Konani Sowka, 15, District Five Female

The lunch bell tolls as Elior and I stand up from the heat resistance station.

"I'm famished," I say, brushing dirt off of my pants, flushed from the hot temperatures.

Elior's face is, if possible, even redder than mine. "After you, malady," he says, opening the glass door for me with the tinge of awkwardness that I have already grown accustomed to.

"Thank you."

We're both sweaty and rather uncomfortable in the skintight black clothes we have been dressed in that cling to our emaciated frames coated in bodily moisture, while at the same time furthering said moisture—it seems to be a bit of a curse for us. In other words, we aren't looking our best, especially compared to the careers, career rogues, and the other tributes that have only gone to survival stations so far.

"I kind of regret going in there," I say, making conversation as we walk as speedily as we can to the buffet. We took pity on the lonely trainer, waiting there for tributes to teach in that sweltering room. I guess that serves as an example that compassion won't get me anywhere, at least with anyone besides Elior. It's going to be a challenge to take to heart.

"Ya think?" Elior responds as we reach the sanitizing station. "If we get dropped in a desert, I might as well just hop off my pedestal then and there.

I laugh at the first thing, but his second remark quells it. "You are kidding about that, aren't you?" I ask him concernedly.

"For sure. I wouldn't do that to you."

What does he mean by that? Sure, I would be devastated—wow, I really would be; I haven't realized until just now how much I like Elior, how much I have grown accustomed to the idea that I won't be roughing it alone in the arena—but wouldn't his family be devastated, too? Wouldn't he cherish his life above anyone else? Above mine?

Maybe not. I don't even know if I would hold my own over his anymore. I know that I couldn't live with myself if I just ran away, abandoned him to fight off some deadly danger, even if he told me to. The think that makes me the saddest is that he would probably tell me to. This time I keep my thoughts just that: thoughts.

We both take trays and pile plates up upon them, getting in line after the Seven girl, who is talking animatedly to her partner, and before the boy from Twelve, Rooker, I think.

"You bitch!" He looks at me, furious, and as red in the face as we are. "Let me in front of you! I was here first!"

"Stop being such a jerk," Elior says angrily, stepping in between us. "It's first come first serve. And for your information, you got here after us and the girl that you just edged in front of."

His hands curl into fists as he drops his tray onto the counter, seeming to both desperately want to punch us. At the last second, he looks over at the Peacekeepers menacingly crackling whips and rubbing lashing sticks and cools down. "You wait till I get ahold of you two in the arena," he whispers so that only we and the Ten girl behind him, who, by the looks of it, isn't listening anyways.

"I'm sorry about him," I say to her over the short kid's head.

"It's fine. I'd expect nothing less." She talks so aimlessly, it's as if she's saying the words to herself or some imaginary friend.

Putting the incident behind us, me and Elior turn back to the array of delicious looking food at our disposal.

"Wow, this looks incredible," I say. I start piling the closest thing to me, a meat that looks like roast beef, onto my plate, swapping from one thing to the other as the line ebbs along. By the time we've reached the end, I've gotten practically half of the dishes in tiny portions on various plates. In my defense, I don't weigh one hundred pounds, and I need to put on weight before I go into the arena.

"Thanks for standing up for me," I say to Elior as we reach of the line and go to the nearest unoccupied table. "That was really brave of you."

"Brave? It was a thirteen-year-old punk that was too big for his boots. Anybody would have done it."

"Still. Thanks."

I can see the change in his demeanor, as he subconsciously puffs out his chest and takes larger strides.

When we sit down at our table, I look upon his food selection: An average helping of some green dotty vegetable I think Atlas called peas, some ridiculously small portion of an obscure meat, and a roll.

"Elior," I say, "shouldn't you be trying to put on some weight? I am. Just to save some time if we don't have enough food." I find myself using that same gentle, nervous, chastising voice I do with my younger siblings.

"I'm good." He doesn't meet my eye.

