Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Results of the Victor poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll on my profile, this time asking who you want to see as the Victor. As usual, read the chapter first, as anyone who dies in this one won't be included in the poll.

Friendly reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, still has an open SYOT, so send some tributes her way.

Day Five
Clean Up

President Silas Grisom

"Are we ready?"

Silas glanced at Eldred, who was steadying the camera. Silas had to admit, the man was a quick study. He would have preferred to have an experienced cameraman, but he couldn't risk letting more people know what was going on in District Six. Not yet. Not until they'd managed to contain the damage. So it was just the four of them. Himself. Eldred. Harakuise. And Nicodemus.

"Ready as we'll ever be," Eldred nodded. "Nicodemus, are you sure you don't want a prep team to—"

Nicodemus shook his head weakly, his face pale. He had managed to sit up, and Eldred had moved him from the bed to his wheelchair, but he still looked like he might collapse at any moment. The doctors had assured Silas that he would eventually make a full recovery – from the poison, at least – but for now…

"No," Nicodemus insisted – the same answer as the last five times one of them had asked. "If they see anything – anything – that suggests I'm simply doing as I'm told, that I'm being manipulated by the Capitol, that could ruin everything. They need to realize that this is coming from me, or it means nothing."

He was right, of course. Silas took a step towards Harakuise and Eldred, beyond the view of the camera. "We're transmitting to every screen in the building," Harakuise explained. "If they answer – from anywhere – it'll appear on both of these." He gestured to a screen directly beside the camera, and another one in his hands. "We'll all be able to see them, but you're the only one they'll see, Nicodemus. Are you ready?"

"Absolutely not." Nicodemus smiled wryly. "But that's never stopped anything before. Let's do this."

Eldred nodded. "All right, then. You're live in five. Four." He held up three fingers. Then two. Then one.

Nicodemus took a deep breath. "Hello? Is anybody there? This is Nicodemus Ford, calling with a message from—"

"We can hear you." Almost immediately – almost as if they'd been expecting the transmission – a face appeared on the screen. A man, perhaps in his thirties. Pale skin, average height and build, brown hair with a short beard. All in all, he didn't look particularly threatening. But everyone in the room knew better than to judge him by his appearance.

Nicodemus tensed a little. "I'm Nicodemus. What's your name?"

"My name isn't important. None of our names are important. History won't remember our names – but they will remember what we accomplish."

Nicodemus nodded a little. "And what is it you're going to accomplish?"

"Justice."

Justice again. Surely people realized by now that there was no such thing. One person's justice was a second person's oppression – and a third person's revenge. Maybe justice was meaningful – but only as an ideal. Something to strive towards – not something that would be accomplished in any of their lifetimes. Certainly not something worth all the death that had been dealt in its name.

Maybe it was a good thing Nicodemus was the one doing the talking, because he didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he wheeled a little closer to the camera. "Justice for your son, Mr. Gordon?"

The man on the screen raised his eyebrows, startled. "You recognized me?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "No. No, I don't believe we've ever met. But I knew your son – however briefly – and I know his eyes. You're Byron's father, or I've gone blind."

"You haven't gone blind," the man confirmed. "I'm terribly sorry for—"

"I know. I'm sorry, too – for all of it. But that's not why we're talking now. I have an offer for you – from the president."

Mr. Gordon's face darkened. "You're working for them now?"

"I'm working for peace, Mr. Gordon. I'm willing to work with them to get it – and they're willing to work with you. We all want the same thing."

Mr. Gordon shook his head. "No. No, I'm afraid we don't, Nicodemus."

"At least hear me out. Please. What do you have to lose?"

The man turned, perhaps consulting with the rest of his group. When he turned back to the screen, he nodded. "What's your offer?"

"You release the hostages – the ones you haven't killed – and surrender yourselves. Your leaders will be granted a quick execution, and the rest will be allowed to go free." He hesitated, well aware that all he was offering to Mr. Gordon – clearly one of the leaders – was death. "Think about the others. Think about their families. Do you really want—"

"Think about their families?" Mr. Gordon demanded. "Think about their families, when mine was destroyed by the people you want us to release? And we're just supposed to trust that if we release our hostages, the Capitol won't go back on their word? When has the Capitol's word ever been worth a damn?"

Nicodemus leaned forward a little. "It's not the Capitol's word. It's mine. For whatever my word is worth to you, I assure you, those who were simply following – those who were persuaded or coerced into joining you – will not be harmed."

Mr. Gordon hesitated, then gave some sort of signal to his group. "And how will you know the difference? How will you know which of us were followers – and which were the leaders?"

Nicodemus shook his head. "I guess I'll just have to trust you, too."

Mr. Gordon smiled a little. "Very well, then. I'm their leader."

Nicodemus nodded, but, before he could say anything, a woman took Mr. Gordon's place in front of the camera. "I'm their leader."

The next face belonged to a boy – no more than eighteen or nineteen. "I'm their leader."

One after another. Face after face. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Silas counted forty-seven by the time they had all passed in front of the screen. The last face belonged to a girl – no more than ten years old – with the same brown eyes as Mr. Gordon. "I'm their leader," she whispered before disappearing behind her father.

