I do not own the Hunger Games. The tributes belong to their respective submitters.

Darian Kesslar, District Seven

As the last of the announcement echoed into silence, something else stirred in the outskirts of the arena, deep and rhythmic. Like a drumbeat.

Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

He shouldered his backpack, weighing his options as the sound drew closer. The other tributes were dangerous, but whatever the Gamemakers were sending out had to be worse. After all, how else would they get him to face other tributes unless the only alternative was even more dangerous?

As he waited, the drumbeat separated into marching feet - dozens, at least. The steps were synchronized. Well-trained.

Darian leaned out of his cell. A line of jailor mutts poured through the hallway and advanced down the cellblock in perfect unison, shoulder-to-shoulder as their boots clacked against the concrete. Two mutant dog mutts walked alongside the guards, perfectly obedient as they kept pace with the humanoids. All of the mutts saw Darian, but none broke ranks to attack.

As they drew closer, one of the dogs let off a low growl and the guards' eyes shone with obsidian malice. Darian took a few steps back, toward the Cornucopia. The mutts continued to advance at the same speed, though the dog stopped growling.

They were herding him. Of course. Waiting for all of the tributes to make it to the Cornucopia on their own would take far too long, and where was the fun in that?

Darian unsheathed his dagger and took off down the cellblock. Every one of his instincts screamed that he shouldn't turn his back to the beasts, but they hadn't tried to rush him yet and he needed to get to the Cornucopia before the other tributes. As he fled, the footsteps didn't change pace. They weren't chasing him.

Cellblocks passed in a blur. No other tributes.

He paused at the threshold of the Cornucopia and surveyed the room. At the center, a raised platform gleamed with all sorts of food and weapons. A few of the containers had medical labels, which probably meant that at least one other tribute was sick or injured. Or maybe the gamemakers were anticipating a bloody fight.

None of the other tributes made their presence known, which meant they were either hiding or hadn't yet arrived. Darian pulled out his dagger and scuttled into the maze of supply crates. First or not, he needed whatever advantage he could get.

As he slipped between a wall of swords and an embankment of winter clothing, footsteps sounded nearby and a shadow passed between the crates. Darian paused.

Silence.

He crept forward to a branch in the path. If he could steal look around the corner, he might get the drop on whoever was on the other side. He leaned in, looked left, looked right. Nothing.

A spear clattered to the ground behind him, and as he turned to look, a knife flashed down from his right. The distraction worked. He didn't have enough time to fully dodge and the blade sliced through his shoulder, stopping only at his collarbone. He cried out and threw a punch with his good arm, twisting the blade with the movement. A black haze curled at the edges of his vision, obscuring the hallway, but his fist connected with something hard and a girl cried out in pain. She yanked the knife from his shoulder, and a gout of blood followed. Warmth seeped from Darian's body, and the haze grew darker.

The oldest trick in the book, and he'd fallen for it. Idiot.

He struck out with his dagger, but his vision was failing and his aim was off. The end of the blade caught something and the girl hissed, but Darian's grip had already grown so weak that even such little resistance ripped the dagger from his hand. It fell somewhere nearby.

Darian's legs gave way and he tumbled to his hands and knees. Some of his vision returned with the rush of blood, and he glared up at his assailant.

Evelyn loomed over him, black hair shining silver under the fluorescent lights. The knife in her hand dripped red onto the concrete. Her face was completely blank.

"Of course it's you," he said. The girl in the shadows. He wanted to hate her, and part of him did. But he had to admire her drive.

"Goodbye, Darian."

And that was that.

Charne Valle, District Zero

The wave of boots clacked behind her, too far to discern but close enough to cause concern. Mutts, surely. She quickened her pace.

Final four. Charne had already survived longer than she'd allowed herself to hope. Just three more, and then she could go home. She would be with her dad, in possession of more money than she'd ever be able to spend, and everything would be okay. She would be okay.

Just three more.

