Chapter Ten

Thomas's first glance at the Arena had a little stab of hope fluttering around in his abdomen. Trees. Trees were good. He could work with trees. That's where Newt would decide to go, he was positive. He spared a glance around as the countdown began.

9

He was part of a giant circle of tributes, twice the size of any year he had ever seen, of course. They were spaced maybe eight feet apart, and his eyes flew across them to find Newt.

8

He picked him out easily, taking a heartbeat to watch the blonde taking in his surroundings. Good. Newt was level-headed. They were going to need that.

7

Despite wanting to look at Newt for as long as possible, Thomas needed to work out which way to run into what was going to be one of the most dangerous moments of his entire life. A tower of supplies was built obscenely in the very centre of the circle, a temptation many were going to die for, just like every year.

6

This year there was a strange, bare framework around them like someone had at the last minute decided they needed a wood and corrugated iron warehouse, and stripped all the sides off. There were various rope-nets hanging over the edges, to allow access no doubt, and the various levels or floors or whatever held different piles of supplies, weapons, food. Spiralling out from that as always were lesser supplies; small food packs, rucksacks that would contain the bare essentials but no food, scattered knives and other minor weapons.

5

Leaning against one of the structural walls - thankfully on his side of the structure, but perhaps also on the other - was a rack identical to the one he had avoided during training for fear of letting slip an advantage.

4

There were three bows there, and as Thomas cast his gaze about he caught sight of a single quiver of arrows nestled in a conveniently uneven spot on the sparse grass. It was several feet out of the most direct route to take to reach the bow, and as the countdown neared its end Thomas's mind raced against it to plot his course. His heart was racing, adrenaline pushing his fear to the backseat, which was good.

3

He cast his eyes for Newt, finding him just before the blonde found him.

2

Anxiety squeezed his heart but he didn't let it show, looking right at his best friend in all the world and hoping this wouldn't be the last time he'd see him alive. He hoped Newt would indeed go for the trees.

1

Get up high. Get somewhere safe.

Don't die.

BOOM

He couldn't stop to make sure Newt went into the trees, focusing solely on getting to the bow first.

Straight line.

Get there before the others.

Then get the arrows.

Thomas had never run so fast in his life.

His feet pounded the ground as the first cries rang out, tributes screeching and shrieking in every direction. Someone fell to his right but he didn't look.

He knew it was safer to weave but he didn't have time. He'd have to rely on speed to get him in and out before anyone realised what he was doing. He was almost there.

A tribute fell behind him, taking someone else down, a piercing scream cutting into the air.

There goes the first one.

He reached out an arm, snagging one bow and knocking over another. There was a whole heartbeat of time where Thomas considered reaching for it. Two bows, two archers. Twice the chance.

But they needed packs.

He pushed on, his momentum swinging him as he twisted on one heel, throwing himself forwards in a straight line for the quiver.

It was the opposite direction from the tree-line but he needed them.

Tributes were everywhere now, a fray of screaming and shouting, the thuds of people knocking into each other, dragging each other down. Most fights sounded weaponless still and the scuffling was a roar in his ears.

He didn't look left or right.

Straight ahead.

Right...

There!

He lost precious seconds to the strap, his fingers grazing it but missing and he had to skid, almost falling, a second of pure terror that he was going to go down. Someone was behind him, shouting. He didn't know it it was at him or for him and he didn't stop to check. He was already running again, shouldering the quiver in a single clean shrug as he changed course, heading for the tree-line.

A brief flare of gratitude flashed across his gut at the random realisation that the quiver must be weighted - thank god, less chance of emptying it by accident when he was running.

There were two small rucksacks right on the outer edge of the spiral, and directly in Thomas's path. They were back to back, lightweight things. Easy to carry at speed.

He was planning on one, they could manage between them, but two-

A better chance.

A fighting chance.

His fingers curled around the loops at the top as he felt the presence beside him and he realised he couldn't stop in time. He uncurled his hand, dropping into a messy roll, and by the time he hit his knees he had an arrow between his fingertips, the feathered shaft taut on the string and ready to go.

A heartbeat was all it took, any longer and she would have been dead.

Brenda had stopped, surprise and shock on her face as she recognised him, registering the arrow. Thomas hesitated.

There were two agonisingly long heartbeats before her brown eyes met his and she raised her empty hands.

Her stance wasn't what lowered his arrow, and it wasn't his own humanity - his blood was almost pure adrenaline and his mind was shut off, survival the only thing.

It was the defeated acceptance in her eyes that stopped him.

She wasn't even crying, just looking right at him without judgement. He dropped his aim in disgust, tossing the bow over his shoulder and re-quivering the arrow. He scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting around.

It had been mere moments, two minutes since the booming countdown? Three?

Thomas realised he was out of breath.

There were tributes less that twelve feet away, three scuffling over something lying on the ground. There were four tributes racing for the tree-line, a painfully blonde flash among them, far in front and almost there.

He didn't have time for politics.

Brenda hadn't moved. When he surged forward she flinched, and closed her eyes.

Thomas grabbed the packs from the ground.

Still she didn't move.

There were knives scattered in the grass not two feet away.

He hesitated.

Newt.

Keep Newt Safe.

His heart was torn.

The three tributes had stopped fighting.

One of them didn't get up.

He decided.

Brenda's eyes flashed open in shock when Thomas pressed against her. Her fingers clutched for the pack he was pushing into her hands. On an impulse he leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Stay safe."

And then he was off again, scooping up two knives from the terrifying number laid out there like an array of grinning silver snakes. He nicked his fingers as he tried to get a better grip on the handles but it barely registered.

"Get a weapon, Brenda! Get somewhere safe!"

He didn't look back to see if she'd heard.

Thomas was nearly at the tree-line when the figure barrelled out of nowhere and slammed into him.