Day 1: Bloodbath.

Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.

It's redolent, first of all. Caressed in the golden sunlight, the Arena's a creature, lathered in liquid-gold and drifting in pyrite mist. And if he forgets the amber woodlands and forgets the chirps of birds and the shaking grip of his fist; if he forgets where he is. It's like he's on the back of a lion.

He jolts. It's almost too beautiful. It's so far removed from…

(District Two. With its riots and its chaos; the clangs of metal against buildings, the chants of the people, calling, wanting, desiring, from the pits of their souls. Fires, that blaze a conflagration across the city-streets—ember-lit, that left flecks of amber foil over street-stones. Fake yellow splattering the brick walls: a grotesque caricature of Panem's emblem, struck-through with red blood.)

Kiernan lets out a breath. And the air's so… fresh. So… different, from the smog-riddled Two. He'd had to have an inhaler anywhere he went because specks of dust would get into his throat, and he'd cough and rattle at the flare that'll engulf his lungs.

But not here. He can breathe, in the Arena. How ironic.

(Don't. Don't think about that now.)

Kiernan's eyes level at the Cornucopia. It's a golden horn, one broken in with a crevasse. Crates and supplies and weapons peek from the darkness; illuminated by a sun's shard. Above is the countdown, projected into the sea-blue clear skies above.

29… 28… 27…

(It's slightly uncanny. There's an eerie sort of resemblance that the forests bring him: dusted in gold, swirling in the cold winds. But he can't quite place what.)

18… 17… 19…

Kiernan gazes at Careers. The entire alliance—Chrys, Dior, Rhodos, Althea, even Hera—are primed to rush towards the Cornucopia. And his eyes sweep towards the other tributes.

What he sees makes his throat go dry

They're poised to run. But not away. So many eyes are riveted on the Cornucopia, and it's the farthest thing from fear that lights up their irises. Determination. Resolve. Desire. Not even the youngest look terrified.

(What… what's happening?)

11… 10… 9…

They're looking at each other—at least District Three and Six and Nine, communicating with their eyes. It's typical, of the Outer Districts to have alliances. But they're so secure; so sure in themselves.

And that's when he catches Eight Girl's eyes.

She's at the podium on the opposite side. Her dark eyes are on his, cold, unbridled. It strikes him, then: that she'd been staring at him for a while.

His breath shorts.

(It's like he's prey.)

6… 5… 4…

He can't think about that now. The Cornucopia. The Cornucopia. That's where he has to go. That's where they'll all be. That's where he'll have to be to survive.

(He can't think about dying.)

3…

2…

1.

Kiernan opens his eyes and runs.

A frenzy of sound desecrates the Arena. He's running, running to the centre, and out of the corner of his eyes he sees tributes gallop their directions away; like ferine creatures down into the forests of the Arena, like running rats back to the places where they'd began. And he sees it in sight, the golden horn, it's so close, he should be there, soon, he will be, it's just him and the Careers and the Outer District stragglers, it should be easy—

And then he feels a kick to his side and something in him crunches and his vision shakes black. Pain races over his skin like insects, and he bites back a scream. He's on the ground, and—

Above him towers the District Eight Girl.

She has a machete. Panic swallows his body: energy roils his skin, frantic, frenetic, like death's swished a hand over him— no, no, he needs to go.

He curls his legs under hers, and he has to take her to the ground, that's his only chance, if he can't, he can't—

But she simply hops over his swiping legs, and lands on her two feet with a soft thud to the other side, like he'd done nothing at all.

No, fuck, no. He has to go, go, go, he can't stay here, any longer and he's going to die, and—

(And then he's just like one of the outer Districts on camera, struggling under the presence of someone he could never touch, someone that'll reap his life away, cause he's just a thing and he doesn't matter and did he actually think he was any better than any of them—)

It's his end. He's under her and she'll tear him asunder. It's his end.

Kiernan Alcraiz waits to die.

And in his death-breaths he closes his eyes and grits out his snarl. Fuck you, Maeve, bet this's what you've fucking wanted— and his sister's there in his head, his sister that isn't there, that's never there, that wouldn't even spare him a last glance before she hopped off to volunteer and dragged him down to the dredges of hell too just 'cause—

She isn't looking at him. Eight isn't looking at him. Her head's twisted sideways, towards somewhere else. It's like he's an afterthought.

