Light TW for brief mentions of plague toward the end of the last POV. PM me if you want a summary, I'm more than happy to give one.

Arcadia "Cady" Wilson, 16, District Three Female

Wren is a wild ball of energy, practically bouncing off the walls of the church as she runs between pews.

"Alright! I'm so bored. I think it's time we initiate our master plan."

Cady giggles. "You mean the one that we haven't planned at all?"

"Yes! That one!"

Cady smiles fondly. She'd be remiss if she called this situation joyful, but she's been content so far—at least she has a friend. And if there's anything Cady's learned in her lifetime, it's that friends can get you through anything.

"Look, I'm not the planner here!" says Wren defensively. "That's not my job."

Cady nudges Wren with an elbow as she runs past. "Then what is your job?"

Wren stops, her face growing stoic, though the seams of her smile still peek through. "I am the Treasurer of Cheerfulness and Good Times; the Master of Morale; the Cabinet of Crazy Decisions."

Cady chuckles. "I can see why we might need an addition to our team."

"Or five!"

Cady winces. "There are fourteen people alive right now. Five of them are Careers, and almost all of the rest have allies—if I remember correctly."

Wren huffs, mock-offended. "Killjoy."

"I'm just considering the facts."

"Well, I don't care how many new friends we find, but we'd better start finding them before things get dangerous."

Cady nods, unable to quell the wave of fear that passes over her. This church has started to feel like, well... a sanctuary. What if she gets hurt? What if Wren gets hurt, and Cady is powerless to stop it?

Wren puts a hand on her shoulder. "There's no need to be afraid. Wren's here! And when we're together, nothing can happen to us."

A sour taste rises in Cady's mouth, but she nods anyway. "Okay. Let's go."

They leave the church, and Cady takes a moment to look back at the immaculate building with its steeple that pierces the sky. She hopes they'll return to it—and with a new friend, if they're lucky.

They venture out into the afternoon sunlight, and Cady scans her surroundings with a critical eye. She had learned this much from her games: never enter a room without first checking for traps.

"I say our best bet is the marketplace," says Cady. "Lots of hiding places, lots of supplies, and I doubt the Careers will be there. Likely, they've chosen a building to hide out in."

"You're so smart!" says Wren, her voice entirely too loud. "What would I do without you?"

Cady smiles sadly, and decides not to answer. "So... marketplace?"

"Marketplace."

They creep as stealthily as possible through the streets, though there isn't much room to hide in this wide-open space, where light gleams off every sparkling surface. When they enter the marketplace, Cady can't help but feel a sense of heaviness, as if they've just stepped into a cemetery.

Wren opens her mouth, takes a deep breath.

"What are you doing?" Cady hisses.

"Calling for friends," says Wren, ever innocent.

Cady rolls her eyes skyward, but she can't help but feel a fondness for this unlikely ally of hers. "Do you want to die today?"

"No!"

"Then stop yelling."

Wren pouts, but follows Cady as she weaves between the stalls. The marketplace is fairly large, and crowded. She hears multiple voices from the far side of the market, and makes note to stay clear of that area. It'll be best to stay away from groups—if they do find someone, they'll be alone.

"I found someone!" Wren announces.

Cady spins, to find Wren tapping the shoulder of a girl crouched behind the stall. "Helloooo?" she says. "I'm Wren, and that's my friend Cady, and we'd love to have you in our alliance. Wanna join?"

The girl stares blankly, hugging an umbrella to her chest as if it's the last precious thing in the world. Cady steps forward, hands out consolingly. "I'll handle this," she says delicately.

Cady certainly isn't the connoisseur of emotions or friendships, but she gets the feeling that Wren's over-excited attempts will only scare this girl, whom she recognizes as being from Ten when she moves closer.

"I'm Cady," she says softly, "and I'm not going to hurt you."

The girl looks up. Her eyes are heavy and sleepless, and she looks like she's been crying. "Please go away."

Cady crouches down to her level. "Me and Wren here are what you might call underdogs. And we could really use your help. We're... we're trying to take down the Careers."

A light clicks on somewhere in the depths of Ten's eyes. Her shoulders lift, just slightly. "Why do you want me?"

Cady smiles gently. "Because us outer-District kids need to stick together. And because you've got skills we could really use."

Ten hesitates. "I just lost both of my allies," she whispers. "I don't want to lose anyone else."

Cady feels something tug and unravel inside her. "I know exactly what you mean. That haunting worry that follows you everywhere, how you don't want to look away from your friends because you're scared they'll disappear... but things have just gotten so much more real. Kids are dying, and we might be among them. We've only got so much time. Why not fight for something?"

