★CASSYUS BERYL★

No Entry

★LAURUS ENZO★

His favorite color of ink is black, and not just because he himself is of that varied shade. Laurus Enzo enjoys that hue simply because it’s curt and to the point; there is no need to decipher his intentions by trying to understand what other colors he uses may mean. Black is black, and it’s his choice to dabble in it.

Currently, though, he wishes he didn’t have any shade of ink. And for all he knows, he may not have any left, as about half of the bottle’s contents are now on his arena suit—rather, clothing; “suit” is too proper and grandeur of a word for where he’s going.

He stands up to dry the ink with any towel he can find in the Launch room, but amidst his tight clothing—a sleeveless wetsuit, with a single diagonal stripe across the front—, the moisture clings to the woven fabric, and then runs down, undried. As he watches the ink settle in and down, he himself settles on one of the two chairs in the room, and finishes up the letter. Once that task is done, he has no idea what to do. (In reality, he does; this is his second time in a Launch room, after all.)

Looking around the room, he makes note that it’s equally as barren as the one he used before. There are the standard white walls, two chairs, and desk; the only difference is the missing clock. This unnerves him in a way he cannot describe, and, turning, he asks, “How much time do you think we have left?”

He uses “we” because over his career as a Victor, Levana has been with him through it all. He admits, she was apathetic at first—he was to be just another naïve boy from District Eleven that would only make it to, at best, Day Two—, but as he emerged victorious, and therefore had the standard Tour, she opened up in an unimaginable way. They have more commonalities than they originally presumed, and their bond of designer-and-model has surpassed the one Laurus shares with Claudia, that of mentor-and-mentee.

“Another minute, perhaps,” she replies. “Are you done with the letter already?”

He nods. “Yeah, I finished it right now. You’ll make sure to give each one directly to Uncle Mino, right?” His voice gets tougher, but it’s also closer to cracking. He’s never used this tone with her, and he doubts he ever will again, but he needs her to understand how grave it is for her to keep and act upon her promise.

“Of course, Aliquam.”

At the mention of her nickname for him—which, in Latin, roughly translates to “oranges”—, he softens, if only slightly. The name itself is pleasing, because she knows how much he enjoys the fruit, but also due to its history, most of it riddled with Uncle Mino. The day she dubbed him with a new name was the day in which they became more than partners; it was an insight as to what the future would hold in their intertwined careers.

(It was also when he decided to trust her wholeheartedly, consider her more of an aunt than stylist—he won’t ever tell her this as there is no need to express what is already known.)

A smile is shared and the waiting is over: a mechanical voice warns that he has thirty seconds to step into the tube. He does so—the waterproof socks sticking to his skin and the rubber-like shoes squeaking as he walks—, but not before he gets to embrace the closest thing he has to home.

Laurus holds tight; Levana is the one to let him go. Let him go physically, so he can make his way to the tube, but also emotionally, as she must brace herself for the worse.

The moment his feet hit the pedestal, the last hiss of two doors closing is heard, and he ascends like he did six years ago.

Six years ago, he was an eighteen year-old kid, no token in hand as he didn’t want to deprive his uncle of two sentiments. Now, he is a twenty-four year-old man, a satchel hanging from his shoulder, a plastic sheet, a book of matches, a notebook, some inkwells and some quills inside as he has to restore his uncle of some tangible sentiment.

Six years ago, all he smelled was a heavy cloud of dirty water, and all he felt was the lack of breezes. Now, all he smells is the salt in the ocean, and all he feels is the clinging humidity.

Six years ago, he was dumped in a swamp, with tree trunks as thick as the muddy water, and with mosquitos as bloodthirsty as the tributes. Now, he emerges in an island, with sandy beaches as clear as the ocean water, and with coves further out on sea like he physically is from his uncle.

Six years ago, he thought time went on forever as he waited for the gong. Now, he thinks time is quick, equivalent to a breath.

A smile is passed and the waiting is over: one-hundred meters are blurred in the span of something unmeasurable. As multiple pairs of feet are racing by, he’s not the only one to think of this as an easy feat, wanting to be the first to reach the Cornucopia—this year, it lacks the vividness that usually mirrors the arena.

But something that does parallel his previous time in the arena is that someone dies before weapons are reached. A little girl, Victor of the year prior, is sprinting behind one Hertzel Kozlowski, and jumps onto his back. Before Kozlowski can react, Eden has him in a headlock, bracing herself for the fall to ensue. And follow, it does: once her grip is perfected, she throws all her weight backwards, and down they topple. There is the distinct noise of a grunt coming from her—perhaps her wind was knocked out in the process—, but even heavier than that is the sound of a broken neck.

Laurus expects to hear the cannon, but he knows the Bloodbath is far from over.

Dearest Uncle Mino,

In my first Games, the first to fall was the twelve year-old from Three. Remember her? She was strangled with a ribbon—the token that belonged to the boy from District Eight. I don’t recall either of their names, but both died within seconds of each other. The boy from Eight ended with a knife in his forehead, thrown by the girl from One—later to be my biggest adversary. She went on, hunting tributes and putting them down with her knives.
I was her next target, but the knife went astray when someone else—the boy from Seven—was thrown into her. Instead of focusing on me, she turned on him immediately. He was choking on his own blood before his fingers could twitch toward his axe.

When he reaches the wooden shack, he’s not choking because he’s physically tired, but because sand was kicked into his face. It doesn’t matter because the culprit got away unnoticed. (False: he’s already had it out for Percy Cole. His penchant for fire is not only unnerving, but his resemblance to Urchin Boy can’t go unnoticed.) Once Laurus gets inside, he wastes no time stomping through the rotten, wooden crates.

When cracked open, out come a variety of weapons. Of them are flashes of knives and daggers, swords and axes, even whips and clawed gloves—he takes a pair of these. While all of them have been ravaged by the sea—unpolished, unfree of rust, with jagged and corroded edges—, none of them are what he wants. What he needs is a sickle.

Before she could come after me again, I decided to become the hunter; it was my original plan, anyways: kill, and make my name known because of it. So I followed that. I ran straight into the middle of things, dodging tributes as much as they stayed away from me. I had built a reputation in training, and this was my application.

When I finally made it into the mouth of the Horn, I was surprised by the fact that there was a sickle. I knew it was because of me: the Gamemakers saw me training with one, and they knew I’d deliver if they gave me what I wanted. I took it without hesitation, even feeling brave enough to place two packs on my back—I didn’t need to check them. If they were that big, I knew they’d have anything I’d ever need.

And I ran back to the playing field, weapon in hand and ready to add to my reputation.

Laurus is no stranger to bloodshed—that much is evident. Once he’s found a sickle amidst the sea of ravaged weapons, he makes himself as equal a contender as Eden has. He wastes no time thereafter picking his victim: Wren Duffy. He almost considered asking her to be in an alliance, but someone else from the same district asked him earlier, and there’s only so much of Four he can handle. And now, looking at her, holding her sword in perfect position to run, he thinks they could have been quite the duo.

But not enough for him to hurt after disposing of her.

He enjoys killing her, even if it’s too easy. She doesn’t struggle much, only tries to par his sickle with her sword; too late she realizes she could’ve twisted the sickle out of his hands. When she falls over, a single line across her throat, he almost laughs. Killing an esteemed Victor from District Four shouldn’t be so simple! But it’s proven to be so.

In a moment of euphoric adrenaline, he decides that perhaps he can take out all of District Four right now. He knows there’s a pool of them this year, but it can’t be that difficult of a task if he has one of their own—Kai Zale—to assist in the process.

I took out the boys from District Three and Five without hesitation. Even both of them together wasn’t enough to amount to my strength. Three’s partner was already dead, and Five’s was close in sight. She had the same red mane he did—probably the same everyone else from Five has. I yanked her down by her hair, and when I flipped her body over, the point of the sickle’s blade penetrated her heart.

As I retrieved the weapon, I noticed two other bodies had fallen around me: the twins from Six. The silly boy had volunteered to protect his sister—at first, I thought it was heartfelt; then I realized it was selfish of him to take two children away from their mother, as it was certain they’d both be gone by the end of the Games. (At least I didn’t have a mother’s doubled-pain on my conscious.)

