Day 8: Reeling


Orysa Edrei, 16, District Nine Female

When the fog of sleep dissipates and I open my eyes, I see the morning light filtering in through the window of our tree palace. The woods all around are awake with birdsong, heralding our eighth day in the Hunger Games. Part of me wants to close my eyes again and return to sleepy-land, but this is the effin' Arena. I can't afford to sleep in.

I stare at the wonderful green outside and frown. Somehow, this place seemed scarier on TV. I expected traps everywhere and trigger-happy Gamemakers, but I sure ain't seen any of that, dontcha know? I'm not going to complain about it, but it still seems… odd. How much longer will this peace last?

But then my eyes land on Bryson's supplies, stacked up neatly in the corner, and a pit grows in my stomach. In my mind, I see his face from last night; I hear his words—Your effin' bleeding heart will get you killed.

We're splitting up today.

Last night, after the… meltdown, we decided that it'd be best for us to break back into our original alliances, me and Baize, Barrett and Bryson. Well, not we decided, they decided that we needed to split up. I look at Bryson, still sleeping in the corner. Will today be the last time I ever see him? I doubt he'd win—is it even possible for a thirteen-year-old to win? Once we split up, it's our last goodbye. I'll be powerless to affect what happens to him from here on out.

The thought flushes my face red and I bite my lip. I don't want to say goodbye, I don't want to let him go, I don't want to—

Oh, this is stupid, Orysa. I've known him for two weeks and nothing more. He's a city boy. I'm a country gal. I met him for the first time when we shook hands at the Reaping, as all of District Nine and Panem watched. Suck it up, Orysa. These are the Hunger Games. The regular rules don't apply. There is absolutely no reason I should care so much about him, other than that he's from home.

But isn't that reason enough? My hands claw at the wooden floorboards—this is all so unfair! This is all wrong! He's from home; he's part of the big District Nine family, and I can't just leave him to die! The very idea of abandoning him goes against every last fiber in me.

Why can't I just choose one and stick with it? It almost feels right to be stuck—Dad would say "You know you're wrong when it's too easy." Still, the flipping back and forth is gonna drive me absolutely insane.

"Ya' doin' okay?" It's Barrett, flipping through his impeccably organized backpack again, watching me with concern.

I want to glare at him—effin' Baize rubbin' off on me again—but I can't bring myself to do that to Barrett of all people. Barrett—strong, gentle, and kind. It's another reason why we shouldn't split up; we're a solid team! I sigh and cross my arms. "No."

He gives me a warm smile. "If it's about us fixin' to split up…"

"I hate it."

For a moment, he pauses and stares, though his warm brown eyes make it anything but cold. He zips up his bag neatly and sits down beside me. "Wanna talk about it?"

I press my lips together in a firm line. "We're splitting up. Maybe we shouldn't get attached."

"I'm sorry," he says, averting his eyes. "But I doubt you think that for real."

"You're right…" I sigh. "This is dumb— Ugh! I don't actually mean that either; I'm just mad, and I shouldn't be mad! But everything's all wrong and I shouldn't be telling you because you barely know me—"

"That ain't a problem." He smiles. "We work with what we got. I already knew you were a pretty nice person since Bryson didn't instantly turn tail when we ran into y'all."

I snort, picturing the way Bryson watched the others in training, trying so hard not to call them stupid but also spilling everything with his unamused face. "He doesn't do that. He just calls you a creep or a psychopath or a whatever-he-does."

"Ain't that right." Barrett chuckles. "He still gives me that look sometimes."

"Maybe I'll get him to glare at me one last time before we split." Bryson's glares… from the train ride to the chariots to when I kept talking while I kept watch with Baize—I'm serious, I didn't realize I was being loud!—at this point, it's as normal as a tumbleweed in the District Nine countryside. "He still thinks I'm a total knucklehead."

"I'm sure he cares. He doesn't say nothin' about it, but he cares."

I look at Barrett—his face says that he isn't playing. This really shouldn't be such a big deal… but my heart thinks it is. At least, half of it feels like a heavy burden is finally gone. Bryson doesn't hate me. Yet the rational, Games-minded, Baize-infested part of me is screaming—you're getting more attached!

