A/N: Welcome one, welcome all to the second day of the Twenty Second Annual Hunger Games! Today we're visiting some more tributes to see where their heads are at, and who knows, there might even be some action today! Buckle up your seat belts, it's time to get into the minds of a drug addict, a Career, and a little girl! Hope you enjoy the ride :) POV lengths are really inconsistent this chapter XD

Note: From here on out, I'll be doing eulogies for each of the tributes the day following their deaths, like in LCS's story. I'm considering Night 1 as the overall eulogy for the Bloodbaths, but from now on each tribute that dies will get some thoughts from a remaining tribute when they see their face in the sky. Just a heads up :)

Libby Miles, 16

District Six Female

The prairie grass crunches underneath my boots as I stumble forward. The grass this far out is spotty, bunches of it growing tall while most of it's at my knees or lower. It's almost as if someone took a giant lawnmower and rode around this part of the arena and didn't do the job right. I know I should stop soon; I'm tired, and a water bottle is the only useful thing in my pack. I can't waste it marching endlessly forth into the hazy morning. As the sun slowly pulls himself towards his pinnacle in the sky, the air around me becomes stickier and thicker. I swear you could cut through it with a knife. Panting, I finally let myself sit down and rest. Or, really, I just fall ungracefully to my knees, then repositioning myself so I'm sitting criss cross apple sauce.

The prairie buzzes around me, insects calling to one another in low, nearly inaudible cadences. Soft breezes blow by every now and then, tousling the longer stalks of grass. Their movements keep me on alert, keep me from slipping off into the recesses of my mind.

It has been a little over a week since my last dose of morphling. The world is less blurry than it was. Calla said that by the end of the first week, which was about yesterday, that things would be closer to normal than fucked up. I guess that's true. I haven't really started to examine the events in my life since I've been focused on getting as far away from the Cornucopia as possible, but things just seem a little clearer. Things close to me, like the blade of grass I roll between my thumb and forefinger, are definitely real. Sometimes I'll see shadows or shapes on the horizon, or the sun flicker. But things have improved. I wasn't the dumb addict I was when I arrived in the Capitol, probably slobbering and flopping on top of random pieces of furniture. I can control myself, although I have my few moments. I was able to think clearly at the Bloodbath due to the adrenaline. Torcido's backs off at the presence of strong drugs like morphling. The adrenaline aided my mental clearness I guess. But I was able to grab a small muddy brown pack near my pedestal and haul my butt out of there. I kept going all day and I only stopped to rest for a few short hours in the night before I woke up from a fractured dream of Anaya's bloody corpse. Ah, Anaya. Her voice is nearly nonexistent, a half whisper in the back of my mind.

Sometimes it feels like I'm a completely new person. My skin is paler than I once thought, same with my hair, and I could've sworn I didn't have that birthmark half the time on my right wrist. I used to just think it was some random bruise that kept popping up. I see myself and the world around me in a new light.

Of course, not everything's swell and merry. Sure, Torcido's is a lot of really bad things, but it has one major advantage: it masks addiction from the user. It hides the fact that the user is taking drugs from herself and when they don't have access to drugs, it drowns out the hunger for them. Torcido's is just a temporary side effect from shooting up dirty morphling; it fades fully two weeks after your last dosage. I just had it consistently for several years because I kept taking hits every few days. Addiction is the true root of the problem. I may be getting my clarity back, but the pangs and the primal urge for even a tenth of a hit sometimes make me dizzy and distracted if I think about it too much. It's not like two weeks and snap! Liberty has, well, liberty from her vices. Nah. Freedom from addiction doesn't even begin with two weeks. It takes two years, two decades, maybe two lifetimes. It's time that you've lost forever because of a stupid mistake you made when you were younger and hurting uncontrollably.

