AN: Thanks to everyone leaving reviews! They make my day, and the more I hear, the faster I write. Not kidding. It's a positive feedback loop and it's darn addicting!

This fic is rated T for violence and language.


The Crowd

'The Butcher!" They continue to cry, "The Butcher!" I cannot cow them. My disdain for their antics and my coldness only incite them to higher furies. Each looks away from my gaze, unable to hold it, but each goes back to cheering the moment I have passed.

I want to stop. Scream. Grab one and show them what it is they're cheering for. You don't need a knife to slaughter poultry-all you need is the strength of your wrist. If I killed a Tribute in the Arena they'd applaud and stomp, but Heaven forbid I spill Capitol blood on Capitol streets. Such a thing isn't proper. Such a thing isn't done.

…I wonder if I'm the first Tribute to think this. Then I wonder if they can tell. These people worship death. Perhaps, in their eyes, once a year they get to meet their gods.


The roped off road seems to go on for miles. I can barely make out the brightly colored fabric of Tasha's embroidered yellow kimono in the distance ahead. Already, the train is growing smaller behind me. I'm alone. Alone in a sea of churning, chanting, cheering bodies. I find myself hoping that Malcovitch somehow turned himself invisible again as I thread my way slowly through a hail of confetti, candy and flowers. Then someone decides to be a wise-ass. From a lower-level balcony someone lets loose a rain of blood.

I heard it coming. Avoided most of the downpour and got caught by the splatter. Hot, red, viscous liquid sears my eyes, face, and protecting arms. I gasp. Stagger. The cheering of the crowd has become a distant, thundering roar as those around me fall suddenly silent.

"BAH, BUTCHER! BAH, BUTCHER!" my assailant crows.

I'm hurting. In pain. I can't show it. Can't expect anyone to help me. The only two people in the entire world who might care aren't even my friends, they're my handlers. But Tasha Pushkina and Victor Ivan Klerkov are out of earshot. Out of sight. I am momentarily beyond their aid.

Fuck. I wipe my streaming eyes and face with the inside of my shirt. I storm to the edge of the carpet and wrench a glass bottle from the hands of a surprised citizen before Game Security can move to stop me. I squat, twist, and throw all my weight into hurling that heavy projectile at my leering attacker. It's a long shot, and a needless risk. Hell, all of Panem is watching, and for all I know I might throw like a girl.

But I'm not thinking straight right now, I'm pissed. If you're going to go through all that trouble to attach a Tribute in public, at least have the decency to throw real blood. A butcher's daughter knows the difference.

My fears are needless. Years of honing hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills make me an exceptional marksman. The glass hits and shatters on impact with a satisfying burst of blood. But I'm not done yet. The creep stumbled over the railing and now lies in the middle of the red carpeting. He lets out a groan.

I walk with all the dignity and poise I can muster. Victor Ivan Klerkov, you would be proud. He's fat and flabby, and the sight of me bearing down on him nearly makes him sick. "Puh, puh, puh-please-" he stammers, blinking through the mask of blood and the haze of his concussion as he backs away on his wrists.

There's a large piece of bottle jutting out from the side of his head. I shove my heel into his testicles to steady the body, then yank.

He lets out a howl. The glass dislodges easily. I swipe the shard across his face quick and clean as I would cut a carotid."That's what real blood tastes like," I hiss. "Remember it."


Game Security is pissed. They race forward, batons raised, but the impinging crowd boos them back. Litter, shoes, rotten fruit and I swear cow dung come flying from the chanting crowd, their antics rising to a religious fervor. They're forced to pull back to maintain the perimeter, but even now the crowd has pressed itself onto the carpet itself, narrowing the lane. The air is thick with cries, body heat, and anticipation. Imploring arms reach for me, grasp for even a piece of my clothing or hair. Some of the worst offenders, I'm sickened to note, are children.

It feels dangerous. Like walking through a herd of agitated cattle on the brink of stampede.

It's frightening. I just maimed and grievously injured a man in front of them, and now they're shouting for Security's blood simply for interfering. I didn't do it for you! I want to scream as chants of Butcher, Butcher, Butcher threaten to deafen me. There's nothing entertaining about watching a man sob in a pool of his own blood. But—I find with some satisfaction—it is easier than watching an animal suffer.

All the hundreds of animals I've killed or seen slaughtered have been innocent. This man deserved what he got. Hell, he might have deserved more.

But it's had a second effect as well. One I couldn't anticipate. Losing my temper was a very, very poor choice in front of this crowd. They have the bloodlust…and they have it bad.

"They're escalating!" I hear security shout. "Kid, you better run!"

Kid? Oh, right. Me.

"Get her the hell out of here!"

They jostle me forward, arms at the ready against any further assault. We're pelted with rotten fruit and shoes. The hisses and boos of a hundred thousand throats assault us from every direction. I can only think how perverted it is that these eight men protect me. In less than a week's time, they'll be applauding my potential execution on screen. But until the moment I step foot in the Arena, the Capitol will invest every resource available into keeping every last one of us alive.

…that is if they don't forget us. Suddenly I remember a little boy back on the train.

"Where's Malcovitch?" I shout to be heard.

"Who-?" the uniformed guard's cry is hoarse and cracking with the effort to overpower the crowd.

"Malcovitch!"

"Who the hell is Malcovitch?"

The goddamn invisible boy. "The second Tribute!"

"There's one still on the train?" He gasps. "Fuck!" Behind us, the train is all but lost in a swirling sea of blood-crazed lunatics. You're fucked, Petra Angelova, I tell myself for the hundredth time. Completely, absolutely, totally fucked.