Alrighty, everyone. I know it has been quite a long time. To be honest, I had completely given up-not only on this story, but on fanfiction, as a whole. I thought it was time for me to move on and try to write some original pieces. Having done that for a while, I discovered that I still need the catharsis and therapy of fanfiction in my life for the moment-I'm sure you've all been there ;) That being said, it's never easy to return to work long abandoned. As a result, there may be changes to the tone and character of the story, despite my best efforts to the contrary. Hopefully it will continue to live up to your standards.

Here's to the hopeful completion of this, at long last.

Enjoy

For a few moments time freezes, and we are locked in our ridiculous positions-both on hands and knees, red leaves clinging in an ominous mockery of future injuries. I stare at Katniss, eyes wide and heart hammering, and she stares back at me. As I watch, that iron strength in her eyes solidifies, and she sets her mouth in a hard line. In a fluid motion she pushes herself back onto her feet, hand twitching toward her pack. Still frozen, I remember with a jolt that there's a knife embedded in it's neon fabric. If she reaches it while I'm still pathetically on the ground, I'm a gonner.

Like an eel I slither back onto my feet and slide my back foot over the slick leaves into a fighting stance. I'm hopelessly outclassed, even if only for the obvious disparity in weaponry. I don't even know if my pack has a weapon in it, at all. So after a brief moment of panic I raise both hands in a block and lock eyes squarely with the girl on fire. It's a pathetic attempt, we both know it, but I wont go down without a fight.

"If it isn't the girl on fire," I drawl in an attempt to appear casually threatening. Based on her blank, uncaring expression, Katniss isn't impressed, and I have a feeling I look more disheveled and panicked than scary. I remember my persona-I'm supposed to be fierce. I'll have to work on that...

Katniss surveys my stance for a long moment, during which I alternately shift my feet and remember how to breathe, before a loud scream causes us both to jump. Time speeds up once again. Katniss' hand, previously inching toward the knife in her pack, darts out like a flash to grab the hilt. I lament, for the umpteenth time, my lack of a weapon and simply keep my hands up as we both spin to face back the way I came, toward the cornucopia. I feel woefully vulnerable, and more than a little stupid. Why did I freeze like that? Finnick's advice floats through my mind, just run as far as you can. Well, I didn't make it very far.

Laughter reaches us through the trees. It can be no other than the careers, prowling forward like wild hyenas. I hear the crunch of leaves as Katniss tenses beside me, and flick my gaze toward her, waiting for a decision. Surely this imminent threat postpones any confrontation between the two of us-if we wait around here much longer, we'll both end up dead, regardless. As though reading my mind, Katniss' eerie grey gaze latches onto mine.

"Run!" She hisses at me before spinning on one heel and racing away into the trees. It seems silly that she should warn me-the threat is so apparent it's laughable. Yet the single word seems just the right push to jolt me into action. With a flurry and the extra, energetic burst of panic, I am running again. I hear the careers' cackles as though they echo through the trees to chase me. I picture the pack of them-sauntering, maybe jogging, relaxed and secure in their safety, for now. Clove's face pops, unbidden, to mind and I cringe, falter a bit and slide down a shallow ravine before stumbling back to my feet and resuming my pace. Clove. For the first time a flare of anger cuts through my haze of panic. I realize suddenly that I hate her. It's the first time I've ever really hated anyone, and the emotion stings a little. It's not pleasant, accompanied by the burning, gruesome desire to see something terrible happen to her. What's wrong with me, that we're not ten minutes into the games and I've already developed bloodlust? I despair. Then I picture Clove's eyes, chips of black ice, and the vicious glee of her smile, and my hatred gives me a burst of speed.

I have developed a steady, if frantic, rhythm, and have been sprinting and scrambling madly over obstacles for several minutes before I realize the forest has gone quite still. I skid to a halt, nearly toppling over myself with the sudden lack of motion. Nice land legs, fish bait. I'm panting hard, having pushed myself harder than necessary in my desperation to escape the careers. My blood roars in my ears as I strain to hear past the adrenaline. Nothing. No maniacal laughter, no screams. Not even the soft but ominous crunch of footsteps. Only the peaceful chatter and song of birds (nice touch, gamemakers). I force myself to calm down, slow my panting by pulling the air roughly through my nose and releasing it through my teeth. My heartbeat begins to slow, even as my gaze flickers incessantly to take in every facet of my position. I'm still on high alert, waiting for the tiny crackly of a twig underfoot, the rush of light breathing, or the rustle of leaves, ready to dash away again at the slightest indication of company. I am definitely, agonizingly, prey, just waiting for a predator to round the corner.

