DISTRICT 1 MALE- DANELIEUX LEON

Night is a strange cub. He runs so hard for a long time, almost expecting Danelieux to run after him. And when he notices that Danel won't chase him, he runs back to him, sitting down in front of him. Back and forth, again and again, Night does it over. He runs, comes back and waits, and then does it again.

"I've never been a good tracker, I won't find you!" Danelieux continuously yells this at the cub, talking to him as if he can understand the boy's voice.

Danelieux doesn't mind it; Night is like the puppy he never had, even if he is a feline. And although he doesn't run after Night, he walks behind the cub.

Danel still has Corradhin's machete, and he continues to do snake trails as he walks. At points, the blade gets clogged with mud and he has to clean it. Almost exactly like yesterday's doing, except that this time he's not running away, he's looking for his allies.

Corradhin Cole, Mr. Corrosion; Amani Alurai, Miss. Allure. His allies, his friends. The thought that there are only six people left petrifies him. Not because the pool is so small, but because of who makes the pool. He never met Neri, and doesn't care to know her. He doesn't care for Amelia either, there are no feelings toward her even if they have a truce. Reed is another story; he's far too young, yet far too good. No, he doesn't give one damn about them. He doesn't care that they too are people.

All he cares about are the boy and girl from Four, and the boy from One; he and his allies, no one more and no one less. He hates to admit it, but he knows the tension between them is higher than their odds to survive. Any one of them can break, mentally or physically.

Corradhin, once he gets his machete back, could decide to snap. He could choose to gather his weapons and leave.To leave without a goodbye or good luck. He could look back at his allies and see them as nothing more than that, allies. He could see the tears in his partner's eyes and the dryness in Danel's.

Amani, whenever she chooses to, could decide to snap. She could gather everything she would have otherwise left behind. She could leave with a silent trail down her eyes and with a puff of air. She could look back at the two boys, both with hard faces. One would have a scowl, glaring at her. The other would have a stern face, yet one full of comprehension.

Danelieux, at any point, could decide to snap. He could walk away, right now. He has all his stuff and some extras. He even has a protector, his cub. But he would never do it, he could never do it. He doesn't ever want to live with the image of their faces, silently asking why he did it, why he's leaving. He wouldn't be able to stare at the girl's eyes, he would never be able to simply glance at the boy. He won't decide to snap.

But when the time comes, it won't be his choice.

~

"There he is, there he is!" Corradhin, like always, is making a big show. "Amani, what did I tell you, he probably went to go have some fun with Neri. Or maybe even Amelia!"

Amani's eyes are rimmed with almost falling tears, "Corradhin, that isn't funny. He may have been injured and we wouldn't have known," she faces Danelieux, "You are okay, aren't you?"

Sincerity floods his tongue, "Yeah, a bit shaken, but I'm alright." At that moment, little Night runs at him, his paws on Danelieux's back. Danel falls on his face, the cub sternly pounding on his chest.

In the shortest time possible, Amani has her knife at the cub's throat, and Corradhin has his trident at the ready. "Stop!" Maybe he should have warned them about his little friend, but it's too late now. "He's innocent, and he's mine. Leave him," emotion floods his voice. He's grown attached to the cub, he doesn't care who knows it.

"Where in the freaking world did you get a tiger cub?" It's the first time in ages that Corradhin's voice is laced with feeling, with anything other than a scream or command. It's laced with amusement.

Now it's Danelieux's turn to be confused. How did the cub appear to him, and no one else? "I don't know, honestly. When I woke up, he was on me and licking me. It was a fright, but it's passed now."

"Are you sure he's safe?" Amani was slowly moving her knife away from the cub, who was just staring back at her, curiously eyeing her hair. He probably wants to tug at it, it's been a while since he's played with long hair.

A sigh escapes his lips, "Yes, he's fine. He hasn't hurt me and I doubt he has it in him to hurt you guys either. Please, don't worry about Night, he's harmless." He's being generous, he truly doesn't want them to worry over a tiger cub when they should be worrying about who to kill off.

Or whether or not they're going to leave me.

"Did you happen to name him Night because he's stealthy?" Corradhin's question is an off one.

Baffled, Danel asks, "What do you mean by stealthy? He's not a human, if you haven't noticed; he's a cub."

"I mean," Corradhin explains as he bends down and retrieves something from Night's mouth, "Where did he get this from? It's real silver too! Or at least it looks like it."

Hurriedly, Danelieux snatches the chain from Corra. From the look of it, it's not a chain, but an amulet. The three surround the amulet, passing it back and forth, eyes cast down in a fastidious manner, trying to get everything in. They try to look for anything, a name, a district number. Anything to trace it back to the owner. I've never been a good tracker...

His finger traces something, something so faint it's not seen. He trails the lines, engraved to form some type of seal. It's invisible to the naked eye. But, he raises it to the sun, angling it to get some form of glare to reflect on the silver. And when he sets it right to his eyes, he automatically sees one letter. A giant "V" is engraved in the seal. Around it, it seems, there is a single mansion, composed of shacks around it. When he shits it from side to side, he also sees an "I" and an "O", some form of rays surrounding the giant house, and some blobs here and there.

Danelieux tries to make some sense of the engravings: VIO? VOI? Voices? IOV, IVO? Ivory? OIV; OVI?Obviously? Nothing clicks in his mind, the letters don't make any form of sense, of comprehension. He's about to toss it to Night, the amulet obviously useless.

That is until Amani speaks up, "Is that an 'I' or a one?" she asks.

Now that he realizes, that supposed "O" is more of an oval, not a circle. The seemingly "I" has a forward slash towards the top. The "V" could still be a letter, and not five. Yet, nothing clicks in his brain. He doesn't make the connection between the one, the zero, the "V". Between the lone mansion, the huts, the blob like animals, with the sun's rays warming all of the plantation. Maybe even its inhabitants. He makes nothing of it, he can't piece any of it together.

Corradhin manages to do so. "Give it here," he demands, back in his usual verve. His eyes rake it once and he says, "I'm surrounded by idiots!" He mutters to himself as he throws it to Amani.

Amani cocks her head to the side, surprised as to why he threw it at her. And frankly, Danel is also. She, too, glances over it. It seems like she's going to shrug it off, but then her eyes open up widely. "It's a ten, that's still a 'V!'" The way her face is flushing, and her breaths becoming rapid, it's almost as if she walked in on someone who was nude.

"Quit playing games," Danelieux hates being left out of their little mind conversations; he resents it completely. Especially since the amulet technically belongs to him. "Whose is it?"

"Think. It's obvious, man. Think about it!"

"V," a ten. A ten, a letter. A silver amulet: one with a farm and animals, with the iridescent sun. A home: a District; a name: an initial. "Holy! It can't be. Can it?"

It can't be hers. How did it get here? I don't even know her!

The trio is smiling stupidly. The amulet of a dead girl shouldn't give them any form of joy, but it does. Corradhin kneels down by Night, fluffing his golden and black fur. "You sly dog...um, cat. You sly cat you!"

Amani also kneels down, letting the cub place is paws on her chest. Almost as if Night is a domesticated animal, one that's had human contact, not one that just happened to find Danel in the middle of the jungle while he was sleeping.