I sigh. "Then it's all the sadder that we're splittin' up. I don't wanna let go."

"Ain't that right?" he says. "But that's good. It shows you still got a heart."

"Yeah… but it hurts more."

"Doin' the right thing usually ain't easy. It's okay to feel conflicted."

The words resonate inside so hard that it feels like my heart's about to vibrate outta control. In anyone else's mouth, they would've felt cliche, fake, forced. But I know he genuinely means it, and somehow, knowing that I'm not the only one gives me permission to accept it too.

There's a groan in the corner, and Bryson stirs. Before long, he pops his head up, rubbing his eyes.

"We'll miss ya', I'm sure. I'm glad we ran into y'all," Barrett says, rising from where he sits beside me. He turns his attention towards a grumpy Bryson. "Rise 'n shine!"

The two talk, and then they go to retrieve their supplies. This is it, the moment I've dreaded since I woke up. We're saying goodbye. I watch Bryson sling his backpack on his shoulder, and he catches me watching.

I smile weakly at him. "This is goodbye for real."

He frowns as realization spreads across his face. "I'm… sorry."

I nod. "I getcha… We're just playing a game, dontcha know?"

"It's a really dumb game."

I want to try one last time—maybe he'll change his mind. But I take a deep breath. Let him go, Orysa. "It's fine," I say. "You do whatever you gotta do to survive, and I'll do whatever I gotta do."

"I'll…" he says, face almost blank as his mind whirs, trying to process everything. "It'll be weird without you around."

"I'll miss you too, Bryson."

He rolls his eyes, but the usual annoyance isn't there. He doesn't glare, or stare, or look at me like I belong in an insane asylum. If anything, he almost seems sad. I joked about getting one last glare, but in this moment, as we look at each other, I know I'm looking at the real Bryson, without any of his defenses. Just Bryson, a confused thirteen-year-old trying to stay alive in a game where the odds are not in his favor, struggling with the magnitude of a goodbye. I think I'll take this over a glare.

He looks away, marching towards the doorway, with Barrett right behind him. A pause, and then they're out. He's gone before I'm ready.

I find my hands balled into fists, and I force them to unclench. I'm letting go, even if it tears me apart that I can't care for him anymore, that I can't do anything more to keep him safe. I'll have to trust Barrett with that—and there's no better person than Barrett.

Baize stares at me, mouth slightly open yet wordless. He's been silent this entire time, a clueless bystander. I can't blame him; I never really explained the Bryson situation to him. But even if I did, I doubt he'd understand. He and Viyella clearly cared about each other, but they always kept each other at a frustrated arm's length.

"I'm fine," I say, smiling weakly. "At least, I'll be fine."

He shifts awkwardly. "That's good."

"Don't tiptoe around me, okay? It's weird and… ugh!"

"Okay." He laughs, still a little nervous but much better now. "So… You want to head out too? We've sat around for long enough."

"Yes!" Head out. My heart leaps—what if we run into them again? Perhaps…

Calm down, Orysa. I breathe in, release, and let them go.


Lannister Saint, 18, District One Male

I stumble through the forest, sword in hand, placing one foot in front of the other in a blind push forward. I have no idea where I'm going, neither have I any idea where I've been. How many days has it been? Two? I scale a boulder and look back down, the shape of the valley muddied by the foliage and tree trunks. It hits me that I don't know where I am. Great—I'm exploring somewhere new, although the trees and rocks and leaves all look the same.

It's been this way ever since. Up the mountain. Over the rocks. Through the thickets. Just forwards. If I keep moving, then I don't have to feel. If I don't feel, then I won't be crushed under the weight of Jasmine's death. I can cling on to the last happy memories of her, of her lips on mine, and leave behind everything that happened the day after. Guarding the supplies. Talking with Cleo.

Killing Cleo.

My eyes instinctively turn to my sword, still stained with her blood. I killed her. She wasn't trying to hurt me; she never did. The only one that deserves to die is Zeus, and I didn't even stay to fight him. I ran with my tail between my legs, a coward, unable to protect Jasmine either in life or in death, unwilling to face up to the murder I committed.

This is too much. I'm being too still.

