Author Games: Breath of Life

☠Task One: Entries 1-14☠

☠ Milo Periander ☠

    In the deeper rounds of a game, Milo knows, the winner and the loser will emerge at any point. There's no hiding, no slipping under the radar until the perfect moment to strike, no wildcards that get to live. There's just him and everyone else, trapped, scratching at the surface for any feeling of life, refusing to sit back and wait for the game to end.

In a game, there are rules. Regulations. The nos and yeses of what needs to be done in order to win, and the disqualifications resulting from any of these broken laws. But Milo has never cared for rules- only because they don't exist- and the deeper rounds of a game become manipulation, digression, and the killing fate of people willing to turn on one another.

It's a gamble, really. Put your life in other's hands, and watch them crumble it to dust. Keep it in your own hands, however, and see it thrive. See it as it's supposed to be. Unending, kept safe from risks and wagers. And, when all bets are off, nobody can kill you. Except you.

Milo, as per usual, walks alone in the sulfur caves. The drumline of water drips down in offbeats, either splashing against stone or crashing like cymbals into the lava, releasing a mist musical and silent seconds later. It's this constant echo that he walks to, watching steam pile high after a droplet hits the burning red, the clear liquid reflecting black rocks and orange magma alike. Like a fire born from its ashes, desecration set to reverse.

He sweats as his heels dig into the ground, wiping his hands on his pants as soon as they're too wet again. His frown descends from his mouth, the edges so low it's like the man has never seen a smile before; it's morose and devilish and the sight of a subdued storm without a peeking sun, shadows delusional as they place themselves upon his lip. Tasting of charcoal on his tongue, yet dry and dehydrated as hell-lands in every direction.

He thinks his skin becomes slippery and melted, stumbling candle wax as he leans on the brimstone wall, the other side feeding the air lava and purging it to his heels (purging, he thinks, I've done that before), heating him more than he's ever been. It's durable, though. Like the soles of a foot on a trail of hot coals, still moving, still alive. He can handle it, now.

Blood seeps from his knees, the pant fabric sliced into shreds. Pain is merely a kilogram as he leans down (back hunched, lean over and-) and pulls a few threads out of the wound. It stings, but it's shallow enough that any kind of infection would plant itself in shallow dirt, growing into a stunted scar. He wonders where it'd come from- perhaps dying intoxicated makes reliving the same, dazed and hazy as day and night don't exist in the dark. Oh, there's no moon in death. No sun. And the passing of time is counted by how faded your memories become, and how long ago you loved him.

The rocks scald his palms when he touches them, using them for support as he stands upright. It's painful, but he closes his eyes- the washing sound of a reddened river flows past him, smelling as rosemary as the cave even glows when he looks away. The shirt on his back- rough and heavy- dries, yet his hair still hangs wet with humidity.

Igneous rock is the first to form- and it does, right before his eyes, pools like embers popping from the stream and landing at his feet, solidifying in seconds. Igneous rock is the first to crumble, its fiery life over as it becomes stone, its light dimmed into another phase. Milo Periander is igneous, breathing in steam beneath an array of burning crag.

Then, the other man appears (honeyhair oceaneyes and theskinofaprince). As if forming from the steam itself, Milo consumed to a wistful trance, his gambling lover steps from the dark. Ren Cayse. Milo knows him- knew him. If igneous was heat and fire and things alight, then Milo sees Ren as sedimentary, a stone bore through air, uplifting and light in terms of weight and not gold. Together, they were the runaway sight of a hot air balloon, wind and flame carrying them across the sky.

Milo's eyes float adrift, his gaze fluttering from Ren to the river to the ceiling of obsidian, never staying in the same place for more than a millisecond. His brain dissolves in his head; he becomes the steam, watching Ren come forward, his entire existence that of a boiling high, a lump in his lungs the only thing holding him down.

His heels lift from the floor, the hiss of rain on the lava now louder, higher-pitched. He tries to look at the fair man, standing there beautiful and alluring, but everything forces him to glance elsewhere, as if puppeteer strings pulling him left and right and up and down when all he wants to do is stare straight ahead. Perhaps this is punishment for never looking at him before, never realizing how handsome he truly was. Is.

Milo pushes himself off the rock wall, standing, equilibrium as wavy and freeform as the fog around them. He breathes in (sharp, take a hit, like smoking at midnight) and focuses until he's standing as still as he can. Ren hasn't changed a bit. He died pretty- and reliving is always the same.

In a game, things change. They waver and teeter between sides. Sides, not meaning right and wrong, black and white, or good and evil; in a game, the separation of morality doesn't exist, but a simple switch in strategy, and in tactic, and in how to play the game- that's what changes deep down. It's the idea to go slower instead of racing to the finish; it's the sudden step back to evaluate a maze, rather than turn mindlessly; it's the moment someone folds and it's Milo's turn, his eternal frown changing into a wonderful smile. Smiling, we abuse ourselves.

In a flash (flicker on the lights- please, I've been in here so long), Ren smiles back. It's quick and flowery and Milo has an irresistible urge to close the gap between him and the platinum man. A different kind of heat flows through him, an electrical surge of lust and desire and the regret of a million things flitting about his waxen head. Murder and suicide and gambling until he was worth nothing- Milo has done it all before, sucking everything he touches into an inferno nothing can escape.

With the voice of sheer glass, Ren says, "I can't believe you died on me, man. Not cool." He grins, as easily as that. Milo stays silent; there's nothing he thinks to say, so dim and doomed that words sift from his mouth, brittle, unspeakable. "Okay," Ren continues, "That was selfish to say."

I abuse myself. "People are selfish in games," Milo says. It's a hollow statement. Like a knocking that won't be stopped even if one answers the door.

Ren nods, then takes a step forward. The distance between them keeps shrinking, and now just two steps stand isolating them. "Are we playing a game? Right now?" he asks. The water droplets transform into honey, suddenly falling slower into the lava and evaporating into a thicker steam than before.

Milo nods. An ethereal feeling simmers in him. He's quiet until he bursts out laughing, watching Ren like he's the sunlight missing in death and darkness, like Milo's never actually woken up and the devil's granting him one dream before damning him forever. "When are we not?"

"I guess you're right," Ren whispers now, "Everything is a game."

They laugh. Again and again. Milo flails back into the wall, uncontrollable as the stone in his lungs droops to his chest and his stomach starts to hurt from laughing too much and too hard. Euphoria is Ren. Ren is euphoria. Interchangeable, the same. They are patterns of the other in Milo's game of love and loss, when he gambled his life before winning the other man's hand.

(place your bets, then take a drink), "I miss you," Milo says. Perhaps there's a conundrum, when the saddest thing Milo has ever said comes out in the airiest of tones, the happiest of murmurs.

Ren reaches out, fingers spread in the want and need to curl them around Milo's. "I missed you. You died first, remember?"

"No. Not really."

"Well, you did. Bastard." And another chorus of laughs, the two selfish men devouring the other for themselves, not realizing how grand it feels to be stared at, only flourished by what they are able to see in front of them and not noticing the other is staring too.

Milo grins as if to say I'm sorry about that, and Ren nods and smiles and the scent of rosemary becomes the sensation of honey as they grab onto each other. Their limbs entangle as playing cards shuffle, Milo placing himself in Ren's hands with the trust and will of games with no first prize. Everyone wins.

But then, the embrace begins to burn. Milo winces as the steam Ren had emerged from returns, rising and compiling around the man's hair like it's kindling, the beehive and not the bee, the deadwood and not the fluttering wings. There's tar and churning magma and the entire world sets ablaze as Ren liquefies to lava in Milo's grasp. That's how it's always been; everything he touches loses.

Pain as loud as it can possible be thrums through his body, yet he laughs. Even Ren laughs as he dissolves, the two gazing at the other like there's nothing left to do. Euphoria is Ren. Ren is euphoria. And Milo kneels down to hug the euphoria goodbye; Ren's laugh cuts out. And so does the steam.

Then, he's gone.

The absence of Ren is more powerful than the physical world. It's sinking with last breaths and the awareness of life ending; it's death without dying, having to breathe because instinct won't understand the pain. It's Milo, pulling his arms away from the river, soaked in heat not hot enough to kill, and running away.

Even if he's not, he's leaving Ren behind once again. But this is a different game than before, with darker rules, and to play it he must do so himself. Alone, so no one can kill him. Yet, the person who can hurt us the most is ourselves- we know all of our secrets, all of our weaknesses, and all of the things that make us tick. In any game, we abuse ourselves.

Perhaps Milo is most afraid of himself. Besides, he should've known it was drugs. Nothing else could make him quite that happy.

☠Valeria Thracius☠

In her first Games, Valeria was never alone – not for long, anyway. She spent most of her time with the Career pack, panicking as their protective netting turned into a trap determined to keep them in. When she got away, she partnered with Autumn out of a near-maternal (or maybe it was just driven by her own mother, she's still not sure) instinct. She spent a day alone, and then she died. The allies she had made caught up to her and made her pay for her betrayal. Her father's game constricted her, and her mother's failed her.

This time, she plays her own game, and so she must play it alone.

When she first saw Sterling was back, she thought it a comfort. He was from both her homes: her district and her arena. Partnership seemed an obvious choice, and so she went along with it. But when the bloodbath claimed him, when he fell prey to the realization that there was not one Career group this time but three, Valeria saw the error in her ways. Trust no one. Her father and mother both agreed on this, and so she assumes it to be true. Cosmo Cavalli would likely side with her as well. After all, nothing speaks of constant vigilance like being killed by the ally you tried to take down a mere days ago. Mirrors, it turns out, are one-sided; however much Valeria looks into one, she will see nothing but herself.

Constance vigilance is exhausting. Three days of looking over her shoulder have taken their roll. She jumps at every sound and imagines figures behind her whenever she can't see. Sometimes, the skin at the back of her neck will tingle with paranoia as the hairs on it come to a sudden and unnatural rise. They fall back eventually, scratching against the small of her neck, right where the dart pricked her all those years ago. Nobody could see it – at least, Valeria doubts they could – but she feels it, nonetheless. The slightest breeze, the smallest hint of a footstep echoing throughout the caverns around her, any hint of danger makes it itch. Each time, she throws her head back, eager to protect what once killed her. The poison was fast, at least. She's thankful for that.

She's thankful, too, that Cosmo didn't win. And she's even more thankful that the woman who did is back. However much she hates these Games, however more she hated her first, she deserved to win. Now's her chance to prove it.

When she reaches the springs, Valeria is thankful. Steam beckons from around the corner, a thin clear-blue mist spiralling from around the cracked, dark walls she yearns to escape. Valeriacomes from the mountains; she thrives in the open air, where the wind can slap and sting her face into awareness. The steam will likely lead her deeper into the tunnels, but it also soothes her and so she doesn't mind. It's a trap, it has to be. Trust no one, her parents' voices remind her, trust no thing. Oh, but it feels so nice to forget that for a moment. It's such a relief not to look over her shoulder, not to feel the small of her neck begging her to turn away from whatever danger lies ahead. Why not walk ahead? Surely, whatever it is, she can handle it. She's a Career, however reluctant, and one of the best at that. She's been trained to handle anything the arena can throw at her.

But she's willing to admit that the lava is an unwelcome site. It pools at the bottom of the floor, crawling between her and the entrance the moment she crosses the threshold. The smell is all too familiar, bringing back the volcano that took out so many of her former allies when it erupted during her first Games. She barely escaped, then, surviving only through chance and the unexpected guidance provided by a child who should've been dead for weeks already. Now, she is by herself. But now, it seems, the lava doesn't scare her. Now, nothing scares her.

And oh, it feels so good. Deep down, she knows it's dangerous. She knows that she should keep walking towards the opening at the end of the cavern, sees that the lava climbs towards her bit by bit, that eventually it'll swallow her – but she doesn't realize the real threat. It hasn't hit her yet that the gas is choking her, that the air that she's finally gotten used to breathing again is seeping out of her lungs. All she knows is that, for once, she feels at peace.

