Food had no taste and words had no weight as John and Molly finished their final meal. They only spoke a few times, with Glamor remaining as disdainful as ever. John was almost grateful for the small sense of continuity that his escort's rudeness brought. Disliking the man was something that John could hang on to when everything else was about to change.

"Any advice?" John asked gruffly as soon as he finished. A part of him wanted to stay at the table for hours. He could not imagine death or violence occurring in this strange, isolated world of decadence and refinery. But he couldn't just pretend that it wasn't going to happen, and prolonging the delusion would be a waste of time.

"Don't go for the Cornucopia," Glamor said without looking up from his plate. "Especially not you, princess. Run as fast as you can and as far as you can and just try to stay alive."

"What about weapons?" John asked.

"Don't go for weapons. Anything can be a weapon- your hands, head, a rock, a branch. Don't waste time getting greedy. Every second you spend there more than doubles your risk of death."

"Food?" Molly asked.

"There's usually some kind of external source. Don't get squeamish- if you have to drink blood or eat entrails, do it. Do not pass up on a chance to eat."

"Water, then?"

"That's the single most important thing, and it's the same case- there'll be some, somewhere. If you find a lake or river, stick by it. You'll end up in fights- people are always drawn to water- but it's the safest option."

"What if we can't stay there? Like if somebody else gets there first?" Molly pressed.

"Well, I'd advise killing them. If you can't do that, try and get a bottle or something else that can hold water and fill it up while they sleep."

"And if we can't do that?"

"Don't forget you can drink the rain. Make sure you're never in a situation where you have no water. Worst case scenario, pee in the damn bottle."

"Glamor?" John asked. He had been quiet, concentrating on absorbing the advice they desperately needed. But it hadn't skipped his attention that this was one of the first times he'd even heard Glamor speak a full sentence. Nobody replied, and John took the silence as an invitation to continue. "How long have you been training kids for?"

"Four years," he said guardedly.

"Oh, that's not that long," Molly commented.

"It's long enough," he said, and he looked at the two of them directly for what John thought was the first time. His bleached platinum hair and violently pink makeup distracted away from his actual eyes- a soft slate grey that for a split second were strangely vulnerable. Combined with his unusually fervent speech, it was like his mentor had been sucked into a different world; possibly the one he had occupied four years ago.

"Maybe they'll let you go to a decent district soon," John said flatly. Glamor was human, and that was good to know. But the end of the day, he was a human in shimmering jewelled clothes that cost more than John's father had made in a year. Glamor would still be alive to waste his money on those beautiful clothes in a day, a week, a year. John could not say the same for himself. It was understandable that Glamor had tuned himself out to pain of training children for death. It was not excusable.

"I live in hope," Glamor replied in a similar fashion, face hardened. It seemed to John that there was nothing left to say, so he excused himself. Molly stayed behind to finish her meal, and John was grateful for the few moments of solitude. He showered, wondering when he'd get the chance to get clean again- if he'd ever get that chance. He had fully intended to go straight to bed, but everything felt suddenly alien when he turned off the light. He couldn't understand why. He'd already stayed there for days, sleeping on silk sheets under thick duvets. Why did it suddenly feel so wrong?

Molly didn't comment when she walked in to find him curled up on the floor by his bed, head resting on his arm and covered only by a simple tartan blanket. He was grateful for that. He didn't want to explain because he didn't really know he knew was that, with the horrors of tomorrow awaiting him, anything relating to the Capitol felt terrifying- to be avoided at all costs.

On the ground, covered by only the thin material, he felt much safer. Things were what they were. He gazed around the room he had been so impressed by on the first day. Vivid colours or diamonds hiding death and destruction; the awful reality that they were all here to be killed. What was the point in pamper before slaughter?

He didn't sleep well. The third time he bolted upright, awoken by horrifying nightmares, he decided to go and get a glass of water. As he crossed the floor, he caught sight of a dark shape moving beyond the window. He stood still as his eyes adjusted and the form sharpened into familiarity. A man, in a coat, stood looking out over the city. John got his drink and returned to his room as quickly and as quietly as possible. By the next morning, he had convinced himself that he only imagined the flash of Sherlock's face, turning to look at him.


