Heeeyy. I was going to finish or at least write Beck's POV before posting this but I just can't. It'll be a two-parter.

Anyway, on a different note, we're all Hunger Games fans here, obviously.

So I advise you, now, before reading the chapter if you need, to watch the Catching Fire trailer.

I will admit to going a bit insane immediately after watching. NOVEMBER WILL KILL ME. Catching Fire, the Doctor Who fiftieth anniversary... Gah.

Run fast for your mother, run fast for your father,
Run for your children, for your sisters and brothers,
Leave all your love and your longing behind,
You can't carry it with you if you want to survive.

The dog days are over,
The dog days are done,
Can you hear the horses?
'Cause here they come.

"Dog Days Are Over" by Florence and the Machine

D1- 18- (Gleam Diode)

I am suspended for just a moment as the plate rises from the Launch Room to the arena. That's, at least, what I'm sure all the other Careers are feeling, ringed around me on their platforms, coming higher and higher… Anticipation, adrenaline, and anxiousness course through my waiting mind. My heart pumps quickly as I set myself up to run.

Light floods my vision, though it's slightly less bright than I expected, like something's obstructing the sun from my view. As soon as my eyes fully adjust—and it doesn't take long—I see what's obstructing the sun: Around the thirty-six of us are mountains, high and low, rocky and steep, safe and dangerous. We're in a valley between two of them, and quite a large one too. The Cornucopia is perfectly in the center.

A sheath of knives waits for me so closely, and I can't fight back the smirk, only to find that the girl next to me—she's small, frail; I can take her easily—is eying them as well. While I can kill her without so much as lifting a finger, it still irks me that they're closer to her, and all it would take was one false step and she'd have them before me, thereby making me defenseless until I can sprint to my next choice in weaponry.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the One Hundred Fifty-second Annual Hunger Games begin!"

What a mouthful is the only thing that comes to mind.

I get myself into a running stance, my eyes quickly scanning over the tributes near me, sizing them up and trying to put names, ages, districts, and training scores to meaningless faces. For a few of them I can. The ones that will actually be somewhat of competition, that is, are the ones I can remember. But I know focus is essential, so I only dwell on these silly thoughts for a moment. It's about eight seconds, for when I am gazing determinedly back at the sheath that must be mine, the announcer of the Games, Acinora Gyrrot, is saying, "Fifty-two."

And then it's to fifty-one, and fifty, and that's how many beats my heart is thumping every second, it seems.

I then experience the longest sixty seconds of my life. I think Acinora purposely says the numbers with the utmost slowness and caution to torture us tributes and bring suspense to the watchers in the districts and the Capitol, for she draws out each number unnecessarily. "Foooorrrtyyy-siiiix… Foooorrrtyyyy-fiiiive…"

Just get on with it! I scream internally.

Impatience is getting the best of me. By the time we reach the twenty-second mark, I'm feeling like I've been standing here for…forty seconds. I really must just be letting the impatience get the best of me, because it only feels like the time we've been standing here. It's just my anxiousness and excitement that prolongs each syllable; just my thoughts planning out my course to get weapons that makes each second momentarily feel like five.

"Twelve."

The twelve thoroughly excites me. I feel like one of the silly, stereotypical, dumb, blonde, ditzy girls from my district for once, though I don't care right now as I perfect my running stance, which was ruined around the agonizing fifty-four mark. I lasted six seconds in ideal patience, ready for the Games. Even so, I will still do wonderfully, I know.

"Three. Two."

Suspended silence. This time I'm not imagining it. A bird tweets overhead. I don't bother look up to see it; I must stay focused. I feel like I might fall over onto the ground because my legs are so ready to run that it's hard to contain the longing to push them harder and harder until I find myself snatching up my knives at the Cornucopia.

"One."

