★EDEN KARAM★

For the first time in her life, Eden Karam inhaled the scent of the sea.

In general, she hadn't been particularly impressed with arenas in the past— while the Hunger Games fascinated her to a degree unparalleled by the rest of her family, her focus had always been on the artistry of violence and the assorted methods of murder. That which she considered little more than glorified landscaping could never hold her interest in and of itself; even in her own Games the stark majesty of a mountainous wasteland had escaped her entirely. She had narrowed her outlook to one of bare practicality— the shimmering crystals buried deep within the caves were a weapon at best or a distracting hazard at worst. Every element and hollow was assessed in a bare handful of seconds: place to rest? Hiding place of her next victim? Or perhaps it contained and arena housed-danger and supplies, and bore investigation with a judicious eye.

It was this attitude, in Eden's opinion, which had made her into a victor. However, after she had left the arena for the relative safety of home, blood still staining her shirt, she began to wonder if she had perhaps gone a bit too quickly. So focused had she been on victory she had forgotten one fact which was the reason for joining in the first place.

It was all a game, wasn't it? And what was a game if you couldn't have fun?

The platform clicked, and her ascent stopped with a jolt. Sunshine, far more intense than the gentle radiance found in Two, shone directly into her eyes, all but searing her retinas after the dim fluorescent illumination far below. She inhaled, and vaguely wondered if there had been a typo on some engineer's document— they seemed to have placed all the water in the air rather than on the ground, where it belonged. Her discomfort was somewhat alleviated by a gentle breeze which stirred the air around her platform, carrying with it the unmistakable odor of salt water as well as a host of others: the sickly-sweet scent of rot, the light fragrance of tropical flowers, the reek of general greenery which she had imagined could only be found in Nine or Eleven. The sky was an eye-watering shade of blue, and the sun shone in its center with all the fury of a dragon's eye and half of such a creature's gentleness.

Directly ahead of her stood a run-down shack, no doubt this year's iteration of the Cornucopia. Eden eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then sniffed her displeasure. The aesthetic taste of this year's architecture left a great deal to be desired, it would seem. To her left, a dense green jungle occluded her view, the sightline ending only a few feet into the brush. That would grow tiresome quickly— she prefer an open field, perfect for battle and honest, bloody combat. Too many dangers could hide in the shadows and scents, and even a prodigy might not be good enough to survive when a tree branch suddenly turned into an enormous, perfectly camouflaged snake.

She glanced to her right, and all her righteous irritation about the jungle faded in a heartbeat. As far as the eye could see, a gleaming expanse of cerulean ocean scattered the sunlight into a thousand shimmering, endlessly dancing flecks of light. Had her control been anything less than flawless, her mouth would have dropped open in sheer awe. Not twenty feet away, gentle waves lapped against the golden sands of the beach, generating a low murmur like the voice of the sea itself.

If this was what the ocean was like, Eden was immediately certain that she wanted to see it every day for the rest of her life. All she had to do to achieve it was win.

And she was very, very good at winning.

The mechanical voice reached ten. She blinked, startled out of her reverie. For a moment, a flicker of annoyance pulled her face into a pout. Had she spaced out like that in the middle of the actual Games, she would deserve whatever horrible death took her in the minute of inattention. As the voice reached five however (Four! Three! Two!) the feeling faded, and she grinned brightly.

After all, who could be in a bad mood on such a beautiful day?

The count reached zero. As one, the tributes hurled themselves off the platforms with the grace of experienced killers.

Eden ran forward on light feet, adjusting to the shifting, uncertain surface beneath her in in fewer than four steps. To her left, two tributes (both male. How predictable) had devolved into an all-out wrestling match over a water bottle. They could fight over the scraps if they wanted— Eden just hoped they wouldn't drink it all before she killed them and stole it from their cooling corpses. On her right, the tributes seemed to be behaving more sensibly: grabbing whatever supplies they could find in ten seconds before bolting for the jungle.

A shape loomed ahead of her, and she refocused on her task, time going slow with every detail picked out in crystalline clarity. A man— a boy, really— stood in her path, his eyes wide and panicked like he was younger than the age he would have to be. His gaze locked on her, and she realized she had been Recognized. He had seen her, truly seen her, and he knew what she could and would do if she got her hands on a weapon. He planned to stop her now, to use his size and strength to crush her where she stood before she could take up a blade and exterminate them all.

A brave plan. Somewhat intelligent, too. Sadly, bravery would only take one so far against Eden Karam.

She ran up to him without missing a beat and slid effortlessly under his reaching arms. One foot lashed out in a sharp kick against the side of his knee, and with an awful pop! it broke. As he fell forward with an agonized cry, she used the force of his fall to drive her knee into his gut, forcing the air from his lungs. He dropped motionless to the ground, youthful features twisted in pain and terrible confusion. His limbs flapped helplessly.

She frowned, then stomped on the back of her exposed neck. There was a sound like a tree branch breaking, and the flapping stopped.

The entire process had taken perhaps four seconds.

Back to business, then.

She resumed her run to the Cornucopia, ignoring the miniature tussles going on around her. Two figures, large and masculine, had entered the little shack fifty feet ahead of her, where no doubt the overwhelming majority of the weapons were stored. Her eyes widened with outrage. Those were her weapons! She had very clearly called "Dibs" shortly before each tribute had been taken to their respective antechambers, and what sort of savage didn't recognize that level of claim?

She closed on the building in seconds, vaulting over a corpse that lay in her path. She she skidded into a turn, it took only a second to glance in the rickety wooden entranceway and take note of the position of each man inside, a rusty weapon in their hands. Blood beginning to roar in her ears, her body moved of its own accord with the motions it knew in its bones.

Before she had even finished the turn she leaped, moving with the surety of a gymnast. Her foot impacted the shed's doorway and for a briefest instant found purchase; she pushed off in a grand vault that carried her even further from the ground until she could repeat the motion on the wall of the shed proper. The angle was perfect; her unorthodox leap had brought her exactly where she needed to be: at the curly-haired head level with the first man.

Or more precisely, neck level.

The other man shouted a warning to an "Enzo," but her target barely had time to look up before her legs locked around his neck. From there it was her old favorite, the move which had killed three tributes in her last Games. She relaxed and fell backwards, her legs gripping tighter in a deadly scissor-twist! fueled by every pound of what little body weight she possessed. The angle was too great, and he couldn't compensate in time. His neck snapped, and Eden released just in time to escape from under his collapsing corpse.

The other man simply stared at her with shock in his eyes. Eden wondered which would be more satisfying: killing him while he was stunned, or practicing her psychological warfare tactics with a pithy post-mortem remark, like in the movies.

After a second, she decided on the latter. The fallen man's sword all but leaped into her hand, and with a quick flick of the blade his partner became far less preoccupied with mourning, and far more preoccupied with keeping his intestines from spilling out of the cut on his abdomen.

Psychological warfare, Eden reflected, was far less satisfying than just plain warfare.

Enemies thus dispatched, she strode out of the shack and back into the sunshine to admire her new sword. The Enzo man had really possessed excellent taste; though the blade was rusty, it was still sharp and well balanced, excellent for a competitor of smaller stature. A pair of female tributes were busy throttling each other over a first aid kit by the wall. Almost as an afterthought, she beheaded one and stabbed the other, just to test the edge.

