The terrible Twos are still fighting, as it turns out. Or Bellona is, at least. Miles is standing to the side, trying to wipe blood from his hammer without getting it on his hands. The sight of him, expression distorted with revulsion rather than bloodlust, is yet another piece of a puzzle Finnick cannot put together. Just a few moments before Miles bashed in a girl's head with the same hammer he regards with such disgust now. When he spots Finnick and One coming toward him, his features reshape into something more inscrutable.
"Feel free to head down there," he says. "Just don't get in Bellona's way."
About halfway down the steps, a tribute with an arrow sticking out of her calf is stumbling and falling away from Bellona, who has abandoned her bow in favor of close-range engagement. She follows the tribute the way a predator stalks wounded prey. The Callow is crying, pleading with Bellona, tears streaming down her blotchy, quivering face.
Somewhere in the back of Finnick's mind he supposes he should be horrified, or at least sympathetic toward this poor Callow, who upon closer inspection appears to be the female tribute from Six. But Finnick has erected a seawall around his conscience and dead and dying Callows are merely waves. It's just another scene playing out on a television screen. Finnick cannot be hurt by this. He is a spectator, safe, distant, and unbothered. It's as Mags once told him: Detach the pain from the person, and they are no longer a person. You can do anything to something that is not a person, if you have the nerve.
It was so easy. Kick the tribute down the steps. Spear the tribute through the chest. Finnick is a Career; death is his birthright. If he is to win, it must also be his legacy.
"How pathetic can you get?" Alabaster remarks, rolling his eyes. "This won't even be fun to watch. I'm going to clean up the other side. Call if you need anything."
He and Ruby disappear, then it's just Finnick and Miles. Bellona and the crying...thing. Miles draws in a deep breath, and for a brief, embarrassing moment Finnick thinks he's about to mention the other girl, the one he killed for Finnick. But then he descends the steps, flipping his hammer theatrically. Of course he chose a hammer. District 2 is basically one giant quarry. He probably knows how to use a hammer like Finnick knows how to fish.
"Bellona," he calls. "I'll get the other one."
Clean up: Finnick almost dreads it more than the initial bloodbath. Not all of the tributes lying on the steps of the pyramid are dead. In fact, many times the Careers purposely render them maimed but living, just injured enough to keep them from getting too far. Though there's a lull in activity, the main event has not yet concluded. It's a show within a show, and Finnick is expected to play a major role.
"Pick up a weapon," Bellona snaps, almost impatient. "I won't strike you down without one in your hand."
The girl, choking back her whimpers, does as she is ordered, snatching up a mace from where it has fallen from a fellow tribute's nerveless hand.
"Good enough." Bellona advances, knife spinning a deadly waltz in her fingers. Before the girl can so much as swing her mace, Bellona lashes out, catching the girl's face. She cries out, stumbles backward, hand cupped to the gash blooming crimson on her cheekbone.
"Do I have to do everything?" Bellona sighs. "You've got a mace, idiot! Use it!"
It's a strangely entrancing scene playing out before him, transfixing him like a natural disaster or an explicit film smuggled into the academy. Finnick can't look away. He can never look again. Six holds the mace out in front of herself, and Finnick can see it trembling from where he stands.
Miles is poking bodies with his hammer, making sure they are well and truly dead. Though he initially came off as squeamish compared to District 2's usual stock, he seems to be faring well now. He takes the ankle of one corpse—the boy Finnick had speared—and heaves effortlessly it down the steps. Finnick supposes he shouldn't be so surprised; violence comes naturally to those born into it.
Finnick tears his gaze away from Bellona and Six and focuses his attention on the forest beyond, searching through layers of thick foliage and shifting shadows for signs of unnatural movement. Though he spots no one, he still can't shake the unnerving feeling he's being watched, and not just by the Capitol. Who's out there? Devious Callows? Caspia? Some sinister abomination moved into place by the Gamemakers? They need to get down from this platform and start the hunt before the audience gets bored and the Gamemakers decide to reignite the action.
"Come on, Two." As if she read Finnick's mind and plucked the thought from his head, Ruby appears at Finnick's side and waves at Bellona to capture her attention. "Enough playing around. We have tributes to hunt."