The gong rings. As soon as it does, I'm off my platform, leaping forward—not literally—and sprinting faster than I ever have in my lifetime to get those knives. The girl next to me has already fled the path to the sheath, and I smirk when they're in my hands, ready to be thrown. I slip one out of the sheath and look around, ready, ready, ready. Everything's ready. Everything's waiting.

I wasn't the first one to the Cornucopia—and while this disappoints me, it really doesn't matter—but I was one of the first handfuls. Adelina, I believe, was the first one to make it. She has a katana in her hands. Stone was after Adelina, and then Beck. The girl from Nine—one of them—arrived about when I did, racing up to the Cornucopia.

Arrival time does not matter; all that matters is the kill. The kills.

A girl with dark hair that may be from Twelve—I'm not sure—comes into my vision. I raise my knife that I've taken from the sheath and throw it at her. Unfortunately, she sees this coming and turns away, but my knife is too fast for her to completely dodge it, so it hits her calf. She turns and runs, pulling it out in one quick movement she hadn't steeled herself for, but the adrenaline keeps her going, I bet, as she flees with quick speed, though she's considerably slower than she had been when she sprinted impressively and arrived at the Cornucopia not long at all after I did. And now she also has a limp. I think I've done well enough.

D3- 14- (Calypso Oswald)

Nelly and I are together with Allegra and Skylar, our allies from Five and Eleven. We wait anxiously for Kayla to hurry back with two backpacks, just as she promised, and some weapons. Nelly already has a machete that she managed to pick up. I try to confiscate it from her, but she's done well. A boy—about eighteen, maybe—even came up to us to kill us, and Nelly went psycho and stabbed him brutally in the arm. Once that was over, he willingly ran away, afraid.

"What if she doesn't come back?" Skylar asks worriedly. I can't see Kayla right now, and that scares me. She's the oldest out of all of us. She's supposed to help us. And maybe even protect us. But I know better than to get close to anyone. Still, it's…I don't know, instinct. I think it is instinct to cling to Kayla and silently beg her to keep me safe.

I give Skylar an "it's-okay" look, but what comes out of my mouth is "Kayla's…older."

Nelly gives me a look, and I roll my eyes. She giggles and hops forward with her machete as another boy rushes towards us. She narrows her eyes and the boy's eyes widen, but I recognize him and smile. "No! Nelly!" I exclaimed, smiling at the boy with glee that he's alive. I know him, and that'll be nice if the others will let him join the alliance.

She doesn't let her weapon fall, but looks over at me questioningly. "What?" She raises an eyebrow.

"Cal!" Allegra exclaims indignantly, but she's shielding her eyes, not wanting to see the kill. The boy looks at me like "What—the—hell?" I giggle. "You're giggling?" Allegra snaps.

We're all far enough away from the Cornucopia, having run from it, that standing here idly isn't as dangerous as you might think. Mostly hidden by the mountains that hold the weirdest of things if you look up, I'm still so very extremely fearful, but Kayla says that if we run and stay here, we'd be safer until she came to get us. So I trust our hiding spot.

Nelly turns her attention back to the boy.

"No!" I screech as softly but forcefully as I can. "That's Rylan! From my district!"

Ry waves.

Nelly tentatively steps away from Ry with her big, scary machete, and he visibly relaxes, breathing an audible sigh of relief. I smile at him slightly, motioning him over to us, but he shakes his head and steps away. "I can't—I don't…want—" He bites his lip. "I mean—you see, what I mean is—I don't do…allies." Ry scratches his head shyly.

Nelly lifts her machete again.

"Let him go," I command.

Nelly glares at me. "Hey! When did you become the leader?" she asks.

"There is no leader," Skylar insists peacefully, her eyes glued to the Cornucopia.

Allegra bites her lip. I step forward towards Ry, to which Nelly gets angry at, drops the machete, and comes at me. Shoving me, she angrily says, "Maybe I want Jackson as an ally! Does that mean we'll take him? No. So no Rylan. He's the enemy." I turn on her and shove her back. Allegra sighs, frustrated, and pushes us apart.

