It Might Kill Me

by Frick6101719

"As a reminder that Panem is strongest when her people stand united, in the third Quarter Quell, Tributes will be put into pairs in which they may compete and win." Caerwyn knows that the 74th Games changed things; she knows this year will be different, that she must be willing to do anything to win. Even if that means manipulating a Career into pretending to fall in love with her.

18. The Good, the Bad, and the Bloody

XVII : The Good, the Bad, and the Bloody

Sometimes you're the Louisville slugger
Sometimes you're the ball
Sometimes it all comes together
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all

---

Consciousness comes as thick and slow as cold molasses, seeping its way through my brain. For several long seconds I have no idea where I am; my world consists only of fuzzy white light, a headache, and a terrible taste in my mouth.

I blink slowly in a largely futile effort to clear the brain fog. Was I sleeping?

Both the numbness of my backside and the pale grey of the sky through the window suggest yes. Despite my best efforts, I recall.

That's right—I was supposed to stay awake. After all, with Cato out of commission and the threat of him relapsing into murder-mode without warning looming over my head, my choices were either to stay awake and alert or fall asleep and roll the dice on waking up dead. As far as reasons to stay awake go, I've got to say that was a pretty compelling one.

It's a wonder I got to sleep at all, I think, stretching my arms above my head. Besides the imminent threat of bloody death-by-Career, I also had to contend with serious bruising on my neck, a bump the size of a turkey egg on the back of my head, and a knife-handle-shaped bruise covering the entire left side of my ass. Sleep would not have come easily. Really, the fact that I fell asleep even though I was trying so hard not to just goes to show that my body needed it. And I'm still alive, aren't I? So clearly nothing too bad—

That's when my mind rouses enough from its circular ramblings to process the sleeping bag lying at my feet. It's empty.

I lurch to my feet, teetering precariously, my vision blackening for a few terrifying seconds. I wasn't supposed to fall asleep—I was supposed to make sure that no one found our hideout, that my partner didn't die in his sleep or wake up in a mad frenzy and try to kill me again and after all that I've fucking lost him.

I don't even think to grab a weapon as I race through the apartment, hoping that his brain-addled state from last night has kept him from getting too far. But why would he leave? Did he run? Was he still feeling the effects of the fog? Did he abandon me because he saw I was sleeping, like an idiot?

Just as I'm starting to think I'll need to search the rest of the building and maybe even the streets below, I hear the unmistakable sound of someone vomiting—it's a sound I never thought I would be glad to hear, but right now it might as well be music.

I follow my ears to a room at the very back of the apartment, where I find the Career crumpled in a heap, skin glistening with sweat, hair plastered to his head, retching into a puddle of green-tinted bile.

I draw up short at the threshold, thinking it might be best to keep my distance until I know where his head is at. He looks about as far from fighting shape as ever, but I'd rather not go for Caerwyn vs. Cato round two just now, thank you very much.

One arm clutches his middle as he heaves, his whole body trembling with effort, though his stomach has nothing left to purge. The violence of his sickness has caused the wound on his chest to reopen, and his entire left side is slick with blood, a stark contrast to his ashen skin.

The worst of it seems to be over now that I'm here, though he remains kneeling for several minutes, curled in on himself like a wounded animal, his chest shuddering with deep gasps for air. Eventually his breathing begins to slow down. He leans back, then loses his balance, collapsing into a sitting position. He runs one shaking hand through his sweat-soaked hair, his bloodshot eyes passing over where I'm standing in the doorway. I assume he's seen me, but he makes no outward sign of having actually registered my presence. His eyes barely seem to focus.

He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, inhaling slowly through his nose. Another full minute passes before he speaks.

"Tell me we have water."

His voice sounds like he's spent the last two hours gargling sandpaper and gravel.

"We do," I say. My voice doesn't sound any better, and oh, of all cruelties: it hurts to talk.

I clear my throat, though that is a fresh agony, and try again: "What do you remember?"

He has to think about it for a long few moments. "I remember running…" He frowns. He might be struggling to remember, but he could just as easily be trying to decide how much he wants to reveal on-camera. The last twelve hours have not been his finest, that's for sure. "Why am I sick?"

Where to even begin? "We ran through some fog—it was poisonous or something, and you got the worst of it. It…" I try to find the right words to sum up what happened next. It made you lose your mind. It made you try to kill me. It made you dopey, then very, very sleepy. You've probably experienced more emotions in the last twelve hours than the previous twelve years of your life. "Well, it did a number on you," I say. And on me, by extension.

It's an understatement if ever there was one, but the details can wait for now. He looks like death warmed over, and clearly feels no better, though he tries to put on a brave face. Unfortunately, no amount of stoicism is going to disguise the ghastly grey shade of his skin, the black and blue bruising of his abdomen, or the bright red of his bloodshot eyes. He is a mess.

He stands shakily, limping slightly as he comes toward me. His eyes fix to a point well below mine as he moves toward the door. "What happened to your neck?"

I raise my hand, feeling the hot, tender skin of my throat, and fall into step behind him. "I got into it with one of the Careers."

Being only half a step behind him means I almost run smack into him when he stops, turning to snarl at me. "I told you… I fucking told you not to engage them."

It's a miracle that I'm able to keep a straight face. "I know, but this one didn't leave me much of a choice."

"What happened?" he demands.

"Well, he nearly strangled me, so I kicked him down a flight of stairs."

The barest hesitation. "...Logan?"

"Guess again," I say, watching with delight as the realisation dawns on his face. His glaring intensifies to something nearly atomic, but I just grin. "It's okay; I accept your apology."

We enter the front room, where our weapons and gear lay scattered about the floor. Cato looks at it all, then up over our heads, like he's just now realised we're inside a building. "What is this place?"

"Home sweet home… for now, at least." I settle down gingerly on the floor, careful of my bruised backside, and toss him the still-full green water bottle. "This is yours." The blue one—which I've claimed for myself—is only half full, but seeing as I sound like a bullfrog with a bad cold, I can spare a few more sips.

I designated the red one for the unpurified water, and it too is only half full. The other half was spent last night in a mostly-failed attempt to clean and dress the wound on his chest.

Speaking of which: "You're bleeding again."

He touches the trail of blood winding across his stomach, approaching the waistband of his trousers. "I remember this, at least."

"I wasn't able to get it properly bandaged last night," I say, though I really just want to ask how he got it. "I can do that now, if you want?"

He takes one careful sip of his water, pausing for several measured breaths before he takes another. He probably hasn't had anything to drink since the Games started, and I'm impressed by his self control. "I'll do it," he says.

Thanks to our limited supplies there's no better choice of rag than his shirt, which is what I used last night. It's still wet.

It would be easier if he'd let me do it, as the wound is close to his collarbone and he can't easily get a good look at it, but I understand his reticence to seem dependent on me any more than he already has. He's got a lot of ground to cover if he wants to maintain his sponsors' faith in him, precarious as it was even before the gong sounded and everything went to hell in a handbasket.

His colour has just started to return by the time he's mostly cleaned up all the blood, and his voice is almost back to normal as he asks: "Do we have any bandages?"

I dig out the roll of gauze from our backpack. "This is all we have," I say, tossing it to him. We can't afford to waste it by wrapping it, so I cut a thin strip from the bottom of our blanket to tie it in place. It's not fancy, it should hold well enough to staunch the bleeding.

Cato is forced to accept my help now, and presses the gauze against the wound while I wrap the tie around his chest. It won't help his tough-guy persona, but hopefully he's recovered his wits enough to realise having me play nurse will help the other part of our sponsor-attracting strategy.

Even better: when I sit back the result doesn't look half bad. It should hold so long as he's not doing anything too vigorous.

Then it's time to figure some things out. "What do you remember from last night?" I ask.

He thinks for a minute. "I barely remember yesterday. Just… bits and pieces." He tests the bandage, seeming satisfied with its security. "What happened after the fog?" he asks.

"Luckily we found this place pretty quickly," I say. "We got our package, you tried to kill me, then I went out and found some food and water. You were already asleep when I came back." I try not to sound bitter as I add: "you slept all night." It was incredible, actually. There was a thunderstorm that lasted nearly an hour and he slept like a baby right through it. For a while I had to keep my hand on his chest just to make sure he was still breathing.

He takes another few small sips of water, then recaps the bottle. It's still more than half full, and since whatever fluids he may have retained from yesterday are on the floor on the other side of the building, he really needs to catch up. "You can have more," I suggest.

"Later," he says. "Right now we have shit to do."

He goes to stand but falters before he makes it halfway, planting one hand on the floor for balance. He pauses only briefly before trying again. "You said you found food and water, and we need to—" he has no more success the second time, stumbling and falling against the wall. A sharp inhale is the only indication of the pain he's in.

I don't stand to help him, just take another sip of water myself. This is not good. He's supposed to be the indomitable Career, he's supposed to be the one seeing us through the next few weeks—we haven't even made it twenty-four hours in the arena and he can't stand on his own two feet. "There's no rush," I say.