Someone else had taken out the girl from Eight and the boy from Twelve as I parred with the boy from Nine. We had many similarities, and if he was alike me as much as I thought, I couldn’t have him running around in the arena. There was a struggle as we fought, but I reigned superior.

I finished him and went out to find Isadora Bedlam, my ally from home. When she saw me, there was joy in her eyes: I was alive—she would fail to be so. I’ll admit, it hurt as I struck her down, but it was worth it. When asked, my reason was that she’d weigh me down. However, as I ran away from the scene, I prayed that her grandmother and the rest of her family would forgive me—it just had to be done. My real reasoning was that it was better to get rid of her earlier on, to sever my connection to home as fast as I could (which is another reason I didn’t take a token from you; forgive me).

Done with the female from Four, Neptune Scylla, he approaches his own ally: history bound to have parallels. Neither Kai Zale nor Laurus are innocent men, and perhaps this is why it doesn’t bother him to get rid of his ally. In the same fashion he took out Isadora Bedlam, the sickle strikes Kai’s back, tearing through cloth and skin alike; then, the blade penetrates his heart…

Unable to do this with black, Laurus Enzo thinks he can write and drown in red ink—blood—, and shade the sky the same color too.

★PERCY COLE★

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

Bile rose just as the ground did, tangy and acidic at the base of Percy's throat. There, he tried to speak to himself, to reassure himself, to rationalize with himself. In vain. The speed of ascension certainly choked him, and he slammed his back against the glass, hands pressed to the walls. They dripped with sweat, and too easily did they slide around his tube, leaving streaks in their wake.

One hand slewed too quickly, and Percy was quick to quiver. "Ho, shit. Shit."

Calm down. Calm down. Calm down.

Each flicker of white-hot light subsequently plunged him into temporary darkness. When he looked down, he could hardly see himself. A dark wetsuit grasped him all over, save for the arms, and the only signifier of his palpability was a bright orange strip crossing over his chest. Orange, of course, orange, of course. There - he clutched at the color, huffing.

It was happening again.

The tube shook, and Percy hitched quietly between a wheeze. Nausea threatened him again, and in doing so, it squeezed his eyes shut. He'd always done this when he was seasick-

Happening again. Again. Again.

"Listen," he said to himself, flinching at the rattle of metal plates above, "listen. Quit pussing out, okay? You're not the slowest. You're not the worst. You know this. So stop. Just stop."

Light, bright and scalding, lit up the backs of his eyelids, but he refused to open them, still waiting for the sensation of impending death to fade out. No big deal, right? For many a moment, he let the senses overwhelm him, cancelling out thought, emotion. He simply felt.

Humidity wrapped about his being. Water slapped against some far-off source. With a tremble and a heave, the ground locked in place beneath him.

"Tributes, let the Starving Artist Games begin!"

"Victors. Let the Annual Hunger Games begin."

How grand a thing reminiscing was.

When he opened his eyes, he found that the world glistened. Just as the swamp had, this world undulated, but unlike that wretched place, this water was clean, far, and smelled of salt. Heaps of familiar land leaned against his pedestal.

A healthy mix of ease and trauma filled him, then, and he allowed this world to stretch and encompass its inhabitants; to his right, someone snickered, and it was this airy sound that cued him in on the fact that he was facing the wrong way. With great care, and great redness in the face, he turned to the depth of the sand-laden territory, catching sight of green, of brown, of rot and decay. Numbers drilled off above a leaning shack - something he'd see back home.

Home. Now that was an idea. Home, where a brother sat in wait with his fiance. Home, where a brother wrung his hands in his lap. Home, where a brother said, much to the disgrace of his District, "Nothing will change the fact that we're fucked."

Home, where Percy stood on a screen, seventeen again, with the same panicked clench in his jaw, the same patchy redness on his face, sweat on his neck.

Home, where the six in sixty disappeared, and all that remained was a zero and a gong.

When his foot launched off the plate, he sucked in a great breath, as though one wrong move would send him plunging through murk. But he didn't, and he moved. Constantly. A triggered habit entered him; he knew to keep his strides long, great, pounding, but not to trudge, not to skid too strongly.

You'll fall and die.

You won't fall. You won't die.

Blindly running, he stumbled, but didn't fall. Soon his palms were driving into the edges of wooden crates to slow himself, and his attention was being scraped up by the voice of a near ally.

"Percy! A spear, now!"

Immediately, he scoured the premises of the shack, shoving away planks and kicking away boards. Get the spear. Get the spear for Lay-

Percy paused, lips shifting uncertainly. "Neptune."

Rather than investigating the nearest weapon, he took it up thoughtlessly, jerking towards a flash of blonde before throwing it. There, Neptune caught it mid-air - smiled, despite its bent nature.

Percy didn't smile back; he simply turned and bit Layla's existence through his cheek.

Now arm yourself. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon.

Carefully, he glanced left. Carefully, he glanced right. Everyone was wrapped up in their own little battles, too preoccupied to pay him any mind as he eyed a nearby trident. Even from where he stood he could see the rust, the greening metal, the jagged points. A nasty beauty, truly.

And he'd get her.

Once more, he checked behind one crate, two crates. He looked to the desolate weapon. We'll be fine.

Oh, how he believed himself! Not one step was taken before an unheard force - damn those ears - slammed against his chest. He screamed first, thought later, far after his back had been shoved right up against a crate taller than him. It creaked, it leaned. Percy feared its collapse, but quickly forgot once fresh headaches blossomed.

The blossoming tricked him; he hollered rawly for "Alistair!" Despite the greying of his assailant's head, he'd convinced himself this Kozlowski was a Prague, and instinctively his knee raised into the man's gut. A grunt, a retreat - Hertzel took form, and Percy tensed up against his crate despite freedom.

Percy shook. He arched an arm back, bounded forward, swung. Bone met bone and skin met skin in an exchange of black and blue; the color, delayed, but the pain present in a man's jaw and a younger man's knuckles. Dive - he dived for a trident. The handle was covered in the bumps of corrosion but he held it securely.

For a moment, he and Hertzel made direct eye contact. Dark eye on dark eye, uncertainty on caution. Percy adjusted his grip. Move. Move. Move. I dare you.

It took one shift of Hertzel's eye for Percy to see threats, and he bounded, once, twice, thrice. Up and around, he swung.

Hertzel's eyes widened, and just as the corroded steel came for him, he dropped himself to a crouch. Instead of his forehead, the trident lodged itself into the side of the crate, crackling deep. This took Percy's immediate attention; he tugged and yanked, and faintly, he heard the rapid retreat of footsteps.

Somewhere, he knew this was Hertzel's escape. But as he strained to rip the trident free he felt familiar confliction. Half of him remained at Hertzel's tail, following that disturbingly attractive idea of bloodstains and cracked bone - he shivered, pushed this away. He much preferred the stronger half of him, the angel on his shoulder that whispered, "You did good to miss, and he did good to duck."

If anything, he prided himself on not having killed anyone just yet. Supplies, water, and a regrouping was all he needed. Then they'd leave.

We're almost done here. He sucked in a great lungful of salty air in hopes that it'd ease him. But instead, his stomach fluttered - excitement for departure - and he gasped, pulling at the trident.

Percy'd underestimated his own strength, and in tearing the weapon free, splinters scattered and the weight of the trident's head pulled him forward. A rush filed out. So harsh was this loss of control that Percy couldn't intervene before platinum hairs filled his line of vision. Then red. The metallic clang came first, followed by vibrations of impact rolling down the handle into his wrists.

For a moment, this bystander - Cassyus - stood, wobbling precariously. Then, as most unconscious beings do, he fell against the hot sand.

Percy laughed nervously with a stressful swipe of hands through his hair - there he went again, knocking out the Ones - and then he stabbed the butt of his trident through the ground violently, unaware of the scarlet puddle that'd already expanded underfoot. He'd done this before. Twice. No, no - four times. Five.

Christ. He'd done this five times.