Bellona sighs. "Fine." With the speed and precision of an apex predator, she darts behind Six, pins her with one arm, and slashes the knife across her throat. Despite all the advancements in Capitol technology, the sounds of the Games are so much clearer in person. The choked gasp, the burble of liquid accumulating in the throat. The wet, wheezing last breaths of a tribute who died the moment her name was called at the reaping.
Bellona doesn't even look down at the body. She steps around it and jogs up the stairs, Miles close behind her. "How many?"
"Including Bellona's, eight," Miles replies. "We've got our work cut out for us."
The average number of bloodbath casualties in a regular Games is ten. A good number because it means less competition later, as well as a decreased likelihood of Gamemaker interference. The more tributes left alive, the more players available to manipulate. One year, the Career pack had been so effective that only three Callows remained after the first day. This ultimately turned out to be a mistake, as it proved nearly impossible to track down the remaining survivors in the large, labyrinthine arena designed to conceal and confuse. The Gamemakers punished the Career pack for their failure by plaguing them with every manner of mutt, disease, and natural disaster they could contrive. Needless to say, a Career did not win that year.
"Sounds like somebody didn't do their job," Alabaster huffs, brushing his braids off his shoulder.
"Hey, ten is never a set number," Miles protests. "Besides, I don't see Caspia Deltan down there." He casts Alabaster a pointed glare.
"Watch it, Two," Alabaster growls.
If Alabaster keeps it up, maybe Finnick won't have to be the one to kill Miles after all.
"Let's gear up," Bellona cuts in, expression as stony as ever. "If we hurry, we'll catch her before nightfall."
When Finnick and the others start combing through the Cornucopia's bounty, he notices a common theme in the type and value of the supplies. As a Career, he can't begin to formulate a weapon-based strategy until he's standing in front of the Cornucopia, sixty seconds away from the bloodbath, because the arena's arsenal changes so vastly each year. Its only universal quality, spanning decades' worth of Hunger Games, is its capacity to maim and kill in the most gory, brutal way possible. While provide firearms and gas bombs when you can have swords and bows and arrows? Double the blood, double the ratings.
The few swords available had been snapped up by Alabaster and Ruby at the beginning of the bloodbath, but Finnick doesn't mind; he's always been more of a long-range fighter anyway. A plethora of spears, knives, and axes make up for the lack of swords, stacked neatly in piles according to type. There are other items as well: Rope, bottles of water-purifying tablets, flashlights. Resources that would soon become vital to the Callows who'd run off without anything but the clothes on their backs. As Finnick threads his arms through a knife harness, he begins to realize another problem.
"Where's the food?" Alabaster throws aside a spotted garment Finnick supposes might be useful for protection against the elements but little else.
The spot on the pavilion floor designated as the food pile is looking ominously sparse. It's to be expected, of course, that in a pageant known as the Hunger Games there would be a food shortage at some point. In most years, Careers could count on enough edible goods to last them a few days, which bought them time to earn more food from sponsors or steal it from Callows. But by the time they have finished sorting through the supplies, the pickings, at least where food is concerned, are concerningly slim. There's enough to last them a day, if they stretch it. And what's available is barely substantial enough to sustain a mouse: A couple of packs of crackers, some dried fruit, and some fishy smelling stuff in pouches Finnick guesses is prepackaged tuna.
"Great," Miles mumbles. "We gotta hunt for our food now?"
The notion makes Finnick vaguely ill with half-dread and half-hope. There had to be a body of water somewhere in the arena, somewhere he can hunt the way he knew how. If they have to rely on each other's land hunting abilities, they'll all be dead in a week. Finnick absently runs his hand over the half dozen knives strapped to his chest, three on one side, three on the other. He snagged a pair of spears as well, one of which is collapsible and fits neatly in his backpack alongside a length of rope, a bottle of water purifying tablets, a flashlight, a canteen, and a folding hatchet, the last of which he hooks to one of his trousers' belt loops. Not exactly the arsenal of a typical Career, but Finnick is more worried about the food situation than anything else. Still, Finnick knows better than to be greedy. He takes a pack of crackers but nothing more.
Armed with hunger for blood and food in equal measure, the Career pack sets off on their first hunt. They take every morsel of the precious food with them, since there's so little of it. Though it bothers Finnick to leave the unclaimed supplies undefended, he knows better than to suggest they split up. Perhaps it would have been better to invite a Callow into the pack, but's too late now. A few Games ago, the Careers separated—two guarding the Cornucopia and three hunting Callows—and herd of monstrous lizards sniffed out the food and destroyed it, killing both Career guards in the process. The message was clear: We turn a blind eye to your training for a reason. Use it or face the consequences. A Career did not win that year.
