Day 2: Precarious Plans

Zeus Strikon, 18, District Two Male

I twirl the knife in my hand in the early morning darkness, sitting on a crate at the mouth of the Cornucopia, soaking in the wonderful silence. Lannister was assigned to this watch with me, but even he's fallen silent, walking circles around the perimeter while the other four sleep.

It's tempting to grab my spear and do a quick stab stab stab stab, earning four more cannons while they're all asleep. They're my biggest competitors. It might not be the fairest or most "honorable" way to do it, but it's undeniably effective. The only potential hiccup is that if I don't get them all in one quick swoop, the rest will gang up on me—and that's not a risk I'm willing to take, at least not yet.

As for risks… I'm surprised that Alia hasn't left yet. I expected her to leave right after the Bloodbath, but she's stuck around for almost a whole day now. It's almost hilarious how I know she's gonna ditch us all and do her own thing but haven't done anything about it. I considered exposing her to the rest of the Alliance, but what good does it do me? All of them have to go sooner or later; there's no reason to single her out. Still, if she's going to leave, it'd be weird not to give her a little parting gift.

The faintest hints of pink peek at the edge of the horizon; dawn will be here soon. I glance at Lannister's silhouette, who's just about to disappear around the Cornucopia as he makes another circle. If I want to move, it has to be now.

Careful not to make any noise, I tread over to Alia's sleeping figure and pluck her bag off the ground, taking it with me back to my crate. Sure enough, there's a lot of food in here, mostly jerky and a box of crackers that will sustain her for at least a week. In addition to her bottle strapped to the outside of the backpack, there's a second full bottle inside. At the very bottom is a warm sleeping bag. No wonder she's stuck around. She wanted to take the best loot with her.

I glance up to make sure she isn't stirring, and then I begin my sabotage mission. First to go is the sleeping bag, which I carefully slash to ribbons and place back in the bottom of the bag, leaving only a small rectangle intact on top so that she won't suspect anything from a quick look or feel. Next is the jerky. I won't be able to remove all of it, but I can replace most of it with shreds of packaging, topping it off with some jerky and the box of crackers to hide that there's not much underneath. As for the water bottle, I hack a crack into the bottom and cover it with a random roll of tape I found, which should seal it just long enough so that she doesn't suspect anything until she leaves, after which the water will eventually dissolve the glue and spill out of the crack until all the water has leaked out.

I slide the bottle back in and step back, inspecting it in the grey morning light. It looks much like it did before I tampered with it. I smirk. Odds are, Alia will try to save these supplies for when she's alone, so she won't notice the changes until it's far too late. Once the bag is replaced, I return to my crate, just Lannister rounds the Cornucopia again, this time waving good morning. I'm in a good mood now, I suppose I'll respond. He's not a bad guy either. I curl up the corner of my mouth, and he grins.

From the ground, Cleo groans, groggily getting to her feet and stretching. I've noticed her wary eye on Alia as well; she seems to be on to something. When she notices me watching, she smiles weakly. "Mornin'."

"Watch Alia."

"Huh?" She turns to look, and then she looks back in confusion. Realization breaks across her sleepy face. "Oh… I'll talk to her about it today."

"Have fun." I shrug. Alia probably won't be open to talking, but if Cleo wants to go do it, all power to her. Best case, one of them takes out the other and I have one less major competitor.

Ugh. It sucks that I have to think like this, but it'll be worth it once I'm out. Sabotage, murder, deception… all in a day's work in the Hunger Games.

Tommy "Chaos" Chassis, 16, District Three Male

I'm on the Peacekeeper building again, a firebomb in hand. Suddenly, my walkie-talkie buzzes. "Gizmo to Chaos, over."

"Hmm?" I groan, waking up from the dream. "Chaos to Gizmo…" I try to sit up, but my head whacks something hard and I fall back down, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dimness. A low wooden shelf comes into focus above me. Where am I?

I roll out from under the shelf—that's right; I'm in the Arena, in the little shed of a building, near my precious pressure washer. Last night, I figured that the concealed corner of the shed was as safe as any other place and decided to nap there. It clearly was hidden enough since no one found me in the night, but now I have a horrible cramp in my back and all my joints crack when I stretch.

A shaft of morning light shines in through a crack in the ceiling, falling on the shiny red top of the pressure washer. I hadn't realized that these things were so big—how am I ever going to use it? I can't lug it around at all.

Crunch.

I freeze. There's someone nearby, just outside the shed. Crud. I was too loud, and now I'm stuck in this little corner, with nowhere to run.

On the other hand…

I kick at the rakes leaned against the wall, and they clatter to the floor. The footsteps outside fall silent for a moment, but then they come back, growing closer with every crunch of hiking boot on gravel road. My heart's pounding; adrenaline's coursing. The person stops right outside the doorway, and I grab the wand, holding it in aim, ready to fire the moment anything appears in the doorway.

This is better than any morning coffee!

A girl peers in, with short, messily cut black hair and an axe in hand. I press down and a jet stream of water shoots forth, bursting out of the wand and striking the axe, knocking it out of her hand and onto the ground, still in view from the doorway. She leaps back. Dang it. I was hoping to get a hit on her, but I suppose disarming her works just as well.

She calls from the other side of the wall, her voice soft and clear. "I'll leave you alone if you let me grab the axe."

I grin. "Maybe."

"Please. It's too early for this."