Greg tried not to wince as the woman stabbed his arm and inserted the tracker. She moved swiftly on, leaving him staring straight at the girl from District 12. He looked away too quickly. Greg remembered her interview. She had been yet another tribute pigeonholed into the 'desirable' category- he thought he even remembered her saying that they'd pierced her ears just for the occasion.

(The earrings matched the silver trim on her dress. Greg remembered the dress because if he was completely honest, he'd spent quite a lot of time looking at her in it.)

He made himself eat and drink, blandly following the instructions he had been given. His stylist attempted conversation, but they had passed the point where they had anything at all to talk about. Greg didn't really want to spend his last few moments making strained comments about the view, so he was pleased when they fell into silence.

The windows blacked out as they approached the arena, and he fought as hard as he could to keep the damn food inside of he climbed off of the ladder at the end of the journey, he nearly fell over. His stylist narrowed her eyes at him. He stayed perfectly still until the blackness clouding his vision eased away, and he let himself be led to the Launch Room. He dressed in the clothes that his stylist handed him, furious at his embarrassment at changing in front of her. Grow up.

Greg drunk more water as they waited in a vacuum of noiselessness. The voice rang out to announce the launch, and he swallowed hard and stood on the circular metal plate.

"Are you okay?" his stylist asked, and he nodded mutely.

"Just try your best, kid," she said, smiling sympathetically. He returned the smile feebly, and then the cylinder was enclosing him and he couldn't move or think or breathe.

No, shut up, of course you can breathe. Just stay calm. He was thrust into darkness as the tube moved upwards, and he was convinced that now he really was going to faint. He didn't know if he felt better or worse when he was suddenly stunned by a world of light, slamming into him like a physical force.

Sixty seconds. He just had to stay there and not do anything stupid for sixty seconds, and then he would run and run and he would not look back. Nobody had spoken to him about the Cornucopia, and he didn't blame them. One look at the athletic boys and girls that surrounded him, poised to sprint, told him all he needed to know about his chances. He used his minute to instead take in the arena, eyes adjusting to the almost violent brightness.

Grass. There was grass here. That could only be a good sign, right? There wasn't much grass in District Six- you don't need vegetation to make hovercrafts. But he'd seen enough to recognise it, and this arena was already much better than the barren deserts he'd been fearing. They were in a clearing, a circular forest of tall trees surrounding them. They started off sparse but soon grew so dense that Greg couldn't tell what lay beyond them. It was something of a mixed blessing. On one hand, it would be easy to hide. On the other, it would be easy for the people hunting you to do the same.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he very nearly missed the gong. Luckily for him, a more basic instinct took over when his brain was too slow to react properly. He was running before he could remember why, and when it all clicked all he did was run faster. He had turned around completely and was sprinting away from the Cornucopia, away from the screams and crashes behind him. He could hear people moving through the forest nearby, but he paid them no attention. All that mattered was getting as far away as possible. He'd figure out what to do next if he made it to later.


Most people looking around the arena in those sixty seconds grace registered the following:

There is grass here.

There are trees here.

It's not very hot or very cold.

Those from the agricultural districts made a note of the kind of trees, while those from Districts One and Two focused themselves on the pile of weapons in front of them. A few of the more intelligent boys and girls made the connection that water must be relatively available if they were surrounded by greenery. When Sherlock took in the arena, he recorded the following:

Grass and trees mean that there's a regular supply of water, probably rain of some kind but that can always be artificially prevented or induced so don't get too sure, two rabbits and birdsong to the right but no signs of wildlife on the left- right's more likely to contain the water or food sources. Grass gets longer the further into the forest you go, could hide potential traps- must be careful when walking- trees show no obvious signs of producing fruit or edible substances. Most weapons/food lying to left hand side of Cornucopia, intention is to drive tributes towards the left hand side, so right side almost certainly safer. Berries recognisable from edible plants station- benign- fungi- deadly- not a huge surplus of food in the Cornucopia so overall safe food sources seem likely. No point in wasting time getting food supplies. Weapons, however-

Rook had asked Sherlock if he could run, and Sherlock had said yes. Sherlock had asked Rook if he should go for it, and Rook had said yes. They had a silent understanding that Sherlock was going to go for the Cornucopia no matter what, and that Rook didn't really care either way.

