All my friends are murder;

Hey, all my bones no marrows in;

All these fiends want teenage meat;

All my friends are murderers...

HOUR 1000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 2. 20 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

The humidity, even in the morning, was startling. The archipelago was admittedly beautiful: lush, green canopies, and trees that seemed to scrape at the azure sky; the water was sparkling, and the sand was bone white. Birds of all colours perched high up in the trees, awakening the temporary inhabitants of their home with indignant calls and shrill whistles. On the shore were wooden beach huts with planks bleached by the sun and the lapping sea. All long-since abandoned, and mostly dilapidated, they somehow managed to appear picturesque.

In one of these huts, if a person listened very closely, they might hear a quite sobbing sound, muffled by small hands. It was the sound of a female child. If the situation had been any different, the boy approaching the hut with a spear in his left hand may have been seeking to comfort her. But they were not back in the districts, where they had dwelled prior to the events of the last few days. The boy with the spear, who was advancing readily on the hut now, was by no means planning to help the child.

Avien Featherling, heart pounding, flexed his fingers guiltily around the metal pole of his spear. He was no monster, and never would be, but certainly understood the meaning of 'easy prey'. Taking out one competitor, whoever they might be, certainly narrowed down the competition; he needed that. The idea of dying- he was sceptical of any form of afterlife- sent bile rising in his throat. Eternal darkness, like being asleep forever? It just didn't make sense to him.

And there was no escaping the situation he was in. So, like it or not, he would have to adapt.

He reached the front of the beach hut, and flattened himself against the front of the hut, a few feet away from the floor. His feet, encased in military leather boots, sunk a little way into the sand, imprinting footsteps there. Without thinking, he'd left a noticeable trail behind him, and had not noticed. Even if he had noticed, it was unlikely that he would have thought anything of it. Avien lived in the moment, with little regard for anything but what he was doing in the current time. And if that set him up as similar 'easy prey' to the person he was hunting, then that was that.

Feeling like he was about to vomit, Avien took a terse step to the right, towards the open doorway of the beach-hut. Keeping his back flat against the wooden wall, he shut his eyes for a moment, then kept going. This has to be done... At least it's me doing it and not, like, some deranged Career... That thought, if selfish and fair, was all that kept him going. He was just a boy, forced into a situation that regarded too much morality for him. It was a matter of life and death. What he was doing was evil, but...

As his right foot met the crooked steps that led up to the beach-house doorway, he swallowed. Now or never. Elevating his leg carefully, trying to keep out of view, he slid onto the steps. The crying sound continued. Then, he tested his weight. Leaning a little bit on his leg, he experimented with whether the step would creak or not. When it didn't, upon first attempt, he swung his other leg onto it and readed himself to walk through into the doorway. His fingers, still gripping the long spear, were so sweaty that he could scarcely keep hold of it.

He hadn't taken two steps before, much to his shock, a small force barrelled into his side and sent him flying to the ground. The spear, already slick from his fingers, slid out of his grasp and rolled across the floor away from him. He felt a tiny fist thump into his temple, and looked up to discover a young girl straddling his abdomen, a look of thunderous fury on her tear-stained face. It took his relatively addled brain a moment to process who she was, before realising that it was the girl from District 11- Rose-Mary Telesco. He was barely bigger than she was, but far leaner, and he was quite surprised to discover that she had been able to knock him over.

"I'm not going to die that easy!" Rose-Mary snarled, looking so remarkably out of (what he had presumed was her) character that it might have been amusing. She looked like a feral kitten, her teeth bared, and her fists raining down on his face and chest. Since she didn't seem to know what she was doing, and where to hit, none of her blows connected with anywhere that would really matter. "I'm no easy target!"

The rage was something that she'd never really experienced before. Not that anger was foreign to her, she was only human, but such a white-hot extreme was something that Rose-Mary couldn't take. She struck the boy blindly, wildly, in an animalistic attempt to save her own skin. On what seemed like the hundredth blow, he weakly managed to catch her fist, and forced it upwards.

The two of them were locked in a battle, as he managed to grab her other hand and pushed it away; despite her size, her anger and fear was so great that she held her own competantly against him. It was an arm wrestle, simple enough, but one with a potentially deadly result. And the look of raw terror on Rose-Mary's face as Avien shoved upwards, sending her skidding backwards, was something that could never be replicated.

Without thinking, he tumbled away from her, and crawled across the floor towards the spear that lay metres away from the both of them. Catching his intent, and only a little winded, Rose-Mary mirrored his movements and threw herself towards the metal pole; her fingers grazed the edge of it, before he snatched it up into his grip, and turned back towards her. There was a frightened, yet predatory look in his wide, innocent eyes.

