Thames' POV
He dreams of his parents again. Pa's sun-bleached beard, the scar running across Ma's left arm. His lip trembles at the sight of them.
"Why are you here?" His question ebbs softly off the walls. Goosebumps appear on his flesh as their icy gaze burrows through him. He can barely look at them.
"What do you want from me?"
"How are you, my son?" his mother drones.
Thames clenches his fists.
"How are you, my son?" his father echoes.
"Stop!" Thames cries. "What do you want?"
They don't answer. They join hands and the imagery outside warps. Like clockwork, they turn and leave into the void. He follows them out the back door. This time, he actually reaches the door. Then he's falling. His mouth opens with a silent scream as he plummets off the side of a sea cliff and for the ocean below. It feels as if the blood in his veins has been replaced by terror. His body jerks back and forth suddenly, and his eyes snap open. Brita is over him, shaking his shoulders harshly. He's in the arena.
"Yo, dude, wake up," she says.
Thames sits up, rubbing his eyes and trying not to show that he's shaking. What was the end of that dream? Why is he staying in it longer and longer? There's something not right about it. That dream has plagued him for years, and it is as if the games are triggering some kind of response in his brain. He doesn't believe in those sailor stories about ghosts, but he may start to if this dream nonsense persists.
The sun is only just breaking the surface of the sky, but everyone is awake. He pulls himself off the ground and splashes the warm salt water from around the Cornucopia onto his face. It's not as refreshing as if it had been cold, but it'll do.
Beatrice grinds her shoe into the sand, kicking up a cloud. "What's the genius plan to find the others in there?"
Thames glares at the jungle. That place is a death trap, and he'd be happy to stay at the Cornucopia for the rest of the games.
"I guess we just look around until we run into someone," he says. "I'm sure if the audience is getting too bored, the Gamemakers will do something to push us together."
He and Brita share a breakfast of beef jerky at the waterline. Dangling their feet in the salt water is a warm reminder of District 4. Sharing the rations isn't necessary, but last year's games are on the group's mind. Rationing the food is the best course of action in case another Katniss Everdeen decides to decimate the supplies.
"I wonder what they're doing at home," Brita says.
Thames looks at her oddly. "Probably what we did every year during the games. Watched mandatory viewing and cheered on our tributes."
She sighs and rips off a chunk of jerky in her teeth. When she's finished chewing, she considers the last bits of it and hands it to Thames.
"I wish we could see them, Thames," she says. "I wish we could see their support. It's only the third day, and I'm sick of this place. We've already lost one of the alliance members, and I'm just-"
She stops herself.
"I get it," Thames offers. "But we've got each other, okay? I won't leave you because if I don't win, obviously, I want it to be you."
"Thanks," she says, smiling tightly. She gets up and goes into the Cornucopia to refill her supplies. Thames follows her shortly after and stands around, waiting for her and Amaryllis to finish getting ready. Amaryllis tests her sword on the Cornucopia, making shallow marks in the sun-soft gold. She hasn't interacted with anyone else much since yesterday, and Thames finds himself wondering if part of her misses Glitz.
He gives the Twos a look like "Wish us luck," earning a grin from Adriano, and follows Amaryllis into the jungle. She brings up the front, cutting through the vines and whatnot, whilst he and Brita stay shoulder-to-shoulder in the rear. None of them offer a conversation starter. Speaking to Amaryllis could set her off. She's been acting really odd and cold since yesterday. Obviously, she's got some complicated feelings regarding Glitz's brutal death. What's best for the alliance is to leave her to brood, and she'll talk when she's ready.
The longer they search for tributes, the more frustrated she gets. At one point, she asks if the Gamemakers even want people to die. Calling out the Gamemakers is stupid, and Thames is surprised she has the gall to do it. He half expects that gorilla mutt to crash through the trees again. Eventually she stops to gulp some water from her bottle.
"I want to do some recon," she says. "Look through the trees and all that. You two stay here and rest because when I get back, it'll be my turn to do nothing at the end of our line."
Neither of them argue with her, though they exchange a lightning-fast look. The moment they're positive Amaryllis is gone, they kneel close to each other's ears.
"She's is being weird," Brita whispers. Her eyebrows are scrunched up anxiously. "I don't know if the alliance is going to last much longer, Thames."
He nods. "I know."
"I don't feel safe. The Twos have some kind of plan worked out. I heard them whispering last night when I was trying to sleep. I'm willing to bet that if Amaryllis dies any time soon, they're going to turn on us."
"Yeah, I get that feeling too. I think Amaryllis can sense it as well because why would she just leave us here to conspire against her?"
"The arrogance of the Ones never ceases to amaze."
Their conversation is cut short because Amaryllis traipses back to them with the ugliest scowl she's had yet.
Eila's POV
The District 2 tributes are known for their ferocity, always claiming the spotlight as the ones to beat. Their mastery of weapons is like an art form to Eila, a kind of skill she respects from a distance. The pair at the Cornucopia haven't left an impression on her thus far. Nothing like the kids last year or the year before that. They seem more… mellow compared to their predecessors.