Mr. Gordon seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then set his jaw. "Well, I guess that settles it." He gave a nod to someone offscreen.

There was a loud boom. Something flashed. Then the screen went black. Nicodemus' gaze shot over to Harakuise, who quickly pressed a few buttons. Immediately, another image appeared on the screen. An outside view of the building – or, at least, where the building used to be. The whole building was engulfed in flames. Silas turned to Harakuise. "Did your operatives—"

Harakuise simply shook his head. "No. No, this was them. Maybe this was their plan all along. If they couldn't escape – all of them – then they would all become martyrs for their cause. Not a bad plan. If the district figures out—"

"Let me talk to them," Nicodemus interrupted. "District Six. Let me talk to them. Explain what happened. Please."

Silas hesitated. If they let Nicodemus broadcast a message to the whole district, he could say anything. Was this the chance he'd been waiting for? Had it all been an elaborate plan – maybe even involving Phoebe and the rest – to give him an audience for what he wanted to say now?

Silas turned to Eldred, who nodded quickly. Emphatically. Without any hesitation. That was good enough for Silas. "Do it," he agreed.

"Mr. President—" Harakuise began.

"Just do it."

Harakuise and Eldred flipped a few switches, then turned the camera back on. Eldred nodded to Nicodemus. "Whenever you're ready."

Nicodemus took a deep breath. "It's over. Whatever you think happened – whatever you might have heard was happening in our district – it's over now. It's done. The people responsible for the destruction that's been caused are gone. They've taken their own lives – and others, as well. But there will be no retaliation. There will be no revenge.

"Why? Because it has to stop somewhere. Eventually, when the blood and the fear and the destruction have become too great, we have to take a step back and think – really think – about what we're hoping to accomplish. Do we want justice? Do we want revenge? Or do we want something better? Something greater? Do we have what it takes to work together to bring about what we all really want: peace?

"It's easy to point fingers. It's easy to start laying blame. Maybe it's their fault. Maybe it's our fault. Maybe it's everyone's fault. Or maybe … maybe it doesn't even matter anymore. Maybe we've travelled so far down a road stained with blood that it doesn't even matter who started it. Maybe the question we have to ask is: Who will be the ones to end it?

"I ask you – no, I beg you – to let it be you. Whoever you are – citizens or Peacekeepers, loyalists or rebels – I'm pleading with you now to be the ones to end it. Be the people who stand up and say, No. No, I'm not going to fight and die and kill for something I know I can never accomplish. No, I'm not going to give into the thirst for revenge. No. I'm better than that.

"You are better than that. All of you. We are better than that. Stronger than that. We have a choice today. We can be a voice calling out for revenge, for blood, for war. Or we can be a voice that cries out for peace. The choice is mine. And it is yours. Make your choice."

Nicodemus nodded to Eldred, who switched off the camera. Immediately, Nicodemus slumped back in his chair. Eldred hurried to his side. "Are you all right?"

"Just tired," Nicodemus assured him. "Do you think it worked?"

"We'll know soon enough," Harakuise reasoned. "Most of the more fanatic rebels were probably in that building. The ones who were left – I think what you said would be enough to persuade them."

"And the Peacekeepers—"

"Will follow their orders," Silas assured him. "They won't like it, but they'll do it. You did well, Nicodemus."

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for my district. They've suffered enough because of the actions of a few who didn't stop to consider the consequences." He shook his head. "I won't let it happen again."

Silas nodded. "That's all I needed to hear."

Naella Sareen, 18
District Two

She had everything she needed.

Naella gripped her knife tightly as the light at the end of the sewers grew brighter. She was closer now. So close. Whatever was waiting for her at the end of the tunnel, it wouldn't be long now.

Part of her wished Jaime was still by her side. Or even Inviticus or Auster, Brevin or Kendall. Maybe even Septimus. For the first time in the arena, she was really, truly alone.

She had thought she would prefer it that way. Her allies hadn't done much besides slow her down, after all. Even Jaime, who had certainly been useful, had been a bit of a burden. It had been her idea to turn on Inviticus during the bloodbath, which had cost them Auster. It had been her stupid idea to swim to the lighthouse. And she had been too trusting, in the end, to realize that only one of them was going to find the entrance to the tunnels.

So she'd had to go. But the silence, the stillness, wasn't as welcoming as Naella had always imagined it would be. It wasn't as comforting as she had thought. Even the running water did nothing to drown out the sense of emptiness in the tunnel. And emptiness, now that it came down to it, wasn't necessarily a good thing. It only meant that the danger was still ahead.

It had to be. There had been two cannons since the faces had appeared in the sky. But one of them had been Jaime's. That left one cannon. One other tribute who had died. What were the chances that it had been the boy who was down here?

But what if it was? What if she was chasing a tribute who was no longer alive? What would the Gamemakers do then? Would they flood the tunnel? Would they send in mutts? Naella clutched her knife tighter. If they were going to – if the boy really was dead – they would have done something by now.

Wouldn't they?

