RUSH/DISTRICT 9/17

"Impressive."

I keep my attention focused on the weight I'm hefting. "This? I'm sure you could do the same."

"Doubt it," the boy beside me replies, grinning wryly. "I can tie a knot or sew a shirt, but weight lifting? Uh-uh."

"Why are you here, anyway?" I ask, setting the metal object down and turning to face him. He must be from district 8, judging by his last comment. I size him up. At the moment, he is an opponent, not a friend. But my guess is that that is about to change. "Wait, let me guess: You want an alliance. With me."

"Well, aren't you observant," he says, raising an eyebrow. "Though I suppose that I wasn't exactly being subtle."

"No, not really."

"So? Alliance or not?"

Now it's my turn to raise an eyebrow. "I don't make a habit of allying with people I don't even know the name of."

"Ah, yes. My apologies. The name's Talon."

"Alright, Talon, you're on. I'm Rush."

He lets out a breath I wasn't awarre that he was holding. "That was easier than I thought it would be," he comments.

I gesture to myself. "Do I look like I have allies? Someone like me won't get too far without any. I'm strong, but not silent, and I'm not real big on the whole 'survival' thing. I harvest grain. It doesn't really supply you with the skills you need in the Arena."

"You're one to talk," Talon says, rolling his eyes. "I sew clothes. Unless I can find a needle, thread, and fabric in the Cornucopia, I'm... Well... Screwed."

"You think you're gonna go for it?" I ask, "The Cornucopia, I mean."

Talon thinks about it for a moment. "Probably. I'm not expecting many sponsors, so the Cornucopia might be my only option." I nod makes sense.

We stand in silence for a while. I start to get frustrated because this is our last day of practice before the individual sessions, and wasting time will get us nowhere. I glance at Talon, who seems to have no interest in doing anything productive, before picking the weight back up. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Maybe I would've done better to go it alone. I don't want to have to drag an incompetent fool around the Arena just because I made a promise I don't have the heart to break.

It seems like Allies might be just as dangerous as enemies.

THISTLE/DISTRICT 12/17

Whoosh. Thud.

The knife sinks into the target again. I pull it out half-heartedly. I'm so sick of this. Why do I even bother trying to prepare for something that I have no reason to win? I have nothing to go home to now that Corvid volunteered. I went up on that stage determined to win for him. Now to win I have to kill him, which I know he wants me to do. He wants to protect me. I know that. But his 'protection' has only really made this harder. Now I lose whether I die or not. I'm tempted to just plunge this knife into my chest now, to end all this worrying and heartache. But what would happen to my brother if I did?

It's all so confusing. And terrifying. It's like the nightmares I've had about being a miner, like my parents, and having the mineshaft crumbling around me. But there are worse nightmares. Like the ones where Corvid, who feels like my baby brother despite the fact that he is only one year younger than me, is the one being buried alive. Those are the ones that wake me up at night screaming, cold sweat dripping down my back.

Corvid, why are you such a fool?

Why couldn't I have been born in one of the other Districts? One with a less dangerous indusrty, like District 1, or even 7 or 8? One that didn't force your parents to work a job that would eventually kill them and land you and your brother in the community home?

"You're doing it again."

That's when I realise that I am on the floor, curled into a fetal position, Corvid's hand on my shoulder. It's been a long time since I've had one of these breakdowns. Almost a year. And, as much as I hate it, it's why I need him here. And he knows it. I can see it in his eyes. Those eyes look much older than his 16 years.

"I'm here, Thistle. I'm here."

And oh, how I wish he wasn't.

FLARE/DISTRICT 5/16

I have always loved fire. The way it twists and flickers, wisps of smoke trailing off it like ribbons. I don't see it much, don't see it enough back in the District. Nowadays no one warms there homes with fire. At least, not in 6 or what I've seen of the Capitol. Sure, there have been those artificial projections of flames in the hearth in my room, but they weren't quite... right. Whoever created them had made them too uniform. Fire should be wild. Free.

People keep giving me strange looks. I suppose there's a reason for that. I'm sure that it's not exactly normal for a Tribute to spend the whole two days at the fire-starting station. But there will be so much ugliness in the arena, can you really blame me for wanting to see as much beauty as possible before my inevitable death? Because there will be one victor, and I'm certain that it won't be me. So I gaze into my handiwork, my fire, and try to memorize every miniscule movement it makes. It's this that I want to remember right before everything goes black forever.

I hate the dark with every fibre of my being. It is almost never completely dark in 6, and when it is, it's because something is very, very wrong. That's only ever happened once. But when it did, it was... Spectacular.

Most of the people in my District fear flame because of it. But I don't. It was the dark that killed many. It was the light of the flames that purged it. Sure, some people died in the fire. But many more died in the dark before it started. So I will remember fire. My light in the darkness that is the Hunger Games.