Stuck in his own little corner of the Bloodbath, he looked up, holding a hand above his brow to shield the sun, to scrape the sticky hairs away. Before him, carnage ensued. The Careers - boiled down to three this year without Four's support - went at others with bitten cheeks and coppery tongues. There, just in that moment, Eden had taken to Roselia's throat. If Percy craned his neck, he saw Neptune, slinging crimson over her shoulder. He gagged, for the sight wasn't right. Wren, too, vivaciously pried at a crate, choppy locks and freckled cheeks. Cedar took off down the shoreline, fleeing pursuit-

Percy knew it was Ashre, damn it, he knew, but that longingness of prevention dictated his actions. Straight through chaos he ran, narrowly dodging impalement. Watching left him witness to Sequoia slashing a sword between Kai's ribs; briefly, to Neptune and Wren, he hollered, "Stay away from The Madame!"

His next holler was along the shoreline, eyes burning against the back Ashre's chaser. "Hey!" Even Percy was taken aback by his own volume. Teff turned, bitter. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "Hey!" he called again, despite the shake in his throat, "Let the man enjoy his birthday!"

Smaller and smaller he grew as Teff approached him. The massacre was background noise; some other man fell to death, someone irrelevant. He continued to taunt, to attract attention, to run away as the druggie advanced. "What are you gonna do, Four? Set me on fire?"

Percy swallowed, galloping backwards until his heels were navigating rocky shore. "That only happened once, alright?"

"Once is too much."

By the time Percy'd made it up three uneven chunks, Teff began the rocky ascent. He was doing something, unhooking a sack from his hip. Percy glanced behind him. I can probably dive down and swim out. Back, he turned - little box, red package.

Matches.

Cardboard corners prodded Percy's own hip and he blanched, immediately fumbling for his bag. "I'm not here for a fire fight." He shook his head, ripping out the box. "I'm not."

Down. It took one fucking glance for his abdomen to start scathing him, biting and chewing at the muscle beneath skin. He cursed the box, that little piece of shit box.

Teff, stoic, removed a single match from his own; certainly, the Capitol would let him draw this out as he slicked it over the edge. Flame, erupting.

Percy meant to grab one for intimidation, but before his fingers could brush any, he found his pinky shoving everything out of his own grasp. When it tumbled to the licking foams below, he didn't bother reaching.

Teff grinned.

"Shit!"

Percy hopped backwards, meaning to run over the rocks, but his ankle caught on a grove and he fell flat on his ass. He scrambled, lungs panting, hands splitting, ears ringing. Teff stepped forward once, held the flame up.

All this. For what?

Fully prepared for his feet to get caught in the char, Percy screamed prematurely; the match, though, landed a few inches from his toes, sizzling out when a salty spray spurted. Another spray spurted secondly, warmth and stickiness flicking against his cheeks when Teff coughed. A machete sat in his chest, firm and comfortable, before slipping free.

Josef grabbed Teff by the shoulders and, without struggle, shoved him into the foam like a box of matches. Like Teagan, he huffed, rolled his hand. "You're welcome."

Percy glanced from him to a distant figure, saying no words but gesturing to the threat with his eyes. Josef disposed of his worries. "That's Adel," he said, holding out a hand. "She's not so great at this terrain anymore."

Josef, like Teagan, was expectant. Adel, like Naveen, watched roughly, weight pressed to her good leg in the distance.

Percy leaned against the rocks, hand draped across a flaring stomach. He would take this man's hand a few moments later, for despite the strangeness of this, it was safety.

The safety would only be temporary; that, he knew.

★CONSTANTINE CRANE★

It's the unimaginable.

It's the breaking of a promise, one from state to citizen, one that was never supposed to be broken. It was to take away the life, the liberty, and any chance for the pursuit of happiness. It was the fact that the Capitol had returned victors to their original habitat; the arena.

The room was stark, cast in a putrid monochrome shade of gray. Constantine hates it, and his stylist knows it too. He's been quite verbal about it, the color that is, but the idea of returning to the games hasn't fazed him more than other things. He seems to have accepted it, whether he comes out in death or in triumph. This boy has changed immensely since his original time in the games, it's almost as if the original part of him had died in the games, bringing forth as he is now.

He scoffs at the tribute outfit, it isn't flattering at all. The only thing possibly making him happy is the carnation tucked behind his ear. With an eye roll, he takes a breath of the crisp air, mind pondering whether he should voice his thoughts one more time. It wouldn't hurt, yet it wouldn't change anything. He bites his tongue, small hints of pain as the teeth sink into the flesh, not enough to draw blood but enough to make a difference. A second passes, he thinks again and decides to complain one last time.

"I hate this." The stylist looks up from her sketches, glasses hanging on to the tip of her ebony colored nose. She wonders if she should respond, after all, it's not every day you see a Capitol superstar.

"I know." The simple response is nothing for Constantine to rant further on, but he's not finished with his anger.

"I hate this," He repeats then swallows, "Fuck the Capitol." With that elegant response, he steps into the elevator. The odd moment of hostility surprises the young woman in the room with him. She eyes the security camera cautiously but decides it's not worth it. The clock on the wall slowly reaches zero, and before long he's sent up. Thick humid air fills his lungs as the tube rises. He feels the water droplets condensing onto his face already. It's damp, it's hot, it's horrible.

It's the unimaginable.

Around him are endless expanses of water, save for the giant island to his side. The sun cast high in the sky sends down harsh rays. The timer above the cornucopia counts down, although it seems the horn is nothing more than a broken down shack. The waiting game begins once more, sixty seconds before it all begins. Constantine still hopes it'll end, that the game would stop and no one would die, yet by now, it's such a small flicker aflame in the back of his mind that it extinguishes quickly.

Before long the gong sounds throughout the arena, and the hurricane of death sets itself over the victors. The rubber soles slam against the damp sand, the moment becomes quiet. There's only one thing in his mind, and that's getting supplies. Around him are cries of death, cries of sorrow, cries of anger, cries of murder. Everything happens so fast, blink for a second and you'll miss it. Weaklings cower, blood showers, red soaks his leg as someone is executed beside him. He doesn't care.

His hands clasp the top of a backpack, it's everything he might need. With one flowing motion he continues along his route. He carries himself into the lush forest. No matter what he continues to move. The dense plant life envelopes him. Dew drops dampen his body as he continues to move forward. Finally, Constantine stops when he reaches a clearing. Sharp woodchips poke at his feet, exposed roots unlevel the ground. Movements become cautious. He stops to breathe, the air heavy sinks deep into his lungs. Unknown bugs zip by as birds sing songs never heard overhead.

It's quiet. He never liked the quiet before, but for once it brings a sprinkle of calmness. The only sign of humanity he hears is his sporadic breathing. He sits down, leaning against the mossy palm tree. The palm of his hand meets his forehead, brushing his gorgeous locks away from his eyes. Tears of sweat drip down his body, sliding off of every crease, curve, and crevice. Constantine hadn't worked this hard in a while.

He grips his bag, fingers digging into the harsh woven fabric. The dull gray and blue burns into his eyes as he doesn't avert his gaze. Silence continues to ring throughout the tropical environment. There is something unique about the place he's at, it feels as if nothing could ever go wrong. It was a place that would lure one into a false sense of security. To make one believe they are safe, but alas, they aren't.

Constantine scans the surroundings, the land blank of all humans, absent from the green canvas. It's odd there, it's quiet there, it's silent there.

It's the unimaginable.

At once he awakens from any sense tranquility. The storm's thunderclaps begin, each cannon shot after cannon shot makes the arena tremble more. He counts the seconds in between it all, it tells him the miles away he is from the eye of the storm, the center of death and prejudice. The final of the five deafening shots goes off, leaving the low vibrations bouncing off of everything. It's horrifying, five lives lost, five victors forgotten.

He picks up his bag, he doesn't want to play these games anymore. Without looking back he continues along, waiting for time to pass, waiting for hairs to turn gray, waiting for days to blur together. The Hunger Games were in full effect, there was no escape. A law had been set, it was kill or be killed, it was to survive the perils of what Panem had put in law.

Panic is the first thing to attack him, rather than another tribute. The feeling and emotions culminating in his chest. It hurts worse than wounds, the mental injuries affecting his thoughts and making movements shaky. Constantine moves out of the jungle meeting the sandbanks. The light is brighter out there, nothing able to cast shadows on the pale shades of the sand. He begins to walk along the banks of the water. Behind him, he leaves footprints, small markers of where he's been and where he'll go.