After a few moments I still hear nothing. I almost relax, breathing a soft sigh of relief as everything starts to sink in: The games have begun. I've made my escape from the cornucopia, had my first few run-ins with tributes. I even snagged a backpack...speaking of which.

I'm about to swing my pack around and shuffle through the contents when a new sound seeps into my awareness. I freeze, listen a moment, and when I realize what it is my mouth goes dry as sand.

Water.

I have to stifle a whoop of surprised glee at the shimmering sound that seems to take over my entire mind. As it is, I don't hesitate even an instant before taking off. I move at a clipped trot, eyes taking in every sign of water along the way-moss, damp undergrowth, the steady darkening of the earth. I'm so distracted by my mission that when I finally come across the source, it's because I step in it.

My boot sinks, releasing a satisfying squelch that sends my heart joyfully into my throat. I look down, and find my foot half concealed by thick, red-ish mud. A trickle of clear, ice cold water runs over it, picks up little bits of sediment and soaks slowly into the leather of my boot. I yank my foot out of the stream, crouch down and for a moment simply bury my hands into the rich, wet ground. I feel the clay mold to my fingers, revel in the water as my hands go numb. I'm grinning from ear to ear. It isn't the ocean by any means, but any water is better than nothing.

I stand and follow the stream a ways further into the woods until it widens, grows still and forms a pool sheltered by thick undergrowth and the rotting trunk of a fallen tree, covered in lichen and white mushrooms. I briefly wonder if they might be edible, but decide not to risk it.

The pool is perfect-a dream come true-and I waste no time hunkering down near the log, setting down my pack, and dipping my entire face into the water. I can hardly believe my luck, still grinning madly as I marvel at my escape. I still hear no signs of any other tributes, career or otherwise, and almost imagine that I'm far away, in the wilderness areas between districts, not trapped in the arena. Then, my ears still pricked for any sounds of approach, the illusion is shattered by three canons in a row. Bang, bang, bang. My grin fades from my face, and I'm drawn back into the horror of my situation. Suddenly I wonder where the cameras are, whether they're watching me. I wonder what everyone back home is seeing...suddenly I hope it's me. I hope Grandma and Brook and Mag all catch a glimpse of me, sitting by the pool, plopped down onto a patch of moss with a pack of supplies in my lap. I'm alright, everyone, I think. For now...

Newly somber, I unzip the backpack and pull out its contents. I'm overjoyed to find a bundle of thin twine-almost like fishing line, it's so pliable-and a coil of wire. I stare at them in disbelief for a long moment, wondering if the gamemakers somehow created this pack especially for me. Then, still in awe, I set them reverently beside me and pull out my other tools: An aluminum water bottle-sadly empty-a whopping three matches, binoculars, a knit hat, and a strange device that I think must be a water pump. My heart sinks-I guess that means the water isn't safe to drink until it's filtered. I lick my lips nervously, hoping I haven't already contracted a disease from the pond.

With a sigh I stuff everything back into the pack. It's not the best list of tools-no food, no real weapons-but it's much better than nothing.

As I begin pumping water into my water bottle (hoping that I'm using the filter correctly), I notice that the light is growing dim. With a frown, I glance at the sky, visible in patches through the dense canopy. I think back to the harsh daylight when the games began. It couldn't have been later than noon, and there was no way we'd been out here more than a couple hours. Then again, the gamemakers control such things, and I suppose they're anxious to see how we react to the dangers of night.

I hurriedly finish filling the bottle as the anthem begins playing, and fix my gaze to where the screen is visible in a patch of deep indigo. There are so many faces...people I hardly even remember from the training rooms. Children, I remind myself grimly. Yet as I watch the faces slide by, I feel overwhelmingly, horrifyingly grateful that my face is not among them, and my heart leaps to notice that Oscar's face has also stayed out of the sky tonight. Still, nearly half of my competition has been wiped out day one, leaving me 11 tributes closer to surviving the games.

The thought is not a pleasant one, and I swallow thick bile as I picture the bodies strewn across the grass around the cornucopia. I clench my fists, stare into the water. They were going to die, anyway, I tell myself. And at least I'm not the one who killed them. Cato's face flashes unbidden through my mind, and I flinch. Where is he? How many has he already killed? There is no question he is with the career pack. Yet somehow, I feel more sorrow for him than for the dead.

I shake my head furiously. I have no business thinking about anyone but myself out here. I am alone, and everyone is an enemy. Even if his eyes are blue. Finnick's warning from the night before flickers through my mind. You'd be surprised who we consider friends when it comes down to it...But Cato can't be my friend. If I think that way, I will hesitate when the time comes. If I hesitate, Cato will kill me.

There you have it. A little dry, not much interaction, but I'm getting back into the swing of things. Review if you feel like it-you know it always makes my day.

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