Thames' POV
His heart pounds painfully against his ribcage, a familiar sensation that accompanies his anxiety, leaving him short of breath. He wants to backhand Brita. She seems to have made up her mind about taking out the Twos, yet she's provided no concrete plans. If she decides to target Adriano inside the Cornucopia, Beatrice will react, leaving Thames vulnerable to her spear. Every muscle in his body is coiled with tension, poised to spring into action at a moment's notice.
"I'm going to buy a car when I get out of here," Beatrice announces suddenly, breaking the tense silence.
Thames glances at her but remains tight-lipped, waiting to see where she's going with this.
"The Peacekeeper trucks were always in and out of the academy," she continues. "And I'd watch them thunder through the place. I want my own, and I'm going to use the Victors' Salary to build one from scratch and get my license. Maybe it'll be my talent when the Capitol makes me have one."
"That's a good talent to have, I think," Thames finally responds, his voice measured. "One of our victors, Brinley, has a boat she takes out on the water."
"Brinley Burrell, right? Fifty-fifth games?"
"That's the one."
"I'll have to hit her up on the victory tour. Maybe she can give me some pointers about where to start with buying my own vehicle."
Despite the unusual choice of words, Thames isn't bothered by Beatrice's language. He recognizes it as part of the mindset she's trying to cultivate for herself, a way to convince herself that she's going to make it out alive.
"I might take up cooking," Thames muses. "My Aunt is an amazing cook. It could be something we bond over in the Victors' Village." He swallows hard as if to force back the vulnerability creeping into his mouth. "Yeah, I think I'd like that."
"I'm going to do anything to go back to District 2," Beatrice declares abruptly, rising from her seat suddenly. Thames's heart skips a beat, and in a moment of panic, he instinctively grabs a knife from the rack next to him and hurls it towards Beatrice on the other side of the Cornucopia's mouth. She yells in shock as the knife embeds itself into her side, causing her to drop the water bottle she had reached for. Reacting swiftly, she reaches for her spear, but Thames is faster, tackling her to the ground before she can retaliate.
"What the fuck!" Beatrice shouts, her voice laced with pain and anger as they grapple on the ground. Thames, fueled by adrenaline and fear, lands a powerful punch on her, hearing a sickening crack as blood spurts from her nostrils. With Beatrice momentarily stunned, Thames seizes the opportunity, driving his trident into her chest—the cannon fires.
Before Thames can fully process what just happened, Adriano's awake and lunges at him, wielding an axe aimed at his head. Thames narrowly dodges the lethal blow, feeling the rush of air as the weapon whizzes past him. Brita intervenes, slashing through Adriano's calf with a sword. With a pained shout, Adriano staggers, and Brita quickly rushes to Thames's aid, helping him up from the sand as they brace themselves for whatever comes next.
The axe whistles perilously close to their heads as they sprint away. A lifetime of running across beaches gives Brita and him the advantage during their escape. Behind them, Adriano struggles to keep pace, kicking up sand in his frantic pursuit. Thames pushes himself to take longer strides, to bound down the spoke as fast as his legs can carry him, knowing that at any moment, Adriano could close the distance.
Suddenly, a sharp pain erupts in Thames' left shoulder blade, causing him to shout out involuntarily, but he refuses to let it slow him down. With every ounce of strength, he continues to dash towards the safety of the jungle. He dares not look back, focusing solely on the sound of Brita's footsteps behind him. The absence of a cannon firing tells him that, for now, she's alive.
As the jungle envelopes them in its embrace, Thames steals a glance over his shoulder to ensure Brita is still by his side. Relieved to see her close behind, they sprint uphill away from the beach, waiting for Adriano's pursuit. Yet, to their surprise, the threat never materializes. Finally, exhaustion overwhelms them, and Thames collapses onto the mossy forest floor, wincing as he removes the throwing knife from his back. Brita lands beside him, and he shoves her in frustration.
"Why did we do that?" Thames demands breathlessly.
"You're the one who attacked first," Brita retorts sharply.
"You didn't tell me what the plan was! You told me what we were doing, and I had to wait the entire night for a fight. I only attacked Beatrice because I thought she was coming at me."
"It's not like I could tell you in front of them, could I?" Brita shoots back defensively.
"You couldn't have waited?" Thames's frustration boils over, his gaze locking with Brita's in a silent accusation.
"Are we staying toge-" Thames begins, his hand instinctively reaching for the trident secured in his belt. But as his fingers close around nothing but air, panic floods his senses. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit."
"What?" Brita asks, her brow furrowed with concern.