"No more!" she cries, much too loudly.

Skylar, Nelly, Ry, and I all look at her like she's just done the stupidest thing in all of time—and she has. We all hiss under our breaths for her to hush, but none of us move from our spots. We're frozen. Allegra is actually shaking, her face very, very, very pale. I hold my breath. Movement returns to my muscles and I step back, pulling Allegra by the shirt. She stumbles along with me, but it's too late. Our only chance is to—

"Run!" Nelly screams, turning around and doing exactly that. I turn too and go fast. A small knife whizzes by my face, bringing tears to my eyes. That's how scared I am in that moment, as the knife is so close. I really think it will hit me, but it doesn't. Still, a tear falls down my cheek, against my will. I wipe my eyes and sniffle pathetically, opening my mouth so I breathe better than the little air I'm gaining in through my nose.

I look back.

Ry! My whole system aches in the pain of seeing his dead body, a knife in his chest with the Career we're all terrified of gleefully sprinting off, back to the bloodbath. When I know she's not coming back, I stop running completely. Skylar stops with me, but it takes a second for the other two to stop with us. When they do, they check to see that the Career is, in fact, far enough away that we're safe.

"I was supposed to be his ally," I say numbly.

Allegra pats my back. "I'm sorry," she whispers, sighing. "We should go find Kayla."

"No!" I protest, alert again and turning to her. "We can't! What if you all die too?"

Nelly's lips purse. She slides her machete into its nice space on her belt. The tribute uniforms are average, made for sunny, warm days. It's simply light brown, khaki-colored pants that go just below our knees and fit comfortably for running and moving around. The shirt is a sky blue and made of soft fabric. The sleeves are short. And there's a light gray jacket too that I have tied around my waist. The shoes are black tennis shoes. I like them.

"Cal," Allegra says comfortingly. For a twelve-year-old that's usually such a…a girl, she's really not annoying or anything, but kind and sweet. "I'm sorry about Rylan. We have to find Kayla for Skylar, and then we'll be off."

I heave a sigh and look around. I'm scared. That's why I'm so weird and emotional and breathing is really hard right now: I'm super scared. I don't want to die and I don't want to witness anyone else's death and I don't want to kill anyone. I just want to go home and sit in my dad's lap and rest my head on his shoulder and listen to him tell me I'm a good girl and a good daughter and everything's always going to be alright with him like he did when I had nightmares when I was four or five.

Skylar nods vigorously. I can see the terror in her eyes too. Kayla was her friend back in District Eleven, which really sucks for them, I'm assuming. At least they're not sisters. The twins from One must be idiots; did they really think that one victor plus one twin equaled one victor? It doesn't work that way. One of them has to die. Still, I can't help but feel a little bad about it.

"Let's go," I mumble.

"Good girl," Nelly says, smirking. I roll my eyes at her. "No matter how much I get on your nerves, we were allies first. You've got to love me." She smirks more.

"Actually…Kayla and I were allies first," Skylar mumbles, sniffling.

"Right," Nelly says, shrugging. "Let's go."

Nelly leads, having the machete. Allegra and I are elected to stay back and wait halfway between our hiding spot and the Cornucopia for Kayla just in case, but Skylar and Nelly delve further in, searching fervently for Skylar's friend and our protector with our supplies. I watch with terrified eyes as the scene unfolds, everyone's weapons clashing and everyone shrieking out in pain and with their scary battle cries. Blood is shed. A lot of it is. People with wounds limp away, and some miraculously make it unharmed. Impressively as well, considering that the Careers are in their waiting for their prey. A group of three large boys go at one Career viciously. I watch as one is struck with a knife and the group scurries away. I guiltily imagine them as dogs who've been scolded, running away from their master, whimpering.