"Come on, Antimony would be disappointed in you."

"Antimony doesn't even know my name."

"Please. For me?"

"Fine."

He arrives back minutes later with a heavier portion of the meat, slightly above average. I've already started devouring the delicious meal that I assembled. While I gorge myself, he only stuffs food into his mouth minimally with long bouts of chewing. He seems miserable.

"Is something wrong, Elior?"

"No, Konani. Nothing is wrong. What would make you think that?"

He begins to eat faster, the fact that he knows what is wrong evident as he stuffs his face.

"Do you not want to eat? Elior, I'm worried about you."

"You don't need to be worried about me. I'm just fine."

"Why don't you want to eat, then?"

"I just… don't have an appetite. You know, impending death match and all."

"That makes sense. Duh. Let's talk about something else. Sorry, I just wanted you to be in tip-top shape for… you know."

I don't press the matter any further and a silence clouds over us, the first that is fused with tension.

"Konani?" Elior asks nervously.

"What is it?"

"Are you sure that you want me as an ally?"

"Why wouldn't I? You're smart, and nice, and funny, and strong… do I need to go on? I can trust you. And I saw the way you stood up to the screwball Twelve kid. Do I need to go on?"

"Thanks. And no. It's just that… I mean, look at me." He pulls his shirt away from his chest to show how skinny he is. "I weight about five pounds more than you, I'm fifteen and I just started puberty a few months ago, I suck at all of those survival stations—"

"I don't care about any of that. I like you, Elior. You're my best friend that isn't my sibling. I think that we balance each other out, too. And we haven't even tried with weapons. Maybe you'll find one that you're good at. Don't sell yourself short. The key to strength is confidence."

"Okay, I will. I know that I say it a lot, but thanks. You're the best."

"Any time. It's all true, too." It is.

"Well, where do you want to go now?" I ask.

"It's up to you, I don't care."

"Let's go to the first-aid station. There's nobody there, and I have always good at applying that kind of stuff. It was me who did it every time back home when somebody got hurt."

"Good idea."

As we sit down, we get a perfect view of the careers and One girl and Four boy alliance practicing weapons nearby: Slashing swords, jabbing spears, throwing knives into the hearts of dummies, the likes. The medical station is one of the closest to the weapons. It's rather nerve-wracking seeing their adroitness, deadliness.

But then I look over to Elior and feel much more comforted. I know that I'm not going into this alone. He turns and meets my gaze before nodding back over to the careers.

"Are you sure you just want me? Maybe somebody else would be better."

"Are you still held up on that? Come on, let me show you how to make a splint."

Nerissa Doppler, 18, District Three Female

So far, everything has been moving along quite swimmingly, all things considered. I've garnered up an alliance of six—Aleyn did not matter anyway, he seemed to be one of the less gullible ones of the group—ignorant, blind followers, pawns in my master plan—master film. They all seem to kind, the types that won't bend in the arena but break, whether it be by loss or by murder or by paranoia, their brittle, fragile, naïve souls shattering. It's my job to engineer that, to control it. I need to leverage it over their subconscious, while at the same time prolonging their period of innocence and fostering the implosion for one or some, like a bonsai tree, or a flowering put under a sleep just now blooming into an explosion.

That is what I must capture, that dark and all-consuming precedent of death.

Sierra thinks that she is the leader, throwing out her clever ideas and bossing us all around in her overly confident way, but I am the true leader, the chess master amidst a sextet of pawns.

As of now, I stand in line with my allies as we run the agility course. Raihan is up now, and he is currently bumbling and fumbling his way through the hanging rope bridge, having eaten up a large portion of team. Sierra has already gone and posted a relatively embarrassing time, though it seems Raihan may just be on the verge of dethroning her of that title. Bolt, who is jittery with pride beside her, practically flew through the course. Tabitha, on the other hand, managed to fall in just about every place that she could.

