Disclaimer: I still don't own The Hunger Games

Note: Happy New Year! Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll if you haven't yet. A new poll will be up along with the next chapter.

Day Five
Light Thickens

Presley Winters
District Ten Mentor

They were right.

Presley drained what remained of her drink, trying to avoid eavesdropping on the trio behind her. But that didn't help her ignore what she'd already heard. Basil and Harakuise and Vester – they were right about the griffin mutt. It wasn't going to appear just because Skyton wanted it to. Eventually, tributes had to fight their own battles.

That was what had happened during her Games, after all. She'd been working with two lion mutts on the giant boat of an arena, but when it came time for the finale, they had deserted her. It wasn't the finale yet, of course; there were still nine tributes left. But the Gamemakers weren't going to help Skyton take out the only viable Career pack left in the arena unless he gave them a damn good reason to be on his side.

And right now, he didn't have one. If anything, he had the opposite. Whatever Merrik had done to make the Gamemakers unhappy, it had obviously been more than the little stunt he'd pulled during the private sessions. She could only hope that he hadn't told Skyton anything about … whatever it was. They couldn't afford anything that even smelled of rebellion right now. Not when they were so close to things going back to normal.

Still, there was nothing she could do about it one way or another. Just like there wasn't anything she could do about the fact that her tribute was about to be cornered. Even if the sponsors were feeling generous enough to send him something – which they weren't – what was she supposed to do? Warn him that Darian and Macauley were coming? What good would that do? As soon as they opened the trap door, after all, they would lose their element of surprise, but that wasn't likely to hinder them much. There were two of them. They were armed. Skyton wasn't. It probably wasn't going to be much of a fight.

Then again, she'd thought the same thing only a few hours ago about Genevieve when she had cornered Vashti and Barlen in the tunnels, and they'd gotten out of it. Well, Barlen had gotten out of it, and Vashti would have, if it weren't for his condition. That, and the fact that Margo had heard them laughing and followed the sound straight to them. It was a wonder no one else had heard.

Or maybe they had heard, and they simply hadn't cared. Retro had been running from the slime himself. Aleyn wasn't in much of a position to want to go after two tributes on her own. Ronan had been asleep, and Shanali had been more than a little occupied with her own thoughts. Darian and Macauley had probably been too far up the tower to hear, and the same went for Skyton.

And that was it. That was all the tributes who were left. Presley leaned back in her chair. If Skyton somehow got out of this one, there were quite a few tributes left who he might be able to handle in a one-on-one fight. And a one-on-one fight was seeming more and more likely now that most of the groups had broken up. Macauley and Darian were the last pair, and their alliance was tentative at best. How long were they planning on staying together?

Not long at all, if things went Skyton's way. First things first. First, he had to make it out of this. Then she could worry about how he was going to take on the rest of the tributes. And Basil was right; he wouldn't be able to count on getting help from the griffin. Not right away, at least. He would have to come up with something on his own first if he wanted any chance of Pigeon returning to back him up.

Whatever it was, she hoped he came up with it fast.

Shanali Theisen, 17
District Eleven

At least she'd been fast enough to avoid them.

Shanali held her breath as the two Careers passed right on by, not even glancing into the next room as they headed for the stairs that would lead them up the tower. The two of them carried candles, which lit up the room even more now that Shanali's eyes had adjusted to the dark. But soon they were gone, and Shanali let out a breath.

Okay. Okay, maybe leaving Ronan hadn't been such a good idea. She'd figured that most of the larger groups would have split up by now – especially the Careers. But those two certainly seemed to be working together, and had been heading up the stairs as if they were fairly confident there was someone up there.

At least it wasn't her.

Shanali poked her head back into the room with all the food. There were piles and piles of it. Most of it was soggy. It had probably been lying on the floor when the water had washed through. Still, food was food. The fruit would probably still be good, and the meat. She wasn't desperately hungry, but it wouldn't hurt to stock up on food before the Careers came back down.

Just as she was grabbing one of the nearby sacks to stuff some food in, however, something caught her eye. It was a small package lying on the floor. A sponsor gift? But who would leave something like that lying around? Or maybe it was just the packaging. Sure enough, when she bent down to pick it up, there was nothing inside the small box. But nearby lay a note. The writing was a bit smudged by the water, but she could make out the word 'poison.'

Immediately, Shanali took a step back from the food. So it was poisoned. Well, maybe it was poisoned. Maybe it had already been poisoned, or maybe the sponsors had sent some poison so that whoever had been here could poison the food. Either way, it wasn't safe.

Shanali stuffed the note in her pocket. As long as she knew that it wasn't safe, that gave her an advantage. None of the other tributes would know that. Well, except for whoever the note had been meant for in the first place, and anyone who had been with them at the time. Shanali peered at the packaging, but if there was anything written on it, it had either been smudged, or it was too dark to tell.

Not that it mattered much. Even if she figured out who the package had been sent to, she had no way of knowing whether they were still alive. Of course, the two Careers who had just passed her narrowed the list down a bit. They were still alive, along with her and Ronan. As far as she knew, the boy from Ten was still alive somewhere. They hadn't seen his face on the wall, but he could always have been one of the others.

And that was half the other tributes in the arena right there. Assuming the boy from Ten was still alive, that was only four left that she wasn't sure about. And she knew exactly where three of the other tributes were, assuming Ronan was right where she had left him. Shanali fought back a lump in her throat. He probably was. He was probably still asleep. She could probably still go back, and he wouldn't know the difference.

But she would know. And perhaps more importantly, the audience would know. She had left him for a reason. If she went crawling back to him now just because she knew two of the Careers were still alive and working together, what would they think? What would she think, if she was watching the Games. She, Ronan, and Kilian had teamed up for protection, but how much protection could he really offer now? No, staying with him wouldn't be about protection. It wouldn't be about what was safe. It would be about what was comfortable.

