+ Once more, big thanks to the ongoing reviews, ArtemisCarolineSnow! Always great to know people are reading and enjoying; shout out also to everyone following along. Time to actually get into the action after ten chapters of lead-up!

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Thump-thump-thump.

My foot tapped out a rapid beat on the floor under the dining table. I had to eat, I had to get something in my stomach, but I couldn't so much as lift my fork off my plate. Last night I'd fallen asleep just fine, but I'd woken up with nervousness and anxiety clawing at my guts. The glistening, bright Capitol, so beautiful and glossy in the early morning light, shimmered away into the nightmarish anticipation of what awaited in the arena in just a few hours.

Mutts? Starvation? Death by the hands of some sicko who lost his mind as soon as he'd stepped foot off his platform? Every little fear that circulated in my head stepped out into the spotlight, squeezing my waning confidence in a vise.

No one spoke. Glenn leaned over a plate of eggs, stirring golden mush about his plate with a knife. Daud occupied himself with food, not even glancing up at either of us as he ate, while Finch clasped her hands and stared off into space as if deep in thought. I was glad for the silence. My gathering storm of emotions was threatening to breach my eyes' levees.

If only I'd learned some sort of fighting. If only I'd gotten a better score. If only I'd really wowed over Cicero and the audience last night…

Something beeped, and Daud glanced down into his lap. "Ride's waiting," he grunted, pushing back from the table and wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

My hand shook. My throat closed up as Glenn looked over at me like he expected me to go first. Why couldn't I have a bit more time?

"Alright," I squeaked, biting my lip to hold back the tears I felt welling up in my eyes. "Yeah."

"I'll take you up," Daud muttered. Before I could stumble a few feet, however, Finch grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close.

"You listen," she said. Her hair seemed even brighter and redder than normal as I fought to keep my composure. "Don't you panic, okay Terra? Keep your head in there, take your time if you have it, and think things through. You do whatever you need to, alright?"

I looked down and sniffed. "Alright."

"Good luck," she said, squeezing my shoulder. "Go on, now."

As soon as the elevator doors closed, I fell apart. I knelt down on the harsh metal floor, cradling my forehead in my hands and letting out every last tear that had welled up since I'd woken up. "I'm sorry," I choked, expecting Daud to be frustrated at me. "I'm sorry."

He didn't yell at me, or even just watch me as I slumped over and cried. I heard him punch a button on the elevator, and as the lift jerked to a stop, he wrapped a pair of powerful arms around my waist and pulled me into his steel chest.

"Nothin' to be sorry about," he whispered his voice suddenly so much softer than the harsh grumble I'd gotten used to. "The rest of us should be sorry. We keep standin' by and watchin' as you kids do the hard work. Twenty-four years of it I've stood and watched."

"I don't want to die," I blubbered into his shoulder.

"I know," he said. Daud held me tight and leaned against the wall of the elevator, sighing loud enough that the other floors probably heard it. "I didn't either. Twenty years, more, of kids who don't want to die. I don't even have the right words to say anymore. I don't even know if you'd want to hear them."

I looked up. Something had died in Daud's eyes: For a brief moment, he looked as if someone had hollowed out a spark from deep inside, leaving a cold void in its place.

In a second it was gone, the hard man I'd come to understand back in place. His finger hovered over the button for the roof. "I'm just a killer caught up in my job," he said, punching the button and letting me go.

/ / / / /

On any average morning, the Capitol streets would be home to few travelers: The weary nightcrawlers who had stayed out too long, the loners, the workers who couldn't afford to sleep in like most people. Not today, however: Today was the Hunger Games, and today everyone packed the morning sun-lit avenues of the shining silver city, salivating over the spectacle to come.

Elan hated this day every year. The District 5 escort didn't mind the crowds – he welcomed them, in fact – but gathering sponsorships meant earning often meager rewards for hard work.

"This might be the best day of the year," said the man who walked alongside Elan through the packed Capitol Forum. Where so many in the crowd looked stunning in glossy, colorful outfits and faces sculpted with perfect coats of makeup, Julian Tercio was anything but a model. His floppy mane of auburn hair hung limply down beneath his ears, with an odd strand here and there dyed a bloody shade of red. He seemed lost in the midst of the latest styles that Elan's brilliant purple tunic embodied so well, instead clad in a simple brown shirt with a black stain running down one arm. "Someone else makes sure all the tunnels are working today. Someone else makes sure all these people can spend to their hearts' content. Someone else makes sure drunken vomit hasn't backed up in the pipes. Bit of a weird thing, having a day all to myself."