A tear rolls down Ten's cheek. Cady extends her hand. "Call me Cady."

"I'm Jack."

Together, they stand. Wren grins and pumps her fist. "Yes," she whispers.

"Let's go back," says Cady. "It's time to initiate phase two."

"Which is...?" says Jack.

"Actually start planning how we're going to take down the Careers!" says Wren cheerily.

Cady smiles. "Precisely, my friend."

They make it back beyond the grand doors, back into the echoing, vaulted hallways of the church. Cady lets out a sigh of relief, a long-held breath. Inexplicably, she feels herself relax. She feels safe.

Everything's okay, right now, in this moment. And their dynamic duo has just turned into a killer trio. Cady feels like she has a purpose. Adrenaline courses through her, like the kind she gets when she starts a difficult level. And part of Cady can't help but think that she was born for this. For conquering foes with her friends, despite the fleeting nature of it all.

...

Callisto "Cal" Novella, 17, District Five Male

It's not supposed to be like this.

Cal wanders the abandoned city, with its buildings that look grandiose and Gothic, bathed in the glow of the sunset. He is not sure how long he has been walking, but he knows that he doesn't want to stop. His thoughts have become pottery shards, mere fragments, and all of them disconnected. The only thing he knows for sure is the un-truth of this situation.

It can't be real. Because Colby's supposed to win, be the Capitol darling, claim the family's business. She is star-studded, larger-than-life, and nobody can resist her orbit—not even Cal. But Cal always knew there was something human beneath her layers of makeup, a scrap of girl behind her myriad masks. Cal's life has always been a question, something unfinished. But Colby's life means something, and that's why he stepped up to that stage; because she deserved to live, to discover herself, to find happiness.

And Callisto doesn't.

He just left her corpse there, in her beautiful gown with her lovely mask, blood pooling on the ground. Cal feels his breath hitch, and he's acutely aware of the hot stream of tears that trickle down his cheeks. So unlike him, to be feeling such emotion. It's been a long time since he's broken down like this.

He could have saved her. Should have saved her. In that moment, with Naya's arrow knocked, and Colby drunk on power, Cal knew that he would trade his life so that she might live in a heartbeat. There'd been no hesitation; he'd leaped in to take the arrow himself. Yet the arrow had beaten him, pierced Colby's skin, and by the time he was in front of her, arms outspread, there was nothing to defend.

Why hadn't it worked? In theory, everything should have gone perfectly. He's put a lot of thought into this, as he does everything, and the plan was practically foolproof. He's supposed to be dead now, with Colby perhaps giving a small sigh and moving on to her victory.

He knows Colby wouldn't be so broken up if it were him lying prone on that cold ground. She would've run without question, leaving him to decay.

So why does he feel so guilty?

It would be morally sound to go back and retrieve her corpse, give her a proper burial, perhaps say a few words over her grave. Callisto would be excellent at that. But where could he find dirt for the grave in this spotless city? And what if the Careers are still there? Could he squander his second chance, just like that?

He should. He's sure that his parents are screaming at their screens, cursing his name.

"I tried," he whispers into the ghostly air. "I did everything I was supposed to."

He rounds a building, aimless and blinking through the haze of tears. There's a stack of books on the ground, carelessly tossed over the cobblestones. A shiver runs down Cal's spine, and he finds himself reaching for them before he can even think.

Books are his solace, his escape, his passion. Without books, he never could've survived his parents' daily deluge. Without books, he'd never have known about morality. Some part of him wants to smile, sigh in relief, but the dawning grief overshadows that piece of him like a match snuffed out.

The books are fat, practically tomes. All the better; he could certainly use some reading now.

(Some distant voice in his head knows that he's in the Arena. But Cal feels himself crumbling with every moment, and he sees books as his only lifeline. He knows he's not thinking straight, but right now he doesn't care. Oh, he's such a monster.)

Most of them are plays, which were never Cal's cup of tea. Of course, he'd read anything in a pinch, but he prefers philosophy.

(Colby never had time to read. He recalls a time long ago, when they were younger and more free, and they'd read a children's fantasy series together. They'd talked enthusiastically late into the night, and Cal had made a secret promise that someday, he'd get her to read again. Now she never will.)

Two books in particular intrigue him, and he can't even say why. Some instinct urges him to pick them up.

He could probably stand here for hours, devouring this book's contents, but a rustle of movement and a glimpse of a shadow makes Cal jump. Logic pours over him like a bucket of ice and he sprints away from the town center, as far as he can get.

