Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll, if you haven't already. A new poll will be up with the next chapter.

Day Four
Betrayal

Nicodemus Ford
District Six Mentor

"Nicodemus. Nicodemus, wake up."

Nicodemus didn't answer. He didn't want to wake up. He knew what was waiting for him if he did. Pain. Only pain. It would be so much easier not to face it. Just this once. Just this one time. That was all it would take. Just once. And it would all be over.

"Nicodemus." The voice was stronger this time. More urgent. That was okay. Whatever was going on in District Six, they could figure it out without him. He hadn't exactly been much help the last time. Let someone else worry about the district. He'd done his part long enough.

Wasn't it someone else's turn?

Just this once. So easy. Just stop fighting it.

"Nicodemus." A different voice this time. Quieter. Younger. Kit. Kit was calling for him.

Nicodemus took a deep breath. Then another. Pain washed back over him as consciousness came flooding back. So much pain. But he could fight it. He had to fight it. Kit had lost so much. He had just lost Baylor. Nicodemus couldn't let him lose anyone else.

Even him.

Slowly, Nicodemus opened his eyes. Sure enough, Kit was sitting beside him, holding his hand. Nicodemus gave a squeeze, and Kit's face lit up. "Nicodemus! You're all right."

No. No, he wasn't all right. But he was alive. And, for now, that was good enough. Nicodemus managed a weak smile. "Thank you, Kit."

"Good work, Kit," came another voice.

Nicodemus looked up. Harakuise. Of course. Who else? Harakuise laid a hand on Kit's shoulder. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a little while? Nicodemus and I have some … business."

Kit glanced at Harakuise, then back at Nicodemus, wide-eyed. Nicodemus gave Kit's hand a gentle squeeze. "It's all right. I'll be fine. Harakuise isn't going to hurt me." That seemed to satisfy Kit, who turned and left, closing the door behind him. Nicodemus closed his eyes, letting the pain wash back over him. "Did I just lie to him?"

"No," Harakuise assured him. "Believe me, if I wanted you dead, you would be. Whoever poisoned you did a sloppy job. Very unprofessional. I'd say it was probably their first time."

Nicodemus chuckled a little. "You disapprove."

"I disapprove of loose ends. And I disapprove of anyone trying to assassinate a Victor without direct orders from the president."

Nicodemus nodded a little. "So this wasn't his idea."

"Do you think you'd be alive if it was?"

Of course not. "Then who…?"

"I don't know," Harakuise admitted. "And that bothers me."

Nicodemus opened his eyes. "But that's not the only thing, is it."

"What do you mean?"

"You wouldn't drag Kit in here to wake me up just so I can help you solve my own attempted murder. There's something else going on. Something you need my help to fix – or you wouldn't be here. So what is it?"

"If you don't feel up to—"

"I haven't felt up to anything for the last year. Do you really think that's going to change in the next few hours? You came here for a reason. Now what is it? What do you need?"

Harakuise nodded and took a seat by Nicodemus' bed. "All right, then. I need your help. We need your help."

"Who's we?"

"The president. The Capitol. But, most, importantly, your district needs your help."

"With what? Harakuise, if the problem's as urgent as it sounds, you're not helping anyone by beating around the bush. Just tell me what's going on."

"The riots started just after Delvin's death. From what we can tell, the same people are behind each of them – a group of rebels, maybe forty or fifty of them. They've set fire to several buildings. Killed at least a half-dozen Peacekeepers and taken about twenty more hostage. Right now, they're holed up in a building on the edge of the district. They've rigged the building to explode if anyone goes near it. We could disable their defenses, but it would take time – and we don't know how much time we have. And if we start poking around, they might execute their hostages."

Nicodemus stared. None of this added up. "What do they want?"

Harakuise shook his head. "That's the strangest part. They haven't made any demands. They won't talk to us. That's why we need you."

"What makes you think they'll talk to me?"

"This." Harakuise held out a photo. Nicodemus took it, staring. It was a picture of a building – one of the factories, maybe. Painted on the front were two words.

Remember Byron.

"Remember Byron," Nicodemus repeated.

"He's the boy who—"

"I know who Byron was!" Nicodemus snapped. "Do you? He's the five-year-old boy the Peacekeepers were about to beat half to death and leave to die in front of his family and friends! Probably some of the same Peacekeepers who are being held hostage right now. So why don't you tell me this, Harakuise – Why should I help you? Why should I help any of them? Did you ever consider that maybe whatever the rebels have planned for them is exactly what they deserve? That maybe they brought this on themselves? That maybe the Capitol brought this on them when they overreacted to what happened in the Games last year? Did you ever think that maybe this whole thing is your precious Capitol's fault?" He leaned back. "Go away."

"Nicodemus—"

"No. Just go. Or if you're going to kill me, then do it and get it over with. Stop wasting my time – and yours. You have a problem to fix, and I am not going to help." He shook his head.

"You're on your own."

Evander Mercado, 16
District Three

He would have to do this alone.

Evander gasped for breath, barely avoiding colliding with another tree as he ran. The other boy – the boy from Nine – was quickly gaining on him. Sooner or later, he would have to turn and fight.

So why not sooner? Why not now, before he was exhausted from any more running? Maybe he should have simply stood his ground in the first place. He was armed, after all. The other boy didn't seem to have a weapon other than the hand rake he was clutching. Maybe it would be better to fight…

But he didn't want to fight. And not just because the other boy was older, probably a bit stronger, and clearly faster. He had already killed once, and the image of the little girl's face had never truly left his mind. Did he really want to add another face to that image?