"It's called 'leave' in the other offices," Elan mused as the two passed by a vendor hawking electronic gadgets to a crowd of teenagers. "Even we escorts can ask for it, except for the lead-up to today. We have a pool of substitutes who fill in."

Julian scrunched up his face. "Well, all these people never leave, and thus I don't get leave."

"I'm sure if you asked politely they'd give you some heed. You do look after all the unpleasantries of this city."

"Mmm. That'd certainly do it. Imagine all the applause as I stood up in the City Circle and asked, 'Excuse me, but would all several million of you mind holding on to the contents of your bowels today? I need a mental health break.'"

Julian stopped and gazed up at a wide video screen draped high above a scarlet-curtained storefront. Cicero Templesmith seemed giddy to Elan, nearly jumping in his seat out of excitement for the arena's launch in less than an hour. Old Caesar Flickerman, still dying his hair an off-putting shade of chartreuse despite his age, hung with his younger host with ease.

"I suppose I'll be spending all of my money today, rather than the public's," said Julian. "I bet that's what Cicero and Caesar would want me to do. Go, bet away, bet on everyone in the arena except for the one who wins! Of course, you're hoping I just bet on one or two."

"Well, you're not the only one with a job. I just have to do mine today while you're on, well, leave."

Julian shoved his hands in his pockets. "How about we at least sit down if we're going to talk business? Dodging passersby with their necks craned for a better view isn't my idea of fun."

The two settled on a bench at the edge of the Forum, nestled beside a marble fountain in the shade of a trio of palms and overlooked by a colossal, flowering bird of paradise. Twenty feet away, a line snaked towards a gambling booth where real-time odds for all twenty-four tributes invited the lucky, the bold, and the careless to empty their wallets.

"Twenty-four-to-one and twenty-to-one. Not looking so good for you," Julian muttered.

"Just odds," said Elan.

"Well, they're not in your favor. I hope you're not going to give me some little spiel like the rest of them do. Yesterday alone Finnick Odair and old Effie Trinket ambushed me after work, regaling me of the virtues of paying in for District 4."

"I hope you turned them down."

"Politely. Somewhat."

Elan leaned in and lowered his voice. "I heard a good reason for that at your very own party two nights ago. A very drunk Galan Greene told me that District 4 isn't worth much this year."

"I hope you don't expect me to pay you for that. Galan hates districts repeating. Even avoxes probably know that," scoffed Julian.

"Consider it pro bono."

The two paused as Cicero and Caesar bantered back and forth on the screens around the Forum. The host and the analyst had dived into discussing chances of some of the most overlooked tributes in the Games – and perhaps the biggest underdogs.

"Terra Pike. She's from District 5," Cicero said as footage from Terra's interview popped up behind the studio desk. "Any similarities to past tributes we can go on?"

"I'll go back more than two decades for a comparison" Caesar said, raising his eyebrows and holding up a finger. "Finch Rivers. From District 5, also scored a five, also quiet, intelligent, bit of a mystery – and look where she got! Beat out a few of the most physical tributes of the seventies on her way to winning. I remember when she got the jump on Thresh from District 11, right at the height of the Games –"

Julian stuck out his jaw and fretted. "They say Effie's the most convincing out of all the escorts, and that's why District 4's so good at picking up sponsorships. Apart from the obvious with Finnick," he said. "But I'm not the only one who knows that you're willing to go where others won't."

"Fortune favors the bold," said Elan.

"Fortune favors the fortunate. Might not have been this year, though. D'you know that Cyrus Locke suggested to Creon Snow that this year's Games be suspended? With the unrest in District 4 and the pox outbreak in 12 and 11, he wanted him, ah what was it, 'free from distractions.'"

"I have a feeling that didn't pass by the Advisory Committee."

"Obviously. One word from Taurus shoots everything down. And here we are, watching Cicero and Caesar at it again. They even promise us a twist this year."

Elan leaned in again, lowering his voice to little more than a whisper. "Speaking of Taurus Sharpe and the insiders…have you heard about his plans for our victor this year?"

"I have not," Julian said, propping his elbows onto his knees. "Is this the part where I hear something I'm not supposed to know? I love these parts."