Naella clenched her teeth as she crawled forward. Closer and closer to the light. It wouldn't take long for her to find out. She was close now. So close.

The light grew brighter. Closer. If there was someone waiting for her, he would probably be standing right by the entrance. So she couldn't afford to be cautious. Couldn't afford to exit the tunnel slowly. She would have to rush in fighting. She didn't have the element of surprise – that much was certain. The boy – assuming he was still alive – would be expecting her.

So she would just have to expect him, too.

Naella took a deep breath, crawled forward as quickly as she could, and rolled out of the tunnel, knife drawn. But there was nothing. No attack. As she sprang to her feet, no one appeared to challenge her. Quickly, she glanced from side to side. There was nothing. No one. Nothing except a torn, blood-stained jumpsuit that lay at her feet. Naella gripped her knife, surveying the area as quickly but as thoroughly as she could.

Could the boy be dead, after all?

Domingo Ibanez, 14
District Seven

Could they really have fallen for it?

Domingo crouched as low as he could inside the closet, hoping. He could hear noises in the other room. Footsteps. But no voices. Were they trying to be quiet, hoping that he wouldn't notice they were there? Or was the reason they weren't talking because there was only one of them?

That would make things easier. Maybe fighting off one Career wasn't ideal, but it was much better than trying to fight off two at once. If the girl wasn't armed, if he could somehow catch her by surprise, was that a fight he could win?

Domingo clenched the scalpel tightly. What were the chances that a Career was still unarmed this far into the Games? What were the chances that there was really only one of them out there? What if they were simply trying to lure him out by making him think there was only one, making him think they were less of a threat? No. No, it was better to stick with the original plan: stay hidden, hope they left, and then, after he was sure it was safe, try to follow them.

After he was sure it was safe. But when would that be? He didn't want to wait so long that he would lose sight of them completely. Clearly, they had found another way in, which made them his best chance of finding a way out. And although he still had plenty of food and water, he couldn't stay down here forever. Eventually, he would have to leave.

So it might as well be now. He had stuffed some food into his pockets, in case he had to leave in a hurry. He just hoped he lived long enough to eat it.

Silence. One minute, then another, passed in silence. After a while, even the footsteps faded. Did that mean the Careers had left? Or were they waiting for him? Hoping that if they pretended to leave, he would show himself?

Domingo took a deep breath. Sooner or later, he would have to come out of hiding. Maybe they had left. Maybe he was safe. Maybe. Maybe…

'Maybe' would have to be enough for now. As quietly as he could, Domingo crawled out of the closet. Slowly, he got to his feet and peeked out into the main room. He took one step. Then another. Glancing around frantically, trying to catch any hint of movement.

Just then, he saw her. She had found the pantry, and was quickly stuffing her pockets. Domingo clenched his teeth. This was his chance. If she was distracted enough by the food, maybe he could sneak past her. Maybe.

But how had she gotten in?

Before he could figure it out, however, the girl turned. Grinning. A knife in her hand. "So there you are. That was a neat trick – slicing up a jumpsuit."

Domingo backed up a little, surprised. But he forced himself to smile. "Not a bad idea, huh?"

The girl took a step forward, fingering her knife. Toying with him. She knew there was nowhere for him to run. "Not bad – but not good enough. Any last words?"

Domingo backed up. Farther. Farther. She's still talking. He was stalling, but why was she talking? Was it all for show? Was she trying to impress the audience? Was she worried that he might have allies somewhere who would go after her as soon as she attacked him? Or was she afraid that a simple, easy kill wouldn't be enough to impress the audience? Domingo's mind raced. Last words.

That was it.

Domingo looked up, grinning, at the Career who was practically on top of him. Then he gave a little shrug and offered two words.

"Black smoke."

Naella Sareen, 18
District Two

"Black smoke."

Naella cocked an eyebrow, confused. Black smoke? What was that supposed to mean? Was the boy simply spouting nonsense, hoping it would get her to back off, or at least make her think twice? She had been trying to give the audience a little suspense, but enough was enough. They would have to make do with however much of a fight the boy managed to give her.

She lunged. The boy quickly dodged – and ran. But he couldn't run far. He only made it to the end of the passageway – nearly to the sewer tunnel – before she caught up to him. The boy turned, his back pressed against the wall, holding up his knife and trying not to shake.

So Naella dove for his legs, instead. The boy, who had expected her to strike higher, didn't have time to dodge as her pocketknife sliced across his thigh. He gave a loud cry, lashing out blindly with his own knife as he crumpled to the ground. Naella dodged his blow easily, and her second slice found his arm. Desperate, the boy made the mistake of throwing his own knife, hoping to hit her, but the throw was wide and clumsy. Naella dealt a kick to the boy's stomach, then knelt down, her knee pressing into his chest. The boy's eyes were wide as Naella raised her hand, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

But, just as she brought her arm down, there was an odd, mechanical noise – almost like some sort of ticking. Something struck her – something huge and black. Smoke, she realized as the creature lifted her into the air. It was a mutt made entirely of black smoke.

Up and up. Higher and higher. Naella gripped her knife tightly, instinctively doing the only thing she could think of – lashing out at the smoke.

