Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Results of the latest poll are up on the blog. Also, a belated congratulations to Darian, Margo, Aleyn, Ronan, Retro, Macauley, Barlen, and Shanali on making it to the final eight. I'm torn between "Wow, it's the final eight already," and, "Wow, it took me this long to get to the final eight." But that's what I get for doing another Games with extra tributes. But hey, next time we'll be back to the standard 24 ... as long as none of the eight remaining tributes do anything incredibly stupid and rebellious.

Okay, Elim, stop planning the next one when your X-Games story just got through the reapings...

Anyway.

There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who you want to see as the Victor. Like the last one, this one won't have any effect on who the Victor actually is, but I'm curious nonetheless. As usual, read the chapter first because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.

Day Six
Droop and Drowse

Kalypso Wayland
District Four Mentor

It wasn't a bad idea.

Kalypso leaned back in her chair, watching as the trees in the distance drew closer and closer to the castle. Despite Macauley's suggestion that maybe they could help, the Gamemakers didn't seem to be in any rush to do so. Maybe they were giving Macauley and Darian time to decide what they wanted to do once the trees got there. Maybe they just didn't want things to move along quite so quickly. But the fact remained that, eventually, the trees would get there, and now the audience would expect them to do something once they were there.

Of course, that was the point of having moving trees in the first place. Moving trees, bubbling goo, a three-headed dog, a griffin – none of them were just for show. Macauley had the right idea trying to anticipate the Gamemakers' next move, deciding to turn it to her advantage. Kalypso shook her head.

She just wished one of her tributes had thought of it.

Of course, District Four's tributes were doing pretty well. Ronan was on the move, making his way through the room with the instruments. Aleyn was still sorting through supplies in the dining hall. Kalypso just hoped Ronan would leave the instrument room before Aleyn was finished, or they could very well run into each other, and she had no idea how that would go. Both were armed. Both were injured. That fight could go either way, if it came down to it.

And it probably would. Yes, they were district partners, but they had never been allies. They barely knew each other. It was amazing, really, how quickly tributes came to trust their allies over people from their own district. But at the same time, it made sense. The fact that they came from the same district didn't really mean anything, in the end.

It hadn't protected her own district partner, after all. It hadn't kept her from slitting his throat in the night, claiming that he had attacked her first. No sooner had his blood hit the deck of the ship, however, than everything had begun to shake. The ship had come to life – beams, rigging, mast, and all. It had trapped the rest of the Career pack, entangling and crushing them while she had dived into the sea.

It had taken her a little while to figure out that the blood had done it, but once she had worked it out, that simple fact had given her a huge advantage. She had put the pieces together, just like Barlen and Vashti figuring out that their laughter was making the water bubble. Just like Macauley was figuring out how to use the trees to her advantage. Tributes who made use of the arena – who worked with it – had quite an advantage over tributes who tried to fight against it.

It wasn't a guarantee, of course. Nothing was. So much still depended on the Gamemakers' whims. The griffin had only befriended Skyton because they had decided it would make for a good show. The three-headed dog had attacked the Career pack, but had worked with Ronan and Shanali. Even if a tribute wanted to use something in the arena to their advantage, they had to convince the Gamemakers that it would be entertaining. Whether intentionally or not, they had to give the audience what they wanted.

Shanali and Ronan had been thinking that way when they had suggested using the dog to go after the griffin. Macauley was thinking the same way now, trying to figure out how to use the trees to take on the three-headed dog mutt. Except the mutt wasn't there anymore. Ronan and Shanali weren't even working together anymore. What would happen once Macauley and Darian figured that out?

What would happen when they realized they didn't really need each other?

They were the only tributes still working together, after all. Together, they could probably handle any of the other tributes. But it was only a matter of time before they realized the same thing Kalypso had realized about her district partner – that they didn't need to work together anymore to survive, that eventually one of them would have to turn on the other.

Kalypso took another drink. It wasn't her problem – not really. Her own tribute was long gone, and the others from Four were nowhere near the two Careers. If the two of them killed each other – or at least injured each other in the process of separating – that could only be good for the two tributes that Four had left. The more the other tributes killed each other off, the better. But something still felt more than a little off.

"It's the trees," Mags agreed, taking a seat beside her. "Something's wrong with the trees."

Kalypso looked up. "What makes you say that?"

"They're not just coming to help Macauley. If they were, they would all be coming from one direction, converging on her side of the castle. But they're everywhere – coming from all different directions, closing in on the whole thing. Whatever the Gamemakers have planned, it's not just going to be that side of the castle, not just the fight between Darian and Macauley and whoever they manage to find. It'll happen everywhere."

Kalypso turned that idea over in her head. Maybe that was what had been bothering her. But that didn't quite seem to fit, either. "Why trees?" she asked at last. "The entire Games have been inside the castle. They could have just had the stones in the walls come to life and start moving, but instead, there are trees. Why?"

Mags shrugged. "Why a three-headed dog? Why a griffin? Things don't always have to fit together. They just have to be exciting enough for the audience not to wonder what they're doing there."

Exciting. Right. Kalypso took another drink. Her own Games had been plenty exciting – more than enough excitement to last a lifetime. But she'd accomplished what she'd set out to do. She'd set her family up for life, made sure none of her relatives would have to work themselves to death again. She'd killed two tributes and caused the death of plenty of others, but in the end, it had been worth it. And she would do it again in a heartbeat, if it meant protecting the life she had earned for herself. Maybe it wasn't a perfect life, but it was a lot better than it would have been without the Games.

