Well, I only had the poll up for a day, but I think there is a clear winner: I will be continuing forward from the part I was already at. I'm sorry to those of you who wanted me to write the rest of the reapings that that will not be the case. I have to say, I actually thought that I would be going back, but I guess not. Yesterday, after I put up the poll, I finally got over my writer's block and decided to go ahead and write this chapter 'cause, well, why not? I would end up using it eventually if I did go back.

So, with that being said, I have written the next chapter! I'm going to go ahead and leave the poll up so that if for some reason lots of people who didn't vote suddenly decide that they want to they can; the results can still change, and I can always go back a write them if that's what everyone votes.

Here is Chapter 6. Enjoy, and please review!

(DISCLAIMER: If anyone told you I was Suzanne Collins, you were sadly misinformed. The only character of my own in this chapter is Petal Hardwire.)

Chapter 6 – Best Friends (I could not think of anything for this chapter, sorry)

-Lyricata Croose, District 8-

I'm in a daze. I didn't feel my legs move or perceive anything before my eyes, but in the back of my mind I'm aware that I've left the Justice Building and am now sitting on a cool, leather seat. My eyes are glassed over, unblinking. I stay perfectly still and stare at my feet while my entire life

is spiraling,

freefalling,

into nothingness.

Unpredictably and with sudden intensity, I'm wrenched into a particularly gory memory of a past Game.

I'm standing in an open field of bright green grass, not a tree in sight. A young girl is sprinting away from a huge, lurching shadow coming from behind me. I turn to see an incredibly tall boy on her tail holding something that gleams in the sunlight, hurting my eyes. As he runs, it's position changes slightly so that the sun doesn't hit it at a bad angle, revealing that it's a long, curved sword.

Despite the girl's determination, the male tribute catches up to her easily. His legs have to be at least two thirds longer than hers. He grabs her with his empty hand and crushes her against his thick chest. His arm wraps around her waist and he starts to swing the blade towards her neck, but because his grip is so low she is able to bend over and avoid the deathblow.

As the sword swings fully around, the girl somehow manages to bite his arm. She draws blood and the ogre of a guy howls in pain and fury. He drops her and she scrambles to get up. As she staggers forward ready to bolt, the guy kicks her in the back of her knee sending her to the ground with a cry. She tries to get up, but something is wrong with her leg and it won't hold her balance, so she drops back down. This time, when the boy brings the sword down at her, she rolls to the side. The razor edge gets lodged into the dirt floor and for a flash he is preoccupied with tugging at the hilt to get it back out. The girl takes advantage of the distraction and franticly scuttles as far from him as possible. But the look in her eyes shows that even she knows the attempt is futile.

Only a minute or so later, the male tribute has succeeded in cutting open the girl's throat after a short struggle.

She falls to the ground, crumpled in on her side. Lying in a pool of crimson, her stunning, golden hair is tinged copper. The murderer stands over her dead body with the sword poised over his head preparing for another attack.

With a fierce expression, he brings the sword down again and again, hacking at her limbs—

My vision wobbles, and I can feel rough hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me.

I blink several times and force the image away.

"Lyricata. Lyricata, calm down," an urgent voice in my right ear tells me, but I have a hard time concentrating on what it's saying. "Lyricata, take deep, slow breaths. Breathe, Lyricata, you need to breathe!"

I realize that my lungs are burning, protesting from a lack of oxygen. I gasp for air, sucking in huge breathes, doing as the voice commands. Slowly, my sight returns, and I turn to see a familiar face next to me.

Seeing him there, looking at me full of concern, the little bit of my sanity I had been able to hold onto started slipping from my grasp.

Unable to hold it back any longer, I press my face into the hollow between his neck and shoulder where it's warm and comfortable. "Lysander," I moan, and then I let all my walls plummet down and cry my heart out.

-Lysander Doffle, District 8-

I've just been reaped and said goodbye to my family, making it clear to them I have no intentions of coming back home despite their protests. I'm now sitting in a car being taken to the train station, where flocks of photographers will be waiting to capture my every move. After that, I will be thrown into a slaughtering of tributes where I will die. But those thoughts evade my mind. The only thing I'm able to focus on is the girl sitting next to me. My best friend. Somehow, the two of us have been chosen to die together. But I won't let that happen. Not to her, anyway.

