Forget the mouthful of teeth, the feline's expression is so unmistakably human it has to be of Gamemaker design. Which means it's a muttation. Which means Finnick is in imminent danger of death.

Finnick doesn't waste time trying to climb down. He simply twists and leaps away from the tree, praying with all his might he won't break anything when he hits the ground. Thankfully his training has not totally abandoned him, and he manages to soften the impact with a sloppy roll. Hot on his heels is the feline mutt, yowling at a volume only a cat can manage.

"Run!" It's less a word and more an exhalation, a burst of air torn from between cracked lips. The cat goes for Alabaster first, presumably because he is closest. Finnick's spear, sheared along its side, barely slows it down as it lunges at a speed Finnick didn't previously think was naturally possible, maw gaping, paws extended, eyes alight with ravenous savagery. It manages to sink its teeth into Alabaster's shoulder before Ruby diverts it with a stab to the abdomen. The mutt cries out and the sound is so pained, so unambiguously human Ruby freezes for a moment, eyes wide with shock. Then she snaps back, face contorted in a snarl rivaling that of the mutt as she slices it again with her sword. A flume of crimson made bright by oxygenated blood arcs through the air. Its carotid neatly severed, the beast slumps to the ground, mouth stained with Alabaster's blood.

Then the whole rainforest is screaming in agony, split open by the piercing wails of more mutts descending from the trees. Six—one for each of them—wearing the grotesque grins of Gamemaker fiends.

"Finnick, look out!"

Finnick has just enough time to prop up his spear, to jam it between the ribs of the mutt leaping at him from behind. He wrenches the spear free and turns, narrowly missing Miles' eye in the process. The mutt screeches as it writhes in its death throes, drawn out and drenched in anguish. and a nauseating spike of horror shoots through Finnick when his brain registers what he's hearing:

DIE. He's never heard anything more unsettling in his entire life. All around him, the dead beast's companions take up its ear-piercing chorus, each making the same, macabre demand.

DIE.

Who needs Claudius Templesmith when you have muttations, the truest, most effective mouthpieces of Capitol intent in the whole arena? Die, the mutts command. Not only is death your duty, it is your destiny. And these mutts aren't just harbingers, they are the Capitol's mightiest soldiers, their sharpest sword, dispassionate to every whim and appeal except to those built into them. Apart from other tributes, Finnick isn't sure he can name a greater threat to his survival.

"The river!" Finnick shouts. Why, he's not sure, but water is his default. Water is his safe haven when all else fails. If nothing else, it'll keep the mutts from surrounding them on all sides.

Then he's hurtling through the jungle like an arrow shot from Bellona's bow, numb to the vegetation whipping his skin, roots catching and clawing at his feet, trying to trip him. He's vaguely aware of Bellona racing along beside him, nimble and swift as a dolphin leaping amidst the ocean's waves.

Then a new sound rattles the trees, so powerful it drowns out the battle cries of the mutts and shakes the ground beneath him: A terrific clap of thunder. Almost before the noise has faded from his ears, a torrential downpour spews from the sky, so sudden it's like the Gamemakers have opened a vault in the firmament to let all its stores flood the earth at once. Finnick is instantly soaked, rain trickling down his face and mingling with his sweat, making its way into his nostrils every time he sucks in a breath. The water streams into his eyes as well, blinding him, rendering him virtually defenseless against the monsters chasing him down.

He's so focused on the mutts he doesn't see the drop looming in front of him until it's too late. His knees buckle and his feet scrabble for purchase on the rain-slick ground, then he's tumbling down a steep incline, head over heels, every inch of him beaten and vulnerable and raw. He hardly has time to mourn the loss of his spear, yanked from his grip in the fray—it's all he can do to protect his head and neck from serious trauma without a pointed weapon in his hand.

At some point, the slope's incline lessens enough for Finnick to get his feet beneath him again. He springs up, ankle-deep in tribute-hungry mud, and casts his gaze wildly about, half-expecting a mutt to come flying at him from behind. But there is no mutt.

Gasping for air, Finnick tries to clear some of the sludge from his face with an equally filthy arm and immediately abandons the effort, eyes stinging. He needs fresh water. He needs to get to the river, mutts or not.

Finnick more stumbles over Miles than finds him. He's lying on the ground, slathered in mud and shaking like it's freezing. A mutt has made short work of his flesh, leaving behind a series of oozing gashes that span his upper back and some of his chest. His shirt is in tatters.

"Miles!" Finnick kneels and grabs Miles' shoulder, fearing the worst.

"Leave me," he moans, eyes squeezed shut. He tries to curl into a ball, but the action tugs at his wounds and he stops, suspended in the middle of movement like a doll. "I'm not going to make it. I was never going to make it..."

