Revenge.

"When you begin a journey of revenge, start by digging two graves: one for your enemy, and one for yourself." - Jodi Picoult.

Elijah Fawkes, District Nine Male.

I sit with my back heavy against the wallpaper, fingers draped through my hair as I fight the urge to be sick. A whole night of misery, shaking me from my feet all the way through to my head. A thousand questions and only one answer.

Kennedy. She killed Atarah, because... because...

She'll say she had to. And somewhere, deep down in my gut, I understand why she had to do it. That spark of acceptance sizzles out as the anger rises, and then the utter gut-wrenching sadness that leaves me quivering like a wreck.

I want to blame myself for leaving. It was getting to my head, far too much to handle with Atarah lying there a mess and Kennedy, slipping into something I knew was bad but never quite understood. I sensed the problem, saw it there, and never did a single thing about it. I thought Kennedy was our friend. An alliance forged through our connection, forbidden in the eyes of the Capitol. In our own way rebellious when it was never our intention.

With her gone, it's hard to do much. I've eaten when my stomach grumbles, drank when my throat scratches, and whispered to myself when the loneliness sets in. It feels like it's been a week since Atarah was taken from me, but it's been about eight or so hours. The morning of another day has come. Twenty-four hours ago I woke up with Atarah and Kennedy, my two friends, and Tatum the girl who I saved and wanted to be a new part of our group.

At the end of the day, Tatum and Atarah were dead, Kennedy left with a knife coated in her ally's blood.

My hands tug at my skin, pulling my face as I slide them down and let them drop, useless. It won't last for very much longer, this longing for the way it was. The Gamemakers won't sit idly by and let me waste away a useless shell of nothing. It'll get boring. The after-effects will keep me going for maybe today, they'll want to see how I'm coping and let my misery show on every television screen across the country.

Then when it's time, they'll unleash what it is they want to. Tear me apart, maybe kill me. That's not what I want. Even with Atarah dead, Kennedy out there, I want to win. Winning means living, and we're always taught back in Nine to do what we can to survive. Yet we survive as a family. I fought for my family, protected them whenever I could, did my bit to procure a healthy life for my younger brother, all the way up to my father grieving still.

Here, me living meant Atarah and Kennedy dying, left to boom as a cannon and then be forgotten as another fallen tribute. That's what makes me feel guilty, feel a thousand times worse than I already do. It's because I understand what she did and why she did it. Kennedy was thinking the exact same as I am. That to win, your friends can't.

She couldn't bear to see us last with her to the finale, then have to turn on each other in some sick show of a friendship folding in on itself in a battle drenched with blood. She wanted out, before it would reach that point. The only escape was to kill us before it became too much to cope. I could have died, that was always her plan.

I look at the pills, still there, taunting me from their spot on the carpet. An example of what survival does to a person, how it corrodes you, twists your senses until you'll do the most unspeakable actions just to wake up another day. She took the easier route, she killed Atarah before I could stop her.

I realized when I rummaged through the bag for some food what she was up to. The moment my eyes landed on those capsules it was as if time froze. I could hear it in my brain, telling me what was happening.

It was hard to breathe, hard to understand. And then the cannon shook the walls.

I groan and scrunch my eyes shut. Atarah's cannon. A nightmare, a living, real nightmare. A noise I needed to hear to survive, a noise I never wanted to have to hear... she was too... too pure. She was just Atarah, an ordinary girl.

The anger starts again. Maybe it's just hunger, the coiling in my stomach as something fights its way up. I feel it burning, bile maybe, vomit. Nothing comes out when I try to force it through my throat and let it go. It's pure, unadulterated anger.

Anger at Atarah for not being a fighter. Angry at myself for feeling that way, for letting myself let the alliance grow to a point it would be too hard to stop, angry for giving Kennedy the time to take her out. And then the anger at my little friend. The girl who did it. Who killed Atarah.

Vengeance leaves a sour taste, but I feel it growing. Pulsing inside of me, an unquenchable thirst that must be satisfied. All I want is our little group back. The group that I could cheer up, draw together and talk about the way it was back in the Districts. I wanted to be their shield, a protector, someone who could bring them laughter and joy even when it seemed too dark to project such emotions.

I want it to go back to the way it was. And it never can. Because of Kennedy... because, even if I understand her motivations, the reasoning to why she had to do it, she still killed an innocent girl.

I'm not sure whether it's for the sake of myself, to fix my brain back into place and give me something to fight for. My friends were what kept me going during the day, what I killed Sabrina for and let my humanity grow over that overwhelming sense of guilt and despair. Maybe it's for Atarah's sake, a pure girl like her deserves to be avenged when she couldn't do anything to fight back.

