Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

Note: Happy Camp NaNoWriMo to those participating! Also, remember to vote in the Victor poll if you haven't yet.

Day Six
The Sleeping and the Dead

Basil Thatch
District Nine Mentor

He'd actually remembered.

Basil watched, still a bit bewildered, as Basil rummaged through Margo's pockets again, looking for anything useful. He wouldn't find anything, just like the first few times, but the fact that he was looking, rather than trying to wake Margo up or save her life, said quite a lot in and of itself. He'd remembered that he was in the Hunger Games, that he had to kill, and he'd been willing to do it. And not only that; he'd done it. On his own, without any prompting from Vashti, without someone else attacking him first. He'd killed.

To anyone else, of course, it probably wouldn't seem like a very impressive kill. Margo had been asleep, after all. She hadn't been in a position to fight back. But that was the thing, really. It was one thing to expect Barlen to fight back if he was attacked, like he had with Klaudia. Most people would, if only out of pure instinct. And it was one thing for him to fight with Vashti encouraging him, like he had with Genevieve. But there had been no one telling him to kill Margo. He'd done that on his own.

Basil looked up as Vester took a seat beside him. "Sorry about Margo," he offered automatically. She'd been from District Two, after all.

But Vester waved a hand dismissively. "She would have done the same thing, if she came across him taking a nap. So would you. So would I. No need to apologize for the fact that your tribute is playing the game well."

Basil nodded, and for a moment, there was silence. But there was something he'd been wondering, something he hadn't really been able to put into words until now. "Did you know?" he asked at last. "When you suggested that we try to get Barlen to team up with Vashti and Mariska, did you know what would happen? Did you know a bit of them would … well, rub off on him in some way?"

Vester shrugged. "You never know. You hope for the bet, then make do with what you get. He got two good allies who showed him the ropes, taught him how to survive. But the fact that he took it to heart rather than running away from what he'd learned – that was all him." He smiled a little. "You must have seen something in him."

Basil shook his head. "At first, no. Hell, I picked him because I thought it was the quickest way to get this over with and be done with mentoring for the year. But on the train … I kept having to explain what was going on, where he was going. But the last time I told him he was going to be in the Games, he told me that he hoped he wouldn't have to kill me. Some part of him understood what he would have to do, and accepted that he would have to do it. It took a while for that to make its way to the surface, but I think … I want to believe that he has a chance."

It felt strange, really, to say it out loud. He'd spent most of the Games trying to tell himself not to get his hopes up, that it was only a matter of time before Barlen's condition caught up with him. Ever since Barlen had started playing a harp the first night, he'd been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it hadn't – not yet. And now there were only seven tributes left. Macauley was chasing Shanali, which would almost certainly end in a fight of some kind. Barlen wasn't particularly close to any of the others. He was armed. He had three kills. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe there was no other shoe.

Maybe he really could do this.

Macauley Tierney, 17
District Five

She could do this.

Macauley gripped her rapier as she raced after the other tribute, still running in the distance. The mutt wasn't anywhere in sight, so maybe it had gone with the tribute Darian was chasing. If so, he didn't stand much of a chance, but that wasn't her problem. Her problem was the tribute in front of her.

Both of them were armed; the girl had an axe, after all. But she didn't look particularly eager to use it. Or maybe she had just been startled by the tree suddenly crashing through the window. That made sense, but if they'd had a mutt…

Unless the mutt was gone.

Maybe that was it. That would explain a lot. If the mutt was gone, then she didn't have much to worry about. It wouldn't be much of a fight. The girl was running away from the fight – a fight she didn't want. She would be easy prey if Macauley caught up with her. No, when she caught up with her. She was closing in fast, and there was nothing the other girl could do about it.

When the other girl reached the treasure room, she whirled around, ready to fight. Well, not ready, but as prepared as she could be for what had to happen. Macauley didn't hesitate. She couldn't. She lunged, and the other girl dodged. Macauley lunged again, aiming for the girl's legs. The girl's hatchet came down, barely nicking Macauley's arm, but the girl started laughing. "Got you!"

