.

—-—-—

pulse

—-—-—

The viewing room is stifling, even with the windows shoved aside, wisps of fresh air drifting in and dissipating like smoke.

At the front of the room, Avari sits perched in her seat, wrists curled around the table in front of her, as she attends to Nell's introduction. My heels tap along the concrete, hands stiff along the surface in front of me. The screen at the front focuses on a clearing, a plateau of sorts, upon which resides the golden, glowing horn of the Cornucopia. Satchels, weapons, supplies, and bottles spill from its mouth, spread exponentially out towards the circle of plates orbiting the bounty. On each plate, hovering just below the surface of the arena as they complete their steady ascent from the launch rooms, stands a single, solitary tribute— unmoving, frozen in time.

Not a single branch stirs. At the top of the screen, the number 60 is frozen in its countdown.

"The reason you're not eating everything we possibly can before launch— Audrem, I can already tell you don't believe me."

"Because you're going to be hungry earlier—"

"You're going to sit here and argue with me, a Victor of the Hunger Games, who has gone through all of this firsthand, and tell me I'm wrong?" Az knows better than to reply to that. "No, tell me I'm wrong. Go ahead."

He's silent, as he should be.

"Good. Because if you want to be the first District Two boy to shit himself live on national television four minutes into the Games, we're not claiming you. Especially when that kind of gorging is as unnecessary as it is. Historically, we are in command of the food supply. We aren't the ones who have to starve."

Nell goes into a summary of the number of victories Two, One, and Four have had, the amount of times outer districts have won, and the amount of times that's been attributed, in part, to loss of control of the Cornucopia or the food supplies it historically hosts. "Fact is, we don't manage hunger as well as those tributes who are used to starving. Losing the Cornucopia means losing weapons, which is clearly less than ideal, but we're well-trained enough where even still, with bare hands or makeshift weapons, we maintain an advantage. It's when we begin to starve, when we're not fueled the way we've always been, where we lose our edge."

I frown. A few of the others must look confused, too, because Nell picks up on it. "Is that surprising to you?"

Avari raises her hand. She's bolder than most, but perhaps she can afford to be. "And why do we lose our edge? If we've, in theory, got more staying power?"

"What it comes down to," Nell says, coming around the front of the table, finally, and easing herself against its front edge, "is how we raise you compared to the other districts. We want to train you in the most efficient and effective way that will give you the best chances of survival, that will prepare you best for a brutal few weeks in the arena. We have the option to either starve you consistently, to get you used to living in hunger, or provide for you. We choose the latter. Not out of love, or coddling, or making things easier on you, but because in the long term this is how we make you stronger, more muscular, and more physically prepared for the stresses of combat and hunting and chasing."

And it works. Mostly. Assuming your body does what it's supposed to and responds to the arduous training regimen you put it through. I try to remind myself that nearly every volunteer started out as stringy as I did, but to be honest, the longer this lasts, the harder it is to stop being bitter.

"The fact of the matter is, you will still get hungry in the Games. We had control over the Cornucopia the entire time and I still found myself exhausted. You're not eating the normal foods you're accustomed to here. But there isn't a great way to simulate that without actually forcing you into years of malnutrition and that's not what we choose to do. We aren't fucking savages who can't provide for our kids, like some districts. And the point of me saying this is— we don't need to gorge ourselves in the Capitol. In fact, it makes us soft. We eat only what will best fuel us. That means, the morning before the Games, we are up and eating a complete breakfast several hours before go time. Something light an hour before. Maybe an easily-digested snack twenty minutes out from launch. But we are not fattening ourselves up like pigs. Is that understood?"

We nod, silent, composed. Nell's not the type to ever be open about her own Games— sure, there's tapes to watch somewhere if you want to review them, but this is as much as I've learned about her personally. As stoic and cold as Nell is, she's still human.

Sometimes it's hard to remember that.

"By the morning of the Games, you've already made the choices in the days and weeks leading up to it that will determine how strong, energized, and hydrated you are. You still need to be warm by the time that gong goes off. Most of that does occur supervised in the Tribute Center, but you also need to ensure you're stretched and ready to go directly before the launch."