"Ooh, I'm kind nervous," Tessa says, shaking with anticipation as Raihan nears the end. Rowan in front of me has his hands on her shoulders.

"Come on," he says, "you'll do great."

"I just don't want to fall and hurt myself."

"I hurt myself all the time, it's just a way of life. Once it happens to you enough times, it's not even that painful anymore."

"Um… okay."

Tessa looks up at him and randomly laughs, her face flushing red with nerves.

Finally, Raihan finishes, and the horn sounds.

"Go," says Rowan, and she begins to climb up the rope ladder to the first obstacle, made up of foam platforms jutting out to jump across, at a surprisingly speedy pace.

"I knew that she would do better than she though that she would," Rowan says, not looking back to me. "It's all in the head."

"You're right. And that was good advice that you gave her."

An awkward moment void of conversation eclipses us momentarily as Rowan, searching for something to do with his mouth cheers on Tessa, who is currently on the rolling beam. Her tiny frame could hardly move the log if she tried.

"I hope this stuff comes in handy in the arena," Rowan says to break the silence.

"Me too. Then again, on the other hand, I've never done so hot at this kind of thing," I respond in a self-deprecating manner."

"Haha, me either." Rowan smile almost doesn't reach his eyes as he looks at me coolly beneath a façade of laughter. There's something down there more perceptive than I had initially guessed. And he doesn't know that I'm in on his little secret.

"Let's just pray that we get good in the next few days."

"You got that right."

The untrusting tinge in his voice confirms the theory, but I doubt he would break from the alliance, especially considering that his district partner and apparent ride-or-die seems to have made fast friends with the four people waiting for her as she nears the end of the course.

"I think you're about to be up," I say.

"I know."

Tessa hops to the platform with a time fifteen seconds behind Bolt's yet still impressive, and Rowan begins to climb.

"Good luck," I say.

"Right back at ya."

I wonder what I did wrong. It angers me greatly, those kinds of people who somehow see through it all. But he doesn't see through it all, he only thinks that he does, and maybe not even that. He doesn't understand me. None of them do.

But they'll all see what I see when I come out of the arena. I'll have shown them, enlightened them. They'll have never seen something so breathtaking. The short film was only an appetite taster, and yet still a success. They haven't come close to seeing the main event yet.

A choking gulp forms in my throat of indignance at Rowan, now a third of the way finished amidst the cheers of our allies. He'll see.

They'll all see. Because I already see. It lays there in the top right drawer of my room, that beautiful picture in the black and white of life and death, the innocent bird twitching in its final moments of life as rigor mortis lays hold upon its body, proof of my abilities. But I won't show it to them, my eyes are the only ones who can truly see it, the only ones that have ever seen it. No one else appreciates it.

People like Rowan, too immature and self-righteous to even entertain the dark, all-knowing beauty and wisdom of death, those people unable to be controlled. They'll all see, though. They'll all see.

This film is going to be the best they have and are ever going to have ever seen. Death after death after death, a poignant masterpiece, the first to ever truly capture death. To capture it as I see it. To capture it the right way.

But no great film is complete without a story, without other characters for the director to move around into a perfect blueprint, all to escapade in a slow-burning cacophony of brilliance. Said characters cheer Rowan as he makes the final leap to end, pulled up by the rest of them and the wave me on.

I need them, and they don't have the faintest idea why, except for maybe the fowl Seven boy, and he would only be a detriment moving onwards anyway, so it would be best to do rid of him in the near future. My pawns to move around, for those great four events and maybe even a few between: The murder off the hook, the betrayal, the near-death experience, and last and most gloriously, the climactic victory of all victories amidst the bloody all-consumingness of death, a partnership and true appreciation.

The blood, the tears, the drama, the death. I need them for it, and I don't intend to loosen that subtle, undetectable, suffocating grip that I have on all of them anytime soon.

I take care to proceed slowly and klutzily through the course so as not to reveal my true prowess. Of course I have practiced with this kind of thing. Who is dumb enough to volunteer having not? Aleyn, for one.