Some of the Career districts had forgotten that, it seemed. Forgotten that training for the Games was really a means to an end, rather than a goal in and of itself. The Career system in District Four had never really been about the glory or the fame or even the sense of accomplishment. It was about making a better life for herself. It wasn't for everyone, certainly, and to her, it had only been a means to an end.

But sometimes it really was worth it.

Margo Devereaux, 18
District Two

Deciding to rest had definitely been worth the risk.

Margo rolled over a little, her eyes still closed. Her head was finally throbbing a little less, her limbs a bit less stiff. A rustling sound had woken her, but when she finally managed to open her eyes, she didn't see anything. Not that she was likely to in the dark, anyway, but if there was someone else there, wouldn't they have killed her already? Unless they hadn't seen her, of course. In that case, her best chance was to stay still and hope they would just pass on by. She certainly wasn't in any condition to fight.

She had fought the boy from Five, yes, but that hadn't really been a fight. And her headache had gotten worse since then. Opening her eyes hadn't helped with that, so she quickly shut them again. Okay. She could afford to rest a bit longer. There was no real way of telling how long it had been, after all. She might have only been asleep for a few minutes. She could spare a few more.

Margo clutched the spear she'd taken from the cornucopia. If something did happen, at least she would have a weapon handy. And at least she looked like she was ready to defend herself. Maybe that would count for something in the audience's eyes. Maybe looking like she was ready would be halfway to being ready.

Except they'd been playing that card the whole Games – her and Mae and Darian. Pretending to know what they were doing. Pretending to be Careers. And where had it gotten them? Where had it gotten her? Separated from her allies, slammed into a wall by a mountain of water, and reluctant to even kill a wounded opponent. Pretending to be a Career hadn't gotten her anywhere good.

Maybe it was time to stop pretending.

She wasn't a Career. Not really. And she never would be. She hadn't even wanted to kill the boy from Five. She'd been goaded into it, and she had finally given in, but she hadn't wanted to. A Career would have wanted to. A Career would have leapt at the chance for a kill – even an easy one. Especially an easy one.

But that wasn't her. It never had been. She had never wanted this. Not like so many other people from Two had. Not like her sister, who would have killed to be in her place. She didn't want to be here. She never had.

But she was here. She couldn't change that. All she could do now was try to make it out of here alive. But she couldn't keep pretending, and maybe the first person she had to stop lying to was herself. She wasn't a Career. She wasn't a cold-blooded killer. And she was never going to be. It had been hard to kill the boy from Five, and maybe it was okay to admit that. Not to the audience, of course, but to herself. Maybe it was okay that she hadn't wanted to do it.

After all, she had still done it. She had still made the decision to run him through, as much as she hadn't wanted to. As much as it made her sick. As much as the thought still bothered her, because he hadn't had a way to defend himself. It hadn't even been a fair fight. It hadn't been fair at all.

But that was how the Games worked. The Games weren't fair. If they were arranged fairly, if every tribute had an equal chance of winning, then they wouldn't be exciting. If the odds were even from the start, there would be no way for a tribute to come from behind and take everyone by surprise. There would be no suspense, no excitement, no fighting against impossible odds because the odds would be fair, rather than being in someone's favor.

She wondered whose favor the odds were in right now.

Probably not her. But maybe there was a sort of strange fairness even in that. The odds were usually stacked in the Careers' favor. Maybe this year had been a way to even that out – at least for a year. Next year, everything would be back to normal. District Two's tributes would be Careers, and the mentors would undoubtedly be grateful for that. She would certainly have been grateful, if she had happened to be picked in any other year. Grateful for whatever Career would have stepped in to take her spot.

Just bad luck, really. Maybe that was all there was to it – not some great overall plan, but just plain, dumb luck. She'd been unlucky at the reaping, unlucky that she'd been injured when they'd been attacked, unlucky enough to find a roomful of water. Maybe that was all there was to it – just good or bad luck.

Margo could already feel herself drifting back off to sleep. She was probably just tired. When she woke up again, she would be able to think more clearly. Maybe then some of it would make sense. For now, she was just glad she'd found a relatively safe place to rest for the night. Or morning. Or whatever it was now.

For now, that would have to be good enough.

Macauley Tierney, 17
District Five

For now, they would just have to wait.

Macauley paced the tower uneasily, just waiting for the next shoe to drop. The trees were moving in their direction, it was true, but they weren't moving very fast. Maybe this was the Gamemakers' way of slowing them down a little, but why? The Gamemakers usually wanted to move the Games along, not slow tributes down.

Unless they were waiting for something that was happening inside the castle. Maybe they wanted the tributes with the mutt to be prepared by the time it came to a fight. Or maybe they were trying to lull all of the tributes into thinking that they would have time to rest. Maybe that way, she and Darian would be able to catch the other tributes at unawares.

The tributes, maybe, but not the mutts. She couldn't remember ever seeing a mutt sleep. Of course, it could simply be that the cameras didn't usually show the mutts sleeping. That wasn't very interesting, after all. Usually, they didn't even bother showing tributes sleeping, unless it was to show that someone else was nearby and there was a good chance that tribute would be found.

Part of her wanted to suggest that they should get some sleep while they could, before the trees arrived. In the dark, it was hard to tell exactly how far away they were, but it had been at least ten or twenty minutes, and they didn't seem to have moved much closer. Still, they were giving the distinct impression that they were moving. Weren't they?