Without warning, Nell starts the video. As the camera rotates above, the plates lock into their places. In the top corner of the screen, the timer descends. 58. 57.

"There's a really nice shot right— here." Nell pauses the video to show Cavara in an angled side profile, wisps of hair slipped from her ponytail. She pulls her ponytail tighter, her face slightly slick with sweat. "Say what you will about her, but Cavara's done this right."

Ever since Cavara's decision to volunteer, there's been a battle of beliefs regarding how to handle it. The day after was the worst, that emergency meeting which became a lecture on respect for traditions, not just in Cavara's case but in Claudia's as well for deciding not to volunteer. It all aged poorly. Word must have gotten back to Valerius in the Capitol because by the next day we were ordered to support Cavara the same as we would any typical volunteer. But by that afternoon, everyone was more focused on how Cyrus' father, visiting the tribute cemetery after the Reaping on the anniversary of his son's last day alive in the District, had come across Claudia's unresponsive body amidst the smooth stone and wilted hyacinths, begonias, yellow carnations.

"It's not much time, sixty seconds. But it's enough to scan your surroundings, landscape and tributes alike. We're at an advantage in that we aren't hoping to make a safe escape, but it's still critical to look out beyond your immediate surroundings to predict where the others might try to run to first."

Nell starts the video again. We're afforded a shot of each tribute as the cameras pan, then retreat for one last look at the arena by way of a long overhead shot of the canyon, the dry pines along its valley, the snaking river cutting curves between the cliffs. Beyond the water is a sparse, dry forest, pines in fragmented clusters along the rising and falling land before the Cornucopia. On the other side are towering cliffs: most likely unscalable, meant instead as a natural barrier for any tributes who might want to retreat from the Cornucopia to the south.

She pauses again, with a 10 now hovering in the top right corner. "With ten seconds left, what are your judgments?"

Nobody moves. Nell doesn't seem particularly surprised, but all the same, she makes no effort to hide her disappointment. "Vail, then. Anything to note?"

If she's caught off-guard, Martina does a good job of playing it off. "You're starting up— at a higher elevation than other parts of the arena. It's going to be harder to move back up there, and easier to defend from above."

"Good," Nell says. "Yes. There are higher walls up behind the Cornucopia, but it's certainly easier to escape downslope to where it's not only more covered, but there's a clear water source. Who else? Isunza?"

Khione pauses his writing mid-word. He stares at the screen, willing himself to come up with something. "The placements must matter. Right? Around the Cornucopia?"

"You tell me."

Khione leans forward on his hand. "Right, well, there's Tasman and Vienna pretty close together. Cavara's on the other side of the horn, but Elias and Regis are right next to each other and Asherah's one down from them. They don't know that, though. Vienna might be able to see Cavara, but they've only got vague ideas of where each other are."

Nell frowns. "They don't know exactly where they are, correct. But that doesn't matter, not really. Anyone know why? Audrem, want to redeem yourself?"

Aziel sighs. "I feel like it does matter."

"Not compared to knowing where your other big threats are, the ones who are unpredictable." She moves back behind the table and points at a few of the tributes. "Seven male. Ten male. Three female. Six female. All scored sevens or above. You don't know if they're going to storm the Cornucopia or make a run for it. Whereas, if you've planned with your allies, you know where they're going, even if you don't know where they're starting from." She backs away and lets the final ten seconds run out as the camera ascends to show each tribute from above. "Keep track of where we are. Look where we go."

The gong rings out.

We know how it begins. Asherah is the first to the Cornucopia, making good use of her position along its front side to secure an assortment of weapons from where she had a full sixty seconds with a clear view into the horn to locate them. But it makes more sense now, the way Elias and Regis tail her, covering her as she grabs them all weapons, how Tasman and Vienna and Cavara snake around until they're all together, for only a moment, before they split to go on the offensive.

The audio's more perceptible too in the seconds before metal starts clanging and the breathing picks up. It's Cavara's voice, undoubtedly, as the camera shows the front of the Cornucopia now. "Seven's back there. Three was on my left."

