Eila's POV
Eila grits her teeth against the pain shooting through her thigh. She can't help but curse under her breath. "That fucking hurt," she grunts.
Makari rolls his eyes and retorts, "Maybe if you could hold still for a minute, I wouldn't keep poking you."
Grimacing as Makari tightens the moss around her leg, Eila is convinced he's inadvertently squeezing even more blood from her wound.
Yash interjects with concern, "I don't think it should hurt that badly. It might be infected."
Eila's frustration bubbles over. "Well, I elevated it!" she protests. "But let's face it, our options are limited. In a normal year, I could at least get some damn medicine."
The boys exchange glances, leaving Eila feeling like the odd one, the sole girl in their tight-knit group. As Makari sets aside the clumps of moss and focuses on organizing their supplies, Eila suggests they ration their water carefully. He lines up their bottles of water into four rows. Everyone gets five bottles each. There are two extras, which will be emergency rations. The games will probably be over before they run out.
Chip verbalizes Eila's thoughts. "The others are dropping like flies," he observes. "At least one person has died every day. We're down to just eleven."
Yash nods in agreement. "Maybe so, but preparation is crucial. We have no idea what the Gamemakers have planned next. For all we know, we could be in for a long stretch of nothing."
Eila absentmindedly traces her fingers over the makeshift bandage on her leg.
"The Gamemakers won't let us rest for long. The audience will get bored," she says.
Their conversation is abruptly interrupted by the sound of a cannon firing. The sudden noise startles them all. It's as if the Gamemakers are purposefully taunting them. A second cannon shot never follows, leaving an eerie silence over the jungle.
"Ten left," Makari solemnly announces.
Curious about the fallen tributes, Yash inquires, "Who?"
"The pairs from Two and Four. They might be considering splitting up soon.' Chip says." Aside from us four and the Careers, there's both from Ten and the girl from District 11 out there."
Eila silently hopes the cannon wasn't for Clem, though she immediately chastises herself for the thought. That isn't the type of thinking a tribute should have. Each cannon is one step closer to returning home, and Clem's demise would eliminate a significant threat.
As Chip and Yash venture off to scavenge for nuts and roots, leaving Makari and Eila to guard the supplies, Makari takes the opportunity to undo his hair and retie it. This skill and confidence that's come from nowhere isn't lost on her, and she finds herself leaning into his steady presence.
This is dangerous. Has she really fallen so far that she can't handle the arena anymore? One wound and she's a sitting duck, waiting to get caught in some trap orchestrated by the Gamemakers.
It's during this moment of vulnerability that Eila decides to confide in Makari. "There's something you should know," she begins hesitantly. "Back in the Capitol, the mentors didn't have much faith in you. They didn't think you had what it takes to survive in here, and they were essentially counting down your final days. I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you this, but I couldn't leave it unsaid. Especially since I might be the reason you're in here. Even if it means you don't want to be allies anymore, I owe it to you."
Makari meets her gaze with his green eyes, his expression inscrutable. Eila braces herself for his reaction, her gaze flickering momentarily to the hatchet at his side. He's so still he could be a tree. At least trees move with the wind. But Makari surprises her with his response.
"It's okay," he reassures her.
"Yeah?" Eila asks tentatively.
"Mhm. Whatever the mentors think is beyond your control."
Despite his reassurance, Eila can see the hurt in his eyes. He doesn't seem upset with her (for a change), but his face stings with betrayal. She silently curses Johanna for revealing such sensitive information. She wishes Johanna had never told her.
"I'm grateful we found you and Yash," Eila continues, eager to change the subject. "Dealing with the Threes alone was tough."
Makari chuckles softly. "That's on you for giving them too much credit. When's the last time one of those kids actually did something worthwhile?"
"Last year."
"Okay, besides that."
"I don't know, it's hard to keep track. But there was a boy a few years back who killed one of the Careers with a rock trap or something?"
Makari shrugs dismissively. "You set your expectations too high. You can't hold Chip to what you wanted. That's not why Yash and I recruited him and Visia. They were looking for friends, and Yash was open to it."
"You weren't?" Eila probes.
Makari smirks. "Do I seem like someone looking for friends in here?"
Eila laughs despite the seriousness of their situation. "You can't deny that having someone to watch your back is helpful."
"True," Makari concedes. "I'd probably be dead by now if it weren't for Yash sticking with me those first few days. This arena is insane."
Eila shivers at the memory of the monkey mutts ripping out Thatcher's throat with their razor-sharp teeth and then turning for her. She's been intentionally avoiding that general area of the arena, leading the boys further away from it.
"So you're okay?" She asks.
Makari nods, his expression unreadable. "If Blight and Johanna are too bothered to care about both of us, that's not my problem. It's theirs. If I get back to District 7, I think I'll take the furthest house I can."
Eila fidgets uncomfortably, feeling the weight of their conversation settle around them. "You can't blame the mentors, Makari. Can you imagine what it's like for them, mentoring kids to their deaths every year?"
Makari's tone grows bitter. "Oh, cry me a river. They don't even have to do anything this year. Our tributes put on a good show; imagine being the mentor for Eight or Twelve, where both tributes are taken out on the first day."
Their conversation is interrupted by the return of Chip and Yash, their arms laden with foraged supplies, effectively ending their conversation.
"You guys!" she exclaims. "Where did you find all that?!"
Yash deposits his pile behind a nearby rock, ensuring it won't roll away. "We stumbled upon a hotspot, I think. There are hardly any of those tree rats around, but plenty of clusters of nuts. We got lucky."
"About time we caught a break," Eila remarks.
She helps the boys spread their collection, blocking them against their backpacks. They divide the rations into four and then pack them into the pockets of their backpacks. Chip's face is still miserable. He's probably struggling with the realization that he's on borrowed time. With Visia dead, he's got no one on the same wavelength as him. He could be dangerous, but he's completely out of his depth. If he pulls something impressive, she'll truly be shocked.
