Disclaimer: The Hunger Games is not mine.

Note: Just a friendly reminder to vote in the Victor poll if you haven't already. Also, a reminder that my sister, MornieGalad Baggins, has an open SYOT, so send her some tributes.

Day Five
Alive

Santiago Ibanez, 19
Brother of Domingo Ibanez

He was still alive.

Santiago breathed a sigh of relief as another image of Domingo flashed on the screen. Most of the attention was on the other tributes now – tributes who were actively doing something at the moment – but, every now and then, there would be a shot of Domingo, still sleeping underneath the tree.

He wasn't sleeping particularly soundly. Every noise in the jungle – whether it was a cannon or the rain or simply the wind rustling through the trees – seemed to wake him. But, after the hours he'd spent waiting for the Careers to find him, not wanting to fall asleep and leave himself defenseless, any sort of rest was better than nothing.

At least there didn't seem to be anyone else nearby. As far as Santiago could tell, the closest tribute was Philus, and he didn't seem to be going anywhere for the moment, either. Good. Maybe the Gamemakers would leave Domingo alone for a few hours, at least.

Surely he had done enough for now. He'd spent a few days in safety in the station below the hatch, yes, but the two kills he'd made since finding his way down there – the boy from Ten and the girl from Two – surely those were enough to earn him a little rest.

Unfortunately, they didn't seem to be enough to earn him any sponsors. Santiago shook his head. The girl from two had managed to injure Domingo during their fight. There was a gash in his thigh, and another in his arm. Neither had been tended to; Domingo had been too weak, too tired. If he didn't do something soon…

But what was he supposed to do? He didn't exactly have anything to bandage them with, anyway. Nothing clean, at least. His own clothes were torn, dirty, bloody. If he could manage to find some larger leaves, those might work, but in his present state…

His present state, of course, wasn't his fault. He'd done all he could – and better than Santiago had ever imagined he would against a Career. The black smoke mutt had helped, of course, but still…

It was impressive. But, apparently, it wasn't enough. Not enough for the sponsors, for the Capitol. What did it take to impress them?

What would it take to keep his brother alive?

Kane Luciano, 47
Father of Adelia Luciano

What would it take to keep his daughter alive?

Kane drummed his fingers nervously on the arm of the couch, watching as Evander's cannon woke Adelia. She sat up, wincing in pain, putting no pressure on her left arm, which still hung limply at her side. It was hard to tell with the constant rain clouding the arena, but her arm seemed to be turning an odd shade of purple.

Kane shook his head. Tributes had survived the Games with worse injuries. Lander and Carolina had both returned from the Games badly injured – Lander with burns that had been bad enough to warrant amputating his hand and replacing it with a prosthetic. Carolina's legs had been crushed, her eye torn out.

But none of those injuries had happened when there were so many tributes left.

Maybe eight wasn't a large number of tributes – particularly when they had started with so many – but that meant there were still seven others. Seven tributes who would have to die in order for Adelia to live. Including two of her allies.

Former allies. Both Aleron and Myrah had left Adelia. If they had been with her when Brevin had attacked, she might not have been injured – and certainly wouldn't have been injured as badly. It would have been an easier fight.

But they had left her. They had all left her. Aleron and Myrah and even Evander. Because of them, she'd had to face a Career alone.

And she had won.

Apparently that had been enough to impress the sponsors – at least a little. But would their gift be enough to keep her alive? Would one arm be enough if she had to fight again?

When she had to fight again. At this point, there was no 'if.' There was no avoiding the other tributes forever – even if there weren't any who were particularly close at the moment. Eventually, one of them would find her – or she would find one of them. There were only eight of them, after all. It wouldn't be long before the Gamemakers started to drive them together.

He just hoped it would be long enough.

Brietta Polaine, 42
Mother of Philus Polaine

She hoped they would let him rest long enough.

Brietta held her younger children close as the family sat together, watching. Watching for another glimpse of Philus on the screen, and yet dreading those moments at the same time. Because every moment they didn't show her son onscreen was a moment when they could be sure nothing was happening. That he was still sleeping soundly.

Or, at least, as soundly as could be expected. Occasionally, he would wake and roll over a little, trying to find a more comfortable position. There was none to be found, of course – not on the hard ground, not with his injuries. Injuries that had gone largely untended since Melody's death.

Melody's death. Brietta swallowed hard, trying not to think about that. About the look on Melody's face as Philus had killed her. About her screams – screams Philus had, mercifully, been unable to hear.

She understood why he had done it, of course. Melody had clearly been thinking about doing the same – about killing him while she had the chance, to spare him pain and perhaps to save herself in the event of an attack. And maybe he had been hoping that, if he made another kill – if he proved he was willing to kill even an ally to survive – the sponsors would send him something.

So far, however, the sponsors had done nothing useful.

Brietta shook her head. It wasn't fair. They had sent useful gifts to other tributes. Adelia had received a gift, despite being injured as badly as Philus. Baylor, Evander, Shale. Even Imalia, after she had killed both of Philus' allies. She had received a gift, despite having no particular need of one at the time. But, now that Philus needed something, what had they done?

They had sent knives. But a weapon wasn't what Philus needed – not really. If they could afford to send him a weapon, why couldn't they afford to send him medicine? Or bandages? Or maybe some food? Didn't they understand that was what he needed to survive?

