The skinning and cleaning trainer instructions are taken from...a website FanFiction won't let me link to. Well, it's the first one that comes up when you Google "skinning and cleaning animals." Thank you, Internet.

Fun Fact of the Day: How the Mentors Won Their Games, Part X. District Five mentor Ilma won the 174th Games. As this was the 100th Anniversary of the 74th Games, tributes were told that the victor would be executed one year after the end of these Games. The shortest Games in history ensued, with half the tributes committing suicide within the first hour, and the immediate backlash from the Capitol was so great that the decision was revoked and the Head Gamemaker quietly executed.

…..

Link Anderson, District Three

The trees are shedding their leaves much faster now, to the point where it seems like half the trees' leaves just fall to the ground in one clump. They crunch horribly loud under my boot as it treads. The sound they make under my prosthetic is different, a sort of gnash, except soft. Crunch, gnash, crunch, gnash. Any tribute listening would be able to tell it's me.

I start to lose my balance a couple of times, grasping the trunks of trees just before I hit the ground. Each near-fall makes my heart race—not because I wouldn't be able to get up, but because if that happens during a fight, I'm dead. It would only take a moment to stab down into a scrambling, fallen body...

I shudder and keep moving. I always have to keep moving.

The days are starting to blur together, to be honest. I've lost count. It can't be that long, and yet it feels like forever. The Gamemakers messing with arena's seasons doesn't help. What day is it? How long have a survived? How long have I been moving on since—since—

Since Thalia?

I don't know why I'm hesitant to say her name. I should be screaming it at the top of my lungs, every second of every day that I'm in this damn arena. Thalia, Thalia, Thalia, Thalia, Thalia. She deserves—no, it's not even a question of deserving; she deserves so much more than what the Capitol has done to her. She was beautiful and brilliant and bold and God, I love—loved—love her so much it hurts.

She had papers. She had plans, plans and equations that she just had to write down on the train, on the day of the reaping, and I thought... I thought she might be trying to throw me off, to trick me, but it's Thalia and now I know she would never, ever do that.

Would I? If I had the chance? Could I have looked her in the eye and tricked her, knowing that her death would have been my fault, any way it went?

No, no I couldn't. And that's why people like me don't win the Hunger Games—not people with disabilities, people who are in love. Even Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark didn't win in the end, not really.

As if to prove my point, I hear a growl come from behind me, like the sound of a wolf or a mutt or both.

I consider just standing there and letting it devour me, whatever it is, but my foot steps forward without thinking. Soon I'm running, fast as I can, crunch, gnash, crunch, gnash, propelled by the need to survive as the need to mourn is pushed to the back of my mind.

…..

Jace Latone, District Nine

Every fiber in me just wants to go back to sleep. It's a... dull sort of... ache, I guess, the feeling that you just want to drop down where you are and fall unconscious for hours. When you put it that way it sounds morbid, almost suicidal. But it's not. At least, not yet.

It's odd, how you never realize how startlingly divine something is until you don't have it anymore. A mother, until she's ripped away from you in a mess of blood and tongues. Friends, until they leave in the middle of the night without a trace. Sleep, until you're in the Hunger Games and if you close your eyes for too long you die.

Dreams, until they turn into nightmares.

The face staring back in the mirror was years older than mine, yet the look in her eyes was frighteningly familiar. I must have spent at least an hour just gazing at it, the thoughts swirling around in my head too tired to make the connections that needed to be made. That is, until she opened her mouth and the jolt of white-hot pain burned through my mind.

"Jace?"

"What do you want with me?" I said. Only I didn't, because no sound came out. I tried again and again, so many times, only the scratchiest of guttural noises slipping past my lips.

"What?" I say, scrunching up my face as if to ward off the daylight.

The face said nothing, only watching with eyes that blazed like... like stars.

"Look up."

I do. And when I do, a shower of little white flecks fall steadily onto my face. I glance around. The trees are practically bare and the leaves on the ground dusted, as if with sugar.

"What do you want with me?" There. I said it. It was barely a whisper, but I said it. I wasn't the one in the mirror. That wasn't—wouldn't be—me. I could still and would still be able to speak, even if there was nothing to be said.

"Winter's come," Caprice says. Her facial expression is readable as ever—frightened, though I can't tell if it's of the snow or of the fact that the girl from Ten may still be tracing us. "You were right."

Can the Capitol monitor dreams?

"Yeah," I say after a pause, kicking some of the leaves up with the tip of my boot. "I was."

If only I could hibernate for the winter.

…..

Yon Trizzle, District Eight

Snow, snow, snow. Just like the snow in Eight when I left for the Capitol. Just like the snow Thera and my mother are under. Except not. My mentor... my mentor told me that I shouldn't trust anything inside the arena, not the people or the mutts or even the weather. And the Gamemaker said I should kill, and Thera said I should come home. The instructions all make sense together.

Another parachute comes down, another instruction to follow. Flint and steel, to make a fire against the cold. To cook. But there's no food, only another note.

I'm hungry for food.

