AGAIN APOLOGIES FOR A LONG WAIT BUT I WILL ALMOST DEFINITELY NOT ABANDON THIS FIC, ITS JUST THAT EACH CHAPTER IS SO LONG... THIS FIC IS ALREADY 83 PAGES LONG ON MICROSOFT WORD. I'VE GOT SEVEN CHAPTERS PLANNED, THIS IS ONLY NUMBER THREE. IF YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS ABOUT SOMETHING THAT HAPPENS, I'LL ANSWER THEM.

The sun rose that day with a reddish hue, seemingly infected with the blood that had been spilled that night. Everyone knew something big had happened—they'd seen the face no one expected to appear until much farther in the games. When Ivan Braginski's name showed in the sky, some tributes slept better that night. Others were only wondering what tribute had managed to do that—there was always a bigger fish. Only fifteen were left—nine bloody and gruesome deaths had already cursed the arena.

However, the more that died, the easier it would be to get home. It would be easier to protect Tino. That's all Berwald was thinking about. The smaller blond was better at finding food, making shelter, and he could climb trees like nothing Berwald had ever seen before. When he looked at Tino, he could feel some of the tenseness of his shoulders relax. He liked looking at Tino.

They stopped, at one point, to get their bearings about where they were. The forest was still waking up—the quiet noises that they heard during the afternoons hadn't built up yet, so no cicadas called, and no birds replied. The trees were cast in fog—they were paled in morning light. Shadows were scarce, but in the places they could be pinpointed, they were long dark things. They took long spaces and it made Berwald nervous. He drew slow breaths. He looked back towards Tino.

They looked around, determining how far away they were from their starting point. Tino had scaled the highest tree they could find. Seeing him way up there was nerve wracking—he wouldn't fall, would he…? Berwald had never met anyone from district seven before.

His arms were toned and his hands were square, and that told Berwald to let him climb anyways. In the lumber district, kids under a certain age (probably thirteen or fourteen, at least for boys like Tino) couldn't help cut the trees. If they were too small, they would be crushed—or at least that was the theory. They helped run the logs through machines to trim them, disposed of branches, and in their spare time—did one thing. They climbed the trees in the dense forests around them. District seven kids were always those tributes that knew about trees. Being from a career district, he knew about fighting, and about how to make the luxury items that the capitol needed—his parents were furniture makers as much as they were masons, and he cast iron as often as they did. The district four tributes always knew the most about fishing, while twelves knew about hunting. Fill in the blanks—each one had a specialty, and it carried a heavy significance in this arena. A honed ability could mean life or death here.

Tino climbed very fast. By the time Berwald would have scaled half the tree, Tino was already most of the way up—he didn't want to go any farther, it seemed, because the branches at that height were already swaying and groaning under his weight. Berwald was still worried about him, and paced under the tree, looking up now and again while Tino surveyed. He was supposed to be guarding. He looked around for more tributes, but those stretched, dark shadows still unsettled him.

He suddenly heard a thump from above him. He snapped his head up, eyes flying open, looking for Tino—who was clinging to a branch slightly lower than where he'd been looking around.

His eyes were wide, his arms straining to hold onto the branch. He looked startled. He'd fallen a few feet, and was now inching toward the trunk of the tree, reaching out for an even lower branch. Berwald was unsettled. What would have caused Tino to fall? Had he seen something? He wasn't hurt, was he? Please, don't fall again. Please, he was thinking.

Tino didn't fall again on his way down, but he was shaking when he got to the ground, greeted by a very worried Berwald. Tino looked intimidated, the worried expression probably coming across as angry, as every one of Berwald's expressions seemed to.

"What hap'nd." Berwald grunted, probably more forcefully than he should have.

"I—I, I was shaky. I feel kind of weak. But I'm sure it's just nausea, or m-maybe dehydration. I'll be fine, b-but I need some water." Tino stuttered. His eyes widened. "I don't mean to demand anything though! I swear, I'm fine!"

Berwald's thoughts felt sluggish. Something didn't feel right about this. "Let's find s'me water, then."

He gripped Tino's hand. Turning around. He was already carrying all their things. He didn't even think to ask Tino what he'd seen. He didn't care how far up the mountain they were if Tino was dehydrated. There would be no more happiness if Tino was not happy. If he was sick—Don't say that word. He cannot get sick here.

He held that hand so tightly in his own so it wouldn't shake anymore. He can't fall from Berwald like he can fall from the tree. Lift him up. Keep him safe.

The day after Feliks had killed Ivan was a strange one. The two of them were back to the way it was when they'd woken up from their fight. Emil would use some of the salve, and then pass it to Feliks, then they would put it away for a few hours, then they would do it again.

His head wound was pretty bad. It tore the skin and hair and everything, but it didn't nick his skull. It didn't hurt his bone or his brain, which he guessed was pretty lucky. (In reality, it probably scratched it. But it wasn't like anyone was going to check on that, as Feliks had other things to worry about, and Emil just wanted it to stop bleeding and close up.) That sickle was sharp. Since he couldn't see that wound himself, he had to trust Feliks to apply the salve. It worked very well—a marvel of Capitol medicine. Just the first application of it had healed it quite a bit within the first few hours.

It was a painful process. Feliks got a bit onto the tip of his finger, then dabbed it on—but they didn't want to waste it, of course, so he had to spread it around, causing Emil some mild pain. Well, more than mild, but if he bit on his sleeve he could keep from calling out. It didn't take Feliks long, and soon after, he told Emil to put the salve on his leg. That wound was far more extensive.

They'd ended up tearing up the leg of Emil's pants to try and stop the bleeding for good. It was tied around his leg pretty tightly, as a half-assed tourniquet to stop it from bleeding so heavily, at least. A real tourniquet would endanger his limb, and it was almost definitely salvageable, especially in the Capitol like this. They could only hope another parachute would come down, and the odds of that were slim to none. They'd already gotten their parachute. A second one would be a fortune to send, an amount even a capitol millionaire probably wouldn't want to send to someone with the odds of theirs.