"My trident. I left it in Beatrice's chest," Thames admits.
Brita shakes her head in disbelief. "That's all we need. You're completely defenseless now."
A surge of anger courses through Thames as he picks up a nearby stick and hurls it into a nearby tree. Tears are pushing against the back of his eyes, threatening to spill out onto his cheeks. He's in the final seven of the Hunger Games without a weapon. His chances of survival are drastically reduced.
"We're staying together," Brita declares firmly, her voice cutting through Thames' turmoil. "Even without a weapon, I'd rather have you by my side in the final fight. We're so close, Thames. We could make it to the end."
Thames lets out a bitter laugh. "I wouldn't get ahead of myself. I won't be much help if I can only throw punches."
"We'll get you a weapon, I promise," Brita reassures him, determination gleaming in her eyes.
Makari's POV
"Lunch," Yash settles beside Makari, pouring a handful of nuts into his palms. "Here you go, bud."
Makari mechanically pushes the nuts into his mouth, chewing slowly. Every motion feels devoid of real purpose. The two boys sit in silence. Makari focuses on the swaying canopy. He might be holding back tears, but he's not entirely sure.
Makari allows himself to bask in Yash's silent presence. Yash has been such a solid force throughout their time in the arena. It makes sense that he's one of the last ones left in their alliance. He always saw Eila with them, though.
"What do we do now?" Makari finally breaks the silence.
"What else can we do but wait for the Gamemakers to force everyone together?" Yash responds.
Makari recalls last year's Feast, called around this point in the competition. Someone always dies. He vividly remembers the brutal demise of the District 2 girl, her skull crushed by the huge District 11 boy. The chances of both of them making it out unscathed feel slim.
"What are the odds of survival if we skip the Feast?" Makari inquires. "Remember a few years ago when the Feast had gas masks and then the Gamemakers gassed the arena? Like six tributes died because they deemed it a waste of time. The Gamemakers don't like it when the tributes don't play along."
"I doubt they'll resort to old tricks," Yash speculates.
"If it's for the sake of entertainment, who's to say they won't?" Makari counters.
Every day, a death has occurred in the arena, except for one of the earlier ones. Was it day two? Day three? Makari struggles to recall. Surely the Capitol audience is entertained enough that the Gamemakers give them a break. Someone died earlier this morning, would that not hold over the audience until tomorrow?
He can't endure much longer in this place. Last year's games dragged on for three weeks or something close to it. Makari doesn't have the willpower to last that long. Add the week in the Capitol and he's been away from Seven for two weeks. With everything going on with him and Eila fighting, the mentorships, all the pre-games stuff; it's felt like a month.
A prickling sensation creeps up the back of his neck, triggering a reflexive turn. Half-expecting a spear to impale his chest, he instead finds himself confronted by swirling white fog.
"Yash?"
Yash notices it too.
"What is that?"
More of the fog drifts in from Makari's left side, brushing against his arms with sharp, searing stabs.
"Run!" Makari's urgency pierces the air. "We need to run!"
In an instant, Makari senses something is amiss. His arm ceases to function where the fog has made contact, hanging uselessly by his side. Abandoning any semblance of dignity, he hurls himself away from this trap. Only when his ally shouts and collapses to the ground does Makari remember Yash's presence.
Wheeling around, Makari witnesses Yash's wetsuit burning away, exposing raw, scabbed flesh beneath. Makari glances at the fog. It's far away enough that he could pull Yash up. Maybe.
"Makari, please! Help me!"
Makari's legs waver, uncertain if it's the fog's doing. Yash drags himself across the ground. In that moment, Makari reaches a decisive moment.
"I'm sorry," he manages to utter, his voice strained. With a heavy heart, Makari retreats, turning away from his ally sprawled on the ground.
Yash's voice is fraught with panic. "Makari, please. I don't want to die, please help me."
Ignoring the gut-wrenching cries behind him, Makari limps away as fast as his weakened legs permit, relying on trees to stop him from falling. If he falls, he's afraid he won't get up. Yash's screams slice through the air, abruptly silenced by the cannon.
Makari's foot catches on a root, sending him tumbling down a steep embankment, his body rolling uncontrollably. He comes to a rest, lying prone on the jungle floor. Even if he desired to flee, the effects of the fog have left his limbs unresponsive. If he somehow stood up through all the twitching, it wouldn't be possible to get away.
As the wall of milky smoke advances toward him, Makari braces himself for its suffocating embrace. Will his cries echo like Yash's? Perhaps the talk of karma in District 7 holds some truth. Yash won't be on his official kill count, but he as good as murdered him.