"It's not that bad," Finnick says, though he's not sure if it's true. "Come on, get up. We have to move before someone finds us."

"Just let me die," Miles growls, eyes flying open. Finnick is struck by the ferocity of his gaze. "As long as one of us makes it, they'll be happy. I don't care if it's me."

Whether Miles is delirious from pain or blood loss, Finnick doesn't really care. He plants the butt of his spear in the ground, spits out a mouthful of rainwater and grit, and snaps, "If I leave you and Bellona finds me, she's going to think I killed you. Then we're going to have to fight. You think I can't beat her?"

"No one can beat Bellona," Miles mumbles, glaring up at him sullenly. "That's why she's here."

"She hasn't fought me yet." Finnick holds Miles' gaze, unwavering. "You want to take the risk? Be my guest. But I don't think whoever 'they' is will be very happy if she doesn't make it."

Apparently this is enough to goad Miles into action. He lets Finnick help him to his feet, groaning as he shifts from lying to sitting, then from sitting to standing.

"Thank you," he mutters, shaking water from his eyes. Finnick in all his vanity envies him briefly, with his buzzcut and the lack of equipment bogging him down. Finnick, bearing a utility vest, backpack, and a head full of wavy hair, feels more sodden than a wet dog.

"You saved my life, I saved yours," Finnick replies. He reaches into his muddy backpack and pulls out his extra spear, linking the collapsible pieces together until it's as tall and straight as the first. "Now we're even." What this implies Finnick does not speak aloud.

"Where do you think Bellona ran off to?" Miles asks.

"Her exact location? I'm not sure. But the mutts drove us all down into this valley." Finnick adjusts his grip on his new spear, runs his other hand subconsciously over the knives strapped to his chest. "Stay on your guard. There must be other tributes down here."

In this rain, they could stumble into anything or anyone. Finnick shudders at the thought of engaging in hand-to-hand combat in this mess, with the rain and mud making everything ten times harder than usual. "We need to get back to higher ground," he says. While Miles regains his bearings, Finnick surveys this new battlefield carefully. The downpour makes seeing anything more than a few meters away almost impossible, but Finnick can still make out something dark and long snaking between the trees.

"The river is that way." He points in its direction. "We can't go back the way we came unless we want to run into those mutts again. "I say we go upstream until we find someplace easier to climb."

"Have you seen Ruby or Alabaster?" Miles asks. "Last I saw, Alabaster got bit by one of those spotted panthers."

"I didn't hear the cannon go off," Finnick replies. Though that doesn't mean much; in this deluge, a foghorn could've been wailing and Finnick would have been none the wiser. "Let's get out of here, then worry about everyone else, all right?"

Their journey ends up being as grimy and dismal as Finnick had imagined it would be. Every step is bogged down by thick sludge, which swiftly creeps from their ankles up to their knees. The rain seeps through Finnick's skin, permeating every crack and crevice of his person until he's sure he'll never be dry again.

"At least we won't have to worry about finding water," Miles remarks. Thunder rolls ominously overhead.

"I'd rather like to get out of it, if it's all the same to the Gamemakers." Finnick glances up at the sky, gray slivers of it visible through the ceiling of green and brown overhead. "I wonder if—"

Finnick, with all his training, doesn't see the tribute buried in the mud. He doesn't see his hand until it's too late, until he's sprawling on the ground and a boy is clambering on top of him, hatchet in hand. In his only hand.

Forget training: There's no room for anything in Finnick's body except fear, potent and animal, coursing through his veins like wildfire. He bucks violently, throwing the boy off balance, scrabbling for his spear—

Miles has it, about to drive it into the Callow's body, when the traitorous mud jerks his feet out from under him and he goes down, body and curses spilling into the mire in equal measure. Evidently realizing he's outmatched, the boy abandons his ambush and takes off, stumbling more than running into a tangle of dense foliage ahead.

Still sprawled in the morass, Finnick unsheathes one of his knives and flings it at the boy with a frustrated growl. The boy ducks behind a tree, and the knife sails harmlessly past him. Then, to Finnick's astonishment, he turns and begins scampering up the tree, limber and quick as a squirrel. It's one of those rats from Seven, the one without the hand.

"Get back here," Finnick growls. He sticks a knife between his teeth and paces the ground beneath the trunk. If this pathetic twig of a Callow can climb the tree, so could he.

"Finnick! Look!"

An intractable spike of annoyance hits Finnick then, and he's on the brink of telling Miles off when he hears it: A dull roar, like the sound of waves crashing against the shore but constant, akin to the hum of a ship's engine. He knows what it is before he sees it, surging toward them with the fury of a hurricane. A flash flood, capable of leveling houses and forests and destroying every life it touches.