Allegra and I have to look down at the ground. Neither of us can watch. I don't really know how Nelly and Skylar had the guts to actually venture into it, while we're out here pathetically wishing that we could be anywhere else. I mean, I know how Nelly did. She's insane, that's how. But Skylar? She's perfectly normal, so I'd expect her to be cowering out here with Allegra and me.

"I'm kind of scared," Allegra admits. I know she's scared, and it's obvious she's more than just a little. But still, I accept the confession. I am scared too, but I don't want to say it aloud. I could never say it out loud, so I take her saying this almost as an act of courage that she doesn't even know she's committing. Respect for this short little girl with the fiery hair and emerald eyes and the freckled splattered across her face fills me, and I'm glad to have her as an ally.

"I know," I tell her, patting her back lightly. I don't have the bravery to admit that I, too, am scared. Terrified. So much so that I think if one more thing happens to set me off, I will curl up into a small ball and sit there. And whenever someone approaches me, I will scream my little brown-haired head off so shrilly that they have to walk away or their eardrums will quite literally shatter into millions of impossible little pieces.

It's nice to say that, even in thought.

I spot Nelly as she hits a large boy with her machete, but he has a big knife. He staggers back in surprise that Nelly could do this. She lets out a scream and starts to go for him again. It's now that I realize that her scream that I heard since she's somewhat close is because he got her with his large knife. A few heads turn briefly to them, but everyone has to focus back on their own fight. I cower back when I realize that the bloodbath has thinned enough that people could notice Nelly. This means they could notice Allegra and me.

Kayla must hear Nelly's screech, because she comes up behind the boy, shoving a knife in his back. I now see Skylar's relieved face sprinting back towards me and even attempt the ghost of a smile in relief that my alliance is okay, though my district partner is not. I don't know where Forrest is. I can't worry about him; we're not allies. I should be worrying about me, mostly, and then in second place come all of my allies.

"Come on, we need to start running," I mutter to Allegra under my breath, like whispering will help anything.

"No, we have to wait for them." I know that by "them" she means the rest of the alliance.

I shrug.

We sit there for a moment. I try not to look at the bloody gash in Kayla's left arm and the way she's limping and how there's blood flowing down her right leg. I try not to see how she keeps spitting as she's running and there's a noticeable tint of redness when she does so. I try to only focus on the two backpacks on her back and the canteen around her neck. I try to only see the two sickles in her hand, even though they're both bloody.

She showed me what sickles were. They're her weapons, she says. She learned how to use them when working in the fields of her home district. She never told me how she used them, but it kind of scares me that people in District Eleven use things considered weapons in the Hunger Games with their job: agriculture. Do they slaughter dandelions? Do they decapitate tulips?

Actually, that would be funny if I'd thought of it under other circumstances.

D5- 18- (Anya Saitov)

The bloodbath is finally here, and it's vicious. Of course, I expected no less than the constant bloodshed and the search for something to survive on swirling around me chaotically, and I've seen bloodbaths before on television back home. They tend to be gruesome and gory, nothing young eyes should see. But this country has raised young eyes to see this, and so they will.

Anyway, I guess I just never pictured it like this. I never really picture the knife that killed that boy, or the bow that shot the arrow into that girl's face. I only picture the afterimages, the glimpses of the dead and the fallen; I only saw the wounds and the blood spilled because of these wounds. To see what causes these things wakes me up. I grip my sword tightly. It's short and light: perfect for me.

Perfect for battle.

Cade stands next to me, eying a machete but completely weaponless. I suppose "stands next to me" wouldn't be appropriate. What would be is, rather, "Cade runs like hell next to me." We're running towards that machete he needs. The machete he wants. The one we need. If he's going to be my ally, he's not going to be defenseless. If ever he's found defenseless by me, he's out.

We decided that he should be my ally, for the benefit, two days ago, at the last day of training. Working with the feel and the motion of my sword like I liked to do in the training center, I didn't notice that someone else was trying out the swords. We ended up sparring a bit and talking afterwards about stance. Arrogant comments were, naturally, made, and we found ourselves talking over the sparring experience at a survival station. When it could be seen that we were exact equals at this station, we thought it might be beneficial to help each other out in the arena for the first week.