Too early for her? Just the right time for me. I zip my mouth. After a few moments of silence, there's a rustle and she appears again, further out, darting into the doorway, grabbing the axe. I press down on the wand, and this time, the bolt of water grazes her arm. Dang it. My aim sucks with this thing.

"F— —!" she huffs, disappearing again behind the wall. "You're disgusting!"

I laugh. "I never said I wouldn't do it."

I wait for a response, but to my chagrin, it never comes. Her footsteps slowly fade into the distance as she walks away. What a pity; I barely got to use this beauty at all! But I'll have more chances, I'm sure, and I'll be ready with better aim next time. I grab a box of cookies from my bag and sit down criss-crossed in the doorway, humming as I wait for another target to come by. Hopefully I'll see something interesting. It'd be a waste of a perfectly good pressure washer otherwise.

Elena Vogel, 18, District Ten Female

I wait, hidden in a ring of bushes right by the treeline, about ten feet away from the river. My knife is ready in my belt, where I can grab it in a flash. My rope is coiled and ready to throw. I blink, holding back a yawn—I got up in the middle of the night, but I'm well accustomed to early morning hunts. The sun's now rapidly climbing, casting morning light that twinkles in the river water.

Morning. Usually one of the best times to hunt because the animals are still groggy and bleary-eyed, less alert and more susceptible to hunters. At home, the animals are squirrels, deer, rabbits, and other wildlife of District Ten. In here, the animals are the other tributes, from the prize kill of the Two male to the small catch of the Nine male.

And I'm the hunter.

The Nine male. I suppose he isn't a small catch since Barrett's chosen to ally with him, but that shouldn't matter to me. Barrett's just another animal to be killed in here, one ranked as valuable as the District Twos, one that'll require my very best to bring down.

One that tried to comfort you the morning of the Bloodbath.

I grit my teeth, trying to wipe that morning from my memory, when my emotions roared too loudly and my strength slipped. In that moment, his hand felt reassuring, his voice soothing. That was a moment of weakness, one that won't happen again.

Now get out of your head and hunt.

I shut my eyes and let myself sink into the sounds of the Arena, the birds in the trees, the water of the river, the scampering of a squirrel up a tree, listening for the sounds of prey. I've been here for hours now, just in case someone tried to get water under the cover of night, but there's been no one. Some hunting days are just like that, when nothing shows up and I return home, head low and dejected. This better not be one of those days. The more of those days I have here, the longer I'll be here.

There's a rustle in the distance and my heart leaps. It isn't another one of the little forest creatures; it's too heavy, too sturdy. There's some humming too—the prey is male. Finally, my waiting has paid off. I crack open an eye and look through the lattice of leaves on the bushes. A foot here, a hand there, someone's walking by the river. As he approaches, I quiet my breathing, I close my eyes, I still myself fully, making myself as unassuming as a stone.

The rustling and humming reaches a max when the guy passes right by the bushes. Once his back is towards me, I open my eyes, ready to strike, waiting for him to walk far away enough so that he won't be able to immediately tackle me. It's the Eleven male, ambling by the riverbank with a stuffed backpack, completely unaware of my presence.

The time is right. I spring up from the bush, give the loop a good spin, and hurl it at him, looping it around his neck just as he whirls around in shock. He's got a machete in hand; he's diving for me. He curses. I leap away from his trajectory and yank the rope as hard as I can, tightening the loop around his neck. The machete falls, he falls to the ground face down, his hands reach for the rope, trying to force it to loosen as his breathin' turns to wheezin'.

15… 14… 13…

That's the time till he'll pass out, which is supposed to be ten to fifteen seconds. He's struggling; I loop around a tree and dig my feet in, keeping the rope as tight as possible.

6… 5… 4…

As soon as the District Eleven male stops struggling (three seconds earlier than expected, too), I leap over, slide the knife out of my belt, and plunge it into the back of his neck. It takes two tries, but the second stab cuts into his vertebrae and a cannon sounds. Good thing I studied up stabbing and the human body in training; it would've been horrible to stab blindly into him, hoping to hit a lucky spot.

I wipe the knife on his jacket, take a step back, and stare down at the corpse. There's… so much blood, so much more than when huntin' rabbits or squirrels or even deer. I don't mind it with animals, but this is just so much.

This is just another animal.

I grit my teeth and loosen the rope around his neck, part of which is soaked in blood. That's unfortunate. I'll soak it in the river later. I grab his backpack, carrying it as well as mine (should I take the machete? I don't have a hand for it), and back away, taking one look at the body before I'm off into the forests again, trying to put distance between me and what just happened.

It takes an hour before I can sit down. It was… distasteful, to say the least. But as ugly as the stabbing was, I'd much rather stab than be stabbed, and so I coil my rope again, checking my ready knife again, finding another vantage spot again, back on the hunt.

Cleodora Mulroy, 18, District Four Female

It's the second day, and there's no delaying the inevitable. No one is surprised when Zeus brings it up, but it doesn't make the idea any more appetizing.

"Time to hunt." His arms are crossed, sword in a scabbard on his belt. Somehow he switched from spears in training to swords in the Arena, and I've seen him with a throwing knife too. What else does he have up his sleeve?

Devrell perks up. "It's about time—who's watching the supplies?"

My eyes meet Lannister's, and then he breaks eye contact to look at Jasmine. I would volunteer, but I don't want to seem uneager to hunt. I'd be willing to bet that those two are thinking the exact same thing.