Suddenly, the fog congeals in the air, but it doesn't breach the invisible barrier the Gamemakers have constricted it behind. Makari's breath comes in ragged gasps as he struggles to sit up amidst his twitching body. His twitching body makes it difficult, but finally he gets off the jungle floor and is left to figure out how to win the Hunger Games twitching uncontrollably and covered in burning scabs. He curls into a ball, but the tears he so desperately needs to release refuse to come.
Clem's POV
She arches an eyebrow as the first face appears in the sky tonight, recognizing the girl from District 2. Another Career down. The boy from District 6 follows suit, and then darkness shrouds the sky. Clem ponders the fate of that alliance; they've been dropping like flies. Not quite united this year, it seems. Eila's face was in the sky last night. A small part of Clem is relieved. Facing Eila in the final fight would have made winning significantly more complicated.
Dying now would be infinitely worse than a few days in. She envisions her father and friends, their hopes soaring as she clinches a spot in the final six. Apart from herself, there remain three Careers, and the boys from Districts Seven and Ten. The latter two likely won't pose much of a threat, but taking on the Careers alone is out of the question. She hopes they've dispersed by now. Perhaps that's why the girl from District 2 met her demise today.
The notion halts her in her tracks. If the alliance did indeed collapse, it means the Cornucopia could be devoid of tributes. Without a fully formed plan, she descends from the branches of her sheltering tree and makes her way downhill, toward the beach. If the Careers have disbanded, she could establish a camp nearby and observe the Cornucopia from a safe distance. Staying inside the horn would leave her too exposed, but camping nearby would afford her a strategic advantage.
It takes a solid couple of hours to reach the beach. Clem's occasional breaks are brief, the urgency to reach the Cornucopia outweighing her exhaustion. The sound of waves crashing motivates her for the final push. Finally, she arrives at the jungle's edge, where the moss changes to sand. She spends twenty minutes watching the Cornucopia for any signs of movement. Besides the rhythmic ebb and flow of the waves, there's nothing. She cautiously advances along one of the spokes onto the island, surveying the Cornucopia. Though she only caught a glimpse on the opening day, she remembers the piles of weapons and supplies. Now, there's nothing but emptiness. It's been picked clean.
"Damn it."
She kicks up sand in frustration. Who could have carried away all these supplies? The remaining Careers couldn't possibly haul bags filled with supplies through the jungle. Unless the Gamemakers cleared it, which means… they plan on announcing the Feast sometime soon. It would make sense. Everyone's probably starving, wounded, dehydrated, or a mixture of all three. Her gaze lands on a dark patch of sand, darker than the rest. It's difficult to discern in the dim light, so she crouches down and sniffs it. A metallic scent assaults her nostrils, making her recoil. Blood. She should have expected as much in the Hunger Games.
So, the Career alliance has crumbled. Not surprising. The boy from District 2 is likely on his own now, which suits her just fine. The tributes from District Four are both around, and she imagines they're still together. She scans the jungle's edge. If she were part of that alliance and had to split up, where would she go? Probably exactly what she's doing now—lingering on the outskirts to keep an eye on the Cornucopia island.
Her heart skips a beat; she could be under surveillance right now. Since there's nothing to find here anyway, she cautiously retraces her steps down the spoke and blends into the trees. Scaling the closest one, she nestles into its branches, careful not to make a sound. Why wasn't she more cautious? She could have easily been ambushed, leaving her with barely enough time to react. Mistakes like that at this stage of the games are a sure sign of who won't make it. At least, that's what Clem believes, having watched the games year after year. If she were watching herself, she'd undoubtedly criticize such a foolish move. She can already envision the shocked expressions on her friends' faces if they broadcast her lapse in judgment during the mandatory viewing tomorrow night.
She chalks it up to how tired she is, but still, a wave of guilt washes over her body. Last year, when Thresh reached this point, everyone was so hopeful. Clem is subjecting her district to that same rollercoaster of emotions again, except Thresh wasn't this reckless. No more thoughtless actions from her. District 11 is daring to hope for victory again. She will be the one to break their thirty-year losing streak.
Through the gaps in the leaves above her, she catches a glimpse of the moon. Judging by its position, it's around eleven. Securing herself to the trunk with her waist tied by a thick length of vine, she closes her eyes, determined to rest. She must sleep. Given the way things are progressing, she could be jolted awake by another cannon in a couple of hours, leaving her stumbling around half-asleep. Tomorrow, she could wake up to find a snake coiled around her chest. She mentally scolds herself for yet another misstep. No more foolishness from her. District 11 will see her through this. They must.