Everett Reed, 17

District 9 Male

Everett is circling.

He can't stop thinking about Geo, can't get the image of his bloodied corpse out of his head. He stood there and watched as those dolls tore him to pieces. He could have escaped, could have gone to help Geo. But he didn't.

What a selfish little asshole he is.

He doesn't know where these thoughts are coming from; he's never worried about them before. He always thought of himself as slightly simple-minded. Although the fact that he could even realize that may have been an indication that he was not.

But he knew of Geo's fate before he'd even seen the dolls. He could have said something, could have done something to keep Geo alive.

(Even if the rational part of his brain says that Geo would have died either way, no matter which gruesome way he chose. But Everett saw the news, he knew that Caius was almost dead. He really thought that they may have been safe.)

God, what a fool he was. A selfish little fool.

(His head screams at him that it wasn't his fault, that he did everything he could, that Geo was marked for slaughter sooner or later. It tries to tell him that Geo is safe now, far safer than he ever was before. But it falls on deaf ears.)

Everett is still busy nursing injuries from yesterday's fight. He sustained nothing like Geo did-gosh, the sight of his corpse will haunt Everett for as long as he lives-and somehow, he feels he deserves it.

He knew about all of this, damnit! He knew it was going to happen, he should have gotten Geo out of there as soon as he caught sight of those dolls.

But he didn't and, hell, it's going to haunt him as long as he lives.

Everett doesn't have a lot of regrets. His lifestyle of work first, think never didn't really lend itself to that. And he was content with his life. He didn't have regrets.

He knows now that he certainly wasn't missing out on anything. And, well, hell-they hurt. Every thought, every movement, his very being is plagued with it. It just goes around and around and around, and where does it end?

Maybe it doesn't. Maybe this is just how it's going to be for the rest of Everett's (possibly very short) life.

But he knows one thing for certain: it's just going to keep going around and around and around.

He let Geo die.

Horribly. Gruesomely. And he could have done something.

Everett stands abruptly. He needs to do something; he needs something to work toward. Back home, that was all he had. Another goal, another job, more mouths to feed and more money to make.

Here, he feels listless. There is one, overarching goal-don't die. Go home. Become the Victor.

Everett isn't sure he's ready to work toward it. He isn't sure of anything anymore.

With no clear destination in mind, Everett walks. He sticks to the sides of the paths, hoping to steer clear of conflict for the day.

He follows Geo's trail of blood. It leads him back to the carousel, where the horses have miraculously returned to their stationary positions. He nervously skirts around them, passing by the mangled animatronic snowman. He pauses, unsure of where to go next, and eventually decides to hide out in a building marked with clouds and sign that reads Peter Pan's Flight.

It looks safe enough. Although, Everett has learned that nothing is as it appears in this arena. Plastic horses come to life and dolls tear people to shreds. The thought, the reminder of those Panem-forsaken murder ponies makes Everett hesitate outside of the entrance.

After a long moment, Everett steels himself and makes his way through the chain pathways, looking at the plastic boats that fluidly slide past some sort of loading zone up ahead. Annoying music plays above him, which only adds to his growing headache. He pauses when the reaches the boats, debating the pros and cons of boarding one.

Pro: the other tributes are less likely to spot me.

Con: the horses.

Pro: the seats don't look that uncomfortable.

Con: the dolls.

Pro: get away from the music.

Con: I could die.

Everett doesn't board the boat.

Instead, he settles himself behind a wooden barrier, out of sight of anyone who may walk past. He relaxes slightly, the tension in his shoulders lessening marginally, jaw unclenching for the first time in hours. Lines of exhaustion and grief paint his face like a canvas, which only serves to make the dark circles beneath his eyes look worse. He can tell that there's something in his hair—blood, probably, but he can't bring himself to care. How his hair looks is literally the last thing on his mind right now.

Time starts to crawl past Everett's eyes, beneath his care and beneath his notice. He wishes he could fall asleep. And then sleep for at least a week. Maybe longer if that's what it takes to have energy once more. If he's being honest, he's not sure he's ever going to feel well-rested again.

Eventually, he starts to drift, eyes lazily wandering past his surroundings without really seeing them. He's just so damn tired. He's used to being tired. He's always tired.

But not like this. The exhaustion he's used to is the physical kind. The achy-muscles, tired-eyes, slow-movement kind. Not the apathetic, can't-think, everything-burns kind. This goes beyond exhaustion—he's just so tired.