Alia volunteers. "I'll do it," she says, voice disappointed. "You guys go have fun."

Alia? I raise an eyebrow; I thought she'd be glad to go hunting. No one else seems to question it, though I swear Zeus has a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Do I speak? My gut tells me that I have to do something, that leaving her alone will be a huge mistake. But if speaking out will cause conflict…

Forget it. I told Zeus I'd talk to her, and this might be my last chance. "I'll stay too. I'll go tomorrow once my arm feels better."

Alia glares at me, probing me with her eyes, but her regular smile returns in a moment. If it bothers her, she's holding it in well. "Makes sense. There aren't any other alliances with more than two."

"Then we'll go with Zeus and Devrell," Lannister says, looking to Jasmine for confirmation. She nods.

Those two are already acting like a couple, and it's sad, almost pathetic. It'd be excusable for Reaped kids to try to find love before they die, but we were trained. We volunteered. A romance forms a deadly bond in which one's death will cause the other's. They should know better.

You should've known better too.

I sigh. I should've known that this was a bad idea, and so I have no room for judgment either, no matter how doomed a romance is in here. The four have decided to search the other side of the river, and they leave, marching along to a drinking song Devrell is singing—Lannister and Jasmine play along, at least. Zeus ignores the kid like he always does.

That leaves me and Alia. A wave of dread rushes over me, punching me in the gut. I can't pin my finger on it, but something's going to go wrong—and fast. But I said I'd talk to Alia, and so that's what I'm going to do, even if my gut screams at me to stay far, far away from her.

I find her sitting on a crate, watching the four disappear into the trees. Her right hand holds her scythe—and so I keep a safe distance—and her other hand holds the strap of her backpack. She's alert and poised, ready to move. Something's definitely not right.

I open my mouth, but she speaks first, eyes blazing with defiance that immediately makes my skin crawl. "So. You wanted to stay behind with me."

"I just wanted to get to know you a bit better," I say, forcing a smile, hoping that it'll de-escalate the tension. "Devrell talks about you a lot."

She averts her challenging stare. A sad smile lingers on her lips. "He's fun."

Good job, Cleo. "That's one way to put it. I'm glad you can keep up with him—'cause I can't."

"I guess you're going to have a fun time then."

Uh oh. What's she hinting at? I feel my hands getting sweaty; my body's bracing for the unknown. I have to choke out my words. "What do you mean?"

"I'm leaving—and you can't stop me." She stands up, scythe held up in a defensive but menacing stance.

"Woah, woah, woah," I say, taking careful steps back, my gaze darting around for an escape in case she comes after me. My trident is too far away; picking it up would expose myself to attack. Besides, it'd be my non-dominant arm against her dominant one. "Are you sure this is a good idea? Say you run into the Nine girl and Eight boy—both of them scored decently and it would be two against one."

"Don't try to talk me out of it" She glares at me.

I wither a bit inside. "Why can't we all just… work together peacefully among us until we have to fight?"

"I said—don't try to talk me out of it. The only thing I'm considering is if I should take you out." She notices my weapon, lying useless on the ground a distance away, and smiles wryly. "I'm sorry, but these are the Hunger Games."

She charges, but I'm ready. I dash around the edge of the Cornucopia, my feet hitting the ground at an angle to help me sprint in a circle; as long as I can stay on the opposite side of the golden horn from her, she can't catch me.

Her footsteps disappear; I can't hear her. Fear zips through my veins—I don't know where she is right now. Do I go left or right? I didn't foresee this issue with the Cornucopia; it's opaque, so she constantly has the advantage as the hunter. With my eyes darting between both edges of the horn, I back away slowly, every muscle in my body tingling.

My foot hits a rock behind me; I lose my footing. I curse under my breath as Alia bursts out from the left side of the horn, swooping in like a bird of prey. I drop to the ground and roll as she brings the scythe down. With my injured arm, I shove her, using her momentum to knock her off balance. My arm erupts in pain again and she curses.

She doesn't fall, but the second it takes her to regain her footing is all I need to scramble off the ground and sprint for the river. I don't know if she can swim, but this is my best hope at this point; she'll wear me out eventually here. Without another thought, I dive into the water, kicking and propelling myself through the clear water. It's fresh water; I can open my eyes here without any sting, but I don't pause until I slip out of the water and crawl up onto the other grassy bank, my fingers digging into dirt and grass.

I look back; Alia's standing on the other bank, either unable or unwilling to swim. I finally catch my breath. There are two bridges, and if she comes down one side, I'll rush across the other.

"Please—" I call, panting for breath, "Just give up for now."

She narrows her eyes, her lips in an aggravated line. "I don't think so."

"You can't catch me like this."

"Shut up!"

"Fine." She won't let up; her pride's been wounded. And so we stand on opposite sides of the river, with me in an excellent defensive position. She can't catch me, but I'm stuck here, without a weapon. If anyone comes out of the trees behind me, I'll be a dead tribute. All I can do is wait and hope that the other four come back soon.

Waiting. I can do that.

Bryson Fields, 13, District Nine Male

The Star Alliance is gathered at the base of the tree, staring up at us. The ladder's pulled up; they can't get in. But then one of them lights a match.

Smoke. Fire. Burning. Heat. I'm dying.

