There are cameras here. In the knots of trees, in rocks, even extremely slim ones embedded in leaves. There are cameras surrounding me, always watching. Watching for me to slip up, waiting for something exciting to broadcast. Panem is watching the bloodbath. It's likely they only saw a glimpse of me escaping before turning back to the killing.

Those Gamemakers wouldn't see a reason to turn cameras towards me, would they? It's rare, of course, for someone so weak to survive with any kind of supplies at all, but the cameras by the cornucopia are the only ones really recording. It doesn't bother me to be watched, only fascinates me. Should it fascinate me? Well, it's always awed me how there might be an angel guiding my every thought, but angels aren't real, they can't be real. An angel would have stopped Iliad from killing herself. An angel would have stopped every murder in the whole damn district, every suicide. The only 'angel' in this country is me. Or so my stylists say.

"Oh, she's an angel!" they'd coo, twisting my straw-colored hair, pulling at my eyelashes to get a better look at my green eyes. Hell, in my interview, I was an angel, outfitted in a white dress with golden wings and a feathered halo, and honestly, I'm sick of it. Wouldn't you get sick of being poked and "sweetheart!"-ed over? Well, I already have. Before the interview, I was on my knees begging for a more practical dress. Something I could walk in, something that didn't pinch, something that didn't make me look like I was sent by God.

The leaves crunch under my feet, crinkling softly. They sound louder than the beat of my heart to me. To me, they're crashing, not crinkling. All I have is a bow and a dozen arrows. The only weapon I can't bring myself to use. The snap of the bowstring against my bare wrist is unbearable. I couldn't aim for a body five feet away from me if my life depended on it. My life will depend on it, I'm sure of it, and I just won't be able to do it.

Crack. The distinctive sound of a cracking twig. Someone whispers, "Shut up! Someone will hear us!" They're right. I do hear them. Over hard dirt, I trace my way behind a tree. I'm trying not to cry, trying not to make a sound. I pull an arrow from the quiver strapped to my back and nock it, knowing full well that I'm incapable of hitting anything. I take a few steps. Crack. "I said shut up!" a girl yells, not whispering, not caring. It's coming from behind me.

I whirl around, pulling back the string with three fingers like I've seen the trainers do. It takes all my strength and I'm fighting to contain my grunting. Stay quiet, stay quiet, I urge myself.

A strong arm wraps around my neck, pulling tighter and tighter until I think I might black out. Ten seconds later I'm gasping for air, clutching at the strong arm grabbing me. Then it releases. I collapse to the ground, breathing heavily. My green eyes are bright with fear, no doubt. A boy slinks out from behind a tree and offers my a hand. I'm ultimately confused but latch onto it nonetheless. He pulls me to my feet and steps to the side. He looks to the girl I presume to be his ally in anticipation.

"Well," the girl says, her voice dull. Her eyes run me up and down then meet mine with a menacing glare. Her frown softens for a moment, then morphs into a smile. Her ally clears his throat. The girl looks back at him, meeting glances for a second. "Well," she repeats. She looks down, a smile creeping onto her face, though she's trying to fight it.

One of my arrows lies broken at the base of a tree. That means I shot it. My wrist isn't stinging. "So, when are you going to kill me?" I ask. It was meant to be strong, angry, but it comes out a stutter.

"Angel, darling. . ." She drops the backpack she's carrying and throws her dark hair behind her shoulder. She traces her foot across the ground, making a pattern in the dried leaves. Suddenly her expression changes and she brings an arm up, clutching it to her chest. With a loud grunt, she slams her forearm into my chest. I stagger backward and she sends another blow, pinning me against a tree. Behind my head I feel the sharp ridges of bark pressing into my skull. I fumble behind my back for an arrow, prepared to thrust it into her neck and kick her away. I can't find one. My quiver lies at my feet.

"So, Angel-" she starts in a slow voice.

"My name is Trinity," I say, cutting her off sharply.

"So, Trinity," she continues. She fishes an object from her belt, and by the time I see what it is, she's already pinned it to my neck. "You're our ally, or else. . ." She trails off, twirling her short knife in her hand. It's a short, double-sided knife, like a dagger, and it's got a blade that's sharp as a, well, knife.

Her sinister glare, her twisted locks of amber-colored hair, the glistening in her dark eyes. . .I remember her. The girl from District Two. Adaminte.

"Well? What's your answer, Trinnie?" Adaminte is practically yelling.

"She has no choice, you know-" the boy says matter-of-factly.

"Shut up, Lyon!" Adaminte shrieks. She nearly drops the knife but quickly snatches the handle again. "Well? What is your answer?" I stay silent, gazing at the boy, who I assume to also be from District Two. "Trinnie! Yes or no?"

I nod quickly. Adaminte slices a long gash over my forehead, and it takes all my will not to cry. She shoves me away and continues walking. I don't follow. I sprint in the other direction after snatching my quiver from the ground and my dreaded bow. They don't run after me. They never cared. Ha, what a thought. Of course they never cared.

I trudge on for hours. The sun's still blazing and I still can't shoot an arrow well enough to kill. I don't ever have the gut to kill, do I? No, of course I don't. I could not kill an innocent person.

