Makari's POV
The booming voice of Claudius Templesmith reverberates through the arena, jolting Makari from his uneasy slumber. Slowly, he forces his eyes open, the trees above him coming into view. Then his body begins to hurt.
"Good morning, tributes!" Templesmith's voice, with its unmistakable Capitol accent, grates on Makari's nerves more than usual. "Congratulations on making it to the second week and the final six!"
Makari fights back the urge to curl into a ball and stay like that.
"I know you're all starving, thirsty, and sore, so as a gift, the Gamemakers have decided to hold a Feast at the Cornucopia to act as a sort of reset, so you're all fresh and ready for the end of the games!"
A wave of discomfort washes over Makari as he processes the announcement. The memory of his conversation with Yash resurfaces, flooding him with guilt. So, the Gamemakers are eager to end the games. It strikes Makari as odd, considering Quarter Quells are so 'special' in the Capitol's eyes. The realization gnaws at Makari, leaving him with a sense of impending doom. Despite the urge to succumb to despair, he holds himself together, mindful of the fact that he'll be on camera. His family will be watching, and he refuses to let them see him lose composure.
Makari lies on the jungle floor, wondering how in the thirteen districts he'll drag himself to the center of the arena. Doubt gnaws at him, questioning the worthiness of the endeavor. After all, the odds are stacked against him, and death seems like an inevitable outcome. Yet, a glimmer of hope flickers in his mind. If he attends the Feast, there's a slim chance of survival. If he stays here, there's next to none. The thought of his younger sisters gently prompts him into sitting up.
Suddenly, a rhythmic drumming echoes above Makari, signaling another round of Gamemaker torment. Rain pelts down, searing his skin like fire. He recoils, shielding his head with his hands as the scorching droplets assail him. However, as quickly as the pain comes, it subsides.
Intrigued, Makari tentatively lifts his arm, revealing the angry welts on his skin. To his astonishment, wisps of white smoke sizzle out from the sores as they come into contact with the rain. The realization dawns on him—this isn't a trap set by the Gamemakers. It's a lifeline. With a renewed sense of purpose, Makari pushes himself to his feet, determined to seize whatever chance the rain has offered him at the Feast. He realizes what the Gamemakers are doing—how they're getting him ready for a brutal fight. But haven't they been doing that since his name was called back in District 7?
He strips down to his undergarments, allowing the rain to work its soothing magic on his body. While the pain doesn't vanish completely, it becomes bearable, a welcome relief from the searing agony. Donning his wetsuit once more, he spends the next half-hour nibbling on nuts and sipping water.
With three Careers still prowling the arena, their presence at the upcoming Feast is inevitable. It's the perfect opportunity for them to thin out the competition. How can he snatch anything from the Cornucopia without risking a spear in the back?
Despite the looming sense of doom, he finds himself descending downhill. Death seems inevitable anyway, so why delay it? Perhaps, in the best-case scenario, he might secure some food and medicine. He considers doing what the girl from District 5 did last year and hide in the Cornucopia, but that was different. The Gamemakers were offering singular bags for each tribute. Her plan only worked because no one else wanted their bag being taken. This time around it'll be a table teeming with sustenance, and no one can carry all of that away and pull it off.
As he moves, his stiff limbs gradually loosen, and the anxiety that had been tormenting him begins to recede. After about three hours, he reaches the treeline. He finishes off his half-drunk water bottle and then takes his second one down to about a third. The dull throb in his head eases. Restlessness keeps him from sitting idle for too long, wary of his limbs seizing up once more. Despite the eerie silence of the jungle, he can't shake the feeling of solitude enveloping him.
Cross-legged, he watches the waves go back and forth. Yet, beneath the surface calm, he senses the impending storm. Tonight, the sky will be adorned with faces, perhaps including his own. If he survives the afternoon, he'll be one step closer to home.
His brain takes him back to the girl from District 5 last year. Both of 7's tributes were from the factories, and they died during the opening, so the incentive to watch wasn't there. He watched the mandatory viewing, but he hardly paid attention. But the girl from 5 caught his eye. She was clever. He may not be able to hide inside the Cornucopia, but there may be another way to catch the others off guard…
Thames' POV
Thames can't believe how utterly mundane and exhausting every moment in the arena has become. Five lives stands between him and triumph, including Brita's. Is it worth enduring this relentless ordeal for a shot at glory and a footnote in history? Swinging the knife Brita has given him through the stubborn vines, he feels a surge of frustration coursing through him, so intense that even Brita has to intervene, urging him to calm down.
"Save your anger for the Feast," she advises.
As he raises his hand to cut through yet another tangle of vines, a sudden disturbance shatters the oppressive monotony.
