Night 1: The Driven and The Discordant.

Chrys Gerhart. District 1.

He's armless.

Armless. Fucking armless. It's a litany that repeats itself in his head. His head that's currently pounding with a damned headache. That's what he knows. Armless, fucking armless, he's fucking—

Chrys lets out a breath and presses his back further against the cool gold-metal of the Cornucopia. It slides a chill down his spine, but a chill's better to distract himself from the shit that's reigning on in his brain—

Armless. How're you gonna do anything armless? You're not gonna be able to fight, you're defenceless, you've got a fucking headache, you're, what the hell are you even doing—

Chrys closes his eyes. But it's no damned help at all because the weight (or rather, lack thereof) of his left arm's affecting his balance, his vertigo. And whatever he tries, he can't keep his mind—

(District Ten and District Seven. They come back to him easy. Their wretched faces. Their destroyed faces. He'd pulled them apart. And he doesn't feel sorry for that part (he didn't he didn't he couldn't—) and he doesn't feel sorry the families that have watched them die, their despair rolling from their eyes, he, he…)

District Six. Her name's coming back to him, now. Fascia. That one that'd screamed and called him a monster and slashed his goddamn arm off. That left him like this. Fascia, fucking, that fucking Six girl.

(Dior had gazed upon him, her chin tilted, her nose tilted. She'd just looked at him, and at his arm, and she hadn't needed to say anything to him. And his resentment flared, because fuck, he hates her.)

(Not just for how she'd rubbed it in. But for how she'd taken over Careers. The pack convened—as the sun sunk back in the horizon. And he'd been sitting by crates, nursing his injury. And of course, Dior raised her head and took charge. Wordlessly. She eyed him, daring him to challenge her. And he didn't, of course, he was dying from his split-fucking arm and his split-fucking headache.)

And now they're here. The rest of the Careers—packing with what little's left of their supplies. They're preparing for… whatever Dior decides.

He doesn't need to think about it. He can't think about it. Chrys exhales another breath. Fucking hell. He doesn't need to do shit under Dior, because all he wants now is to find Six, he wants to find Fascia, make her pay—

"Chrys?"

The voice jars him out of his thoughts. And Chrys levels his eyes to meet the kid looking back at him.

"I'm sorry," Kiernan says, and his voice is thick. "About your arm."

Chrys wants to fucking scoff. Okay. But all he sees when he looks at Kiernan is Emilio, and then a pang slams in his chest, and different words extricate from his throat.

"Thank you."

Kiernan nods. He shifts on his feet, evading Chrys's gaze. "Uh," he says, finally, and Chrys realises that there's something in his hand. "I found a tourniquet. Capitol-made. If—if you want to replace your bandages."

Despite it all, something quirks the corner of Chrys's mouth. "I'd appreciate that. Thanks."

Kiernan hands him the tourniquet. And Chrys can't help but remember: of that time Emilio walked up to him, bandages in his hands, and Chrys's heart had dropped to his stomach till Emilio calmed him down and told him that no, everyone was okay, but he'd just wanted to learn how to save people, (Chrys, I want to be a medic when I grow up!)

And Chrys had taught him exactly how. And of course, that night hadn't turned out well, because Chrys had made the mistake of telling Emilio that he'd learnt how to fix people from the Academy, and it'd spiralled into an argument about the Games, but…

(But he won't think about that.)

Kiernan's watching him anxiously, now. Course, it's layered with a facsimile of aloofness—one he'd probably copied somewhere, either from the scowling eighteens in his District or from a brooding older sibling.

Chrys feels his lips quirk. He'd been mortified when Emilio had begun to imitate his swearing; he'd protested to his father that it really wasn't his fault, but Lancer's raised eyes told Chrys that he knew very well otherwise. Younger siblings just about imitated everything, really.

"Are you going to be okay?" Kiernan says.

"I'll be," he says, and even though he doesn't know whether it's a truth or a lie, a sort of affection underpins his words, and a bit of a smile pulls by his lips. "Thank you."

Rhodos McNamara. District 4.

Rhodos McNamara doesn't know how to feel after the Bloodbath.

Nine girl is dead.

(Nine girl had dragged a knife across her throat.)

Nine girl is dead.

And Rhodos McNamara is an impostor.