So much of my blueprint for my masterpiece hinges on them trusting me, not suspecting at all that they must die at my hands, or some of them, for my plan to be carried out, and I have five of them wrapped around my finger. Rowan, perhaps not so, but he is insignificant.

I fumble with the rope swing almost letting it slip, before a nervous look comes over my face, my eyebrows knit, and swing only to drop, clinging onto the platform with my fingernails, as tears of determination well up in my eyes before slowly clawing myself up, exhausted-looking. I remain slightly uncoordinated throughout the rest of the course, but maintain my grace.

Finally, I make it to the end, and am greeted with six pairs of hands patting me on the back. I look at my time: 3:14. Sixty-fourth percentile, behind Rowan's and much better the Raihan's, Tabitha's, and Sierra's. Excellent.

"Nerissa, that was fantastic," Sierra says, high-fiving me."

"I wish I had done that good," says Raihan.

"Learned from the best, I see," jokes Bolt, beaming a smile to me as I force out a laugh and hug him.

"That was really good for your first time," Tessa says.

"Yeah, really, really good," adds Tabitha awkwardly from the sidelines, an envious and admiring smile on her face.

"Well done," says Rowan.

"Thank you, thank you so much, all of you! That was fun, right?"

I know they are all sugarcoating it out, but it comes from a place of naïveté and sympathy, and maybe even envy for some, but it's all weakness. They have the right idea, though. When has bluntness gotten anybody very far? They just have the wrong approach, the wrong motives.

They all still stand there, smiling up, and down in Sierra's case, at me. I lap all of it up modestly.

"We're going to do excellent in the arena!" Bolt says as he fist bumps everyone.

I'm going to do excellent in the arena. My film will do excellent in the arena. But not him. Not any of them. I'll let some of them die heroes—they would all sacrifice themselves for me—and weep over their corpses, sure, but none of them will do excellent.

If it isn't I don't know what I'll do. I don't want to die, but it's a worthy price to pay to go down in history, with a legacy, at least to be remembered. Perhaps my film will be a tragedy, but not if I have anything to say about it. It will—must—still be phenomenal. My fist remains clenched after the fist bump, bursting with anger at all of those in their idiotic ignorance, of Father and his failure, of those dark and nervewracking thoughts of anything other than the pure perfection that I desire, anger coursing through my veins just thinkings of all of those little failures in life, candles of inspiration snuffed out needlessly. But it will be excellent. It has to be excellent.

Maybe they will do excellent, too, in that final state of death.

"I couldn't do any of this without you guys," I say.

It's true, but not in the way that they think.

Marvel Silver, 18, District One Male

I've fallen back to the end of the group as we march over to the weightlifting station. For now, I'll let Imperia run with the reigns. Talisa walks beside her and behind her by one step, with Arlo in the middle and Scylla walking along in her typical manner of trying to make herself not the center of attention.

I'll let the Four girl have a little time up front, just to see what she does. I still don't want to let her out of my sight, though. I don't trust her. I don't trust any of these people. It's just a matter of getting them to trust me. Just as long as I keep up that handy act. Just Marvel, the team player, the friendly one, the optimist, not the strongest, not the weakest. The one that none of them suspect is manipulating all of them while they remain oblivious, pitting them against each other one by one.

Except for her. Talisa has some sort of notion of what I am up to, and of course I know that she has the same idea. I'm smarter than her, though. Less proud, for her dignity and bravery are going to be her downfall. And I've got a debt to be repaid, one five years old. She'll never come for me, she's too… too good, too fair. Life is never fair.

Her counterpart didn't care when she thrust her sword into Luxe's back. She laughed, cackled as she and the Two boy stabbed him and stabbed him and stabbed, and the blood splattered them, and the cameras, and Luxe. I'll never be able to get that image out of my head, never be able to erase it from the back of my eyelids, not even when all is said and done and I walk out of here victor.