I wake with a start from the nightmare, shaking my head to get the images out. Barrett is reorganizing his backpack, and all his supplies are strewn on the floor of his corner of the treehouse. Last night, before bed, we decided that that side was his and that this half was mine. I thought that I could maybe convince him to stay here longer—because who doesn't love a treehouse?—but now I'm not so sure.

He smiles. "Howdy!"

I've never heard that greeting before I met him, but I play along, rubbing my eyes. "Howdy…"

His face lights up. "There 'ya go. Get something to eat, maybe?"

I rip open a granola bar. "Whatcha doin?"

"Nothin', really. My backpack's just a big mess."

"Didn't you organize it yesterday?"

He smiles sheepishly. "Sure did, but it didn't work. Everything fell together, so I'm tryin' again."

I take another bite of the granola bar, but I keep an eye on him. Watching him so meticulously reorganizing his stuff is almost unnerving, leaving an uneasy rumble in my gut. Nothing about him makes sense—people simply aren't this nice. What does he want from me? My strength? I look pathetic compared to him. My skill? He clearly isn't dumb; he got out of the Cornucopia with an excellent haul.

In my mind, I draw a t-chart on the wall, with the left side labelled "High-Functioning Psychopath" and the other side labelled "Something Else". On one hand, he's been stalking me since he saw me. He kept looking at me during the Chariot Rides. He searched me out on the first day of training—he's clearly targeting me for some reason. He's neurotic with his organization, obsessing over whether the water purification pills go with the water bottle or the medicine.

On the other hand, he's… really nice. He keeps trying to give me hugs—and I let him sometimes. Is that creepy? I'm not sure. When I snap at him, he looks sad—but is it an act or is he actually sad? There's no way a guy like him gets affected that easily.

He zips up his backpack, satisfied with the new system, and finds me staring. "You all right?"

I gulp and avert my eyes, my cheeks burning. If he is a psychopath and he realizes I'm onto him, then I'm in big trouble. I wrack my brain for something—anything—to redirect the uncomfortable question. Treehouses… Granola bars… Rope ladders… Dream. Bad dream.

"I-I think we need to move somewhere else," I sputter.

He cocks his head—is he holding in a laugh?—but he doesn't question it. "I thought you wanted to stay here."

"I… changed my mind," I say. He just stares at me, confusion written all over his face. Now I have to dig myself out of this mess. "Being in a treehouse is really dangerous, you know? Like if the District Seven girls comes over and cuts down the tree while we're asleep, we'll be doomed! Or what if some lights a fire! Then—"

"It's fine," he says, laughing, "We can move—you're right."

"…Oh."

"Did you sleep okay?"

"I…" Do I tell him? "Yes. I slept okay."

"Good," he says, eyes twinkling. "I thought it'd be fun to just stay here one night."

Fun? Now I'm even more confused. Is that seriously what he's thinking about? I'd add it to "High Functioning Psychopath," but that doesn't fit quite right. But I'll worry about that later. Even if he is a psychopath, I'm probably the least of his concerns right now with the Star Alliance running around.

You just keep telling yourself that, Bryson.

Marleigh Gaskawee, 18, District Five Female

The Arena is dotted with treehouses. I've spent an entire day moving, moving, moving and I've counted… Five? Six? Some of them are tiny, with just enough space for one person to stand. One of them is a tree palace, with two rooms inside, a balcony around the entire thing, and two ladders. When I saw the first one, I thought it was a trap. But then I saw the next, and then the next, and then the next…

But why? Why would the Gamemakers want everyone to have access to treehouses? If they want everyone in a treehouse… then they must want everyone off the ground? That doesn't make sense—everyone would be isolated!

In the corner of my eye, I spy the corner of another treehouse poking out of a particularly dense group of trees and bushes. Cautiously, I approach, tiptoeing on the pine needle-covered ground, just in case there's someone inside. Instead of a rope ladder, this one has little planks nailed to a tree by the door. I wait for a moment, listening for voices, rustles, anything that would give away a tribute's existence.

Birds. Wind. Woodpecker. No tribute.

I climb up, one plank at a time, and peek in. I have to admit, this one's rather charming. There's a skylight in the ceiling, so it wouldn't be a good place to be when it rains, but I step into the square of light in the center of the wooden floor and stare past the layers of waving branches up to the blue sky, dotted with little puffy clouds.

So beautiful! Jagan would love this. He always talked about how the factories of Five kept us from seeing the blue skies. If only he were here…

A branch snaps—there's someone outside. Cautiously, I inch towards the doorway and peek out. In the distance—pushing through a clump of bushes, carrying two backpacks and a yellow energy drink—is Dove.

My heart leaps. Dove! She was so nice in training; we both just wanted to not be alone. I might not be alone anymore!

But then I remember the Bloodbath, the way she brutally murdered Hass, the blood flying onto her jacket, the horrible, horrible smile.

And that smile is on her face right now.

I break away from the doorway and press my back against the wood wall. What do I do? If I go out, will she kill me? Why would she ever want to kill me? I don't even understand why she killed Hass. Sure, he caused Integra to break their alliance, but that isn't reason for murder, is it?

None of this makes sense, but nothing's made sense in a long time, not since the Reaping (which also doesn't make sense)—and I know that what Dove does has never made sense. The footsteps approach. I have to get out! I can't go out that door; she'll see me. Emergency exit, Emergency exit, Emergency exit…

The skylight.