Evander tightened his grip on his knife. He had to. He had to fight. That was what they were there for, after all. And if he didn't give them what they wanted, there was no telling what the Capitol would do to his family. His friends.

Unless he had a reason for not fighting.

Think. The compass had led him to the other boy. He had assumed the "9" would lead him to Myrah; clearly, the Gamemakers had something else in mind. What did he know about the boy? Evander was pretty sure he'd been allies with one of the groups of Careers. Another reason not to fight him. Where there was one Career, there were usually others.

But he hadn't seen anyone else. Did that mean the other boy was alone, too? Were his allies dead, or had he simply left them, like Evander had?

Evander clenched his jaw, turned, and stood, waiting. As the other boy approached, he raised his knife, but made no move to attack. "Wait," he insisted. "Just wait a moment."

To his relief, the other boy stopped. Maybe just to catch his breath. Maybe to assess the situation. Evander had a knife, after all; he had a gardening tool. It was in his best interest to wait, to listen, to try to find the right moment to attack.

Evander's mind raced, still trying to work out a reason not to fight that wouldn't sound rebellious. Because now that he could see the other boy, he wanted any reason he could find. The older boy didn't even seem winded from the run. With the advantage of a proper weapon, Evander knew, he might still win, but the chances of him coming away from the fight unharmed…

Evander gripped his knife tightly. With only thirteen tributes left, an injury – any injury – could mean the difference between life and death later, even if he won now. But what were his chances if he walked away from this fight without a good reason?

He just needed a good reason…

Thane Hayer, 17
District Nine

He just needed a good reason.

Thane gripped his hand rake tightly. The other boy had made no move to attack him, but he was still holding his knife. Thane took a step forward, but, still, the other boy made no move. He had a weapon, but Thane had the physical advantage. The other boy was already tired from running. How long had he been running before Thane had found him?

It was a fight he might win. But was it a fight he could walk away from unharmed? Thane gripped his weapon tighter. He had survived this long without a kill, yes, but also without injury. If he got injured now, so close to the end of the Games…

But what was the alternative?

Maybe there was one. Maybe. But what could he offer the boy? The boy already had a weapon, so he probably had food. Maybe. But there didn't seem to be anything in the boy's pockets. Was it possible the knife was his only possession?

Thane kept his hand rake raised defensively. "I know where there's food." When the boy didn't say anything, he reached into his pocket and produced a tomato. He tossed it to the boy, who caught it, startled. "There's more where that came from."

The boy cocked an eyebrow, then asked the obvious question. "Why tell me?"

Thane shook his head. "Because it's guarded. The Careers came, and I ran. I only have what I could carry. But if we go back there together…"

For a moment, there was silence. It was a good lie. A believable lie. And one with just enough truth to it. The Careers – or, at least, two tributes who had been part of a Career group – were, as far as he knew, still at the greenhouse. And he had left them. No need to mention that they had been his allies. No need to mention that he had left not because he was afraid of them, but because they would have slowed him down, in the end.

The boy still wasn't convinced, though. Maybe he was smarter than he looked. "How many Careers?"

"Two. Two of them, two of us. And you're armed. It would be a fair fight."

"They're not armed?"

"Branches for clubs. They're certainly dangerous, but—"

"What are we waiting for?"

Thane cocked an eyebrow. Why was he suddenly so eager? "My alliance was attacked by Careers," the boy explained. "There were only two of them, but they killed two of my allies, and the rest … I don't know where they are anymore. So why not?" He lowered his knife. "Lead the way."

Thane nodded. How much of that story he could believe, he didn't know. But, then again, he was lying, too. He wasn't an idiot, of course. Neither of them could really trust each other. But if they could help each other, just for a little while…

Cautiously, Thane turned back towards the greenhouse, where Audra and Sariya were still waiting. Unless they'd had the sense to leave. Maybe they had. Maybe they'd left by now, and he and the other boy…

"I'm Thane, by the way," Thane offered, tucking his rake in his pocket, hoping the other boy would follow suit.

The boy hesitated, but then pocketed his knife. "Evander." He held out his hand.

And Thane shook it.

Indira Serren, 18
District Ten

It was nearly dark by the time Imalia shook her awake.

Indira rubbed the sleep from her eyes. It was nearly dark outside, at least. But inside the greenhouse, the beam of light that was shooting up into the sky provided them with enough light to see by. Indira smiled a little, chose a carrot, and started eating. "So what's the plan?"

Imalia looked up, a little surprised. "The plan?"

Indira nodded. "There is a plan, I assume. Now that we've gotten some rest, what's next?" Dinner was obviously next, but what after that? She didn't particularly want to go back out in the rain, but she had no doubt that was what Imalia had planned. Imalia was the one, after all, who hadn't wanted to sit around in the hovercraft and do nothing before. Why would she want to sit around a greenhouse now?

Of course, she hadn't been injured then, but her leg seemed to be getting better. And she did seem well-rested. Indira smiled a little. They both were. The last few hours of sleep had been the best she'd had so far in the arena. It was nice to be dry again. Almost warm.

But they both knew it couldn't last. They wouldn't be able to stay here forever. Wasn't it better to leave on their own – before someone else found them and forced them out?

