Day 6, Part 1: Strained Silence

Capitol

In the blackness of early morning, long before the sun even dared to show its face on the horizon, a lone figure dressed in black crept around the back of the Gamemaker tower. The security lights were out; the ones in charge of electrical sabotage had done their job well, creating a power outage in buildings around the City Circle, obscuring any actions under the cover of darkness.

A broken vent, a portable ladder, and Silvia was in the building, crawling through the dusty vents, pausing every so often to shine her tiny flashlight on the air duct plans of the building, given to them by their man inside. She paused at an intersection, checking again, turning the map every which way until she regained her bearings, looking between the three-way split. Cold air blew at her from one of them, ruffling her tied-back hair with wind that coated her skin and clothes with dust.

A left? No, a right.

This was taking too long; she needed to be out before all the lights came back on outside, trapping her in the ventilation ducts. Teeth gritted behind closed lips (to keep out the dust), she scrambled further up, further in. Every so often, she peered down through vents at closets and conference rooms, bathrooms and break rooms, each of them fancier than any Districto was even allowed to have.

After what felt like a laborious eternity of dust and wind and rooms, the right one appeared under her, a cubicle-filled office barely lit with security lights, every wall washed with frivolous ocean designs, almost like something a rich parent would paint on their child's wall. The force field technician office. Before she made the jump, she felt around in her pocket for their weapon, a small bug to be placed under the stand of a holoscreen. She took a slow, deep breath through the black neck gaiter. There shouldn't be any need for worry; their inside man had given control of the security cameras to her teammates outside.

A handy wrench, a careful slide, a soft landing. She was in. She scurried across the room to the managerial desk and felt around under the desk until she felt the hard knobs of the holoscreen stand, where she taped the bug.

As smoothly as an eagle, she swooped back across the dark room, up a desk, into the ducts, where she retraced her steps until she was out again, scuttling away from the City Circle as the sun peeked its head over the horizon.

Alia Bernold, 17, District Two Female

Though it's still dark, I cautiously descend from the tree I stayed in for the night, one rough branch at a time. Are the wolves still out? I hope not; I don't have the time to wait till day. More than anything, I need another kill under my belt.

Five days since the last kill, since the Cornucopia bloodbath, when I caught the Eight girl sneaking up on me. Five days. Andreas had three at this point in her Games; she's so much further ahead. My stomach sinks. It's a very real possibility that I'll come up short again. But that doesn't mean I won't give every fiber of me. I didn't push myself this far just to fail.

My feet hit the ground, any sounded muffled by the pine straw that pads the forest floor, granting me the ability to stalk silently through the woods. In the dark, the forest seems haunted by the hidden dangers that could be around every corner, just waiting for the Gamemakers to set off the trigger. The crescent moon above provides the only light, but it's sufficient for me to make out the silhouettes of tall pine trees and sprawling shrubs.

One drawback—it's harder to track in the dark, since the night shrouds any signs of disturbance in shadows that the moonlight can't reach. I could whip out my flashlight, but I'd rather not broadcast my location to everyone around me, opening me up to targeted attack. Besides, the Ten girl can't be far. She's got to be around here somewhere. I just have to find her. And then I'll have my kill; her lasso is useless in close combat and her knife won't be much help against my scythe. And then I'll finally get the attention I've worked for—I deserve.

A pillar of silver catches my attention in the distance, shining among the black shadowy columns of the forest as it reflects the light of the moon. I pause, staring at it. Do I… go?

'Eff it, why not? I take cautious steps towards it, gripping my scythe tightly, ready to defend at a moment's notice as nervous adrenaline courses through my blood. This is the Arena. Anything could be deadly. Be ready to fight.

After a few minutes, I step out of the forest into the cold shine of the moon, illuminating me with silver that brings no warmth. Before me is a square tower made of wood painted white, rising up fifty feet high with a box-like room above, ringed by a wooden balcony, only a black silhouette against the starry sky. Behind me are the woods. On the other side of the tower is a sudden drop—a cliff, I presume, from the tree tops that poke out beyond it.

A fire watch tower. We have a few in the wooded areas of District Two, just in case a wildfire starts up. This one has a ladder going up; most real ones have some kind of inner staircase. I suppose I can't expect too much realism from the Gamemakers. What do they know about fire watch towers?

A tower! I'm willing to bet that I could see the entire Arena from up there. But is it empty or occupied? Only one way to find out. I grab onto the rungs of the ladder and begin my climb up, scythe strapped to my backpack.

Movement up above; it's occupied. The Ten girl? Somehow, I feel like being one-handed would discourage her from too much climbing. It's not the quartet or the Star Alliance, which leaves Three Male, Five Female, both Sixes, and the Twelve Female.