There's no time for hesitation. I first sling my bag (quietly) on top, and then I grab the edge of the hole in the ceiling and jump, using the momentum to crawl on top. So that no one from the ground sees me, I inch away from the skylight and lay flat on the roof.

A female grunt. A rustle of a bag. Footsteps. Dove's in the treehouse right below me. I slowly suck in a breath, almost too scared to breathe as my heart pounds and sinks and flies and travels the world.

The footsteps stop, but she's still in there. Dang it. Now I have to find another way down—or just be trapped on the roof above the girl that brutally tore Hass apart. Moving as quietly as I can, I roll over to the edge and plant my foot on a sturdy-looking branch. I pick up the backpack. The zipper pulls rattle against the bag. I freeze, my blood as cold as ice. I swear time stops.

"Hello?" Dove calls from inside, her voice so sweet I could almost forget what happened yesterday. "Anyone there?"

I want to respond, to say I'm here, to be a decent human being. But I force myself to remember Hass.

"I won't hurt you."

Don't believe her… Don't believe her… Don't believe her…

She's moving around again. Her fingertips appear through the skylight—she's coming! I grab the backpack and lower myself from branch to branch, creating a huge rushing and cracking as I brush past leaves and break twigs and clamber down. Once I'm closer to the ground, I jump. The air rushes past me for a brief moment and then my feet hit the ground, knocking the air out of me.

Before I've had a chance to catch my breath, before I've figured out where I'm going, before Dove has a chance to catch me, I run. The wind carries her voice after me. "Marleigh! Marleigh!"

I feel so mean, running away from her, but I plug my ears and plunge through the bushes and push past the trees, holding the image of the bloody knife in my head, going on and on and on…

Rina Alcott, 18, District Seven Female

It stings. The bolt of water barely grazed my right forearm, but it tore off my skin in an inch-long strip that stings. It was a terrifying white for a moment, but now, half a day later, it's swelling and burning and ah! I've dealt with injuries in District Seven—work-based injuries are common—but I have no supplies except my axe and the edible roots I dug up in the woods.

That d— — b— — from Ten. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't be in this mess. Cedric would be alive. We'd have supplies. And my arm wouldn't be stinging. That girl. I hate her. I want to scream, to yell, to express how much I want her dead. But I won't—or I can't. My throat won't let the words out as my mind relentlessly tries to squash the anger that keeps rising up, much like a lid trying to hold steam in a pot of boiling water.

The wind rushes by, whistling past my wound and sending another eruption of fiery pain up my arm. I yelp and slam my back against the rough bark of a pine tree, sliding down until I'm sitting on the ground, bringing down with me a shower of bark shards. My finger claws at the pine needle-covered ground, shimmering with a dappled coat of midday sunshine, filtered through the tree cover. Not beneficial… Not beneficial… Not beneficial…

The pain. I can't do this, not with this burning that gets triggered by practically everything. I take off my jacket and—Be strong, Rina—wind it tightly around my arm, gritting my teeth to hold back the scream, holding myself still until the burning subsides to a breathable volume.

A yelp. A burst of footsteps, of rustling clothes, of breathing. My brain whirs through the list of remaining tributes. There's only one group that large in the Arena—it's the Star Alliance.

I grab my axe and run, looping through the trees, jumping over logs, sprinting until the wind and I are one and all I can think of is run. For a moment, I see my younger self, running through the similar pine forests of Seven, laughing as I played tag with the neighbors, long before my mother fell ill and my father disappeared and I became the Rina I know. But here, the consequence for getting caught isn't just being "It." It's the ceasing of existence, the end to even being qualified to be considered a person. No one in Seven talks about past dead tributes.

But what do I do?

I could outrun them; I did it before. But they're fast, they're trained, and they're coming up behind me. Plus my arm still hurts like crazy. For once, my lack of supplies is actually helping me; I don't have anything but my axe to slow me down. I whisper a spiteful thank you to that girl from Ten. In some twisted way, not having supplies has become beneficial.

But I still need a way out. As I scurry through the forest, I send my mind down every possible path, searching, thinking, piecing puzzle pieces together that don't form any sort of coherent picture…

Girl from Ten. The idea hits me. She dragged me into a fight. I'm going to drag that Three boy into this one. He deserves it. I break out from the forest and dash over the bridge across the river. The ground underneath me goes from pine needles to grassy soil to wood and finally to gravel as I enter the abandoned logging town.

A left. A right. And then straight on, to the little shack next to the building with spoiled food. I catch a glimpse of that boy's green jacket as I whirl past the doorway but I don't dare; I'm still being pursued. A jet of water sprays right behind me, bulleting through my hair. There. I knew he'd shoot, and now the Star Alliance will stop to see what's inside. Just a little further…

After another minute, the footsteps cease. Their voices grow distant; they've stopped in front of the shack where the Three boy is hiding with his pressure washer. Pausing in a back alley to catch my breath, I bend over, my hands on my knees, leaning back against the concrete wall.

I survived. And partially thanks to that Ten girl, even more beneficial than I thought ever possible. I stifle a laugh—I must still be on the adrenaline high—oh, the irony! Take that! I still haven't forgiven you, though.

Devrell Sibley, 18 District Four Male

It's Chaos! Literally—in the most literal way possible! We're staring at him, and he's cornered in the little tool shed. He's staring back at us, his hand holding something behind him. And he's smiling?