And now we're running to the machete.

"Anya," he says, sliding away from a tribute in a way that I have to follow his movements, "grab a backpack and go out to the mountains."

"Why?" I ask, looking over at him briefly with a raised eyebrow. "Don't be playing hero on me. I will kill you myself if that's what you're trying to do."

"No," he pants in protest. "I want you to scout out the mountains, find a good path to take through a valley or something. To get past them."

"Cade," I reason with him, "we may as well just—"

"You are quite honestly getting on my nerves with all this nonsense. Leave your pride be and save your life. I will be right there with my machete," he snaps, elbowing me.

I pause. "I'm giving you fifteen minutes."

Before a useless temper flares up, I veer off away from him.

I catch a glimpse of a large boy running at him. It's the one who idiotically flipped the interviewer off last night in interviews. He's going to die, for sure, since he openly expresses his utter hate for the Capitol and each and everyone one of its citizens. The severest hate he points towards the president. Though stupid, he's vicious, I can tell.

His bow rises when he abruptly stops running, an arrow already knocked. I watch for a moment before I have to start running again, but I make sure that if I turn my head I can see the whole scene, running slowly. I try to stay alert too, but I'm pretty much doomed if a tribute is good at surprise attacks and spots me, looking for the kill. Basically, any Career could easily strike me down.

The arrow flies into Cade's back. He collapses, inches—literally—from the machete. The boy rushes at him and lodges his axe into his neck. I look away, but the image of Cade's decapitated head rolling away from his body is seared into my mind. No guilt comes to me. Instead sickness bubbles. I just talked to him—and now his head from which he talked back to me is no longer connected.

I shudder as I run away, no longer restricted to waiting for him. I still follow his commands: "scout out the mountains, find a good path to take through a valley." He was pretty smart.

D3- 17- (Forrest Montgomery)

I've snatched up a backpack relatively close to me and darted off as fast as I possibly can. I'm pretty fast, I guess, so this is pretty quick. Unfortunately, I grabbed up an empty canteen and am easily dehydrated. My throat hurts when I open my mouth because of the air streaming into it, drying out my throat. I can't close my mouth though because not enough air comes in my nose.

Once concealed by the mountain, I sit down and breathe deeply for a break. I look down at my canteen resentfully. I've probably ran half a mile now, and I guess I'm not unbearably thirsty, but my breath has run out. I'm not made for long treks. I'm made for sprinting fast and sprinting hard until my legs give out from underneath me.

My legs have given out.

I'm not sure what to do anymore. I don't know what's beyond these mountains. I just know I have to keep moving.

D12- 18- (Krumr Strongthews)

Carlyn and I scout out the edge of the Cornucopia, watching as the weaklings flee out to the mountains. The ones that idiotically head in our direction get a nice wound from my knife that Carlyn jabs at people. I need to head into the bloodbath to get me a bow and an axe, as well as supplies and a knife for Carlyn, but all moments seem inopportune. I want to go unnoticed, so that when I retrieve my weaponry I can quickly turn and shoot people down.

It is pleasure no matter what weapon I use, but I want the cruel, "scary" weapons for death. I let Carlyn inflict the wounds she can. She's good, honestly. Quick with her motions; smart. She only lunges at the ones she can manage to hurt. She shies away, though not with cowardice, from those she shouldn't attack. She still stands brave, tall, and menacing next to me despite her shortness and her small size even when she misses or her prey gets away.

