TW/CW: Gore warning for the first POV. As usual, I am happy to give you a summarized version.

Vica Madsen, 16

D6F

Southwest of the Cornucopia

10 July 329 AEDD

Panic Attacks in Paradise — Ashnikko

There was infection brewing beneath Vica's skin. When the river deposited her in a murky delta deep in a jungle, she was relieved to have survived her trip. The river brought water and food. The river was good, but it must have contained pathogens, because her leg was starting to swell. An itch had emerged deep within the flesh, and she needed to deal with it because she had seen tributes die from infections. She tried irrigating it. She tried ignoring it. The choices were limited, but things were getting worse. It was starting to feel hot. She needed to take the temperature down. She needed to get rid of the Big Bad Thing that was burrowing inside of her. She had already tried sharp rocks, her own hands, and a bit of broken shell she found in the river.

Nothing had worked. This was a living nightmare. Vica had never, ever wanted this for herself. She wished she had let Danny follow through with the mercy kill so she wouldn't be experiencing this. She had ideas, but they were the high-risk-high-reward kind of ideas that would put her in deep trouble if she didn't succeed. She was working off of a few facts she knew. Fact #1: Gamemakers love toothy things that go bump in the night. Fact #2: There was a sluggish, broad offshoot of the river. Fact #3: Piranhas are attracted to open wounds. Most importantly, Fact #4: her arms were strong enough to pull her out of the river when she had enough.

She had been a diligent student during her time in the Training Center. She knew that this would be theoretically possible. She had been considering it since the inception of the infection, but had been much too afraid to consider it until it had become severe enough to threaten her life. Now, she had no choice. Well. She did, but the choice was either do something or don't do something, and she had already tried every something except the one that made the most factual sense.

She followed the slow-moving path as it threaded along beneath the tree canopy. After lighting her fire and setting a smooth, large stone in it to heat up, she found a ford point and stripped off her pants. They already had a huge hole in them, but she didn't want any fabric around to interfere with her plan. She swung her feet over the riverbank, dipping her toes in the water. No vicious beasts appeared to swallow her whole, so she proceeded with the sequence of steps she had mapped out. She grabbed her homemade spear, fashioned from damp wood and a coarser rock she used to scrub away at the wood until it was sharp enough to deal significant damage. She held it tightly and waded into the river tentatively in just her underwear, feeling the green-tinted water creep up to her knees, then her wound, then her hips and waist. She paced in small circles, waiting for the smell of fresh blood to draw an animal to her.

She sensed a flicker of movement. A chartreuse body darted close to her, brushing her skin with its fins. She knew what it was. More bodies followed it, fish that looked plump and determined. Fish that looked like they hungered for human meat. Teeth sank into her, jagged shears that made her scream and writhe. She gripped her spear as hard as she could. She could not go under. She could not go under! Once her hair was wet, it was all over. She would be engulfed by piranhas and it would be too late. She clenched her abs, wailing, and struggled to stay upright and not loose her balance. She sank her bare toes into the dense mud at the river bottom, curling them into the clay, trying to ground herself against the bumpy pebbles. The piranhas shredded her. They ripped into her body. The water churned with frothy pink foam, colored from her blood. She felt them isolate her bone. She felt gobbets of her body disappear beneath the currents. And then when she was certain the infection had been completely eaten away, she stabbed and prayed had and clawed her way to the bank and over to her fire, which she extinguished by slashing river water on it. Then she used a fruit husk as an oven mitt and picked up the rock with two hands. She pressed it down on the cavity, hard, and held it there.

She threw up over and over again. Her head spun. She thought she was going to die. Then it was over. She carefully scooted away from the rock. Her flesh was held together by a glossy seal from the rudimentary cauterization. She exhaled, deep and hard. She hunched over and sobbed, and then she piled ash from the fire over top of the seal and packed the valley full. She ripped the bottom of her left pant leg off to make a bandage, then covered it tightly. She looked at it, felt queasy, and vomited one last time. It was a success, she told herself. It would hold until she made it back to the Capitol doctors. The sponsors might have mercy on her if it didn't seem to get infected again, but she had been fine without sponsors for the past five days. The body travels farther than the mind, she reminded herself. It had become a mantra, some comment a trainer had idly tossed out to her while she was practicing food safety techniques for unfamiliar prey animals, now lodged in her brain. She said it aloud. The body travels farther than the mind.

She brought her hands up to the sky and tears of relief crept out of her eyes and ran down her face and under the collar of her jacket and made her neck wet and salty. "The body travels farther than the mind." She looked at the river, so large and so vast. It seemed to stretch the length of the arena, but Vica knew she wasn't made for the jungle. The cold, clean river had been the best place for her so far. She cast a discerning eye at the trees surrounding her, and remembered that you could make more things out of wood than just spears. She blew air through her teeth. But a boat travels farther than a body.

Orpheus Adello, 18

D1M

Northwest of the Cornucopia

10 July 329 AEDD

SunKissing — Hailee Steinfeld

Orpheus was getting good and tired of Nathaniel's soapboxing. He had spent the entire day boasting about how the group was making such quick time thanks to his success at picking a route to take. "I'm a good leader," he insisted.

