I end up following the stream back out to the open plains, figuring that without as many sponsors the other tributes will have to stay reasonably close to a good water source. I'm happy enough following the meandering bank as it twists through the grasslands back towards that small lake.
I stop in an area free of bushes and scrubby trees to refill my water, making sure I'm clear on all sides before letting go of my new trident. I can't risk any silly mistakes when facing off against the pair from Two. I don't know how wounded Marcellus was from his fight with Angelus, but Carla was still standing and I've seen how ferociously skilled she is with both sword and knife. Then again, she hasn't seen the best of me when fighting. Neither of them have. Maybe they'll underestimate me and give me the advantage I need, if the net and a perfect trident aren't advantage enough.
The ground rises a little as I continue on, the slight hill giving a bit of a view, and to my surprise I see movement near the river edge only a few hundred yards further on. The figures aren't big and as I gently jog closer I can clearly see it's Anita and Carla wrestling right on the edge of the bank. With a vicious shove Anita pushes Carla backwards and leaps into the water. She quickly swims across the twenty yards of water to relative safely, pulling herself out with only a slight struggle. Carla throws a rock at her retreating back, then sits back down, rubbing her shoulder briefly before searching through one of the packs for a drink.
I hesitate—should I go in now while Carla might be worn down, or should I wait, camp out and check the surroundings? I don't see any sign of Marcellus, which means her district partner has either split away or is out hunting. I lie down in the grass to watch for a few minutes as Carla settles herself and keeps a watch out in all directions, never letting go of her sword. I don't think she saw me since she mostly watches across the stream towards Anita, who is now sitting about ten yards back from the far side of the stream fiddling with something, her spear couched in the crook of her arm.
The wind picks up a little and I can catch a few words floating on the breeze, the two girls sniping verbally at one another. I'd guess Carla doesn't want to risk another encounter with a river and the flesh-eating fish and Anita doesn't back herself in a straight fight with the girl from Two. Finally my district partner stands and starts walking away to the north. I know Anita well enough to know she wouldn't be so risky sitting out in the open or moving slowly unless she didn't think Marcellus was around and decide it's a good time to make my move.
I loop around wide behind Carla as she continues to watch Anita's retreating back and slip my pack free, stretching out my arms and making sure my net is perfectly set for the throw. I have no doubt Carla would hear me coming if I tried to sneak, and the odds are she'll look around eventually so I go for speed instead, running hard and praying silently that I don't trip on a tuft of grass and accidentally spear myself with my own trident.
She turns when I'm about fifty yards away and scrambles to her feet, eyes widening in shock as I close the distance. The shoulder she was holding before is badly bruised, I notice, and her vest is ripped all down her left side but I'm still wary of her stronger arm as I put the momentum of my run into my throw and land the net easily on top of her.
She yells in shock and immediately tries to twist free, sword hacking at my carefully woven strands, and for a moment I'm just so irrationally angry at her damaging something I worked so hard to make that I yell right back at her as I thrust forward. She manages to partially deflect my first stab, though I feel the outer prong jitter as it cuts through her thigh. I drag it back sharply, ripping the wound wider with the barbed hook and give the net a sharp tug with my other hand, pulling her forward and off balance. The second thrust is good, taking her cleanly through the chest.
She coughs blood into my face and collapses with a groan and an expression of confused pain on her face, and I carefully twist the trident free, making sure not to cut any more strands as I reclaim my weapon. It's even harder to get the net free of her death throes, but eventually she goes still and I manage to untangle the main lines before the cannon fires. I look down at her face one last time—this girl who once was my ally, who had my back in several fights, who laughed and joked with me and who once ran her fingers through my hair and made me shiver. She looks younger than before, much less frightening.
I step back to let the hovercraft collect her and look over the stream to where Anita was fleeing. To my surprise my district partner looks back, not even a quarter mile gone. She must have heard the fighting and stopped to watch. I don't want to fight her, I don't want to kill her, but I have to at least make it look like I'm trying.
I coil the net back into my hand and point at her with the trident. The message should be clear to anyone watching—you're next. I take two steps forward and she turns away, keeps on running and I watch until her figure becomes a distant dark shadow and disappears into the forest. Once she's out of sight I gather up the three packs Carla was guarding and carry them back to where I dropped my own, sorting through for anything useful.