I whirl around and continue up the mountain, whacking the sword against every tree I pass. It's too late to go back now—I'm hopelessly lost, staggering up the rocks without an inkling of direction. I couldn't find Zeus if I tried. And even then, when I pull up his stone cold face in my mind, there's no rush of vengeful anger. All that's inside is a small voice that sinks louder than any furious scream—You've failed. You always have, and you always will. Look at what you've done.

I'm sorry, Jasmine. As the emotion rises up inside like a geyser that my heart struggles to contain, the world suddenly feels sluggish, slowly swirling out of focus. The sword in my hand feels heavy; I stab it into the dirt as a knee hits pine straw, just in time for the memories to burst forth from the mental backrooms I've locked them in, flooding every last wall and breaker.

The train ride… When she let me show her a magic trick, even though she refused to disclose any details about what she seemed so depressed after achieving her life dream of volunteering for the Hunger Games. We played a solid game of Go Fish afterwards. She won.

The Chariots… She seemed genuinely excited, twirling in her gemstone-studded costume, giggling at the way it sparkled in bright sunlight though her radiant smile outshone any jewel. When fire suddenly erupted, it was her quick thinking that saved us both.

Training… Only the two of us ever knew that she broke down in the bathroom after the girl from Six fled from her. No one else had a reason to suspect her, the golden girl from District One, who received an eleven in training and wowed the interview audience with her charm and fine acting.

The last morning… Her tears, flowing uncontrollably down her flawless cheeks as she exposed the reality of the Games with a clarity I'd never heard before. "District One has done nothing except encourage us to murder. How f— — up is that?" The words still echo in my head. I can't get them out. I don't want them out.

And finally… Her deep gaze. Her soft lips. Her tender warmth, wrapped in my arms. This is Jasmine, with all the details that hurt too much, each successive memory tearing a new gash in my shredded heart. I sniffle—it strikes me that I'm crying, tears flooding my mouth with salt, shaking uncontrollably like an idiot. This is what Zeus did to me. He stole her away, cut her down as if it were nothing. That heartless bastard…

One thought stands high above the rest. He must pay, and I'll make sure of it, even if I have to tear apart the Arena to find him.

But as I wipe my eyes, a second thought joins the first, a reverberation of Jasmine's words. District One only ever trained us to kill. District Two likely did the same. What makes me any better than Zeus? How can anyone blame him for doing the only thing he knows how?

Yet someone has to be at fault—and that someone can't be Jasmine! Just because murder is legal, condoned, and encouraged within the confines of this Arena doesn't mean it's fine, and that means that there must be a guilty party for ever single murder. If it's not Jasmine… or Zeus… or…

It clicks. Jasmine never looked past her own guilt to see the truly guilty party, letting it consume her from inside when her self-directed hatred should've been directed towards the one that set us all up in the first place.

The Capitol.


Alia Bernold, 17, District Two Female

The river rushes by my hands, joining the chorus of nature, from the wind in the leaves to the birds in the trees, the perfect picture of peace and quietude, reflection and wonder.

I hate it.

Too much silence! Not enough moving, or fighting, or anything! I volunteered for the spotlight, for the excitement, not to sit by a river, scrubbing blood out of my jacket, trying so hard to not think about myself, or what I've done, or what I'm doing. Let's get some kills! Eliminate some kids! Win!

But if I'm honest… even the "excitement" feels… anti-climactic. I pause the scrubbing, mentally running through the fight with the Ten girl again. She was the perfect opponent—only Zeus would've been better (and I still need to get him for trying to sabotage me). The setting was glorious, with the burning firewatch tower to the side, illuminating us in its fierce glow.

What's missing? Did it end too quickly? I doubt it—once I moved in for the kill, she was done for. Her missing arm seriously put her at a disadvantage at that point. Perhaps she was too easy of an opponent… but that can't be it. Her rope was bloody even before she took out the boy from Three. That's two kills to her name—at least equal to my own kill count.

Hmph. A stuck-up, untrained girl from Ten, with the same number of kills as I do—or even more! This is exactly what's bugging me. Where's the spotlight? Where's the glory? Maybe I only feel this way because I'm in the Arena instead of outside, playing the Game instead of watching it. Perhaps I'm already getting it and I just don't know?