Finnick doesn't make it two meters up the tree when the flood pummels him, yanking him off the tree like a tick off a dog.

Given District 4's reputation, one might assume its tributes would be more prepared for flooding than others. Truthfully, as Finnick gets washed away by the current, helpless as a feather carried by the wind, he's never felt less in control in his life. It takes everything he has not to panic, to conserve his energy and not thrash and scream as a Callow might. He remains calm enough to hold his breath when his head dips under, and suck in a breath when he manages to break the surface. As the current whips Finnick along, leaving him entirely at the mercy of the flood and its whims, he has only one thought:

So this is what it feels like to be a Callow. This is what it's like to have no control over your life or where it's headed.

The current is so impossibly strong, Finnick could fight it until his limbs gave out and his efforts would make no difference. The flood is a muttation in and of itself, terribly violent and dreadfully unbiased. The flood doesn't care whether he's charming and highly trained and a boy of only fourteen; it will dash him against a tree or fill his lungs with water as soon as it will the next Callow it finds.

He hates it. He hates every second. He has no idea where Miles got swept off to, and frankly he doesn't much care. What if he gets trapped under a root or tree branch and is unable to escape? What if he hits something and gets knocked unconscious? What if this is the end: The grand finale to a brief and lackluster Hunger Games? Against his will, Finnick feels himself inhaling water. He coughs, flails, tries to regain his composure.

Calm down, Mags' voice commands in his head. You're a smart boy. If you keep your wits about you, you can get out of anything.

Finnick exhales forcefully, shooting water out of his nose. When the floodwater swells, he lets it pull him into its embrace, his entire body limp and loose as a piece of kelp.

You have to trust the water, Finn. His mother is standing next to him, teaching him how to float in the ocean water outside their home. You have to trust it won't let you drown. It knows you, and as long as you respect it, heed its warnings, you will not be harmed.

It was a comforting thought when he was five, floating on a tranquil ocean with his mother there to bail him out if he began to sink. Here, amidst raging floodwaters and hazards lurking around every corner, it is less reassuring.

Just as panic starts to burn, fiery and urgent, at the base of his lungs, he feels himself rise, feels the current beneath him like a wave, pushing him up. He lifts his head and sucks in a shallow breath, shutting his eyes against the droplets spraying his face. Then he goes under again. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces his body to obey his mind's commands. Hold your breath, relax, lift your head, breath. Lather, rinse, repeat.

It feels like an age before the current begins to slow. Waterlogged and utterly exhausted, Finnick tries to touch the bottom and finds himself chest-deep in rushing water, being intermittently pushed along by the current. He lets himself be tugged along by it, though it's much weaker than before. If he wanted to, he could probably move against it.

Any natural disaster that occurs within the Games is not natural at all. The Gamemakers are setting them up for something; Whatever it is, he's going to be woefully unprepared; not only has he lost his spear, but his hatchet and one of his knives are missing as well.

At least it's stopped raining. Finnick trudges along, trying to recover his bearings. Obviously, the flood swept him downstream, opposite of the way he wanted to go. Should he try to wait until the water goes down and backtrack to the Cornucopia? Or should he abandon the alliance altogether and strike out on his own? The only advantage the Primaries offered were numbers. There's a reason fish always travel in schools. But Finnick is no fish, dull and frightful, vulnerable to whatever predator lurks in the ocean's shadowy depths. Still, he can't help but long for the security of a pack, the surety of knowing someone else has his back if circumstances turn sour. If he's being honest, he misses their companionship as well. Ruby and her teasing, Miles and his quiet support—even Alabaster and his blustering. He supposes it's too much to hope they were all wiped out by the flood. A Career who can't swim isn't much of a Career at all.

A rippling of the water makes Finnick jump, knife brandished, but it's only some sort of giant furry pig, its broad snout and slitted eyes peeping above the surface. At first, Finnick considers killing the creature then and there, but when he starts toward it, it skirts away, huffing indignantly.

"All right then." Finnick would gain nothing from killing the creature, not even a meal, when there's no way for him to cook it. "You probably are just as miserable as I am, huh?"

The creature, of course, doesn't answer. In fact, it seems to be fairing pretty well, all things considered. Finnick wishes he could say the same thing about himself. All he can do is keep plodding on and hope that whatever tribute or mutt he encounters is weaker or dumber than he is. He watches the current and chooses his path according, electing to head diagonally against the current, so he doesn't tire himself out too quickly while still moving to higher ground. Gradually, the water level recedes to waist height and Finnick can move more quickly, though every step is a battle against the mud sucking on his shoes like it wants to eat him. Slogging through the mud saps even his indefatigable spirit, and he finds himself pausing often to ease the burning ache in his limbs and the sedimentary weariness grating away at his resolve.