Once she lunges forward to someone too big, and doesn't pull away quickly enough. The male's hand flies around her throat. I recognize him as the male from Two. By now it's pretty late in the bloodbath. It's thinned considerably, whether from the deaths—I don't feel like counting the bodies in the chaos—or from people running away. The supplies are still ample, which I am glad for, and a black bow is in the center. An axe is visible from my viewpoint, as well as a knife and a few decent packs. I just have to get in there quick…

But this male interrupts. His other hand goes around my ally's throat and he lifts her off the ground. Her face in red and she's squirming madly. She yells my name, but as her lungs are starving, it sounds like she's screaming, "Crumb! Crumb!" I can't just watch this! I can't watch this bastard suck the life out of her. She's my ally. She's useful. His life is worthless, a burden to the world. I hate him. So much.

"You had better get off her!" I shout angrily. Gruffly. Stepping closer to Two, I pick up the knife Carlyn dropped when he picked her up. "Now."

"Says who?" he snaps deeply, his voice cold and vicious.

I'm aware now that I don't have my axe, and curse under my breath, not loud enough for him to know I even spoke unless he's watching my lips for the slightest motions, which I doubt he is. I estimate how long it would take me to get to the axe, how much life she'd have left in her. I can't throw it; I'm used to pickaxes back in Twelve from working in the mines. But…with a bow… I'm accustomed to a bow. Rarely, but occasionally, I go out in the woods to hunt. I've gone out enough that my aim is fine.

I don't think she'll make it… I have to try.

"Crumb…" Her voice is pathetic.

I don't even murmur a threat. I don't have time. Instead, I sprint off as fast as I can. Faster than I've ever run. I dive into the Cornucopia, Carlyn's life drawing me further. I can only hope he continues to strangle her. I can only hope he doesn't tighten his grip any further or break her neck… Long and slow, I hope for silently. Make it a long, slow, torturous death. Make him stay there and taunt her with the fact that I "abandoned" her. Make her sad.

As if she could hear me, I weakly think, Stay alive, and the voice in my head echoing my thoughts is as weak as hers was when I ran off to get weapons.

I know my plan of action. I must get to the bow, and before I get to any of the other weapons—they don't matter until Two is dead and Carlyn is safe—I will shoot him. I will grab our other supplies and go to her. If she's too weak to move, I will carry her to safety. We will kill when she's rested. And we'll continue through the Games. I've decided that anyone who hurts her, or even touches her, if they have no intentions to harm her or not, will be killed brutally: even more brutally than any of the other foul beings we cross.

I don't seem to realize that only one of us can win. Me or her. Me or her.

That's a problem for later, when I actually realize it.

I have to dodge and duck away from many fights, sidestepping tributes and hopping away from ones that seem to want to fight. Shoving them down, yelling at them, et cetera. Bow, Carlyn, run. Bow, Carlyn, run. No distractions. I propel my feet faster. So fast that I almost find myself tripping and have to slow down at bit. I was a fair distance from the mouth of the Cornucopia, seeing as it was a large Cornucopia this year, and the obstacles like fighting tributes, discarded packs, and dead bodies keep me from reaching the mouth of the horn.

When I finally do, I have to throw the sheath over my shoulder and sprint back to a close enough spot, knocking my arrow.

It flies. And it hits Two's chest.

This devastates me.

His back was facing the Cornucopia. He wasn't going to move until he was sure she was dead or beyond saving, I'm sure, and the fact that he's turned, with no Carlyn in his hands, hurts me deeply. She's gone, she's dead, and I failed. There's nothing to fix this, nothing to repair what I did wrong. A pit wells up in me but quickly slips away. I do not feel for death. I will try to save her though. And the sight of Two's dead body is a pleasure. A larger pleasure than any. I find myself openly laughing at him and his fail that seems to not cancel out mine, but make it better at least.

People stare. I glare.

I don't even care! I don't fucking care. Justice is a lie. There's no injustice, either, because something cannot exist without an alternate force to balance it. If there was no justice, injustice would be all behavior, so why would there be a word for the two forces? Yet there is, so I stupidly use the stupid phrase. Justice. It's a sick, twisted, morbid lie—and the fact that this is my opinion is saying something, since I am sick, twisted, and morbid.

