It takes me until late afternoon to get through the forest. I'm used to having a full water bottle for whenever I'm thirsty and every rustle and creak makes me jump now that there's no-one else to watch my back. I smell the salt water before I see it. Throw my head back as I walk the short fifty yards between the last tree and the glistening sand, breathing deeply the smell of home. Right now, more than anything else I want to go dive into the gently lapping waves, to feel the water flow past my skin and the salt lift me up and carry me gently to the surface as it feeds me strength.
A second look at the beach, the sharp slope that suggests a strong undercurrent combined with the sure knowledge that the Gamemakers will have filled it with all sorts of ocean-going nasties makes me reconsider. I settle for wading in shin deep and kneeling down to scoop handfuls of rejuvenating salt water over my head. I hiss a little as the salt gets into a few of my cuts and scratches, but they are mostly small ones, and everyone in our district knows that salt water is the best thing for minor wounds.
I wash away the blood from my hands and wrists, mostly mine, though I suspect some came from Angelus, and use a fist full of sand to scrub clean my sandals. I grab another handful and rub it through my hair, ducking my head down into the water and running my fingers through to work out the snarls and grime from a week without washing. As I run my hands down the back of my neck I notice what is missing. My district token, those little pieces from people who care about me tied onto a piece of my adoptive father's fishing line around my neck is gone. I can't remember losing it, or even when it was last there, though I guess in one of the fights it must have got torn off. I try to tell myself that it doesn't matter; I know they are all watching for me, though it leaves me feeling a little homesick and wanting to stay in the sea, as close to home as I can get.
Finally I force myself to stand and leave, deciding not to risk a Gamemaker wanting a little more excitement by facing me against a shark or something, though I doubt they need more excitement after the last day.
In under twenty-four hours we've gone from eleven tributes to seven. Two of the four dead were my kills, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that. Not that I could have done much different. Both Tarris and Angelus attacked me first. I was just the better fighter, or maybe the luckier fighter. Maybe both.
But then I had my allies to protect me. We had Marcellus in the lead, manning our helm. I didn't have to try to find fights to keep things moving on. But now, with our alliance scattered things will have to change. Maybe the pair from Two will stick together, maybe they'll come this way to finish me off first. After all, they know I'm popular with the sponsors, but if I'm gone then they would probably get the captain's share of the haul.
Even if they don't, I'm still stuck relying on sponsors to provide for me. Some of the others clearly don't need that help, and if the Games end up dragging on then maybe all the sponsors in the Capitol won't be enough to keep me eating. Not unless I do something about it. Either way I've got to step up. If I want to get out of the arena alive, and I do want to, I am going to have to turn the Games to my favour. Marcellus and Carla are not my former allies, they are now the enemy, just like Markus and his district partner. Just like Rosie. I'm not sure I can think of Anita as my enemy, but I can make her my rival in my head.
If it does come down to the two of us I'll know myself better. I'll know whether I will want to climb to victory over her dead body, and if I treat it like a training fight I suspect instinct might just take over anyway. Of course all my training instinct isn't much good without a weapon to hold or a hand strong enough to hold it.
I decide to keep my splints on until morning, mostly because my hand hurts enough already and I'm worried messing with it will make it even worse. I resignedly slip my sandals back on once I reach the edge of the sand and wander the edge of the forest in search of a strong, straight branch I can cut a point on to make a rough spear.
There's a tough, loose creeper that hangs down in strings from some of the taller trees that I might be able to make into a net, though it's fairly thin and bendy. I'd need something a bit stiffer in there too to help keep the net in shape. What I really want is a trident. I'm competent with a knife and good with a spear, but the prongs of a trident allow for so much more skill in fighting. My favourite training weapon had the sharp edges along the outer two prongs enabling all the same moves as a spear, but with the middle spike you can catch other peoples' weapons and trap them. A quick twist disarms them, just like I showed the Gamemakers in my training session. And when you do choose to stab them, it's three times as likely to hit something important.