A shadow flickered across her awareness— she shifted and swung the blade in a quick backhanded slice.

The shadow yelped and ducked beneath her weapon, and she refocused. It resolved itself into the shape of a woman, attractive and far too young for the streaks of gray in her hair. Eden blinked, then smiled cheerfully as recognition set in.

"Miss Bluestone!" She chirped to her haunted looking, somewhat shell-shocked ex-mentor. "I totally forgot you were in these! What's up? How's Victoria? Did you make all that money by betting on me last year? If you didn't, you really only have yourself to blame, because I totally showed you all my moves and pinky promised you that I would take care of things in less than two days and frankly I would prefer a show of faith after going to that much trouble to—"

"E-Eden?" Parabella Bluestone asked with a quaver. With an effort, Eden suppressed her train of thought. After all, it wouldn't do to babble stupidly to one's mentor and lifelong inspiration. "Are you all right? Are you hurt?"

Eden paused for a moment, glancing around. All around lay the dead and dying, staining the sands a dull ochre. Twenty feet away, a ferocious-looking scarred woman with a sizable scar throttled her opponent, a look of intense focus on her face.

"Okay?" Eden giggled. "Miss Bluestone, it's just a gorgeous day in paradise."

★JAZZYNN "JAZ" JONES★

Jaz knew all the secrets of a sword. She knew the hilt’s curve like no other, having sculpted the palm of her own hand to fit flawlessly. She knew the blade’s silver shine, aglow before the darkest hour, before red stained the surface and sullied the little decency the metal still retained. The twist of her wrist and the blade’s tip plunging into flesh was all too familiar, too much of an instinct that it hurt. Once, it had been comforting, but now the thought of the hunger that overcame her when she wielded her sword was anything but.

She hadn’t realized that the platform was moving until it clicked into place, having lifted her up into the arena. For the first time ever, the scent of the sea engulfed her, and it seemed better than she’d ever imagined. It was fresh and full, and it was better than the polluted air of her home.

The countdown began, then it reached zero. Then, Jaz began to run. But she wasn’t running to the Cornucopia—she was running to the dense jungle. On her way, when picking up a small pocket knife that had been in the sand, she saw a bunch of people being killed and a bunch of blood being spilled. It was horrid. She was reminded of her kills from her previous Games and she wanted to cry.

Then, a second effort at righting her wrongs: she reminded herself of her sins.

Her fingers had paled considerably, but she didn’t allow them to shake even by the slightest as she held the knife’s handle loosely. She dragged the blade’s edge across her forearm, drawing blood in a thin line. The grimace that followed was subtle, and it emerged only for a moment before she forced it away. This was a reminder of the first life she’d taken four years ago, and she knew many more would follow.

★VIOLANTE MERCY GRINNELL★

Violante Mercy Grinnell has done this before.

Not the arena, nor the trials that the Gamemakers will send her, but death. The rest is all artifice. In the Games, killing is the one thing that matters, and she has done that more than anyone else around her. Though years have passed since she has last taken a life, the action is engraved in her muscle memory. One clean swipe, then watch. It's that simple. Sure, there might be minimal resistance beforehand, but that has never been a problem. What many Careers forget is the watching; the key is to keep an eye open and see the life leave their body. Turning one's back leads to a knife in the spine when it's least expected.

It's not pretty, but neither is reality. And neither is she.

The arena is elaborate – or at least more so than usual. Palm trees build barricades in which countless atrocities doubtlessly hide. On her right, water floods the earth, though she can just about make out a few settlements of rocks in the distance. Sand bunches under her toes. In the centre of it all lies a shed, falling apart one piece at a time.

Violante tilts her head to the side. In her day – not that long ago, though it seems like she has had the time for a completely new life since then – it was much simpler. A forest where the sun never rose, the trees either dead or dying. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. No wonder I won so quickly. She'll have to hunt, this time. Stick to a pack. She grimaces at the thought of it. At least until it's down to the last ten.

She watches as some of the other tributes stare at the countdown. In her first Games, most of the others had thought of home, or of whatever other motive they may have, sprinkled with the numbers ticking away the time they had left to live. It had been silly then, and it's downright ridiculous now. Violante snickers. Distractions will do nothing for them. This island – this Games – is our reality now. For them, it'll be the last one they ever know.

A victor from Six – Laurus Enzo – stares at a letter in his hand. His uncle has fallen ill, if the Capitol tabloids can be believed. He'll be distracted. Violante grins. Or deadly, maybe. Remember last time? Sometimes, those with the more to lose are much worse than those who have everything to win.

Last year's victor stares straight ahead, a set of knives shining in the corner of her eyes. No matter what disappointments Violante might encounter throughout these Games, Eden Karam is not one. She could make a good ally – so long as I don't fall asleep around her. Deadly and unwavering, she will be one to watch over the next few weeks. Violante was much like her, as a child. Too confident, though. That's the problem with prodigies: we need to learn that we aren't the only ones out there.

The gong echoes, and the eerie stillness that had suffocated Violante disappears altogether; in its place stand the promise of death, the pleasure of destruction, and the freedom of chaos. Feet scuffle against the ground. Sand flies in eyes. One woman – the eldest of the victors – trips. Not a soul gives her so much as a second look, even when the sound of breaking bones cracks through the air.

The crashing of crates fills the air as the tributes pull out a variety of weapons: tridents, knives, spears, arrows, staffs, glaives... a sword. The metal of its hilt is cool against her skin at first, but soon it has warmed up and feels like nothing more than an extension of her arm. She smiles.

A war-scream escapes her mouth as Violante throws her right hand to the side, burying her sword into the stomach of a man. He blinks once, then sinks to the ground as she removes her blade from his corpse. The red of his blood stains the flesh-toned sand. Violante doesn't see the man's face. She doesn't look. There is still a fight going on ahead of her, after all.

"One down!" she shouts. Her only reply is the screams of the ongoing battles.

In her first Games, the bloodbath lasted ten minutes at most; the tributes were too busy running away to put up much of a fight. Now, however, Violante has to tear her way through the fray to get her hands on any adversary. I might actually have some fun this time around.

A moment is all Violante needs to recognize Sebastian Mercier. She frowns. Disgust stamps itself all over her face as she takes a step closer. Blood rushes through her veins. This is her favourite moment: stalking her prey in the midst of obscurity, moving closer one inch at a time, swinging her sword, and –

Metal hits against metal as Sebastian swings around, whacking her blade with is. Recognition flashes across his eyes. Slowly, fear blends in with it – he's seen her Games, after all. He swings forwards. She side-steps and slams her sword onto his; the force pushes him back. It goes on like this until finally, Violante sees it: he throws his blade forwards, all his weight with him, and falls off his balance. In a sudden movement, she slams her shoulder into his chest, knocking him down, and slices across his throat as he falls. Chunks of flesh come off along with the blood, and Violante finally notices the rust that lines the far edge of her sword. She purses her lips. That slows things down a little – might be a problem, later. Guess I'll have to try and use the other side if I cut.

Violante wipes a few pearls of sweat off her forehead, then moves further into the violence.