Even young, Valeria was a tense child. She was always too serious, too humourless, and the other children were quick to notice. Her mother worried and her father took pride, both knowing how perfectly she might fit the Games. Valeria remembers, briefly, a time before training and the arena took over her life, but it's far, far away. Perhaps this is the state she's returning too, now: a peace that only a newborn could know.

Snow damn it, child, pull yourself together.

Move, love. There'll be time to rest later.

Well, Two? What's it going to be? Have you come to finish me off?

The addition of Cosmo's voice comes to her as a surprise. Her parents have come to her before, pushing and pulling her in opposite direction with their advice. Cosmo, it seems, has no agenda here. Her tone is one of morbid curiosity, as though all she wants to do is see Valeria make up her mind. Why can't Cosmo – why can't all of them – realize that Valeria has decided? Refusing to choose is a choice of itself. Why must they keep pushing, pulling, and prodding? Why can't they leave her alone?

Because they're right. At least, they are now, when it comes to the danger she's in. Her head is light now. She's giggling. The shortness is getting to her and she's not even halfway to the door because she wasted her time moseying around. Constance vigilance is exhausting, but at times it's necessary. She just hopes it's not too late.

Valeria can't run. She feels too light for that, too far from her body. But she stares, eyes focused on the escape, tuning her senses back into her body so that she can at least walk in a straight line. Slowly, she steps through the cave, ignoring the lava as it reaches towards her and nips at her shoes. Sweat drops from her forehead. She hears it sizzling as it falls into heat. It's so hot, so dry, and still, despite everything, so good. But she's almost there. All it takes is a few more steps, some strength, a little patience, and finally

She's there. The heat begins to fade and, limb by limb, her consciousness sneaks back into her body. She's safe, now, or safe enough. There's no lava reaching towards her, no gas messing her head, and no tribute to take her down. Once again, she's on her own.

But, if the advice she hears is anything to go by, Valeria Thracius is far from being alone.

☠Orville Stud ☠

Chicken tenders were for lunch. Valeria always seemed to chew hers down to a point on one end, and never seemed to notice, which suggests it was unintentional. One shouldn't trust statements made by her, though, let alone suggestions. Next to her, Sterling would fold his food in half lengthwise and swallow it whole. They were always next to each other. Next to them were Sailee and Vayu who were all the more incessantly next to one another. Then there was Nero, who was sociable and who ate with manners - one of them glamour Twos - and who seemed to be next to everyone. And then there was Orville, who was just next.

He could feel it. See it by the looks they gave him. The ones that turned his vegetables cold in the spoon. He shivered and his stool, a plastic round connected to the table frame by stainless, squeaked underneath him. All the seats and tables were all the same as last time and the time before. One of the lunch ladies looked familiar. Then he remembered the time it's been. Great-granddaughter perhaps.

"They teach you how to oscillate out back in the rebel years? - I've heard they still don't teach it in Four to this day. - Not just a Two thing is it? I suppose you've gotten Sailee caught up regardless. - I learned it all on my own, thanks. Everyone who trained knew of it in One, but you know Four. Interview role-plays and teeth brushings," the Careers says, interjecting one another to build outward from the original insult. It doesn't matter who said what. It doesn't matter to him.

"No," he said. "I don't know it."

Vayu turned his head around like a bird would, craned his neck at intervals in search for pad and paper, clucking when neither revealed themselves. "I don't suppose anyone's got scratch in their pockets." It wasn't a question, but it was meant to be answered. It wasn't.

Instead, Nero took charge and sluiced through a packet of tomato preserves with fingernails trimmed to look serrated. Striking. "Eighty percent of arenas are more or less the same. Temperate, round, open to an extent, and with a cornucopia right where the crack starts." He cleared his tray away and squirted a little red triangle onto the table with a flourish. "The cornucopia, yeah-"

"-that's where all the weapons are kept," Valeria added as she pointed at the symbol with her sharpened chicken shank. Then she dipped it in the sauce and took a giggling bite. Threatening giggles.

Nero sighed and redrew his centerpiece. "Yeah. Then this is the barrier," the circle he drew nearly filled up their half of the table. As Careers, we've got to parse all this space, basically, find all the squatters, and oscillating out is the most convenient way to do that," he sprayed spirals and sinusoids all along the eating surface. "Obviously the amplitude depends on the specific dimensions of the arena but you can leave the details up to those of of who know this stuff better. All you really need to know is that I'm a ponce. A ponce ponce poncey ponce ponce. Snow, I'm such an obnoxious ponce."

Orville's focus transitioned from Nero to a pea that wasn't extraordinary in any way whatsoever.

A pea-sized glob of water shatters against his forehead. Through its temperature, that of a liquid cooler than ice, it carries the impact force of a mallet. "Glory," he cusses under his crystallizing breath. If they can't find our way out of these quick, he will shrivel till he's half his size and freeze in place. The whinges from his mind get caught in his throat. "I'm so cold," he says, voice meek and faltering.

"No palm trees here!" Sterling says with a meaty slap to his back which hurts as bad as the deadliest of stabs until Orville realizes that's all it is. People laugh, he fakes it. Not very well.

They snake through the moist and lichen caves in single file. All of the Two kids' searching algorithms were laid to waste by the close quarters, which has been one of Orville's few sources of pleasure so far. "Don't bash it until you try it Ster, beachside as the waves roll in. Great women." He makes a face like he just ate the most fantastic chocolate. Sterling grumbles something dismissive. "It's better than whooping cough and wet socks, anyway."

At the front of their pack, Sailee stops dead. She's made her way under the mouth of the next tunnel and must have seen something. "Oh, this will shut you up, Orville."

"Doubt it," quips Vayu from just behind. Everyone else asks what they are seeing in some similar phrasing. "More of the same," he answers, "it's just that the dripwater's magma now." People jump ahead to get a look for themselves and don't learn anything they haven't been told already.

"Well," Orville sighs, "it's warm at least."

"Yeah, why don't you take a bath?"

Ha ha.

These caves are painted black as if the very rock had been singed and charred by the lava running through its veins. Windows are carved out of the walls and into pockets of molten amber which drips like simple syrup. The water of the chambers before has been heated into hissing steam. It smells burnt and musty. there is no exit save for the one the came in from. Sailee looks around before shrugging with exasperation and declaring it no use. Nero batters the far wall with a club - as if it would crumble away - before agreeing with her. They sit in the sauna, gasping for air and only receiving fumes.

The more that Orville stews in it, the more he thinks it suits him. It starts in his nostrils and moves on to his head, first setting them on fire and then turning them numb. Suddenly he finds Nero's chagrin hilarious. "What was that?" he wheezes. "I'm just gonna, I'm just gonna... whack this wall. That's gonna do some... some." He belches softly into his hand and scrapes down a cavern wall to a crouching position.

Nero laughs just as honestly and full of glee. "We're trapped!" he says and whacks the wall three more times in mockery.

"What if we are trapped though?" Orville asks. "It's so hot in here I think I'd die."

"Take your supplies off." The room whips around to meet Valeria Thracius. She's stood still back at the entrance to the lava cave. Confused, Orville points to himself first, which gets a nod, and then to his sling pack - a black silk bag stocked with arrows and their roots as well; a host of dehydrated fruits, some starchy things none of them recognize - and that gets him another nod.

He does so, smiling. "I suppose you'll ask for the shirt next."

"No. Old man."

Sailee points and laughs. "Old man," she repeats.

"Look at that," Valeria points as well, but to a point next to him rather than right at him. It's one of those gaps in the wall where the lava brews and bubbles over. "No, closer," she clarifies, her words uniquely punctuated and tongue uniquely intact. "In the magma, that looks just like an outline of Four."

Leaving his supplies behind, Orville crawls over to see, grabbing the hot but not scorching rims of the crater to lean in for a closer look. Only a drugged up he isn't able to tell who shoved him in the back and face-first into the boiling vermillion. When he even realizes that he has been, it's too late to scream.

For a fluttering second, the heat is unimaginable. Like a burn all over the body on a day hotter than even Four will get in the boughs of summer. Then there is nothing. The ground is hard, jagged, but it is nice. The cave he sees leading outward through squinted eyes is neither crimson nor vanilla, but it is nice. Moss crawls over the wall. Perhaps the faint light way at the end of it is natural. It is a secret passageway, he thinks.

Orville giggles, "Good thinking guys." But as the smell of haze and burning drifts from his sinuses and this new, fresh, air filters in, everything starts to falter. "Guys," he repeats. "Guys?"And he doesn't know if they heard him, and he doesn't know what they would think if they did.

Welcome, Orville Stud, to purgatory.

☠Valeria Thracius☠

DROPPED OUT

☠Vayu Sharma ☠

NO ENTRY

☠ Scorpio Ramsey ☠

The air was hot and sticky as I stumbled into an underground tunnel of sorts. Spurts of lava were spitting out the top causing a burning sensation in my eyes. My burning eyes were not the worst thing, but the smell of burnt rock was. The smell made my empty stomach quiver. Despite the heat, my body kept shivering, so I sat down on a rock and immediately felt warmth spread through myself. For a moment, through all the haze that clouded in my mind, I felt relieved. I knew that relief, from past experiences, could only be short lived. Danger was always around every corner in these places and if I didn't stay alert, I could meet the same fate I had once before. With that thought in my mind, I stood and hastily searched for any sign of an exit.

As I stumbled around in search of the exit, the warmth around me grew stronger by the minute. My once damp shirt was now dry, but it was bloodstained and smelt funny, so I threw it off and dropped to my knees. I swished my dirty shirt in the steaming water which caused the blood that had stained my hands to wash away. The steam around me seemed to be rising further and I felt my aching muscles relax. There once was a time where I was much fitter than I was now where I wouldn't have had any problems with being sore. I blamed it all on dying.

Behind me I heard some hushed chatter. I stared down at my bare stomach in response. All I could see were the scars that dotted my entire stomach area which paid as a terrible reminder of everything I had been through. Some were older than others. One of my biggest ones I had collected was from a hallucinated mutt. I quickly reached for my shirt and pulled it over my head to hide my scars once more. I flinched in response and gripped at my shoulder. I hadn't noticed it being any sorer than the rest of me until now. It was majorly swollen with bruises and cuts on it as well. Right now, though wasn't time to pay attention to any injuries I may have collected in the bloodbath. The chattering group of people were getting closer.

For some reason I didn't feel any sense of wanting to race over to them, catch them by surprise and kill them all. Instead I wanted to stay here, surrounded by the warmth and a flowery scent that had reached my nostrils a few seconds ago. I knew I couldn't stay here though. For some reason, though, I was struggling to even put one foot forward to even take a look at my new found kill targets. Somehow, I finally found my footing, the scent of flower still evident, and raced towards the group. There were five of them in total. I didn't recognise any of them from the bloodbath and had no idea what district these guys were from. My mind was even too foggy to take in what they looked like. I just knew there were three males and two females.

One against five seemed much too big of a task but I wasn't going to give up so easily and let myself die a second time. Dying the first time had been awful enough and I think it is safe to say to myself that it was just another thing in my life that made me even more messed up than I already was.

"Well, well, who do we have here," I snarled. I hoped it would frighten them. The group seemed unfazed and launched at me with vicious eyes. A bunch of different weapons that came flying towards me from all different directions. All I had was my knife and me. Always a good start to a one on five fight.

I blocked an oncoming strike of a knife to the chest with my arm and watched as it sliced through my skin. One of the guys came from behind and pinned me to the ground. I struggled to hide my pained face as I made contact with the steaming ground. The same guy who had pushed me down, was now on top of me and his mouth was pulled in a harsh grin. I laughed in his face and stabbed him in the stomach with my knife before he could kill me. I pushed his limp body off me just in time to see spurts of lava coming from behind as the steaming water continued to rise. It was turning the entire place into molten. Sweat was now dripping from my entire body. I could sense the four that remained from the group start to calm down. Now all they did was stare at me in bewilderment as they sat down, allowing the steam to roll off them like it was nothing. I grinned at them and laughed as I fought to break away from my own trance. I knew if I stayed any longer I would be dead. The molten was quickly washing to where we had all entered, but there was still no sign of an exit.

