Betrayal.

"It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend." - William Blake.

Atarah Neve, District Nine Female.

She doesn't look up as we walk, not once. I stay next to her in an attempt to soften the blow, give her a little sense of peace, but Tatum's blocked off all my attempts at being considerate.

She isn't angry, she isn't anything anymore.

"I'm really sorry," I mutter, frowning and feeling the emptiness within her. I see a tiny movement in her head, a little rise of her chin, but she uses her eyes to watch her feet. We turn corners, down disastrous corridors that were once lavish, and all she does is walk around solemnly.

I hate myself for almost wincing whenever I see her, tripping and limping along. Her arm has been covered from shoulder to wrist in the biggest bandage we have, some kind of medicine working its way to dull the pain. Nothing will stop or heal the cuts, those will mar her face for the entire time she's here. Some of them still ooze blood, the gash in her forehead blinding her left eye completely.

I feel sympathy more than anything, but... disgust, and that makes me want to slap myself. She's been through so much pain, the last thing she needs is me judging her based on something so meaningless as her appearance.

"If you ever want to talk about it, I'm here for you. We all are," I give her a tiny squeeze, avoiding where the wounds are worst. Learning from Elijah, I'm capable of transmitting some of his confidence and charisma into how I deal with others. I've always lent a hand, but a shy face is never approached unless it's necessary. People are drawn to heroes like Elijah, and since he's leading the way, discussing strategy with Kennedy, I have to be here for Tatum.

We grind to a halt, Elijah and Kennedy raising hands together to stop our approach. I hold down the will to panic, after everything we've been through, that's really the last thing we need right now. With the numbers dwindling, it's hard to see the chances of us meeting a tribute so soon. It could happen of course, but Elijah and Kennedy will deal with that. I'm glad, sort of. I don't want Elijah to break anymore from hurting another person, Sabrina's death hurt him deeper than he likes to let on. But I don't want to kill someone, that's not... not who I am.

I thought about it a lot before coming here, thought about what I had to do. It was never a possibility though, never could have been. I'm not that person. I'm just a lesser version of Elijah, sweet, quiet, forgettable.

"Sometimes when we're feeling down, we talk about our lives back at home. Try to cheer ourselves up a bit," I smile, drawing Tatum's attention away from Elijah and Kennedy who are turning around the corner in the wall to get a better look at something. She looks up at me this time, full on, eyes to eyes. Blood dribbles down her chin, her lips trembling as some of the tears continue to trace red lines across her face.

"I don't want to talk about home, I can't. I'm sorry." Her shoulders deflate in time to her eyes reaching the carpet. Whatever that thing was, it's broken her. I remember Tatum well enough, cold almost, distant with a certain temper that she liked to unleash through swings of her hatchet. She was like Kennedy, only her vulnerabilities seemed deeper than our little ally's were. Elijah could try to coax her out of this shell, but this isn't her just hiding them down, this is proper psychological damage.

Being tortured... I'd hug her if I could. If this were anywhere else but the Arena, if it were anyone else but Tatum.

He raises his hand again, everything going silent. I see his fearful eyes dart once to Kennedy, then over his shoulder at me. I've tuned myself to sense danger when it's around, and this is one of those moments.

"Walk back slowly," he mouths, whispering as quietly as he can. Kennedy pulls out a knife, covered with dried, flaky blood. I nudge Tatum again and she looks once up at Elijah, her face hardening when she realizes what's going on. She'd do anything that Elijah says, after what he did. I wouldn't have gone into that room. Kennedy would have skipped past.

He didn't. She moves back almost instantly, quiet, determined footsteps that I follow after.

A loud snapping sound shakes the wall and I bite my tongue, blood welling up as the screech dies down and fazes out. My legs start to shake, liquifying as if my joints were nothing but water. Loud, almost deafening footsteps continue, closer and closer. Another smash of something, wood chips flying round the bend, landing just in front of Elijah's feet.

