"Tell the truth, you wouldn't dare

The skin and trophy, oh so rare

Silence speaks louder than words

Ignore the guilt and take your turn…"

-Megadeth, Countdown to Extinction

CHAPTER 22

THE BIRDS ARE SINGING

DAY TWO

Ruben Bolt (18), District 10 Tribute

5:05 AM

The first night in the arena is the worst sleep of his life. Not only was Ruben's sleep fitful and marred by macabre nightmares of faceless little boys and deadly black vipers with their long, spearlike fangs, but there is a persistent pain that throbs in his shoulder; a sharp suffering which makes Ruben wince, his eyes squeezed shut for a fleeting moment. It is still early in the morning, and the nighttime gloom has been replaced by a pale misty gray, the forest awash with the early inklings of morning twilight.

Ugh, he thinks, carefully scraping a sleep crust out of the corner of his eye. I'm not used to getting up this early. Surely it was the structured regimen of the training center that led to such an abrupt shift in his sleeping schedule, but back home in Ten, Ruben often had a habit of going to bed late and sleeping long into the morning. Or maybe it's the fear of getting stabbed in my sleep, Ruben thinks sits up groggily and lifts a hand to his shoulder, gingerly removing its temporary bandage. The coffee filter has long since crusted over with the dried blood oozing from his wound, and it has stuck to Ruben's skin. Disgusting. Peeling off the layer causes Ruben to grit his teeth in a refusal to acknowledge the pain as the bandage separates from his raw skin.

He had only used a single filter, the other nine stowed in his small olive drab backpack. I can't afford to waste any of these supplies, he decided last night, taking inventory once away from prying eyes and the sharp blades of anyone who might be hunting him down. I get a sense that the Careers aren't quite finished with me yet, Ruben decides, trying to be rational. Ruben's finger grazes his wound, the flesh wet and jagged beneath his fingertips where Hela's spear had punctured through his shoulder. I just have to out-hunt the seven of them. Out-hunt the Pack.

His brows furrow in anger. The events of the bloodbath have been on a constant loop in his head, and touching his wound brings them back. He remembers Castiel's boastful taunting, the golden-haired boy spewing an acidic sort of vitriol from his mouth with a trajectory aimed at Ruben. He remembers Hela's icy green eyes that seemed to challenge him to put up a better fight, for him to compete with her in full, despite remaining largely untrained. It was all a blur, Ruben thinks, shaking his head. It'll all be a blur when my damn life is on the line. He hooks his thumbs under his chin and temples his fingers at the bridge of his nose, inhaling slowly to calm himself. The woods around him still smell damp and earthy, despite the rain having stopped early in the day after the bloodbath.

Ruben remembers Hela's clear, cold laugh, a heartless sound that raises a shiver up the sweaty skin of his spine; for at least Ruben's sense of heartlessness comes from ambition and acceleration, whereas the Career in question is one he deems a killer for sport and pridefulness alone. Hunting the rest of us down has always just a sport for them, he decides bitterly. Why else would they volunteer? The Careers have been a staple of the Hunger Games for roughly the last fifteen years; yet another difficult obstacle that anyone unlucky enough to Reaped has to face. Whereas it is a game of survival for Ruben, it is a game of cat-and-mouse for the Careers, a group he is willing to associate with a philosophy of pain on the grounds that apart from Edward, Ruben assumes the other four cannons had sounded for the tributes whose corpses were created at the hands of the ever-merciless Career Pack. And if Hela's reaction to being spit on is anything, I'm going to be royally fucked. He groans softly, looking at the sky for some kind of salvation from the manhunt he is sure will ensue.

But you're just as merciless as them, no? Gray's voice asks ever so sweetly in his ear, and Ruben shudders as if he can feel the ghost of his boyfriend's hot breath against his cheek. Ruben shrugs off the tethers of animosity that seem to hinder his every footstep, face twitching in irritation. Gray would never talk to me like that, Ruben chides himself, believing that the boy he left back home still sees him in the same light. It doesn't matter if he is merciless or not; killing is a necessary evil in the question of survival. Mercy is not the quality that is going to bring him back to his loving boyfriend, and mercy is not the quality that ensures he and Gray can get married under the hot summer sun in District Ten… mercy will only ensure that Ruben comes home in an unmarked wooden box rather than a gleaming silver train carriage.

Mercy is a quality that will get Ruben Bolt killed, and his survival depends on ignoring whatever morality screams for him to keep the blood off his hands.

At the moment, the blood is on his body, crusted over after a night of rest. Ruben debates over dressing his shoulder wound with another temporary bandage in the form of a second coffee filter, but decides instead to save them in case it rains again. Drinking water is more valuable, and if I move too much, it will probably tear the scab open again, Ruben ponders, eventually giving up to assess the other wound he had acquired during the bloodbath, apart from the bruises Hela had given him. Ruben tries rolling up his pant leg, but sighs darkly when he cannot reach the injury.

He glances into the shadows around him, the forest slowly brightening as the slow emergence of the sun begins to banish away the gray haziness of morning twilight. There is no signs of any nearby tributes, but Ruben knows there is likely a camera fixed on him, broadcast on a livestream to his home district. The fleeting thought that Gray might be watching him is greatly diminished by the embarrassment Ruben feels as he awkwardly slides his pants down from his waist to check the knife wound Edward has given him inside the Cornucopia. What a way it would be to die, he thinks morbidly, on a live broadcast with my pants around my fucking ankles. The wound is still tender around the edges, it having bled non-stop yesterday - constant reminder of the life that Ruben had stolen - but today, the shallow cut has scabbed over from being immobilized for the last six or so hours.

You killed Edward. The thought echoes inside his head for a moment before Ruben buries his face in his hands, slowly dragging them down to his chin. At the time, Ruben can blame adrenaline for feeling remorseless for ending the younger boy's life. But now, it disturbs Ruben that he does not feel remorseful for his actions. It's what I came into the arena knowing I needed to do, he tells himself, calmly trying to justify what had happened. Mercy and remorse, two feelings worth less than the dust beneath his heels. But the feeling remains seated quietly in his stomach, a deep unease that comes from having acquired the knowledge of just how differently it feels to have killed a boy instead of a dog. But it's the simplest way to win, Ruben reminds himself. The simplest way to get home.

Ruben curiously picks at the edge of the scab with his fingernail, trying to take his mind off of yesterday's events, and is mildly pleased when his finger does not feel any wetness from beneath the scab. Good. Shallow enough to be healed on its own. He did not think the wound serious enough to cause him lasting damage, apart from physical discomfort, but it is still a relief that Ruben will not have to manage multiple wounds at once. The injury to his shoulder is likely to be debilitating enough, and is something he may need to cope with until he can find the supplies necessary to heal himself, even if only temporarily.

He stands and stretches then, careful when rolling his injured shoulder, and grins softly, a small and dangerous smile that is sure to draw the attention of at least one camera. Ruben has a plan for the morning, hopefully early enough to undertake the project before any of the other tributes wake from whatever uneasy sleep had stilled the cannons for the night. Ruben has looked over his supplies an endless number of times, making sure to ration them. To use only the lightest touch of insect repellant on his skin or eating only a small handful from the bag of dried mixed fruit he had found among the contents of the backpack. But the sky has not answered his halfhearted prayers for some magical ointment to fix his shoulder, nor his desire for something substantial to fill his stomach. Looks like I'll have to work for it, same as always. It has always taken hard work to rise from the drudgery of society, and Ruben takes pride in his self-elevation, even if running a gang at Roscoe Black's side isn't the most honest of trades.

Ruben takes the hunting knife he had taken from Edward out of his backpack and uses it to section off a long piece of rope from the neat coil at the bottom of his bag. He tosses it over his shoulder and uses the knife to carefully saw off a low-hanging branch, using the blade's serrated top edge to cut through the wood.

Ruben deftly cuts a notched trigger from the branch and uses the length of rope to rig a snare, taking care to camouflage the trap to the best of his ability. It doesn't cover me a lot of ground, but with any luck, it'll catch me something. The snare - a station Ruben had paid attention to during training - should be useful in the sense that it almost doubles both his hunting capabilities and the ground he can cover at one time.

Once he is satisfied with his work, Ruben stands again and slings the pack over his broad shoulders. He had spent the previous day rigging three snares hidden in the brush, trying to keep himself on the move as much as possible so that he wouldn't run into any other tributes or threats. Lifting his longsword from where he had left it against a tree, Ruben takes off, leaving his resting area behind despite feeling a weary protest from his aching feet.

Four snares might help me catch something to eat, yes, Ruben acknowledges, swinging his sword at the back of the tree. It leaves a gash in the surface of the bark that allows him to easily recognize the tree from a distance. But if I can make it work, it might just catch a tribute too, Ruben thinks savagely. It would be a simple task to herd a terrified tribute toward his concealed snare trap, and even simpler to catch them.

He may not be a trained Career, but for Ruben, the hunt has begun.

Filip 'Padds' Padderson (17), District 9 Tribute

7:15 AM

Waking up is the easy part for him, leaving dreams of death and desperation behind in the mist of the night. Waking up stuck in the same hell is the hard part, as Padds learns when he is struck with the realization that he is all alone in the foreboding wilderness.

Wh-where is Winston? He wonders blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hands. Padds hastily stands up, turning in a short circle to look for any tell-tale signs of his last remaining ally only to be disappointed when he sees none. Padds briefly considers calling out to Winston, before realizing that his voice could be an open invitation for any unwanted predators prowling the depths of the forest. Unarmed and alone, Padds thinks scornfully. Looks like Mom and Dad were right about you. Their eldest child, not even smart enough to make rational decisions.

Padds sighs, slumping against the tangled roots of a tree. He rummages quietly through the pack he had grabbed in the middle of the bloodbath, darting in and out of the fray to make sure he had supplies, just like he and Winston had talked about the night before they had been launched into this accursed arena.