I glance down at the river and see my rippling reflection in the water, with a few dirty splotches here and there. Oh gosh—my hair! I dunk my face in the water and rub at the caked-on dirt and blood, letting the river wash away the stains. I slip off my hair tie so that my hair hangs loosely in the current, washing it as best I can. If the spotlight is on me, then I need to look as good as I can.

Once I'm convinced that further washing won't do me any good, I pull my hair out, splashing water everywhere, allowing the wet locks to drip and stick to my skin as they air dry. I must've looked horrible during the last fight; now I understand why the tributes usually look so disgusting on the televised footage. To think that I'm becoming one of them! I thought I'd be better than this, do better than this.

My eyes follow the river downstream, meandering between dense pine forests on both sides, and I sigh. If I just wanted pretty scenery, I would've stayed in Two. Heck, training at home felt more intense than this. Other than the Cornucopia Bloodbath, this entire thing's been a huge disappointment.

C'mon, Alia. This isn't the way to think about it. Think about the life of a Victor. The glamour and extravagance. The liberty to do whatever I want, having proven my worth to myself and the world, free from comparison to Andreas. It'd better be worth it.

Worth the painful waiting. Worth the bloody, dirty mess. Worth the disquietude that came right after I wrecked the Ten girl. It's been almost a day—why won't it go away? Staring at the water now, I have a sudden urge to jump in and scrub myself clean of the invisible stains.

Steel yourself, Alia. I can't afford to indulge in ridiculous sentimentality. There are eight others left, and I want to get as many of them as possible. Zeus, for sabotaging me. Barrett and his little friend, for showing me up. I might as well lump in the Nine girl and Eight boy while I'm at it since they were there too, choosing to prolong the Games. That leaves Lannister and the girls from Five and Six, tributes I have no personal vendetta against other than that they exist as obstacles between me and the Victor's crown. Each one of them has to go—and preferably as camera-catching as possible.

Still, even as the thought of victory excites my mind, a lump remains in my gut.

If it's going to be just like how it felt to kill the girl from Ten… is this what I really want?


Evelyn Darby, 15, District Six Female

My eyes open. I'm lying on my side, curled up in a ball. I see the wooden floor I'm on, its surface rough and grainy, tough on my cheek.

Why did I have to wake up? If only I could hide forever in the darkness of sleep, where nothing ever really hurts, no one ever really hates me, and no one ever really dies. I bang my head on the floor, squeezing my eyes shut, hoping with every square millimeter of me that I'll suddenly wake up and find myself in my own bed having one of the yearly pre-Reaping nightmares. Or maybe I'll find myself back in the Capitol, dreaming about my impending doom in the Arena. or maybe I'll go back just two days—that's all I'm asking for! Is it too much to ask to go back to when Reuben was still alive?

But I still see the floor when I open my eyes again. Four wooden walls surround me; I wish they would crush me right here, right now. I crawl over to the doorway, where bright midday light streams in, and look down at the ground. It's a long way down, at least two floors tall.

I could jump…

Even if I don't wake up, at least this living nightmare will end and it'll release me to who-knows-where. But as I stare down at the ground down, down, down below, my muscles lock up and I shake. That looks so far… And what if I don't die? What if I end up like Dove, appendage broken yet still alive, stumbling around in terrible pain?

I can't do it.

Stuck, I inch away from the edge and curl up against the wall. This is it. I'm forever doomed to be trapped in this treehouse I have no recollection of ever entering—I must've caught another lucky star and crawled into this shelter in confused panic after Reuben… drank the water…

I see his panicked face and I bury mine in my arms. I want it to go away—dead Reuben isn't the real Reuben, get out of my head—but I can't force it out. Over and over, I see him collapse, coughing, twitching uncontrollably. If only I had drunk the water, or walked ahead of him, or not hesitated outside camp, or—

The thoughts swirl together into a tornado that sweeps away any resistance left in me, either physical or mental. I want to scream—Just take me instead! Let me die and bring him back! Yet I can't scream; there's no wind left in my lungs. All I have is the gut-wrenching replay of Reuben dying and…

Nothing. I can't even squeeze another tear out of my drained eyes. Lying once again on the floor, I become aware of the ridges in the wood under my fingertips. I close my exhausted eyes. Could I just die here, stuck without energy on the floor of a random treehouse in this forest of death? That wouldn't be a horrible way to go

A voice booms, shaking the trees, branches, walls, everything.