All this thinking, reminiscing, reasoning things out just makes my head throb. I hesitantly unscrew the cap of my water bottle, letting myself take a measured sip before stuffing it back in my little dirt brown bag. At least it blends in; I saw some of the bags in psychedelic neon colors like they are every year. Those usually have more supplies, but they're nearly impossible to hide and would paint a giant target on anyone who took one. I wonder if anyone was dumb or desperate enough to take the bright bubblegum pink pack I saw laying on its side not far from where I hunkered down to hide from the tornadoes.

My head aches again, and my body begs for something that I can't give it. There are no morphling drips in the arena; only Victors get morphling drips. Of course, they'd give me a different drug probably as to not trigger the Torcido's syndrome again, but still. I get out, I get some sort of opiod. That thought just appeases the inner starving creature for a few moments, but they are a few moments well spent with a clear head before things become hazy again with desire and need.

Not moving and not talking is dangerous. I'm a sitting duck of course, but I doubt anyone's this far out, at least not anyone threatening. It's dangerous because I'm sitting here alone with my thoughts in the silence of the prairie where a too loud noise could mean attracting deathly attention to myself. So I have to sit here quietly, criss cross apple sauce, the good little girl, all prim and proper and waiting for someone to come confront me, alone with my thoughts.

I'm going to go insane out here. I give myself four days. I bet they don't even give me one back in the Capitol.

Miriam Park, 13

District Ten Female

The dark smudge on the horizon has been in my peripherals all morning. The sun makes the shape fuzzy and hard to make out, but it's brown I'm pretty sure, and it looks like something other than the endless fields of wheat around me. I can barely make out the tiny dot miles away that is the Cornucopia; I'm in the middle of nowhere, feeling vulnerable, needing somewhere to go, and the smudge tempts me.

Of course I knew that there was a pretty decent chance that I'd lose Jayce at the Bloodbath. I didn't really think it was real until last night, when I saw his face smirking tiredly down at me, glittering like a woven net of stars across the inky black sky. I thought maybe, just maybe, he'd been able to crawl to safety and was hiding somewhere, waiting to find me so we could meet back up and get right back where we started. My reserves of jokes are starting to pile up; dead jokes about the grass and the dirt and the near-agoraphobia that grips me when I look too hard at the seemingly endless arena around me. I murmur some of them under my breath just to get them out so I don't have to deal with them any longer. I'd be bursting from the seams if I didn't exhale the little quips that come to mind every now and then.

I'm all alone now; I've been facing that music all morning. It's wearing into the afternoon now. I haven't moved all that much, just sitting in place for a while, then getting up and travelling a little just to keep my muscles loose and my focus sharp. The smudge taunts me, almost following me it seems as I move bit by bit away from it. I know I shouldn't go near it. I shouldn't even entertain the thought of going by the wretched thing.

You could barely see the tiny brown dot from my pedestal. After Jayce fell, I fled down the slope and into the grass, right in the direction of the smudge. It was just instinct; in a world of flat nothingness but the golden grass, some protrusion from the blank horizon was welcome and the sign of possible safety and comfort. The only issue is that I saw it from my pedestal. The Careers can see it, and they're bound to go towards whatever it is any day now, knowing some kid's shacked up inside.

So the logical part of me screams "Stop walking toward it!" Because yes, I've been walking towards it. Not away; I've just been deluding myself, saying I'm listening to my inner strategist while my heart controls my limbs and propels me forward. The smudge is starting to become a little clearer. It looks like a prism, rectangular or cubic. And now that it's closer my brain really starts to realize what's going on. I'm moving towards the obvious target of the Careers, the hiding place so obvious in this sea of nothingness that no one should be stupid enough to go near it, but the Careers will check it just to be safe. I'm letting my legs carry myself towards plausible doom.

Fuck fuck fuck my mind grunts as I just keep on moseying along through the prairie, pausing every now and then to rest or take a small sip from my water bottle. There's no going back now. I might as well check out what this thing is now that I've been heading towards it for this long. Worst case, if it's some mutt superhub or has been taken over by an alliance or has been pillaged by Careers I can just run away and hide. I'm one of the few tributes that can legitimately hide out here due to my smaller size.