"There's always a rush," he hisses. "We don't have enough food to make it more than a day or two, and we're backed into a corner up here."

"Backed into a corner isn't so bad if we're hidden," I counter. "This spot is pretty good—the other Careers haven't found us yet, which probably means they have no idea where we are. And we have enough food to last us until you're feeling better."

It's the wrong thing to say—I know it as soon as the words leave my mouth.

The look he gives me could curdle milk. "I just need a second," he growls, somehow menacing even while doubled over in pain. "Then we'll go."

"Go where?" I demand. "Just wander around hoping to stumble across some more food? It's a big arena out there."

"Smaller than usual," he says, and I'm momentarily taken aback. He's clearly working on less than the usual brainpower, and I didn't tell him that. "And isn't that exactly what you did last night?" He pushes himself up again, slowly, keeping one hand firmly planted on the wall for support. "There's a river somewhere; if there are any animals in here then they're bound to—" he screws his eyes shut, his mouth clamping shut with a snap of his molars, and I don't need to ask to know he's trying not to be sick again.

When he doesn't finish his thought after several seconds, I decide to change the topic. "Are you hungry?"

"No," he says firmly. Then, after a pause: "it'd probably be a waste of food anyway." He finally opens his red-rimmed eyes. Staring at me all the while—daring me to comment—he leans back against the wall and slides down to the floor.

It's probably the closest he's ever come to admitting defeat. It must be bad.

"Would it help to drink some more?" I ask.

He unscrews his water bottle and takes another few sips. He eyes my sweater over the rim of the bottle. "Do we have another of those?" he asks.

"No, just the one. Why—are you cold?" I can't keep the incredulity out of my voice, and it earns me a fresh round of glaring. But even I don't think it's cold right now, and with his District Two blood he should be positively toasty.

"It's freezing," he says. "Where's my shirt then?"

I gesture at the wet and bloody garment he'd been using to wash with a few minutes ago. "Not in great shape, unfortunately."

He takes a deep, steadying breath. "Fuck." He shuffles closer to the sleeping bag, his movements slow as he wraps it around his shoulders. He's shivering.

I feel like my eyes are playing tricks on me. "You can't actually be cold."

"Well I'm not pretending," he snaps. "It's fucking freezing in here."

But it's really not—day is breaking, and it's almost warm. "Do you have a fever?"

He opens one eye. "What?"

I move toward him, reaching out tentatively, like he's a dog who might bite if I'm not careful. When he doesn't immediately tell me to fuck off, I place one hand on his forehead. He's sweaty—and quite smelly, though that's neither here nor there—and considerably warmer than he should be. "I'm no doctor, but you feel feverish."

Great. Just when I thought he was maybe on the up and up.

Immediately he drops the sleeping bag, a shiver rippling through his body. "Fine. Pass me that water bottle again."

Cooling down and staying hydrated—both important to break a fever, according to the first-aid book Fra gave me. Of course that's assuming that this is just an ordinary fever, and not the latest phase of fog-poisoning.

I never thought I'd be wishing for a fever, and yet…

Cato finishes the bottle, leaving us with only the dregs of mine. The two bottles haven't lasted us long, and we'll be needing more—urgently—if we want any shot at getting him better.

I look out the window; morning is underway in the arena, the light shifting quickly from a dusty blue to pale yellow. Will the Careers be out at this hour—whatever hour this is? Will anyone?

"I need you to be really honest with me for a second," I say, giving Cato my sternest look. "If I leave you alone for ten minutes to get more water can you promise that nothing bad will happen while I'm gone?"

He's clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, and his torso is still slippery with sweat even now that it's covered in gooseflesh. He looks in no condition to be making promises of any kind, but he nods.

I lift up his empty water bottle. "There's water a spitting distance from here. And the arena is probably as quiet as it's ever going to get, so now seems like the time to go." I'll explain about the red building later—sometime when his brain is working properly again.

"It-it's not like the arena its-s-self isn't dangerous," he points out.

"Well yeah, but the Gamemakers don't exactly need to wait for me to step outside to get me," I counter. "If they want to get me they can do it while I'm in here. Which I hope they don't," I add, looking up at the ceiling, hands raised in supplication to the cameras undoubtedly hidden there. "Please; I'd like to stick around a bit longer."

"W-well I think you've just s-secured our win," he says, not about to let stammering stop him from being a sarcastic shit, apparently. "G-good f-fucking job."

"Thank you," I say, standing, grabbing my backpack, weapons, and the three water bottles. "If you're well enough to be a smartass then you're well enough to be left alone for a few minutes."

"I t-told you I was."

"And now I believe you!" I say, already halfway out the door. "Be back in two shakes!"

I'm tempted to explore the surrounding streets now that it's daylight, but as soon as I'm on the staircase I feel anew my exhaustion, and decide against it. Best to do this as quickly as possible, I think, careful to keep my steps light and quiet on the descent. That fog poisoning may have more surprises in store for us yet.

The air out on the ground is noticeably cooler than it was inside, and much cooler than I'm used to at this time of year. I don't know if this weather is true to the way Paris really was or if it's just the arena; the Gamemakers are not confined to abide by the rules of nature, of course, but can play god to their hearts' content, controlling everything from the terrain to the climate to the colour of the sky. Back in Ten we're used to sudden shifts in the weather, and while it often seems like those changes are attributable to some malevolent Beings up in the clouds it's quite unsettling to know for a fact that in here that's true.

But malevolent or otherwise, the Gamemakers leave me alone as I carry on to my destination, keeping my head on a swivel for signs of danger on the forty-three-second walk to the corner. I'm actually thankful for the cold breeze—feeling its bite against my face is taking the edge off my fatigue.

In spite of my best intentions, my mouth starts watering before I even reach the little red building. Mercifully there's no smell of fresh food when I enter—I'm not sure I'd be able to handle being teased by it this morning. Not after a sleepless night on an empty stomach.

I hurry to the back and fill up all three water bottles, casting many forlorn looks at the empty silver box in the middle of the room. Water first, I tell myself, then maybe a nap, if Cato's still sane. Then we'll go find more food.

I pop iodine tablets in our two bottles, same as last night, and leave the red one for washing.

Washing.

It's a testament to how tired my poor brain is that it's only now that I realise I should have brought Cato's dirty shirt with me. It's the only one he's got, and in its blood-soaked state it's far from wearable. I suppose I could give him the sweater, but my shirt is still wet too. Besides: I'm cosy.

I'll just have to do laundry later; I'm sure I'll be back for another refill before long, since two litres of water isn't much, and with a source so close-by we've no need to ration ourselves.

I pack the three water bottles in my backpack and return to the street.

True to his word, Cato has not caused any trouble while I've been gone. His resolve must have faltered about the fever though, as he has again cocooned himself in the sleeping bag for warmth like a big, grumpy caterpillar.

I'm tempted to sit back down in my same spot by the fireplace, but I'm certain that if I stop I'll immediately fall asleep, and I can't risk that until I'm certain Cato is able to take a watch. So he can rest, and hopefully while he does the last of the poison will leave his system, but while he's on the sidelines I'll have to figure out our next steps alone.

Keeping us stocked in food and water is, for now at least, my top priority. Water is going to be mercifully easy, but ideally we would be boiling most of our water instead of using up all of our precious iodine. Of course, to boil water we'd need a fire, so figuring out how to have a fire in here has to go on the list too.

Next up is probably getting our hands on some medicine or first-aid supplies, and hey, while I'm making a wish list, some more clothes wouldn't go amiss! With all we've already been through, ours are going to need replacing sooner than I'd like.

I feel a headache coming on just thinking of all the tasks ahead, to say nothing of actually trying to win this thing and go home. It's not even been a day since the Games started, but I already feel like we've fallen behind, and it's going to take a lot of work to catch up.

I look over at Cato. With him by my side I wasn't supposed to fall behind. Wasn't that the whole point? Get myself paired with a Career to do the heavy lifting in the arena? A Career to carry me through the worst of it? Well, right now my Career isn't even a real Career.

He looks pretty pathetic, huddled in his sleeping bag, shaking like a leaf, but I should really try look on the bright side: he hasn't tried to kill me again! At the current rate of improvement (and allowing a generous margin of error, because this is the Hunger Games and it's best not to get too optimistic) he should be back to something resembling his normal self within a couple of days.

But a couple of days is much too long to go without sleep, which I need now with an urgency bordering on desperation. It's been over twenty-four hours since I last slept properly, which would have been hard enough even without the hunger and the running for my life and all the other stresses of the arena. I'm worn slap out—even the allure of the hard floor is almost too much to bear. What with the early morning sun spilling through the window in soft rays, turning the wisps of dust in the air into glitter drifting to the floor, it all looks so warm and inviting…

I shake myself awake, already slipping halfway to the floor. When did I start leaning on the wall?

No, I can't sleep. I'm in planning mode, and I know what I need to do first.

I spare one last look at my partner, confirm he is in no apparent danger and doesn't pose any obvious threat to me, and head back for the stairs.