"I don't want my chances of going home split in half just because we have to help them escape the bloodbath," Padds recalls, his own voice quietly whispering these bitter nothings into his ear. I always thought I could do better for the girls than I could for Challah and Kieran. A scowl surfaces on Padds' face at the thought of another chalked-up failure, the faces of Arley and Bash swimming before his closed eyes in the same blue luminescence in which they had been framed during the broadcast. Two dead, two left. Now one. Alone.

Padds slowly takes things out of the backpack, it being the only source of supplies their alliance had managed to scrounge up during the first fifteen minutes of the Hunger Games. Everything seems to be in place, despite their supplies being slightly depleted from yesterday's demand. The half-pound bag of dried fruit had been shared between the two of them last night, and just by eyeballing it, Padds decides that the bag is still the same size as they had left it. Roughly half full. We're going to need more food, he thinks quietly. After all, they don't call it the 'Hunger Games' for nothing, and Padds doesn't want to overlook the crucial details. The only thing missing is one of the two plastic liter water bottles and the package of bandages that Winston had been sent by the sponsors last night.

The injury in his partner's leg is only a fraction of their losses yesterday, but the flesh wound was substantial enough that the pair had barely made it all the way to the river - that they had seen a glimmer of between the trees - before Winston collapsed. Padds remembers the raw fear that he had felt when Winston blacked out; his ally unresponsive and bleeding on the riverbank. Two dead, two left. Now one. Alone. The sponsors had sent in a forest green canister meant for Winston, the small package of bandages enclosed within being Padds' salvation from facing the threats of the arena alone. By the time Winston came to, Padds had already filtered water using the iodine pills, and the two drank heavily. But supplies won't last forever, Padds thinks morosely. He reaches a hand into the bag of dried fruit, deciding that it would be better to save the jerky for later, when hunger will inevitably become more of a problem. More protein, more fuel. Padds chews on a piece of the fruit, it leaving a slightly sour tang in the back of his throat.

It is the manual thoughts that have gotten him through almost the first twenty-four hours of the arena, instructing himself to eat, to drink. To build a small shelter for the two of them. I don't want to think about what happened, Padds admits to himself, trying to erase Arley's screams from where they have been burned into his mind. The feeling of guilt has already settled heavily in his chest, an unshakeable disquiet with the decision to run from the Careers and leave his district partner's fate up to their hands and blades. It simply will not do to dwell on what has happened, but despite Padds' best efforts, all he can think about is Hela's net descending in a silvery flash to take Arley down to the ground. I don't want to know what her screams were caused by. Was it Hela herself? Or was it the psuedo-Career, Asher? The uncertainty is what will haunt him, knowing that there could have been a million different ways to handle that situation.

Padds is not a coward, but the impulse to run had cost him an ally; an irreparable mistake in a place as dangerous as this one. And Arley would have stuck with me, unlike Winston. The distrust between the two boys had grown in the pauses and silences that yesterday held, each only speaking to relay instructions to the other. Manual thoughts. Manual words. He seals the bag of fruit, glad that the soft sounds of the forest mask the crackle of the plastic as he shoves it back into the backpack. Having traveled further up the banks of the river during the day yesterday, Winston was quick to point out that they could be sandwiched between Ruben to the north and Axel to the south, depending on how far into the dense woods the others had run.

They may not be Careers, but Padds remembers Ruben scored an eight during the private sessions, and Axel scored the same as Winston had, a seven. Both higher than mine. Scores may be arbitrary, but Padds believes them to be a decent guideline in deciding who he could stand his own against. Learn to be rational. The Games do not offer a second chance to the impulsive, a fact that Padds has been finding a hard time coping with. Winston and I have better odds against them if we're together.

Padds isn't sure where Winston has gone, nor why he has left, but he needs to find his ally. Without him, I'm

one. Alone. He quietly unsheaths the knife from where he found it in the backpack, it's silver blade still sharp and unused. With it in his hand, he feels safer somehow, as if he has a chance to defend himself. With a newfound confidence, Padds slings his backpack over his shoulder, electing to keep the supplies on his person. Just in case. It's not much, but anything is valuable. Padds chooses to follow the river, the only obvious landmark he has seen apart from the Cornucopia. Winston isn't a dumbass, he'd follow the river too. Trying his best to be rational - to be smart, the prized trait of his parents - Padds decides to go northward, away from the cliffside they had seen through the trees when running from the Cornucopia.

North it is. He walks for quite some time, listening intently for noises that might alert him to the whereabouts of his ally. The river seems to almost mask the sounds around him, a calm rushing noise that makes it hard to hear anything that may be coming from the trees, so Padds steps away, getting closer to the treeline. And then he hears it; a faint groaning noise coming from the bowels of the forest. An alarm signal is going off in his head somewhere, but Padds does not listen, instead creeping forward. It's definitely a tribute, he thinks, trying to see where the noise is originating from. Whether it is Winston, or someone else, he is entirely unsure, but the drive to find his ally propels him forward.

Padds has to let his eyes adjust for a moment from the glare of the sun on the surface of the river. Inbetween the trees, he sees a dark shape hovering ominously in the air, suspended by a thick length of rope. It takes him a second to realize that it is Winston, lifted by his ankle into the air by some sort of snare trap. Padds' eyes widen. "Shit, Winston!" he hisses through clenched teeth, breaking into a jog to reach his ally, who is alternating between fumbling with the tightly pulled trap and letting his hands fall, fingertips just barely brushing the forest floor. "What happened to you?" Padds asks him.

Winston groans again. "It's a trap," he says in a monotonous deadpan, almost glaring at Padds.

"I don't have to get you down from there," Padds says crossly, surprised at how venomously the words come out. He brushes off the unspoken tension and moves in closer to Winston's suspended body, clutching the knife in one hand. "I don't know it it was meant to catch animals or tributes," Padds admits, "but try swinging toward the tree so you have a grip."

Winston obliges, and Padds begins to climb the tree himself, an arduous task since the only trees worth climbing in District Nine were the ones furthest from the grain fields, beyond the quiet thrum of the electric fence. Padds almost slips and takes a fall, but orients himself quickly, soon reaching a height in the tree where he feels comfortable overextending himself. With the knife, already slightly marred from using it to help dig handholds in the bark, Padds begins to saw at the rope that encircles his ally's ankle.

Winston has gone incredibly silent, to the point where a growing sense of unease has begun to unfurl in Padds' chest. The knife is sawing through the last fibers of the rope when a gravelly voice speaks, almost making Padds fall off the tree.

"Looks like I've caught another rabbit," Ruben says coldly, the flat blade of his longsword resting on his clavicle. Padds swallows thickly, and Winston spares a glance up at him, the tension in the air almost suffocating. Leave him? Take him? Two dead, two left. Now one. Alone. Padds grits his teeth and saws through the last fibers of the rope, and Winston goes slack, his body colliding with the tree as he scrambles for a foothold. A cry tears from his ally's lips as the jagged bark scrapes against his calf wound, and Winston crumples to the ground. Ruben advances slowly, chewing on the inside of his cheek, and swings the longsword through the air.

The whistling steel catches Padds off guard as the weapon slams into the tree just inches from his face, and he loses his grip, shouting in surprise. He hangs onto the knife like it is a lifeline, the blade dragging into the bark as he slides down to the forest floor. Winston has crabbed away from Ruben, and lunges for Padds, shoving him out of the way as Ruben brings down the sword again, his eyes blazing. The blade nicks Padds' outer coat, tearing the black fabric. He gasps and falls backward, helping Winston to his feet. The two duck underneath the low-hanging tree branches and run out toward the river; Padds hoping that Ruben will leave them alone. For once, his prayers are answered as the noises of the forest die behind him, drowned by the solemn gurgling of the river.

"Let's go, Winston," Padds says, trying to shake the feeling that they are still being carefully watched.

It's going to be a long day for both of them.

Hela Mistlyre (18), District 2 Tribute

10:14 AM

"At least you know where he is, Hela," Siren's voice echoes in her ears, a ringing call that had burrowed deep inside her mind throughout the sleepless night.

"And look, I'm sure he's proud of you," Siren had reassured her, a brief conversation held at the edge of last night's fire away from the ears of anyone else who might be listening. The Hunger Games mean more to Hela than any of the other volunteers - Career or not - a brutal fight to the death to earn herself the same honor and recognition she has been craving ever since she was a little girl, when 'father' is a more foreign word on her tongue than 'machete' or 'javelin.'

Hela blinks back angry tears, knowing deep inside her bones that Siren's words are masked white lies, spoken just to make her feel complacent with the way things have turned out. She almost glares at the sleeping form of her ally, the girl's back turned to Hela and the mouth of the Cornucopia. It had to be, especially after the bloodbath, when she is humiliated by the boy from District Ten, who Hela had taken on to help defend Castiel. Your father fucking abandoned you for a reason, Hela, she thinks glumly, chewing on the inside of her lip. Don't let him make you into a fool.

After all, a fool is the last thing Hela Mistlyre wishes to be taken for. She rolls over off the sleeping roll that had been laid out for her toward the back of the Cornucopia, knowing that she's up fairly late, but yesterday's events have taken the toll of exhaustion on her mind and body. I'll be up early tomorrow, she decides. Not only must she remain productive, but each day that passes in the arena runs the risk of the Career Pack fracturing at the seams; something Hela does not want to be on the wrong side of. She rubs the sleep from her eyes and pulls herself into a sitting position, the metal of the Cornucopia cold against her back despite how bright it seems to be outside.

Reminds me of the Academy, Hela thinks, reminiscing unfondly of the chilly room she had spent most of her life growing up in. But she doesn't take her back off the wall, instead letting the cold metal tense up her shoulders. Lokir is all alone there now, Hela ponders quietly, wondering what life might be like for her younger sister if she does not make it home. No matter what gets thrown our way, we're family, she remembers telling Lokir after fate led them into each others arms. Hela's hand slowly caresses the blue gemstone hanging from the end of her necklace, being the last thing her stony-faced sister gives her before the Peacekeepers separate them. "Good luck," Lokir had said. "I won't need luck, sister," had been Hela's reply, putting on the brave and haughty mask with which she faces the world.