And the time for being comfortable was over. There were nine tributes left in the Games. Assuming the Careers accomplished whatever they were planning to do at the top of the tower, it would probably be less than that soon. In fact, even if they failed – if one of them died, instead – it would be less than that. Either way, she would have to be ready when they came back down from the tower.

She could just leave, of course. Not necessarily to go back to Ronan, but just to make sure that she wasn't there when the Careers came back down. But something stopped her. Maybe it was time to stop running. Maybe it was time to take the initiative. Sure, she and Ronan had gone hunting when the mutt had decided to help them, but that hadn't really been their decision.

But this would be hers. If she stayed – if she found a way to fight them – it would be her choice. She would have the element of surprise, but that wouldn't be enough. There had to be something else…

Shanali took the note out of her pocket and read it over. Some of the food in the room had been poisoned. If she knew what, she might be able to use that to her advantage. But she had no way of knowing; the note was far too smudged. Still, it was something. There had to be some way to use it.

Why else would it be there?

Barlen Rimmonn, 13
District Nine

Why was he still here?

Barlen glanced down at his arm again as he paced around the treasure room once more. There wasn't much light, but the light that was coming from the next room glittered off the gold and the jewels, the crowns and the scepters. It was almost like something out of a story book. His mother had read one of those to him once – an old book she had borrowed from a friend of a friend, that had been passed on to another family once he had outgrown it.

At least, he was pretty sure it had been his mother. Maybe it had been his sister. He wasn't sure. But he remembered the stories, just as clearly as if they had happened to him. Maybe they had happened to him. But he would remember if he'd fought a dragon before, wouldn't he?

Focus.

You're in the Hunger Games. He could read the message on his arm, along with several other notes. You're lucky. That was certainly true if he was still alive. And there were some sort of tally marks. Tributes who were dead? Tributes who were left? Maybe. He wasn't sure, and in any case, a few of the marks had smudged together. And even if they were right – even if he had been keeping track – there was no telling how many he might have missed along the way.

But Vashti would help him remember.

Vashti's name was crossed off, along with Mariska's and Leo's. But he wasn't dead, was he? His face had appeared on the wall, but … well, that had to be a trick. It had been a trick before, hadn't it? He remembered that. It was blurry, but he remembered. Vashti had told him to cross off his name, to pretend he was dead, so that … What?

Barlen took a few careful steps towards the door that led to the light. He peeked through as quietly as he could. He had to be quiet; he remembered that. No matter how many other tributes were left, he couldn't afford to make any noise. He didn't want them to find him.

He wanted to be the one to find them.

That was right, wasn't it? This was the Hunger Games. If he didn't want to die, then he was going to have to kill. In fact, he was pretty sure he already had. He remembered … someone. A girl, he was pretty sure. He remembered stabbing her. He remembered the blood.

He remembered laughing.

But that wasn't right. No. No, he wouldn't have been laughing if someone had died, would he? That wasn't funny.

Slowly, Barlen made his way towards the pile of supplies in the center of the room. There was something else there. A body, surrounded by a lot of blood. That wasn't someone he'd killed, was it? No, he would remember that. He would remember killing—

Vashti, Barlen realized as he took a step closer. The boy in front of him was Vashti. Immediately, he knelt down beside his friend, shaking the older boy's shoulder. "Vashti. It's all right. You can stop pretending. There's no one else here. I—"

Then he saw the wound. Two wounds, actually, deep in the older boy's chest. Barlen stifled a sob. No one could have survived that. He checked for a pulse, anyway, hoping desperately that he was wrong. But he wasn't. Vashti was dead. Vashti, Mariska, Leo – they were all dead.

And he was still alive. Barlen glanced up at the roof, where the dim light of the late afternoon – or maybe it was early morning – was streaming in from a hole in the ceiling. How was he still alive? Had Vashti done something? Helped him somehow? He remembered the older boy telling him to run. Apparently he had. And Vashti … he hadn't. He had stayed. He had died.

Barlen took a deep breath. For a few moments, he didn't move, except to wipe away the tears that came. What was he supposed to do now? All of his friends were dead.

Friend. The word caught his eye, scrawled in pen on the knife in his hand. When had he taken that out? Had he been worried that someone might attack him? That made sense. He was out in the open, of course. But at least there was light. He could read what he'd written on the knife, on his arm. You're in the Hunger Games. You've killed. There was a name below that one. Klaudia. Then, a little ways away, three names – Leo, Vashti, and Mariska. The word FRIENDS was drawn nearby, with a circle around the names.

But now all the names were crossed out.

He didn't have any more friends.

He couldn't have any more friends.

Barlen reached out and gave Vashti's shoulder one last squeeze. "Thank you," he whispered, then started sifting through the supplies that surrounded them. He found a small bag, stuffed a bit of food inside, pocketed his knife, and chose another weapon – a butcher's knife of some sort. What was that called? Barlen shook his head. It didn't matter what it was called. He took out his pen and scrawled the word friend on the blade. Now he had two. Two friends.

That was good enough for now.

Skyton Tate, 16
District Ten

It was probably best to stay put for now.

Skyton leaned back against the short wall of the tower as the light began to grow a bit dimmer. The sun was sinking lower in the distance, and it wouldn't be long before it was dark. That meant whoever else was left wouldn't have much of a reason to venture up to the top of the towers. In the dark, it was probably safer inside, where there wasn't any risk of falling off the tower or something. And the only benefit of being up here, after all, was being able to see.

