right now. "I'm not enjoying it as much as I thought I would."

She snorts, but then she quickly composes herself again when she finds me staring. "That's… one way to put it."

"You know?" I say as I tie the gauze down. "I think we might be on the same page here. That's done too."

"Thanks." She gets up and stretches. "Maybe we'll talk more later."

I open my mouth to respond, but she's already gone. Devrell wasn't kidding when he said she was cold. She's not a literal rock like Zeus is, but she's more like an ice cube. It takes her a while, but she eventually warms up. Just look at her and Devrell. If she can warm up (slightly) to his antics, then I should be fine.

Back in training, we gathered during meals, but now, it seems like there's nothing holding us together. Alia sits on a rock in the distance, poking at the ground with her scythe. Zeus inspects the strange blue flowers that circle the field. Devrell runs up to Cleo, but she keeps walking, leaving him trailing her, trying to get her attention. Jasmine's sitting alone on the dirt in the shade of the Cornucopia, legs criss-crossed as she stares at something above.

I sit down next to her, breathing in the floral fragrance of perfume. It seems frivolous to apply perfume the morning of the Games, but it's so Jasmine that I can't help but smile. "What's up?"

"Oh! Hey!" She points to a holographic countdown with hours, minutes, and seconds above the Cornucopia. It reads a little over twenty-eight hours. "What do you think that means?"

"The countdown? I don't know… When does it end?"

"That's… around sunset tomorrow, I think."

"Then I guess we'll find out tomorrow."

She looks up at me with her crystal blue eyes, clouded with worry. "But what if it's something terrible?"

I snort. "This is the Arena. Of course it's going to be terrible."

"Maybe we should keep some extra food in our bags, just in case."

"Just in case what?"

"In case we all split up. We'll need to have enough food and water for the two of us."

I raise an eyebrow. "The two of us?"

She freezes. "I—"

"I'm just playin' with you," I say, patting her back, "Of course we'll go together if the alliance splits."

She releases the breath she was holding, her face softening again into a wistful frown. "I hope it doesn't."

"Me too." I think of Cleo's hesitant smile. Devrell's carefree laugh. Alia's bold grin. Zeus' cold smirk that sometimes thaws, ever so slightly. I don't want to leave any of them—yes, even Zeus. I think we've reached some level of understanding. But I look down and see Jasmine's hopeful eyes, ones that were only filled with dread days ago, and I know that I'd leave all four of them without a second thought… since we're District Partners and all.

I glance at the trees, and listen as bird songs fill the air. I can't deny that this place is rather beautiful in its natural glory.

Jasmine closes her eyes. "You hear the birds?"

"They're beautiful."

She leans over, laying her head on my shoulder, and I instinctively wrap an arm around her. She sighs, and I'm sent into a blissful realm where all I hear is the birds singing, the river flowing, and the wind humming, and I feel warmth radiating from her, filling me from head to toe—

A voice breaks the dream. "Hey!"

I retract my arm. She pulls away from me. Both of us whirl around, staring at Devrell.

He looks at me, and then at Jasmine, and then back at me in an awkward silence. "I'm sorry—I didn't realize I was interrupting." He puts both of his hands up and slowly backs away. "I was just wondering if you guys wanted to go explore with me, but I guess I'll go alone…"

"Oh—I'll go!" I say. "Just give me a moment to get my stuff, okay?"

His face lights up. "Great! I'll meet you at the bridge!"

I rush over to where I left my bag and weapon and then jog to the bridge to join him, but my mind keeps wandering back to that moment of bliss where it almost felt like the Hunger Games disappeared and we were just enjoying the beauty of this place. If only time froze right then and I never had to move on…

I wish…

Reuben Koled, 17, District Six Male

Evelyn and I crunch, crunch, crunch through the forest in silence. I tried getting her to talk earlier, but she just sniffled and I figured she wasn't in the mood. I can't blame her. I saw the boy from Two rip through Achan, and there's no amount of soap and water that'll ever scrub my mind clean of that horrendous sight. But she's taking it even worse, and at this rate, she's not gonna last much longer.