Her next prey puts up much less of a fight. Though she's always had some respect for Adel Aslet – as far as anyone from Five can be concerned, anyway – it's never been as a fighter. Though her brains are certainly worth note, and her traps might have been dangerous later on, close combat has never been her specialty. Before she can even counter, Violante's sword is already buried into her chest, and her eyes are frozen open forever.

The corners of her sight have gone red, but Violante doesn't notice. She creases her forehead slightly, annoyed by the blood that's begun to dry already – clearly, the sun must be speeding up the process, because she never had this problem the first time around. Tributes have begun to clear out already, but there are still a few lingering, including a pretty boy making his way towards the edge of the beach. Blood still dripping from the edge of her sword, Violante moves closer, one step at a time, until finally, he is only a few steps ahead of her. She sighs, picks up her sword, and –

A knife impales itself into the man's skull and he falls to the ground. He twitches a few times before finally becoming skill. "That was my kill!" she hisses.

Eden Karam smirks. "You already had three," she says. "My mother taught me to share – didn't your daddy ever do the same for you?"

Gritting her teeth, Violante drops her sword and balls her fist. "Yes, but my trainer taught me that merit trumps manners."

"Well, looks like I win either way! Clearly I deserved this one, since I beat you to it."

A third person clear her throat, pushing a few dark strands of hair out of her face. "Isn't it a little dark to be talking about this? I mean, we're standing above his body."

Violante raises her eyebrows, and turns to Eden. "Really?" she snickers. "Pebbles?"

"It's Parabella, actually," interrupts the woman. "And I was her mentor – not to mention a more tasteful choice than you are."

Eden rolls her eyes. "Yeah, okay, we get it," she sighs. "You both think you're so superior to the other and you're probably going to spend the whole Games playing good conscience and bad conscience on either side of my shoulders while I fight my way to a win. But can we start tomorrow? I need some food, and then I want to get away from this beach before the tide comes in. It's already getting pretty high."

"Sounds good to me," replies Parabella. "We're probably going to need shelter, too."

"Sure," adds Violante. "It looks like the tide might take away the supplies anyway, so we'd best get started fast. Hopefully there are some bags in there, because those crates will be a pain to carry."

Ten or so minutes later, each of them carries two bags filled with food packets and water skins. Red tints the beach now, and corpses litter the ground. "We should clear out," says Parabella. "Their families deserve that much."

"Shouldn't they have sounded the cannons by now?" asks Eden. "I mean, the bloodbath is definitely over. We're the only ones here, aren't we?"

The memory of a scream echoes in Violante's mind. Dropping her crate, she turns her attention further up the beach. "I'll be right back," she says.

Sure enough, Cadette Lance is still exactly where the world has left her. Pants and hisses escape from her mouth. Her eyes, glassed over by the pain, meet with Violante's. "You're here to kill me, aren't you?"

Violante doesn't reply. Her sword pierces the back of the old woman's neck. Quick. Painless. Eight cannons sound overhead. Violante shrugs.

"Less than last time," she says – presumably, there's a camera around here somewhere. "But it'll do. For now, anyway."

Just give me time. Soon enough, the Capitol will remember why they love her.

★NEPTUNE SCYLLA★

The first thing Neptune noticed when she stepped into the transportation tube to the arena was smell of salt. It overwhelmed her senses, causing her to crinkle her noise. The second thing she noticed was the humidity and the sweat that begun to form on the back of her neck. Within seconds of being in the glass, her skin began to feel sticky, although the water proof material of her suit and socks seemed absorb most of the sweat. Her uniform wasn't the most stylish, but she did look good, if she did says so herself.

"Almost like home," she snarled as she watched the door closed behind her. It's going to somewhere near water.

Neptune inspected her bare arms, glaringly absent of the goose bumps that had tainted her skin the first time she had entered the arena. She could feel her heart began to palpitate in her chest, a familiar feeling for Neptune. She breathed in deeply, feeling the heavy air settle in her lungs. She gripped the small pouch that she had secured to her suit, feeling a twinge of curiosity. The gamemakers rarely gave tributes anything before the games had begun.

The tube lurched upward. Neptune crouched down, feeling the smooth floor underneath her hands. As she approached the surface, bright yellow light reached her eyes, momentarily blinding her. In the background an automated voice began counting down.

"59...58...57...56..."

As her vision began coming back, Neptune smiled triumphantly and stood up. The uneven sand that stretched on indefinitely directed her eyes a broken down shack. No cornucopia, how odd, she thought. Several molded crates littered the beach haphazardly surrounded by objects that occasionally glinted in the sun.

"48...47...46...45..."

Neptune surveyed the scene looking at jungle that went out from the beach. There will be good cover there, provided that was where she wanted to go. A quick glance into the clear blue sea reveled splotches of discoloration. She frowned. There was something out there but Neptune was unsure if she wanted to venture into the deep. Water was her element but water in an arena was something of its own species.

"37...36...35...34..."

Neptune glanced at the tributes on either side of her. One of the several District 4 tributes was too her left. Percy, she thought. Noticing her stare, the tribute turned, sending a wink in her direction.

"26...25...24...23..."

After blowing a kiss to Percy and then rolling her eyes, Neptune turned her attention to her other neighbor. The young girl was no more than thirteen and Neptune's eyes almost widened in recognition...almost. Eden was a furious kid, something she had shown in her games last year. Not that Neptune cared. Eden was just another kid with a throat to slit.

"15...14...13...12..."

Suddenly, Neptune lost focus and a memory swam through her head.

"Alright Neptune, you ready?" Lucas spoke from her left, a broad smile on his face. "The pair from two are going to meet us at the Cornucopia. We'll take it and then move to the jungle.

"Are you kidding? I was born ready."

The countdown reached ten and Neptune tensed, reading her body to make the sprint towards the shack. Lucas's smile was something she thought she had long forgotten. Why did she have to remember now? Focus. You can't dwell in the past, Neptune chastised herself.

"3...2...1..."

The game had begun. This was what Neptune lived for. And although thoughts of her previous games plagued her, she loved the rush she was feeling once again. Her heart began pounding in her chest, anticipation and adrenaline moving through her veins like an addicting drug.

Several tributes began stumbling forward, the sandy beach a hindrance to their progress. Others made a break for the jungle, leaving their survival up to fate and Mother Nature. She sprinted towards the center, passing several weapons lying haphazardly in the sand. She had only one in mind.

A pair of tributes reached the shabby building and began a fight before one of them fell, blood spurting out of her throat. The other tribute grabbed a rusted blade out of the sand, a pack, and took off running towards the shadows of the trees.

She reached the shack, briefly glancing at the girl who was holding her throat together with her hands. Blood was splattered on half the shack, thanks to dying girl. "He left you to die," Neptune drawled, her mouth twisting into a smile. "How wicked." The girl gurgled for a few seconds more, choking on her own blood, before a cannon sounded, the first tribute dead.

Neptune spotted a weathered trident against a back wall. Rust and grime decorated the piece but that didn't matter to her. She grabbed a few of bags, dumping their contents into one for easy mobility. She began reaching for the trident.

"Oof."

Neptune fell forward as someone smacked the back of her head with a blunt object. The bag she was carrying tumbled out of her grasp. Her throat tightened as she rolled over, avoiding the orange tinted blade of an ax that swung at her. She attempted to see her attacker through the stars that swam in her eyes. "Are you serious?"