Of course, it could always be that she was imagining it. But if she was, then certainly Darian was, too. Either that, or he was pretending to. Maybe he was just going along with it until he could find some way to slip off. That was another good reason not to suggest that they get some rest. Even if he didn't kill her outright, he could just leave and decide it was better to take his chances on his own.

It wasn't better, of course. They would have a much better chance together. But she couldn't rely on him to reach the same conclusion. He might decide he was better off on his own and decide to leave her – or, worse, kill her. No, sleeping wasn't an option. Not now. Maybe once they had found the mutt, killed the other tributes, and … And. That was the real question. And then what? Hope that one of the other tributes killed Darian in the fight? Find a way to part peacefully? Or maybe kill him herself?

She certainly didn't have a good reason not to. They were allies, yes, but tentative allies at best. They didn't have any real reason to trust each other. They had both abandoned the larger Career pack, and only decided to work together again because they had happened to find each other. If she hadn't decided to come to the feast…

If, if, if. She couldn't keep worrying about that. She had gone to the feast. She had found Darian. And together, they had a better chance of surviving a fight with two tributes and a mutt than either of them would have had on their own. In fact, if they could find some way to use the trees to their advantage, they had a pretty good chance. As long as the trees eventually got there.

Macauley rubbed her eyes, pacing a little more to keep herself awake. Maybe that was it – the reason the trees were moving so slowly. Maybe the Gamemakers wanted them to be tired, anxious, more on edge when it did come down to a fight. Tributes who were tired were more likely to make stupid mistakes.

Macauley fingered her rapier. She couldn't afford to do anything stupid. Not now, when she was so close. There were only eight tributes left, and she knew who a good number of them were. Darian, obviously. Probably the two tributes with the mutt. The girl who had escaped them at the feast. That was five right there. Once they took out the mutt, the rest of them probably wouldn't pose much of a problem.

Probably. Anyone who had survived this long, after all, had almost certainly killed. They couldn't afford to underestimate anyone. Everyone was a threat in their own way, even if it didn't look like it. They would have to be careful.

But not too careful. The audience didn't like tributes who were too careful. Hell, if she was watching the Games, she wouldn't want to sit around watching tributes who were being too careful. She'd always loved the action, the excitement. The audience would rather see tributes do something bold and daring and stupid than something cautious and safe. The problem, of course, was that doing something bold and daring and stupid often cost tributes their lives. It was interesting, certainly, but it wasn't a good way to survive.

Now, bold and daring and clever – that was a different story. So they would just have to come up with something clever to do once the trees finally got there. Macauley drummed her fingers on the hilt of her rapier. Something bold. Something the audience wouldn't think of. Something the other tributes wouldn't think of. But at the same time, something that wouldn't get them killed – as long as they played their cards right.

Or at least, something that wouldn't get her killed. She didn't really want to get Darian killed before they had a chance to find the other tributes and the mutt, but that was still better than getting herself killed. If one of them had to go, there wasn't really any choice at all. Only one of them could make it out of the Games alive, and she wanted it to be her.

Macauley peered over the side of the tower. She'd been doing that occasionally in the moonlight, just to see if there was anything down there. A ways down and a little to her right along the side of the castle was a window. She wasn't entirely sure where it led, but unless she'd gotten turned around inside the winding stairwell, it was in the right direction. The direction of the other tributes.

Huh. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was what they could do with the trees once they arrived. Hell, maybe that was why the Gamemakers had been stalling – to give her time to work it out. Macauley turned to Darian, grinning in the moonlight.

"I have an idea."

Aleyn Tillens, 15
District Four

She wished she had some idea of where to go next.

Aleyn stuffed the last of the edible food she could find into one of the less-charred bags in the dining hall. The meat was just as burned as everything else, but once she'd cut through the charred layer on top, there had been a good bit underneath that had only been cooked rather than burnt. The same went for a couple of the loaves of bread; the crust was burned, but underneath it was still edible.

That was certainly better than nothing, and she'd already eaten her fill. She felt a bit better now that she had some food in her stomach, but there hadn't really been anything left in the way of water. It was almost funny, really. She and her allies had been trapped in a room full of water not all that long ago. Then that same water – she was fairly certain, at least – had flooded the entire arena. She hadn't thought to collect any, because she'd assumed it would be there for the rest of the Games.

But now the water was gone. She'd wrung what she could out of her clothes and the sacks in the dining hall, but that would only last her so long. Some of the food was still soggy, so that would help. But it wouldn't last forever.

Except it didn't need to last forever. Only a couple more days, probably, at the rate the Games were moving. What she had would probably last her that long, as long as she didn't sit down and eat it all at once. And even if she ran out, there were probably still supplies back at the cornucopia.

But she didn't want to head back there right away – not even to get water. Especially if there was a chance some of the other tributes might also be looking for supplies. That was part of the reason she'd come to the dining hall, instead. The only tributes who knew where the supplies were would be the ones who had come to the feast, and they had probably taken all the supplies they wanted. They weren't likely to come back any time soon.

Aleyn shouldered the sack and took another look around. On the one hand, it was a good thing that no one else had thought to come here. It meant no one else had found her. On the other hand, now that she was armed with more than a knife, the audience would be expecting her to make a move, to go after the other tributes. If there had been someone else here, that would have been easy.