All I wanted to do was sit down with the dazed group and soak in all the warmth and the nice scent that was still wafting through, but I knew I couldn't, so I let my eyes roam around in a circle until I finally locked eyes with an exit and dashed out in a haze, leaving the four people still in there as they erupted into flames behind me. I smiled and ran.

☠Corradhin Cole ☠

He can't stop looking at her.

Against the cave walls, she is a silhouette of bronze, sporting a veil of ink around her head, the curls mussed into a mess falling free of its rubber tie. She is a silhouette of familiarity, though he has never met her prior to this day, and she walks beside him, carefree but not careless, his pack descending from her fingertips as she dives in, taking stock as they walk. She, Bellona Viellana, is invested in this task, but he, Corradhin Cole, is invested in her.

And he can't stop fucking looking at her.

"So you knew Beckett too?" she asks, and her voice echoes down the tunnel. It scares him, her first words, and he flinches at how the strength of her voice reverberates in his ears.

He's not even sure how to reply, though the answer is simple; he is wearied and confused and how does one express words when they can't identify the emotion behind them? So instead of answering, he gets lost, and says, "You were his ally. You saved him a few times." It's not a question. It's a fact he's been thinking over and if it's true that means she knows plenty about him already and still, he knows only the filtered version onscreen.

"Yep," she peps, "and then he fell down a hole and I never knew what happened next. I know that he died but that's all."

End me. What comes next is heat, an increasing humidity that makes his eyes flutter and skull dizzy, and he sways to the right, sways up against a wall of rock as nausea hits. He's drenched in his own sweat and blood and everything sticks to him like moist plaster, molding to him, and there are aches at every limb and muscle. There are bruises of black and blue almost everywhere he can see, and he thinks again: End me. A pained sigh hisses out between his busted lips.

He's finally stopped looking at her, but now she's looking at him, too close, and he winces at her touch. "Please don't do that," he whispers, and she holds her hands up in surrender.

"You need to take it easy. I told you we should've rested but you ignored me." She pauses. "Which was not nice, by the way."

Well, I'm resting now. Happy? He remains silent and wipes a glob of sweat from his forehead as she continues rustling through her pack. But soon she's got it zipped up, thrown on her back even though he'd been the one to grab it. He doesn't understand why she can't just let him do the heavy lifting like he wants. It makes an uncomfortable itch of stress settle in his chest.

"We don't have any medicine or bandages. I-"

"I dropped them a few meters back and forgot to pick them back up," he lies. He's not a liar at heart and not a good one either but it's Bellona and it's Beckett and it's the Careers with all their little targets on his back that drives him to say it, that makes his fingers twitch for something to change.

And though the dim facial features Corr can see are bent in exasperation, Bellona speaks nothing of it, and instead turns down the way they came. "I'll get them, then. You stay here, I'll be back, don't faint."

She turns back to fetch nonexistent items. When she's far enough away to not notice his departure, he pushes off the wall and takes off down the cave corridor, body aching, screaming at him to pause, to rest; he's not a good listener, however, and even as the heat in the air rises, he continues to flee, ignorant to the details all around.

When he dives through an opening, the world lights up in tones of fiery orange and thick, molten black, and he nearly falls forward, into the source of heat waves beating up violently against his skin. It lights him up dimly, but he feels it brightly. The churning lava reminds him of a family curse he's convinced of and so he presses himself up against the wall immediately, shirt wettening further with whatever coats the cave.

He's in a volcano. Of course. Of course I'm in a volcano. As if I haven't already suffered enough. Nice. It's not like the Careers want me dead and my lover's ally keeps tailing me. His muscles tense and fists clench. Nice.

While glancing down from his narrow ledge, he breathes heavily, head dizzying. There is a taste in the air, herbal, almost, instead of burning, and as he squints he identifies a wavering steam down below, and eye-level, and up above, where the moisture of the caves finally lets go and gives itself to the heat, where it sizzles and reemerges weightless.

It is strange that he envies the steam as it rises because of this; it is stranger still that as his breathing slows, his body loosens, and a familiar but foreign feeling washes over his body, less heavy than the sweat forcing itself out. Maybe it's calm. Is it calm? It might be calm. Is this what it's like not being on high alert all the time? This is what it's like, maybe. But with calm comes exhaustion, and against that wall, he slides until he's at a sit, legs splayed out before him and body limp because being prepared is not worth it anymore.

The best part about this is that the pain is gone. He sees the bruises on his arms, and in the rip in his pants, but the ache has vanished, and the sting of open wounds is little more than a dull pinch. Perhaps he may go far enough to call this bliss. There are no feelings to be confused about, really. There are no grievances or desires and maybe this is what it's like to die; maybe he will die. That's fine. Without feelings there is nothing more to give, nothing more to take. He lied, that's the best part - nothing to take. He's taken so much. He's guilty.

"Corradhin."

It's a whisper built to interrupt jumbled thoughts and draw attention, and it does. There is a lilt to the name that makes him sit up straighter. "Who's that?" he mutters. It doesn't echo here. He lied, he lied - that's the best part.

"You."

It's a word that comes from all around, like the air is breathing to him, but the images that appear through the fog come from ahead. It's his father saying it first, glasses fogged up with the steam - "You" - and it's his mother saying it next, bald head glistening with orange light - "You" - and it's his great-uncle saying it next, reddish hair pulling from the environment - "You" - and then it's Beckett and he needs no explaining. "You."

Corradhin's body presses itself further into the wall, lungs inflating quickly, but then the scented air fills him, and he's laying up against it effortlessly again, eyes closed in calm. The air continues to breathe from all sides. He opens his eyes, the world spins. But Beckett is there, crouched in front of him, with those amber eyes dripping with concern. He is something to focus on and so Corradhin does.

His mouth doesn't move in tune with his words. "You look like shit."

A laugh bubbles out of Corr's throat. "I know," he says weakly.

"Why d'you let them do this to you?" He is beautiful. "Why d'you let them get away with it."

Corr shrugs. "I can't do anything. Everything is just..." He holds his hand in the air and tries to grab at the steam, but when he brings it down and opens his palm, there's nothing, and he lets the hand lay slack against his lap, staring at it. "Out of my control."

"No, it's not. It's not, Corr. Please get up, baby." The breathing comes from the side now, and when he swivels to look, his mother is there. She's nudging his arm but there's no feeling there. That's because she's dead. But he still smiles and he still stands because he was once the obedient son and when he finishes struggling against the haze she's gone again, and instead his father is there, on a bridge crossing over the lava lake, no barriers to prevent him from falling in.

His father is a clumsy man and doesn't look both ways before crossing the street which was why he got hit and lost his smarts so Corradhin wants to tell him to get away from the edge, but instead he just walks the bridge himself until he's close enough to whisper. "I'm gonna die again, dad. I don't want that." It doesn't even tremble. How 'bout that?

"You're not gonna die," Kurt says.

"I-" Corr pauses to giggle. "I already did."

A newer, sweeter voice fills the air, but it weighs down on his ears, tugging the flushed cartilage towards the end of the bridge. "Corradhin." Beckett's there, in front of a dark opening. Standing. Waiting.

"Beckadhin," Corr croons, but he doesn't realize the accident in his words immediately. Even when he does, it fades from memory, and he doesn't care.

"Listen to me, sweetheart," Beck says - he's missed calling him Beck, and Corr's chest swells and breaks against a bone with dull pain - hands beckoning. Beck-oning. "I know you're hurt. I know you're confused. But I need you to set that aside. I need you to-" Tell me what I wanna hear. "-come here."

It is desire and guilt and nothing that pulls him forward, and he moves blindly. But when he takes his sixth step, a searing heat scorches his foot, and he gasps, finally breaking free of a pleasant reverie and noticing the lava curling over the bridge. There is logic, momentarily, and he jumps onto the opposing ledge, but his foot catches and he falls forward, ribcage slamming against rock. It knocks the wind out of him and he takes a gulp of air in, but then everything settles, and he rolls onto his back, away from the edge.

He feels what he wants to feel - nothing - and sees what he wants to see - Beckett - and life is good, for the first time in a long time. The boy with amber eyes is bent over him, and though they should be touching, his neurons are acting up, not stimulating where the sense should be. There should be sensory overload but when Beckett's finger brushes over Corr's busted lip all he feels is the same dull sting that's been there for hours and days. But Beckett feels the sticky fluid there and he sighs heat into Corr's face. "You bleed dolce nettare."

"You killed me," Corradhin bursts out, except it's less of a burst than it is a quiet fact murmured from a purpled jaw.

Beck's hand lands on Corr's chest, and a beat-beat-beat- no finish. "I know I said you weren't just a boy who sheds blood. But I need you to be that boy just this once. Just until you get out. I see I was wrong now and that's what killed you, ultimately. It broke you." His face softens, hardens, flip-flop, flip-switch. "Be that boy now."

"Why?"

"Because I'm angry. And you should be too."

But then there is touch, and pressure wraps around his wrist - fingers - and rock scrapes at his back where the shirt rides up, and he's being dragged across the floor. When he tries to wriggle free, it's flat, and unsuccessful, but the people are on the bridge and Corr is being taken away from those he loves and then he's calling out something he can't hear for himself.

Two arrows strike the man with reddish hair, consecutively, and Corr feels nothing. A bullet strikes Kurt in the forehead, and Corr mutters dissent. Mother crumples down, weak and gone, and his lips twist and waver, speaking in tongues. Beckett is yanked back by the throat, and the anger comes in the form of a holler, a subconscious curse let loose as lava laps up against an opening he's already been dragged through. Though steam continues to taunt and tantalize overhead, the scenes are a jumble, and the caves are dark again, absent of heat and light. And his struggles stop. And then he's laying there, on the ground, breathing and alive.

But some of the air must remain in his lungs, because when he looks up at Bellona, he speaks, slurred.

"You trigger me. Don't people call you Ham?"

☠ Kirk Hoffman☠

Water drips down the walls like the slow trickle of blood from Kirk's forehead. Routinely now, his hand goes up again to touch it, wiping away the fresh stream before it falls into his eyes. Every time he brushes his head it only serves to infect the wound further. His fingers are covered in moss and dirt, the stones nearby black with grit. A violent cough rattles the boy's lungs again as he struggles to maintain the pace he's going at.

I can't do it. The path before him is blurring. Eyes blink rapidly, but tears are beginning to well at the edges from pain and fear alike. I'm not going to make it. Negative thoughts swirl as his chest heaves with each wheezed breath tightening around his throat and squeezing. Feet pound over rock, but the path is slippery with water. Another deep, rattling breath, a glance thrown over his shoulder.

Without warning, Kirk's foot slips from under him. Chin hitting the rock, Kirk's teeth dig into his tongue. A howl of pain escapes his lips. "Shit." The tears are flowing now, sliding down his cheeks and making his body shake even harder. "Shit, fuck, shit," he spills out huffed, uneven curses from his lips into the ground beneath him. The taste of blood and dirt is drowning him in terror.

Pain is throbbing from his knee. Get up. Trembling, bleeding, and sweating through the thin fabric of the t-shirt he was handed only a short while ago, Kirk gets his hands beneath him. Gripping cold, slimy rock, he pushes himself back onto his feet, left knee almost giving back out in the process. One look down in the dim light and the boy can see the flayed open area. Blood is beginning to well there and gravel clings to the raw, pink skin. There's no time to stop, though. Even now the footsteps behind him are growing closer by the second.

Kirk scans the area before him desperately as he runs again. Finally, hazel eyes land on a slight dip in the rock. "There." The word leaves him unintentionally, eyes widening as he approaches his salvation. Pressing forward, Kirk grabs the edge and flings himself out of the main cavern. It's a small space, barely large enough to fit through. Anyone with a bigger build would have gotten stuck, and even Kirk has a hard time as the wet rocks touch his chest to scrape moss across it and soak his clothes.

Once he makes it, the boy stops, hiding with his back pressed against the rock just past his exit. Hands clutching thighs, Kirk's breath comes out shaky and inconsistent, his lungs making a rattling noise that stings the back of his lungs. Kirk reaches up a hand to rub his ribs. Everything is an aching, wheezing mess of spasming muscles. The same cavern echoes back the sound. Eyes fluttering shut, Kirk works on bringing everything back under his control. His chest heaves less, his rushing headache slowing as a glob of blood is spat as far from his own shoes as possible.