"Attention Tributes: There will be a Feast tomorrow morning at the Cornucopia."

That's right; I'm in the Hunger Games. They won't let me just die here from lack of will to live. Well, joke's on them. I can barely convince myself to lift my arm off the floor, let alone make my way to the Cornucopia. Besides, I'll die if I go; I'll die if I stay. So I might as well just lie here and let time take me away.

"If you're low on food… Let's just say you won't have a good time if you don't come."

My stomach growls. I slam my head against the wall. Why must you get hungry? It's not like I haven't eaten in… almost a day. Can't you just shut up? It twists, begging for food, and I sigh. I need food. If this is anything to go by, starvation is not the way I want to go out—it's only been one day and every minute of hunger feels like an hour.

Am I really about to go? This can't be—Reuben and I had a lot of food! I search the bare corners of the room. I'm literally the only thing inside this wooden box; I didn't bring anything with me but the clothes on my back. Evelynhow could you have been so stupid and useless? Now I have to go to the Feast or die of starvation!

Trembling, I sit up. As much as I want to die, starvation is not the way to go. If anything, a quick swipe from the Two girl's sickle or a slash from the Two boy's sword and I'll be gone, much faster than it would take for me to drain out here on the floor of this treehouse. All I have to do is last until tomorrow morning and make it to the Cornucopia, and then I'll be free to die as fast as I want.

But I still have to get through today. Between Reuben dying again and again in my head and my grumbling stomach, I'm not sure I'll make it.


Zeus Strikon, 18, District Two Male

Sitting in the doorway of a treehouse, I kick at a nearby tree trunk, my feet dangling in the air. The Games are going slow, and the Gamemakers must've finally realized that things were going far too slowly. It's about time. I didn't sign up to sit around the Arena; every extra day I'm in here is another chance of Mom dying before I get home.

And that's why we have the Feast, to round up some of the others so that we can wipe them out faster. 'Cause as interesting as it is to watch one or two tributes slowly track down the others, it's far more interesting to watch them kill each other in a dramatic Bloodbath 2.0.

I spit. Who enjoys watching this? It says a lot that Capitolites consider this the peak of entertainment considering the other ridiculous soap operas and shows they have streaming twenty-four seven. But let the Feast come. Hopefully, I'll end it all tomorrow morning. The Capitol gets its blood sport; I go home with a cure and more than enough money to last me a lifetime. It's a win-win.

Without anything to do for the rest of the day, I lean back, staring at the plywood ceiling of the treehouse. This is taking far too long. I had hoped that this year would be a short Games, where I can get in, do what I have to do, and get out, all before I have the time to think about it.

Instead, I get to lie in a treehouse, listening to Devrell's cries play on repeat, watching Cleo say goodbye to Jasmine as she bled out. My hand forms a fist; I can't afford to let them shake my determination. Both my life and Mom's depend on it. I close my eyes—"Just a little longer"—I repeat it over and over to hold back the horrific sights and sounds. After I win, I'll have all the time in the world for regret.

I find myself tapping my fingers against the floor. Great, I'm losing patience. Every slip could be dangerous, and impatience only makes a slip all the more likely.

But if I don't end it fast… how much longer will I last?


Marleigh Gaskwee, 18, District Five Female

Following the announcement, I stare up into the sky from the base of a sturdy tree, as if it'll give me answers one what to do.

Feast…

That sounds scary. Every year, someone dies at the Feast. Last year, it was the girl from Ten, who was impaled on a pole by that year's Star Alliance. Just the thought sends a terrible, ugly shiver down my spine. I don't want to go. I don't want to die. I don't want to kill.

Kill…

I already have one. The thought is unbelievable; I repeat it again. I already have one. How could I? That poison was Capitol-supplied. I'm sure it was engineered for the most gruesome death possible. Chaos didn't deserve that! No one does! Horrible, horrible, horrible!