We might look in pretty shit shape right now, but as I descend I remind myself that we have something almost no one else does: a map.

I head down to the third floor and find the room where I drew the map on the wall last night. Cato is going to flip his lid when he sees this… but how to best bring it upstairs?

I select a little knife from my belt, one with a nice thin blade that looks good and sharp. Hopefully it's up to the task, because I only have one shot at this…

I slide the knife along the wall, pressing gently—gently enough that it should just cut through the wallpaper—and slide it in a wide circle all around the map. I'm hoping the paper will snap free once the circle is complete, but of course, that would be far too easy.

Over the next hour I gradually work the map loose, peeling and cutting with exacting precision so as to not damage the wallpaper, which is either ancient, or has been deliberately designed to seem that way. In any case, it's quite fragile.

It's slow work and it requires a lot of focus, but I don't mind. Honestly I don't much notice the time passing. Maybe it's just having a clear task in front of me—something that needs done, something that I can do without any Career's help—but I'm already feeling less tired, and much less pessimistic. We're not stuck here, and we're not in over our heads; we have a freaking map! We need a lot of things, but everything from food, water, supplies, and weapons has got to be out there somewhere, and we can go and find it.

I keep cutting, reminding myself to move slowly. The map is nearly free.

I'm so focused on my task that when the cannon sounds my hand goes right through the paper.

A cannon. Someone is dead.

Cato.

My feet are moving before I can think, and then I'm already running up the stairs. He was just dozing—he should be fine, right? Did he fall asleep—did he vomit and asphyxiate? Did another Tribute slip into the apartment while I was out and find him vulnerable and—

I round the corner to the fifth floor and almost run right into him. There's no hiding that we're both a bit out of breath.

"That wasn't you," I say. The physical relief feels almost like a drug, pumping through my veins, nearly making me shiver. "That's… that's good."

"You neither," he says, giving me a cursory once-over. "What were you doing?"

We're both alive. All is not lost. These Games are off to a rocky start, but it's going to be okay.

I smile. "It'll be better if I show you."

As I'd hoped, the Career is notably surprised to see the map. And his head must be feeling better too, because it only takes him a few seconds to realise what he's looking at. I mean, I like to think my art skills aren't that bad, but it's still nothing more elaborate than smears of blood on wallpaper.

He helps me finish taking it off the wall—there's nothing to be done about the wound I inflicted when the cannon sounded, but at least it hasn't interfered too much with the map's overall integrity. And it's still easy enough to read.

Between the two of us we don't have much difficulty carrying it back up the stairs to the sixth floor, but we move very slowly, and very carefully.

We lay it on the floor of the big room, then step back to examine it.

"A fucking map," Cato says, sounding almost awed. "How do you know?"

"The Tower," I say. "You know—the big metal one, shaped kind of like an A? It has a map of the arena up top. I found it yesterday."

He scowls a little—reminded of all the things I did yesterday in direct contravention of his orders, I'm sure—but his curiosity is piqued. "What else did you find?"

He makes me tell him everything, but I don't mind. It gives me a chance to show our sponsors what I've learned too, which can't hurt. I tell him everything from the arena's smaller size, to the fact that all the supplies which are usually at the cornucopia seem instead to be hidden in caches throughout. We go off on a tangent for quite some time about the red building on the corner when I explain where I got our little food supply, and then I finish with my (strongly-supported) theory that the marked points on the map, like the Arch, hold the majority of the Games' supplies.

"It's more than that though," I say, excited at the prospect of sharing my last, secret insight. "There are nineteen—besides the cornucopias and the Tower, there's one for each Tribute, and whenever someone dies, a spot disappears."

Wait.

"So one of these marks is wrong," Cato says. "From whoever bit it a minute ago. Is there any way to know which one?"

"I don't think so," I say, frowning. "I was at the Tower when a cannon sounded yesterday, that's how I know. It was a green square up here—" I point with the toe of my boot "—that disappeared, but without going back to the Tower there's no telling which has disappeared this time."

"Tell me what the marks are again," he says. His tone is commanding; he really is feeling like himself again.

I go through them, more slowly this time. I've been going over them again and again in my head since leaving the Tower, trying to keep the memory clear, and by now the information comes easily. "The two cornucopias here and here," I crouch down, touching each point as I name it. "The Tower here by the river; then three green squares; three bigger orange squares; three red crosses; four black Xes; a blue circle; a yellow circle; a white diamond." I shift back on my haunches. "Probably one of the black Xes has been nixed, since there were more of them… but then we're pretty sure those are weapons, so maybe not."

Cato frowns. "'We?'"

"You and I," I correct quickly. I managed to leave Prim out of my tale entirely, and I'm not sure when—if ever—the time will be right to tell him about our little alliance. He's not going to like hearing I teamed up with her instead of killing her, that much is certain. "I mean, unless you disagree with me?" I grin "In the face of such compelling evidence, I have to say: that would be bold."

He makes a sort of grunting noise which I interpret as vague annoyance, but at least not disbelief. "This is the one where you got our shit yesterday? A black X?" He points at the spot marking the Arch.

"Yep," I affirm. "And I figure we're somewhere in here," I gesture to the space between the Arch and the Tower, slightly to the north. "We're close to a street that takes us straight to the Arch. I reckon it's no more than a twenty minute walk."

He doesn't have to say anything for me to understand he's itching to go right now.

"We have enough weapons," I point out. "I would even go so far as to say the last thing we need is more weapons, We need more food, and other supplies, like medicine or clothes." I point at the collection of points east of the Arch, still relatively close to where we are. "I was thinking we could try one or more of these when—'' I barely catch myself from saying "when you're feeling better" again "—when we go out," I finish. "What do you think?"

Cato scans the map. "There's no reason why we couldn't hit this Arch first," he says. He points. "You said there was a big intersection here?"

Careers and their deadly toys. Ugh. "Yeah, with twelve streets."

"Then it will at least help us orient ourselves. We can pick the easternmost street and take it as far as we can, that way we're most likely to stay on the right track."

It's actually a good point—I'm almost startled. My mouth is halfway open, some comment about how he's more than just a pretty face on my tongue, but I stop myself. I don't need to bring his looks into this at the expense of poking fun at his intelligence, he probably wouldn't thank me for it. Besides: no one would ever call my Career pretty.

"What?" he demands.

I close my mouth. "Nothing. I mean, that's a good plan."

"I know," he says. "We'll leave just before nightfall tonight."

"Won't the others be out then?" I ask. "Isn't that prime Career hunting hour?"

He really has a bottomless supply of those glares. This one is positively demoralising. "As you keep reminding me: I am a Career. And it's safest if it's dark—" he stops, realising something. "When did the lights turn off last night?"

I had all but forgotten about that. "I don't know… maybe after a couple hours? Two? Three?" It could have been twice that long. It could have been half. "It was a little hard keeping track of time, what with everything else that was going on." Trying not to be killed by my partner certainly close to the top of that list.

He makes another wordless noise of annoyance. "Then we'll leave while it's still light enough to see, hit two or three spots, and try to be back before the anthem. The others will probably be out when the lights turn on, so this way we'll miss them."

"Sounds good to me," I say, yawning. Once again, I don't mention that all of this is heavily dependent on if he's feeling better. But speaking of: "How do you feel now? Do you think the symptoms have mostly worn off?" Please be feeling better. Please. I need to sleep.

He's quiet. The silence drags on a little too long. "No," he says finally . My heart sinks. "It's still there. My head feels fucked—like it's been scrambled or something."

Well that's just… delightful.

Standing takes a colossal effort, but somehow I get my feet beneath me. "We need to do something. I need to do something, or I'm going to fall asleep."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why not just sleep?"

I hesitate. "Well… later. Once I'm sure I'm not in danger."

He glowers. "I'm not going to attack you."

"You just said the fog is scrambling your brains!"

"Not like that."

I shrug. "All the same, I'd rather be sure. Once someone has tried to choke the life out of you, you'll see: you won't be so quick to fall asleep either."

He doesn't roll his eyes, but somehow I can tell he wants to. "What are you going to do then?"

I look down at the map, then around the room, at our belongings scattered somewhat haphazardly across the floor. "I don't know. Set up camp properly, I guess, or explore the rest of the building. Anything I can think of to keep myself awake."

"All those stairs will burn a lot of calories you can't afford."

Hear that Jinno? Cato doesn't think I'm fat. "Well, I can check out this floor at least. We have a whole building—might as well make the most of it."

I start with exploring our apartment, and am somewhat surprised when Cato joins me. He's clearly still worn out, but say what you will about these Careers, they're not easily felled. It's important to him, I suppose, that our sponsors see him pushing through. Plus, if I'm any judge of character, he also needs to see the place for himself if he's going to have confidence we're safe up here.

We've been camped out in what I've already dubbed the living room, right off the main hallway. There's a room through it that's the size of a large bedroom, with a small room adjoining it that might at one point have been a closet.

On the other side of the apartment there's the gutted remains of a narrow kitchen, another bedroom, and a handful of small, windowless rooms that might once upon a time have been closets or bathrooms. One of these, the one furthest to the back, is the one Cato found this morning just in time to lose his lunch. We make sure that door stays firmly shut.

