That night, there are no faces in the sky when the anthem plays. Peering through a large patch in the canopy created by the terrain's elevation, Finnick and Caspia lean against the cliff face and watch the seal of Panem hover in the sky through a large patch in the canopy, then disappear without preamble.
"We should probably get moving," Finnick says. He can sense Caspia eyeing him and elects not to reciprocate in kind, choosing instead to keep his head tilted up to the sky, which is considerably less severe. "It's been a day since the last death. They'll be out for blood now."
He looks at Caspia then, regarding her as steadily as his nerves will allow. They have a single flashlight between them, bur Finnick doesn't feel the need to waste the batteries by shining the light on her. The moon is pure and radiant tonight, dousing them in its soft silver glow. It doesn't matter how much wealth and luxury the Capitol accrues; they will always have the same moon, the same sun and sky and stars, as the rest of Panem. The heavens are one thing the Capitol cannot take away from them. Finnick clings to the thought like a life preserver.
"Finnick…" There's no anger in Caspia now. If there were, it would be easier for Finnick to look away. Instead, an exasperated resignation has taken its place, like she saw this confrontation coming and dreaded it.
"Are you with me?" This is how it should have been; this is how Finnick would have it over any other alliance.
Caspia tilts her head. "What if I say no? Is it a battle to the death for the tributes from District Four?"
There have been at least two Games in the past Finnick can remember featuring death matches between tributes from the same district. To be honest, the odds are so stacked in favor of the Career districts Finnick is surprised it doesn't happen more often. But both Games feature heavily in reruns and are a prominent topic of Capitol reminiscence. This, Finnick decides, will not become one of those Games.
"I'm going to do this with or without you," Finnick says. "But it would be…it would be better if you'd do it with me."
Caspia chuckles, shifting slightly. "You don't want me as your ally," she says. "They almost kicked me out of school so many times, you have no idea. I was a stubborn, contrary little brat. I'm not…good like you."
Good? The notion, the illusion of goodness being remotely involved in the Hunger Games makes an incredulous spurt of laughter bubble up in Finnick's throat. He swallows it down with some difficulty and replies, "You don't know what I am. And you know goodness doesn't win the Games."
Caspia, for all her frankness and apathy, doesn't know what it is to drive her spear between the ribs of another living being. She doesn't know what it is to look into the eyes of a dying girl and bear the ultimate burden of her death. She doesn't know what it is to forgo all of her beliefs, everything she's ever been proud of, for the sake of saving her own skin. If the Hunger Games were won on virtue, there would be no Career victors.
"I guess good wasn't the right word," Caspia concedes, picking absently at the fibers of the net in her lap. "I just…I'm not built for destiny or bigger and better things or any of the stuff you fight for. I'm scum from the Trench, and that's all I'll ever be—no crown or riches will ever change that. You, you're Mags's boy. Not one person will look at you and deny the rightness of a crown on your head. You were born for this." She flings a hand out at the arena, at the tributes still roaming and the mutts still lurking and the crown still waiting for a head. Finnick's head.
"I made myself into this," Finnick corrects. "This is the life I chose, and now I have to survive it." Volunteer or not, he wanted this chance. There's no point in denying it. Whether it was by fate or the clandestine schemes of human minds, Finnick ended up in the arena, and he's going to do everything in his power to make sure he leaves it still breathing.
"Like it or not, you have a choice, too," he continues. "I'm not going to try to convince you either way." In all honesty, he truly expects Caspia to refuse, to pack her things and head off on her own again. Were he in her stead, were he the dirt-poor son of a nobody who'd been scorned and neglected by forces undeniably capable of doing otherwise, he can't say he'd do any differently. So genuine surprise illuminates the spaces between his ribs when Caspia says,
"I'll go."
"Are you sure?" Finnick persists. "If you're coming with me, there's no more running and hiding for you. You're in this to win. You're not a bystander, here. You're my ally."
Caspia nods. Though Finnick can't make out much more than the shape of her face, he can sense her newfound resolve, her dedication to the people she thinks of as family. "I'm not doing it for you," she replies. "And I'm not doing it for the district."
A subconscious grin makes its way across Finnick's face. "I'm glad to have you anyway."
"I'll join you on one condition."
"What?"
"Can we at least wait until morning? I want one last night." Her tone isn't wheedling like an infant, but laced with bone-deep fatigue, an exhaustion Finnick feels woven into the fibers of his own being. He's only fourteen, too young to feel so weary. But he is, and his work still isn't finished.