To his side the slow rhythm of the sea sets the beat of his life. Washing ashore with a subtle cymbal hit. It sinks back into the sea. Around him the wind and calls of the flora and fauna create the melody. The harmony of nature creating the anthem for death. He walks along, heartbeat with intonation, skipping beats and increasing the tempo without a second thought. It was a beautiful part of the games, which was his only part in history. If he died now what would he be known for? His life would be a great unfinished symphony, never finished but what was created would leave a mark on the world. It would leave a legacy.

Before long a substantial amount of land had been covered. He had walked among the grains and found himself close to the start of it all. Crimson blotches cover the ground like blooming poppies. The stench of death fuel the addictions and highs for the drug- death. The ground had become a hallowed graveyard, and the circle that of a mass grave. As he came closer he saw horrors. Dead friends, dead enemies, dead all in between. He saw the fallen. What he saw was what he never wished to see.

It's the unimaginable.

They laid slain on the sand. Their final breaths whisked out of them, dried blood bounded to their necks, wet hair clumped on their forehead. They were peaceful, put to their final rest. He was captivated by the bloodbath, it was the final stand of death's finalists. Constantine set himself on the sand, watching them, stoic in his ways waiting for the cornucopia to clear. Before long it did. The fallen angels carried up in their final poses. Arms out they accepted themselves into their final fate, wingless yet still in flight.

Once all of them had taken their place in the afterlife, he began his approach towards the place where it all began. Water skimming his shoes he advanced towards the broken down shack, the quiet once again set with the absence of hovercraft whirls. He walks forward in the valley of two tribute mounds. The sand starts to get more firm underneath his feet. The steepness picks up as it reaches the foundation of the building.

Constantine observes the building, seeing the loosely hung paneling. He runs his fingers across the side, feeling the rough edges and all the imperfections. The shattered window leaving crystal shards strewn throughout the ground. The roof tiling was half falling off, most barely hanging on by a nail. Overall the abode looked shabby, yet it was the only building for miles. He walked inside the door, instantly getting a chill from the cold soulless air that was inside.

He sets the bag down near the entrance, moving closer inside the structure. He turns around, looking for every fine detail of anything. For carvings or age, for shines of wear and tear, or for any sign of anyone. There were none. The only sign was once more that of death. The deep brown stains sinking into the wood. A dim stench of death overcast by the salty sea. It was yet another sign of death, a sign of those who had belief, a sign of those whose absence would lead to chaos.

After the full rotation he meets the door once more. Thoughts in his mind wonder what to do next. For a second he does nothing before an idea pops into head. His fingers rise up to his brow, descending to his chest before finally touching both shoulders. The sign of the cross made at the door. He bows down, ready to create some sort of pleading for a safe passage. A bow in reverence he begins, creating meaning in his words only he would understand. He prays, and that never used to happen before. It's unknown what it's for, or what it says.

For it's the unimaginable.

★HERZEL KOZLOWSKI★

Hertzel stumbles. The ground accepts his scrambling body without inhibition. He wishes it were as coy and mousey as it looks. As it's meant to be. Three lashes across his shins screech. When he applies pressure, they turn fleshy and moist, but the sting dissipates. Waltzing into view, is Violante Mercy Grinnell. Upturned nose, and how he wishes her lips are drawn differently - for his faith, his health - but no. She is an upturned girl.

It was her blade which scratched at his feet, perhaps that goes without saying. And it is her blade racing toward his neck, long and pale and exhibited. Before it turns numb, the iron is breathtakingly cool to the skin. Peppermint is the last thing on his mind before - the whistle blows.

The trainer (A misnomer! He merely supervises, a task in which he finds too much joy.) hurries over. Violante's breaths come too frantically for either his or Hertzel's liking. Once frosty, the foil against Hertzel's throat now sears. She dallies, and both men are distinctly aware of the strokes this same foil took from Hertzel's legs. A mere scratch, but what is a scratch on the neck if not morbid? A job and a life are on the line.

"Fantistique madame, but that is well enough." This is the trainer; he speaks while grabbing her shoulder. A mistake. She swivels on her new target with a sneer, and eyes ablaze. "Madame?" It's a joke, said as a threat, which needs no explaining to Hertzel. He sees the fads of the Capital for what they are; fleeting whims, and, as recently displayed, ridiculous. Everybody not sucked into the Capital current could tell you you that calling Violante Grinnell 'madame' makes you look like a complete ponce. But the trainer would be nothing without the Capital. Everyone can see that by the way his mustache bristles at the challenge. The two look eye-to-eye, but they are the furthest from seeing that way. Hertzel sees it as a chance to escape. Standing means pain, and a groan can't help but leak out. Neither cares anymore, they have each other now.

Perhaps the trainer would happen upon success with Sequoia. They could wallow in their francophilia together.

Hertzel reckons that fencing is a lost cause. Such an undignified and brutish sport. There is a reason it's called swordplay. Comfort washes over him like fresh air as he crosses the boundary from gym to canteen. But when he sees her, everything turns stale and moribund. Adel Aslet. The loose end.

Emotions dictate his perception of her. Ranging from motherly to monstrous, there are thousands of caricatures flitting about his hopes and fears. Their relationship is one sided, and of a fanatic nature. 'Fanatic' as a word carries a evocation of the obsessive, which isn't wholly inaccurate, but unduly negative. Regardless, fanatic is the perfect word. It is as if she is a world class kicker, and he; a boy from One with a tidy left foot and lofty aspirations. How many hours were spent watching her tapes? How many of his techniques were first hers?

She's the reason he's alive. Almost certainly. When she used that flashlight as a trigger...brilliant! It would have been a travesty not to replicate it.

Hope tells him that she isn't bitter about that - the copying. Some say it's flattery, and she's one of them. But that's hope talking.

Conversely, she's terrifying, and, if he had to have a gander, the one out of twenty-four who will take his life. She knows every thought in his head. Heck; she pioneered them. And they both know that ignorance is the secret ingredient for any successful trap. Of course, everybody has tape now, which is why this go will surely turn a bit grimy, which is why he is practicing swords with Violante, but it is one thing to learn not to step on those piles of leaves, but another altogether to know how to rewire to backfire.

Easy; become allies. Yes. That's what he has decided, but only after much deliberation. She's not exactly the kind you want to fall asleep around. Is he? No clue. Answers may vary.

He chuckles at that, and maybe because he knows he looks good - well, better - while laughing, he musters the confidence to grab a seat.

"How's the soup?"

***

Everything goes off. Nature's (or whatever this is) introductory serenade cuts short. Every bird of paradise that was part of the choir flits away. Rainbow streaks left by their plumage are beacons for the sane. Fly out of here as fast as possible. Let the maniacs and the idiots have their fun.

Adel and Hertzel meet under the foremost palm. Fortunately their games, the first editions, were more or less consecutive. One? Two years? Consecutive enough to be lifted in on the same side of the circle. But really, how many years? Nothing to be ashamed of, he doesn't remember, but it is was seconds ago when people stood like statues between them, and he hasn't the foggiest how many there were. So soon, all that's left of them are ghosts of wispy recollections. Not dead - not that he knows of - although there's been a scream already. Curdling in a way that makes everyone stop and note what just transpired. Even those who didn't see.

Adel saw. She sees lots she really ought not to. But often ignores whatever is most important. Could find out which hand Eden wipes with, but would miss the same girl's knife hurdling headlong towards the bridge of her nose. Whenever she deducts one of her factoids, she has to tell the world in some sorta quirky blurt. 'Look how brilliantly peculiar I am!' Makes it seem like a blessing, intelligence. Don't fall for it.

"The Karam kid kicks with her left, but uses her right for cartwheels. What do you think?"

See?

"How are you watching this crap?" Grumbles breed like Gamemakers in Hertzel's gut just for pondering how to explain how thoroughly negative the scene is. It looks like the face of his killer, and the faces of all those he has killed. Is that Adel's nose, her doe-like eyes?