But that's not the most important thing. I need to make her pay. I need to settle the score. I want to stab that girl so many times over and watch the life drain out of her eyes and the tears pouring from her eyes intermingle with the blood, the horrible blood. I want to watch her look up to those invisible cameras, to her families, in that final goodbye, and then cut her off and leave them staring into the dead, soulless sockets that bore into my eyes in that crowd as I screamed and cried.

That's the most important thing. Everything else comes second.

I still need to bide my time until that moment. Make friends with the other four, blend in. My hand subconsciously rests on my chest and curls around the locket, Luxe watching me from its confines, urging me on to not make the same mistake he did. But I know better. Mex is in there, too, the three of us together. I hope she can't see me now, I know what she would say.

Marvel, don't focus on revenge, focus on getting out alive. We need you Marvel. I need you. Do this for Luxe, and for Mother, and for me.

I want to abide by her advice, and yet Luxe is beside her, coursing anger and vengefulness through my veins.

I need to make all of those Twos and Fours pay.

There are more urgent matters at hand, however, namely getting in tight with every member of the Pack.

"I like you token."

Scylla looks over at me, taken aback, and drops her hand from her ear where she was fiddling with an earring. Now that I can get a better look at it, it's oddly masculine: Just a simple circle of black metal.

"Thanks," she mutters, though loud enough for me to hear.

I pull out the locket from my breast pocket where she was looking, wondering if my token was the bulge inside.

"This is mine," I say, dangling the locket out in front of me. "My mother gave it to my older brother, and then he gave it to me."

"Oh. It's very pretty," she says. There is a pause, and it seems that she will open that gateway to a "bond", won't divulge anything of hers. She looks at herself as if having an inner conflict. "This was my boyfriends." She points up to the ring.

"Was?" I say, shocked and concerned.

"He… died." She has to force the word out, as if it is a cement block.

"Sorry. My brother died too."

She looks at me, and, though will sorrowful, conflicted eyes, she smiles softly. I return it.

That's two down, two to go. That is, if I can ever get Talisa to trust me, which is essential to the plan. Luxe trusted her counterpart five years ago. I don't think Arlo will be very difficult, I've already got a good read on him.

We've arrived at the weightlifting are now. A harsh spotlight beams down on us, protruding from the imposing, black metal roof above. Rows and rows a dumbbells lay on racks at our disposal. The younger tributes nearby scatter.

I take long strides up to the front, where now Imperia is lining a metal bar with dumbbells and Talisa has already taken a seat on a bench, a fifty-pound weight in eight hand.

I grab another pair of fifties and walk over to the bench beside her.

"Mind if I join you?" I ask.

"No." She grunts with effort as she pushes the weights up, her muscles flexing.

"Thanks."

I begin to lift mine, my mouth letting out the usual heaving noise and I hoist the weights into the air. I don't know how, but it seems easier to Talisa than it is to me.

"Damn, I had forgotten how hard this was," I say to her.

"Marvel, stop trying to play that kind of game with me."

I drop the weights, caught off guard. I knew she knew what I was up to, but I assumed she would just go along with the whole thing, trying and stab me in the back first, oblivious to who she was dealing with.

She drops her weights to her chest and looks up to make sure no one can hear. The other three are all still bench pressing.

"What kind of game am I playing?"

"Don't give me that bullshit. You know you're trying to manipulate us, pretending that you're something you are not. But I can see through all of that."

"I knew you could."

"Can we just work together? Not try and play these stupid mind games with each other? Then, maybe we could make a good team. We could manipulate the others."

"I like your thinking."

"Good. Just don't pretend you're something that you obviously aren't, Marvel."

"Same goes for you."

"Yes, the same goes for me."

"Deal."

"Shake on it?" she asks, flashing a dubious yet lighthearted grin as she holds her hand out to me as I pump the weights up and down. I laugh, half forced, half not forced. She goes back to lifting.