"And that's the sort of instant communication you need," Nell is saying, as Tasman takes off for the Seven male. His victim has secured a backpack and a short knife, but in stopping to collect supplies he's put himself in range of Tasman's assault. From his running position, Tasman launches his spear forwards.

There's a quick tearing of flesh as the spear point cuts through Seven's back and through the front of his chest. Seven buckles, falling forward. Tasman rips the spear out of his back and turns, his first victim already forgotten.

Just ten feet down from Tasman, sword in hand, Elias has made a beeline for Three. He makes no effort to hide that he's chasing her because both of them know she might be quicker, but he'll outlast her. And he does, biding his time for the better part of a minute as she leads him out beyond the Cornucopia and down towards that first valley. I don't know if she's hoping to lose him in the water because she never gets the chance. Elias tackles her, turns her on her back, and looks her dead in the face.

"Should have made this easier on yourself," Elias snarls between breaths. Three's gasps are raspy and desperate, not used to the type of escape she's failed to make. "Might have made this less painful for you."

Elias plunges his sword down into her stomach, reveling in the ripping of flesh as Three curls and convulses. It's enough to kill, but it's not a finisher. But that's not his goal. He watches her thrash, watches her cry, and then retreats back towards the Cornucopia, not even waiting for her body to still.

Three's sobbing is quickly lost in the screams back at the horn where Asherah cuts into the wrists of the Twelve girl, Twelve's body convulsing as she thrashes against the agony of her short-lived life being stolen away from her. For a second Asherah's gaze locks on her victim, who's little more than a screaming, bleeding mess of severed arteries and butchered flesh, and it's so empty, so thoughtless, that a shiver runs through my arms as my wrists ache. But these are our enemies. This is what we do when they defy us.

Twelve chokes out a spittle of blood, her last conscious sound a ragged sob before Asherah draws her blade across her throat.

And there's Six, who Elias catches as he comes back down the slope. Six double-takes just in time for Elias to swing his blade and half-decapitate him. As Six grabs for his neck, Elias knocks him to his knees and plunges his sword through Six's chest.

"If Three hadn't scored as highly, I wouldn't have recommended going as far out for her as Elias did," Nell comments as we catch footage of Cavara and Vienna staying close to the horn, deterring would-be thieves from the bounty. "But it worked out. He got two kills out of it, and now one of the biggest threats is dead."

The Bloodbath broadcast plays around with screen numbers, adding dual shots to keep track of all the confrontations around the horn. The Eight male has caught Elias' attention as he comes back and he chases after him, the female trying to drive Elias away with a knife she has to know bears no weight against someone like him. But at the same time, Ten and Nine are battling, Nine drawing blood as he fights to free himself from underneath him, and I find myself drawn to that side of the screen more than Elias because I know how his fights end; I've seen enough of them here at the center to know that much. I'm surprised and captivated by the quickness with which Ten secures his axe and drives it into Nine's chest. It's not a finishing blow, but Nine withers anyway, panic overtaking sense. And Ten capitalizes, drawing his blade back again to bury it in Nine's stomach, revealing intestines and ribs and gore all escaping from the gash in his torso.

Nell pauses the video. I'm sure it has more to do with what's happening on the left screen, with Elias letting both Eights go knowing they're not worth chasing farther from the Cornucopia when there's other kills to be made closer to the start, not when they're in the spot they're in— the girl having lost her knife, the boy having lost most use of his arm. I find myself drawn instead to Ten pulling away on the right side, suspended in time as he leaves the mess that is Nine's fatal injury in his wake.

She doesn't say anything for a moment, as if considering, as if she doesn't already know the point she's going to make. "Anyone know what I'm going to say here? You've seen what happens."

I do. I don't want to say it, though. Not in front of Avari, certainly, but especially not because the only reason I'm even in this room is because Cavara and Elias managed to survive the first thirty minutes of the Games. Nell scans the room, locking on Avari again. "You know what I'm about to say."

"They let Ten get away."