And, if they were going to leave, anyway, maybe it was better if she suggested it. If she looked like she was ready to take on some of the initiative, maybe that would impress the audience.

Not that they particularly needed anything from the sponsors at the moment. They had food. Shelter. Weapons. But it certainly couldn't hurt to have the audience's attention – especially with so few of them left.

At last, Imalia answered. "We should eat – keep up our strength. I think it'll be better to leave once it's dark. Once they show the faces in the sky, we'll have a better idea of who's left – and who we might find. If we can find one or two of them while they're sleeping, that would be easier. What do you think?"

Indira cocked an eyebrow. She couldn't remember Imalia asking for her input before. Had the fact that she'd helped with two kills managed to win her some of Imalia's respect?

Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe it didn't matter what Imalia thought of her. They were competition, in the end. But, still, the fact that Imalia had asked for her opinion, that she placed some value on what Indira thought of the situation … it felt good.

"I think it's a good plan," Indira agreed. "But I think we should take some food with us – just in case it isn't as easy to find our way back here as it seems. Remember what happened to the cabin?"

Imalia nodded. "Good idea." She tucked a few vegetables in her pocket, along with some of the purple flowers Indira had been using to tend her wounds. Indira did the same, fingering the hand rake they had taken from one of the girls.

Now they just had to wait and see who was left.

Brevin Tolett, 17
District Four

Now he would find out who was left.

Brevin settled back against the wall as the Captiol anthem sounded and the faces began to appear in the sky. The first belonged to one of the boys from Six. That meant some of the other Careers were left. The girls from One and Two, he was pretty sure. And Imalia.

And two of the boys from Three. They had been with the group at the houses, hadn't they? So they were still alive. But that didn't necessarily mean that they were still there. It had been two days since he and Kendall had attacked the houses. They'd had more than enough time to move somewhere else.

Two days. Was that really all it had been? Two days since Kendall had died. Two days since he'd run from the tributes at the houses. And only four days since the Games had begun.

It seemed so much longer.

Two of the girls from Seven were next. That left only the boy from their district, but he had been with the other group of tributes – the non-replacements. Chances were, he was nowhere nearby.

The next face belonged to one of the boys from Eight. That left one of the girls from Eight, he was pretty sure. And he was fairly certain she'd been in the group at the houses. How many of them were still alive?

It didn't quite seem fair. They were still alive, and Kendall was gone. Jarlan was gone. Auster and Mavina were gone. Zach and Liana, Inviticus and Septimus. So many Careers gone, and the alliance at the houses remained mostly untouched, aside from the ones Kendall had managed to kill.

It wasn't fair.

Brevin shook the thought from his head. Kendall would have had to die, anyway. The same was true of all the other Careers. Maybe it was better that most of them were already gone. His chances of facing any of them were much, much lower now. Imalia, Jaime, Naella, and him – they were the only Careers left.

Not bad odds.

The next face was one of the girls from Nine. But only one. The first tribute from Nine so far, he was pretty sure. So that meant the younger girl from Nine – the one who had been at the houses with the boys from Three and the girl from Eight – was still alive, too.

A boy and a girl from Ten were next, followed by the pair from Twelve. His own kills. Brevin nodded, satisfied. Nine faces in the sky, and he had killed two of them. Not bad.

But it could be better. Slowly, Brevin got to his feet. It was clear by now that no more tributes were coming towards the light. So he would have to go to them. Back to the houses to find food – and maybe pick up a kill or two. Then he could decide where to go from there.

Slowly, careful not to slip in the dark, Brevin used the vines to climb up the wall and down the other side. Gripping a stick tightly, he turned back towards the houses and set off.

As he left, the beam of light went out.

Aleron Blanchet, 15
District Three

The beam of light went out.

Aleron and Myrah crouched as low as they could as the boy from Four climbed down the wall and took off into the night. Once he was far enough away, Aleron broke into a grin. The boy had never even seen them. What a stroke of luck!

But they couldn't count on getting so lucky a second time. They had to get safely over the wall as quickly as they could. Aleron nodded to Myrah, who followed him to the wall. A series of vines led all the way to the top. So that was how the boy had climbed over. Maybe there were vines on the other side, too…

Before Aleron could say anything, Myrah had already started to climb. Not wanting to be shown up by his younger ally, Aleron quickly followed. The vines were slippery, but, finally, the pair made it to the top before stopping to catch their breaths.

Just then, a flash of lightning revealed what lay on the other side of the wall. It was definitely a building of some sort. In the center was a hole in the ground. Aleron grinned. Maybe it led to some sort of tunnel. Maybe there was a secret passage to some other part of the arena.

But first they had to get down. Another flash of lightning revealed that the other side of the wall was, indeed, covered with vines. Slowly, Aleron and Myrah made their way down the other side, dropping the last few feet in the rain. Aleron quickly got to his feet and made his way to the hole.

What he found, however, was a bit of a disappointment. There was a tunnel, but it was almost completely flooded with water. Myrah shrugged. "Oh, well. At least we know no one will be coming after us that way."

Aleron nodded. She had a point. Why should they be in a hurry to use the tunnel to go somewhere else, anyway? They had only just arrived. They could stay here for a little while. Surely it would be safe for a day or two…

Then again, he had thought the same thing about the houses. The group of them had only been there a few hours before the Careers had attacked.

But there were fewer tributes now. Fewer tributes who could find them here. And one had just run the other way. Chances were, no more would be coming for a while – especially since the beam of light had gone out.

