I was not made for cities. I could have told you that far before I ever stepped foot in the Capitol, but as I traverse my way through endless dark alleyways and past the abandoned remnants of storefronts and homes crammed together in impossibly close quarters, that fact is only made all the more clear. Suffocating. That's the only word I can think of to describe what it feels like to inch my way along between these towering buildings. All the stone and cement and metal that surrounds me is claustrophobic, like it wants to swallow me up and encase me in the walls. I haven't stopped moving since I ran from the Cornocopia, but the journey is slow-going. I have to keep backtracking and sweeping my footsteps away in the snow, so as not to leave a breadcrumb trail for any pursuers. At this rate, Peeta and Rue could be miles away in any direction. I have no idea how I'll ever find them.

The buildings I'm hiding against look long-abandoned, the brick foundations cracked and smeared with years-old dirt and grime. I know that's not really the case, that the Game Makers designed and had them built like this likely only weeks ago, but the lonely, foreboding effect they give off still stands. Their shadows provide the only sort of cover I can see, so I don't dare leave them for the openness of the rest of the arena, but that doesn't mean I like it. I constantly crane my neck, peering up at the windows on either side of me. I feel vulnerable underneath them, like someone's watching me. I laugh a little at myself for the ridiculous thought, because of course someone is watching me. Hundreds of thousands of someones, in fact.

I think of Prim and my mother, sitting on our moth-eaten couch back home. School will have been canceled for opening day, so I can't imagine my little sister has moved from in front of the television at all since this morning. I wonder, only slightly bitterly, if my mother has even risen from bed to see if her oldest daughter has made it this far. If she has, is she proud of me? Or is she disgusted, having watched me crush the life out of a young boy within minutes of the gong? Are they even watching the television at all, or has something terribly happened to the District since I've been gone? The security breach that claimed so many of our people is still fresh on my mind, and I can't bare to think of what might happen to my family without me there to protect them. I try to settle my worries by reminding myself that Gale would never allow that to happen, and hope that he's already home from his first mission.

I don't need to think very hard to imagine what Gale thought of my actions this morning. He would have called them necessary. He would tell me that putting down threats is what I need to do to survive. Whether they breathe or not is inconsequential. Before this morning, I would have said the same thing. Now, I'm not so sure.

Foolishly, I had made myself believe that killing another tribute would be no different than taking down a monster. However, now that I have experience in both, I realize how naïve a comparison that was. That boy may have been trying to kill me, but only because he was forced into this situation like the rest of us. He had a family he was trying to get back to. A family that no doubt hates me, is wishing for my own death in retaliation. I shiver and try to push the image of his blank eyes out of my head. I can't dwell on him. He won't be the only death I cause if I ever want to come home to my own family.

A deafening boom suddenly shakes the ground under my feet. I stop, taking cover in a crumbling doorway. I press myself into the stone, trying to appear as small as possible, holding the knife I nicked from Clove out in front of me. For a moment I fear I've fallen into my first trap, but another boom causes tiny pieces of rock to fall from the ceiling and I relax. It's just the cannons. Their arrival means everyone is far enough away from the Cornocopia for the Game Makers to collect and count the bodies that fell during the bloodbath. I hold my breath, counting each one. There's thirteen cannon blasts in total, which means over half of us are gone before noon. The Capitol bets must be astronomical already – that's a record number of deaths for opening day.

There's a guilty sort of satisfaction in knowing that one of those cannons was caused by my own hand. I should feel awful, and I do, but my survival instinct knows I'm one step closer to coming home with every blast that isn't meant for me. I try not to question if any of those sounds were for Peeta or Rue. What if I'm looking for people who aren't here anymore? Unbidden, an image of Peeta's lifeless body swims before me, hoisted up into a hovercraft in the claws of a mechanical arm. What if he's already on his way back home, stark white and contained in the unceremonious wooden box used for fallen tributes? I swallow thickly and push the thought out of my head. It's futile to give any more thought to the cannons than I already have. I won't find out who the booms are for until this evening, when they project pictures of the dead in the sky for the rest of us to see.