He'd lifted his spear, he'd gazed upon her, he was ready to shoot, to throw—

But he hadn't.

He'd said that he'd killed her. Told that to Dior, and her impassive eyes had flicked for a fleeting moment with surprise. He'd implied his murder in his poise (a little stronger, a little less weary.) He'd acted it. He'd taken Nine girl's sickle (still stained wet, still dripping with her own blood). He carried his spear and her sickle in his hands, and it's supposed to mean he's a Career—he's competent, he's killed, he's doing what's expected of a Career, that's what's insinuated.

One down, dead by Rhodos McNamara, District Four male.

His words are still stuck in his throat. I got the Nine girl. It's a sickly-sweet statement burning in the back of this throat, it's so odious, it's a lie, so perversive—

He'd pretended. He'd shot, he'd thrown, he'd sliced red across her neck—but he didn't. He hadn't even touched her. She'd streaked a knife across her throat and his only involvement in her death as its witness.

(And he'd stayed there, rooted to the spot, for longer than he'd like to admit. Because the shock of it all shook his breath: and his eyes were wide, his lungs were shaky, he was breathing.)

And he'd lied that he killed her, lied to the Careers, lied to Dior, lied to the Capitol. And it's so unbearable, that lie, the way it eats at his stomach, it's pungent in his throat, it's heavy his heart. And he's vigilant, and he's alert, and he's aware, because someone must've seen him kill, someone must've known that he'd lied. And he'd lied, and he's undermining them, the Careers, the Capitol, the Games, and that isn't—that wasn't what he'd ever wanted.

The last thing they would've wanted was for him to pretend.

(And he'd pretended, consciously, then. He'd approached the body, with his spear, like she could've still been alive (as if he hadn't just watched her die). And that body that laid upon the golden fields and boxes was spilling red out of her throat and he couldn't not look.)

There was a mark on her wrist. When he'd inspected the corpse.

(It's not like he really… inspected it. He'd gotten… close, but not that close. There's something about the dead which keeps him a slight distance away.)

And something had caught in his breath when he'd seen that half-hook shape tattooed on her skin— because looking at it gave him deja-vu, looking at it transported him back to...

(He isn't sure where. But it was familiar, too. He's sure he'd seen the symbol before. Upon walls—upon skin? Rhodos doesn't know. But he knows he's seen it... somewhere.)

(But where?)

It unnerves him. All of it unnerves him, really. Suicides—they've heard of that, of course. Suicides haunt the mind of all Career Districts. They haunt the last Games. And it's execrated, of course; the names of the suicidal are besmirched; derogated, detested.

(And yet it's incorrigible, and it's recapitulated, and yet it's perennial.)

(And Madison Saros's death lasts in a longueur for them all.)

And that death… it wasn't something he needed to see. He knew death would happen, of course—he was reluctant, but he wasn't naive. He'd braced himself for it. Rhodos knew death would happen—knew he would throw his knives or thud a spear in chests and he knew why it had to happen, for his family's wealth, for their advancement, and then for his freedom, and he was ready, he is ready, but—

But he hadn't expected someone to kill themselves. And then—seeing somebody alive, dying, animated in convulsions and then—dead-eyed, flat, breathless.

He doesn't know how to feel.

(He's never known how to feel about the Games—not really. He'd known that killing was necessary, it is necessary, because that's what the Capitol ordains, and that's what he'll do. The Games are an obstacle. The Games are the Games. And he wants to be a Victor, he wants to win, so he can live—but he's surrounded by the Careers, he's surrounded by everyone that's so much better, Dior Marini and Chrys Gerhart and Althea Ivory—and Rhodos McNamara is an imposter, he's not good enough, he's so worthless...)

(Can't even kill a kid.)

Rhodos takes a breath. He forces his District's disdain, his Academy's embarrassment, his parents' eyes, he forces the world off his mind. Instead, he looks around. His District Partner's sitting atop a crate, her eyes vacant.

(... she's distracted. And Althea Ivory's never like that.)

Rhodos goes over to her.

Althea Ivory. District 4.

She's weak.

That's what stays in her mind, after the Bloodbath. After the golden land is submerged in tar and she is left to herself, and her mind, and the crates that are bare of supplies.