"They're not, like, doing anything," Visia observes.
"Well, there ain't much to do," Eila replies, a touch of rural charm in her voice. "All they gotta do is sit there and make sure we don't get in."
Chip suggests, "We can spend more time thinkin' of how to take 'em out. If they're not in a hurry, then neither am I."
Eila is on the verge of reminding him they've been brainstorming for an hour with no progress when the jungle on the other side of the Cornucopia rumbles. A tidal wave crashes into the beach from its depths, smashing against the Cornucopia, momentarily stealing their attention.
"Tidal waves don't come from the jungle," Eila remarks unhelpfully.
"This arena is so weird," Visia muses. "There's gotta be something about it. The other Quarter Quells all had something peculiar. The first was a shifting maze, and the second was super poisonous. The monkeys, the tidal wave, it's all got to mean something."
Eila, her fingers subconsciously tracing her throat, adds, "It was weird that we ran into mutts on just the second day. This jungle is dangerous."
"So we should be staying near the beach?" Chip suggests. "That way, we can run for it at a moment's notice."
"It's risky, but it's the only option I can see happening. I do not want to go back into the jungle. We'll have to stay well hidden."
"It's risky, but it's the only option I can see happening. We'll have to stay well hidden, though."
If she were alone, she could easily disappear into the trees. The jungle terrifies her, but she'd probably be safe aboveground. However, Visia and Chip struggle with uphill terrain. If they were to return to the jungle, they'd be sitting ducks.
You signed up for this, she tells herself.
"We could always find Makari and Yash," Chip suggests.
"We're not finding them," Visia interjects.
Her pessimism is jarring, given that she's somehow remained hopeful through all they've been through. What's with the sudden change?
"We have to try," Chip retorts. "What else is there to do? We have to give ourselves a story, or we'll be killed off because the audience can't even remember our names."
Visia's nostrils flare, but she holds back whatever she wants to say.
"He's right," Eila says. "What's the harm anyway? We look busy, so the Gamemakers leave us alone, and if we do find Makari and Yash, our alliance is reunited."
Except for Thatcher. But Eila decides not to mention him. The Threes are aware anyway; his absence lives between all of them.
"Think," Eila pleads. "I can protect us, but you two are the brains of this operation. If we're not looking for the other two, we gotta take out the pack. We don't stand a chance if they're still alive. We have to do something."
The Threes' eyes take on a hard look as they rack their brains for any kind of idea that could give them the upper hand.
"Didn't one of your victors take out the entire Career pack?" Eila says, hoping to inspire them.
Visia shakes her head. "The Careers weren't a thing by the thirty-sixth games; it was just a pack of six tributes. Besides, all three of our victors won with technology. Drones, electricity, and traps. No drones for us this year, and I can't see how we can replicate Wiress' trap."
"Why not?"
"The forty-eighth games were a trainyard," Chip says. "She cut the power to a bridge, and the last tribute fell to his death."
"Oh. So that leaves 'electricity.'"
"That's if there's a battery in the Cornucopia. I seriously doubt there is."
Eila feels herself losing her temper. These kids are clearly intelligent, yet they're refusing to offer any plan, only shooting down what she offers.
"What do you both suggest, then?" she says with forced composure.
"The Cornucopia would be the perfect conduit if we could find electricity. We could do it now and take advantage of the soaking from the wave, but we don't have that time," Visia says.
"Or the means," Chip adds stupidly.
May the Gods give me strength, Eila thinks. "Okay. There hasn't been a cannon today; Makari and Yash are still out there somewhere. We find them, there'll be more of us to launch an attack on the lapdogs."
"Good luck finding them in this place," Visia scoffs.
"Hope isn't completely lost. We have hunters in Seven, and I remember some of the things they did. When the occasional wolf wanders into our camps, they're hunted for supper."
"So what do we do?"
"I can scale the trees, get a look at our surroundings. It's basically impossible to hunt with this moss on the ground," she presses her palm into the stuff. "It's so bouncy, no one's footprints would stick there. But we can look for any vines that have been cut because I'm assuming most people have been cutting paths through. How can you see more than a few feet in front of you without clearing the way?"
"This is hopeless," Chip says miserably.
"Have faith, kid. The Gamemakers might even want us to reunite. It'd be good television. We've seen crazier things happen in the games."
Eila doesn't know if she's talking out of her arse, but it motivates the Threes.
"Okay," Visia says. The glint reappears in her eyes. "We can do this. While we search, Chip and I will think of ways to eliminate the Careers. There's got to be something we can do."
Eila's trust in their efforts is at a minimum, but if there's one thing she's learned from a lifetime of watching the Hunger Games, it's to never underestimate a tribute. They could pull a Johanna Mason, and Eila will die at the end of whatever horrific trap they come up with. The thought of killing them re-emerges, but Eila shoves it down hastily. She's not desperate. Not yet.
She scales the biggest, nearest tree and is met with nothing but foliage and sunlight. When she returns to her allies, she makes up a lie about this part of the arena being untouched so she doesn't have to admit that her plan of scanning the jungle is useless. She points south, which will lead them counter-clockwise, and leads them onward.