It's as good an excuse as any to delay chasing after Anita and once I'm done and rested I decide to follow the stream just a bit further, hoping to find a better ford that's safe to cross. As I reach the lake I see a strange swirling cloud of gray over to the west, hovering above the forest about a mile away. It dips and dives down into the treetops then rises and re-forms over and over and eventually I realize it's not a cloud but a flock of birds. There's only one reason for a mutt swarm anywhere near where I can see.
I don't rush through the trees. After all I might not be the only tribute nearby watching for the Gamemaker's signs. This band of forest is rather narrow and before the mile is up I break through to the long sandy beach that arches all around the middle of the two fingers of land. A large figure sits just above the tide-line surrounded by dead birds. Marcellus, who uses the washing waves to clean his sword as the remaining flock flutters high into the sky and away.
He must realize there's a reason they've stopped attacking and slowly turns and stands to face me.
"Pretty boy," he says, though he lacks the malice that Angelus always sneered it with.
"Marcellus," I reply with a nod and a smile.
He nods back at the gleaming weapon in my hand.
"Nice toy. Did you have to strip naked to get them to send you that one?"
I laugh, because that's what shark-Finnick would do. The inside me is a bit annoyed; I'm standing here looking fit and strong, I just beat one of the biggest threats in single combat and he's still not taking me seriously.
He takes a step forward into a fighting crouch, though his front leg wobbles. The hem of his shorts is torn and his right leg is criss-crossed with painful red welts, probably from some sort of ocean stinger. Whatever happened, it's a weakness that's easy to exploit and shark-Finnick smiles some more.
Like with Carla I decide to trust my speed, agility and skill with a weapon they won't be used to facing and rush him, sweeping the net up to tangle that weakened right leg as he tries to shuffle sideways. One easy tug and he falls with a yell, his throat colliding with my trident. Two of the prongs pierce all the way through and I rip sideways to open his neck. His blood spatters out, coating my arm that I throw up in front of my face and soaking through my tattered vest.
It feels wrong. It shouldn't be this easy to beat the strongest fighters in the Games. But he was wounded. Carla too, with that battered shoulder and whatever other injuries she was carrying from the fight with Angelus and the melee with Ten.
As tempting as it is to wash myself clean in the salt water I decide not to risk it after seeing the stinger marks on Marcellus' leg. Instead I rip the vest off and use the cleaner parts to wipe myself down before throwing it away beside the dead boy. It's not like I need it in the weather and I can imagine bundling up all the self-loathing I feel in it and throwing that clear. Plenty of time to think about things after the Games are done, I tell myself firmly, and there's already enough dead to my name that stopping now won't do me any good.
Only four of us left, I realize as the hovercraft carries another of my former allies away. Just me, Anita, big shy Rosie and secretive Markus. As I sit and rest on the sands, replenishing my body I wonder which of them the Gamemakers will push into my path next.
~xXx~
I spend the rest of the day cutting more vines and repairing the holes Carla put in my net. It seems to be holding up surprisingly well. I decide I've done enough interesting for one day and set up camp, aided by another sponsor gift, this time a whole baked salmon with potatoes and salad and a bottle of fresh fruit juice. I lay out my sleeping bag, reclaimed from Carla's packs and lie back, watching the stars as they flicker into the night until they are replaced by the Panem seal and the anthem blares. Carla and Marcellus, District Two out in one day. That's three years in a row now that none of their tributes have made top three. I wonder how desperate they'll be in the next Games. Hopefully they won't take it out from the boy from my district, who, if I make it to the end of these Games I'll be mentoring.
My mind unhelpfully provides the image of a larger, meaner looking Marcellus chopping up Oris while laughing and I go back to counting stars until I've drowned that part back down again. I'm shark-Finnick now, and I will stay this way until the Games are done. Even then I might need this darker side; I can't imagine what it must be like to watch over a tribute and try to protect them only to see them helpless and dead. Even if it's someone I don't know I'll still be partly responsible.
One thing at a time, I remind myself, reaching out for a spare bit of vine and twisting it through my collected knowledge of knots, focusing only on each loop as it forms and unforms beneath my fingers.