Macauley slashed at the air again as the girl dodged. "What do you mean you got me? It's barely a scratch."

"That'll be enough." The girl held up a scrap of paper. "See this?" She tossed it in Macauley's direction, then stepped back.

Macauley snatched it up. Most of the writing on the paper was blurred, but she could make out one word. "Poison?"

The girl nodded. "I covered the blade in it. One scratch will be enough. You're dead unless you find the antidote."

Macauley scoffed. "And I suppose you know exactly where it is?"

"Back at the cornucopia, I assume," the other girl offered. "If you hurry, you might make it in time."

"You're bluffing."

The other girl shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. Can you afford to take that chance?"

Macauley hesitated. The other girl was convincing. But she was also desperate. She knew she wouldn't stand much of a chance in a fight, so she was trying to convince Macauley to run away. What would the audience think if she fell for it?

But what if she was right?

Macauley took a step towards the girl, eyeing the scratch on her arm. There didn't seem to be anything unusual about it. But would there be? Poison wasn't always obvious.

No. No, that was ridiculous. If the weapon really was poisoned, the girl wouldn't have told her. She would have simply tried to run away again, buying herself time for the poison to do its work. She didn't feel any different. Nothing that would indicate the girl was telling the truth. She was bluffing, and it had almost worked.

Almost.

Shanali Theisen, 17
District Eleven

It had almost worked.

Shanali gripped her axe tightly as the girl lunged again. She didn't have any more tricks left. She would just have to fight. She swung her axe as the girl's rapier sliced through her left sleeve. Any closer, and she would have really been in trouble.

No, she was in trouble. She had been in trouble ever since the boy's face had appeared in the window. She should have run sooner. She should never have stayed in one place so long, trying to come up with some way to turn the situation to her advantage. She should have simply left.

Now she didn't have a choice. The girl from Five lunged again, her rapier glinting in the light. The light. There shouldn't have been any light. All of the candles had gone out. But some sort of light was coming from the next room – the cornucopia – and shining off the gold and jewels and everything else in the room. Individually, none of them were shining very brightly, but together, it was enough to see by.

Maybe she should have run to a different room. Maybe if she'd been able to find somewhere dark, she would have been able to lose the other girl. Maybe.

But it was too late now. She dodged again, then turned and raced towards the pile of treasure, scrambling up as quickly as she could. The girl from Five followed, but slower now, careful of her footing. Neither of them could afford to get tripped up. Except—

Shanali kicked as hard as she could at the pile, sending a spray of smaller coins and jewels up into the other girl's face. It probably didn't hurt, but it was enough of a distraction. Shanali lunged at the other girl's legs, knocking both of them down onto the pile. Shanali rolled enough for both of them to tumble down the pile. She'd dropped her hatchet, but the other girl's weapon had also slipped from her grip. If she could manage to come out on top…

As soon as they came to a stop, Shanali scrambled forwards, wrapping her hands around the other girl's throat. The other girl reached into her pocket and grabbed a knife, but Shanali held on with one hand, gripping the girl's wrist with the other, her knee pinning the girl's other arm. The girl's face was growing red. She just had to hold on a little longer. Just a little longer than the Career did.

Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her back. Then another. And another. She could feel something wet on her back. Blood. Her hands slipped from the other girl's neck as she toppled forward onto her opponent, collapsing as the pain spread. Everything was starting to get darker. Darker. Shanali could feel her body growing colder, even as the warmth of the blood spread across her back. It wasn't fair. She had been so close.

But not close enough.

Retro Liu, 12
District Five

He'd been close enough to hear them.

Retro took a step back as the cannon sounded, and Macauley squirmed out from under the other girl's body, her eyes wide with surprise. "You?"

Retro nodded, not daring to look down at the harchet in his hands, the blade coated with blood. "I heard you fighting, and…" He trailed off, unsure. He'd had no reason to come in and save her. But he hadn't wanted to pass up the chance for an easy kill. The other girl had been distracted. She'd had her back to him the whole time. It had just been a matter of getting close enough.