I don't think anyone could be proud of that. She had believed her father, her trainers, everyone would feel pride for Hela's actions, for the lethal machine she had become; but at what point does the killing machine drive out the woman inside her? Hela closes her eyes, letting out a slow and shaky breath. Family is, and has been, everything to Hela. Family is what will drive her to return, even if the fragmented group of teenagers around her is the closest she's ever felt to having one. I've already got a family, she thinks sadly. It might be fucked up, and smashed to tiny pieces, but they aren't mine. Hela stands slowly, flexing the ache from her calves as she slinks out of the Cornucopia, past Alton and Moses sleeping curled into each other. She stretches, letting the early morning sun strip away any doubts and insecurities that linger against the cold metal of the horn.

"Hey, Hela," calls Crescentia from across the small ring of stones they had set up outside the Cornucopia. Hela is taken by surprise for a split second, but regains her composure, raising her brows slightly as a way of acknowledging she heard the other girl. From her peripheral vision, Crescentia shrugs, and Hela hears a noise in her left ear. Her reflexes kick in and she catches the object that Crescentia has thrown just inches from her ear. Hela looks into the palm of her hand to find a bright red apple, the skin shiny and wet.

"We found a bag in one of the crates," Crescentia nods in her direction, a small grin forming across her lips. The other girl brushes a strand of blonde hair from her eyes, pointing to the crate behind Hela.

"Thanks," Hela says curtly, raising it to her lips to take a bite. She stops as soon as her teeth break the skin, her eyes flicking to Crescentia. Would they poison these? She thinks, the thought sharply cutting into her thoughts. Hela hesitates for a second before taking a bite, choosing instead to trust the process. It's day two, and trust can go a long way. Hela crosses over and sits next to Crescentia, but where the girl from District One is facing the Cornucopia, Hela faces the forest instead, her eyes roaming it's dark green depths.

She can feel Crescentia's eyes on her, which makes Hela feel slightly uncomfortable, but she does not draw her coat closer to her, instead removing it and pushing the sleeves of the nylon windbreaker up to her elbows. It is pine green, a shade closely resembling her eyes. And one that might closely resemble some of those trees, too. Hela folds the overcoat on the edge of the log next to her and takes another bite from the apple, quietly contemplating what the day - or perhaps the Gamemakers - has in store for them.

"You're going hunting with Castiel later, yeah?" Hela asks, feeling a surge of awkwardness in her stomach. Wit, not casual conversation, is my wheelhouse.

"Yeah," says Crescentia. "I'm not sure when he wants to go, since he left with Asher a little earlier," she explains rather quietly, her voice on edge.

Hela shrugs, chewing pensively while she scans the woods for any sign of their return. "Are you nervous?"

The other girl goes still for a moment beside her, and Hela twists to glance over her shoulder. "It's not like Castiel's taking you away to put a sword through your head," she jokes. "Let alone a on a picnic or anything." She barks out a laugh. "Try to relax, Cres."

The nickname feels weird on her tongue, having only listened to Siren and Moses call her by it, but it seems to put Crescentia at ease. The other girl nods her head. "I'm just… I think Castiel is wondering why I didn't manage to take down District Five yesterday morning," Crescentia admits. "I think he's questioning my place as a Career."

It's a rather bold line from her, Hela will admit. But when Crescentia recieved a one in training, both she and Moses had exchanged a confused look. Hela vaguely remembers Crescentia's choice to volunteer causing a minor upset from the crowd, whereas Hela herself had the entire stage to herself. But, like the thought of poisoned apples, Hela dismisses it. She might not have been selected to compete, but she's been trained. That's enough for me. "Castiel might just be trying to see where your head is at," she says calmly. "Look at everyone else," Hela murmurs, dropping the apple core from her hand and into the grass. "Moses and Alton are practically joined at the hip. You and Siren get along better than the rest of us," Hela explains, not needing to mention the waltz the two girls had performed on the second night of training.

"And you and Asher are pretty close too," Crescentia nods. Hela's lip quirks in distaste, and she is glad that her ally is facing the other way. But how close are we, truthfully? Hela's head has been reeling ever since the kiss they had shared on the balcony, when Asher winds his calloused hand through her hair, kissing her hungrily under the stars until she surprises him by slipping her tongue into his mouth, his shock almost electrical against her skin. It is a moment Hela is never going to forget for as long as she still breathes.

"Yeah," is all she manages to say, her stomach a yawning pit of uncertainty. Asher and I were going to go hunting today too, she recalls, his voice gravelly when they speak of it over the fire. Hela had agreed, intending to make good on the promises of a show she had vowed to give their Capitolite audience. "Kind of had to be, when everyone jumped ship for Castiel." It isn't meant to be a bitter statement, but the words come out sharper than Hela would like.

"Hela, it's not like that," Crescentia tells her, the words hanging in the empty air between them, for they both remember the night of the parade, when Castiel elects himself leader and everyone else falls in line behind him, despite Hela knowing in her bones that she deserves the role and all the glory that comes with it.

"It's fine," Hela says, the swagger having died off her voice. She swallows thickly, looking Crescentia deep into her eyes. "I know it's not. It's just hard for me…" she trails off, unsure as to why she's telling Crescentia this. "I expected a lot of things to go differently after I volunteered. Call it idealism, but I guess I'm not sure anymore."

Crescentia nods, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she swivels on the log, now facing the same direction as Hela. "I think we all expected things to go a little differently," Crescentia says sagely, lifting her head toward a slight breeze coming through the trees that stand in the near distance.

Hela follows Crescentia's gaze, and spots two figures emerging from the frontier. Asher and Castiel. Her heart skips a beat, and Hela doesn't know whether or not she's ready to face another day of unbearable discomfort between them. "Looks like he's carrying something," Crescentia nods to her district partner, who has a large brown shape slung over his shoulder.

On cue, Castiel shouts at them from across the short distance. "Asher and I caught… killed a deer!" he shouts breathlessly, and the Wolfchild grins. Hela is about to answer his cry when she sees Asher's hands.

"What the hell are those, Asher?" Hela asks incredulously, gesturing at his hands. He's wearing tight black leather gloves with curved titanium claws between the knuckles that are roughly an two inches longer than his fingers.

"A gift," the Wolfchild says, winking at her. "I guess the sponsors are in our favor," he says candidly. But when she meets his eyes, she sees the white-hot fire in his irises. This is a deadly favor. Asher had talked about similar claws that he had tried to bring as a token, lamenting over their confiscation. And now he has them again.

"Yeah," Castiel says, dropping the carcass of the deer unceremoniously onto the ground. Hela's eyes catch claw marks around its throat, and a delicious shiver runs up her spine. "Asher got them from sponsors about an hour after we had left," Castiel nods, sitting on one of the logs and wiping sweat from his forehead. Both of the boys are sweaty and red, likely after hours of chasing animals. Or tributes. He gestures to the deer. "Then we killed it."

Crescentia whistles, clearly impressed. "Might be nice to have something other than bread and whatever else we can scrounge up," she admits, though Hela sees her slightly wrinkle her nose. I've never eaten deer either, but venison has to beat the broth Moses made last night. Going to bed on an empty stomach with the taste of chicken bouillon at the back of her mouth had been less than a pleasant experience.

Castiel nods. "It's gotta be close to noon," he says. "I know you two and Moses were up pretty late," he addresses the girls, "so how about we wake up Four and see if they mind butchering the poor bastard?"

They nod in general assent; clearly there are other plans that have been put in place for the four of them. "Crescentia, you and I will go hunting later tonight, around dusk. I figure we might see more tributes taking advantage of the shadows… Asher and I didn't see anyone except the girl from Twelve, but she outran us." He takes a long sip of water from a canteen, breathing hard. "I figure the two of us can search the same area. Her ally from Eleven had a limp, from what I can remember, and I think Siren killed her tall district partner. Should be easy pickings," he says, lips tugging into a grin.

"Asher and I are going to go hunting now," Hela interjects. "We'll leave them for you. I'm more interested in finding one of the Tens."

"Or finishing off the guy from Seven," Asher says slowly as he flexes his gloved hands; Hela noticing that the curved claws already have a thin veneer of blood crusted onto them.

"Come on, Wolf Boy," Hela says, a frosty undertone in her voice. "You and me." She grabs her spear and net where they had been retired against the side of the Cornucopia. A feeling of predatory anticipation settles in her gut as she turns to face the three of them, her mind and body hard as steel.

"Let's go hunting for tributes."

Siren Thalassa (17), District 4 Tribute

10:59 AM

It's the smell that makes Siren want to throw up.

The hunting knife that Alton handed her is slick with blood, clots of congealed gore clinging to the serrated spine of the blade. Siren resists the urge to vomit as she digs the knife back into the muscle of the deer, sawing through a tendon with a grimace on her face. I'm glad I wasn't there when they killed the deer, Siren decides. It would have reminded her too much of Reynolds, and how his body had gone slack once she had strangled the life from him during the bloodbath. Siren shivers, but not from the need to don her windbreaker, the blackberry purple garmet draped carelessly nearby on one of the logs. It's from all the death and destruction, she thinks haplessly.

"Why the hell can't Castiel or Asher clean their own deer?" Siren asks aloud, pressing the back of her hand against her lips. You can't run away from it. No matter how hard she might try, the inevitable truth is that death is the only fuel with which Siren can propel herself further in the Hunger Games.

The blood has formed thick puddles in the grass, and Siren wants to reel at how uncomfortable it is to kneel in it. How am I supposed to get clean after this? It's not like there is an adjacent ocean that she can dive into; instead, it is a sticky red sea that makes her heart pound in disgust and apprehension. Her fingers too, are coated in a slippery red that has begun to coalesce underneath her fingernails, leaving filthy red crescents that Siren is convinced she will never be able to pick out for as long as she remains alive and breathing, unlike the half-butchered carcass beneath her.