When the last residual tremors from the final cannon cease, I decide it's time to find out what's inside the backpack I risked my life for. I slide down the wall of the doorway and drop the bag in front of me. With shaking fingers, I pull the zipper open and reach inside. My hand brushes against something soft and fuzzy. I pull out a wool cap, and as I do a pair of matching gloves fall out as well. I put the gloves on immediately, grateful for the extra warmth, but the cap gets set down beside me. It's a vibrant orange colour, which may as well be a beacon light to other tributes if I put it on my head. I'll need to find some mud or dirt to dampen the colour.

I dive into the bag again, my fingers closing around something smooth and cold. I pull the item out and study it – a small metal compass. The arrow currently points to the east. We've learned how to use them in our defence training, but I'm not sure how one of these devices will help me here. I pocket it anyway, not one to waste anything. I pull out a roll of cloth bandages next, followed by a small bottle of antiseptic liquid, based on the label. These will come in handy, I'm sure. My arm still burns from Clove's slice, but I'll wait until I'm better covered before I attempt to wrap it. I set the items down beside the cap and dig into the bag again, but pull my hand out almost immediately, cursing and sucking on my bleeding finger.

I peer into the bag, looking for whatever sharp thing caused the cut. A spool of barbed wire seems to be the culprit. I take it out of the bag, carefully this time, and gingerly hold it up. There's enough wire here to wrap around the length of a bat or a strong-enough piece of wood and then some. It's the most useful item in my haul so far, if I can make it work. I set it down and look into the bag, reaching in for the last item hiding at the bottom.

It takes me a moment to realize what it is. Or what they are, really. A pair of handheld talk-radios, like I've seen the Peacekeepers around Twelve use. Rarely, the defence and scouting teams will have a few to use on missions, but electricity is so hard to come by that keeping them charged is more of a hassle than anything else. I've never used one myself, and I have a hard time finding a use for them now, especially when I'm alone. I turn one of the radios over in my hands, deciphering which buttons do what. I twist a knob on the top of it and a blaring beep emits, followed by crackling radio static. I turn it off in a hurry, looking around wildly to see if the noise has alerted anyone to my hiding spot. The coast seems clear, but I don't want to chance it.

I quickly pack everything back into the bag and zip it up, throwing it back over my shoulders. I stand up and stretch, trying to loosen my muscles that have turned stiff from the cold already. I try not to get disgruntled over the fact that nothing in my bag, save for the wool gloves, is immediately useful. There's no water, no weapons, no food. I suppose I should expect nothing less from the Capitol. Why should they make it easy on any of us? My stomach chooses that moment to grumble, an audible reminder that finding sustenance will be necessary soon. I admit, I've grown accustomed to having a full belly during my stay in the Tribute Tower, but any extra weight I've gained in the last week won't last long in this environment. I peer out from my perch in the doorway, knife held in front of me, and try to decipher which way to go next.

I suppose it doesn't really matter where I go, so long as I keep moving. It's been quiet, almost unnaturally so, since I fled on Peeta's orders, but that doesn't mean I'm safe. And it's cold; so bitterly, bone-chilling cold that I'm starting to worry about how I'll get through the first night without freezing to death. I may have brushed off Haymitch's first piece of advice, but finding shelter from the elements is a non-negotiable. The gloves have stopped my fingers from turning into frozen icicles and the Capitol-supplied jacket is warm, but this won't be nearly enough once the sun goes down.

I walk in the eerie silence for what I estimate to be about an hour, growing more frustrated and lost by the minute. Every street looks the same. There are no markers or distinguishable landmarks to set them apart. I even pull the compass out of my pocket, but whether I go North of South, I'm no closer to knowing which way will lead my to my allies. I stay in the shadows, my back to walls, but I haven't seen a soul since this morning. This should ease my nerves, but all it does is twist them into sensitive knots. The lack of noise is starting to concern me. There aren't even any birds in the sky, and my hopes of gaining food by hunting are dwindling steadily. More than that, I have no idea how big the arena is or what kind of traps are afoot, and every corner I turn is a gamble. What I really need is the advantage of height.

Back home, the trees in the forest were nearly as pertinent to my survival as my bow was. I could climb twenty feet up, thirty if the branches were solid, and survey the land for both prey and danger. Stuck down here on ground level, I'm vulnerable and blind. I've given up on any hope of trees here, but I start to look for anything that might serve a similar purpose. There are a few smaller buildings wedged between the high-rises. If I can make it to the roof of one of those somehow, I might just catch a glimpse of somewhere safer to run to.