That was evil. Kennedy, taking her out like that. But it makes sense, the easiest way. She did it for survival, she wouldn't have risked destroying the thing she supposedly held dear to her by giving us a chance to fight back. It could have killed her. Would have. I would have killed Kennedy to protect Atarah. Like I would have killed Atarah if she raised a knife on Kennedy.

It's wrong for me to feel this way, but I do. It moves my legs, curls my fingers round the hilt of a knife, the only knife left to clatter out of the backpack. It gives me a purpose, drive. Maybe I won't ever smile again, maybe I won't ever be able to feel that joy of bringing together people who would otherwise have wasted away and not known what it meant to be happy.

Revenge is a bad choice. But now it's my choice. My goal. Kennedy has to die.

Alton Shelding, District Ten Male.

I've never been one for heroism. But now, as I slink through the shattered remains of lamps flickering on and off, I realise that the Hunger Games would be a good place to change that.

It doesn't make up for what I've done, what has happened to me, who was hurt around me. But it gives me something to do, something that can almost make me believe I'm a good person.

That it isn't my fault Davin and Raelyn are now gone. That by killing Tirzah, I haven't sold my soul to the devil.

Not that I would care, because I'm that boy right? The boy that doesn't care. When my family wept around me, I refused to settle them. I made things worse because things were as worse as they could get. Why calm them down when it was me being thrown into the Arena?

It's how I used to think, what everyone thinks of me. Raelyn blamed her insanity on me. Her words still sting, a constant reminder that if I hadn't have pushed her around, accepted her the same way people accepted me, she'd still be alive. Or wouldn't have killed Davin. Or at least, maybe, we could have allied after her allies fell one by one and formed something close to a friendship.

Now they're all dead. It's just me left to sulk away in the shadows and occupy my thoughts with nothing but this repetitive state of belittling myself just to make myself feel better. Funny how that works. If I tell myself I'm a bad person, it almost dulls the pain because I'm accepting what I've done and who I've hurt.

A bad person whose trying to be good would do what they can to make up for it. So that's why I continue to move quietly, timing each footstep so I don't step on a shard and give away my position. Sneakiness never was my forte, hadn't the patience, hadn't the time. Now I move with a surprising sense of acceptance.

I move after the muttation that chased me and Tirzah, forced me to kill her. Or, as I'd like to believe. It continues to stumble around, nothing more than an angry hunk of nothing. With a dwindling supply of fresh victims, the Gamemakers have left it to do nothing but trash up something that was once so beautiful.

I never cared for luxury much, didn't see the fascination or poetic side people brought out of the stars or an important painting. But living in the conditions I did and then seeing this, the Arena as some kind of five-star resort, it hit something.

Davin and Celene brought out a new side to me. I broke that side. So now I'm here to piece it back together, by playing the stupid dumb hero that almost gets themselves killed just to make a point.

Although almost might not be the outcome. I very well may end up dead, another cannon, another nobody.

I feel the vibration through the wall when it slips and slides into the structure. Some more of the paper tears and slips down, sliding against my face and sticking there before I brush it off. Smears of blood come away, brushing against my cheek before I realise what it is. I don't flinch. Here in the Games, I'm past the point of those sorts of reactions, it's sort of a dull feeling now, a numbness I actually like.

Accepting guilt dilutes the guilt. At least I'm not sitting in some corner, wallowing and letting everything fall apart. I'm doing something. Maybe that'll keep the Gamemakers satisfied to let this play out. Maybe they'll even help me. When pigs fly.

I stifle a snort and peer round the . Two beady eyes train of me, narrowing into the folds of its pale forehead. It would be stupid to not be scared. Anyone sane would run away and scream for their lives. That's what I did a few days ago, when I doomed poor Tirzah and killed her just so the thing would be distracted by her corpse.

Better to kill her than die myself. What that makes me, I don't care, I don't care what they think I am. Maybe I'm just insane.

The beast comes stamping with what looks like glee on its twisted, ugly face.

Time to play hero.

I grip onto the knife harder and run forwards. Not backwards, not away from the creature, but forwards. I sense the surprise that warps its features, it's not used to someone so willingly offering their lives for it.

"Sorry pal, not quite." If it can hear what I'm saying, it doesn't react. Not the way an intelligent being would. All it does is focus on the thirst for death and murder by swinging a great big fist towards my face.

Only I'm not ready to give up. Not just yet.

I leap to the side just in time, hugging the wall then turning and stabbing into its hand. It yowls with pain, roaring once and stumbling into me to get a grip on my skull. I don't doubt for a second what it could do to my brain, mush it up and eat it probably. For some reason I smile at that, bring up my knife once more and charge at it.