I must drift off after a bit because I wake with it still in my hand deep into the night and toss it aside in favour of my trident. I try to sleep some more but my mind is too awake, buzzing at the thought that it won't be much longer before these Games are all done that I eventually get up and start moving, heading along the soft sand barefoot and bare chested, my path lit by the bright moon just starting to wane from full.
The sun rises inch by inch over the treetops, bathing the arena and the scattered clouds a bloody red. Red sky at night, sailor's delight; red sky in morning, sailors take warning as the old saying goes. I can actually see the rain falling across the other finger of land, hard and heavy though the sky above this half of the arena stays clear. Thunder rumbles overhead and for a moment I'm nine years old again, back on that storm-tossed crate holding on for my life with frozen, water-wrinkled fingers. Soaking and shivering as the sharks circle, ready to strike the moment I lose concentration.
Only I'm the shark now, and apparently the storm has another target in mind because the lightning flashes down three times in a small area, sending up a puff of smoke that is quickly doused by the torrential downpour. Suddenly there's a flicker of movement on the top of the distant cliff, a lonely figure who stumbles and falls from the high edge, bouncing hard against a jagged spur of rock rising out of the churning sea. The loud boom of thunder that follows is actually a cannon firing I realize, and judging by the bulk of the figure it has to have been Rosie from Eleven.
Only three of us left now, and as I make my way to the north, onto the bay that joins the two fingers and back up to a central point of the arena. I'm tempted to aim for the cornucopia, a nice easy place for the Gamemakers to drive Anita and Markus, but when I start out that way I encounter a grumpy looking skunk who scurries through the trees and stops directly in my path, turning its hind to me and raising on its back legs in warning. I take the hint and go the other way, back towards that second smaller lake and open grassy plain.
I try not to think as I go, just focus on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping my right hand sweat-free and my grip on the trident strong. Keeping the net balanced, slung neatly folded over my left shoulder so that it can't slide down and tangle my feet, the lead-rope tied around left wrist. I stop every hour or so, checking all around before drinking a few mouthfuls and eating a bite of an energy bar to stay in peak readiness. Focus on chewing and swallowing and the rustle of my pack as I put it away because if I let myself think I'll be worrying about whether or not I can kill Anita.
I'm so focused on all these little things that I nearly don't register the cannon that fires in the late afternoon. I stop and stare around stupidly and eventually spot the hovercraft two or three miles north, up closer to the edge of the swamp. I won't know for another few hours who it was, but I have a sneaking suspicion it was my district partner. Maybe the Gamemakers don't want to risk potential friends refusing to fight—one of our older victors did just that in her Games when it came down to her and her district partner, and it only ended when the boy was bitten by a snake, and I've seen other Games where allies became so close that they may have refused to finish it if it had come down to them at the end.
No, the Gamemakers are smarter than that. Every year we see a story told in the Games. Sometimes it's the story everyone expects, sometimes they have to twist things a bit to fit a narrative, but in the end there is always a story where a point is made.
This year it will be the rise of a young, handsome volunteer whose last fight will be against the tribute who killed the district partner he described as a 'big sister'. At least I assume Markus killed her. It's what I'm meant to think, anyway, and will lead to the perfect ending for their story. Either the young hero comes out triumphant or his tragic death at the hands of his last remaining foe will be the great twist ending. I've seen enough of both on Capitol-made films over the years, and I have no doubt the crowd will love either ending.
The sun sets, the anthem plays and Anita's smiling face glows against the stars. I remember back to the night we arrived in the Capitol, when we both looked up at the sky in shock because the bright city lights drowned out the twinkling constellations above. I don't cry. I was prepared for it and it's better this way. I let my features settle into determined anger after I finish eating and toss aside everything but a single water bottle, my trident and my net. It's time to end the story.