There, across a road littered with broken-down cars and other debris, stands a large wooden pole. A braided black wire connects it to a second pole ten feet over, and that one is close enough to a roof that I could confidently make the jump. The pole looks thin enough that I should be able to shimmy up to the top, so long as I can stay unseen while I do it. This is something best done under the cover of night, but the thought of milling around for hours, doing nothing but waiting, is out of the question, and I'll need to find some sort of shelter before long. I have yet to see another tribute so far. My luck just has to hold for another ten minutes.

Knife held in front of me, I sprint to the nearest obstacle – a vehicle parked sideways in the middle of the road, it's front-end crushed and mangled. The car vaguely resembles the one I rode in on my way to the train station only a week ago, only it must be fifty years older. I crouch behind it, brushing up against the passenger door and causing flakes of rust to mingle with the snowflakes in the air. I brace my hand against the filthy window, peering around the nose to find my next hiding spot. The whole car wobbles when I do so, as if the weight of my hand is enough to flip the old thing over. I softly pat the window absent-mindedly, like I used to do to Prim's pet goat, Lady, when she got spooked. I had haggled my way into a good price for her at the Hob for Prim's birthday one year, but the poor animal barely lasted a few months before a rogue monster had gotten through the security fence and ripped her to shreds. I'll never forget Prim's heartbroken cries, and I've never attempted to find her another pet since then.

The car shifts again, though I haven't lifted my hand. The weather has slowed enough that I'm sure it isn't the wind moving it. I'm suddenly nervous that someone or something is hiding on the other side, waiting for me to move into the open. I crouch even lower, until my eyes are level with the bottom of the window. The glass is so grimy that I can hardly see into the interior, let alone what might be on the other side. Dropping onto my stomach, I press my cheek against the frozen pavement and peer under the car, looking for feet.

My heart pumps fearfully, but there's nothing to see but crumpled litter and one, tragically small, pink shoe. No one is waiting to kill me. Not right here, anyway. I push myself back up before the moisture can soak through my jacket, feeling stupid and paranoid. Perhaps the wind is stronger than I first thought. I glare into the window of the car again, cursing it for making me feel so silly, and find another pair of eyes glaring back at me.

I clap my hand to my mouth to stop myself from crying out, but the wild thing inside the car makes more than enough noise for the both of us. She thrashes against her side of the door, banging her pallid forehead and bloody fists against the window over and over. She doesn't take her red eyes off of me as she opens her mouth and howls. Even through the glass, her shrieks echo through the street, piercing the silence and giving my position away instantly.

Shit. If anyone is even remotely close-by they're bound to hear the commotion the host is causing. In any other situation, the tell-tale noises of the infected are essentially an alarm bell to stay clear of the area. But this isn't a normal situation, and the pack of career tributes are out here somewhere, hunting their next kill. If they've heard the undead going after something, they'll come running once they're sure a cannon won't sound. It's what I would do.

The host is still banging away at the window, her broken teeth trying to gnaw at me through the glass. She herself isn't an immediate threat, contained in the vehicle like she is, but the sooner I can stop the screaming, the better. Even if the other tributes don't come to investigate, years of experience has taught me that it never takes long before more infected will show up at the beckoning of their kind. I ready one hand on the door handle of the car. In the other I grip my knife tightly, and after a deep breath in, I pull the door open and slide the knife through the thing's brain, cutting her off mid-shriek. It doesn't take much pressure – despite the cold, the host is bloated and the skull has grown brittle from decay. She falls into my arms, dripping rancid liquid into my chest, and I ease the body back onto the seat behind her. Her head rolls back, where it lands in the lap of a lifeless little girl sitting in an awkward angle. I choke on my disgust, tasting bile. The little girl can't be more than two years old at most, though it's hard to tell. Her face and limbs have been mostly eaten away and what's left is a rotten, slimy mess. On the one remaining foot, I spot a dirty, pink shoe. The Game Makers sure as hell aren't shying away from the morbid imagery for their grand return.

I duck back out of the car and close the door as gently as I can. Feeling queasy and revolted, I spit the bile out into a snow bank and wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I've seen worse than this, unfortunately – it's impossible not to when your mother is the sick and dying's last hope – but knowing that this scene was intentionally set up by someone adds an entirely new level of horror. I make a valiant effort to keep my breakfast down, knowing that this may be the last time my stomach ever knows what full feels like, but it's no use. The stench of decay lingers in my nose until it's all-consuming, and no amount of fresh air helps.