Plunging into the depths of the rainforest is akin to traveling from the relative safety of District 4's beach to the unexplored crevices of some underwater trench. The dense canopy of leaves above creates a surprisingly dark environment below, giving them all a pause as their eyes adjust to the sudden gloom. A raucous symphony of birds and insects filters into Finnick's subconscious, much more noticeable than it had been by the Cornucopia. Already his shirt clings to him, soaked with sweat, but he doesn't dare even take off his vest. Who knows what kind of plants and insects lurk down here, waiting to take him down with a single scratch or bite?
"We'll do this in a pattern," Bellona says. "Organized, so we don't miss anything."
"What about water?" Alabaster asks. "I'm thirsty."
Though the wheedling tone of Alabaster's voice grates Finnick's nerves, he can't help but agree. "Sweating this much, we won't last long without it. I've seen people in my district drop after a day out in the sun." Lips cracked, eyes sunken in their skulls, breath rattling in their hollow chests—dehydration is swift but cruel killer, satiated by one thing and one thing only.
"The more time we waste, the harder time we'll have finding the Callows later," Bellona growls irritably. The hair fallen from her bun hangs lank around her face in damp strings. "We have a lot of marks to hunt down."
"I'm with Finnick," Ruby chimes in. "Hunting Callows comes after finding a water source and making it ours."
Bellona's eyes snap to Ruby, then to the rest of them. When her gaze lands on Miles, he jumps like she's pulled one of her knives on him.
"I'm ready to hunt," he asserts. Finnick can't help but notice his declaration doesn't bear the same excitement as it does coming from Alabaster or his district partner.
"Fine," she grits out. "Go on, Fish Boy. Find us our precious water."
Finnick closes his eyes and inhales a slow, deep breath. There's practically no breeze, but the humidity carries scent well enough: A raw, musty smell clings to his nostrils, not briny and clean like his ocean, but sulfuric and saltless. Maybe it's not potable, but at least it's water. When he opens his eyes, the others are staring at him with varying degrees of curiosity.
"I think there's water nearby, we just have to search for it," he reports. "Did anyone grab water purifying tablets?"
Ruby did, and they were all smart enough to bring along empty canteens. On a whim, Finnick glances up. The most of the trees' lowest branches are more than a meter up, which will make climbing them difficult. But Finnick isn't looking to climb. Instead, he watches the birds—there are dozens of them, of every shape, size, and color, as numerous and varied as the fish in District 4's sea.
"Let's just keep walking," Finnick says. "Watch which direction the birds are flying. More than likely they'll fly toward water."
They walk for some time before they happen across anything noteworthy: A rustle of feet moving over earth has them all unsheathing their arms, drawing into a huddle bristling with weaponry, but it's only an animal. A mud-brown thing with a pig-like body, long, floppy nose, and a bristly crest running down the back of its neck trots amidst the trees. Its size is comparable to that of a pig as well, but it's coloring is dark gray, almost brown. Though the pig creature pays them no heed, the Careers don't lower their weapons.
"Don't kill it!" Finnick hisses, particularly at Bellona, whose fingers twitch on her drawn bowstring.
The creature waffles past them without a single glance in their direction, snuffing at the ground with its odd, oblong snout.
"Follow it!" This time, Ruby speaks up. "It has to be getting water from somewhere."
"At a distance," Finnick adds. "We don't want to scare it."
They start off after the creature, weapons at the ready, at a slow pace so the creature doesn't startle. It glances up periodically to test the air, its odd nose fluttering as it sucks in deep breaths. Surely it's scented them by now, as sweaty as they are, but it seems to be heading determinedly in the same direction. Gradually, Finnick realizes they're headed slightly downhill.
The report of the arena cannon startles the pack into immobility for a moment, every sense on high alert. They stand still as the trees around them, holding their collective breath as the cannon sounds eight times. By the time the day is done, the cannon will undoubtedly boom at least once more. But they can't remain stationary for long; the creature is moving at a good clip now, the downward slope becoming steeper, footing becoming less sure.