Stupid, of course. It was only smoke. There was no reason to think that striking out at it would make it drop her. But it did. Only after it had released her, however, did Naella realize that was probably the last thing she wanted. Down she fell. Faster and faster, as the mutt continued to climb. Up. Up, towards the hatch door. The door opened, and the mutt disappeared into the night.

She could have been with it.

Instead, she tumbled down into the darkness. But instead of striking the ground, as she had expected, she hit water with a terrifying crack.

Pain. Pain, sharp as needles, flooded her body. It took her a moment to realize that she was underwater.

It took her even longer to realize that the boy was on top of her. With a knife. A knife that came down before she even had a chance to think. Naella reached out, fumbling, trying to find her own knife. But the impact of the water had swept it from her grasp. She had nothing. Nothing at all.

Nothing except pain. Naella sputtered as her head disappeared beneath the water. It wasn't fair. Why had the Gamemakers helped him? What had he done to earn their favor? More likely than not, he was going to die, anyway, with the water quickly rising – rushing in from the sewers. Naella clung to that thought as the world quickly faded to black. If she was going to die down here, then at least he was, too.

She just hoped he couldn't swim.

Domingo Ibanez, 14
District Seven

He couldn't swim.

Domingo glanced around frantically as water continued to fill the tunnels. He couldn't quite tell where it was coming from, but, wherever it was, he couldn't escape that way. The water was coming in too quickly. That left only the hatch.

But how could he reach it?

Domingo tucked his knife in his pocket. It wasn't going to be any more use. The girl's cannon had sounded. She was already dead. But maybe she was the lucky one. Her death had been painful, to be sure, but it had been over rather quickly. Drowning, on the other hand…

The water was already up to his waist. It wouldn't be long. He had to think of something. Something.

Think.

But it was so hard to think. It was getting hard even to stand. Pain filled his leg where the girl's knife had sliced through his flesh. He could barely feel his left arm. Maybe it would be easier not to try. To just lie down and let it happen. Or even sitting. Sitting would be easier. Maybe he could think then…

Sitting.

Fighting the pain in his leg, Domingo waded back to the main room of the station. As quickly as he could, he grabbed a chair and, using it as a crutch most of the way, dragged it back to the entrance. The water had reached his chest. Covered the girl's body. But the chair – the chair was made of wood.

And any kid from District Seven knew that most wood would float.

Domingo clung tightly to the seat of the chair as the water began to rise. Higher. Higher. The water reached his neck, but the chair floated. Up. Up. Domingo's feet left the ground as the water continued to rise. The same way the smoke had gone. The same way the girl could have gone, if she had held on instead of fighting.

He held on.

Finally, just as Domingo was sure he couldn't hold on any longer, the water stopped rising, just at the edge of the hatch. Domingo took a deep breath and reached for the edge of the ground with one hand, pulling himself closer and closer. Finally, he managed to roll over onto dry ground.

Well, wet ground. But that was good enough for now. Domingo closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Blood stained his clothes, which were once again soaking wet. Everything hurt. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and fall asleep for a week.

But he couldn't. Not here. Not out in the open. Slowly, Domingo dragged himself to a nearby tree. The same tree, he realized, that Calantha had been tied to, so long ago. The same tree where the girl from Three had tortured her. Where the black smoke had first saved his life.

And now it had saved him again.

No. No, Domingo realized as he leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes. The smoke had given him a chance. It had evened the odds a bit. But it hadn't saved his life. He didn't owe his life to anyone – not the Gamemakers, not the audience, and certainly not a column of black smoke. They hadn't saved him. They hadn't killed the girl. They hadn't helped him escape drowning.

He had done that himself.

Thane Hayer, 17
District Nine

How had he gotten himself into this mess?

Thane shook his head, gripping his hand rake as he and Evander made their way closer and closer to the light at the greenhouse. He had hoped to make it there sooner, but, somehow, it seemed farther on the way back. Maybe he had chased Evander farther away than he'd thought. Maybe it simply seemed farther now that he was tired. He hadn't slept, after all, since leaving Sariya and Audra.

Sariya and Audra. That was the problem, of course. He had told Evander that there were two Careers waiting at the greenhouse. He had expected – perhaps foolishly, he knew now – to find Sariya and Audra exactly where he had left them. They weren't Careers, of course, but they had been part of Septimus' alliance, as well. That might have been enough to satisfy Evander.

But now they were dead.

So who was at the greenhouse now? Whoever had killed Sariya and Audra might still be there. Did he really want to face a tribute – or an alliance – that had managed to kill two of his allies, both of whom had been armed as well as he was now? What if there really were Careers there? Were there any groups of Careers left?

And would they still be there?

Thane clutched his weapon tightly. There was no telling how long ago his allies had died – which cannons had been theirs. It could have been shortly after he'd left them. Or it could have been shortly before the faces had appeared.

He wasn't really sure which to hope for. If they had been killed earlier, then maybe whoever was responsible had left. Maybe there would be no one at the greenhouse when they arrived. But then what were they supposed to do? He and Evander had only allied in order to take down the 'Careers' and raid their supplies. Would the second part of that plan be enough to satisfy the audience?