Here, he finds the dark side of this lovely, ancient city. Tiny huts crouch, close to collapse, among dirt and weeds. The smell of death immediately assaults him, and Cal cringes away. But what other choice does he have? This is the most unsavory place to sleep, so perhaps no one else has found their way here yet.

Or if they have, maybe they're already dead.

Perhaps the Capitol will be merciful enough to take Colby's corpse from this cursed place, send her away to Five, where she'll be given a funeral. Everyone would attend, and her grave would never lack for flowers or mourners.

Would anyone go to Cal's funeral?

Why is he still alive?

He ducks into the hut that's farthest from the light, peeks inside and finds it empty. There's a blanket, the fabric eaten away by time and matted with dirt and who knows what else. Cal's stomach turns at the sight—these dirty blankets could easily be carrying any number of infections. He tosses out everything in the hut and sprawls against the dirt. He's alone, all alone.

He misses Colby, her songbird voice, her flippant airs. The way she'd call him "dear" or "darling," that last night when she'd actually listened to his opinion. If things were different, they could've been happy. They could've been free.

He cracks open the first book, his movements mechanical and automatic. This is the only thing he knows how to do.

The book is "The Prince" by Niccolo Machiavelli. A book of philosophy, of morality; a man stating his opinions.

Cal sets the book aside, heart racing, and opens the other. "Utopia" by Thomas More, another book of morals and philosophy, though this man's views are idealistic and wistful. Cal stares at the pages. Could this be some kind of sign? What are the chances that Cal would pick up these books, the things that make his life complete, in this Arena? He's practically bursting to read the new ideas, to be one step closer to finding the absolute truth. He wants to be wrapped in knowledge again.

But he doesn't deserve to be. Because Colby is supposed to be here.

Callisto puts his head in his hands and finally lets his emotions break over him like a wave slapping against the shore. He sobs silently, he hyperventilates, his heart and throat and stomach ache with the force of feeling.

She's gone. And he hates himself for living.

...

Alessio Spades, 18, District Twelve Male

"I'll take first watch." Naya's voice is rough and raspy, like she's been guzzling saltwater, or crying. Though why she should be the one to cry in this situation, Alessio has no idea.

"I can take it, Naya," Tremor says. His voice is calm, professional.

There's a long pause before Naya finally sighs. "Wake me up in a few hours."

`Okay."

"We're down to fourteen," she murmurs.

"Fourteen..." Marquis's fingers are tapping madly on his knees. He stands and starts pacing circles.

Alessio cannot tear his eyes away from the ceiling. He hasn't said a word since Caldwell's death, except to interpret for Blade. Even the Fates are quiet.

If he looks at Naya, he's afraid his anger will show. He's afraid he'll start yelling.

They'd arrived just as Caldwell's flash grenade had gone off. Alessio watched him turn away from the light, watched Columbia surge forward with her javelin outstretched. Naya must've seen something in his face, because she'd put a hand on his arm, holding him back.

So Alessio had watched as Columbia's javelin had pierced Caldwell, watched as he sprawled to the ground and gasped in pain. Only when Colby had backed away and Caldwell had fallen still was Alessio able to run forward and kneel by his side, put a hand on his shoulder. Caldwell had looked at Alessio and smiled, actually smiled at him.

But Alessio should've done something; he could've. But he had been helpless, just like when his sister had been imprisoned. Just like when the kids at the community home would beat him bloody while the adults stood by. But this time, Alessio could've shouted a warning. He could've broken Naya's grip and killed Columbia, or simply just caused a distraction. Anything but stood there.

Alessio's not exactly sure what you're supposed to say to someone who's dying; he's never had to do something like that before. When he killed the man in the mine, and the boy from Seven, it had felt like necessity. But this feels like his heart being constricted.

Caldwell hadn't looked accusatory. He'd seemed content to have someone by his side. Alessio was the only one for Caldwell in the Arena—the only one who liked him, anyway. And Alessio's not sure how he's supposed to feel about that.

What he'd wanted to say while Caldwell stared at him, sad and desperate: "I think your painting is beautiful. I'll always remember you. Don't be scared."

But he hadn't. All he'd managed was a hand on Caldwell's shoulder and a few shaky words. Even in this simple task, Alessio couldn't be there for him.

Through his disassociation, he's vaguely aware of Tremor murmuring something to Marquis, easing him out of his frantic pacing. Blade casts him a glance—maybe sympathy?—as he goes to sleep for the night. Soon, everyone is still and resting, besides Tremor, who doesn't look at Alessio.

He can't make himself move. Can't make himself think.