Only a couple of hours after noon, with the sun blazing brightly in the sky, I arrive at my hallowed destination. A quarter mile away I finally had identified the place as a wooden hut or lodge of sorts; as I neared, the thing began to come into more focus. Standing in front of the door into the lodge, I realize that it is a little house of sorts, like a cabin someone might build in the woods in a fairytale. It's assembled from hulking logs and there's warped glass in the windowpanes. I walk over to the door and push on it; there's no lock or knob to keep it shut.

I step into the cabin. It's musty inside. Bookshelves line the walls, filled with various things, from trinkets to tattered photographs to actual books. There is a cold fireplace, and two cots in one corner. There are a few armchairs as well. I start because I swear I see a human form propped up in one of the chairs. But it doesn't move at all. I slide a thick tome off of one of the shelves and slowly approach the slumped, misshapen figure lounging in the armchair.

I smack the book down, and a dull rattle meets my ears. I squint and hit the thing, realizing it's a some sort of hard woven plastic and metal. It hurts like hell to bang my fist against it, and I recoil instantly. It's in the shape of a body; a human body. Armor?

Suddenly, the door swings inward. I startle, jumping away from the armor or whatever it is, book raised above my head in a defensive position. My eyes meet with those of the one and only Gaylord Parthenia, douche of District Twelve. He has a dagger strapped to his left thigh with a cord and a pair of goggles or binoculars in his hand.

"What the-" he begins, but I pounce at him. I slam my book against his right shoulder, and he staggers. I make a rush for the door, but Lord rights himself quickly, grabs me by the shoulders, and tosses me onto one of the cots. The ancient springs squeal in distress as I land heavily on the bed. Lord draws his dagger and points it at me, snarling, his eyes alight with a mixture of confusion and fear.

"This is my cabin," Lord growls, the dagger still pointed at my head, but his hand shakes just a little. My eyes dart around the room, looking for some way to get free, but he's backed me up into the corner. "Are you listening to me?" he hisses, and I realize I've zoned out trying to find an escape route.

"What?" I reply tentatively. "What do you want?"

"Uh...your supplies," he decides. I sigh inwardly. This is going to be rough. I point to my maroon pack where it lays on the ground. Its contents are sprawled out near the fireplace after the bag came open when I stepped on it in a fright when Lord came in. He eyes them carefully for a moment before turning back to me. I can see the uncertainty in his eyes and the faint shake of the hand holding the dagger despite how menacing his stance looks.

"Just let me go," I plead quietly. "You have no reason to kill me. We have a common enemy, the Careers. Just let me go, and you don't have to get the blood on your hands."

Lord just stares at me for a couple of moments before making his decision. "I need your help with something," he says slowly, cautiously. "You promise that if I drop this knife you're not going to go apeshit and rip out my throat or blow me up with some girly glitter gun?"

"I promise. Cross my heart, hope to die. Well...not hope to die. Guess we shouldn't say that part anymore." Lord looks at me intensely for a few more seconds before he drops the dagger. He straps it back to his thigh and then extends his hand. I tentatively take it, and he helps me to my feet.

"Well, I'm Lord," he tells me simply as he goes over to pick up my supplies strewn everywhere. He puts them back in my pack efficiently, and then hands me my pack. "I know you're Miriam."

"Why are you giving it back?" I question hesitantly, skipping the pleasantries. "My pack. Why are you giving it back?"

"I need your help," Lord replies simply. "All these books here? I'm convinced that there's something in them that'll help us in these Games."

"Like what? A magical spell to get us out of our nightmares?" I laugh. "Really?"

Lord looks a little hurt. "They sometimes put things in the arena. Like that genie lamp from Anneliese's Games that told the boy where to find the oasis."

"Even if there's some great thing hidden here, we're going to die if we stay here. Careers are going to come check this place out sooner than later," I mumble. "I don't think it's smart to stay here."

