I'm starting the songs before almost every chapter again! Yay. If you haven't heard this song... *dies* I love it. And the movie that it's in a trailer for (The Host) looks really good. So I got the book. Because I cannot for the life of me watch a movie that's based off a book if I haven't read the book first, because if I see the movie first, I will not read the book if it will save my life. I can't. I'm just weird like that, I guess.

Gray. Yup. He so wasn't...finished, though. I'm still looking for inspiration on an epilogue to I Will Not Bow.

I'm excited by how quick I updated and how long the chapter is! Granted, I have been writing since midnight and right now it's almost four a.m. But hey. If I could sit down for nearly four hours every night and write for you guys, I would. Sadly, I cannot. And I really, really, really shouldn't have tonight. But I told myself to finish Adelina's, and then go to bed. And then I got an idea for Gray's. And then suddenly I was writing Forrest's. And then I just thought of Nick and my whole brain went "What the hell!" And here you go. Any grammatical or anything errors I have a proper excuse for:

It's four a.m. I want to update now. And I'm dead-tired. There's no way I'm proofreading tonight. Sorry... But anyway, I UPDATED, WOO. Pardon me while I go curl up with The Wind in the Willows and fall asleep before reading a good, full sentence.

Now…onto the chapter, yes? I hope you like it.

"Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons

I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones
Enough to make my systems blow
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Welcome to the new age, to the new age
Whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive
Whoa, whoa, I'm radioactive, radioactive

D9- 19- {Victor/Mentor}- (Gray Hager)

I am no longer a tribute. I no longer have to worry about my survival; that is beyond guaranteed. I don't have to worry about Stacy's or my parents' survival; that's guaranteed too. I just wish I didn't have to worry about so many people's continued existence! While I may come off as contradictory to some people when explaining this, I am not. I have one thing to say to those people. Four kind, courteous, helpful words that I will only ever say with the utmost respect are all I want to say. One phrase is all I need.

Shut the hell up.

If you don't know me, where have you been? If you do know me, I have a little bit more advice for you: Stop watching Capitol crap. You should know me though. I am the most recent winner of the Hunger Games. I wasn't even a contender—really, I bet no one ever thought, Hey, watch out for that Gray Hager kid!—and yet here I am, eating breakfast with three tributes that depend on me, only one of which can come home. I value all of their lives so much, though.

Throughout my year as a victor, I find that I can contentedly (as content as it gets, that is) spend my life a number of ways depending on the situation. At Capitol events, I am a solemn, quiet, almost shy-seeming victor who does his best to be respectful and only say what is appropriate to be said and only do what is appropriate to be done. At home, in my empty, big Victors' Village house, I am nothing more than a wasted drunkard. When with my family, I try to be as much of the old Gray as ever, but the old Gray will never truly reemerge again, and that saddens my little sister Stacy—which saddens me. And then there's me as a mentor. All I want to do is give one of them another chance at life.

Even still, I find it hard to refuse that alcohol the Avoxes offer. It's so tempting I have to bite my tongue until it's actually bleeding this morning. My nerves are high and I think I might be visibly shaking, but I'm so tired that there's no way to tell. My heart races and I don't think I'm really breathing when I shove my hand forward towards my water. The glass cup is so fragile… As I bring it to my face to take a drink, it shatters over my plate and me. The water soaks me, and I find that all of the other seven people at the table are staring in shock. An Avox rushes to my side with a towel, offering it to me with silent politeness.

I shake my head. Quietly, I tell her, "I'll just go change, thank you. Can you get me…just…any type of alcohol while I'm changing? Anything, please." Her eyes are wide, but she nods and hurries off to get that for me as I return. I brush the broken glass off my lap and guiltily leave it for a waiting Avox. I walk out of the dining room and go to my room, which is much different than what my room was as a tribute.

I had Asher's room.