The rational part of his brain keeps screaming at him to let it go, to snap out of it, to wake up and smell the damn roses. But Everett isn't listening to the rational part of his brain right now—after all, trying to be rational is what landed him in this situation in the first place.

Everett shifts his position slightly, elbow bumping against the wood behind him. He hisses in pain as the bruise there twinges, reminding him for the umpteenth time what happened yesterday.

He must have hit his funny bone, he realizes, because colors swirl before his eyes for a moment before they slowly start to clear. But—just then, movement. Movement in the darkness that the plastic boats descend into at the end of the tunnel.

Everett is on his feet in an instant, feeling wobbly and uncoordinated, but whatever it is probably wants to kill him, finish the job that the dolls didn't, so he needs to be prepared to fight for his life and for a horrible moment he thinks that the man in the Combat Boots found him out and he's going to be gruesomely slaughtered surrounded by plastic boats and dinky music and—

But then his vision clears, and he realizes that there's nothing there. There's nothing there, and there never was anything was.

"I'm losing my mind," Everett mumbles as he sinks back to the ground, wrapping his arms around his head as if he can hold it together.

He thinks of District 9, of Tricia and Tanner. Are they watching him right now? Are they watching their big brother, the one thing in the world that keeps them alive, fall to pieces because some damn dolls, horses and a random from District 12? Do they understand? Or are they too young to really grasp what's happening, what's going on inside of Everett's head?

These thoughts don't make him feel better. If anything, they make him feel worse. He wasn't certain that that was possible.

His mind begins to wander again. Time after time, he revisits yesterday's events, the words "should have" most prominent in his thoughts.

Should have fought the dolls harder.

Should have run the other way.

Should have thrown myself in front of Geo.

Should have stayed until the dolls killed me too.

Everett starts violently. He isn't sure where the thought came from, only that he doesn't like it—he doesn't want to die. As awful as he feels, as inadequate and useless and broken, he doesn't want to die. He has to get back home, to Tricia and Tanner and work and the fields and...well, that's about it. That's all that's waiting for him. More work.

Most people would groan and say Victors deserve a break after everything, but Everett is not most people. He can barely stomach sitting here, doing nothing, trying to sort out the chaos in his head, let alone do it all over again if he gets home. No, if he ever sees District 9 again, he'll bury himself in work he doesn't need to do, because if his hands are moving, his mind won't be.

And, at the moment, Everett would do just about anything to make his head shut up.

Calista Abbey, 18

District 1 Female

They've been for a whole day now, and after the incident with the ray guns, there's been nothing.

Well. There was a trail of dried blood leading from the carousel to the creepy golden clock tower and the boat dock. It led them to nothing, of course.

One death is hardly progress; Calista is almost starting to worry. Where could the other tributes be hiding out? They've practically swept through the whole arena by this point and haven't so much as seen a footprint.

"Are you sure you don't want to call it quits and head back to the Cornucopia?" Calista asks, knowing exactly what the answer will be before the words even leave her mouth. "I'm sure that Shad is awake now, and judging by what Bayou said, he's probably got an interesting story to tell."

"Yeah, yeah, once we get another tribute," Ottilie says blankly, seeming focused on some unseen point in the distance. "Say, Cal, do you see movement up ahead?"

They have been poking around the mansion that apparently houses a hatchet murderer for the past half an hour. Calista hoped to find some clue as to how it all worked; why did the hatchet-wielding monster suddenly disappear once Bayou left the building? Why didn't it attack as soon as Bayou and Shad were inside? What was it, exactly?

Calista lifts her head. "Don't call me "Cal"." She levels her gaze with Ottilie's, attempting to pick out the supposed movement.

For a moment, she sees nothing. She drops her head, ready to tell Ottilie off for making tributes up again, but then it catches her eye.

Movement. A small speck of it, just out of the corner of her eye, but it's something. And, hell, Calista is glad to see it. The sooner they kill another tribute, the sooner she can see just how badly Shad is injured. If it's bad enough, she would be inclined to just put him out of his misery. She'd do it while he was asleep, of course—she may hate the man, but even she has enough decency to allow Shad a peaceful death.

Her hand goes for the sword at her hip, which she quickly unsheathes as she stalks forward. The path is open and barren in front of her, the movement seemingly gone.

But she continues forward, feeling Ottilie press her back against Calista's. For all she hates Ottilie, it does give her a sense of security. Even if she isn't fully certain that Ottilie isn't going to drive a knife where their skin touches.

Calista prowls forward, sword held safely in her hands, and she spots it again—movement, a flash of something gold ducking around a corner. The sound of shoes scuffling on stone convinces her that, yes, they must have run into another tribute.