Dang, that's a lot of tributes. Maybe I still have a chance at beating Alia.

A silhouette leans over up ahead, something in hand. The way he's holding it… is it a bucket?

A bucket! I leap off the ladder, hitting the ground hard and rolling away as he tips the bucket over, splashing a liquid down. It shimmers in the air for a brief moment before it collides with the ground splattering everywhere, assaulting my nose with the once-familiar smell of kerosene.

A drop of something wet hits my hand. I bring it to my nose and sniff—it's not kerosene; it's gasoline, but the memories are already playing in my mind. Before Andreas won and we could afford electricity, we used it often.

I pinch myself—get back to reality! I squint up at the dark figure in the sky, whose wild hair pokes up from the top of their head. It seems to be one of the boys, though I can't tell who. Clunk, clunk, clunk. He's rummaging around; there's a pop and then the glug glug glug of liquid being poured.

He has more gasoline! I groan. What am I going to do? I don't have anything to start a fire with—plus, burning him down wouldn't garner as much attention as directly cutting him down. All I know is that I don't want to end up soaked in flammable liquid. Perhaps I'll wait for daylight; he's bound to come down eventually. Or I could distract him and sneak up when he's not ready.

But not now.

Kicking at the grass, I sneak back into the forest and duck behind a tree to wait. The air's tinged with gasoline; I can't avoid it even now. Though it's not quite the same smell, it calls up a picture of younger Alia, begging her parents to let her light the stove or the lamp or anything, really, as long as she had seen big sister Andreas do it before. Even then… Things haven't changed much, have they?

But the wooden cat in my pocket presses against me, bringing up a different image. One of little Andreas giving little Alia her favorite toy, of moments spent patting it to keep the cat from getting sad, of rubbing its hard coat for good luck before tests in school. With a sigh, I pull the cat out and rub its back, gritting my teeth the entire time. As much as I hate to admit it, I need some good luck to come my way.

Happy now, Andreas?

Devrell Sibley, 18, District Four Male

I got the last watch of the night this time, and I find myself wandering around the dirt and rock Cornucopia clearing in the early morning light, tossing knives at a crate. Somehow, I can't get it to stick. Maybe I should've tried picking up throwing knives at home. I can hold my own with a sword as well as my preferred spear, but knives would've been fun.

Fun.

There's nothing fun about waking up in the middle of the night and forcing myself to stay awake while every nerve in my body wants to rest. Nothing fun about the dread that comes with the realization that my life could end any moment. Nothing fun about trying to keep myself somewhat contained. Normally, I can mess with people a bit without consequences, other than the occasional scolding or an exasperated sigh. They might think poorly of me, but who's got time to worry about what others think? Not me. Here, though, a playful nudge could lead to a knife in the chest, and I do have time to worry about that.

Ugh! This sucks! I hurl another knife at the crate, but the grip hits the wood and it falls to the ground harmlessly.

There I go again. Distracted. I'm supposed to be keeping watch, but any tribute could sneak away with a jug of water and I wouldn't notice. Why can't I just focus? Keep my eyes on the woods! Sit alert with my full attention! Anything but toss knives at the stupid crate!

I breathe deep. Relax, Devrell. No need to get worked up over something like this. Odds are, no one's nearby, right? I feel like we would've found someone if they were nearby. I toss another knife—as uninteresting as the action is, it's more interesting than staring off into the shadowy woods, watching for… what? Movement? The only movement is Cleo stirring, already waking up though the sun hasn't risen over the horizon just yet.

"Good morning!" I say, keeping my voice low.

She glances at me and stretches, rising silently.

I smile. "You're up early."

"I'm always up early," she says, shaking herself out of the fogginess of sleep. "Had to for work."

I bite my lip; I can't relate. "Sleep okay?"

"About as well as I could've hoped." She shrugs and turns her back to me, rummaging through the supplies for water.

"So not well."

She only grunts, gulping down water, back still turned. I suppose she doesn't want to talk? Or is she upset?

"All good?"

She shoots me an unamused look. "Too early."

"Oh."

"How do you have so much energy?"

I grin. "Awesome, right?"

"Or annoying." That's rather… straightforward for her. Perhaps she's a lot less filtered this early in the morning.

"I've heard that before." I sigh. "At this point, I don't care anymore."

She raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"So what if others think I'm annoying?"

"Hmm." She cocks her head and gives me a look. Is that… skepticism?

I frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is it ever possible to fully not care?"

"I think so," I say, bristling at the thinly veiled jab. "Let's say I go and win. I won't have to care anymore if I don't do anything rebellious."