So why did he still feel restless?

Maybe it was Myrah. He had assumed, after running away from the houses, that he would be on his own for the rest of the Games. But once she had found him again…

Aleron shook his head. Maybe he should have pushed her over the wall when he'd had the chance. She already knew better than to trust him. Would he even be able to trust her to keep watch without stabbing him in the back?

Aleron glanced up at Myrah, who showed no signs of wanting to sleep while he kept watch, either. So they would both stay awake. That would do for now. But, eventually, one of them would have to sleep. One of them would have to trust the other. But he certainly wasn't going to go first.

Not if he wanted to stay alive.

Adelia Luciano, 16
District Eight

They were still alive.

Adelia stared at the sky long after the faces had faded. She had assumed, with the amount of cannons since Myrah and Evander had left, that at least one of them was dead. Maybe both of them. But neither of their faces had appeared in the sky. Which meant they were still out there somewhere.

Adelia gripped her knife tightly as she continued on in the dark. Should she have waited a little longer? What if the two of them had returned to the houses, looking for her? What if they were back there right now? What if all she had to do was go back and find them?

No. No, she couldn't go back. Not now. She was on her own. Evander, Myrah, Aleron – they would have to figure things out for themselves. Right now, she had to focus on keeping herself alive.

At least food wasn't going to be a problem. She had taken enough from the houses to keep herself well-fed for a few days, at least. And, at the rate the Games were going…

Four days. Thirty-three tributes dead. Unless things slowed down considerably, the Games would be over before she could run out of food.

But was that good or bad?

Adelia shook her head. Maybe it wasn't either. Maybe it was like everything else in the Games. Having allies or not. A hot arena or a cold arena. An arena where supplies were plentiful or one where they were scarce. Maybe none of those things mattered in the end. Maybe it didn't matter how slowly – or how quickly – the Games went. The only thing that mattered were the tributes. In the end, despite whatever the Gamemakers might throw at them, they decided their own fate.

Aside from a few tributes whom the Gamemakers might specifically target, of course. She wasn't foolish enough to believe that she could outwit them completely, that she could make it out alive if they were determined to kill her. But the Gamemakers had no reason to target her – no more than they had to target anyone else. She wasn't a rebel. She'd proven she was willing to kill. And she'd been willing to leave her allies.

Maybe that was what the Gamemakers had been trying to do, in the end. Maybe they had simply meant to drive them apart, rather than kill them. After all, the rebels' strength the year before was in their loyalty to each other, their determination to stick together. Once the Gamemakers separated them, it hadn't taken long for one of them to cave.

So maybe that was what they wanted – to see who could survive on their own, without having to depend on their allies for support and protection. She had proven that she could lead. Now she had to prove that she could make it on her own.

And she meant to do just that.

Jaime Gloire, 18
District One

They had never meant to wander so far from the hatch.

Jaime shook her head. So far, their search for another entrance to the underground chamber had yielded nothing. Nothing but frustration. If there was another entrance somewhere, they would never be able to find it in the dark. Maybe their best course of action was simply to go back to the hatch.

But that would mean admitting defeat. Admitting that they had wasted all this time for nothing when they could have been doing something. "It has to be somewhere," Jaime muttered, giving a patch of dirt a kick. It wasn't fair. They knew there had to be another way in. Why couldn't the Gamemakers just point them in the right direction?

Naella, on the other hand, didn't seem bothered at all. She almost seemed to be enjoying her ally's frustration. Had she figured out something that Jaime hadn't? "I think it is," Naella nodded. "I think it's very close by. Listen."

Jaime tried. But she couldn't hear anything but the rain. "I don't hear it," she admitted.

Naella shook her head. "Down there." She knelt down, her ear pressed to the ground. "Listen carefully. You can hear the water."

Jaime knelt down. Pressed her ear to the ground. "I still don't—"

Her sentence was cut short by a sharp, stabbing pain in her neck. Jaime looked up, alarmed, to see Naella standing over her, her screwdriver covered in blood. Jaime reached blindly for her pocketknife, but Naella's boot came down hard against her wrist. Jaime screamed in pain, her voice garbled by the blood streaming from her neck. "Why?"

But she already knew. She already knew the answer. Maybe she had always known, and simply hadn't wanted to admit it to herself. Going after the boy from Seven was too easy – too easy for one of them. The Gamemakers wanted a good show. And they would get a better show out of a one-on-one fight.

Which meant that one of them had to go.

Jaime gasped, trying to breathe amid the blood that was filling her throat. She should have thought of it. She should have been the one to attack. But Naella had gotten there first. Jaime coughed, spitting blood all over Naella's boots. "Traitor."

But she knew better. Naella wasn't a traitor. No more than they had both been when they had attacked Auster, or even Inviticus. She wasn't a traitor. She was simply a tribute. She was simply trying to win.

And Jaime had simply lost.

Naella Sareen, 18
District Two

Jaime had lost.

Naella turned her screwdriver over in her hands as the cannon sounded. It didn't quite seem real. Jaime was gone. Without a fight. Without a struggle. With barely a word. And at her hands.

It was almost too easy.

Naella shook her head as she dug through Jaime's pockets, retrieving both her wrench and her pocketknife. Now wasn't the time to get cocky. There was still another tribute nearby. Somewhere. And she still had to find a way to get to him.