I change into a new pair of jeans and a new gray t-shirt. Then I go back to the dining room. My spot is tidy, and a nice and opened, empty bottle of beer sits next to a plastic cup full of what used to be in the glass bottle. I sit down in front of the empty place at the table, devoid of anything but the beer, and take a large gulp. Immediately everything's a little better, and I find myself completely downing the beer completely. I wipe my mouth of the wetness left over and sit up straight. "Well then. Who else has had a bad morning?"

The ridiculous escort, Polka Dot, scoffs. "I hardly think this is adequate conversation to be starting with your tributes after you just mindlessly—"

I sigh. "Polk, we're never going to agree on anything I do," I say to him, shrugging. "So please…don't start."

Above anything else, I just plainly miss the innocence that Ryan held, that I held, that Stacy still holds… This hits me smack in the face as I'm about to rant more stupid shit to Polka, but I stop short—what's the point? What is the honest point? I've already angered him by calling him "Polk," so what's the point in going further pointlessly? What's the point in anything anymore? What's the purpose? What is Panem, as a human civilization, a post-apocalyptic world of corruptness, striving towards? Domination? We are all that's left.

What's the point of even surviving if you can't live? Why can't we just live simply so everyone can simply live? Why does it all have to be so…dramatic?

"Nelly Carter," I say suddenly. Fiona, Asher, and Aeris look up. Polka is shaking his head. The stylists are whispering as they conspire. "I want you guys to try to get allied with her. At least you, Fiona. Or you, Aeris. One of you at least. Try to, for your dear old mentor, eh?" I smirk a little bit, but only earn blank gazes from my tributes; I honestly didn't expect anything more. I shrug and sigh. "Never mind. But Nelly Carter." I tap my head. "Remember that name."

D10- 16- (Leo Rivers)

You know when something gets on your nerves, and it's driving you so crazy that you can't focus on anything, but there's nothing you can do about it so you have to leave it be, like a stray hair on someone's head, or a pile of papers perfectly aligned except one? And all you can think about is straightening that hair, or tidying the stack of papers, or pulling the single but noticeable piece of lint off someone's shirt, but you don't know them, and therefore you can't because it would be awkward.

Take that irritation, and make it a single drop of blood on someone else's dagger when they are training to kill you.

I just want too wipe the blood off, because it's making me so fidgety and nervous; I can't help but look this way and that to make sure no daggers are flying towards me, which would get my blood all over it, and I'd be dead so there would be no way to wipe it off. And that should be the least of my worries, but it isn't. I'd be dead, and my only concern is that I wouldn't be able to wipe the knife that killed me clean.

I'm not even that obsessive over such things; I am just extremely paranoid, and these little pet peeves make paranoia rise in me, and then I can't think straight, or do anything except look at that dagger and stare at that dagger and sit down because that dagger is making me dizzy and making my stomach weak and the next thing I know I'm staggering to the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet.

The taste finally comes into my mouth and the smell in my nose as I come to my senses, and I flush. But the smell and the taste doesn't go away, and I can see the exact contents of what I had for breakfast as it swirls down with the water. I have to step out of the stall to get away from it, but I come to see that I didn't actually make it to the toilet, and in the middle of the floor sits my vomit. I turn away immediately and enter a new stall, feeling what's left of my breakfast and maybe my dinner coming up.

Yesterday, I was so out-of-it and tired and in search of allies that none of this got to me, but now I feel tears starting to come out of my eyes as I lean my head against the wall, feeling miserable. I have a headache, I can't breathe, my chest feels like elephants are walking across it, and I don't even know what I'm crying about. I'm sixteen. I'm a big guy, compared to some of the others that will be going to the arena with me - I shouldn't be crying like some poor twelve-year-old. I wipe away the tears and tell myself they come from sleep-deprivation (I've been staying up far too late; who could sleep?) and the smell.