I wave. "Hey!"

"Good morning!" he says, grinning widely. "Enjoying the Arena?"

Jasmine grumbles something about getting it over with. Lannister laughs and then covers his mouth, trying to stifle the awkward guffaw that's trying to escape.

I snort. "Yeah—I guess. Haven't found any ice water, though." Chaos laughs. Zeus glares. I shrug. "Don't you take cold showers anyway?"

Zeus rolls his eyes, unamused, and raises his sword. "Sorry."

"Nah," Chaos says, "I'm good. You all should be sorry."

Before any of us can react, he whips out the black wand of a pressure washer and shoots a blast of water. Pressure washer—we have those in Four. Those wounds are not to be messed with. I leap back, crashing into someone and falling backwards. Jasmine screams from under me.

The laser beam of water hits Zeus first, who deflects the stream momentarily with his sword before Chaos sends the water blasting past the edge of his abdomen, tearing a hole through his jacket and shirt and cutting a gash in his side. Zeus grunts and backs off. I scramble up, but then I duck and bolt out of the doorway as the beam of water shoots over and then around me. Lannister yanks Jasmine out of the way as she stumbles to get up and they end up up tumbling into a heap on the ground.

"That m— f—," Zeus mumbles, glaring at the doorway. He pokes his sword into the opening, waiting… waiting… waiting… but nothing happens. Chaos doesn't react.

"You still in there?" I yell.

Silence. Tense silence that digs at my gut. There's a rattle from inside, and then everything falls silent again.

"That's it," I say, "I'm gonna go see."

"Don't!" Lannister says, "He'll blast your head off."

"You'll see," I say, grinning. I slip off my shoe and poke it into the doorway by the ground, waiting for the blast. Nothing happens. "You there?" I look back at Lannister, who shrugs, wide-eyed and tense. I stick my hand out, and then my arm, and then I quickly glance in.

Chaos is gone. All that remains of him is the pressure washer and a hole in the back wall. Zeus curses. Jasmine sighs in relief.

"You think we could move here?" I say, picking up the wand. Three pairs of eyes stare back at me blankly, almost a little annoyed. I sigh. If Alia were here, she'd love the idea of having the pressure washer—but I'm stuck with these three. Zeus is never amused. Jasmine just looks stressed—and so her kissy-kissy partner looks stressed too. "Fine then. Be boring."

Oh well; I guess we're returning to the Cornucopia. Maybe we'll be back another day.

Alia Bernold, 17, District Two Female

The sun's going down, and I can't catch that d— — girl. We've looped around the river more times than I can count, but I still can't get her. There's got to be a way; I've wracked my brain all day. But nothing comes to mind, and so I cross a bridge again, watching her cross the other one.

I bite my lip. It feels like my body's burning with anger—as the girl, at the Gamemakers for building two bridges, at myself for failing. I can't accept this failure; I just can't. But there's no way forward.

There's a yelp in the distance as four figures exit the forest. Alia—you failure! I don't dare look at Cleo; I don't want to see the look of superiority as she realizes that she's been saved. Devrell's barreling towards us right now, coming to her rescue.

"You were lucky." I growl in her direction, unable to lift my head and look her in the eye. I glance at the rapid approaching figures one last time before I scramble backwards, carefully weaving my way around the rocks that could trip me, pausing at the mouth of the Cornucopia, grabbing my backpack, and then running, running, running into the forest.

Why are you running?

I curse. Stupid Alia. Weak Alia. Failure Alia. You had one job—how could you let the girl get away? Of course she'd run to the river, you idiot! She's from fricken' District Four! Something grips my heart, twisting it until all I want to do is turn around, face them head on, cut them down one by one until all of them are gone, eviscerated on the ground, and I have the full spotlight, the full show, the one that I never got no matter how hard I worked for it or how much I deserved it, the one that my sister forever stole from me—

But I can't. I'm not stupid; I can't face all of them. I bang my fist against a tree—how could I have been such an idiot? As the sun sets, I linger at the base of an old pine tree, staring up at the sky. It's dark. The anthem should play soon, and there won't be any deaths—all because of my failure. I promised the Capitol a good show; I've been nothing more than a bumbling idiot.

You have to do better.

But the anthem doesn't play. A bell rings. A wolf howls.

Jasmine Softwing, 18, District One Female

We didn't get anyone on the hunt today. My conscience is clear, I haven't had to kill anyone yet—other than that boy that tried to kill Lannister. The accusing voice in my head is quieter. I saved the girl from Six, Evelyn. I've done more good than bad. Yet this relief also feels wrong. Do I even love my parents if I won't do what it takes to get back to them? Do I love my sister? Do I love my friends?

While Devrell and Lannister make sure Cleo's okay, I wander off to the river; perhaps it'll clear my mind. I dip my water bottle into the water and draw it back up, full of mountain spring water.

"Hey— Are you okay?"

I'm staring at him and he's staring at me and I want to talk but words fail me and he just keeps gazing. I look away—is that a giggle that escapes my lips? He chuckles awkwardly.

A bell rings, echoing ominously back and forth between the mountains. My eyes dart back to the Cornucopia, where the countdown has hit zero, flashing red. A wolf howls.

"We have to go," I say, springing up from the ground, trying my best to screw the cap on as fast as I can but splashing water everywhere in the process. We rush back to the Cornucopia, where the other three are, firmly gripping their weapons.