There's also a staircase at the back that leads up to a large loft, smaller than the lower floor of the apartment, but very spacious. It's big enough for several beds, but I doubt it was ever used as a bedroom, seeing as there's no door leading from the stairs.

Having satisfied ourselves that there's nothing noteworthy hidden in the nooks and crannies of our apartment (I was trying not to hope for another silver box), we return to the living room.

We decide to relocate into the front bedroom; unlike the living room, it doesn't have a fireplace or a balcony, but it does have a large window with a clear view of the street below and the front door of the entire building, letting us watch for intruders. Most importantly: the bedroom has only one door, which could easily be barricaded against intruders, making it the more defensible position.

Cato explains all this to me as if I can't see it clearly for myself, and I nod along like his lecture fascinates me. In reality, our work with the map and our walk around the apartment has clearly warmed him up, and it takes most of my severely depleted mental energy to keep from staring at the beads of sweat carving a path across the rippling muscles of his stomach.

It only takes a few minutes to move our things and set them up in our new room. Probably only half an hour has passed since we started exploring, and it's probably only just noon, but I can't take it anymore. "I need to sleep," I declare. "Please tell me you're really not going to attack me again."

Cato scowls, but nods. "You can have three hours."

"Three hours?" I demand. "I've been up for thirty!"

He doesn't care. "It's best not to sleep for long stretches. Besides, we have shit to do, and you still haven't told me what happened yesterday."

I stare at him. "Did you hit your head? I spent like forty minutes telling you all about yesterday!"

He does not enjoy being asked if his brain is working, and I'm rewarded with the latest in his apparently endless collection of dirty looks. "I mean before that. Or did you hit your head and forget you were supposed to stay at your cornucopia?"

Oh, right. That. "Well, you haven't told me what happened either," I remind him. "Alright, fine; in three hours we'll exchange stories." I eye the sleeping bag which he has once again wrapped around his sweaty shoulders. It's probably never going to stop stinking now. "I'll use the blanket, I guess."

I settle down with my back to the wall beside the window, in a nice little puddle of sunlight. I'm asleep before my eyes even close.

---

There's no way of telling, but it feels as if I've been asleep for scarce minutes when Cato shakes me awake.

"You've got a terrible internal clock," I grumble, adjusting one of the buns in my hair, which has come loose. "That can't have been three hours."

"I've got a fucking great internal clock," he says. "And it was closer to three and a half."

I pull the blanket up to my shoulders, looking out the window. Judging by the sky it is mid-to-late afternoon… but still. "How was your watch?"

"Boring as hell."

Too boring is better than too exciting, I guess. So long as the Gamemakers don't decide to take the boring as incentive to shake things up. "Do you feel fully healed yet?"

He considers this. "The vertigo is gone."

Well, I suppose that's good news. To be sure, it might have been nice to hear about the vertigo arriving, but I suppose beggars can't be choosers.

"Are you going to rest more now?" I ask.

"No." His skin is pale, and still glistening with a layer of sweat. His symptoms clearly aren't gone, but he does seem somewhat close to normal. "I've slept as much as I can. I'm going to go fucking insane if I stay cooped up in here any longer."

It can't be yet five o'clock, and we still have hours before dusk is falling and we should be leaving for the Arch. Still, I understand the feeling. I knew the Games from the inside wouldn't be the non-stop action and drama they are on television, but I didn't expect the boredom to kick in so soon.

So sure: maybe he should be taking it easy and trying to break this fever, but the red building is just at the end of the street—that should be fine, right?

"We can go to the spot on the corner, where the water is," I offer. "It's not far, and we could use more." He's been drinking like a fish since this morning, and we have almost none left of the two bottles I filled. "And then we can finally get your shirt cleaned. But in the meantime—" I pull off the sweater, handing it to him, and grab my now-dry shirt off the floor. Keeping him shirtless was undoubtedly helping our sponsor situation, but alas: all good things must come to an end.

He needs no further invitation. He dons the sweater, grabs his weapons, and is halfway out of the apartment before I've even got my arms through my shirtsleeves.

You can hardly tell he's under the weather at all as we make our way downstairs and onto the street. He sets the pace—maybe a bit slower than usual—but in the fresh air he seems even more awake than he was a moment ago, his sweat-matted hair ruffled to life by the breeze and his pallid skin beginning to flush with colour. Maybe a little trip to our very own corner store is just the cure he needed.

But even though it's a short walk, it's long enough to notice he's limping slightly. I had forgotten about it until now, but he was favouring his left leg last night too. He hasn't mentioned it being a problem, so it can't be serious.

Right?

Please don't let it be anything serious. It feels like a prayer. We can't handle a real injury on just the second day.

Thankfully, our little journey is a good distraction from my anxious musings. "The lights are on inside, see?" I say, pointing them out as we reach the front door. "Obviously it stood out more at night, but I have a theory—" I swing the door wide, and gasp. "Oh, sweet mother of god."

Cato almost knocks me over as he pushes past, but he certainly doesn't leave me behind. I'm hot on his heels, making a beeline through the building, because the smell is back.

It might be wise not to get my hopes up about what this means, but as my mouth waters and my legs carry me of their own volition there's no time to brace myself for the disappointment of another empty box.

But the box isn't empty.

I might just break into song.

"You didn't say it refilled," Cato says, the words almost an accusation.

"I didn't know," I retort, crouching to see what's here for us this time. There's a loaf of bread barely bigger than my fist, two pears, three small cucumbers, and a little bag of nuts. Not much, but enough to make a difference.

"Does it refill every time it's empty?"

"No—it hadn't been refilled when I was back this morning," I remind him. We went over this already this afternoon when I told him about the caches, but apparently he wasn't listening too closely. Probably because he was too busy drooling about the weapons at the Arch. "Maybe it replenishes once a day?" It seems as good a theory as any. There must be some schedule—some rule to explain why there's food now but there wasn't this morning.

Then again, I'm assuming the Gamemakers are being predictable. They could just as easily be flipping a coin every time Tributes approach the front door: heads we give them food, tails they walk away hungry. That sounds like just the sort of sadistic stunt they're famous for.

Much like I did last night, we both move through the room systematically, searching every corner, crevice, and drawer for anything helpful we might have missed. When we find nothing, Cato packs up the food and fills the water bottles while I wash the bloody clothes in the sink.

All told, we're back through the front door of 133 Rue de la Pompe in ten minutes flat, having completed our little task in broad daylight without a single hiccup. All is not lost, I remind myself. It's going to be okay.

But by the time we're at the top of the six flights of stairs and entering our apartment, I've realised that my celebration was a bit premature. The climb has Cato sweating and panting like he's coming off a hard sprint, and we have to stop twice for him to catch his breath. Given the rather astounding stamina he displayed back in the Tribute Centre, this is a very bad sign.

Cato knows it, too. He strips off the sweater the moment we're through the door, and when we reach our room he heads straight for the sleeping bag and promptly falls asleep on top of it.

I busy myself by laying our wet clothes on the floor of the balcony to dry, adding iodine to the water, and taking inventory once more. We've been picking at our food supply all day, trying to eat as little as possible, but thanks to our new haul we'll be able to justify a slightly bigger dinner. Still, even if the red building does replenish every day, it's only giving us enough food to scrape by; if we want to stay in fighting shape we're going to need another food source, and soon.

I remember the list I made this morning, and decide to give the fireplace in the living room a closer inspection. I want to see if there's a way to close the chimney flue completely to avoid smoke giving away our location. If we can get a fire lit in here it would improve our quality of life significantly, letting us boil our water, cook our food, and stay warm if the weather turns especially cold. But all that depends on the fire not getting us killed by alerting every Tribute in the arena of our location.

As best as I can tell, the damper seems to shut all the way, but poke and prod all I might, there's no way to tell if smoke will leak through without testing it. Which I should not do until I'm prepared to face the consequences, which may be as serious as a pack of Careers at our door.

Well, there goes my one single idea for what I could do to pass the time while my Career sleeps. I extract myself from the chimney, brushing my dusty hands on my trousers. I guess it's my turn to be bored.

I head back for the bedroom, plunking myself down with my back against the door. Cato is snoring softly just a metre away.

What I wouldn't give for a book.

I have no book, of course. But if I catch a few extra Zs while the time passes, well, at least Cato's not awake to catch me at it.

He sleeps until dark is falling in earnest, when he's woken by a series of loud peals of thunder announcing that a storm has begun a few kilometres away.

He rouses and shuffles over to join me where I stand looking out the window. Huge, dark clouds loom over the arena to the east, where rain falls hard enough to form a solid-looking wall of water. Thankfully the storm isn't terribly close, though the thunder is so loud that it certainly feels like it's right on top of us. The sky above our building is still clear, and there are even a few stars beginning to poke out, sparkling bright as gemstones against the deep blue.