I leave the stall and go to a water fountain by the door, gulping down more and more water until I'm gasping for breaths because I've gone too long drinking and haven't taken enough breaks to breathe when I swallow. The taste doesn't leave my mouth. I wish I had some sort of flavored drink, like lemonade, tea, apple juice, or grape juice, which are all great and easy to make if you can afford or find the lemons, tea leaves, apples, and grapes, which aren't things you can really find in District Ten.

Now I'm thinking of home. I'm thinking of my mother, and my brother, and my father. My father, who was in an accident working with cattle and went mad a while ago. My brother takes care of him, and my mother and I work, but I can't help but wonder if my brother's working now that I'm gone. If he is, who is taking care of my father? He's in no condition to be alone; his English isn't even understandable, so if he can't speak, how can he be expected to be alone?

I leave the bathroom, the mess left for a janitor.

D3- 17- (Forrest Montgomery)

I miss it already: District Three. I remember the factories and the smell and the stereotypical "nerdiness" impressed upon us of which not all of us held, but when you did meet a stereotypical nerd in District Three, you would be stunned at how extraordinarily intelligent they would be. They're unbelievably good at most technological things and could invent a life-size replica of Earth if given the chance, motive, and correct tools.

Neither my friend Carsen Swift was extremely smart nor was I. We were average, at best, but of course he would always rank better than me, because I hold my own distracted level of intelligence that remains the same simply because of how optimistic I tend to get, which brings me into curiousness and I have to see things I want to see and go places I want to go. I am bright; I will give myself that, but no more than the regular District Three seventeen-year-old boy.

I twist my father's ring around my finger as I step up to the fire-making station. The trainer welcomes me, telling me that he was just about to start with these other two, and motions to them. I look over to see a girl from Seven and a boy from Six. If I can remember correctly, the girl's name is Jae, but I am at a loss as to what name the boy holds. He's older than me, though; that, I can tell for a certain fact.

"Thank you," I say kindly to the trainer. My dad has always told me to be respectable and gentlemanly to all.

The trainer shrugs. "No problem. Now…"

He rambles on about how to make the fires, and demonstrates it for us, even. I watch him carefully, closely… I don't want to miss a word he speaks. Every word could be the word that saves my life.

D10- 16- (Nick DiLaurnetis)

Today has been a whir, what with training making it fly by. Yesterday's training was slower than a snail slowly squirming its way down a five-mile path because I had absolutely no clue what to do. But now that I do, it's all so much simpler, and the fact that I'm not that bad when it comes to fitness compared to some people helps. Of course, the Careers could still crush me like I was an ant, but still.

I hardly even notice where I'm going as I train from station-to-station, picking out which weapons I absolutely hate, which I almost like, and which I can settle for. The survival stations are packed full with most everyone. I try to only go to the empty or unpopulated stations, and today I'm lucky enough to find myself a seat in the plant identification station. Of course, I have to worm my way past three Careers training together: the girl from Two that's my age and very small compared to the other ones, her male district partner, and a girl from one, but not one of the twins from One. This isn't fun. I don't want them to take any notice of me.

But the most menacing Career of them all stares at me as I walk by, of course, and I just wish they wouldn't kill my on a whim, because I would definitely say something clever and what could be classified as jerky to him, but really, he sort of deserves it. Killing for entertainment—or, rather, watching kids kill for entertainment as well—is not something to be proud of at all, and yet the Careers are even arrogant about it.

The training greets me with a warm "Hello."

"Uh, hi," I say weakly, letting out a long breath. I look around at all the books the trainer has gathered for this station. When I look to my right, I see the girl who's also at this station biting her lip. My gaze instinctively is retreated, though I'm not sure why; I guess I just don't want to seem creepy. But she was sort of pretty, with long midnight hair that seems like it can't decide if it wants to be wavy or straight, and eyes that perfectly match. Evening out this darkness is her very pale skin. Maybe on first glance you wouldn't call her pretty, but "striking" is most definitely an applicable word to use on such an occasion as trying to describe this girl.