"Where'd the kid go?" For a second, Kirk almost takes the voice as someone familiar. Then the words register. Blood rushes cold as his weak knees give out beneath him, back sliding down the wall until his butt rests on a patch of damp moss. Footsteps echo from the cavern on the other side of the wall.

"Don't know." This time it is a girl that speaks. Irritation floods her words as a sharp scrape pierces Kirk's ears, his body shivering. The footsteps are closer now, but slowed from the fast pace there were when they first entered range. His heart begins to pick back up, drowning the next words in its rhythm. "Think we lost him?"

Licking his lips and tasting copper, the boy inches a bit closer to the gap in the rocks. His head tilts to peer through. A shadow casts across the stone and is followed by a fingerless black gloved hand grasping the edge of his hiding place. "No harm if we did," the third assures as Kirk ducks his head back. Through the corner of his eye, he watches a bloodied sword swing loosely in a manicured hand. "We cleaned up well enough back there."

"No harm done, huh?" The phrase is repeated with a sarcastic bite to it. "We're lost now, and there's not even a kill to show for it." Her words are so close now that Kirk's heart has stopped dead. Cheeks puffed to hold in his breath, the boy digs his palms into the stone beneath him to keep his body from so much as shifting wrong.

"We'd be lost no matter what," the other replies, his tone light as his footsteps finally begin to move on. "Unless you have a map?"

The question is only responded with a huff of air and finally the shadows looming in the crevice disappear from Kirk's sight. His back relaxes against the wall, but his gaze does not waver from checking to make sure they don't come back. It was too close of a call, and it hasn't even been a day.

"Really?" A voice comes from in front of him, Kirk whipping his head forward to see the shadow standing before him. "You're hiding?"

His brother leans against a wall of thick moss, an eyebrow raised. In the dark light, he looks deathly pale, with fingers curled tight around his arms.

"Je-" Without thinking, the exclamation all but escapes Kirk's lips. He bites his tongue at his own voice. He hadn't meant to be loud, but now he is in full panic again, hearing the own echoing repeat of the syllable in the high ceiling above him. "Jesus," the boy corrects, now at a much quieter tone. His eyes narrow up at Neal across from him, rage weighing at the edge of his tongue begging to be thrown at someone. "Where were you? Why did you leave me for dead, huh?"

A small chuckle escapes. Neal reaches a hand up and smoothes it over his messy orange hair as his lips try and fail to stop the upward quirk that is stuck in the corner of his mouth. "Don't overreact, Kirk," he assures, voice as soft and gentle as ever. There's a knowing look in his eye like he can guess what this is really about, not his appearance but the stress and pain that have washed over Kirk and drowned him without a single second of relievable mercy.

"I'm not overreacting." It's a pouty response, lip jutted out and body withdrawn to protect himself. Kirk wraps his arms around his legs and ignores the rip in his pants where a bloody mess of flesh and gravel now sits. Touching it is too painful at the moment, pain continuing to throb angry and hot like fire licking the wound now that his adrenaline is beginning to die down. Warmth spills in the form of blood down Kirk's pants and begins to soak the fabric as it drips down to his sock.

"I'm here to help, okay?" Neal moves forward cautiously until he too can kneel on the ground in front of his brother and reach the same height.

"Yeah, right." The scoff is painful for Kirk's burning throat. He reaches up and wipes the tears off on the back of his hand. A soft sigh lets loose from his lips. "You almost gave me away" His eyes flicker just once more to the exit to make sure they're gone.

With a soft shake of his head, his brother tries to grab him and haul him back up. "You can't stay here anyway." Kirk frowns but knits his brow in response to consider the idea. "They might come back."

It's unfair. "I'm tired," he protests, even though he is already getting up and moving again. Neal is right, whether the boy would like to admit it or not, and while he may know the hand grabbing his arm can not really help him, his body feels lighter as he gets to his feet.

Warmth begins to fill up Kirk's limbs as he walks. It's a reassuring feeling, the ache melting from his shoulders. The small pathway he's stumbled upon continues away from the main cave. A thin stream of light is scattered across the floor, urging the brothers forward. Maybe it's sunlight, a way out. It grows brighter the farther on Kirk trudges, hands grabbing the wall and helping him limp forward.

The smell of rosemary floods his nose. We must be close to the surface. He stops to take it in, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes as the scent surrounds him. Warmth and rosemary, it's a beautiful combination. Already, he can feel himself relaxing, a soft smile tugging at the edges of his lips.

"Keep moving." Neal shoves his back, and with a glare, Kirk continues forward. The tunnel gets narrower as the go but steeper too. Humid air creeps up and over Kirk's neck, bringing sweat trickling down his back. With a final heave over the lip of an opening and gritting of the boy's teeth, Kirk pulls himself up onto a ledge.

There aren't words. Red, swirling liquid meets his gaze. A thick black crust covers the top as orange bursts forth and over the top in thick bubbles. Stumbling back, Kirk smacks into his brother still trying to exit. The lava is almost at the boys' toes and snaking closer by the second.

"What the fuck is this?" Neal asks, eyes wide at the sight, body as frozen as Kirk's.

"I don't know." His gaze darts back toward the tunnel he crawled out of, swallowing nervously. "We can't go back, can we?"

There's a heavy sigh that brushes the skin against the back of his neck. "Not unless you want to die." For a second, Kirk can picture all too vividly the idea of crawling back down the way he came followed by a waterfall of lava crashing down behind him. With the downward slope, the lava would overtake him in seconds. A shudder should pass through him as he watches the burning hot liquid approach. The thought is terrifying, but there's something about it that brings a smile to Kirk's lips as he watches the lava swirl and claw its way up the walls.

"Hey." A pair of fingers is snapped in front of his face. Blinking, Kirk finds a frowning Neal staring down with a concerned expression. "We need to move." It's like his conscious almost, reminding him slowly and pulling the boy out of the fog as he forces his gaze away from the burning lake. Throat too dry to respond, Kirk licks a tongue over his lips and starts again, following his brother's form up a thin pathway that winds above the danger to a new opening.

Pulling at his shirt collar between pants, the tribute manages to keep one foot moving in front of the other. There's a lack of urgency, his brain fuzzy as he follows the one strand of thought he can keep track of. He's supposed to get out of here. A rock slips from beneath his feet, spilling back down into the lava. There's no sound as it is swallowed whole.

Finally, after much urging and persuading on Neal's part, Kirk reaches the top of the path where a new entrance sits. Cold, crisp air spills through. The smell is not rosemary but musty stone and fresh rain. Slumping against the rock to catch his breath, Kirk sends one last look back to the bottom of the cavern floor where the lake has risen. Below him stands three figures, eyes searching desperately for a way out. The only tunnel still available is the one Kirk first came through. He turns before they can see him, and disappears into the new cavern, swallowed up by the dark. They'll never make it in time.

☠Edelina Renova☠

All about her, the world was on fire.

Soft footsteps echoed through the cavernous tunnel the further in she walked, the walls of igneous rock lined with trickling streams of water. Her grip remained tight over her knife, knuckles gleaming with the blood of a tribute she did not know. With her other hand, she brushed away a stray orange tendril of hair that fell over her face, fingers grazing over a fine layer of sweat and grime accumulated from exhaustion and fear. The blazing warmth around her did nothing to warm her frozen body; even with her eyes closed, she could still see the apocalypse she died in, the plague that severed every hope she had for the future.

It was not hard to compare this volcanic landscape to the hell that she had literally been through. She died with skin so pale, and blood congealed; when she rose from the grave several years later, she rose with hair flickering like fire, and eyes murderous. Gamemakers from the past had snuffed out her flame, and flames of several others, sending in their deadly weapons like gentle breezes through an opening no one could see. Somehow, in hell, the flame was rekindled at death's hearth. Somehow, someone alive saw her chance at redemption.

Yet she knew, she knew, that another Hunger Games would not help her snag her chance at redemption. She had accepted death so long ago when she was hanging from its precipice. Illness was hard to overcome without the right medicines, the right elements to counterbalance the disease.

It was easy to give up the fight when the bloodbath tapered to its close, but the crimson streaks soaking through somehow sparked a newfound determination within. She was already painting a new image in another hell, and if victory meant seeing her mother and father again, she would do anything to keep her paintbrush moving over the canvas.

Edelina released a slow breath as she surveyed the surroundings again, having emerged now into a wide chamber filled with thin veils of mist. The pool of bubbling lava by her feet pulsated almost like a human heart, pumping life through what otherwise could be a dormant volcano. With a subtle inhale, she could sniff out a faint floral scent, almost like the wild rosemary that her mother would dry for medicines. She could see the multiple hues that dotted the carpet of green beneath her feet, splashed across many a canvas in her paintings—a vibrant multicoloured spectrum that would bring joy to her childhood days.

The happy image brought a slight smile to her face, and she took in another deep breath, letting loose her first laugh since her death. Perhaps, if she had the option to, she could stay here. No longer would she have to worry about anyone else coming here and killing her again the first chance they got.

That very thought suddenly pulled her up short when she saw two tributes laying on the ground, peaceful smiles decorating their faces but no oxygen heaving through their bodies.

"What the..."

Her laughter now evaporated in the smoke that surrounded her, the words came out in a low hoarse whisper as she knelt beside one of the tributes and turned her over. She recognized her now as one of the other girls from District 12—Wynder, if she was not mistaken. With two fingers, she gently pressed them to her neck, trying to locate a pulse.

To her shock, there was none.

Dying through the inhalation of poisonous gas was uncommon, but not unheard of. She recalled an invisible gas being released in the last arena that flipped her personality completely, almost driving her completely mad. Had she not seen the various bottles of natural herbs lining the shelves in a treatment room, she would have completely drowned herself in the idea of killing over healing.

Here, there was nowhere to look at but the long stretch of molten rock and the rivers of lava. Should the smoke continue to accumulate, she too would end up with the same fate as Wynder and the other tribute.

"She's already dead, isn't she?"

The sound of another tribute addressing her got her to her feet, whirling her head round to see the little girl from District 1 standing a few feet away from her, a throwing knife in hand.

"Saphaia?"

"That's right." Her heterochrome eyes glinted with anger as she stared at Edelina. "Looks like that's one less tribute to finish off."

Either she knew of the gas's effects, or Edelina's presence threatened her, because then she launched herself at the older girl, pushing her to the edge of the pit of lava. The white mist enveloped her almost instantly, and she began to cough, slashing a piece of fabric off her shirt and holding it to her nose.

"Time's ticking, Twelve," Saphaia warned her mockingly, twirling the knife once in her hand. "The smoke will keep rising. The sickness will keep spreading. And where would you be at the end of this? Smiling once more in your grave, like your damned District partner."

"Blaze did not go down in peace. Nor did he smile in death," Edelina growled after a moment of silence, waving away the mist with her knife as she emerged from its cloud. "And it doesn't help to bring up what's already happened. You stay any longer in here, you'll die too."

Saphaia said nothing at first. Though the flinch was imperceptible, she knew the comeback must have slapped her harder than expected.

"Way to be noble. That didn't work out for you in the past, did it?"

Now it was Edelina's turn to feel the sting from her words. She never considered Xander much of an ally, but she did root for him to win if she did not. They have crossed paths a few times in the arena, with her telling him to flee to safety the first chance he got—it was the hallucinations that separated them forever, and she never got the chance to warn him.

That wouldn't be considered an act of nobility; she did what she thought was right. Only seconds before her death, however, did she learn of his, and she never forgave herself for that.

"Whatever. I don't care if you stay here. I gave you a chance," Edelina finally said, stepping away from the lava and pushing Saphaia aside. "I'm getting out of here."

With that, she strode back through the tunnel where she came from, and did not look back once.

Words like that would have earned her a knife in the back, but seconds passed, and she felt nothing. The cloth she held to her nose was scalding and dry to the touch, and she spat on it once to moisten it. Seconds later, she hit her head on what she thought was a tough column of quartz—she glanced up, eyes widening at the large wall of crystal completely blocking off the path.