All they think about is their find, or Night's find. They don't consider the important things; they don't ask the real questions. They don't realize that the anecdote of a girl's short life is at play; the girl who was loving, kind, ambitious anddead.

Why is it in the arena, when it should be in the benign girl's grave?

"Bellona retained her soft features, kind even in death..."

Why is it in the arena, when it should be right on top of the wound that ended her life?

"...even with a pole sticking thorough her abdomen."

Why is it in the arena, when it should be kept as an artifact of the Games that will live forever?

"Other than myself, it's the only reminder of home I have left. Especially here in this cold harsh arena."

Who, what, where, when, how, and why. The only ones that matter are those at the beginning and at the end: Who? Why?

~

"We should start a fire soon," Corra simply states. "There's a few of us left, the nice weather won't last long."

They have done nothing all day except chase Night and talk about home. It's easier for the pair from Four. They have an ocean back home; they emerged from one into the arena. Their weather was humid, their canopies heavy; the weather has been warm but cool, and the jungle provides sanctuary.

For Danelieux? Well, it hasn't been difficult. He just thinks of the reverse. One is a district of mountain terrain with desert blotches. It is full of dry hills, of cacti and succulents growing everywhere. While his plants provided him water, their backyards provided the same sustenance but with salinity.

It's always baffling just how different he is from his friends, how different he is from all the tributes. Except Allium. But then again, she wasn't even...real. She was a decoy, one meant to distract everyone from the real threats. They're the ones who still remain, after all.

His feet wade in the water, the waves lapping at his ankles. He hums the same song a bit, the one from the previous day, as his toes curl in the mud and as he fingers the amulet off of his neck. I'll name it Danelieux's Song. Oh, who am I kidding? The name will never catch! He pops open the locket, colored pictures that haven't tarnished shine in his eyes. A kind eyed man with a contagious grin. A woman with curly hair, an evasive smile. Two boys, around the same age, with earthly skin and deep dimples. Her family...

"I'll go," he responds to Corradhin's request as he stands. Danel has found a sanctuary in there, in the jungle full of firewood, the one so different from his home. It's also where he found Night, or where the cub found him. Where he began to sing again, to feel alive again. It's where he began to just feel and to just be.

"Corradhin!"

The voice is high pitched, and Danelieux's mind drifts to Amani. But why isn't she calling both of them? Oh, shut it! He thinks, she only has time to call one of us.

"Beckett?" Corra and Amani ask at the same time. Amani? Aren't you the one calling for help?

"Corradhin, help me! I'm hurt. Corra!" The voice is starting to sound familiar, now that it sounds more masculine.Who? It must be Beckett Malen, Corradhin's lover. Why? He's in danger. But why is he here?

"Corradhin," Amani tries to push him back. "It could be a trap."

He's hesitant, realizing their situation. The pool is only so big! But another screech, another call for help, rips through the arena. And the birds are chirping; the voice is so loud and powerful, so dynamic, that the birds flee from their nests. Singing for their sky; their wings take them deep into the horizon.

"Let me go, Amani. I'll hurt you if you don't let me go!" The same venom that had been taken out of Corradhin is back. And the human speaks; Corradhin pushes past her, glancing back at both of them with no form of expression. No goodbye or good luck is given.

She whips her head back, hands searching for her knives, "We should follow him. Let's go." Talking for you and I; and now she adds him into her plans, now that Corra is gone.

"Okay," he doesn't hesitate to agree. Corradhin is a rubber band waiting to snap. But the voice of Beckett Malen cut the cord before the tension could manage to become a single thread.

He's about to whistle at Night when another voice cuts him off. This one is definitely more feminine, more recognizable. "Amani!"

If the two girls were to placed beside each other, their iris colors would be the only difference. The older one, the one that's dead, would have electric blue eyes, yet they would be full of a gray dullness. And the sky continues; her eyes would be the color of the calm before the storm. Of murky, but clear, waters and atmosphere.

"Ana? Anastasia?" The one that Danelieux knows, the one who is with him, has her eyes wide open. To be uncontained; her eyes are those of the sky they see now. So blue, so alive, so eccentric. "Danel, we have to go. Right now!" And you and I; yet again, she decides to incorporate him.

This time, he's hesitant. Two of them, two of the most important people to his allies, have returned. This all screams: Trap! Come and get them! Two traps for the life of two! Or in this case, three. I won't let them die.

"I...I can't." He hates the words as they leave him, he wishes he could swallow them up. Continue to feign; no, Danelieux is not doing that. He is being sincere. His simple words are used prosaically, yet full of metaphorical truth. I can't help.

Amani, tears now brimming her eyes for the second time that day, sprints faster than he's ever seen her. It seems as if she fails to breathe as she runs, nothing will tire her down and nothing will stop her until she reaches her sister.

Lucky me! His allies could die right now, all because they snapped. Try to find someone for me, Gamemakers. Try to be people of guile, of some trickery and wit. My mom is dead, she was never a tribute. You have no one, I have no one. Except for my cub and this amulet.

Night sits beside him as Danelieux puts his socks and shoes back on. The cub is static, he fails to move other than the usual boring of eyes and wagging of his tail. Nothing in his body language alerts Danelieux of any danger.

And perhaps it's because she was innocuous, because she is innocuous. She was never one to slash with her knives, to bare her teeth in a fight, to harden her eyes. She was one of careful patching, to smile sincerely, to lighten the room by her mere look.

It's no wonder why Night wouldn't register her as a threat, no one seemed to do so when she was alive.

A girl from Ten? They would ask.

Pathetic, some would reply. Dead on day one, others would reply. She's only living because of her allies, people would say.

But just how right, how wrong, were they?

I think we'll be great friends, a girl with eyes full of sadness once said to her. Best friends, she had replied. Of course they would get close, the arena had few good people to befriend, and she was one of them.

If Anastasia likes you, a boy with a broken smile once said, I'll come to love you. Of course he would love her, the arena had less who were willing to love and reciprocate that verve, and she was one of them.

It wasn't enough for the Capitol. They wanted betrayal; they wanted malice. They wanted retribution. She would never give it to them. She would be the friend, the sister, to the end; she would be the benevolent, the ambitious one, to the end. That is what she gave to them, to those on the inside and the outside; to the ones who knew her and the ones who failed to do so. She even gave it to Death. Another old friend that reaped from time to time. Was it willingly? No, not to the slightest degree. When she saw the light, she assumed it was the one of hope. Not the light of eternal rest, but the one who acted with skullduggery. The one who tricked her with its underhanded behavior. The one that acted like a source of life, but happened to drain it all from her.

Yet, here she is again. The girl who changed, is changing, "was" to "is." The girl from Ten is present. She looks exactly the same as she had in her hell, in her pre-hell. Her skin glowing like ivory, still caramelized after a bloody death. Her curls are still full, dark locks like ink in the green background. Her figure is everything that yells willowy. The loss of weight from the arena, the softness that was taken from her, isn't present. Her eyes, her second most attractive feature, are compelling. They are still dark like warm coffee, but still full of hazel light. Full of warmth from every heated beverage combined. Her smile remains static, fixed for eternity. The crinkles around her cheeks and eyes, her deep dimples, her genuine stretch of lips. All of it makes her. She hasn't been desecrated.