That was the only benefit for someone else, of course. Someone who wasn't waiting for a mutt to come back and … what? Help him take on the tributes who had killed Merrik? Maybe. But it wasn't really about that, if he was being honest with himself. He didn't want revenge – not really. He just wanted someone to be there, someone to talk to.

He just didn't want to be alone.

And a mutt … well, that was the best solution to that, wasn't it? Mutts wouldn't have to die, after all, in order for him to get home. Not like Merrik. Not like Connor and Klaudia and Arabel. He wouldn't have to worry about having to kill Pigeon in order to survive. It wasn't that long ago, after all, that one of the Victors had taken a giant prairie dog from his arena home with him. Maybe he could even take Pigeon if—

Skyton shook his head. He was getting ahead of himself. First, he had to win, and in order to do that, he was going to need some help. He had no food, no water, no supplies, and, most pressingly, no weapons. He couldn't stay up here forever. He couldn't keep waiting forever. If Pigeon didn't show up soon...

Skyton stretched a little. Morning. He could wait until morning, at least. He would probably be safe up here for the night. As safe as he would be anywhere, anyway. Not that anywhere in the arena was safe for a tribute to be sleeping alone, but he couldn't think of anywhere better at the moment. Besides, going back down would mean a long trek down some pretty steep stairs in the dark. That was a good enough reason to stay put for now.

Then he heard the door creak.

Skyton leapt to his feet as the door opened, revealing two tributes. Shit. He took a step back, careful not to step off the tower. What was he supposed to do? He wasn't armed. And the other two tributes definitely were. He could see the light of the setting sun glinting off their weapons. All they had to do was attack.

So he had to stall.

Bluff. It was the only thing left to do. Skyton grinned, hoping his smile looked more knowing and less terrified. "We were wondering when you were going to show up."

The 'we' did the trick. It made them think twice. The girl glanced around, looking for anyone else, but the boy shook his head. "Nice try. Pretty sure all your allies are gone."

Skyton shrugged. Now he knew that the boy was bluffing, too. He knew that Merrik was dead, probably, but the others? Connor and Klaudia and Arabel? Well, Arabel, yes. She had died during the bloodbath. But had Connor and Klaudia's faces been on the wall? He wasn't sure, but the chances of the boy remembering exactly who he had been working with and the fact that they were both dead seemed pretty slim.

So he was guessing. Maybe that counted for something, but Skyton was still outnumbered and completely unarmed. If he could get past them, maybe he could get down the stairs before them. But that was a big 'maybe.' Skyton stepped a little to the side. This would be a really good time for Pigeon to show up. But there was no sign of the mutt. He would have to keep them talking.

"And what happened to all of yours?" he asked. "Didn't you have a bigger group than this? You're all that's left?" It was probably a stupid thing to do – antagonizing them. But if he could get one of them to charge – just one, rather than both – he might be able to grab their weapon. Maybe. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was much better than the alternative.

"You're certainly not the one I would have expected, either," the boy returned casually, circling a little closer. The girl stepped a little closer, too, but not as close. She was staying back by the door, guarding it, just in case he decided to run. Smart. Skyton took another step away from the boy, but he couldn't keep doing that forever. It was only a matter of time before—

In an instant, the boy charged, his dagger drawn. Skyton dodged, and then dodged again, barely escaping the blade both times. The boy didn't seem to know exactly what he was doing, but he didn't really need to. Once he finally succeeded in cornering him, Skyton would have no way of defending himself.

Think. But he didn't have time to think. The next blow swept across his chest before he had a chance to even move, drawing blood and causing him to cry out in pain. The boy struck again, and Skyton held up his hands to block the blow. The blade sliced across his palms, then struck lower, plunging into his side before Skyton even had a chance to scream. He staggered backwards, away from the blade. The girl hadn't budged from her place by the door. There was only one other way off the tower. Maybe…

Probably not. But he didn't have any other options. It was probably a stupid thing to do, but there weren't a whole lot of options available to him. And there was always a chance that Pigeon was watching. He had saved Merrik from a similar situation. Skyton braced himself as the boy lunged at him one more time, and as he did, Skyton took a step back, leaping over the edge of the tower.

Falling. He was falling, the ground racing up towards him. Skyton fought the urge to close his eyes. Maybe something would happen. Maybe he wouldn't hit the ground.

Maybe Pigeon would—

Darian Travers, 14
District Two

Boom.

The cannon shook the air, loud and certain and more than a little unsatisfying. Macauley was beside him in an instant, peering over the edge of the tower. It was too far to get a really good look at the ground, but unless another tribute had died at exactly the same moment, the cannon had belonged to the boy from Ten. Macauley shrugged. "Okay, then. Guess he was worried you might not make it quick enough."

Darian shook his head. He'd been trying to make it quick. He'd been ready to deliver a killing blow, and then…

Not that it mattered, really. Not when it came down to it. Yes, the audience kept track of the number of kills a tribute made, but it was fairly obvious he'd been responsible for this one, even if the boy had leapt off the tower himself. Just like he, Margo, and Mae had been responsible for driving the tributes on the roof into the trap door and to the cornucopia. Maybe he hadn't directly killed anyone, but that should be enough to satisfy the audience for a little while.

Macauley, on the other hand, didn't look satisfied at all. "Guess we should head back down, then," she muttered after a moment.

Darian cocked his head. "Were you expecting something different? You could see he was alone up here."

"Wasn't sure from that distance exactly who it was," Macauley admitted.

Darian shrugged. "Why does it matter? He's dead now."

"It matters because of who he was working with," Macauley answered vaguely.

Darian gripped his dagger. That didn't make any sense. "Who? What aren't you telling me?"

Macauley shook her head. "Who said there was something I'm not telling you?"