My stomach growls. Feast. A second image joins the one of last year's Feast, an image of chicken and broccoli and watermelons and pineapples. Pineapples! My stomach is ready to implode! Ever since I left all my supplies with Chaos—may he rest in peace—I've carefully rationed the greens I've found, but my stash is running out. Considering what the announcer said… will the Feast be my only chance of food?

I have to go.

But that's scary! I draw my knees into a tight ball—I could die! There are still so many tributes left! There's Zeus, the big mean guy from Two, and Alia, the big mean girl from Two, and Lannister, the big mean guy from One, and Barrett, the big… well, not mean, but still scary guy from Ten. I don't want to go!

Reason. Without food, my body will run out of stamina and I'll… say bye-bye, either because of the wolves or another tribute or even starvation or dehydration. If I want to live, I have to go to the Feast.

Then it's decided. I'll go to the Feast, just me, myself, and I. Oh—and the garden gnome, with his gnarly face that spews sulfuric acid. I glance down at him, and I faintly hear Elena's grunt of pain again. I don't like the way he looks at me, as if proud of the pain he caused—no, I caused. I turn him to face away from me and cover him with a large leaf. I hope he doesn't mind.

I stand and stretch, my limbs sore from sitting in the same place the whole day to save energy. Maybe I'll hike down today and get a head start. Goal: Get in; get out. Don't hurt anyone; don't get hurt.

Please… this needs to work.


Bryson Fields, 13, District Nine Male

Barrett hasn't said anything since the Feast announcement—is he even thinking about it? We don't need the food, but we need to confront the opposition… or kill…

I shake my head at myself. Killing… isn't good. We aren't supposed to kill. But I don't have an option here. The other tributes are determined to kill, to wipe me out so that they can live. If I hesitate more than they do, then I'll be dead.

I glance at Barrett's huge figure, leaning against a tree as he absent-mindedly braids the three stiff strands of a pine needle with his surprisingly nimble fingers. It really isn't fair. He's strong and intimidating; he can get away with scaring the others off to avoid fights. To make things worse, I'm a city kid, not a country kid—I never was given much of a chance at all. The only fair matchup with me would be the girl from Six. If it hadn't been for Barrett, I'm sure I'd be dead. That means my very existence depends on another person, who has a major incentive to kill me and could easily overpower me without a second thought, which stacks the odds fully against me, which—

Snap out of it! Feast!

Somehow, Barrett suddenly seems even more intimidating, now that it's clicked how my life or death depends on him. Since his life requires my death, I'm not sure how safe this arrangement is for me. No one's really that nice, right? He just has to decide to end me and snap his fingers and—

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Get your thoughts under control!

I clear my throat and force myself to look straight at him. "Barrett?"

He looks over. "What's up?"

"Well…" His eyes… are so warm. Immediately, I feel guilty for thinking about him killing me. "Aren't we going to talk about… you know, the Feast?"

He scratches his neck in discomfort. "Ya know… I wasn't fixin' to go since we don't need food."

"Oh, I know," I say. "But… dontcha think we should be… a little more aggressive?"

"Ya think so?" He frowns. "I'd rather avoid fightin', if ya catch my drift."

I wish I could take my words back—Duh, 'course he'd say that! He's warded off the girl from Two twice at this point; he wouldn't seek out a fight, not even this late into the Games. Barrett, that gave me a hug in training, that consulted me when the now-dead Five boy invited us to join his coalition, that rescued me from the Bloodbath…

He… genuinely won't kill? Is it even possible? This man's just as big as any Career, and he… won't kill? That can't be right.

I try again. "If we don't go, we might have to deal with Gamemakers. We have a chance against any of the Star Alliance, but we can't fight them."

He sighs, but he says nothing.

I go on—he'll see eventually, won't he? "We'll have to go back for water, anyway. And think about the sponsor gifts?"

After a long pause, he nods slowly, rubbing his chin. "You're right… but it feels more right not to go."

"B-But still!" I sputter, but I can't form a single word. More right… Why does he have to be so nice? I'm trying to keep us alive! To live, you have to play by the rules of the Game, which means we need to kill. I'd expected, no, almost hoped that the reasons would sway him, that he'd agree with me that we needed to hurry the Game up. It would've proved the unease in my gut right—that he's just like the rest of us, disgusted with the killing but willing to do it to live.