"Thames, help me!"
The voice, his mother's, echoes from the canopy above, sending a shiver down his spine.
"What the-"
Before he can make sense of it, Raffy's terrified screams pierce the air. Thames' heart races as he looks up, seeing countless Jabberjays ominously perched in the branches overhead.
"They're just Jabberjays," he reassures Brita, attempting to sound composed.
Brita's face goes pale at the sound of a woman's voice that Thames' doesn't recognize. Then, the world explodes. With a deafening cacophony, the Jabberjays dive-bomb, a frenzy of feathers and shrieks engulfing them.
Clutching Brita's wrist tightly, Thames pulls her away, their hands raised defensively to shield themselves from the onslaught. It's like being caught in a tempest of voices, the distorted cries of the mutts piercing the air, twisted echoes of anguish. Thames huddles on the ground, hands pressed firmly over his ears, tears mingling with the moss as he weathers the storm of torment.
His mind reels, assaulted by a chorus of familiar voices pleading for help, each cry a painful reminder of the people he's left behind. Even after the mutts cease their onslaught after what feels like an eternity, his ears continue to ring.
Brita's gentle touch on his shoulder startles him, and he recoils instinctively, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
"It's just me," she reassures him, a concerned look on her face.
Thames struggles to find words amidst the tumult of emotions swirling within him. As he meets Brita's gaze, he realizes that no words are needed—the silent understanding between them speaks volumes enough.
Thames straightens up, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders with a heavy thud. His gaze wanders into the lush greenery enveloping them, while Brita settles down beside him.
"You alright?" she asks, her concern evident in her tone.
Thames shakes his head, the weight of his thoughts in his furrowed brow. "Not really, if I'm being honest."
A bird chirps overhead, causing Thames to flinch, though the sound quickly fades into the natural symphony of the forest.
"Want to talk about it?" Brita offers, her voice soft.
Thames hesitates, wary of exposing his personal business to the scrutiny of the nation.
"Thames, one of us isn't making it out of here," Brita reminds him somberly. "It's either you or me. Whatever you say will die when those trumpets sound."
"But if I survive, they'll keep dragging it up," Thames counters.
"Fair point," Brita concedes.
Neither of them says anything else, but Thames considers that maybe it's time to open up. It could be a good thing, and if he wins, the Capitol will find out anyway. They've probably already discovered it during the interviews with the tributes' families.
"My parents died in a boating accident a few years back," he says, his voice weak. "I can't shake the thought of their cries for help, echoing in my head. Those birds just proved to me what they must have sounded like, and then you throw in the rest of my family and friends, and it just makes me think of what could happen to them."
Despite the humidity, Thames instinctively curls his legs closer to his chest. Brita watches him closely, her expression unreadable as she absorbs his words. Her shoulders are tense and all drawn up.
"I'm sorry it was so traumatic for you," she offers tentatively, her discomfort palpable.
Thames feels a pang of frustration at the well-intentioned but inadequate response. However, he holds his tongue, recognizing Brita's attempt at empathy amidst her unease. He nods in acknowledgment, silently grateful for her effort, flawed as it may be. 'Sorry' will never bring his parents back. And what does Brita have to be sorry for? She didn't capsize the boat.
"Who did you hear?" Thames inquires.
"My parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, friends," Brita replies. "The Gamemakers covered all the fields. I wonder how the Jabberjays knew which voices to mimic?"
"They probably have a switch somewhere, and they flick whatever they need to for whoever wanders into that section," Thames speculates. Being a Gamemaker must be hard work, consistently keeping up with the living tributes and manipulating them into traps or a fight against another tribute. They would have had to do a lot of research too, to gather the voices of all the tributes' families, just to be prepared.
Thoughts of their families and the audience back home flood Thames' mind. It's been decades since both tributes from District 4 have made it this close to the end. He struggles to recall the last time it happened, maybe in the late forties. He thinks it was the forty-eighth games when Wiress Goffe won. They'll be holding their breath as he and Brita crawl over the bodies of the other tributes. He can't bare disappointing them. His parents' voices echo in his head once more, and he briefly entertains the notion of finding solace in death. His parents' voices echo through his head again, and for a vulnerable moment, he wonders what it'd be like to know peace. If he were to die here, would his parents be waiting for him beyond?
"Come on, Thames," Brita says, interrupting his thoughts and extending her hand to help him up. "We only have a few hours to get back to the Cornucopia."
Clementine's POV
The Cornucopia stands in eerie silence, surrounded only by the lapping of waves against its edges. It feels deserted, yet Clem knows better. The other five tributes are lurking in the shadows of the trees, just like her, waiting for that crucial table to emerge from the ground.