She was trying her best to look offended by the idea that she wasn't being entirely honest, but Darian wasn't buying it. "Look, we both know it's a bit late in the Games to be picking up extra allies – even if they were allies you had at the start. But when I suggested we team up again after the feast, you agreed. No debate, no argument, not even any hesitation. Why?"

"I figured if you've lasted this long, you must be good for something."

That wasn't good enough. Darian jerked his thumb at where the boy had jumped off the tower. "He lasted this long. Didn't see you offering to let him join our little alliance. So what's really going on? Who was he working with? One of his district partners, I think? And one of the girls from Eight, maybe?"

"Maybe initially," Macauley agreed. "But last I heard, he was working with the boy from Three."

"He's dead, isn't he?"

"Yes. But he should have been, too."

Darian shrugged. "He is now. What's the matter?"

"They had a mutt with them."

Okay. "What kind of mutt?"

"Something big, with feathers. I didn't get a good look at that one. But the other one was a three-headed dog. It's the same mutt that killed Justus and Mae."

Darian let that sink in. "And it's working with some of the tributes."

"Right."

"Which ones?"

"One of the boys from Four and the girl from Eleven. Haven't seen their faces since then, and that was only five cannons ago. We know which two tributes died at the feast, and the body at the cornucopia was still pretty fresh. Add him in there," she said, nodding to the ground, "and that leaves one tribute. If the faces on the wall are right, that was the girl from One. So both of them are probably still alive."

"And you think the mutt is with them?"

"Can't think of a good reason it wouldn't be. They seemed pretty friendly with it." She shook her head. "There you have it. Cards on the table. I didn't want to fight the two of them – and a mutt – by myself. But with the two of us, I figured we could come up with something."

Darian nodded. That made sense. He didn't like the idea of taking on two tributes and a mutt, but it made sense that Macauley wouldn't have wanted to do it alone. But one thing still didn't fit into place. "What about him, then?" He nodded towards the ground. "Why is it a problem that he was still alive? How'd you know he was working with the boy from Three, anyway?"

"Because the boy from Three told him to run – called out his name. Skyton. He told him to run, and obviously he did. But if he's up here, that means the others didn't go after him. I figured they would, while the feast was going on. Figured they would be doing something. But if he was still alive, that means they've just been sitting there."

"And that's a problem because…?"

"Because it means they probably have a plan."

Darian nodded. "Of course they do. Sit tight and let the mutt eat anyone who gets close. Sounds like a pretty good plan to me." He forced a smile.

"So how do we spoil their plan?"

Retro Liu, 12
District Five

The cannon had spoiled a very nice dream.

Retro tried to roll over a little before remembering there wasn't a lot of room to roll over. The cauldron was big enough to curl up in, but that was pretty much it, and it certainly wasn't comfortable. But it was safe – or at least, about as safe as he was going to get in the Games. There was nowhere that was completely safe, of course, but it had seemed like a good idea to get some rest while he could.

Still was a good idea, probably. If there were cannons, that meant something was happening somewhere else in the arena. He hadn't heard anything nearby. And it also meant the number of tributes was dwindling. There were eight of them left now, so it was probably a good idea to rest while he could. The fewer tributes there were, the less likely the Gamemakers were to let tributes simply rest and take a break.

Then again, he probably didn't need to rest as much as some of the other tributes did right now. He was tired, yes, and still a bit shaken up from almost getting stuck and drowning in the goo in the tunnels, but other than that, he was doing all right. He still had his hatchet. He was a bit hungry, but there was probably food somewhere nearby once he got a good look around. All in all, things were going pretty well.

Retro closed his eyes again, pushing the thought from his head. He couldn't afford to get cocky now. Whichever tributes were left, there was no reason to believe they weren't just as well-armed, just as uninjured, or in just as good a position as he was. Anyone who had made it this far had a pretty good idea of what they were doing. And anyone who had made it this far knew exactly what they would have to do in order to win, and they wouldn't think twice just because Retro happened to be younger than them. That hadn't stopped anyone else from trying to kill him.

Then again, it hadn't stopped him from trying to kill them, either. Eventually, everyone else in the arena would have to die in order for him to go home. That included older tributes. Better-prepared tributes. He may have made it this far, but he still had his work cut out for him if he wanted to make it home.

Home. Retro shifted a little inside the cauldron, wondering what that really meant anymore. After what had happened during the interviews, would he even be welcome at home? It had been a reckless impulse, really. If he was going to die, he had figured, he might as well be honest with himself and everyone else. And if by some chance he won … well, he hadn't really given it that much thought. But now…

Now, it was looking like an actual possibility, rather than a distant hope. There were eight tributes left. Eight out of thirty-five, and he was still alive. Maybe he could do this. Maybe he could really go home. And then … what?

Retro opened his eyes, staring up through the darkness at the ceiling above him. He would have time to figure that out. If he got home – when he got home – he would have time to work out what would come next. First, he had to get there. He had to get out of the arena. And that meant that seven more tributes – seven more people – would have to die.

Retro blinked up at the ceiling. Seven more. Just seven more cannons, and it would all be over – one way or another. Seven more cannons. Which probably meant only a day or two more, at the rate things were moving. How many days had it been? He wasn't entirely sure, but it couldn't have been more than a week. Maybe it had been even less. Things were certainly moving quickly.

Maybe the Gamemakers were trying to make up for last year, which had been the longest Games to date. That one had been twenty-six days – almost a whole month. He couldn't imagine being in the arena that long. His time so far had been bad enough.

And yet…

He was still alive. He'd survived when David and Ti had died. He'd escaped the girl from Two, and even helped kill her. He'd made it out of the tunnels. He was in the final eight. Yes, he'd been frightened out of his wits, but he was still alive. And he was doing fairly well for himself, too. He had found a good hiding place. He would probably be safe long enough to get some more rest.