No knife would be durable enough to pierce through the surface—no amount of strength would be enough to knock it down, let alone shatter it. Already, the Gamemakers were working their magic to enclose her in this hell. Cold sweat began to creep over the perspiration formed from the heat encasing her—in the fractured reflections that stared back at her from the multiple facets of the crystal, she saw the gleam of fear in her eyes. If she did not get out in time, death would claim her paintbrush once more.

Turning her heel, Edelina began to run, her feet pounding hard on the stone beneath her until she reached the lava pool once more. She whipped her head around, eyes flitting about as she tried to find another escape route. The grooves in the wall behind her made her tilt her head in curiosity—a moment later, she found herself climbing up the wall, using the grooves as hand and foot holds, scrambling up to a small opening she found higher up.

No tribute was in pursuit of her, especially when she reached higher ground. She saw the mist continue to rise, obscuring the view of the other tributes who were previously on her trail. The sound of blade against blade and drunken laughter ringing was enough for her to shimmy through the low tunnel in the wall, her knife poking at weak points until the rock crumbled away, widening the passage just enough for her to crawl on her hands and knees.

For all the times she had been underground, never had she thought of risking her life in a tunnel where she could barely stand.

Never had she thought that her escape would be in an act of mercy.

☠Wynder Douglas ☠

There are few things in life that are promised. Death is one of them. Some may try to run from it. Some may try to cheat it. Some may embrace it. But death, death comes for everyone all the same.

When death comes for me, I may welcome it. I've fought for so long to stay alive, to be okay. But this arena, these tributes, these deaths. They're terrible.

There have been so many deaths in the last couple of days, and while a majority of the tributes remain, it is far too many to count.

I almost killed a man, Garrett. I almost did. But when I looked into his eyes, I saw my own. Everyone has a story, just like me. And everyone deserves the same chance as I do to live. I couldn't kill him. I'm a fighter, not a murderer.

Ick, this arena's got me all sentimental. Who would've thought that'd ever happ...

My words trailed off the paper as I heard footsteps echo in the dank caves. I wiped the water that had settled on my face and shoved my tiny notebook into my pocket.

It was the only thing I'd brought with me to the arena. I used a piece of black stone to write, the kind that looked much like a pencil when pressed to the paper. There were many of those in this arena, lucky me.

I slowly edged my way down the rock, hiding between that and the cave wall as my heart began to beat a bit faster. I hadn't been sitting for long but the wondering aimlessly thing for hours had really gotten to me. And so I took a break, writing to Garrett. I didn't know if he'd ever see the letters I'd wrote him. But I needed something to ground me, to keep me in a reality filled with hope.

I prayed that when my body was lifted out of the arena, the gamemakers would be kind enough to give them to him. It was a fetal hope, but one that I wished for desperately.

I waited with bated breath as the footsteps became closer, falling in sync with the water that continued to drip for the ceiling. I shivered, wrapping the green jacket around me. It had been nice at first, but the dampness of the caves went past my clothing and chilled me to the bones.

Soon enough, the footprints dissipated and I moved out of the cramped quarters. Maybe it would have been nice to have made some allies before this point. But allies meant that at one point, they'd turn on one another. And I wasn't prepared to stab someone in the back.

I shook the thoughts out of my head and followed the footprints, curious as to where the other tribute was going. Maybe they knew something I didn't. I was pretty sure I had spent at least twenty minutes going in circles earlier and didn't want to do that again.

I crept behind the footsteps, moving as quickly as I could without causing too much noise. I didn't want a confrontation with anyone.

The chill in the air was soon replaced by an intense heat. Steam wafted through the tunnels, hot and a refreshing change from the cold. I sniffed, the air began to smell, like the spices that my mom used to cook with. An eerie red glow bounced off the walls, like the inside of an oven.

I rounded a corner and found myself in a cavern, lava dripping down walls and bubbling up from the depths of who knows where. A wall of large rocks seemed to climb up the far wall, leading up to a dark abyss. As far as I could tell, there was not an exit on the other side. The tribute I'd been following was nowhere to be seen.

I found myself entranced as the red shifted, oozing in shades crimson, ruby, and sapphire before fading to a boiling black. I let out a sigh, whether from relief of no tribute being there or from the feeling of finally being dry, I couldn't be sure.

Sitting down, I removed the backpack from my sweating shoulders and sat on the ground, feeling the warm rock through my pants. Something nagged at the back of my mind, I was doing something. But I felt like it was okay to take a break, out in the middle of the cavern, where everyone could see me.

I don't know how long I sat, staring into the lava, breathing in the rosemary. But I just felt peaceful, really hot, but peaceful. The lava was creeping upwards, but I was far enough away. And I could move at any time. I was faster than the slow, creeping of the viscous substance.

That is, until I noticed something appear at the edge of the lava pool. Curious, I stood up, taking a step closer. Frowning, I knelt down, watching as the thing turned over. And then I gasped.

Stumbling back, I felt my hands hit the rock as I fell. A small scream escaped my lips. The shriveled head twisted around, moving with the flow. There was no skin to be seen, just the empty shell of a human being, burned and tarred beyond recognition.

I scrambled up, running towards my bag and flinging it over my shoulder. I made my way quickly to the entrance I'd come through, narrowly avoiding a splash as the lava bubbled and gurgled. My feet skidded to halt as I came upon the entrance.

"You've got to be kidding me." The entrance was blocked by a flooding of lava.

I spun around, my heart pounding fast. There had to be away out of here. I wasn't going to die yet. Being burned alive was not on my bucket list. I ran along the wall, making sure I was clear of the magma. It seemed to be going faster and faster. There had to be another way out.

When I reached the other wall, only the towering rocks meeting me. Sweat began to pour faster as the orange substance reached close enough to lick my feet. The only way out seemed to be up.

I grabbed the top of the nearest rock and recoiled as the heat burned my hand. Gritting my teeth, I braced myself for pain as I grabbed the rock, scrambling up the side. After a few minutes, every muscle in my body ached. I felt tears prick at my eyes, this might have been the last minute of my life. If I fell, I would have broken every bone in my body and been burned.

Finally, as my hands became so wet, I was worried I would slip, I found a hole in the rocks. A crevice, really, but small enough that I could sneak could scramble through.

Skin was left on stone that as I squeezed through. But on the other side, I could breathe.

I fell against the rock, relishing in the cool, damp air yet again.

I was not dead yet.

☠Sailee Daniels ☠

NO ENTRY

 ☠Roma Thorne☠

Roma Thorne is not afraid of fire.

Fire is meant for good. It saves people; keeps them warm when needed, lights up the darkness, and signifies strength.

The smoke wasn't completely opaque, but its long grey wisps seemed to curl with others that were much darker, some near black. These stretching entities would show themselves in short, dramatic eclipses, which hid against the cave in full smolder.

Roma thought lava was parallel with fire, but she was wrong.

The lava is meant for bad. It kills people; caresses and tears off their skin, enhances the darkness, and signifies dissolution.

But no matter, she isn't afraid of fire, but lava has the capability to alter her fears. Being brave means being afraid, or at least it does for her. The two go hand in hand. First is the fear, then the determination not to be ruled by it. Roma will always choose to face fear, to conquer it, for how else are we to make true progress in life? She will not be molded by those who want her conveniently placated; she will not shy from the battlefields they create.

Nonetheless, there's no way to avoid it as Roma's shoed feet step on the ground, the lava dancing all around her. Drips of heat hit her body, evening out the coldness of the dampness layering over her skin. As of now, the lava plays the part of fire well, but only time will tell if this lava is more than for scenery and satisfying heat.

"The drops smell like rosemary, don't they?"

Roma's ally, Grainne Miller from Nine, attempts to make conversation but it's close to useless. Before entering these Games, Roma told herself that allies were unnecessary. She doesn't need them, they are only barriers, merely a distraction.

But none of those were how she really felt. She didn't want any allies because the ally in her first Games was irreplaceable.

Anika Diaspura, the strong-willed girl that Roma stuck with since the beginning. That was her ideal ally, and nobody could top her. She was strong, reliable, a survivor from what she's seen from the invincible Anika.

But, Anika was no survivor, and neither was Roma. Roma was amidst the lucky ones, the ones who survived unwillingly. Anika Diaspura was the real survivor who was never spared a second life.

But Grainne has something in her that Roma doesn't mind. Maybe it's because Grainne reminds her of herself. The looks, for starters, although that's not important. The dark long hair, Grainne's tightly braided and Roma's in a half ponytail. The bright eyes, Grainne's multicolored and Roma's purely green. Their built, Grainne's lean and attractive and Roma's stocky. No matter the looks, their personalities parallel. They were both happy once, sucking in their youthful lives while they could until the world took them in its hands. Now, they aren't happy, trapped within their four walls, unable to free themselves. Maybe this is why Grainne and Roma are well aquatinted with each other; they both have their four walls they must shatter.

They became allies the first day, an odd way to meet someone, Roma recalls, but Grainne was someone Roma didn't mind. Only time would tell if the two would get along, and the time proved right.

"It feels so good." Grainne looks up, closing her eyes as the drips fall on her cheeks, relaxing her muscles. Roma nods in agreement, her eyes fixed on the lava near them. Her head spins, trying to find where they entered, but Roma is tired, relaxed, and her eyes are unwilling to focus to look at an exit.

Roma almost trips on her ally. Grainne sits on the floor, giving in to the sensation and laying on her back. She smiles as the drops slowly fall on her.

"We need to keep moving."

"Roma, come sit. Just a minute, it feels so nice."

"No."

The two girls are stubborn, and that has been the most trouble while becoming allies. Grainne wants her way, and Roma wants hers, and by luck, they rarely share the same thoughts and ideas.

"Well, I'm not getting up."

Roma sighs as her vast eyes gaze upon the cave. She sees no movement, meaning no tributes seem to be around, and that single thought sets an uncomfortable nausea in her head. Roma walks along the cave, examining its structure, or perhaps, an escape. She doesn't realize how far she travels from Grainne, and when Roma turns her head to look for her ally, she freezes.

Roma is standing directly above a frail body.

At first, it only comes as a shock to see the small girl from One laying on her back, a genuine smile resting upon her face. Who smiles while sleeping? Roma narrows her eyes and peers down at the girl who is oblivious to Roma standing above her.

So Roma stabs a knife through her heart before she can wake up.

Blood oozes down the body, caressing her porcelain skin as its deep red stains. Roma waits for the cannon,expects the cannon, but there's nothing. The girl is dead but the cannon fails to signify it. Why?

Roma kneels down next to the young Career, inspecting her. She was smiling, laying on her back as if she was in total relaxation, without an urge to escape or hide. Roma remembered when she had her first kill. She broke, and not even Anika was able to comfort her and bring her back to normal. That was when Roma Thorne cracked, when she killed. This time she did it without hesitation, without question, but did she really do it? Maybe she was delusional, but Roma stood up anyway, the cannon never sounding. Roma quickly shuffles to Grainne and stands in awe at what she sees.

Her ally, laying carelessly on her back, smiling.

"Grainne!"

Panic-stricken eyes open up to her, slowly sitting upright as Roma takes a breath in reassurance. Grainne portrayed the exact replica of the small dead girl. And Roma did not kill this small dead girl, it seems.

"Grainne, we need to move. Now."

A loopy arm grips Roma's shoulder. "But why?"

"Because this lava is going to kill us."

It's no use, so Roma places one of her arms on Grainne's back, the other slung under her arm for support. For how tired the drops have Roma, pulling an entire body is not helping her stay alert. Roma looks over and sees the lava much higher then it was, and Roma pushes further, and Grainne finally finds some strength in her. The two girls look desperately for an escape, the drops from the ceiling falling on their skin in protest, begging them to stay.

"Roma, look."

Grainne points a shaky finger at a figure laying to the side, and before Roma can keep going, Grainne walks over to the body.

"He's dead, Grainne. Let's go."