Finnick's first impulse is to refuse. A passive Career is a dead Career, Mags would say, and he is inclined to believe her. But it's only been one day since the last death, and everyone has been driven into the ground by a constant barrage of attacks since day one of the Games. Surely the Capitol's voracious appetite for entertainment has been sated, at least for now. At least for one more night. "Fine. I'll take first watch."
He senses rather than sees her surprise. "Wake me up whenever you start to get tired," she says.
"Me, tired?" Finnick scoffs. "I've never been tired a day in my life."
Even though Caspia's expression is cloaked in shadow, he's positive she rolls her eyes as she starts back toward the cliffside. "Poor Finnick Odair, can't stand being out of the spotlight for more than a day."
"Come on," Finnick says cajolingly. He gives her a friendly clap on the back, then collapses his spear and tucks it between his teeth. He'll need both hands to make it back up to the grotto. How he managed to make it up to the hiding spot while wracked with ant venom, he'll never know. "It'll be fun. The tributes of District Four back together again: Will they end up vanquishing their enemies…or each other? Makes for a good pre-show teaser, don't you think?"
"Finnick?"
"Yes?"
"Don't slap me."
Boom.
The thunderous report of the cannon has a visceral, almost violent effect on Finnick's body. His head snaps up, heart pounding, fingers curling around the nearest weapon. Shifted instinctively into a low crouch, Finnick creeps to the edge of the grotto and peers out.
Outlined by gray morning light, Caspia sits on a ledge outside the grotto, her spear resting against the cliffside, her nimble fingers tweaking and repairing sections of her net. "Sleep well?"
Finnick grunts, listening for mutts, residual screams—anything to identify the unseen tribute's killer. "Did you hear the cannon?" He runs his fingers compulsively down the row of knives tucked under his utility vest, relishing their deadly weight.
Caspia frowns. "No. Did you?"
Did he? He was so certain he'd heard it, but now that he thinks back, he's unsure if the sound had been real or a figment of his overactive imagination.
"It's nothing," Finnick says, waving his hand dismissively. "I thought I heard the cannon."
"Oh, you can't hear anything in there," Caspia says, confirming Finnick's suspicion. "Makes for a pretty restful sleep."
"Really though, I wonder if anyone died during the night." Finnick reaches out and splashes his face with handfuls of river water, washing away the vestiges of sleep. The impact of the waterfall is twofold: While microphones likely can't pick up their speech, they can't hear anything either.
"I guess we'll find out later," Caspia says, settling back on the ledge she's situated on.
Finnick, however, grabs his canteen and both of their backpacks from the grotto and moves to join her, ignoring the mist rapidly accumulating on his clothes. "Or we could find out right now."
Caspia is already shaking her head, rubbing a weary hand over her face. "But we're safe here."
"For how long?" Finnick balances on his haunches, planting the butt of his spear on the ground for support. "The pack isn't planning on going back to the Cornucopia. They're going to be looking for a new headquarters, and it won't be long until they find this place. You want to be sitting here, cracking coconuts open when it happens?"
Caspia shakes her head, looking more uncertain than Finnick had ever seen her. "I know what's out there. I don't want any part in it."
"It's too late for that," Finnick says. This time, the words come out sharper than he intended, honed by frustration and, if he's being honest, a healthy dose of fear. When Caspia's eyes narrow, he's quick to soften his tone to something more amenable. "Whether you like it or not, you became a part of this the second you volunteered."
"To protect my siblings," Caspia protests. "To keep them away from here, and nothing more."
"I'm not saying we're going out there to eviscerate people," Finnick says. "I just want to know what's happening. You told me you were with me. Have you changed your mind?" Finnick is dismayed to feel his stomach churn at the thought, nerves humming with the nauseating possibility of an alliance broken in a matter of hours.
Caspia is still, clearly mulling over Finnick's argument in her mind. Then she groans, takes her backpack from Finnick's proffered hand, and starts making her way down the path to the ground. "What happens if we make it through all this?" she grumbles. "You ready to kill me for your precious crown?"
"Chances are, one of us will be dead before it's a problem," Finnick replies. And somehow, the notion is a comfort.
Picking their way through the dense, hostile flora of the rainforest, Finnick has plenty of time to appreciate the wide-open beaches of his home and miss them dearly. He misses the mild weather, free of the cloying humidity endemic to this arena. He misses the clean white sand and the waves and the endless blue ocean, flourishing with life and possibility. His misses his parents and Mags and even his snobby classmates at the academy. They're probably watching him right now, hacking through foliage, covered in sweat and dirt and who knows what else, wondering if it'll be him or Caspia to fall next. They're probably taking bets, just like the Capitolites.