"Shit's coming down," Cato observes, nodding at the downpour. I was worried he'd be mad at me for not waking him up in time to go adventuring like we'd discussed, but he seems to be choosing peace for now. And so he should—he's clearly not yet well, and that storm is right in the direction we were planning to go. We'd be smack in the middle of it if we'd left just before sunset, as he'd planned.

"There was a storm last night too," I say. "I guess we're in for some nasty weather in here." My eyes remain fixed on that wall of rain. It doesn't look like it's moving, but I don't trust it to stay that way. "Should we be worried?"

"It's not like we have someplace safer to go," he points out. He laughs sharply when a flash of lightning followed by an especially loud boom of thunder makes me jump. "And it's just a storm. We get weather like this all the time back in Two."

Well, I don't care for it one bit.

I'm about to suggest we move downstairs, at least as a precaution, when the sound of the storm is overtaken by the anthem.

Quickly, I shove the window open, and we both stick our heads out to look up at the sky, waiting for an answer to the question we've been asking all afternoon.

The anthem finishes, and then, after a dramatic pause, Jasper from Six is staring back at us.

I'm not sure when I started holding my breath, but I find myself letting it out when the last notes fade and the sky once more turns black.

"Nine down, thirteen to go," I say, trying to sound upbeat, like the Career I'm pretending to be. But the words leave a bad taste in my mouth, and for one horrible moment I see Elinnor's shocked face, the life leaking from her eyes faster with every second.

I blink the vision away quickly, turning back to my partner. Even in the dim light, I can tell he's watching me.

"What were you so nervous about?"

"Nothing," I answer easily, half expecting the question before he asked it. "I just wanted to see who it would be." Even I almost believe me. "I don't do well with suspense, you know."

It's impossible to tell if he buys it, but he at least doesn't press any more. He returns to looking up at the sky, saying nothing.

At first I don't realise what he's looking for, but as I squint against the darkness it dawns on me: the lights.

"They came on right after the anthem last night… didn't they?" I ask, though of course I know the answer. Then a possibility strikes me. "Maybe it was a one-time thing for the first night, just to help us find our partners."

The prospect is clearly a disappointment for Cato—Careers are nocturnal creatures, after all, but he can't very well go hunting in the dark without help from those night-vision goggles his kind always seem to find at the cornucopia. He'll have to find a new strategy.

Poor thing.

He turns away from the window, returning to his sleeping bag. The last bit of daylight has faded quickly, and now he's just a slightly darker shadow against a black room. "So these silver boxes at the Arch and on the corner—that's where they've put all the shit from the cornucopias, right?"

"I think so," I say. I bet he's thinking about the goggles. "It seems like it has to be somewhere, otherwise this is just a repeat of the last Quell where everyone had to depend on sponsors." We discussed this briefly this morning, but we have learned a key new detail since then: "So the cornucopia supplies are scattered in these boxes instead, but unlike the cornucopia, the boxes seem to replenish."

"We don't know that they all replenish," he points out. "It could be that the only ones that do are ones with food, to make up for the fact it's hard to hunt in a city."

"True," I say. Too bad his new skill with snares probably won't come in handy. "Well I guess we'll find out for sure tomorrow night, when we go to the Arch."

"We're not waiting that long," he says confidently. Clearly he's already been thinking about how to adapt our plan. "We'll go tomorrow morning. If we leave at a good time, we could hit three or four spots, including the Arch, while most of the others are probably asleep. We have the advantage because of the map, so we move fast, and cover as much ground as we can."

Well that's certainly an ambitious goal, but I suppose it's technically possible. "So… we leave at dawn?"

"Dawn is too late," he says. "We leave as soon as it's light enough to see."

I nod. "Fair enough."

"What, no protest?"

I raise an eyebrow, though I know he can't see it in the dark. "About the early hour? I'm more used to waking up pre-dawn than you are, Career."

"Right; so it's just staying awake that's hard for you."

I scowl. Maybe he wasn't as ignorant of my dozing as I thought. "Bring that up again and I might just kick you down the stairs again."

Now seems to be as good a time as any for dinner, so we decide to break into our food stores. We each eat one of the cucumbers and a piece of jerky, and split our last apple and the little loaf of bread. It's a meagre excuse for a meal, and of course Cato is still hungry afterward. He picks away a little at our stash of mixed nuts to take the edge off. Unfortunately for him, he's probably going to be hungry for the next three weeks. A body like his uses a lot of energy, and he's not likely to get the calories he needs in here.

I don't feel too tired so soon after my nap this afternoon, but Cato beats me to volunteer for the first watch, so I try to sleep some more. I spend a fitful hour and a half tossing on the hard floor, trying to ignore my own hunger, until I finally manage to fall into a light, dreamless sleep.

Once again it feels like my eyes have only shut for a few precious moments when Cato is shaking my shoulder, hissing at me to wake up. I crawl out from the sleeping bag, still half unconscious and groggy, alarmed at his energy until the words he's saying finally reach my sleep-addled brain.

"The lights are on."

"Mm—what?" I look out our window, but the street is still pitch black. "What?"

"Not here—around the corner," he says. His voice is too loud. I just want to go back to sleep. "Get up. We're going to the Arch now."

I'm still struggling to process this information, but he's already packed his bag and has started on mine, and there isn't much to do in the face of such determination but be swept along by its momentum.

I regret my mindless acquiescence a few minutes later, once we're on the dark streets and my sleepy brain-fog has begun to clear. I'm not used to waking up so disoriented, and clearly it's having a detrimental impact on my decision-making. I mean, what's his plan—where are we even going? If the lights are on in part of the arena, why aren't they on everywhere? Come to think of it, what's the point of the lights coming on so late at night, when most of the Tributes are probably asleep?

Once we pass the little red building I see what he must have seen from our window; far down the black street glitters the massive stone arch, lit up like a beacon in the night. But even more interesting: the arena behind the Arch is lit up as well.

Like flies we're drawn to the light, and we move wordlessly down the long, dark street. The Arch is a full kilometre away, and we proceed cautiously, heads on a swivel, wary all the while of some kind of trap.

From afar all we could see were the lights, but as we get closer I can see that the intersection is almost unrecognisable from the place Prim and I discovered yesterday. The Arch and surrounding buildings remain the same, but covering every surface is a dense layer of greenery. Vines and foliage wrap themselves around buildings, signs, benches, and street lamps, with grasses and flowers even bursting through cracks in the cobblestones in their effort to reach the air.

It's beautiful in that unnatural way only the Gamemakers can achieve, and it immediately sets off alarm bells in my head.

"Cato, Cato wait—stop!"

I almost grab his sleeve, but my raised voice seems to stop him. He looks at me like I've lost my mind. "What?" he hisses.

"It wasn't like this last night," I say, whispering this time. "It might be a trap."

It's as though this part of the city has been comprehensively overgrown in twenty-four hours. But curiously only this part of the city… only where the lights are on.

I almost want to shake the Gamemakers' hands. This is fascinating.

We stand there in silence for a long moment, looking out over the greenery, contemplating our next move, trying to assess the risk.

Finally, I look up at him and he shrugs. "It's only plants. Be careful."

With great trepidation we pick our way through the greenery crawling between us and the Arch, trying to avoid setting off what must certainly be a trap of some kind.

There are far fewer weapons in the box than there were yesterday, but still there's a light in Cato's eyes that wasn't there a moment ago as he inspects its contents. It's a uniquelyy predatory look, one I've seen many times before from barn cats when they've caught an especially plump mouse unawares, or found a bird's nest up in the rafters.

He circles the box like he's stalking its contents, trying to determine which looks the most enticing. He grabs a trio of javelins, testing their weight before strapping the quiver to his chest. He grabs a few knives as well, though they don't come with a belt and have to be tucked into his backpack and even the pockets of his pants.

I too pick my way carefully through the stash, unearthing a hatchet which fits nicely into my backpack, and gasp when I find two nectarines and a small bag of granola beneath it.

Cato looks up at me as I snatch up the food, immediately biting into a nectarine with relish, juice dripping down my chin. He raises an eyebrow.

"I don't care," I say, around a mouthful of fruit. "I'm hungry and I'm eating this."

In the spirit of fairness I toss the other one to him, tucking the granola into my pocket for later.

There are still a few weapons left in the box, but there's a limit to how many sharp objects two people can carry, and it seems we've reached it. I notice a strange flail left in the bottom of the box that wasn't there yesterday, which suggests that our question about whether all the boxes will be replenished can be answered with at least a tentative yes. For now at least the Gamemakers seem to be pumping more supplies into the arena, on what might be a daily basis.

Without warning, Cato picks up a shortsword we have no room for and launches it in the direction of one vine-covered street. It sails through the air, covering an impressive distance before it descends into the sea of plants. But instead of crashing to the cobblestones it gets caught in the foliage, the greenery stirring and writhing where it landed, like the jaws of a snare closing around it.

Well, that sheds some light on the danger all around us.

"Let me try," I say, grabbing the flail. I throw it with all my might in the opposite direction, watching again as the plants rise up and smother it on its landing.