The only downside is the back-hooks, which make sense for keeping a fish speared, but can make it harder to quickly draw the weapon free. Then again, my spear got stuck anyway, so it can't be any worse. I play around for a bit trying to tie three sharpened twigs to a longer, mostly straight branch but with my right hand still splinted it's hard to tie a good knot and the whole thing falls apart when I try a practice jab into a bush.
I throw away the useless twigs and try a few more practice jabs with the sharpened branch. The balance is terrible, but it's better than nothing, and while it won't stand up to a proper weapon in a fight I might at least be able to spear a fish or something with it. My stomach rumbles loudly as I think about food. All I've had today was that one strip of jerky and a few mouthfuls of water. I wonder why Mags hasn't sent me anything yet. Is it because I don't have as many sponsors as I thought? Maybe that medicine yesterday cost a lot and she hasn't been able to replace the money yet. Maybe I need to do something to get the Capitol's attention, though after killing two people in two days (I shiver as I feel an echo of the weight of Angelus' body dragging on my spear, of the grating vibration as metal met bone in Tarris' neck) surely I have their attention already.
Maybe Mags is just waiting for the right time.
Just in case I head back onto the beach and wade out into the water again, keeping my eyes peeled for the movement of any fish. After about half an hour I have nothing and my head is starting to ache from the heat and dehydration. The sun is starting to drop behind the trees, but I can still feel it on the back of my neck. I strip off the now-slightly-ragged vest and dip it into the water before draping it around my head and shoulders. The salt water runs down my bare back, cool and refreshing.
I walk slowly along the edge of the lapping waves, letting my feet and ankles get washed over and over with the gentle slosh of foam as I work my way down the beach in search of a pool where something might be trapped. The sunlight fades as I near the cliffs, and I spot some movement in the rocky tide pools that slowly become more common as the sand gives way to stone under my feet.
My poorly crafted spear isn't any help in catching them though. The fish are tiny and flick easily away from all of my stabs. The ray is in a larger pool and shelters under a rocky overhang. I'm tempted to climb in and try and take it from the side, but for all I know it's barb is deadly venom and not worth the risk. I find a few periwinkles stuck to the underside of a larger spur of rock and peel them off with my knife, cracking the shells with the hilt. Their meat is chewy and salty and leaves me even more thirsty. Finally I give up and sit down against a sea-worn boulder, letting the cool evening breeze pass over me and drain away some of the heat as the moon starts to peek over the horizon.
I jump when the anthem blares from overhead and get one last look at the boy I killed today. Angelus, smirking arrogantly, his golden curls gleaming in perfect rings to his shoulders. So different to how he looked impaled on my spear, his whole body shaking, mouth stretched in agony, his hair a tangled matt of blood and dirt and twigs. I hope his family can remember him as the first photo rather than the image in my head, though I doubt he has many friends to mourn him.
The sky goes dark again once the anthem finishes playing and the stars flicker in one by one. I trace the familiar patterns, the bear, the sea-serpent. A strange silvery cloud blocks out the serpent's tail as I'm watching, and seems to grow larger and larger until I recognize it for what it is. Two parachutes land on the sand in front of me. I scramble eagerly forwards to the first one—a small pack crammed with dried food and two bottles of water, a pair of night-glasses, water purifiers and a box of painkiller tablets. I pop two of these straight away and turn to the second sponsor gift. The bronze head gleams in the moonlight, the color nearly a match for my hair. The haft is dark green like the flecks in my eyes, and I think back to my stylist talking about color-matching whole wardrobes to my eyes. I wonder if he coordinated the color-scheme of my gift.
Of course the color doesn't really matter. I grip the haft in my left hand about two-thirds of the way down and try a few test jabs. The balance and length are perfect. It has enough weight to do damage without dragging on my arms and twirls easily in my grip as I swing it in a disarm twist. The bronze head is probably colored carbon-steel judging by the feel when I test it against my boulder, and the middle prong easily punctures the soft sandstone, sending flakes of rock flying as I pull it free.
The perfect tool for hunting and killing the remaining tributes. I hear the unspoken message behind it.