Her features, however dull and common to others, are everything. Useless by themselves, they complete the enigma of a tribute. She was never dull or common, she still isn't. She's much more. She will continue to do so. And the fields are growing; vibrant, eccentric, alive.

"Night," she simply says. My voice will never compare. No matter if he's singing his song, Danelieux's Song, or composing a new edition of her ballad. Sprouting for their lives; a simple huff of her breath will be a melody to his singing. In the strangest way possible, he will become the one with a cacophonous harmonizing voice and she will be the one with a euphonious flat tone.

"Night," she repeats again. This time louder, making sure the cub hears her, "My friend! I've been looking for you. Where have you been?" He hopes she isn't ignoring him on purpose. That, for one, would be awkward, but also so unlike her. He greedily wants to receive one of her grins, one of her cheery comments.

The cub doesn't respond to her, but leaps into her arms instead, his tiny paws playing with her hair as he licks her neck and face. Amani's hair! He realizes, that's why he wanted to play with it. It wasn't because it was curious thing to Night, something bizarre and new. But because it was familiar. Both of the girls with dark locks that flutter in the wind.

"Who are you?" And the humans stare; although the question came out with a kind tone, her eyes seem distant, fixed on something rather than his own eyes.

I'm Danelieux de Leon. "I'm the tribute from One," it's the simplest thing he can say. She won't know him anyway. She still stares at him, questioning his simple fact.

"I can see: you've got the blond hair and green eye thing going. But who are you?" He wasn't expecting that. He was expecting something more...Bellona-ish. Maybe a hug and a secret on survival.

He shrugs and his shirt goes up with his movement. "Oh, I'm Danelieux de Leon. I figured you would be bothered by knowing my name." He immediately pulls it down, but he does it a bit too fast. He does it in a way in which his shirt, a V-neck, goes down farther down than it should. It exposes his neck; it exposes the chain, and the amulet.

"No, you're a thief," accusation rolls off of her tongue.

What? "Excuse me?"

Her voice is no longer like gentle waves lapping at a shore, her skin is no longer glowing with ivory shine, and she is very obviously not the Bellona Viellana the districts came to love. The one people still idolized from that first line said about her.

"Ahh, here we have it folks. Wasn't surprised to see a sweet one in this pile of psychopaths and blood killers."

"Well, Daniel Lux Delion," she begins. Oh, no. Not her too! "I'm Bellona Viellana. I'm the girl from Ten who lived farther than expected, far longer than the Career pack did. I'm the one who dislikes the sin, but loves the sinner. And right now, I don't like that you're lying to me."

What? Lying to you how? "Excuse me?" He has no other words to offer. What does she mean? Danelieux de Leon may be quiet and reserved, intelligent and a brute, but he will never categorize himself under "liar" or "thief." Never.

"I won't explain myself twice; you should know that by now," she pauses, choosing her next words carefully, "Another thing you should take a note on, I love a chase." She doesn't have to say anything more, because the message is loud and clear: run. There is no doubt that it is all a trap.

Idiot! He scolds himself as he runs, leaping over fallen vines and broken branches. I knew it was a trap, yet I still hesitated to chop her head off.

"Just like Allium," she teases, her malicious voice playing in sing song. "You wished you could have beheaded me, just like you did to your partner!"

Shut up. The chase is still on. He's running up hill, up a slope that is not too steep just yet. His axes slap his thighs as he runs, pounding on them as if his legs were drums. I could have defended myself. He could have, but he didn't. It's too late to turn around, to run down the slope, to rewind it all. To give her the amulet, which is why the chase is going on anyway. It's too late to have left it with Night.

It's too late to call for Amani.

It's not too late for that. Amani has watched her sister fall off the coves and into the water. She's watched her sister's skull crack open and dent at her nose again. She's watched as the clear water turned dark purple and murky. She's watched her sister's last breath. Worst of all, she watched herself push her sister. Down the coves that mutilated her face, that tinged the water, which caused the last breath. Tears brim her eyelids.

It's too late to call for Corradhin.

It's not too late for that. Corradhin has watched his lover burn by the trees. He's watched his clothes catch the fire first. He's watched his hair singe off, all the fluff that he adored gone. He's watched the skin bare pores and grow dark. He's heard the agonized screams and coughs that surrounded Beckett. He's watched his lover's last breath. Worst of all, he watched himself light up the match that caused the fire, which lead to the pores and melting, adding to the screams and coughs, leading to last breath. He walked away without a goodbye.

It's not too late for both of them, and it's not too late for Danelieux. So he stops and turns around. He runs down the slopes, back into the heavy jungle with insects that never sleep. And the fields continue; the arena's area seems to expand. He swears there are ten new vines for each single one he cut when running up.

To be alive; one of them won't. And it all rests on his shoulders. Whether he meets up with the ones who were on time, or whether she falls to the skullduggery hands of Death once more.

And you and I; yes, Danelieux and Bellona. The two most different and diverse tributes, people, put together for a final standoff. Perhaps it is a message to Danelieux.

This is what a real tribute looks like, Tender would say. Not a boy who sings and cries for his mother when no one is near. She could have lived...you shouldn't live.

It's her rightful place, Cadelon would say. She deserves a second chance at life and you don't even deserve your own one chance.

Prove me right, Danelieux, Odysseus would say. Prove to the world that a girl from Ten is much more stronger, simply better, than a boy from One. A girl who's never trained, who's never killed put against a boy who has trained, who has killed. Both against each other. Prove me right, show she is the supreme.

"A stroke of bad luck killed this gentle soul. Many people bowed their heads in respect when this beautiful soul died," the final words said over her cannon ring in his ears. Danel doesn't know why or how he's memorized them. All he know is that they're replaying in his mind.

"She never saw the spear coming. Her and her allies had no clue a demon such as the Wendigo would be able to hold a weapon, and neither did the Gamemakers." A mistake. That is what killed her. Not her lack of skill, her lack of strength or thought. She had all three, and she still has them in her blood. They're pumping in her, persuading to kill her final enemy: the weak link in the arena.

"Wisteria blames herself for this death but she doesn't know why."

I could have saved her, Wisteria, the wicked woman herself, would say. It was all bad timing, all bad luck.

"Danelieux? Don't run away," her voice is still teasing, still jocund and kind, "I just want my amulet, and to kill you!"

"Leave alone!" He shouts at all of them, at the Gamemakers, at the host, and the dead tribute. At the mutt that's on his trail. Leave her alone. He wants them to leave the girl alone, the girl who is a friend and a lover. The one who isvibrant, eccentric, alive.

He ducks suddenly, and she zips past him. She's like a raccoon caught digging around for scarps; her eyes large and surprised. She doesn't react to her actions. It's not a mistake, this is based on skill.

And this time, it isn't a mercy killing. It's one of vengeance. The tomahawk soars in the air, and before she can duck, it impales her. Right over her heart. Right where the spear had hit her. The wound reopens physically, but he wonders if it reopens mentally. Perhaps emotionally to the man with gentle eyes, the woman with a curly mane, and the boys with heavily pigmented skin.