Cleaning out the rest of the box doesn't take long, and I know we both feel better leaving behind an empty box instead of a nice collection of weapons for whomever comes next—at least until it gets refilled. Maybe it would have been nice to take the extra stuff with us, but we're armed to the teeth enough as it is; if we accidentally bump into each other we might both end up skewered like pigs on a spit.

"So, what's the plan now?" I ask.

He looks toward the lit portion of the arena, where the rustling plants have just settled down after the last weapon. "It was a green square east of here, right?"

I nod. "There's a couple places relatively close… but do you really think we should check them out now?" Investigating the lights was one thing; venturing deeper into the city in the dead of night while the arena is smothered by hostile plants is quite another. "We could still wait for morning."

"The others might be around," he acknowledges. "But we have the map, and a shit load of weapons. If we run into them we'll be ready."

The green square is the closest point to the Arch, and lies perhaps two or three kilometres east-northeast. Cato surprises me when he turns without hesitation towards Boulevard Haussman, which… is exactly the right direction. I'm not sure he'd appreciate my shock, so I keep it to myself, but this is a good sign. He really put that map to memory.

Unfortunately, it's not long before I'm doubting Cato's capabilities, if not his internal compass. Under the lingering effects of the fog he's still far from the Career he was in training: he's breathing more heavily than he ought to be as we navigate the plant-infested streets. We elected to leave our light-coloured jackets back at the apartment, and now he takes the sweater off, shoving it in his bag and choosing to proceed shirtless. The wound on his chest has bled through its bandages again, and his skin is already shimmering with perspiration. He's not in fighting shape, and if we stumble into all the Careers together I doubt even the sight of his well-sculpted abdominals is going to give them pause.

He seems better than he was this afternoon, but he hasn't shaken the symptoms of the fog, and I don't like that one bit.

I'm so preoccupied watching him (and finishing the last bites of my nectarine) that I'm not paying enough attention where I'm walking. I don't see the vine I'm about to step on until my ankle twists, and I lose my balance. I stumble, managing to stop myself from falling, but more alarming than the momentary twinge of the twisted joint is the sudden, crushing sensation of the plant wrapping around my foot, curling up my leg with alarming speed and a vice-like grip, painful enough it makes me cry out.

Before I've even had a chance to reach for a blade, Cato's sword is slashing through the vine, which goes limp, and I'm able to tug my leg free from its clutches.

"How about you don't fucking step on them," he snaps, already four steps ahead.

I huff, dropping the end of the vine to the pavement, careful to dodge the others squirming on the ground as I hurry to catch up. At least his reflexes are still in good shape. "You have a remarkable talent for stifling gratitude, you know that?"

Still, I'm more careful after that, and we both move more slowly, eyes constantly scanning for danger. Many of the flowers are breathtaking, their colours almost too vivid to look at even in the dim light, and their petals are wide and inviting, emitting a heady scent that invites you to step closer and take a nice deep sniff. But they might be "breath-taking" in a more literal sense, for all I know, and I'm not keen to be poisoned or strangled to death before I've even spent two whole days in the arena.

About thirty minutes later we've navigated our way through the leafy trap without further incident, and only a few disagreements about directions. On the other side we find the mirror image of the scene that greeted us at the Arch: halfway down the road,the brightly-lit and vine-crawling arena abruptly ends, giving way to still darkness and unbroken stone. Some boundary is drawn here—sharply, if arbitrarily—and we pause at the precipice, weighing our options.

"It shouldn't be much further, I don't think," I offer. I look up at the sky. "And the moon is nice and bright, even if there are no lights."

Cato follows my gaze, his expression inscrutable as ever as he surveys the road ahead. "We're headed in the right direction, if your map is accurate," he says, nodding toward the dark half of the street. Rue Saint-Lazare, this one's called. There's no way I'll remember them all, but I can't help myself from trying. "We're a little too far south, but we can correct that."

Indeed we can. "Well, we've come this far," I say, shrugging. "What's the worst that could happen?"

Cato flinches. "Do not fucking say that." He turns, towering over me, over-emphasising each word as if I'm a child: "Do not fucking say that."

He's right, of course. But sometimes I just can't help myself.

We set off into the darkness, able to move a bit more quickly without having to dodge deadly foliage, though Cato is still slower than he should be. Because I'm watching, I can see that his limp is slightly more pronounced than it was on our way to the Arch.

But the trouble seems to be behind us for now, and by the light of the moon I try to keep track of any landmarks we pass, everything from confusing intersections, buildings constructed in odd shapes or topped with imposing spires, statues, and anything else that might help me orient myself if I come this way again. I could hardly have conceived of a more confusing arena, but I'm determined not to let it get the best of me.

And of course, I keep my eyes open for any buildings with lights on on the inside.

We make a left turn to head further north, both of us on high alert, sure we're going to find the cache at any moment. We're in about the right spot, by my reckoning, so it's got to be around here somewhere…

The arena, however, has other plans.

Less than ten minutes after entering the darkness, the world around us lights up.

Cato and I both freeze, looking around warily, searching for any sign of danger. We haven't forgotten that earlier the lights were accompanied by deadly plants, and for all we know they might break through the ground around us at any second.

I'm hyper conscious of the pounding of my heart, but several long seconds pass and nothing happens. Still, when we resume our journey it's at a more urgent pace, our shared concern about possible danger clear if unspoken.

We need to find that cache, and now.

One minute later the rain starts.

Despite my wariness I don't think much of it, besides sparing a moment to wish we had brought our jackets to help keep us dry. It's only rain after all, and with the storm from earlier, rain is not at all unusual.

But as the force of it picks up I'm forced to reevaluate. This rain is heavier than normal, oddly warm, and… sticky.

"What the fuck is this?"

I look at Cato and my stomach plummets. His face is bleeding—the rain… it's burning us!

But no, that's not quite right. In the split second I stand there, dumbfounded, watching Cato wipe blood from his face, the rain picks up again. And only as I watch his blond hair turn red in a matter of seconds do I realise: the rain isn't drawing blood—the rain is blood.

We run, Without a thought of which direction or what we might be running to, we just run. The rain continues to fall harder with every passing second, and soon it's coming down in such a torrent that we're soaked through, blinking blood from our eyes, spitting it from our mouths. All thought of our plan, of finding the cache, is gone—all we're trying to do is find shelter.

By the time we spot a building with an awning over one of its windows, I've lost all track of where we're going, and the ground beneath my feet is slick with blood. Our clothes and backpacks are wet and sticky, our hair dripping, eyes stinging, and it's all I can do to keep from vomiting as the hot liquid covers my face, trickling into my mouth, the smell of it filling my nose.

We huddle against the wall beneath the awning, flattening against the bricks to get out of the downpour. If I had to put money on it, I'd bet the Gamemakers put so little cover in this part of the arena on purpose, to prevent Tributes from escaping it. The blood rain still splashes against our boots.

It takes me a minute to catch my breath. "This… is disgusting."

Cato nods. "Yeah… yeah. This is fucked up."

The rain continues, flowing like a river down the streets, almost overflowing the curb onto the sidewalks. If it starts pooling around our ankles, I might start screaming and never stop.

Five minutes pass, then ten. The rain shows no sign of letting up, and I wonder if there's even a point to waiting it out or if the Gamemakers are trying to push us somewhere. But where? Back toward the plants? Toward some new, worse trap?

Fifteen minutes pass. Then, without warning, Cato pushes off the wall, squaring his shoulders like he's ready for a fight. "It's just blood." Even I can hear the forced determination in his voice.

No, please don't.

"We can't be far now." He turns to me, jerking his head in the direction of the street. "Let's go."

And back out we go. The ground is too slippery for running, but we hurry as much as we can. I'm practically inches from Cato's back, stepping everywhere he does, using his half-bared body as a shield against the deluge. Somehow he seems to know where we are, while I've lost all sense of direction. To be fair, as soon as I realised the sky had opened like one big wound and started bleeding on us, it was hard to think of anything else.

We hurry up one street and down the next, where finally, mercifully we spot a building lit from the inside. It would be hard to miss, even amidst the chaos of blood rain, thanks to the huge sign jutting off the side of the building reading PARIS. Above the large red door is another sign, a semicircle of letters spelling out Theatre de Paris.

Cato nearly wrenches the door off its hinges as we stumble inside. The interior is cool and dry and bright white, which gives us pause for exactly one half second before we step further, tracking bloody footprints all over the clean stone. Any Tribute who follows will know we've been here, but at this point I can't bring myself to care. We're out of the rain, and we've found a cache. Or at least, we've found something.

The silver box I'm sure must be around here somewhere isn't in the front entranceway, so we keep moving deeper into the building until we emerge into a large chamber decorated entirely in plush red velvet and shimmering gold. Rows and rows of chairs line a slight decline to a wide stage framed by deep red curtains. Set into the middle of the stage, as hoped, is a mirror-lined box.

What's inside works wonderfully to lift my spirits.