When they stop to take a break, sipping precious coconut water from their canteens, Caspia finally poses the question:
"I'm imagining at some point you're going to tell me your grand master plan, and all of this will make perfect sense."
"To find a Career, you have to think like a Career," Finnick replies. "If you were the Primaries, and it had been days since your last good meal, what would you do?"
"I'd focus my time on gathering food and water," Caspia answers. "Which they've probably done over the past day or so while they aired a eulogy and recap for the boy from Eight."
Finnick points his spear at her in agreement. "Chances are they don't know about the water in the coconuts, so their only other option is the river."
Caspia nods. "And we don't want to walk along the bank out in the open, so we're cutting through the mess instead. If we hurry, we might get to see one of them eaten by a caiman."
"A what?"
"Caiman. It's the water lizard with the long snout and all the teeth."
It takes Finnick a moment to work out what Caspia is referring to: The river mutt from the first day, the one that killed at least one tribute and almost killed Ruby. "How did you—"
"Mercer, my stylist," Caspia responds. "I wore boots made of caiman skin for my interview. When I asked what a caiman was, he showed me a picture. The hide was tough and bumpy, sort of like turtle skin but thicker. The thing is huge, too, longer than you are tall."
Finnick had been so caught up in how silly he may or may not have looked he totally ignored pretty much everyone else, including Caspia. He's greatly underestimated his district partner. The realization of it crashes over him, leaden and vaguely alarming.
"Anyway, I was thinking we could do the old fire-and-smoke trick," Finnick says. "We just need something to cook so it stinks up the arena, brings hungry tributes in to investigate."
Caspia nods. "We can try fishing, but we'll have to be careful. You see how high and fast the river is?"
The Gamemakers must've dumped more water into the riverbed, because Capsia's observation rings true: Compared to yesterday, the river has swollen nearly to the point of flooding the banks, whisking its cargo along at a speed Finnick knows could tear a careless tribute off their feet. The banks rise high and steep as well, more clearly precarious than the flat, muddy banks further downstream. One wrong step and a tribute could easily tumble into the river and drown.
They pick their way along the banks until they find a spot suitable for accessing the river. Hidden by the gulch's walls, they comb the banks for crabs and crayfish—anything they might be able to roast over a fire. Caspia finds a dead fish washed up on the shore and adds it to their collection at Finnick's insistence.
"It doesn't have to be good," Finnick says. "Just smelly."
It takes some time with the river running so high, but by the time the midmorning sun pierces through the trees, they've gathered a distinctly unappetizing assortment of crustaceans, river kelp, and insects to prepare. To dress things up a bit, Finnick climbs a couple of trees and gathers some fruit for their actual consumption.
Even though it goes against all of his training, Finnick gathers supplies to make a large fire. Once he has arranged the green twigs and leaves into a structure capable of maintaining a good blaze, he stands and puts his hands on his hips. "Now the question is, which of us is going to hide, and which of us is going to sit here and light the fire?"
Caspia throws a half-eaten banana on the ground and hefts her weapons noncommittally. While Finnick was busy gathering firewood, she constructed herself another magnificent net out of strong, supple vines pulled down from the trees. Finnick can't help but admire her resourcefulness. With her net and spear in hand, Caspia will make a deadly opponent to any who dares cross her. "I don't really care either way."
Of course she doesn't. Finnick feels it's rather unfair that the onus of leadership has been placed on him when he knows Caspia is perfectly capable of stepping into the role herself. "Fine. I'll stay and get the fire going. You stand guard and make sure no one is sneaking up on me. If nothing happens once fire's going good and hot, I'll go and hide over there"—he points at a clump of rushes next to the riverbank—"and when a tribute approaches, hem them in between ourselves and the river. The tribute either faces us or the river."
A grape skin plops on the ground next to the banana peel. "What if there's more than one of them?"
"We each take one and hope for the best?"
"Finnick…"
"No, really. Bellona's the only one with a bow. I'll distract her, run down her supply of arrows. You take her down with your net. If it's Ruby and Alabaster, I'll take Alabaster, you take Ruby. Two against two, I'd say we have a pretty good chance."
"And if it's all three?"
Finnick shrugs. "I guess we get to choose whether we want to stand and fight or run and live to die another day." He crouches, ready to set their trap, but Caspia's voice stops him short.
"How will I know if you're in trouble?"
He's silent for a moment, then looks up at Caspia with a smirk. "You'll hear a high-pitched, drawn-out scream of terror."