She, however, doesn't scream with hurt. She doesn't waste her time crying and screaming. She claws at her neck, searching for the amulet. It's not vengeance, but mercy, that allow him to open the amulet, pictures placed in front of her darkening eyes. She almost smiles.

Once he removes his tomahawk, the amulet will be placed right above her wound. Her spear wound, her tomahawk wound; there is no difference. She doesn't give her last breath to useless words. Continue to lie; she doesn't.

Her last words are given to the truth. "My family...I only want to see my family." Her eyes flutter, her chest stops heaving. A single cannon rings for the tribute once more. This is her metaphorical and realistic death. Not one given by a mistake.

Like with the words they said on screen when she died the first time, Danelieux memorizes her final ones. The ones that matter. "My family...I only want to see my family."

It's the only truth. One that Bellona Viellana knew, and took to her grave; one that Danelieux de Leon knows, and will take to the nights and the people that approach.

~~

DISTRICT 4 MALE- CORRADHIN COLE

What struck Corradhin as odd, maybe even a miracle, was the fact that he hadn't woken up to his own screams in a sweaty pallor for the first time in exactly one year. He tugged the warmth of the sleeping bag around his body, ceasing his shivers as he slowly let his eyes flick open, one by one. It was far easier to accept morning when his eyes weren't burning as though hot coals were being placed upon them; it was far easier to tell himself he'd have to get up soon when exhaustion didn't weigh down on his aching bones.

This was new, but for once, he was content to welcome the change. As soon as he saw the gloom in the sky, a stretched blanket of lacy gray, he knew he'd been dreaming of the encounter with Beckett. He didn't know why disappointment buried itself in his veins the way it did, but it brought a faint pain along with it. Nothing physical, but he swore the ache in his bones that had vanished instead transformed into something worse. Energy can't be created or destroyed. So maybe the same applies here. The soreness is gone, but now I just...I don't know, but there's something here. The sigh that left his lips was accompanied by a cloud of mist. Strange, he thought, it's been an oven since I got here, and now they decide to cool it down. Shrugging, he pushed himself to a sit. He was grateful, as he'd much prefer to be sculpted from ice than spread to the wind in ash.

The lack of a body beside him served loneliness on a silver platter. Not even the birds were chirping. All he had was the brush of leaves in the breeze, the glide of petals bumping into one another. Corradhin's gaze fell on the bushes of henbane surrounding him. The expectation of anger wasn't fulfilled, but instead something cozy took its place...as if the deadly flower were there to protect him. Something about the way they waved at him set him off comfortably. The veins weren't seen as disease, but the pulse of blood; life flowing from the core to the outermost edges.

Something so beautiful managed to cause him utmost pain. Not even just from ingesting it - fever and stomach pains had come for him, yes, but he also remembered these flowers as the gift he'd set upon Beckett's grave each day. The pile only grew as time passed, as no one came to take care of the grounds. The dead were dead, everyone would say, they wouldn't care. Yes, but you've gotta think of the living. Seeing everything in ruins...it'll only make matters worse. Corradhin had every right to that conviction - he clenched his fists just thinking of the dried out grass, the crumbling tombstones. Drought surely hadn't helped and he'd been the only one with a mind enough to preserve the graves of Four's last tributes.

Frequently he'd catch sight of a girl, a girl all too familiar hustling through the gates as soon as he'd left. Had you layered her stormy greys over the electric blues of a past tribute, you'd see they were near identical. And the memory of such silent moments sent pictures of his allies running through his mind. And with it, longing.

With a grunt, he hauled himself up, and neatly folded up the only thing he had left at this point, his sleeping bag. The scent that'd triggered his bittersweet dreams still lingered, but it was faint, and he feared not even suffocating himself with the fabric would take him back to such a wonderful place.

As he took stock of the funeral flowers, he couldn't help but let his mind drift back to the dream. It was all a haze, but a few key moments stuck out, moments he couldn't just ignore. The first half...it had all felt so real. And it had been, only a couple years before. Beckett never remembered the kiss, as he was intoxicated and battered, and never again did they come together like that again. Everything went back to how it'd been before. However, some part of Corradhin had always remained hopeful that one day he'd just remember, finally come back and mend their terms.

They shared what they wanted the other to know through glances, and glances alone.

When the dream began to pop up piece by piece in his memory, he took off the way he came, desperate for the distraction of travel. However, before he abandoned comfort, he plucked a single henbane from the field and shoved it deep in his pocket. I want to look at them more later. Maybe if I get out of here I can give it to Beckett. He adored these flowers.

Off he went, strolling with not a worry in the world for the first time in a long time. Whatever those Gamemakers knocked me out with, I'd like some more, please. He snickered to himself. Death would be an awfully big adventure, in that case.

The murmur of familiar voices sent his thought askew, and soon all he could think about were a group he may have called friends in other circumstances - Amelia, as annoying as she was, happened to be beyond entertaining; Danelieux had this softness about him, and the sound of his voice was soothing when he so chose to use it. And Amani - she was home. She gave off this atmosphere that Four would always emit, and he found his anger at her slowly fading into friendliness.

Corradhin saw all three of these "friends" nestled in a group in the middle of the same clearing he'd ran from. But instead of stepping forward, reluctance pulled him back. The little voice in the back of his head was back, and it whispered things that would drive a sane man to the brink. They hate you, it breathed, they don't want you there. Look, look how happy they are without you?

The soft smiles the three offered one another, they made something inside Corradhin falter. It was the first time he'd seen them all in perfect harmony. Amelia wasn't even harassing Amani, which was a blessing all in itself. He could almost hear the smile in the little voice's tone; look, maybe Beckett would've looked the same had you not crawled into his life.

And that is exactly what kept him from stepping out of the shadows of the jungle to join them. Ruining that moment...he didn't want to deprive them of this. There were six of them left. Those three made up half. And those three feared him. Corradhin was a threat, and with him gone, they could rest easy. True, his trident lay by Amani's foot, his pack slumped against a log. Later...I'll get them later. He swallowed a lump in his throat and pressed himself closer to the tree, peering around in interest. I'll leave them be until they're gone. Maybe I can find something productive to do, like...I don't know, choke out a pigeon or something.

He meant to leave then, to disappear into the thick vegetation that seemed to never stop growing around him. But one sound stopped him. It made his insides shrivel into prunes, it made him whirl back to the sight of the group, and it made him fear for Amani.

The cry for help in the distance couldn't have come from anyone other than Anastasia Juerlia.

For a moment he stood there, toiling over the voice in his head. That girl's screams assisted his nightmares, her voice was a blade come to tear his scars open again. When he finally came to his senses, Amani was already darting into the shadows of the jungle, and the group had been minimized to two.

Then came the beckoning call of a girl named Bellona Viellana. Her voice was singsong, with an allure he'd never remembered hearing in her voice before. Danelieux perked up as soon as his name echoed through the arena, and he was next to leave.

By then, Corradhin was running as fast as his legs would carry him to the center of the clearing. He was huffing, his heart pounding in anticipation. The tributes. The tributes from last year, they're back. Are they not really dead? The voices - they sounded all too real. The fear in Anastasia, it was there. The softness of Bellona, it was there. Could Beckett still be alive?