Two more clings of metal. Her hands clenched in tight fists as she jumped to her feet, her eyes narrowing at the bearded tribute from seven in front of her.

"Killing isn't very nice, you know," Neptune seethed under breathe, watching as the man's eyes quirked at her words. She couldn't tell if he was confused or simply annoyed at her vocalization. His momentary pause was broken when he again swung the ax.

Neptune jumped back. She saw a crate only a few feet away. She jumped again, landing atop the box. The man from seven swung again. Her feet pushed off the crate. Landing behind the man, she picked up a board. With a single swing to the head she knocked the man off his feet. Seven fell, still clutching his weapon. With an angry whoop, the man rolled over, just as Neptune had done only moments before.

"Not so fun is it?" Neptune bit her lip, a wicked smile playing across her lips.

A flinch in the man's shoulder gave Neptune a split second warning to move. She dropped to the ground as the ax flew. A grunt sounded behind her. She turned, seeing Athena as she collapsed. The wide eyed tribute attempted to remove the ax from her chest before falling still. A cannon sounded.

The pair from District 7 must have been working together, Neptune surmised. He is strong, I'll have to outsmart him.

"Now, when your opponent is stronger than you, what do you do?" Lucas held an ax in his hand—not a real one though, they were only training.

"Use their strength against them," Neptune smiled. She appreciated Lucas's help, but she already knew that. She had asked him to help her for another, more selfish reason.

Neptune shook her head in frustration at the memory and ripped the weapon from the fallen tribute, approaching her prey like a lion going in for the kill. The man stood up. Neptune laughed. It was more fun when her victims fought against their certain demise. She had to make this quick, another tribute had already fallen in the shack.

The man shoved a pile of crates towards her. Neptune let out a screech as her foot was crushed under their weight. Seven picked up a trident, correction, her trident. He twirled it around before charging yet again. The clang of metal on metal echoed through the arena. She swiped at his arm. He cried out but did not yield any ground.

Another clash.

Another cannon.

Neptune was pushed back. She glanced quickly behind her, spotting a rusted piece of metal sticking up from a floorboard. The trident was shoved in her direction. Neptune stepped back. It was a dance. One step forward. Two steps back. Block and attack.

The combat began to quicken as tempers flared on either side. Neptune knew her face was an unflattering shade of red. Sweat streamed like a tropical storm down her face. She needed to get out of the hot zone as soon as possible and find a place to claim in the jungle. Soon the ax clattered out of Neptune's grasp.

Seven approached, ready to shove the trident into Neptune's torso. His arm moved forward. Neptune grabbed the weapon, using his strength and momentum to pull him forward. Seven fell, impaled on the twisted piece of metal. With a pounding heart, Neptune grinned and picked up her trident triumphantly. She pressed her foot on the man's back and pushed, shoving him farther down the metal until he no longer moved and a cannon blast went off.

Neptune grabbed the trident and the bag she had dropped and ran into the cover of the jungle. She glanced gleefully at the carnage around her before turning away.

Neptune was fit as a general rule, but the heat, the sun and her fight and nearly knocked the breath out of her. The bump that was forming on her head didn't help her situation either. Still, the thrill of the chase was exhilarating. If it were even possible, her blood pumped a bit faster.

While pausing momentarily to get her bearings, Neptune heard a crashing sound through the trees. She whirled, her trident pointed defensively before her.

Percy Cole burst through the foliage, his hand clasping a knife. "It's you."

"Yes." She did not lower her trident.

"Remember what we discussed?"

Neptune nodded reluctantly. She had half-heartedly agreed to ally with him. She swallowed as Lucas's face flashed momentarily in front of her eyes. Percy reminded Neptune faintly of her lost friend. He was outgoing and charismatic, just like Lucas had been. She knew that Percy was the kind of man that wanted a tight alliance and Neptune was unsure whether she wanted to go through that ordeal again.

"They left," Lucas woke Neptune from her place on the ground. "All of them."

"Who?" she had asked, looking intp Lucas's fearful eyes. "Oh. Hey, it'll be okay," she had tried to reassure him. But it was not alright, and would not be for the remainder of the game.

Neptune shook her head to clear the memory. Why was she thinking of him now? Lucas was long gone and with him the girl she had once been. I no longer care for others, she tried to tell herself, so an alliance will be easy to break.

"You gonna lower the weapon now?" Percy searched her face for a hint of cooperation.

With a sigh, Neptune swung her trident down to her side. "Did you have anyone else you wanted to meet up with?"

"Yeah—" Percy began before his eyes widened. "Behind you!"

Neptune attempted to turn but was stopped by a knife at her throat. She dropped her trident. Percy started forward but one glare from Neptune made him pause.

"I have yet to feel the blood run through my fingers. Will you do me that honor?" Neptune gripped the arms around her tightly, feeling the slender wrists of a female.

"Shut up," the knife sliced into her neck, drawing blood. "Call your lackey off."

"Lackey? I've been downgraded to a lackey." Percy feigned bewilderment.

Neptune became tired of the chatter. In a swift move, she pulled down on her assailants arms. Ducking under the knife, she swung at the girl. The girl grunted and rubbed her jaw as Neptune swung again, knocking the knife out of her hand. Retrieving the weapon, she twisted it around before plunging it in the girl's chest. A cannon sounded.

"Do you think we'll get through this?" Neptune snuggled close to Lucas the chilly night sinking into her bones, fear twisting in the back of her mind.

"We can do anything." Lucas kissed her hair, smiling. "You are strong. We'll make the Capital sing our names."

Neptune looked at the dead tribute before her, feeling the sticky blood on her hands. "Are you singing my name yet?"

★PARABELLA BLUESTONE-SCORIA★

No Entry

★WREN DUFTY★

No Entry

★ADEL ASLET★

The chessboard was set and ready with a little less than a minute left on the timer. As the clock ticked down, the atmosphere had quickly shifted from an intensity like no other, to anticipation that came from the early shots of adrenaline. It was as though the long march to death had finally been over, and now it was just a televised broadcast of a boxing match between death and tribute.

Once the timer hit zero, the bloodbath would begin, and luck would run out.

There were forty seconds still left on the timer. Adel had forty seconds to create a pregame that would determine the endgame. After those forty seconds expired, there was no turning back or reversing moves. It would be nothing more than a test on the ability to adapt and predict.

Predictions were important.  Having all the intelligent and athletic ability meant nothing if one did not know their opponent.

When Adel observed the former victors surrounding her, she saw them for what they were in the game of chess she was about to play.

On the far end of the board was Eden Karam, a knight. The District Two prodigy would do best in the center of the bloodbath, using her athletic abilities to their fullest potential— which was most likely her strategy. She would leap off her pedestal, run to the center of action, and slaughter the pawns with a melee weapon that one would’ve thought she had been born holding. The thirteen year-old would undoubtedly bring in the most kills for her alliance, and bring hell upon anyone who came within range of her.

Her weakness would be her lack of wisdom and experience. She would be most likely out of the career pack to make a fatal mistake. Whether it be from an arrogance in the development that she didn’t bear now but Adel was sure she would develop later, or a simple miscalculation of each consequence that resulted from her every move.

