Makari's POV
As the sunlight filters through the leaves above, Makari stares into the space, watching the jungle slowly return to life. In the foliage above, a small bird calls out. The jungle awakens slowly, the rustle of leaves accompanied by the distant calls of mutts. It's hard to believe that nearly a week has passed since they were thrust into the arena, and even more surreal that he's still breathing to witness it.
A heavy blanket of despondency has settled over their group, a palpable weight that hangs in the air like a shroud. It's at this point in the Games where desperation begins to seep into the very souls of the tributes, where survival becomes the driving force behind them all. Few groups, save for the Careers, endure past this point. Thatcher, Anona, Visia—they exist on the fringes of Makari's consciousness. They live between the battered remains of their alliance. All optimism toward going into the games with a large group is long dead. With each passing day, the inevitability of their mortality looms ever closer. Makari and his allies press forward, their footsteps making their march towards uncertainty. How long before his own visage is etched into the sky?
Chip struggles to keep pace with the group. Even Yash can't spare a moment of grace for the kid. A low rumbling tricks Makari into thinking another cannon is firing. He realizes quickly that it is not the marker of another tribute death. The disappointment that follows is heavy, a weight that settles in the pit of his stomach like a stone.
Soon, the Capitol will air interviews with the tributes' families. No one remembers the top eight interviews after the games, anyway. Only the victor gets to have their name live on. Makari's thoughts drift to the tributes of past Games, their faces attempting to push to the front of his memory like ghosts in the mist.
The group stops and takes sips of their water stores, catching their breaths and wiping their skin clean of the sweat forming rivers down their necks. Amidst the silence, a voice breaks the stillness, its words tinged with a bitter irony.
"Is it wrong to envy the tributes from the sixty-ninth Games?" Eila sneers.
Those games took place in a massive desert. It was filled with venomous snakes and quicksand, but a chunk of the competitors died from the dehydration. A storm washed away the supplies from the Cornucopia, and the Career alliance imploded. The winner that year was a young boy who was smart enough to live off the cactuses and wear his shirt over his head to fend off the sun.
"We'd have been goners if they'd thrown us into that arena for the Quell," Makari muses, his fingers absently knotting his unruly hair. He contemplates a haircut, the practicality of short hair in a fight for survival outweighing his vanity. He decides against it but will cut it closer to the end if he gets there. The last thing he needs in a fight for his life is greasy hair slapping into his face.
The group resumes their journey. Makari takes the lead, his machete slicing through the verdant foliage with precision. He can't shake the discomfort of having the others at his back, but he pushes the thought aside—after all, he doubts they'll turn on him. It's just not their style.
They pause once more when Chip's labored breathing pierces the silence, his wheezing like the desperate gasps of a wounded animal. Makari grits his teeth in frustration, his temper threatening to boil over, but a glance at Chip's haggard form dampens the rising tide of anger. With a resigned sigh, they press on. Who knows where they're going?
"As long as we look busy," Eila said. "They'll leave us alone if we look busy."
Now that there's a handful of tributes left, he's not sure that's what's stopping the Gamemakers from siccing some mutt on them, but at least they have a goal now. Keep moving. With a weary gaze, he scans the surrounding landscape.
The six days in the arena have familiarized Makari with the flora, but he senses some sort of significance to the layout of their environment. The absence of water sources other than the bottles at the Cornucopia fuels a growing unease within him. An inkling gnaws at the recesses of Makari's mind, warning him not to take anything for granted within these tresses.
Suddenly, their silence is shattered by the heavy tread of approaching footsteps, sending a chill down Makari's spine. In an instant, dread grips their small group, propelling them into a frantic flight for survival. With a quick glance over his shoulder, he witnesses the relentless advance of the tributes from District 2 and the boy from Four. As the realization dawns that they are being pursued by the Career pack, Makari's heart lurches with terror. A flash of metal glints in the sunlight as the boy from Two brandishes a knife, and Makari's instincts kick into overdrive—but not quickly enough to evade the blade that slices through his flesh, shearing off a portion of his left ear.