Moses grunts, shaking his head, and quickly hacks off one of the deer's haunches with his sword, the blade cutting quickly through the carcass. The butchering process had begun roughly around the time that the three of them had been shaken awake by Crescentia, who had tried to politely apologize for it. And now she and Castiel and off collecting firewood, Siren thinks scornfully. Why leave the dirty work up to us?

Moses is shirtless beside her, his muscles gleaming with sweat from the overhead sun, and Siren has to force herself not to stare at his sculpted musculature, indulging herself in a fleeting act of apodyopsis as she imagines what Moses might look like with the rest of his clothes taken off. He might be bisexual, but he's with Alton, Siren reminds herself. With the romances that have begun to steadily blossom within the Career Pack, Siren has been finding herself increasingly disappointed that neither Castiel nor Crescentia - the availiable options - seem remotely interested in pursuing a relationship with her. And I'm pretty sure whatever sausage party is going on with Alton and Moses isn't inclusive to any outsiders.

Siren sighs in frustration, blowing a strand of hair out of her face so she doesn't have to use her hands, caked in red, to move it. "Because they're too damn busy running off and acting like they run the show," Moses answers her, shaking his head scornfully. "That's just the way it's beginning to pan out."

"You really think so?" Siren queries. The notion of being excluded in yet another sense is beginning to get underneath her skin, and she huffs angrily at the stupid deer carcass, wishing she could just pick it up and chuck it back in the forest for Castiel or Asher to find.

"Well, I don't think it's like that," Alton says from his perch on one of the logs, watching the woods for any signs of returning allies or overconfident foes. "At least I highly doubt it," Alton admits rather begrudgingly as he catches Siren's murderous glare.

"Of course I think so," Moses grunts, standing up and tossing the haunch of venison onto a small tarp they had laid out so that the raw meat wouldn't touch the grass. "Come on, Alton. Think about it. District One's mentors would probably be happy to have them walk all over the rest of us given what happened last year. Why else do you think Castiel jumped on the first opportunity to play leader? Not to mention that Hela and Asher are always off doing something else entirely."

"Probably fucking plotting how to kill us all in our sleep," Alton mutters. "Maybe you're right," he says, voice a little louder. "Asher frustrates the living hell out of me." Alton scratches his tricep, a sheepish look on his face. "You both know that."

"None of them could give a shit about what goes on back here. They're all just chasing their dreams of glory," Siren nods, beginning to feel rather resolute in her stance on how the alliance has begun to feel.

"Yeah, I know. And I'm fucking sick of sitting around doing nothing all the time! I didn't sign up for the Hunger Games to play housemaid and clean up everyone elses messes!" Moses suddenly shouts, flinging his sword in sidearm fashion into the grass. "I'm just as strong as the others, I'm just as smart, just as capable…" the Career trails off, shaking as he struggles for words.

Alton closes the distance between himself and the shorter boy from Two, wrapping his arms around Moses' midsection and nestling his head in the crook of Moses' shoulder, trailing kisses up his neck and chin. "We know, Moses," Alton says gently, his voice wavering slightly. "You don't have to prove it to us." The two meet each other's gaze, and Siren can tell that there is a lot left unsaid, that might have surfaced had she not been present. This is what we get for raising children to be killers, she thinks. They get a lifetime of sadness and insecurity.

But maybe it's insecurity that is what has drawn Siren to the Careers to begin with; after Alton shakes her hand on the train and proclaims himself as the future Victor of the 29th Hunger Games. "We're going to have to stick together on this one," Alton had whispered as the chrome doors of the train opened up to the roaring crowds of perfumed Capitolites, "or the Career Pack is going to kill us." Reaped tributes from Four have - recently, at least - stood less of a chance in the Hunger Games than trained volunteers; and Siren knows that following Alton's invitation allows her to exploit the benefits that being a member of the Careers would offer her. The ends justify the means, and sometimes you must do things that aren't good just to make sure you see another day.

Siren recalls following Crescentia on the training floor, looking to find her own place within the alliance. I'd labeled her a Bimbo on the train, Siren remembers; the arbitrary labelling being a judgemental habit that Siren is guilty of. But in the time she has grown to know Crescentia, she has uncovered much more about the girl than initial impressions had led her to believe. "I'm not the most trained person here either," Crescentia had confessed on the first day of training. "We'll have to keep up with the rest then, no?" had come Siren's quick response. It has been her story of the last week since her name was pulled from the Reaping bowl and no volunteers step forward; always a step behind and beside, trying to keep up and secure her position with the other Careers. Maybe it's my own insecurity too, then, Siren decides. She remembers her conversation with Hela last night, one that weighs heavy in her mind as she strips the hide of the deer from it's flank, pulling up tendrils of silvery connective tissue that makes her need to pause again, lest she double over and vomit.

I don't have anyone in my life. I don't even know who my damn dad is, Siren thinks angrily, using the anger to help her strip the rest of the hide off with a little help from her hunting knife. It has always bothered her, that she should grow up alone in the Community Homes with nothing but rumors surrounding her birth and stares accompanying her visage. Maybe this is my last-ditch attempt at a family, no matter how fucked up it is, considers Siren.

Moses holds Alton's arm to his own ribs almost tenderly, as if nothing could stop their embrace, and Siren feels a pang of loneliness in her heart. She quickly gets off her knees and picks up the butchered venison, dropping it on the tarp. "If Castiel wants more off that carcass, he can do it himself," Siren declares. But looking down at the ragged corpse, all she can see is Reynolds' limp body, slick with rain and mud, a bitter smile stretched across his face.

She makes no effort to stop the tears, pressing her lips together firmly and turning her body away from the two male Careers. I never expected taking a life to be this hard, she thinks, unable to stop her body from shaking. "Siren?" asks Alton, voice laced with concern. "Hey, are you alright?" Siren shakes her head, unable to wipe the tears from her face since her hands and forearms are covered in blood. She hears footsteps crunching on grass behind her, coupled with the sound of fabric ripping, and moments later Moses is offering her a black polyester rag torn from the sleeves of his short sleeve undershirt, which he has draped over his shoulder, using the other sleeve to wipe the blood from his own hands. Alton joins the two quietly, using one of Crescentia's plastic water bottles to soak the sleeve-rags. Siren accepts it gratefully, wiping the blood from her forearms. It smears and leaves streaks, but after wringing the rag out on the grass, she is able to finally wipe her forearms clean, though they still feel heavy with a phantom coating of red.

Once it is meticulously cleaned from her forearms, Siren is able to wipe the tears from her blurry eyes. "I'm sorry," she says hollowly. "I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have gotten so worked up over a damn deer," she admits. "But I haven't been able to sleep yet without my dreams being haunted by… by…"

The silence she is met with is deafening.

"By Reynolds?" Alton asks gently, voice wavering again as he breaks the silence. She catches his gaze and nods, biting her lip, though there is no longer the usual seductive persuasion in the gesture.

"Yeah," she says quietly, eyes downcast. "I keep remembering what he said in his interview, about… about volunteering so that he could save someone's life, since he wanted to kill himself… how he wanted to throw himself of the Training Center roof… I can't stop thinking about how complacent he was when I killed him," Siren confesses. "I choked the life out of him, and when I rolled him over and the light left his eyes, he smiled at me," she says, the words feeling like heavy stones pressed against her chest.

"I don't think I can take another life." Dead weight is what you are, then. Panem itself is built on the totalitarian foundation of a dog-eat-dog philosophy, but despite Siren preparing herself for the worst and most macabre situations, she had never once thought to prepare herself for dealing in death.

"I don't think I'm ready to put another kid in a coffin."

Halley Verron (12), District 8 Tribute

11:34 AM

They're reaching out to her, their spectral arms alight in a dusky flickering orange; tongues of flame that curl and slither across their bodies like ethereal serpents. Halley shields her eyes from the flames, the light harsh in her eyes. "Mom…? Dad…?" she asks, stretching out a hand to touch them in a horrific sense of wonder.

Her parents stand still beneath the dark canopy, their palms facing the starry sky as if they wish to take her own hands within theirs and spirit her away elsewhere. But Halley can feel the heat that radiates from their bodies, the flames roaring and crackling around them, and when she draws her hand away, they burn and crumble into ash, silent specters scattered on the wind.

Halley shakes her head, erasing the memory of the recurring dream from her mind. It is the same one she had in the Justice Building, having fallen asleep on the couch when the door stays firmly shut and no one comes to visit her. Of Mom and Dad from beyond the grave. Halley shivers, the flames still bright against the backs of her eyelids, and hugs herself tightly, arms wrapping around her thin frame. The stars above have since dissipated into the morning sun, leaving a hollow feeling in Halley's stomach that only grows more cavernous when she quietly ups and leaves Darnius asleep in the sycamore tree. "Here I was, thinking I'm a dead man walking," she remembers her district partner saying. "You don't know how good it is to see you alive." Halley sighs, the perturbed feeling in her stomach having remained persistent all day.

"But tomorrow's a different day, you know?" she says aloud, the shared words of hopefulness falling stale and sour in the air around her. Today may be a different day, but the future still remains grim and uncertain. Not to mention I feel bad for leaving him again. It is not in her nature to make easy friends, but the boy is a breathing reminder of the things she has been wrenched away from, as miserable as they may have become. Halley slips her hand into the pocket of her black cargo pants, finding her tribute token nestled comfortably at the bottom. Without him, this is all I have left. Despite their differences, Halley is able to take solace in the fact that she had left him both one of her plastic liter water bottles with a few iodine pills in it, as well as the remaining two biscuits that she hadn't eaten in the morning.

Halley's hand closes around the token and she draws it out with her dexterous fingers. It is a small and lustrous pearl, about the size of her thumbnail, that Halley stole off a structure in the Justice Building after she is shaken awake by a Peacekeeper clad in white armor. Halley remembers slipping it into her pocket as she is marched to the train, but throughout the duration of her time spent training in the Capitol, the pearl remained secured beneath her mattress at the foot of the bed, as if someone was going to sneak into her room and take the last little piece of District Eight she has left.