I swing my backpack around, pull out a bag of dried fruits, and extend it to her. "Hey. Are you hungry?"

She shakes her head.

"C'mon," I say, ripping the seal off the bag. "It's almost dinner time. You haven't eaten since breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

I sigh. "Did you drink some water?"

She nods. "A bit."

"C'mon. You gotta eat." I take a dried apricot out and place it in her hand. "Here. Eat it."

She obeys the command mechanically, tossing it in her mouth and chewing on it in absent chomps.

I eat one myself. "Hey… what's going on inside that head of yours?"

She brings her hand up to her mouth, nibbling on her nails. "I… I don't want to talk about it."

"You can trust me, right?"

"Yes…" she admits.

"So let's talk," I say, "If there's something on your mind, you only have a week or so before you won't have another chance to tell me about it."

She winces and then sighs. "It's all my fault."

"Sure. It's your fault that we have all these supplies," I say, "Evelyn—we're all set because of you, not in spite of you."

"But Achan's dead."

For a moment, I see Zeus, first hacking off Achan's arm and then cutting open his chest, and it turns my blood cold. I force myself to breathe, taking in precious oxygen that calms me down. "Well," I say, choking down bile. I can register the quiver in my voice. "Then it's a good thing 'cause we have one fewer mouth to feed."

She glares at me, gaping. "How could you?"

"I'm not sure if I actually believe that, okay? It's the only thing that makes me feel better about this whole mess."

She sighs. "You're… right. But it still feels horrible! Achan's dead because of me!"

"Evelyn—it's not fair to blame yourself for this."

"It's not fair to Achan that we pretend like it's okay!" she fires back, getting more and more worked up.

"You don't have to feel guilty about it."

"What else am I supposed to feel!"

"Just sad?"

"It's my fault!" she screams, shaking from head to toe. She stares at me for a moment, and then she kneels down on the pine needle-covered ground, burying her hands in her head.

I grab her by the shoulders. "Evelyn. Look at me."

She freezes up, staring back at me like a deer in headlights, tears dripping from her eyes.

"It's. Not. Your. Fault. The boy from Two killed him."

"But—"

"And if you don't keep that in perspective, you won't last much longer."

A stunned expression rolls over her face as she blankly processes. After a moment, she bows her head again and wipes at her eyes. "Y-You're r-right."

"There you go." I hold out the open bag of dried fruit again. "Now you have to eat, okay?"

She doesn't say anything, but the point must've been hammered into her head because she grabs a handful of dried fruits, which she slowly eats. I smile weakly. I wish I could say that everything will work out fine for us, but I can't. One of us is guaranteed to die, and odds are, both of us probably will die. This is the best I can do—keep our spirits high so we can do our best, whatever that may be.

Whatever that may be.

Dove Yee, 16, District Twelve Female

The sun sets. From the base of a pine tree, I watch the sky go from a cheerful blue to a blaze of orange and pink as the long shadows of trees fall over me. In the dim evening light, it's already hard to see under the tree cover, and a cool wind ripples through the woods.

I shiver. The temperature isn't particularly low, but I feel cold. I pull my knees close to my body and wrap my hands around them. There's the stain of red on my jacket. I'm not sure whether it's from Hass or Integra, and I'm not sure I want to know.

I close my eyes, but my pounding heart won't let me rest. I see Dad, sitting in his rocking chair, staring intently at the television. Did he see me kill? There's no way he didn't. Every death is caught on camera and replayed over and over again when Games footage gets slow. By now, he's likely seen me bring the knife down tens of hundreds of times. I wonder what he thinks.

That's a question I can deal with later if I make it out. I'll ride the train home and exit on the train platform, where he'll be waiting. Will he be disappointed that his "good little girl" turned out to be a vengeful killer, or will he just be glad to have me back? I'll deal with it once I'm out; I'm sure it'll be fine.

The harder question is what Mom thinks as she looks down from above, because no matter whether I live or die, I won't ever get to find out. In my mind's eye, I see her, picking peaches with me, singing me her favorite songs. I also see a very different Dove with her, one that genuinely did care about others, one that wasn't so… prone to anger. That Dove died with her mother—does that mean that she's looking down at me too?