He struggled to find words, but managed to point the spear at Rose-Mary, who had frozen like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Her eyes were as wide as his were, and even more terrified; they darted about, going from Avien's face, to the tip of the spear. The sharp point was aimed directly at her face, and one thrust would impale it between her eyes. It was barely inches away, and she found herself going cross eyed in order to focus on it.

"Stay t... t..." Despite the fact that he now held control, Avien's heart was pumping too hard to allow him ordinary speech. He was almost doubled over with exertion, his head was spinning, and he could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Eventually, having stuttered for a good ten seconds, he swallowed and tried again. "Stay there. Don't move, or I'll kill you. Understand?"

While Rose-Mary nodded quickly, both of them knew from the look on his face alone that he was speaking empty words. Still training the spear on her, Avien paused for a second, in order to ponder. What, exactly, was he going to do? He had this little girl at his mercy, didn't have the guts to kill her, and was now threatening her not to move. Was he supposed to run away? Rough her up a little, teach the mite a lesson, and then run away? For the first time in his life, Avien reluctantly wished that he was a Career: they were prepared for the situation, and knew what they were doing. For the outer-district dwellers, the Hunger Games was scarcely more than a bloody free-for-all.

It was at that point that Avien felt a slight twinge of anger. It was directed at himself, mostly, but also at the Capitol; he was entertaining them, and by murdering the child kneeling on the ground in front of him, he would most likely entertain them further. And for what? So they could be similarly entertained, later, by his subsequent death?

When Avien next spoke, he did so without much thought. Similarly, when he threw the spear down to the ground, he did not imagine the possible consequences. Luckily for him, Rose-Mary seemed to be willing enough to listen to him, and considered his offer for quite a long time. When she eventually got up, in order to shake his hand, there was a miniscule, wretched smile on her face.

"We're a team." She said.

HOUR 2000 APPROXIMATE, DAY 2. 20 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

The Careers, Rio thought to himself, were instrinsically flawed. Aside from Korina, who could work well enough with any of them given the need, they clashed constantly. Although they had barely been in the game for over twenty four hours, there had been three rows between the ever-warring pair: Audrey and Exotica. The two of them never ceased their arguing and, it seemed, they would not stop until one of them died. It had initially merely been Exotica merely baiting Audrey for her own enjoyment, before the former became irritated with the latter's rack of reaction, and it became the first of many spitting rows.

Winner Sinclair put it best. "Cat fight. Meow."

Personal politics aside, as Rio sat by the campfire outside an abandoned log-cabin, idly tossing twigs onto the crackling flames, he was beginning to consider leaving the group. He hadn't said anything- after all, he rarely spoke nowadays- but his thoughts wandered beyond the small clearing where he sat, deep into the lush forest. He wet his lips with his tongue, and coughed quietly. In the angry silence, punctuated only by the occasional disapproving sniff from Audrey and the sound of small flames burning leaves and wood, he felt distinctly uncomfortable. Despite himself, he began hoping another fight would break out, simply for the distraction.

Hunting wouldn't start until it was properly dark. It had been ruled that they would attempt to root out sleeping tributes, to lessen the initial workload. Given that things would likely become difficult later, Audrey had stated, they might as well cruise through the first half of the games with as little effort as possible. That way, they would have more energy remaining when things got... difficult...

"Tributes, tributes!" The sound of Cicero's jubilant tones rang over the arena, emanating from loudspeakers carefully camouflaged to fit in with the scenery. Obediently, the Careers all listened for more. "Have you all had a nice day?"

"Yes." Damien was the only one who replied. His grin remained in place, as ever, although it looked strained. Perhaps, Rio thought, the girls' constant arguing had even taken an effect on Damien's eerie good temperament. Although that seemed impossible, since nothing any of them did seemed to garner any change in him. Korina and Winner, both of whom had not enjoyed the day of "rest", had tried to provoke him into a frown of any kind. At one point, Winner had disappeared into the trees and pretended to be a maddened mutt; Damien had done nothing more but smile, and even laughed quietly. When Korina had decided to initiate a one-sided staring contest, certain she would provoke him into an awkward glare, he merely stared right back at her. Both were thoroughly put-out.

"Good!" Cicero's voice rang out over the silent arena once more. There was a pause, the sound of grating static, and then- "No deaths so far today. I'm disappointed in you, guys. I really thought better of you. Better hope something happens quick, or..." Even though his jovial tone had not changed, there was a strange, chilling edge of threat behind it. "We may be.. ahem... forced to take matters into our own hands. Anyway, let's not think about that. Good luck, tributes! And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

There was another screech of static, and then the loudspeakers died. The arena fell into a serene stillness, once again interrupted only by the crackling of the campfire. In the time it had taken for Cicero to speak, Audrey had stopped sniffing.