Two more screams blasted their way through the arena simultaneously, one closer than the other. The shrieks of Ebony Holbrook approached every second, and Amelia was left staring at the forest while Corradhin took a complete detour to the right.

The darkness of the jungle consumed him just as he heard the light steps of a new tribute join Amelia, followed by another shriek. Ebony was wild, but Beckett was endangered.

Corradhin returned a scream of his own when the boy called out again, his heart thrumming so hard he was sure it'd shatter.

"Corradhin!"

"I'm coming!"

There, straight ahead. One step after the other, stumbling over himself. His palms slammed into trees left and right but he only pushed himself away, launching towards the voice. He needed to get there, he wasn't moving fast enough, he could never move fast enough. Only when he saw Beckett would he finally let himself stop, and even then his breaths would be sporadic, movements desperate.

"Corradhin!"

The pain in his voice was evident, as if a thousand knives were being shoved into his body at once; screams of bloody-murder. Corradhin felt needles inject him with rage all over his body, and the blood in his veins crashed against the vessels, breaking down the dam and letting the adrenaline spill over. They're hurting him. It's the only thing he could think, the only thing he found himself murmuring as he pushed on, ramming his shoulders into trees with so much force and so little care that someone might think he felt no pain.

"Corradhin!"

There it was again, strained, and only a few trees away. Moss came down like veils and he tore away at them as if they were the very eyes of Cadelon he were clawing out. That twisted man was the reason the boy who might break sounded like he was being torn limb from limb. That twisted man was the reason Corradhin was growing more and more furious by the second. Corradhin was blood, Cadelon was the pulse egging him on.

No screams. Only breathing. The wheezes were close, ragged. Worry flared next to the anguish, and Corradhin was hesitant to peer around the tree to see who sat on the other side.

But he did it anyway.

What he saw sent unease prickling at the hairs on the back of his neck, raising them at the slightest touch. There, a boy sat, keeled over himself, a length of white fabric wrapped all the way around his torso. Buckles were pulled tight across his back. With every breath, the boy shivered, his shoulders twitching every now and then. His hair sat atop his head in tangles, and if Corradhin looked close enough, he could see dozens of tiny pinpricks of dried blood on the back of his neck.

He's still got his injuries.

Corradhin took a single step closer, legs moving of their own accord, and his foot squelched in a particularly mushy patch of ground. The boy's head perked up, and he jerked his head to and fro, searching left and right to make sure nothing was coming for him. Corradhin completely froze in place, breath leaving him in clouds of fog. He couldn't think. "Beckett?"

The boy whirled around as best he could given his limitations. His amber eyes were wild. They flicked over Corradhin's body, taking him in.Hell, he looks more scared than he did two seconds ago...

Then, exhaustion fell over Beckett's face, and he stood, slumping against the tree he'd been leaning on. His lips moved, but no words came out. Corradhin, breath held captive in his lungs, took a wary step forward. This called forth the words, and then Beckett was mumbling a demand. "Get this thing off me." For a second, his eyes met Corradhin's. "Please."

It took several moments for Corradhin to finally move forward and begin pulling at the buckles crisscrossing Beckett's back. He'd been a bystander, with no way to help. But he could do something now. He didn't have to sit back and watch Beckett thrash around in a straitjacket with no way out, he could fix this. So he did. He couldn't help but notice how his own hands trembled as he peeled the jacket away from Beckett's body, exposing a uniform spattered with blood long dried.

Beckett inhaled deeply once it was off, closing his eyes. Corradhin took in every detail of his face while he could. Something in his gut told him he wouldn't have much longer to look at him so closely, wouldn't have time later to memorize him again. Jawline, sharp, clenched as it always was but lined with scratches. He ignored the scratches. Cheeks, sunken in, shadows cast over his face in the darkness. Lips, chapped; they showed signs of being chewed on. Brows, constantly furrowing, arching, inquisitive or angered. Eyes, amber, staring straight ahead.

Struck with a need for reality, Corradhin couldn't stop himself from reaching out for Beckett's forearm. And then he was left there to process how palpable the boy really was. This is no hallucination. He's real. He's real.

As soon as Beckett's calm demeanor fell away, so did Corradhin's hand, and he backed a few inches away, his eyes never leaving the boy's face. He looks so...tired. And angry. He swallowed. Very angry.

Beckett only stared longer, then when it seemed as though his voice box had been melted away, he shook his head, and said, "You've got a lot of nerve..." His tone was bitter. "A lot of it, showing up here."

His playful laugh rang out. A finger belonging to a thing called Dread dragged up his spine, sending out geese to dot his flesh. It was Beckett's laugh, all right, but there was a dark undertone to it, as if he wasn't really there, just going through the motions. The hell is up with him? It's gotta be the arena...the Games did something to him. He's different. But he's back now.

Corradhin rubbed away the goosebumps, tilting his head as he kept on staring at the boy in an unbroken silence. Beckett was the one to shatter it again. "It's been a while since you left me on my own to die."

"I-didn't-mean-for-the-Peacekeeper-to-shoot-you!" Corradhin rushed out. He hates me. He thinks I hate him. I can fix this, I can. "Nothing that happened back then was supposed to-"

"I meant in the arena, Corr." Amber dimmed in Beckett's eyes. "You wrote the notes. Might as well have held the knife to my throat yourself." The anger remained as he let out another low chuckle. He spread his arms from his body, wiggling his brows, tauntingly. "Well, I can assure you of one thing, and that's that I'm free from your bullshit again."

"Beck, this isn't you. You're not...you wouldn't act this way, towards anyone." I know this isn't a hallucination. I know it.

Beckett clicked his tongue, reaching into his pocket. "That's because this is how I would've been had you not entered my life. Feel proud. You're what got me killed." Out came the notes, scrawled from bottom to top with Corradhin's handwriting. The paper was crumbled, dotted in specks of red, showing all the tears and signs of distress they'd gone through.

Rage built up in Corradhin's chest, and he stomped forward, reaching for the notes. "Put those away, damn it! They never meant a thing!"

With a twisted grin on his face, he held them up for the tribute to see clear as day. In Corradhin's wild grab for them, he caught a few sentences from note to note, and each one of them struck him in the chest like a blade come to skin him.

"The last time I willingly saw you...at first I felt bad, but now I don't regret a thing."

"You've changed so much, and I regret every second of not being there to witness it."

"I was so scared, so scared you were dead. But then I thought: what has that guy ever done for me? Nothing. And now he's waiting his death out in the cold."

"Don't make me attend the funeral of my best friend."

"So please, if you still care, and if you've ever been my friend, just die, right where you are."

"If you still care, and if you've ever been my friend, live."

"Why have you kept my sins a secret all these years?"

A scream tore free of Corradhin's throat, and he lunged for the notes, ripping them free of Beckett's grasp and ripping them to shreds. Line by line, each of them dropping to the ground in a splurge of confetti. I didn't mean them! None of it!

"That's right, Corr, do what you really came here to do, and scream!"