The Cornucopia room seemed empty, though the death only a few minutes prior indicated otherwise. Unless someone had fallen to the mutts, but considering how slow they were marching, such a fate was unlikely.

If she could make it to the kitchen, it would give her a pretty good vantage point for the rest of the Cornucopia room. She and Dabria had used the cracks in the wall to spy on the other tributes, and an advantage like that could mean the difference between victory and defeat. Charne could just hole up and wait everyone out, then kill whoever remained.

Keeping her head on a swivel, Charne crept along the chipped-paint wall, her breath billowing white in the cold. The room was utterly still.

She slipped inside the kitchen and edged the door shut with a quiet click.

As her eyes adjusted to the dark, a burst of anxiety stopped her cold. A human figure resolved in the center of the room, seated in an old, rusting chair.

"Enoch," she said, pulling out a throwing knife. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Fancy indeed," he said, making no move toward her. "Nice knife. Plan on using it?"

"Oh, probably." Her district partner looked a lot paler than when he'd killed Dabria. Blood covered the front of his jacket - since he was still conscious, it couldn't all belong to him. Maybe he killed someone else on the way over.

Charne tapped the flat end of the blade against the side of her jaw. "Do you plan on fighting, or are you just going to sit there while I gut you?"

"Do we have to fight?" A desperate edge entered his voice as he continued, "We could team up. District Zero to the end."

His naivete was charming. Charne smirked, but her face fell as the situation's full weight reasserted itself. "And then what? What if we team up and it works too well, and it's just us left? There can only be one winner." She smiled a sad, empty smile. "Get real, Enoch."

He stared into nothing with hollow, dark-rimmed eyes. "Worth a try."

Her wrist snapped and the throwing knife soared across the room, but Enoch spun out of the way and the knife bounced harmlessly off of the back wall. The next knife grazed his arm, failing to do any real damage.

"I wanted to thank you for getting rid of Dabria," she said, circling at a safe distance. The mention of her dead ally seemed to get Enoch's attention. "I'm pretty sure she was going to kill me." And this alternative was just so much better.

Charne shifted her weight, lining up the best shot. "Looks like you've had some trouble since then." Enoch's face twisted with a pained expression. His allies were gone, and she'd gotten a pretty good hit on Brand. Probably killed her. "You couldn't save Brand, could you?"

"Thanks to you."

Stupid boy. So blinded by his grief, or guilt, or whatever that he couldn't see she'd saved him the trouble of killing an ally.

"Such an ingrate," she said. With a sigh, she added, "It doesn't matter. Are we gonna fight or not?"

Enoch drew a breath and held his arms wide. "Go ahead. You seem pretty fucking interested."

The third dagger hit his upper thigh, but didn't strike hard enough to do any damage. With a low growl Enoch charged, much more quickly than Charne had anticipated, and dodged the fourth knife without so much as a scratch. She tried to slip out of his path, but he grabbed her by the upper arm and slammed her into the wall. Pieces of twisted rebar poked out of the crumbling concrete, and as Charne squirmed in his grasp, he picked her up and slammed her onto the exposed steel, again and again. A scream tore from her as pain consumed her back, and she drove a knife into his forearm, but it didn't hit any important veins and he didn't acknowledge it beyond a wince. She hadn't expected this level of unfeeling brutality, especially from Enoch.

This had been a mistake.

He pulled her off of the wall and set her on the ground, his face contorted into that same expression of pain. She didn't have the strength to move.

"Sorry things didn't go your way," Enoch said.

So much for going home.

Tristan Vorassi, District Six

A cannon fired. Three left, including himself.

He crept along the stacks of crates until he had a clear view of the feast platform. Luxury food items, weapons, medical supplies, some fancy clothing. Nothing that appealed to him in particular. Not worth the risk.

As he surveyed the room, the kitchen door opened with a metallic creak, and Enoch stepped out. Of all the potential tributes remaining, he stood the biggest threat. The earlier he died, the better.