That had been the point, after all. The two of them tracking down a little boy from Seven together – that would have been too easy. The Gamemakers wanted to even the odds a bit, and Naella had obliged. Maybe that meant they would reward her…

Sure enough, there was a whirring sound, and the ground began to shake. Naella took a step back as the ground in front of her opened to reveal a trap door. Once the shaking stopped, Naella took a step closer, peering over the edge. It looked less like a tunnel and more like an old sewer system, branching off in two direction from the entrance – one towards the hatch, the other towards the sea.

Slowly, Naella lowered herself into the tunnel. It was dark and wet and terribly cramped – barely large enough to crawl through – but it would be good enough. It would get her where she needed to go.

The Gamemakers would see to that.

That was their job, after all – getting tributes where they needed to go. Naella smiled a little for the cameras. She had been the only one in her alliance, in the end, who understood what the Gamemakers – and, more importantly, the audience – really wanted. They didn't want to see mere brute strength. They didn't want to see paranoid aggression – even if it was directed at the rebels. They wanted a Victor who was both strong and clever. Someone who could play the Game both physically and intellectually.

Someone like her.

Naella grasped Jaime's pocketknife tighter as the tunnel narrowed. It had only been a matter of time. There were so few tributes left now. Eventually, Jaime had to go. Maybe it was better that it had happened like this. Without a fight. Without a fuss. And without any injury to herself.

That was the important thing, in the end – she was still uninjured. Maybe the audience would be disappointed that there hadn't been more of a fight, but there would be time for that later – against opponents who posed less of a threat. If blood was what they wanted, then she would give it to them soon enough.

She just had to make sure it wasn't her blood.

There was still a tribute ahead, after all. A tribute who had killed. A tribute with a weapon. Maybe the boy in the tunnel ahead was no Career, but he had been smart enough to outlast nearly two-thirds of the tributes. He hadn't done that by accident.

But neither had she.

Imalia Grenier, 17
District Four

It wasn't an accident that they were both left.

Imalia glanced at Indira as the two of them left the greenhouse. Indira led the way out into the night, armed with one of the hand rakes they had taken from the girls and wearing one of their helmets. Imalia wore the other, carrying both a hand rake and her crowbar. She was struggling to keep up with Indira, but she didn't dare let it show.

She couldn't afford to look weak. Especially now. Now that there were only twelve of them left. If Indira wanted to lead for a while, that was fine. Maybe that was good. But she couldn't let the audience forget which one of them was a Career. Eventually, Indira would have to go.

But not yet. There were still twelve tributes left. Some of the others were Careers, too. And some might be in larger groups.

But not too many. There weren't very many large groups left. Jaime, Naella, and Brevin were still alive – but Brevin had been with the group of replacement tributes at the start of the Games. What were the chances that he had found Jaime and Naella?

What were the chances that he had even been looking for them – or they for him? She and Jarlan hadn't exactly spent any time looking for Mavina and Zach. Then again, either Brevin or the two girls could have found allies that she didn't know about – just as she had. Most of the other tributes would have no way of knowing she and Indira were allies.

So who else did that leave? Delvin was dead – not that she had ever really considered him an ally, anyway. One of the larger groups of outer-district tributes – a pair from Three, a pair from Eight, and girls from Nine and Six. How many of them were left? Three or four, maybe? But would they still be together, or would they have split apart by now?

All of Indira's district partners, she was fairly certain, were gone now – two of them within the last day. But Indira either wasn't bothered or was doing a fairly good job of hiding it. She hadn't shed a tear when their faces had appeared in the sky.

Maybe she was learning.

Imalia smiled a little as she followed Indira away from the greenhouse. Her ally wasn't the same squeamish girl who had stood by while Imalia had killed the pair of young tributes from Eleven. She was learning – and quickly. If she'd had the same training Imalia had, she might even have made a good Career.

But she had no training. And maybe that was a good thing. It would give Imalia an edge in a fight, if it ever came to that.

Imalia swallowed hard, her stomach churning at the thought. She hadn't hesitated when she'd asked Delvin to kill Jarlan. She hadn't thought twice about letting Shale go along with them to be killed – not really. So what made the thought of killing Indira different? Nothing at all.

Nothing except the fact that, this time, she wouldn't have Delvin around to do her dirty work for her. If the time came to kill Indira, she would have to do it herself. But could she?

Imalia clenched her crowbar tightly. She would. She would have to. Indira had to die – sooner or later – if she wanted to go home. It was unavoidable. It was inevitable.

Just not yet.

Melody Anson, 15
District Nine

She couldn't go to sleep yet.

Melody rubbed her eyes, trying desperately to keep them open. Just a little longer.

What, exactly, she was waiting for, she wasn't sure. Nothing was going to change in a few minutes. Or a few hours. She would still be sitting here, in the rain, watching Philus sleep. Hoping he wouldn't die – not yet.

Melody stretched a little. She didn't dare sleep. That had been the other boy's mistake, after all – the boy from Six. He had fallen asleep alone, and they had found him. She wasn't technically alone, of course, but she might as well be. Philus hadn't woken since the fight.

She was starting to think he might never wake up.

Melody fingered one of the knives the sponsors had sent. Would it be better to simply kill him now? Would that be more merciful? Maybe. Maybe it would, but, the longer she held the knife, the more certain she was that she wouldn't be able to do it. He looked so peaceful. The bandages did a good job of hiding just how badly he had been hurt.

