To Finnick's surprise, Miles seems unusually adept at navigating a watercraft for a tribute from Two, shifting his weight to the center of the raft and sitting with remarkable grace, legs crossed. The others stand some distance away, looking like they're a twitch away from fleeing into the rainforest. Finnick sits near the edge of the raft and skirts his hands over its ropes and ridges, searching for water leaks, places where the logs don't fit together quite right. He's pleased to find there are none—his father taught him well.
"Take this." Finnick thrusts one of the fishing poles into his hand. It's barely fit to be called such a thing—Finnick constructed it from a stick, a length of fishing line, and a hook carved from wood—but it'll work.
Then he pushes off from the riverbank.
Once they've floated out to the middle of the river, Finnick realizes the current is sluggish and the river is shallow enough they barely drift at all. He grabs his own rod, intending to show Miles the basics of fishing, but Miles is already casting his line into the water.
For a while, Finnick and Miles sit in relative silence. The river is wide enough the trees don't cover the whole thing, letting the blistering afternoon sun beat down on the river's surface. If Finnick closes his eyes, he can imagine he's back home in District 4, stealing away from the academy for a rare reprieve. He's fishing the lake located just outside academy property, bothered by nothing and no one but the lack of fish. After a while though, curiosity—and Mags' voice, reminding him of his place and purpose—begin to niggle at him like hair tickling the back of his neck. Miles doesn't fit the District 2 mold, at least compared to what Finnick has seen in previous Games. He's courteous but withdrawn, almost uncertain, forgoing the usual savagery in favor of restraint and brevity. What kind of academy does he come from? Why did he help Finick during the bloodbath?
Finnick takes a deep breath and asks, "So...you have any siblings at home?"
Miles mumbles his reply. "One. Little sister. You?"
"Nah. When I was born, my parents thought I was so perfect they didn't need another kid."
"Surprised they let you volunteer so young, seeing as you don't have any siblings to protect."
Miles response catches Finnick off-guard. Do they all think he volunteered and he's just trying to cover it up, like some kind of coward ashamed of his Career upbringing? He twists around to stare at Miles' back, curved like the bow of a ship. "You saw the reaping recaps. I didn't volunteer. If I did, I'd own up to it."
Miles doesn't return Finnick's accusing glare. 'Sure you would, Four."
"You're one to talk," Finnick scorns. "A training score of seven? There's no need to play yourself down, Strand. You're from Two—we all know what you can do."
At this, Miles twists around, mouth contorted in a defiant scowl. "You think you know me, just because I come from Two," he growls, blue eyes piercing as Bellona's knives. Beneath the veneer of anger, however, Finnick discerns something else, something he's been saturated in from the moment he stepped foot in the Capitol: Fear. "Don't look so surprised. I know what all of you think about the tributes from my district: Hulking, brainless savages no better than the mutts running around this arena. Think whatever you want, but don't pretend you don't know anything about me, my family, or what we've been through."
Finnick blinks, momentarily taken aback. "Fine." The confrontation leaves a bad taste in his mouth, like the fruit he ate earlier had been rotten. What does it matter if Miles doesn't like him? The answer sits in Finnick's chest, weighs on his heart like an anchor: Whether Finnick likes it or not, Miles probably saved his life. And at some point in the not-so-distant future, Finnick will repay that kindness by killing him.
"Look, Strand...I'm not trying to say I'm better than you. I mean, you saved my life. Here I am, insulting you and your family. I didn't mean it. You're a good Career."
"A good Career," Miles echoes with a derisive snort. "You could've taken her even if I hadn't stepped in. I snuck up behind her, bashed her head in. No honor in that. No glory."
Honor? Glory? Finnick resists the urge to shake his head at Miles and his odd District 2 mentality. Of all the districts, only Two considers the Games a test of skill, a way to exhibit one's prowess in battle and flaunt their district's supremacy. To Four, it's the difference between an academy full of trained students and a graveyard plot crowded with tiny coffins.