Or would they want a fight?

Would Evander insist on waiting until the others came back? But what if they didn't? What if whoever had killed Sariya and Audra was gone for good? Would Evander end up turning on him? If so, then maybe it would be better to attack now, while Evander wouldn't expect it. It might be easy…

But he might still need him. If there was someone at the greenhouse, the audience would still expect a fight – a fight Thane might not be able to give them on his own. Whoever was there – if they were still there – had been able to overpower both Audra and Sariya. Maybe the girls weren't the best fighters in the arena, but there were two of them. Which meant there were probably at least two of their attackers.

Which meant he would need Evander.

Unless they had killed each other. That was the third possibility. Maybe Audra and Sariya had turned on each other when they had discovered that he was missing. A few days ago, he might not have thought it possible. But now, anything seemed likely. He had allied with a tribute from District Three in the hopes of taking down two of his former allies. He wasn't exactly in a position to judge them if they had attacked each other.

Thane ducked lower as he and Evander approached the greenhouse. He wasn't in a position to do much of anything. He couldn't attack Evander without risking a fight with stronger tributes – a fight he would have to face alone. He couldn't suggest they abandon their plan without drawing the boy's suspicion. He couldn't do anything but stick to the plan. He would just have to wait it out and hope.

But at least he wouldn't be waiting long.

Evander Mercado, 16
District Three

There wasn't anything to do but wait.

Evander ducked lower as he and Thane crept closer and closer to the building that he could now see was some sort of greenhouse. He had thought about running. About trying to escape. About asking Thane to call the whole plan off.

He didn't need food, after all. He didn't have much with him, but there was plenty of food back at the houses. All he had to do was go back there. But he couldn't. He had told Thane he wanted revenge against the Careers. The audience believed he wanted revenge against the Careers for what they had done to Jediah and Nadine.

And they had to keep believing it.

Because there was no other reason for what he had done. No other reason for choosing not to fight Thane, for agreeing to ally with him, instead. He couldn't simply walk away now – not without revealing the truth.

And the truth could kill him just as easily as whatever tributes were up ahead.

Because the truth, now that it came down to it, was that he simply didn't want to fight anymore. He didn't want to kill anyone else. And that was something the audience could never know.

Not being able to kill – that was one thing. A tribute who fought and lost – that they understood. A tribute who was outmatched, outwitted, or simply not lucky enough to win a fight. But one who chose not to kill, one who refused to kill or one who walked away from a fair fight, would be considered a rebel.

And that was something he couldn't afford.

Evander clenched his fists. He wasn't a rebel. He wasn't. But it wasn't enough for him to know that. He had to prove it to the audience. So he had to stay with Thane. He had to see the plan through.

He had to fight.

But as the pair of them approached the greenhouse, Thane slowed. "I don't see anyone. Do you?"

Evander shook his head. From where they stood, the greenhouse appeared to be empty. But it could be a trick. "Maybe they're sleeping," he offered.

Thane shook his head. "Or they're hiding – waiting for anyone who might stumble in."

Evander swallowed hard. He liked his own idea better – at least a little. If the tributes there were sleeping, then killing them would be easy. Quick. Merciful, even. Part of him felt terrible for thinking it, but being killed in their sleep – that was about as good as death got in the Games.

But there was just as good a chance that Thane was right – that they were simply waiting, hiding behind the plants, hoping for a tribute or two to stumble in. Tributes like them.

Evander glanced at Thane, hoping for some sign that he might back out. But there was no hesitation in the other boy's face. Thane simply shrugged.

"I guess we'll just have to see which one of us is right."

Thane Hayer, 17
District Nine

Neither of them was right.

Thane glanced around as he and Evander entered the greenhouse. He made a show of searching every place where a tribute might be hiding, but it was obvious from the moment they entered: the greenhouse was empty.

Except for the food, of course. Evander was already stuffing his pockets with all the vegetables he could carry, wolfing down a few bites in between handfuls. Was it all for show, or was he really that hungry? Thane stuffed a few extra vegetables in his pockets, but the truth was that he already had more than he would need for the next few days.

And, at the rate the Games were going, a few days were all they had.

Of course, a few minutes could be all he had if he didn't do something soon. He hadn't had a good reason to come back to the greenhouse – not if all they were going to do was raid supplies that, by now, it was clear no one was guarding. The audience would never be satisfied with two tributes allying to take down Careers that didn't exist, then parting ways peacefully after gathering a few vegetables. It wouldn't be long before the Gamemakers stepped in and did something.

So he would have to do something first.

"I'm going to stand guard – make sure no one's coming," Thane offered, heading for the door. Evander nodded casually, but Thane could see him watching out of the corner of his eye. The boy was as suspicious as Thane was.

Of course he was. Thane shook the thought from his head. No one made it this far in the Games simply by being trusting – or trustworthy. The boy was probably waiting for the right moment to turn on him. Thane kept Evander in his sight as he made his way out the door.

Part of him wanted to run. To simply leave, the way he had left Audra and Sariya. The Gamemakers hadn't stopped him then. Why should they care if he left now? What was the difference?