She glances back at Ottilie. It appears that the girl has come to same conclusion, and Calista is relieved. There isn't a singular tribute left in this arena that Calista fears could take both of them down at once. Maybe, with a lot of shear, dumb luck, Ishtar or Everett could manage it, but Calista would like to think that's not going to happen.

They move forward in unison, steps quiet and even, and when they reach the corner, they spring around it as one.

Calista finds herself nearly nose-to-nose with Quinn Bayers, level with his wide, fearful brown eyes, as he clutches a small knife to his chest. She hesitates for moment, surprised to find him so close, and that's all that Quinn needs.

He runs straight through both Calista and Ottilie, knocking them to the ground with surprisingly strong arms. Calista lands hard on her side, momentarily winded and unable to catch her breath, but Ottilie is pulling her to her feet before she can even register the issue.

Quinn sprints for a sign that reads Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Beneath it, a second, smaller sign says nothing but 0. Calista would be lying if she said that didn't put her on edge.

Suddenly, Quinn jumps, and completely disappears from Calista's view. Once she catches up to him, she spots him on the ground below, ducking under a rope that separates the walkway. She jumps down after him, not bothering to check if Ottilie is following or not.

The walkway levels out and ends with a turnstile. Calista reaches it as Quinn pushes through the metal dividers with a rolling click. Calista, however, bypasses it completely, throwing her legs over top of it as Quinn mounts a set of narrow, steep wooden stairs.

Over her head, a minecart train comes roaring to a stop on the left of the stairs. Several rusty metal gates creak open. Calista sees Quinn dive through one.

With a split-second glance to check is Ottilie is following—she is—Calista takes the step three at a time, only to slam into the railing as she rounds the corner. As she pulls herself back to her feet, she sees Quinn clamber into the frontmost minecart, seemingly trying to figure out how to make it move.

Apparently, he must figure it out, because the train starts to move, ever so slowly. Calista gapes at him as she throws herself through one of the metal gates. It nearly closes on her foot, but she makes it, her sword long forgotten on the stairs behind her.

For a long, awful moment, Calista thinks the train is going to get away. But then, the oddest thing happens—it stops.

Sending a silent prayer to whatever deity decided to take pity on her, Calista grabs Ottilie's hand and pulls her toward the train. Together, they jump onto train's caboose as it starts to move forward again.

Calista scrambles onto the seat as the train goes careening forward into darkness, a voice somewhere above them declaring to "hold onto your hats, because this here is the Wildest Ride in the Willllderness!"

The train rolls through the darkness and Calista doesn't have enough confidence to move. Ottilie does, though, and starts to feel her way up the train as they burst into a cave full of blue rocks and running water.

They move steadily upwards, and the light outside of the tunnel illuminates Quinn's nervous face as he seems to realize that Calista and Ottilie are really there.

The sight makes Calista almost feel bad for. If she remembers correctly, he volunteered—for what, she doesn't quite recall, and for a long, tense moment, Calista thinks that he isn't very different from herself. The thought terrifies her, but it's all but banished from her mind when the train pours out of the cave and charges down the slope.

Calista can do nothing but hold on as the train speeds downward and around a bend, watching as Ottilie continues to scramble forward.

Things level out for a moment, the track only moving marginally up and down, so Calista reaches out a shaky hand to grab Ottilie and growls, "What, do you have a death wish?"

Ottilie doesn't deign to answer her, only shaking off her hand and continuing forward.

Calista glares at her, but starts to follow.

And then the train is once again plunged into darkness, throwing all three of its passengers up, down and sideways before it steadily loses speed. They almost come to a stop at the bottom of another incline, but the relief is short-lived, as they begin to climb once more.

Calista and Ottilie use the reprieve to reach Quinn at the front of the train. As they scrabble over the cars and seats, Calista removes a knife from her belt, and Ottilie lunges for him at the same moment that they all go slamming down the slope.

Calista cries out wordlessly, reaching out to grab Ottilie, but finds her foot caught in the safety bar pressed low over the front seat.

The train catches Ottilie mid-air, and to Calista's horror, Quinn wretches her out the air and throws onto the tracks in front of them.

Pulling desperately on the safety bar, face pale with absolute horror, Calista seizes the knife and plants it firmly in Quinn's back.

Two screams mingle in the air as the train crushes Ottilie beneath its wheels, and Quinn drops off of the side, knife still protruding from his back. The crunching of bones and the squish of flesh cries out in the air. Blood and whatever else remains after a human is run over by a minecart splatters onto Calista's face, leaving her to stop her breakfast from making an encore performance.