Corradhin snapped his gaze up to Beckett and let everything out in a flood. He let years fly out, he let guilt fly out, he let regret fly out, he let everything he never got to do fly out. Beckett laughed, then returned an everything-scream of his own. Agonized hollers sounded in unison throughout the arena. Just a couple of madmen here, don't mind us.

Still screaming, Beckett lurched to the side, ripping a vine free from the ground. Corradhin jumped back, for those vines were near impossible to remove with bare hands - but that kid just did it. "Holy shit," he breathed, finally ceasing his screams. His throat felt raw, but he paid it no mind. Since when was he able to do something like that?

"What?" Beckett asked. His tone tried far too hard to be innocent. "Still think I'm a fragile thing that can't pull my own weight?" Another smile stretched over his cheeks as he pulled at both ends of the vine in his hands. He rolled his head around on his neck, exhaled, and took one daunting step forward. "You've changed, Corradhin, but I've changed too. I'm an hourglass that shattered. But I patched myself up again. Tell me, can you fix yourself if I shatter you?"

Corradhin only stared on with wide eyes and a dry mouth. That was Beckett, but a monster. He was a friend, but a stranger. He was a dream, but reality. He discarded the vine, cracked his knuckles, and sighed through his words. "Let's play the game we played with Allium.Run."

Corradhin didn't have to be told twice.

The steps that squelched in the mud behind him didn't show up until ten seconds after he fled, but when they did, his heart was jabbed by hooks, and they raised it, placing it back in place so that it could beat correctly. That pulse was all he had left.

Branches appeared out of nowhere, latching onto his clothes, but they weren't strong enough to hold him back. They lashed his face, split open his arms, but nothing ceased his escape. One sole phrase repeated in his mind, Get away, get away, get away.

Beckett's voice came shooting through the forestry, echoing back and forth, the voice of a ghost. "The past is beyond our control. You have to accept this in order to move forward..." It faded out, but came back full blast. "Every single choice will affect your fate and the fate of those around you. These are the words I heard in the arena, Corr! See how it's come around full circle?"

"Shut up!" Corradhin's breaths came out in rapid bursts, but it all went flying in different directions when his leg plummeted, foot meeting water instead of land. His entire body went crashing into the shallow water, stinking brown liquid that made him gag. His hands dug into the bottom of the pool, coming back out in a thick layer of mud. He clawed at the ground, pulling himself back onto stability.

The steps were closer, along with an ear-rattling cackle. "How do you feel about people who are afraid?"

The mines. I was the voice he heard in the mines. Fuck you too, Gamemakers! "Afraid of what?" Corradhin snarled back. His heart slammed against his ribcage as he stumbled away, a hummingbird locked up in his chest. He was terrified, ablaze with the heat of the chase. Igniparous; it felt as though he was producing fire just by letting his words make their run, no holding back. Don't hold back. Let him know everything.

"What are you afraid of, Corr? You act like you have no fear, but here you are, running - like I did. Our roles have reversed, haven't they?"

Don't hold back. "I'm afraid of being alone."

"Then why are you running from me? I'm the only one you have left!"

Let him know everything. "Because I know you're afraid of it, too."

The jungle broke away to open to a rather large clearing, sandwiched between trees and a sudden drop-off, where there lay only air. Corradhin tore into it all, relishing how open it was. Only when his feet scuffed the edge of the cliff did he realize the trap he'd fallen into. There, hundreds of feet down, was the circle of water the tributes had awoken in. He could hear the lap of violent waves against the rock wall from where he stood. It was nothing to drown out the shrieks of Beckett Malen, though, and he snapped his head around, lungs filling with air at the sight of him in clear daylight.

Then, he looked back at the cliff. The sky fringing the arena was clouded in gloom, a rare ray of light shining through the cracks every now and then. Back to Beckett; he too was cracked. They were both awful to encounter, not one outshined the other. Back to the cliff. At least if I jump I won't have to deal with him.

At long last, he made his decision, and tossed his head back, prepared to throw himself from the ledge. Cannon ready for the boy who came into all of this blindly!

The steady beep in the air made him hesitate. Beckett said something, but he was all too close - Corradhin flinched, and his foot slipped. The sensation of falling was short.

An arm wrapped around his waist and he was lugged back onto land, thrown roughly to the side. Stars dotted his vision as his skull met rock.

"Not so fast," Beckett sang, "Let me have my fun first."

Something dark flickered in the corner of Corradhin's eye; the package scudded along the rocky ground. He leapt at it, desperation a key element in his movements.

The fallen tribute didn't stop him.

What is this? A note lay in the bottom of the canister. It was yellowed by age, and a few specks of dried blood crusted over some of the words. He knew what it was without having to be told. Corradhin's hands shook with anger as he lifted it to his eyes, and drank the words in. "Dirt. It is dirt which defines us. It is dirt from which all things grow. Signed, N.C."

Corradhin's laugh was one of pure disbelief when he saw a single match accompanying it. Of course. Of fucking course. We Cole's always end up here one way or another! He took the match in his hands before kicking the package away, right off the cliff. When he turned back to Beckett, he didn't expect the boy to be twiddling a dagger in his hands. He flicked his eyes up to Corradhin's.

He nodded to the match. "I guess they want you to burn me alive, yeah? Just like your uncle did back when he was still alive?"

Corradhin's face was stony, cold. It differed from the flame that would soon flicker; he could almost feel the heat now. He regarded it with curiosity, but foremost, contempt. "I guess so." I've never liked my uncle.

The first sign of Beckett having any feeling in that broken body of his was the confusion that crossed his face. Why? Well, Corradhin merely shoved the match in his pocket, tossing its existence from his mind. One of them stared on wide-eyed, while the other stood patiently, waiting.

Beckett shook his head. "I should've known you wouldn't fight back."

Let him at me. They came together in a tangle of limbs, but the foremost struggle came between their arms. The point of a dagger was pressed to Corradhin's stomach, and he held Beckett's wrists away, pushing up in hopes it'd keep him from suffering the same fate as his uncle. I'm not ready to die. I've got Nigel to take care of. And if that's reason enough, so be it.

The cuts delivered to his palms proved that none of this was a dream. If it had, they'd have served the same purpose of pinches, they'd have sent him right back to the sleeping bag. And if it was a dream, it was one in which he couldn't wake up. If he woke up, he'd avoid ever having this moment etched into his memory. He would never know what Beckett looked like in his times of hatred. He would never know how he would've turned out if he hadn't approached the boy years back, and criticized him for stealing from an old woman's back pocket.

Momentarily his grip on the boy's wrists faltered, and the blade split open his shirt, skimming his stomach but not breaking through. He sucked in, jerking the knife to the side, where it got snagged on his jacket. "Quit squirming, babe," Beckett muttered, yanking the dagger back to the surface of his bare abdomen. The blade was cold against his skin, and he winced, only cutting himself in the process. "I want you to feel everything."

Corradhin sucked in a lungful of air as the blade finally broke through to meet his flesh. His nails buried deep into Beckett's skin, but he was unfazed. Words jumped around in his mind, cutting out as he forgot lines, crackling back in when his memory was finally jogged.

Blood is thicker than water, we know,
It falls by the blade, taints the snow.
The one to shed it can do all of two things:
They can break one's skin, or break their own.