Agony explodes in Makari's head, overwhelming him as he bites back a cry of pain. Meanwhile, Eila struggles through the dense underbrush, her injured leg impeding her progress. With a surge of determination, Makari propels himself forward, seizing Eila's hand and pulling her along with him. But her movements are hindered, her injured limb dragging behind her like an anchor.
With desperation driving him forward, Makari spares a fleeting glance back at Eila, her form sprawled upon the moss-covered ground. Dread tightens its grip on his heart as he hears her anguished cry.
"No!"
It's too late. Makari can't tear his eyes away from her as the boy from District 2 plunges his spear through her back. Her outstretched hand goes limp. It falls to the floor. The cannon fires. Makari feels his heart threatening to escape the confines of his chest, a scream clawing its way up his throat.
Yash's sudden appearance at his side jolts Makari back to reality, his grip firm as he pulls Makari away. Makari stumbles along, the bile rising in his throat, choking back the overwhelming urge to vomit. Another cannon blast echoes through the arena, prompting Makari to frantically search for Chip, but the boy is nowhere to be found amidst the chaos.
A wave of numbness washes over Makari as he and Yash sprint through the jungle, the passage of time a blur in his disoriented mind. His body moves on autopilot, driven solely by the instinct to survive. Collapsing onto a nearby rock, they gasp for breath, their lungs burning with exertion. Tears prick at Makari's eyes, but they're not for Eila—they're a manifestation of sheer terror.
He waits for the Careers to come crashing through the foliage to finish them off, but the jungle is quiet. With a concerted effort, he forces himself to regulate his breathing, willing his racing heart to calm. His thoughts drift to District Seven, their stoic response to the loss of their tributes. He can already envision the somber atmosphere descending upon the Groves, whether in real-time or during the mandatory viewing later. A pang of guilt gnaws at Makari's conscience as he wonders whether they'll hold him responsible for Eila's demise.
Thames' POV
The sight of the small boy triggers a flash of memory in Thames' mind—a fleeting image of the boy from District 12 whose blood is on Thames' hands. He takes a hesitant step backward, unable to shake the chilling memory. Killing this child is out of the question. But before Thames can even process his next move, the boy from District 3 scrambles to his feet, his wide eyes reflecting a mixture of fear and desperation. With a few feeble strides, he attempts to flee, but his efforts are in vain as Adriano's spear finds its mark, piercing the boy's back with lethal precision.
As the boy's allies vanish into the dense jungle, Beatrice begins to give chase, but halts after a few paces, wiping the sheen of sweat from her upper lip.
"Two more bite the dust. Congrats on making it to the top eight, fellas," she remarks pridefully.
But pride isn't the prevailing emotion coursing through Thames' veins—it's hope. Hope that he might return to District 4. Yet, this hope is swiftly overshadowed by a wave of repulsion as he gazes upon the lifeless forms of the fallen tributes. Thames suppresses a surge of nausea, forcing himself to take deep, steadying breaths through his nose.
Together, Thames, Adriano, and Beatrice step back as the hovercraft descends to retrieve the bodies. The first to be lifted is the girl from District 7. Her distinct hair hangs in the air, and Thames wonders how long it will take for her to be forgotten.
He swipes a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, reminding him of days spent at the beach with his younger brothers. If he makes it back to District 4, he vows to take them to the shore, to relive those cherished moments. If the games have taught him anything, it's to stop taking the people around him for granted. To tell his family that he loves them. The recurring dreams of his parents have stirred dormant emotions within him as if he's rediscovering the capacity to feel after years of numbness.
As the claw of the hovercraft plucks the small body of the District 3 boy from the ground, Thames is struck by a pang of melancholy. Though the boy wasn't one of the younger tributes, his diminutive frame does something to him. Turning away from the somber scene, Thames fixates on a rat scurrying up a nearby trunk, while Beatrice plants her spear firmly into the ground, a silent tribute to the fallen.