I can tell what she is up to. She's still trying to play me. But I'm still manipulating her, too. Just under the tentative title of allies that both of us know could crumble with a slight breeze of wind. I'll still win in the end.

Her words linger in my head, replaying on loop. Pretending I'm something I'm not? Well, yes, I am doing that. I'm nowhere near this extroverted. I have no friends back home, just… acquaintances. Nobody will be sad I die aside from being distraught at losing another year, only Mex and Mother. Is it even worth it to go home, where there is nothing for me to do or pursue, nothing to be but just the newest victor, in the spotlight being hailed one moment, just another name on a list read by the escort every year the next one.

I don't care whether I live or die. I just want the Twos and Fours to go with me, if I die, and die nevertheless if I don't. And I want Talisa Rowland's blood on my hands. That girl thinks she is clever, trying to fool me into a flimsy agreement that both of us know is false. The question is whether or not she knows that I know that it is false. I know that she knows it is false. That girl thinks that she is running the Games already, but I'm far out of her league. She won't have any idea, at least until I laugh as I ram that sword into her back.

Keeley Axel, 13, District Six Female

Something about the training center is unnerving. There is only one viable exit, that being the immense double doors standing imperiously between the us twenty-four captives and the elevators. Unless you count the Peacekeeper's door to what I assume is a dead ended torture chamber, somewhere that I do not want to be at all costs. The flickering lights above make everything seem either as if in a hovercraft's spotlight or a shadow, and the tributes walking in between them look like ghosts, teleporting from one area to the next. Peacekeepers crack their knuckles menacingly, the Gamemakers look down upon us with the snooty, unbearable air of someone holding something precious over another with no intent of ever giving it up, and the careers smile darkly at us from time to time as they deftly swing their weapons into dummy after dummy, watching the fake golden blood spill out onto the mat. I can't help imagining being that dummy, watching my blood and organs spill out in front of me as I feel the cold, agonizing bite of cool, sharp metal in my flesh.

It must be my criminal instincts that make me shifty, jumping around as I teach Carroll how to tie knots. I'm not at my usual standard, though I am better at untying them, the cords biding locks after I pick them. I'm always poised to run, and now is no different.

"And then, once you have looped that piece around, you stick it through the hole and draw the strands tight. There you go."

There is a crack in my voice. I can hear it, and so can Carroll. He looks at me, concern in his big brown eyes.

"You okay," he whispers, so that not even the trainer can hear.

I nod, but, in truth, I am not. This is the most scared I have ever been in my life. Nothing compares to it, not even the most daunting of missions, the nearest to death of near-death experiences, the horrifying jolt in my stomach of being pushed from the train for the first time, flying towards the platform in that split-second fear of dying. Nothing.

I don't know how to cope with it. I don't know how to cope with anything. So, like with everything, I just try to push it down, only moderately successfully. My face in turning red.

I try to keep my head down, until talking in soft muttering as what feels like a thousand cold eyes glance over me on their search for the vulnerable, weak prey to settle in on. I am anything butweak.

Right now, I'm just waiting for the gong to ring and the doors to open, allowing us out. It seems that as the day has passed on into evening, things have gotten tenser. The chatty alliances—including me and Carroll—are silent, save for the occasional whisper. While some of the careers are off put by this, others, the girl from Nine and boy from One, are thriving.

The boy from Twelve had to be subdued earlier. He taunted the Gamemakers, and a Peacekeeper came up and lashed him in the back twice. Then a daunting hush fell upon the cathedral of a room.

Tomorrow will be better. Carroll and I have already planned to get down early and claim the hand to hand combat station before the careers arrive to hog it.

Finally, the gong rings, and Carroll and I walk quickly to the elevator and slide into one occupied by the Fives and the antsy looking Eleven boy, before leaving and sucking in the relief of being back in our suite. I never thought I would call this place home while I was here.