He should escape, now. But then her eyes flick back, she looks down at him, and it is so clear, then—

Even an outlier pities him.

She hefts her machete. But it's not for him, she doesn't care about him, because he's stupid, he's useless, he's just a kid, he'll die anyway, didn't matter if it was her or someone else, he'll die—

(And he wants to prove her wrong, there and then: he wants to maul her and he wants to smother her and he wants to make her suffer, he wants to wrap a garrotte around her neck and he wants to break a column out of her spine, and it'll jut out like a bauble, it'll gleam like a pearl in the redolent light. And she'll be laughed at by the Capitol because she's just entertainment, who fucking cares if she dies—)

Eight's already gone. And Kiernan twists upon his back and scrambles to his feet as he sees her advance towards Rhodos, a snarl upon her lips, and Kiernan wants to yell a warning because Rhodos's got his back turned to her and he can't see her coming—

And a shape streaks in front of Eight.

It is over with a blink. Eight spear skewers its head. And then Kiernan watches as what-had-once-been the District 11 Male fall against the ground, his red blood spooling out of his neck.

Rhodos notices. He swirls around, and then they are in a standstill for a moment. It is a staredown; Eight glares, Rhodos stares back.

But then Eight darts towards the supplies, grabs a bag, and runs.

And Kiernan hears a frustrated roar.

And the owner of the voice is Dior.

Dior Marini. District 1.

She is mad.

Too many arrive at the Cornucopia. Morethan the previous years. Dior had lost count, after the initial sprint towards the golden horn. And she would not mind, other times, for they are really just sheep, so desirous, so delirious, of survival.

But there are no deaths yet, and the one cannon that's resounded in the skies is by Eight no less, and those running think that they can take the Careers head-on.

Audacity reigns in the Arena already. It is disgraceful. It is unearthly. It is unspeakable. It is not tradition.

(Strangle, laugh, just one more—her neck'll break open, what d'you think she is? Not so much a Career than dead. Who do you think you are, Mattie Marini, nothing but flesh and blood, you are a child, you are nothing.)

Dior watches the Eights run and she is mad.

Her javelin. She has her javelin. It is by her side: she is far too ready. Sadie Rendevez—Eight, Eight is in her line of sight, she merely has to throw, to aim, to shoot—

(But she can't aim—can't focus. And the lessons with her parents come back: focus on the target, Dior. Hit the centre, Dior. And she would force herself to concentrate, but every time she lifted her eyes and felt the pressure of their eyes, her aim had always shaken.)

Dior throws. And her javelin soars, and Dior's heart rises (send a spoke through her heart, impale her and let her die, let the child beside her cry, vengeance, that's what Dior needs—)

It veers. Offside—down, thudding into the grass, two inches off her target.

Frustration encroaches her lips, and Dior, oh, Dior wants to scream.

Her eyes thrust towards the bags, the supplies, there has to be a weapon, somewhere—but all she finds is machetes and kukris and knives, and that is not what she needs, she needs to kill her, Eight, she needs to, she needs to—

A spear.

She takes it in her arm, braces for a throw, god, she is ready, nothing can stop her. But when she looks back Eight is gone.

No.

Her eyes go wide, and then she's frantic. Eight's gone, along with her companion, nowhere to be seen. And Dior's suddenly so aware of the other Careers: of Rhodos's stare, of the way they'd seen her fail.

Chrys. And her throat constricts. No. He couldn't've seen that.

Oh, no. He's too busy killing.

First, it is the District 10 Male. He is dead, so fast; beaten down with the clean slice of axe down his chest. And then the District Seven Male: slain, cut open in half, his torso split in blood and his mouth wide and open from his beheading.

No. He can't do better. Because she knows Chrys, and Chrys'll be confident, of course, like nothing had happened at all. He'll undermine her, she sees it in his eyes, he'll have killed two and he'll see her and it'll be on his face, her audacity, her audacity and how pathetic was her play at leader, cause she's justsome rich kid that bought her way into the Games, while he's here because he's valued because he's on a scholarship because he's actually good—

(No. She's good. She's not here because she's rich. She's here because she can do it. She'll vivisect the animals that murdered her sister; she'll end them.)