The salve was more bearable on that wound, as well. He could see how bad it was, and he could watch what he was doing—and avoid the most painful parts. Feliks had nothing better to do than watch, so Emil studied his lidded green eyes for a moment before proceeding. The salve didn't sting at all, but it incited the dull ache that consumed his waking thoughts.

He thought his leg looked kind of discolored, so he might have an infection. It hurt a lot—aching, up and down his whole leg, looking purplish black. It was definitely not healthy, even if it wasn't infected. He hoped he wouldn't get a fever or anything.

Emil had done a lot of thinking about Lukas after the names in the sky the previous night. Lukas had to be alive. He hadn't missed a second of that sick show, and Lukas' name did not appear there. Lukas was definitely alive. Emil needed to look for him, yet was in no condition at the moment to walk more than a hundred yards—he would definitely collapse at any distance farther than that. His leg was not fit to put weight on it at all.

Walking around and finding Ivan had been a venture of reasonable suspicion. They'd heard dragging feet and crumpling leaves and things like that. Finding him in that hole was about the end of Emil's ability to stand. He had to sit down for a long time after that, and Feliks sat with him and they listened to each other's breathing for a long time too.

He still remembered vividly, the canon going off. He remembered Feliks ascending from the coffin-like hole in the earth, and looking pallid and shocked. He had blood spattered on his face, and a silver sword dangling from his fingers, which seemed frozen on the grip. His knuckles were white. When Feliks sat down, he made a soft thud, meeting Emil's eyes for a second, and whispering, "That's that."

Feliks had made a kill. Emil wondered what he'd been like before this. What did he do in his district? He was the grain district, right? Did he work? What about family, and bills, and money and friends and siblings? Emil had no heart to ask. After attempting to murder him, that right was revoked, he supposed. They sat in silence after that, and eventually fell asleep beneath the intertwined roots of that mangled tree.

He wondered if Lukas had made any kills. Emil wondered if he was thinking about him, too. He was probably worried sick—probably beside himself with worry. That's what Emil wanted to believe, at least. Wouldn't it be nice to see how much he cared? The normally oh-so-apathetic Lukas, worried about his brother. Emil looked over to Feliks. What would Lukas think of him, if—no, when they found each other? He didn't want to think about it, but Feliks was going to have to die at some point, and while it wouldn't be by his hand as far as he knew, they were going to have to part ways.

Maybe Lukas would just kill him. It was plausible, after all. The games were likely to harden Lukas' already frozen heart into a rock, cold and merciless.

That thought put Emil's mind at unease. He didn't want Feliks to die. He really didn't. But like Feliks himself had said—"That's that."

After that night, they both gathered their things (whatever few food scraps they had, their salve, their weapons, and Emil's tin of crackers) and started to move again. It was a constant shuffle, they'd learned. Whoever stayed in one place throughout the games they'd been forced to watch didn't win. They all died when they stayed in the same place.

Feliks sometimes helped Emil by hoisting an arm over his own shoulder and walking with him. It was exhausting and slow going—Feliks still wasn't a hundred percent after losing all that blood. The salve had closed his chest wound a lot, but it still pained him.

They'd decided not to advance any farther up the mountain. Feliks agreed that Emil probably couldn't go uphill, or any rigorous distance for that matter, and getting up there would only put them at more risk. Internally, Emil told himself that Lukas was more likely to find him down there. He hoped he was right.

They wanted to find a clear portion of that stream—hopefully somewhere large enough to bathe them again. Feliks' neck wound, while bleeding less, needed to be cleaned. They had no bandages and no clean leaves, so it was exposed to the open air—something no amount of salve would fix.

The path they were taking was just up the side of the stream. Most of their time since they'd met had been near the stream—even when Feliks had killed Ivan, it wasn't too far. Maybe a hundred yards off. The leaves around here were mostly dead, brown and crinkly, on the ground. There were ferns and bushes that thrived off of the dead materials. Mushrooms and mosses grew sparsely around the area. The trees were very alive, though, casting the same dappled light on them as it had been doing since this began. It was almost friendly.

Emil remembered walking—having his arm over Feliks' shoulder, walking up the stream, hearing some peculiar movement in the trees. He remembered Feliks looking at him with nervousness, fear, anticipation written in his expression.

The sound had been to the left of them—the stream bubbled to their right. Feliks was on Emil's left side, the blond's left arm hoisted over Feliks' shoulder. The sickle was strapped to Emil's leg, the uninjured one, and he gripped its handle nervously. Feliks was frantically looking around. That had definitely been something. No matter how interestingly stupid Feliks seemed, he wasn't the type to make things up in this kind of setting. Someone was here.

Feliks was gripping the silver sword with both hands now, leaving Emil to hold on by himself. The leaves were thick underfoot, and ferns grew between them and the river. Emil wanted to hide.

Feliks gasped. Emil finally saw him, following Feliks' gaze—it was a tall silhouette in the shadows under two huge trees. He was holding a sword, stalking towards them, not thinking about making noise anymore.

Sadik, district eight. Textiles.

This was one of the tributes you didn't want to encounter. This was one of the tributes that was so tall and muscular that he would absolutely kill you unless you were also tall and muscular. He suddenly wished he was Ludwig from five, or even Ivan.

Feliks dropped him. He would've been able to put pressure on his leg if he was expecting it, but he fell like a stone—he watched Feliks grip his sword tighter, muscles tensing, preparing to run—wasn't he? There's no way he was stupid enough to…

No, he was sticking around. The fool.

Emil made a quick decision. He rolled toward the stream, holding the sickle out with arms extended in front of him, under the thickest ferns he could see. He hoped he would have enough cover—this was cowardly, but he needed to stay alive. He needed to for Lukas. His leg throbbed. The infection was making him perspire—his face was flush, his head hurt. He was scared beyond belief.

Feliks met the first hit of the sword with something that could only be called valor. Emil could see in the glint of his eyes that he knew—he would lose this fight. He deflected it, holding his own sword—Ivan's sword—up high, strong. Sadik's face was concentrated, however, and his muscles rippled as he swung again, hitting Feliks' fingers wrapped around the silver sword.