He looks round back for threats ten times more than need be, and thrice more than fear compels him to. The dark lush of the jungle is an oasis from the gore ahead. Entrails on parade. Standing on the edge of shelter, sinking into shadows, passengers. Spectators. Meanwhile, the world goes by. Adel is oddly enthralled, and oddly enthralling. One way or another she's the death of him.

Back a ways, something crinkles. No clue what, but that confusion is a harbinger for some much needed clarity. Hertzel wants to scream when it all comes flooding in. Middle of the Hunger Games and they were sleeping! Traipsing. Fading blisters flare when he yanks her arm away. Fierce, her eyes take in this new enlightened world. The physicality enrages her, but the rightness of it all placates.

"Don't touch me again."

No exclamation point! He'll take that and run. "Sorry but..."

"I know. I dunno..."

Neither knows what they're talking about, and neither knows what to whisper next.

"There's someone back there," he says, "I heard them."

Again, they've lulled. Alone together on a backdrop of constant commotion. Steps away from crimson sand, shrouded by the shadow of the foremost palm, within earshot of the sing-song tide of crystalline waters. Distinct, a feeling of immaturity hits.

"It could be smart to go after them. Two on one. Though maybe we should just find a shelter and forego the risk. Do you think he has food?" Her prose is negligibly short of scatterbrained.

Risks are good. Anything to pull him from this stupor, to make him give a crap. So he says yes even though he hasn't a clue, and Adel makes plans which he doesn't pay attention too. And they go hunting. Ferns carve out a path through the thicket. Their leaves are prickly, but the thrush is scattered with what Adel humorously calls 'tickle trunks'. Adorned with thorns larger than any spearhead. Shredded ankles are a small price, and she does well to sweep the worst of it away with her prosthetic. The limb is just as classy as you'd reckon for a Capital good. Nimble yet grounded. Perhaps unnoticeable if one didn't come with premonitions, but that will only ever be a thought experiment; everyone knows her story.

Crinkles sound off ahead. They scurry around, recalibrating their vector. It is an instant which repeats until the chase turns into a toying cat-and-mouse. Whoever it is, they know.

Something whooshes over there. A sash of color peers out from the midday midnight. Aqua. Hertzel has never been a fan of that shade. The shadows blur with animation, and Laurus reveals himself at breakneck speeds. A boy who oozes fitness versus two nerds with three legs between them. Probably not the smartest to pursue, but there's something triggering about someone running from you, and Hertzel is set off. Foliage comes at him like a hundred miles per hour. Ferns tickle his ankles like a brisk wind. Laurus Enzo speeds ahead, a camouflage rucksack dangles from his back like a temptress. Then everything stops being like it once one. The jungle opens up into a grotto. Sunlight screams through the canopy. The dew-slicked grass is the first docile fauna they've yet to see. That's why he slips, the grass.

Hertzel slides on his stomach, streaks of mud imprint themselves on his face and forearm. Laurus scooters away with a hearty cackle. Its Adel, though, who brushes by and tracks with determination. That thing has got to be spring-loaded. Just as the grotto ebbs, she gets a touch. A hearty slap on the backpack, but nothing close to a tackle. Laurus has escaped, left alone with a festering grudge. Adel insists something fell behind, but Hertzel doubts it.

Until he glances at the underside of a rock half eaten by the rain-water estuary, and half eaten by a flaming orange lichen.

There sits a torch, electric. Watch your step.

★SEBASTIAN MERCIER★

As Sebastian took in his new surroundings, a feeling of unease settled over him. It was all too familiar to the last time he'd been in an arena. True, the setting had changed, he was on a beach covered with sand the color of the sun. Trees made up a jungle full of hidden dangers, and a rickety, weathered shack lay in the center. The air was thick with water and the heat close to unbearable, a stark contrast to the cool, breezy rainforest from before, but the reason for being there was the same. Only this time, Sebastian had no excitement for what was about to happen.

Before, he had thought about the idea of simply giving up, of not having to fight so pointlessly again. But now, as he stood waiting for the timer to go off, Sebastian realized he wouldn't be able to do that. He wanted to live too much. He just didn't want to kill others to do so. But I'll have to anyway. That was the nature of the Games after all, and nature was a hard thing to change.

The sixty seconds it took for timer to go off was an eternity of sweaty palms and forced deep breathing. When the gong finally sounded, Sebastian mimicked the actions of the others and headed straight towards the small wooden shack that served as this year's Cornucopia. Already the sounds of chaos filled the air. Crates toppled to the ground as those quickest reached them and the treasures inside.

Last year's victor, Eden, held a pair of knives in her hands, her eyes shining with delight. The sight was unsettling to see on the face of someone so young. Sebastian looked away from her, taking a weapon of his own. A sword, rust covered and jagged, but still able to cut through flesh. It had been years since he'd fought with one; the sword was heavy and off-balance, yet was disturbing in its familiarity. Memories of days he had tried to forget threatened to distract him, but he locked them away in the back of his mind. He had become good at that.

Sebastian could see someone moving in his peripheral vision, and instinct made him turn, his sword moving with him. A jolt went through his arm as his sword was pushed back by another, and a pained huff escaped Sebastian's mouth. Wren Dufty stood in front of him, her eyes burning with too many emotions. Without pause she slashed at him again, and Sebastian was forced to quickly step away. Undeterred, Wren continued to swing at him, no softness or pity in her blows, and he quickly realized he had to fight or die.

A sick feeling rose inside of Sebastian as he started to fight back. Wren was not as skilled as he was, and it was all too easy to fall into the motions of fighting. Slash. Stab. Step away. Duck. Stab. He repeated the motions over and over until his sword sunk into her chest. Flesh clung to the jagged edges of the sword as he pulled it out of Wren's chest, and he grimaced. Guilt swirled within him, but he shoved it away. Now was not the time for it.

Around him, violence still raged, and those not fighting were too busy running to pay him any attention as he ran towards the jungle. Halfway there Sebastian stumbled back in surprise when a scream sounded behind him. Against every instinct telling him to run, Sebastian looked back, his sword raised. A man lay on the ground a few feet behind him, a knife sticking out of his neck. Neptune stood over him, a smile stretched across full, red lips. Blood was spattered across her wetsuit, the trident in her hand tinted red at the tips. Then she looked up, her eyes catching Sebastian's. For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, daring the other to break the fragile truce they'd made earlier. Then Sebastian slowly lowered his sword, Neptune following suit.

Kicking the other tribute's body out of the way, she sauntered towards him, her eyes watching him carefully. "So handsome, what are we going to do now?" The words were more flirty than they should have been, thought it didn't faze him in the slightest. He remembered Neptune's Games, remembered seeing how she had turned into who she was now. She reminded him of a blade—beautiful, powerful, and deadly to her enemies.

"Try not to die," he replied dryly, turning back towards the jungle. It had been less than a day, and already, he knew that these Games would be far harder than the one before. Because now, there is nothing left for him to fight for.

★JOSEF THOMAS★

Nothing was ever the same twice.

Soft green grass stretched as far as the eye could see, brushing against the boy’s podium below and tickling the trunks of far off trees. A cornucopia of wood laid ahead, gleaming weapons of silver and black lying in wait. The wind was sweet and light, carrying the smell of pine and lavender along with it. The meadow seemed almost too peaceful a way to die. But the illusion of the place was broken in memories. It became covered in blood, leaking from the tree trunks like sap and bubbling up from beneath the very podium the man stood on. He rubbed his tired blue eyes, and the illusion faded.

Thick, gritty sand pushed against the cold metal of the pedestal below as if trying to bury it. The wind was not sweet, but heavy and salty, the smell of the sea weaved throughout it. Everything seemed too bright, the sun reflecting from both the sea and the sand. The blood had disappeared from the trees, massive vine trailing down to replace it. A shack appeared in the distance, beckoning with the promise of supplies yet shining with the promise of death.