He certainly wasn't enjoying himself, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. Not as bad as it had seemed at the start, or right after Ti had died. He'd already outlasted twenty-seven tributes. He just needed to outlast seven more.

Well, not just outlast. Eventually, he would have to kill. Yes, he had killed the girl from Eight – from a distance, while she was sitting still. And he had certainly had a hand in helping Vashti kill the girl from Two. But eventually, he would have to fight – really fight.

Eventually. But not yet. Right now, he just wanted some sleep. Retro closed his eyes. He wasn't sure if it was nighttime, of course, but that didn't make all that much difference, when it came down to it. He was in a relatively safe spot; therefore, it was a good time to get some rest.

If only everything was that simple.

Aleyn Tillens, 15
District Four

It all seemed so much simpler now.

Aleyn kept her eyes shut, still curled up in the corner. Another cannon. That meant there were eight of them left. Eight tributes, and she was the only one from her alliance left. Wes and Charu and Consus. They were all gone. She had killed Wes. Yes, she had let the Careers kill Consus. She could still picture the look on his face as she'd swung at him, trying desperately to knock him off the table so that she could escape.

She'd never thought she would do something like that. Sure, Four was a Career district – more or less – and Consus was from One. Had been from One, she corrected herself. But the four of them had never really thought about acting like Careers. They'd been too busy trying to survive. If someone had told her at the beginning of the Games that she would turn one one ally and personally kill another, she would have laughed.

But she had done it, all the same. And in a way, it made things simpler. Now she didn't have to worry about anyone else. It was just her, against whoever might be left in the arena. Which meant the two Careers, probably. There had been three cannons since then, of course, but she didn't want to start hoping that they might have belonged to the Careers who had showed up to the feast. The Gamemakers were probably happy with what they were doing, after all.

So what would make them happy with her, instead?

Slowly, Aleyn opened her eyes. She hadn't really been worried about that. She and the others had been too busy just trying to survive to worry about whether they were keeping the Gamemakers – and the audience – happy. Maybe that had been their problem. They had probably been entertaining enough, after all – what with getting trapped in a room filling with water, dropping through a hole in the roof, hiding on a table to ambush whoever might come to the feast. Oh, yes, they had been entertaining. But it was the wrong kind of entertaining.

It was the kind of entertaining that had gotten most of them killed.

Aleyn sat up a little. She had been lucky, she knew, that she hadn't been killed right alongside Consus. If the candles hadn't gone out at just the right moment, the Careers would have been able to follow her, and they would certainly have finished her off. She had gotten lucky, or maybe the Gamemakers had wanted her to get away. Maybe they had wanted to see what she would do.

And what was she doing? Sitting in a corner, practically crying. Aleyn took a deep breath. She'd gotten some rest. That would have to be enough for now. She needed to get moving. She needed supplies – food, water, and a better weapon than the knife she had in her pocket at the moment.

As far as she could see, she had two options for where to get them – the cornucopia or the dining hall. Neither of those seemed like a good option, but what were the chances there were still tributes in either of those places? Whatever food was left in the dining hall was likely burned to a crisp, and as for the cornucopia, the last time she'd been there – when she and the others had fallen through the roof – there hadn't been any Careers there. Chances were, they were all off hunting somewhere. There were only eight tributes left, after all, and the only 'Career pack' was likely the two she'd seen at the feast. They couldn't exactly afford to leave someone to guard the cornucopia.

So there were probably plenty of supplies for the taking in either spot. A little soggy or a little charred, perhaps, but still there. The Careers couldn't possibly be carrying all of them with them. Aleyn stood up. Two options. Neither of them was good, but neither of them was exactly bad, either. She wasn't likely to run into anyone either way. It would just be a matter of finding her way there in the dark.

In the dark. Was it late enough now that it would be dark at the cornucopia? Maybe. She wasn't sure how long she'd been asleep, but it had to be getting late, at least. By the time she made it to the cornucopia, it could very well be nighttime. That pretty much eliminated any advantage of going there rather than the dining hall. The giant hole in the roof wouldn't do her much good if she couldn't use it to see.

But the dining hall…

Aleyn shook her head. Consus had died there, yes. But Charu had died at the cornucopia. Neither place had really been good for her alliance.

Or rather, neither place had been good for her allies. That was something different entirely. She had made it out of both alive, and some part of her was beginning to believe that maybe she could do it again. Maybe she really could make it through this. There were eight tributes left, and she was still one of them. Slowly, she turned and made her way in the direction she was fairly sure would lead back to the dining hall.

Maybe she really could do this.

Ronan Callaway, 18
District Four

Maybe he really could do this alone.

Ronan sat up in the dark. There had been another cannon, and part of him had the presence of mind to hope that it hadn't been Shanali's. But whether it was or not, chances were pretty good now that she wasn't coming back. In any case, it wasn't a good idea to wait around too long for her. That wasn't what he'd done last time, after all. They'd gotten separated, and he'd been injured, but instead of waiting, he'd headed for the cornucopia.

Ronan shook his head. He'd been desperate, and that was all there was to it. He wasn't in as tight a spot now. He still had a bit of food. He still had his mace. He didn't have any particular reason to head back to the cornucopia, but by the same token, he didn't really have a good reason to stay here any longer. What was he waiting for? Shanali wasn't coming back. They had split peacefully, and at this point, that was probably the best he could hope for. There were eight tributes left, and he was on his own.

Maybe that wasn't such a terrible position to be in.

Slowly, Ronan got to his feet. He had a good idea of which way Shanali had gone. As long as he headed in the opposite direction, his chances of running into her were pretty slim. That was a good thing, he reminded himself. He didn't want to find her, because eventually finding her would mean fighting her. And that was something he certainly didn't want to do. And not just because she might win.