The trainer runs through all the basics in a timely manner and gestures to his books and booklets and study guides. "Feel free to stay as long as you want to study these," he tells us, and then points to the wall where a large screen and a giant keypad sits. I assume this is a test or something about the plants. Just as I say this, the trainer says, "This sort of summarizes everything, and if you think you're pretty good with the identification, you can try it. If you have any problems or questions, just ask me."

The girl leans to her right to pick up a book somewhat far away from her. She can't reach it, so I stand up and get it for her charmingly. When I hand it to her, she stares at it and takes it slowly. "Thank you. I couldn't reach it," she says quietly in a clear, soft, shy voice. I smile again and get a book for myself out of the four or five piles of five to six books. There's a good twenty or thirty to choose from.

"Hey," I voice after a moment of staring at the covers of other books. The girl looks up for a second, and then at her hands, which are clasped in the fold of her book. "I'm Nick." She nods and unclasps her hands so she can read more without responding. I sigh. "What's your name?" I ask stupidly, falling for her prettiness and having to admit that I kind of like her for it—and then I feel shallow, and I remember I need allies who are willing to gang up against the Careers, not pretty, short, fragile, pale girls like her, as much as I want to. I decide that after this station, I'll stop being stupid and drop it forever.

"Aster," she responds, and redness rises to her pale cheeks. "I mean…Astrid." I look over at her book, and in large, black, bold print under a graph reads "Aster genus."

"Is that a flower book?" I ask conversationally, forgetting myself.

She looks at the cover and nods, her blush fading slightly. " 'Flowers—Classifying and the Importance of Knowing Which are Edible.' " She recites the title for me, keeping her page with her forefinger, and it seems she forgets herself too, momentarily not shy at all as she flips the book over, keeping her finger in her page and reading the description of the book on the back: " 'To truly be successful in any endeavor with plants, you mustn't only know the names but the classifications and whether or not they are edible; it can be lifesaving to any tribute in the Games. So, trainers, mentors, and plant-lovers alike, look no further than here to satisfy your flower book needs.' " She looks up, and then down. She's shy again.

"Uh…I could've just let you read it, huh?" she says. I shrug, smiling kindly at her. "I mean, it's not like you're incapable, obviously, seeing as you've picked that…garden…book." She smiled a little and looks anywhere but my face, hers entirely red as she lets out one, quiet, reluctant-sounding giggle that she was obviously trying so hard to contain but just couldn't. I smile wider as she does this and look away as well.

"I wasn't really paying attention when I chose this, I think…" I scratch my head and look up at her. "So, uh."

She smiles genuinely, placing the book back in a pile next to her neatly and standing up. "I'd better be off. To my ally." I nod. "Goodbye, Nick."

"Bye, Astrid." But she's already walked off.

D1- 17- (Adelina Summerfield)

Training has consumed me for so long, ever since I was introduced to it with my sister when we were six. Back then it was mindless training; it was things that required no honest skill with weaponry and no real sense of killing and staying alive and striving for pride. We were just taught that the Games were good and the Capitol was good and all about Panem. We watched the Games every year and were shown recaps of previous years.

Then we turned seven, and we were yearning to fling the weapons around. Knives were my sister's specialty. That's all we were allowed to touch for a while. To be a right and proper good Career, you have to be able to use a knife in some sort of manner and pretty good. Daphne eventually became exemplary, and she started off better than me, so we all knew from the start she'd be a knife-thrower.

Around eight, we were shown to many different assortments of weapons borrowed from the training center or made: cleavers, swords, maces, axes, katanas, and much more. Daphne, naturally, stuck to her knives, but did as she was told when she was ordered to venture to a new weapon. She immediately picked cleavers, and my heart was glued to the mace.

I trained with maces for a long time, or that's how it seemed. It felt like decades, trying to master the way to hold and kill with a mace, and the whole time I was only eight years old. I was a small eight-year-old, and so was my sister. We couldn't take up heavy weaponry, but I did despite everyone's discouragement. Perhaps that's the reason I originally chose it: Everyone told me I couldn't or shouldn't.