He opens his mouth, about to say something, when a hand grips onto the wall closest to our heads and feet follow through.

"Run, now!" He shouts, swerving on the spot and pushing us forwards. I don't waste a second, not when a massive whatever-it-is continues to thunder after us, shaking everything. My lungs start to burn, the exertion painful with each flex of my legs.

I won't ever stop running though. The next corner starts to reach closer to us, the thing chasing our alliance at a faster speed. Despite the fear like a virus, spreading further and further, I make the mistake of looking over my shoulder. A giant, that's all it could be. A great filthy, pungent hulk of a beast roars as it swings for us.

We reach the corner, my body carrying me a little bit faster into a painting that hangs in shreds. The stop is a second too long, longer than I should have spent. The thing sways for me, lunging before Elijah can reach out.

I fall forwards on my feet, trying to dodge when it swings with its fist and some object in its hand. The snap that follows isn't wood, although at first my mind tells me it is. Then I look down at my arm, an impossible angle at the elbow, and spots explode with the agony that sets alight a fire that consumes me.

I scream, loud at first, then impossibly loud. Elijah has to half drag me as I cry with tears falling from my eyes. My broken arm hangs useless as the beast continues its advance towards us, almost grinning when it looks at the toothpick that is my shattered limb.

"You saved me."

Elijah looks over his shoulder. I try to move, only to catch a glimpse of Tatum sprinting forwards in the direction of the beast. "You saved me, I'll do what I can."

Despite the pain she's in, she manages to move with surprising speed. She ducks under a great fist, through its legs and down the corridor we just came.

I see its yellow eyes stare at us, locked on me then the ruin of my arm. Black curls at the sides of my eyes, threatening to swallow me whole as sheer excruciating pain tears me apart. If it comes after us, we're dead.

But it doesn't. It wants Tatum, satisfied with leaving me useless. She's gone round the corner where the painting hangs, and the two disappear, the noise slowly dying down and reaching a silence that is only broken by my loud, gut-wrenching sobs.

"Atarah," he cries, resting me gently against the wall. Kennedy bites her lip when her eyes hover on my elbow, something white poking from my skin. Only when my mind falls in on itself, unconsciousness taking me from reality, do I realise it's bone. But sleep is better, so I sleep and drift away.

Matteo Dallas, District Four Male.

The spear feels foreign in my hands. Crusted blood tips the point, flaking off and falling. The colour of rust over a cover of grime. My hand comes away black when I switch palms, hoisting it up then resting it down.

The problem isn't the spear, it's me. What I did. Who I killed. Why I killed him.

It makes me a turncoat, doesn't it? Alistair, he was my friend, a pal, a kind-hearted innocent boy who started to fall apart when things became too much to cope with. Our alliance was over the moment Megaera split us up into separate groups, her supreme control overwhelming sense so she could pester Calliope until the girl fell apart.

It didn't work, and a new alliance was forged. Me and Alistair, a friendship. We rarely spoke which was different for me. I couldn't think of anything cheerful to say, nothing to defuse the situation because the situation was impossible to calm. Even in the quiet, there were things unspoken between the pair of us. Feelings and thoughts I could see in Alistair's eyes, sense in my own mind that expelled any real or false charm I had.

We were a duo though, he meant something to me. I look at the girl swaying next to me, unconsciously giving away a million thoughts. I know how and why she thinks the way she does. That awful grin which I fell for, then when I could understand, I still continued to let manipulate me. Then the swagger to her step, the arrogance that would drive anyone up the wall but drew me to her. She was compelling, still is in a twisted sense.

Megaera can hold a person just as well as I can, only she uses assets I'd never stoop down to. Her evil, her cunning. I feel an unspeakable rage towards my District partner, the kind that glues my tongue to the roof of my mouth, dries up love and compassion, boils my blood at a thousand degrees. And yet, for the sake of myself, I do not rise to kill her.