"Why are we doing this?" Alabaster hisses in Finnick's ear. "We're supposed to be hunting Callows, and we're trailing a pig instead."
Finnick wishes he had a good retort, something that would really shut Alabaster up for a while. Unfortunately, his statement rings true. Has he mixed up his priorities? Was Mags pacing in front of a television at this very moment, waving her hands and cursing him soundly for his foolishness?
Then they hear something else, a noise that rips through the rainforest ambience like a knife: A terrified, agonized scream.
Miles and Ruby jump back, but Alabaster leaps forward, brandishing his blade.
"What are you doing?" Ruby hisses, eyes darting wildly in her head, searching for the source of the scream. "Let's get out of here."
"They never release mutts this early," Alabaster retorts. "No one would see it because they're running bloodbath analysis."
Still they hesitate, frozen in place like a frightened herd of deer. Now that the initial surprise has faded, Finnick kicks himself for not listening closer. He might've been able to determine the cause of the scream, or at least where it came from. After thinking about it for a moment, he deduces from the pitch that it had been a male voice. Which means it hadn't been Caspia.
Boom. Nine down, fourteen to go.
"Maybe it was another Callow," Bellona says in a low voice. "Maybe the girl from Four is doing some hunting of her own."
"Then let's go get her!" Alabaster pushes his way to the front of the pack, tromping in the approximate direction of the scream without any regard for how much noise he is making himself.
The rest of them follow with varying degrees of caution. Finnick's not really sure about Alabaster's theory regarding the mutts, but he knows they need to get to the water source before someone else does, and Alabaster is headed in that direction.
The rainforest spits them out on the bank of a vast, winding river. Muddy water of an indeterminable depth flows sluggishly through a sandy gorge, slithering through the trees like a giant serpent. On the other side of the river, all Finnick can see is more rainforest.
"Water!" Ruby exclaims. Sheathing her sword, she traipses down to the river's edge and crouches, fumbling for her canteen. The rest of them begin congratulating each other, wiping sweat from their brows and stashing their weapons. Finnick, however, is silent. This mission to obtain water, usually fraught with every threat imaginable, was much too easy. The only answer, then, is that the peril lies not in the quest, but in the destination itself.
Finnick doesn't know what makes him realize Ruby is in danger. Whatever it is, he starts forward, spear held at the ready. "Ruby—" Movement ripples the surface of the water.
Then everything happens in lightning-fast succession, incomprehensible except in retrospect, inexorable except through supernatural intervention. A cry of warning from Alabaster. The thwick of Bellona nocking her bow. Finnick seizing Ruby's wrist, dragging her back. An explosion of water, and a long, monstrous snout filled with razor sharp teeth bursting out of the river, clamping down on the spot where Ruby's hand had been just moments before. Finnick catches a brief glimpse of sinister reptilian eyes before the creature withdraws, slipping back into the water like a snake back into its hole.
Alabaster swears viciously, sword drawn, as the entire pack retreats from the riverbank. Finnick resists the urge to snap at him. What's a sword going to do against a gargantuan river monster? They all wait with bated breath, expecting the river monster to emerge from the river to continue the chase, but sixty, eighty seconds pass and nothing happens. Gradually, the tension eases from Finnick's muscles and his heart slows to a countable pace.
"What...was that?" Miles says.
"Who cares?" Bellona barks, shouldering her bow. "Now we don't have any water."
"At least we know what the screaming was from," Ruby remarks. She's recovered remarkably fast from her near-death experience. She squares her shoulders and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, drawing in a long, steadying breath.
Finnick cringes inwardly at the thought: A thirsty tribute happening upon a body of water, woefully undefended. Kneeling at the river's edge, unaware a horrible demise lies in wait.
"Yeah, Four, you saved Ruby's life." Alabaster regards Finnick with a newfound sense of...well, not respect, exactly. Not from Alabaster Finch. But maybe tolerance. Less irritation.
"He knows he can't live without me," Ruby replies, nudging him playfully. Their lighthearted humor doesn't dawn on Finnick. Why had he moved to save her? No one would have blamed him if Ruby had perished as a victim of the river monster. But he had pulled her from the jaws of death—almost literally—and now someone would have to contend with her later.
"I don't know about him, but I can certainly afford to work without someone who does things that stupid," Bellona snarls, glaring at Finnick like he did her a personal wrong. Which, in the end, he might have. She jerks her chin at Ruby, who crosses her arms over her chest, undaunted. "Try and think next time before you just wander into an ambush, Riveta. Your handsome hero over here won't always be around to save you."