Althea Ivory knows this. She is weak. She is sick. Her stomach is roiling in fluids and the nerves within her skin seize; there are slick-icicles that stab in her body and there is the harumph of coldness that lasts in her bones.

But she lets her nerves only as a tremble on her skin. She ignores the rations that are offered to her by Hera. Althea Ivory immerses herself in the cold of the night.

(Because that's what she is supposed to be—Althea Ivory, frigid, controlled, focused. Because that is what she is. Althea Ivory. Collected.)

Because Althea isn't supposed to be so affected. What is the Eleven rat more than a corpse; a creature; a denizen of hell, really? That was where she belonged. Just as where the rest of the Districts belonged. They were nothing but stepping stones. That's what they are. That's what they all are.

(Stepping stones, love, Kani had said, as the rivers rushed by, as she brushed the long locks of Althea's hair, curled them by her ear, whispered, so quiet, they're only stepping stones, love. That's all you need to know about the Districts. That is all you need to think of them.)

That's all she needs to know. And yet the queasiness remains in her stomach, and she wants to exterminate it, and—

(And those voices back at home expound in her mind. Their sneers; her father's disapproving eyes; her mother's concentrated scoff. You're so weak, Althea Ivory, you're so unable. You're so pathetic, so useless…)

"Althea?"

Althea's throat constricts. Her stomach plunges. She is enclosed in ice.

Because Rhodos McNamara is the last person she needs to hear from now.

"Hey," Rhodos says. "Are you okay?"

(He is okay. Her District Partner— too attentive, too caring, is okay. After the murder of one. And she is sick, she is queasy, she is—)

(Weak. Useless. Unable.)

"I'm—I'm fine," Althea mutters, and she glares at him. "And save it, Rhodos. You won't understand."

Rhodos recoils, slightly; hurt slathering his eyes.

"I—" he falters. There's conflict in his countenance: like he's torn between talking to her or retreating.

Althea locks her eyes upon him. She keeps them cold, keeps herself cold. Because she can't expose herself—she'd already exposed too much of herself. She'd spoken about Kani, and he knows enough already, and she's so vulnerable, she can't be more vulnerable—

Rhodos drops his eyes, murmurs a quiet apology, and treks away from her.

(No.)

Better. She can't seem weak to him. Because Rhodos McNamara is the weakest here—he is pathetic, so eager to please, desiring so much validation— and even he did not flinch when he killed a child.

Even he managed to kill. Without a second thought. And she?

Her mind went rampant. Her body went rampant. Her reaction was visceral—too visceral. When stepping stones were all they should be.

(And if she were weaker than him, then what would that mean of her?)

Althea Ivory cannot be weak in the Arena. Not when she is here to prove her strength. Not when she is here to show her District she is able. Not when she is here to make them understand. To make them see her for who she is.

(She cannot be anything other than strong here.)

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

She isn't sure how to feel, after the Bloodbath.

(That Bloodbath. She'd stood amid the frenzy of it all, confused like a deer. She'd gazed upon the rest, as they scattered and ran, the muted patters of feet upon the golden biome. And Hera Dalenka had watched, and listened, and she... hadn't killed any.)

Hera remembers how Dior Marini had looked at her. When they were counting their kills. That surprise which had rested upon her coldly-impassive face, when Hera had uttered her words. I didn't get any. And then those narrowed-eyes, like a hawk taking stock of prey.

I thought you were better.

I thought you could get at least one.

I thought you could function, Hera Dalenka.

(And she… couldn't. Not then, because she was still so much in that stupor. But…)

She remembers why she is here, now.

She is here to win. That is what Hera Dalenka is here for. It's for her own good, her parents had said to her, as her mother dressed her up and her father picked which weapon she was to train with. She is here for her parents, she's here to make them proud of her.

To show them that they had a winner.

(Not a drug addict of a daughter.)

And she can. Win. Because she is okay, now. There are no more drugs that can haunt her here. She is sober. She is stable. She is okay.

(Hera Dalenka is always okay.)

(... only just okay.)

… Hera excels, of course. She is amongst the best of the best. She is brilliant. She is intelligent. That is all her, of course. But it is all so...

Hollow.

(Because upon her face is a modulated half-smile, a constricted poise, a mask plastered upon her countenance. Upon her body's knives and spears chosen by her father. Upon her body's a corset dress and upon her feet's high-heeled shoes and upon her ears' heavy crystal earrings picked by her mother. Upon her head is the crown that they've plucked upon her forehead. Because Hera Dalenka is not a person, not really. Hera Dalenka is made.)