The problem, of course, was that they did understand. They simply didn't care. When it came down to it, the sponsors usually weren't particularly interested in keeping tributes alive. They were more interested in making sure other tributes ended up dead. Given the choice between sending a weapon and sending food, a weapon was more appealing to them. More exciting. More likely to result in something interesting.

Because living wasn't interesting enough to them.

Meredith Grenier, 44
Mother of Imalia Grenier

Imalia was still alive; that was good enough for her.

Meredith nodded to Allan as the pair of them watched the screen. Imalia and Indira were still making their way north from where the greenhouse used to be. They had missed out on the action between Thane and Evander, but, as far as Meredith was concerned, that was a good thing.

She had never imagined watching the Games would be this difficult. The other Careers' parents always seemed so sure. So certain that their son or daughter would be the one returning from the Games. She had always imagined that, if Imalia chose to enter the Games, she would be as confident in her daughter's success.

And maybe she would have been, any other year. But one thing after another had slowly worn away at her confidence. The extra tributes at the reaping, prompting Imalia to volunteer a year early. The way the Capitol had treated the replacement tributes throughout the festivities. The Capitol's decision to split the tributes in half, separating Imalia from half her pack at the beginning of the Games. The fact that she had turned on Jarlan. The boar that had injured her.

An injury she was still recovering from. The limp in her step as she followed Indira was a bit less noticeable than it had been, but it was still there. Forcing her to step back and let Indira take the lead. And maybe that was a good thing; whatever danger lay ahead, Indira would find it first. But if the audience began to suspect that Indira had a better chance…

Any other year, Meredith might have laughed at the thought. The idea of an outer-district tribute – any outer-district tribute – having a better chance than a fully-trained Career. But this year was different. They had started the Games with roughly a dozen Careers – depending on whether District Five and Septimus counted. Now Imalia was the only one left. But that was the only thing that mattered, in the end.

She was still alive.

Yura Hayer, 35
Mother of Thane Hayer

He was still alive.

Yura paced back and forth in front of the screen as Thane settled down for a rest only a short distance from the shattered greenhouse. Maybe he was hoping that, if he stayed around long enough, the previous occupants would return – and maybe he could make a move while they were distracted. He had no way of knowing, of course, that the two previous occupants were still heading in the opposite direction.

But maybe that was for the best. There were two of them, after all. Only one of him. It certainly wouldn't be a fair fight.

But that wasn't much of a change.

Yura finally sat down, watching anxiously as Thane bandaged his leg where Evander's piece of glass had cut him. The wound didn't look bad – certainly not as bad as some of the other tributes' injuries. Still, he must be in pain…

Not that he would ever show it. Especially not to all of Panem. Whatever he was feeling, whatever he was thinking, it was his, and his alone. If he wouldn't even let his mother and father in, why should he be open with the cameras and the audience?

Except, of course, for the fact that it could save his life.

Other tributes had received help from the audience, after all – but only because they had made themselves stand out in some way. For most of the Games, it seemed, Thane had simply been there – living off his alliance's success, and then leaving as soon as things got rough. He was still alive, but the fact remained that his actions hadn't had much of an impact on the Games.

And, sooner or later, that would have to change.

Yura shook her head. Any move in the Games was a risk. Any choice came with consequences. Thane had gotten this far by avoiding any major risks, and, so far, it had paid off. He was still alive, his only injury a relatively minor cut. But eventually, he would have to make a move.

She would just have to hope he survived whatever that move was.

Brenden Lanhart, 44
Father of Myrah Lanhart

He just hoped Myrah wouldn't fall asleep.

Brenden drummed his fingers on his leg, watching as Myrah and Aleron continued to pace around the large, stone building, trading nervous, suspicious glances after every cannon. How long would it be before one or the other had to make a move?

There were only eight tributes left, after all. Eight tributes, and Myrah still had no kills. No blood on her hands. Brenden wasn't sure whether he should be proud of her or worried about what the audience thought of her.

Then again, her district partner, Thane, had only just made his first kill. That hadn't stopped the two of them from making it to the final eight. Brenden shook his head. Eight tributes left, and District Nine, of all districts, was the only one with two tributes remaining.

But that wasn't good enough.

Making it to the final eight, then final five, the finale … none of that mattered, in the end. All that mattered was whether or not his daughter came home. So although he was certainly proud that she'd made it so far without killing, part of him knew that, eventually, that would have to end. If she wanted to come home, she would have to kill.

He didn't have to like it. He knew she certainly didn't like it. But that was how the Games worked. Only one tribute had made it out without killing, and that had been decades ago. This year, of all years, the Capitol would make sure their Victor had blood on their hands.

Brenden shook his head. Myrah knew that as well as anyone else. She had fought, back when the Careers had attacked the houses. She had been willing to defend herself if Aleron had attacked instead of rekindling their alliance. And she certainly didn't trust him now.

Did that mean she was ready to move against him?

Maybe. Maybe she was waiting for the right moment. Maybe she was still a bit hesitant. But if there was anyone left in the arena who didn't deserve her hesitation, her sympathy, it was Aleron. The two tributes who had killed her allies were dead, but the boy who had abandoned the alliance in their moment of need was still alive and well. If she could be the one to avenge her allies…

Brenden clenched his fists. Maybe it should have been easy to hate the boy. But the fact was that Aleron was as much a victim as Jediah and Nadine had been. As much as Myrah was. He had only been trying to save his life. He hadn't asked to be in the Games. None of them had. None of them had wanted this.

But that wasn't enough to change anything.

Abigail Blanchet, 43
Mother of Aleron Blanchet

He had changed so much.