The man let out a deep sigh and rubbed his forehead. The ticking clock meant little to him now, for he'd grown so used to the dreams. Maybe nightmares would have been a more precise term, though there always had been something that has kept him from referring to them as such. He wished to be home again, to stroke his daughter’s hair and tuck his son into bed. Yet he wasn’t a fool. He knew it would just mean a different man would be standing on the pedestal, that someone else would be dying instead. It was a selfish thought.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Josef knew the time was getting shorter. He kept his head down, his left foot shifting backward. As long as he didn’t think, he could get through this. Thinking was what screwed everything up. It caused heartbreak and indecision and death. If he just hadn’t thought back then, if he had reacted solely on instinct… No! The man could feel himself slipping into the past again, the sand trading for dirt in front of his eyes, the hot feeling against his skin beginning to numb.

He couldn’t let himself get sucked away. He couldn’t.

Eyes cast to his hand. It looked so much older than it did before, creases folding whenever he moved it this way or that. There has never been a time when they weren’t calloused, even as a boy they had been turned to sandpaper from hard work. Hard work, that was something he needed to do now.

He was overthinking, but maybe that was something he needed. Impulse lead to recklessness. He had tried for so very long after the games to stop being reckless.

It was just the fact that something felt off.

Sure the clothes were tighter, the breeze warmer, but there was something else that didn't sit right. The anticipation was higher. It was no longer a bunch of kids throw haphazardously into the arena, replaced with trained heroes, if a murder could be considered a hero. Maybe celebrity was a better phrase. However, that wasn't it either. Josef felt as if he was missing something crucial, as if he had entered the arena and the left half of his body had simply decided to stay behind. Yet when he told his left fist to clench, it did so. Something else was missing.

The bell rang.

He didn't wait for a second. His feet launched him onto the rocky surface, the feeling of the quick movement surprising him. The sand piled around his ankles and he had to fight for every step. The beach felt rocky underfoot, everything constantly slipping and building from the smallest breeze. It was nothing like home. There the ground was always sturdy, helping to guide him. It was support the man didn't even realize he had had until it was literally ripped out from under him.

Finally, he felt solid wood beneath his feet again. Maybe sturdy was a strong word, for they creaked and bent beneath each step. It was an odd reminder of home and quickly became another mental obstacle Josef had to shove down. Things would have been easier if it was his first time, if he didn't have so many doubts cluttering his head.

The inside of the shack was less than homely. Varnish peeled from forgotten walls and all the boards looked heavily warped, as if they had been submerged deep under water before. Admitably, the shack was of little concern in comparison to the supplies it held. Inside the boxes that lay strewn across the floor were water and a few food packets. There was no difficulty deciding the water was the most important, a quick glance outside was a simple enough reminder. Shoving the boxes aside to check the entire cabin, Josef bent down on his hands and knees. Hiden behind them sat two weapons. Despite the circumstances, the man found a sad smile worm its way onto his lips.

He grabbed the just machete first, sliding it into his bag. Then, he tried to grab the dagger. The moment his fingers curled around the handle, the world changed.

Dark skin, black hair, and a devilish white smile. A small cut rested just above her forehead, blood curving down her face and pooling into a tear halfway down her cheek. Josef remembered who had given it to her too, a little shrimp boy from district 6. He had killed him a day later.

"Come on Joey," the girl insisted with a toothy grin. "Pass me the dagger and let's go sheer some sheep."

Joey was her nickname for him. He hadn't heard it in a very long time. He had used to hate it, but that was the thing about sentiment, it made the harshest insults like droplets of music to his ears. If he could've, he would've built a lake to contain every drop.

"Sure," he pushed the words past his dry throat and tossed it to her.

Gree grass brushed his knees as he stood back up. His chest felt tight, the girl before him seeming unreal. He opened his mouth to say more, to grasp at the moment, but a memory isn't something that can ever be changed.

He's brought back with the sound of a cannon. The shack shakes and he stands back up. The warm wind brushes his hair as he steps back outside, the clear blue sky an unfamiliar friend.

It finally hit him; the reason why he refused to call them nightmares, the reason why the world felt so skewed, the reason why he felt as if something crucial is missing. How could he have not seen it before? Molly.

His district partner, his ally, his friend. Gone.

★TEFF RANCOURT★

Dropped out.

★KAI ZALE★

No Entry

★KEIFER ELWOOD★

He stands on the precipice of his life. Everything in his life—every action, every word—seems to have built up to this final moment. Even his first games seemed to have been a cog in what has turned out to be the culmination of his life. He does not expect to see tomorrow. At this moment, he feels compelled to thrust himself off his pedestal, to embrace death on his own terms. And yet, he is selfish. He seeks each breath with involuntary vigor. His head pounds with alcohol deprivation. The suit he wears constricts him, he cannot feel comfortable without his clothing from Seven. The pawn he carved creates a bulge in his pocket.

The air is hot, so different from Seven. The sun beats upon him, drawing sweat from his body until he is forced to wipe it from his eyes. There is a jungle, mottled with vegetation he has never seen before. While he is skilled—was skilled—in the forest, this foreign place provides no reprieve. He watches the others, many far younger than he is. His back aches.

And then the gong rings out, sending vibrations through his body. He can feel himself lumbering forward, legs uneasy from years of disuse. Medication to alleviate his headache wore off an hour before he entered the tube. The sand beneath his feet causes him to stumble. He is surprised: he would not have expected sand to be so resistant to his body. Already, there are sounds of others fighting. He probably could have joined one of their alliances—there's a Career pack with the little girl, and one with the calculated ones—yet he could not be bothered to interact with them during the training days. He was aloof, easily angered, and no one wished to talk to him in fear of early retaliation.

So he remained alone. There are remnants of boxes strewn beneath his feet, causing him to trip and stumble over the debris. He needs someone more than the tarp and matches provided. He sees an axe handle protruding from the sand, and he lunges forward to latch onto it. For a moment it seems it will not budge, but it comes unstuck just as the clashing cacophony from those around him grow nearer and nearer. An arrow pierces the sand just beside him, and adrenaline begins to flood his veins. The axe is rusted, half-broken with pieces flaking off. He needs to get more supplies, enough to sustain him until he can get independent food and water sources. The sand is hot beneath him and it is difficult for his body to adjust to moving on it.

Someone yells from behind him and he is pushed forward, a foot digging into his back as he feels a sword trace his neckline. He shifts his head sideways so he can breathe. There is little to do but hope his attacker will provide a painless death. The axe is pinned beneath his body, and he can see half-empty boxes buried in the sand. It is not such a bad way to die, he thinks, to be in such a place as this. He does not think of his children, or his wife, or those he has long lost. Instead he thinks of the waves of the clear water lapping at his body, taking him away from the life he has long suffered from.

He cannot hear the shouts from above him. For a moment it feels as though everything is mute, and then pain rushes over him, and he discovered the sword has impaled his arm, and he screeches in agony. Blood explodes from the wound, seeping down over his tattoos like excess ink, distorting the pictures and lines etched on his body. The pressure from his back is lifted as he hears a thump beside him. He does not look to see who was his attacker nor does he look for his savior. His hand, instead—his uninjured one—reaches out to grab the closest box to him. A backpack is lodged in it, and he grunts as he pulls it free, the axe briefly discarded on the sand. When the bag is free, he slings it over his shoulder. The pain in his arm has dulled to a throbbing, though he knows he will need to dress it when he reaches safety. Another arrow flies just close to him, and he shuffles on his knees to the edge of the beach, onto the mud and vegetation. There, he can finally stand, though exhaustion already plagues his aging limbs. He turns for a moment to see most of the tributes t have already dispersed, with several still battling for the claim of the beach. No one focuses on him, and he pushes his way through the foliage and into a new world.

It takes him a half hour to walk until he is satisfied he is far enough away from most tributes to rest easy. He is in the midst of low-hanging branches and palm trees whose roots extend out like spider's legs. The sound of bird calls light up the afternoon. The bleeding has begun to stop, but blood continues to trickle from his wound. It pierced his wetsuit, and he grabs a piece of long moss from a shrub and ties it on his arm.

His headache has receded but he yearns for a drink of any portion. The backpack he procured holds little of substance but a small plastic flask of water and a woollen blanket. He makes his lodging in the copse of the palm tree, where the area expands from what had first appeared to be a dense collection of branches. He has no food.