"Precisely. My main trouble with the way they managed the Bloodbath. Everything else was pretty much standard, decently-done, well-planned. But, as I said earlier, Ten was one of the highest scorers. Whether or not he's a legitimate threat, that's potential sponsor money that isn't coming to Two. If he is a threat, then you want him gone before he can fuck up the Games for you."

She plays the video now. Ten gets to his feet, scans the area quickly, and then strips the Nine boy of his pack and weapon. In seconds, Ten has escaped downslope. Not a single Career, not Cavara nor Elias nor One nor Four, notices. To her credit, Cavara is busy gutting the girl from Ten who got a little too close for her liking. But the others are busy chasing other, less dangerous threats away from the bounty.

Nell pauses again on a frame showing four of the volunteers facing away from the front end of the horn. Vienna's switching her short-sword for a narrower blade, oblivious to any of the escapees at the far end. Tasman's the only one near the back end of the horn, chasing down the girl from Six, but even he's leaving the entire right-back flank of the Cornucopia exposed.

"This is our problem," Nell says.

She points to that open side, where four tributes have already fled. "Escapees aren't the issue. Escapees who have supplies, or who are uninjured, are the issue. These first twenty minutes are all about establishing control. Remember that, write it down: control. Your goal is always to amplify the amount of tributes who are either dead or hurt or empty-handed and minimize those who escape with materials. But Ten? Nine? Especially when those are threats, you cannot allow that to happen."

Aside from the bodies, the Cornucopia is nearly empty when the video starts again. It's Regis, coming back around the side of the horn, who notices the girl from Five trying to sneak back for a backpack.

"Hey!" he calls.

She stumbles. In three steps he reaches her and knocks her to the ground. He pins her arms down, wrists scratching against the hard dirt.

"Hey!" he repeats. Vienna appears around the side of the Cornucopia, Elias close behind. His chest is stained with a spray of red, Six or Three or someone else even, someone he mauled or maimed but didn't bother to finish off, knowing they'd be waiting for him at half-strength or worse when he had the time to complete the job. When Five screams, Regis throws his forearm into her neck. "Is there anyone else?"

"Dead or gone," says Tasman, using his thumb and forefinger to clean the liquid layer of blood from the point of his spear, then tasting his fingers with the tip of his tongue.

"Good," Regis says. He releases Five's throat, letting her cry out, raspy and ragged, until he closes his fist around her throat. "Anyone opposed?"

Cavara has come around finally, having scanned the rest of the surrounding area to make sure nobody's coming back. She steps around Nine's body, kicking his hand away on her way to her allies. "What's this?"

"Last kill of the bloodbath," Elias grins. "Regis, make it good."

Regis keeps his hand around Five's throat as she struggles and chokes. "We don't need anything drawn-out right now. We've got shit to do." He tightens his grasp, Five's face reddening, eyes popping as she gasps for air she won't ever get.

Cavara spectates, watching the life be strangled out of Five with no real joy in her eyes— business as usual, as far as she's concerned. Or so it seems.

When Five stills, Regis pushes her away and gets to his feet.

"Right," Tasman says, turning back towards the front of the Cornucopia. "Let's get all the gear organized, regroup a bit. Good work."

"Who's got the bodies?" Asherah asks, taking a drink from the water bottle looped around her pinky finger.

Cavara nods. "I've got 'em. You want them in front of the mouth?"

"Yeah, right where we can see them, count them, all that."

Elias pulls the backpack from Five's shoulder. The others wrap their hands around scattered knives, water bottles, packs and tent bags, coming back to the mouth to stack everything inside the Cornucopia, while Cavara gets to work dragging corpses to the front of the horn. In the meantime, we get glimpses of the surviving tributes. Both Eights, the female dragging the male, his right arm half-attached to his shoulder. The Three male, tying a bandage around his arm while he balances the strap of a pack in the crease of his elbow, pain pressed into his eyes and his jaw. Both Elevens, on opposite ends of the canyon, putting as much distance between themselves and the Cornucopia as possible. The Twelve male, spear in one hand, rope draped over his shoulder. The Seven girl hasn't stopped running since the gong went off and her breathing is forced, legs splaying to either side as she stumbles forward through the trees. The Nine girl follows the river north. Five climbs up the rocky slope of the northeast end of the canyon. The Ten male hitches a pack on his back, sweat crawling down his neck, and tightens his fist around his bloodied axe.