Abigail wrung her hands together as Aleron and Myrah continued to pace about the stone building, neither of them wanting to be the first to admit that they needed rest. They did, of course. The pair hadn't slept since finding each other again. But neither wanted to be the first to let their guard down, knowing that they had allied again not out of friendship or trust, but out of convenience and maybe even necessity, and because the alternative had been a fight.

A fight that neither of them wanted, perhaps. Or maybe simply a fight that neither of them thought they were ready for, that they knew they probably wouldn't walk away from unharmed. Both of them were relatively well-armed, after all. And, for now, at least, they had sufficient supplies to last a while. They had shelter. They had no compelling reason to fight.

Not yet.

But how long would it be before the Gamemakers gave them one? There were only eight tributes left, after all, and the pair of them represented one of only two remaining alliances. Maybe they weren't Careers, but they might be able to take on any of the other tributes – the ones who were by themselves – if they happened to find one.

For the moment, however, they seemed content to stay in the stone building. To rest. But not to sleep. Not yet. Not until they absolutely had to.

Not yet.

Abigail shook her head. She could only hope Aleron wouldn't be the first to give into the need for sleep. Whether or not Myrah still blamed him for abandoning their alliance, the fact remained that he would present a tempting target for her if he ever let his guard down. After all, she had only agreed to go with him after he had pointed out that she was safer with him because she didn't trust him.

Abigail still couldn't quite believe the words had come out of her son's mouth. That he'd been able to piece together a logical, coherent argument for joining him that had made sense to the person he was trying to persuade. In fact, she wasn't sure which she found more unbelievable – that, or the fact that he had two kills.

Two kills. Two tributes – two children – dead at her son's hands. Abigail swallowed hard. She wasn't quite sure what to think of that. On the one hand, Aleron had killed both Fallon and Elizabet without hesitation, without complaint, and seemingly without remorse. They were dead – two children with families who had been waiting, like her, for their child to come home.

Two children who would have to have died anyway, eventually, if Aleron was going to come home. Every kill, every cannon, brought Aleron closer to the end of the Games. Did it matter, in the end, whether or not he had been the one to kill them?

Maybe it didn't.

Auron Valleso, 24
Brother of Indira Serren

Maybe it didn't matter.

Auron watched silently from his seat beside his parents as Indira and Imalia made their way through the jungle. Three cannons had sounded recently. Naella. Evander. Brevin. And Indira and Imalia hadn't been responsible for any of them.

Maybe that didn't matter. Maybe it was even a good thing. All three of the tributes who had survived those fights, after all, had come away injured – some worse than others. Indira had managed to avoid injury, but her ally was still recovering from her leg wound. Maybe it would be best to avoid the action for a while.

But how long could that last?

Auron glanced at the screen, which hadn't shown much change in any of the tributes' situations for quite a while. Myrah and Aleron were still pacing around the building where they had taken refuge. Adelia, Philus, and Domingo were still resting, and Thane had finally settled down, as well. Indira and Imalia were the only ones who seemed to be going anywhere at the moment.

Whether that was good or bad, Auron wasn't sure. Yes, they were the only tributes on the move … but they weren't headed in a particularly useful direction. They had no way of knowing it, of course, but they were nowhere close to any other tributes. Thane was probably the closest, but the pair showed no signs of wanting to head back to the greenhouse they had left.

Did that mean the Gamemakers would expect them to turn on each other?

Auron shook the thought from his head. If they did – if it came to a fight – was it really a battle Indira could hope to win? Imalia hadn't hesitated, after all, to send Jarlan and Shale to their deaths. Why should Indira expect any different if it came to a fight between the two of them. But Indira … Would she really have it in her to fight an ally? To kill an ally, if it came to that?

Maybe. Maybe now that there were so few of them left, she would be able to see that it was the only option. That, eventually, if she wanted to come home, Imalia had to go. She had been the one, after all, to remind Imalia of that before: that Jarlan and Shale would have to have died eventually.

Auron could only hope she would take her own advice.

Indira Serren, 18
District Ten

Maybe it was time to take her own advice.

Indira glanced around as she and Imalia trekked farther and farther into the jungle. The light at the greenhouse had gone out hours ago – right before a cannon had sounded. For a moment, they had considered turning back, but they both knew better. Whoever had been at the greenhouse – whoever had turned the lights off, whoever had killed a tribute – was probably long gone.

And, chances were, so was the greenhouse. The cabin had disappeared as soon as it had no longer been useful as a shelter. Why should the greenhouse be any different? It had served its purpose. It had drawn tributes in, lured them to their deaths. Now it would only be a hindrance, a distraction, a reason for staying put when it was clear it was time to move.

Maybe it was time to make her move.

Indira clutched her hand rake tightly, trying to push the thought from her mind. But there were only eight tributes left. Only eight of them. Most of the Careers were gone. How many besides Imalia were left? Two or three, maybe – and that wasn't counting any who had been killed since the faces had shown the night before. For all she knew, the other Careers were dead.

For all she knew, her toughest competition was walking beside her right now.

Limping beside her, actually. The pair of them had been walking for hours, and it was clearly beginning to take its toll on Imalia. They had been resting frequently, eating as much as they dared of the food they had taken from the greenhouse, drinking their fill of the rainwater. Imalia didn't seem to be in any particular hurry to get wherever they were going.

Indira, on the other hand, couldn't deny a growing feeling of restlessness. What if there was a reason the Gamemakers hadn't herded them towards any of the other tributes? What if they were hoping the two of them would provide enough drama on their own?