My jaw is clenched, and I watch her, tense. Ever since the day I discovered how unstable Lyricata is, the day she moved in to live with my family and me, I've constantly been cautious and searched for signs of more distress. Right now, seeing her sit there like a statue, eyes fixed on nothing, the urge to help her roars up like a wave in my chest.

I reach out and place my hands on her shoulders, gently trying to catch her attention. I've seen that glazed off stare before, and I know I must call her back to consciousness.

"Lyricata. Lyricata, calm down." I try to keep the desperation out of my voice, but I know it didn't come out calm in the slightest. "Lyricata, take deep slow breaths."

She's still zoned out. "Breathe, Lyricata, you need to breathe!"

It takes a second, but she finally comes to, taking in great lungfulls of oxygen. Lyricata looks steadily at me for a moment, locking eyes. Then she lurches towards me and buries her face against my neck, startling me.

"Lysander." The sound is incredibly pitiful. When it's followed by hiccupping sobs, I'm pretty sure I can feel my heart ping with her pain. It's terrible to see my best friend this distraught.

Carefully, I take her wrists in one hand and wrap my other arm over her shoulders, trying to comfort her. I know it will do no good to attempt to get her to stop crying; she's had these fits often and the best way to handle them is to just allow her to let it all out. She will eventually get better.

All too soon, the car stops and my eyes are bombarded with blinding flashes of light. I step out of the car letting Lyricata lean against me, my arm still around her. Together we stagger towards the train that will take us to the Capital, forcing our way between the jittery reporters and cameras.

We finally make it to the train. Our escort, Petal Hardwire, in all her glittering glory, manages to daintily hoist herself onto the train. Lyricata goes next, and I assist her with stepping up into it and then turn back around to look at the throng of eager people. Petal and Lyricata stand in the doorway until I follow them up, but I wait a moment. In sudden spite, I give a half smile that holds absolutely no joy for the cameras' sakes before hauling myself up after them and slamming the door behind me.

Inside the train, Lyricata is wiping at her eyes and no longer weeping. I exhale with relief, but my breath is stolen when the train jerks to life under my feet. I stumble, taken away by the speed. Lyricata's knees buckle, but she grabs onto a nearby table to steady herself.

"Now, now then!" chirps Petal in her reedy voice that is much too high to be natural. "Time to show you both to your rooms!"

Reluctantly, I follow behind her with Lyricata trailing at my side.

Petal taps her way down the slender halls in her exceedingly tall high heels and shows us to our rooms. She brings Lyricata to hers first and then takes me to mine. She dismisses me at the doorway with a smile so wide it must be painful and tells me to hang out in my room until dinnertime.

With a loss of things to do, I explore my chamber, which includes a bedroom and a place to change. They are both fancy and full of expensive and comfortable goods, but it's the last of the rooms that I'm drawn to. My own, personal bathroom complete with a shower. Eagerly, I shed my clothes and stride into the hot water. It pours over my skin and I close my eyes, relaxing in its peace. The water is soothing and my breathing slows while my brain clears of thought. I've never had a shower before, and barely ever do I even have the opportunities to bathe. So this is a treat. When my fingers start to prune, I shut the water off and slowly step out. I grab a towel and wrap it around my waist, leaving the room to go find something to wear.

I pass through the bedroom and almost fail to notice the figure lying silently on the bed. At the sound of my entrance, Lyricata sits up. "I was lonely," she says simply.

My mouth twitches and I park myself on the bed alongside her. We sit in silence, the other's presence alone a console.

I break the stillness. "I'm going to go put on some clothes."

"Oh." Lyricata clearly didn't notice that I was only wearing a towel. "Alright."

Quickly, I leave the room to grab a shirt and pair of pants.

When I return, Lyricata is on her back again, staring at the ceiling. "What are we going to do?" she asks in a monotone.

"I don't know. Win."

"Lysander, I'm serious." The bed doesn't even creak when she sits up.

My face is straight. "So am I."

Lyricata's shoulders slump forward, and she rests her elbow on her thigh, her chin on her fist. Her face screws up as she says, "Is there even a chance that one of us will make it out alive? Or are they just a fantasy, these dreams I keep having?"

For the past several nights, Lyricata has informed me that her dreams center on a bright yellow light surrounding two silhouettes standing side by side: one is tall with short, shaggy hair, and the other is a skinny shadow about the exact same height. The two of us.