"So ten other survivors," Nell notes. "Two grievous injuries. Five others left without supplies. That leaves three who escaped in a decent spot. That's actually not terrible, as long as our tributes know who they are. That's why we're keeping track of the bodies."

When Elias is done lugging supplies to the horn, he goes back to retrieve Three's body from where he left her and tosses her over his shoulder, blood still oozing down his back from her gored neck. In the end, there are eight bodies in a row, just as Vienna and Tasman finally emerge from inside the horn.

"So who got who?" asks Cavara.

"Got the Seven male and Six female," Tasman says.

"Twelve girl," Asherah says.

Elias frowns. "These two," he says, motioning towards two of the bodies with his toe. "Three and Six, I think."

"You all saw mine," says Regis.

"And I got the Ten girl," Cavara confirms. "So who the fuck got him?"

They look down at the last corpse, that of the Nine boy, gored and gutted.

"Vienna?" Regis asks.

"Wasn't me. I was warding everyone off from the supplies."

Tasman kneels next to the body, his nose wrinkling. Nine's face is drained of blood, his eyes waxy, skin streaked with dust. "No one saw this?"

The others shake their heads.

"Great. Then who got out?"

Nell stops the video again. My hand aches from scribbling everything she's said down, everything happening in the Games— where the tributes are going, how Cavara carried the bodies, Regis' grip on his victim's neck. "And before this conversation happens..." Nell pulls a fractured sliver of chalk from the base of the board on the front wall, on either side of the screen. "Let's talk numbers for a minute. Twenty-four tributes..." She scribbles a squeaky 24 on the board. "Six, typically, members of the Career alliance. Sometimes seven, sometimes five. This year, an even six. So that's eighteen tributes to track off the start. If we've got six tributes keeping track of eighteen others, in theory, you've got three to take care of individually— killing, injuring, or driving away. Of course, it's never so clean. There's going to be overlap. Let's just see how much there was."

"I saw the Eights go," Elias says, when Nell starts the video again. "Got the guy's arm, too. They don't have anything."

"I never saw the Ten girl," Regis says.

"Right here," Cavara grumbles. "She's not going anywhere."

"Seven took off," Asherah says. "The girl. I know Tas got the guy right off the start."

"Anyone see Ten?" asks Regis. "Outside of the first sixty seconds, I mean?"

Cavara glowers. The others shake their heads.

"Good," Tasman says, grimacing. "How about Twelve?"

"Killed the girl. Saw the boy once, but I was busy with his partner."

"I hit Three," says Vienna. "Not sure where he went, but he was hurt bad. And I saw the Eleven boy take off at the beginning. Not sure about the girl."

Cavara considers the bodies on the ground. "So who does that leave?"

They count, taking themselves into account as well as their kills. "Everyone but Nine and Eleven, I think," Regis says. "Unless there's any reason Ten or Twelve would stick around here. But chances are, one of them gutted Nine here and bailed with his things. I doubt anyone wins a fight here and stays to gloat."

Except us, I think.

"Keep an eye out," Tasman says. "Let's move the bodies away and then get to work here. Elias and Vienna, help me get these over to the edge of the ridge."

By the time the hovercrafts arrive, dropping their claws to retrieve each body, the horn has been stacked and organized. Spears and swords are affixed to the left interior, with belts of knives hooked next to them. Food supplies are all the way in the back, cans and bags of nuts and fruits and sacks of bread and crackers, water, juice, jerky, all sorts of edible supplies, enough to feed an entire arena for a month. Other gear and extra backpacks line the right side of the horn, with enough space in the middle for sleeping bags and other bedding.

"Not bad," Elias says, as he, Tasman, and Vienna return to see a neatly-organized stockpile.