Even from his limited vantage point, Finnick can tell Caspia is fighting the urge to smile back. "I wasn't aware you were capable of feeling fear."
Finnick's grin widens. "I wasn't talking about me."
Caspia heaves an exaggerated sigh. "I'm going out there," she says, gesturing in the opposite direction of the river. "If you hear a seagull cry, it's a warning that someone is coming."
Regardless of socioeconomic or residency status, everyone in District 4 is familiar with the raucous cry of the seagull. Winged rats, Finnick's father would call them. Hearing one of them would be entirely out of place in a rainforest like this, but only a tribute from District 4 would recognize the abnormality of its presence here.
"Fine." Finnick turns back to the stack of branches to confront the difficult task of setting it aflame.
It turns out lighting a fire in a rainforest is more challenging than Finnick had anticipated. Everything seems perpetually damp here, and there were no fire-starting kits provided by the Cornucopia. That's when he hears the glorious chirp of a parachute, and looks up to see it drifting down from above.
"Thank you," he murmurs aloud, and rips open the container to find a single match. He picks it up like it's made of gold and turns back to his fire. With the help of the single flame the match produces, Finnick gets a good little fire burning in no time, sending a thick plume of putrid black smoke billowing high into the air. Feeling rather pleased with himself, Finnick stands back and brushes off his hands. Now to find a nice hiding spot to wait for—
Boom.
Finnick's heart drops to his ankles. He has just enough self-control not to call out Caspia's name, to instead start in her direction with his spear raised, every sense heightened and screaming. Fight! a part of him demands. Flight! says the other. There is nothing apparent to fight other than his urge to give into the opposite instinct. Already his mind races into overdrive, rapidly constructing a series of images involving his district partner and her gory demise. Caspia impaled by a half dozen arrows. Caspia bleeding out on the ground. Caspia calling for help too late, his name mingled with the last breath slipping from her lips.
Then something grasps the arm holding his spear, claps a hand over his mouth, and drags him into a thicket of weeds. Before Finnick can cry out, he realizes Caspia looms above him, eyes bright with adrenaline.
Look, she mouths, and points at their trap.
Still lying half in Caspia's lap, Finnick twists his head around enough to see a boy creep out of the weeds near the river. Within a week, the arena has stolen what little fat and muscle he might have possessed: Now, he's so thin it's pitiful, barely more than a framework of bones poking against taut, peeling skin. He slinks over to the pile of scraps Finnick and Caspia had left and begins consuming it indiscriminately, hollow, animal eyes gazing out over a gaping, ravenous mouth. Why doesn't he hide? Finnick wonders. He just heard the cannon go off. Evidently he's so hungry he doesn't care.
Killing him won't even be entertaining. It'll be like putting a sick dog out of its misery.
Turns out, Finnick won't even have the chance.
He doesn't see the arrow, doesn't hear it fly out of nowhere and embed itself in the boy's side. Caspia flinches so violently Finnick spills sideways, but he doesn't right himself immediately. Instead, he finds Caspia's ankle and grips it, caught between moving into a defendable position and a prey-like fear of being discovered. The boy cries out and lurches backward, fleeing some invisible attacker.
Who could it be except Bellona, who has the only access to a premade bow in the whole arena? Indeed, when she emerges from behind a dense copse of trees, she seems to step out of legend itself, manifesting from some mythical otherworld to exact vengeance upon her enemies.
"It's just you and me now," she says softly. "Go ahead and run."
And he does. Pitching forward, almost losing his balance before scrambling to his feet, terrified animal noises and Bellona trailing in his wake.
Why do they always flee? Finnick wonders. Surely, it's not because they think they have a chance.
Bellona pauses, adjusts her stance, looses another arrow at an astounding speed. This one hits the boy's shoulder, and he gives a last forlorn wail before toppling sideways. Then he flounders, his foot catching on a rock or root, and he disappears over the bank. Bellona curses and begins jogging downstream, bow poised for action at her side.
Finnick lets out a long breath and smacks his lips, realizing his mouth is terribly dry. The poor fool must've fallen into the river. Then he looks over at Caspia, Caspia who is rising to her feet, about to burst from their hiding place and make their presence known to everyone in the arena.
"Caspia!" Finnick hisses, impulsively seizing her by the arm. "Stop!" She ignores him, trying to barrel forward with his hand still wrapped around her wrist.
"Stop!" This time, Finnick has to jerk her back with some force. "What are you doing? Get down!"