She stood up. Her bow was slung over her slim shoulders, a quiver of arrows hanging lopsidedly on her back. With a small sigh, she flexed her fingers readily, before turning to the group at large. "You heard the man," Audrey murmured and, for the first time in quite a while, she smiled. White, pearly teeth shone from between cracked pink lips, and the firelight reflected off them, as well as the whites of her eyes. In the darkness, she looked almost like a ghost. "We're going to go hunting now, but we need somebody to stay behind and guard the camp... No, we'll leave two people, I think..." for a moment, she pondered her own choice. Then, she nodded crisply. "Yes, two people. Any volunteers?"

Dubiously, Rio raised his own hand, and Audrey blinked at him. She seemed surprised that anybody was willing to forgo the hunt, but then looked rather pleased. "Thank you, Rio. Anybody else?"

Eventually, it was decided that Winner and Rio would stay behind, and Damien, Exotica, Audrey and Korina would search for tributes. This decision was met with a great deal of grumbling from Winner, who was largely ignored, before the chosen four vanished out of sight, into the shadows of the trees.

Rio watched them fade into the distance.

HOUR 2300 APPROXIMATE, DAY 2. 20 CONTESTANTS REMAINING.

Patchouli Kevi sprinted through the undergrowth, panic running through his every pore and bursting forth, to form a slick sheen of sweat over his skin. He was wheezing, the stitch in his side so intense that he felt like his innards were being drawn from him, but he could not stop; it was a matter of life or death. Four bodies, far more powerfully built than his own, chased after him. Their heavy, branch breaking bodies pushed through the trees with more force than his own; there was no point in even attempting to be quiet. They were on his trail, they had sniffed him out like the bloodhounds they were, and were making far more noise than he could ever hope to. Their squeals and shouts of triumph masked his footfall.

He was the fox, and they were the hounds.

"Wait up, sweetie, we'll make it quick!" A girl crowed- he wasn't sure which one it was- and at least two of the others laughed breathlessly as the pace quickened. It was a disturbing rhythm: as their feet, almost in sync, hit the ground, he would spring further into the density of the undergrowth. He had long since gotten lost, but there was no helping that. Running blindly, and letting the darkness of the night swallow him, was preferable to following a certain path. They wouldn't catch him, he was certain of it.

Patch had to win. There was no alternative, and nothing in his buzzing mind could possibly suggest otherwise. Dying? It couldn't happen to him! Not until he was good and ready, that was. For somebody who had grown up so surrounded by death, he was not resigned to it. Somewhere in the hardness of his shell, there was a desperation. A desperation for life, and to live a better one than he had experienced thus far. A wretchedness, simple as that.

That was all that was going through his mind, even as his feet ran out of ground, and he went plummeting down into some kind of ravine. In the dark of the night, he couldn't tell what was happening, other than that he was falling. And although the fall couldn't have been more than eight feet or so, it seemed to last forever. The wind whistled through his ears, stinging his eyes painfully, and his mouth gaped in horror. His limbs spiralled madly through the air, trying to catch onto something that wasn't there. There was nothing to catch on to, and he was falling. Falling faster and faster, further and further.

Well, this is it...

He made impact.

Like a cannonball, Patch broke the water, and sank down to the bottom. His surprise at hitting the water was such that he had scarcely noticed the slight pain upon hitting the surface, and he was so astonished with his fair luck that he took a deep breath in. As the bitter water filled his mouth, he realised his mistake and hastily spat, blowing bubbles into the pool, gagging. As another great strike of luck, he hadn't swallowed any of it. Barely daring to believe what had happened, his entire body relaxing, he slowly pushed off the sandy bottom of the pool.

High above him, he could hear the Careers shouting at the top of their lungs. Being under water, he couldn't quite tell if they were yelling at him, or at one another; either way, he didn't really care. As foolish as they seemed, he doubted that they would follow him down into the pool. To them, it would look like a dead drop.

His head rose above the surface, and gasped for air, remaining as silent as he good. For a few moments, he treaded water and tried to catch his bearings, before doggy-paddling haphazardly away from where he had come. Patch's head sank beneath the water several more times, not being the best swimmer, but the pool was shallow and small enough that this didn't really matter. It was only just deep enough to accommodate his fall.

"I heard a splash!" One of the Careers, another girl, was shouting at her comrades. "There's some kind of water down there, so we can follow!"

"We're near the shoreline, you damn idiot!" Another girl snapped back. "It could have come from anywhere. It's an unnecessary risk. There are plenty more tributes."

They were silent for a few moments, before the girl who had first shouted spoke up again. She sounded like she was practically spitting with rage, and Patch couldn't help but enjoy her irritation. "We would have heard a cannon if he'd died!"

"He might not die immediately on impact. It's a stupid risk, but if you feel like jumping off a cliff, then fine with me, Exotica!"

Apparently, she didn't. Because after a few moments, their voices and footsteps faded away. Patch was safe.

For now.