"We know." They were moving more quickly than expected, spurred forward by a strong wind that had gathered behind them as they walked. Orpheus found himself missing Nikita. He had been everything Orpheus wanted and more, a nice boy to keep him warm in the chilly arena nights, to kiss and cuddle and live with and die for. Orpheus hadn't expected to win. He would rather lose, tragically and dramatically, to achieve eternal life in poetry and song. He just wanted to love and be killed at the end, propelling a star-crossed lover to Victory instead. The problem was that Orpheus could feel Nikita slipping away. He'd heard the way he'd been quietly replaced in the night by Typist, and he blamed no one, not even himself.

Guilt was a thing of the past. Guilt wasn't worth anything. The sponsor gifts, however, were a different story. It was a delightful surprise to see a parachute emerge from the bleak expanse of the desert horizon. Its descent teased at their minds. Was it for Haylia? Nathaniel? As it drew closer to the Careers, the embossed '1' on the cargo crate revealed the intended recipient. It drifted to a stop on the rocky ground, and Orpheus leaned over his bounty. He unwrapped each layer slowly, savoring the components. He withdrew a folded bundle of cloth, robust and light. He held it up to discover a long-sleeved shirt. The next bundle was a pair of durable chaps in the same material, then a pair of gloves, then boot covers. "It's not that interesting," Nathaniel sniffed. He turned away, pretending that he wasn't disappointed.

Orpheus rooted deeper in the box to withdraw the more recognizable prizes: a heavy, turbo-style chest plate, a helmet with a tinted sharpen visor, and a metallic utility belt with a sheath just the right size for his rapier. The image came together quickly. The Capitol had decided he was worthy of sponsorship beyond his wildest dreams. Someone, or more likely, several people, had bought him body armor.

That was excellent, right? A huge advantage was a good thing, or it would be if this had not been the land of audience omnipotence. What did the sponsors know that Orpheus didn't? What sort of deathtrap was he heading towards, that someone would blow such a staggering amount of money on protective gear for him? What did that mean for Nathaniel and Haylia? Orpheus's first instinct was to put on the armor right away, but then he paused to consider. He didn't know how well the armor would protect him. He should probably test it in advance, to make sure it wasn't some kind of trick.

"Hayls, could I borrow a knife?" he asked.

"Sure. Why?"

"I want to test the clothes and the armor for durability."

"That's a great idea. See what the difference is between them." Orpheus took the knife from her, then hesitated, realizing he had no idea how to perform a test without damaging it. He gave the knife back.

"I think you should do it."

"Okay. What should I start with?" He considered, then picked up one of the boot covers. The gray cloth felt flexible, but not especially thick. He passed it over. Haylia held it and made a tiny cut at the fabric with the knife. Nothing happened. She inspected the boot cover for damage. "I don't see anything," she said. "I think I need to go at it harder. Nobody's going to be picking at it with the tip of their sword when they're trying to kill you." She held the boot cover by the edge and slashed across it. The knife recoiled, jolting her arm back. "

"Oh damn."

"That's good quality."

"It really is. Chestplate next?"

"Yeah. Maybe Nathaniel could use his spear?"

"That'd be smart. Nathaniel! We need you!" He turned towards them.

"Words I never thought I'd hear from you lot. What can I help you with?"

"Can you try to murder Orphe—"

"Yes!"

"—Orpheus's chestplate."

"Oh. Yeah, sure." Nathaniel seemed almost gleeful about finally unsheathing his weapon and getting to point it at someone. "How about you put it on first?"

"Okay." This was a calculated risk, but Orpheus figured Nathaniel wasn't either cowardly or suicidal enough to murder him with Haylia in easy avenging distance. He slipped the chestplate on, feeling the form of it around his ribcage. It was structured, like a bodice. He appreciated this, but was slightly unnerved by its weight. He felt it around his torso. It wasn't exactly heavy, but it felt substantial. Like it was the kind of thing that could probably protect him from a falling piano, never mind a spear.

Nathaniel whipped the spear at his chest. It was a scarily accurate shot. He should have expected this, he realized. No matter how much Nathaniel preened about his nothing-out-of-the-ordinary leadership abilities, he was a Career, and that meant he was a damn good shot. The spear clanged off of the metal. The test was a success. The gift had not been a trick. Orpheus was safe.

Orpheus donned each item in succession, a smile spreading across his face. Immunity brought forth opportunities for advancement, and although Orpheus would never wish ill upon his allies, he sensed that the Gamemakers were sending a cataclysm. Was it really so terrible to be popular and adored for a superficial love triangle if it meant that he alone would survive it? Time would tell, but Orpheus was ready to rack up some kills and hurry on home to his boyfriend. That is, if Tybalt didn't steal him first.

But there were ways of dealing with Tybalt.