The most painful feeling he'd ever experienced hit him right in the abdomen. The match never needed to be struck to set him ablaze, as it felt as though fire was curling from the tip of the dagger, easing its way in and wrapping around his insides. His veins took a detour and redirected the blood to the outside. Meanwhile, he reached down for his stomach, clawing at the knife. It was impossible to get a grip on it. His thoughts were scrambled, he couldn't think straight through the pain.

Inject my heart, control my blood,
My veins convulse against the flood.
Patch the broken, send us out,
For I am dirt, and blood makes mud against the drought.

The pain still forced another scream free of him - which he found himself doing a lot lately - as it slipped out of his body, and progressed further and further away from him. The handle belonged to the both of them, and they fought silently, flipping it back and forth, cutting each other in the process.

Flame will curl at the flick of a wrist,
But that's for fuel, everyone wants this.
The Hourglass shattered, the sand spilled out,
A noose on time; find a new route.

Beckett's face impossibly paled, and his body tensed up as he hovered, his bony fingers still wrapped around Corradhin's, who held on tightly to the dagger. The warmth of blood ran down over their hands, wrapped around their wrists, trailed down his arm in crimson streams.

Beckett looked down at the blade in his stomach, then back up at Corradhin, a clarity fallen over his face. He wasn't mad, crazed, wild, nothing of the sort. He was just a broken boy. "Cut the ropes and let me go," he croaked.

Those words made the guilt Corradhin had been harboring come rushing back like the tide. It passed over him, and then he was pulling Beckett off of him, crawling away until his back rested against a tree. The past half hour had completely left his memory, and all he could see was this moment. He...he was trying to kill me, it was defense. He went nuts, it wasn't him, it wasn't, it couldn't have been, that was not the Beck I know. The games, they made him this way, they injected him with something, or, or...

I have to watch him die a second time.

He had a fresh wound to be tending to, but all he could do was watch Beckett's face contort in pain, watch him squirm like something that wasn't human.

And then, he stilled. A drop of rain landed their noses, and they were gone, in more ways than one. Except, for one of them, a pulse still throbbed.

~~

DISTRICT 7 MALE- REED QUILLEAROY

Reed really should've been paying attention to the water pooling around his feet, but instead he was far more concerned with the foreign face smirking at him from a hole in the wall. He dared a few steps forward, if only to make sure his eyes weren't tricking him. There it was, a face paler than himself, who'd been roaming the underground for about a week. It was a pudgy face that belonged to a boy that could be no older than fourteen. Black hair sliced across his forehead, ending just above his brows, which were shielded by a pair of thick frames.His glasses are broken. Maybe I should tell him. Reed bit his lip. Unless he's dead.

The green eyes blinked in the darkness, proving him wrong. Startled, Reed hopped back, instinctively reaching for the bow resting on his shoulder. In seconds there was an arrow sitting pretty against the drawstring, which Reed held back tightly, stretching it back as the silence did the same. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice flying forth with the authority of a grown man, not a mere peasant child such as himself. I sure hope it's not a troll waiting for me to pay up a toll to cross his "bridge." Trolls are nasty little things, smelly, too.

Reed held the string back, but it took every bit of will he had not to send an arrow flying straight into the "troll's" throat, for the thing chuckled, a disgusting, wet laugh. Then, one chubby finger after the next, it reached it's hand out of the hole, gripping the edges. They slammed against the rock in a plod of moisture, but in the darkness Reed was left to wonder what coated the boy's hands. Please don't be blood, please don't be a cannibal, cannibals are not nice. Reed inhaled and exhaled as slowly as he could. As strange as it was, it settled his stomach, which was starting to bubble in a disgusted turmoil. I think this entire experience has made me vegan forever.

The hole seemed to darken as the face left its sheet of shadows, slowly pulling itself forward, into the little light the cave allowed. Bile rising, Reed swallowed, increasing the pace at which his lungs slaved away inside. So many wet, mushy sounds came from the opening as whatever sat inside wriggled around in attempts to find the easiest way out. When an entire hand was visible, out came an arm, smacking the wall around it blindly. Another drowned chuckle, and a low voice offered a few scratchy words, "How don't you know who I am?"

Reed took a few steps back as the other arm emerged. "Stay back! Or I'll let this arrow go, I promise I will!" He ground his foot into the floor, keeping himself from running. Soldiers don't run. Soldiers stand and fight.

"I don't doubt it, kid, trust me, I'd do the same if I saw something as scrawny and obnoxious as you crawling out of a hole in the wall." A head popped right out of the opening, and to say Reed was scared would've been an understatement. With a holler, he released the arrow, waiting for it to pierce the twisted face of the boy before him. Oh my god, it's so ugly! It really is a troll, it really is a cannibal!

But what really sent him into a frenzy - one he didn't show, but bottled up - was the way the boy only shrugged off the arrow sticking out of his hand. His eased it out of his palm and tossed it to the ground, slick with blood. With a grin, he lifted a finger to his mouth, flicking his tongue out to lick up the crimson that stained his skin. When he'd finished with that, he slumped over the side of the hole, staring up at Reed with a look that said, "Really?"

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Reed snapped. He was quick to reach back for another arrow, but waited to set it in place.

The boy only rolled his eyes. "No reason. I'm just disappointed at how lame this show has been so far. So little death, not brutal enough. Six of you idiots left, and I've yet to see intestines strung out over the arena like party decorations."

Reed was too dumbstruck to come up with a reply. Who the hell is this kid? He's not even supposed to be here.

He stared on in a confused stupor as the boy lugged himself the rest of the way out of the wall. His feet were bare, and squelched when they touched the ground. Reed risked a glance at the kid's toes: they were layered in a deep shade of red. He pretended it was something different than what initially appeared in his mind, the shredded body of some other tribute, a heart in his hand as he squeezed it all out onto the ground... Shut up brain, it's just paint.

Once the boy from the other side was settled, he bounced on his heels, clicking his tongue. "Aha! I forgot to introduce myself." He cleared his throat, and dramatically brought his hand to rest against his heart. "I, the most dashing young man you'll ever meet in your puny lifetime, am James Peachton. Go ahead and call me king of the arena, because I've gone through these walls for hours. I know it like the back of my hand." A sly smirk eased onto his face as he flipped his hand over. His palm dripped with the same red that drenched his feet. "Never the front. I can never get it clean enough to get to every little crease."

It was as if a switch was flipped within Reed, and he lowered his bow, raising a brow. "James Peachton? As in the sick fool from last games?"

James shrugged. "Call me what you will, alls I know is that I'm no fool."

"Well you're not a king either," Reed shot back, raising his bow again, this time with an arrow nocked back. I wonder...what animal would he classify as? I would say sloth, but I've used that one already. Hm... He dug his teeth into his lip in concentration, focusing on James' slouched figure and his own sporadic tangents all at once. Then, it came to him, and he let another arrow go, shouting out his epiphany. "Wolf!" The kind that seems tame at first, and then strikes back with jaws the size of someone's head.

