Rusalka Darien, 18, District 7 Tribute POV

After hours of hunting, I find my prey.

There were a lot of cannons today, which annoyed me. I hate the thought of someone or something stealing my kills. But, finally, I see sunlight glinting on golden hair and realise who I've found. The boy from District 9. The victor's son.

I launch myself at the boy, ready to drench myself in his blood. The boy raises his sickle to block my axe. I notice something change in his eyes. A hard, feral light creeps into them.

I realise what I've found. This is no ordinary boy. This is a wild animal, a natural killer.

I've met a truly worthy opponent.

I laugh as he takes a lunge at me. His movements are so graceful until his blade makes contact with mine and brings him to a hard, juddering stop. I'll get everything I love from this fight, all the beauty and brutality of living by the blade.

We move like one being, responding to each other's strikes with lightning speed. Sometimes, I manage to strike him. Other times, I feel the coldness of his blade slicing through my skin and I have to chase it away with all the warmth I can muster. My blood races through my veins as I throw everything behind my axe.

I know that I'll feel powerful when I stand over this boy's dead body.

There's nothing more satisfying than that feeling I get when I realise that the blow I'm making is going to do some serious damage. I have that feeling when the boy raises his sickle just a little bit too slowly. My axe slices into his face. It's not instantly fatal but it does make a particularly nasty gash. There's a thick, clear fluid dripping from the boy's eye socket. The boy cries out in pain and presses a hand to his eye, leaving himself vulnerable. I raise my axe again, ready to make the killer blow.

The scream stops me. I hear a boy's desperate cry of fear and agony. It sounds barely human but I recognise it instantly.

"Eros!" I cry.

The time it takes for me to realise that Eros Buonafonte never screamed, not once, not even as he'd died, is just a split second too long.

All the heat drains out of me as the boy rams his sickle through my chest. All that's left is the cold metal of the blade.

And fear.

Houghton Field, 15, District 9 Tribute POV

The silver-haired girl was a worthy opponent. If she hadn't reacted to that boy's scream, she would've killed me.

Now, as she dies, she stares at me with terrified, dark eyes.

"You enjoyed that, didn't you?" She smiles weakly. It doesn't reach her eyes. There's blood trickling from her mouth.

"I did," I press the heel of my palm into my bad eye, like that'll help. I can hear the screams again, the strangers. I take comfort in them.

As long as I can hear the screams clearly, I know my senses aren't deserting me.

A cannon fires. The girl is dead. I've made my first kill.

I feel strangely proud of myself. I feel complete, like this is what I was born to do, my only purpose in life.

I'm a killing machine. Only when I kill am I not a machine.

I think of how I felt before I fought my first opponent. Not the girl but the orange-furred monkeys. I was stiff and awkward, a robot pretending to be a boy. Lost. But when I raised my sickle to kill, I became real. My limbs softened from metal to flesh.

But did anything change on the inside? Did killing make me less empty?

Was I a good person once? Did killing change that?

Liza sends me a medical kit so I can tend to my wounds. I don't know how to use most of the things in it but it's better than trying to find something to use in the jungle. I eventually manage to wrap my head around the antiseptic and the bandages and begin to piece my body back together.

But my mind is still in fragments. Part of me is happy that I've found my true calling. Part of me wants to be a killer.

But the other part, the part that yearns to be the old Houghton of long ago, is telling me that killing is wrong.

I know I'm on the edge of embracing my new self but it seems so much harder knowing that I'll be putting my old self to death.

"Who am I, Liza?" I ask the sky. "Who do you want me to be?"

There's no parachute. No reply. I know that my mentor would answer me if she could. Maybe she can't. Maybe there's a rule against her giving me advice now I'm in the arena. That would make sense, since the medical kit came with no instructions.

"What if I win?" I ask. "Will you tell me then?"

Again, there's no answer.

I feel like I know what I need to do. I need to win. And I know how.

Nobody knows I can fight. I saw the surprise in that girl's eyes as I'd fought back. I'm sure they all see me as a young, weak, inexperienced outlier.

And, when they see me now, they'll see me as a young, weak, inexperienced, injured outlier.

I'm sure I can still fight, even with my injuries. Even now I'm blind in one eye. I might not be able to see very well but all my other senses are at full strength. But my opponents won't know that. Not until it's too late. All I need to do is wait for them to stumble upon me. They'll see a weak opponent, get overconfident and let me kill them.

I'm still not sure who I am but I know I'll live long enough to find out. I will be the victor of the Seventy-Fifth Hunger Games.

I lie down and smile, dreaming of my victory.

9th: Rusalka Darien, stabbed by Houghton

I wanted a fight between Rusalka and Houghton from the start. They're two of the most violent and brutal tributes in the arena so I knew I had to bring about a clash of the titans. I was originally planning to have them both destroy each other but then Houghton the berserker warrior grew on me. So Rusalka had a moment of weakness that Houghton took advantage of. At least she went down fighting. Rusalka meeting her doom was inevitable. Her trauma didn't hold her back but it did the opposite and pushed her to make reckless decisions I don't know if anyone will miss her because she was a bit of a villain but I'll miss writing her, especially her fight scenes.

We're in the top eight now! The remaining tributes (in district order) are Eidolon, Régine, Fawkes, Silver, Mako, Houghton, Drachma and Sankie.