Clementine's POV
Clem trudges through the dense undergrowth, her footsteps barely audible over the symphony of cicadas and crickets. The pulse in her bicep is like a drumbeat, a reminder of what not to take for granted in the arena. Pausing amidst the shadows, she yet again fiddles with the makeshift bandages, securing the moss beneath her sleeve. The moss might bring on infection, but that's something to worry about later.
Each step is a careful negotiation with the jungle that could betray her to the unseen threats lurking in the shadows. Her eyes land on a lone tribute cradled against the trunk of a colossal tree. The girl's olive complexion and dark hair trigger a memory, a look of pity in the training center. Clem hesitates, observing the weariness etched into the girl's features. The male tribute from her district died on the first day, leaving her to survive alone. Their eyes meet, and the recognition is mutual.
"Gonna kill me?" the girl quips, her tone edged with a hint of amusement.
"Not my style," Clem grimly responds.
The girl gestures to the ground beside her.
"I'll stand, thanks," Clem replies, her arms folded protectively.
"Suit yourself."
From a pouch around her waist, the girl takes out a couple of crackers. Clem, still unsure about her, cautiously takes a step backward.
"Run into anything yet?" the girl inquires, her voice nonchalant. "There are spiders the size of dogs over that way. I got stuck in a crowd of 'em, and a few bit me, but I didn't die. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
Clem nods vaguely, maintaining a vigilant distance. An uneasy silence lingers.
"What's District 12 like?" Clem ventures awkwardly, trying to break the uneasy tension.
"Dull. Our parents kill themselves mines, and we waste our time in school, fully aware that we're destined for the same fate. If it's not miner's lung, it's starvation or the games. I don't mind the mines, but when it's all you know, you don't realize what you're missing. Who knows who I'd be if I were born in another district? Fond of Eleven?"
Hardly. District 12 seems mundane in comparison to the perpetual danger of District 11. Yet, despite it, Clem harbors a stranger fondness for her home.
"The labor is back-breaking, and it gets scorching hot, but it raised me."
The girl nods knowingly, patting the ground beside her. "C'mon, where else are you gonna go? Besides, my mentor was allies with the girl from your district last year."
Clem has no desire to begin a convention, but she reluctantly settles about a meter away from the girl. "What's Katniss Everdeen like?"
"Awkward. Same grade as my district partner, just a year older than me. I guess it's good District 12 finally has two mentors, though."
She extends her hand. "My name's Agatha, by the way. Probably should have told you off the bat."
"Clem."
They shake hands. Agatha notices Clem's injury and points it out.
"You're hurt."
Clem manages a rueful smile. "Made a mad dash for the Cornucopia last night. The boy from District 4 sliced me with his trident."
Agatha's gaze flicks to Clem's backpack, hunger in her eyes. Offering food is the humane thing to do, but Clem hesitates. The arena is fickle, and handing out her supplies to someone who needs to die so she can get home is one of the most foolish things she could do.
As the night wears on, silence envelops them. No words are needed in the cloak of darkness. Agatha succumbs to sleep, twitching every so often. Clem's eyes beg for her to rest, but she can't bring herself to close them. She can't bring herself to trust this girl completely. They lay side by side, each burdened by their silent struggles, the boundary between survival and camaraderie becoming increasingly blurred.
Clem finds herself contemplating the vastness of the night sky, probably one of countless tributes in the past who have done so.
The distant echoes of leaves and animals are the only companions to her silent vigil. Clem's thoughts meander through her past. Her life before the Reaping. At least if she survives this, she can pull her father from that pile of bricks they call 'home.' If she makes it back to District 11, she'll never let her father go again. She won't let him suffer like he has since Danica died.
Agatha, still in the grasp of slumber, murmurs incoherently. Clem hopes she's dreaming of District 12. In the stillness of moonlight, the boundaries between the districts, between allies and enemies, soften into their shared situation of being stuck in this inhumane ordeal. The Games are a macabre dance where survival requires not only physical prowess but traversal through the intricacies of the other tributes. Agatha could impulsively push Clem into a pool of lava tomorrow. As she gazes at Agatha's sleeping form, she can't shake the realization that, in another time and place, they might have been friends, sharing stories of a world beyond all of this. A world they are both fighting to return to. The arena offers no respite, no solace except for the fleeting moments in the darkness. Clem wrestles with conflicting emotions, the primal instinct to survive warring with tendrils of comfort within the girl from District 12.
As the night wears on, Clem becomes acutely aware of the fragility of their alliance. In the Hunger Games, trust is a commodity more precious than any sponsor gift. Every ally is a potential threat. Every piece of information could bring you death. Yet, in Agatha, Clem glimpses a reflection of her own struggles, defiance against the oppressive Capitol that seeks to reduce them to mere pawns in this sadistic game. Thatcher is dead. The boy from District 12 is dead. Their districts have probably already started digging a plot in the Tribute Graveyard. Agatha is all Clem has at the moment.
The dread brought on by night presses down, binding them together in a weak alliance forged by circumstance.