Tristan pulled a machete from one of the weapons crates and snuck along the fringes of the Cornucopia, keeping out of Enoch's line of sight. If he could keep the element of surprise, he'd probably be able to avoid a full-on confrontation.

As he neared the boy from Zero, blade raised and footfalls deliberately soft, a crate fell somewhere deeper in the Cornucopia. Enoch started at the noise and saw Tristan, machete in hand. A moment of silence passed between them. Then Enoch bolted into the sea of boxes.

Tristan followed, sprinting at full capacity through the rows and rows of crates, just barely keeping the boy from Zero in his sights. Left, left, right, straight, right. He almost burst through a pallet of rations on a sharp turn, but miraculously managed to keep his footing on the sleek concrete floor.

As he sprinted down a straight stretch, gaining a few feet on Enoch as he forced himself to run faster, the girl from District Eight darted from behind a stack of boxes, drove a knife into his shoulder, and disappeared back into the labyrinth of supplies before he had a chance to retaliate. White-hot pain bolted down his arm and across his back as he stumbled into a wall of crates, teeth gritted. He clamped a hand over the injury. Evelyn had taken the knife with her, and judging by the lack of blood seeping between his fingers she hadn't hit anything important.

But she had distracted him.

A body slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. He lost his grip on the machete. Hands scrabbled across his chest and found his throat, forcing him into a headlock. Black stars ate away at the edges of Tristan's vision as blood caught in his face. He clawed at Enoch's arm, flesh taut as steel. It did nothing. He reached back for Enoch's face, neck, chest - nothing. Not enough leverage.

He tried to draw breath, but no air came. This couldn't be the end.

Layton.

Hazel eyes. Mouth quirked up at the corner, verging on a smile. Always kind, always calm.

Tristan would have given anything to hold him again, to give him a proper goodbye. But this game - this fucking game - had taken that, too. With what little air remained Tristan tried to say his name, but what came out was hardly more that a choked gasp.

Enoch wrapped his free hand around the side of Tristan's face. Deep, animal horror surged within him as he realized what the boy from Zero was trying to do. He bucked and slammed Enoch against the ground, but the grip around his neck only grew tighter. His heart was beating hard enough to hurt.

"I'm sorry." The words brushed against Tristan's ear, sharp and low. Ashamed.

A violent twist, a sinewy snap, and flash of red. His neck burned with the worst pain he'd ever felt, but he couldn't scream. He couldn't do anything at all.

His last heartbeats passed. The pain dulled, and his vision faded.

Layton.

He'd been so close.

Layton...

So fucking close.

Enoch Emeris, District Zero

He heaved Tristan off of him. The body rolled onto the concrete, a slab of dead flesh in the shape of a man, and the cannon sounded. Tristan's head settled at an odd angle, vertebrae pressed taut against the back of his neck. Empty eyes gazed across the room.

Enoch scrambled backward, breaths sharp like broken glass. The world glowed adrenaline bright, enough color to make him ill. Revulsion tightened the back of his throat.

First Dabria, then his district partner. Now Tristan.

He'd played into the gamemakers' hands. He'd given them a show, because there could only be one. Not Charne. Not Tristan.

Something rustled a few crates over, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled up. Evelyn had weakened Tristan and tipped the fight in Enoch's favor, but she certainly hadn't done it because she liked him. This was the finale, and altruism was a thing of the past. Perhaps she had liked her chances against Enoch more than she'd liked her chances against Tristan.

Whatever the reason, it didn't matter now.

Enoch rose to his feet, straining his ears for her footfalls, and grabbed a dagger from one of the crates and picked up the lid as a makeshift shield. What the girl from Eight lacked in size or strength, she made up for in speed and ruthlessness. She appeared to be uninjured and probably knew his exact location, while he was left floundering around like a blind kitten.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he spun to meet Evelyn, swinging the lid blindly in her direction. The corner clipped her shoulder, but she had the wherewithal to dodge and escape the brunt of the blow. The momentum carried Enoch a pace to the left, leaving his back exposed, and Evelyn took the opportunity to twirl, jam the knife between his ribs, and leap out of range.

Enoch gasped, and the wound hissed with a terrible suction. She'd punctured his lung. Some blood seeped down his back, but a burning pressure grew in his chest as the rest pooled in his lung. How long until it drowned him?

He hucked the lid at Evelyn and it caught her full-on, sending her sprawling backward against a metal table. Enoch heaved himself forward, struggling to catch a full breath, and brought the dagger down toward her prone form. She grabbed his wrist with both hands and deflected the blow, though the tip of the blade carved a red line across her chest and forearm. Using the table as leverage, Evelyn brought her knees up and kicked at Enoch's midsection, striking him dead-center in the chest.

One of Enoch's ribs cracked, and the force sent him staggering back one vital step.

Evelyn grabbed one of the nearby crates and pulled, giving just enough force to bring it crashing down between them. Enoch stumbled backward to keep from getting crushed under five hundred pounds of supplies.

Before the crates had fully settled, Evelyn leaped across the heap of wood and cloth and metal, cutting her foot on an exposed sword. She plowed into Enoch, sending a wave of fire across his battered body, and he lost his footing and landed on his back with a burst of mind-numbing pain. He slammed his fist into the side of her face, aiming for a fresh bruise along the ridge of her cheekbone.

The blow struck true and she hissed, but the punch was weaker than Enoch had intended. His strength was failing him.

Her closed fist whipped around and struck him in the temple, sending red stars across his vision. He didn't see the knife as it slammed down into his chest.

Pain like nothing he had ever felt. The red stars vanished in a flood of crystal-clear agony. He instinctively brought a hand to the injury, trying to dislodge the weapon and stop the blood, but it meant nothing. Evelyn had killed him.

Darkness pressed at the edges of his mind, looming closer with each mangled heartbeat. He'd come all this way, and still managed to fail at the very end. Imagining his parents' disappointment almost brought a smile to his face.

Rage flared in his dying gut and he positioned the dagger under Evelyn's chest, aiming for her heart. The blade pressed into her skin, hard enough to pierce her jacket and draw a drop of blood. Evelyn made no move to evade. She'd probably let him do it.

Her black eyes bored into his. He could end it all right here. Avenge himself. Deprive the gamemakers of their precious victor.

One more death. That's all it would take.

Evelyn Arellis, District Eight

Blood surged between her fingers. The knife trembled in her grip, though she couldn't tell if it was her or Enoch.

He glared up at her with a mix of pain and hatred and resignation - and maybe even relief. The dagger still pressed against her chest. It would have only taken a bit more pressure to send the blade into her heart, killing them both and ending this disgusting tradition on an appropriately bleak note. It's what Evelyn would have done.

But Enoch was not Evelyn.

His grip loosened. The dagger clattered to the ground.

He rested a bloody hand against the side of her face, his grip almost intimate. Evelyn felt the growing tremor in his hand. A tear streaked down to the concrete. "You win."

His gaze grew distant and his hand slipped.

Evelyn flinched when his cannon fired, and as it echoed through the empty cell blocks, the room fell silent. The mutts had stopped marching.

She had won. She was alone.

The gamemakers let her simmer for what seemed like an hour, though it couldn't have been more than a few seconds. She remained hunched over his body, watching the color drain from his face. Acting on a whim that she didn't wish to fully acknowledge, she brushed a gentle hand down his face, closing his eyes.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the victor of the 100th and final Hunger Games, Evelyn Arellis of District Eight!"

All four walls of the Cornucopia sprung to life with a live camera feed. Evelyn turned, and so did the girl on screen, revealing the red handprint on the side of her face. Her fingertips brushed against the drying red, and for a moment, she wanted nothing more than to wipe it away. But that mark was the last thing Enoch had made. It deserved respect.

She would leave it. The gamemakers would try to wash it away, and maybe they'd get the color to come off, but the blood would always remain.

Holographic panels on the ceiling winked out in a ripple of darkness, revealing the black void beyond. A deep hum reverberated throughout the room as a small hovercraft descended into the room, black ladder swinging from an open hatch. Her chariot had arrived.

Evelyn stood, wincing as she remembered the cut on the bottom of her foot. Without adrenaline to block the pain, nicks and bruises all over her body made themselves known, and a terrible soreness settled into her muscles. It would take a long time to recover from this.

She grabbed the ladder, like so many other tributes had before. An electric shock froze her in place as the hovercraft ascended, pulling her into the darkness above.

Victory was hers.

Money. Influence. A house all to herself. If she could have smiled, she would have. Change was coming, and she was important enough to have a say. There would come a time for petty revenge, when the people who hurt her back in District Eight and the people who locked her in this cage would come to regret her victory. But that time was a long ways off.

Until then, Evelyn had work to do.

Free at last, free at last.

This chapter took a lot longer than I wanted it to because - surprise, surprise - holding down a full-time job is time-consuming and exhausting and motivation is a fickle beast.

I don't think I'm going to write a full victor's chapter for Evelyn - sorry Bobo :( Just imagine her going back to District Eight and burning it to the ground.

(shoutout to Katie - you're amazing)

WakeUpInTheBedYouMake. Darian was difficult, both in terms of personality and my ability to write him. He was abrasive, he was bold, he was tenacious. Some parts of him I connected with very well, other parts not so much. Still, he was interesting and fun to write for. Thanks for sending him in.

Teddy. Charne was arguably a "typical Teddy tribute", but she was a paragon of the archetype. Bold, sassy, and clever, with an appreciation for the finer things in life and HIDDEN DEPTHS that, once explored, revealed a fascinating combination of capability and vulnerability. Her alliance was entertaining (until it wasn't), but it was fun to essentially write the Mean Girls into Lockdown. She was great, you are great.

Remus98. Ah, yes. Tristan was a bit of a wild card for me. Throughout the entire planning process, and even during most of the writing, I had him placing everywhere from the bloodbath to first place. Personality-wise, he and I are rather similar, which made writing for him easier, but he was already pretty dour and such a hardcore realist that his time in the arena didn't do much more than deepen his cynicism. Ironically, his adaptability and ability to cope with the arena hindered his development as a character. Still, he was a strong person and tried to protect his allies as best he could.

Jake. Enoch started off as one of those socialites who thinks he's independent but places so much value upon his parents' opinions (intentional or not) that he ends up letting them shape his life. He was super fun to write for, mainly because he and Charne had a delightfully adversarial dynamic and he meshed well with his allies. I daresay that out of all the tributes, he developed the most over the course of the story. His arc was my favorite to write, and if I'm being completely honest, by the end of the story he had become my favorite character. Though I believe that Evelyn's victory suited the story better, Enoch was a very close second. I deeply enjoyed writing for him, both his complexity and his potential for development, and without a doubt he is one of the few characters that I will carry with me beyond my FanFiction experience. So Jake, if you're reading this: thank you.

Bobo. Since you first sent her in, Evelyn was my main choice for victor (it bounced between her and Enoch - and for a little while, Tristan too). She is just so different from my previous victors - Trance, the kindly space cadet who choked on his taste of reality, and Venera, who overcame her low self esteem and ultimately became a better person after her time in the arena. Compared to them, Evelyn just… isn't a good person. But sometimes the bad guy wins. As much as she hated her life back home, she had (almost) no compunctions with all the terrible things she did to survive, even going so far as to poison an ally. Always scheming, always plotting. She didn't change over the course of the story, so much as the hardships of the arena uncovered the darkness that was already there. She is my favorite type of morally questionable character: ruthlessly capable and quietly efficient, but not without a smidge of self-doubt and a deep well of fear. Her head is full of razor blades and I love it. So, congratulations. Thanks for giving me such a versatile character.

Thanks to everyone who submitted, everyone who reviewed, and especially those who stuck with the story. You're the best!

And there you have it.

THE END