Caldwell had been so alive; he really had looked touched by some godly light, with his tanned skin and bright eyes. His smile had been electric, and his painting had been masterful. And Alessio shouldn't be thinking about him, or missing him, because they really had only the two conversations, those few moments of connection; and that last one didn't count.

He hopes he at least provided him some comfort, while he was dying.

Why is it that he has to lose everything he even attempts to love?

'Didn't we tell you?' The Fates, finally. 'This is why you shouldn't make yourself vulnerable or let anyone get close. Everyone you love, you either lose or are burnt by. Have you learned your lesson, Alessio Spades?'

Alessio thinks he could stare into nothing forever, let this grief and shame and hatred consume him until he is nothing, except for the tenuous thread of hope for his sister that still remains. She's still out there. He'll find her, he'll save her.

A cold tingle alerts Alessio to something amiss, and he manages to pry his gaze from the ceiling, let feeling flow back through his body. He expects Tremor's dark eyes, but instead finds a ghost, slipping between the sleeping bodies and making straight for Alessio.

A cold panic races through Alessio. It's not...

But it is. Caldwell Kingsen, looking like he's just returned from the beach, with his sand-streaked hair and glowing skin. He's in his casual clothes again, as if he'd never even died; as if this never even happened.

Alessio cringes back.

Caldwell wordlessly beckons for him to follow, a slight smirk playing across his features.

Alessio looks away, pleading for Caldwell to just disappear. He can't face his ghost; he probably hates Alessio for letting him die, and if not that, he wouldn't want anything to do with Alessio; why would he?

If he talks to Caldwell, he'll have to admit his feelings; he'll have to face his guilt. And Caldwell probably doesn't think of him that way at all; if anyone found out, they'd cast him out, reject him.

He glances back at Caldwell, and there's regret slashed across his features as he slowly melts back into the walls. Perhaps even blame.

Alessio slumps back, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep.

"Still awake?" Tremor's staring at him now, as if trying to puzzle him out with his eyes. Alessio has never talked to ghosts in front of anyone before, and they've never appeared to him with anyone else around. Did Tremor see something?

Alessio nods reluctantly. He doesn't feel like talking to anyone right now.

"Did you know him? Four?"

Something about Tremor is disarming. But Alessio can only sigh.

"No, I didn't," he whispers. "Not really, anyway."

...

Felicia Simmons, 16, District Eight Female

Everything's different now.

It's just been her and Buck, for the past day, sitting alone in the center of town. Nobody's attacked them yet; she's seen people walking past, but nobody seemed to notice them—and if they did, they didn't care. Now they're here, and the moon and stars are bedazzling the sky, and it could be truly romantic.

Except it's not. It's not because... Buck doesn't like her. So now there's tension, thick and heavy, as Buck doesn't seem to want to speak. There's no way that Felicia could break the silence.

The truth is... she lied to Buck Taurean. She's not okay, and everything's not fine. Her heart is aching and she's trying so hard to fight back tears.

What did she expect to happen? That's how it's always gone; boys have dumped her. But she keeps trying, keeps throwing herself into relationships as though she never noticed the signs, when some quiet part of her did. She just didn't want to admit it to herself, didn't want to face the fact that she's just a lovesick, naive fool who will never, ever find anyone who loves her.

And this time, she can't stop the tears from rolling down her nose, and she sniffles, trying to mute her grief, stuff it away where it belongs. She presses her hands into her face, trying to cushion the sound of her unraveling, but when she peeks through her fingers, Buck isn't even looking at her. He's asleep.

He doesn't seem affected by this. This means nothing to him, those simple few words thrown into the air like birds from a cage. As if they'd never land, never make their mark. How could she ever fool herself into thinking he'd ever cared for her?

The Capitol's herald dashes up onto the stage and begins his melodic routine.

"The winds were high in this city today, for our players' spirits are restless, and they weren't keen to wait any longer for their quarry. Two young souls were reaped by the storm.

"An artist so brilliant his mind was consumed/By the need for perfection, by a dream that was doomed. A girl who was always in careful control/B who toiled so much, she forgot her own soul.

"Beware, those that remain: fires are bright while they burn, but they cannot burn for long."

Felicia shivers. Two people died today. There are only fourteen Tributes left in the Arena, and she's one of them. It seems like just yesterday that she waltzed, bright-eyed and ignorant, onto the train that would take her away. And now what? She's put her whole heart on the line for a boy who never cared.

Some part of her knew that she did not love him, that they were never a good fit, like ill-placed pieces in a game that were bound to ruin each other. And yet, when has Felicia ever been honest with herself?

She's too tired to keep watch, and she doesn't want to wake Buck, so she lies down on the slightly-less-clean cobblestones. Her lovely bride's veil is stained with tears, but she still can't bring herself to take it off.