What if the Gamemakers were hoping for a fight?

Indira glanced at Imalia, who had stopped to eat a little once more, her crowbar clenched tightly in her hands, masking the pain in her leg. Would she ever get a better opportunity than this? Imalia didn't seem to suspect anything. Maybe she could do it. Wait for Imalia to turn her back, and then…

And then kill her. Strike with her hand rake or try to wrestle the crowbar away from her ally. Indira swallowed hard. A few days ago, the thought would have made her sick. But there were only eight of them left. Only eight. How long would it be before they were facing each other? And, if they had to fight, maybe it would be better to get it over with now, before Imalia was fully recovered.

Indira sighed. She was beginning to regret giving her the flowers. If she hadn't taken the time to tend Imalia's wounds then, would Imalia be dead by now? Maybe not dead, but certainly not in as good condition. Certainly less likely to wound Indira if it came to a fight.

When it came to a fight.

Indira gripped her hand rake a little tighter. When. How long could she postpone making her move? How long could she and Imalia continue to play allies? Surely the same thoughts were going through Imalia's mind. And she was a Career – certainly even more confident in her abilities. How long would it be before she decided to make a move?

Maybe it would be better to act first.

Imalia Grenier, 17
District Four

Maybe it would be better if she simply left.

Imalia glanced over at Indira, who seemed to be growing impatient. Not that Imalia blamed her. A few days ago, she might have been just as impatient, just as annoyed with an ally who seemed to be dawdling, who seemed reluctant to venture out in search of a fight.

No. No, she could forget might have been. This sort of attitude was exactly the reason she had turned on Jarlan. He had wanted to wait for the right moment to leave the hovercraft and attack. She had been determined to get moving as soon as possible.

Imalia almost laughed at the thought. Now she was the one who wanted to wait, to rest, to conserve their strength while they could. And Indira, of all people, was the one who was insisting on moving forward. She seemed tireless, and, as frustrating as it was to keep calling to her to wait, to stop for a moment to catch their breaths or eat a little food, Imalia couldn't help it. She was tired.

But that wasn't going to change anytime soon.

Imalia gritted her teeth as she shifted her weight from her injured leg again. As peaceful as their brief stay in the greenhouse had been, they had both known that it couldn't last forever. And they both knew now – even though neither of them had said it – that there was no point in going back.

They could only go forward.

Forward, towards the end of the Games. Because, as tired as she was now, as weary as she felt, she wouldn't truly be safe until she was back home in District Four. There was no real rest – not until the Games were over. And not unless she won.

So she grasped her crowbar a little tighter, set her jaw, and kept moving. If Indira could do it – if an untrained tribute from Ten could keep going despite the cold and the rain and the weariness – then so could she.

But would that be enough?

It wasn't enough to simply keep moving. It wasn't enough to simply be alive, now that they had reached the final eight. How long would the Gamemakers let their small alliance go untouched?

Because the truth was, aside from their brief encounter with the boar, she and Indira had made it so far mostly unchallenged. The tributes at the greenhouse had provided a bit of a fight, but how much of a chance had they really had? How good of a fight had it really been?

How long before the audience began to grow bored with them?

Imalia shook her head as her boots sloshed through the water. There had been three cannons recently. True, none of those cannons had been their doing, but maybe that would be enough to keep the audience satisfied for a while. Maybe…

Then she saw it. The water. The water that was slowly pooling on the ground. How long had it been there? How long had she been walking, without really noticing that the puddles they were trudging through were growing deeper and deeper?

How long had the island been flooding right under their noses?

"Indira!" Imalia called to her ally, who was already about twenty paces ahead of her.

"What?" Indira snapped. Irritated by the delay. Imalia gritted her teeth. If she was that frustrated with the pace, why didn't she just leave?

For that matter, why hadn't she left?

Instead, she simply nodded to the water. "It's rising."

Imalia half-expected a matter-of-fact, Well, of course it's rising. Or maybe the same sort of casual Why not? she had received when she had remarked that the cabin couldn't have disappeared. Instead, Indira looked genuinely surprised. "How long has it—"

"I don't know," Imalia admitted. "Probably a while. Maybe it's been slowly rising the whole time. That doesn't matter. We need to get to higher ground."

Indira nodded, glancing around. There were hills in both directions – to the left and right. The hills on the right were closer, but they already knew what lay in that direction. The hovercraft they had landed in so long ago was across those hills. Maybe the audience would prefer that they do a little exploring.

"That way." Imalia pointed towards the hills off to the left. "Let's go."

Part of her hoped that Indira would disagree. That maybe if they split up now, it would still be early enough that the Gamemakers would let them do so peacefully. Maybe they could simply walk off in different directions and be done with it.

But, instead, Indira nodded. "Sounds good. Let's go."

For a moment, Imalia considered changing her mind. Heading the other way, anyway. But her legs started moving, almost without her control, in the direction Indira was already headed.

She could only hope it was for the best.

Domingo Ibanez, 14
District Seven

He had hoped to be able to sleep a little longer.

Domingo rolled over a little, trying to find a position that wasn't so uncomfortable and wet. Everything was wet, of course, but the ground seemed even wetter than normal. Almost as if…

Domingo's eyes flew open as he realized. Sure enough, the ground was covered in a thin but unmistakable layer of water. Slowly, painfully, Domingo got to his feet. The water wasn't deep yet, but it was definitely a sign. Get moving if you don't want to drown.