Retro met Macauley's gaze, too frightened to look away. There was a good chance she would try to kill him right now. Yes, she'd dropped her weapon, but it wasn't that far away. She could probably grab it in time to make a move against him before he really had a chance to run.

But she wasn't moving. Instead, she was staring at him, frozen in surprise. "You're still alive?"

Retro glared indignantly. "I just saved your life, you know. And I'll have you know, that was my second kill."

Macauley smirked. "I've had four. But fair's fair. You did save my life. Now get out of here, before I change my mind."

She didn't have to tell him twice. Retro took off towards the room with the cauldron, just in case she decided to follow. He could always jump back inside if he needed somewhere to hide. But something told him that he wouldn't need to, that she wasn't going to follow him. She had been surprised to see him, and something in her voice had been almost … almost fond of him. He'd already escaped her once, and this time she was letting him go.

Retro shook his head. Probably, she just had the sense to realize how bad it would look if she turned on her twelve-year-old district partner just after he'd saved her life. The audience didn't take kindly to that sort of thing. It would be different if their positions were reversed, if he had turned on her, because they wouldn't be expecting that. But this was different – even if he couldn't put his finger on how it was different – and Macauley had clearly realized the same thing.

Or maybe she really was worried about the poison the girl from Eleven had claimed was on the axe, and thought that maybe she had time to get to the cornucopia just in case it was true. It had been a bluff, of course. The note had probably just been the one the sponsors had sent the tributes in the storage room all that time ago, telling them that the meat had been poisoned. But Macauley had no way of knowing that, and if she wanted to head back to the cornucopia to search for an antidote, he certainly wasn't going to stop her.

Retro slowed to a stop as he reached the room with the cauldron. There was still no sign that Macauley was following him. Instead, the Capitol anthem rang through the room. His face appeared first, and then the younger boy from Nine. Only two. But there had been three cannons. Did that mean the other boy had killed them both?

Maybe. Or maybe the other one had been killed by mutts. That was what had happened last time, after all, when there had been four cannons but only two faces. That was what had allowed him to fool the girl from Two into thinking he had made two kills when he had only made one.

But now he had made two. Retro finally glanced down at the hatchet in his hands, which was covered in blood. He had killed someone – this time up close. It hadn't been a lucky shot in the dark; he had meant to kill her. And he had. She was dead. There were only six tributes left, and he was still alive.

He was still alive.

Barlen Rimmonn, 13
District Nine

He wasn't dead.

Barlen stared, confused, as his face disappeared from the wall. He was pretty sure the faces meant those were the tributes who had died, but he was still here. He was still alive. It didn't make any sense for his face to appear on the wall.

Unless they thought he was dead. But how could the Gamemakers have made such a careless mistake? Obviously, he was alive.

Wasn't he?

Barlen felt for his own pulse. Sure enough, it was there. Then, just to make sure, he felt for a pulse on the body in front of him. Nothing. Of course there was nothing. There was a gash in her neck large enough to kill anyone, and the blood that surrounded them was almost certainly hers.

It certainly wasn't his.

Was it?

Barlen blinked, holding out his hand in front of him. He certainly looked like he was alive. He felt alive. Then again, he realized, he had no idea what it might feel like to be dead. Maybe this was what it felt like. He felt … well, he felt tired, but that was normal enough. People who were alive certainly felt tired. Did dead people? Did ghosts?

His sister – or at least, he was pretty sure it was his sister – had told him it was silly to believe in ghosts, that if people's spirits or souls or whatever were still around after they died, they certainly wouldn't want to hang around Panem, of all places. So why would he have stayed? Unless there was something he still needed to do here.

Barlen glanced down at his arm. There were names that were crossed off, and then the message, One more tribute left. But there had just been a cannon, and the Games weren't over yet. So how could there be one more tribute left if he was still alive?

Unless he had been the last tribute. Unless someone had killed him. Barlen stood up, looking around for who it might have been. He didn't see anyone. Maybe he had died of hunger or something. He certainly didn't feel hungry. But ghosts wouldn't, would they? Yes. Yes, that was the only thing that made sense. He was dead. Some other tribute had won. And now … now he was stuck in the arena, maybe because he didn't remember anywhere else well enough to go there, instead.