"Even if you're not a good Career, you tried to help me. Even though...even though I never gave you a reason to." Even when he'd been plotting how to kill Miles just moments before.
"You helped Ruby," Miles points out. "It's the honorable thing to do. We're a pack, you know? Enobaria always says a strong pack sticks together, even when it's hard."
Until it doesn't. Until the Games turn them inside out and upside down and against each other, and the hammer that saved Finnick from being impaled is swinging at his head, trying to crush his skull. But something else Miles mentioned piques Finnick's interest.
"She's a good mentor, isn't she? Enobaria, I mean."
The ensuing pause could be interpreted a hundred different ways. Finnick elects to think Miles is judging how much is safe to share. "Of course. District Two has the best mentors in Panem."
Typical Primary arrogance. Finnick knows the best mentor in Panem, and she doesn't come from District 2. "There's never been a least favorite mentor?" Finnick presses, careful to inflect lighthearted curiosity into his tone. "Pulled from the roster because they're so disliked?"
"What are you trying to say, Four?" Miles demands. "Enough with all the cryptic questions and just ask what you want to ask. Say what you want about my district, but at least we're straightforward with one another."
Well, he can't do that. So he blurts out the next best response he can think of: "If I win, I'll be the youngest victor in the history of the Hunger Games."
"And?"
Finnick shrugs and adjusts his grip on his fishing pole. His hands are slick with perspiration. There's no time like the present for a little narrative-building. "There are still sixty-four other victors. Sixty-four, and not all of them are remembered fondly, or even remembered at all. If I win, I don't want to just be remembered for what I do here. I want my district, I want all of Panem, to say the name Finnick Odair and think of the long line of tributes I lead to victory after my own. I don't want them to remember me, I want them to remember my legacy."
Another long silence follows. "That's pretty heavy stuff for a fourteen-year-old to be thinking about," he finally says, some of the defensiveness drained from his voice. "Let me tell you something about legacies, though: Sometimes it's better if you don't know what you leave behind. If you claim it, if you cherish and encourage it, the more disappointed you'll be when it doesn't live up to your expectations."
Finnick is saved from having to answer by the erratic jerking of Miles' fishing pole. "You've hooked something!"
All animosity forgotten as Miles scrambles to pull in his line. With Finnick's help, he lands a beautiful catfish, its scales glimmering in the sun as it thrashes on the raft.
"Not bad!" Finnick says. "Here, give me your hammer."
"What for?" Miles asks.
"For this." Finnick grasps the fish and delivers a single blow to the back of its head. The fish instantly goes limp. He hefts it up so the Careers still on shore can see it clearly.
"We have our first fish of the day!" he calls.
Having overcome their fear of being ambushed by the river mutt, the others have set up camp on a relatively flat, grassy portion of the riverbank. One of them, probably Bellona, is trying to start a fire.
"This fish is enormous," Finnick says, holding it up appreciatively. "We'll only need two or three of these to feed all of us."
Miles nudges Finnick in a rare gesture of camaraderie. "Bet I can catch more fish than you."
Finnick takes Miles' assertion as a personal challenge. Miles can try all he wants, but he won't catch more fish than the tribute from District 4.
By the time they row the raft back to shore, they have filled Finnick's basket not with three, but with seven fish. Bellona managed to get a steady fire burning. Once Finnick and Miles hide the raft in some weeds, they start cooking the fish right away. Evening has begun to darken the rainforest, and the diurnal ambience giving way to nocturnal creatures resuming their harmonic chorus. It takes Finnick no time at all to construct a rack to lay the fish on. Soon, the savory stench of roasting fish drifts through the air, whetting everyone's—even Alabaster's—appetite. The fish, combined with the fruit Alabaster managed to hack down from the trees and the nuts they pried out of their shells, create a veritable feast they all dig into with relish.
"Not bad, Four," Alabaster says in an instance of rare good nature. He licks the fish oil from his fingers and reaches for a cluster of grapes.