He yelled, but didn't drop it. Blood poured from them, the damage to his finger bones probably irreversible already. Feliks cried out, and Sadik made a noise as well—one of probably gratitude, but Emil's heart was struck with such terror that he could hear his blood pumping in his ears. He couldn't hear much else—but he could see, from down on the ground, maybe fifteen feet away. Feliks tried to strike back again, but Sadik reached out and hit him with his free hand.

Feliks tumbled to the ground, away from Emil, and Sadik turned his back to him, standing over Feliks. His shoulders were hunched, sword clutched in both hands.

Feliks screamed. Despite his damaged throat, despite how tired and hungry and scared he was, he screamed. The reverberation must've carried it all the way around the arena—Emil heard it echo up the mountain, a long, terrified sound. It chilled his blood.

Sadik stabbed him in the chest, where Emil had done the same the day before. His call dwindled, lowering to a groan.

Emil saw blood pouring from Feliks' hands, and his neck where it'd been re-opened, and his chest, blooming with thick red liquid. Crouched in the grass, their eyes met, just for a second.

Feliks' wide green ones soon lost their strength, his body losing all tension. His eyelids fell half shut, Emil still met them, fleeting up to Sadik, who was pulling the sword out, walking across the clearing. He looked back to Feliks, who had died before his eyes.

The cannon rang out again, and Emil was crying.

He crouched there in the tall ferns for another fifteen minutes. His muscles were tense with shock and fear, but Sadik was gone. He'd left right after making his kill and picking up their supplies. The tin of crackers was gone, and Emil wouldn't see it again.

When he stood up, Feliks' body was the only thing in the clearing.

He knelt next to it, feeling shame and hurt and pain. He hadn't done anything to help Feliks. It had all been over so fast—he'd just been thinking about Lukas; about finding Lukas. He was such a fool. Such a fucking fool.

He spent a few minutes mourning his ally. He could never call Feliks a friend—they tried to kill each other the first time they met. He'd known they were both probably going to die. But someone had to win these games. If Feliks was alive, that would take longer. At least it had been quick.

He touched Felik's long blond hair, pulling it out of his face, closing his shocked eyes. After that, he looked a bit better. Less panicked, less tragic. Emil had a moment of realization—this is a cadaver. This is the body of a kid not much older or younger than he was—it could have been him, body losing heat, chest opened, and throat torn.

Suddenly Emil was very aware of the cameras on him. District nine was probably watching all of this, their dead child strewn in a puddle of blood that was gradually seeping into the dirt.

"I'm sorry." He blurted. "I'm so sorry! I'm sorry!" He was yelling, now.

He didn't care if Sadik would come back. He didn't care that he was giving away his location right now—he deserved to be the dead one, not Feliks. "Feliks, I'm so sorry!" He broke out into sobs.

He knelt there on the ground, bent down, forehead touching the bloody dirt, he clutched his head. He still cried. At least Feliks was better off than he was, now. He didn't have to fight anymore.

He repeated his mantra of "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," until he heard the wings of the chopper beating above him, here to pick up the body. Emil ran.

It would be twelve hours before Alfred woke up. Raivis was half afraid he never would.

After his fight with Ivan, the wounds to Alfred's head caused him to pass out. When Raivis was sure the two of them were alone again, he ventured out to the clearing. His feet made soft noises in the leaves, his breathing the loudest thing around.

When he reached the larger blond, he realized just how impressive the damage to his body was. Raivis kept listening for the cannon—he half dreaded, half hoped Alfred was dead. His protection would be gone, but Alfred was intimidating, and stealth was not an option with him. If Raivis had been on his own, maybe he could find a place to hide, somewhere to crouch for a while. But he knew that he had to take care of Alfred first. That would be the wisest course of action. If he survived somehow, and Raivis encountered him later, it would surely mean death. But what if Raivis didn't help him? What if he just… ended it?

No. He couldn't let himself think like that.

His muscles weren't tense after he was unconscious—so Raivis removed his arms from his head, pushing him over so he was laying supine, arms at his sides, eyes closed. His face had been badly damaged—his cheekbone looked smashed. It was blackened, misshapen. Raivis didn't touch it. His left eye was swelling a bit too, and looked like it would continue to.

He knew he had to drag the larger blond to the woods—leaving him in this clearing would be no good. His arms wouldn't be good to drag him, so Raivis crossed them over his broad chest and grabbed each of Alfred's ankles, curling his small wrists around them and pulling.

He had to take breaks after each ten feet or so. Alfred may be strong, but he was heavy. What the hell did this guy eat back home in district six? Alfred's hair dragged through the leaves, his shirt pulling up a bit, and Raivis paused to fix it.

Once they'd reached the tree line, Raivis put some energy into getting Alfred leaned against a tree. Weren't you supposed to keep a concussed person upright? Wasn't that it? He was leaned against a rather thick oak tree, Raivis pulling off his jacket. He needed to see if anything was broken or bruised particularly badly—so he'd know what to think about for potentially helping Alfred.

His face was the worst of it, it turned out. His shoulder was still bandaged, probably the reason he'd lost that fight. If he was a hundred percent, there would be no reason for him to lose, even against Ivan.

Raivis walked in a twenty yard radius every hour or so until Alfred woke up. He didn't sleep all night, keeping vigil over his ally. When the sun dipped beneath the horizon, he started to get drowsy, but resolved not to sleep until Alfred was awake. Or dead.

When the faces flashed in the sky, he watched rather intently. This was the only important thing he had to do—learn who those cannons had marked. Were they people he'd known?

Two. Only two faces flashed. One boy from district five, with white hair and red eyes. 'Gilbert' was written under his face. Raivis barely recognized him, having met him in training, probably. He'd been charming in his interview in the capitol. The next face was a relief. It was Ivan, looking more healthy and rejuvenated than any time Raivis had ever seen him. He stared into the arena with a bored look, and Raivis couldn't breathe. Alfred had done it. Ivan had probably died from his injuries—! Alfred had done it! Raivis didn't need him for shit anymore!

He spent a while with a smile on his face, but it was short lived. The forest was very, very dark. The clearing where they'd fought was empty. Raivis imagined graves rising from the leaf-littered ground. They were of his opponents, and one for him. Always one for him.