"Stock up on what you need," Tasman says. "We've got a hunt to start on."

Nell mutes the broadcast. I watch behind her as Cavara loops two belts of knives across her body, claims a pack, and secures a sword on her left side. Elias claims three swords and a serrated knife, tucking the latter into the large right pocket of his pants. With the Cornucopia secured, giving the volunteers time to breathe, the Bloodbath is over. "Everything from here on out is your greater Games," Nell says. "We've done a really nice job of retaining control from the other Districts. But there is an issue here, in terms of control. Anyone know what it is?"

That's when Nell looks at me. "Caverley?"

I feel a rush behind my eyes, a pressure under my cheekbones. I know, or I did, up until she said my name. What was I thinking of? Why did I lose it?"

"Caverley," she repeats, her tone colder.

"Tasman," I get out, the memory gratefully rushing back. "Tasman is in control right now."

"Clearly," she says. "Why is that an issue?"

"It's—" Avari's listening, and it's stressing me out. "It may or may not be an issue. Because Tasman is the leader, that puts a target on his back. But that also gives him the opportunity to be a step ahead. And to make sure he knows what everyone else is doing by dictating that exactly."

"So you don't think it's an issue."

"No, I do."

"Because he can be a step ahead."

"Yes. And—" Frustration burns behind my eyes. "And the way he divided tasks. Just now. He split all the Districts up so we can't talk behind his back."

"That's closer to what I was looking for," Nell says. "Don't think for a second that anything Tasman has decided so far is by chance. He had Cavara and Vienna guarding the horn— Two and One, notoriously distrustful of each other. For the first half of the Bloodbath, at least, he kept eyes on Elias, fought on the same side as him, made sure nothing funny was going on. As for Regis and Asherah, he knows Regis isn't a threat right now and Asherah won't turn on her own partner."

"Why isn't he a threat?" Khione asks.

"Think of last year," Nell says. "One earned a Victor for the first time in five years. They're going to want to back that up, and there's no rush to do anything crazy because the pressure is off. Regis isn't going to pull some desperation move this early in the Games because he knows he and Vienna won't likely survive it. There's no reason for him to risk it."

Interesting. Because it seems like the years we win, the pressure heightens, in fact, for the next class, no matter how long the drought runs. Or maybe the pressure's always been high. I'm not exactly the best to judge that since it honestly feels like the only people with higher stakes in these Games than me are Cavara and Elias themselves.

"And Elias is a threat? Or Two is?"

"We're always a threat," Nell says matter-of-factly, returning to lean on the front side of the table. "But we're predictable in that our loyalty to each other runs deep. Generally it's smart to keep District partners apart as much as possible, and that's true of us more than anyone. I don't know how it works in other Districts, but in normal years our kids have known they were going in together for a month beforehand. That's ample time to plan, even before the official time allotted in the Capitol with your mentors. Even if Cavara and Elias don't appear close on first glance you'd be stupid to give them a moment together unsupervised."

Nell curls her hands behind her on the tabletop, flexing her fingers. It's a movement that's far too relaxed for the pressure of our viewing room when the whole world's circling outside and we're closed inside, suffocating on the spinning probability of success, of survival.

Or maybe it's just me. Avari doesn't choke when Nell asks her a question, not the way I do.

"What's up?" Khione asks me when we're finally let out. I inhale the staleness of the inner hallway, its dustiness still fresher than the heat of the viewing room. Khione walks next to me, his pace matching mine. "You seem stressed."

"Do I?"

"Just a bit."

Well, I, for one, have no idea what he's talking about. Because I'm certainly not stressed about the outcome of the Games at all, not when it directly pertains to me for a reason not a single person besides Akello knows about, because I've done a damn good job keeping my mouth shut so far. Because the only possible response to a revelation like that is pity or disdain, and I've just about had enough of that.

"Just the Games," I sigh. "I really want to see us win."

"We will. No chance in Panem One repeats with those two, not against Elias. And Four? Where's their water, huh?"