Barlen could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. He didn't want to be dead. But it was the only explanation that made sense. Quietly, he took out his pen, wrote his own name on his arm, and crossed it off. He nodded, satisfied that at least he had figured it out.

Now he just had to figure out what to do next.

Darian Travers, 14
District Two

He wasn't sure what to do next.

Darian watched as the faces faded from the wall. The younger boy from Five and the younger boy from Nine. But those were the faces of the killers, which meant that neither Macauley nor the girl she had been chasing had killed each other. Did that mean the other girl had gotten away? Or maybe it meant that one of the two boys had killed one of them before the other one could. But then why hadn't whoever was left gone after him?

Maybe they had been injured. Maybe the boy had simply been faster. Either way, there was one more tribute dead, and it hadn't been him. He was still alive. He'd managed to separate from Macauley without getting himself in a fight he couldn't win, and the audience would probably enjoy the fact that he'd tricked another ally.

Darian leaned back against the wall, finally allowing himself to smile a little. He probably wouldn't get that lucky again, but maybe he didn't have to. As long as he played his cards right, maybe he could avoid tributes he wouldn't be able to handle in a fight. If the faces were right, after all, that meant the boys from Five and Nine were two of the tributes who were left. Unless, of course, one of them had killed someone and then been killed himself. But even if that was the case, at least one of them was left. And they were both younger than him, both smaller than him, and neither of them was really a Career. Five was a Career district, yes, but that didn't mean a little twelve-year-old from Five was a Career.

Of course, he wasn't really a Career, either. But he'd managed to pretend well enough to land himself in the final six. There were only five tributes left to kill, and one or two of them might be tributes he could actually beat in a fair fight. That would be a nice change of pace. He'd killed one of the girls from Four during the bloodbath, yes, but that hadn't been much of a fight. And he'd gotten lucky with Elliot. Since then, he'd been relying on the fact that he had allies who could help him. But now those allies were gone, and the final six wasn't a great time to go looking for more.

But maybe he didn't need any. Maybe he really could do this on his own. Darian turned his dagger over in his hands. Six tributes left. Six tributes, and he was one of them. He might even be the only tribute from District Two left. Wouldn't that be something?

Darian shook his head. He couldn't afford to get cocky now. Not when he was so close. He just had to deal with five more tributes, and chances were he wouldn't have to deal with all of them personally. Once he made it out of the arena, then he could enjoy the fact that he was one of the youngest tributes in the arena, and he'd still managed to survive. If he made it, he would be District Two's youngest Victor, and one of the youngest Victors from any district.

Not quite the youngest. There had been a couple who had been twelve or thirteen, but not many. Most Victors were older. Of course, most tributes in general were older. With the Career districts generally sending older tributes, as well as older kids having their names in the reaping bowl more times, the tributes' ages generally skewed towards the older side.

But there had been younger tributes. Younger Victors. He could do this. He really could. He just had to keep playing it smart. He'd made it this far; he could make it a little farther.

At least he wouldn't have to wait much longer.

Aleyn Tillens, 15
District Four

She couldn't afford to wait much longer.

Aleyn leaned back against the wall, staring at where the faces had been. Three more cannons since the last group. Two more faces. There were only six tributes left, and she was still here. She was still alive.

But the longer she stayed put, the more danger she was in. With only six tributes left, it was only a matter of time before the Gamemakers started to drive them together. If she was already on the move, maybe they would be less likely to send some sort of mutts to coax her in the right direction. Maybe they would even give her some sort of clue about where the other tributes might be.

What would she do if they did?

Aleyn slowly got to her feet. So far, she'd been doing her best to avoid the other tributes. To stay away from the action. They only time she hadn't – when she and Consus had decided to wait for the other tributes at the feast rather than running away – things hadn't worked out all that well. And as far as she knew, the Careers who had killed Consus were still out there.