He dozed a few times, and ended up snapping awake. He felt very uneasy when he was alone. Well, he wasn't alone, but there was no help. He would never be able to defend Alfred's unconscious body anyways, so it might as well not be there. His twenty yard walk always resulted in him becoming increasingly paranoid.

Alfred, wake up. Wake up, dammit. Someone not-Ivan is going to come and kill me, mow me down where I stand and you're going to die too, you useless lug.

Raivis' thoughts got violent, but he shook them off.

Nothing happened all night. He heard rustling in the bushes that was probably just his imagination, but kept walking, kept moving, don't sleep Raivis, dammit. Don't sleep. You'll be back in safe arms someday.

The dawn rose with an eminence that made the kid want to cry. The dawn of the third day had arrived, leaving him reeling in the wake of two days he couldn't deny the occurrence of. He wondered what the people at home, back in district ten, thought of what he was doing. Did they want him to kill Alfred? Did he want himself to kill Alfred? Where were these fucking thoughts coming from, come on, Raivis, don't lose your mind…

When Alfred finally woke up, it was when Raivis was almost finished going around once more. He lay there, against the tree, blinking slowly. He was wondering why his right eye wouldn't open—why everything hurt so much.

The morning was bright. It was like it wanted to contrast the terrible darkness of that previous night, like it wanted to take vengeance upon it. Alfred spent a few minutes taking inventory—can you feel your right hand? No. Can you feel your left hand? Yes? Can you feel this leg, and that one? He tried wiggling each toe individually to see just how much motor control he had, but with a brain that was working slowly, he didn't get too much motor control after all.

Raivis was coming back from across the clearing. He'd just walked around the opposite side for the umpteenth time, and was coming back to check on Alfred again. He didn't notice the other's eye open at first, but once he noticed it, he rushed over. Raivis approached him straight on, coming back over to him quickly and crouching at his side. "Alfred? Alfred, I'm right here. It's Raivis. Do you remember what happened?"

Alfred groaned. His voice was scratchy, producing a rumbling from in his chest that reverberated up his throat. "N-no. Where the hell are we…" He trailed off into a whisper unintentionally, not putting enough volume into his voice.

"We're in the clearing where Ivan fought you." Alfred tried to turn his head a bit to look, but winced at the pain winding up his spine and his neck. "You got hit on the head. Lots of times."

"I could figure that out," Alfred growled. Raivis leaned back a bit.

"But I have good news." Raivis mentioned. "Last night, in the sky, they put up the faces like they always do."

"Yeah, how many were there? Who was up?" Alfred sounded intrigued.

"Ivan was up there. Him and the albino from five. You did it, Alfred, Ivan is dead." Raivis felt an involuntary smile creeping across his face.

Alfred looked up at him with his good eye to see the boy grinning—cracking a smile himself, despite how much it irritated his demolished cheekbone. Raivis didn't think that would heal at all without extensive surgery in the Capitol.

"Ivan is… dead…" Alfred repeated. He seemed to have a tone of relief. "Lots of major players are already out of this battle. Heracles, Antonio… Yao…" He took a deep breath. "…And Ivan. They're all gone. That makes me feel… a bit better."

Raivis watched him clench his hand by his side. He moved away. Talking about people like targets. That's what's happening here. Dead kids, like figureheads and bounty prizes. That's the allusion in this clearing, in Alfred's head.

Raivis reminded himself Alfred was a major player, too. It didn't matter that Ivan was dead if Alfred was so strong, even now, that he could literally just reach up and—take his throat and—

Raivis had to do it first.

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—shake off the thought.

"I'll find some water. Your face looks terrible." Raivis said.

"Thanks," Alfred's reply was weak.

Ludwig had tried to be productive in the last few days. He did everything he could to make Feliciano cheer up. He hated to see him like this.

After he'd seen his brother in the sky, with the rest of the dead tributes, Feliciano grew mostly unresponsive to Ludwig's comments. For that night, when they both slept in their little cave, Feliciano was wracked with shuddering breaths until Ludwig pulled him closer in an effort to calm him down. He had no qualms about sleeping without anyone on watch, because he was certain he'd hear someone coming through the doorway if they did. For now it was just important to pull Feliciano close to him and make sure the redhead was alright.

The next day he'd spent trying to collect some food. He ended up being awful at this. He didn't trust himself at all to pick berries or roots or plants—he was untrustworthy of the despicable game makers who'd probably poisoned every goddamn living thing in this entire place.

The second day was all about food, of which he found none. As the sun raised high above their heads, Ludwig felt helpless. He knew he should have picked something up as he ran, but this was the hunger games. The two could handle not eating for just one day. They would need to conserve their energy, but they would still survive. He just needed to calm down a bit. The two of them spent a long time exploring the area around their shelter, but not daring to go to the top of the mountain where they knew competitors would gather. They were almost half way down and marginally hidden, so at least there was that.

Around their 'campsite' there was a lot of craggy rock, mottled with patches of pebbles and small grasses. It was a fairly desolate area, wind whipping across the flat surface rather violently at its worst. Trees grew only a short way down, but only thinly. They started to get thicker a quarter mile or so from the entrance to the shelter.

During the second night, Feliciano didn't sleep too much. Ludwig was so tired from walking around all day that he felt a heavy weight on his shoulders, so when he came into the small shelter he nearly collapsed. He curled onto his side and watched Feliciano curiously for a moment, and let his eyes slide shut.

As it turned out, Feliciano only got a few hours of sleep. Ludwig regretted not staying up to help him get to sleep, but in the end, he had all day to rest. Ludwig would only make him man the fort until he got back.

Ludwig's third morning in the games was spent exploring once again. Now that he'd gotten a few good hours of sleep, he figured his legs were fit for a walk of a few miles—as long as he didn't push himself, he should be fine.

At the bottom of the cracked and rock-dotted mountainside were quite a few trees—they were thicker the farther you went, eventually blending into the surrounding forest on the other sides of the mountain. The sun shone very brightly, having risen on this side of the peak and the grasses and bushes free from leaves overhead. Things grew here, like berries and probably some edible roots, but once again Ludwig didn't touch any of these things.