Easy. Aleyn almost laughed out loud. So far, she hadn't really been in a fair fight. She and Consus had killed the girl who was climbing the table, but only because they had caught her off-guard. And Wes … well, he had been at a disadvantage in the water. That hadn't really been fair. But at least it had been a fight. Since then…

Since then, she had run away from every chance for a fight. She and her allies had run away from the tributes on the roof, and then run away from the cornucopia to avoid them again. She had run from the feast instead of fighting the Careers. And yes, fighting the Careers then would have been a really bad move, but now she was in a better position.

Her leg still hurt, but that was getting easier and easier to ignore. Maybe that was just because of the general aches and stiffness in the rest of her body from being tossed around in the fire and days of running. But whatever the reason, it didn't seem to hurt that much anymore. She could definitely move around pretty quickly by now. She could probably even fight.

But fight who? Waiting around for other tributes to find her hadn't worked out so well at the feast, so the other option was to go looking for them. But aside from the two Careers who had come to the feast, she had no idea who else might be left.

She had at least some idea of who it wasn't. It wasn't any of her allies, and it probably wasn't the ones whose faces had most recently been shown during the anthem. At least, not if they kept following the same pattern. But the rest of it was beginning to blur together. The different faces – faces of the tributes who had died, along with faces of the tributes who had killed them – it was a bit much to expect anyone to remember, especially since there had been thirty-five of them to start with. It was a lot to keep track of.

She'd never really thought about it that way when she had watched the Games before. The tributes' names and a list of the dead was pretty much always onscreen, and the audience could see exactly which tributes were left. But this … this was different. Even one of the Careers she had seen during the feast might be dead, and she would have no way of knowing – not even when the next batch of faces showed up, because those would be the faces of the killers.

Aleyn leaned back against the door to the dining hall. She had shut it just in case anyone wandered by. Besides, it wasn't as if any light was going to come filtering in. She had made her way around the room mostly by feeling, but her eyes were finally beginning to adjust to the pitch black. Maybe that would give her an advantage.

Maybe. But probably not. Unless the other tributes had found a way to light a fire or had found a room with a window, they were probably in exactly the same position. They could probably see exactly as well as she could. But, by the same token, she could probably see just as well as them. In either case, it did seem to make things a bit more fair.

But was that really what she wanted?

Retro Liu, 12
District Five

He really wanted to stretch.

Retro sat up a little in the cauldron. He wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, but it had probably been long enough. He wasn't really tired anymore – just very cramped. He wanted to move. He wanted to stand up. And there probably wasn't going to be a safer time to do so. At least, no time that he could guarantee would be safer. There could be someone in the room outside the cauldron, of course, but the same had been true hours ago, and the same would be true a few hours from now. There was no way to be certain – not without looking.

Finally, he got to his knees, still crouched down, and peered over the edge. He didn't see anyone, but in the darkness, that didn't really mean much. A little light was filtering in from the cornucopia, but not nearly enough to see well by. If any other tributes were in the room, he wasn't likely to see them unless they were moving. If they were standing still, they might very well blend in with the other shadows in the room.

Of course, the same thing was true of him. With the giant shadow that represented the cauldron, how many other tributes passing through would notice the top of a head peeking out. Not many, probably. Retro relaxed a little, glancing around. Chances were, there weren't any other tributes in here after all. If there were, wouldn't he have heard them?

Wouldn't they have heard him?

It wasn't as if he was trying to make noise, but it was pretty impossible to be perfectly silent. He was breathing. His clothes brushed up against the edge of the cauldron as he moved. A few times, his hatchet had clanged against the edge of the cauldron, and still nothing. No sign of anyone else.

He tried to remind himself that was a good thing. After all, anyone who found him was very likely to be bigger than him, older than him, stronger than him. The only other twelve-year-old in the arena, after all, had been the younger girl from Two. And she was dead. Vashti had killed her, but now Vashti was dead, too, if the faces had been right. Who did that leave from District Five? Elliot was gone, if he was remembering right. Macauley, maybe. She'd been alive the last time he'd seen her, but that had been down in the tunnels. If she'd been caught in the goo…

Retro lifted his hatchet, trying to ignore the thought. It didn't matter whether Macauley was dead or not. Not really. She wasn't likely to spare him if the two of them happened to find each other, and he couldn't spare her, either, if he somehow found himself in a position to kill her, instead. There were only eight of them left. They couldn't afford to be kind.

But Vashti … Vashti had let him go. He'd let him simply run through the room once, and then let him walk away from the fight the second time. Why? Because they were district partners? Or maybe because he simply hadn't wanted to fight. But the boy who had been with him – the boy from Nine – hadn't exactly been shy about fighting him when he'd thought Vashti was dead. But he hadn't killed him, either.

Retro shook the thought from his head. It didn't matter why Vashti hadn't tried to kill him. Vashti was dead. The boy from Nine might very well be dead, too, considering the goo that had filled the tunnels. Unless he'd managed to find a way out…

But if they'd both drowned, wouldn't their faces have appeared together?

Retro considered that for a moment. Maybe that meant the boy from Nine was still alive, still out there somewhere. If so, that was a somewhat encouraging thought. It meant there was someone out there he might be able to beat in a fair fight. He'd been holding his own when they'd fought, and might very well have been able to kill the other boy if he'd actually been trying to.

Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe he'd simply gotten lucky that Vashti had decided to spring to life when he had. Maybe the boy really would have killed him. There was no way to know, really, and a part of him that didn't want to find out. But as far as opponents went, he probably couldn't hope for a better chance for a fair fight.