It takes what he thinks to be another fifteen minutes before the gongs begin to ring out. A moment of silence follows, and then the shatter of the jungle begins again. As a moment of reflection washes over him, he questions whether his axe will be of more harm than good. The weight of death on his fingers, he can only remember the nightmares. Flashes of his brother's face come and go in his mind, and he shakes his head to rid himself of the image, only for it to be replaced by the faces of his children and his wife.

He imagines her watching him in distaste, shaking her head as she watches him. She tuts, and she scolds him for his weakness, for resorting to cowardice just as he had his brother. He needs to move on, she says. He slams his fist repeatedly on a trunk of the palm tree until his hand is raw and embedded with wood. The axe lies in his lap, and he spends his time picking off the rust, letting its sharp edges cut into his undamaged hand, reminding himself he is alive. He needs only be strong when his life nears its close. For the rest of the time, he can be weak.

There will be no rest for the wicked, no sleep for the pitied. Kiefer does not know who he is, in the lonely shadows. There is no reprieve, no reprieve for the wicked. He yearns for the oblivion in drink, but he does not receive.

★ASHRE RELICKS★

Twenty-two years ago, Ashre Relicks turned thirteen. A red velvet cupcake flew down into his hands from the sky and his little face beamed, frivolous with joy and fear. The sky then spoke, but the boy didn't hear. The world sang the anthem of Ashre's birthday...

...and the cannons wished him well.

Twenty-two seconds ago, he rose through sand, hair clinging to skin and limbs heavy with heat. Waves lapped to greet them, but eventually sunk back into the ocean, whispering a sweet farewell of foam and rock. The sky was empty. Seconds wavered between his trembling fingers, there and then gone by the wind.

He waited for them to run. The others. He looked from face to victorious face, shivering under the grins and vacancy and readiness. Ashre was a child when he won; a fluke of time, a record to recount to the hopeless. But he was hopeless. And no one was there to recount, so Ashre Relicks stood alone.

Time skittered and flew, bearing wingbeats and wisps and washed wavelets where he watched it count down. His platform was a stone on the shore. And he, the statue, limestone frozen at the core. Time teetered and blew, striking zero with claustrophobia and tremors and crows and Keon and Wherin and Keon and the bullet and drowning- the fear, Ashre's nightmares passed through him like a ghost. A single memory, blended all at once.

And he ran. His feet dove into the sand heels-first, air whirring past him, the bag on his back bouncing against his shoulders with the stride. His muscles worked slowly, displacing sand and carrying his body across the beach. He didn't know where he was going until he was halfway there- a woman screamed. A thud crescendoed from body on floor to an echo throughout the entire world.

Ashre stopped. His tongue ached, dry and wet with saliva. He saw hands on hands on handles on necks and he felt his own urge away. He couldn't kill. He'd been a child when he first did it; no one blamed him. But now-

"Be happy, Uncle Ashre. It's funner to be happy. See!"

smiles and laughter and cheer joy love and living breathing chest-pump-pump-pump love and Keon, Keon, oh, Keon...

He had the dying nephew. That boy's eyes were amethyst and love and pride- Ashre wanted nothing but to keep them free of crimson, of scarlet staining his superhero.

Swirling around him were lights and figures- he thought for a minute, brain swallowed by instinct. He continued to run. For Keon. The sky lured him forward, a dreamscape above a land of bitterness and blood.

Sand caught onto his shoes and mounds deterred speed. He watched a group of men leave, carrying a few packs- Percy Cole, known by flame alone, among them- and looked straight ahead. The shack rocked back and forth from instability alone; it housed crates and boxes of materials. He saw steel; he saw water; he saw life.

"Tag," the boy said. "You're it."

"I'm it, huh? You think you can run forever?"

He could. Keon Relicks could run forever- from monsters and uncles both, he ran. His life cascaded behind him in a flurry of absent-minded moments, faded memories of a world unknown. Ashre glanced back out at the blue- the sky streamlined and the ocean whirred.

His head was full of hurricanes waiting to brew, of steps waiting to be taken. In limbo, his feet wavered to swim and his hands urged to grab supplies- a forest laid even beyond his consciousness, high and towering like guardians of root, leaf, and brine. And salt loomed over his lips like a phantom, cracking and dry.

If Keon says I'm it, Ashre thought, then I run. His legs lurched into action, toes curling as his feet dug into sand. Wind struck at every edge; the sky became a vast shadow to outrun. Leaves blew from nonchalance and his reverie of thoughts burst. The earth wailed with movement.

Then, complete vacancy.

The thud of that woman died out, battle ambiance returning. Grunts- an ache for the spill. Ashre ran towards a crate on the outskirts, shoulders beginning to feel the weight of fear. He looked inside, but there was nothing; his fingers calloused on the wood, heart calloused on the emptiness.

He scanned the area to see where the nearest crate was, but he was met with another pair of eyes. The irises fled; delusion perched itself upon his brow. And a man swung forward with the tip of a blade, rusted beyond its time. Steel melded with stain, sharpness distilled.

By the time Ashre registered the man's existence, it was too late- he dove into the crate, the corner hitting his shoulder to compound the fear, the nightmares dripping. The man's thrust diverted to follow and the blade connected. Knots of skin untied below Ashre's tight wetsuit, unravelling like ribbons. Releasing blood roses.

The pain's echo was numb. His right arm stirred with air flushing through the hole in the sleeve, left arm stung by the collision of the crate. His head hit sand and rock and seconds tempted him to lay there, to let vacancy override. But he flipped; both arms cried. The man aimed once again and hoped for rust to strike Ashre's neck, but the latter rolled out of the way, grabbing the lid of the crate.

Keon would've called it make-believe; pretend it's a shield, Uncle Ashre! It's funner to pretend!; but he called it desperation. Desolation. A trick of reality to save it from leaving, forever.

But this wasn't storytime. He couldn't be the knight in clad armor slaying the dragon atop a concrete castle, one hand gripped to a five-star shield and the other wielding a weapon of refined metals. Luster around his helmet, muscles grown by years and years of training to save the once-miserable, but now-careless, prince in the room above. This wasn't his time to prove worth and find distraught love.

He wasn't a warrior. Instead, his wounds weighed him down like anchors, and a man came at him with a rusted sword and not flame-imbued breath. Ashre felt Keon's hands in his and stood, blocking a few momentary hits, hearing wood splint and blow.

Pretend! Pretend!

Tag, you're it!

Ashre sucked in a breath and threw the lid forward, attempting to hit the man like the wood was steel, the lid a weapon. It cuffed the man's neck, sending him sideways and knocking the sword away; the dragon's wings were clipped, breath just heavy smoke.

The thud of the man's knees against the ground froze time. Keon whispered playful nothings and something screamed at Ashre to move; go, go, go, time, time, time. No change. He stood still. The castle turned into a mural, pastel and unmoving and grand and imaginary; he felt a canvas superimpose him inside. A prince could not be saved with the dragon's breath still hollow; Ashre swelled. Pretend. Pretend. It's all pretend!

He knelt down and picked up the sword, its blade slightly shorter and more curved than what they had used in training. The man threw the lid off his body, and was then struck by Ashre's shadow over his. Pretend. Eyes burned eyes; the sun fell down like oil, the sand powdered like chalk; the steel became acrylic, his hands an artist's plaything. Enthusiasm flowed through him like a game. Pretend. Ashre's acrylic brush went over his shoulder and down again; he discovered his favorite shade of red paint- a new blend- a frenzied pour.

A cannon celebrated the victory and Ashre ran away. A second cannon overlapped the man's, but Ashre was too preoccupied with himself to notice, sent deranged by his dry tongue and shivering hands. Bone quivered; blood rushed like rivers downstream, his feet ran along the edge around and around the shack.

There were too many blockades along his path; fleetingly, he swung at a passing body, forgetting it as soon as they fell. Killing, Ashre, it's killing.

You- you are killing. Keon's words flooded his head- not his nephew, but old friend. His voice was hollow and menacing, like draining color, and Ashre loved it. It was obsidian. Obsolete and fluttering between every word.

He found another crate- its contents were spilled about the ground in piles. A discarded piece of rope scurried across the shore, dotted by matches and a plastic sheet- his eyes followed until crimson blended the sand wet. A woman's body ornamented the beach, dead and stiff and breathless like stone unshattered.