However, what Eden lacked, Violante Mercy Grinnell made up for. The woman was the queen of all pieces, powerful and fearless. She would hold back in the beginning, conserving her energy, and letting Eden do most of the work. But once she was ready, she would attack at full force and close in on the stubborn tributes who refused to give up. She would attack any open lines, and calculate each move with precision that could only come from that of an experienced killer.

Her only weakness would be how many enemies she already made, and would continue to make throughout the game. The best shot Adel figured she had at getting rid of her was the faintest hope that either Eden or Parabella would stab the sociopath as she slept. Perhaps Eden more than Parabella, but still the slightest hope that the thirteen year-old would get smart and not keep the queen for too long. Otherwise, the next best shot was to hope she couldn’t outrun a mutt.

The last in their alliance was the king, Parabella Bluestone-Scoria. Particularly useless if Adel were being truthful, but still not to be underestimated. If the theory that a person could not alter their personality rang valid, then it would make this woman a ticking time bomb that would explode and possibly create the dramatic endgame that no one would expect.

A watchful eye would do wonders when it came to that alliance.

Though the same could be said for Percy Cole, and Kiefer Elwood, the rook and bishop.

Percy, although not particularly the most threatening in terms of power and strength, made up for his losses by taking role as the social threat of the board. His personality was charming, dazzling, and perhaps even addictive. He was the type of man that had a natural charisma that drew in allies like bees to a nest. He had pawns lining up at his disposal, and they would die protecting him while also leaving behind the resources that were more than useful to the arsonist himself. Enemies would be reluctant to kill him because of his charm, and the best chance at taking him out would be to hope an ally of his got smart.

Kiefer, on the other hand, was not what Adel had expected at first glance. On the outside he appeared to be a broken man who likely struggled with alcoholism, yet at second glance there was more to him. He was physically well-built, and he wielded an axe expertly, but not enough to be on a career’s level. He would not be a social threat, nor would he be in the middle of all the action, decapitating opponents. No, he would hide, kill when he needed to, and let fools underestimate him. Although broken, something was keeping him going. Whatever it was, it would be his will to live for that specific thing that would be his greatest advantage. Determination was the greatest weapon yielded besides intelligence, and he wouldn’t go down easily. He would go down as soon as he lost sight of a greater purpose. There was no telling when he would, but Adel was sure he wouldn’t last until the end like that. Regardless, he was still a bishop and still a threat.

And then of course, there were the pawns and Hertzel Kozlowski.

Many pawns would be disposed of during the bloodbath, while the lucky ones would get to live an extra few days. Perhaps in prevention of ignorance, Adel would calculate their moves to be on the safe side, but she was sure many of them would run off the pedestal and get killed by Eden or Violante. If not, they would tag along with Percy before he eventually led his lambs to slaughter.

But Hertzel Kozlowski was a different story than the rest. He didn’t fit any specific chess piece, and he was more difficult to predict. His strategy was similar to hers, and predicting him was like predicting her own moves (as in, strange and uncomfortable). He was arrogant, and maybe even full of himself if Adel really thought about it. Yet, at the same time, he was well aware of how deadly arrogance could be which made her unsure of whether it was his weak point.  

She wasn’t sure, and it made her unnerved enough to align with him. If she couldn’t beat him, she would join him (until a certain point of course). She would figure him out over time, and it seemed like the most appropriate strategy.

Nonetheless, this was the chess board— a king, queen, rook, bishop, knight, pawns, and Hertzel. She predicted the king, queen, and knight to attack in the center and massacre the pawns, while the bishop and rook cut and run. She herself would cut and run, as that was the best thing to do.

Judging by the bloodbath participants, and the weather, she had a low percent chance at making it out of the fight alive— more or less with supplies. The weather was humid enough that the wetsuits suck to the bodies of every tribute, and the hotness combined with the wetness would cause accelerated exhaustion on both sides. In a one-on-one with Eden, the knight would exhaust after twenty minutes, and her body movements would be restricted by how the wetsuit stuck to her body, but the same effects would be on Adel’s side. It would be an inevitable loss if she factored in the weather.

Thus, the ideal strategy would be to run to the jungle, improvise on the supplies part of the games, and stay hidden until a plan could be made.

Yes, that would be the temporary strategy. And she made it with six seconds to spare.

“Five,” the voice on the timer started.

Is it difficult to run in sand?

“Four.”

She gazed at Hertzel who met hers with a blank expression. With a single movement, he nodded as though he was reading her mind. Of course, there was a chance he was just nodding just to nod. He seemed like the type of man to nod and agree, despite not paying attention.

“Two.”

She balled her fists, and rolled her shoulders. She was prepared to bolt as soon as the gong rang.

“One.”

As soon as she heard it, she leapt off her pedestal. She sprinted toward the jungle, trying not to trip over the sand that was currently slowing her down. She shot past the screaming tributes, ignoring whatever butchering was taking place in the bloodbath. Her hair stuck to her face, and it wasn’t even a few minutes before she was tired.

It was the curse of being unathletic, combined with the humidity and thickness of the sand.

Why do the intelligent tributes always get the short end of the stick?

Pushing away her inner complaints from her mind, she maneuvered around the thick forestry of the harsh jungle that was loud from not only the noises of animals she didn’t necessarily want to discover, but also the screams of murder.

She imagined at least three tributes had been killed within the last few minutes.

On the bright side, however, the careers were too preoccupied with killing the pawns to give chase to anyone who beelined toward the jungle.

Speaking of which, where’s Her—

“You know,” a voice panted. She turned around and saw the devil himself with his hands on his knees, and his hair stuck to his face, coated in a thick sweat. He looked tired— and as though he ran a few miles and then some. Did she look like that? “I understand the survival simulation and making us feel like this is a real environment, but I need to ask the Gamemakers an important question,” he continued.

“And what would that be?” she asked.

He breathed heavily.

“Would it kill them to have an arena that’s air conditioned?”

★ATHENA OLIVE★

Sixty seconds, that was the time I had to plan my survival yet again. As we ascended a tangy, salty odour hit me. The sun shone proudly in the blue sky and its light was reflected by the surf of equally blue water. In front of me was a dense forest with trees and vines forming impenetrable canopy and preventing the light to reach the forest floor.

To my right was a small cove. I scanned the faces of other tributes, all experienced and determined to survive this through. Few of them were eyeing the cove for some reason, may be they felt it was the safer option. I didn’t conclude it though.

Each year the Gamemakers made a grander arena that also meant that each year they made it more difficult.

The gong was to set off in ten seconds according to my internal clock and I was ready. Diametrically across me was a dense forest with a cornucopia which lay in the centre.

With the loud sound which conquered over the crashes of waves, the mayhem started. Without looking either side, I glared at my golden horn.

Few victors or tributes had already reached the cornucopia. Running on the soft sand was proving to be laborious as the white sand beneath my footwear couldn’t sustain my weight.

Before I could reach the cornucopia it was already raided by younger tributes. Therefore I acted in the most obvious way, I ran straight towards the jungle. The ground beneath me became more stable as I approached the forest floor and I was able to regain my weight.

I was about to enter the forest cover when a hunting knife projected past through me and embedded itself into the nearby tree trunk. It missed me with few centimeters and with all my might I yanked off the hunting knife.