She wants to take out Calliope. Megaera is the only person here capable of killing the girl, so I have to stick with her.

But then. I smile, a quick, almost non-existent smirk. I've never been vengeful, never seen the appeal, never understood the way it hooks into your skin and tugs at each waking thought. But now with the blood staining not just my spear, but my hands too, I see why people become so hell-bent on exacting revenge.

It eats you alive, so I promise, I swear on whatever there is, I'm going to kill Megaera. Then we'll see whose smiling.

"So," Megaera twirls her sword, spinning expertly through the air. I look at her with some semblance of my old charisma, knowing it's what kept me alive through the darkest portions of my life and what stopped Meg from killing me yesterday. The fact I was so... into her, so drawn to her, it saved my life.

"So," I repeat, relaxing my spear-arm.

"It's dull, this silence. It used to be I couldn't get you to shut up, what's on your mind now?"

You. Your blood, caked against my spear. Me, laughing, as I drive it in and out, in and out. You. Dead.

"A lot. Nothing. Everything."

She throws her head back, laughing. Blonde bits of hair, darkened with the dust and ash in the air, thick with grease, fall into her mouth. She barely notices, randomly kicking away a stone that gets too close to her.

"I like you Matteo. It's a shame you volunteered. A shame you betrayed me."

"I never betrayed you Meg. It wasn't us who killed Saskia."

Her lips form a pout, then her tongue hits the front of her mouth and she makes that dreadful, patronizing tutting sound. As if she's chastising a baby, not talking to an eighteen year old Career. A career who really, honestly, doesn't belong here.

I realized that the moment I shouted those words. Cursed myself for a fool, almost wanted to run off the stage when I realized what had happened. It was stupid me asking the escort, so oblivious if I could un-volunteer. Like that's even a thing. I still don't belong here though, because here, I'm up against people like Megaera. People who make me do bad things, who know what I want.

I want to win, so I had to kill Alistair. Like he had to kill Tyndall. We do bad things for the sake of ourselves. We tear the true pictures of who we are so we can live another day.

"You're only saying that so I won't be angry at you. I'm over it, honestly. Saskia would have gotten in my way, granted she would have been useful getting rid of Calliope. But, I guess I have to settle for second-best."

I hate the way her eyebrow rises at that, signifying me with a curt, pointless nod of her head. I've understood for too long how out of depth I am. The career boys versus the career girls. It looked that way, not because we were exactly enemies to begin with, but because there was a clear rift between who was better and who wasn't.

It won't be easy taking out Megaera, but that's why I'm acting compliant. Playing me, the real me back in Four, but this time an act. It feels confusing. I could manipulate myself to then manipulate others. But then I felt bad, because I wasn't that type of person. It was just so I could survive, what we always do. With Megaera, I act so she won't stab me in the back. I don't answer back too hotly because she changes moods without blinking.

"What happens after, once Calliope is dead?" Wrong question, but she likes conversation, it's all I can think of.

Meg's lip twitches, her sword hand tightening. "If Calliope is the next death, we're drawing ever so close to the end. The end of our little friendship. I'm not so cruel as to stab you in your back, Matteo. I'll let you go with dignity, fight for yourself."

I bite my tongue, holding it back. She acts so nonchalant, so accepting simply because she believes she'll win. Hell, even I know that. It's her ignorance which gives us other tributes a chance against her. The blind nature to disregard the very people that could tear her from her stupid golden throne.

It's why I don't judge, why I anticipate attacks from the most surprising figures. It's because of times like these, when emotions are high, when people do the worst kinds of things, things they didn't believe they could do.

"Thanks," I reply, louder and friendlier than I feel on the inside.

I feel like red hot coals are smothering my brain. I feel as if every small ounce of anger I've ever felt is rising up and up from memories and resurfacing for this one girl. I feel... I feel...

I don't know, not really. If all there is anymore is anger, then what's after? What do I gain from killing Megaera except vengeance?