"Tomorrow," I say out loud, trying to look resolute. Then I give in to my growling stomach and feast on protein bars and jerky and a full bottle of sweet, sweet water. I don't really like the idea of trying to sleep without someone watching so I back right up under the cliff-face, into a worn cavern and put my back against the wall once I check the walls to be sure I'll stay above the tide-line.
I don't expect to sleep, but it seems my body has run out of energy for the day and I wake only when the rising morning tide tickles my feet.
~xXx~
The thick seaweed that grows around the base of the cliff is perfect for the thicker strands of a net. I cut an armful of lengths and carry them up onto the beach to dry a little in the morning sun while I go strip the nearby trees of their vines. All kids in District Four learn how to tie nets from their earliest days of school, if not before, though I never had any particular talent for it. I was all right at mending any broken ones on our boat before it sank, and I'd occasionally help Ric with the work if he brings one home from the boat he works on, but it's been a few years since I've had to make one from scratch.
Several times over the next few hours I wish that Anita was still with me, not just for the company, but because her family is part of the net-makers collective, and I'm sure she'd have no trouble at all putting one together. Eventually, once I pull the splints off my mostly fixed fingers and fiddle with the strands I remember enough of my lessons to get the first few knots right. By mid-morning my net has started to take shape. I end up cutting some bendy branches and braiding them into a strong loop to serve as the yoke. To this I tie eight strands of the seaweed and spread them out evenly into an eight-pointed star. I try to use the seaweed for the lead line that forms the outer circle but it doesn't braid easily and I'm worried just knotting the ends together to get a long enough piece will reduce the strength so I double-braid some more vines instead. Once I get the frame in place it's easy enough to diamond knot the flexible vine all around the thicker seaweed spokes, though it does take time and it's past noon when I finish tying the casting rope to the yoke in the middle.
It's a typical casting net, designed to be coiled in the hand and thrown to spread out over a large area. I soak it in the salt water and hang it to dry properly over my boulder while I collect some rocks to tie on as weights. I'm tempted to leave it drying overnight like I was taught in school, but I'm worried the Gamemakers won't understand, and when I test it just before sunset it seems strong and flexible, not quite as balanced as the ones I trained with, but good enough for the arena.
I doubt any of the other tributes besides Anita have ever practiced against a net fighter anyway, and most people panic when they get ensnared and try to wriggle free, which usually only tangles them up more. I try a few more practice throws until I'm happy with the cast, try a few more practice jabs with my trident in my dominant hand and toss back a couple more painkillers to fade out the last of the ache in my mostly healed hand.
There's no point waiting, I decide. Between the moonlight and the night glasses I can see well enough not to fall over the twisted tree roots, and start to make my way back into the forest. The rustling of small animals and the whispering of the trees don't frighten me now that I'm properly armed. An owl swoops past and I catch it easily with a throw of my net and strike down with the trident before its beak and claws can do any damage to the vines.
It dies with a single screech, and I consider tossing it in my pack and trying to cook it later. That would require ripping out all the feathers though. I decide it's too much effort and throw the bird aside.
I wonder how I look to anyone watching—and I have no doubt that there are people all over Panem watching right now. They always love to focus on a hunting tribute, and right now I'm giving them everything they could want. Armed with my clearly favourite weapon, alert and deadly and merciless, striking down anyone and anything that crosses my path.
Do they have a panel of specialists analysing my every move? Probably. They had a whole talk-show segment on whether my good looks made me a strong fighter before the Games even started. Now the whole nation knows I can fight. The only question is whether I'm willing and able to take on the rest of the field on my terms. I wonder what Oris thinks.
My merciless persona that I'm trying to fill my head with wavers at the thought of my 'brother'. If I hadn't volunteered for him, would he be doing this if our places were reversed? I consider this for a moment then laugh. I doubt the volunteer pack would have taken him in, and even if they did I'm not sure he would have survived the Cornucopia fight. Too gentle and too hesitant when it comes to striking a final blow. Things no-one can afford to be during the Games.
I decide not to think about Oris anymore. Not until after I'm done and the Games are either won or lost. I don't need to hear his voice over my shoulder potentially staying my hand when I need to strike. I don't need to wonder what Mags is thinking. I've seen the footage of her cutting a thirteen-year-old boy open from chin to crotch and drowning another tribute with a weighted net. She knows what it's like to be in the arena, both fighting for your life because you have no other choice, and to actively kill on your own terms.