Aspen Silvius, 15

D12F

East-Northeast of the Cornucopia

10 July 329 AEDD

cult leader — KiNG MALA

Aspen wanted to raze the competition to the ground. Something primeval pinched at the slats between her ribs, the panel of muscle in her gut refused to slacken, and her stomach swelled with the juice of the elderberry brambles she'd spent yesterday afternoon grazing on. They had brought her into a strange state of mind. Impulsivity was at its peak, trepidation at its trough. She was compelled to strip every tree of its fruit, bring them into the river, pulverize them against the smooth stones on the bank. She crushed berries all night long until the river ran red with their juice.

It was a fun sort of day. Aspen was almost manic with delight. She wrung out her tangled hair and sucked on the split ends, sweet and tangy from immersion in the bloody water. She liked the way the tint clung to her skin, strains of purple imprinting on her milk-white forearms, cloaking her dulled veins in a shadow that made them catch the midday sunlight. Then she learned that there were uses for elderberry beyond her current discoveries. The wood stalks were easy to carve with the spearhead. She formed points, and it dawned on her that there was more to art than painting.

She began to sculpt a blockade out of the forest, coaxing logs, branches, and twigs into a single mass, packing it with river clay to prevent water from flowing downstream. She would keep her section of the river scarlet and pristine. It would horrify any other tributes who stumbled across it, and even beyond that, it gave Aspen something productive to do. She felt detached from whatever self had predated the Games. The Arena had spawned a creature that went away and came back wrong. She paused to wonder if she had been wandering around in her sleep, torturing small animals or terrorizing the Careers with replications of their loved ones' screams. She had no recollection of any of this, but it seemed like it might explain why she felt so dulled, so focused and emotionally blunted.

This was not her. It couldn't be her. The real Aspen was sour and frosty, contemptuous of her father, mortified by her own insecurity in the wilderness and how it had resulted in a careless mistake leading to Ben's execution. The Aspen she had become was warm and deeply connected with the earth beneath her fingernails. She molded the loam with her hands, feeling grains of rock flake between her fingers, smelling the death in the ground. It comforted her. She would return to it someday, probably someday soon. She didn't especially care about the Victor at this point in time. She wanted to live, maybe. Maybe for the first time in a while, she wasn't persuaded that she was better off dead. She couldn't feed Konstance DuMouchel into a woodchipper if she was dead. She couldn't tame a stray cat with rabbit entrails like Ben once said he'd always hoped to do, once he was bringing in enough game to spare some organ meat.

She traced the mud in idle circles, carving her name, first in shaky print, then in script, hooking the A and the N. She drew a frowny face. She drew two stick figures fighting with swords. One vanquished the other in battle. She crossed out its eyes and drew a third stick figure sneaking up behind the champion, holding a club and preparing to bop it over the head. It was strangely cathartic.

Rain rinsed her clean, spattering mud up onto her shirt. She was grateful her pants were waterproof so she could kneel in the soupy riverbank. It pelted her face and made her eyes sting from the spray. She rose haltingly, planting her boots on a rock jutting from the current. She raised her hands to the sky. "Bring me a tribute," she said.

None arrived. "Bring me a tribute," she demanded, fixing the gray horizon with a wicked glare. She grasped the spear. "I was weak. Father, you were right, but so was Aileen. I can do this. I can do this! Bring me a tribute to kill, and I'll show you all!" She sobbed into the storm, snot smearing her lips. She lifted the spear over her head and punched it into the air. She smiled wretchedly, an expression of love and decay and an anger laid down to rest. "Bring me a tribute and I will show you what it means to be a Twelve!" All around her, the waves, roaring, subsided to a single tranquil plain, quivering in the whipping wind. It hung impossibly still, taunting her, before groaning in resistance. It burst forth with ferocious force, the stream reversed. The water broke over the dam, and Aspen considered her elderberry wood spikes.

How tragic it would be if a tribute happened to ensnare themself in her web, ready for the devouring.

Griffin Cadbury, 18

District One Mentor

Mentor Lounge, Capitol

10 July 329 AEDD

We saw it all coming together. A room of colleagues, suddenly united by the realization that Jacqueline was strategically rushing the Games along combined with the recent tribute activity, fell silent. Each was pushed to their limit, a mind one anxious moment away from snapping, and after Aspen's pronouncement, we all quieted. The Games were revving up, rocketing towards their immutable conclusion. I had done my best, I reminded myself. I had done my best. The sponsors were generous. They liked Orpheus, but he wasn't the only tribute they favored. The demand had come from the Three girl in the pitch black predawn. She pressed her lips to a camera in the fortress, cocking a blowgun. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Capitol, I'll make you a deal. A Victory beyond your wildest dreams for a dozen large sacks of flour. You have three days." The phone had been ringing off the hook. Sponsors for Orpheus, for Twyla, for every other surviving tribute. Mentors haggled. Gamemakers consulted.

And from the office of the Head Gamemaker, Nikolai Fassnacht hunted.

Hey y'all,

Little break between chapters because school ahhhhhh. However, we're so back and it's so Snowver because what is this? A trap or something? I would never do mean things to my special baby tributes (saying this, he casually tossed aside Emily's chainsaw). Okay byeee leave your predictions in the comments because I'm curious!

—LC :)