Devrell darts around as he searches the forest in a panic. "What do we do?"

I wrack my brain, trying to remember anything about wolves. "They hunt in packs… Could we fight them off?"

"Maybe if we used the Cornucopia," Cleo suggests. "We could barricade ourselves in it. Or even climb on it—but wolves can jump and…"

I glance at the sharply slanted sides. Maybe two or three people could be safe up there, but we'd have to find a way up the slick, steep sides. We could hoist each other up, but no one's going to volunteer to stay down here.

"They're here!" Devrell shouts, pointing at the forest, where there's a tail here and a head there among the trees.

"The Cornucopia mouth it is," Cleo says, backing towards the mouth, gripping her trident securely with her slightly trembling hand.

Lannister gives me a wry smile. "Promise not to die just yet?"

I gulp. "M-Maybe. I'll try."

The five of us stand in the mouth of the golden horn, weapons out, facing the wolves that slowly emerge from the trees, their eyes glowing in the moonlight. My heart sinks. There are so many of them—at least two dozen. I don't remember wolves travelling in such big groups, but these are mutts and all rules are gone.

We stare at them. They stare at us. I wipe my sweaty hand on my jacket; I'll need a solid grip on my rapier. My heart pounds, my arm quivers; I can hear Lannister's heavy breathing.

But they don't move. The largest one of them all—the alpha wolf—walks further out of the woods, but he stops at the ring of blue, bell-shaped flowers and sniffs. He lifts his terribly majestic head to the moon and howls, sending a chill down my spine—

But then he leaves, leading most of the wolves with him. A couple stay behind, but they sniff the flowers and retreat.

"Those d— — flowers," Zeus mumbles, eyes wide. A smirk quickly replaces the shock. "Have fun, Alia."

Anetha Layton, 18, District Eleven Female

I charge through the underbrush, crashing through bushes and under branches and through ferns. The wolves are somewhere behind me. I don't know how close they are and I don't want to look back and see. My trusty shovel might be able to take out one of them, but a pack? Nah—I'm fine with runnin'.

The howls were distant, but now I can hear their light footsteps, which layer together to form a rushin' sound of death. That's it; if I don't get off the ground, I'll be gone. Up ahead, I spy the silhouette of a solid box in the trees, backlit by the moonlight. A tree house! I leap for the ladder, dropping the shovel, and scramble up, kicking at the wolves that leap at me from below. A claw scrapes my leg. I scream and kick it in the nose, climbing up, up up.

But the treehouse isn't empty. The moonlight streaming through the window falls on the face of the girl from Seven.

Rina Alcott, 18, District Seven Female

It's the girl from Eleven. For a moment, I just stare at her. She just stares at me.

"Please," she says, "Let me stay here until the wolves leave."

I can't move—I didn't expect anyone to come charging up that ladder—and I so I keep staring. What do I do with her?

"You fine with that?"

I'm sure Cedric would let her in; he was always so trusting. He'd forget that we're in a death match, that sparing anyone could be sealing your own death. She's unarmed too. The wolves are barking down below on the ground; I don't want to listen to someone screaming as the wolves tear them apart. I open my mouth to say yes.

But then the picture of training appears, of her and her District Partner, saying something about "cutting them down first." She's made it clear that she's fine with killing me. And now I'm stuck again.

I stand up and take slow, careful steps towards her. Her dark eyes shine in the moonlight, begging me to let her in. My thoughts swing back and forth like a pendulum, increasing in frequency as the wolves yelp louder and louder..

Tick, helping her's the human thing to do… Tock, these are the Hunger Games… Tick, Cedric would want to save her… Tock, she's mentioned killing both you and Cedric…

Tock it is. I kick her in the face and shove her back. She screams, falling down, down, down to the ground, where the wolves yelp in pleasure. I tear my eyes away, stumbling back away from the doorway, but it's too late and I catch a glimpse of a wolf ripping her arm off her body, sending blood everywhere.

I yell, plugging my ears to get the girl's screams out of my head, crumbling into a corner and curling up into a ball, screaming… screaming… screaming…

A cannon sounds, and I cautiously pull my hands away from my ears as the wolves disperse, growling, howling, searching for their next victim. Though it falls silent here again, I stay balled up in the corner, frozen, unwilling to move lest I accidentally look out the door and see the mangled pieces of her body.

And the screaming. I still hear the screaming.

Capitol

The entire Yeh family sat on the couch, unwilling viewers of the violence playing out on screen, little Vera clinging to Rufus' chest. The Capitol required mandatory viewing for two hours every night, the only exceptions being those on death's door or younger than one year old.

"These wolves rove the Arena at night," a Gamemaker said on screen in an interview, "Picking off those unlucky enough to be left on the ground."

The camera cut to shots of various tributes hiding in trees, on buildings, in treehouses, from the boy from Three on a dilapidated roof in the old abandoned logging town to the girl from Two sitting in a tree to the alliance of the girl from Nine and the boy from Eight, squeezed into a single-person treehouse, staring with terror down at the wolves below.

Rufus' heart sank when the Seven girl shoved the Eleven girl to the wolves. There were only ten minutes left of mandatory viewing, just ten minutes more until they could turn off the television and go to sleep, until they could hide little Vera once again from the cruel, cruel world around them. Alas, they had no choice. His daughter wailed as the wolves disembodied the Eleven girl. He gripped her tightly in his lap, covering her eyes and ears as she screamed and cried along with the girl on screen, who was being so mutilated that he himself had to close his eyes.