But even if he did wake up, what was she supposed to do then? How could she ask him to keep watch, when he wouldn't be able to fend off any sort of attack even if another tribute did come? Or what if a tribute came while he was asleep? Even if she woke him, how could she expect him to run? Should she just leave him?

Was that any worse than killing him herself?

Melody shook her head. Maybe there was a difference. Maybe there wasn't. Maybe it didn't make a difference either way. Maybe she simply owed it to him to keep him alive as long as possible. He had saved her life, after all. Even after being injured by the bear, he had attacked the other boy. He had tried to help her.

Would she have done the same for him?

Melody turned the knife over in her hands. No. No, she wouldn't have saved him. She wouldn't have risked her own life for his. And, most likely, she wouldn't be able to save him now. He was sleeping soundly now, but it was only a matter of time before his injuries got the better of him. She wouldn't be able to save him.

But that didn't mean she had to kill him.

Suddenly, Philus stirred a little. Melody was at his side in an instant. Philus looked up, dazed, as if not fully comprehending what had happened. He tried to sit up, but, immediately, a look of pain crossed his face. Melody eased him back down. "Easy. Take it easy. You were hurt. But you're going to be just fine."

Philus shook his head. Whether he hadn't quite been able to read her lips in the dark, or whether he had and was simply disagreeing, Melody wasn't sure. Maybe it didn't matter. He wasn't going to die. Not now. Not yet.

Slowly, carefully, Philus sat up a little. He eyed the two knives that lay at Melody's feet. Melody tensed. Could he guess what she had considered doing? That she had been thinking about simply killing him? Was it that obvious?

But then Philus held out one hand for the knives, pointing to himself with the other, then to his eyes, then pointing out to the forest. Melody nodded and handed him a knife. He was offering to keep watch. And she was too tired to argue. She would have to rest eventually. And if he saw something, at least he could shake her awake.

That was better than nothing.

Philus Polaine, 13
District Eleven

This was better than nothing.

Philus fingered the knife Melody had given him as he stared out into the dark. Soon, Melody was asleep, her chest rising and falling peacefully. Easily. Without any pain or even discomfort.

It wasn't fair.

Philus ran his hand over the bandages that hid the wounds along his side and back. He had actually been awake for quite a while, but breathing was hard enough. Sitting up and keeping watch – that was harder. But he had to do this.

And keeping watch wasn't the only thing he had to do.

Philus swallowed hard, blinking the tears from his eyes as he watched his sleeping friend. It wasn't fair – what he was about to do. Melody had been kind to him. She'd accepted him as an ally when she'd had no reason to, without any thought of what he could offer in return. But it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before she decided that it would be more merciful to simply put him out of his misery.

Part of him was surprised that she hadn't tried already. She'd certainly had the chance. But that didn't mean that she hadn't considered it. Or that those thoughts wouldn't eventually get the better of her.

Wasn't it better to act now?

And if he did it – if he killed her now – maybe that would be enough. Enough to convince the Gamemakers that he was worth keeping around for a little while longer. Maybe even enough to convince a sponsor or two to send him something.

Because that was his only chance now – a blind hope that maybe someone in the audience would take pity on him, send him some medicine. He had no chance on his own – not with his injuries. And as long as he stayed with Melody, the sponsors would favor her over him.

That wasn't fair, of course. If he hadn't attacked the boy from Six, she would be dead. It was only because of him that she was alive in the first place. Killing her now … it would just even things out. He had saved her life.

Maybe he had every right to take it.

Philus gripped his knife tightly, creeping closer to where Melody still lay, undisturbed. Yes. Yes, that was it. He was simply correcting his mistake. He shouldn't have saved her. The knives the sponsors had sent the pair of them – they should have sent medicine instead. And they would, soon enough. Once he proved himself. Once he showed what he was capable of.

Philus raised his knife, took a deep breath, and brought it down hard. The knife pierced Melody's chest, and blood began to gush out. Melody's eyes snapped open. Her mouth was moving, but Philus didn't look. Couldn't look. He only stabbed again. And again. Finally, Melody's eyes closed. Her breathing stopped. He couldn't hear the cannon, but he knew.

It was over.

Domingo Ibanez, 14
District Seven

It was over.

Domingo shook his head as he twirled the knife in his hands. It was all over – or, at least, as good as over. The time he had spent in the station below the hatch. The relative safety he had enjoyed. The feeling that maybe – just maybe – he had what it took to survive. All of that was gone.

It was as good as over. Maybe even his life was as good as over. How long had he been sitting here in the dark, waiting for the end? There had been four cannons since the girls had left to find another entrance. The anthem had come and gone, but, with the hatch closed, he hadn't been able to see the faces in the sky. He had no way of knowing who was gone … or who was left.

Domingo clenched his fists. Maybe the girls were dead. Maybe someone else had found them. Or maybe they had given up. Maybe they thought he was dead. After all, if he was dead, there was no reason for him to come down here.

Maybe…

Maybe that was it. Domingo took a deep breath. If the Careers were still alive, and if they did make their way down here, what if they found nothing? Or what if they found blood – or other evidence of a fight? Would they assume that he was dead and simply go on their way?

And maybe then he could follow them out. With the hatch closed, after all, he was trapped here – unless the Careers did manage to find a way in. Domingo stood up, clutching his knife tightly. His plan only worked if the girls found evidence of a fight. Which only worked if they could see.