Except Adaminte isn't innocent.

When I first see her she's breathing heavily, crying a stream of tears. She's a petite thing, only twelve or thirteen years old. Her scarlet hair, pale skin, hands gripping the bark of a tree. Tears drip to the ground. "Hey," I whisper.

She screams, turning around. Shock is plastered on her face and she's staring at my bow, eyes wide. "Please, please. . .I don't mean any trouble, I don't," she answers frantically.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're crying."

"It's, uh. . .When I saw the faces in the sky, Gayle was there. He's dead, all gone, dead." She lets out another sob. I place a finger to her mouth and instead she breathes heavily, as if she's just seen Panem burst into flames. She's traumatized. "Oh, I'm Halcyon."

"Trinity, District Eight." I smile.

Glancing at my bow, she continues on her way through the midnight. "Wait, I'm not going to hurt you. I can't even use this damn thing," I reassure her.

She chuckles. "I believe you. I promise."

There's silence for a moment. "Was Gayle your friend?"

A nod. "Known him for years but the careers don't care about fucking relationships, now do they?"

More silence. Tears stream from her face but she's silent, leaning against the tree. She chokes back a loud sob.

"Are you okay?"

"No."

We've been walking all night and I've asked her about her old life, comforted her.

"Wait," she says. "Let's stop here. I have rope. We can tie ourselves to this tree." She heaves herself onto a branch and begins to put her foot up but instead she falls back into my arms. I walk to the other side and offer her a leg up. She makes her way to a broad branch and I follow, taking care not to fall. She produces a long rope from her light pack. She offers me a drink of water and tea leaves to chew on and I repay her with what I hope is edible bark.

"Good night," Halcyon whispers, her voice light and airy.

"Don't let the jackers bite," I add, snickering. My ally chuckles.

She's asleep before I am, curled around the rope, head resting on a leather pack. I tighten the rope one more time and attempt to sleep.

I awake to the piercing sound of a cannon. On instinct, I yell angrily, either a Get back! or simply an aggressive growl. Blood coats my arm. Fresh, wet blood. The blood. The cannon. I untie the knot quickly, fingers numb.

The cannon. Blood. It flashes in my mind for a brief instance. Halcyon. Where is she? I throw myself off of the branch, landing on one foot. I pitch forward, rolling. Sticks jab my back. I don't care; I need to find my little redheaded ally. I run just a few steps south and find her there, panting, holding the bow out. In front of her, there is a boy, an arrow in his throat. His hands are clutched to the wound. "I did it," she says, breathless. The bow falls from her hand and she drops to her knees crying. "He tried to kill us both. I took care of it."

She's on her knees sobbing uncontrollably into her bloodied hands. Open wounds crisscross her arms. Her sobs are broken, a puzzle with one piece missing. "Watch out!" I cry without thinking. I see the older boy (Lyon, is it?) materialize from behind the tree, holding a spear high. I leap forward to tackle him, but he tosses the spear quickly. It flies out of his hand and I watch as it slams into Halcyon's abdomen. Her face is horror-stricken. The tears stop. She has no emotions. Lyon disappears as quickly as he had appeared, trampling through the forest.

"Uh." A faint sound emits from her lips. No tears. She lies there on the ground next to the spear, which I kick away without a second thought.

I glance at the wound. No one could heal it. It's a deep hole in her stomach, erupting with dark blood. "No. No, no, no. No, no, no, no!" I yell, trying not to cry. I bite my lip and cover my face. "I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

"W-when I'm g-g-gone, j-just. . .just carry on. Don't- d-don't mourn. Re-rejoice. . .Trinity. You can win." Tears escape from her eyes like droplets of rain. "I'm c-coming. Gayle, I'm coming."

"I promise."

Distant eyes, pale lips, a faint smile. All locked onto her face when the cannon sounds. I run a hand down her cheek. It's damp with tears, still warm. I cross her hand over her heart. It stays there, though limp.

Then I bolt. I just run, tearing through the forest. I find a knife in her old leather pack and hold it high, poised to fight. A madwoman can do anything, my mother once said. I can do anything. My first thought is the cameras. The cameras are watching me cry, watching me break down. There's one in a tree knot. I thrust m knife into the lens. It shatters. A few more strong digs and the whole thing falls apart like a cardhouse in a storm. I pull the wreckage out and slit each of the wires for good measure, then I throw it on the ground, slamming my foot down over and over again. It's nothing more than a pile of rubber insulators and shattered glass.

By nightfall, if you sugarcoated it a bit, you could call me calm. Huddling in a bed of grass, crying softly. The anthem plays its sweet melody and two faces shine in the sky: a dashing young boy and the sweet, wise face of Halcyon. I promised her I'd win. I promised.

The dawn light comes earlier than it should. It glares against the trees. I lift my arm, casting a shadow onto a broadleafed maple tree. A twist of the wrist. My shadow moves all the same. Every movement I take, my shadow dances along with me. It can't let go. It will never let go.

That morning I lose myself in the shadows. I don't wonder whether I'm the first to destroy a camera or whether if Halcyon is doing okay now that she doesn't have the burden of life to carry. I don't wonder if Halcyon meant to let go. I just know that my shadow never will.