A cannon blasts through the afternoon, and it makes the arena suddenly feel much smaller than it was before.

Calista jams her eyes shut, finally freeing her foot from its captivity, but it's certainly too late. She didn't like Ottilie, didn't like her at all, but she knows that the girl didn't deserve a death like that. It had to have been horribly painful, but at least it would have been over quickly. Unfortunately, Calista can't imagine that there's much to send back to her family to bury. After all, most of Ottilie is currently drying on Calista's face.

The train corkscrews downward, so Calista holds on, waiting for a second cannon that never comes.

Ainsley Platte, 14

District 9 Female

They all have to die.

It's a thought that has been plaguing Ainsley ever since the very first cannon shot. In order for her to make it home, they all must die.

Ashe. Lana. Eris.

All of them have to die.

Ainsley has always been one to look out for herself and no one else, but even she must admit that she doesn't want to let her allies go. They are her companions when she is in the worst situation a person could find themselves in. She isn't ready to say goodbye, and she isn't sure if she ever will be.

They have made her weak. She knows it better than anyone.

Yet...she can't give them up. She's smart enough to know that she wouldn't survive without them by her side.

Her pride doesn't like it, but it's true.

She's always been a "keep your friends close, but your enemies closer" kind of person, but that's not what this is. She can tell, very clearly, that her allies are her "friends" not her "enemies".

And, hell, if that's not the worst part of it. If they were her enemies, then she could stomach slitting their throats and watching them bleed. But they are her friends, her companions, her only solace in a world that has gone inside out. She knows they have to die; she really does.

(That doesn't change the fact that she wishes she could save all four of them, even though she doubts they'd be very good friends outside of the arena.)

Ainsley wasn't sure, at first, what brought all of this on. But she knows that it was Lyndie, that it was Ashe avenging her. She knew Lyndie was a Bloodbath, even before the broken arm, but she had maybe, kind of, sort of thought that she would be the one to avenge her. Not Ashe. Never Ashe.

She has to admit; Ashe's actions have made her...slightly less than keen to put her faith into her. It's just...Ashe killed someone! An awful someone, a murderer someone, but someone nonetheless. And she did it without batting an eyelash, so what's stopping her from doing it again?

Ainsley shakes herself. It isn't healthy to trust her allies blindly, but she can't think the worst of them, either.

Or maybe she can. Maybe she should. She isn't sure if she knows anymore.

A half-sigh escapes her lips. She's starting to regret this whole "big, happy alliance" thing.

But then Ashe looks up at her, eyes questioning and slightly concerned, and she forgets it all again.

"Something up?" Ashe asks in the way only Ashe can. Somehow, the girl sitting across from her with blood staining her hands manages to sound innocent.

Ainsley is jealous. "No, I'm good. You?"

Ashe chews her lip for a moment. "I'm fine."

The look Ainsley fixes her with isn't intentionally distrustful, but it's obvious from Ashe's expression that it is.

"Well," Ainsley says quickly, straightening her jacket decisively. "We should find a new camp, don't you think?"

They've been here for four days now, holed up in the trees over and concrete track over the submarine lagoon. In Ainsley's not-so-humble opinion, that's almost four days too many. They can't stay here forever; eventually, someone is going to find them, and then they'll be trapped. And, of course, there's the matter of the talking trashcan that has been happily terrorizing them for the past few days. She'd like to get out of here with all of her limbs attached, thank you very much.

Don't get her wrong. She's not afraid of violence; it's just that it has its place, and this shouldn't be it.

But it is, and Ashe proved that to her. Ashe proved that anyone kills when they have to, when anger and loss and grief take control.

That scares her. She doesn't want to lose control like she has before. In here, if she loses control, then someone could lose their life because of her. At least, back in District 9, the only thing anyone lost was a bit of their pride.

"Where do you think we go?" Ashe asks, slowly getting to her feet. She walks over to the edge of the trees, carefully peering down. "Say, you haven't heard Lana and Eris, have you?"

Ainsley purses her lips. "I haven't heard them, no." She joins Ashe at the edge of the foliage barrier. "I think we should go there." She points to the snow-capped mountain with the roaring toboggans rattling along the tracks that wind through it.

Ashe seems to contemplate it. "I'd be alright with it."

Just then—a cannon shot tears through the quiet afternoon.

Ashe and Ainsley look at each other, horror painting their features, and they're running down the track to the terminal before either of them can even think.