But the note... the note is important. The note will tell me what to do next, how to get food, what to do with the sponsor gift. I tear the little piece of paper off of the ring attaching it to the parachute and open it in the palm of my hand. It's hard to read; the letters are squished together to fit onto the slip. Lots of information, lots of instructions.

The bigger letters say, Snow is here. Make a fire. Stay warm. Vague suggestions, not detailed enough. Nothing about food. Smaller letters: You have the wolf's body nearby. Skin it with one of the knives and wrap the fur around yourself for warmth. A good instruction. But there's something else, smudged at the bottom. I can only make out one little word of it: eat.

"Eat what?" I say to myself. "The berries are gone and so's the bread and the apple and the other sponsor gifts." No notes come, so I sigh and walk towards the wolf body. I can skin it and get the fur and maybe then there'll be a note.

I close my eyes and try to remember what the training instructor said when I went to that station. Most animals, regardless of size, are done basically the same way. Starting at the tail, make a cut\ beneath the skin all the way to the chin. Next, cut down the inside of each leg to the joint above each hoof or foot. Use your fist and work the hide off, using a knife only in tough spots so you won't cut the hide and ruin it. Take care not to puncture any organs with a knife while skinning or cleaning; you'll contaminate the edible parts...

"Edible parts," I whisper.

A moment later a get another parachute, empty except for a note: Yes, you can eat the wolf.

…..

Carreen Haggerty, District Four

I'm not exactly a big fan of daylight tribute-hunting, especially not in this weather. But it makes sense to do this now rather than later, and I can't refute the evidence—the only tributes we've managed to catch and kill were found during the day. Besides, it's easier to see footprints in this snow, even though the little white flakes are just starting to stick to the ground.

It makes me uneasy, this "winter weather." The vast majority of people from District Four, myself and Gabriel included, have only seen snow on our television screens, never in real life. I guess if I win there'll be plenty of snow on the Victory Tour route, I think.

For some reason, the thought gives me pause, though I don't know why. I want to win. Of course I want to win. But somehow the idea of a Victory Tour for me seems as far out of reach as the stars are to us. As I am to Cedric.

Cedric. A week in the Capitol and six days in the arena—our six-month anniversary is tomorrow. I glance at the bracelet of shells that he gave to me. This is why I need to win.

And so I lead the hunt for the other tributes, trudging through the snow—who knew it was so wet?—and keeping an eye on the other Careers, just in case their sudden but inevitable betrayals are coming sooner than expected.

My allies talk idly about the opponents left, the cycling of the seasons and the weather extremes, just to fill the silence. Emerald doesn't even seem to care about being heard, though, to be fair, a pack of five doesn't really need to rely on stealth. Luka's a bit quieter than usual. His trademark smirk, however, still remains on his face. My gaze never leaves him.

It isn't long until we come across a footprint, though not the kind we've been looking for.

"Wolves," says Marius after studying them for a moment. "Large wolves."

"Lovely," Luka says. "Just what we need. Thank you!" he yells up at the sky, smirk turning into a grin. "Take all the kills away from us, why don't you?"

While everyone is busy rolling their eyes, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Slowly, I turn. It's Gabriel. He points towards a patch of ground just behind me. He's written in the snow:

L+E plan to strike soon.

I don't need to guess who L and E are.

…..

Chantelle Jacobsen, District Ten

Damn this wound. I don't know whether it was blessing or a curse that the Elven girl couldn't see well in the dark: she wasn't able to kill me, but she was slashing like crazy, widening this goddamn gash she'd already made in my arm so it bleeds out even faster.

But I'm not dead yet. And that's what counts.

With a sigh, I scoop up a handful of the snow that's starting to stick to the ground and hold it against the cut. Snow is rare in Ten, but I do know how an ice pack works, at least in theory. I bind the packed snow to my arm with a strip of cloth ripped from my jacket and hope it doesn't melt too soon. The jacket hasn't been doing much good against the cold, though I suppose it's better than nothing. The Capitol doesn't want us all to freeze to death, right?

Right?

Dear Panem. My head begins to throb, and my vision shifts in and out of focus. What the hell is going on? The snow... or is it blood loss finally catching... finally catching up with me... or both... I glance up at the sky. No parachutes are coming. But I need medicine, right away...

I force myself to stand, gritting my teeth to ward off the pain. I have to think. Quickly and clearly. As long as I keep thinking, I'll be fine, with or without sponsor gifts. I can figure this out on my own.

Just then, a burst of static comes in—loud—from the sky-dome of the arena. An announcement? I raise an eyebrow. What are the chances of that? But as the blur of sounds starts sorting itself into words, I realize with a start that this isn't an announcement. It's an argument.

An unintentional broadcast, straight from Gamemaker Central—and they're arguing.

"You just tell us about this—"

"—what the hell are we supposed to—"

"—whole 'list' business two hours ago—"

"First six, now four more—"

"—all those engineered deaths—"

"—only makes sense with Aetius and what's happening in Te—"

"EVERYONE—SHUT THE—HELL—UP—WE'RE ON—AIR!"

A deafening silence.

Then static.

Then, nothing.