That was part of it, though. She was in better shape than he was, which was probably why she had struck out on her own. He might have done the same thing – probably would have done the same thing – if their positions had been reversed. He certainly wouldn't have killed her, just like she had left instead of simply killing him. But now he had to hope that someone else would kill her before they found each other again.

Ronan stretched a little, testing everything. He hadn't slept much, but lying down to rest and closing his eyes, at least, had been better than nothing. The cannon a while ago had woken him from what little sleep he'd managed to get, but that was all right. It meant he was that much closer to going home.

Home. The possibility was beginning to seem a bit more real. There were only eight of them left. Eight out of thirty-five, and he was still here. Still alive. Ronan reached for his mace and lifted it, hoping he looked more confident than he felt. He was still alive, but so were seven of the other tributes. That was still seven other people who would have to die in order for him to make it home. He would almost certainly have to kill some of them himself.

And Shanali was still out there somewhere.

Probably, at least. Unless that last cannon had been hers. Ronan shook the thought from his head, feeling more than a little guilty for even thinking it, and even guiltier for feeling a little hopeful at the thought. Because if Shanali was already dead, that meant he wouldn't have to kill her. And that would make him feel even more guilty.

Ronan gripped his mace tightly. There was no point in feeling guilty. He'd already killed two tributes, after all. If he did end up having to kill Shanali, what would make her any different? The fact that he'd known her? He'd met her … what? A little more than a week ago, maybe. He wasn't entirely sure how long it had been, but compared to the thought of going home to his family, to his parents and sisters … well, there wasn't any question of which one he would pick. Which one any of them would pick.

Shanali had a family, too, after all. At least, he assumed she did. He'd never really asked her much about them, and neither had she. Wes hadn't talked much about his, either. Maybe they had all realized the same thing – that if they knew what the others had to go back to, it would make it harder, in the end, when they had to die. Because only one of them could go back home. And more than ever, he wanted it to be him.

But out there somewhere, in the dark, were seven other tributes who wanted the same thing. And only one of them was going to get it. Ronan turned his mace over in his hands and headed for the door – the one in the opposite direction from where he was pretty sure Shanali had gone. It was almost pitch black, so it was slow going, but at least he felt like he was doing something.

Something. Yes, he was doing something. But eventually, just doing something wouldn't be enough. He would have to make a move. He would have to fight. He would have to kill, because that was what it was going to take. Eventually. But not yet. Right now, he could be content with the fact that he was on the move, that he at least looked like he was trying to accomplish something.

For now, that was good enough.

Margo Deveraux, 18
District Two

She hoped what she had accomplished was good enough for now.

Margo took another few stumbling steps in the dark. The room was spinning, and it was all she could do not to collapse as she leaned against the wall. Maybe she'd hit her head harder than she thought. Maybe she was just tired. In either case, this was probably as good a place as any to rest for the night. She'd refilled her bag with supplies while she was at the cornucopia. They were rather soaked, but they would last her a while.

Of course, they probably wouldn't have to last her all that long. There were only eight of them left, and the Games had been moving at a rather swift pace so far. The likelihood of running out of food or water seemed pretty slim compared to all the other things that could happen at this point.

There were still plenty of other things that could happen, of course. Other tributes. Mutts. The Gamemakers might even decide that she had taken too long killing the boy from Five and send something after her. She wanted to rest. To sleep. But would she really be able to find somewhere safe?

Margo leaned back against the wall, slowly slipping to the floor. It would have to be good enough. She wasn't likely to find a better spot, and she couldn't just stay awake forever. The Games were moving quickly, but not that quickly. She would need some rest before the end, especially since she wasn't in much of a condition to fight at the moment.

Margo closed her eyes. It wasn't her fault the room had been full of water. Wasn't her fault it had tossed her against a wall. It hadn't felt so bad before, but she'd been running on adrenaline. Now it was all catching up with her. Her head felt like it was about to split open. There was a pounding just behind her eyes. And her whole body ached – even more so now that she was sitting down. She certainly wouldn't be able to get back up again anytime soon.

It wasn't fair. She'd been doing her best. She'd been looking for tributes, and then … Wham! Water. What had it been doing there, anyway? What was the point in filling a room full of water?

Probably so that they could flood the arena – which was, of course, exactly what had happened. But now the water was gone, just as quickly as it had come. It all seemed so pointless – like so many other things in the Games, now that she thought about it. What had been the point of inviting everyone to a feast where tributes were obviously going to die? Come to think of it, why had she and the others been so quick to decide to accept the invitation? Clearly, the message had been meant to convince them to split up so they could be picked off one by one. And they had fallen for it without a second thought.

She wouldn't make the same mistake again.

Margo shook her head. She probably wouldn't have the chance to fall for something so stupid again. There were only eight of them left; the Gamemakers probably wouldn't have to work very hard to convince the tributes to get things moving. They would all be itching for a fight now, now that they were so close to going home.

Home. She wanted to go home as much as any of the others, of course, but it seemed so far away right now. What she really wanted right now was rest, no matter how dangerous it might be. Maybe she would be able to think clearer one she got some sleep. Margo took a deep breath as she lay down. It wouldn't hurt to get just a little sleep.

She'd never had to worry about that before – not really. She and Mae had been able to take turns keeping watch. Maybe they hadn't trusted each other, but each of them had recognized that they needed the other. They'd even let Darian keep watch, and hadn't had any trouble. But now … Now she was alone, and she had just let it happen. She had let them suggest splitting up, just like that, because it had seemed better than the alternative.

Now she wasn't so sure.

But there wasn't a choice anymore. Not really. Even if she managed to find the two of them again – or even one of them – the chances were slim that they would want to work together again. And even if they did, she certainly wouldn't trust them to keep watch. Not when they could eliminate one of their stronger competitors just by taking her out while she slept.