Suddenly, Retro saw something out of the corner of his eye. Some sort of movement, off to one side. As slowly and silently as he could, he ducked a little lower, back into the cauldron. Even as he did, however, he realized the figure wasn't moving in his direction. It was heading across the room, from one door to another. After a moment, he heard a bit of armor clanking. "Damn it," the figure muttered, and he could hear the armor clattering to the floor. Maybe the tribute had decided the armor was making too much noise. Maybe it was just hard to move around in. Either way, he was now a bit less prepared if Retro decided to attack him.

Retro gripped his hatchet. Not yet. The older boy was still a bit too far away. If he hopped out of the cauldron now, the older boy would probably hear him and take off. And chances were pretty good that he would be able to outrun Retro. But if he didn't know he was being followed…

Retro waited until the boy had reached the far door and then poked his head out of the cauldron again. Slowly, careful not to make any noise, he climbed out and dropped to the floor, hatchet still in hand. He wasn't in a position to fight the older boy yet, but he could at least follow, keep track of where he was.

Like he had been doing with the Careers?

Retro shook the thought from his head. This was different. He'd never really had any intention of attacking the Career pack. He'd just wanted to keep track of where they were. Now … now he was just waiting for the right time. Waiting for the right moment to pounce. The boy couldn't keep going forever. Eventually, he would put himself in some sort of vulnerable position.

And then Retro could make his move.

Barlen Rimmonn, 13
District Nine

He had to keep moving.

Barlen gripped the cleaver, still shaking a bit. He was in the Hunger Games. He had to keep telling himself that. He couldn't forget that – not even for a moment. If he forgot where he was, what he was doing, then he might do something that would get him killed. If he ran into another tribute, he might try to talk to them rather than…

Rather than fighting. That was what he was here to do, after all. He knew that, even if he didn't remember much about the Games so far. He remembered … He remembered Vashti, and a girl, and another boy. But they were all dead now, he was pretty sure. Certainly they weren't still working with him, which either meant that they were dead, or they had left him. Or he had left them, of course, but he wouldn't have done that.

Would he?

It didn't matter. They were probably dead, and he could be next. Would be next, if he didn't keep moving. If he didn't stay awake. If he didn't keep reminding himself of what he had to do. Because if this was the Hunger Games, that meant there were people out there who were trying to kill him. People he would have to kill, if he wanted to go home.

Home. That was District Nine. He had to hold onto that. His parents. His sister. He remembered that, but it was hard to remember, right now, what they looked like. He could only assume they looked quite a bit like him. Now if only he had a mirror.

No. No, he didn't need a mirror. He didn't need to know what he looked like. Maybe he didn't even want to know what he looked like right now. He had what he needed – the knife and cleaver in his hands. The pen in his pocket. Trouble was, it was too dark to read whatever he had written on his arm. Which was why he had to keep reminding himself.

You're in the Hunger Games.

But how long had he been in the Games? How many tributes were left? He remembered some of what had happened, but he had no idea how long it had been. How long ago had Vashti died? Hours? Days? He remembered the body, the blood, how cold he had been. He remembered Vashti telling him to run. He was pretty sure he would never forget that.

There was a door in front of him. At least, he was pretty sure that wasn't the door he had come through. And he could hear … something. Breathing, maybe? Or maybe that was him. No. No, the sound was definitely coming from inside the room.

Did that mean he should go back the other way?

He wanted to. Part of him really wanted to. But if he was in the Games, then he would have to kill. Whoever was in the next room was standing between him and home. As far as he knew, they might be the only thing standing between him and home? What if they were the last too tributes left, and he was too afraid to face them?

Barlen swallowed hard. He was afraid. But he was even more afraid of missing his chance, of forgetting there was someone in there, of them coming back to kill him later. He was afraid to kill, yes, but he was more afraid to die. That wasn't much of a reason to go on into the room, but it was something. And right now, it was the best he had.

He took a step into the room. Then another. The breathing was still steady, calm, undisturbed. He took another quiet step. Then another. You're in the Hunger Games. There's another tribute in here with you. You have to kill them.

Her, he realized as he drew even closer. One of the older girls, nestled between a few of the barrels. A dim light was filtering in from somewhere – just enough for him to see. Up close, she didn't look so scary. Maybe he should just wake her up, instead. Maybe she would want to help him. Maybe she would be his—

Then he saw the word scrawled on the cleaver. Friend. The dim light caught the weapon just well enough. He remembered Vashti saying something about that. These were his friends now. And that meant the other girl wasn't. Barlen slipped the knife into his pocket and gripped the cleaver in both hands.

Then he brought it down.

There wasn't even a scream – just a strange, gurgling sound, and a lot of blood. The girl's eyes snapped open, and her arms flailed for a moment, reaching for the spear beside her but trying at the same time to staunch the flow of blood from her neck. Barlen scrambled backwards, out of reach, as she gasped and sputtered and tried to sit up. Tried to stand. But soon she was on the floor again, blood pooling around her, blood flowing from the side of her neck even as she pressed her hands against the wound.

Finally, she went still. The cannon sounded. But there was no announcement. If she had been the last one, there would have been an announcement. Barlen stood there for a moment, staring. He had been wrong. They hadn't been the last two. Maybe she would have helped him.

No.