No movement. Roma wipes her eyes, searching through the heated fog for any small door, any small crevice that they can slip into. The lava raises, almost off the ledge that holds it in, and Roma starts to panic.

"Grainne, now!"

"He's alive!"

Roma identifies him immediately. Kade Ruan, the guy from Twelve. He lays on the floor peacefully, not smiling but more so with pain. He's unconscious but he's breathing, and Roma wonders why he's still alive if the drips cause death. Kade was strong, Roma knew, but it looks like he's enduring more injuries than just being unconscious.

"He's still alive, Roma."

"That's a fact. Come on Grainne, we have to get out of here. I'm feeling lightheaded and the lava is rising."

"Let's drag him."

"We're not dragging him. We need to save ourselves."

Grainne grips the boy's arms and starts to drag, without a care of Roma's order. Roma sighs, a wave of relaxation consuming her being before she leans down and grabs his legs. Why she chose to help the unconscious boy, she didn't know. He was oblivious to the death surrounding him, unable to free himself, and was trapped within. And Roma feels for the ones that are trapped.

Grainne plops herself onto the hard ground, letting the drips run down her face as she lets go of the boy. Before closing her eyes, she points to the right. Roma furrows her eyebrows and narrows her eyes until she spots it. A small crevice, but large enough for a human to fit. An escape.

Then the lava comes. A thin wave travels the tributes' way, the blazing orange covering their feet. Roma grits her teeth in discomfort. It burns, but not how Roma imagined it would. No matter, it'll only rise from here, and Roma doesn't want to see if she'll be able to swim in it.

"A little further." Grainne sighs, barely dragging Kade along as they crawl towards their small exit. But the allies grow slower and slower, submerging into their wishes to rest.

It was kind of like the eclipse in a strange sense of the phrase. The back of her brain was awake as she moved, however, the soldiers across the front of her brain blocked its vision so that she couldn't for the life of her operate her hands to click the correct keys, to make the right decisions. She knew they needed to escape the caves, but she would much rather soothe in the warmth the lava provides.

The thoughts in her head melted away with so much as every discombobulated sound of a soft, tap, tap, tap, that entered her ears. The falling rosemary drips didn't help, and it wasn't long before her thoughts turned to static and she finally collapsed under the breeding between each black and white particle.

"Roma."

She didn't reply, didn't move. The warmth welcomed her like an old friend, consuming ever cell in her body, caressing her clammy skin. It felt strange to her, mainly because she's never felt this way before. Roma kept herself cold. Let the world depose any warmth the girl held, and now, the warmth was all she could feel.

But Roma flew too close to the sun. The warmth burned her wings, and she came toppling back onto the coldness of the ground.

"Roma!"

"Come on," Roma sighs, feeling the lava flowing up to her knees. Her and Grainne drag Kade along, the lava just missing his face, and they inch closer to their exit. An odd pain explodes in Roma's body, filled with heat and exhaustion and physical pain all meshed together to form one nagging discomfort. But still, she pushes on, with a girl she's known for three days and a boy she's known for three minutes.

Kade stirs, his brows furrowing and lips quivering, but he stays unconscious. Roma wonders what he'll think when he wakes up, if he'll fight or flee or possibly stay. For now, that doesn't matter, because he'll need to be alive in order to make that choice. The two of them fight their weariness to the maximum, pushing themselves outside their own limits as they force one another to always keep moving.

The sweat trickles down her back, free-flowing like condensation on a window pane, it beads on her forehead and drips from her chin. The addition of heat and physical labor isn't helping with Roma's physique. But her slippery hand drips the wall of the cave, slipping between the side onto the exit, and she hauls herself through. With an extension of her hand, Grainne grabs onto her, grunting as her athletic body crawls into safety. But before Roma helps grab Kade, she pauses.

Should she save a life?

It was the Games, after all. Kade's life needed to end at some point, and what better to have him die while he's u aware? But Roma grabbed him anyhow, and it wasn't long until Roma and Grainne followed suit, sinking into oblivion.

☠Illyra Grady☠

It was bloody. Too bloody. The Blood Bath was rightly named.

All around Illyra, the other tributes moved from their pedestals and ran towards the centre of the clearing. Scattered weapons littered the grassy floor, and each person 'battled' for the possession of one.

Blood, screams and crunches echoed and multiplied around the clearing. The palpable scent of death seemed to spread among the tributes. Illyra's heart thudded painfully in her chest, and she felt the first fragments of FEAR as it grew inside her. This was so much different from the usual feeling she had when she ventured into the depths of an unfamiliar part of the forest. 'This is WRONG.' She thought with detachment.

Illyra's mind screamed at her to move, but she couldn't. Fear and disbelief had taken a hold of her body. It anchored her to her spot, but the woman's eyes moved around rapidly. Her sense of nobility rebelled as she saw how the tributes who now possessed weapons brutally killed those who didn't have any. 'I have to move...' she thought, overwhelmed by the sheer 'desire' of the other tributes to kill.. Kill... Kill!!

A sudden breeze carried the mismatched scent of burning sulfur and the faint smell of pine leaves. Her heart burned with the desire to go to the depths. Where the trunks of the trees hid her effortlessly from other people; and the precious minerals she so loved surrounded her. 'But I can't.' Her mind firmly reminded her with the sharpness needed in her line of work.

Just ten feet from her position, a silver-colored backpack lay innocently upon the grass. Illyra's gray orbs focused intently on her prize. She pushed all the fear, worry and disbelief to the farthest corner of her mind and forced her unresponsive body to MOVE. She wanted to survive and that supply backpack was the one item she needed the most.

Fate however, seemed to have planned another path for Illyra. At the moment she was close enough and could've snatched the life-saving pack, something heavy and fast barrelled against her from behind and Illyra tumbled to the ground. With a startled oath, she turned her head and saw a boy with fiery colored hair also on the ground.

As Illyra watched, he grimaced and rubbed his forehead carefully before their eyes met. Illyra pursed her lips with slight annoyance. She remembered him now. A clumsy boy named Kirk Hoffman who couldn't, for the life of him, run any more than a few feet before he fell headfirst to the ground.

Her attention was suddenly caught by a particularly shrill cry of pain that echoed and dominated the other sounds around the clearing. 'I'm wasting my time!' The woman thought angrily. She pushed herself up to her feet without looking back. And if she had looked back or even spared a glance, Illyra could've seen the way Kirk's right hand tightened upon the club she had completely neglected to notice. Illyra had her sole attention on the backpack as she walked the last few feet and grasped the straps tightly.

A very, very, very big mistake. For in the rules of hunting it was clearly stated: Do not turn your back to potential predators. And the boy Illyra previously thought to be nothing more than a clumsy fool, was gifted with the brains to actually make a 'stand' against more stronger foes. And for the first few minutes of the Games, the words of Illyra's trainer came true about the woman's pride and arrogance.

Illyra's voice joined the cacophony of noises as she cried out. Her shoulder throbbed with pain, and tears lined the edges of her eye. From her peripherals she saw Kirk as he raised the club he held. Illyra ducked out of the way in time and the weapon passed through empty air. Illyra bared her lips in an angry snarl as she held the backpack in front of her as a form of shield. Everything was ruined by this boy!

'Shit! The Games are just starting and I've already made a lot of mistakes!' She thought in disbelief. 'I'm not THIS stupid!.... Am I?'

Illyra focused her attention to Kirk and realized with a big amount of excitement, that her greatest advantage was the woods. The backpack she risked to retrieve was just a little ways inside the center of the clearing, and after their struggle it sent the two tributes a little bit closer to the forest edge. In fact, Kirk was the only obstacle she faced. Illyra smirked. She'll just have to wing this.

The woman suddenly sprinted forward and shoved Kirk aside with all her might. The boy stumbled, but regained his footing enough and almost managed to snatch Illyra's hair. But that was the least of her worries, as pain bloomed across her arm. It pierced and stabbed and seemed to radiate across her body. An arrow was stuck in her flesh, like an oversized evil needle, and for a few seconds she stared at the wound in disbelief.

Kirk, for all his efforts, was not spared by the archer. He lay dead, an arrow pierced through his skull. Illyra met the archer's brown eyes and her jaw tightened. She didn't know the reddish-brown haired woman, but she'd be damned if this arrow stopped her from escape. With the knowledge of the brown haired archer's skills, Illyra faced the woods and ran. She weaved her path, purposefully in a zigzag and confusing manner. Once, an arrow whizzed past her head, just a few centimeters distance, before it clattered out of sight amongst the leaves.

Illyra only stopped when she was already a safe distance within the tree line. Her breathing was slightly laboured but the real things that hindered her were the wounds on her arm and back that now bled a little. The mysterious archer hadn't followed her and Illyra thanked the gods for that. When she finished her survey of the clearing, the woman swung the backpack over her uninjured shoulder and walked deeper into the woods.

••••••••••••••••••~~~•••••••••••••••••

The night was spent in peace and quiet. When the sun sunk below the horizon and the forest was thrown into darkness, Illyra found a nice sheltered space between three enormous oaks, and she decided the place was the best she got. She needed to stop, and she was tired from the long distance she trekked.

Illyra found that the backpack contained a few medical supplies and camping gear. She immediately took care of her wounds the best she can and carefully stored the arrow that injured her. Because she couldn't climb, Illyra camped on the spot she stopped at. The woman struggled with the logic of not lighting a fire, but conceded after she realized two problems.

One matter was Illyra's hunger. It was not an immediate threat, but she needed food soon if she wanted to heal and not be dead. She was more accustomed to hunt, rather than forage but she had no choice. 'I hope there are fruits here... And not the poisonous ones.' She whispered. 'It'll be my luck if I manage to find all the deadly things here.'

Another one was the fact that she didn't have a proper damn weapon, and she needed the arrow in case of an emergency. So in short, she was alive. But without anymore resources she'd clearly end up dead. By animal, or by poison, or by human.

So in a slightly depressed and sombre mood, Illyra wrapped herself in the sleeping bag. She looked up at the stars and wondered if the cold distant lights were laughing at her expense.

••••••••••••••••••~~~••••••••••••••••

The morning of the second day, Illyra woke up refreshed and more alert than the night before. She thanked the gods that no one bothered her during the night.

It was cold this morning. The leaves swayed and the birds chirped. And her stomach decided that she needed to eat. Right. Now. Illyra groaned, frustrated and unzipped the sleeping bag. She tried to remember the place she passed last night, with the berries and nuts.

'Brilliant... Absolutely brilliant. Why didn't I try to remember?' Illyra thought sarcastically. Her stomach groaned again and she tried not to panic as her body reminded her that she hadn't taken care of her injuries yet. The arrow wound and the blow from the club had stopped bleeding, but it risked infection.

Illyra looked inside the backpack and checked her medical supplies. She bit her lip uncertainly, but quickly made up her mind that her priority was to get her wounds cleaned and tended to. Her food supply can be managed while she trekked. Illyra was in a forest, and she knew where food can be procured.

(Five hours later)

The stream flowed happily across the ground, and the water provided life for the area around it.

Illyra breathed a sigh of relief. She'd started to despair when she failed to locate a water source. The trek was a little difficult and Illyra's body demanded food and water. On the fifth hour, her ears picked up the sounds of trickling and she followed the merry sound to the spring she now faced. Illyra found some bushes filled with ripe berries near the water. And after she checked the fruits again and again, she picked as many as she could.

'Nice place for a bath.' She thought happily. And Illyra indulged her body's needs for sanitation. The water was refreshing and clean and calmed her aching body. The wounds throbbed, but it was little consequence for the happiness she now felt.

For the remainder of the day, Illyra stayed near the spring. She set up her camp on the space between three large boulders, but refrained once again to act on the temptation to start a fire. She didn't need her death warrant signed by fire and smoke that rose up to the air and informed her enemies of her location.

••••••••••••••••••~~~•••••••••••••••••

Illyra had wondered so many times yesterday how she'd gotten through the past days without incident. She thought it odd and slightly unrealistic. Now, she got her answer.

When she woke up the next day, her ears picked up the sounds of disturbed leaves. The dried plants crunched beneath someone's feet and Illyra's eyes widened. She sat up carefully and tried to stay silent as she peeked through some bushes. Illyra narrowed her eyes when she recognized the person, or rather, people that unexpectedly caused her to wake.