Finally I gave up on the mace and took up my true passion, which was the katana. I absolutely love the feeling of my katana in my hand, twirling around as the blade twirls with me and decapitating a dummy's head smoothly and gracefully. Of course, I usually don't actually decapitate it; that would be a waste of dummies. Most of the time the material the dummy is made from is thick enough to withstand my katana's blade's force. At the training center though, I always go for the ones whose heads will actually fall off; it's satisfying.

Daphne nudges me. "Adelina," she says. I look up from my daydreaming over to the swords. "Wakey-wakey...?"

I look over at her and realize my place. I stand up straighter, only to find that we've all separated while I was spacing. I curse a little to myself in my head, for I was excited to mess with Beck's head with major flirting and showing off my skills. The results from this yesterday were phenomenally hilarious; I even caught him staring a bit, which you should never do when you're a cocky, flirtatious Career who's flirting with a cocky, flirtatious Career. Showing you're remotely interested in any other way than flirting says that the other Career is closer to winning the flirt battle than you are, and that gives them satisfaction, which adds to their already high level of pride.

"Yeah, sorry," I mutter. "Let's go…do something else. Knives get old, yeah?"

Daphne smirked a little, raising an eyebrow. "Knives and cleavers are my main weapons. If I got bored of them, I would be actually nowhere in training."

I roll my eyes. "Fine, let me rephrase," I request harshly, walking away towards the swords. The sharped-edge katana—the only one I can see over there—invites me closer, and, keeping a cocky smirk and an irresistible strut—This one's for you, Beck, I think—I make it to the swords and snatch up the katana hastily. Practically beaming at the weapon, I remind myself that though it is a lovely reminder of home and riches and the Games and pride, I mustn't forget my place. I snap out of yet another trance and step over to a dummy.

Smoothly, I decapitate the blue, fake person. Swiftly I spin and get ready to slice the sharp, admirably deadly edge into the dummy's heart when I come face to face with Beck. I sigh as though displeased that I was interrupted, and I sort of am. I turn around and shove the katana into the dummy's heart before turning back to Beck, crossing my arms and looking around. I want to make him think I'm looking for something better to do or someone better to talk to.

When I decide it would be find to steal a glance to see if my tricks are working, it's obvious they are: He looks so peeved that I contain a rare girly giggle.

"Beck." I finger the hem of my training shirt.

"Adelina," he says in response, narrowing his eyes slightly. I raise an eyebrow questioningly. "You're good." He points back to the dummy. "Of course, you got the easy dummy." He smirks ever so slightly. I whip around, infuriated to see that I did choose the easy dummy whose fake blue skin is easily cut through. Cursing to myself mentally, I pull out my katana as a cover-up for turning around so quickly. Coming back around, I bring in dangerously close to his face. I hear an almost inaudible "Whoa" come from his unmoving lips.

"Beck Ferrari, you're angering me," I tell him, and even though he is angering me, I throw in a little bit of seductiveness to my stance and my voice. "Don't anger me." My face is emotionless.

"What're you going to do, glitter girl?" He smiles charmingly, ruffling my hair slightly.

I narrow my eyes threateningly and touch my katana to his cheek. I dig it in to his skin slightly before drawing back so a trainer doesn't see. He doesn't flinch nor does he bleed, to my utter disappointment. His gray eyes hold a dusty storm in them, and when I poke the katana at him, the storm clears and his eyes brighten. I huff slightly and involuntarily, for I want him to be angry with me, or if I'm lucky even scared of me. But instead, he looks like he's curious.

"I. Am. Not. A glitter girl. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to practicing slitting your throat and pretend I see your pretty-boy blood spilled across the arena's floor. If you would kindly step away, it would be much better while I refrain from telling you my exact ideas for the party I'll throw when you're canon sounds." He grins, and this angers me more after my little speech, so I add more. "You idiotic caveman."

"We both know that you don't find me a caveman, darling."

Darling? Since when did it become 'darling'?