No, she wouldn't have. Because they were in the Hunger Games. Barlen set the cleaver down softly and pulled the pen from his pocket. She hadn't been the last tribute left, but the next one very well might be. And even if they weren't, it wouldn't hurt to go on thinking that they were. He could see just well enough to write himself a message – a message that was probably a lie – on the inside of his arm.

One more tribute left.

Ronan Callaway, 18
District Four

One more tribute dead.

Ronan listened as the cannon echoed through the castle. If the cannons followed the same pattern they had before, then the anthem would play soon, and the faces would be those of the killers. Shanali was the one who had figured that out, he remembered. When she had seen her own face appear on the wall, she had figured out that some of the faces were those of the killers rather than those who had been killed.

That had bothered him then, thinking of her as a killer. Imagining that he might have to kill eventually. But now he had killed two tributes, and he would almost certainly have to do so again if he wanted to get out of here alive. What had started out as a terrifying prospect was now just something he would have to do in order to survive. It was them or him, and he wanted to live. He still didn't particularly want to kill, but he knew that he would have to. It was just one more thing in his life that wasn't pleasant, but that he would have to do, anyway.

It was more complicated than that, he knew. But for now, it was easier to think of it as if it were that simple. He could worry about the rest once he made it out of the Games. Once he was safely back home in District Four, then he could afford to feel disgusted, or guilty, or whatever else it was that he should have been feeling right now.

Right now, he just felt tired. Tired of the Games, tired of this damn arena, and really tired of not being able to see properly. He'd made his way back through the armory and into the next room – the one with the large window that the griffin had broken through before attacking them. But for now, all that had revealed was that it was still nighttime. A little moonlight filtered in, but nothing even close to daylight.

He would just have to wait.

Ronan leaned back against the wall, trying to ignore the gaping hole where the door should have been, where the griffin had punched a hole in the wall and attacked them. As far as he could tell, there was no one else in the room. In fact, he hadn't seen anyone since Shanali had left. That was almost certainly a good thing, of course. If the Gamemakers had wanted to drive him towards someone, they'd had every opportunity to do so. He'd been through a good portion of the castle since then and hadn't seen anyone. Maybe that meant they were busy elsewhere.

Was that why the faces hadn't followed the cannon? Were they thinking there was going to be another one soon, and then they could just take care of them at once? Maybe. There had been one other time, thought, when there had been four cannons in between faces instead of two. Maybe something similar was going on. Trouble was, he had no idea what had caused it the last time, or what might have happened this time.

Maybe it didn't really matter. If they showed the faces of the killers, after all, all that would tell him was who was still alive. Maybe. And maybe that was useful information – in some ways, maybe even more useful than knowing who had died, since he couldn't use that now to figure out who might be left – but it didn't really make much of a difference in the end.

Ronan stood up, stretching his legs. For a moment, he thought he saw something out of the corner of his eye. He peered out into the next room, and there it was again – a shape, scurrying away into the darkness. Had someone been following him?

Ronan gripped his mace. Did that mean he should follow them? They seemed to be heading back the way he had come, but he'd covered quite a bit of ground since he and Shanali had parted ways. The chances of running into her seemed slim even if he started heading back in the same direction.

Ronan peered out into the darkness. He had to decide now, before he lost sight of the other tribute. He wanted to stop, to rest, but part of him already knew that he couldn't. That the audience, the Gamemakers, and whoever else was watching wouldn't forget if he had a chance to chase after a tribute and decided to just let them go instead.

Besides, letting tributes go had gotten him into trouble before.

For a moment, his brain tried to insist that this was different. This was different than having a tribute in front of him, defenseless, waiting to be killed. This would mean chasing a tribute into the dark with no way of knowing who else he might run into. But even as the thought was running through his mind, his feet had taken off. He didn't have a choice anymore. He had to do this. He couldn't afford not to do this. Not now that he was so close.

Not when there were only seven of them left in the arena.

He did want to rest. But there would be time for that later. Later, once he made it home. Once he made it out of the arena, there would be time to rest. There would be time to feel. There would be time to relax and to cry and to shout and to complain about how unfair all of this was.

But not too loudly. Even once he was home, he couldn't afford to say everything he was thinking right now. Tributes had made that mistake before. A Victor had made that mistake before – a Victor from District Four, in fact – and look what had happened. The 41st Games hadn't been entirely Misha's fault – they hadn't been entirely anyone's fault – but it was no secret that he'd played a part in it, that he was part of the reason District Four had sent extra tributes to the Games ever since. And he was certainly the reason the training center had burned down.

And the reason it hadn't been rebuilt. After what Misha had done, the Capitol had decided that District Four couldn't be trusted with the weapons and resources needed for a training center. He'd been perfectly fine with that, really. He'd never had any interest in Career training. And it wouldn't have changed a thing about this year, since a Career couldn't have volunteered for him, anyway. It wouldn't have changed a thing.

Still, it was a good reminder of why he would still need to watch his tongue, even if he did make it back to District Four. Because he certainly didn't want to be responsible for something similar. He didn't want to make it back to District Four, only to damage the entire district's relationship with the Capitol. That hadn't done Misha any good, and it wouldn't do him any good.

So it wasn't enough simply to get home. He had to play along with what the Gamemakers wanted. He had done that so far. He and Shanali had used the dog mutt to do exactly what the Gamemakers had wanted. They had played their role. And now he was chasing after a tribute he wasn't even entirely sure was there, because that's what the audience would expect him to do. He had to keep playing the game.

And he had to play it by their rules.

Shanali Theisen, 17
District Eleven

She had to find a way to play along.