"Whatever you say." She shrugs and goes back to her own business, turning her back again.

I glare at her. What was that all about? Are you implying… I open my mouth to shoot back, but she's clearly left the conversation, leaving me standing here, hanging, trying to formulate a response that won't mean anything to anyone but myself.

I wasn't lying; people can think whatever they want about what I do and who I am and it won't bother me. Yet her words ring true in my gut.

If I really didn't care about what others say… then why did I volunteer?

Marleigh Gaskawee, 18, District Five Female

Day Six. Nearly an entire week into the Games. A week ago, if you asked most Capitolites how long they though the girl with a training score of two would last in the Hunger Games, I bet they would've said I would be a Bloodbath. But I wasn't a Bloodbath. I initially calculated my chance of survival to be two percent. Now… I think it's gone up to roughly four. It's not much higher, given that most of the major players are still in play, but that's a 100% increase!

I peek out of the treehouse I stayed in for the night—the sky is going from black to blue. Morning has come. Time to… do what?

Come to think of it, I haven't done much of anything, just run around and try not to die. I probably make for terrible entertainment. I took in Chaos, and I ran away from Elena. That's it. Maybe it was interesting to see me dig up flowers, but I doubt the nitty gritty of gardening is fun to watch. I'll have to do something soon with my gnome of death and the poisons I've collected. Oh, how ironic! I've done my best to avoid hurting people so far, but now all I have are weapons. What could I do?

Garden gnome of death. If I caught someone sleeping, I could probably spray it all over them. I have no sharp objects on me, so I'd have to use their own knife on them while they're convulsing from the acid…

Convulsing. Acid burns all over the skin. I gulp down bile; I'm going to throw up! All of my skin tingles, from my head to my toes, just from thinking about spraying concentrated sulfuric acid over someone. And then stabbing them? No way! I squeeze my eyes shut—get these images out of my head! I know instantly that I won't ever be able to do something this horrible to another person, so that's out of the question.

My poisons? I glance over at my assortment of bulbs and stems. I could grind it up on some rocks and leave it in their water—I wouldn't ever have to see them suffer. I could just leave and hope that I'm interesting enough for the Gamemakers to keep me alive.

But I'd still hear the cannon. I'll still have to see a face in the sky. And even if I never see or hear them, I'll never be able to get the image of someone dying, lying helplessly on the ground while poison seeps through their veins.

I can't do that either. That's not good. But that's also good? I think? Killing is bad. Saving is good. Then why is it the opposite here?

I don't know, but one thing hasn't changed. Dying is bad. Dying means that Jagan will be sad, that my family will be sad, that Mrs. Tarleton won't have anyone to watch her kids. Not killing means bored audiences. Bored audiences means more dangers. More dangers means that I might die, and dying is bad.

I… suppose I could try poisons?

But I instantly see their faces. Jasmine and Lannister, the pair from District One that smiled big warm smiles at each other in training. Barrett, the super nice guy that protected the youngest tribute. Reuben, Evelyn, Orysa, Baize… The list goes on. I can't kill them!

No! Marleigh! Killing is bad! Just no!

My mind lands on Chaos, the fun-loving boy that… tried to kill me? But I already hit him with a water bottle; maybe he's learned his lesson. Still…

Out of everyone, I think I would be the least guilty if Chaos… went poof. It's revenge, right? Right.

Wrong.

Wrong. Gah! What do I do?

I run through the logic again in my head. Not killing means bored audiences. Bored audiences means more dangers. More dangers means that I might die, and dying is bad. If I don't want to die, then I have to target someone, and I might be able to convince myself that eliminating Chaos was justified. Besides, I already know where he is—back at my camp!

I glance back at the stack of poisons. As much as I hate the idea, I know what I have to do. Grind up the plants. Slip them in Chaos' water. Run and hope he goes quickly.

But no!

Dove Yee, 16, District Twelve Female

"Ahhhhhh!"

My eyes fling open. Someone's screaming. There's blazing electricity in my left hand. My cheeks are wet. It registers—I'm the one screaming.

I don't want to look…

I force myself to check my hand—it's even more red and swollen now than yesterday, hanging limply at the end of my left arm, where the fall broke my wrist. Bile immediately fills my throat; I lean over the edge of the branch and spit it out. Tears fill my eyes—it hurts! The painkillers I received yesterday must've worn off. My head feels empty; I'm getting lightheaded; I'm going to pass out! Clumsily, I dig into my pocket with my remaining functional hand, fumble with the lid until it opens, and toss one… two… is that three pills into my mouth, choking and gagging at the gravel in my throat.