It may not be a piece of the home that burned down in a great conflagration, but nevertheless it serves as a reminder of the life Halley could be propelled into, one of pearls and a crown of laurels resting upon her mousy brown hair. Halley pockets the pearl again, wondering if perhaps there is a way for her to use it to her advantage; often, some Career tributes in the past have gotten creative with their tokens, but nothing immediately comes to mind, so Halley pockets it.

The canopy above is lighter now, and dappled with rays from the sun, a myriad of greens and yellows that helps her dispel thoughts of the dark and jagged leaves that her parents had stood under in the dream. Halley is sitting with her back against a tree, eyes kept cautiously as she raises her lips to the rim of the water bottle, taking a careful sip. The water had been taken from a narrow creek and purified. Halley remembers the trainers explaining that usually running water is safe to drink, however, in her book it is better to be safe than sorry, especially with any tricks that the Gamemakers might have pulled. Besides, the arena seems too… simple, Halley thinks, her eyes scanning the undergrowth. How many times has a forest been done before?

Either way, she is grateful for the coverage that it provides. Halley would rather keep stealth on her side, as operating on the nighttime streets has offered her near exceptional vision in the dark. She has not covered much ground today, only leaving to put some distance between herself and Darnius. It must be what, noon? Halley wonders, judging the position of the sun from between the leaves. I haven't heard a cannon all day. That could bode well for Halley, if the Careers aren't hunting yet. But the longer the Games go without a cannon, the more unsatisfied their bloodthirsty Capitolite audience becomes.

And dissatisfaction is a fast track to having mutts unleashed. Halley still remembers the nightmares she used to have about some of the muttations the previous Head Gamemaker had set free into the arena. I needed Mom to comfort me from thinking about all the damn teeth it had, she thinks sadly, a mixture of lingering fear and sorrow growing in her chest. Halley sets her water bottle down, unzipping her backpack to stow it inside, next to the untouched bag of assorted dried fruits. The sight of them makes her stomach growl, but Halley zips up the backpack before she can have second thoughts. I need to ration these. Or I need to scavenge for something in their stead, she ponders.

Halley briefly considers stealing from the Careers, who must be sitting on a goldmine of unused resources. But throwing herself to the wolves is a surefire way to get killed. Or is it? Thievery is not an uncommon concept to the ranks of orphans and street rats living in Eight, and it isn't one that has evaded Halley's repertoire either. She still remembers the fateful night, when the chilly winter wind had begun to make the streets a living hell. The mink coat looked so enticing too, Halley remembers, recalling the coat that had been folded over on the edge of Miss Lylanis' reception desk.

Trying to steal the coat in broad daylight had led Halley to being caught red-handed by the proprietor of the homeless shelter. And Miss Lylanis never played any games. The woman had caught Halley by the wrist and reprimanded her for trying to steal such a fine jacket, which Halley had assumed to be donated. I'm still convinced it was and Miss Lylanis just wanted it for herself, though, Halley muses. The incident had led to a bed being opened for Halley to sleep in that winter, and an odd sort of friendship between the two women.

After all, it was Miss Lylanis who stitched up my arm. Halley subconsciously runs her finger along the scar, a raised line that twists from forearm to shoulder. Halley had been caught stealing from some official or other, a pretty golden watch that she could surely trade for more than a mouthful. That damn Peacekeeper chased me for four blocks, she reminisces, and not fondly. It had been a harrowing escape to the homeless shelter, arm bleeding from his bladed nightstick. But it's easy for someone like me to blend in. Miss Lylanis had taken her into one of the cramped bathrooms and turned on the faucet, cleaning blood from the wound. "That's a nasty cut, Halley," she had sympathized. "You ought to be more careful next time."

The curator of the homeless shelter had looked her up and down. "Have you ever seen the Capitol, Halley?" she had asked. "Would you ever want to visit? It's a gorgeous city..." It was questions like those that began growing Halley's distrust of the woman, when each and every gesture of hospitality became accompanied with coaxing for Halley to accompany Miss Lylanis on a special trip to the Capitol.

It may not have been foul play - she still isn't sure - but Halley has always known leaving District Eight for the Capitol meant death, like the droves of innocent lambs offered up each year to their systematic slaughter at the hands of the Hunger Games. And here I am, breezing through it all like I'm a little lamb offered up on a silver platter. Just like Miss Lylanis would have wanted. The thought alone makes Halley incredibly infuriated, and her hands close into clenched fists at the mere thought of it all, her small frame shaking.

I am so much more than a lamb meant to be offered up to some paltry gods above.

It is this thought, as the hour wears on and Halley listens quietly to the sound of psithurism between the trees, that drives her to make the decision. "I'm going to steal from the Careers," she says aloud, talking to herself. The thought sits in her head, marinating, before Halley's resolve hardens. "I'm going to steal from the fucking Careers." The natural order of the arena has always determined the predators remain at the top of the chain, and the Careers are, after all, the deadliest of the predators. But why let them hoard all the wealth? Why should they get to be comfortable while the rest of us starve and bleed out?

It is early in the Hunger Games, Halley knows. But despite the show just beginning, maybe a daring stunt is what she needs to earn another sponsor. And the less comfortable I can make the Careers, the better my chances might be. She's seen some of the Career Packs in earlier years fall apart at the slightest hint of betrayal, and missing valuable resources might just tear this one apart. After all, any observant eyes could see the disquiet among their fractured ranks during days spent in the Training Center, and her own emerald ones have seen it for herself.

It's risky, sure. But so was stealing the mink coat. The hundreds of little things Halley has picked from pockets and stolen have helped her survive throughout her four years on the streets. "How is this any different?" she muses aloud. Sure, the odds are drummed up tenfold, but the price has always been the same.

Being caught costs my life.

Halley stands slowly, watching the sun in the sky. She had run directly south of the Cornucopia, and meandered west in search of Darnius. Doubling back away from him should put me on the right track again, she decides. There was a massive tree she had been able to orient herself with yesterday, the branches seeming to tower over the rest of the trees almost directly south of the Cornucopia. Beyond the landmark, Halley had been stopped this morning by a sheer cliff, a ravine opening at the end of the creek she collected water from. As far as her eyes could see, the ravine opened into a valley, the cliffs stretching in either direction for quite a while, with a glittering blue river winding through the ground below.

Walking back in the direction she had come from should take Halley toward the Cornucopia, so she picks up her backpack and slings it over her shoulder, beginning the march in the other direction. It's going to be a problem that the Cornucopia is surrounded by open field, Halley decides. Her best hope is that some of them have left to go hunting, either for tributes or animals, it matters not to her.

If not, the high visibility is going to be the death of her. Luckily, Halley remembers watching the Careers train with their weapons, and knows that the girls from Two and Four use spears; the girl from One seemed to like throwing knives but didn't seem terribly accurate to Halley. The four male Careers had all trained with a variety of non-ranged weapons. "So if Two and Four aren't there, I just have to outrun everyone else and make it to the trees," Halley surmises, muttering to herself as quietly as possible, the words like whispers on her lips.

She stops at the edge of the forest, the trees swaying sentinels above her head, watching for any potential dangers. The dense undergrowth grows sparser toward the treeline; eventually vanishing into the flatland that the Cornucopia rests on, ever bright and glittering warmly beneath the noon-time sun. Halley crouches low, keeping behind the brush, and strains her neck to look upon the golden horn.

There are a few insects that buzz around her, and she slaps at them with a frustrated sigh before returning her gaze to the Cornucopia. The mouth of the horn is at a slight angle, but Halley can see the layout well enough. Most of the crates that had been laying outside the Cornucopia have been salvaged and moved inside, but there are a few lidless ones that still look damp, drying out in the sun. Halley tries to get a good look inside the horn, but the shadows and crates obscure her view. Apart from any Careers that might be inside the structure, she spots one sitting on a log and two crouched over in the grass, seeming to work at something. A flash of silver catches her interest, and Halley's eyes widen as she sees a spray of blood. Are they killing a tribute? She pauses, waiting for the cannon, but hears none.

Focus on the task at hand, Halley instructs herself. All three of the Careers seem to have their attention focused on whatever is bleeding in front of them; the boy from Two and both from Four looking completely distracted. Good. Halley creeps forward quietly, unzipping her backpack slightly and still sticking close like a shadow to the undergrowth. She works her way in a large winding circle, trying to position herself to run at the side of the horn. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Halley tries to ignore the fact that there are surely several cameras that have picked up on her scheme. "No pressure," she whispers.

And then Halley is flying, the military boots heavy as she sprints across the open field, keeping her back as parallel with the ground as possible. Her ponytail whips in the wind behind her, so Halley hastily flips up her hood as she runs, slowing to a jog once she reaches the side of the Cornucopia. She slows to a halt, breathing hard, and unsheaths her knife from its place in her belt. She keeps her eyes trained in front of her, toward the mouth of the Cornucopia, desperately hoping she hasn't been seen. Fuck, fuck, fuck! This is stupid. This is dangerous. What the hell are you doing, Halley? she asks herself, crouching low and trying to still her breathing. She counts to three, and hearing no disturbances, creeps forward quietly, keeping as low to the ground as possible. Halley reaches the lip of the Cornucopia and sees two crates sitting next to each other, the wood casing still damp with rain.

Clutching her knife with one hand, Halley peeks over the edge of the crate at the three Careers, all still engrossed in their task. They are all talking, but she doesn't listen, instead slowly tilting the nearest crate toward herself. Inside, she finds an assortment of medical supplies; a few packages of bandages, a packet of antiseptic ointment, a small tub of burn cream, and a bottle of ten ipecac pills. Halley steadily removes the supplies from the crate, her gaze flicking back and forth between the task at hand and the three Careers just a short distance away. I'll need to head back and give Darnius one of these bandages for his hand, Halley realizes, having cut his hand the night before when he lunges at her unexpectedly in the shadows of twilight.