The initial owner of the knife had caught up to me before I could plan an escape. But I didn’t survive the games sixteen years back just to be minced by another tribute. Without a second thought I waited for the tribute, showing my back in pretence of being unaware of the attempt. Just as she or he was in range, with a sharp turn and my left hand in full rotation with the knife, a gash was marked which sprouted blood from the tribute’s neck.

I didn’t linger around to find out the identity of the dead corpse. My muscles tensed and I sprinted into the jungle jumping over the huge roots and cutting my way out through dangling vines.

I finally managed to distance myself from the now red beach. Between my heavy breathing and the humid atmosphere, I heard cries and murderous outrage which was getting replaced by the tropical noise.

The trees were thick and could easily sustain my weight. But it was difficult to search for a tree tall enough to reach the forest roof and without a vine slithering on its trunk and draining away its strength.

After a long hour and a luck for not finding anything that moves. I climbed a tree and reached at its immediate distal end. It was dangerous but it was worth the scene that was about to be showcased.

The sky was absorbing the blood. But for me the highlight was the tribute’s faces that adorned the sky. There was a total of five kill this very day. Unlike the regular games where there were at least deaths in bloodbath. A very evidential proof of how challenging the survival would be.

Attempting to recognize the life I finished today. My balance got disturbed and I fell from a sixty feet. I didn’t come in terms with my morality or anything as plummeted towards my own death but was ashamed of myself to die from a free fall after terminating nine lives!

★ROSELIA LOCHTON★

Dropped Out

★EVELYN GRAY★

Twenty six years ago today I should have died.

I had seen enough Bloodbaths, mentored enough girls who were just like me, watched enough of them die, that I knew I shouldn't have survived. Any illusions I had had that I deserved to win my Games, or had won on any sort of merit had been wiped away completely in the years since I'd won. Death must have gotten a taste of me at some point in my Games, though, for it had been chasing me ever since.

Somehow, I had always managed to stay ahead of it, and as a consolation prize Death took whoever was a few steps behind me, or whoever I had thrown back there to try and hold it off for just a little while more. Even when I stopped, practically begged Death to take me like it should have twenty six years ago, it bitterly refused. Maybe today, my luck would finally run out.

*

This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be happening.

The solitary thought echoed around my head, begging for some other idea to take its place, but finding nothing. A deluge of memories flooded my mind. The pain of giving birth to a child, lessened only by the experience of having given birth once before. A girl asleep in her older brother's cradle, freshly painted pink. Her laughter, her shouts, her tears. All with the same thought played for their soundtrack.

I tried to reconcile the images of my head with what was on the screen, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't comprehend that my Starling, my only daughter was dead. Surely the cannon had fired by mistake, or else marked the death of the missing boy from One. In just a few moments, Starling would sit back up, her grip would tighten around the knife again, color would return to her skin. She would survive, she had to.

Every year, I had heard mothers of dying tributes say the exact same thing. In different words, perhaps, but their message, the expression on their face, was always exactly the same. It always seemed to irrational to me, that they would think their child was somehow different than the other twenty three in the Games. Now it was the only thing that made sense.

My eyes remained stuck on the television screen, staring at my daughter's body even when the cameras turned away from her, desperate for even the smallest sign of life. A twitch of the eyes, a rise or fall of the chest. After what had to be an eternity of watching, though, I knew that the cannon was right. My daughter was dead and I had killed her.

Wasn't it I, after all, who had inspired her to start Training? If I had been honest with her, showed her the damage the Games had done to me, when she was younger, she would be ok. Wasn't it I who passed down my skill with the knife, the willingness to do whatever it takes to survive and win? Without those, she never would have won the Reaping Tournament and gotten the opportunity to volunteer. And wasn't it I who had mentored the girl who killed her?

Before my mind could understand what I was doing, I found my hand wrapped around Onyx's old Peacekeeper gun, a memento they let him keep after he retired. It was surprisingly light in my hands, not even as heavy as the knives I had used in the Games, but just as cold. I tested the weight, checked the safety. It was off.

I raised the gun to my forehead and closed my eyes. It wasn't my own life that flashed before my eyes though, but Starling's. The first time I held her in my arms, saw my own eyes as though plucked from my head and placed in hers. Her first steps, shaky yet determined as she tried to cross the room from her father to me. Acing tests in school and Training, and proudly holding up the report card. Winning the Reaping Tournament, finally proving her worth and getting to follow in her mother's begrudging footsteps. Each time she had the same smile: her father's. Then her body, limp and pale, her face completely slack.

No mater how hard I tried to stay still, to keep my finger steady and the barrel of the gun in the middle of my forehead, I kept shaking. It wasn't going to stop: not the misery, not the shaking, not the guilt. So I pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

I did it again, and was only met by the same hollow click I heard before. I did it again, and again, and again, and again, my finger scarcely coming off the trigger before I pressed it down once more, but each was just as fruitless. My entire body shook with rage as I threw the gun to the ground, useless without any bullets.

"Why?" I shouted, a visceral scream that hardly sounded like a word even to my own ears. Why was this gun empty? Why did my daughter have to die while I was still forced to live? Why had I made all of the mistakes I'd made while raising her? Why could I not trade my life for hers? Why couldn't I die?

If Death had heard, he must have only laughed as he watched me from a distance, and added another to the list of people who had died for me.

*

For some reason, the Gamemakers had accepted my request to spend my last few minutes before the Games began in solitude. Perhaps they had already counted me out, decided it would be a better story if I killed myself rather than face the Games, the same way Staiger had. Though I hated to admit it, they were almost right about me. I wasn't going to kill myself now, but I had resolved myself to let somebody else win these Games.

So many of these tributes were young, one even younger than Starling had been during her Games. They had futures ahead of them, lives to live even if they would only be full of disappointment and heartbreak. My son was grown, my daughter gone. The only thing that would miss me if I died would be a songbird who only saw me as a walking bird feeder. If I had to die so that one of them could live, I was willing to do it.

The tube began to close around me, and I closed my eyes. Surrounded by darkness, enclosed in a space just big enough to fit my body. Is this what death would be like? An eternity of this darkness, this quiet, this peace? Though I wasn't certain, I had to tell myself that it was. It was the only way I could keep from pounding against this glass tube until it broke, and using the glass shards to gouge out my own eyes.

I didn't open my eyes until I felt warmth, not the unpleasant kind of heat that seemed to slowly melt you, but genuine comfortable warmth. We were on an island, soft yellow sand piled between our plates, crystalline waves splashing up onto the beach before returning to where they belonged. The lush jungle on my opposite side was lush and green, with even more shades than the first I had grown accustomed to seeing outside my window. Even the Cornucopia, the very image of the Capitol's power and presence in the Games, had been replaced with a small, wooden shack. As far as arenas went, this would be a nice place to die.

The timer seemed to go by unbearably slowly, the opposite of my first Games. Then, I had no idea what I was going to do, and by the time I had even half of a plan, the countdown was over. Now, I already knew what I wanted, nothing more than a knife to clear out a comfortable spot in the jungle, and the timer itself taunted me. Are you sure you know what you want, it seemed to ask me.

I was.