Survival, an even better shot at winning?

I guess that's what we're all here for now. The chance to win, to be the Victor.

I'm in control of Megaera, even if she believes it to be the opposite way. I don't want to hurt anyone else, but it's what has to be done. Calliope is in the right and unfortunately she has to die. I'll assist my twisted ally for the time being, do what she wants, go where she asks me.

Then I'll kill her. And I'll feel good about it. If that makes me bad, it makes me bad. People in the Arena do bad things, it's that or die.

Tatum Caville, District Six Female.

I cradle my arm tight against my chest, swishing left and right as I fight to keep a steady pace. The creature has long since gone, left me to amble about, but I still feel it's presence lingering behind me. Threatening me with the hands it used to hurt Atarah, destroy chairs like they were toothpicks and hurtle them at walls.

It's angry, programmed to be angry. Furious like nothing I've ever seen. Losing me, it's prey, it must be even worse. I hope they got away, they had to have escaped, I gave them enough time.

If I've only riled up an already raging Mutt and sent it back on the group that saved my life, I won't ever live it down. The boy, Elijah, I owe him more than I could hope to repay. Strapped to a table with nothing but red-hot knives and hooks cutting away at my flesh, it was easier to slip away and beg for death than it was to keep up a fight.

I was so close to losing it, shuffling upwards when its knife was tearing at my forehead so it plunged into my eye and ended my pitiful existence. But they saved me, saved from a creature born of evil.

If there's one thing being tortured is good for, it's given me a sense of understanding. I could look at the world through bitter eyes and scorn each and everything, judge because I've been judged, hate because I've been mistreated. Now I realise the finality of life, how short it is, what death means for someone.

It cuts people off from the world, brings about pain and anguish and pure fear that overwhelms everything. I spent my life changing, growing up and maturing myself as the person I thought I wanted to be.

Even now, as I continue to pump my one arm and both legs against the carpet, heading for the open staircase, I see the Tatum I'm leaving and the Tatum I'm returning to. Rather than let people walk all over you, shove you, bully you, if you ignore them they'll realise that words can't hurt. I mistook that courage for weakness, I saw fighting as the only way out and I took that road.

Tyndall reminded me of the awkward, kind, happy Tatum that would play with her friends cheerily, do whatever she could for them. Like Atarah, I saw remnants of myself in that timid smile, the kind, considerate heart that only wanted what was best.

Then I told them I was a... lesbian, and it fell apart. A wound that's never healed starts to grow and grow, adding to the physical pain. Through torture, I've felt chips in my thoughts, patterns I can't put together so I stand there wondering how it's going to work. It's a culmination of my life in Six, when the bullying carried on and left me changing so I could fight them off.

Then realizing I was becoming the very bully I hated. Knowing I couldn't change back, if I changed back I'd be hurt, or killed or... or whatever it was they did to people they branded freaks.

I now know what a real freak is. It's a slab of pale skin, riddled with scabs and wounds that ooze pus with each creak of a crooked limb. It's a creation that would rather stick a knife into a young girl's face than save her. It's Megaera Cassian. It's the people who feel good about killing.

I haven't forgotten about Kitty, only grown with it. Let it fill me up and remind me what I was, what I'm trying to be, and what I hopefully will now accomplish with a new found sense of understanding.

If I can make it to the end that is, survive against a body that protests with each lock of limb and burst of agony when a breeze brushes against my open arm. It'll get infected, but as long as Morgan is up there looking out for me, Denley too now that Ward... Ward's dead, I should get better.

Better. I haven't been better for years. Maybe now, in the Games, I can finally work that out. Piece together what will save me, guide me to the end of the Games.

I reach the bottom of the stairs, a cut in the wall revealing the midsection to this Arena that I have yet to explore. More stairs lead off downwards, heading to that terrible basement. I'd rather die than go back there. I can't go back there, even if the thing is dead, with each blink I see its face. See the hooks that mutilated me.

