Day One. Noon.
Morgana sees smoke rising in the distance, but decides not to investigate.
Morgana finds herself looking into the distance. From the top of a tree at the top of a hill, she has a lovely view. She sees trees ablaze with an orange hue. She sees a hawk flying by. She sees smoke rising in the distance and somehow it contributes to the spectacular visage. The perfect Autumn, she thinks. If she has to die here, at least it will be in the most beautiful of arenas. She can almost thank the gamemakers for the brilliance. Almost. Then she remembers the reality of their job: to make this place a living hell.
Suddenly, she is less enthused by the scenery.
Beauty can be deceptive, the voice of her trainer from District One echoes in her mind. And you, my dear, will work perfectly.
She sees the hawk as a bird of prey, a ruthless hunter. She sees the coloured leaves as trees on the brink of hibernation, a sign of deathly Winter. She sees smoke as what it truly is: a sign of other tributes she will have to kill lest she be the one killed.
She sees the smoke and decides to stay put. Not today, she reasons.
She leans back against the branches and stares into the endless blue of heaven. Today isn't the day to be taking risks. She is smart enough to know what chances to take and what chances to leave.
So, she knows, not today.
Day One. Afternoon.
Leo receives clean water from an unknown sponsor.
Leo settles down for the rest of the day, uncertain what else he should be doing. He knows what the Games are, and he knows the objective – to find and kill people, as many as possible – but he also knows he can't do that. He just can't. He will survive if he has to – and he has to – but he will not kill. The screams from behind the factory's steel doors haunt him enough, he doesn't need more voices chiming in.
But that leaves him in the here and now, a loss for what to do.
He isn't hungry yet. He isn't thirsty. His legs are sore from running over the rolling hills. His toes throb from the many times he stubbed them on tree roots and rocks, but already the pain is negligible. He hears no predators – tribute or animal – nearby. He cranes his head up to the sky; the blue is darkening but the progression is slow.
Maybe he should make a fire. Or maybe he should hunt. Maybe he should massage his legs. Or maybe he should sleep, let his toes heal over the course of night. Maybe he should find a tree and scout ahead for water.
He goes back to his first instinct. Fire.
Leo can make an excellent fire. His arsonist abilities and improvised battle moves earned him a solid six in private sessions.
He smiles as he gets to work. He drags stones together and fashions them into a circle. He takes the sticks he collected from around the base of the nearest tree and leans them together with the care and precision of someone making a card house. An excursion fifty feet away leads him to the perfect two fire-starter stones. He scrapes them together and embraces the scratching. He smiles again; this is what he was born for.
Beep-beep-beep.
It comes from somewhere above his head.
Beep-beep-beep.
Leo's head swivels left and right. What is that? Where is it?
Beep-beep-beep.
Brown eyes dart to the uppermost position. He cranes his neck to the canopy.
There's a metal canister hanging from a branch, a string of its parachute caught on the end. It's stuck! he notices. How to get it: climb. Leo surveys the branches, the trunk, all the way down to the base where the roots curl in and out of the ground. Alright, he thinks, rubbing his hands together in preparation. He spies a rock and from the rock he can just about reach the lowest branch. From there, he'll haul himself up, balance across to the main bundle of limbs and branches, and see things through to completion by using the limbs and branches as a ladder up and around.
Easy.
The first part is. Leo has no trouble swinging up and clambering over until he's hugging the limb on which the cannister's parachute is caught. It is a tad farther out of reach than he anticipated, so Leo decides to crawl like a sloth to the end. He shuffles his hands forward only to follow with his feet a second later. Hands forward first, feet forward after. Hands first, feet later.
The limb dips towards the ground as he reaches the end. Leo doesn't think he should inch any further along the branch. He may fall! And then all his efforts until that point would have been a moot point! His fingers barely brushed the caught string, however. He reaches for the canister, fingers splayed until the skin crackles with strain. He cannot grasp it. He cannot grasp the string it is hanging from. There is only one thing to attempt now.
Leo braces himself. His muscles clench up and gaze narrows until there is only one thing in his line of vision: the canister. He, the branch, and the canister are the only things in his world. Sucking in a breath, the boy from Twelve springs forward. He grabs the can, pulls it to his chest, and curls into a ball. The force from his body ribs the string from the branch. The gravity from the Earth yanks him straight down. His back hits the leaf-strewned soil. He cannot breathe; the wind was knocked out of him. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water; his lungs are flailing for air. It's uncomfortable, like a vacuum was positioned at his mouth and turned to full blast, but he knows he will live. And he knows one more thing.
He knows the taste of triumph. The canister is his now. His efforts were all worth it.