There was a handgun only a short sprint from Sherlock. It was towards the left, which wasn't where he wanted to go, but it was close enough so that he could grab it and run. Weighing things up, the gun was the most logical item to go for. And oh, he wanted to go for something.

Sherlock was running as the gong struck, foot hitting the ground a fraction of a second after the mines deactivated. He was fast, but others were fast too, and has he raced towards the gun he could see and hear them closing in around him. An impossibly quick tribute across from him had secured a pack of throwing knives, and when Sherlock looked up the boy reached into his pack for one to hurl. Sherlock threw himself into the dirt, rolling as he hit the ground, and the blade sailed over his shoulder.

He was only inches away from the gun and he lunged towards it only to find that somebody else had got there first. Fear and determination were struggling for dominance on John's face when their fingers closed around the weapon at the same time. As John's skin touched his, a jolt of something Sherlock couldn't entirely explain shot through him. He was only distracted for a moment, but it was enough time for John to wrench the gun from him and pelt into the woods surrounding them.

The small move had thrown Sherlock's entire plan off. Confused and angry at himself (and still with an ember of something new and not understood glowing inside of him), he forced himself upwards and grabbed the nearest pack, some simple survival equipment. He looked up seconds before the knife met his eyes; early enough to flatten out against the ground and hear it whistle over him. He went to run, but his attacker was closing in, already pulling out another blade.

There was no way Sherlock would be able to dodge past him, so instead he turned and just ran. He was running into the left hand side of the woods, and his internal monologue was shouting that that was wrong. He had to be on the right hand side, that was where the water was, that was where it was safe. But as the right hand side currently held a muscled, angry boy who still had a good selection of throwing knives, Sherlock ignored this complaint and carried on. 'Safety' could only ever be temporary here. What other choice did he have?


John was fully aware that Glamor had told them not to go for weapons, but couldn't shake the conviction that if he just had a gun, things would somehow fall into place. Ranged weapons were the most useful of all in this kind of situation, and that gun had called his name. He gripped it tightly in his palm as he ran, praying to anybody who would listen that it was loaded and he hadn't risked his life for nothing.

He hadn't noticed it at first, but the forest was changing the further in he ran. He only just missed a thick and gnarled tree root, hidden by the long grass. He forced himself to take a short break and scan his surroundings. He was surrounded by thick, tangled vegetation, baring almost no resemblance to the shaven field holding the Cornucopia. Shooting wary looks around, he started walking instead, slowing picking his way across the ground. He had been continuing in this manner for what he guessed was around twenty minutes, when a loud noise thundered through the arena and the floor seemed to shake under his feet.

A cannon blast.

There was something odd about that, something that John couldn't quite place. It was a few minutes later when the uneasiness finally sharpened to a point and revealed itself he realised just what was so strange. They didn't fire the cannons until late afternoon on the first day; the fighting was too intense for them to do it any other way. So why fire the cannons now, when for seventy-three years nothing had changed?

Twenty minutes must have passed- fifteen at the very least. Usually five or six tributes were taken out in the first two minutes alone, in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. John's heart quickened a little. Could it be that they had changed their style because there wasn't a bloodbath? That the fighting had already ended, and only one cannon had fired because only one tribute had died?

One tribute died. The enormity of the thought induced a sudden wave of nausea, engulfing him. He kept walking, wobbling slightly, eyes following an invisible path on the floor in front of him. One of the children he had trained with, eaten with, smiled at, had died. Who? The boy who congratulated John when he hit the hardest target in archery? The red haired girl who always smiled at him whenever she saw him? Or somebody even closer? The girl from Twelve and the boy from Eight smiled at him in his imagination, before being blown apart by mines or torn apart by daggers.

