[.} water should smell sweet {.]

Lights stalked her every move.

They weren't beautiful, but they were entrancing. Flashing into existence for seconds at a time, their unexpected, alien light drew the eye easily in this land of muck and darkness.

It was terrifying.

The light cast by the apparitions was scarce and unpredictable, emphasizing the shadowy tower above. After her past few nights of nightmarish imaginings, Yaron was in no state to deal with anything that lived outside of her mind. Her own uncontrollable night terrors were more than enough. Phantom lights and unexplainable ripples in the water were simply unfair. Her flashlight helped, its solid illumination giving her something concrete to look at it, but she didn't want to risk running down the batteries too quickly (or summoning some other wandering tribute), so she kept it off as much as she dared.

At least the land would slow any attackers. Every step seemed to suck her feet in, making it hard to walk and releasing loud squelches every few feet, but she was having trouble walking anyway and the mud would be just as problematic for everyone else. In its way, this place might be safer than the sandy plain; there, her halberd dug into the sand when she leaned on it, but uninjured tributes would be able to cross it lightly. Terrifying as it may be, this strange glass tower had things to offer.

Most important among them, even above fair odds, was the very thing that had drawn her off the sands: her growing desperation for water. Fortunately for Yaron, who felt the desert heat seep further into her skin each day despite her inactivity, that was one thing that the marsh had in abundance. It was hardly appetizing—in fact, all the mud and reddish plant-like stuff made it pretty disgusting—but Yaron had learned long ago that common sense had no place in desperate situations. This wouldn't be the first suspect thing she had ingested because she couldn't afford anything better, and if it made her sick, she could just add it to the list of food poisoning and upset stomachs.

Hopefully, nothing would happen. Yaron had tipped all three of her little blue pills out of their glass vial and into the jar. She wasn't sure they would help—at this point, she was having trouble believing that anything would help her—but she had seen tributes put similar things in their water before. One advantage of the Hunger Games as required viewing: occasionally, it was useful to have your predecessors' strategies jammed down your throat.

Speaking of which, enough time had probably passed for the little pills to finish up with anything they were going to do. She had entered the tower when it was still bright enough to see the glass walls shining; now not even a hint of sunlight reached the sticky land she stood on. Yaron poked around with the butt of her weapon until she found a section that was more mud than water. Grimacing, she lay her towel over the spot, prodded it with one hand to make sure she wouldn't get instantly soaked, and settled herself down gingerly.

Her backpack slid off her shoulders all at once, as though it was as eager to hit the ground as she was to be rid of its weight. Moving carefully so as not to jar her injured shin, which let out periodic surges of pain no matter how carefully she treated it, she pulled the bag into her lap and unzipped the main pouch. In the dim light, she couldn't see anything inside well, but her hand found the smooth edges of her water bottle easily.

"To survival," District Eight's elder tribute announced to no one in particular, waving the bottle around in a vague toast. She downed a mouthful, then gagged and made a face. "Oh, this tastes like shit." She flicked on her flashlight and pointed it down into the bottle, hoping to find something she could remove. Nothing visible floated in the canister, so she groaned, turned the light off, and choked down a little more. It didn't get any better.

Sighing, Yaron nestled the bottle in the crook of her knew and turned her still-shining light on the backpack. Nothing inside seemed likely to help her, but there was always a chance. Children from poor families were good at dragging every last use out of things—surely that skill could save her here, right?

Her medical kits? No, not unless they had something for vomiting. Rope was fun to play with, but making knots wasn't enough of a distraction for this. Sunscreen could probably put her out of her misery, but she had a brother left to look after and poisoning herself wasn't going to do him any good. Even disregarding him—or perhaps even in spite of him—if she was suicidal, she could just stop bothering to drink, and that's out of the question. Duct tape... a poncho... What about something in the canvas bag? It had all kinds of seemingly-useless stuff. Maybe that weird strainer thing?

Yaron hefted this last in both hands and examined it, trying to figure out if it could do anything for water. She doubted it, so she wrestled it back into its bag. It only went in halfway for some reason, so with a frustrated huff she upended it, figuring she could put the strainer in first and then tuck the smaller objects around it.

A ham sandwich fell onto her lap.

Yaron gaped at the plastic-wrapped sandwich for a moment, then laughed. It wouldn't make the water taste any better, but it would clear the taste out between swallows. Besides, she was getting hungry. Worse pangs had eaten at her, but she didn't expect to live much longer anyway, so why let herself starve? Dying would suck enough without doing so on an empty stomach.

Once all her supplies were put away, Yaron unwrapped her meal and bit into it. It was nothing special, particularly after the rich meals at the Capitol, but that was nice, in a way. The thick, clumsily-sliced bread and meat reminded her of the simple meals her family so often had to throw together on the way to school or work. Reminders of home hurt—she could see Dor chasing her with another sandwich as she slammed her plate down and stormed from the dining room—but they were better than staring into the darkness and wondering what might wait for her out there in the damp.

She couldn't stay here forever. Sand still fell outside, and if she didn't leave this tower she knew it would trap her before long. While that might cut her off from the other tributes, there didn't seem to be anything she could eat here, and she was out of water purifiers; no one could last longer than a few days with those constrictions, and she doubted the other tributes would kill each other off quickly enough for her to survive. But for now she could sit peacefully, alternating between sips of putrid water and comforting bites of her sandwich, and pretend that her leg and her faith in happy endings were intact.

((Yaron filled her water bottle, purified it, drank, ate, and refilled.))