I shake my head, fight off a new wave of pain, and take a step forward. A sheet of metal meets my knee, rising up to cut me off and stopping me in my tracks. I stare at it, not quite believing. They wouldn't...

A door seals me in, and then the banging begins at the top of the stairs. The creature is back, waiting for me.

The peace, or what was close to peace now that I'm alone and thinking clearly, starts to dissipate. I slowly turn, almost with time standing still and forcing me to move at a pace that hurts more than anything. The stairs leading down, the stairs leading...

I hear the footsteps coming towards me. I don't think, I can't think about it, if I think I'm dead and I'm not ready for that yet.

I fly forwards as fast as my broken body can carry me. My arm hits the wall, my one good arm and stops me knocking straight into a thick-built wall of heavy brick. I hear the water before I see it. The great, writhing green depths higher than I remember.

They lap against my heels, chilling my feet to the bone. I shiver and take a step forwards, across a narrow bridge that connects the two sides. A door is open but I ignore it. I refuse to go that way, I will not go that way.

But when did I ever get what I wanted? When was life ever fair?

The water is covering the only access point to the tunnel system. Either side of me there is nothing but the restless flood growing in height as the minutes tick by. I have no choice. I take a deep breath and start forwards, fear prickling the back of my neck but trying to put as much courage as I can into each step I take.

It'll be okay. You're getting better. You're finally understanding, it's been so long Tatum. You'll be okay.

The room is lit up with the same candles, the same wax that never melts away and leaves the room in a haunting light. It's impossible how much blood could be in such a space. Even if it's large, there's pools I can't even remember from my time here.

My eyes land on the pool by the rack, the shackles left in two parts. I shiver and swallow the lump in my throat. Its dead... it's gone... it's...

There's no body. I look over the spot I remember it being, then again, then once more just to make sure.

Before I can even scream, a hand smothers my face, choking me as it sticks putrid pale fingers into my mouth and gripping my hair. It drags and throws me against the wall, the impact snapping two fingers that bend back.

I scream, this time, I scream as loud as I've ever screamed before. The bandage starts to soak with warm blood, falling at a faster rate than it should. Spots spiral in my eyes, making me dizzy. I can barely stand as the thing... the thing dives at me again.

"You're dead, you're dead."

Its face is nothing but a sick pulp of rotten brain and flesh. I see a faint outline of a stab wound, another one on its torso and realise, as the hook comes flying towards my face, that the Gameamkers brought it back.

They wanted me to meet my end here, they wanted some irony. Some sick twist. Me to wander broken, save the people that saved me, and then feel as if I was growing. They wanted this because it was all a show. And I've been a point of entertainment. A hunk of meat to shove on a television screen.

When it pierces my throat, it doesn't hurt as much as I imagined.

Not as much as the torture. The agony that left a stamp on my brain. Permanent.

Then it starts to fade, even the damage, it all starts to go away.

The mutt's tongue starts to clack, that laughter which tore me apart, made me understand what it meant to do to me. What it was. Who created it.

"You can't hurt me anymore..." I whisper, curling up into a ball and smiling. It's better this way. No more fighting, no more pain, no more anything. I can let go.

Kennedy Ames, District Eight Female.

The capsules rattle around in my backpack. A silent call, knowing what's in my head that fights with my heart. They know what I have to do. Lawson knows, he knew all along.

He gave me the method to help myself, and at the same time become the most despicable type of person. I look once over Elijah's twisted face, stricken with fear and longing for Atarah. Her head is cradled in his lap, pasty white, the agony radiating in thick sheets of heat.

I don't think she's dying. Not yet, and for the first time since I met the quiet, bashful girl, I see the downside to that.

Because if this doesn't kill her, I have to do what I've been putting off since the beginning.

We're sheltered in one of the last remaining rooms with a fully functioning bed, a lamp that we've put on the other side of the mattress to block the light from reaching the door, and a wardrobe full with pointless items of clothing.