Reluctantly, the timer started, and every tribute at once ran towards the little shack and its crates that would mean the difference between life and death. Even I ran, my feet hardly finding any traction amidst the soft sand, if only so I could hasten the inevitable. If someone was going to kill me in the Bloodbath, they might as well do it in the middle of everything, where there were lot of targets and the Gamemakers wouldn't have the time to stretch out my final moments into an eternity.

Everyone seemed to be focused on other things though, figuring out a place where they could run and hide, trying to find a blade that wasn't broken or rusted. A dull knife was sufficient for me, though, so I didn't hesitate to pick up one of the knives Eden discarded, and start to go to the jungle.

I was only stopped by the sudden cry of a girl. The sound forced me two years into the past, it sounded so much like Starling. The girl it belonged to looked everything like her, and nothing like her at all. Her body was splayed at the same angle, her hair covering her face the exact same way, already covered in scratches from the start of the Game.

And above her, Cassyus, my daughter's ally who had watched her die rather than try and help her. Now, at least, he was brave enough to involve himself in the fray, take someone's life by action instead of inaction.

Are you willing to die if it means he will live?

Somehow, I didn't know. 

★SEQUOIA "MADAME" CARLISLE★

Yellow had always been a color set aside for Sequoia's nastier tastes in life.

Now, let it be known that most humans, despite what may glisten off of them towards the public eye, always have some degree of personal mentalities and physicalities. These are the things they show no one. These are the things that are assumed, but never observed.

But now - in this sweltering heat, in the ebb and flow of pushed dust - everything was up for observation. Without her consent, nonetheless; had she studied alongside her gracious daughter for many a year, and though she was never fond of the experimentation aspect of these sociological perspectives, she was certain that this, in some way or another, was a means for research, for they were observed, their behaviors marked down and hypothesized.

She might've brought it up to the lawful courts of Panem, had it not been done before her time already.

It was far too late for argument now anyhow, far too jaded for debate. This yellow that kept nagging at her feet, blowing up over the pedestal and brushing through the cracks in her shoes, it was a rotten yellow, stained by nearby vegetation and the fluids of jungle creatures.

She sniffed and subsequently crinkled her nose. Not just at the ground beneath her, though; she raised this nose at the surrounding tributes, too. The variety of same and same and same was astounding. About half of them were cool, composed in the same manner she was - like that Violante girl with the bovine features, and the wrinkled little prune, Cadette. Sequoia resolved to leave the both of them alone, for she had not yet resigned herself to death, and she'd always been brought up to treat her elders with respect.

Not killing them was respect enough.

As for the other half - an overwhelmingly large half, nearly all of them struck with the youthful glow of twenty-some triggered souls. They shook and they rattled, trembling so vehemently it seemed as though they'd vibrate themselves right off the plates and into the sand before the countdown could reach its end.

That was how she knew she wouldn't die there, not on that day, and not on those grounds.

So easily did she detach herself from her pedestal of platinum and silver, so easily did she traverse the earth on which she walked, and so easily did she grab up a knife and delve into the battle that'd followed her all the way over there.

Like bacon on a pan she fried those bitches - with her eyes, not actual fire, that's like, not her trademark. And swish and slash, she had people by the necks and in the chests between the ribs and all that good shit, ya feel ya feel.

Mockery - she was hella good at that, now, yes she was, mocking left and right these little Career hoes that thought they were top shit. Sure, they might've literally killed off half of their own arenas, but that was a slight, irrelevant detail. Sequoia had nice hair and killer moves, so obviously, she had the upper hand here.

Upper hand indeed, when she took to Kai from the bottom of his sternum and stab c'mon man just write the death and you'll be good the requirements aren't even hard why are you like this just slather 'em up in grease and slap 'em on the stove dude like sizzle sizzle eggs, maybe scramble 'em up a little, I don't fucking know, if you gotta throw a toaster at one of them then do it just end this entry and make sure you delete this trash from like two hundred words up okay because you are a little box of trash from Wall-E's trash box stomach okay he shoved you in and popped you out and now you spread his little cockroach fury like okay we get it bugs are dystopian but couldn't you have befriended a bee or a centipede or something cool like that like why a nasty ass cockroach what's even the point of that man like this ain't no episode of hoarders which by the way is a pretty interesting show almost more interesting than wife swap because these people just won't let go of their law books even when they're an unemployed optometrist and then the garbage Wall-E people are like okay we need to throw out your law books and then the unemployed optometrist screams and chains themselves to those books metaphorically (even though there's probably chains somewhere in that pile) and then the garbage men are walking around all stressed out like "god damn this woman she won't let us take her god damn cockroach lookin' ass law books like" and then the show ends with false happiness when you know the problem ain't really solved they just wanted it to end on a happy note so that the viewer leaves satisfied knowing that they aren't pullin' a Wall-E and stacking trash boxes up to the walls but guess again I am that trash box and I am a real and serious issue all because Sequoia is a stubborn side hoe even though her name is cool as shit and she's actually got genuine potential as a character but no instead she makes me write things like this like sizzle sizzle eggs and cockroach and hoarders and just i'm a piece of trash wall-e will pick me up in his little square ass stomach and make me a square then i will be a part of a trash building because i'm a god damn square of trash. 

★CADETTE LANCE★

There is something curious about Cadette Lance: she never truly sees.

Of course, this is not to say she is blind. Even at the humble age of seventy-five years, Ms. Lance has somehow managed to maintain relatively good vision. Indeed, as she rises into an arena where sand and sea reign in unison, her eyes begin to make out the scene around her. Pupils adjusting to a scalding sunlight, a weak hand slowly rises to shade her face. It does little good; she blinks consecutively, averting her gaze. Golden grains of grounded rock and dust stare back at her, and inescapable light slips through her fingers. Once, she'd risen into darkness, but times have changed.

Huffing, she wipes a hand across her nose, where sweat already beads profusely. That had come before the sand- before her eyes had even processed the glare. Heat had rammed into every exposed and unexposed area of skin- the provided wetsuit had prevented some mugginess from engulfing her, but still, her palms were immediately clammy, while moisture crawled across the back of her neck. It's too exhausting to slick back the tendrils of hair now matted against her forehead, even with the outfit sleeveless. She partially wishes there'd been some sort of covering- the aged flabs of skin are far too obvious, hanging from her exposed limbs. Then again, she'd still have been obvious no matter what attire she wore, being half a century older than most competitors.

She doesn't feel old, doesn't feel a day past fifteen. She almost is fifteen again, returning to a place all too fresh in her memories.

Reality keeps playing with her; she can't stop it. No matter how good her sight, her mind doesn't see the right images. Her gaze finally adjusts, and she turns to the scene before her. The sky is blue; she sees pink, the peachy shade of the past. She blinks; it's gone, and she doesn't know how to distinguish truth.

The air grows heavier, thicker entering and retreating from her lungs. Sucking in deep breaths, she closes her eyes for a moment to catch her bearings; she wrenches them open again moments later, rocking uncontrollably. She doesn't have the balance she had at fifteen. In the distance, the same numbers count, but instead of the rundown hut plopped in the middle of the sand, she sees the gleaming gold of the Cornucopia sixty years previous. Sand melds into long-gone, slippery blades of grass; she awaits the rain she remembers soaking her.

But the rain doesn't come.