"I've eaten a lot of fish in my time, but this has to be the best-tasting I've ever had," Miles adds. Finnick tries to imagine it: A shy, burly boy from Two retreating from the rigors of academy training to fish the mountain rivers of his village.
"We should probably get back to the Cornucopia," Bellona remarks, glancing up at the sky. "It'll be getting dark soon."
To Finnick's surprise, everyone agrees. Alabaster stomps out the fire, and they head back in the direction of the Cornucopia. But Finnick notes the predatory nature of the pack's collective gait, the anticipation hovering in the air like heady mist. The fish were only half the day's work. They aren't heading back to the Cornucopia, at least not before they've completed the day's hunt. Finnick's senses are heightened, his ears ringing with the expectation of someone, or something, making another play in the Games.
When Bellona motions for the pack to form a huddle, Finnick is ready.
"We left enough scraps and made enough noise back there at least one Callow must've heard us," she mutters. "Chances are, they'll head to the site to investigate, maybe pick through the leftovers. Two of us are going to circle around and get south of the riverside camp. One of us will approach from the north and two of us will stay here. If the Callow runs, we push them this way, straight into the sword of whoever is waiting."
The pack nods as one, eyes shining, almost thrumming with the frenetic, menacing energy of sharks falling upon school of tuna. "Me, Finnick, and Ruby will go," Bellona says. "Alabaster, Miles—you're so loud they'd hear you coming from a mile away. Spread out, keep your eyes and ears open."
A suitable situation, seeing as Finnick wants to keep Bellona close anyway. When they start back toward the river, moving as quietly as they can, Finnick stays close enough to step on Bellona's heels. While he doesn't believe her lawless enough for treachery, he doesn't want to take a chance. As far as the fear of ambushes go, he's pretty sure Bellona and Ruby are enough at odds they haven't formed an alliance against him.
Once they've reached a point suitably close to the river, Bellona motions for their attention. "You head straight for her from the south," she orders. "I'll head north." Then she disappears, silver head vanishing into the undergrowth like a fish diving into deep water. Though turning his back on Bellona seems unwise, Finnick reluctantly turns and walks south, parallel to the river. Unfortunately, traveling parallel to the river entails struggling through clumps of undergrowth thicker than kelp forests, vines and thorns and twigs seemingly determined to make their way into every orifice and cranny on his person.
"You and the little mystery boy from Two seemed to be getting on earlier," Ruby says from behind him, sounding a little breathless.
Finnick spits an errant leaf from his mouth and replies, "He's a good Career. Good tribute."
"Who cares if he's a good tribute?" Ruby snorts. "What's his story, his angle? The sullen, withdrawn mystery act is getting a bit tiresome. I expected more from him at the bloodbath. He's sort of boring, to be honest."
"Maybe he just doesn't enjoy killing," Finnick suggests. A bold claim to make, especially to a Capitol audience, but it would reflect more on Miles than Finnick.
"That's ridiculous," Ruby scoffs. "Everyone from Two loves killing. They're practically bred for it. Don't you remember who their mentors are?"
Truth be told, Finnick had expected a bit more theatricality from a tribute mentored by the victor who tore out her competition's throat with her teeth. But if she didn't mentor him... "Why do you care?" Finnick asks, inexplicable annoyance prickling his flesh. "He's quiet. It doesn't change the fact that you'll slit his throat if he gives you the chance."
Ruby makes a high-pitched noise of indignation. "As if you wouldn't," she retorts.
To this, Finnick has no witty rejoinder.
"Do you think we've gone far enough to circle back?" he asks instead. "We have to be a long way south of the camp by now."
"Let Bellona be the one to flush them out," Ruby replies scornfully. "I'm sick of following her orders. Knowing her, she's probably already moving in on whoever it is anyway. Wants to claim all the glory of another kill."