But there was a difference – and it wasn't simply the fact that there were fewer tributes left now. Audra and Sariya had been his allies. He hadn't been particularly close to either of them, but they had worked together for days. Sariya had been his district partner. And there had been two of them. The audience clearly understood that it had been safer to simply leave them than to attempt to fight them.

But Evander…

Evander wasn't a friend. Wasn't a district partner. And he had only been an ally because neither of them had wanted to fight while they were both clearly exhausted. But now…

They were still tired, to be sure. But they had been taking it slow, making sure they would be ready to attack when they arrived at the greenhouse. They had been ready – or, at least, as ready as they were ever going to be. The audience was expecting a fight.

And, one way or another, they would get one.

Thane clenched his fists, glancing around frantically. He had thought, for a moment, that he had heard something in the jungle. Maybe it was simply his imagination. Or maybe it was the Gamemakers. Maybe they were giving him a signal, warning him that it was time for him to make a move – before they did.

Thane nodded, reached down, and grabbed the biggest, thickest stick he could find. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Evander watching him. Trying to figure out what he was planning to do with a stick that he couldn't do with his hand rake. Thane saw Evander's eyes widen as he put the pieces together.

But it was too late.

Evander Mercado, 16
District Three

It was too late.

Evander braced himself as Thane struck the greenhouse wall with his stick. Once. Then twice. Evander raced for the door, hoping, but the third blow shattered the wall, sending glass spewing in every direction as the greenhouse came crashing down, knocking Evander off his feet as he ran.

It shouldn't have done that. That was the only thought in his mind as he lay there, gasping for breath, covered in shattered glass. The walls, the ceiling – they shouldn't have shattered like that. There was no way Thane could have hit the wall hard enough to cause that sort of collapse – not with a stick.

So it hadn't been Thane. The Gamemakers had a hand in it. Evander slowly rolled over, surveying the damage. He was bruised, and his jumpsuit was torn in several places, with blood seeping through where pieces of broken glass had struck him. But he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Then he saw Thane, racing towards him through the broken glass. Evander struggled to his feet, searching blindly for his knife. But he wasn't quick enough. Before he had time to find it, Thane's branch knocked him off his feet once more, sending him sprawling in a heap of glass shards. Evander cried out in pain as the branch came down against his head.

It wouldn't be long. Thane was armed. He wasn't. Unless…

As the stick came down again, Evander reached out blindly, his hand closing around a piece of glass. The stick struck just inches away from his head as he rolled out of the way, his shard of glass slicing into Thane's leg. Thane leapt away, startled, but quickly recovered, his boot coming down hard against Evander's neck.

Evander gasped, striking blindly with the only weapon he had. But it wasn't enough. Thane's hand came down, grasping his wrist, stopping him from thrashing. Evander could feel tears coming to his eyes. He had tried. He had done his best. But it hadn't been enough.

Or maybe it had.

Evander closed his eyes as the world around him began to grow dark. He had known from the start that his chances were slim. All along, he had wanted to live, but he had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it wasn't enough just to want it. That wouldn't be enough to keep him alive.

But it was enough for his family.

He had fought. He had fought for his own life, and for his allies' lives. He had killed – and then tried to kill again. That would be enough, certainly – enough to erase any doubt in the audience's minds about his intentions. To convince them that he wasn't a rebel.

And he had made it to the fifth day of the Games. To the final ten tributes. That would be enough. That would be enough for his family.

It would have to be.

Brevin Tolett, 17
District Four

The houses had to be there.

Brevin glanced around, confused, as the cannon sounded. This was where the houses had been. He was sure of it. He could see the stream – or, at least, what had once been a stream. It was rising now, but not enough to be a real danger. Not yet. Not to a tribute from District Four. It was still perfectly safe, still surrounding the area where the houses had been.

So where were they?

Brevin flung his stick to the ground. It wasn't fair. Nothing had gone the way it was supposed to. His allies were gone. His three kills had earned him nothing from the sponsors. And now that he had made his way back to what he had been sure was a stable food source, it was gone.

He was tired. Hungry. But, more than anything, angry. Angry at who, he wasn't sure. Maybe the tributes who had been in the houses, for keeping him away from the supplies the first time. Maybe the Gamemakers, for playing favorites. Maybe himself, for staying at the stone building. If he had left sooner, if he had gotten here sooner, would the houses still be here?

There was no way of knowing, Brevin realized as he picked up his stick, turning and heading into the darkness away from the houses. There was no way to tell what might have happened, if he had done things a little differently. Maybe he would have arrived, only to find both houses and tributes here. Maybe there would still have been a group of them. Maybe he would already be dead.

Or maybe he would be warm, and dry, and full. Brevin brushed the rain from his face as he plunged forward into the night. There had to be something else nearby, or the Gamemakers wouldn't have moved the houses. There had to be another tribute nearby. All he had to do was draw them out.

"Come on, then!" Brevin called over the rain. "I know you're here! Come and get me! Come on!"