But that was true whether she found them or whether they found her. Eventually, it would come down to a fight – a fight she wasn't ready for. She was armed, yes. She'd picked up a dagger, a spear, and a few extra knives from the pile of weapons left from the feast. And her leg was still healing, but…

Aleyn took a deep breath. Maybe there was no "but." Maybe she was as ready for this fight as she was ever going to be. And if it was going to happen, maybe it was better if she went looking for it. Slowly, carefully, she opened the door and peered out into the darkness of the next room.

Nothing. There was no one – no one she could see, at least. That wasn't really much to go by, considering how dark everything was, but if she couldn't see anyone else, chances were good that no one else could see her, either. Slowly, she made her way across the room and peered cautiously into the next. There seemed to be a bit more light in this room, reflecting off the pile of gold and jewels in the center of the room.

Aleyn froze. There was something beside the pile. Something that looked a lot like a body. But in the dim light, from this distance, there was no way to tell whether it was a dead body or just someone sleeping, or maybe playing dead hoping to lure other tributes in.

Actually, that wasn't a bad idea. Part of her wished she'd thought of it. As quietly as she could, she took a few cautious steps closer. It looked like there was blood around the body. But there would be, wouldn't there, if someone was trying to fool her into thinking they were dead? They could be using someone else's blood, or anything else that might look like blood from a distance.

She would just have to get closer.

Aleyn held her breath as she snuck closer. Closer. Finally, she was close enough to prod the body with the tip of her spear. Nothing. No movement. But there was no harm in making sure. She drew the spear back, then leaned forward and drove it into the body with all her weight.

Nothing. No cannon. There was blood as she drew the spear out, but it wasn't even warm as a little dripped onto her hand. Whoever the tribute was, they'd been dead for a while. Aleyn breathed a sigh of relief.

Then she heard a gasp behind her.

Ronan Callaway, 18
District Four

He couldn't help the feeling that someone was behind him.

Ronan turned again in the dark, but there was no one there. No one he could see, at least. And if someone was following him, surely they would have made a move by now. He'd been wandering in the dark for hours, making his way from one room to the next, trying to look like he was doing something.

Because that was what they wanted, wasn't it? The audience. The Gamemakers. They would want him to make a move, to look like he was trying to find someone, even if it was just for show. He'd lost the tribute he'd been following earlier, and now he was just hoping to run into somebody, and just hoping that it wouldn't be Shanali.

Shanali could be dead, of course. There had been … how many cannons since they'd split up? Two? Three? He wasn't entirely sure anymore. He was pretty sure there were six of them left. What were the odds that she was still one of them?

The last two faces on the wall hadn't been hers, of course. But those had been the faces of the killers, hadn't they? Two of the younger boys – one from Five, one from Nine. Could either of them really have killed her?

Ronan shook his head. Maybe. It was the Hunger Games. Given the right position, anyone could kill anyone. Maybe someone had found her while she was resting, or had help from a mutt, or any number of other things. Shanali couldn't count on having the upper hand just because she was one of the older tributes and happened to be armed.

And neither could he.

Ronan gripped his mace. What was he supposed to do now? Staying put for too long felt wrong, but so did wandering around without a purpose. He didn't need any more rest – not really. His head was feeling better than it had before. Things were still a little fuzzy, but that could just be disorientation from the lack of real light, from not having any real way to tell what time it was or what else might be happening.

He just wished he had some sort of direction.

Ronan couldn't help a chuckle. He wondered if this was how real Careers felt the whole Games. Lost, disoriented, looking for any sign of a tribute to follow because if they stayed in one place for too long and left the audience bored, the Gamemakers would turn on them. He'd never wanted to be a Career. He'd never wanted any of this. But here he was, in the final six of the Games, hunting down tributes. Or at least hoping he was hunting rather than being hunted.

Ronan shook his head as he made his way towards a light in the distance. Was that where the cornucopia was? He was pretty sure he was headed in that direction. Maybe that was as good a destination as any. There was a hole in the roof there, after all, so there might be a bit more light. That was something.

And it was as good a direction as any other.