"You want to go back out there?" he asks. "All alone?" And he's right. I don't want to; I look out the nearby window at the endless fields of grass. The Cornucopia is a tiny, itty bitty dot on the horizon, a metallic speck breaking the monotony of the robin egg blue sky's horizon. It looks so lonely, so lost, so endless out there. In here, I feel some semblance of safety just because, well, it's a house. It's a home; the hackneyed pictures of an ancient family on the bookshelves and the comfy furniture make me feel comforted.

"No, I don't," I sigh, steeling myself. "But I don't want to die."

"I'm sort of hungry," Lord admits. "I sort of just didn't kill you, so hand over some of your jerky."

"I sort of have no obligation to do anything for you," I fire back, eyebrow raised, and he just grabs the pack from my hands. "Hey!"

Lord fishes out my pack of jerky and tears out a strip. He stuffs the jerky back in my bag and throws it at my feet before turning to the book shelves, gnawing on his strip of jerky. "Well, let's get to work. You're in my house after all. You're going to have to earn your keep."

"I can just walk out the door," I tell him firmly as I stride over, pulling a thin green book off of the shelf. Lord doesn't respond; already he knows it's an empty threat. He knows I'm too scared to go back out there after spending time cooped up with a false sense of security in here. I just open the book and start reading, searching for whatever it is we're searching for, ignoring the vastness outside the window. My eyes do flick over to the metallic dot on the horizon every now and then, however. Even a home with a comfy armchair and a bed can't take the paranoia out of the Games entirely.

Tyberios Palatium, 18

District Two Male

"I can't believe you dumbasses," Chavez scoffs from his perch on top of a crate, leaning up against Cornucopia, feet propped up on another, smaller crate. The midday sunlight streams over him excessively, making most of his features besides his snarling frown fuzzy. He looks like a pissy prince trying to get his underlings back in order but failing. I guess that's exactly what's going on, but Chavez ain't a prince if you ask me, and the only thing we're failing at is complying to Chavez's will.

Ardin opens her mouth to speak but I put my hand on her shoulder, quieting her, while Trinity speaks instead. She looks at me half pissed off, half quizzical, and I just shake my head, mouthing the word "no". She gets the memo; it's not time to fuck around with Chavez and his temper. It's only day two. My headaches were so bad from the arguing that I popped one of the four pills Scylas sent me despite the fact I was trying to preserve them. I was going to go batshit crazy if I had to listen to more of this with my head pounding as if there's a hundred hammers slamming against my temples.

"Calm down, Chavez," Trinity purrs calmly, smiling sweetly as she prances over to him and sits on the crate beside him. I know she's pulling all the stops to put an end to his rampaging temper, but it feels weird to watch her flirt with the monster from Four. It feels wrong in some way to me, although it's one of the tools in her arsenal that she's expected to use from her training at the IDE. "We're just taking a day off, kicking back and charging up before we go out there and kick some ass." She strokes his shoulder, and Chavez's eyes are locked on her. "Just chill, okay?"

Chavez huffs but doesn't say anything for a few moments, stumbling over his words as Trinity stands and backs away. "I...we...uh...we need to get out there...soon, yeah soon." This is the only time I've seen Chavez Belasco at a loss for words, and I try not to chuckle, grinning at Trinity as she winks at me, suppressing laughter of her own. Chavez continues bumbling along. "We...you all need to start...yeah, start getting ready to fight...tomorrow."

"Of course," Trinity says. "We'll be all ready to go tomorrow."

"We just need this day off to organize stuff and get the sponsors' favor," Zircon adds helpfully, and Trinity nods encouragingly.

"Well, we have a fricking slave, isn't that the point? We don't have to organize?" Chavez growls, his voice quickly rising again. I can see the storm clouds gathering around him again. Trinity's smile is so fake it's dripping with fake honey and I swear I see steam erupting out of Ardin's ears.

"It's about being prepared," Ardin snarks through gritted teeth. "You can't just go killing willy nilly. You're not a god."