"Shh…" he mumbled, whispering in Vera's ear as the television blared the screams of the dying girl, chilling him to the bone. "Daddy's right here. Everything will be okay."

An alarm rang; mandatory viewing was over. Silvia lept for the remote and shut the television off, cutting off the screaming, leaving only the little girl's terrified whimpers. She picked their daughter up off of Rufus' lap and carried her over to the bedroom, whispering comfort to the girl—don't cry, we'll be okay, you're safe here, no one will hurt you.

Rufus himself plugged his ears for a moment, trying to drown out the screams as well. After a few moments, he arose shakily. Would he even be able to sleep? He could hear Silvia sushing Vera from the other room—his little girl was struggling too.

But Silvia. She had been gone all day without explanation, even though both of them were off until the Games were over, another of the Capitol's ways of treating the Games like a celebration. Take a couple days at work and enjoy the show! He snorted. Some show.

Was she up to something again? A few weeks ago, he wouldn't have doubted her, but now, he wasn't so sure. First was the Gamemaker bombing, which she herself admitted to doing. Then she invited him to help her bomb the Tribute Parade. A pattern was forming, and he didn't like it.

Soon, Vera's cries became a whimper and then the whimpers disappeared into the bliss of sleep. Silvia returned from the bedroom, exhaustion written all over her face.

Rufus sighed. "We… We need to talk."

"About what?" Unlike normal, she didn't immediately seize up, as if bracing for impact, the way she usually did whenever he brought up an uncomfortable topic. She simply sighed, resigned to whatever was to come.

"About what's going on."

Silvia bristled, but she didn't snap, or rant, or even give an explanation. "You don't need to know."

His heart sank. Even though they disagreed, they used to be able to at least talk. "Silvia—"

"I'm not telling you," she said, words like icicles that dug into his heart. "It's pointless." With it, she turned away, stepping back towards the bedroom. "I'm going to bed."

She's just going to leave? Shocked, he couldn't move, and then a fierce wave of this isn't okay surged through his body. "Pointless?" He heard his voice rising, felt fire creeping up his veins. "You're going to kill us if you don't talk!"

She whipped around, eyes blazing with pained fire. "Do you think I like hurting you, Rufus? Who do you think I am—a sociopath that only cares for my own vision?"

"What else am I supposed to think?" he huffed, his fire doused by a bucket of ice water that just left him sizzling—and stinging. "You… You're different. All you ever think about is 'Red Blades' this and 'Red Blades' that. What happened to you and me? Our family?"

"I…" She sniffled, wiping at her eyes. "I'm doing this because I love you, okay?"

Her words felt rehearsed and cold, not from the heart but from a mind that was trying to placate her annoying husband. A hint of wetness tugged at the corner of his eyes, and he averted them, staring at the moldy carpet. "Some love."

The words were heavy in the air, sitting like a titanium wall that separated the two. Suddenly, warm arms grabbed him into an embrace. He returned the hug, gripping her tightly, looking down into her teary eyes as she looked back at him. He leaned down, but before he reached her, Silvia's lips met him halfway and they kissed, lingering in that precious moment where the world was rainbows and butterflies instead of wolf mutts and bombs. He breathed her in, which sent him back years and years to when they first met, to when they first fell in love and promised to love each other forever.

But then she pulled away, leaving his entire body cold, empty, alone. "I love you, Rufus," she said, choking on her words. "I really do. You'll just have to trust me."

He opened his mouth to answer, but he never got a chance.

"I won't tell you anything because you're too spineless to do anything about it—and that's okay. I still love you. But I'm fighting for our freedoms, our rights." She sighed. "If that means that we'll be separated until the day we're finally free, then so be it."

She turned around and left, leaving him staring after her. The words stung, yet he longed to be back in that kiss, where it felt like they had never fought. Before long, little bits of resolute fire crept back up amidst the sea of despair that clouded his mind. He bit his lip. Silvia was trying to hide, but he wasn't about to just let her go.

I'm not giving up so easily.

Eulogies: No Fallen Report, but it's the end of the day.

Naaman Rhus (D11M), killed by Elena Vogel (D10F) — 19th Place

When planning the bloodbath, I thought it'd be cool to have someone that pretended to die, and so Naaman was born, a filler for that one single purpose. From that idea, I tried to make a scenario where people would actually believe that he died in the bloodbath, and that's where his dysfunctional relationship with Anetha came from. To be honest, his personality was the fuzziest out of all the fillers for me; I never wrote it out fully. But oh well, I created him to be a plot device and he did his job well.

Anetha Layton (D11F), killed by Wolf Mutts, credited to Rina Alcott (D7F) — 18th Place

Biggest surprise, maybe? There was so much I would've loved to do with her; she was an awesome character. She wasn't exactly a nice person, but she was fiercely protective of her loved ones and she wasn't mean for the heck of it—she had to take on that facade for her family. She might've gone to the very end if she weren't a filler. That's right; I created this girl too. If one of y'all had submitted her, I would've for much later on (or even Victor), but I wanted y'all's submissions to dominate most of the Games. I'll miss her a lot, though.

A/N The chapters keep getting longer… As the tributes fall the word count will go down. My goal is to get the story done by the end of August, but we'll see.

Predictions? Feelings? Thoughts?