I keel over, splattering the road with vomit until there's nothing left to come up. I heave until my abdomen hurts, willing myself to stop because I know my time to vacate is running out fast. I'd be worried about looking weak to the sponsors if I wasn't so certain that this particular part of the Games won't be broadcasted. Even the Capitolites who place bets on our lives have a limit to their brutality, and I'm willing to bet they'd draw a line at rotting toddlers. No, this was a set-up made specifically for an unlucky tribute's eyes only, and I guess I drew the short straw on this one. Physically or mentally, it makes no difference to them how they damage us.

I grab a handful of clean snow off the roof of the car and swirl it around in my mouth, spitting it out to get rid of the taste of vomit, then look for my next hiding spot. A toppled over dumpster lies halfway between where I am and the wooden pole I need to get to. I dart over to it, crouch down again, and peer around the side. I'm only a few feet away now, but I force myself to remain still, ears cocked for any sign of danger. Everything is quiet again, the silence even more pressing after the screams of the host. I have one foot braced, the other about to push off in a sprint, before I hear it.

Howling. Not the almost-human howls of the undead, but the kind of noises I've heard in the woods on winter days like this. The howls are soon joined by barks and growls, and I can tell from the pitch that the sounds signify excitement. They sound like dogs, and they're getting closer.

I need to move, and fast. If they've smelled me, I'm done for on the ground. I think of what Gale and I have done in the past when wild dogs catch our scent while we're out hunting. They're quick, dangerously so, with sharp teeth and a desperate need to feed their pack, just like us. I can take down one or two on my own with the right weapon, but it sounds like far more than that are headed my way right now. My only hope for survival is to get out of their range.

I dip out from behind the dumpster, racing for the wooden pole that might save my life. I don't see the dogs anywhere yet, but their cries echo off the buildings, telling me they aren't far away. The snow drifts are deeper here in the open, slowing me down even in these winterized boots. I kick piles of it out of the way, urging my legs to move fast enough to make it another twenty feet.

I hit what I think must be the curb of the street with my toe, making me stumble and slip on an ice patch, but I manage to stay on my feet. I pause for just a moment, trying to pinpoint where the howls are coming from, but the high buildings all around me make it sound as though they're coming at me from all angles. Maybe they are. I can see my target clearly now – it's a straight shot down the sidewalk, just out of my reach. I run full tilt towards it, reaching both hands out in front of me to grab hold of the pole without stopping. I'm almost there, about to jump, when a massive, furry mess of teeth and claws barrels out of the alley to my right.

I skid to a stop, the weight of my backpack pushing me forward. The animal stops too, broad chest heaving. It almost seems to smile, a huge wolf-grin spreading out and showing off razor-sharp fangs. Foaming slobber drips off it's jowls as the beast raises its hackles. It looks like a dog, but I've never seen one this big before in my life. It stands almost as tall as me on all fours, panting puffs of vapor into the air. I can hear a snarl starting in the back of its throat, and it's red eyes sweep me up and down, appraising it's next meal.

My scar flares with pain, but with something else too – recognition. The dogs back home all have brown eyes, sometimes blue if it's a Northern breed, but never red. That's a colour reserved for the virus, and no animal I've ever seen has been infected. As far as I know, the virus is only contagious between humans. So, this is a Mutt then, and the Capitol has found a way to make them doubly dangerous to tributes.

I am all but frozen from fear, terrified that I'm about to be ripped to tethers in another second. The Mutt stands between me and the safety of the rooftop, and there's no way I can make it past. Another snarl escapes it's jaws, and this one is answered by another beast. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see more big, dark shapes advancing through the alley. They prowl towards me, stalking, and the sight of them is enough to break my paralysis.

I turn tail and bolt towards the first pole I ran past. This one isn't close enough to anything that I can jump onto, but I have no other choice. The ground shakes as the Mutts all chase after me, but I am certain that I've never ran faster in my life. I reach the pole in seconds, leaping as high as I possibly can and wrapping my arms and legs around it. I scurry upwards, sticking my knife into the wood as leverage, and don't stop. I can feel the air move as jaws clamp together underneath me, but I've managed to climb high enough that I don't think they can reach.