Underneath a flimsy cardboard layer, Halley finds a package of ten coffee filters, a bag of beef jerky, and a packet of fifty matches next to a tiny bottle of kerosene. Halley starts to shake, a shiver sliding down her spine at the thought of using the fire-starting materials, and instead she hurriedly takes the coffee filters and jerky, stowing them in her backpack.

There are tremors in her hands, but when Halley begins to set the crate down and move on, it slips from her grasp and hits the grass with a muffled thud. She ducks behind the two crates quickly and listens, her breath bated and tense.

"Did you two hear that?" the boy from Two asks. His voice sounds like he is facing her now, and Halley holds the knife tighter, praying he does not come to investigate the source of the noise.

"No," the boy from Four says, his voice lighter than the other's. "What did you hear, Moses?" he asks curiously. Halley hears one of them getting closer and bites back a scream. If you run now, you'll be dead.

"I think I heard another tribute," Moses says, his voice tapering off as he gets closer to her.

If you stay, you'll be dead.

But it is already too late; the boy from Two has stopped at the crates, looking down at her with a battle-axe held loosely in his hands. He silently eyes the crate, her knife and the backpack, his dark brown eyes holding a surprisingly but equally chilling look of boredom in them. He isn't wearing a shirt, his muscles rippling under his dark and lustrous skin. He could snap me like a twig, Halley thinks, swallowing thickly. And he's one of the shorter Careers.

"Anything?" calls the girl from Four, her voice lilting and smooth. The boy from Two turns and shakes his head in the direction of the voice. There is a pause, and Halley's heart is beating a mile a minute, her stomach twisted in knots. Moses shakes his head in disdain and raises his free hand, pointing back toward the woods.

He's letting me go? She wonders, eyes darting back and forth. He almost nods in affirmation, the gesture subtle, and then turns his back on Halley, disappearing from view. Halley doesn't need to be told twice; she stands quickly and runs back the way she came, heart hammering against her ribs.

Emerging from the woods to her left, the golden-haired tributes from District One begin breaking into a sprint toward her. "There's a tribute stealing from us!" shouts the boy, Castiel, his voice shocked and angry. Halley freezes, hearing an indignant shout from the boy from Four behind her, who stands quickly and rises to the occasion with a morningstar in hand. The girl from One drops an armful of firewood in surprise, before her district partner gives her a gleeful smirk, and terror spears through Halley's gut at his next words.

"Looks like we'll be going hunting early, Crescentia."

Halley is caught blinded by the headlights, and she breaks into a mad dash for the shelter of the woods, his words ringing in her ears like knives.

Tangaria Roolch (17), District 11 Tribute

1:25 PM

It's been three hours since Mariela had fled from the two Career boys, but Tangaria feels like there isn't enough distance in the world she can put between the two of them and the Careers.

She stops, legs screaming, and rests her back against the bark of a tree, closing her eyelids and taking a deep breath, inahling the musty forest air. It has been a trial and a half to keep up in stride with her younger ally; Tangaria's right ankle is aching, her old injury sending sharp, stabbing pains up the side of her leg. We've been on the move too much, she knows. But it can hardly be helped, when threats lurk around every corner. If it were up to Tangaria, she would prefer to travel at night and rest during the day, making sure to stay out of harm's way for as long as possible. It's not sensible to be running around the woods during the day, Tangaria bemoans herself. We're just going to get more attention drawn to ourselves.

"I'm going to scout out the area," Mariela says quietly, her voice lowered almost to a whisper. "Will you be alright, Tangaria?" Mariela asks pointedly, eyes straying to the other girl's leg. Tangaria waves her off, perhaps a bit too aggressively, and Mariela disappears into the trees. Tangaria sighs and slowly lowers herself to the ground, trying to take some pressure off her ankle. I knew my limp was going to be an issue, Tangaria thinks ruefully, but damn.

Her eyes feel hot and prickle with tears, but she blinks them back, instead using her hands to steady and massage her ankle through the boot. Don't cry, Tangaria, she instructs herself. If you cry, Talitha will see, and she'll know that you aren't capable of upholding your promise.

Volunteering for her sister is a hasty decision, and one that feels right. But as time drags on in this arena, her mind full of fear and pressure, her body aching and sore… Tangaria is no longer sure that offering herself up to the slaughter was a rational decision. It's too much. All of it, she thinks, rubbing the tears from her eyes so that they don't fall and create splotches on her jacket. She adjusts the dark sage green silk scarf that her youngest sister had given her in the dark confines of the Justice Building. Something to cling to. Tangaria has wrapped it around her head, tying it in a knot just above her the signature braid she wears each day back home under the hot sun. The home you might never get to go back to.

Sponsors aren't going to like it if you cry either, Tangaria reminds herself as she can feel the tears welling up in her eyes again. She holds the canister of bread she had been sponsored this morning underneath her arm, the dusky rose color camouflaged against her windbreaker. They like someone strong, someone they can root for. Someone who is strong.

Not a lousy cripple from District Eleven.

Not a useless ally who couldn't save Reynolds.

His death had haunted Tangaria's dreams last night, her mind replaying the Career, Siren, kneeling on top of Reynolds' back, twisting the straps of a backpack around his throat. She remembers watching Reynolds hand scrabble for purchase, clawing through the mud as if he could drag himself away and take a breath of air. But he wasn't strong enough, and I couldn't save him. It isn't fair, not in the slightest, that someone like Tangaria should survive the carnage and someone like her ally Reynolds should not, when he had just begun to overcome his poisonous past, ridding himself of the afflictions that plagued his mind and made him seek comfort in dragging a blade across his skin rather than finding it in the arms of someone who cared.

The tears flow freely now, and Tangaria is powerless to stop them. Reynolds' ghostly face swims behind her shut eyelids, bathed in the amaranthine light of the death recap. He's gone. It is a small relief that Reynolds did not die of his own machinations, but it isn't enough to outweigh the fact that she watched it happen and just stood there as he died.

But that's what has to happen for her to get home, isn't it? Mariela will have to die too, no matter how deeply Tangaria has begun to care about her, in order for Tangaria to get back to the family that she so desperately wants to see again. The Hunger Games will make monsters of us all before this is over, she decides, dragging her head through her hands and letting out a steady exhale, trying to immerse herself in the sporadic notes of birdsong wafting through the trees. Tangaria is grateful that there have been no cannons since the bloodbath; instead, she and Mariela have been blessed with relative silence, apart from her ally's morning run-in with the Careers.

No cannons means Mariela hasn't been confronted by another tribute, either, Tangaria reminds herself. Instead, the surrounding area is filled with the soft humming ambiance of the forest, notes of rustling leaves and the low chirring noise of the insects filling her ears. For once, Tangaria feels momentarily content, as if she is sitting in the shade between trees planted in the orchard, the shadows creating only a temporary refuge from the unrelenting sun.

It's much the same concept here, Tangaria believes. Any refuge is only going to be temporary.

Hers is suddenly disrupted by the haunting notes of a mourning dove; the bird creating deep cooing noises that echo between the trees like a forlorn melody, sounding sweet and sad.

Then there is a harsh rustling in the undergrowth beside her, and Tangaria flinches, her hand instantly wrapped around the frame of her slingshot, a titanium bauble placed in the pouch and pulled back tight enough so that Tangaria's knuckles graze her cheekbone. The hunting knife Tangaria had procured had been given to Mariela on her expedition, and rather than a blade, Tangaria is left with the slingshot she received last night, a gift floating down from the sky on silvery wings.

A feminine voice curses, and Tangaria's heart swells with relief when she sees her ally's dark curly hair appear headfirst through the undergrowth. Mariela shakes a thistle from the side of her arena uniform, and flops to the ground, holding a large sponsor canister colored the same russet brown as her uniform. "Look what they sent me!" she says excitedly, pausing for a moment to collect her words. "It landed right in front of me, almost in the water," Mariela says, her voice now sounding more mature. "I had to catch it to make sure it didn't get wet."

Tangaria nods appraisingly, the canister looking significantly larger than Tangaria's from the night before. It almost seems pitiful to tell her that someone sent me bread, Tangaria decides, jealousy finding an ugly home in the pit of her stomach. "Go on, open it then," Tangaria says, trying to keep the competitive edge out of her words, a trait that has not been lost from the days of her childhood when she was the first and only girl born to the Roolch family.

Just a foolish little girl running around with her brothers, Tangaria thinks. But the memories of games and competitions bring a smile to her face; she and her brothers still exist in a simpler time frame. A time before she breaks her foot falling from the crowns of dead branches in the orchard trees. A time before her brother Habal begins to hate himself and the way his peers make him feel; a time before Tangaria must look after her sisters Vira, Miram and Talitha until they are old enough to look after themselves, left with a motherly sort of love ingrained in her bones.

The same motherly love that bought me a one way ticket to, well, here, Tangaria thinks rather frankly. Mariela has begun to open her canister, a comfortable silence falling between the two girls. It is a choice both agree on without the need to discuss, a rhythm of silent cycles to break the stifling pressures of the arena. Sometimes it's just nice to sit, and be in the presence of someone who isn't looking to kill you, she decides.

"It's from Daniel!" Mariela exclaims, making Tangaria wrack her brain to remember who Daniel is. With seven siblings, you think it'd be easy. "Keep fighting," Mariela reads aloud, the words a mere whisper on her lips. Oh! He's the mayor's son, Tangaria remembers, though she says nothing to disrupt the moment. "We're rooting for you, Mar. You still need to meet your future niece. I love you." Mariela's hand flies up to the locket necklace around her neck, clutching it tightly as if the world could rip it away in seconds.