The four of them eat in silence, munching on nuts and roots. The nuts have a satisfying texture that makes them fun to bite through. After they've finished their meal, they each sip at their waters. Eila desperately wants more and can tell the boys do, too, but she reminds them they can't risk the Cornucopia a second time. Begrudgingly, they all pack their bags. Eila offers to take the first watch.
Clementine's POV
There was another death today, premature, considering yesterday's massacre. Three cannons fired in succession. One belonging to the District 1 girl. Now, the girl from District 10 joins the fallen, lighting the sky as she gazes down at the jungle. Clem remembers her from the first afternoon, spotting her stumbling through the underbrush with her district partner.
Is the large boy from District 10 lying wounded somewhere? The field's thinning rapidly this year. Just two more deaths before the Capitol airs interviews with survivors' friends and family. Seven more until she's reunited with hers.
Clem ponders her next move. Typically, tributes who linger in one place draw out traps or a Feast from the Gamemakers. She's not one for hunting; she'll save her strength for the final showdown. Keeping to herself seems wisest for now. Let the others battle it out unless the Gamemakers force them together. She'll move camp, look like she's doing something, and avoid confrontation.
Suddenly, Clem's vision vanishes, sending her into a panic. She fumbles blindly, searching for anything to guide her. Ragged breaths escape her as she tries to remain silent, fearing attracting attention. The loss of sight rattles her. After colliding with a tree, she feels for footholds and handholds, taking double the usual climbing time. Perched high, she hugs the trunk, her mind racing to make sense of the sudden blindness. This must be a Gamemaker's trap; vision doesn't just disappear.
"Your time is coming."
Clem startles, turning towards the husky, weak voice. It repeats, sending shivers down her spine. It's so familiar.
Another voice whispers, "Why was it me?" chillingly close. Clem's hand instinctively slaps at her ear. The male voice is unmistakable—Thatcher.
The husky voice returns, dripping with envy. Agatha. The miner girl mocks her, circling as Clem swings her knife, meeting nothing. Her heart pounds as she battles these ghosts. She's surely on camera now, the Capitol reveling in her breakdown—the once proud District 11 girl facing terror after terror: the Career pack, yesterday's earthquake, and now, the ghosts of the arena.
The image of the hungry Capitol eyes waiting for her to lose her cool keeps her going. It's not just about survival anymore; it's about maintaining any semblance of dignity in a place designed to strip it away. Despite the relentless onslaught of voices, she discerns an eerie silence—a lack of footsteps, nothing where breaths should be. Suspicion claws at her mind, and her gaze flickers upwards, half-expecting the Gamemakers' mutts to descend from the dense canopy above. Her knife strikes at empty air and tangled branches, and a flicker of self-consciousness creeps in. She'll make the highlight reel, and everyone back home will watch her make a fool of herself.
Retreating to the embrace of the tree's roots, Clem curls into herself, seeking refuge from the torment. They persist, like ghosts haunting the corners of her mind, but she refuses to succumb. This is just another trial to endure, another test of her resilience.
Minutes bleed into eternity as she waits, coiled and braced for the nightmare to pass. The Gamemakers, she's certain, have singled her out for punishment—a retribution for her role in the District 11 uprisings. Why else would she face such relentless torment, such unyielding pressure to break?
Finally, mercifully, the voices fall silent, and reality seeps back in. Distant sounds punctuate the darkness, the jungle returning to life in a symphony of chirps and rustles. Exhaling a ragged breath, Clem slowly uncoils herself, her muscles trembling with residual tension. She clambers up the tree again with unsteady hands, seeking refuge in the branches. Thoughts of Agatha and Thatcher swirl in her mind. She shouldn't feel remorse for their deaths—after all, it was kill or be killed—but the memory of Agatha's wild-eyed desperation gnaws at her conscience. She wasn't in control, and Clem knows deep down that killing her was a mercy, not an act of cruelty.
As the night stretches on, loneliness gnaws at her soul. Since Thatcher's death, she's felt oddly alone. She didn't like him, but he was from home. Eila is still out there somewhere. She considers seeking her out, joining forces for survival. But what are the odds of finding her in this vast jungle? They'll have to turn on each other anyway. Drawing her knees to her chest, Clem stares out into the inky blackness, longing for home. She misses the familiarity of her house, the comforting embrace of her worn mattress, the windows that won't shut fully, the sound of her father's whistles on rare, fleeting moments of happiness.
Last year, she and her friends sat with Winnow every night for three weeks as Thresh clawed his way to the top five. They were hopeful. Clem really had thought that he'd come back. Winnow would get her little brother back, and District 11's losing streak would be broken after twenty-nine years. He died in the torrential rain and mud, his esophagus crushed under the boy from District 2's fingers. Winnow hadn't wept, but Clem didn't see her for a long time afterward. He was so close. Only three tributes between him and victory. Winnow's stoic facade didn't crack, but her absence in the following days spoke volumes.
The death of Thresh marked a new phase in her life. The death of what she used to know. It was a catalyst that propelled her into the heart of the riots engulfing the district, actions earning her begrudging respect among the other tributes.
Her eyes drift shut of their own accord, and she's enveloped in the embrace of memories, fleeting glimpses of home that flicker like candle flames in the darkness of her mind. In her reverie, Logan brings food from his house to the apothecary, her father's laughter fills the air as he indulges in a plate overflowing with rolls and pastries, and Florina's presence is a comforting anchor, her fingers interlocked with Clem's. Even in her unconscious state, her chest aches with the bittersweet pang of longing, of missing the warmth and familiarity of home, tethering her to the delicate balance between the waking world and the void.