The venom in her tone makes Finnick wonder if his and Ruby's pre-Games dalliance did not go as unnoticed as they'd originally assumed.
So he shrugs and twirls his spear, letting an easy grin spread across his face. "No need to thank me," he drawls. "She can just save my life later. If she gets the chance; I mean, I'm pretty good at this whole Hunger Games thing."
Alabaster scoffs. "Sure, Four."
"So what now?" Miles asks. "We just...die of dehydration?"
Finnick shakes his head. "There's gotta be a place too shallow for those river mutts to hide in."
"Let's start walking," Bellona orders. "We'll find a good spot faster if we keep moving."
They travel parallel to the riverbank, close enough to keep it in sight, but not close enough to make a tempting target for another reptilian mutt. It's a little humiliating—vicious, highly trained Career tributes being forced to search for resources like the Callows—but as time wears on, Finnick gets too thirsty to care much. The Gamemakers won't just let everyone die of thirst, he reasons to himself as he licks his lips, tasting salt on his tongue. Bloodless deaths equal lower ratings. This knowledge isn't much comfort. Everyone, even Ruby, is looking more than a little worse for wear—tired, dirty, and covered in a sheen of moisture. The river twists and dips without any apparent pattern or reason, leading Finnick to believe it has a natural origin rather than Gamemaker. The riverbank is steep in some places, dropping off with cliff-like suddenness, and gently sloping in others. The water itself remains a brassy, unappealing brown, making it impossible to perceive what skulks within its recesses, or even measure its depth. What's on the other side? he can't help but wonder. Where does it lead to? All rivers lead somewhere. Finnick alone is aware of at least a dozen tributaries feeding District 4's ocean. However, even these meditations end up shriveled and wilted in his mind, just as dehydrated as the rest of him. They are questions for a Career whose thirst has been quenched.
He's just starting to consider trying to retrieve water from the riverside, river mutts and all, again when Mags' voice rings in his head.
Slow down. Look around you. There are resources in every arena. You just have to figure out how to use them.
Break things down, Batten chimes in. What is it you need, and what's stopping you from getting it?
Obviously he needs water. But there is no way he's getting close enough to the water to get it, not without putting himself in danger of being ambushed and eaten by wild animals. What would he do at home? Well, at home this wouldn't be an issue. He'd be on a boat, high above the sharks and jellyfish and whatever else wanted to—
Finnick's spine snaps straight. Ignoring the startled cries of his fellow Careers, he dashes over to a tree and rips off a long vine. A little rummaging in the undergrowth produces a straight, sturdy branch. It only takes him a moment to tie his empty canteen to the vine, and the vine to the long stick.
"Find me a tree on the riverside," he commands. "Any tree, as long as I can reach the branches."
Though most of the trees within the rainforest are huge and bear no low boughs, the spindly ones next to the river have branches that tangle together like kelp, dangling over the water in leafy masses.
Climbing the tree is not so different from climbing the rigging of his father's trawler. A bit messier, perhaps, as bugs and twigs and leaves try their best to worm beneath his clothes and into his mouth and eyes, but he clambers and wriggles his way to the sturdiest branch looming over the river. He grins down at the others, who look back at him like he's either crazy or stupid or both.
"Time to go fishing," he calls down to them, and lowers his canteen into the water.
His first half-dozen attempts end in cupfuls of muck and weeds. The river is so shallow and muddy here he doubts even the purifying tablets will make it potable, which he suspects is by Gamemaker design. So he climbs down the tree and heads further downriver until the water gets deeper and faster-moving. He climbs one of the trees hanging over this section of the river and tries again.
The whole endeavor feels almost like fishing off the docks back home. Finnick swirls the canteen around a bit in the water to get it to flow in and hauls it back in. Tongue like a dry sponge sitting in the bottom of his mouth, he dissolves a water purifying tablet in the water, then downs it as fast as he can.
"Well?" Alabaster demands from below. "Did it work?"
Finnick holds his canteen aloft and kicks his feet. "Ladies and gentlemen, to our victory! Finnick Odair has found a way to get water!"
Everyone, even Bellona, let's out a hearty cheer and clamor to pass Finnick their canteens.