But Barrett won't. He just won't. What does that mean for my alliance with him? That we're going to spend the entire time evading the others? That the Hunger Games are a waiting game?

That he won't kill me?

There's a hand on my shoulder; Barrett's got an arm loosely draped over my shoulders. Part of my mind protests. Get him away! You can't let him in so close! Yet I can't bring myself to, still frozen with the idea that Barrett seriously wouldn't kill me.

"Ya' good?" he says.

I nod, unable to speak. He… wouldn't… kill…

"If you want me to…" He sighs. "I'll follow you to the Feast."

There it is. His agreement. At the same time, this is total disagreement. He just gave up his own opinion for mine, and such self-sacrifice is not supposed to happen in the Arena!

Again, I can only nod, slower this time.

"Then we'll move in early tomorrow," he says, surveying the supplies we'll be carrying. He pauses,turning back towards me with concern. "Look. You can talk to me, okay?"

"O-Okay…" My brain's moving though it's slower than toffee in winter; my mouth works again. Yet I'm still staring, dazed, trying to process the truth that shouldn't exist in the Arena.

He wouldn't kill me.


Baize Liliwin, 18, District Eight Male

My foot slips on a patch of mossy rock. I grab the nearest tree, barely catching myself from falling. The incline's becoming much more pronounced this far out into the Arena, and the soft dirt has become mostly rock.

"Are you good?" Orysa says, right behind me.

I grunt in approval, brushing dirt off my clothes and continuing forward.

We aren't going to the Feast. Orysa and I have more than enough food between the two of us; there's literally no reason for us to venture into the Capitol's death trap. Instead of heading back towards the Cornucopia, we're travelling even further away.

"Let's take a break?" Orysa says, breathing deeply from the uphill hike.

"Sure." I only shrug, even though my legs are sore and my throat is dry and my frame definitely needs to rest for a moment.

She sits down on a rock and slowly drips a little water into her mouth. "What a stroll."

I snort. "Some stroll. More like a climb."

"Don't you dare start complaining," she says. "You wanted to go this way."

Unfortunately, she's right. It was my idea to go up the mountain instead of back down towards the river. Stupid Baize. I hate going uphill. What made me think this was a good idea?

She laughs. "Regret it now, huh?"

"No," I grunt, suddenly interested in climbing the mountain again. Stupid of me to think this was stupid. I clamber to my feet. "Let's keep going."

"Fine, fine," she sighs, rolling her eyes at me. "One day you're complaining about the mountain and you want to scale it the next. What's up with you anyway?"

"Nothing."

"You're totally convincing."

"None of your business, okay?" I shoot her a dirty look. It isn't nothing; call it a gut feeling. When the Games were held in an old stadium, it was pretty clear where the boundaries of the Arena were. But what about now? In all the Games I've seen, ever since they started making specialized Arenas, they've never shown where the Arena meets… Meets what? More forests? Are we on an island in the middle of the ocean? Maybe we're actually underground and everything's a lie—for all we know, the Capitol in all its glory created trees.

Whatever it is, if I want any chance to do anything to the Capitol, I'll have to find it. Even if I get gunned down in a hail of Peacekeeper bullets, they'll have to come up with an explanation for my death. That's better than being torn apart by wolves or slaughtered by the Star Alliance or starving to death, at least.

But one sore step at a time. My legs are still screaming at me—why didn't I rest for longer? I still hate climbing mountains. Stupid Baize…


Capitol

Silvia sighed in relief. Mandatory viewing had just ended. It hadn't been too bad of a night, without any deaths or gory scenes that would leave her daughter crying for hours as she and Rufus shielded the little girl's eyes. If things go wrong tomorrow… she didn't want her last memories of her daughter to be sobbing.

She laid her daughter in the little bed and planted a soft kiss on her cheek, running her hand down the little girl's soft face, innocent and pure. She hummed an old District Seven song that had been passed down to her from her grandfather, who had moved to the Capitol with his parents when he himself was a small child, long before the Dark Days and Panem's Civil War, back when the Capitol had seemed like a beacon of opportunity rather than an oppressive, discriminatory power. According to what she'd been told, the Districtos were blamed for the troubles in the Capitol during the war, and their fortunes were never the same. Ever since then, they'd been locked out of any position of power, existing purely as workers to feed the labor needs of the Capitol.