Where the fuck are the animals?

And there's the District Twelves, running off, a ways away from where she stands, and oh: oh, they'll do.

Chrys Gerhart. District 1.

He watches as kids fall to his blade, and there is a… feeling that takes his heart.

(The District Ten Male dies. His chest, caved open, a split fig spurting flesh-red. And he has seen the scene so many times before: back at One, relishing the broadcasts live, getting giddy every moment a tribute was felled, twenty-two more to go till the crown, twenty-one, twenty. But being there, living the moment, killing—)

It is not like how he fights a dummy.

(The District Seven Male dies. There is a crescent that is embedded in his throat, and he'd watched, as he gurgled, as he'd suffocated upon golden grass. Watched as he gasped like a skinned fish for breath, but the red underneath his throat pooled like wings, and he'd watched till there was only a cluster of limbs left of him.)

Chrys does not know how he feels. All he knows is that he is a machine, one so perfectly trained, one that does what the Academy's taught him. That's what they all are—Madison Saros, that was what she was, too, last Games. He'd never been in a special training program like she did, of course, directed by Doctor Levine, but he's strong. He's powerful and he does what he's told because that's how he'll save his family. He'll win and then he'll bring them up a happier life, he'll give them riches and he'll make them proud, that's what he wants.

It's for his family.

(And he thinks about the families of Seven and Ten, watching their screens and their children's deaths. He can hear their gasps, even, from here; the vibrations of their cries, their screams upon the twist of his hilt. They're so terrified, because their children are dying in front of their eyes.)

What does that make him? He's here for his family, here for Emilio and Melissa and his father and for his mother's death-bed wish, and why is he here, why is he killing? So other families can die to make his own? Is that it? What has he become?—

"You monster!"

It is a scream. It is a slash. And then his skin breaks, his bones dislocate—

The flesh-piece of his arm thuds on the ground.

And the District Six Female picks up the axe from its remains.

Shock rattles in his chest. Chrys is breathing, his eyes are too-damn wide, he's staring at the axe on the ground and he's staring at himself and he's not anything, he's without an arm, that arm that's bleeding out of his severed skin now, like a flow of malt-blood, the sliced arm of the dummy he'd attacked back at the Academy, claret sprawling on the ground—

He's stunned, and he doesn't even register the pain, then, doesn't feel anything then, just that he's killed Seven and Ten and there's adrenaline in his veins. There's adrenaline in his veins and he's staring at Six who's cocking her head back at him with a smile back at him (so cocksure so here so fucking smart isn't she, for almost taking down a goddamned Career).

He roars. He still has an axe (he's delirious he has an axe he has an axe). He swipes at her. She evades, but he slashes again. And a thick streak of claret streaks her face. Six yells; but a step and two and then she's running, dashing off into the forestry, and he follows, he stumbles, he lumbers, his throat's raw-sore from crying for her death, but his feet squash against yellow and they're queasy, limbs of nothing really, and he's collapsing underneath—

He crashes, hard, onto the ground. Blood flings across the yellow glades. He's bleeding—his arm's a stump, and he holds it, clamps it, make sure it doesn't flow (filling the brim of his palm, like a red-wine cup), and he's dazed, he's heaving, his mind's going wild, he's delirious.

He's falling apart. He feels himself drop to the ground. His axe leaves his hand. Red-wet gunk flows out of his stump and it's so warm and slick and wet (and ugly, so very ugly, he's doused in liquid-gold but it's not the liquid of the tribute parade, oh, no, no, it pours). He holds what's left of it. And the frazzled remains of flesh teases between his fingers.

He's dizzy. He's delirious. But his eyes flick towards the Cornucopia.

Bandages. Bandages. He needs to make a tourniquet. Chrys stumbles, and he doesn't know how he gets there, but he does. His arm's so slick, and his head's slipping into the abyss, and he can't feel, not really, but the pain's sinking in, it's so profound, so much— how much blood has he lost, it's enough, it's too much—

(Not enough to what he's spilt.)