There's a rustle. My eyes fly open; I scramble to my feet, gripping the knife. A squirrel runs by, and my breathing calms. Just a squirrel. I hate being alone. Without a friend, I have to constantly be on guard.

What happened to Marleigh?

Is she dead? It's possible that she was one of the five; she had the lowest training score. I was too preoccupied with Hass during the entire debacle at the Cornucopia. After the Bloodbath, I hung around the perimeter of the clearing for a little while, hoping to catch a glance of her, but she didn't show up. If only she were here… I might be able to rest. But she's not here, and I'm left alone, panicking at squirrels running through the underbrush.

Daylight is all but gone now, leaving only the faintest bits of orange visible through the trees. The birds fall silent, and cicadas begin to sing their sleepy evening song. I scoot over to the large bush growing near the base of the tree. Hopefully, it provides enough cover if the Careers sweep this section of the Arena. The pine needles that cover the ground prick at my skin, but with the jacket as a cover, it'll do well enough for a bed.

I've barely closed my eyes when the loud blare of trumpets makes me jump. It's the national anthem. I'd forgotten about the Fallen recap. I wriggle out of my cozy corner and into a patch of moonlight where I can see the sky, shining with the national seal.

Integra's sweet smile hits me before I've had a chance to prepare myself. She looks down on me, her eyes somehow still warm although her face is nothing but a hologram in the sky. If she looked angry, I think I would've been able to deal with it. But she isn't. There's not a trace of ill will in her expression, and that makes it all worse.

I haven't recovered from Integra when Hass appears with narrowed, crafty eyes. Though it's easier for me to handle, there's still a slight rumble in my stomach.

They deserved it. They hurt me. I grit my teeth, trying to steady my breathing, but I can't get the bloody knife out of my mind. I glare at Hass' stinkin' face. You deserved it. But then he's gone, and it's the boy from Seven.

Marleigh's alive. Relief wells up for a brief moment before it crashes down again at the realization, sinking deep, deep, deep in my gut.

If she's alive, then she must've ditched me too.

I wince, repressing a scream. How could she do this to me? I ball my hand into a fist. How dare she act so nice and sweet around me when she intended to ditch me this whole time? I grit my teeth. Oh, the things I'll do to her when I find her!

You're going to pay too.

Orysa Edrei, 16, District Nine Female

After the Seven boy disappears, we see Viyella, with a large "District 8" below her stern face. Her shoulders are straight and square; her eyes stare boldly down, as if she were about to scold the whole lot of us. Baize gasps and then falls silent. I want to ask if he's okay, but the anthem is loud and the atmosphere isn't right and I'm bracing myself just in case I see Bryson in the sky.

It wouldn't be your fault, Orysa. You did your best; he chose to leave you. Stay calm.

But I know in my gut that no matter how many reasons I have for not protecting him, I won't be able to take the guilt that'll come with his death. I could've done better. Cared better. Insisted better. My breathing's picking up its pace and my heart is pounding when Viyella disappears.

Don't be Bryson Don't be Bryson Don't be Bryson—

It isn't Bryson. It's the boy from Twelve. It feels so wrong but I'm glad that it's him and not him, that instead of a thirteen-year-old from home it's a seventeen-year-old from the distant reaches of Panem that I barely saw, let alone knew.

I'm glad. I hate that I'm glad. I shouldn't ever be glad that someone's dead, but that's exactly what I feel right now.

A gulp from Baize; he's averted his eyes, staring into the darkness where there (hopefully) isn't anyone else.

"Hey," I say, treading on eggshells. Will he snap? Is this even the right time to talk? It'd better be right because I'm going right in. "You and Viyella… Were you… close?"

He sniffles, ever so softly, almost so lightly that it could be mistaken for a wisp of the night wind as it rustles through the ominous woods. It takes a while, but he does eventually answer. "We… No. We weren't close."

"But it still hurts?"

"This is stupid," he sighs, stamping the ground. "She hated me."