He remembered from survival training—at least whatever he'd done before he entered the arena—that white berries were always the most poisonous. Never, ever eat the white berries. That color was a warning for living things to stay the hell away.

At some point, he forgot what he was looking for. Food? Water? Literally anything would do at this point. Anything is fine.

What he ended up finding was an apple tree. It was at the foot of the mountain—a good half mile from their shelter. It was lost within the sparsely packed trees. It looked very similar to the rest of the trees, actually, except for the fact that there were apples just a bit smaller than his palm hanging from some higher branches.

Likely he would only be able to make one trip a day, if he was to keep by Feliciano's side as much as he'd like. The kid was mostly broken and quiet, his world rocked by the death of his brother. The apples were small and green, but looked to be non-poisonous, as he noticed a squirrel or chipmunk snatching one and gnawing on it. He watched the animal from afar, half-expecting it to drop dead at any moment.

When it didn't, Ludwig grabbed one of the fruits for himself. They were really high up, actually, so he mounted his foot on the crotch of the tree and hoisted himself up. It took a full extension of his arm to reach an apple, but he managed to wrap his fingers around it and pluck it off the branch.

He cracked it in half, revealing the dry white fruit on the inside. It was a very pleasing sight, and Ludwig grabbed as many as he could carry. He pulled up the end of his jacket, using it to carry about twenty five small apples in his hike back up the mountain. He didn't care if they were blemished, just that they weren't rotten or chewed on by unknown animals. It was only his fastidiousness that caused him to inspect each one for rotten bits.

His hike back was uneventful. More trees, getting wider and wider in the spaces between them, then gravel crunching under his boots. As he approached the shelter, he saw Feliciano waiting for him outside the doorway. It was a strange thing to see the redhead sitting among the loosely packed rubble of an eroding mountain. He was hugging his knees to his chest, looking interested at what Ludwig had in his shirt. He smiled really wide when the blond got closer.

"I've got apples. They look safe to eat."

Feliciano gasped. "Really!? That's amazing! You're amazing, Ludwig!" He reached out to help take the apples out of Ludwig's shirt, setting them all on the ground safely.

"They're not the kind of apples that grow in my district." Feliciano said. That's right, he was from the agricultural district. "We grow a lot of different ones… I'm not even sure what they're all called. We just used numbers, the field numbers. There were the ones from field three, they were big delicious red ones. Dark color… shiny. And the inside was always pure white. We grew the best ones in the world, I'm sure. I'm absolutely positive. And then in field four, we had green ones, but they weren't like this. They were a lot bigger, and tasted sour. I'm not sure if these ones do but… they don't look mottled, like the ones in my home. Those ones were kinda… spotted or something. These are softer, too."

"You probably know a lot about growing food. Lots of things that I never learned. It's strange to meet people from so far away from my home. I've never even left my district before this. Not once." Ludwig took an apple, inspecting it first before biting down into the soft skin and tasting the juice stain his tongue. It was a little bitter, and not quite good-tasting, but he wasn't going to complain in the slightest. He took another bite, deeply piercing the fruit all the way until he was nearly at the core.

Feliciano had taken one too. "What did you do in your district again?"

"I'm from district five, in charge of transportation." Ludwig replied.

"What does that really mean, though? Like, what did you do regarding transportation? Design, build, direct?"

"My father built cars. He taught me to take apart an engine and put it back together. So I built cars too, I guess. Children in my district aren't responsible for anything but apprenticing under their parents or another adult until they turn eighteen. So in a way, I was his assistant."

"It's awesome! That's cool, Ludwig. I wish I could build an engine. All I know how to do is climb a tree and pick grapes at thirty bushes a minute. As long as someone else is holding the basket, I can do thirty five." Feliciano seemed to be trying to impress Ludwig, and the blond let out a stifled laugh.

Feliciano was about to protest when they heard someone yelling from the top of the mountain. Ludwig was startled, scrambling to his feet while Feliciano just froze.

The could barely hear it—"It's your bloody fault, you fucking bastard!" A gravelly voice. Someone desperate.

"My fault? I did nothing! That's exactly our problem! WE did nothing. YOU did nothing, did you not!? You told me you would bring him to me!" This voice was smoother, but deeper. It was not particularly eloquent in this instance, but it was a nicer sound than the gravelly-ness of the first voice.

"I did my best! I fucking swear, I did what I could. I'm not a damned mind reader!"

"I should kill you right now, eyebrows! Raise them one more time at me and I'll take this and cut your whole face open!"

"You wouldn't! You'd be alone again, wouldn't you!"

This seemed to quiet the deeper voice down, because he didn't reply. It was harder to hear now, because the gruff voice was speaking in a normal tone. It was essentially just a mumble.

Feliciano was looking intently at Ludwig, who was listening hard to the conversation they could hear. Looks like it'd moved on to mumbled apologies and perhaps a new topic altogether. This pair was peculiar—death threats, and no canon? No kill? In a place like this, where you could keep up with death threats, they weren't taken as lightly as in the real world.

"What should we do?" The redhead whispered. Ludwig wasn't sure if he was just scared, or if he really expected the two at the top of the mountain to hear him. Probably the former.

"I think they'll leave . Soon, they'll be gone. We should go into the shelter, and keep watch on them. If they're not gone by tomorrow…" He paused to think. "I'll confront them."

"C-confront them? You mean—! You can't mean to kill them. Ludwig, you only have a knife!" Feliciano's concern was endearing, but Ludwig didn't need it right now.

"Yes, but I could get more. They could have weapons up there. Things we need are the same as the things they need."

Feliciano stood up, taking Ludwig's hands. "You could die."

Ludwig shrugged. "So could you."

"I mean it, Ludwig! I don't know what I'd do here without you! I couldn't just… sit here and eat apples! They would come for me! I would die too!"

There was a silence stretched between them, an apple with one bite taken pressed between their palms on one hand. "Fine. I'll stay here. But if they don't leave, we leave."

"Yes, captain!" Feliciano was smiling, but his smile faded faster than the sun on a winter day. "I hope they leave. I really hope they do."