"All right," Domingo whispered, hoping. "You can turn the lights back on now."

At first, nothing happened. But then, slowly, one after another, the lights flickered back on. Domingo smiled a little. A little bit of luck, at least. Maybe that meant the Gamemakers weren't done with him yet. Maybe he was still interesting enough.

Maybe they could tell he had a plan.

Quickly, Domingo made his way back to the main room, where he grabbed a spare jumpsuit. He hurried back to the spot directly beneath the hatch, where he had fought the boy from Ten. The body was gone, but the ground had been stained red with blood – blood that still lingered in the puddles on the floor. Domingo smiled, swirling the jumpsuit around in the puddles until it, too, was stained with blood.

With the help of his knife, Domingo quickly tore the jumpsuit to shreds. Maybe it would look like some sort of animal had attacked. Maybe the Careers would even assume it would attack again – and go back the way they had come. Maybe.

Domingo quickly ducked around the corner and pressed his back to the wall. That was a lot of maybes. But, right now, 'maybe' was all he had. Maybe the Careers would fall for his trick. Maybe he could follow them out. Maybe the Gamemakers would be impressed enough that they would simply let him go.

Maybe he could survive this, after all.

Eldred Brand
Bartender

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all.

Eldred turned the door handle slowly, still not sure why, exactly, he had offered to do this. Why he thought he could succeed where Harakuise had failed. Harakuise had much more experience, after all, with manipulating people to do things. He was just a secretary. Just a bartender. Just a father trying to provide for his family.

But maybe that was exactly what made him more qualified.

Clutching his folder of pictures tightly, Eldred opened the door. Nicodemus lay on a bed in the center of the room. For a moment, he appeared to be asleep, but, as Eldred took a few steps closer, Nicodemus opened his eyes.

"So you're not a bartender, after all."

It wasn't a question. Wasn't even an accusation, really. Just an acknowledgment that Eldred hadn't been all he had appeared to be. Eldred shook his head. "Was it that obvious?"

Nicodemus actually smiled a little. "If you don't mind my saying so … yes."

Eldred cocked an eyebrow. "Then why not say anything to the other Victors? Why not warn them that—"

"What? That they were being spied on? What difference would it make? We'd always assumed the bar was bugged, anyway. What's one more pair of listening ears?"

Eldred shook his head. "So you just … have nothing to hide, then?"

"Do I look like a man with secrets?"

No. No, he didn't. In fact, he didn't look like a man with much of anything. He looked like an open book – with half its pages torn out and the rest irreparably stained and tattered. Whatever fight he'd once had in him – whatever drive had led him to victory during his own Games – it was gone now.

But Eldred said none of that. Instead, he simply took a seat in the chair by Nicodemus' side. Nicodemus waited a moment, but, when Eldred didn't reply, finally asked the obvious. "Why are you here, Eldred?"

"I'm here to ask for your help."

Nicodemus closed his eyes. "Harakuise already tried."

Eldred smiled a little. "I know. But I thought I might be able to … present the situation a bit differently. And the president agreed."

"How you present the situation won't make one bit of difference. The president, the Peacekeepers, the Capitol – they got themselves into this mess. Why should I help them get out of it?"

"Because you're being manipulated."

"Clearly."

"But not by the Capitol. Think it through, Nicodemus. Who would benefit from your death? Not the Capitol – and certainly not President Grisom. If your death was going to help him, he would have killed you a year ago – or simply let you die, rather than going to all the trouble to save your life."

Nicodemus shook his head a little. "I'd worked out that much already. But then who?"

"The rebels."

Nicodemus chuckled a little. But, slowly, his laughter faded, and he opened his eyes. "You're serious."

"Very."

"Why would the rebels want me dead?"

Eldred leaned forward a little. "They don't want you dead, exactly. They just want the effect your death would have on the district. And they're willing to kill you to get it."

"What do you mean?"

"They need a martyr. Someone who stood up to the Capitol – and paid the price. Someone who was willing to give his life for a higher cause. And if you die, they have exactly what they want."

"I'm not a rebel."

"Of course not. But that won't stop them from painting you as one. What you did last year, you did out of mercy. But it won't be hard for them to paint it as an act of defiance. Rebellion. They could have used your death to fuel what support they've been able to muster. It may even have been a tipping point."

"But I'm not dead."

"Exactly. Someone didn't do their job. Or only did it halfway. Maybe someone assumed that an attempted murder would be as good as the real thing. Maybe they even hoped that an attempt on your life might sway you to their cause."

Nicodemus shook his head. "You keep saying they. Do you know? Do you know who tried to kill me?"

"No," Eldred admitted. "But we do know one thing. We know what will happen if they continue to believe they were successful." He handed Nicodemus the folder he was carrying.

Nicodemus hesitated for a moment, but then opened it. Eldred waited while Nicodemus flipped through the pictures. Images that had been taken in District Six.

Nicodemus' hands were shaking as he held out an image – a man's body strung up in a window, his arms and legs broken. The words Remember Byron had been painted above the window, but across the man's chest, etched in his own blood, were two more words: Remember Nicodemus.

Nicodemus' voice was shaky. "This is—"

"One of the Peacekeepers who was taken hostage, yes," Eldred finished. "You told Harakuise that maybe this was exactly what they deserved. If you still believe that – if you believe that anyone deserves this – then, by all means, stay here. But if you're the man I think you are, then you won't stand for anyone using your name to promote this kind of violence. Is this what Byron would want? Is this what you want?"