If the Arch is where the Gamemakers are harbouring the arena's weapons, this Theatre seems to be where they've stashed the survival gear. A water filter, lighter, flashlight, carabiners and rope, a little towel, and other essentials lie in neat piles in the box, complete with a backpack that looks big enough to hold nearly all of it. There's even soap.

I take a mental inventory of everything as we unceremoniously shove it into our backpacks. Cato shoulders the extra one and I don't say a word of protest, even if he still somehow looks green beneath all that red. He looks terrifying, like a demon straight from a whimsical children's story.

"So long as it's raining, we might as well take a look around," I suggest, tightening the straps on my own bag, now full to the brim with supplies. "Maybe they even have showers in here!"

They don't have showers, sadly. After we spend about fifteen minutes looking around we meet back out in the white entranceway, taking a seat by the door to wait out the rain. Thankfully, ours are still the only sets of footprints on the white stone when we return. Good to know we're the only morons out here running through a literal bloody tempest in the wee hours of the morning.

"I didn't think the Gamemakers would ever make the bloodbath so literal," I say, picking at the blood that has begun to dry on my hands. "I guess they're making up for the cornucopias being… well, kind of bloodless."

But as I say it I see Farley, laughing and chasing Marissa around the boxes, and the sight of the younger girl's blood splashing across the cobbles. The body count may have been low, but it wasn't a bloodless day.

"We had enough of a fight at ours," Cato says. "Gave them a show."

"Is that where Glint was killed?" I ask. I've been wanting to ask about his cornucopia since I saw him last night.

He nods.

We were supposed to have this conversation earlier, but with the rain still coming down in earnest I suppose now is as good a time as any. "What happened?"

He pauses for a moment, looking at the front doors of the Theatre, seeming lost in thought. "They weren't supposed to be working together, but they were," he says. His voice is still, but tired, like he doesn't have the energy to be angry about it right now. "Glint made a shit call—he came after me right at the gong. Fucking idiot thought he could take me on without backup."

This had been my exact fear when I first saw the Career girls working together. There had to have been a reason we were lied to about the Career pack, and I have long suspected what it was. In fact, I think it's sitting beside me. "The others didn't help him?"

He shakes his head. "I figure they had a plan to catch me by surprise, and Glint just jumped the gun. Eight hesitated and Four was too far away, and by the time they got their shit together it was too late." He pushes his hair back off his forehead, spattering a little shower of blood around his shoulders. "Once Glint was dead, I was gone."

He makes it sound like it all lasted a matter of seconds. But I doubt Glint would have gone down easily, and certainly the wound on Cato's chest suggests that he didn't. "But you realised that the supplies were fake?"

"Ran through one of the boxes," he says. He gestures at his leg. "That's how I fucked my knee."

I wonder if he noticed me watching it. I almost don't want to know, but I have to ask: "How bad is it?"

He shrugs. "Doesn't feel good, but it's not serious. I just tweaked it."

It probably needs rest—not that it's going to get that in the arena. Still, I feel the knot of anxiety in my chest that started when I noticed his limp begin to loosen. It's going to be fine. It's not serious. We've got weapons, and now more gear, and we're going to be just fine.

"Pretty much everyone at ours just ran," I say, not waiting for him to ask. "But I stayed close and was able to see some of it, including when Farley found out about the supplies."

Something almost like a smile passes over his face.

"She wasn't happy," I add.

He nods. "Good."

Now for the hard part: "I know we had agreed that you'd come meet me at our cornucopia," I say, trying to sound more apologetic than I feel, "but when I saw that the Careers were setting up camp right there I thought it might be some kind of trap. I figured that meant the boys were working together too, and I thought it would be better if I met you halfway."

He's quiet while he absorbs this. "You could have fucked everything," he says, his voice low. "We had a plan. You agreed."

"I know," I admit. "But it didn't seem safe for me to stay there and wait, so I made the call."

He considers this. "Did they follow you?" he asks.

"They didn't see me," I say. "I grabbed my sword at the gong and immediately took off running."

"And no one found you?"

"Well…" Oh lord, here we go. "I found Primrose Everdeen."

His silence is terrifying. He's seen the sky both nights, he knows very well she's still alive. His voice is tight when he asks: "What do you mean you found her?"

"The girl from Three was chasing her, so I… intervened."

He inhales sharply. "And?"

I see Elinnor's face again, hear the wet crunch of metal forced through flesh. I wonder if I'll ever stop seeing her, stop hearing the sound of life leaving her body. "I killed her," I sayx. "Prim and I were sort of allies, back in training, so… I don't know. I made an impulsive decision. Everything had already gone to hell, so I thought, hey, maybe our alliance could go a tiny bit farther."

Another charged silence. "How long was she with you?"

I take a deep breath. There's no sense holding back now. "She was with me the whole time. At the Arch, the Tower, all of it. We separated just a couple hours before you found me," I say. "She doesn't know about the number of caches, how they correspond to the Tributes left in the Games, but—"

"But everything else she knows," he interjects. "The whole advantage we have—she has it too. So does her partner, if she found him."

"With the Careers teamed up, it felt safer to not be alone," I say. "I made what I thought was the right call."

"You're not supposed to be making any calls," he snaps. "We had a plan—a deal—that you would do what I told you in the arena. Not go off forming new alliances with Primrose fucking Everdeen."

"You also told me to trust my gut," I remind him. "You said all I had to do was stay alive, and you'd handle the rest. Well, this was me doing that. My gut said that sticking with Prim was a good idea, that it would keep me alive. And here we are, aren't we?"

Here we are indeed. All our plans have already gone to hell in a handbasket, and all bets are off about what we're going to face tomorrow, and every day after that.

One thing is clear: this is not going to be half as straightforward as we thought when we made that deal, and he knows it. Maybe if the Careers hadn't teamed up, maybe if we hadn't run through that poison fog, maybe if Elinnor hadn't decided to chase Prim down… Maybe, maybe, maybe. But things happened the way they did, and here we are. We've just got to make the best of what we have.

"We're going to have to work together," I say quietly. "I trust you—I know you know your stuff. But you can't carry us both through this. You have to let me help, and you have to trust me that I can help."

His jaw works soundlessly, and he looks down at me, then back at the door. The rain has stopped. "Fine," is all he says. He stands. "Now let's go."

I get up to follow him. Why do I feel like this conversation is far from over?

The lights are off when we return to the streets, but even by the fading light of the moon we can see that the arena bears no trace of the torrent of blood from only minutes earlier. The pavement is clean as a whistle—it's not even sticky.

The sight of it is so shocking it's almost offensive. We're still practically choking on the stuff, and now what, it's all just gone?

"This is some bullshit," Cato says.

"My thoughts exactly," I say, looking around. I suppose if the whole area was soaked in blood that would just scare Tributes away, and that wouldn't be fun for anyone. Still… it feels invalidating.

Maybe the rain will even catch the Careers. I think, trying to cheer myself up. Maybe they'll all drown in it.

The plan was to hit another spot or two before heading back, but somehow I have a feeling that's not happening.

"Fuck another cache," Cato says when I ask him about it. "I just want to get to the river and wash this shit off."

"We do have soap now," I point out, unable to help myself from dreaming of a nice warm bath. I can almost feel it, and it nearly makes me weep.

I pull up the map in my mind's eye. "If we head directly south, we'll hit the river eventually." Easier said than done. I got so turned around in the rain I hardly know up from down. "You know which direction south is?"

He scoffs, not bothering to reply, and takes a right down the street.

I guess that's a yes?

Once again, I follow Cato and his internal compass, heading in a direction that is hopefully south. He doesn't seem to have to think about which way to turn, but moves decisively down each street, weapons at the ready, and if his pace is slow, well, at least it's mostly steady. A few times his steps falter, and it's impossible to tell whether it's from pain or exhaustion.

The sun is beginning to contemplate rising, turning the sky a deep shade of purple in anticipation of the coming day. I was never as good at telling time from the sky as my mother, and this sky is artificial so it might be moot anyway, but if I had to guess I would say it's between five and six in the morning.

About half an hour after leaving the Theatre we reach the end of the streets at the edge of a fenced-in park. Large trees line wide gravel pathways, their trunks surrounded by boxes bursting with flowers. There are strange shapes in the darkness between the trees where the early morning light doesn't reach, and we stay on high alert as we move deeper into the park, still moving south, listening for the sound of the river.

It's only a few minutes before we hear the gurgling sound of nearby water, though we quickly realise it's coming from the wrong direction to be the river—a suspicion that is confirmed when we emerge into a wide clearing and spot a giant man-made pond. It's shaped like a perfect octagon with a fountain in the centre spitting water high in the air in a wide circle.

"Fuck it, this is good enough," Cato says. He looks around the clearing once more, making sure there are no obvious threats nearby before almost running toward the water. I'm right with him; the prospect of getting clean makes me almost forget about the danger. "Stay close to the edge and be quick," Cato hisses. "We're completely exposed out here."

"Got it," I say, depositing my pack on the pool's edge. I place my weapons carefully on top of it, well within reach should I need them, and start on the laces of my boots.