If there is another tribute around, if maybe Eris or Lana is lying dead on the pavement with blood pouring out of their body—well, then it's not safe to be calling their names. They have to stay quiet, to stay out of sight.

Ainsley glances at Ashe and sees her holding a small knife in a slightly shaking hand. She furrows her brows, eyes crinkling in confusion, before she turns back to the task at hand.

Together, they move quickly but quietly through Tomorrowland, trying to stay close. Ainsley has never liked physical contact very much, but the feeling of security that Ashe gives her by just being near her is annoying overwhelming.

Finally, they hear the sounds of raised voices and scuffling. A cry of "Eris! Shit!" splits the tense air, and Ainsley and Ashe start to run.

Looking back, Ainsley will scoff at the thought of laughing when Lana says "Shit!", at the thought that Lana had suddenly started to swear. But in the moment? When Ainsley rounds the corner and Eris and Lana, cornered by that goddamn talking trashcan, it's totally deserved. Lana is currently trying to hold Eris up, whose arm is coated in blood and scraped skin.

That fucking trashcan, Ainsley thinks. She fumbles with the dagger on her belt, having never even thought of carrying it in her hand, but by the time she has freed it from the sheath, Ashe has already jammed hers into Push's back.

The trashcan of nightmares sputters, saying some incoherent line about friends and loneliness and litter before sparks spew from its flap and it goes mercifully quiet.

Ainsley revels in the silence for a beautiful moment, looking down at Push's still-sparking corpse, and then reality crashes back upon her shoulders and she looks to Eris.

The poor girl is pale, teeth grit against the pain, blood coating her once-blue sweater. She keeps trying to push off Lana and Ashe's attempt to help, continually telling them that she's fine, that they shouldn't waste water to clean the wounds, that it isn't that bad, and no she doesn't need to worry about getting an infection.

"Yeah, that could get infected, like, super easily," Ainsley says. "We gotta clean that out. I mean, who knows where that trashcan has been." She jabs a thumb at the now-deceased murder dumpster, eyebrows lifting sardonically.

Eris glares at her but at last concedes to letting them help.

The four return to their position on the tracks; Ashe quickly sets about cleaning out the wounds, and Ainsley will admit that they look much better once all of the blood is gone. But she barks out a laugh and says, "I don't know; I think we're going to have to amputate."

The terrified look that Eris gives her reminds her that that's not a very nice thing to say. She quietly wets her lip and adds, "Joking. Only joking."

"That's really not a funny joke," Eris says, turning away from Ainsley as Lana digs out the bandages.

Ainsley looks at the back of her head with a small smile on her face. She watches Lana gingerly wrap Eris's arm in white, making it look even cleaner than before. A few feet behind them sits Ashe, turning the knife in her hands over and over again, seemingly lost in thought.

The smile falls from her lips and she's not sure where it goes, but she is certain of one thing:

She isn't sure she can live without her allies. And, fuck, that's a bad thing.

A/N: Look at that! My update schedule doesn't even exist anymore.

I also recently auditioned for a musical, so if I get into that I'll probably be updating even less for the next few months.

Anyways, I'm planning on next chapter being mostly catching up with tributes we haven't heard from in a bit. It will probably be a longer one, because there are a lot of tributes that haven't been around much so far, so there's that to look forward to.

1. Were you surprised that Ottilie was the first Career to fall?

2. Did you think that Everett would be handling Geo's death better?

3. Do you think that Eris's injury will hinder her?

4. Of the remaining fifteen tributes, who do think you will win?

EULOGIES:

16th Place – Ottilie Blackwell, District 4 Female. Crushed by a minecart.

I don't even know where to start with Ottilie. She was an incredibly fun and interesting character to work with—she was prideful, over-confident, and just obnoxious enough to really throw a wrench into the Careers. As I'm sure you know by now, I love tearing apart the Career pack at my earliest convenience, and Ottilie's presence in these Games made that very easy. She thought she knew what she was doing, but she clearly did not, and tributes like that are always very interesting.

ALLIANCES:

Well, that's Unfortunate: Calista (D1F), Shad (D1M), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M)

Big, Happy Alliance: Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)

Less Sad Lesbian + Even Deader Weight: Afandina (D10M), Ishtar (D12F)

Definitely an Equinophobe Now: Everett (D9M)

Vibing: Wonder (D2M)

Probably Not Doing So Hot: Quinn (D11M)

Oh. Fuck: Sterne (D5M)

-Amanda