"Of course not. But—"

"But nothing, Nicodemus! Are you really so naïve that you think this will end once those Peacekeepers are dead? The Capitol will kill the rebels – and why? What are they really dying for, in the end? What stake do they have in all this? Remember Byron. Their deaths won't bring Byron back. Their deaths won't stop more people from dying. They will only spawn more unrest, more thirst for revenge, until their anger spills over once more, and more lives are destroyed."

"And you think I can stop it?"

"I don't know. But if you try – if you, of all people, call for them to stand down – I think most of them will think twice." He shook his head. "And what's the alternative? The president has a squad standing by, ready to level the building. That's one way to end this. But if you help us … maybe we can find another."

Nicodemus sifted through the pictures once more. Pictures of the twenty-three Peacekeepers who had been taken hostage. Pictures of their families. Their loved ones. Finally, he nodded, set the image of the building back on top of the pile, and handed the stack back to Eldred.

"All right," Nicodemus said quietly. "All right. But I want two things."

Eldred nodded. "Name them."

"Merciful deaths for the leaders of the rebels."

"Granted." Nicodemus had known better, of course, than to ask that their lives be spared. That was something the president would never have approved. But a quick, merciful death – surely that wouldn't be a problem. Not with President Grisom. "And the second thing?"

"A pardon for the person who tried to kill me."

Eldred cocked an eyebrow. "Why would you ask for something like that?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "Because I know who it was."

Phoebe Trenton
District Six Escort

"How could you do this?"

Phoebe glared at Nicodemus, trembling. Her dress torn, her hands cuffed behind her back. Trying not to cry. Trying not to look as afraid as she felt. Trying to stand tall in front of the president and the man she had poisoned.

She wasn't sure which one she was more frightened of.

Phoebe clenched her fists. Nicodemus should be grateful. She was the one who had convinced the rebels that it wasn't necessary to kill him – only to make it look like the Capitol was trying to kill him.

That had been her mistake, of course. She had been too generous. Too kind. The Capitol would never have done the job halfway. They would have made sure that Nicodemus was dead. She had saved his life. But he couldn't see it.

"How could you do this?" she repeated. "I trusted you. I was kind to you. I—"

"You used me." Nicodemus' voice was thin and shaky. "Just like you used Byron. You took that boy's death and you manipulated it into a reason to start a rebellion."

"It is a reason to start a rebellion!"

"Phoebe—" Nicodemus nodded towards the president.

"I don't care! They're going to kill me, anyway!"

President Grisom shook his head. "No. We're not."

Phoebe stared, her head starting to spin. She had tried to kill a Victor. She had supported the rebellion, and had just said so in front of the President of Panem. And they weren't going to kill her?

"That was a condition of Nicodemus' cooperation," Grisom explained. "You were not to be harmed."

"Cooperation?" Phoebe turned on Nicodemus. "Cooperation with what?"

"With the situation in District Six," Grisom answered.

Nicodemus nodded. "I'm going to talk to the rebels. Persuade them to stand down. The leaders will be executed – quickly, mercifully – and the others will be permitted to return to their lives. This ends here, Phoebe. The cycle of violence ends now."

"But the Games…" How could he claim to be putting an end to the violence while the Games continued?

Nicodemus shook his head. "This was never about the Games. And if it ever was, it's grown far beyond that. This is about revenge. But where does it stop? The tributes rebel. The Peacekeepers can't execute their families, so they choose people at random. Their families kill the Peacekeepers responsible – and then a few more. The Capitol retaliates. The rebels do the same. When does it end?"

"When justice is satisfied."

"Justice?"

"For the districts. Surely you, of all people, can see it. We need another rebellion to right the wrongs that have been done."

"And then what?"

"What?"

Nicodemus smiled weakly. "After you've righted the wrongs of the world, after a government you trust is put in place, after Panem is free and those responsible for the oppression are punished … then what? What happens when the Capitol's children decide that it's the districts who are oppressing them? What happens when the sons and daughters of those killed on the other side of the rebellion decide that they want justice? It doesn't end, Phoebe – this wheel that you're trying to turn in the districts' favor. It doesn't stop rolling once it's been set in motion."

"I know. And it's a terrible price to pay, but I'm willing to pay it. The rebels are willing to pay it."

"But I'm not. And I'm willing to bet that most of them aren't, either. I'm willing to bet that they haven't thought it through. That most of them don't realize what they're really doing. That I can stop this."

Phoebe smiled a little. Still naïve. The rebels wouldn't back down – no matter what he said. What had been set in motion couldn't be stopped.

Phoebe shook her head. "And what about me?"

President Grisom took a step forward. "You'll be replaced as District Six's escort, obviously. Relocated to a small residence on the edge of the Capitol, where you can live out the rest of your life in peace – under our surveillance, of course."

"And what am I supposed to do?"

"Whatever you like. Outside this room, only two people know that you were responsible for what happened to Nicodemus – and I trust their discretion. You can give whatever explanation you want for your resignation – within reason, of course."

Nicodemus nodded. "Find a job. Live your life. And stay out of this. It's not your fight."

Phoebe clenched her fists. He didn't understand. It was her fight. It had always been her fight. The struggle for justice – it was everyone's fight.

He had simply given up.

"I know what it's like to feel joy... to feel pain, anger, fear... to experience betrayal. I know what it's like to lose someone you love."