Once her emotions have subsided, Mariela pulls a few objects from the canister, delineating what they are in a monotonous voice, as if she is the clerk cataloguing baskets of fruits brought in from the orchards. "A sleeping roll, a spile…" she falters, and the smell of tesserae rations hits Tangaria's nose, the grainy aroma rising from a small bundle wrapped in a linen napkin.

"What does bread look like from District Twelve, Mari?" Tangaria asks curiously, looking up to find Mariela's disappointed gaze centered on the bundle.

"It's just…" Mariela trails off, rubbing her arm. "It's just tesserae. Drop biscuits, flat loaves of unleavened bread… my mother used to tell us that even the sparrows and the pigeons didn't like the taste of our bread, and they'll eat anything." Her ally has a glazed over look in her eyes. "It was always hard getting something to eat in Twelve," Mariela says candidly. "I had to find a job really young because it was difficult making ends meet back home… sort of a failsafe in case my mother wasn't able to provide for us, you know?" Mariela asks, the question rhetorical. Tangaria sits in silence, using her boot to scuff a circle into a patch of moss stretching underneath her.

"I learned from a coal miner how to sneak out of the district and set snares and traps to catch animals. One day they found my traps in the woods, and since venturing beyond the fence is considered illegal…" Mariela shudders. "My older sister June took the blame though, and got whipped for it, right in the middle of the town square," Mariela says quietly. Would I take a whipping for one of my siblings? Tangaria wonders. She's seen the Peacekeepers trying to stamp out the gangs that run through the small industrial packaging sector of District Eleven, and suddenly remembers where she has seen her flame-haired district partner before. Asher had been restrained, the lash brought down on his moon-pale back, bringing tongues of red running down the curve of his spine.

Tangaria remembers covering her sister Miram's eyes, the two having been sent on a trip for groceries by their mother, but she herself is unable to tear her eyes from

the scarlet shining beneath the sun, nor the snarl on the Wolfchild's face as he took each lash with pride. It's strange how all twenty-four of us could be so similar yet so different, Tangaria muses. Mariela's story had finished moments ago, leaving Tangaria grasping for straws as to where it was headed. "I-I'm sorry Mari," Tangaria says. "I can trade you, if you want," she says, offering her own gift of crescent-shaped rolls, knowing that Twelve's drop biscuits are likely to have the same mealy texture as their own ration bread from home. It's clear that what the bread represents for Mariela is much more than just a source of food; instead it is an amalgamation of all the things which have made her fifteen years in Panem a living hell.

"It's alright," says Mariela. "Can we put all of this in the backpack?" she asks. "We can share it all; the sleeping roll looks big enough for the both of us."

"Sure," Tangaria agrees, helping Mariela. The two do end up trying each other's bread, much to her ally's delight. But there is clearly something else on her mind. "I know that look, Mari," Tangaria says, wheels spinning in her head. "What is it? What did you see?"

"Do you feel like taking a swim?" Mariela asks sweetly. "I found a lake."

Brita Edison (17), District 3 Tribute

3:27 PM

"I want to blow up the Careers," Brita explains, her voice sounding a little strained, even to her. Not like I had some elaborate plan in place or anything. This isn't some stupid kid science fair project back at school.

She is met with an absolute silence, both tributes from District Five looking rather incredulously at her. "You want to… what now?" Nyx asks slowly, her vibrant green eyes flicking back and forth in thought. Sorrel, on the other hand, remains seated impassively, face schooled into the same neutrality it has always carried. "The two of us are just fine without you," Brita remembers Sorrel telling her on the second night of training, with the same look on his face. "Why should we make space for anyone else, least of all you?"

"Look," Brita says, sighing rather impatiently. "My brother helps to engineer some kind of land mines," she explains, without a second thought about what potential complications that nationally broadcasting the job her brother holds in secrecy might hold. "I know the basics on how they work, and I don't expect that whatever mines the Gamemakers use are much different. I want to reactive them… rig them in a circle around the Careers, so that if they - "

"Don't you think that'll be dangerous?" Nyx interrupts, frowning slightly. "The Careers would kill us on sight, no questions asked." Brita pinches the bridge of her nose, but she knew what risk she was running by explaining her plan to tributes she isn't even allied with. Not officially, anyway, Brita thinks darkly. Last night, Sorrel had distanced himself from Brita, instead choosing to sit on the other side of camp with his windbreaker hood thrown up and his back resting against a tree. I'm still convinced he wasn't even asleep, Brita considers, having felt eyes upon her back the entire night, when she and Nyx speak in hushed tones about the events of the day, the other girl massaging her temples every so often. I guess she was slammed into something, Brita guesses, regarding the snippets of conversation she had heard floating up from the basin of the valley. But Nyx seems to have slept off any headache, only complaining once during the day when she stands up too fast and almost falls over, with Sorrel swooping in to catch her.

Brita had almost gagged from the jealousy that she felt when watching Nyx tilt herself forward to press a tentative kiss on Sorrel's lips; in fact, Brita had looked away entirely as Nyx's porcelain cheeks reddened when Sorrel kissed her back, the public display of affection having rendered her a blushing mess. She could have stopped traffic with how red she got, Brita thinks, only half-amused. Nyx may pretend not to be a hopeless romantic, but with how easily she tends to get flustered around Sorrel, Brita believes it to be untrue.

Sorrel, on the other hand, is twice as enigmatic to her. In her limited time spent in their company, Brita has picked up on Sorrel's style of flirting. It's curious how he can keep such a calm demeanor when directing compliments and whispering other sweet nothings to Nyx. Romance is not something that comes easily to Brita, but jealousy is. And it's a bitch for sure.

"Well of course they would kill us," Brita says bluntly, deciding not to sugarcoat the cold hard facts. "I was thinking, though… it's bound to rain again at some point, and if all the Careers are huddled inside the Cornucopia or stranded hunting during the rain, they might not notice us digging." It's a stretch for sure, but the Hunger Games epitomize the value of being a risk-taker. "Historically, they're not going to stick to the Cornucopia forever," Brita continues as the two exchange a dumbfounded glance. If there was anything Edward was ever good for, it was his knowledge of the Hunger Games. "The Careers are bound to split sooner or later, and rigging the land mines could absolutely fuck them over if there is going to be a Feast called."

"If you want us to even live to make the Feast," Nyx says exasperatedly, gesturing wildly with her hands. "I'm pretty convinced that it's a surefire way to get all three of us killed, Brita," Nyx snarkily deadpans, demeanor changing. She thinks that I'm stupid, Brita realizes, the thought greatly paining her. It's like the two of them have been putting me on trial ever since I approached them for an alliance. She shakes her head, preparing a clever response… but never gets to actually speak it, the words dying instantly on her lips.

"I think it's a great idea," Sorrel says quietly, catching Brita completely off guard. Those are the first words he's spoken to me all day, she thinks, confusion making her brain feel as though it is swimming through molasses. "Maybe I was wrong," he admits. Brita meets his gaze and is unnerved to see that his kind smile does not reach his eyes, which remain guarded and impassive. His chin is raised slightly, almost as if he is looking down on Brita, and she can feel a strange mix of anger and relief churn in her stomach. "Maybe you are a valuable member to this alliance, Brita."

Brita pauses, completely shell-shocked, while Nyx struggles for words where she's seated beside Sorrel

on the other side of the shelter, their hands intertwined. Brita stares at the ceiling for a split second, it being a simple slanted frame covered with the tarp. "You really think so, Sorrel?" she asks tentatively, any sarcasm having been swallowed for fear of jeopardizing her new position within the alliance.

"Yes," he says kindly, clearly mulling things over. Pragmatic. "I think it'll be dangerous, yes. But it's a calculated risk that could better our standing against one of the biggest threats to our existence," he explains calmly.

Nyx looks like she's ready to object, but stops herself. "Fine," she says, voice diminutive. "I guess if you agree with her, I can make peace with it too," Nyx says, though the act feels rather fictitious. The hothead and the Iceman. The pragmatic and the pushover. What a fucking pair they are, Brita thinks sarcastically, bitter sort of jealousy dripping from her insides.

"Great," Brita begins. "I think we can backtrack to the Cornucopia tomorrow, and get our bearings again without a clock counting down over -" Without missing a beat, Sorrel stands up to catch a canister that must have fallen from the sky while Brita was distracted indulging him in conversation. "- our heads," Brita finishes, albeit rather plainly. A second canister falls moments later, and he hands it to Nyx, the coloration being the same rustic pink as the accents to her arena outfit, whereas Sorrel's is a clear vintage blue. The two open the gifts in silence, and Brita is left craning her neck to look for a third parachute in the sky.

But none comes, and she shifts her gaze downward grumpily, watching the two pull out lumpy white loaves of bread, topped with caraway seeds that form a lightning bolt in the surface of the bread. Cute, and clever, Brita must admit. But it looks like it pales in comparison to the bite-sized square rolls from home that look like little pixels. Nyx also looks to the sky, wondering why Brita hasn't been sent a gift, and when the gods do not deliver, her ally tears off half of her loaf and stands to hand it to Brita. Her fingernails are still coated in a navy blue nail polish with a chunky glitter top coat that Brita assumes was applied by stylists before the interviews. Though she accepts the hunk of bread, the jealousy of it all settles in her bones.

I still feel like I'm being placed on trial, Brita surmises. But the plaintiff has finally agreed with her, and perhaps Brita's sentence will be shortened. She watches Sorrel cleanly saw off half of his loaf and offers it to Nyx, who waves her hand in refusal. "Take it, Nyxand-" Sorrel cuts his sentence off when she glares daggers at him, the words no longer needing to be spoken out loud. You think he'd get it by now, Brita muses, wondering why he prefers to use her full name.

Instead, he wordlessly hands it to her with a small smile. "It's okay," Nyx tells him, taking a steadying breath. "I just… my full name feels kind of embarrassing, you know?" Sorrel nods, mouthing 'sorry' before taking another bite of bread.