The arrow nicked James' ear, but only that, snapping against the wall. The smallest drop of blood gathered at the wound like dew, and plopped onto the ground; it gave the impression a leaky faucet gave at the day's near-end, when trees clawed at the windows and every step offered a creak. He reached up to feel the cut, and snickered. "The big bad wolf come to eat the little piggy?" He took a step forward, and Reed threw the bow onto his back, struck with a sudden sense of pride, of confidence. This kid was dead, and the dead would simply fall apart at the slightest touch, he would shrivel up and decay like the corpse he was. Right?

"And I'll huff...and I'll puff..." The two were nearly nose to nose, and James' putrid breath blasted Reed in the face. "And I'll blow this house down." He grinned once more, taking Reed by the shirt. "Wanna run, little piggy? I'll give you a head-start."

Soldiers don't run. Soldiers stay and fight. Reed returned a smug smile of his own, his expression carefree. "My house is made of brick, I've got a fire going under the chimney - I think I like where I am just fine." A fairytale brought to life. I mean, I should've expected this. I've been making up my own so long, it was only a matter of time before they came to life.

James, without hesitation, threw Reed to the ground as if he were nothing more than a ragdoll. "So be it."

He was given time only to get back on his feet and brush his scratched hands on his pants before the next onslaught came after him, a fist slamming against his gut, knuckles digging into his back and bumping the air in his lungs right out. Chuckles filled the cave system, ricocheting down the corridors - from both of them. Finally, a game where I'm not the only one winning!

James must've been sure he was atop a pedestal titled "first," and nothing could touch him. Exhibit A: when he pushed Reed into a wall and leaned in, his hot breath blowing against the back of his neck as he widened his jaw, ready to clamp down on the boy's flesh, he grew careless, and didn't expect Reed to fling his skull back and connect with the fallen's nose. An audible crack sounded, and the weight pressing against Reed vanished.

With a cheer of self-approval, Reed swung his elbow back, connecting with the boy's cheekbone. James stumbled back, clutching his nose as if that would keep the blood from pouring through his fingers. Pathetic. I love it. Reed scurried around the tribute, finding a comfortable place behind the boy. "And you said you were king. Pah!" He couldn't control the round of giggles that escaped him as James whirled on him, glaring. A sack of adrenaline pumped through him for every second James stood there, grinding his teeth together. A fair distraction from yesterday. Just forget, and everything will be fine.

Steve doesn't exist. Not now, anyway. Momentarily the goofy face of a man flashed through his mind, but he shoved it away as if it were the equivalent of manure. He couldn't afford to let things flood back then. Maybe later, but not then. He took a deep breath, and exhaled in the form of mirth. "Some king you turned out to be," he muttered.

James growled and took a few daunting steps forward. "Don't taunt me, kid. You don't know what the hell I'm capable of. Me, the tribute that blew up the underground. Me, the tribute that led an entire group to their almost-demise. Me, the tribute that died, but came back to life, because he wasn't given a proper show!" Shadows fell over his eyes as the two journeyed further into the caves, in part due to Reed's erratic hopping; a game of backwards hopscotch is what he played, and he enjoyed every second of bringing James to the brink. "Well, I'm tellin' ya, I'll be the lead role. The king kneels over the peasant, a measly thing, and slices his chest open. Out comes a heart, which he sinks his teeth into."

Reed's eyes held a sparkle, the glint of excitement, of expectation. "You're a tyrant." He ceased his hops, instead promoting himself to the duty of galloping. "Let's see, I want to play this game, too..."

"Maybe a game of tag will clear your thoughts?" James suggested.

"Catch me if you can, Wolf!" I've been told I'm pretty fast for a poison dart frog.

James didn't smile or laugh, only walked on in his slow pace, taking his jolly time. "All right, I'll bite." He held the same glint in his eyes that Reed held - both of them held dark undertones, but glistened. And then James' fingers were pulling at his own lips. Reed's heart quickened its pace, but he matched the speed at which his opponent walked, waiting for the time when one of them would suddenly lurch forward and begin the hunt.

As James pulled at his bottom lip, yanked at his top lip, the idea that this may not have been the best idea began to inch into the child's mind. What triggered these thoughts was the rip of flesh that filled the air as the fallen's skin ripped, exposing a row of yellowed sharks teeth. The skin hung down over it, sagging to his neck. The red lining wasn't so eager to leave James' body, and instead fell down in strings of blood, like the thick syrup that was so common in Seven.

James gave a cheeky smile, and that's what really made Reed kick into overdrive.

Okay, wasn't expecting that, I'll admit. His foot snagged on a rock and he narrowly avoiding tripping, his heart lurching up and down like the bungee cords some of Seven used for the taller trees to keep from dying a horrible death smashed into the ground as a pancake. Holy shit, really wasn't expecting that! He's got no lips anymore, for fuck's sake!

A tiny voice in the back of his mind told him that was two dollars for the swear jar, but he only mentally cursed that out, too, sprinting his way away from the fallen tribute that, quite obviously, was far from human at this point. No human could just peel their lips apart like that. No human wouldn't be screaming bloody-murder at something like that.

James' steps pounded behind him, but they were far off, and there was a low chance of him gaining any time soon. So, as Reed calculated his chances of being turned into a bunch of sausage links, he swished around corners, taking the least likely routes. But the way the caves were set up made sure that every move he made echoed to the closest person, animal, whatever, and eventually, when he was all worn out and exhausted, he'd have to stop, and James would catch up to him and he'd probably be eaten alive because James was a freaky cannibal that wanted to chomp down on him as if he were the first meal he'd seen in years.

And, as he thought about it, he realized James hadn't eaten in a year.

He was so wrapped up in his worries that he didn't notice the water until it had reached up to his knees, and he was forced to stop, as he knew exactly the direction he was going. I've just ran all the way back to the start. The place Jack brought me when this adventure began.Bottles of fear cracked against his bones and spilled its contents into his stomach, swirling around and making everything go awry. His thoughts, his heart, his breaths, everything.

Calm down, Quillearoy. You're not supposed to lose your head. Yeah, we can't swim, but we can backtrack before the tyrant gets here. He's slow, we can just head down one of those other paths. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He could do this. He could outrun the guy and hide until everything blew over. By the time he'd collected himself enough to move forward, the system had grown awfully quiet.

There were no footsteps following him.

However, something wet dripped onto his shoulder, and he was left to stare in disgust at the sticky red substance sliding down his uniform. Then it processed. And he looked up.

James smiled down at him from the ceiling with a wild expression, shaking his head back and forth. Blood and saliva flew from his mouth, and he snarled down at the boy. For all of five seconds, time froze, as did Reed's heart. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.... He gulped, and offered a timid wave. "I'm just gonna-"

James interrupted his sentence with a screech that would drive a sane man to suicide. Reed couldn't hold his fear in any longer, and released a scream of his own, ripping the bow free of his back and fumbling with an arrow. He managed to pull it back just as James detached himself from the ceiling and came flying with open arms for Reed's throat.

In a moment of sheer terror, Reed couldn't hold onto the drawstring any longer. He hadn't had the chance to make sure it was aimed correctly. He closed his eyes, flinching away at the arrow slapping against his forearm and leaving him in search for purchase on something - he prayed it found a target.

Something thunked into two bodies of flesh, and the world went black.