That's news to me—she didn't seem like she hated him after he fell from the ropes course, when she rushed over to him in a panic. But he clearly isn't okay, so I let the topic slide. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He lifts his head, and the moonlight catches in his eyes, revealing the blazing anger previously obscured by the darkness of night. "It's not your fault. It's theirs."

Theirs? The Star Alliance? Whoever cut her down? Hass, for suggesting the foolhardy plan that got her killed?

The Capitol. The real enemy here. The one that got us all here in the first place.

"Let's worry about them later," I say. "You go to sleep. I'll watch for you."

He doesn't reply, but he lies down, using his backpack as a pillow, with the dark shadows as his only blanket. Long after his breathing calms, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling in gentle waves, his words circle round and round inside.

It's not your fault. I'll have to remember that. If Bryson falls… If Baize falls… it won't be my fault. It'll be the Capitol's. If I make it out, I will do whatever it takes to make them pay.

But for now, that's just fool's thinking. If it won't help me survive, it goes on the back burner. As long as I'm in the Arena, I'll play by the rules of the Game. I'll fight. I'll kill. Even though everything inside me hates the idea of hurting someone in need, I'll do it in order to get out and repay the Capitol for their "kindness."

At least, I hope I will.

Capitol

The Hunger Games control room was now calm after a long day of cutting from camera to camera, picking up interesting tidbits of conversation, and monitoring the equilibrium state of the Arena. Most Gamemakers sat around in various states of tiredness as the Panem national anthem played from the speakers, though a couple of the ultra-patriotic ones stood straight and tall, fingers in a salute. The large screen on the wall displayed the official footage that was being shown on television, and at the moment, it cut between shots of different tributes as they watched the Fallen Report. After the Twelve Boy's face disappeared, the anthem faded away, leaving a contented silence.

"And… that's a wrap for Day 1!" Adrastus called with forced enthusiasm as cheers broke out across the room. "Good job, everyone. Those on the Day Team are now dismissed until tomorrow morning."

He sighed and leaned back into his chair. Quiet, tired chatter arose all around him; many in the room packed up their briefcases and purses, saying their goodbyes, getting their stuff in order, grabbing a cookie from the refreshment table before they returned home for the night. Only the small Night Team would be left in the control center to catch any interesting bits of action that might happen while everyone else rested.

He yawned and stood to his feet, picking up his coffee cup and surveying the room one final time before he left the room himself amidst the evening salutations. But while most of those leaving took the stairs down, he rode the elevator up, closing his eyes to listen to the soft purr of the machinery and then the gentle ding of arriving at his floor and the shhh of the door sliding open, revealing his spacious office, which took up the entirety of the top floor. The adjustable lighting was set to dim yellow, meant to assist with sleep. He sighed, dropping his briefcase on the mahogany desk. Everything looked so… dreary. Although it had been his preferred late-night lighting option for decades, he wasn't quite feeling it this year.

For a moment, he froze in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do. Usually he'd go straight to bed, but his mind wandered restlessly and his heart thumped harshly and he knew that he'd just toss and turn if he tried to sleep. Even his physical body knew that he was in danger, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins left his exhausted body tense and stiff.

How do the tributes sleep?

He shook his head and settled on his desk, where a cup of kumquat and chamomile tea appeared at the press of a button. The hot herbal brew sent warm tingles all over his insides until they reached his fingertips, but it couldn't stop his racing mind, playing a million different disaster scenarios, each of which would end in his execution.

That's it. I have to sleep. He popped a sleeping pill, swallowed it with a large gulp of the now tepid tea, and leaned back, not even bothering to change or climb in bed. His eyes drooped, his mind fogged, his breathing steadied as the veil of sleep muffled the racing thoughts.

Ring! Ring!

He awoke with a start—it was his phone. His phone? The holographic screen wasn't any help; it displayed "Unknown Caller." Who could it be? Gamemakers would use the internal communications service. He glanced at the clock as the ringing continued. 12:12. Twelve minutes past midnight. He shook his head to clear it and cautiously picked it up.