Shanali turned the paper over in her hands again. There had to be something she could do, some way she could use it to her advantage. But try as she might, she couldn't think of anything. What she really needed was someone to talk to, someone to bounce ideas off of. She wanted Ronan there, but it was her own fault that he wasn't. She had left him, after all – not the other way around. If she wanted to go back and talk to him, all she would have to do was turn around and head back to where she had left him.

But she couldn't. Not now. There had been two cannons since then. Either one might have been his. And even if they hadn't been, there was no guarantee that he had stayed put. He hadn't come in her direction, at least. She'd finally moved out of the room with the stairwell and into the next room. There was a window in it, which allowed a little light to come through.

In fact, the light seemed to be getting a little brighter. Maybe that meant that it was almost morning. Or maybe it simply meant that the moon was coming out. There was no way to know for sure – not without heading up the stairs after the other tributes.

But that would be suicide, wouldn't it? It had been hours, and they still hadn't come back down. There was only one good explanation for that; they were waiting for someone else to come up after them, waiting to ambush anyone who might be foolish enough to venture up the stairs. Or maybe they were taking the opportunity to get some rest. Or…

The other explanation was obvious. There had been two cannons since the tributes had gone up the stairs. Normally, that would have meant it was time for the faces to appear on the wall. But what if the reason they hadn't was because the two cannons had belonged to the two tributes up there, and the Gamemakers didn't want to let her know that she was waiting around for nothing.

That didn't seem particularly likely, but she didn't have a better explanation for why the faces hadn't appeared yet. Maybe she was just getting her hopes up. It would be rather nice, after all, if the two Careers had managed to kill each other off. But that seemed a bit unlikely, unless the two of them had made it to the top and discovered that there weren't any tributes up there, after all. But if they had killed each other, why had the cannons been so far apart?

Shanali leaned back against the wall, trying to piece it together. But she didn't have all the pieces. The audience had undoubtedly figured out what was going on, but they had all the information. And it was probably too late to hope that the sponsors might send something to help her out. She had already gotten a sponsor gift, after all, following her first kill. To expect another one now, despite the fact that she hadn't killed anyone…

Shanali clenched her fists. It wasn't her fault she hadn't killed anyone since then. She and Ronan had tamed the dog mutt together, after all. Both of them had found the pair of boys with the griffin mutt. The fact that it was Ronan who had actually struck the killing blow didn't matter, especially when the mutt had already done most of the work.

Or at least, it shouldn't matter. There were probably people in the audience, though, that it did matter to. The ones who kept track of that sort of thing, who figured out which Victors had had the most kills, or the least kills, or had killed tributes from the greatest number of districts, or which kills had been Careers, which kills had been shared, and so on. It didn't matter in the arena, but it might matter to the audience.

Shanali had to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. Only one statistic mattered, as far as she was concerned: who made it out of the Games. A tribute could have the most kills in the arena and still be killed. The tribute with the highest number of kills didn't win; the last tribute standing did. And even if she only got one kill, that could still be her.

It wasn't that likely, though, that she would be able to make it out without killing again. Chances were, she would have to fight. She would have to kill again, as much as she might not want to. And she would, if that was what it took. She was willing to do that in order to go home. Maybe part of her had always been willing to.

Suddenly, a noise shook her from her thoughts. A deep, rumbling noise just beyond the wall. Just outside the window. Shanali looked up in time to see something crashing through the window high above her. It looked almost like a tree limb, but that didn't make any sense. It was ridiculous. But it was there, all the same, poking through in the dim light of the morning, stretching its way down towards the floor. Down towards her.

Then she saw a face in the window.

Darian Travers, 14
District Two

There hadn't been any faces.

Darian glanced over at Macauley to see if she had also figured out why. There had been two cannons since the last time the anthem had played, and yet no faces this time around. "It's because he jumped," she reasoned. "These ones were supposed to be the faces of the killers, but neither of us technically killed him. He jumped. Same thing happened when the mutts killed Justus and Mae. There were four cannons that time, but only two faces, because I guess they didn't want to show the faces of a three-headed dog mutt."

"Fair enough," Darian agree. It was the same logic behind showing both the face of the girl from Four and the boy from One after the cannon for Mae's death. They had both had a hand in killing her, so two faces had appeared. That would probably confuse anyone who hadn't figured out the pattern yet.

Of course, most of the tributes had probably figured it out by now, so that didn't give them much of an advantage. But they were the only two right now who knew why the faces hadn't appeared yet, even though there had been two cannons. So after the next death, the faces would probably appear – assuming the other cannon hadn't been due to something similar.

Darian glanced around again as the sky began to grow a bit brighter. It was almost dawn, and the trees were still moving closer. They seemed to be moving a bit faster now, though. Or maybe it was just that he could see them better now that it was lighter out. Either way, it probably wouldn't be long before they arrived.

Then he and Macauley would have to figure out what to do next.

He had some ideas about that already, but none that he particularly liked. There were only so many ways in which the trees might be useful. Once Macauley had suggested it, though, they were pretty much trapped. They had to do something. Something exciting. The audience would be expecting it now, and would be disappointed if they didn't come up with something impressive.

The trees were drawing closer now. Closer. He could almost reach out and touch them. Unfortunately, that was probably exactly what they were going to have to do – climb out onto the trees. Darian glanced at Macauley, who nodded. They just needed to let them get a little bit closer.