Ludwig didn't reply, just started to move the apples into the shelter two by two.

Arthur had tried regretted those words as soon as they'd left his lips.

He knew Francis had something about attention—he needed too much of it all the time. He didn't feel seen unless he had every pair of eyes; he didn't feel loved unless he had someone to push it on. And by push it on, it was probably the way he hunted him down at knifepoint that marked the beginning of a very long push.

Francis didn't say anything for a moment, obviously thinking about Ivan's death, about killing Arthur or keeping him alive, about something at least. Arthur could see thoughts swimming behind his eyes like fish in a tank. He looked down, feeling even worse.

"I'm sorry, Francis. Though, we need to make a new game plan. This one isn't going to work, now that the target is dead."

Francis was glazed over for another second before suddenly snapping his gaze up to Arthur's. "You know, I wanted to be the one to kill him so bad. I don't want to say this because I know everyone at my district will hear, but I wanted to be the one to kill Ivan."

Arthur was taken aback, but Francis kept speaking. "I wanted to impress them. I'm a career, right!? This should be what I'm good at! I'm damn terrible at everything else, terrible at making jewelry like my parents, terrible at athletics, terrible at loving—killing was supposed to be my shoe-in sport! My trump card! Let me impress them!"

Francis hung his head. Silence spread miles between them for a moment.

"If you wanted a kill so badly, why didn't you kill me?" Arthur asked, not really sure why he was provoking this kind of conversation. That memory of Francis chasing him still spread a shudder through him.

"I took pity." The simple three word answer made the fire curled in Arthur's stomach unfurl and spew from his throat—

"Pity." He repeated the word like he was spitting acid.

"Yes. You were running—what else was I supposed to do other than chase you down, and kill you, but I took pity. You should be grateful." Francis was locking up, apparently done being passionate and would now return to his rather snobbish personality.

Arthur was even more angry—"Grateful. That you didn't kill me."

Francis was starting to realize how much he'd upset the blond—looking up, seeing his face contorted with brows drawn in tight, knotted into an expression of rage. "Y-you could be dead! You'd be dead, without an ally, alone, Arthur! Look at you now, Ivan is gone anyways and it doesn't matter if I pitied you then."

"Pity!? Is that what I am to you? A pitiful lowlife from an outlying district!?" That knife in his pocket was feeling awfully heavy right now. "I've lived a harder life than you could dream! You and your district playing bloody Capitol's pet, like the world outside is a game, too!?"

Francis noticed him tensing up, standing in his spot a few feet from the career. He was shouting again, at the top of his voice, hands holed in his pockets and edging closer.

Arthur was sure now that the entirety of district twelve would see this. He wouldn't pity Francis, he would chase him and strike him down like the career had tried to do to him. "In my district, they burn the homes of people they don't like! They shoot people in the square who steal from the peacemakers! The people of the capitol have pity on us because of their own pigheadedness—Have you forgotten where you were born!?

"We're from the districts! Everyone fought on the same side back in the war, and now we're in a war against everyone else—can't you see it's things like pity that keep the districts separate? They give the fucking inner districts the best things, the most food, and keep them in a higher standard than me, than my family! They pity you, Francis! There are no rules! That is not the games, Frog, that is LIFE! Life is the fucking game!"

He jumped onto Francis, wielding the knife he'd been clutching in his pocket during those moments of passion. Taken off guard, Francis flailed his limbs, but Arthur was straddling his stomach, trying to get his hands in a position to strike Francis. The career gripped his arm tight enough to bruise, trying to pry Arthur off of him.

He flipped them, using his lower body to get the leverage to put Arthur under him. Arthur raised his other arm, whipping it up so it hooked Francis' stubbly chin. An 'oof' was heard from Francis' lips, and Arthur flipped them again. This time he slammed a knee into the career's stomach, further knocking the breath out of him.

He looked down at his 'ally', feeling only hatred and district pride. A career was pinned under him, helpless to defend himself for the moment, and Arthur was holding a knife. The tables have turned—an outlying district taking out the major player. He cried out, resolving on plunging the knife down in anger and rage and madness.

Francis' blood was on the mountainside, suddenly, and he was screaming as Arthur punctured his shoulder. Still, as the blond pulled out the knife and struck again, Francis kept making noise—"Stop, STOP I'M SORRY, I'M SORRY, DÉSOLÉ MON AMI—"

He struck once more, puncturing a lung, and Francis did not scream anymore. A gurgling sound emanated from his lips, pitiful and disgusting and Arthur was leaning back, what had he done. What had he done. He withdrew the knife, throwing it aside, and cupped Francis' face.

The boy was dying, eyes glazing, flinching wildly, thrashing whatever limbs would move. Arthur had no more rage left. He stroked Francis' face twice, just as the cannon shot rang out.

Arthur rolled off of the body, letting the blood soak into his clothes and not caring. He was gone. Francis was no longer a threat, no longer competition, no longer an enemy—but in the end?

Mon Ami, Francis had said—my friend.

In the end, Arthur would like to believe that they were friends. He cried as he took the supplies from Francis' body, but pretended not to notice. He pretended that he wasn't alone again, and that it didn't bother him anyway.

To make a friend in a place like this is to be blessed.

Lift him up, keep him safe, Berwald.

As the sun started to go down, Tino got worse. All day he'd been nauseous, and shaky, like when he'd fallen from the tree, but it wasn't until it got dark that it was really bad.

Tino stopped him after a long time of walking to the north (or what Berwald presumed was north, and what they'd decided to treat as the north) and said he couldn't go on anymore. It was true—his forehead was hot, his legs were shaky, and he said he still felt the same stomach churning as before. So Berwald lifted him up, one arm behind his back, the other under Tino's limp knees, and carried him.

Carrying him wasn't the hard part. It was watching him sigh like he'd been relieved of a hundred pound weight on his shoulders when Berwald picked him up. It was realizing that Tino had been suffering all day because of this, and he hadn't even noticed until now. He could have helped earlier.