And he certainly didn't want to drown.

Only as he put more weight on his right leg did Domingo realize just how badly he'd been injured. The bleeding had stopped, and he'd been trying to ignore the pain, but now it was all he could do not to collapse as he shifted his weight back to his left leg. How was he supposed to walk?

But he couldn't stay here. Not with the water that was slowly creeping across the ground. He had to get somewhere higher. He had to go uphill.

Domingo glanced around frantically, searching for anything he could use as a crutch. Finally, he spotted a branch that was almost the right size. It was a little big for him, but now was no time to be picky. After eating a little of the food he'd managed to stuff in his pockets before the girl from Two had arrived, he slowly started off towards the nearest hill.

Almost immediately, there was a clap of thunder, and a bolt of lightning struck the nearest tree, which fell a few feet in front of him, blocking his path. Domingo stared for a moment before putting it together. "Maybe the other way?" he asked, not really expecting an answer as he turned and headed in the other direction. The lack of falling trees was answer enough.

He was going the right way.

But what was in that direction? What was it the Gamemakers wanted him to find? If there was another tribute that way, would he really stand a chance in a fight? Were they leading him into a trap?

Domingo gritted his teeth as he shifted his weight from his good leg to the branch and back again. Wherever they were leading him, he didn't seem to have much choice in the matter. If he tried to go the other way, they could simply send another tree to block his path, or make the water rise faster and drown him. Hell, if they really wanted him dead, they could simply send the black smoke mutt to attack him.

But they hadn't. So maybe it wasn't a tribute up ahead at all. Maybe it wasn't a trap. Maybe it was something else they wanted him to find. Something like the hatch. Maybe there was medicine, or bandages, or at least a safe place to rest.

Maybe they did want to keep him alive a little longer.

Myrah Lanhart, 14
District Nine

She just had to stay awake a little longer.

Myrah rubbed her eyes as she paced around the stone building, waiting. Waiting for what, she wasn't sure. There had been five cannons since they'd arrived at the building. Five more tributes dead.

Only eight left.

Myrah shook her head impatiently. That was a good thing. There were five fewer tributes to worry about. Only eight of them left. Only seven people who had to die in order for her to make it home.

But one of them was Aleron.

And Aleron showed no signs of wanting to fall asleep, either – not with her keeping watch. Not that she blamed him. Every cannon brought the question back to her mind. When would it be time to leave him?

Or when would it be time to kill him?

Myrah clenched her fists. Part of her still didn't want to. Didn't want to be the one to make the first move. He had abandoned their alliance, yes, but, other than that, he'd shown no signs of wanting to kill her. He'd invited her to join him because he knew she didn't trust him.

Which meant he was expecting her to try to kill him. That would give him the excuse he needed to turn on her. But how long could they simply wait and think about turning on each other? How long before the Gamemakers grew impatient and decided they needed to actually do it?

Myrah glanced down at her boots. They seemed heavier. She had emptied the water out a little while ago, as she had gotten used to doing, but walking had suddenly gotten harder, the water sloshing a bit more. Almost as if…

"Aleron!" Myrah called, her voice a bit more panicked than she had intended. "The water! It's rising!"

Not a lot, maybe. Certainly not enough to drown them. But enough for the message to be clear. It was time to leave. Time to move on.

Again.

Did that mean it was time to act?

"Come on!" Aleron called, motioning to the wall. "Let's go!" Immediately, he started climbing. Myrah followed, grasping vine after vine, quickly catching up to Aleron, who was already panting. Already beginning to slow.

Slowing a little too much.

Myrah saw the knife just in time to dodge. The knife missed her chest, embedding itself in a crack in the wall, instead. Myrah dodged the second blow, as well, but it managed to slice through part of the vine she was holding onto. Another slice would be enough to sever it completely.

She didn't have time to think. Immediately, Myrah swung over towards Aleron, feet-first, hoping to knock him off-balance. The kick knocked the knife from his hands, but he grabbed her legs, instead. But even as he did, he lost his grip on his own vine, grasping Myrah as he fell, pulling her down with him.

Together, the pair of them tumbled back down into the water.

Aleron Blanchet, 15
District Three

The water wasn't deep enough.

Aleron could hear Myrah screaming as the pair of them fell. Or maybe it was his own screaming as he struck the ground, the layer of water not yet deep enough to cushion their fall. Aleron didn't have time to move as Myrah hit the ground beside him, landing on his wrist. Aleron screamed as pain shot through his right arm, matching the pain in his back where he had landed. Did that mean it was broken? His arm? His back? If his back was broken…

But it wasn't. He rolled over a little, struggling, trying to free his wrist from under Myrah's body. Unable to shake himself free, he reached over with his left hand, trying to find the knives that were still in his pocket. He had lost his own, but the ones he had taken from the girls…

Aleron grimaced as he squirmed, trying to reach his pocket. Why had he put both of them in his right pocket? He should have kept one in his left, just in case. Just in case something like this happened. Finally, he managed to grip the handle and gave it a tug.

But it was too late.

Myrah had found her own knife. With his right wrist still pinned, Aleron didn't have time to react as the younger girl's knife came hurtling down towards his chest. Pain. Worse than the pain in his back or even in his arm. Blood came pouring out of his chest as Myrah yanked the knife out again.

"Stop!" Aleron gasped, desperate. "You need me! The water's rising too fast! We can only get out together."

It was a lie, of course, and a rather pitiful one, at that, but it was all he had. It was his only chance.