"Continue hunting or go back to base?" Thames asks, scanning the faces of his companions.
"Cornucopia," Adriano decides. "I reckon we've earned ourselves a break, plus they'll need time to air those top eight interviews."
Thames can't help but smirk at the thought of his family gracing the television screens during the interviews. He can already envision his brothers trying to impress the audience, only to receive a scolding from their mother in front of the entire nation. He quickly wipes away the smirk from his face as Beatrice shoots him a curious glance, her dark eyes lingering on him oddly.
"I'm all for a rest," he agrees, masking his amusement.
They begin their descent downhill, heading back towards the beach. Thames remains alert, listening for any signs of the other tributes, although he doubts they'll encounter anyone. With the dense foliage of the arena and the dwindling number of competitors, the Gamemakers will probably need to intervene to force them into confrontation.
By the time they breach the barrier between the jungle and the beach, Thames finds himself drenched in sweat in places he didn't know he could sweat. The Gamemakers seem to have cranked up the heat of the arena, a feat he hadn't thought possible given the sweltering humidity. Opting to cool off, he wades into the salty water and swims towards the island where the Cornucopia stands.
Brita raises an eyebrow, seeking clarification on the cannons fired.
"Boy from Three and girl from Seven," Thames confirms, retrieving a couple of water bottles from their crate at the back of the Cornucopia.
"We're in the top eight!" Beatrice exclaims cheerfully. "We're getting close to the end now."
"Is it weird that I'm kinda sad it's almost over?" Adriano muses.
Thames feels a snarl threaten to curl his lips, but he forcefully suppresses it, returning his expression to a neutral state. How odd, he thinks. Adriano's words strike him with an uncomfortable sensation, seeing this seemingly carefree boy find enjoyment in the brutality of it all. It's not the killing that disturbs Thames—it's the ease with which Adriano seems to embrace it.
The rest of the day passes in relaxation. For the first time since entering the arena, Thames finds himself able to simply lie down and drift into a state of disassociation. Though his muscles remain tense, his mind is more at ease than it has been in weeks. He knows it's likely the last moment of peace he'll have until the end. He sunbathes, periodically alternating between swimming and napping.
As the sky begins to darken, Thames positions himself at the entrance of the Cornucopia, preparing for the death toll. He knows there will only be two faces tonight, but he feels obligated to see them off.
The image of the Three boy first, his gaze lingering upon the Inner Alliance with a sense of bitterness, holding them responsible for his untimely demise. He is soon replaced by the girl from District 7, and though her features are neutral, there's disdain evident in her eyes. There's a subtle defiance in her posture as if daring anyone to meet her gaze. As the anthem reaches its conclusion, Thames mentally reviews the remaining tributes in the arena.
There are four others still out there—three boys and one girl. So Eleven's still out there somehow. He hasn't crossed paths with her since the start of the games, and he wonders what condition she's in now. He secretly hopes that the arrogant demeanor she displayed during training has been thoroughly broken.
Adriano gathers everyone near the mouth of the Cornucopia. Thames settles onto a crate filled with medical supplies, resting his elbows on his knees.
"It's time we decide our next move," Adriano announces. "Are we disbanding the alliance, or sticking together until the remaining tributes are dealt with, then facing off for the crown?"
A heavy silence descends upon Thames. He glances at Brita, who stands with her hands on her hips, avoiding his gaze.
"Stick together," Brita declares before Thames can even contemplate his response.
What is she playing at? She was the one expressing distrust towards their allies, and now she wants to maintain the alliance? Thames isn't sure he can bring himself to face a Two in combat.
Adriano exchanges a look with Beatrice, and they both nod in agreement.
"Sounds like a plan," Beatrice confirms, settling onto a nearby crate and staring out into the darkened arena. Thames retrieves his trident and settles back onto his own crate. Meanwhile, Brita grabs a rolled-up sleeping bag and saunters into the Cornucopia. As she passes by him, she leans in close.
"We're taking them out tonight."