Her eyes penetrate me and I know she can clearly see my internal struggle. She insists that the light means glory and happiness, yet she knows what I think. I'm convinced that it just means we might actually go to heaven.

I'm unable to say anything, so we just wait for Petal to come get us for dinner.

When Petal does come, she raps against the door frantically. I hurry to let her in and am surprised at her condition. Her eyes are wide, her cherry hair falling out of its tight bun, and she's holding her high heels in one hand, breathing heavily. "I can't—find—Lyricata—anywhere," she pants between gulps of air.

I open the door farther to reveal Lyricata standing a few feet behind me, wary.

Petal's eyes instantly narrow, and she purses her lips. "Young lady, what are you doing in here?"

Lyricata's eyebrows shoot up and her eyes dart around the room while she tugs at the bottom of her dress shirt.

I answer for her in a curt tone. "She didn't want to wait in her room by herself."

Petal sighs, but doesn't push the matter farther. "Well, you two, it's time for dinner."

We quietly consent and follow her to the dining room.

When we arrive, we see four chairs set around a square, highly polished, wooden table. Only one of them is taken.

The man sitting in the chair is, what appears to be, an albino. His skin and hair are snow white, while his eyes are a deep scarlet. The way he is drooped over in his chair and the dark shadows under his eyes make him seem dead or dying. A wilted flower. Our mentor, I'm assuming.

I take the seat across from the man and glance down at the food set in a silver platter in front of me. My mind doesn't process it in specifics. All I see is lettuce topped off with toppings galore and a dressing. Big, heaping mountains of leafy greens. And I can't seem to grab my fork fast enough.

-Lyricata Croose, District 9-

The food that is passed in front of my face is, to say the least, phenomenal. Astounding. Unparalleled. It is, without a doubt, the best I have ever had. Though I'm sure that, at this point, pigs' hoofs would have tasted incredible too, with my stomach in such a tight ball of nerves and having not eaten a decent meal in way too long.

I scarf down every meal placed before me, trying to ration and slow down, but it's hard. When everything you see in front of you is edible ecstasy, it's impossible to resist.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Lysander shoveling food into his mouth with the speed and consistency of a locomotive, and on the opposite side is our mentor. In my opinion, he looks like a turtle. The way he's hunched over with his shoulders pushed up slightly and how he stretches out his neck to reach his food. An albino turtle that smells bad and hasn't slept in a week. For some reason, I don't recognize him. Normally I know the names of all of the mentors who've won from our district since I was born – only two Victors – and the ones recently previous to that. I dismiss the fact with a mental wave and go back to focusing on a much more important matter: food.

While we all eat, we make little conversation. Petal asks us about our day, as if expecting it to have been exciting. I hardly glance at her, but focus on Lysander instead, who just gives her an exaggerated, sullen expression. She blinks and then turns to our mentor, giving him a meaningful look. "I think you should introduce yourself to Lysander and Lyricata. They are probably very curious to know who you are."

The man takes notice that Petal spoke to him only by moving his eyes. His head is still bent forward over his plate. "My name is Olaf Lindgren. I am your mentor," he states in a clear, but dull, voice. I frown at his lack of emotion.

Petal attempts to get Olaf to explain more, but he just mumbles a gruff, "Not while I'm eating," and ignores us. But Lysander won't take any of it. The atmosphere around him stales, and I know that he's angry that our mentor has not said anything of use yet while our lives are on the line.

My hand shoots out to touch his arm, to try and get him to relax. Lysander is always so serious. I can only imagine how wound up he is right now. To ease him, I decide to try to take matters into my own hands. My voice shakes a tiny bit as I speak. "Olaf." But I can't get more than one word out before Lysander goes ahead and breaks in.

"Can you at least tell us anything at all that will help us? Lyricata and I could both—" He suddenly cuts off, but he sucks in a breath and continues, "We want to make it out alive, and you're the one who's supposed to help us. So please, just do your job."

I'm worried that Lysander might have upset Olaf, but his eyes move mournfully up again and he says in a dead tenor, "Remember what the Capital has the power to do, and never turn your backs on each other, for you are the greatest asset to your ally."

Please review! You know you want to! It can only take you two seconds if you want it to! I mean, you can simply review saying, "polka dotted zebras rock," so that I know you read all of this, I guess.

-Tasting Raindrops-