Her hair sprawled like beauty personified into tangles, eyes alight with charcoal and fuel, black and unliving. Keon would've called her a sleeping bride, to be kissed into awakeness. He'd say she was resting, to pass the time until her true love came sauntering in with full lips and a valiant heart. But, really, she was dead. Swept away by tide and blood. And the little boy would never know.

Ashre grinned. Pretend, oh, Pretend.

He glanced back at the crate, finding a tipped waterskin leaking over the wood. It was half-full, even less so as he took a swift drink and felt the liquid melt. Lightning channeled through his throat; the thunder of his footsteps followed as he gathered the rope and ran past the woman's body, as vacant as the lost.

He went around the island, following the beach like the waves were streets. The world didn't stop spinning, loose, light. The shack and crates disappeared and he was alone. Blood from his wound trickled down his arm and across the handle of the sword, creating criss-cross patterns on his hand and the steel. His breath- uncontained and erratic, offbeat and odd.

Then, silence. He slowed his pace to a complete stop, hearing only the ocean and its melody. Water against sand, foam whispering its underscore; wind and trees and branches blew out of sync, and Ashre felt adrenaline slip away. The numbness decrescendoed until he felt real pain and real fear and reality clipped back into place.

Everything came to him as dream, as nightmare. Like madness, incandescent. He slowly remembered the faces, the faces sent away. His lips parted like desert clouds and he whispered, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He shuddered back and forth, humid frost encasing his skin. Sweat and ice, heat and chill, storm and fever shivers combining.

"Keon, this isn't pretend anymore," he said. For his nephew and old friend alike. "This isn't pretend. Pretend. It's all so real..."

★VALENTINE RACHMANINOFF★

How a knife had been picked up and thrown twenty feet before the game had reached the half-minute mark was a mystery to most people. It should be noted, however, that "most people" did not include the tributes, even the one who had thrown the knife. Naturally, though, there was one tribute who cared about the knife, as it was currently sticking out of the flesh on his back.

The only tribute from District Nine gazed at the battle surrounding him with vision that was getting blurrier by the second. He watched as the masks of familiarity and confidence that his competitors had worn mere seconds before had crumbled, leaving only madness and suffering. These people knew each other, and the worst part about it was that they didn't forget each other as they hacked away at one another. He closed his eyes.

The knife. It was still there, obviously. Who would've taken it out?

Any attempt to move sent the serrated edge of the knife deeper into Valentine's skin. Movement was something he couldn't risk; he was surrounded by people who assumed he was as good as dead, and the tips of the blade felt like they were getting dangerously close to his spinal cord.

May 26th. Wait, what? Focus.

As his fellow tribute's hearts stopped beating, his heart quickened. He narrowed his options down with increasing worry. He could:

Play dead. He was already injured, why not take advantage of it? No one would try and come after a dead man, right?

Try and get up: Even in his current state, he knew that this was, by no means, an option. A single twitch might slice a nerve, rendering him paralyzed and dead for real. He banished the idea from his mind, leaving his first idea alone. Alone, that is, if you didn't count his third plan, which was to die.

With only one realistic goal in mind and minutes before he lost consciousness, Valentine knew he had to act fast. Playing dead was his only option at the moment, but there was one very small, teensy-weensy, minuscule issue with it.

He could actually die. There was still a knife blade lodged in his back, after all.

Even with is eyes closed, Valentine could still hear the pandemonium of the bloodbath from all around him. Swords were swung against one another, and the resulting noise of metal-on-metal eerily resembled a scream; a scream that might even be heard as the business end of the blade found a new home in the chest of an unsuspecting tribute.

"Seven," his mind said.

Stop it. No more damn numbers, Valentine.

An excruciating pain erupted in his body. He felt as if syringes were being plunged into every inch of his form. The aching pain of the knife faded into nothingness as this new pain consumed Valentine's very being. He couldn't move, not only because of the knife but because the sensation left him in a state mirroring paralysis. Did the knife cut a nerve?

It was all he could feel now; the pain of the knife had already dissipated, but his body was now completely numb to anything besides the invisible needles injecting God knew what into his bloodstream. Just pain and stabbing and hurt and suffering.

It continued to be all of those things until it abruptly stopped and disappeared as harmlessly as a bad dream.

His eyes fluttered open. He was standing. What? The sand and jungle of the arena had disappeared, and in its place came what looked to be miles upon miles of wheat. Instead of being in a circle of sand, Valentine was standing in a clearing of trampled wheat and grass. The smell of lawn trimmings and gasoline nipped at his nose. The circle of trampled grass gave way to a path, and in the distance, he could see smoke rising from just above the horizon from a small wooden cottage.

Home.

Any of Valentine's worries about the bloodbath vanished with the unexplainable pain. His family was surely nearby. After all, the Rachmaninoff family usually preferred to remain close to their humble abode than visit the town square or pass by one of the District's many farmer's markets. They had grown tired of the constant whispers and hushed mumbles that had pervaded through the shops after the conclusion of the 129th Hunger Games.

"He can't remember anything"

"...he lives with his parents..."

"...live in that weird house on the edge of town."

They didn't mean to cause any harm, of course. Humans are social animals, and as such will try and bond with others, and if that bond has to be formed by accidentally ostracizing an entire family, then so be it. By the time the family had decided that enough was enough, District Nine had all but forgotten who they were and the sins they had committed against the Rachmaninoff family.

It wasn't much of a family, truth be told. Typical households in Nine consisted of two parental figures, three or four children, and maybe some grandparents and in-laws. The small cottage Valentine called a home was only inhabited by himself, his mother, and his nephew. It was considered taboo for parents to leave their families, and, well, it's easy to see how that might've made life even harder for the Rachmaninoffs.

The wood of the steps, as well as the entire house, was a shade of muted beige, a far cry from what used to be the brilliant shine of mahogany that even the biggest rivals of the family had to admire. The house used to be a symbol of perseverance and a reminder to the district that the members of the Rachmaninoff family would not tolerate mindless gossip.

But now the house stood as a worn-down monument to solitude amongst the endless grain.

Valentine walked up the stairs with a controlled vigor; the stairs were prone to breaking if too much weight was applied. The wooden slats of the porch had fallen away years ago, exposing the ground beneath it. Valentine used to store his toys during his adolescence. Beneath the leaves and soil were wooden trucks, hula-hoops, and jump ropes. Their color had muted along with the house, but there were some much brighter hues among the dull reds and browns. It seemed as if Aaron had been following in his uncle's footsteps.

The dull brass of the door squeaked as it was slowly turned. Valentine heard the lock unlatch and pushed the door inwards.

The house was just as it had been before he had been transported to the Capital. Greasy metal pots were still precariously piled in the sink and there was still a laundry basket full of clothes that needed folding. He turned to the right and walked towards his mother's bedroom. She was old; perhaps she was sleeping?

The door was propped open, so he entered.

Anna and Aaron were both in the room, but they were far from asleep. They stood tall and rigid, staring directly at the wall in front of them with emotions he could not place. As soon as he walked in, their eyes locked onto him with the same intensity. They opened their mouths and began to scream.

The sheer volume of the noise startled Valentine so much that he stumbled backward into the wall. His hands instinctively flew to his ears in an attempt to block the unholy noise from damaging his eardrums. An excruciating pain erupted in his body. He felt as if syringes were being plunged into every inch of his form. He closed his eyes.

The screams began to fade after that point until there was nothing left to hear. He opened his eyes again. He was lying facedown on a ground of packed-down sand.

He was back in the arena. The sun was still in the sky, but it was lower now. A hovercraft was passing overhead, signifying the end of the bloodbath and the fleeing of the killers.

A rare moment passed in Valentine's life where he did not feel any emotions. He was too shocked to feel, too shocked to act according to logic. He lifted his hand and placed it on his back to try and find the knife. His fingertips grazed the leather handle. He did not act according to logic. The knife was ripped from his back. He did not feel pain.

As the hovercraft began the task of cleaning up the victims of the bloodbath, Valentine crawled towards the jungle and into whatever lay beyond.