He watched Tino's eyes go from bright and cheery wide ones to half-lidded, then to creases, accented with deep shadows under them. He looked bad. Berwald told himself he just needed more water—but that was a delusion. He drank at least a thousand ml of water from the river, and while it was river water, it should have helped. It didn't. He hadn't let Tino climb any more trees that afternoon, no matter how many times he offered.

Once he decided they'd covered enough ground, he found a tree to set Tino by—one that had a boulder beside it, so they could take cover between the boulder and the tree, somewhat. The trunk was probably a good four feet in circumference, many years old with rough, thick bark and roots that ruptured the ground. It cast a dark and deep shadow into the grass around it, and he set Tino down in the shadow as gently as he could, so as to let him sleep with the absence of light. Berwald could sacrifice some sleep for now. The boy was still awake, surprisingly, and groaned.

He didn't look anything like this morning. He was sweating on his forehead, hair slicked back. Berwald ran a hand through the boy's hair, looking down with concern that must've looked like anger this face that had never been good at emoting things, but Tino smiled up at him. Tino seemed to be good at reading his emotions at the moment, seeing the concern as just that, and not pity or anger. He reached up, tucking a spare piece of blond hair behind Berwald's ear.

"Y're gonna be j'st fine." Berwald murmured, almost forgetting that Tino could hear him. He was mostly reassuring himself of that.

"I might not be, Ber." Tino's voice was cracked. "Have you ever heard of the viruses… that the capitol makes, to kill its enemies? The ones they have for… what's it called… for just biological warfare."

"Virus…" Berwald repeated. He scowled, his eyes emanating sadness. He remembered learning about that in school. His district had more reformed schools—in district two, the war was all about the advancements of the Capitol. It was about how 'doctors and researchers learned to harness the power of a disease and keep it from killing people'. But the kids could read the fine print without the peacemaker-teacher finding out—the fine print that said 'but not the people who deserved to die'. Many of them had great-great-grandparents who died in that war—a hundred years ago now. Those people who 'deserved to die' included Tino, now. "I don't want y' to be sick."

"Me neither. I don't want to be here at all, though." Tino closed his eyes, breathing heavily out of his nose. Berwald wondered what the schools were like in district seven. He knew lots of the outermost districts didn't even have formal schools. "You know, it could be fatal. We've got to face that."

"Don't say that. You've got t' live, Tino. Please." He sounded like he was begging, as if Tino was choosing to be there, lying in the dirt in a forest where everything could kill him. "I'll be alone."

A tear fell from his eye that he hadn't realized was forming. It landed on the dirt between them, a dark spot staining the ground. Tino moved his hand to catch another tear rolling heavy down his cheek. It'd been so long since he'd cried. "I don't have much choice." The smaller blond let out a breathy laugh. "But I can try. I'll think about you. You want me to live. My mother seemed to believe I was already dead when I got drawn."

Berwald closed his eyes too. "Mine vol'nteered me. It wasn't my choice."

Tino frowned, the expression casting a deeper shadow across his chin. "That's awful. I always wondered why the careers volunteered so much."

Berwald shrugged. He didn't think he could explain it well.

Tino was breathing heavily. He tried to make it quiet, but it was obvious that breathing was a chore. Inflammation of the lungs? Swelling in the heart? It could be anything. This virus was showing every symptom Berwald knew—which even if he didn't know as much about illness as he did about furniture, there was an increasing chance of Tino's death with every passing hour.

Something struck Berwald—was it contagious?

For just a moment he was tense, instincts telling him to get away from Tino and not touch him, bathe himself in the river, scrub his skin and hair until there was no chance of infection—but he didn't do that. If Tino was going to die, Berwald decided would die with him.

That was better than any other kind of option he had. He could either die a horrible, bloody death, or live in guilt forever because he lived instead of twenty-three other people. He didn't think a warrior's death was for him. He was never confrontational and didn't communicate well—no attributes of a leader in him at all. But he saw a chance here for a way out of this hell, and a way to escort a person out who never deserved to be stuck here in the first place. Tino never should have been picked. He would have been back in district seven right now, back with his family, having never met Berwald in his life. He would climb trees and never be sick like this, with the Capitol's viruses and their violence.

He stroked Tino's forehead again, settling down next to him in the moss and grass under the tree. His legs were pressed against the boulder, feeling the cool rock through his thin uniform pants. The clouds filtered the dimming light into almost pure blue—a haze cast through the forest, everything cool, beautiful. Precipitation was starting to catch on the tips of the leaves and everything was perfect except how hot Tino's skin was. The two of them fell asleep there, even before the show in the sky, simply fearing the worst. Berwald almost hoped that Tino would go peacefully now—in his sleep, with someone's arms around him.

He would check for a heartbeat when he woke.

Matthew really had put himself into the predicament this time. Ivan had taken all the supplies with him.

He'd been trying to save Ivan. The entire arena seemed to be after him for one reason or another, but Matthew really only wanted to save him. He was the biggest and strongest—it was no surprise that everyone was hunting for Ivan's head.

He was surprised he'd even made it this far. He'd probably only made it because he'd been so quiet leaving the cornucopia. He didn't stick around. He didn't make a noise. Just ran. Nobody had noticed he was there, sprinting as fast as he could into the woods and eventually finding Ivan just where he needed him—sitting on the ground with a bloody sword, talking to himself.

They left that spot the next day, when a competitor Matthew knew was going to be a problem appeared—Alfred. Matthew would have been crushed the moment he entered the battle, so like the coward the knew he was, he stood back and watched Ivan become more scared, more unstable. More bent and twisted, stumbling off into the forest.

And then he appeared in the sky, and Matthew felt a rock drop into the pit of his stomach, down into his toes, and he felt as though his legs wouldn't function.

It wasn't s though he didn't do anything, though. The kid who was travelling with Alfred—Raivis Galante—he attacked him! Matthew did something he never thought he would in his life—he threatened someone else's.

Pulling the blade along Raivis' neck gave him a cold chill all down his spine that he never, ever wanted to repeat. Violence was terrifyingly uncontrollable. He hated how much he liked it.

