A/N: Enjoy the chapter.

Chablis Brochetto, District 1 Female

8:27 P.M

So. I haven't found myself any allies. That certainly throws a wrench into my plans. I won't lie- I was planning on piggybacking off the work of some poor saps and killing them when the time came, maybe seduce them a little. Casual sex is always fun, and I don't have to deal with clingy partners afterwards, especially if I knife them. However, I'm not exactly sure I want my genitals to be on public display for everyone in the country to see and ogle. So maybe it's better my plan is doomed to succeed.

Still, there's an anxious worm in my stomach. Surviving the Games has just become much, much harder. There are certain measures I'll need to take to ensure my survival. For one, I'll have to put on a show. Some poor tribute will end up tortured because of me. If I'm being honest, it doesn't bother me that much. I guess I'm a sociopath or whatever. I just don't really care about anyone else or what they end up becoming due to my actions. I'm just apprehensive about the repercussions.

There's an aspect of randomness to the Games. Strong tributes might make it towards the end, or they could be teamed up on as early as the bloodbath. Weaklings might be picked off in the beginning like they fear, but they might coast to the final 8 simply by luck and cautiousness. There's no way to tell. Sure, you can guess you will or won't be the victor- but maybe the cards will shuffle them into a favored position, or cheat you permanently, leaving you bleeding on the ground. How am I supposed to know what to do? Who to trust? Which moves to make, which weak spots to psychologically target? Terrifying thoughts swirl around me, lifting me up in a tide of terrifying visions of the future. I could rise to victory, but more likely my lifeblood will splatter across the arena, painting whichever horrifying backdrop the gamemaker's choose scarlet.

Speaking of which…

I am not naïve enough to believe that we, the tributes have complete control over our fates. The cards might, hypothetically, land in the favor of a rebellious outlier, but the gamemakers will always be able to overrule it. In the end, it's really a matter of who plays the best game. And I've never lost a single game I've participated in. But this is a matter of life and death, and what happens if, say, I loose my cool? It's never happened before. But then again, the stakes have never been so high before. I'm confused. I'm pulling out clumps of my hair. There are welts raising on my skin from where I've ripped at it, my fingers scratching desperately at bare skin, looking for an outlet.

I feel like a bomb. It's only a matter of time…

I angrily stuff my hand into the food slot, my feet aching from hours of pacing. Several soft, piping-hot cinnamon-dusted rolls tumble from the slot. I'm about to bite into them greedily when I stop… stare.

284 calories. My image. The gamemakers…

It's all coming together now!

If I want to win, if I want to have any chance of surviving whatsoever, I must cater to the audience. No ifs, ands, or buts- someone with an unpopular image in the Capitol stands absolutely zero chance. And obviously, my personality and the choices I make will affect my image as well.

But there is nothing the Capitol prizes over beauty. Nothing. I'm beautiful, I know that. And I will earn some sponsors with that alone. So I can do nothing that will jeopardize my image. I cannot gain a single pound. Every calorie is a curse, another thread connecting me to life snapping.

I twist around and fling the rolls out the window.

I am not to die.

I MUST NOT DIE.

Calories are death. Cinnamon rolls are death. Every spare inch, every roll of flab, is another chance for the gamemakers to destroy me, snuff out my life like snuffing out a candle. Easy. As. That.

My stomach rumbles, my thoughts churn in my head, turning darker and darker alarmingly quickly, a hurricane in my mind.

I can't even afford to eat anything, can I? To eat is to perish, to drink is to expire. Of course, I'll have to eat what is needed to sustain me, but that is it. The bare minimum. Anything extra is death itself in a sweet, salty, sour, bitter, or umami package.

I am not to die.

If food is death, then I guess I'm not eating.

Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male

12:04 A.M

My chat with Crystaille was for naught. She found two girls to ally with and I'm sitting alone. I can't muster up the courage to ask anyone. Crystaille has already told me- albeit politely and apologetically- she doesn't want any more allies. The careers would probably use me as a weapons target. The four-person alliance is tight-knight, and I know there's no use in befriending any of them. The little-kid alliance is not an option for two obvious reasons. The first is that both of them are scrawny pre-teens. The second is that nobody can find them.

Yeah, they're missing, and we're all bitterly jealous. They disappeared sometime around the false alarm yesterday, and nobody has any idea where they are. I wish I had taken the time to befriend them, even if for selfish reasons. Then I wouldn't be here.

I stare miserably at my plate of pasta. I don't even have a book to occupy me, so I'm sitting alone at an abandoned table, poking miserably at my noodles. They look quite appetizing, but it's not like I have any appetite. That would be a miracle.

Then I hear the screams.

The cafeteria door explodes open and peacekeepers by the bucketloads pour in, a clustered knot surrounding two squirming shapes. My heart sinks all the way to my boots.

They found them.

There's another scream from inside the twisted cluster, a shrill female screech to balance out the squeaky but clearly male yell from a few seconds ago. I hear a moan of pain then and a scuffle. The peacekeepers part and a slippery figure explodes from the knot, the terrified boy from twelve. There's a howl from the peacekeepers and a bang.

My heart hiccups.

When the smoke clears, I see the twelve boy flopping on the ground like a dying fish, wailing, his hands clutching his feet. With a gulp of horror, I realize thick, reddish blood is oozing from between his fingers.

The peacekeeper shot him in the foot.

The girl screams again and they let her through this time. She pops like a cork out of a bottle from the huddle and practically throws herself on him, sobbing wildly. The peacekeepers slowly back away from their own- the blubbering peacekeeper who shot the twelve boy in the foot, apparently on accident. "Oh god guys I didn't mean to!" He keeps yelling, gasping, heaving for breath like there's nothing in his lungs but pleas. "Please don't turn me in, please please please, please don't tell them it was me…"

They grasp his arm and pull him out. He's still sobbing, as if they'll listen.

A poisonous surge of fury rises in my gut, and I feel the need to punch someone. Anyone. But preferably the peacekeepers.

I settle on rising out of my seat and stomping out of the lunchroom with a tight jaw and clenched fists.

A/N: Chablis Chablis Chablis. Have some more Chablis. Oh, not enough Chablis? Have a sprinkle of Chablis on top! Seriously though, I love getting into this girl's head. She has such a poisonous brain and it's so much fun to write! I may or may not be getting carried away writing her. XD.