"That boy is in trouble!" Caspia says. "I could—"
Carefully, making as little noise as possible, Finnick transfers himself into a crouch. "You could what? Drown with him? He's going to die anyway."
Eyes flashing defiantly, Caspia opens her mouth to reply. Then she ducks down, tense with a fresh surge of alarm.
Through the foliage, Finnick can make out Bellona poised mid-stride, head cocked, fingers curled around her bowstring. For a brief, horrific moment, Finnick is sure she's spotted them. Then, just as Finnick is about to shoot out of the weeds and engage her in combat, she spins on her heel and sprints off after the boy, her white-blonde head bobbing amid a sea of green until it disappears altogether.
Caspia sighs, shoulders dropping in relief.
"What is your problem?" Finnick snaps in a barely contained whisper. His heart is pounding so hard he's sure Caspia can hear it. "You could've gotten us killed."
"We could've taken her down," Caspia protests.
"How do you know One isn't waiting nearby to ambush us?" Finnick growls, grip tightening reflexively around his spear. "You wouldn't know, because you're too busy worrying about the stupid Callow to think about—"
"I'm sorry, all right?" Caspia snaps. "She's gone now. You can calm down."
"'Calm down'?" Finnick echoes incredulously. "We could've been shot and you're telling me to 'calm down'?" He wipes a hand over his eyes, giving himself a moment to corral his racing thoughts and emotions. Caspia's right; he is unduly angry about this, but the real reason for his outburst is fear, plain and simple. If he stripped down every one of his decisions he's made since the beginning of the Games, it's ultimately been driven by either hunger or fear. Fear for himself, and now, fear for Caspia as well.
It's this understanding that affords him the composure to continue speaking in a calmer tone. "If you want to be my ally, be my ally. We need to make sure we're not being stalked, then we're going to follow Bellona. See if we can salvage one Career death out of this mess."
Boom.
Caspia shudders visibly, every inch of her formidable physique motionless and limp as a stunned fish, all of the fight drained out of her.
"See? He's dead now." Finnick sticks his hand through the dense vegetation, peering out in the opposite direction of the river.
Still, Caspia shakes her head. "He didn't deserve to drown."
"He could've been the reason we both died," Finnick says shortly.
"He didn't deserve to die," Caspia insists. Her persistence only irritates Finnick further.
"You'd save him at the expense of your own life?" Finnick asks, flinging his hand in the direction Bellona had gone. "We've got more people to think about than just this arena. Their dignity isn't worth your life."
"So they should all die horrible painful deaths?" Caspia raises her hand, and for a moment Finnick thinks she might strike him. "They deserve to live too, Finnick!"
It's such an un-Career thing to say, Finnick can only stare.
"Don't tell me who deserves what," Caspia says in a low voice. "You don't get to make that call. Not here, not with me."
For what might be the first time in his life, Finnick is struck speechless. No one, not his parents, not even Mags has ever addressed him with such ruthless ferocity. Her words, though uttered softly, cut through Finnick's defenses and hit him squarely in the chest, breathtaking. "I'm just trying to do the right thing," he finally replies, trying not to let the wound Caspia has inflicted bleed into his tone.
"'Right thing'?" Caspia echoes incredulously, heedless of his hurt feelings. "You said it earlier: There is no good in this arena, in Panem, in this world. You know why? In here, it's no secret. You can try to disguise it with pretty words and charm and heroism, but in the end we're all the same, just what the Capitol wants us to be: Bloody, broken savages devouring each other and getting devoured, trying to be loved a little more and hate ourselves a little less."
Finnick doesn't know what he expects next: The earth fracturing beneath their feet, swallowing them whole; a lightning bolt arcing down from the sky, setting their nerves alight. What happens is silence, stunned and laden with consequence yet to be imposed. The Gamemakers don't need to punish them right away, Finnick thinks dully. The punishment will come later, slow and agonizing as a single drop of acid falling onto his skin. There had been a Hunger Games in the past where a tribute had been trapped in a tarpit. The Gamemakers began raining acid from the sky. It took hours for the acid to eat away his skin, for him to finally expire, begging for death to come more swiftly. The acid ended up eroding his throat and he died of asphyxiation, but not before the audience got a good, long look at his disfigured corpse, corroded so deeply viscera was visible through the decayed flesh.
Squatting in the weeds like an animal, exercising all of his restraint to keep from trembling with fear and rage, Finnick has never felt more like that tribute: trapped in a tarpit with nowhere to go. Just waiting for the acid rain to fall from the sky and burn and burn until he is nothing but bone.