But that was the reality she was fighting to change.

When Vera slipped off into "sleepy-sleepy," Silvia rose, lingering by the crib to soak in the aura of peace. It's for you, Vera, Silvia thought, wiping at her eye. If she didn't make it back, what would happen to Vera? Would the girl grow up knowing the full story? Rufus wasn't the type to tell the uncomfortable truth.

Almost reluctantly, she backed towards the door of their bedroom, where she tore her eyes away from Vera and left the oblivious sleeping girl in the dark. She had barely closed the door when a surge of sadness welled up inside, knocking her back against the wall as she tried to catch her breath. She hadn't thought that this would be so hard, saying goodbye before her mission was set to start. The odds of success were high; her reconnaissance mission had gone undetected. She'd return safely, the Capitol would be in a corner, and everything would be all right.

But if I don't…

Rufus. She'd have to say goodbye to him too. In her initial confidence, she had planned to slip out, but now she wasn't so sure. He would be much harder than Vera—how would he react? Would he try to stop her? Get mad at her? How would she even say goodbye without telling him the details?

His voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts. "You're going tonight, aren't you."

"What?" Her heart froze in her throat—Did he just say that?

"Silvia, I—" A frustrated sigh cut off his words abruptly. "I know what's going on."

How does he know? Is he lying? She froze like a deer in headlights, caught completely off guard. "I don't—"

"Don't play dumb!" He planted his feet in the middle of the hall. "You guys want to blow up the forcefield. I can't let you."

"Why not?"

"It's not going to work—and then what'll happen to you? To me? Vera?"

"Trust me! This will all work out," she said, trying to convince herself as well. "I'll be back before you know it."

"And if you aren't?"

"It will!" she insisted, half to him and half to the voice inside that echoed everything he said. Hadn't she pledged to end the Capitol's tyranny by any means necessary, even if it meant her own life? Why was her resolve wavering now?

Rufus waved his hands in the air in frustration. "You aren't fighting some little gang or whatever—you're fighting the Capitol! You can't win this one."

She bristled, biting her lip. "This one is where change starts. Nothing will ever get better if we don't fight for it." She sighed and averted her eyes. "Can't you let me have this goodbye?"

"Goodbye? No—You can't do this."

"I can and I will! At least let me go in peace!" she snapped, her cheeks burning. The words slipped out of her mouth before she knew it. "It's the best you can do. You're too cowardly to do anything else."

He winced, as if she'd physically punched him in the gut. The resolve on his face deflated faster than one of Vera's birthday balloons poked by a pin. "There's… nothing I can do to convince you to stay?"

She held her expression still, even as regret poked at the corners. "I'm going."

"You're going to get yourself killed…" He sighed bitterly. "You might as well be married to your cause."

His words slipped past her defenses, stabbing her right in the heart. She stormed past Rufus, plucked her bag off the table, and marched out the front door, all while her stomach churned, recycling his words into tinder that fed her fury by the minute. As she fumed through the barely-lit Districto alleyways of the Capitol, she tried to focus on the plan—sapphire car at the intersection of Twentieth and Bellaroux, a loop around the Capitol to divert attention, a day of waiting, and then the hovercraft hangar. But no matter how many times she ran through the steps, she couldn't push Rufus' hurt face out of her mind, his last words to her bouncing around on the inside of her skull.

The sapphire car arrived, and she stepped in, just as smoothly as they'd rehearsed it. She clawed into the seat of the car and squeezed until he no longer filled her mind.

Goodbye Rufus. Just for now.


The Fallen: None (Again! You know me with my death-less chapters)

A/N Why is this chapter so long? It was supposed to have 6 POVs... and we ended up with 9.

Eight days in, and we still have nine tributes left. Considering there's a Feast on the horizon (plus Silvia shenanigans?)… let's say that won't be true for much longer. I wanted to check in with all our remaining kiddos before everything falls apart, though.

Feast Predictions? Silvia Shenanigans Predictions? Victor Predictions?

Thoughts?