Except … Did she really count as one of the stronger competitors anymore? She certainly didn't feel like one. She'd spent so much of the Games pretending to be a fighter, pretending to be a Career, and it had taken a ridiculous amount of prodding for her to make a simple kill. The boy had practically had to talk her into it. That didn't sound like a Career.

She would have to do something about that. Something to convince the audience that she was still a competitor, still a tribute, still a possible Victor. But there would be time for that in the morning. Right now, she just needed some sleep. Margo curled up on the floor and tried to relax, tried to block out the fear, the doubt, the questions, long enough to get some rest.

She was asleep within minutes.

Macauley Tierney, 17
District Five

She would never be able to sleep up here.

Macauley stretched her arms a little as she stood up again. Almost immediately, Darian began to stir. Clearly, he hadn't really been sleeping, but she could hardly blame him for that. She hadn't been able to sleep, either – and not just because she was worried about falling off the damn tower if she happened to roll over. She was worried that Darian might…

That would be stupid, of course. Neither of them was going to be able to take on two tributes and a mutt alone. But it wouldn't be the first time a tribute did something stupid just because they were scared. And Darian had to be scared. There was no one in their right mind who wouldn't be at least a little bit scared by this point in the Games.

She certainly was.

But this … this was almost a good kind of scared. It was the kind of scared that told her she had to keep doing something, had to keep trying to figure out what to do next. It was the kind of scared that reminded her that there were still seven other tributes in the arena, that she couldn't afford to get cocky. It was the sort of scared that kept people on edge, ready to fight at a moment's notice.

She hoped it was the kind of scared that kept people alive in the Games.

Besides, at least she knew what the two of them had to do. They just had to figure out a way to do it without getting killed.

No. No, that wasn't quite right. She had to figure out a way to do it without getting herself killed. Whether Darian got killed in the process was rather moot at this point – and it might even be better if he did. Of course, the problem was that he was almost certainly thinking the same thing about her. So whatever she came up with would just have to be a little better than whatever his plan was.

If he even had a plan at this point. He certainly hadn't seemed to have much of a plan when she'd found him at the feast. He'd just been staring up at the pair of tributes on top of the table, trading words with them, biding his time.

Biding their time. That was one idea. They would have to eventually face the tributes with the mutt, yes, but there was nothing saying that they had to do it now. Well, nothing aside from the fact that, for the moment, she had some idea of where they were. Assuming, of course, that they had stayed put. There was no guarantee of that, but they seemed to have accomplished whatever it was they had set out to do. If they were going to go after anyone, wouldn't it have been the boy from Ten?

And they hadn't. If they had any sense, they were probably using this time to rest. They had a mutt, after all. No one in their right mind was going to attack them.

No one in their right mind.

Macauley turned to her left. For a moment, she had been certain she'd seen something out of the corner of her eye. Something in the darkness beyond the castle. Without a word, Darian turned to look in the same direction. "What do you see?"

"I'm not sure," Macauley admitted. "But it looked like something was moving."

Darian shrugged. "Could be anything. A mutt. A regular animal. A trick of the light. Did it look like it was coming towards us?"

"I don't know. I only saw it for a moment. It was just a shadow." A big shadow, was what she didn't say. It had only been a moment, but in that moment, the shape had seemed to take up the entire horizon. But there was no reason to tell Darian – and, by extension, the audience – that. Not until she had some idea of what it was.

"You think we should go back inside?"

"No," Macauley lied. Going back inside was certainly what she wanted, but it was probably also what the Gamemakers were trying to accomplish – to force them back inside before they were really ready, before they'd come up with a real plan. If the Gamemakers wanted them dead, they could have sent a mutt to help the boy from Ten. But the Gamemakers didn't really want them dead; they just wanted to be sure that they were making progress.

So they would just have to keep talking. As long as they were talking – as long as they appeared to be coming up with a plan – then maybe the Gamemakers would leave them alone. "Not yet," Macauley amended. "I don't think we should go back inside yet. Not until we have some idea of where we're going to go."

Darian seemed to take the suggestion in stride. "Thought you said you knew where the tributes with the mutt were."

"I know where they were," Macauley agreed. "No guarantee that's where they are now, and when it does come down to a fight between us, I'd like it to be on our terms." That was a safe bet. The audience certainly couldn't object to that – to the idea of wanting to be ready before a battle.

Darian nodded. "So what are you suggesting?"

Macauley blinked. She hadn't been suggesting anything. Not really. She was making this up as she went along, just like he was. "We didn't see anyone at the cornucopia on our way here," she reasoned. "That means they didn't go there. And why would they? They probably have plenty of supplies. But that's really the only place we can rule out, since they would have no reason to stay there. What we need is a way of making the arena a bit smaller, and quickly."

"Sounds like a great idea," Darian agreed. "Got any idea how to do that?"

Macauley focused on a point in the distance. There it was again – just out of the corner of her eye. Movement. And whatever it was seemed to be moving faster now. If the Gamemakers were going to keep playing tricks, maybe it was time to turn those tricks to their advantage. Macauley shrugged and, hoping for something but unsure exactly what to expect or even to hope for, pointed to the shapes in the distance.

"I think that might help us out a bit."

Lander Katzung
District Eight Mentor

He couldn't help a smile.

Lander glanced over at Carolina, smirking a little as the cameras zoomed in on the shapes in the distance – but slowly, as if no one had expected to have to do so quite so soon. He wasn't sure if Macauley had really good eyesight, an impeccable stroke of genius, or just damn good luck. The shapes looming in the distance would definitely be able to help her shrink the arena rather quickly – just probably not in the way she imagined.