Elijah strokes the hair from Atarah's forehead. He hasn't cried for her but I know he will soon. I stare at that beautiful, delicate face. Even in pain she seems innocent. Her hair is dirty, clinging with grease to her scalp, and yet it's as golden as it was the day I first saw her on the Chariot. We've become so much more than allies, so much more than the Capitol lets tributes become.

These people helped me, maybe saved me from drowning in my own bitterness. They gave me the helping hand to not stop who I really was, but use what I had inside of me for the better. If I wanted to let my anger out, I go looking for supplies, fighting through the fact that this entire situation is tearing me apart by doing something productive.

This... this is helpful. The biggest step towards my Victory, a step that if I take, I will never be able to return from. My mind's piecing together fragments of the future, what Elijah will do to me if I hurt sweet Atarah. I can't hope to take them out in a fair fight, and that's what makes it a thousand times worse.

If they were to die, it would be without their knowing. Thinking I was faithful. They deserve a chance to save themselves. I'm taking away that hope, the idea that even if their life is hanging over a clifftop, ready to submerge in death, that it could be saved. I'm effectively destroying the puzzle that's fitting together, my life that isn't all scowls and pointless differences. I'm a better person. I've fought by Elijah's side, helped to save Tatum, treated Atarah throughout the day when her broken moans wracked her body with painful shivers. I'm a good person now, good...

"I'm going to go scout for a bit, take my mind off of things." Elijah shuffles upwards, nestling Atarah's head protectively against a cushion. I stare at him move, too conflicted and hurt over my own thoughts to say anything.

I can't do it... how can I hurt him and Atarah? I'll fall apart if I take away the only thing I've ever truly cared about. It's not... no...

His hand reaches the strap of my backpack. My blood freezes.

"What are you doing?" I call out, too loud, far too loud to not arouse suspicion. He pulls the backpack over his shoulder before I can yank it away. Within the insides, the poison shakes around, testing me. Elijah... he can't...

"You have the food and majority of knives, Kennedy." He smiles without that happy-go-lucky air to him. "Don't worry, I'll return her in ship-shape condition."

He turns to leave, his joke gliding off me as panic starts to flare up. All it takes is him looking for one knife to realise I've been storing more than him or Atarah knows. If I take after him, he'll know I'm up to something. If I don't do anything, he'll find out.

My eyes land on Atarah's angelic face. The answer rises up, an unspeakable darkness. I know what I have to do, what I've not wanted to do this entire journey. What I've always known would be the outcome.

Not all the knives were in my backpack. One is tucked between Atarah's arms, for protection in case Elijah and I aren't there to help her anymore. I could just run away, leave the two of them before Elijah returns.

But that's not what my legs do, they know what has to be done, so they take me step by step over to Atarah. I'm suddenly aware of the tears falling, a noise that I fight down otherwise I'll wake her up. She's too pure for this, to be reaped, to be thrown into an alliance with me.

All of it is too much, too much for me take. My breathing hurts, each intake like my own personal knife cutting through me. I deserve every ounce of pain for this. Because even when I tell myself no, I bend down and take the knife as carefully as I can from her hand.

More tears fall, silently slipping down my cheeks and landing on the carpet. I position myself so none fall on Atarah. If she's asleep for it, she'll feel nothing. It's better this way. Nothing she deserves, but the best option.

One of her eyes opens. Followed by the next.

My heart skips and I jolt backwards a space. It takes a few moments for her to register everything, the pain twisting her face as she shudders once then focuses on the knife.

The agony is washed away with shock, her eyebrows rising up her forehead as she shuffles, knocking her broken arm against the bedside.

A cry bursts out and I let out the pent-up sob, shaking as I hold the blade out.

"I'm so sorry... I didn't... I don't..." I can't string together anything. The knife nears Atarah, inch by inch, and all she does is shy away from it, crying herself as her lips move open and then snap together.