If he lived, they would all die. Even if he died, only one could live. He couldn't help but wonder who he wanted it to be, but killed that train of thought before it even got going. He couldn't help but feel like it might somehow influence fate, and he was not prepared to play into that game.

A second cannon blast shook him out of his stupor. This was not the time to examine his morals. The grass was shortening under his feet, and he thought he could see an opening beyond the trees. John couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at the idea of getting out of the woods. Every twig snap and rustle caused terror to rip into him. Out in the open, he'd be much better prepared for anybody coming for him.

Before he left the cover of the woods, he paused to check the gun. Loaded. He gave a grim smile, and set out to find whatever lay beyond the trees.


The boy with the knives was following Sherlock into the woods. He ducked neatly to the left and the cold kiss of metal grazed the air by his cheek. This tribute was good. He was from District Nine, Sherlock remembered; received a seven in his private session but had avoided any shooting or throwing equipment from the first day onwards. Sherlock had sussed that he'd have talent in one of those areas, although he had been leaning towards archery. Another knife skimmed him, and Sherlock increased his pace. The grass was growing longer and tangled, and he had to devote all of his brainpower to staying on his feet.

He veered suddenly to the left, catching him off guard for a split second. Soon he was following again, but Sherlock made a sudden right turn and was rewarded by a stumble behind him. His grin was cut short by the ear-piercing scream that shattered the tense silence of the woods. He spun around, on the alert for a predator or disaster coming their way. Instead, he watched as the woman from One neatly slammed the boy's head into a nearby tree. He crumpled to the ground instantly.

"Thank you, dear," the woman smiled at the unmoving body, plucking the blade from his hand and turning him over. She spoke as she pulled the boy's weapons from his bag, examining them.

"He's just unconscious. If I had wanted him dead, you would have heard the cannon by now." Sherlock was not sure what he was waiting for. The woman looked up at him, seemingly amused by his presence.

"Go on then. Run," she said, slowly and deliberately closing her hand on a particularly sharp knife.

Sherlock ran.


It had only taken John a few hours to find the river. It was long, stretching on further than he could see, and he assumed it was safe. He didn't really have another choice. He drank as much as he could, and sat by the bank for a while. He felt exposed, sparse grass stretching in every direction, but he did not want to go back into the woods. And hadn't he done the most important thing of all? He had found water. The only thing concerning him was when the others would find it too.

What was he supposed to do next? It was a ridiculous notion that boredom would be an issue in the Hunger Games, but he was at a genuine loss for how to spend his time. He did not want to hunt people down and there was nobody nearby to worry about. He considered practising with the gun, but he only had limited ammo and he didn't want to waste it. The best thing he could do would be to try and find some kind of shelter by the river, and then look for food. It seemed as good a plan as any.

As he began to trek up the river, never deviating from its path, a third cannon shot rocketed throughout the arena. Three, in as many hours. John had never known anything like it; in fact, he'd seen Games where the number of tributes had halved by now. He wondered briefly if they were just having issues with the cannons, but dismissed the thought. The Capitol didn't 'have problems' with equipment. So it was back to his original suspicion- that the fatality level was so low, there had been no point in waiting. He thought back to the training centre, to the tributes holding hands and telling jokes. Had that loyalty stuck?

John had assumed (quite cynically, he supposed) that the tentative friendships formed would dissolve almost instantly. In a place like this, there had to be a point when a person stopped being a friend and started being a competitor, just another predator. He was lucky to be alone and not have to face that dilemma, he thought. He continued to stubbornly refuse to acknowledge any thoughts about the man from District Eight. Maybe there would no doubt for those from the same District- John had promised himself the day he was chosen that he would not lay a finger on Molly- but what about the new relationships that had formed? Could those few days of bonding really overcome everything the Games stood for?

A fourth cannon shot put a grimace on his face. Maybe not, then.