When Raivis had whipped around with his own knife, Matthew was thinking about why he hadn't just done it. Killed him? Maimed him? What if he'd done it, how would he be standing right now? He doubted he would be confident, but perhaps not dejected. Being alive is the best benefit of killing in the games. Killing people and animals and things is an unavoidable necessity—the contest was designed to be like this.

Matthew was stunned at the immorality of the people around him, and having a crisis he really didn't need to be having at the moment. Who cared? He wouldn't survive anyways.

Where did that negative voice come from, Matthew? Don't you want to survive? Isn't that what this is about?

He was walking in the woods looking for something to eat. He hadn't eaten since the fight with Raivis—Ivan took all the supplies, and when he died, he guessed whoever killed Ivan had taken them. Who had it all now was a mystery. For all he knew, it could be scattered across the ground somewhere, given to nature on her doorstep by death itself.

Despite all his experience with tree-climbing, he was never one for the outdoors. He was a logger—which meant he did very little actual tree-cutting back in district seven. His father ran all the logs that came in on trucks through the machine that took the bark off, and Matthew helped them put it all back on the truck at the end. That was his daily life, the motions he went through to survive the jungle of the districts. The games provided an entirely different animal. The challenge here wasn't to try and lift a bigger log than yesterday. It's to kill and not be killed. To eat and not be hungry. The hunger games was not only a game—it was the ultimate conditioning for a hostile world.

He was looking for food for a long time. The day of walking, running to avoid people, being scared and thin to begin with—he was starting to be desperately hungry.

He decided to look for berries or perhaps some mushrooms or something—since he only had a knife, hunting was almost completely out of the question. He didn't know enough about the forest to set traps or hunt, anyways. As well as the fact that in training they were warned never to start a fire without good reason—it would inevitably alert the enemy to their location.

He searched around the river. The stream that ran down the southern side of the mountain inhabited no animals, but he guessed there were some damp places he could find some mushrooms.

When he got down there—he had to guess at its general location, so it took a while to arrive—he settled on the bank, looking around cautiously. He was never safe anymore. Matthew was constantly worrying about people approaching, expecting it and allowing himself to expect it. He told himself it was what was keeping him alive.

He stared into the water, seeing slightly clouded, dirty parts of it, while other parts glided by him crystal clear and shining. The silt from the bottom was being drawn up, drifting in the water. It swirled mesmerizingly. He didn't drink, too caught up in the idea that there could be something on the other side of the stream.

He resumed his hunt after jumping over it, searching bushes after bushes for any kind of flower, and kind of root or berry that he could eat. He just needed something to keep his stomach from howling at him anymore.

The bushes were thick in the area, brambles and other underbrush surrounding him as well. The river was clearly an area where the plants really flourished, the water seeping into the soil surrounding it and making a better place to take cover. He could stay around the river and risk more tributes coming across him, or have a steady source of water. His choice.

He spied it—berries! A bush full of small, perhaps pea-sized white berries was about twenty feet away. It looked to Matthew like gold. He decided not to waste energy rushing over there, so he walked slowly. When he reached it however, he immediately took to plucking the little things off of their black stems, harboring them in his hand in bunches. Once he'd picked about thirty berries or so, he downed them. They crunched under his teeth, the clear juice spreading across his tongue rapidly.

Matthew gagged. They were absolutely repulsive, a mixture of bitterness and sourness that hit his tongue like tar. He rushed over to the stream, hovering his face about a foot above the water, scratching at his tongue.

His stomach lurched, and his head spun. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to eat those berries.

They tasted like poison.

In a last ditch effort, he stuck a finger down his throat and vomited. The scrape of the back of his hand against his teeth was painful, his gag reflex bringing up bile and white fluid and stomach acid. His throat burned. All of it joined the silt, mixing around in the river before washing downstream.

It kept coming up, everything Matthew had eaten in the last few days, plus whatever water was in his stomach. He was left dry heaving, tears leaking their way involuntarily out of his eyes, snot dripping from his nose. Deciding to drink some water, he cupped his hands and washed off his face, then took a long drag of the clear stuff, washing down his throat smoothly.

It only took a few minutes for it all to come back up again, his body set on expelling the poison. He couldn't ingest any water. It came out and he groaned, pain slicing through his throat. Throwing up was more terrible than he'd ever experienced it.

A branch broke a few yards to his right. Someone was making their way through the trees. He wiped his face a bit, listening, poised like a rabbit.

Sadik came out of the forest—the brute kid from district eight. He wielded a sword with rust-colored blood on the blade, the dimming light shining down on him as he stopped to look at Matthew.

True fear struck him, and he ran.

At this point, he didn't care about how much energy he was spending. It didn't matter anymore. Just get away get away get away run run, go Matthew, run. Despite the fact he didn't hear Sadik coming after him, he kept going away from the stream until he couldn't see the tops of the trees in that area anymore.

The scenery changed a bit—the leaves here were more plentiful on the ground, browns replacing vibrant green underbrush. The air felt colder, and there was certainly no stream over here. Matthew decided to stop for the night and get some sleep before he was truly out of energy.

He scaled a pine tree, clutching the trunk and crouching there for only a few minutes before the music started to play, and the show in the sky had begun.

Deaths of the day included: a career, surprisingly. Francis Bonnefoy's face lit up the sky for a brief minute, then it went on to a kid from district nine, Feliks. Matthew was surprised at that—it was unusual for several careers to be dead in the first few days. It would usually take a week to get rid of them all, if not declare one a victor.

He clung to the trunk of the tree tighter, hoping he wouldn't fall out if he did fall asleep. Given his nervousness, that was a slim possibility. Matthew hoped he would find food soon. He didn't want to die alone. He didn't want anyone to forget him, like Ivan had when he ran away the previous day.

His eyes slipped shut, but his mind was never at rest.

THANK YOU FOR READING! I WILL TRY TO UPDATE BEFORE JUNE 7TH BUT I WILL NOT PROMISE ANYTHING OTHER THAN THE CHAPTER WILL COME OUT EVENTUALLY. TAKE GUESSES AT WHO THE VICTOR WILL BE! I BET NONE OF YOU WILL BE RIGHT- ITS DIFFICULT! THANKS AGAIN!