And then I hold on to the trunk for dear life, pressing against it—don't pass out, remain conscious, stay in the moment. I bite my cheek until my mouth is all metal, and the lightheadedness fades like a fog lifting from my mind. The painkillers are kicking in.

I have to act—and fast! The Capitol has little gadgets that can heal broken bones, but they're super expensive. I know I must be at least decently popular after the Bloodbath debacle and my attempt to eliminate the Sixes, but I must not be popular enough if I haven't received anything yet to actually fix my wrist. And so I must kill and gain support before I die, either because I pass out from the pain or I starve to death—all I have now are the painkillers and my knife!

Augh! I have nothing! Everything's with those… those bastards! I should've acted faster, eliminated them faster, trusted them slower. She tried to kill me without hesitation, and she would be gone if I hadn't waited!

A different fire consumes my mind. Instead of the pain in my hand, all I can think of is what I'll do to that b— —! She did this to me! Now I'll have to kill her and make it as entertaining for the Capitol as possible. Maybe then, they'll give me what I need to survive.

There's rustling in the treehouse nearby; they're getting on the move. And I'll be right behind them, watching for an opening. My life depends on it.

Zeus Strikon, 18, District Two Male

This morning, the timer about the Cornucopia is flashing red, even though it still says we have fourteen hours left on the clock. Does that mean we'll have more than just wolves tonight? Why is it happening today?

Maybe the show is dragging. We're almost a week into the Games, and most of the competition is still out there. Usually, slow Games do poorly in the Capitol. The audiences get bored; commentators call for more excitement. For us tributes, that means more disasters from the Gamemakers, and I'd rather avoid those at all costs. I can comfortably hold myself against any of my competition, but if an enormous bear appeared, I'm not sure how well I'd do. We'll have to eliminate the competition faster.

"Let's hunt" I say, twirling the knife as I stand a little bit aways from the Cornucopia, ready to leave. "Show's getting boring."

"Sure!" Devrell springs up, spear in hand, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. Though the boy might be the most annoying person I've ever met, I can't deny that he's got the right idea in mind. At least he's not trying to delay the inevitable killing that'll happen sooner or later.

Cleo nods, picking up her trident, a sigh escaping her lips. "Lannister's still not feeling well. We can leave him behind as guard?"

"What if Alia shows up?" Jasmine objects. "I can stay behind too."

"I'll be fine." Lannister puts on a brave smile. "You go."

She gives him an uncertain look. He nods at her and mouths something. She agrees reluctantly, but she gives him a peck on the cheek before grabbing her weapon. I roll my eyes—those two are a tragic mess. What are they doing? Trying to break their own hearts? Perhaps it's all a ploy for sponsors. I'm sure the Capitol loves their doomed romance.

Stupid, masochistic Capitol. How could they derive so much pleasure from the suffering of others? I hope they get a taste of their own medicine someday.

As we march off into the forest, Devrell falls into step beside me, with the girls trudging behind. I sigh. He usually bugs Lannister when he's around, but since Lannister's guarding supplies, he's chosen me as his next victim. Gosh… he's louder than Alia was on the train ride here, and I thought that Alia was talkative enough. Perhaps this is why we never find anyone. Our chatterboxes warn everyone in a mile radius of our approach. How is it physically possible to always have something to talk about?

"…so what do you think?" he says, ending a rambling explanation of different types of spears and their practical uses. "I think it could be fun to spice things up a bit."

I grunt. "I think you should shut up. You're scaring away the others."

"Oh." His face falls, and we finally trudge along in silence.

Perhaps we'll actually catch someone today. I hope we do. I'm sick of this place, where murder is legal and our lives could end any moment, where the days lack rhythm and consistency. For the past few years, every day has been the same—cook, train, housework, and a check-up on my mom. It feels weird not stopping into her room every few hours, making sure that she's okay. It's been a week and a half now. I hope she's okay.

Devrell's muttering to himself now; is he narrating his day? I doubt he realizes it.

There's a rustle. I freeze, holding out my arm to stop him. The blind bat runs right into it, too busy talking to himself.

"Shh!" I hiss, listening and watching.

For a moment, all is calm, the only sound being the leaves of the trees as they flutter in the breeze. But then the rustle sounds again, further up ahead, over a hill in the mountainous landscape. A soft sound, of someone creeping through the woods. A branch snaps.

"Stop!" A female squeal. Feet trampling the ground.

Devrell and I look at each other. Time to go!

A/N Justice submissions are in Stage 2! Please submit! This chapter's a bit shorter, but the original Day 6 would've been huge and intimidating... so we have this instead. Predictions for the next chapter?

Thoughts?