"Why?" she makes out, voice croaking as she can't back up any further.

I wipe my hand across my nose, shaking my head once to fight away tears and steadying myself. The least she deserves is a final explanation, a reason as to why a girl they put so much trust in, helped save from despair, turned out to be the biggest mistake they made.

"Because we're here." I look around once, knowing if I don't get it done now I'll break down and won't stop. "We're not in the grain fields, or in my little shack. We're in the Arena. You and Elijah... I can't... you're good people. The best people. But that doesn't change anything, does it? This is the Hunger Games. I want to win. I don't want to die."

Atarah continues to cry, shivering and shaking the mattress with her jerky movements. "I don't want to die either."

Piece by piece my heart starts to fall apart. Even when I walk away from this, Victory won't be so sweet, but Victory is better than death.

"I'm so sorry." The knife nears her chest. She could bat it away, or scream for Elijah. But if he was nearby, he would have heard by now. He's not coming, and I'm not stopping.

"We're friends..."

I run my knife through her chest, a clean stab, a quick kill. Atarah looks once down at the blade, dripping with her blood when I pull it out, then up at me. Tears light up her eyes; broken, innocent, beautiful.

Nothing comes out her mouth but one last, dying breath. Her eyes darken, her body falls forwards, and I feel myself slipping away.

BOOM!

My feet take me automatically to the door. I can't put together anything at the moment. Not how I feel, not the way I want to fall down, or the impossible strength that keeps me up.

I register footsteps, see Elijah running down the hall. In his hand the capsules drop through his fingers, the answer colliding with him at such a speed he slips and falls into the wall.

I turn the other way without making a sound. Listening to him cry, listening to my own heartbeat with each footstep down the corridor and towards the staircase.

Atarah, I killed her. I did it for myself. I severed the greatest thing in my life so I could survive it.

I'll never live with it, but that's the thing, at least there's the potential to live with it. I can live with my guilt through the life I'll keep for myself.

I reach the top of the stairs and keep walking. Right now, all I can feel is the numbness, the after-effects. Tomorrow, who knows what. I know I can't look at myself the same way again. But I told them, I always told them I wasn't cut out for their alliance.

They doomed themselves, like I was doomed the moment I realized what meant more to me. Myself, or my friends. The answer was always clear.

Tatum Caville, District Six Female.

Atarah Neve, District Nine Female.

Thgfan9. I'm going to be 100% honest, Tatum, she was difficult. I saw her form first of all and she became my favourite, honestly, I saw so much potential in her character, the complexity behind her that I even pegged her down as a potential Victor. Then came writing her, and I made a few mistakes that led to her character not ever really shining through properly. It was a shame because you deserved Tatum as she really was, but I'm still happy with how far she made it, what I tried to do with her, and her journey through the Games.

Snaily. Atarah was a sweetheart. You know how I feel about the names you come up with so she had that going for her, and then when I realized she had Elijah as her District partner, threw Kennedy into the alliance, I had something great. It was one of my favourite alliances, probably my favourite actually. She lasted longer than girls like her usually do, but she had a strength the others picked up on that kept her going. Unfortunately, Kennedy knew what she had to do, Atarah never stood a chance in her condition.

Only seven tributes remaining: Calliope, Lochlan, Matteo, Megaera, Kennedy, Elijah and Alton. In a few chapters time, one of these will become the Victor. Not long left to go now!

Favourite out of these POVs and why?

Predicted final three?

Yeah so, I understand my daily updates make it difficult to keep up with reviews. I appreciate those who are reviewing, but yeah if you are falling behind, no worries. I'm not expecting everyone to be able to review straight away.

Those who have reserved a spot or are still interested in submitting to my Victor's SYOT, a deadline has been put up on my profile. It should be doable, I want to give myself a break between finishing up this and then starting my next story.

Yup, so there, two more deaths. Thanks to everyone reading, those reviewing, and yeah... thanks!