I rush over to Carlyn, passing Two's body and spitting on the corpse who, when living, was disgraceful to even the pitiful remains of humanity. I will try to save her, if possible, and then get my things.

She's gasping on the ground.

My eyes widen. That's the only reaction I can manage for a moment as her hand reaches up to me and grasps onto my shirt, pulling her up. She soon falls back down, pathetic in the midst of me. I let out a short breath and another quick laugh and whisper, "I'll be back. Then we'll go. Don't you go anywhere. I don't want to be losing you. I'll be right back, just after I get all our stuff, and we'll talk then, got me?"

She nods.

I stand up and walk casually to the bloodbath, though with swagger. Overconfidence. I don't care that this is weakness, in this moment. My ally's alive. I don't realize it—there's a lot I don't realize today—but this is the same as: My world is not broken. My small, sad world. It's not sad like the emotion, but sad as in pitiful. My world consists of anger, violence, Carlyn, and me. That's all. And that's how it will probably stay for a long time.

With my bow slung over my shoulder and my sheath slung on my back, I edge to the axe—which I want most—and see a boy seemingly running right at the packs I want. Like hell will I let him have my packs, so I run at him, fast but not as fast as I ran for Carlyn. I raise my bow and knock an arrow. When his back turns to me, looking back at something or someone for a fleeting second, I let the positioned arrow fly at him. I swiftly pick the axe up and run at the boy as he collapses.

He opens his mouth as I near him to say something. I cut him off as I plunge my weapon down on his neck, decapitating him. His face is frozen in that moment, that openmouthed expression like he's still about to speak to me. His blood gushes out. It's interesting to see, at first, its blueness, changing very quickly to the normal red tint as it hits the oxygen outside in the air, away from his body.

I find it interesting. Something's definitely wrong.

I saunter over to the two packs—one smaller than the other—and sling them over my shoulder. Then I pick up two knives and turn as a boy's knife comes at me. "Oh, you idiot," I murmur, knocking my bow. His eyes widen dramatically and he scrambles away from me. I let him go simply because I know I need to go protect Carlyn. If she weren't my ally, I'd quickly let the arrow fly. Arrows are not limitless here either, like they are in the training center or at home it the woods where I can make more.

Then I walk back to Carlyn, who's standing up. She rubs her forehead with one hand and has her hand at her side with the other. I hand her a pack, and she uses the hand she was rubbing her forehead with to sling her backpack onto her back. She takes the knife I hand to her graciously. I open my pack and put my axe and knife in—it's a rather big pack—so I don't have to carry it. I carry my bow in my hand and my quiver over my shoulder.

We start to walk. I eye her discomfort and the hand she seems to refuse to take off her side. She moves to the other side of me, trying to be casual, so I can't really see her side. I start to escalate our speed to a run, and she tries to too, but then she drops behind with a wince and a whimper. I stop with her and look back at the bloodbath. We're not far enough away. We need to get away before it ends. I can easily fight off the pansies that call themselves Careers, but Carlyn cannot. She's vicious but small.

"What's wrong?" I ask, walking now to keep us going.

"My…side," she groans, pulling her hand away. It's red. I hadn't been paying close enough attention. I go to the other side of her and now see she has a knife wound soaked in blood. She looked up at me helplessly. She's walking, but it's obvious her side hurts. "Two—he stabbed me, before I… I…" She takes a deep breath. "Oh, it hurts, Krumr. Did you get…like…a medical thing? Or something?"

"I don't know. I can check when we stop, but we've got to keep going…" I tell her. She throws me a pained look, and I look into my bag, continuing to walk. In it I don't find much at all for this purpose. Canteen, sticklike thing, rope, pouch… Tissues. All I can think after I find the pointless package of tissues is: Are the Capitols stupider than what even I think? It seems impossible, but they're damn stupid.

But I must be damn smart, because I know how to help her.

With tissues.