I smile, but at my first opportunity I duck away into the girl's locker rooms. Khione means well, but he'll never get it. And he'll never understand, either, that if I even had a choice— which is foolish to consider, given the circumstances— our victor this year would always be Cavara. Not when he's so attached to Elias.

There's a few Fourteens and Fifteens getting changed, drying off after a shower, when I open my locker. Sessions these next few weeks are less structured, to be completed whenever you have the time in between watching the Games. I'd like to go home, in all honesty. Or not home, just wherever I can find a comfortable corner somewhere to curl up and take a rest. My sleep last night was about as fragmented and dissatisfying as I'd imagine it is in the arena, only instead of the sky or the roof of the Cornucopia to watch, I had only the swirling static of my ceiling.

But I can't rest. Can't go home when my days are numbered. Can't rest when there's still lifts to complete.

There's work to be done. Even if it's likely all for nothing.

On Day Two, we watch Elias, Regis, and Asherah hunt down the pair from Eight together. Asherah twists her ankle in the pursuit, but it doesn't save either tribute. Elias holds down the boy while Asherah stabs the girl in the chest, ending her struggle in less than a minute.

Elias has his fun with the boy, finishing the job he did on his right arm and then working his way through the rest of Eight's battered body. It's never enough to kill, only mutilate past recognition, only afflict tremendous agony upon someone who he'd grumbled last night about not getting to finish off.

"Glad I saved you for later," Elias had even said to him as he'd pinned him down. "I've got more time today."

By the time the three of them return to base camp, Elias is coated in gore and sweat, his hair greased with grime. By all accounts, he appears satisfied with the day's work. I do my long run alone in the slopes around the Atheneum until the screams are no longer so chilling. When I go home, I watch clips of Elias torturing Eight over and over, forcing myself to feel nothing for him, long past the point where Mom's told me to turn it off and Dad's retreated to his room. I watch until my eyes are dry and my skin is numb. When I wake up on Day Three, I watch it again and am pleased to realize I don't care about his screaming, don't care when he pleads for his life.

On Day Four, the boy from Twelve hunts down and slaughters the boy from Eleven. He's exhausted and dehydrated, but he has a spear and he's been practicing wielding it. Eleven never stands a chance.

It's Day Six when Mallen finally lets me run with her. "You do it too late in the day," she complains as we climb up the slopes, my upper legs starting to swell with fatigue. "It's hot as fuck right now."

"The mornings are too easy," I counter.

"Easy?"

"Like, you're tired for the first part of it, but it's not even cold in the mornings anymore. This way, you've got to deal with some elements."

"Because of course you'd want to make this harder on yourself, somehow."

I scoff. "Good luck when Trials turn out to be a race in the heat, and you're too busy bragging how early you wake up to catch me blazing past you."

"Good luck remembering to wake up for Trials when they're actually at four in the morning, and you're all curled up in bed dreaming about Cas."

"Cas?" I almost choke.

"I said what I said."

"Absolutely not. Shut up and run faster. If you're not too hot to finish a little run up the hill."

I stay at Mallen's on Night Six, staying up to watch the night hunt go down with Vienna, Elias, and Asherah. I watch until my eyes burn and my stomach twists with hunger, but there are no tributes to be found. The arena is massive, but that's no excuse. Our alliance is smart enough to know unless kills start happening, Gamemaker intervention is on its way.

And that's one thing we hate, because once the Gamemakers are involved, we start to lose control.

"We need another kill," Asherah grumbles. "At this point, I'll take anything."

Elias straightens his night-vision glasses and scratches his nose. "Any volunteers?"

"Yourself."

"Funny," Elias says. But it's the sort of comment that doesn't go overlooked, not in the arena. Elias keeps her in front of him for the remainder of the hunt.

For once, they've packed more copious food supplies, determined to make a kill before they return to camp. There's no other option. They take a five-minute break to have a snack, rehydrate, and stretch their legs. Vienna looks above her, watching the sky begin to fade.

In the distance, there's a smooth clattering, like stone against stone. Elias freezes. Asherah tightens her grip on her knife.