I hear a noise, maniacal laughter. Its mouth isn't moving, all it does is scrunch its face up and come for me again. Only when it brings another fist for me do I realise the noise is coming from my own mouth. My own vocal chords.

I don't stop laughing as I dodge the next fist, clamber up its arm and go for the attack. It's weaker than I remember, its reactions slower when its eyes dart on my climbing form. I hook my fingers round its muscular arm, blink away tears from the stench that attacks my senses, and stab down again.

This time the blade meets something important, something it can't bat away with a stupid fist.

I stare with limited fascination at the blood that pumps out from its neck. Not quite red but not quite anything else either. The knife is completely drenched, even slipping in further when it shakes me loose and falls into the wall.

Heh. I laugh and watch it claw for the knife like some pathetic child crying for its toy. I don't particularly like these feelings now, but look, I killed the muttation that probably caused a lot more harm to other tributes.

Maybe the reason behind some of these cannons.

I don't feel very heroic, but I feel something. Something close to what I felt with Davin and even Celene. No more tears. Now it's just my small smile as I imagine the echo of a cannon as the beast stops writhing in agony.

At least it's dead. Now only tributes to focus on. Real people with actual intelligence that's gotten them this far.

Yeah, should have thought about that Alton. I shrug my shoulders and sigh. I'll do what I can. Maybe I never planned on coming home, but I've made it this far. Better to carry on with it all the way. Win so I can go home and apologize to not only my family, but Raelyn's too.

It wasn't my fault she died, I know it wasn't. It wasn't my fault Davin fell either. Or even Tirzah, because here in the Games, we have to do whatever we can to make it one step further.

I just hope they understand that. If they don't... well, I'll cross that bridge once I get there.

Calliope Cartier, District One Female.

With his head high, Lochlan walks round the corner. I follow on from behind him, vigilant with my sword raised up high to bring down on anyone left creeping these hallways. It's not so much out of fear or desperation. Now that we're here, the final seven, the finale is growing ever closer. With each cannon, victory doesn't seem such a faraway prospect. Not that I ever doubted myself, I just doubted those around me.

It's kept me going so far, holding strong, remaining aware and distant. Lochlan looks over his shoulder and flashes a quick wink, turning back to saunter forwards. He even kicks rubble in an irritating fashion. For him it's all about the way you talk to others, your external manner, how you come across.

I don't doubt his well-being. He's a genuine guy to those who return respect. He seems attached to me, for whatever reason. I haven't gone looking for his affection, quite the opposite actually.

Whenever he's spoken I've shot him down, reminding him where we are, who I am and what I hold in my hand. It's enough to even keep him quiet. But only for a few minutes, then he's back again, pushing me and only eliciting my blank stares and twitches in my hand.

I don't want to kill him. Not really. Want is a different ideal here in the Arena. For Megaera it's never been more clear to her, what she wants to do. It's about fun and laughter, flaunting herself to bring up others only to knock them down and slit their throat. For me, I want to win. Which means I will win. I may not necessarily have the urge to kill others, it doesn't give me any satisfaction, but I don't flinch.

The fact I want to win is enough, that's why I'm here at this point. I do not hesitate to do what I have to do. The reason Lochlan's here is because the boy's smart, behind that smirk of his, he knows how to play it.

Cowardly maybe, without much dignity. He'll sell his soul just to make it another day. But clever, I can't deny that. It's why even now, I'm glad for his company. He may be nothing more than another obstacle, an inevitable stain on my sword, but company is company. With Alistair... with him gone, it's good to hear another person's voice. A voice I don't want to silence immediately.

"Ah, what a beautiful evening."

Or, maybe I do.

I can't quite hold back the smirk. I let it grow quickly, then wipe it off before Lochlan catches it and uses it to spark up another pointless conversation. Although his head is obviously teeming with more strategies about how he's going to kill me once we've killed Megaera, I can't help but step closer to him.

The candles have reached a very low intensity, almost plunging us into total darkness. It's not that I'm afraid, but Megaera's a cunning girl, she'll use whatever means she has to dispose of us. Although I can't deny her blood-lust, the insatiable desire for fun. She'll want this fight. So maybe me taking cautious steps towards Lochlan's back isn't necessary.

"Wait, I think I see something."

His hand rises to stop me. I immediately look around, over his shoulder and gripping onto my sword tighter. All my thoughts and problems and queries about Lochlan disappear, adrenaline already beginning to guide me as we walk slowly forwards. Lochlan leads the way with his staff raised and ready to bring down. At least he doesn't flinch when he has to do it. He doesn't falter. It's a sign of weakness, shying away from a fight. Although I could put up with Alistair flinching and remaining back, Lochlan is here to help me take down the strongest opponent left.