Just then, something caught his eye. Movement in another room, where a little light was filtering in, shining off of … something. Gold, he realized as he crept closer, his mace gripped tightly in his hand. The room with the pile of gold and jewels and—

And someone with a spear, driving it into a body on the floor. Ronan couldn't help a gasp as the light caught the body just well enough for him to recognize her hair, now coated in blood. Shanali.

The tribute with the spear turned, eyes wide. "Ronan." His district partner stared back at him, and she seemed to realize. "This … this isn't what it looks like. She was already dead."

Blood dripped from her spear, but it was obvious that she was telling the truth. There hadn't been a cannon – not for hours. Shanali wasn't moving. Wasn't breathing. Whoever had killed her was probably long gone. Aleyn had found her and … what? Wanted to make sure that she was dead? That made sense. Hell, it was probably exactly what he would have done, if he'd found a body lying around. He couldn't really blame her for that.

But it wasn't about blame. It was about opportunity. He had a chance for a fight, for a kill. He hadn't seen another tribute for hours. There were only six of them left. If he walked away now, what would the audience think? He couldn't afford to pass up this chance, even if she was his district partner. Ronan shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

And he charged.

Imalia Grenier
District Four Mentor

They all watched as Ronan charged.

Imalia leaned back in her chair, watching. There was nothing she could do for Ronan now, just as there was nothing Bierce could do for Aleyn. No matter how this went, District Four would be down to one tribute – at best. All they could hope for now was that both of them wouldn't end up dead.

But that wasn't how either Ronan or Aleyn was thinking right now. They weren't thinking about District Four's chances; they were thinking about theirs. From that perspective, it was the right move. Maybe Ronan would win this fight; maybe not. But if they'd tried to walk away from it now, the Gamemakers would not have been happy, and that would have ended badly for both of them.

Except…

Imalia glanced over at Camden, a little ways to her left. Camden noticed, and shook her head. "It's different. Macauley and Retro – she had a reason to spare him. He'd just saved her life, and there had just been a kill. Now, if someone happens to find Ronan and Aleyn at the right moment and they team up to kill someone else, the audience would probably eat that up, but…"

She didn't have to finish the sentence. There was no one else in the area. Macauley had headed straight for the cornucopia after her fight with Shanali, maybe worried that what she'd said about the poison was true. But after searching through the piles for anything that might be an antidote, she'd shrugged it off and headed back towards the room where she and Darian had crashed through the window.

Darian, meanwhile, had settled down in the room full of clothes, maybe hoping to wait things out a little longer. Barlen had made his way to the room full of giant beds, and was apparently trying to decide for the third or fourth time whether it would be a good idea to try to climb up. Retro had found his way to the armory. No one else was anywhere near Ronan and Aleyn.

This fight would end with one of them dead.

Imalia took another drink. It was always hard when it came down to district partners, even if there was no particular reason it should be. That was one of those things that was different outside of the arena than inside. During the Games, she'd had no problem setting one of her district partners up to be killed. She hadn't personally drawn the knife across his throat, but her actions had led directly to his death.

It hadn't bothered her at the time. Still didn't, really. Not the same way that Indira's death had stayed with her. She had Jarlan had never really been close; it had been an alliance of necessity, of convenience, two of the Careers from their district who hadn't been cut out to be part of the main pack. She and Indira, on the other hand … they had made a good team. If it hadn't come down to the two of them…

But it had. That was how the Games worked. Only one tribute survived. In order for her to live, Indira had needed to die. There were times when she wished she hadn't had to be the one to do it, but in the end, it didn't really matter who killed who. Forty-five tributes had ended up dead her year. Thirty-four tributes would die this year. Ronan and Aleyn couldn't both survive. Eventually, one of them was going to have to die.

Imalia glanced over at Bierce, who shrugged. It was about as fair a fight as either of them could ask for. They were both well-armed, both recovering from their injuries, but both as ready for a fight as they were ever going to be. There was nothing she and Bierce could do now – nothing but watch. They both knew that.

But that didn't make it any easier.

"The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil."