I'm a rolling thunder, a pouring rain

I'm comin' on like a hurricane

My lightning's flashing across the sky

You're only young but you're gonna die

-AC/DC, Hells Bells

CHAPTER 21

FACES IN THE SKY

DAY / NIGHT ONE

Evanna Lynn (15), District 10 Tribute

10:56 AM

Her legs are burning, as though a fierce fire has taken ahold of her muscles and propelled her forward. Run. Away, away, away, RUN! Her mind is shouting at her, a hollow ringing in her ears that has been constant since she tore away from fighting the boy Career from District Two, snagging a small backpack with her free hand. Fear takes her actions into overdrive as she thunders through the forest, ducking away from a treacherous branch that hangs too low for her to escape. The whip-thin end of the branch catches her in the face, and Evanna stumbles slightly, raising her fingers to feel the red wetness blossoming on her cheek.

It's only a little scratch, she reminds herself, trying simultaneously to ignore the purplish bruises that have taken root across her skin from the fight, a slightly darker shade than the dusty lavender color of her windbreaker. Taking a brief moment to absorb her surroundings, Evanna comes to the startling realization that she has no idea which way the Cornucopia is. It stopped raining some time ago, but her chin-length white hair is still soaking wet, strands of it clinging to the sides of her face. Evanna brushes it away in annoyance, scanning her surroundings to make sure the Career boy has not followed her.

Evanna pulls the backpack strap of her arm, the fabric being a dull brown color, and unzips it, leaning against a tree to rummage inside. The snapping of a twig causes her to jolt, making Evanna snap to attention, her eyes distrustfully peering into the thick undergrowth. This place already sucks, she thinks disdainfully. Why get us accustomed to luxury and then drop us off in a shithole like this?

Inside the bag, Evanna finds a small green canister of what she assumes is some kind of bug spray - great, there will be insects here - a fairly large tarp, a spile, a knife, and a package of bandages. Absolutely no food, or anything to sustain myself with, she thinks angrily, the red haze creeping into the corners of her vision. At least she was able to hone her knowledge of plants in the Training Center; that is at least a skill which might keep her going. Evanna's head begins to clear for a moment, and she breathes deeply to calm herself. I didn't exactly stop and look yet, but there has to be some kinds of edible plants around here. Or insects, she reminds herself, though having a canister of repellent doesn't exactly scream "edible" anything.

She begins zipping up her backpack, but when the zipper gets caught on the fabric, Evie bites back a scream as she feels her eye begin to tic. She slams her fist into the rough bark of a tree, as if taking it out on the tree will solve her current predicament. Evie's about to challenge the leafy behemoth to round two when a thunderous noise catches her off balance, replacing the ringing in her ears with the booming of a cannon.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The noise is ear-splitting, and Evie claps her hands over her ears, counting the vibrations through her skull as they are fired: One, two, three, four, five. The cannonfire ceases and Evie shakily lowers her hands. Only five deaths, she thinks, furrowing her brows. In past years, the death toll has been much higher. Five years ago, when Evanna's sister - barely Reaping eligible - had been murdered in the bloodbath, she remembered hearing seven cannons fire. The only two years that had topped her sister's Games were the Twentieth Games, and the First Quarter Quell, which Evanna remembers had a total of nine cannons each.

Means there's a lot of competition left, she thinks, scowling. But there is an immeasurable sort of pride that sits in her chest at having escaped from the bloodbath with minor injuries, unlike her ill-fated sister, who had taken an arrow through the skull just moments before escaping to safety. Mom and Dad won't lose their other daughter, Evanna vows. Whether they really care or not, I'm coming home.

She zips up her bag, the metal zipper gliding as smooth as butter, and slings it across her shoulder. Evanna keeps walking, this time at a slower pace, keeping her eyes alert to the undergrowth. However big this place is, I've got plenty of time to see it all, she thinks begrudgingly.

Time blends onward, and the forest begins to look like a uniform blanked of massive, gnarled trees and thick undergrowth that she has to fight through to get anywhere. A few bug bites have risen on her hands and neck, and Evanna scratches at them, bathing in the temporary release from the itching. Looks like I'll need that bug repellent for sure, she notes as she pushes through more undergrowth, surprised to see the light of the sun dappling the foliage from under the canopy of trees. I must be getting close to a clearing, Evanna thinks. I just hope it's not the edge of the arena, she contemplates. She recalls, to a limited extent, years where Gamemakers would use traps to push tributes away from the edge.

Kind of a sucky way to die, after walking so far. But Evanna decides to push on, eventually bursting out of the woods and into a large clearing. She puts her hands on her knees, breathing heavily, and watches her surroundings carefully for any signs of a forcefield or a Gamemaker trap. When she's satisfied that the area is clear, apart from a massive tree in the center of the clearing, Evanna steps forward, grateful to feel the warmth of the sun on her neck, even if it is a weak warmth. Anything helps after all that rain, she muses.

Upon reaching the tree, she notices it's a bit strange how cleanly cut the circumference of the clearing is, the thick brush and smaller trees ending in almost a uniform curve all around the massive tree at the center. Something feels off, but she isn't sure what's putting her on edge. Maybe they just forgot to smooth it all out. Evanna smirks at the thought, hoping that it is a failure on the behalf of the Gamemakers and not some detail she should be paying heed to.

Evanna finds a spot near the tree, where a decent-sized rock rests in the sun, and sets her backpack on top of it, fishing her tarp out from the depths of the bag. It must be around noon by now, but it might help to set up the tarp in case it rains again. I should be far away enough in case the Careers decide to go hunting. There's a hundred other places they could be going.

There is a slight rustling in the woods which grows louder around Evanna. It makes her feel jumpy and on edge, especially after morbid thoughts of the Careers, and she pulls the hunting knife from her hip where it was tucked into her pants. The noise grows louder, accompanied by a muttered curse word and the sound of splintering wood. Evanna stills her breathing and backs up against the tree, one hand braced on the deep ridges of the bark in case she needs to climb it to escape. There is a strange thrumming vibration when her back touches the surface of the tree, one which makes Evie feel immediate revulsion. She shivers in disgust, peeling herself off from the tree.

The other tribute finally emerges from the thick undergrowth surrounding the clearing, his face flushed red from exertion. She doesn't recognize him initially, since she paid little attention to the colors that other tributes sported during the bloodbath. And I'm sure as hell not going to ask him politely to turn around so I can see his district number, Evie thinks, clenching her fist around the hilt of the knife. The zipper on his military-grade jacket is a cider orange color, as is the nylon windbreaker underneath. He appears to be sweating, and his shoulders seem to fall forward - from either exhaustion or bad posture is anyone's guess - but there is a repellent glimmer in his eyes that concerns Evie.

He doesn't have any visible weapons, she notes, taking a step forward, her boot sinking into the soft forest floor. The boy's eyes widen and he backs up, hastily picking up the broken branch that must have caused the noise she heard earlier. It is undoubtedly from a younger tree, with jagged light green filaments protruding from the end where it has been broken, and it is flexible. Might sting, but it's not going to break anything, Evie thinks, a devilish grin spreading across her face. The boy takes another step backward, back into the undergrowth.

Evie digs her heel into the ground, ready to sprint at the other tribute. "Scared?" she taunts him, her first words since before being launched into the arena feeling dry on her tongue.

"You're a bit headstrong for someone so thin," the boy retorts, gesturing with the broken branch. Evie flicks her eyes self-consciously to her skinny wrists where they extend from the sleeves. Not my fault I grew up in District-fucking-Ten, she thinks angrily, the red haze filling the space behind her eyes.

"I'm the one with the knife, asshole," she says irately. "Get out of here before everyone else has to hear a sixth cannon."

The boy backs up further, giving her one last glance before he turns and sprints back into the woods, the number 08 barely visible on the back of his jacket.

Once she's sure he is gone, Evanna turns her attention back to the tarp, fastening one two corners to the tree and tucking one underneath the rock, which she can barely lift enough. She takes a step back, proud of her impromptu shelter. It'll be enough to keep the rain off of her, but the rock isn't big enough to hide her completely. I'll need to stay vigilant, that's for sure.

Evanna also knows she'll need to monitor the cut on her face, since an infection could get out of hand quickly in a place where medical care is unavailable, but instead she decides to focus on the bug repellent, so that she doesn't get eaten alive by any mosquitoes or the like while she sleeps.

She shakes the canister of repellent, drawing a shaky circle around her tarp and the rock it is fastened to. The repellent comes out in a foamy white color when it is sprayed upon the grass, but dissolves quickly, leaving nothing but the strong smell of citronella and insecticide. Weird. It's not the strangest part of her experience in the arena thus far, but definitely one of the most questionable. Back home in District Ten, she simply dealt with whatever insects the livestock attracted with a swat from the palm of her hand.

Moments later, there is a silent whoosh by her ear, and Evanna is delighted to see a small silver parachute, the dusty lavender canister attached making her heart soar. It is an oblong shape, as gifts from sponsors have historically come in plentiful shapes and sizes depending on the fruits they bear inside. I hope it's a weapon, Evie thinks, fingers working to open the clasp. Inside, she finds something slightly disappointing in comparison, but the sourdough loaf - shaped like a shepherd's cane - smells plenty like home, bringing a smile to her face.

Evanna lifts her eyes to what little sky she can see in the clearing, and smiles broadly for the screens to pick up on, as if to thank her sponsor.

If violence against the District Eight boy earned me bread, what would killing him have earned me?

Moses Finch (18), District 2 Tribute

2:25 PM

The Cornucopia has been oddly silent all afternoon, with half of his allies feeling more than a little cold and distant. Moses sighs, raking a hand through his coarse hair, and bends down to stack another crate inside the massive golden structure. Castiel had decided to move as many supplies as possible into the gargantuan horn in case the rain came back; at the moment, the majority of his alliance have taken advantage of the temperate weather and shed their outer layers. I suppose if we've got waterproofed jackets and boots, it's possible. It bothers Moses that the Gamemakers can be so unpredictable, but he's resigned himself to the fact that he can't control the events... rather, he can control his reactions to the events instead.

Moses looks back at the dark frontier of the forest for the umpteenth time today, searching for any signs of life. Alton, working beside him, had been shocked when Moses pointed out a deer earlier in the morning, a gorgeous whitetail doe that had turned tail and fled upon seeing them. Hela and Crescentia came back into the encampment less than half an hour ago, bringing firewood for the night. Most tributes brush over the fire-making station out of fears that the Careers will find and hunt them down, but with five trained killers and two willing ones gathered in one area, Moses would agree that it would take a fool to approach them. Apart from the pair of girls, however, the rest of the alliance has yet to leave the Cornucopia. The two had been quiet upon coming back, though whatever sour mood Hela had seemingly woken up with only appeared to have worsened.

In fact, the immediate tensions following the bloodbath were only heightened by a brief, flaring argument between Alton and Asher. The former had been a little upset that Axel had escaped from the Wolfchild's clutches, after Asher had been chasing Axel for the majority of the bloodbath. But a physical fight had almost broken out when Asher vocally deemed Alton less of a man for taking care of Mercedes instead of Axel. They both got a seven though, Moses thinks, recalling the conversation the group had last night about targeting certain threats and neutralizing them before they could make a run for it. It's no reason to attack Alton, Moses thinks defensively about the other boy. Asher had retreated into the Cornucopia, and the tension inside the horn has been thick enough to cut with a knife since the incident.

In the brief time that he has gotten to know Alton Kersey, Moses has understood just how much the winning mentality has shaped his fellow Career's mind, creating a patchwork personality of insecurity, elegance and charisma that have become endearing. Alton's been beaten down by the world, Moses thinks sadly. The two of them share that trait, at the very least, with Alton having masculinity drilled into his core at the hands of his father and his older siblings; a kind of existence marred by the repression of his true feelings out of fear of a drunken dad with a penchant for verbal abuse.

It's a timeworn path Moses has travelled as well, learning that he must go to the fullest lengths in disproving negative perceptions of himself. He's trained hard to compensate for his height, spending long hours in the training facilities back in District Two. Perfection is such a tantalizing delusion, and it is one which Moses seeks with a certain vehemence. I have to remind people what to think of me, Moses thinks. I have to prove that I can be better than everyone else. It would seem that ever since the fateful night Moses had been caught fooling around with his best friend, he's been cornered into worrying about the perceptions of others.

It's the entire reason he volunteered. But it would seem like everyone wants to find something out about themselves from the Games, Moses ponders. Maybe mine is supposed to be self-acceptance. It is a strange thought, and one he almost dismisses immediately, but Moses instead clings to it like a thread. Maybe I'll get what I'm looking for by being here.

In the corner of his eye, Alton is leaning against the surface of the Cornucopia, the heated metal drying rather quickly in the sun. Despite the pleasantly warm exterior after a cold rain, the interior of the Cornucopia is still cool and dry, unlike the soggy ground beneath his feet.

Siren emerges quickly from the Cornucopia, and Moses follows her line of vision to the sky, spotting an incoming sponsor gift. Siren still remains rather distant as she outstretches her palm for the canister. It is a blackberry purple, one which matches the colored number 04 displayed on her short-sleeved shirt. Moses catches himself staring at how well the shirt helps define her curves, but averts his eyes once the canister makes contact with her hand. She winces at a dark purple bruise on her forearm, which appears to sport the crescent-shaped indentations of teeth. Come on, Moses! He berates himself, shaking his head. First the Israel twins, now District Four? He almost jumps in surprise when Alton places a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"What do you think the sponsors sent her?" Alton asks him, curiosity sparking in his beautiful dark brown eyes.

"I'm not sure, to be honest," Moses says simply, eyes roaming freely over the taller boy's physique. Moses still remembers their initial meeting in the lobby, with Alton's abdomen on full display, olive skin visible through the torn layers of a blue sequined outfit. Blue just compliments him so well, Moses thinks enviously as his eyes center on Alton's district number. Both boys look over at Siren as the girl opens her canister, and Moses suddenly feels bold, lacing his fingers with Alton's. "Looks like we're about to find out, though."

Siren, noticing she has an audience, shoots the pair of them a grin, raising her eyebrow suggestively at the two of them holding hands. Moses feels his cheeks heat up, and moves to disentangle their fingers. Alton does the same, and a silent barrier of embarrassment grows between them. Moses himself hasn't felt this embarrassed since the second night of training, when the drinks had flowed long enough to spark shirtlessness and raunchy dancing… despite it being a tame enough gesture, the reminder that the entire nation - and by proxy, everyone at home - is watching is enough to make Moses feel ashamed. "Oh stop it, you two!" Siren groans. "Alton, I've seen you put your tongue into his mouth," she declares. "And this is what embarasses the both of you? Ugh." Moses can feel the tips of his ears burning at her statement, and he is about to open his mouth and find a witty response when she brushes past the two of them, heading into the mouth of the Cornucopia.

There is an appreciative whistle from someone inside the horn, and Moses wants to gouge his own eyes out at how quickly the mood has changed. "What did you get?" Castiel asks curiously, a smile dancing around on his lips. As Moses and Alton shuffle in to join Siren, she unfolds a note from inside the canister, a stark white sheet of paper with neatly printed words.

"If you are the Siren of love," she reads, "then all you Careers are in for a loaf affair." There is an awkward pause as her words sink in. Alton's laugh rings off the inner walls of the Cornucopia, a crystal clear sound that makes Moses crack his first smile all day. Then Castiel and Crescentia start chuckling, and the tension laying thick across camp becomes momentarily dispelled.

Hela flashes Siren a smirk. "They sent you bread?" Asher asks from beside her, still tense from the argument and resting from the beating he took at the hands of the District Six tributes.

Siren pulls out a fish-shaped loaf of bread, holding the green-tinted loaf sarcastically next to her chin. She's gotten her spark back, Moses thinks happily. "It's a pun, Wolf Boy," Hela teases. Asher is glowering in his corner when the canisters start to rain down from the sky, like a legion of silver birds descending toward them.

Alton's brow furrows beside him, but Moses' lips are stretched into an eager grin as he spots a canister that matches his windbreaker. He catches the apricot-colored canister as gracefully as possible, feeling the elation flood through his veins with the knowledge that he, too, has received bread from the sponsors. Alton is beside him, and crushes him into a quick hug. Moses can smell the sweat and the sun on Alton's skin and wishes he could stay in Alton's embrace.

He sees his district partner emerging from the Cornucopia, and tosses Hela her pine green canister. She comes to stand next to him, and the two open their gifts with a matched desire. Inside, Moses finds three rock-shaped wheat rolls, straight from the bakeries of District Two. They're topped with oats for the extra strength it provides trainees, Peacekeepers and masons alike, and Moses can't eat one fast enough. It tastes like home, he thinks. Moses can see that Hela shares a similar sentiment behind her icy eyes, and his eyes crinkle with a smile at the sight of her cheek puffed out to accommodate half a roll in one bite.

Not only have none of them had anything to eat since the morning before Launch, but the simple taste of home after a week spent in the Capitol speaks deeply to his soul. Castiel and Crescentia are enjoying star-shaped loaves, which have a cracked sort of appearance on the top that Crescentia informs him is sugar. "Here, I'll trade you some," she says, mirth alight in her eyes. Crescentia tears off a piece of bread and hands it to him, the sugar coating cracked even more where her thumb grips it. Moses hands her a rock-shaped roll in return, and is surprised at how sweet the District One bread is when he takes a bite.

"That's delicious," Moses tells her, trying to hide a laugh at the mock disgust on Crescentia's face upon trying his own bread.

"It's too dense!" she exclaims, shaking her head and handing him the half-eaten roll. "You can have it back, I don't want any more."

Hela laughs coolly. "It's not supposed to be a delicacy," she remarks, watching Asher hold his rust orange canister. He does not make a move to open it, despite everyone else eating theirs.

"Ours is," Castiel states flatly. "Doesn't mean either of us is a pampered brat." Hela opens her mouth like she wants to make a retort, but bites her lip instead. At seeing the sour reaction, Castiel adds a mumbled "I do prefer... some luxuries, though."

Moses had meant to ask Castiel the meaning behind his vendetta against District Seven, but the thought is shoved aside when Crescentia takes Castiel's loaf and inspects it. "Mine looked better," she jests, winking at him. Leave it to her to help break the tension, even if she doesn't quite get the sarcasm. Moses at least hopes it's sarcasm, and not unmasked hostility.

"Asher, don't be a buzzkill," Siren comments from the other side of the group, tossing her hair. "If you don't like your bread, I'll trade you what's left of mine," she suggests. Asher sighs and unlocks his canister, taking out a rye grain loaf shaped like a crescent.

"I've never been particularly impressed by our bakers," he admits. "Though seaweed doesn't sound too good, either." Moses can feel Alton bristle beside him and places a hand on Alton's arm. Alton gives Moses a pointed look, but the playful sarcasm behind his eyes is apparent enough. At least he isn't looking for a fight.

"Seaweed doesn't smell too good either," Alton admits. "But it is an interesting flavor. Sure you don't want to give it a shot?" Asher shakes his head, nibbling carefully on the end of his own loaf with a dejected look on his face. Hela joins his side, looking a little protective, and offers him a roll, which he takes with a sigh.

"Don't worry about it... Asher," Hela mumbles. Moses is surprised to hear her use Asher's real name, rather than the mocking nickname she's been using throughout training. Something has changed between the two of them, Moses decides. He isn't sure what, but he hopes it's a good change.

"See," Siren continues, "the two of you are missing a better opportunity to hold hands." Alton groans good-naturedly beside him, but upon seeing Castiel's raised eyebrow, Moses reaches for Alton's fingers again, pulling him closer. "If Asher and Hela won't admit to their sexual tension," Siren begins - steamrolling over both an indignant glare from Hela and a surprised noise from Castiel - "Maybe the two of you can."

"It's obvious?" Alton asks, sounding as if he already knows the answer.

"I guess," says Moses, caught off guard as Alton leans in for a kiss, the slightest taste of seaweed lingering on his tongue. A loaf affair indeed, he thinks wryly.

Moses reminds himself that the moments like this aren't meant to last: they are simply a fleeting distraction from a bigger picture. Despite the atmospheric change among the group, he's right to be a little fearful at the assembled group of hidden monsters. Hela and Asher are killers, no doubts. They wear the ability as if it were a badge of honor; a prized skill with a metallic reek. He's seen the twisted glee in Castiel's eyes when the hovercraft retrieves the Seven girl's body from the side of the Cornucopia. He's seen the grim ferocity behind Siren's every movement, after dispatching the boy from District Twelve. And even Alton and Crescentia are no different, Moses reminds himself, despite how comfortable he feels among the latter three. The anger in their eyes after returning from the chase with District Five says it all. It makes Moses' skin crawl at how easily the six of them are willing to take pleasure in hunting and killing other tributes. He understands that the Hunger Games are no place for the weak of heart; and training his ass off to earn the coveted volunteer position is reflective of his understanding.

But tributes are not practice dummies, nor punching bags full of flour that sticks to his skin with every punch. Tributes are human… and humans bleed. Moses doesn't want to let the Games make him a monster.

For now, though, he is content to drown in the moment.

Halley Verron (12), District 8 Tribute

8:48 PM

The forest around her buzzes with the low thrumming of insects, broken by the staccato sound of cicadas hiding up in the branches. But despite the constant presence of noise, it is eerily devoid of signs of larger life; namely the telltale noises of tributes. Halley stops to take a breather, resting the small of her back against the rough bark of a thick, gnarled tree.

Halley wipes the dewdrops of perspiration off her brow, wiping the sweat on her pants. She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly ever since she snagged a small backpack from in front of the Cornucopia and hightailed it toward the wild frontier of the treeline as fast as possible. I've been running in the same direction I saw Darnius go, Halley thinks. At least I hope so, that's for sure. She lifts her eyes to what little blackening sky she can see beneath the thick blanket of leaves, deciding that she needs to find a place to hunker down for the night before it gets too dark.

I've been looking for him all damn day. Halley closes her eyes briefly, feeling slightly uncomfortable and out-of-place in the woods. It could be much worse, Halley decides, but it sure isn't District Eight.

There is a raw sort of pain spreading across her legs, and Halley winces gingerly as she rubs the inside of her thigh to alleviate the feeling. Despite most of their clothes being waterproof, the pants were permeable enough to make chafing an issue, something which makes Halley shake her head in disdain. Where the hell is Darnius? she thinks after a moment. Darnius and water are her top two priorities, and though she had stopped earlier in the day to let the last vestiges of rain fill her water bottle, the measly inch and a half she had collected isn't enough to sate her sudden thirst.

Immediately after drinking, Halley feels suspicion grow in her stomach. What if there isn't any water, and the Gamemakers made the rain poisonous? So far, Halley hasn't seen so much as a creek, and it wouldn't be unlike the Gamemakers to engineer another obstacle for the tributes to overcome. But that's stupid, she berates herself. It was raining earlier and it didn't feel different at all. She stows the empty plastic liter water bottle in the mud-colored backpack. The supplies she had gotten are far and few between: two plastic liter bottles, a case of twenty iodine pills, and half a pound of dried fruit. And I don't have enough water to use the iodine, Halley thinks with a frown, recalling the trainer's clear instructions that iodine pills would only work with a concentration of about a liter of water. I don't want to poison myself, but I suppose it'd be better than having the Gamemakers do it for me, Halley thinks sarcastically, folding her arms.

The biggest positive, however, is that she had taken a knife from where it had been driven into one of the crates outside the Cornucopia. The blade had, thankfully, been easy enough to wrest from the wooden surface, and having one sets Halley ahead a significant deal. If there was one thing she learned from the training center, it was that a knife could very well be the thread that keeps her alive, in both terms of survival and defense.

Defense… not something I want to think about, Halley decides, instead forcing herself to keep moving. If Darnius has any sense, he'll have found a spot to stay already since he didn't grab any supplies. It surprised her to see him take off so quickly, but considering the five cannons that sounded around fifteen minutes after she had left, Halley doesn't blame him. But not being able to find her fair-weather ally is beginning to piss Halley off. How big is this arena? She finds herself wondering as she sets off at a slow pace, trudging through the woods, making sure to draw the tactical jacket closer to her frame. The nylon windbreaker she had been given is a red ochre in color - not the worst in terms of noticeability, as she saw a few pinks and yellows - but certainly not a brown or a green. This subdued red color, however, she doesn't mind. It's comfortable, and I can work with it. She doesn't know how cold the nights will get, but if the days have the same sort of dry humidity that she's been dealing with ever since the rain let up, wearing the bulky military jacket is going to be a problem.

Halley ignores the cicadas, instead focused solely on the task at hand. Finding Darnius before nightfall is ideal, since the Careers might come hunting. She isn't sure how far she's run, nor where the hell Darnius went, but the Careers are undoubtedly going to search the woods at some point, and Halley grimly doubts that any of the cannons signaled for them. If anyone is going to be an issue, it'll be the Careers. With thoughts of trained killers chasing her through the woods filling her head, the rustling of leaves above her nearly makes her scream in fright. Halley turns sharply to face the noise with her knife clutched tightly in her hand, expecting to see a tribute jump down and attack her.

A small gray bird stares at her instead, head cocked innocently to the side. There seems to be some kind of insect clamped firmly in its tiny black beak, and despite her initial misgivings, seeing the bird has thus far been the best part of her day. A bird means I'm not going to have to eat insects if things get rough. After all, that bag of fruit isn't going to last very long. She calmly sheaths the knife, it already becoming hard enough to see the bird anyway, but freezes as she sees a darker shape lounging in the trees behind it.

That looks like a fucking tribute! Her mind screams, and the bird takes off from the branch as the shape moves, lifting the silhouette of a head in her direction. Halley takes off sprinting, but she doesn't get far at all before she hears a thud behind her as the shape presumably falls out of the tree. We haven't even gotten to the first night, she thinks desperately. Halley feels the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, as if a phantom hand is reaching for her, and Halley twists her body, knife slashing behind her. The blade connects with an actual hand, and she hears an audible yelp. Adrenaline spikes in her bloodstream for the second time today - reminiscent of pulling the knife on the two girls during the bloodbath - as she waits tensely for the shape to attack her back.

"Halley?" a voice croaks, and she's instantly awash with a strange mix of guilt and relief.

"Darnius?" Halley asks, peering into the growing gloom of the woods. She's met with a smile, and Darnius crushes her into a hug. It's almost like he's glad to see me, Halley thinks, heart still hammering a mile a minute. I expected to find him! Not the other way around!

"Here I was, thinking I'm a dead man walking…" Darnius intones, voice trailing off into a murmur in her ear. "You don't know how good it is to see you alive," Darnius says, his voice full of a warmth Halley is unaccustomed to. "I was afraid one of the cannons was for you." He takes a brief glance at the sky, and sizes up a nearby sycamore tree with low-hanging branches.

"Well, who do you think died, then?" Halley blurts, the question having been on her mind all day. Darnius gives her a sideways look as he climbs into the tree, bracing his military-esque boot against the trunk of the sycamore.

"Well, I know the girl from Ten is still well and kicking," Darnius says darkly, leaning back down to extend a hand to Halley as she casts one last furtive glance around the foreboding woods. "I ran into her earlier," he elaborates.

"Is she still nearby?" Halley asks him, trying to suppress the sudden alarm in her voice.

"I'm not sure," Darnius says with a frown. "I'm the one who ran." He blinks when Halley declines his offer and instead hauls herself up onto the tree on her own. She climbs another branch higher, and Darnius follows with a strained grunt. The climb reminds her of days spent perched in a tree of the same breed, hiding away from angry Peacekeepers and street thugs. It feels safe, somehow, but Halley understands better than most that the good things always come to an end.

The two of them sit, perched in the thick branches of the tree, so that they have a clear view of the sky. Between the twisted ebony branches, the sky suddenly becomes awash with a false luminescence, and Halley shields her eyes, cringing away from the bright lights. The seal of the Capitol appears, geometric wings of the eagle spreading to the crescendo of the National Anthem of Panem, and both Halley and Darnius fall silent, watching with keen interest to see the faces of the fallen. Halley's eyes are lowered, but still trained on the sky. She watches as the seal fades into a collection of vibrant pixels, which rearrange to form the headshot of the District Three boy - Edward - whom Halley vaguely recalls from training and his absurd interview.

Damn, she thinks to herself. Skipping to the Three boy means none of the Careers from One or Two have died. Halley can sense a similar unease in her district partner as District Four also makes no appearances. The male tribute from District Four had died in the bloodbath last year, but Halley chides herself for believing they might get lucky again this year. Though there's still the boy from Eleven… Asher, Halley thinks, watching Mercedes' face fade from the sky.

It is the only death to remotely shock her, however. Mercedes had scored a seven in training, whereas none of the others scraped higher than a four. Darnius and Halley are still as the last face appears in the sky, listening as the Anthem slows and fades into the cool nighttime air. "No Careers, then," Darnius says quietly, shaking his head beside her.

"I was hoping we'd be lucky," Halley agrees, sighing heavily. The luminescent glow is replaced by the weak, watery light of the moon, and the pair calms their breathing, keeping it low and quiet in case anything has changed down in the eerily quiet forest beneath them. "But tomorrow's a different day, you know?"

Halley almost falls off the branch when a silver canister plummets down from the sky, its parachute like a ghost drifting down from the heavens. It lands in her district partner's lap, but even in the strained lighting, Halley can see that the canister is of a red ochre coloration, the same as the numbers on the back of her jacket. Darnius sighs, about to say something, and then stops himself. Even in the limited time frame within which Halley has gotten to know him, she understands that Darnius would rather concern himself with the situation at hand rather than dream about what was or could be.

It's simple. I have something, and he doesn't. Darnius hands her the canister, the resistance from his fingers telling her he is reluctant to let it go, especially given the distinct disadvantage running from the bloodbath has given him. It is a strange, mixed feeling that resides in Halley's gut as she opens the canister.

Inside, there are five small biscuits nestled in a linen napkin. Halley carefully unwraps one and hands it to Darnius. "We have bread," she whispers, the feeling of the button-shaped biscuit a familiar one to her fingertips. "We have bread!" she grins eagerly, the smile that tugs at Darnius' lips making the choice to share the sponsor gift worth it. I'm not used to sharing anything, Halley is willing to admit to herself, given the harsh and stringent conditions of street life. But it doesn't feel too bad. Halley watches Darnius cram the biscuit into his mouth, both clearly famished from a day spent running from whatever demons lurk behind them.

She sees Darnius unfold a small piece of paper from his pocket, having been saved from water damage by the waterproof finish Halley's fingers scratched against earlier. He lifts it up to the sky, the paper catching a faint glow from the moon. She's seen the paper before, his tribute token… He takes it out when he thinks no one is looking, she knows. She looks away, already knowing the words his girlfriend had written on the paper; a poem about the melancholy of death.

Darnius reads it in silence beside her, his breath trembling as he reads words he must have read a hundred times over since the moment the two of them boarded the trains, leaving the smog-filled air of District Eight behind them.

Halley takes a bite out of the soft, flaky biscuit, staring up at the pitch-black sky. She can make out a few stars sprinkled in the gated heavens above, and wonders if the five fallen tributes are among them. It is a story that Old Man Clyde tells her once, on the stairs of the homeless shelter. It's a story told when the rest of the district pays them no heed, just a sun-wrinkled elder and a malnourished girl sitting side-by-side on the brownstone steps. She remembers seeing the stars winking into existence as the night grows long around them and the streets begin to empty.

"What are those for?" Halley asks her friend, the man on the recovery from another onset of dementia. He'd always been patient with her, and she was with him each time his memory had failed and Halley needed to remind Old Man Clyde why the little girl on the streets had come to see him. "Why do we have stars, anyway?" Her friend had just smiled, shaking his head softly and adjusting the old moth-eaten flat cap he wore. "We have stars, Halley, because the heavens are full where all the kind souls go when they depart from the world." A nine-year old Halley had clung to his hand, staring into his crinkled eyes as he sated her curiosity. "Your parents are up there somewhere too, I reckon," he had said slowly, voice like beaten gravel on a paved road. "They're always going to watch over you, much better than I or Missus Lylanis ever could."

It is a belief that Halley has clung to in the three long years passing that conversation, a belief that made each glimpse of the nighttime sky even more special than the last. Halley rests her head against Darnius' shoulder, and she listens to him exhale slowly. Maybe her parents are here, too, watching over her in the arena. But no matter how much Halley wants to see them again, she hopes that her face won't be the next to light up the sky.

Hers is a soul that isn't ready to become another shining pinprick in the faraway heavens.

Brita Edison (17), District 3 Tribute

9:02 PM

The Anthem of Panem is still ringing in Brita's ears long after it has ceased playing, a void created in the absence of any sounds. The forest around her is dusky and indistinct, a blur of trees and shadows that threaten to reach out and twist a knife in her stomach at every turn.

She had spent the day perched in the same tree, not running, but instead choosing to ponder what being one of the few tributes who had turned tail and run from the carnage entails. Maybe it makes me sensible, Brita thinks, her mind turning to the cold blue luminescence of Edward's pixelated face. Despite how annoying and delusional her district partner had turned out to be, there is a part of her which misses one of the few reminders she has left of home. Instinctively, her hand closes in around her necklace, the grooves at the end of the data chip digging into the soft flesh of her fingers. But he would have been dead weight, especially without any supplies.

In a morbid way, Brita wonders exactly how Edward died. She recalls ridiculing the boy nationally on the night of the interviews, calling him 'fucking hopeless' in an effort to vindictively make herself memorable. But was he hopeless, or did he fight? There was a creepy sort of excitement that had clouded her district partner's mind, one which makes it hard for Brita to rule bloodlust out of the picture. Was it the Careers? An outlier? Did one of the twelve-year-old girls kill him? It is an amusing thought, but one which Brita casts to the grim blackness of the hungry shadows. Her fingers unclasp from the data chip, as if the memory of her parents can be soiled by the dark thoughts which tarnish her mind.

Maybe it makes me desperate, Brita thinks, shaking her head as she listens to the ceaseless hum of the woods. A soft breeze, the rustling leaves, and the nighttime noises of insects are all which Brita allows herself to think about for a moment, letting the ephemeral sense of serenity wash over her. Running from danger does not make her desperate; it makes her smart. I've been intelligent all my life, Brita thinks, her slumped posture improving slightly at the self-praise. Running from danger is a completely logical thing to do, Brita assures herself, fidgeting with her fingers. She drags the fingernail of her index finger across the cuticle of her thumb, flattening it in a series of short motions. Once she is satisfied by the sensory result, Brita moves on, pushing her cuticles down as she tries to ignore the answer that her train of thought has led her to.

Ultimately, it does not matter how smart or sensible running from the bloodbath makes her. It matters that being unequipped for anything that requires more than her mental strengths and her wit - which, in a forest, means practically everything - makes Brita extremely dependable on being able to find Sorrel and Nyx. She had waited with bated breath to see their faces appear in the sky, but when Edward's face faded into that of the girl from District Six, Brita had exhaled a heavy sigh of relief. I'm not completely alone.

But if they won't accept me, I'm as good as dead. Brita does not need to do the math to understand that the odds are not, in fact, in her favor.

She sighs and rests her head against the solid surface of the tree behind her. It's a ridiculous predicament, Brita decides. What did I do to deserve being here? Her answer is so simple, yet the answer itself gives her no amount of solace. Instead Brita turns over her options in her mind, knowing how hard it will be to rest easy until she has a solid game plan.

Brita's had a plan taking place in her mind ever since the private demonstrations with Head Gamemaker Vetura, one which she bites back on the stage so that her plans are not laid bare and exposed for the rest of the tributes to see. No matter how smart and cunning it would make me look, Brita thinks wryly. I'm going to blow up the Careers.

It's simpler than it sounds, a process Brita has run through her head a hundred times over throughout the day. She remembers snooping around her brother's work computer some nights when he entrusted her to be home alone while he took his girlfriend out for a date. I'm seventeen, Darwin, she thinks, silently cursing her caretaker from miles away. I can totally be trusted home alone. Brita chuckles to herself slowly, the sound masked by the return of the insects, braver now that the booming anthem has ceased.

Darwin designed bombs, simply put. The engineering company he had been employed by was tasked with creating and overseeing the manufacturing of anti-personnel mines by a mysterious Capitolite benefactor, a detail that Brita had long ago overlooked when she could not decrypt the ciphered information. The realization hits her like a train, and she sits up straighter, almost falling out of the tree. Does Darwin work for the Gamemakers? Regardless of how indirect the chain of command might be, the thought of her brother working for the Capitol infuriates her. Especially given that the Capitol fucking kidnapped my parents!

It takes Brita a solid five minutes to calm down after this revelation, and all the while, the resolve to use her brother's weapons to win the Hunger Games grows. They're deactivated now, she knows, but the hardest part is digging into the base of the pedestals that form a ring around the Cornucopia without the Careers noticing. And that's assuming they're camped with all the supplies, Brita thinks remorsefully. Might be easiest to do in the rain, so it's less solid digging. She's no textile expert, but the nylon windbreaker and the repellent sheen on both the outer coat and the black military boots is enough to tell Brita that it's bound to rain more than once.

And when it does, it's simple. If it's raining, it'll be harder to see me. All Brita has to do from there is a series of motions she has drilled into her head, a computerized checklist that could easily turn her into the deadliest tribute left into the arena. Once pressure is applied to the plate, a firing pin is pushed into the detonator, which then explodes and ignites the charge of tetryl explosives. Her plan might hinge on luck and dreams, but if it is indeed her brother's company that discreetly manufactures the landmines used in the Hunger Games - or if they're remotely similar, Brita reminds herself - then she stands a high chance of success. All I have to do is dig them up and twist the automatic safety clip into activation.

It's easy enough, but it still makes Brita dependable on finding District Five as a source of backup and protection. I can play mastermind, but there are too many variables. In a similar vein, Sorrel's distrustfulness has made Brita feel uneasy about re-approaching the duo. But seeing that both of them have survived the bloodbath is rejuvenating, and the thought coaxes a smile out of her.

I should go find them, actually. The arena might be large, but with any luck, they ran in the same direction that she did. Brita tries to remember the positions of her allies, catching a glimpse of Sorrel on the far end, across from her, and Nyx centered roughly in the middle, albeit leaning a little closer to Brita's side. She readjusts herself in the tree, with one hand firmly grasping the branch above her as she crouches, scanning the nighttime sky.

He would have run to Nyx, Brita assesses. None of the stars are familiar to her, but Brita catches a dark shape between the rustling leaves of the canopy around her. It is the crown of a massive tree that she had seen earlier in the day when scouring the forest for a place to hide for the night in case the Careers came hunting. Doesn't hurt to put a little distance between me and them, Brita thinks, hoping it doesn't jeopardize her chances of finding Sorrel and Nyx. But the closer I am to the tree, the further away I am to them.

It is a harrowing decision to slink down the trunk of the tree, heightened by a few missed handholds that leave Brita clenching her teeth and hissing at the pain the scrapes have caused. She picks herself off the forest floor, wincing, and walks stiffly in the direction opposite the massive tree. Now's the best time to find them, Brita decides, trying to be logical. They'll likely be camped out somewhere, tree or otherwise.

And if they're stationary, she's bound to bump into them at some point during the night. It is that singular thought that keeps Brita going, walking like a cat in the shadows of the trees until she reaches a dead end in the form of a brief stretch of grass that plunges into a cliff. The valley beneath is dark, and shrouded in mist and gloom, but a spike of fear wedges itself in Brita's chest when she catches a whispered word on the wind.

Brita strains her ear for a moment, listening to the whispers riding on the stiff breeze that floats through the air. Her heart hammers in her chest at the prospect of confronting any potentially armed tributes.

"... need to… early tomorrow," says one voice, masculine in tone, with a slow and polite disposition that makes Brita crane her neck further to hear.

"Shit, Sorrel… I told you… have a headache!" says an unmistakeably - and clearly exasperated - feminine voice. It's them! Brita can feel the pit weighing in her stomach grow lighter as she realizes that in roughly an hour of searching, she has found her allies.

"Well, I'm sorry… have to eat something..." Sorrel's voice continues, and Brita can almost feel how annoying the situation must be from all the way up on top of the cliffside. Have they been arguing all day? The thought is certainly not a pleasing one, though with Sorrel's unnervingly unflappable disposition, Brita would assume Nyx would have to be the one causing the argument.

On cue, Nyx comes at her district partner with a sharp retort. "It's almost nighttime! Why are you worried?" Her voice might be amplified by the structure of the valley, but Brita is beginning to think that they're close to where she is standing.

A loud shush from Sorrel makes Brita roll her eyes. Although he can clearly get overbearing sometimes, Brita thinks. It's an analysis she picked up when visiting their apartments, and an observation that stuck throughout training and even when watching the interviews from the comfort of her dressing room backstage. Nyx, a great blushing mess, had professed her love for Sorrel, and he simply explained how they met and that he had pined after Nyx for quite some time. I suppose he's a nice guy, but the two of them are like night and day, she thinks with a scoff. A hothead, the Iceman, and me. Guess it's a threesome now, huh?

There is a collective silence beneath her, and Brita sees an inky figure shift in the gloom below her, dropping from a tree on the far side of the valley. Not a bad hiding spot, Brita realizes. Who the hell wants to go down into a valley? Casting a furtive glance behind herself, Brita raises an arm and waves at the distant figure, wishing she could shout at them without fear of disturbing any other tributes that might reside in the nearby woods.

The figure lifts their head, and she knows without a doubt that Sorrel's observant eyes have seen her atop the side of the cliff. Getting down into the valley will be the easy part, then, Brita decides.

Winning Sorrel over for a second time will not be.

Crescentia Monroe (18), District 1 Tribute

10:39 PM

Whatever good feeling had made Crescentia feel enamored with her allies in the afternoon has long since worn off. Seven Careers sit in beleaguered silence on the three fallen logs dragged in by Alton and Castiel from the woods, the rough surface abrasive to Crescentia's fingers when she runs them across the bark. A fire is crackling between them, wispy strands of smoke curling toward a navy-blue sky speckled with stars.

The mood around their campsite at the Cornucopia has been strained all day, centering on whatever had upset Hela earlier in the day. I swear, that girl knows how to hold one hell of a grudge, Crescentia thinks. As a group, it would be much easier if Castiel and Hela were to get along for once, but if their initial contact with District Two during the parade was an indicator, Crescentia knows that it will be a conflict between the two that drives the Career Pack apart.

Like putting a band-aid on a sinking ship, Crescentia snorts, ignoring the strange look she gets from Asher. The chessboard is set, but if the unmasked hostility between Alton and Asher is anything to go by, the only pieces that have moved thus far are the pawns. Crescentia and Siren share a sidelong glance but say nothing, refusing to be the ones to break the awkward tension again. Castiel pokes the fire with a stick, the tip whittled into a point with his knife. A few embers spark up, and suddenly Crescentia wishes she were back home in her lavish house in District One. She and her friends used to take marshmallows and roast them over the smoldering ashes underneath the fireplace grate. What I wouldn't give for a marshmallow, Crescentia groans. After almost an entire day spent in the arena, she already misses the luxurious foods she's grown accustomed to during their time in the Capitol.

And broth isn't going to cut it, she decides, reminiscing unfondly of the broth she and Moses had made for the group by boiling water and bouillon cubes in the thermal canteens they found in a crate someone had already rummaged through. Any crate that was unopened has been stacked in a neat pile just inside the mouth of the Cornucopia, numbering five in total that Crescentia's district partner refuses to open. He's stopped stoking the fire, returning to casually fiddling with his bracelet on the log next to Asher.

"We going to go hunting tomorrow?" Asher asks aloud, his voice gravelly. His downcast eyes never leave the fire, glued to the flickering flames rather than looking anyone in the face. He is met with a brief silence, and Crescentia can feel her skin crawl as it registers that they will be hunting tributes.

Hela nods fervently, her eyes glinting darkly in the firelight. "I've got a promise I have yet to uphold," she says coolly, referencing the end of her interview with Mr. Valentine. "I intend to make good on it," Hela adds firmly, shaking her head in scorn.

Maybe she's upset about not getting a kill during the bloodbath, Crescentia reasons. The Hunger Games mean a lot more to her than the rest of us... It would explain the outburst against Castiel earlier in the day when the latter had wondered aloud where Ruben Bolt, the tall and dangerous tribute from Ten, had run off to after Hela attacked him during the bloodbath. He's the biggest competitor, in their eyes at least, Crescentia muses. Maybe it's the classic Career arrogance they share, but I wouldn't discount anyone else who's left. Not for a second.

After all, it would be just as easy for someone like the twelve-year old from District Eight - or the auburn-haired girl from Three who had turned tail and run away - to find a creative way to kill Crescentia and her alles. Desperation does strange things to people.

"We can go looking, for sure," Castiel says monotonously, gesturing vaguely at the dark smudge of trees that marks the beginning of the woods. "But we should be careful about it, especially this early on…" he trails off, unsure, as Asher stands and dusts off his hands on his pants.

"See you in the morning then," Asher says, voice betraying his distrustfulness. I feel nervous too, having to sleep next to the others. With four trained killers, and Asher - who has mentioned his experiences on the streets more than once - sleeping in the Cornucopia, Crescentia is worried about herself and Siren should something occur during the night. Would it be better to sleep near the back, then? For more protection? Or in the front, for an easier escape?

Moses gives Asher a half-hearted wave, scuffing his boot in the dirt that has long since dried from the rain. I guess it helps that they think I'm trained, Crescentia understands. Even though I didn't kill either of District Five… Despite any moral objections she has to killing, Crescentia knows that the only way to prove her false truths is to kill another tribute. Otherwise they might find out that I'm not trained at all… Castiel's come close a few times. It takes a lot of self-restraint for Crescentia not to smack herself in the forehead for her mistakes, especially when they come priced at the ultimate cost.

If the others find out, it's game over.

Alton gives Moses' hand a little squeeze before heading into the golden horn to join the boy he had been hostile with all day, yawning and stretching on his way. It's been the first of surely many long days to come, and with limited food, sleep is the next best cure for a growling stomach. Siren stands and sits on the vacant log next to Hela, speaking in a tone low enough that Crescentia can't hear her. Both girls get up and walk a short way outside the circle of logs, stopping where the sickly yellow light ends on the grass and fades into dark gray shadows.

Crescentia exhales slowly from her nose, trying to control her breathing. Today has been insanely stressful, she thinks ruefully. It was nothing like Crescentia had imagined, not when she volunteers over the chosen trainee. Not when her father yells at her in the confines of the Justice Building for her decision to 'throw her life away,' nor her mother's disdain or her younger sister finally sticking up for Crescentia. Silver Hail thinks I can do this, she reminds herself. My sister believes I can lie and blackmail my way through them all.

Her dancing partner, too - though nothing romantic had ever sparked between them - had come to visit her, Turmalin Lopez resting his forehead against hers in a baffled sort of silence. 'You're right,' her friends tell her. 'The odds are the same for anyone… but you're playing with fire, Crescentia.' It's a fire far deadlier than any spur-of-the-moment shoplifting, far deadlier than a stone cold dinner and an uncaring pair of parents. Crescentia tucks her knees against her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her boots on the log. She stares listlessly into the fire, trying to ignore the low murmuring of the other two girls, nor the crackling that seems almost deafening in the eerie silence of the night.

It's all a show, a show of confidence and bravery, of stupidity and elation, sorrow and remorse. And this pageant will henceforth and forevermore be known as the Hunger Games, Crescentia thinks, the words burned into her brain each year when their escort reads the Treaty of Treason. Crescentia is fully aware of her self-esteem, and no matter how fake a sense of confidence might feel, she knows that in an ugly world, it will make her stand stronger and shine brighter. She may not be deserving of confidence, but it is something Crescentia hopes to find within herself once this pageant is over and done with; a confidence that society doesn't demand, but rather one which can make her feel successful. Even though she hates how run-of-the-mill her middle name is, Crescentia wouldn't mind being able to shine a little brighter if it means she can survive. So I can prove that I'm right, Crescentia muses, the thought turning the corners of her lips into a soft smile that she hides expertly behind her arm.

"Hey Crescentia," Castiel says softly, taking a seat on the log beside her just as Hela and Siren wrap up whatever conversation they were having. Crescentia's eyes widen at seeing Hela give Siren a stiff side-hug, but she snaps her attention back to Castiel. "Hela and Asher want to go hunting for tributes tomorrow, but I was wondering if you'd want to come with me," he explains slowly. "I don't think there are any alliances left that are bigger than a pair, and I know we can take care of any of them if it comes down to it." He searches her eyes with his own, and Crescentia understands that behind the dark blue eyes, it is a guise. He's not asking.

"Night, guys," Siren interjects, with Moses flashing her a small smile before she disappears into the still shadows of the Cornucopia. Crescentia raises a hand in acknowledgement, but says nothing. I'll sleep next to her, wherever she goes, Crescentia decides. Out of all of them, she's the one I trust the most.

"Sure thing, Castiel," she agrees, relaxing her legs and placing them firmly on the ground again. "And the others?" Crescentia asks quietly.

"I think they'll be fine," he nods. "Something tells me they won't mind playing defense." There is a hint of bitterness in his voice, as if it makes him jealous, and Crescentia is reminded of his bracelet. A broken promise, no doubt. Castiel stands again, glancing at Hela's dark silhouette, standing alone in the darkness, and a shiver runs down her spine at the look in his eyes. "Sounds good?"

"Yeah," Crescentia says simply. "Lets see who we can find tomorrow," she grins, trying to add an edge of Career ferocity to her voice. Castiel's eyes crinkle, and he gives her a wink before slipping away into the Cornucopia to join the others in whatever sleeping accommodations they've laid out. His absence leaves a stone to grow in the pit of her stomach. Does he trust me? Does he believe me, or is he going to dispose of me in the woods once we're far enough away? Out of all her competitors, it is Castiel who worries her the most. He could flip on a dime if he knows I'm lying.

Crescentia doesn't want to see the hurt on his face when he figures it out.

"What do you think she's thinking about?" Moses asks Crescentia, his voice kept still and low from the log next to hers. His dark skin gleams in the firelight, a beautiful umber color that is not too unlike the burgundy red of her tribute clothing, a color that a Crescentia back in District One would fawn over at the dress shops and boutiques.

She looks at him with a confused expression, before following his gaze. It lands solely on his district partner Hela, with her long dark hair now unbraided as she stares into the gloomy woods. "Hela?" Crescentia asks, trying to keep a straight face. Conversation has always come natural to her, but if she can avoid pissing people off, it is always the ideal situation. "What she's thinking about?"

Whatever it is, it might be good, she thinks wishfully. I mean, Hela hugged someone. That has to be a first. Crescentia folds her arms for a moment, and then with a slightly turned over smile, raises an eyebrow. "What do you think she's thinking about, Moses?"

"Snowflakes," Moses replies quickly, assuredly.

"Snowflakes?" Crescentia repeats, frowning. "Why snowflakes? Get to the point," she says, nostrils flaring as she is getting a little frustrated by Moses skirting around the point.

"Because she knows that every snowflake is supposed to be different, right?" Moses keeps his gaze directly on his district partner's silhouette, her arms folded behind her back. A slight edge has built in his voice, one which causes her to sit up straighter, the fire now reduced to dying orange embers and ashy flakes which float into the darkening air.

It takes his next words a minute to sink in, but when they do, her jaw tightens and they lock eyes in a silent sort of agreement.

"And how unlike a snowflake, Hela isn't special at all."

Axel Richthofen (16), District 6 Tribute

11:43 PM

She deserved it. She had it coming, Axel thinks bitterly, curling his lip slightly. He shakes his head and sighs, the hard exhale being the first sound he has uttered since vanishing from the battlefield this morning, leaving the carnage to unfold behind him. The penance for Axel's dirtiest deeds may have come early, but he chooses to thwart death's cold embrace out of spite instead. I'll outlast the rest of these fuckers and that'll be it. The exhale is a raspy noise, and one which uncomfortably fills the complete silence around him. Axel breathes through his nose, quelling the chance that the noise attracts unwanted attention, and removes himself from where he had been positioned. Axel had been reclined against the rough, weathered bark of some nameless tree or other, making sure he had a clear view of the sky when the death recap was broadcast across the arena.

It's a strange feeling, Axel thinks, to connect faces with the cannons I heard earlier. But in the end, each and every one of the five dead tributes had it coming to them, each laden with the traits and flaws that he believes earns them eternal damnation.. Especially Mercedes, he thinks, remembering the way her shoulders had tensed up in annoyance while they waited in line to be interviewed. God, she was irritable, Axel thinks with a grin, a manic and breathy laugh forming behind his teeth. Ever since their conversation on the rooftop during the second night of training, when Axel's district partner Mercedes voices her discontentment with their alliance, he's been plotting her demise. 'I don't know if allying with you was the right choice for me, Axel,' he thinks, twisting her words an octave higher into a mockery of themselves. 'I don't know if I can trust you like I thought I could.'

Axel pinches the bridge of his nose. Well, welcome to the party. Mercedes wasn't the first, and if Axel somehow manages to get out of this hellhole, she certainly will not be the last. I knew she was a lost cause since the moment we landed in this piece-of-shit paradise. Axel braces his boot against the trunk of the tree, finding a tentative purchase in one of the ridges running through the bark. He braces his hands on the branch where he had been sitting, and slowly inches his way down the height of the tree, hands trembling involuntarily.

And now the bitch isn't breathing.

Serves her right. It pleases Axel to no end that he managed to succeed in his goal of raiding Mercedes' supplies and disposing of his ally on one fell swoop. Even better, Axel didn't even need to be the one holding the metaphorical knife. One of the meathead Careers probably did it. Either the muscular olive-skinned boy from Four took care of Mercedes, or the lithe redhead from District Eleven did, but either way, she is a nuisance he is glad to finally be rid of.

Axel draws his overcoat closer around him, the black military-grade jacket blending in well with the shadows. He supposes that he is one of the luckier tributes, as the Payne's gray coloration of his district number and nylon jacket also blends seamlessly with the gloominess of the chilly nighttime forest, making him nearly invisible to the naked eye.

Axel scans the area for any signs of movement before creeping out of the treeline, feelings of paranoia keeping him rooted in place as he makes sure that the coast is clear of any present danger. Below him, at the foot of a downward slope of grass, is a winding river. The water is lazy, moving in a slow fashion, and the water is a dark onyx blue that seems to refuse to let the moonlight penetrate its surface, remaining instead a dark inky black. The river is a danger to have set up camp beside, as the short stretch of grass before the water's edge is - no matter how you put it - a calling card for danger. Everything has a price, but Axel is unwilling to pay the toll of injury that might be demanded from him should a Career chance upon this stretch of river.

Just because there's nowhere to hide doesn't mean they have an advantage, Axel muses, mouth pressed into a thin frown Of course, Axel is smart enough to understand how stupid jeopardizing his own life is. The very reason he ditched Mercedes during the bloodbath is the same reason he will avoid anyone who isn't easy pickings. It's a survivalist mentality that guaranteed he lived to see the sunrise on the streets, and despite the towering industrial buildings being replaced by trees that scrape the sky in their place, the mentality remains steadfast and unchanging, influenced solely by the whims of adrenaline.

Axel is quiet as he dips his hands into the river, his thin fingers gliding effortlessly into the water, breaking the still marble surface and sending gleaming ripples to create rings around his hands. It is another sound that melts into the fold, a myriad of quiet nighttime noises like the humming of crickets or the rustling of leaves creating a blanketed hum that Axel finds numbing. He drags his fingers through the water, collecting a handful of river-water that Axel presses to his face, scrubbing the thin layer of sweat from his brow and his sunken cheekbones. It is a relaxing sensation to feel the coolness of the water on his skin, one that helps Axel clear his mind from the dark thoughts he has heard whispered in his ear all day.

There is a small gust of wind to his back, and Axel whirls around, spraying droplets of water from his hands. A metal canister rests behind him, silver parachute still attached. A bubble of laughter rises in his throat, and Axel dries his fingers by using the water to slick his hair back out of his eyes. I'm shocked that someone wanted to sponsor me, he thinks. After a less-than-memorable interview, Axel was hoping that the Capitol would understand that he does not wish to be a pawn, to act like a chess piece in their annual pageant of blood. They leave me alone, and I won't bother them. But this is unexpected, he thinks, turning over the canister in his hands. It is then, under the light of the ghostly moon, that Axel sees the faint ash green coloration to the metal. He remembers the color on Mercedes when the two boarded the hovercraft that would transport them to the arena, and before they were blindfolded and led their separate ways to the launching rooms like cattle; lastly, Axel remembers the ash green color soaked with rain and blood as he leaves her crippled form to die in the slick mud, wrestling her bag from underneath her prone body. See you in hell when this is all over, he remembers himself saying, the final words that she hears having dripped off Axel's tongue like the priceless rubies they were. The canister is not meant for Axel. Instead, it is a memory of his district partner, a sponsor gift no doubt lined up and ready to be sent once the killing had ended.

He has no moral qualms to opening the canister. It is a game to survive. To lie, to cheat and kill, Axel thinks rather ruthlessly, not a place to make lifelong friends. And he's always been good at the former opposed to the latter. Inside the canister, Axel finds a loaf of bread sitting on top of a package of stark white bandages. Pricey, he thinks sarcastically, lifting the wheel-shaped loaf out of its casket. It is a dark rye bread, supposed to mimic the kinds of tires that the automobile factories manufacture to fit Peacekeeper humvees and mayoral limousines, and just looking at it makes him feel sick inside.

Not my fault I got used to the luxury, Axel thinks furiously, setting the gift down on the grass, the loaf wrapped in the linen napkin that it had been sent in. But why do they have to send us the same shit we eat every day of our lives? Would it kill the Gamemakers to send me some fancy Capitol bread? Axel groans, rolling his eyes as he picks up the canister. Why did I get Mercedes' gift? He wonders. Do they think I'm the next best thing? It makes Axel angry, to think that he could be second-best to his district partner with her simpering smiles and her patronizing glares. He grabs the canister and throws it, without thinking, into the river. It makes a large splash, and a spray of droplets hits Axel in the face before it is carried under the lazy current and swept away elsewhere. How dare they remind me of her. It doesn't matter that his drugged mentor, Axelle, sent him another loaf of bread just after the bloodbath, an unintelligible scrawl tagged to the inside of the canister. It matters that Mercedes would have had Capitolite sponsors like this one, whereas he wouldn't.

If she received this in front of me, I'd probably kill her for it. He does not balk at the thought, instead focusing the slow build-up of hatred into how thrilling it would have been to dispose of her himself. 'You don't apologize for the wicked thoughts, boy,' Nandan Yorusco had told him once, after Axel had taken the lighter as his prize from the unconscious debtor as the man bled into the streets. "You hone them," he whispers aloud, the hoarse words that finish his employer's sentence sticking to the dry outside of his lips. Axel trudges back to the riverbank, collecting the contents of the sponsor gift, swatting at a small crowd of fireflies as he does so. Though he has half a loaf left in the tree with the rest of his supplies, Axel can't help but take a bite of the dark rye bread as he leaves the inky river behind and travels back to his perch in the woods. This time, the bread does not taste like dirty paste. This time, the bread - though it goes down dry without a sip of water - tastes like a fractional kind of victory, as if Axel has earned the spoils of war through promising Mercedes her comeuppance.

Axel reaches into the air and closes a fist around one of the fireflies, a quick motion that crushes the bug against his palm. When he unfurls his fingers, Axel is pleased to see the luminescent paste taint his skin. He returns to the base of his tree, the forest floor shrouded in shadows cast by the fragmented light of the moon. Axel stows the sponsor gifts inside his coat, wedged between the nylon windbreaker and the outer jacket as he climbs the tree again, hauling himself back to his resting place. It would hurt like a bitch if I fell out, Axel thinks, for once grateful for the insomnia that plagues the later hours of the night. He's always been grateful, too, for the few hours that he manages to get a night, but exhaustion is bound to catch up to him at some point in the arena. For now, though, the solitude of the forest is an entertaining sort of loneliness.

Axel leans his back against the tree, drawing the hood of his windbreaker and throwing it over his head. The lethargic gesture is a comforting one, one which makes Axel feel less exposed to the eyes of the nation. He then draws one knee closer to his chest and folds his arms, hoping that the cameras pick up on the nonchalance and anarchism of his gesture. You can't make me feel afraid. Axel grins, taking his lighter out of his pocket and flicking it open and closed. His token makes a small clicking sound as the metal locks into itself.

He's been dancing with the devil all his life, and the arena is no different. The morning will come, and Axel will be stuck in the same place, vying for the victor's crown. Axel finds solace in the fact that he knows how to crush a windpipe, how to stab someone in the lung so their screams are muted and breathy. But there is an art to death that he has yet to master.

And maybe the Games will teach me, he thinks vehemently, yearning for the price of comeuppance that each tribute will pay. It'll come around to everyone, Axel grins.

Everyone will get their six feet under.

ALLIANCES:

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

Angsty Teen Romance (Plus One?): Sorrel (D5M), Nyx (D5F), Brita (D3F)?

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

Shooketh: Tangaria (D11F), Mariela (D12F)

Flying Solo: Axel (D6M)

Aggression and Sunshine: Darnius (D8M)

From Ember to Flame: Halley (D8F)

The "Apex Predator": Ruben (D10M)

Violet Violence: Evie (D10F)

Author's Note: … yep. I'm a disappointment. That's pretty much it for now.