(And Hera Dalenka isn't anything, not really.)

But her drugs change that. They morph her. They take her up to the high heavens and… she's better.

(In training, as she slashes a sword through dummies and winds come of her blades. As she fights, adrenaline pumping in her veins, that seizure of drugs and dust churning underneath her skin. As she ascends up the walls, wild, like an animal swinging up a cliff.)

She's always better, then. And it's not good for her, and she's without it now, and…

(What does that make her, here, now?)

Hera sees Kiernan, by the side of the Cornucopia. There is a glower that paints his face, and he's so small, so secluded, amid the boxes of supplies. He's trying to hide.

(And Hera Dalenka knows why. She'd seen him, at the Bloodbath. Kicked down by Eight. Taunted. Made to feel so… unable. So… voiceless.)

And she wants to talk to him. Because seeing him there twinges her heart, and she feels so… so horrible for him.

(And there is something that resonates with her too. Something about being so… so not-in-control, so tempered, so subjected to the whims of the world, that she understands.)

Are you okay?

I hope you're feeling better.

I'm sorry about… the Bloodbath.

But she remembers how he had looked at her in the train-rides—so angry, so pained, so terrified—and Hera Dalenka finds herself voiceless.

(And is that is not her always?)

Dior Marini. District 1.

She is, by all intents and purposes… satisfied, after the Bloodbath.

Seven dead. Six by the Careers.

(One by an Outer District.)

And Dior Marini is the indisputable leader of the pack.

Chrys has been nullified. He'll die, in a few days: exsanguination is never a pretty death, but it makes sense. And besides: Dior was never one for flair. She'll let Chrys Gerhart die a quiet death. One more down; that would help her survival.

(One more out of the way until her victory. Fifteen more dead until she can tell herself that Mattie's death was not in vain. Until she is able to look back at her parents in the eyes and tell them that she had avenged her sister. Until she is deserving of returning home again.)

Fifteen more dead.

(Eight girl amid them.)

Dior soothes her District Partner's escape stay in her mind. But she forces herself to calm down. This is merely her first day in the Arena. She has time to enact her revenge.

(And the 53rd Games resounds in her mind; flashes of viridescent-green, maniacal noises of gnashing teeth, flesh peeled-apart by a silver string. Like a little animal, Mattie Marini! You've got nowhere to hide!)

No.

Dior grits her teeth. She waits for her anger to recede. So she gazes upon the pack, instead. Althea's eyes meet hers immediately.

(Judgemental. All-seeing. Oh, she knows, probably.)

"What is it?" Dior snaps, a little too quickly.

Althea remains unfazed. She saunters up to Dior, cocks a head right back. "They've taken our supplies."

"What?"

Althea doesn't even take another look at Dior. She turns her eyes towards the crates in the Cornucopia. "I said what I said. I'd just checked the crates. We have much less than what we'd thought we had."

Their supplies. The Outer Districts, Dior realises, and it hits her then.

Just the amount that'd surged into the Cornucopia.

(Just the amount that had slipped through the cracks.)

District Three. District Six. District Five. District Eight. Ransacking the Cornucopia as they killed. Taking their weapons, their armour, their rations,their supplies. All of them, and…

There is a brittleness in her teeth when she next speaks. "All of them?"

Althea does not meet her eyes anymore. "Most."

"And who's fault is that?"

Dior's head turns sharply at the new voice. And Chrys Gerhart's lifting his head at her, from the supply boxes, like he's daring her to speak. Like he's judging her, like he's daring her to react.

(And what he's saying'sin her head already. I saw how you reacted to the Eights. Saw how you failed. Again. And again. And again. Would we be in this shithole of a situation if you'd just killed them, like you should've, Dior? You can't even get your own fucking revenge. Your fault.)

And anger tears through her skin, indignance stokes her stomach, rage boils through her body. They were supposed to die, I was gonna kill them, fucking hell, for Mattie, I was gonna kill them for Mattie, Eight'll suffocate at the end of my blade, she'll die, she'll suffocate—

"And what were you doing?" Dior says, lifting her eyes to meet Chrys's. She lets her eyes wander over to half of the arm he has left; now bound in tourniquet and tape.