He's tying the bandages to his arm, wrenching his arm into a tourniquet, thank fuck they've taught how in One. He forces the flow to stymie, and even then he makes out the Bloodbath in the distance.

Chrys watches as Dior murders the District Twelves. Their heads— stolen by her javelin, skewed through the throat like they're pigs and Chrys feels his chest constrict, more than how he'd already been breathing.

And Dior looks upon her prey, and there's a satisfied smirk that dashes the corner of her lips. And then her eyes roam around and no, not him—but oh, they meet him exactly.

Surprise takes her eyes. It lights up her countenance, for a moment, until she slips back to impassivity again. But Chrys is oh so sure that he sees the corner of her already-smirking lips lift.

Fury roils within his skin. Oh, he knows what she's doing. She smirks because she's triumphant and he watches without an arm left and that's what they are, she's won, he's damaged goods, and—

(And Chrys thinks about home, to his parents, his family watching, the horror enshrined in their eyes and Emilio's gaping mouth and his stifled cry, Melissa's tears brimming by her eyes and Julius's shock and how his father'll have to clasp his hands over Laurel's eyes, cause fuck, he's in the Arena, so dying, dying, he's done—)

No.

His family's the reason why he's here. They, watching him, as he suffers here—he knows why he's here, he's here for them, and them only. They'll get a better life with this, his trials, that's all they need, here, he's doing this for them.

It's his destiny.

And the goddamned Outer District tributes want to fuck that up. They want to kill him, maim him, and they want to get away with it. And he won't endure Dior's smirks, the stares of the rest of the Career pack, the chortles of the outliers, just to die. He's not just here to fucking perish.

Fuck them all. That's why he has to survive.

(For them to die.)

Althea Ivory. District Four.

The District Eleven girl's running.

She'd watched Eleven approach the Cornucopia. Like a little rat, she'd edged the corners; twitching and sniffing, something like tears streaking down her eyes. Looked around. And then she grabbed a bag, and she'd run.

It wasn't a futile effort, really—Althea's first knife had veered off wide, thunking against the hollow golden bass of the Cornucopia's insides. And then the little rat really darted.

Could she just let prey go?

And Althea's running, behind; she has two, three more throwing knives— and they're not her preferred weapon, she likes using a halberd more, those things she can throw and that soar through the air clean as a sail, but knives, her knives are good enough already—

— and she's throwing, it's so easy, impaling's easy, she just has to—

Knife. After knife. After knife. Althea grits her teeth; the rage in her heart stokes. She's performing even worse than Talon, who had two kills by then, despite how he'd died so quickly. She's not weak. No. She's not weak at all. That's not why she's here. That's not why she has a hand on the blade or why she's here in the beating heat of glades or why she's sweltering with rage. She just has to—

Kill somebody.

And Eleven's right there, her back wide-open like wingblades open for the taking, and Althea's gaining, and her heart's lifting, rising, increasing in beat and strength, oh, she's so damn close—

She kills the District Eleven Female. It is easy work. It's simple—it's straightforward, really. Althea opens an envelope of claret across her throat and the corpse of the child throws herself on the ground, gagging. Althea watches as the blood seeps out. There is nothing she should care about the dead.

There is nothing she should care about the dead.

But something stirs in her stomach, and there's revulsion that grips her throat, and she wants to gag, the scent's so putrid, the metallic blood's sour in her mouth, and she feels like she's retching cause she's staring at a dead rat (a dead glossy-eyed rat, a mop of black hair and an arm lolling by and body half-sinking in the golden glow) and she's won it's a conquest she detests it it's so disgusting it's so it's so—

Althea stands still as the cannon blows. She grips her machete in one hand and tightens her other fist.

Her fingers stop shaking.

Rhodos McNamara. District Four.

He's ransacking the Cornucopia when Nine appears.

It had to be her plan—to sneak in, as all the Careers became too engaged in battle to notice. To take their supplies away and make off with what she could, a weapon, a blade, anything that any outlier couldn't just get.

And that's what she does have: a sickle in her hand. And her face's stone, and she's staring at him, breathing heavily.