On and on. Past trees and branches. Several times, he tripped over a rock or a root, but he kept going. Kept shouting. There had to be something nearby. There just had to be.

The sky was beginning to grow a little brighter. Brevin whirled around, looking. There had to be something. There had to be someone.

Patience.

Brevin clenched his teeth. He had been patient long enough. He had been patient when Kendall had wanted to follow the girls from Six and Eight rather than attack them right away. He had been patient when he had decided to wait in the tunnels for tributes rather than venturing farther. He had been patient when he had decided to wait at the stone building for a little while rather than come back to the houses immediately.

And where had it gotten him? He was still cold. Still wet. Still hungry. He had no food. No weapons. No allies. Nothing but the stick in his hand. Somewhere out there, there were supplies, weapons, food. There were tributes to attack. He just had to find them. He had to keep looking. He couldn't afford to sit back and wait any longer.

He had been patient long enough.

Adelia Luciano, 16
District Eight

She just had to be patient.

Adelia crouched low behind a tree as the shouting continued. "Come and get me! I know you're out there! Where are you? Come on already!" Louder and louder. Closer and closer.

Part of her wanted to run. Whoever the tribute was, he was angry. Furious. She certainly didn't want to find any of that anger directed at her. Especially not if he had any sort of a weapon, or any allies nearby. He seemed to be alone, but it could be a trap. A trick to draw out any tributes who were nearby, lure them to their deaths.

But what if it wasn't?

Adelia clutched her knife tightly in one hand, her hammer in the other. What if it wasn't a trap? What if the tribute – whoever it was – was really as angry, as frustrated, as desperate as he sounded? What if it wasn't an act? What if he was really irrational enough to be shouting for any tribute in the area to hear?

Could she afford not to take advantage of that?

Adelia crouched lower behind the tree as the tribute's voice came closer and closer. She had a weapon. Several, in fact. In addition to her own knife and hammer, Jediah and Nadine's knives were tucked in her pocket. The other tribute might not even be armed. It could be an easy fight.

But it might not be.

What if the other tribute was armed? She certainly wouldn't have the element of surprise. He was practically announcing to the whole world that he was expecting an attack. What if he was ready for her?

But what if he wasn't?

What if…

Adelia clenched her fists. There was no choice. Not really. She and Evander had fought Ivira and her ally when the Careers had attacked the houses, but that had been days ago. It seemed like ages ago. What had she done since then? She, Evander, and Myrah had sat around in the houses, recovering. Myrah had left. Evander had left. She had left. That was all.

They had been patient. Maybe that was it. But the time for patience was over. The time for caution was over. Caution was useful, but it didn't win the Games. Eventually, she would have to take a chance.

And she wasn't going to get a better one than this.

Adelia nodded, her mind made up. "All right," she whispered, her voice drowned out by the rain. "I hear you. Just a little closer, and you'll get your wish. Just a little closer."

Just a little closer.

Finally, she could see him. In the dim light and the rain, he was hard to make out, but he was clearly an older boy. Stronger. One of the replacement tributes, from his shaved head and grey jumpsuit. In fact, he looked almost like…

Then he turned, and she could see that she was right. The boy from Four. One of the Careers who had attacked them at the houses. One of the tributes who had been responsible for Nadine and Jediah's deaths.

This was perfect.

Adelia swallowed hard. Maybe the idea of fighting a Career wasn't perfect. But the audience – they might be on her side. A tribute trying to take revenge on a tribute who had killed her allies – they would like that. Never mind that it had been the girl from Four, not the boy, who had killed Jediah and Nadine. That wouldn't matter to them.

So why should it matter to her?

Brevin Tolett, 17
District Four

Maybe it didn't matter how loud he shouted.

Brevin glared at the sky as he stumbled forward. His throat was sore, his voice hoarse from shouting. And still no one had come. Maybe there was no one here. Maybe no one had come because no one had heard him. Maybe he should just wait…

But just as he was beginning to consider sitting down and getting some rest, something caught his eye. Some sort of motion behind a nearby tree. Brevin grinned. Finally. He raised his stick and charged.

As he did, however, a girl appeared from behind the tree, a knife in one hand, a hammer in the other. Shaved head, grey jumpsuit – one of the replacement tributes. The number on her jumpsuit was an 8. One of the girls who had been at the houses.

This was perfect.

Brevin grinned. The tributes at the houses had killed Kendall. They had kept him from seeking refuge there, prevented him from finding food and shelter when he'd needed it. Surely the audience would be on his side. A tribute trying to finish what he'd started, wipe out the alliance that had killed his ally, his district partner – they would like that.

Maybe they would finally send him something.

Brevin swung his stick, but the girl dodged. Don't get ahead of yourself. He hadn't won the fight yet. And, once he did, chances were good that he wouldn't need help from the sponsors. The girl had weapons. She probably had food. Once she was dead…

But she wasn't dead yet. Brevin dodged as the girl lashed out with her knife. She was clumsy. Untrained. But she was armed. He had a stick. He would have to be careful. Underestimating armed, untrained tributes had gotten Kendall killed.

He wasn't about to let the same thing happen to him.