A second later, all three are running towards the sound. The ground's uneven and riddled with swells and divots, roots of the spindly trees that thinly populate the northeast end of the arena. When Asherah stumbles again, her ankle gives way, still weak from an injury she hasn't let rest.

"Stay there," Elias says. "We've got them."

He and Vienna continue forward through the trees. It's maybe thirty seconds later when they stop, silent, heads darting around for any sound or sight that might betray the other tribute's position. But there's nothing, no way to know where they've gone.

They wait for a minute, scanning the expanse of land around them. The night is silent, the blurring of clouds above frozen, static, holding their breath.

"Downslope," Vienna says finally. "They must have gone downslope."

Elias doesn't say anything. He's staring down at the next valley, as if gauging if whoever made that sound could have slid down, somehow survived the drop.

"Where would you have gone?" she asks.

Elias shakes his head. "I don't know. But..."

"What?"

"Look. Come here."

Vienna approaches. Wary, yes, but more so of the edge of the canyon, not of the boy who's with her.

"What?" she asks.

She doesn't see it. But I do.

Elias grabs her. His hand curls around her neck and she gasps before his other hand blocks off her mouth. In one motion he's thrown her to the ground, his fist coming down on her windpipe before she can scream.

Vienna's eyes are bursting, wide with terror. Someone might see it as a fear of death. I see it differently: an absolute, undeniable fear of failure.

My heartbeat shudders in my chest. Next to me, Mallen is still burning through her fatigue from when I'd shaken her awake. Vienna tenses, trying to heave in a breath. But it's too late.

"This is for Jasira," Elias snarls.

The blade cuts across her neck. Her body falls.

I feel my pulse in the skin of my throat— faster, heavier, too strong to manage. My inhales are empty. My exhales don't exist.

"Scout?" Mallen asks.

I shake my head. "I don't— I don't—"

"Scout!"

She grabs my shoulders. My head aches and swirls, my neck tense and rigid. My tongue feels dry, throat sore, lips parched.

"Scout—"

"I'm okay," I gasp. "Just— just give me a minute—"

My breaths are fast and superficial. I curl my fingers into my scalp, praying the tugging will help ground me.

"Elias got her," Mallen says. "She's dead. He's fine."

But it's not about that. I don't know what my panic's for. But there was something terrifying in the way Elias threw her down, killed her like it was nothing. An ally, a Career—

Jasira—

"It's okay," Mallen says. "It's okay, just try to breathe."

I inhale raggedly through my teeth. Mallen grabs me a glass of water and I take tentative sips, letting it wet my lips and mouth.

"What happened?" she whispers, when the pounding in my throat has dulled some.

I still feel lightheaded. I lean back against the couch, trying to take slow, rhythmic breaths. "I don't know."

"That's okay."

"I really don't," I say. Mallen's muted the television and as much as I know we need to be watching, I can't right now. Besides, there's no doubt we'll be going over this tomorrow at the center. "I just—"

"It's okay. I swear."

I put my face in my hands. Mallen comes closer to me until I shake my head.

"Do you want more water?"

"No. Thank you." I take another shuddering breath. "I think… I think I just need to go to sleep."

Mallen brings me another blanket and I curl up on the couch, hugging my limbs tight to my body. I tense my shoulders, drawing in a long, cold breath of air, and exhale into the night.

My pulse doesn't quiet until long after Mallen's started snoring softly. I reach my hand to trace the fine skin on my neck and fall asleep with my fingers on my throat, making sure that its surface, so fragile, so vulnerable, stays in one piece.

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Hi friends!

Not a lot to say here tbh. Life's kinda been doing to me what Emory did to Scout back in chapter 5 and can confirm, is not fun. Thought this week was gonna be the end of it until I realized I actually have a midterm tomorrow(?) through mf Proctorio (fuck that shit) and then another in a week and I'm two weeks behind on that class plus there's one I have four weeks to make up sooo yeah if it's another while before I update, check hell first before you go looking for me anywhere else.

Hope everyone is doing well and getting vaccinated! I'm getting #2 in like two weeks and I've heard great things all around. Should be a breeze.

See you soon!