Trinity gives Ardin an alarmed look, and that along with a nudge in the side get her to shut up. I know they have some rivalry thing going on, and there's more sexual tension then they'd ever admit, but there's no way I'm letting some stupid rivalry fuck up this pack. Yes, we're going to fall apart. Yes, we're probably going to fall apart earlier than most packs. Does that mean we're falling apart on Day fucking 2, barely twenty four hours in? Hell no.

"Says you, bitch," Chavez sniffs. "You're the one that acts like she's the second coming of Serephina Manchas."

Now that was a good one. Everything is silent, and Ardin looks like she's about the explode. Cordelia breaks the silence. "Well, then who does that make you? Christopher Waters?"

"Who the fuck is that?" Chavez grunts, narrowing his eyes at his District partner.

"My point exactly." It takes all my willpower not to laugh, and I can see Trinity's face turning red for the exertion. Ardin's let all fucks go and just chuckles rowdily at Cordelia's joke, grinning at the girl and giving her a high five.

"Screw this." The king of Four marches off, taking his throwing knives with him. He strolls off down the slope into the grass, pausing some distance away. He's probably conveniently using the bathroom right now and then he'll practice fighting or something or go murder whatever he can get his hands on before coming back. So we'll have some time.

"Oh thank god," Trinity sighs, slouching just a tad. "I hate having to be a whore for him." Everyone else laughs, and we keep laughing when we hear each other's laughter. Our chuckles have just been trapped up for so long and steeped inside us, and now that we're allowed to release them they're pouring out endlessly. We just share stupid little gibes about Chavez while he's gone, working it out of our system the best we can.

"I hope he never comes back," Ardin snorts. "I'm the king now." She lounges on top of the crates, mocking him and puckering her lips like she's going in for a big kiss. Trinity begins to snort and I laugh uproariously, and I can see a few tears of mirth leak out of Zircon's eyes as he giggles.

Ardin continues mocking Chavez, laying atop the crates, until we see Chavez coming back. Sniggering, we gather back where we were before, talking quietly and organizing some supplies to make it look like we didn't just waste twenty minutes making fun of him.

Suddenly a little voice peeps up. "Mealtime..." Carmen trails off. We've forgotten all about the Twelve girl, who's been tending to the fire and cooking us soup in a large cauldron-like pot. There were some fresh vegetables and chicken in the Cornucopia, and we agreed that we needed to use them before they went bad. Carmen was put to good use and now our meal is prepared. The aroma of the soup makes me salivate.

She backs away respectfully as we storm the cauldron, scooping out heaping portions into steely bowls and devouring them with metal sporks, the only cutlery provided in the Cornucopia. Cordelia talks quietly with our little slave friend, getting her soup last and inviting Carmen to join us. The still frightened girl eats her relatively small portion of soup quietly, making sure not to slurp too loudly, letting us dominate the conversation.

She's sneaky, and I don't like her being around. There's something wrong about this; not just the part that we're using her as a slave. But I feel like there's a component to the relationships in the pack that I'm missing, and that's worrying. This pack is going to split soon, and if I don't know which way people will go and who they'll attack first, I could easily be fucked over and dead. I've got less time than optimal to figure out what's going on here, or I'm worried things might not turn out so fine and dandy for me.

A/N: This was a fun no death chapter! I loved exploring these three characters; I really adore everyone left and I don't want to start killing, but things will begin to thin out very soon :/

What did you think about Libby's state? Thoughts about the relationship between Miriam and Lord? (I don't really think it can be called an alliance). Thoughts on how the pack is operating?

So, I have an announcement to make! I've decided to tell you about the idea for my next story. I love Hunger Games, but I've written so many Games with 500YOP and my SYOTs that I need to take a break. Survivor is my favorite TV show, and I've even written several season summaries on my account of seasons made up by me on this account; the story is called Paradise. Anyway, I've always wanted to do a Survivor SYOC; would you guys be interested in that? I don't know if I'll have it in me to do another HG SYOT at least for a while after this one xD

Also, somehow, we're nearing 1,000 reviews. Y'all are true heroes.

Until Next Time,

Tracee