Brevin took a step back. Then another. The girl charged. He dodged. Again. But it was getting harder. He hadn't realized – not until now – just how tired he was. He had been walking – and then running – all night. He hadn't slept for more than an hour or two at a time in days. He hadn't had a good meal since the Games began.

Brevin clenched his teeth. None of that mattered. He was a Career. He was stronger than her. He was faster than her. He was more prepared. He was better than her. And, once he killed her, he would have plenty of time to eat and rest and recover.

Once he killed her…

Brevin swung his stick again – harder. The girl dodged once, then twice. The third time, however, the stick cracked hard against her shoulder. The girl gave a cry and backed away, but, as she did, she tripped over something. A root or a rock or simply a patch of wet earth – Brevin couldn't tell. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe all that mattered was that this was his chance.

His chance to end it quickly.

Brevin charged, aiming low. If he could get her knife, it would be over. Ignoring the hammer in her other hand, Brevin dove for the knife. The girl held on tightly, but Brevin was stronger. The girl was wriggling – struggling to reach something, maybe – as he finally wrenched the knife from her grasp.

He didn't see the other knife.

Adelia Luciano, 16
District Eight

He didn't see the other knife.

Adelia clenched her teeth, bracing herself for the boy's blow as her fingers closed around the second knife. One of the ones she'd hidden in her pocket. She managed to dodge most of his blow – his knife barely grazing her neck – as she plunged her second knife – Jediah's knife – deep into his side.

The boy cried out in pain, but, even as he did, his knife came down again. This time, she didn't have time to dodge. But his blow was wild and clumsy, burying the knife in her shoulder. Adelia didn't think. She didn't have time to. She yanked the knife out of her own shoulder, and, as the boy was reaching down to pull the knife from his side, she lunged, plunging her own weapon into his neck.

The boy fell forward on top of her. Gasping. Bleeding. A sharp pain in her arm told her he'd managed to strike one final blow. But it wouldn't be enough.

The boy's cannon sounded.

For a moment, Adelia simply lay there. Catching her breath. Trying to free herself from underneath the boy's body. Pain filled her left arm. She could barely see anything through the rain and the blood that was still pouring from the boy's wounds.

But she was alive.

That was the important thing, Adelia reminded herself as she finally managed to escape from under the boy's weight. She was still alive. And the boy was dead.

Adelia struggled for a deep breath, but even she could hear how ragged, how exhausted, her breathing sounded. She needed rest. But, more than that, she needed to tend to her own wounds. If she waited…

All thoughts of rest left her as she finally glanced over at her arm. The wound to her shoulder was bad, but the rest of the arm – it looked as if someone had been trying to saw it off between the shoulder and the elbow. Maybe that was what the boy had been trying to do. Blood seeped onto the ground. If she lost any more…

Adelia's thoughts were interrupted by a gentle pinging noise. A parachute. Adelia nearly laughed. May have laughed, if she hadn't been struggling so hard to breathe. "Thank you," she whispered as the package landed near her feet.

What she found inside, however, wasn't exactly what she had expected. She had been hoping for medicine. Bandages. Something to stop the bleeding. Instead, all she found was what appeared to be a large bracelet – thick and metal. Almost like a manacle, but slightly larger, with some sort of button on the side.

Large enough to fit around her arm.

Adelia gripped it tightly, putting the pieces together. "All right," she whispered, sliding it over her left arm. Higher and higher up her arm, above the wound that was still bleeding. "All right." She pressed the button.

The band tightened. Tighter and tighter, until she couldn't feel anything in her left arm. But that was good, Adelia realized as the bleeding stopped. That was better than feeling pain. Slowly, she crawled over to a large tree and, leaning back against it, closed her eyes. Her left arm dangled limply at her side. Her clothes were stained with blood – both hers and the boy's. But none of that mattered. None of that was important anymore.

She was alive.

Avery Bentham
District Three Mentor

He was dead.

Avery sat huddled in a corner with Miriam and Percival. Each of them had an arm around her. Trying to comfort her. Trying to offer their support.

But they couldn't help her. None of their comfort was going to do any good. Nothing they said, nothing they did, could bring Evander back.

"There was nothing you could have done," Miriam said softly.

It was true, of course. But whether that made it better or worse, Avery wasn't sure. Right now, she couldn't imagine anything worse than watching helplessly as Thane's boot crushed the life out of Evander's body. What could be worse than knowing there was nothing she could have done to save him?

Avery buried her face in Miriam's shirt. Why had they brought her? Why was she here, mentoring, if there was nothing she was going to be able to do to help any of the tributes? Why were any of them here? What difference did they make, in the end?

She just wanted to go home.

She just wanted to forget.

But there was no way to forget. What was waiting for her at home in District Three? Nothing. Nothing but reminders of what had happened last year. Her family, dead. Her friends, gone. Her fellow Victors, constant reminders of the Games. There was nothing she could do – nowhere she could go – to forget.

There was no escape.

Except one.

Avery swallowed hard. Maybe it was time. Her parents. Her friends. Evander. Maybe it would be better if she joined them. Maybe…

Maybe it was time.

"First you have to clean up your own mess."