Illyra's blood boiled when she noticed the reddish-brown haired archer that injured her. Her eyes noticed two other people with her; a mousy brown haired guy and a dark brown haired woman. Illyra tried to remember their names but decided it didn't matter. She needed to leave, and the sooner the better.

Illyra just didn't know how her day just became much more crappier.

••••••••••••••••••~~~•••••••••••••••••

Illyra ran as fast as she can. She sported new wounds and her forehead bled. Her vision blurred and spun and she was disoriented.

Her hands were red, stained with the blood of the three people she killed. Her anger had dominated her and she'd taken it out first on the young girl that injured her. Illyra remembered the way her hands fit around the girl's neck and the struggle that commenced afterwards. She'd taken a blow to the head but Illyra brought out justice when she used the same arrow that wounded her, and stabbed the girl.

The other two, Illyra had fought longer. The girl and boy were both talented and strong but she dominated them through anger. A well placed knife wound to the mousy haired boy's thigh and an arrow through the dark haired girl's stomach.

"I'll let you bleed to death. You tried to kill me. This is just my way in repaying you. At least know that I don't take pleasure in this." Illyra said. The dark haired girl coughed, and blood trickled down her chin. The girl opened her mouth and said, "You think this is mercy? I remember you as the woman who boasted her noble actions, but you're wrong. You aren't different from the Capitol."

Those words wounded Illyra the most. She didn't want to kill, and she tried as much as possible to not be someone who took a life without thought. But she knew she failed. She killed three people in anger. And she killed two in cold blood. She killed a child, because her pride hadn't accepted that she lost.

'What have I done?' Illyra thought in horror. They were enemies, but not animals to be butchered.

With her heart burdened by guilt and shame, Illyra entered the first true challenge in the Games: The Lava Caves.

••••••••••••••••••~~~•••••••••••••••••

After the cold and dampness of the forest outside, the suddent heat of the caves was a pleasant surprise. Illyra breathed a sigh of relief when she felt heat against her skin.

The guilt of the kill weighed heavily on her heart and she cursed herself for the way she acted impulsively. She knew that if she ever survived, the faces of those four tributes would haunt her forever. And she won't denie the reason why. It was the best thing she could do for the people she murdered.

'Enough! I can mourn later!' Illyra thought. 'I need to concentrate.'

Illyra wandered further into the caves. The heat was too good and she knew that if she denied her body this comfort, she'd go crazy. All thoughts of danger fled her mind and she focused on the glorious warmth. The lava that gave the natural heat flowed in the center of the cave in a long single river.

The air was heavy with fragrant steam and Illyra idly wondered how the air smelled that way. The one volcano she ever visited certainly DID NOT smell like this.

Time seemed to have no meaning as Illyra wandered around. Her clothes had dried some time ago, the knot in her heart seemed to have vanished and her thoughts became too light. But she hadn't noticed. All she focused on was the good feeling the place gave her.

'I can live here. Hide away from my problems and just be free.' Illyra thought. She trailed her hand against a rough textured rock, and filled with holes . 'This place is perfect for--'

Illyra's hand stilled. "Filled with holes...." She whispered. "That shouldn't have happened. The lava is inside, not outside. The texture should be smooth, not rough!"

Illyra gasped and her stomach clenched in panic. For the first time in so many minutes, she looked at her surroundings. The lava was now much larger than the last time she saw it. The temperature was hotter, and the air was hazier. Like it was filled with smoke.

"Oh shit! The steam!" Illyra cursed loudly. She wanted to cry, but her face stayed in a pleasant smile. Her heart thudded in her chest and her brain entered overdrive as she now realized the big problem she was in. Whatever liquid caused the steam was also the reason her mind seemed to have flown straight up to the clouds.

Illyra cursed again and turned back the way she came. She knew very well that she needed to get outside if she wanted to live. Her mind managed to get cleared enough for her to notice the great danger, but how long until it gets clouded again by the drug? What if she never regained her senses in time?

"This is so dumb.... I could've gotten killed by Kirk's club or the three tribute's weapons but now I have this! I'm dying because of a stupid drug!" Illyra shouted, angered by the unfairness of the Games. She never wanted any of this. She wanted to get home. 

Illyra hurried back the way she came. She had the right sense of mind that she took a sharp rock and used it to put some marks on the places she passed.

It gave her hope that despite the drug, she still had the strength to at least think straight. She still faced the danger of loosing her mind, but she now had hope enough to fuel her body.

Illyra hadn't stopped, once she started to walk. She needed the adrenaline, and it seemed to help overcome the drug. So when she arrived at the place she vaguely remembered to be the entrance, her heart sank at the sight of the solid cave wall. She'd also noticed that the lava had risen in the past 10 minutes.

"Oh! That's it! I can follow the lava!" Illyra said. She knew that the idea can end up wrong, but she had to try. She knew that the longer she stayed, the more she risked her life. She followed the first instinct she had, and hoped it worked.

So with that on mind, she started her walk again. The level of the lava had risen again and again. The path she followed had shrunk down to a little space and the heat grew. Once, Illyra heard a scream that chilled her to the bone. It was pain-filled and thundered across the cave. She pushed the temptation to find the source and she hadn't stopped since.

••••••••••••••••••~~~•••••••••••••••••

Illyra thought herself lucky that she finally found the exit. The last few minutes were filled with panic and tension.

She almost slipped on the rock she perched herself in and the edge of her coat caught in the lava. Her wounds screamed in pain from the exertions she had pushed herself to. Illyra thought her end had come when she failed to reach the ledge that connected to the exit.

Illyra had persisted however. She strained and stretched her arms, the pain pushed to the back of her mind. The sunlight shone brightly, just out of her reach. And she used that sight; allowed it to give her strength. Enough that the little handhold she managed to grasp seemed like a complete and able handle.

The drug also served to help. As it once again affected her, Illyra felt as her body turned numb. And she used it to her best benefit. She ignored the way her nails scraped and broke as her hands supported the weight of her body. It was worth it though because at that moment, she managed to get out.

And Illyra smiled as she felt the taste of clean air again. 

☠Aspen Summers ☠

There's a sort of fervor to the world, but it's different from what Aspen remembers—it's darker, stranger, and almost exhaustingly addicting. It doesn't hang in the air as the whistles of the chickadees flood District Seven's spruce tree forests—not like it used to. Instead, it drums on the windowsill when the rain is pouring and the thunder is thrashing and the lightning is flashing so loud and bright that all Aspen wants to do is run to the Square and let the storm consume her eyes, her bones, her flesh, her heart—her everything.

It's this same fervor that sizzles in the lava stream below, beckoning to her from the ringlets of burnt orange and carmine red that swirl in a mess of popping embers and an intense heat. Aspen watches the hues of orange, yellow, red and black meld together, and for a moment, she's entranced by the beauty, by the passion in the trouncing colors, by the pain, torture and darkness that the heat promises. But it's the fervor that flaunts across American's lips that tears her eyes away; it's the ceaseless smile that he wears that tells Aspen that maybe, just maybe, he's worth more than the charming emptiness that follows the lava's rage.

"Mer," Aspen pauses, eyeing the steam that rises in a mess of white and gray ribbons above the lava. The cave is rocky on the sides, though little bits of red-orange dotted with black drip from the stone. "Are you sure this place is safe?"

American nods. "It's the perfect place to hide!" His gaze darts around the dave, lingering on the lava oozing out of the stream and gliding across the stone towards them. "The lava and smoke are pretty hot and scary enough that other tributes won't come looking for us here."

Aspen bites her lip. "Okay," she says hesitantly. "Tell me a joke."

"Why did the chickadee cross the road?" There isn't any hesitation on American's side, though he pauses dramatically afterwards as if for effect.

Aspen blinks back, almost blankly. "Do you mean chicken?"

"No." American shakes his head, twisting his lips in disappointment. "I meant chickadee."

"It's a chicken."

"It's a chickadee."

"Chicken."

"Chickadee."

"Chick—"

"It's my joke!" American interrupts, his throat tight with a playful growl. "It's a chickadee." There's a pause, and then Aspen sighs.

"You're a child," she says with a click of her tongue.

"I'm not."

"You are."

"Not!"

"Are too!"

"You're a child," American counters.

"You're a chickadee," Aspen matches him.

American opens his mouth, but then his eyebrows draw together as he processes Aspen's words. "What?" There's another pause, but by the time American can come up with a retort, it's too late. "At least I can get to the other side!"

Raising an eyebrow, Aspen allows a smile to tug at her mouth, but it's American who actually laughs. The sound is light and genuine, and it reminds her of Rowan. American's like that—always saying things Rowan might've said and doing things Rowan might've done. Sometimes, it's hard to remember that American is American and Rowan is Rowan. The line sort of blurs, and it's in those times that Aspen has to hold herself tighter, or else she'll lose this—whatever she has now with American—and she can't lose that.

American is funny in a way Rowan wasn't. He's nice when Rowan wouldn't be. American is her rock, her Mer, and even if he's not Rowan, that's okay.

Because sometimes, she needs American more than she needs Rowan.

"So why did the chickadee cross the road?" She asks, but American isn't listening. His eyes are on the rocky wall behind her, a wariness swirling in the blue. His lips are pressed tight, almost anxiously so. "Mer?"

"Upton?" Aspen whirls around, drawing her knife as she eyes the boy American has just named. He's a pretty sort of boy, with an unusual sandy white hair and skin that looks like porcelain--it looks so fragile that if Aspen were to touch it, she's sure it would shatter.

"I have a knife," Aspen says, examining the boy for weapons. There's a knife tucked into his pack, but it isn't drawn. Upton ignores her, wide eyes on American.

"Mer?" Mer? Aspen's eyebrows furrow at the idea of this boy, of this kid who doesn't know American half as well as she does, calling American by a nickname she gave him.

Upton moves closer, and Aspen tilts her head, shoving the knife forward in what she hopes to be more menacing that she sees it as. But Upton continues to ignore her.

"I-I... How've you been?" Upton's voice is almost casual, familiar, with American.

"Good... You?" Their words are almost awkward, and for a moment, Aspen's eyes dart between the two.

"Mer," she says quietly, and when he doesn't reply, she says it again louder. "Mer."

American's gaze finally tears away from the boy to Aspen. "Yeah?"

"Who is he?"

"Oh. Oh." American's trance seems to be broken as his eyes dart from Aspen to Upton. "Aspen, this is Upton. He's a... friend of mine, from my Games." American pauses, eyes laying on Upton longer than Aspen thinks is necessary. "Upton, this is Aspen. She's from Seven. An ally." Aspen winces at the word 'ally'. Why doesn't he call her a 'friend' too?

"An ally," Upton says, almost as if he's tasting the words. "Three isn't such a bad a number." And just like that, what was Mer and her becomes Mer and her and Upton, and Aspen isn't sure it's for the best. There's a fervor American's eyes when he looks at Upton—one she's never seen in Rowan's eyes. It's a fervor she doesn't like.

It's a sweet scent of something Aspen doesn't recognize—it's like roses, almost, but sweeter, nicer—that draws her attention elsewhere. It dulls her senses, until her tongue rolls in her mouth and her blinks are long and drawn out. Her vision blurs, but only slightly, and for a moment, she sees two Americans, two Uptons. None of the four are watching her.

Aspen's muscles don't feel so tight anymore, and the heat of the cave doesn't feel so uncomfortable. It's soothing against her skin. It's welcoming. She smiles.

"American," Aspen says, giggling slightly. "A-mer-i-can. You're a tree." Another giggle.

American turns towards her, and there's a smile on his lips too. "Aspen," he pauses, eyebrows furrowed ferociously together as if he thinking. Then, there's an ease that slips onto his face as he laughs too, as childishly as Aspen did. "You're a tree too!"

"Mer?" Upton asks cautiously. Aspen notices the gleam on his face, the tiny beads of sweat.

"Look, he's a unicorn!" She laughs as she points to the sandy-haired boy. "He's shining!"