Honda runs up to greet us, springing up from the couch and arriving before us with surprising speed for a lady in her fifties.

"How was your first day of training?" she asks, annoyingly excited, as if asking her two little kids what their first days of school were like.

"Good," Carroll answers. "We practiced some with knives, and other than that just survival stations."

"Wise choices. Come on, you two, dinner is ready!" She steers us over to the table where Royce and the escort sit, the former slumped in his chair looking hopeless in deep contrast to his co-mentor. I don't know how Honda still does it with such optimism, pep, and gusto, even after thirty plus years of watching her children die, with the exception of the pathetic man seated beside her, to whom she gives a slap and pulls a needle out of his arm.

I barely say a word for most of the first two courses, throughout which Carroll and Honda talk about what we plan to do tomorrow, and how what we learn will be implemented in the arena.

The arena… It always leads back to that, no matter how much I try to focus on the now, the preparation. It brings along that trembling feeling in my bones, the tumultuous bowling ball constantly rolling in my stomach.

"I recommend putting almost all of your emphasis on training with weapons," says the escort, whose name escapes me.

"Now, Augustus, you know that is contrary to what I just told them. Survival is more important than facing stronger tribute head on, how many times have we had this conversation? I know better than you."

"I'm afraid you're wrong, Honda." The escort flicks his intentionally messy pastel blue hair out of his face snootily. "The Capitol only cares about strong tributes. Weapons bring sponsors. And, so what if the kids die, at least they go out swinging rather than some boring, wasted death. These two need them to spice them up, especially the girl. The boy is too emotional, and the girl is too… bland. They won't care about her."

"Sorry, may I be excused, please?" I straighten up as I stand, and everyone falls silent. I walk away, finding my room and locking myself in. This is somehow reminiscent of my first night on the trains.

I don't know how I feel right now. I don't want to die, that's for sure. But sadness, even though it is there, isn't the thing racking my body. I do know how I feel. I feel angry.

"RAAAHHH!"

I take a lamp and, before I know what I'm doing, throw it down onto the ground, where it cracks as water cascades through the floor. Luckily, I'm still wearing my training shoes and the light bulb was blocked by the lampshade, or I would have been fried. I hurriedly rush to lift the shade and surrounding parts still connected onto my bedside table.

"Keeley?"

This time the voice belongs to Honda, not Carroll.

"Keeley, what was that? Are you alright in there? Keeley, we're all very sorry. Please say something, Keeley? Please answer me?"

I don't want to talk to this woman. I don't want to talk to anyone right now.

"Yes," I say, my voice shaky betraying the tears leaking from my eyes. "I'm fine. It was a lamp. You can go now, if that's all you wanted."

"Keeley, I hope you know that Augustus was just being an ass, and that his opinions don't in any way reflect mine."

"Then why did you just let him talk? He's a fucking psychopath, and you just sat there like an idiot, you bitch! You're a worthless mentor!"

I don't care what I say right now, I just want to hurt her. I'm furious, and I don't even know at who. At Augustus, for talking about how I should make my death more entertaining for the Capitol viewers. At the Capitol, for starting this whole stupid deathmatch, and taking me away from Daddy, Peter, and Isiah. At Honda, Royce, and Carroll, for… for what, just being there? I know they don't deserve my anger, at least not this much of it, but I don't care anymore. I just want to rage.

So I do. I go on a rampage throughout my room, and two minutes later it is a wreck. It feels good, to do something like that, to let out the anger pent up inside of me for years and years, to throw it out on my lush, intoxicating bedroom like I've never done before.

"Keeley." Carroll stands outside my door, apparently alerted by the sudden lack of crashing sounds. "Look, I know that was really shitty of Augustus to say that in front of us, and especially you, and I'm sorry for not shutting him up earlier, but you've got to toughen up, or this will break you. You can't let this break you, Keeley. Do you remember what you said to me when I was crying like a baby when I got Reaped on stage. Listen to your own advice. Be strong. Also, what did you say to Honda, because you made her lock herself in her own room, too?"