Her plan of action remains elusive, leaving her scrambling to devise a strategy. If she dashes the supplies, she'll be exposed to potential attacks from every direction. But the necessity of food and water gnaws at her. With the end of the games looming, she wants to ensure she's well-nourished for the showdown, especially if she's pitted against one of the Career tributes.
Suddenly, movement breaks the stillness, and a silver table ascends from beneath the sand, flanked by sliding doors. Without hesitation, a tribute descends from atop the Cornucopia. With the harsh sun gleaming off the golden horn, it's impossible to make out who it might be. The only distinguishable feature is dark skin, which only scratches the boy from Two off the list of who it could be.
Sensing the urgency to reach the table, she makes a break for the Cornucopia. No weapons come hurtling her way. As she reaches the table, the identity of the tribute is revealed; the boy from District 7. He ignores her in favor of devouring the food spread across the metal. Clem's fingers fumble with the zipper of her backpack in her haste, causing her heart to leap into her throat with panic. Finally managing to open the bag, she hastily scoops an armful of food inside before reaching for the water bottles.
Suddenly, a knife whizzes past her head, causing her to hit the ground instinctively. The boy from District 7 does the same. As Clem glances up, she sees the boy from District 2 retrieving another knife from his belt. Before he can throw it, however, the boy from District 4 intervenes, throwing his weight into the quarry boy and disarming him. The girl from District 4 emerges beside her district partner, and District 2 backs up rapidly as the pair stalk toward him.
As the Career tributes engage in a skirmish, the boy from District 7 seizes the opportunity to flee down the spoke, his arms laden with food. Meanwhile, the boy from District 2 skillfully holds off both District 4 tributes with a slender dagger, his movements fluid and mesmerizing as he dodges and counterattacks.
He uses his foot to hook the boy from District 4 from behind the knee, and as the boy automatically catches himself, the 2 boy uses the distraction to drive the knife into his chest.
The boy from District 4 gives a small sigh and topples over. He hits the sand, and Clem stares into the eyes of the boy who she taunted during training. He seemed so unsure of himself. Now he's bleeding into the sand. His district partner is on the Two boy in an instant, baring down on him like a hurricane.
Clem startles at the sound of the cannon, abruptly snapping back to the matter at hand. Without hesitation, she grabs a pair of water bottles and dashes toward the spokes. Her heart races as her foot slips on the sand, momentarily sending her into a terrifying stumble. Then, emerging from around the Cornucopia is the boy from District 10.
Covered in blood, he resembles a character from a horror movie. The recent death of his district partner appears to have shattered him, and Clem can't help but wonder if he was the one responsible for her demise. With a long, menacing blade in hand, he swings at her relentlessly, displaying surprising agility. Despite her efforts to dodge, the blade grazes her cheeks several times.
Struggling to maintain composure, Clem frantically reaches for her blade at her belt. However, her focus on avoiding the razor-sharp strikes makes it difficult to retrieve her weapon. In a desperate move, she drops to the ground and hurls a handful of sand at his face, causing him to cry out as the grains sting his eyes. Seizing the opportunity, Clem swiftly draws her dagger and launches a counterattack.
The boy from District 10 struggles to defend himself, and his movements become more erratic with each blow. Clem manages to land several cuts on his arms and face before finally driving the blade into his shoulder. As he recoils in agony, she delivers a solid punch to his face, sending him sprawling to the ground in pain.
For a moment, Clem remains in a daze, staring at him until the sound of another cannon jolts her back to reality. She watches as the girl from District 4 pulls her spear from the body of District 2, realizing that she is the next target.
With determination fueling her every stride, she races toward the beach, pushing her legs to their limits. A piercing whistle slices through the air, signaling an oncoming spear. Unable to risk diving into the water, which is the domain of a girl from District 4, she instinctively drops to the ground. The deadly weapon embeds itself in the sand a few feet ahead of her.
Clem springs back to her feet and snatches the spear from the ground before darting away into the cover of the jungle. As she disappears into the foliage, she can feel the girl from District 4 hot on her trail, but by the time her pursuer reaches the trees, Clem has already climbed high into the branches of a thick-trunked tree. She presses her hands over her mouth, willing herself to remain silent as the frustrated growls of the girl sound off below her. Eventually, the girl gives up her pursuit and retreats to the Cornucopia.
As the rush of adrenaline begins to subside, Clem's hands tremble slightly. A surge of hope courses through her veins, mingling with the lingering thrill of survival. With a second bloodbath now behind her, she knows that the sound of the cannon needs to echo only three more times for her to return home.