American laughs too. "Upton the unicorn! Upcorn!"

"Mer?" Upton's gaze shifts from American to Aspen, and then back to American again. "Are you okay?" His forehead is creased with worry, and he bites his lip anxiously. He eyes the top of the caves, where water drips from the rock, down and down and down—

Aspen giggles. The water is pretty when it hits the lava. It's like magic! There's a gas on top of the lava, and though it's gray she swears she can see it sparkling with magic.

Upton's eyes widen, and then he's blinking rapidly. "Why am I so relaxed?" he asks. "Why am I so relaxed?" He looks between the District Seven pair again, and then there's a desperation that he throws into the air. "We have to get out of this cave now."

"American," he pauses as American meets his gaze.

"Upcorn!"

Upton frowns, but moves toward him anyway. "Can you climb?" He pauses, and then, "I promise there's more unicorns up there."

"More upcorns?" American cries happily. Upton nods before turning towards Aspen.

"You too. Follow American... I'll come up after you."

"A-mer-i-can," Aspen sounds out, counting the syllables with her fingers. Her face is blank for a moment, and then it lights up. "The tree!"

Upton smiles, though it's faint. "Yeah, the tree."

Aspen nods at him, and then reaches for the rock American's foot was on seconds before. But before she begins to climb after him, she turns back towards Upton. Her eyes narrow, though there's still a sort of joy in them, as she says, "Stay away from my Mer."

Upton frowns, but before he can reply, Aspen has already turned around to follow after American. But American pauses, his fingers faltering on the rocky wall as he glances down. Though the rosemary-scented gas still clouds his eyes and blurs Aspen's thoughts, it's easy to see the way he looks at Upton.

There's a fervor in American's eyes. It's a different from the one that Aspen saw in the lava and the one she sees in a storm. It's more like the one in a chickadee when it sings a song at daybreak, the sweet melody weaving through the spruce tree forest as it finds the ears of those who stop to listen. This fervor, Aspen knows, is dangerous.

So she holds American's ankle tightly, the lines in her palm burning the future into his skin. She tugs on her little chickadee's wings, warning him of the perils of Upton's smile.

But American is American and Rowan is Rowan. And though Rowan might've been her Rowan, maybe—just maybe—American isn't her Mer.

☠American Elm☠

American wasn't dead. That was the first thing on his mind as he walked through the cave. He wasn't dead but very much alive. Of course, the second thing on his mind was Upton Snapper. Upton Snapper was a boy that reminded him of his old Games. They'd competed together back then and whenever he looked at him, the memories came flooding back in waves: the yellow brick roads, eerie cornfields, the Tin-sane man's house. Images of that time flashed through his head and sometimes as he walked, he'd forget where he was. The water dripping from the ceiling helped remind him but still it was hard not to get lost in his own head.

If Ean were there, he would've called his brother an idiot. And American, for the most part, felt like an idiot too. He didn't know why he'd allied Aspen Summers and Upton Snapper. He liked them both, which was the whole problem. At least back in his old Games, he hadn't harbored much attachment to Kane or Harper—two careers he'd managed to get in good with. They were careers and he'd known beforehand he couldn't trust them. He was able to create a distance between himself and them, and if he had needed to leave, he could've done it without problem. There would've been no guilt, no attachment, and no reason to stay if things went south. But this? This was different. He liked them both and it was becoming a problem. Ean would've told him to stop being foolish, and get out of there already. Ean would've told him that to win, he needed to think about himself and who cared about all the others? Ean would've told him to run, and to run because he was good at that. He was good at being at being a fleer, not a fighter and he was a lamb amongst lions. Or at least that was what Ean would've said.

But his brother wasn't there and maybe that was a good thing. He enjoyed Aspen's company in this hellhole of an arena he was in and something about Upton left him intrigued. He was a pretty boy and American couldn't help but spare a few glances. No one had caught him doing it yet, though it was still early in the day.

He looked at Upton again. He's cute. Like a small angel of death.

"Mer," Aspen said.

He didn't reply.

"American," she repeated.

At the sound of Aspen's voice, he jumped. He stood there red-faced and for a second there he looked like a boy who'd been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to. He could feel his cheeks going hot, and when he opened his mouth to say something, he quickly closed it. His throat was still working for words.

"Sorry. What was the question?"

Aspen sighed. "I asked what your favorite book was."

Right. He'd forgotten about the "game" they were playing. Although it wasn't much of a game so much as it was taking turns asking each other different questions. There wasn't much to do besides walk and talk until something interesting happened, and discussing the Games seemed to get old fast. Anything that could be said about it had already been said and at least this way it kept the conversation sane and still going. Too much silence and American would start to go nuts. The drops of water leaking from the roof of the cave were inconsistent, lacking rhythm and cadence while the sound itself was enough to drive a man mad. The thick moisture that hung in the air put anyone who entered the cave in a foul mood and the cold wasn't helping. It was wet and chilly—not the way to spend one's first weekend alive again. But at least the glowing moss is pretty.

"Oh um," American hesitated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for an answer. He hadn't actually picked up a book since he was twelve and his answer reflected it. "Never Give a Hamster a Carrot."

He heard a snort.

"But that's a children's book," she replied.

"So what's your point?"

"It's just pictures."

"It's a literary masterpiece."

"Uh huh. So basically—"

"It taught me an important lesson."

"Oh really?"

"Yep," he continued. "If you give a hamster a carrot it'll just keep wanting more."

A small bit of laughter escaped Aspen's lips and she shook her head. He could hear her say something about him being an idiot under her breath, though she still smiled all the same. He noted how she'd lower her head as if she was trying to hide it and he couldn't help but grin. Her smile was warm while the rest of her was cool and distant. She carried a certain presence that made him think she'd done some things she wasn't proud of and seen even worse and it was what made her shy smile seem all the more real when she did it. Perhaps there was a flicker of soul in her eyes when she talked about her brother, but he could never really tell with her.

"And why are we allies again?" she asked.

"Because in the training center you were like—"

She rolled her eyes. "It was rhetorical."

Aspen shoved at his arm playfully and his grin turned into a smirk. He fell against her shoulder, leaning until she pushed him off and he held back the need to burst into laughter. He was smiling and she was smiling back and everything was okay until nothing was being said. The conversation had died and the only sound that filled the cave was that of water trickling from above. It gnawed at him. There was a prickling in his scalp and his shoulders were beginning to grow tense, the muscles tightening. Silence was annoying and it was often too loud for him. It always roared in his ears and made him think about the same things he was trying to avoid.

And there's that damn voice again.

There was a whispering in the back of his head and it scared him. It was always there—a constant. It was hushed enough that he could only hear it when it was quiet and the hair at the back of his neck stood up whenever it spoke. It was the kind of voice that would get him into trouble if he listened any longer and he needed a distraction. He needed to think about something else. Fast.

He licked his lips. "So what about you, Upton? What's your favorite book?"

Upton glanced at him and then back at the floor. He mumbled something American couldn't quite hear and the words themselves didn't sound coherent. The boy hadn't spoken much since they had entered the cave and he couldn't remember if he'd ever had a real conversation with him. They'd talked a bit in the training center and exchanged a few words in the interview hall but the small angel of death didn't say much. He stood there with his hands in his pockets, studying his shoes or looking elsewhere. He avoided eye contact with American and he always looked a bit lost. Was he lost in thought or lost in life? It was hard to say, really.

Keeping his eyes on Upton, he began taking off his jacket. The whisper in his head had died out and the way the glowing moss in the cave cast a glint on Upton's skin, he could see goosebumps forming from the cool air. Upton had lost his jacket at the bloodbath a few days ago and they hadn't been able to go back for it. Instead, he wore just a shirt that was soaked in blood (dried now) and a thick pair of pants. The blood wasn't his and he'd been lucky to get away when he did. Damn Careers.

"Here," he offered.

Upton went slack-jawed. "Wait, what?"

"You look cold."

"Oh," Upton murmured. His gaze ping-ponged between American and the jacket and his lips were pressed together in a slight grimace. He scratched the side of his cheek, looking pensive before he finally gave in and took ahold of the material. "Thanks," he said.

"Don't worry about it," American waved him off. "I used to never wear a jacket back home so I'm used to the low temperatures. My mom would always remind me in the winter but I..." He stopped himself. Pausing for a moment, he smiled and jerked his head to the side. "I mean you're welcome."

Nice rambling, Mer. Pro skills right there.

Fighting the urge to smack himself, he blushed again and began feeling the heat of his own embarrassment. He turned to face Aspen and it didn't surprise him to see her glaring at him, as for the most part, he already knew how she'd felt about Upton. She didn't like the kid—he couldn't figure out why, and she'd been reluctant to accept him as an ally. If it hadn't been for American's puppy eyes, she probably wouldn't have either. He was lucky she trusted him. He and Upton both were. Though it didn't stop the angry (or protective?) glares cast in their direction.

He paused for a moment. "Cheer up, Asp." He slung an arm around her shoulder. "We'll be out of the cave soon."

"Mmhm. And how much longer will that be?"

She batted his arm away and he shrugged. He wasn't sure how long they'd been walking and he hadn't been keeping track of time. The cave had to end at some point or at least reach a dead end. Hopefully not a dead end though. He didn't think he could handle another trip through the cave of misery.

Sighing, he spoke again. "If we're lucky, under an hour."

An hmm noise came from Aspen's throat and she went silent for a moment. She opened her mouth to say something but then closed it, and American waited for whatever it was she wanted to say. Finally, she settled for a different question.

"Think the Careers are still tailing us?"

Props to them for their dedication if they are.

"Probably not," he replied.

"We should fight them."

"I don't think—"

"Choose your rivals carefully," it was Upton's voice that spoke.

Shocked by the sudden commentary, American threw a sidelong glance at Upton. The boy was making eye contact with them for the first time since the bloodbath and it made American go slack-jawed. So he is listening then.

Aspen furrowed her brows. "What?"

Upton shook his head, his blonde hair glowing under the moss. "Just something my mom used to say."

Oh. American nodded. He was ready to respond to the comment when suddenly he noticed the temperature change. It was getting warmer—humid even. The glowing moss at the walls of the cave was becoming sparse and he could smell the thick scent of rosemary hanging in the air. He thought he was going crazy for a second, seeing and smelling things that couldn't possibly be there when at the end of the cave, there was an opening. A bright light shined from it and he picked up his pace. As he moved toward the glowing entrance, hot steam rushed out, making his hair stick to his forehead. He was beginning to sweat and the cave felt more like a sauna than it did anything else.

He neared the edge of the opening when his head felt light on his shoulders. The sharp inhale of rosemary-scented steam left his muscles numb and relaxed while his thoughts entered a fog. He stared dumbly at the pool of lava that flowed a few feet in front of him and his eyes were so dazed and wide, someone could drink from them. And there was that voice again. It was whispering, louder this time, and If he peered hard enough he thought he could see his reflection in the bubbling hues of reds and yellows. The lava was getting closer with each passing second and he just stood there. Disoriented.

"Do you envy him?" a voice whispered.

American nodded. He was feeling feverish—his body hot yet cold at the same time. The lava around him looked warm. Really warm. And he wanted to soak in it. He took a step closer and in the distance, he could hear a faint voice calling his name. He thought it was coming from the lava and when he tilted his head, he tried listening to it. It made no sound and he pressed his lips together in a tight-lipped frown. He'd wanted to hear the lava.

"Dive in," the voice said. "Feel no envy."

He leaned in close, close enough he almost touched it. He was about to let himself fall into the pool when he felt a hand grab the collar of his shirt. Turning his head, he saw Aspen holding her breath and looking at him with a serious expression. Her voice was strained when she said something he couldn't quite hear and he was confused. Why was she so tense?

"We need to get out of here," she said again.

Why? Why can't we stay?

His eyes widened when he gazed at her, and he tried to focus on her lips as they moved. He heard what she said but what she said hadn't made any sense. They didn't really need to leave, did they? No, they had all the time in the world. They could stay a little while longer, couldn't they? He didn't want to go. Not yet at least.

"But what if I don't want to?" he asked.

"I wasn't asking."