During one of his rest periods, he opens his backpack to pull out his extra spear, only to find its shaft wobbly, unsubstantial, and unfit for use as a walking stick—a poor substitute for the robust weapon he'd dropped earlier. Suppressing a grimace, he folds the thing up and tosses it back into his bag. He should've tried to cram another spear into his backpack before he left the Cornucopia, but there hadn't been enough room for some of the larger, sturdier options. Serves him right for being so lackadaisical about his supplies.

"Finnick!" Even if Ruby's voice wasn't shrill and jarring, Finnick still would have jumped. He whirls around to face the source of the voice, heart jumping feebly in his chest.

"Ruby!" Why is he so relieved to see her? He shouldn't be so relieved. Even so, Finnick begins slogging toward her, holding his arms above the water to minimize his body's resistance. The water is nearly up to Ruby's chest, making movement much more difficult for her. She closes the distance between them by swimming rather than walking.

"Lost my sword in the flood," she says breathlessly. "How are we supposed to fight each other now? With our bare hands?"

Finnick can only imagine the audience's excitement at the prospect of it: No weapons, no mutts—only fists and teeth and will against iron will.

"Where's Alabaster?" Finnick can't help but ask.

Ruby's expression darkens, tightens with worry. "He got away from the mutts. I saw him. And I haven't heard a cannon go off, though it could've and I just didn't hear it."

"I'm sure he's holed up somewhere, waiting out the flood," Finnick assures her. "He can swim, right?"

"Of course," Ruby says scornfully. That'll teach him to try to show any sympathy for his fellow Careers.

"You know, a raft would be nice!" Ruby raises her voice to a shout, not directed at Finnick but at the omniscient powers that be. "Preferably one we don't have to build ourselves!"

Oh, the raft. A half day's worth of arduous labor, washed away in a matter of minutes. Finnick doubts he'll ever find the raft again, at least in one piece. The pack separated, his spear missing, his raft destroyed—a sudden urge to duck his head underwater and scream until he can scream no longer bursts inside his chest. But the Capitol doesn't want to see his despair. They want a hero, someone who is fighting to get home to his family no matter the trial or tribulation thrown his way.

"Come on, Ruby," Finnick wheedles, pleased to find himself mustering up a teasing grin. His hands absently skirt the water's surface in a circle, both soothing and distressing simultaneously. "Where's your sense of fun?"

"'Fun'?" Ruby echoes indignantly. "I'll show you fun!" Finnick braces himself for a blow, a knife strike or a jab to the throat, but all Ruby does is splash him with handful of water.

Finnick finds himself grinning, expressing the water from his face with a single swipe of his palm. "Are you serious?"

Ruby lifts her chin. She crosses her arms over her chest even though they're half-submerged. "As death."

"As death huh?" In one fluid movement, Finnick sweeps Ruby off her feet and throws her over his shoulder. "Still feeling serious now?"

"Stop it!" she shrieks amidst a bout of giggles and squirming. "I am a tribute from District One, Finnick Odair, and you will put me down right this instant!"

"Okay." Finnick heaves her over his shoulder, and she falls headfirst into the water with a surprised yelp. She surfaces barely a second later, sputtering and quivering with indignation. She splashes him again when he laughs. "What are you laughing at? I'm not funny."

"You can't see yourself right now, or you'd take that back," Finnick responds. "You've got some sort of weed in your hair."

Ruby exclaims in disgust and paws at her head.

"Why are you so obsessed with your hair?" Finnick asks. "It's just going to get messed up again anyway."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand the hardships and pitfalls of manufactured perfection," Ruby replies bitterly.

"All perfection is manufactured," Finnick counters. His time spent behind Capitol walls has more than proven it.

"Maybe, but it's easier for some than others." Ruby glances at him as she pulls a long strand of vegetation from behind her ear, resentment darkening her gaze. "No amount of mud and weeds and sweat could make you less pretty. Even if it did, no one would care. Boys are supposed to be dirty and nasty. Girls aren't. I'm not."

"That's not fair," Finnick concedes. "I think you're...Wait a second." He tilts his head, a smile creeping over his face. "Did you just call me pretty?"

"What?" Ruby throws up her hands exasperatedly. "It's not like it's a big secret or anything."

"I'm just glad you're finally willing to admit it." Finnick offers her his elbow in an old-fashioned gesture of camaraderie. "Well, madam, if you don't mind, I'm ready to get out of this mess. Care to join me?"

"Finnick Odair"—Ruby takes his elbow, ever the proper lady—"I would love to."