Too busy getting an arm sawed off, weren't you?

Chrys's eyes flare. And she looks at him, tilts her head, lets the simmering anger in her stomach seethe. Dior Marini dares Chrys Gerhart to protest. She is rational, of course. But she never said that she wouldn't be a little provocative.

And she takes the moment to look around the pack, just to see who dares.

And of course it's Rhodos McNamara's eyes that dart so wildly between them, so hopelessly lost, like he wants to resolve their situation somehow. To be some sort of meditator, but so torn-in-between—that people-pleaser that's in a conundrum for whoever he tries to reassure would ignite the anger of the other. How pathetic.

"Hey, let's… uh, can we…" He falters. Dior cocks her head towards him. Of course: what's he to say to them? To calm down? To leave this for another day? To settle this?

"... so some of our supplies are gone," Rhodos says, and swallows. "But we don't have to… blame someone for it."

Dior raises her eyebrows in a challenge. And do I not have to blame someone for it, Rhodos McNamara?

He averts her gaze. "You're both strong. Very strong. Chrys, you're amazing with a machete. Dior, I've seen your aim—" he swallows, as her eyes flare. "—you're really good at it. We can get them back in no time, I bet."

He looks between them, pleading. And Dior scoffs at his stupidity. Not only is Chrys scoffing, but she is unamused. But his desire to please, whilst in parts pathetic, is useful. She files it in the back of her mind.

"That's a good idea, Rhodos," Dior says, a little too sweetly between her teeth. "You know, I could really use a hunt."

Rhodos's eyes immediately widen, but he schools his expression.

(Pathetic. Because, of course—that wasn't the answer he was looking for, was it, now?)

There's a scoff that sounds. Dior's eyes rivet to meet Althea Ivory's. There's a certain defensiveness in Althea's eyes. Dior raises her eyebrows, licking her lips. Come on, speak up for your District Partner.

"The lost supplies are nothing important." Althea states. "Electrical supplies. Useful if the pack had a recruited Three—useless if not. A select few knives. Rations. They are significant, but they are supplies that we can make up with sponsors."

Althea Ivory. Defending her District Partner. It's almost funny to Dior. Because it's almost like that cold, calculated, composed girl from Four doesn't want to hunt the rest of the tributes down.

Dior cocks her head at Althea. "Perhaps. But you're missing the point, Althea Ivory. Do you think I'll just let them wrong us?"

Do you think I'll just let them wrong me?

"Do you think we should let them raid our Cornucopia without comeuppance? Do you think I'll let them walk over us, like we're ants? Do you think I'll let them playat Career?"

(Knives down her skin, cutting her up like she's just a creature, skinning her alive. Laughing, as she'd screamed, like the wretched squeals of a pig. Who's there to save you now? Don't cry for your mommy, Mattie. Don't cry for your sister. Don't even try. You chose this.)

"I don't care if you do think that they should just go."Dior scoffs, and her eyes move between Althea and Rhodos and Chrys and Kiernan and Hera. All who do not meet her eyes.

But your word doesn't matter to me.

There's disdain that pricks her lips; there's rage, barely concealed, that roils in her skin, threatening to overspill.

"But I won't stand for that. Do you think I'll let them think they're better than us?"

(Those animals had no right to kill Mattie Marini.)

Dior tilts her head at the rest of the pack. "We'll hunt at dawn. Does anyone have any more grievances?"

It is only the sounds of crickets that take the night, after that.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! First of all, thank you all so much for your amazing BB reviews— Linds, Joseph, and Slytherin, I enjoyed them so much! (Slytherin, I'm sad that deleted your review... the site sucks.)

What do we think about our tributes so far? It's been a while since we properly touched upon Hera, and I'm glad we could check up on her a little here.

About Rhodos and Nine girl? What's going on there? Or Althea… and what she's thinking about now?

Or about Dior becoming their leader… and their collective goal, now? Is (and yes, Slythern, this is to you) our District Eight girl/Sadie Rendevez going to find herself in some deep trouble?

Oooh, and I'm curious to hear your death predictions? Who's in the most trouble, and who's in the least? Which tribute do you really don't want to die?

Next update: I'm feeling it, so hopefully sometime between October 27-28th!