She drifts into a fitful sleep, but it seems she's only been asleep for a moment when she jerks awake. Her thoughts are nonsensical and disjointed for a few moments before she sees Buck Taurean hovering over her, his knife an inch from her face.

She manages not to scream, but a tiny squeak escapes from somewhere in her throat. Buck's eyes are blown wide. He looks disoriented, but his lips are a firm line of determination.

"I'm sorry, Felicia," he whispers. "But it's me; it has to be me."

Felicia doesn't really know what she's doing. She's aware of her hand moving, gripping the other knife that Buck had discarded on the cobblestones, obviously thinking she wouldn't have the gall to use it. She's clutching it in her hand and her knuckles are white, but she feels no pain.

She should let him kill her. If she's pathetic enough to not be wanted by him, or anyone, then she might as well die here.

But something within her is recalling her brief stint in the weapons area of the training room, the trainer's sparring advice echoing in her head. Buck moves closer, and his knife starts to move... but his hand trembles and he pitches to one side like a ship in rough waters. His face contorts in pain, and in that moment, Felicia flails her knife.

"Get away from me, please, or I'll stab you! Please, Buck—"

Momentum or instinct carries her knife forward, and some kind of scale tips. Buck tilts dizzily and Felicia's swing is stronger than she expected, like a pendulum gone too far or a metronome out of rhythm. Their game is over.

The knife lands. There's a gasp. Felicia cannot open her eyes. He... he blocked the blow, right?

She tries to pull her knife out, but is greeted with a hiss of pain. She lets go of the handle; her breath is nonexistent.

She didn't just... she couldn't have... Not stupid, airheaded little Felicia. She couldn't hurt a fly even if she wanted to, she's just not capable enough; the only thing she's good for is her looks...

She sobs. And she cringes. But finally she manages to peel her eyes open.

Buck is on the floor, a tangle of limp limbs. He is a felled angel, a struck star. He is a beautiful creature, not supposed to be prostrate on the floor. But there he is.

A cannon sounds. Something about Buck's face looks peaceful, his eyes staring off into nothing and his jaw soft and relaxed. But it's then that Felicia notices the spots.

She reels back, far away from him, but she can still see him, clear as day, and the hard truth. He is—was—sick. There are spots all over his face, and they disappear beneath his collar, at the cuffs of his sleeves. His hair is plastered to his forehead. He is bland of color.

Dead, yes. But also, dying. He'd been dying before Felicia had stabbed him. That's why he didn't block, that's why she's not dead.

But it doesn't stop the miserable feeling that spreads through Felicia like a growing stain as she stares at the stars and pleads for time to turn back. Or perhaps, just to be somewhere else. In her fantasy world that's been crumbling for a long, long time.

She's killed someone. She's no better than the boy who broke her heart beyond repair.

...

14th Place: Buck Taurean, killed by Felicia Simmons. Oh, Buck, you were such a special guy. On one hand, you were this chill farm boy who loved his little siblings; and on the other, you were the deceptive strategist who'd do anything to get back home. That internal struggle was a delicate balance, and it was challenging to write at first, but I think I eventually fell into the groove of your character. You were so fascinating, so interesting, and you stretched my writing bounds. Oli, I'm so sad to see him go, and I really hope I did him justice. Thank you so much for submitting him; he was such a complex and cool character. Here's to Buck, our smol bean turned morally grey; I hope he finds time to chill with his family.

Hi friends... today has been an incredibly long day, sorry for the late update. I have some news for you: school is stressful. Yikes. And because of school being stressful, and because we are now down three Tributes, and because I don't want to risk burn-out, I am switching to three POVs a chapter for a while. These will be easier to write, maybe easier to write, and just a bit less taxing for me. I could've pulled them off during the summer, but now that school's a thing and our numbers are dwindling, I think four is just too much. I hope that's okay, and I really do apologize for how sporadic this story is in format and such. ANYWAY, how are you all? I know you can't answer me but I hope you are doing good and taking care of yourselves. In this chapter, we have many things going on: The brigade of outlier queens is growing, Callisto is coming to terms with his new situation, Alessio is grieving, and Felicia and Buck... well, things certainly happened between them. Uh, I hope you liked it... not really sure how good it is because of school—yes, that's going to be an excuse for the foreseeable future, sorry—but it sure was fun to write. Next chapter this hopefully be out next Monday; also it's my birthday week, so I get to write pain and suffering as a gift! Horray! Anyway, that's enough of my meaningless ramblings. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, as much as you could considering the contents, and thank you all again for reading!

Much Love,

Miri