Dawn is well on its way, though it's still quite dark, and the hip-deep water is refreshingly cool. My idea of a quick dip to wash off the worst of the blood goes out the window the second I'm in the water, and without a thought besides getting clean I dive down toward the middle, submerging myself completely.

When I emerge, Cato is furious. "What did I just fucking say?" he demands.

I wade back, already struggling out of my shirt, feeling not an ounce of regret. My pants come off a moment later, dropped in the water with a wet smack, by which point Cato is following my lead, stripping as fast as possible.

I rummage through our stuff until I unearth the bar of soap from the bottom of our third bag, raising it like a trophy. I collapse back into the water, scrubbing the creamy grey bar across my face and through my tangled hair while I'm still removing it from its lopsided buns. Thankfully the blood was still wet, and most of it washes away without too much fuss. But good grief, there's so much of it.

I hand the bar to Cato when I'm done and start trying to scrub the blood from my shirt. Without better light it's hard to tell how much cleaner the black fabric is getting, but I try my best. My trousers, however, are clearly stained a deep rust colour, and no amount of scrubbing is changing that. So much for camouflage.

I look up at Cato, standing in water that reaches his thighs wearing just his underpants, soaping up his torso. For the first time in hours I think of our viewers, and I almost laugh.

Cato catches me watching him. "See something you like?"

Oh, I bet they're loving this.

I return to my scrubbing, mostly just to hide my smile. "Do you think we're the first pair to get naked together?"

If I'd hoped for more of a reaction, the one I get is disappointing. Cato simply pauses to think about my question. "I'd say the odds are good." He straightens, and I swear he flexes a little as he begins soaping his arms. "We were naked before though. At the parade."

"I don't know if that counts," I say. "We were covered in paint and scales."

He gives me a once-over. "We were wearing less than we are now." He thumbs the waistband of his underwear for emphasis. "We're not even naked. And no, that's not a challenge."

I scoff. "Who says I was going to take it as a challenge?"

He rolls his eyes. "You've been ogling all day. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"I would never!" I protest. "Take advantage of you in your sickness-induced vulnerability? That would be shameful." I cross my arms. "But—and I'm not admitting to anything—if you're going to be walking around all sweaty and shirtless and… and everything, am I really to blame?"

"Don't try to put it on me if you can't keep it in your pants."

My laugh is more of a snort. "As if you've never been caught ogling."

At this he seems genuinely confused, though that could just be exhaustion. "When have I ogled?"

"There were a few moments in training, as you may recall," I remind him. "Don't think I didn't notice."

By his face, he clearly does recall. "If you're talking about the day with the suits, that was practically a strip-tease."

This time I laugh for real. "A strip tease? I'd hate to see the kind of strip teases you're used to."

Cato just lifts his chin. "I would never victim blame," he begins. "But that was your fault. There was a lot of…" he trails off, looking for the word, then seems to realise what he was about to say, and shakes his head.

"Go on," I prod. "Share with the class."

"I'm too fucking tired for this," he says, returning to soaping up with renewed vigour. "My brain's fucked and I might fall asleep standing up. You're taking advantage of me again."

"Oh dear. I'll have to find some way to make it up to you." I pause. "Perhaps another strip tease?"

He looks up, but this glare lacks the venom I know he's capable of. Probably he doesn't have the energy to be a proper asshole.

He tosses me the bar of soap, purposely aiming so high I almost have to jump. "You missed a spot," he says, tapping his chin. "Right here."

I rub at the spot—sure enough the soap comes away red. "Thanks."

He nods.

"Hey, I have a question."

He sighs. "Of course you do."

I ignore the jibe. "How did you know this arena was smaller than usual?" I don't know what made me think of it just now, but I suddenly remember that I never asked earlier, when he mentioned it.

"The map," he says, like it's obvious. "Isn't that how you know?"

"You knew before I showed you the map," I remind him. "This morning, right after you were puking your guts out."

He frowns, then it seems to dawn on him. "Oh, the arena density. I hadn't really thought about it, but that would give it away."

I've never heard of such a thing. "What does that mean?"

"Aren't you the math whiz?" He grabs his trousers, crouching to scrub them in the water. "Density is volume over area or some shit, isn't it?"

"Well, not exactly," I say. "It's mass over volume, and… oh, I see." I look at the arena behind him, full of tall buildings, winding streets, practically infinite places to hide. Compared to most arenas, which take place in the wilderness, there's a lot more packed in here. Prim and I discussed this just yesterday, though I didn't know there was a word for it. "There's a formula for this?"

"No," he says, "but there's a trend. We've always just called it density. The more dense the arena, the smaller the footprint. Prairie arenas, or tundras, are the biggest. Arenas with lots of trees or other shit that blocks your line of sight are always smaller."

Just like I told Prim. "And our arena is pretty damn dense."

He nods. "More than any other."

He resumes scrubbing, the conversation apparently over, but I keep watching him. He figured all this out subconsciously? He must have—he knew it through the haze of fog poisoning, before he'd even seen the map.

Who'd have thought. My Career has hidden depths.

"You're ogling again," he says.

"I'm ogling your brain this time."

"I told you I know my shit," he says, wringing out his pants and tossing them over the edge of the fountain. "You know your math, or whatever. I know the Games."

He does know the Games. He's a Career—but not like Farley or Glint, not all bloody instinct without a trace of introspection. He's cleverer than even I've given him credit for.

Hidden depths indeed.

---

We go through almost half the bar of soap scrubbing blood from our bodies and gear, keeping a careful eye on the lightening sky, our ears attentive for the sound of boots crunching on gravel to announce that we've got company.

By the time we're finally clean it's got to be past six—light enough that I can see more clearly how pale Cato looks as he scrubs at his boots, trying to clean the blood off the outside without getting them completely soaked. He looks almost like a corpse; his chest wound has reopened again, the bandage long gone, though it only seems to be bleeding slowly. His torso is mottled purple and blue with bruises, only adding to the ghostly pallor of his skin.

We wring the water from the rest of our clothes one final time, pulling them back on while they're still wet. Having to walk several kilometres with wet socks and boots will be its own special hell, but we don't have time to wait for anything to dry, not if we want to get back home before we're discovered out here like sitting ducks. Nearly naked, injured, and exhausted, it's hard to believe we'd put up much of a fight.

As expected, the trip back to Rue de la Pompe is miserable. We leave the park and keep going south, eventually reaching the river which points us west, in the direction of home. There's a stiff breeze blowing off the water which nearly freezes me in my soaked clothes as we trudge along its banks, making the already-cool morning feel ten degrees colder.

As has become our pattern, I follow Cato, who still seems to know where we're going, though he moves with all the speed and stability of a newborn lamb and has to stop twice to vomit into the river. The limit of how much exertion he was able to handle in his weakened state post-sickness was clearly passed some time ago. He's shivering worse than I am.

We part ways with the river and continue moving west down Avenue du Président Wilson, which eventually turns into Rue de Longchamp, which I remember from my brief trip around the block the first night in the arena. Foolishly, I let myself believe this means we're going to arrive at Rue de la Pompe any minute, but it's another full twenty before we're finally opening the front door of 133.

It takes us far longer than it should to climb the six flights to our apartment, though that's likely due in part to Cato's commitment to stripping on the stairs. By the time we're walking through the door he's in nothing but his underpants, and those only last long enough to get him to the sleeping bag, where they are unceremoniously discarded just in time for him to cocoon himself in the bag and fall asleep in seconds flat.

I'm no more concerned about privacy as I undress, deciding to let my damp skin air dry for a few minutes before I wrap myself in our blanket and get to work.

I'm practically dead on my feet, but there's a few things that need done before I can sleep. I fish out the coil of rope from our still blood-stained backpacks and collect our discarded clothes. It would be easy to just hang our clothes off the balcony railing, or even out the window, but that would give us away to anyone looking up from the street, which I do not want. Instead I rig up a clothesline in the big room, tying the rope to the open window and the handle on the apartment front door. My eyes are beginning to close of their own volition, but I force myself to hang every garment, right down to the last sock, telling myself that the Caerwyn of several hours from now will thank me for it when she doesn't have to dress in wet clothes.

And for that, right-now Caerwyn deserves a reward. Scavenging our food supply back in the bedroom, I settle down against the door with a small handful of nuts and blueberries, a carrot, and a piece of jerky. It still hurts to swallow, but it helps to wash every bite down with small mouthfuls of water, and I eat slowly, hoping it will make me feel more full.

Despite my best efforts, the meagre meal is gone too soon, and my belly aches for more. I drink another cup of water, hoping that will satisfy the hunger pangs, and wrap the blanket tighter around my shoulders. I know it would be better to try to stay awake, or even to sleep sitting up, at the ready, but my body stretches out on the floor all on its own, my arms pillowed under my head and my back propped up against the door. The last thing I see before sleep claims me is the steady rise and fall of Cato's chest across the room, wrapped in the sleeping bag, his head tucked against his shoulder.

We've made it to the second day, a bit banged up, but alive.

I close my eyes. One day at a time. We're going to be just fine.