Yes, that sounds like Bellona. The only question is whether the tribute will flee back toward Miles and Alabaster, or south, into Finnick and Ruby's waiting arms. All Finnick knows is that if he had a choice between dying at Bellona's hand or by some unanticipated fiend of the rainforest, he'd choose the rainforest every time.
Finnick thinks he's prepared for whatever Bellona sends running their way. Still, he jumps when a shrill, pained scream pierces the air, silencing the clamor of nocturnal fauna settled into the background of his consciousness.
Ruby, in the process of combing her hair with her fingers, draws her short sword and moves several yards away from Finnick, head cocked. "Did you hear where it came from?"
"North," Finnick replies. "Maybe Bellona got to them already."
The conjecture has barely left his mouth when another sound cuts through the quiet, shooting a bolt of electric surprise down Finnick's spine. Bellona, cursing and shouting, voice pitched high with pain and fear. Then the same voice from before, the one who screamed, crying and shrieking in abject terror.
Finnick and Ruby pause only to share a bewildered glance before hurtling back the way they came, fumbling for their flashlights, abandoning any pretense of stealth in favor of speed.
"Bellona?" There's Miles, bellowing at the top of his lungs, crashing through the vegetation like an inebriated bear. "Bellona, where are you?"
Heart pounding more from adrenaline than physical exertion, Finnick comes to a screeching halt on the riverbank and swings the flashlight in a semicircle, searching not only for Bellona but for other signs of danger as well. What sort of mutts have the Gamemakers released tonight?
He hears her before he sees her. Splashing water, somewhere downriver. He jogs along the shore, Ruby hot on his heels, until he spots the silver head, bright as a full moon, bobbing at the edge of the river. She's still spewing a veritable lexicon of obscenities as she stumbles toward them, patches of skin not coated in mud glistening under the flashlight beam. Dark blotches stain her clothing. It takes Finnick a moment to realize they're not just mud, but blood.
"Muttations!" she snarls. Somewhere in the river, the screaming continues, though weaker and more sporadic than before. Bellona ignores it like it's nothing more than birdsong. "The Callow ran into the river—I didn't think she'd do it—and these infernal fish leapt out of the water and...they had teeth like I've never seen! Just kept biting and pulling us down—"
"You followed her into the river?" Ruby cut in, brows raised.
"She made me," Bellona snapped. "I tried to gut her with my knives and she had the nerve to try to fight back. We ended up falling off the bank into the water." In the gloaming, she's been transformed into something otherworldly, something made from mud and hunger rather than flesh and bone.
"Bellona!" Miles crashes to her side, hammer brandished, chest heaving with exertion.
"I'm all right," Bellona says, as gently as Finnick has ever heard her speak. "Miles, I'm okay."
"What happened?" Miles demands.
When Bellona opens her mouth to reply, the cannon booms.
"Ten down!" Ruby crows. "Well done, Bellona. Sort of." Her gaze flickers up and down Bellona and her disheveled appearance, and she can't stop the expression of smug superiority from stealing across her face. The satisfaction of witnessing Bellona in this mud-covered, anxious state must really be stroking Ruby's ego.
Bellona's eyes narrow, and she looks a heartbeat away from taking one of her knives and sinking it into Ruby's neck when Alabaster appears. He takes Bellona in with wide eyes that quickly light up with mirth.
"What happened to you?" he asks, more humor lacing his voice than genuine curiosity.
"Mutts," she growls. "More mutts in the river. Little fish with teeth like knives." Finnick notices her surreptitiously slide her hand over her wrist, and wonders about the extent of the injuries she's sustained.
Alabaster just cackles and slaps Miles on the back. "Imagine if you'd fallen in earlier today," he chortles. "Fish would've had enough meat to feed them for weeks."
Miles musters a tight-lipped smile—a masterclass in restraint, in Finnick's opinion. "It's a good thing we didn't," he says. "Or you would have to do without meat for the rest of the Games."
They are saved from enduring another one of Alabaster's blustering ripostes by the anthem blaring from above. A screen flickers to life bearing the Capitol seal, followed by the face of the day's only death—a scrawny twig of a girl from 12. When the anthem ends and the sky goes dark, Ruby is the first to speak.