"Hello. This is Adrastus. Who might—"

A cold, placid, male voice cut him off. "Hello, Gamemaker Beaufleur. We're calling you to issue a warning from the Red Blades."

When he heard the name of the terrorist organization, it was as if a sudden wind blew away the haze in his mind and every thought was clearer than crystal. He shuddered. "What—"

"We've sent a list of demands to you and the new President, and if these demands are not fully met in ten days… let's just say it won't end well for you."

His eyes widened as fire rose up inside his chest. "I'll have you know, if—"

"Thank you for listening."

"No—you listen to me!" he shouted into the phone. "If you think I'll—"

"Hello, Gamemaker Beaufleur," the voice repeated, looping back to the beginning. "We're calling you to issue a warning from the Red Blades."

He slammed the phone down on the desk, where a crack! silenced the voice. The idiocy! It was a pre-recorded message! And here he was, wasting his precious life trying to talk to a pre-recorded message! He brought his clenched fist down on the desk, where he sat seething, boiling, his mind only able to bring curses down on the terrorists, the Districtos, the ones behind the entire mess and his potential execution.

He took a deep breath to get his oxygen flowing, clearing his mind, and then he dialed the Security Office. Every beep from the device caused his heart to pump just a bit faster, his breathing to quicken just a bit more. After what felt like an eternity, someone picked up.

"Security Office."

"This is Beaufleur—there's another attack on the horizon."

Eulogies:

Hass Kirchoff (D5M), killed by Dove Yee (D12F) — 24th Place

I knew from the beginning that I wanted a non-Career that could stir things up a bit, so when submissions were a bit slow, I created Hass. I kind of wanted some kind of anti-Career alliance (I was going to do that in Under the Sun, but that story isn't happening), and this was just a perfect opportunity to put that idea into practice. I originally wanted him to be a little more conflicted inwardly, but it didn't come out right and I decided that I was okay with him being one scheming boy since he was my creation, after all.

Viyella Mackinaw (D8F), killed by Alia Bernold (D2F) — 23rd Place

When I was reading Baize's form, there were so many little things about his character that really, really annoyed me—and so I created Viyella, a responsible older sibling that didn't have much patience for complaining or whining. I'd be lying if I said she wasn't a bit of a self-insert, and she was always one of my favorites. Alas, there was always this underlying understanding that she was created to go in the Bloodbath, so it had to happen. I still really liked her character though… Plus her name was really nice and had an awesome flow to it.

Achan Combrush (D12M), killed by Zeus Strikon (D2M) — 22nd Place

I was running out of ideas for fillers when I made Achan, so I just thought back to high school and created a character that was authentic to most high schoolers I knew—somewhat whiny and lazy, yet smart enough that if they put their mind to things, they'd actually do really well. If you found him painfully relatable sometimes, then I succeeded.

Cedric McKowen (D7M), killed by Jasmine Softwing (D1F) — 21st Place

I also really, really loved Cedric. If Viyella was sort of a self-insert, then Cedric was a reflection of part of who I wish I was. I'm a super opinionated person, but I'm also usually too scared to be honest about what I think. Hence, Cedric was created, not to mention that Rina needed someone that would be blunt enough to tear some nice big holes in her mirror walls.

Integra Simms (D3F), killed by Dove Yee (D12F) — 20th Place

When I read Dove's form, I knew that I wanted someone to betray her to set her off, and so I created Zizania Rosales, the original D9F, a free-spirited girl that ditched Dove on a whim. Integra was actually originally supposed to be Chaos' kill—she was created to be a super compliant girl that went along with Chaos just a bit too far. But then Orysa was submitted (and I loved her too), and so I adjusted Integra's arc to replace Zizania's. I wasn't originally so attached, but then I wrote her Non-Reaping and I knew I was going to be sad… :(

So yeah. I killed off five fillers. I still have some fillers alive!

This has also been the longest time without an update. These longer Games chapters will probably come out once a week or so, though school's starting up soon so I can't say for sure. We'll also hear from Capitol peeps every time too, so keep an eye out for those!

Y'all winners of the meme competition need to claim y'all's prizes!

Thoughts?