Or maybe she had imagined it. Probably not. Probably, she had just been talking, hoping for some idea to spring to mind or for something to happen. Hoping that someone had a plan, even if she didn't. And the Gamemakers certainly had a plan, all right – even if they hadn't been expecting to use it quite this soon. Maybe they had even been saving it for the finale. Maybe they still were. There was nothing saying they had to help Macauley simply because she had implied that they would. It would be nice, of course, but the Gamemakers weren't in the business of being nice just for kindness' sake.

Except…

Except they had allowed the griffin to save Merrik's life early on in the Games. They had flicked out all the candles just in time to allow Aleyn to escape from the feast. And they had used the goo to trap Genevieve instead of letting her slaughter both Vashti and Barlen where they stood. The Gamemakers were perfectly capable of doing something that might be perceived – by a less cynical eye – as kindness.

Lander knew better. All of them did. Tributes didn't make it out of the Games by being naive. The Gamemakers were never kind simply to be kind. There was always a reason, always a motive. What, exactly, that motive was wasn't always clear. Maybe they had saved Merrik the first time so that they could have the pleasure of toying with him a little longer. They could very well be doing the same thing with Aleyn and Barlen both. And if they did decide to help Macauley, it wouldn't be because they wanted to help her. It would be because they wanted a good show.

It was all about style.

Well, almost all of it. Sometimes it was personal. Sometimes a tribute had done something so offensive, so rebellious, that they simply had to be eliminated. Sometimes that was the motive behind the Gamemakers' seemingly unpredictable whims. What Merrik had done … Well, the obvious answer was the stunt he had pulled during their private sessions. And maybe that was the whole story. It certainly wouldn't be the first time something as trivial as that had been punished with death.

Some suspicious corner of his mind told him it couldn't possibly be that simple. Lander nudged the thought aside. Merrik wasn't his problem. Macauley wasn't his problem. Both of District Eight's tributes were already dead. There was really nothing for him to do at this point but sit back, watch the show, and maybe hope for one of their allies to make it out.

Except now that Skyton was gone, all of Klaudia's allies were dead. And Barlen was the only one of Mariska's allies still remaining. He was slowly making his way through the wardrobe room – slowly because he kept forgetting that he'd already checked the wardrobe to see if there was anything useful in there, and kept coming back to have a look. In the next room, unbeknownst to him, Shanali was still waiting for the two Careers to come back down the stairs.

Ronan, meanwhile, was headed in the opposite direction, which was probably all the better for him. Whichever way the fight between Shanali, Darian, and Macauley went, it would be best for him to be as far away from them as possible. He had made his way through the treasure room and stopped to have a look around the room with the musical instruments, just missing Aleyn, who had found her way back to the dining hall.

That left Retro and Margo as the only tributes still sleeping – Retro soundly inside the cauldron, Margo not-so-soundly a couple rooms away. A couple rooms away from anyone, really – just about as safe as she could be. And the two tributes closest to her were the two youngest in the arena.

Lander leaned back on the couch. Other mentors might try to tell him that didn't mean anything – that age didn't really matter much in the arena. A twelve-year-old had won last year, after all, and she hadn't been the first.

That was what they would say, and they would technically be right. She hadn't been the first; she had been the second. Forty-nine years of the Games, and two of the Victors had been twelve. One had been thirteen. Technically, yes, any tribute could win. But the idea that any tribute had a chance of winning and the idea that the odds were completely even were two very different things.

And yet…

Lander's gaze strayed to Kit, who was trying hard to keep his eyes open even though both of their district's tributes were already dead. He had won at thirteen, and look what had happened. The next Games had been a disaster. That wasn't really his fault, of course; he'd simply been a catalyst, an excuse for the rebels to enact their plan. But even though he hadn't intended to, he'd given them a little push.

"A moving wood," Carolina mumbled beside him, shaking him from his thoughts. "Haven't seen one of those in a while."

She was right, of course. The trees that had been in the distance during the whole Games were slowly moving closer. Their roots never left the ground; the ground simply seemed to melt in front of them, solidifying again after they had passed. Lander shook his head. "And once they reach the castle … then what?"

Carolina shrugged. "Who knows? But you can bet it won't be good."

Lander rolled his eyes. "Nothing in the Games is good."

"Fair enough," Carolina agreed. Then, her voice a little lower, she added, "I wonder if they're upset with Macauley for hurrying them along."

Lander smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time a tribute took advantage of the Gamemakers' clever plans for the arena."

Carolina blushed a little. "I did what I had to do to get out of there, just like she's doing."

"Exactly," Lander agreed. "Just like she's doing. Just like plenty of other tributes have done. You figured out how to get a dinosaur to step on your last opponent. Kalypso worked out that she could get the ships to attack anyone as soon as blood was spilled. Oliver got so attached to those damn prairie dogs that one of them was willing to take a poisoned arrow for him. The Gamemakers don't care if things don't go exactly according to plan as long as they get a good show out of it. They weren't upset with you for what you did, were they?"

"Not that I know of," Carolina admitted.

"Exactly. And if they had been, you would be dead, rather than sitting here fretting over a tribute who's not even yours."

"And I wouldn't get to watch you do the same thing."

"Touche." Lander gave his wife's hand a squeeze. "Eight tributes left. Just seven more cannons, and we can go back to District Eight and stop worrying about ooze and griffins and moving trees. And next year, everything will be back to normal." He practically spat out the last word, but it was true. As long as the eight tributes who were left did what they were supposed to do, the districts would be back to sending two tributes apiece the next year. He hated that that was what counted as normal, but it was the way things were, and there was no changing it.

Plenty of people had already tried.

"Light thickens; and the crow makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop and drowse; while night's black agents to their preys do rouse."