"Shall we make camp for the night?"
Bellona bares her teeth. "I'd rather walk back into the river than spend a night sleeping out here."
"But it's a long way back to the Cornucopia," Ruby whines. "And I'm tired."
"Stay out here if you want," Miles speaks up, "but we're going back."
While it is common practice for Careers to return to the Cornucopia every night, camping elsewhere is not unheard of, especially when the arena is predictable and its elements manageable. But compared to the dark unknown of the rainforest, the Cornucopia—elevated, secluded, harboring valuable supplies just waiting to be stolen by opportunistic Callows—is a veritable fortress of safety. Finnick observes these calculations running in Ruby's head while she stands with her arms crossed, chewing on her bottom lip.
"Fine," she says. "But I'm not getting up early tomorrow. You all can go down to the river at dawn to get me breakfast."
Predictably, no one is very pleased to rise at the crack of dawn to go hunting for Callows. But sleeping the day away will win them no sympathy from the Capitol, and frankly, Finnick could do with a little sympathy. He feels like he looks: An insect bite-ridden, mud-slathered, exhausted mess. To add to their growing misery, Miles makes a disconcerting discovery while he's completing inventory of the Cornucopia's bounty.
"I think someone stole some of the supplies," he reports grimly. "A length of rope, a hatchet, and several bottles of the water-purifying tablets are gone."
Stolen supplies are a rueful inevitability in a Games without a guarded Cornucopia. But what can they do? Leave a sole Career to face the Gamemakers' wrath? Or, perhaps even more foolish, leave a duo to scheme and possibly stab the rest in the back?
"What does it matter?" Bellona replies scornfully. "They didn't get any food, and that's what matters."
They don't bother fishing this morning, eager to get the real work started and done. A quick meal of fruit and nuts is just enough to make Finnick's belly stop rumbling. He glances up at the canopy periodically now that it's daytime, searching for signs of nonindigenous inhabitants. He sees nothing, but that doesn't mean much.
"We need something to flush them out," Ruby says.
"I'm open to suggestions," Bellona snaps.
That isn't a Career job, it's a Gamemaker one. Finnick would prefer not to be on the receiving end of a Gamemaker stratagem, but he fears he may have no choice. What he wouldn't give to get just a glimpse of the Gamemakers' control room, to have a bird's eye view of all the tributes, their positions, even just a general idea arena layout...This gives him an idea.
"Hold my spear," he says, tossing it to the person closest to him. "I'll be right back."
Ignoring the others' inquiries, he begins his search. It takes him some time to find a tree tall enough to serve his purpose while also bearing enough branches to make climbing it feasible. Some of the students at the academy mocked him for dedicating so much time and effort to the agility portion of their training, but Finnick couldn't be more thankful for it now. He plants his foot in a rut he thinks might hold his shoe and hoists himself up, little by little, sweat dripping down his face and stinging his eyes.
"Let me know what you see up there!" Ruby calls in a singsong voice.
"He's just mad he's not as tall as me," Alabaster remarks to the amusement of the rest.
Finnick glances down. "And some people are just mad they don't know how to climb trees," he retorts. "Don't dip the spearhead into the mud."
Alabaster makes a rude gesture, which Finnick takes as a symbol of capitulation. When he glances back up, however, his humor is washed out by leaden, icy dread. A pair of feline eyes, too bright a green to be natural, stare down at him from its perch on a low tree bough. These eyes, Finnick realizes with increasing trepidation, are embedded to a whiskered, spotted face, which is attached to an apex predator's body, lithe and sleek and rippling with muscle. The creature has a long, thin tail, he notes somewhat unhelpfully. It swishes back and forth like that of a cat. A giant spotted cat. Then the creature does something Finnick has never seen a natural animal do before: It pulls back its lips, the corners of its maw turned up, in a gruesome, tooth-filled smile.