Finally, one of the longer branches was close enough for him to reach. Macauley was watching him, waiting to see what he would do. Maybe she had figured out that if she went first, he would have the option of simply running back down the stairs and letting her go through with her plan alone. It had certainly crossed his mind. Using the trees had been her idea. Her plan. Her risk to take.

But not if he took it first.

Darian took a deep breath, grabbed one branch, and swung out onto another. The tree lurched a little, nearly causing him to lose his grip. Darian wrapped his legs around the second branch, holding on tightly, as if it was an animal he was riding. The branch seemed to be growing even as he did so. It was extending quickly off to one side. Towards a window in the distance along the wall. Now he could see Macauley on a second branch, clinging onto it just like he was. They were both moving, both holding on as tight as they could.

But he reached the window first.

Or, more accurately, his branch reached the window first. Darian clung even tighter to the limb beneath him as the end of the branch smashed through the window. The hole it had made was easily big enough for him to crawl through. Darian shimmied along the branch until he could see through the window. There was a tribute there. A girl.

Shit.

The girl from Eleven was there. But that wasn't the problem. The problem was what wasn't there. The boy from Four wasn't there, and even more importantly, neither was the mutt. The reason Macauley had wanted to work with him in the first place, the reason she hadn't killed him herself at the feast, the reason they hadn't split up yet even though there were only seven tributes left. The mutt wasn't there. Probably, the mutt wasn't anywhere.

He had to think fast. Macauley was close behind him, and it wouldn't take her long to figure out exactly what he had – that there was no reason for them to stay together if they didn't have a mutt to deal with. Okay. Okay, he would just have to come up with something else.

"There!" he shouted as loudly as he could, turning to Macauley. "They're in there!" Instantly, the girl took off, even as the end of the branch plunged farther through the window, not giving him much choice about whether he was going to crawl through or not. Macauley's branch was close behind his. Darian leapt to the ground as soon as he was certain the fall wouldn't hurt him too much. He scrambled to his feet and took off after the girl, Macauley not too far behind him. But she was far behind enough…

"They split up!" he lied as soon as he could see through the next door. "One of them went that way!" he called, pointing to the direction the girl had gone – the door leading towards the room full of barrels. "I'll take the other way!" He sprinted towards the other door. He didn't even look back to see whether Macauley had listened. That might be enough to give him away.

He would just have to hope his gamble would pay off.

Mortimer Obsidian
District Two Mentor

Darian's gamble seemed to be working.

Mortimer shook his head as Macauley raced after Shanali through the room full of barrels. Darian had already stopped to rest in the room with the wardrobe. After all, the audience knew what he did – that he wasn't really chasing anyone. Macauley, on the other hand, was already closing in on Shanali. As long as she kept going and didn't lose track of her prey, she would eventually catch up.

And that was why Darian had pointed her in the right direction, rather than going after Shanali himself and simply giving Macauley false directions. As long as Macauley knew she was chasing someone, she would have no reason to suspect that Darian had been lying. If they met up again, he would be able to feed her some half-baked story about how he had lost track of the tribute he had been chasing – or maybe even killed them – and she would have no reason to believe it wasn't the truth.

Of course, the chances of them meeting back up again were slimmer now. Darian would know better than to go looking for her, no matter which way the fight went. Now that Macauley had given chase, the Gamemakers would probably see to it that there was a fight. Which way that would turn out, however, was anyone's guess. Both Macauley and Shanali were armed. Both were in a relatively good condition. It would probably be as close to a fair fight as they had gotten so far.

There certainly hadn't been many of those, which was frustrating, as far as he was concerned. Tributes had ambushed each other. Mutts had helped tributes out in fights. Hell, the little boy from Nine had even killed Margo in her sleep, when he would never have been able to beat her if it had come down to a real fight. Now, it seemed, the audience would finally get what they wanted. They had to be as hungry for a real fight as he was.

It was certainly better than the fight that might ensue if Ronan caught up with Retro. But that didn't seem likely now. Ronan was still injured, after all, and it looked like Retro had given him the slip. Still, he had drawn Ronan out of what he had probably intended to be his hiding place for a while and out into the main part of the castle where the other tributes might find him. There was something to be said for that.

Aleyn, on the other hand, was still tucked safely away in the dining hall, but maybe that was the smart move for now. There was a good chance that a few of the others would kill each other off in pretty short order. All she had to do was sit tight. Of course, she had no way of knowing that, and nervousness might drive her out of her hiding place sooner than that.

Or the Gamemakers might. Outside the castle, the trees were pressed up against all the walls. He had a hard time believing that they had simply been there to give Darian and Macauley a lift. No, they were waiting for something else. Maybe for a few more cannons. Maybe they were part of the finale, something the Gamemakers were going to use to drive the tributes together at the end.

That would certainly make sense. Considering the ease with which the branches had broken through the windows, it wouldn't take much for them to spread through the castle, driving the tributes together. Macauley may have decided to make use of them a little early, but it probably wouldn't be long before they were put to more use.

Mortimer just hoped Darian would last that long. He wasn't the Victor Mortimer would have preferred, but he was District Two's only shot right now. And he wasn't in a bad position, all things considered. He'd managed to separate from yet another Career ally without getting killed himself, and he was well away from the fight that was about to ensue. He wasn't the strongest tribute left in the arena, but there were at least a couple he would probably be able to handle if – when – it came down to an actual fight. And he had already outlasted all four of District Two's other tributes. Mortimer leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

Maybe the kid had a chance after all.

"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."