If he doesn't deliver, he knows what I'll do. But once it happens... well, surely he knows I'll still carry on with it? For now, though, I have to focus. Focus on the sound of our footsteps, the loud, banging footsteps. Footsteps that can't be ours, not at our pace.

The candlelit corridor transforms into nothing but a sheet of thick, suffocating darkness. More footsteps, the sound of someone... no not someone, Megaera, laughing. I grip onto my sword and do the very best I can to keep my breathing regulated. If it's her, I know what I have to do. What it's always come down to.

During the Capitol, it never really accumulated to much. Her petty stares, winks and sways of her sword. As if that would intimidate me. No, it's just about what we're here for. Us two, we could have gotten along if it were different, if she had have understood it was better to trust each other than be at the end of each others sword.

But she wouldn't do that, she wouldn't give me the satisfaction of her actually admitting we could work together. She's like everyone else, their own plans, their own greed and selfishness blurring what they should do.

I'm no saint, but this is it. Time to fight.

I leap forwards, running with as much effort as I can. The rubble grazes my shins, bringing up pain that I block out and pretend doesn't exist. I feel a presence next to me but it's only Lochlan, his harsh panting barely keeping up with my own as he staggers forwards.

We reach a wall, or to put it better, fall into the wall. My nose cracks and a burst of pain lights up something in my eyes that doesn't belong there. I taste blood almost immediately, the copper tang pouring down the back of my throat. My face protests when I turn it so suddenly the quick breeze lashes against the damage.

This isn't time to stop and cry over something so minor. I can still hear her laughing, calling my name.

"Come and get me, if you think you're fast enough!"

That voice, the voice that brings forth an anger I never knew existed. I've had my fair share of fights, dealt with people who have mistreated me when I never did a single thing. But this is something different. A rivalry I never wanted, but a rivalry I am committed, more than anything, to end.

I pump my legs and arms harder and faster after the noise, skipping over stones and lashing out with my sword whenever something touches my shoulder. There's nothing but air to attack, the darkness making everything impossible. My other senses are lit up, helping me, but the one I rely on is failing.

"Behind you."

I feel a tap on my shoulder, her voice whispering in my ear. I don't think about it. If I think, she'll be gone.

My sword meets flesh, then my hand slides in blood that pours down the blade and trickles through my fingers, thick and wet. The candles one by one come back on, illuminating each cell as the seconds tick away.

My eyes squeeze shut on impact, then slowly I open them.

Lochlan gapes down at my sword protruding from his stomach. A thin line of blood pours from his lips, then a cough that brings up more blood which splashes against my cheek.

"Wh-why...?" He looks once with that familiar light in his eyes. The light I grew to enjoy. Then his eyes slowly close as he slumps forwards, over my sword, opening up the hole in his stomach.

BOOM!

I stare at his body, still and frozen. It was... it was Megaera.

But how would I have known that? In the darkness, it could have been anyone. It was a trick, a filthy trick. It was never her. It might have been her voice but I let everything, my anger, my sheer pride of not being shown up, get in the way of my senses. I thought I had it under control.

And now Lochlan is dead, gone... because of me.

I pull the sword from him, letting him drop like a weight that hits a bundle of rocks. I shouldn't feel sad, I shouldn't feel anything over him. I was going to kill him when we were done with Megaera.

But I do, I feel something close to what I secretly bottled up with Alistair gone. He was nothing to me, Lochlan, just an asset in my upcoming fight.

So why do I stare at his body, unable to move, unable to process the fact that I... I stabbed him?

It's not so easy, not anymore. His death is another step towards winning, an inevitable victim I had to overcome. I don't like not being able to tear my eyes away from his pale face. I don't like the grisly wound opened in his torso. I don't like what I feel every time I try to steady myself, only to let emotions get the better of me.

It was supposed to be easier than this. So much easier.

Lochlan Clarington, District Two Male.

Saige. Lochlan was a lot of fun, irritating to other tributes, but fun to work with. I loved Lochlan from the first Madhouse. His sarcasm, his anger, his bitter attitude to others which came across as playful. Him and Tatum clashed well, even if he grew to really accept and want to protect her. It was interesting to explore the different sides to him, what pushed him to make his decisions and why he did them. His temporary alliance with Calliope brought about the mindset that focused more on the Games and his victory. Sadly, in the upcoming fight, I had nothing for Lochlan. He'll be missed!

Yeah I'm annoying, deadline for the next SYOT has been changed again. I want it to end on the weekend so I have time before another school week to sort out blog and all that. Hope it doesn't effect anything.

Favourite out of these POVs and why?

Predictions for who's going to win: Calliope or Matteo and Meg?

Anyone who has fallen you thought might have made it further?

3 POVs now. This will continue until the end of the Games. Finale coming up in around three chapters time. It's nearly over!