But it wasn't good enough; the look on Myrah's face made that clear. "Coward," she spat, driving her knife into his chest once more, her weight finally leaving his wrist as she stood, grimacing, and gave his stomach a kick.

"Stop!" Aleron pleaded. "Please, you have to listen to me."

But she didn't. She only kicked him again. And again. Aleron could barely breathe, let alone do anything to resist, as she knelt down and began rummaging through his pockets. She quickly found the two knives that he had been trying to reach, as well as the little food he had left. She stuffed the knives and the food into her own pockets and headed back to the wall.

"Wait!" Aleron called as his blood continued to flow, staining the water that was quickly rising around him. She couldn't just leave him here. She couldn't…

But Myrah was already climbing. He could see that much, even though his vision was starting to blur. Aleron rolled over a little, but he could barely move. He certainly couldn't stand.

The water was rising faster now. Aleron's hand found the wound in his chest, trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood as the water rose higher. Higher. Everything was getting darker. Colder. Aleron took one last gasp of air before the water closed over his head.

It wasn't fair…

Adelia Luciano, 16
District Eight

It wasn't fair.

Adelia clenched her teeth, sitting up slowly. She had just fallen asleep, only to be woken by yet another cannon. Another tribute gone.

Only seven of them left.

That was a good thing, she reminded herself. One less tribute she would have to worry about later. One less tribute she might have to face. That was a good thing.

But the numbness in her arm wasn't a good thing. The shade of purple that had come over her skin wasn't good, either. She seemed to remember a tribute or two winning the Games without a hand, but an arm?

At least it was her left arm. That was a good thing. Probably the only good thing about the situation. Adelia took a deep breath and leaned back against the tree. She could still do this. She had to. All she had to do was avoid a fight with any stronger tributes.

Right.

There were only seven of them left. Seven out of forty-six. Anyone who had made it this far – even if they weren't physically a stronger opponent – had clearly been doing something right. Anyone who had made it this far was a threat, and a force to be reckoned with.

But that included her.

Adelia smiled a little. The other tributes who were left – whichever ones they were – were probably as afraid of her as she was of them. Maybe they were injured, too. For all she knew, some of them could be in even worse condition. Maybe.

And 'maybe' was enough. Because, right now, 'maybe' was all she had. Maybe she could still fight. Maybe she could still kill.

Maybe she could still win.

But right now, she just wanted to sleep. She was just so tired. Maybe it was the blood she had lost before the sponsors had sent her the metal cuff. Maybe it was simply the fact that she hadn't slept much since leaving the houses – and hadn't slept particularly well even before that. Maybe even the whole Games.

The whole Games. It was hard to believe it hadn't even been five full days. Only three days since they had found the houses. Less than that since Jediah and Nadine had been killed. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they had all been together, safe and happy.

No. No, not happy. Maybe content. But all of that was gone now. The sense of security. The trust they'd had. Even her allies – most of them were probably gone now. Could Evander and Myrah have made it this long? And what about Aleron?

And what would happen if they found each other again?

Adelia closed her eyes. If they found each other again – assuming any of them were still alive – one of three things would happen. Either they would ally again, or simply go their separate ways, or they would fight. But would any of them want an ally in her condition? And what were the chances that the Gamemakers would let them simply walk away if they happened to find each other?

No. No, if they somehow found each other again, there would be a fight. The Gamemakers would make sure of it. The audience loved a good show, and what made a better show than former allies turning on each other?

Adelia shook the thought from her head. Chances were, it wouldn't happen. Even if they were still alive, their chances of running into each other again were slim. And, more likely than not, most of her allies were dead, just like so many of the other tributes. Thirty-nine of them dead. Only seven still alive.

And she was one of them.

Philus Polaine, 13
District Eleven

He was still alive.

Philus took a deep breath, bracing himself for the pain as he propped himself up against a tree. If he wasn't going to be able to sleep, he might as well keep watch. There really wasn't much else he could do. He could barely sit up; walking was out of the question. He would just have to stay where he was and hope.

Philus shook his head. How much more luck could he hope for? There had already been four or five cannons since he'd killed Melody. At least, he was pretty sure there had been. One or two of them might have been thunder. But he was getting pretty good at telling the difference in the vibrations. At least, he hoped he was.

Or maybe it was just wishful thinking. Just hoping that enough tributes would kill each other off that he might still have a chance.

Philus closed his eyes. Who was he kidding? His best hope had been that the sponsors would send him something, that they would reward him for killing Melody and try to save his life. But, so far, they had done nothing. And if they were going to send anything, surely they would have done it by now…

Philus brushed the tears from his eyes. He had killed his ally – his friend – and for what? He was alone now, and just as injured as he had been. Except now, there was no one to help him. No one who might protect him if another tribute attacked.

And maybe Melody wouldn't have protected him, anyway. But there had always been a chance – a chance that she would try to help him. And he had destroyed that chance. He had killed her.

And now someone was going to kill him.

It was only a matter of time. He had no food. He had a weapon – two, in fact – but he was in no condition to use them unless the other tribute was asleep, as Melody had been. Unless the sponsors sent him something…

Philus opened his eyes. Maybe the sponsors didn't matter now. They had already decided he was going to die. So maybe there was only one thing left that mattered.

Philus slowly lifted his arm, placing his hand over his chest. He held out the other hand, palm-up, as high as he could. The sign he and his family had worked out for I love you. Maybe that was the only thing left to say. The only thing that mattered.