~xXx~
I don't stop when I reach the area the hovercraft collected Anita's body from. I even find the exact spot, given away by the churned-up ground, broken bushes and a smear of blood on a rock beside the stream. A few muddy footprints lead away into the deeper forest, too big to come from Anita's sandals. I touch one to test how dry the mud is then follow the direction. It feels almost as though a path opens up beneath my feet as I walk. There are less brambles than I remember in other forest sections, no fallen trees or ankle-tangling tree roots. The Gamemakers don't want me to fall over and injure myself before the final fight. I'm sure right now there's music playing as they show a montage of me and probably Markus heading towards our final meeting. It's prime night time viewing and this long but easy path is here to build the anticipation until we reach a camera-friendly place to duel.
I reach the clearing second. The moon up above is huge and unnaturally bright, giving us enough light to see each other clearly. Markus doesn't look like he's had the easiest time. He's lost weight and while he shifts from foot to foot in a fighter's stance the movement causes him to sway a little too much. His right bicep is wound tight with crude grass bandages and lines of dried blood run down to his wrist, and his right cheek and lip are swollen. I guess Anita did some damage on her way down.
He warily eyes my net as I tighten my grip on the coil of vine and wipe my trident hand clean of sweat on my shorts. There doesn't seem to be anything either of us need to say as we slowly approach and circle. He's armed with a long, sturdy branch that he holds in a proper quarterstaff grip, and there's a larger knife jammed into his belt and a smaller one tied to his other leg with some vines.
When we're ten feet apart I jab the air between us with my trident and he leaps backwards, nearly turning his ankle. His face clouds with anger and he lunges forwards, turning side-on so that my thrust goes wide and sweeps his staff up towards my knee. It's a practiced move and I block it with my shin, wincing at the stinging pain.
I try to fall back to get enough space to cast the net, but he seems to realize what I'm doing and closes again, feinting a top strike to my face and slamming the base of the staff into my side. I retaliate with a quick scything sweep and hook that rips a tear in his other bicep and forces him away. He backs off a few steps and doubles over, then quickly stands upright, flinging his smaller knife at my face. I duck and he's on me again, always trying to stay in close where he has the advantage.
His staff bangs my trident hand, striking across the mostly healed fingers with a nasty WHAP, but I manage to hold on. I try to kick for his groin, but he turns and catches it on his hip, driving back hard, once again preventing me from getting space to make a proper throw. For the casting net to work properly it needs time and space to spread out. He knows this, so I decide to go for surprise and launch the net anyway. It's not a good throw and he responds by grabbing two of the thicker strands and pulling hard, tugging me off balance. I use my trident to sever the vine rope tied around my wrist and regain my footing as he backs away, not worried about some distance now that my range weapon is gone.
He wrenches himself free of the tangling vines as I push forward, trying to get a good strike while his hands are busy. The prongs find his ribs again, slicing deeper this time as he turns side-on once more and tugs his arm free of the net. I expect him to toss it behind him and grab up his staff to continue the fight pole-arm to pole-arm, but instead he launches my net back at me. Like my throw, the distance is too short and he doesn't have it properly coiled to spread, but I'm not expecting it.
I duck instinctively, wincing as the rock weights slam across my face and turn side-on like he did to me to dodge the obvious follow-up strike. His net-throw aimed more for my trident arm, which is heavily tangled and I wrench my knife free of my belt and start slashing the vines trapping my hand while he wobbles slightly and clutches at his side.
His hand comes away soaked with blood and he snarls angrily, driving himself forwards trying to end the fight before I can get my best weapon free. I throw the knife at him, forcing him away for another few seconds while I twist my trident free of the net and switch it to my left hand.
I know I'm not that strong with my off-hand, but he doesn't and he drops back to warily circling as I give up on untying my right hand and collect up the thicker lines into my grip so that I don't trip on them. He charges that right side, staff swinging viciously and I swing my net-wrapped arm in a wide arc, letting several of the weighted strands wrap around the shaft of his branch. A few of them catch and I see his eyes widen as I pull hard. He releases his grip on his staff half a second too late and my left-hand trident thrust pierces his stomach. He moans as the barbed outer prongs rip open his guts and curls up on the ground at my feet, fists clenched in agony. I stand over him, grip the green shaft of my trident with both hands and strike down hard, planting the longer central prong deep into his skull. The final cannon fires and the trumpets sound to announce my victory as the cheers of the Capitol crowd fill the arena. I sit down and untangle the net from my arm while I wait for the hovercraft to arrive. Winning has never felt so empty and pointless.