And he's caught in-between; like a puppet on strings. He has a spear with him; he can finish this. His Career instinct tells him: he should throw the spear. He should kill Nine Girl through.

(But… he's rooted down. He knows the reality, here—killing's what he should do. That's what he'd been taught. That's why he'd spent countless hours at the stations—throwing, going, be better, be stronger, yes, Rhodos, that's more like it, now you'll stand a chance at the Games.)

(And he's staring at Nine Girl, who should be just another dummy, should just be another red dot on the target to mark. And he's…)

(… staring.)

There is fear that flashes through Nine Girl's eyes. She's tensed, and she's like a cornered animal, on her haunches, about to run. Instinct acts over mind—and before he even realises he's moving he's launching himself over the boxes and sacks, skidding to a stop in front of Nine Girl's escape.

Do something, Rhodos. (And then it's his father's voice, sneering back at him—make us proud, don't tell me you're incompetent, we need this, we need to get back on top, don't you see—)

Nine Girl's wide-eyed; caught, so irrevocably trapped. And Rhodos knows.

He lets out a breath. He brings his throw-arm up. It'll be quick, you won't feel anything, you'll go and—

A line of red drags open from her throat. Rhodos's eyes are wide as Nine Girl's sickle clatters to the ground; a smile of blood embedded in metal.

That smile of red she drew over her own neck.

And he can't quite breathe and even as she's dying she's speaking, no, not speaking, chortling—

"T-this… t-this is for…"

She is dead. Her cannon blasts.

Rhodos wonders how the Capitol'll explain that.

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

"It's done."

Dior says it, and it echoes in Hera's ear—hollow as a bass. She blinks, and the scene before her comes back into focus.

(Gold, dashed in pouches of blood. Hera Dalenka supposes it is… pretty.)

"How many are dead?"

That is Althea Ivory's voice, she recognises. Always melodic, but now tangled with heavy roughness.

It is from the excursion. It's from the heat of the run; it's from the exuberance of the hunt.

And Althea is unperturbed as always; she is insouciant, as always. But there is a heaviness in her voice, and there is a tiredness that tinges her eyes, and there is a feeling that weighs upon her face: something tumultuous, that not even her wide smile or her casual poise could hide.

(How many are dead? Hera had counted. She'd watched them all die. Felled—one by one. Blood explosions. Cries of the doomed. Cannons, tunnelling into the night.)

"Do you want to count the corpses?"

Dior drawls out the words. Bit by bit. It's nonchalant. It's icy. It's so devoid of…

Spite.

(It would be better if there were spite infused in Dior's words.)

"You do it."

Althea's a lot more… snippy. Cold. Hera isn't sure why. Althea's typically… nicer. Not like—not like this.

Dior scoffs. "I'll count mine. Two. How about you?"

"One."

"Rhodos. Kills?"

And there's a cleared throat. Hera hears a small voice. A strong voice. Roughed-out yet so insecure. "I—uh, got the Nine Girl."

Dior doesn't even bat an eye. "Good. Where's Chrys?"

"… he's injured."

There's not even a beat that's missed when Dior speaks again. "Well. We better go get him, then."

And just like that—they disperse. Hera knows she's supposed to be following them. But she can't get her feet to move ahead of her. She can't move.

Because this is where she is: Hera is in the bloodbath. Hera is strewn amid golden forests flecked with red. Hera is standing above them all.

Hera stares at the wreckage of the dead before her. Her head's clearer than ever.

And there is only one thing she knows.

(She has no idea why she's here.)

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I'm so sorry about the timing of dropping this chapter - but I hope you've enjoyed it regardless. Thoughts? Any predictions of what might happen? Is Chrys going to be okay? And what about all of our tribute's current mental states - from Althea, to Rhodos, to Hera and Dior?

Next Update: Aftermath - Oct 24th (Saturday), hopefully with the aid of Spr*ntathon. I'm hoping to get more into the groove with writing now, and I'm excited about the Games and all I have planned for it!

Lastly, I am so behind on reviews and stories (I am so sorry), but I promise that I'll be catching up now! I can't wait. Thank you again for reading; I'll see you in the next!