The only thing that had ever mattered.

Philus held his hand out as long as he could, then let it drop, palm-up, onto the wet earth. They knew. His family knew that he loved them. Maybe, at the end, that was the only thing that mattered.

Philus closed his eyes. Were they saying the same thing? His family, his friends, back in District Eleven – were they still holding out hope that the sponsors would do something? Or had they accepted what he had? Would they be content with the fact that he loved them? With the fact that he knew they loved him?

It would have to be enough.

Thane Hayer, 17
District Nine

Apparently, the Gamemakers thought he'd been sitting around long enough.

Thane sighed as he got to his feet. It had only been a few hours – at the most – since he'd killed Evander, but, apparently, the audience was already bored. Water was starting to accumulate on the ground. The broken shards of glass from the greenhouse were already floating in a small pool of water.

It was time to leave.

Thane slowly made his way back to the greenhouse, collecting as much food as he could carry and stuffing it in his pockets. As he was bending down to pick up a few carrots, however, something caught his eye. Something in the pool of blood where Evander's body had been. Something small and round.

A compass. Thane picked it up, carefully avoiding the broken glass. The needle seemed to be dancing all over the place, but, as he laid it flat in the palm of his hand, it settled on a direction off to his right. Thane cocked an eyebrow. He'd been planning to head in the opposite direction – towards the closer group of hills.

But apparently the Gamemakers had other plans.

Thane shrugged. Maybe one way was as good as another. And if the Gamemakers were pointing him towards another tribute, that was probably the way he wanted to go, anyway.

He was in pretty good shape, after all. He had food. He had weapons – both his own hand rake and Evander's knife. His only injury wasn't bad – or, at least, not anywhere near as bad as it could have been. He'd been hurt worse before. A few cuts on his leg – this far into the Games – was about as good as anyone could hope for.

And any tributes he found might very well be in worse condition.

Thane pocketed his hand rake and, gripping Evander's knife, set out, following the compass. It almost felt good to have some sort of direction. Ever since leaving Septimus – and then Audra and Sariya – he'd mostly been wandering, hoping to come across something useful. Now he knew exactly where he was going.

Well, at least he knew which direction he was going. What he was going to find in that direction, he wasn't sure. But it was probably good. The Gamemakers could have chosen, after all, to drive him that way with some sort of mutts, or to make the water rise faster. But instead of driving him out, they were leading him … somewhere.

Or to someone.

Thane turned the compass over in his hands. A small "9" was engraved on the back. Nine. Nine for District Nine? Had the compass led Evander to him?

Thane shook his head. If so, it hadn't turned out so well for Evander. Why did he have any reason to think the compass would help him?

But what choice did he have? If he refused to follow the compass, the Gamemakers could simply send some mutts to herd him in the right direction. Maybe it was better to follow along without a fight. That way, when he reached his destination, he wouldn't be tired or injured or worse.

Thane smiled a little. If they wanted a fight, that was exactly what they would get. He'd been avoiding fights throughout the Games, but killing Evander … it hadn't been as hard as he'd thought. Yes, he'd killed, but it had been quick. Merciful. After what Septimus had done to Shale, maybe anything would seem mild, but this … this hadn't been so bad.

Maybe he could do this, after all.

Myrah Lanhart, 14
District Nine

Maybe she could do this, after all.

Myrah breathed a sigh of relief as her feet finally found solid ground on the other side of the wall. Immediately, she collapsed, catching her breath, Aleron's cannon still ringing in her ears. She had killed him. Or, at least, injured him and left him to certain death.

And the strange thing was, she didn't feel bad.

She had always assumed she would. She had just killed a boy, after all. There was blood on her hands – blood of someone not so different from her. But he had attacked her first. He had been trying to kill her. He would have killed her, if she hadn't fought back.

Instead, she had killed him. Her first kill. But, if she wanted to go home, it wouldn't be her last. It couldn't. There were still seven of them left. Six tributes who would have to die.

How many of them would she have to kill?

Myrah shook her head, leaning back against the wall. She was getting ahead of herself. She was in no condition to go running off in search of more tributes – not yet. She hadn't had time to think about it in the moment, but, now that she was sitting still, her whole body ached. Climbing up and down the wall. The awkward landing when Aleron had pulled her down. Everything hurt, but, as she tested her arms and legs, nothing seemed to be broken. Just bruised. Bruised and tired.

Myrah closed her eyes. She could rest a little while, now that Aleron was gone. It had been days, it seemed, since she'd slept. She deserved to rest.

Myrah took a deep breath. Then another. She was safe. Or, at least, as safe as she could be. The water was still rising inside the building, probably, but, outside, it wasn't as noticeable. Most likely, the Gamemakers had simply been trying to drive them out. Force a confrontation.

Still, she couldn't rest long. Just a little while.

Just a little longer...

Indira Serren, 18
District Ten

Just a little longer.

Indira glanced over at Imalia as the light began to fade. Just a little longer. Another hour, perhaps – maybe two – and the faces would show in the sky. Then they would know who was left.

Then she could make her decision.

There were still seven of them left. If there were any large alliances left, then she might stay with Imalia a little longer. But if there weren't any larger groups left, maybe she would be better off on her own.

Maybe.

"Maybe we should stop for a while," Indira suggested. If they settled down for the night, and Imalia fell asleep, maybe she could sneak away and get a good head start. Or maybe even…

Imalia shook her head. "Not yet."