"Once again, a drunk Galan Greene is good for all sorts of tidbits. I lured him off to a corner of your estate and offered him wine until I thought he'd pass out. I was in it for information on what he wanted out of the Games, but as it turns out, the hole runs a bit deeper than I'd imagined."

"I get the feeling this tidbit is going to cost me dearly."

"And every credit will be worth it. Investing in Terra Pike and Glenn Turner through me could pay off much more handsomely than twenty-to-one odds, considering what's in store for whoever walks out of the arena alive."

/ / / / /

If I was scared in the elevator, I was flat-out terrified in the tube that would take me into the arena.

Rhea had been about as helpful as dog poop getting me ready down below. She'd merely shoved a tight maroon tank top at me, saying, "It's probably gonna be hot." Sturdy hiking boots with thick rubber soles and a pair of tough but loose white trousers, baggy enough to let in the wind, rounded out my uniform. It wasn't much to go on. I'd tied my hair up in a ponytail and splashed water on my face in preparation for what was to come, but besides that, I was headed into the arena blind.

I'd passed the idle minutes by rubbing my thumb over the hard red patch where a Capitol attendant on the hovercraft had plunged a long needle into my arm and injected a tracker. It still hurt, but fear for what was coming next had overwhelmed the pain.

The tube brought everything into focus. As soon as the clear plastic enveloped me and the lift inched its way out of the green-walled holding room below and towards the arena above, I struggled to breathe. I wanted to get out, out, of this thing! I didn't want to go up there!

My last view of Rhea Perrigo was my stylist leaving the room as fast as she could before darkness surrounded me. The darkness didn't end there, however.

After a minute or so of rising in nothing but blackness, I was convinced that whoever had built this arena had placed the holding rooms too far underground. That, however, wasn't it: I realized something wasn't right when a loud crack! snapped through the tube. I looked up as a lightning bolt arced through an inky sky. The tube pulled back, and I smelled the acrid stench of sulfur on the hot, dry wind.

They'd thrown me into the Dark Hell itself.

A midnight sky laced with lightning-lit clouds stretched off to jagged, rocky peaks on three sides of me. Ahead and off in the distance, flashes of lightning lit up what looked like long-dead stone ruins, eaten away by time and the wind. Everywhere I looked I saw rocks, rocks, and more rocks – rocks big and small, rocks jagged and smooth, rocks that shined with the light from the sky's electric show and rocks even blacker than the sky. The Cornucopia itself was submerged in a small depression of sorts: Whoever went down there would be committed to a fight, unless they could hurry up a small but steep hill quickly. I couldn't even see what was in the giant metal horn from my platform.

I'd cried out my last tears long ago, but the hot wind sucked even the saliva out of my throat. Other tributes had risen on either side of me, but in the gloomy darkness, I couldn't make out who they were. The booming of thunder nearly deafened Caesar Flickerman's booming voice as he announced, "Welcome, tributes, viewers, Panem, to the 96th Hunger Games! Let the countdown…begin!"

A red flare shot up from the cone of the Cornucopia into the black sky, a blast of lightning accompanying the kickoff. My nerves threatened to tear me apart just when I needed them the most. Don't panic, Terra. Keep your head. Think. Think. Gods, how could I not panic in this place? It was an arena designed for panic!

With twenty seconds to go, I steadied my resolve just enough to look for something I could grab. Something, anything – and then I spotted it. A sturdy backpack was propped up next to a rock about ten feet in front of me, just on the lip of the depression that ran down into the Cornucopia. Next to it was the only weapon I could see all around, a machete that shined with the bright flashes of lightning.

Get that. C'mon Terra. I need you to focus now.

Five seconds. Four. Three. Two.

One.

I fell apart just as a green flare shot out of the Cornucopia and the kid to my right sprinted forward. I half-jumped forward and half-ran back, caught between the two ideas and settling for stumbling off to my left and narrowly catching my balance before I fell over.

Oh God. Oh God. I don't know what to do.

I stopped as the kid from my right grabbed the machete and hurdled over the lip of the depression. The backpack was still there. I could still get it. It might even have stuff in it I could use.

The hell with this.

Shouts. Screams. The boom of thunder. I bolted back towards the jagged peaks and took off running. I wasn't getting the pack. I wasn't getting anywhere near that Cornucopia, near the shouts and the screams and whatever else was going on down there. Fear told me where to go: Away. Away from the killers. Away from death.

I don't want to die.