Wade was the same, five years back, swimming from island to island and killing anyone he found. Gabriela, Anita's mentor, who initially was only fighting in defence, but ended up knifing one of her allies deliberately in the back to trigger a melee that wiped out most of her competition. I think about some of the other Games I've seen; the little whisp of a girl four years back who would noose her enemies and use her own bodyweight to strangle them amongst the high treetops. The girl from Four a few years before that who waited until the others in the alliance were sleeping before slipping around and knifing them one by one. She would have got away with it if the girl from One hadn't been such a light sleeper.
All people who became hunters, who took the Games on and made the others play it their way. We would often watch replays of older Hunger Games in training to look at strategy and fighting styles, and while many were won by luck or dumb brute force or, most commonly the lone survivor of the volunteer pack melee, a good number were because the eventual victor turned the Games into their story. Made themselves the star of the show, the tribute that the Capitol wanted to win. I've had the advantage in popularity from the start thanks to my good looks, but now I need to capture the rest of the crowd. The ones who always cheer the strongest and most savage fighters the loudest and try to demand re-fights if they don't consider the eventual victor worthy of their title.
The more people who like me and want to see me win, the better my odds of the Gamemakers not throwing me off the pier into the deep water before I'm ready to swim. They won't try herding me towards someone 'stronger' like Marcellus or Carla, but will let me find them on my own terms and be ready for the fight when it comes. As long as I can stay fearless and vicious and strong, I have no doubt they will let me lead the show.
I am the shark now, lonely and cold, surging through the flickering school of lesser fish until I find and devour my prey. There was no mercy in the sharks that surrounded me while I huddled on a crate in a storm all those years back. There is no mercy in me now.
I re-coil my net and sling it over my left shoulder as I push through the deeper forest. It's hard going climbing around the thick bramble clumps and over fallen trees slippery with moss. I jump one particularly large log and nearly turn my ankle as the ground beneath my feet suddenly heaves. I slide off sideways as the lump shrieks and my coiled net topples from my shoulders onto the writhing form I accidentally stepped on.
It still takes me a few seconds to realize that it's not some wild animal, but another tribute tangled and wriggling as they try to fight free. Definitely a girl, though she doesn't sound like either Anita or Carla, and it's too small for Rosie. The mystery girl from Eight, I realize as she stops struggling, perhaps realizing that she's facing another tribute not some strange net-dropping muttation.
"Please," she whispers, barely louder than the gentle night breeze rustling through the leaves, though I have no doubt it was heard by everyone watching. All that talking myself up, becoming the killer that the Capitol wants to see starts this moment, or it doesn't start at all. If I can't kill a helpless, trapped girl begging for mercy, how could I possibly stand against one of the warriors from Two?
Shark, I remind myself as I drive the trident down, trying to aim for a quick kill. At least one of the prongs pierces her windpipe because she tries to scream but only manages a gurgle. I pull back, the hooked tines ripping even more of her neck open and I see the spray of blood that marks an opened artery. It looks a strange sort of gray-brown through the night-glasses. I wait until she finishes thrashing and the cannon fires before I draw the net back and re-coil it while I stare down at her face.
I try to keep my expression neutral, but I quickly realize that it's not going to work. A part of me just wants to be sick, the sentimental part that got me to volunteer for…I force my mind away from that thought with a quick shake of my head. That's no good either. I can't look worried or confused or bothered. It wouldn't fit the image. Shark, shark, shark I remind myself, trying to go for that cold, stern image of nonchalant killer, but it just won't fit.
So I try something else instead, and force a smile. Not my 'thank-you generous sponsors'' grin or my 'Mags, you're the best' grin, but my 'hiding Oris' books the day before a test' smile. My 'sticking a slimy toad in Angelus' pack' smile. Now my 'killing helpless girls trapped in a net' smile. It's better than being sick or showing weakness and maybe if I keep smiling the sentimental part of me will give way to the newer, darker Finnick Odair.