I climb another ten feet, just to be sure, before I even look down. The pole is slippery from the snow and I have to hold on tightly to make sure I don't fall, despite the splinters that have dug themselves into my hands through my gloves. The animals circle the pole under me, shoving each other and snapping at the air. I don't know which of us is panting the hardest, them or me, but it seems pretty clear that they don't know how to climb. I keep myself moving up the pole, then maneuver myself until I can sit down on its top. I stare down at the furious dogs and wave at them smugly, calling out to them in triumph.

"Sorry, I'm not on this evening's menu."

I let out a breathy laugh, amazed that I am still alive. I breathe in a lungful of crisp air and look around from my new vantage point. The snow has mostly stopped now, and the late afternoon sun warms the top of my head. My cheeks burn from the wind and I keep a steadying hand on the top of the pole to keep myself from tipping over, but the fear of immediate death is slowly working it's way out of my chest. I don't revel in it for long though – at this height I'm easy to spot, all one has to do is look up.

I crane my neck, searching the area for anything of interest, but even from up here, the sky scrapers glower down at me. I do see more rooftops of smaller buildings, but beyond them, the arena is still a mystery. Far away to my left, the ground looks like it slopes into a steeper valley and I can just make out the hazy outline of a large building in the shape of a horseshoe. Tiny dots mill about on the bare land in front of it – those must be more of the infected. I make a mental note to stay far away from that side of the map and turn my attention to my current situation.

I don't give much thought to the Mutts still leaping at the pole. If they're anything like the dogs in the forest back home, they'll grow bored and restless soon enough when they realize that I'm not an easy kill. I could wait them out until they move on in search of other food sources, but that leaves me unprotected and vulnerable, a sitting duck.

The street behind me curves around a corner, and there are no poles or rooftops to jump to that way. In front of me, the pole I had originally set out to climb waves slightly back and forth in the wind, taunting me. Behind it, I notice a small metal shack situated at the back of the flat rooftop of the building I'm trying to get to. A broken broom and tipped over mop bucket lean against its side. It might be a storage shed. If I can get inside, the shed might make for a suitable place to spend my night out of the cold, and it might hold much-needed supplies. The only trouble is getting to it. The braided wire strung between the poles catches my eye. I sigh resignedly, knowing what I need to do, and start to unhook my belt from my pant loops.

It isn't ideal, but I've made sketchier climbs before. I hook one end of the belt around the wire and the other around my hand, knotting it securely. I give it a sharp tug as a test, and I'm confident it will hold. Slowly, carefully, I hook my legs across the wire and cross them at my ankles. I reach them out as far as they'll go, then ease the rest of my body off the pole until I'm hanging in midair. I can hear the Mutts below me squawking excitedly but I don't look down. Gripping the wire tightly with both arms, I begin the torturously slow process of inch-worming my way to the roof.

Halfway along, I start to regret not taking my gloves off before I started. The wool keeps snagging on the wire, and before long they'll be full of holes and useless to me. Still, better than ripping holes in my hands, I suppose. So long as the belt doesn't get cut through, I'll be fine. The force of the wind makes me swing back and forth, churning my stomach that hasn't quite settled. My backpack weighs me down, but I'm still making halfway decent progress. Before too long, my boots hit the pole on the other side, and I pause to catch my breath and figure out how to climb back up to the top of it.

I unhook my legs from the their criss-cross position and let them dangle. The Mutts, who have been motivated by my movement to stick around, snarl and jump for the hanging meat, but unless I lose my grip, it's a fruitless attempt. With both arms shaking from exertion, I move along the wire inch by inch until I can wrap my legs around the pole. When they're as secure as they're going to get, I release one hand from the wire and grab my knife from my back pocket, stabbing it into the wood for better security. I quickly undo the buckle of my belt from the wire with the other hand and let it fall. The leather material tied around my hand is slick against the wood when I try to grab hold, and my hand slides down a few inches before it sticks. A good thing too, because only seconds later, an arrow sinks into the space my hand would have otherwise occupied.

Notes:

Hi friends! Thanks for reading! I know these updates are getting more and more infrequent, but I appreciate you sticking around and following along! Shoot me a comment if you feel like it, I love talking Hunger Games!