She is seventy-five years old- the countdown ticks. She shakes her head back and forth, eyebrows knitting together, intensifying her wrinkles. Ten. Once, when her brain cooperated and her limbs moved how she wanted- and still thought they would- she'd had a plan with ten seconds left. Once, she'd told herself she could do it, could survive even though so many others were desperate to, as well. But she can't find those words on her tongue anymore; they, like many memories, have abandoned her. Truthfully, she isn't hopeful. She lifts her head only to look death in the eye, watching ten fade to nine and nine to eight. A woman of her age? She'd never trusted the odds before, but their accuracy was undeniable- she's designated the first death. Seven slips to six. Once, her brothers had told her to fight, urged her on, but she can't find motivation anymore. It's too hard. It's too hard to take a step, to force her old, creaky bones to cooperate, to formulate even a fragment of a plan. She wants to be the girl of fifteen.

Whenever she tries to be, reality reprimands her with a harsh slap across the face.

Should she be ready to die at seventy-five? She remembers from her childhood how respectable it'd been to live to such an age- how revered those who were managed to survive a certain number of years, despite the smog-clogged lungs and the food shortages and the weakening muscles. But in a circle of figures all so young, so ready, so energized, it's never been more obvious that she's nothing. Age is only a weakness. Not one of them would hesitate to kill her, and all of them... all of them did something. She can't remember. The five on the clock flicks to a scarlet four; she pushes the thought away, brain aching inside her skull. Surely it is of no matter.

That's what she tells herself, at least- that the holes don't matter, that they aren't there. Her stylist had had to inform her three times what her purpose was in entering the tube that would become her platform, what she was supposed to do when she saw whatever environment faced her above. She hadn't meant to be an annoyance, but the words wouldn't stick in her mind- or, at least, not while she'd been attempting to put on the wetsuit. The stylist had helped as much as possible- yanking where possible and zipping up the back- but what had been a simple task for every other tribute, each dressed in an identical outfit, had taken so much time and effort- it'd exhausted her right off the bat.

Rest hadn't been an option, though- only survival.

The stylist had told her what to do- albeit with a frown by the time she'd managed to worm her feet into the rubbery shoes and asked for the third time what the hell she was doing there and who the person dressing her was- but told her all the same. Sixty years ago, the fifteen-year-old had chosen to run.

Run.

Four becomes three, and she casts a nervous glance to her left. The young man on the platform next to her shifts into position, preparing himself to run. Even from a distance, she can see the adrenaline already coursing through him, how sharp and focused his gaze is on the hut in the distance. He's a killer.

She wonders what his grandmother thinks of him when he takes a life.

Then again, his grandmother's probably dead.

Is she a grandmother herself? She can't remember.

How her mind drifts. If only she had the determination of the young man, the ability. Sometimes the holes make her feel so powerless, so alone. Even the stylist, who she'd barely known (to her knowledge, at least, but that was constantly faulty- they could've been best friends and she wouldn't have had a clue) had been so frustrated with the forgetfulness, the way undemanding actions became so complicated. How hard was it to just remember? How hard was it to just be?

Three turns to two, and an explosion rings throughout the arena, every corner vibrating with the ear-splitting noise of a tribute just a little too eager to begin being blown to pieces. A rain of red guts and grainy sand lands upon tributes in the distance, and she tries not to think about how death has already made itself known, and it won't be the last time she'll encounter it.

Two transforms into one. She swallows, then runs her tongue along her lips, already dry, cracked. Run, she reminds herself. If she must remember anything, it's that.

One, to zero, and it begins.

Her pace is excruciatingly slow. As others leap from their platforms, immediately picking up speed as they race towards the shack and into the distance stretches of beachside, somehow navigating the sand with what seems like no trouble at all, the elderly woman gradually bends her knee, lifting it just a few inches off the platform, inches it forward, and lowers it to the ground. Heel sinking into sand, she wobbles, spreading her arms to maintain her precious balance. Gritting her teeth, she tells herself, it isn't hopeless. Eyes remain half trained on the ground she tries so hard to reach as she lifts the second foot and brings it down and half on the tributes rummaging through crates in the center. Her mind flashes in and out of a time where she'd conjured up her brothers to urge her on, convincing her to reach safety- how sheltered she'd been then.

She's alone now- it's hard to stay hopeful.

She takes a step. How she longs to go faster, longs to run like everyone else can; she can't push herself too hard, for she knows how something inside her could give out at any moment. Sparing a glance back in an effort to be vigilant- though there's little possibility of her countering an attack- her eyes land on the bloodbath. Her feet freeze, breath stolen.

Yellow sand, stained red. Her eyes dart to a body, limp limbs sprawled across sand, a rusted blade protruding from a pale forehead. Fingers reach out, and her stomach squirms as she watches blood run in rivulets down the freckled face of the unlucky.

She could be next. Trying to force her eyes away, she returns to the arduous task of moving forward, pain biting the soles of her feet with every unsteady step. Yet she finds her eyes trailing back... she doesn't want to see it. She has no morbid curiosity.

But she can't leave it alone.

Her sight catches on a head. Tufts of blonde hair are barely distinguishable from the sand that cradles one cheek, a gentle pillow. Scarlet gushes from a severed neck. And she asks herself, who could do such a thing?

Another step, a third horror. Fear sends her heartbeat pounding rapidly as she watches the action. A man brandishes a spear; a boy crawls desperately through the sand. And she sees the expression on that boy's face- that utter pain of knowing he is doomed. The spear penetrates his vulnerable back. She wonders if her own face mirrors his.

She remembers witnessing something similar sixty years previous; she remembers running from it.

That's all she can do.

Keep moving. She takes a shaky step without wrenching her gaze away, and suddenly, the sand slides unexpectedly, and her foot lands at an angle. The world tilts to the side, her foot slipping uncontrollably as she falls. Distantly, she sees a little girl stab someone twice her age. She sees a dead man fall to his knees.

She sees desperation.

The sand cushions her, but not enough to prevent jarring pain from radiating through her spine upon impact. And the weight is too much; the energy is too much. "Help," she rasps. "I've fallen, and I can't get up."

She might as well die now. Nobody needs her- she can't recall any family, anyone there for her. She remembers her brothers; she remembers remembering they'd been figments of her imagination. The sand is soft. Perhaps her killer will be merciful and make it quick... she closes her eyes.

She doesn't know how much time passes before the hands come. They secure themselves under her arms, then heave. Her eyes flutter open again as her torso slowly rises, suddenly aided by a foreign strength. Head swiveling around, she finds herself eye to eye with a smiling stranger, who grunts as he lifts her back onto her feet. Her jaw hangs loose in bafflement as she regains her balance, carefully steadying herself with the man's aid. "Figured I'd return the favor, Cadette," he grins, looping a hand around her as together, they take a step forward. She stares at him, eyebrows narrowing; she can't place him. The holes in her mind are always there, appearing at the most convenient of moments.

"You look like my brother," she mutters deliriously.

The man's smile grows tight, yet remains. "I'm Constantine. You mentored me."

She glances to the sand, unable to make eye contact as guilt threatens to overtake her. Frustration with her brain fires up inside her, and she wishes there was something she could conjure up about this Constantine that would trigger a memory. But there's nothing. "Oh," she says softly. "I see."

There is something curious about Cadette Lance: she never truly sees.