Indira cocked an eyebrow. She'd been sure Imalia would want to rest. But, ever since the most recent cannon had sounded, Imalia had been walking a little faster. A little more confidently.

It didn't make sense. What was the big difference between eight tributes and seven? They still had a long way to go before the end. Was she simply trying to impress the audience, prove that her injury wasn't really slowing her down? Or did she suspect that Indira was planning to leave? Was she trying to convince her to stay?

None of it made sense.

Maybe she was simply getting impatient. There had been nine cannons since the two of them had found the greenhouse and killed the two girls who were there. Nine cannons since their last kill. Maybe that was enough to account for Imalia's restlessness.

Or maybe she was planning something.

Imalia Grenier, 17
District Four

Maybe she was planning something.

Imalia eyed Indira curiously as the two of them continued uphill. Why would Indira suggest stopping for the night? She'd been insisting all day that they needed to keep moving, needed to keep heading uphill. Why would she want to stop now, when they still had at least an hour of daylight left? And they still had their helmets to guide them in the dark. Why would she want to rest?

Unless she was planning something.

Imalia clutched her crowbar tightly. She would have to be careful. There were only seven of them left now. Only seven tributes. And until the faces were in the sky, she had no way of knowing exactly who was left.

Her most dangerous opponent could very well be right beside her.

Did that mean she should act now? Or was that what Indira was hoping for? Was she trying to trick Imalia into making the first move?

Or maybe there was a simpler explanation. Maybe she was tired. They had been walking all day, after all – and most of the night before that. They both needed rest. Maybe the suggestion had been merely that – an honest suggestion that maybe it was time to stop and get some rest.

But what if it wasn't?

Imalia shook her head. If it wasn't, she would find out soon enough. There were only seven of them left. If Indira was going to make a move against her, it would have to be soon. Otherwise…

Otherwise what? What was the alternative? What if Indira did nothing? And what if she did nothing? If they managed to kill or outlast the other tributes – if they were the last two standing – then what?

Imalia clenched her teeth. There was no then. The Games weren't over until there was only one tribute left standing. If it came down to her and Indira, they would be no different than any other two tributes in the history of the Games. One of them had to die. And one of them would live.

But would it be her?

Imalia glanced over at Indira. If – when – it came to a fight, who had the better chance? In peak condition, Imalia would never have doubted herself. But with her injury…

Stop it. She was still healing, it was true, but she was already strong enough to take on Indira. Probably. Almost certainly.

Almost.

Imalia shook her head, trying to shake the thought from her mind. Trying to rid herself of the doubt. She would be the one to survive. She was stronger. She was better prepared.

She was so distracted, she almost didn't see the bear.

Bierce Lascher
District Four Mentor

He almost didn't see the bear.

Bierce nearly jumped when he realized how close the bear was to Imalia and Indira. How had it snuck up on them like that? Surely anything with that sort of mass couldn't be that quiet.

Then again, it was still raining, which drowned out quite a few sounds that would normally be hard to miss. Like the sound of an eight-hundred-pound bear lumbering through the jungle. Indira saw it first, and quickly grabbed Imalia's arm in surprise, stopping her from accidentally wandering any closer.

"Idiot," Kalypso muttered.

Bierce cocked an eyebrow. "Which one?"

Kalypso shrugged. "Both. Imalia, for not noticing the bear. And Indira, for not letting her simply wander into it. She could have made a run for it while the bear went after Imalia. Now…"

Bierce nodded. Now it wasn't clear what the plan was. The bear didn't seem to have noticed them – yet. Of course, that was almost certainly an illusion created by the Gamemakers. If they wanted the bear to attack, it would – regardless of whether it seemed to have noticed them or not.

So there were three options: run, hide, or attack. Running would almost certainly mean running back the way they had come. And chances were, as soon as they ran, the bear would give chase. With Imalia's injury, it wasn't hard to guess who the bear would catch first.

Or they could hide. Hope that the Gamemakers were simply playing with them, or that the bear was waiting for another tribute, not for them. There were a few other tributes in the area, after all – although Imalia and Indira had no way of knowing that. Adelia wasn't far away, and Thane was headed in their direction. It wouldn't take him long to get there, if that was, indeed, where the Gamemakers were leading him. Maybe the bear was simply there to pick off anyone who tried to run from a fight.

The third option, of course, was to attack.

Bierce glanced over at Crispin. "What do you think?"

Crispin cocked an eyebrow. "What do I think of what?"

"Their chances against a bear, if they decide to attack together? You're the one who made the let's-attack-every-mutt-we-can strategy famous, after all."

Crispin scoffed a little. "Hardly famous. There's a reason people rarely use that sort of strategy. It's dangerous – and stupid. It was stupid then, and it's stupid now. Besides, I was using the mutts as practice. It's a little late in the Games for that."

Bierce nodded. He was probably right. Still…

"Then again, it would get rid of their dilemma," Crispin offered.

"Their dilemma?"

Crispin nodded. "Each of them knows the other is dangerous. They know the alliance needs to end. But neither of them is willing to make the first move. If they attack the bear, and one of them dies … problem solved."

"And if they both die, all the better for your tributes," Bierce pointed out.

"Touche," Crispin conceded. "Mind you, if Indira has any sense at all, she'll just make a run for it. There's no way Imalia can keep up."

Bierce nodded. That was probably true. But Indira hadn't run yet. The two of them were still standing there, watching the bear, deciding.

But they couldn't wait forever.

"Turns out he was right about most everything. I just wish I could've told him that while he was still alive."