"My bad," Sorrel admits. "But I do have to agree with your parents, your name is absolutely lovely. Just like you," he compliments her, still looking neutral. Nyx blushes heavily and tries to hide her embarrassment, but Sorrel wraps his arm around her waist, a small smile now glowing on his face. He whispers something indiscernible to his district partner, and she only gets redder.

It's cute, but what a pair of hopeless romantics, Brita snorts, finishing her bread. She bites back another offhanded comment and waits for them to be done before she clears her throat.

"Once you two lovebirds are done, can we go get water?" Brita asks. "That bread kind of made me thirsty, and we're almost running out here," she observes, trying to escape the uncomfortable situation.

"I can go with you!" Nyx offers. "We haven't heard any cannons, but if the Careers are hunting, it's a bad idea to venture out alone, even if our camp is well-hidden." She looks to Sorrel, as if he is going to give her an answer, and he smiles genially back at her.

"Nyx, you don't need my permission to go do something," he says, words well-spoken. "I'm your…" he pauses for a second, before the smile reaches his eyes for the very first time. "I'm your boyfriend, Nyx. Not your jailer." He unlaces his fingers from hers and waves them off. "I can defend camp"

Brita shrugs and strolls out of camp, Nyx in tow. The girls fall into an easy silence as they walk from their encampment in a grove of trees, the treeline breaking to reveal a sweeping valley beneath them. It is bordered with raised cliffs, and the river - though black as ink during the night - now twists like a sapphire serpent through the valley. A soft rushing noise reaches her ears, punctuated only by the sweet melodies of birds in the treetops and the soft metal clink of Nyx's necklace bouncing against the zipper of her windbreaker as they walk. Brita left her windbreaker back at camp, and though it is a little chilly from the wind, Brita revels in the goosebumps that prickle up and down her arms.

Her shirt is black in coloration, with her district number - 03 - printed in an Indian red color on the front and back. Brita wonders momentarily if it looks like blood from far away. Nyx is murmuring to herself, words that Brita both cannot hear and doesn't care to eavesdrop, but Brita herself remains silent, wondering.

Maybe it's finally working, she thinks. Maybe I've finally cracked my way into their alliance. She wonders, fleetingly, if the parents she has lost would be proud watching their daughter work herself off from rock bottom. I wonder if they would be proud of the woman I've become, and what I'm capable of. Her hand flies instinctively to the necklace her brother Darwin had given her, and her fingers once again find the grooves of the data chip, wondering what it would be like to see and hear her parents again. But Darwin lied about his job… would he lie about them too? Her parents have been gone for five years, abducted just before Brita's first Reaping. Suspected rebels. Traitors.

The Edison family had become entrapped in a world of speculation and lies, and Brita is determined to make her parents proud of her by winning this whole damn thing, wherever they are.

"Brita, did you bring a knife?" Nyx asks, the girl having stopped short, a few paces behind Brita.

"Uh, no…?" Brita asks, suddenly scanning the valley around them. Did she see another tribute?

"Something feels off," Nyx says, taking a step backward. "I think we should go back and get a knife," she explains. "Or ask Sorrel, he whittled a club last night before you showed up in case he needed to have a longer-ranged weapon to defend ourselves with."

"I'll go back and grab one," Brita says hurriedly. Fear spikes in her stomach when she sees two tall shapes emerge from the trees on the opposite side of the river. "Hide if you can!" Brita whispers urgently, unable to tell from a distance who the other tributes might be. "Hurry!" Nyx scrambles toward a copse of trees sitting lonely on the slope, and Brita makes a mad dash back for the encampment nestled against the cliffside.

Her legs are burning from exertion when she gets back, and Brita braces her hands on her knees, trying to collect her breath. "Sorrel," she pants. "We need the club. Or a knife. There are two tributes across the river, and I left Nyx hiding in a tree," she manages to say, straightening her posture to meet Sorrel's gaze.

A chill runs down her spine at the sight of him.

Sorrel is already holding the club, his chin tilted upward so that he is looking down on Brita. His smile has a dangerous edge, lips almost twisted into a feral scowl; but it is his eyes that scare Brita the most. Normally unemotive, they have taken on a wild and vicious look, no longer listless and impassive.

Brita takes a step back as he lifts the club, resting it on his shoulder. "I-I'm sorry I left her alone," Brita pleads, nearly jumping out of her own skin as she backs into a tree.

"I told you, Brita," Sorrel says, voice deadly and calm despite the scowl on his face. His hands seem to shake slightly, and Brita can feel her heart thudding against her ribs. "I told you that you have no place in our alliance."

Then the club comes swinging, and Brita has no chance to duck it; the weapon slamming into the side of her head with a sickening crunch. Brita is sure she is screaming, but her ears are ringing loudly and her vision swims in front of her eyes. "S… Sorrel what the f-" she begins, vision spotty. She tries to stand, but she feels him tackle her back to the ground, the impact of her head on the ground sending sharp pains down her spine. She struggles against him, but he grips her wrists, pinning her down.

Brita's vision darkens as she feels him press the drab canvas of a backpack on her face, and she thrashes, trying to shake him off. Not like this. Not like this, she pleads, fear burning holes in her veins.

She can't breathe, and the further Sorrel presses the backpack against her mouth and nose, the more Brita suffocates, smothered against the fabric. She thrashes, and kicks her legs upward, but they connect with nothing, the attempt futile from the start. His hand is a vice on her wrist, but Brita's other non-dominant hand feebly connects with something, and she grabs it, trying to pull as hard as possible.

Sorrel does not budge, and Brita can begin to feel her lungs scream for air. Her chest convulses, but Brita does not have enough air left in her to scream anymore. Brita slips blissfully into the abyss, her body going slack in Sorrel's arms.

A cannon sounds, the noise like thunder in the air, and the arena goes silent for a moment.

Afterward, the birds continue to sing.

EULOGIES:

19th: Brita Edison (17), District 3 Female (Submitted by districtfours). Killed by Sorrel Nettleson via smothered to death with a backpack. Brita was one of those characters who faded into the background for me a little bit. I enjoyed writing her interactions with Edward and District Five, but I knew that any of the ripples she made in the plot would ultimately not be for her own benefit. Her plan to rig land mines against the Careers or her perseverance in allying with Sorrel and Nyx were both pretty fun to explore, but I knew that adding a third member to their alliance wasn't going to sit well with me (or Sorrel) as the story progressed, so here she rests, dead for her own ambitions. Sorry if her death felt rushed - RIP.

ALLIANCES:

Career Pack: Castiel (D1M), Crescentia (D1F), Moses (D2M), Hela (D2F), Alton (D4M), Siren (D4F), Asher (D11M)

Angsty Teen Romance II: Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F)

The Beans Are Dead: Winston (D7M), Padds (D9M)

Shooketh: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)

Flying Solo: Axel (D6M)

Aggression and Sunshine: Darnius (D8M)

From Ember to Flame: Halley (D8F)

The "Apex Predator": Ruben (D10M)

Violet Violence: Evie (D10F)

Author's Note: Yikes. I'm never gonna get better at this update schedule, am I? Anyway… new poll on my profile. If you vote, please let me know through PM or Discord or whatever works for you. It is worth fifty points, and there will be another poll accompanying the next chapter worth an additional fifty points to those who let me know they participated since I can't see names.

Sponsoring is still very much open, so make sure to go buy yourselves something nice if retail therapy works for you haha. I'm actually going to be making several changes to my sponsoring system and the ways in which points can be acquired by readers and submitters, as once we hit the final fifteen tributes, prices are going to begin to rise (albeit slightly). So from here on out, I'm going to be adding a few more items that can be sponsored, as well as asking several chapter questions which can be answered through review, PM, or a quick Discord message, whatever you prefer, worth twenty five points for answering all of them. You can also add messages to the sponsor gifts, and choose how to time the gifts, like what we saw with Mariela's gift.

I would also like to point out that the has/needs supplies list for each tribute IS posted on the Death is the Rule blog, which can be found at this link: death - is - the - rule - 29th - annual - hunger - games . weebly . com, so make sure you check it out. There is a lot of cool information on the blog that can help refresh your memory on tributes and events as well, since my posts are about as frequent as once in a blue moon. The blog also does have the semi-recent addition of a compiled playlist of the songs from lyrics I've used in this story, so if that interests you please check it out, ShunKazamis-Girl put a lot of hard work into it. Finally, there is also a hand-drawn map of the Arena posted into the blog, which might help if you have a hard time visualizing the different points of interest within the arena.

This was originally going to be posted on the anniversary of this story - July 7th! - which is kind of bittersweet because I was aiming to have finished it by that specific date. Obviously… that didn't happen. I've had a rough time in lockdown, and I won't get into specifics but it's definitely not been a good time for me to motivate myself to write, and that makes me a little nervous since senior year is upcoming and I'm going to be swamped with college applications soon lmao.

Anyway, we've FINALLY gotten to our first post-bloodbath death, and I believe there are only three total arena chapters left that won't have deaths, so buckle up. I'm going to try and start the next chapter ASAP as well as work on the reviews I owe people. I'm hoping that by August at the very least I'll finally be ready, motivated and prepared enough to start posting semi-regularly, although the increasing length of POVs isn't helping. But obviously, empty promises as per the usual.

Chapter Questions are as follows:

1 - Do you think the Careers are destined to self-implode? If so, when will the split occur? Would Hela have been a better leader than Castiel?

2 - Was it a smart move for Halley to steal from the Careers? Will Castiel and Crescentia be successful in hunting her down?

3 - How badly do you think Sorrel killing Brita is going to impact his relationship and alliance with Nyx? Did you expect Sorrel and Brita to come into conflict with each other this early?

And finally, the ending note, I want to give a shoutout to five very awesome people: Paradigm of Writing, SetFiresJust2WatchThemBurn, Manny Siliezar, WhateverIsOpen, and ShunKazamis-Girl. Without the five of you, my ever-so-slow updates would never even get written, and this story would have likely died off way back in December. I appreciate the living hell out of you all! That's all from me for now. Hope you all have a great day/night. You deserve it!