Carroll is right. I need to get a grip. This is wrong, what I've been doing and what I've just done. I was acting like… like a child. But I'm not a child anymore. No one can afford to be a child now.

I unlock the door and step out of the room.

"Woah, did a tornado erupt in your room?" Carroll looks back at me from the wreckage, a knowing smile on his face.

"I'm sorry," I say uncomfortably. I've never apologized before, except for when Victoria makes me do it, those insincere mutterings. But this time I do mean it. "I was being petty."

"I'm sorry too. We all have our moments. You best tell that to Honda."

I don't want to have such weakness over my emotions. I want to push them down, to have control over them. I'm still surprised at myself, going off like that, because I thought it was better. But is it really better? If I hadn't have been like that, I wouldn't be friends with Carroll. He doesn't conceal his, he wears them on his sleeve, and yet… they don't have as much power over him. But how? I'm… I'm almost envious.

I've spent my whole life trying to push down those thoughts of love, hate, sadness, fury, and happiness. I've experienced all of those in the past three days—well, maybe not love, but all of the rest. Just keep my head down, always stay natural, always stay aloof. Maybe that was the best way in Six, in the Black Rose. But I don't know if it's the best way anymore. One thing is for sure, though: I sure as hell am not in Six anymore.

Well, what did you guys think of this chapter! This was a very fun one to write, even though all of the POVs challenged me, at least slightly, but in a good way. Please, if you are reading this, leave all of your comments on the chapter down in your review. I love reading them, and they honestly make my day.

Anyways, back to the chapter, Konani's concerns about Elior are growing, Nerissa's plan is playing out swimmingly so far, Marvel is poised for revenge, and Keeley had an outburst and then an epiphany. Which one of these was you favorite, and why? Any that you didn't like? Why not?

Q: Who do you want to see ally or have an interaction that hasn't already done so or had one?

Q: Who gets the fastest time on the agility course of Nerissa's alliance?

I'll also display an alliance list, since both questions center around it and it's been a few chapters since I have:

Careers: Marvel Silver (D1), Arlo Maddox (D2), Scylla Frigard (D2), Talisa Rowland (D4), Imperia Crimson (D9)

Two Crazy Names: Turquesa Miracelest (D1), Aquatico Espovera (D4)

Nerissa's Band of Merry and Manipulatable Misfits: Bolt Dattery (D3), Nerissa Doppler (D3), Rowan Hunter (D7), Tessa Oakhart (D7), Raihan Everstow (D10), Sierra Hay-Fields (D11), Tabitha Declan (D12)

Token Romance Arc: Elior Gobel (D5), Konani Sowka (D5)

Good Cop and Bad Cop: Carroll Heinback (D6), Keeley Axel (D6)

Depressed Loners Beans: Cassius Heart (D8), Mystic Archeron (D8), Coleus Yarrow (D9), Rhiannon Caster (D10), Aleyn Garsow (D11), Rooker Hilt (D12)

The next chapter should be out in about a week, so I can space them out a bit, and the next a week or so later. Now that we're into summer, I have a lot of time on my hands, so expect more frequent updates.

I have one more thing to say, and that is that I can't believe we're coming up on this story's anniversary! It seems like just yesterday I posted a prologue hoping to get some response. Thank you to all of you who have remained faithful to this story and kept on reading, even through that unofficial hiatus, and have watched by writing get better as I went. You guys are all the best! There should be more updates throughout this year, and by the time we're coming up on this time again, we should be well into the actual Hunger Games. I'm excited, I don't know about you!

Since the anniversary is here, I wanted to post a check in just to see how many of you are still reading. The question is: If your tribute(s) lived in the year 2021, what would their favorite movie be, and why? PM or DM me the response.

Thank you all for reading and (hopefully) reviewing, I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and have a wonderful day wherever you are!

-Mills