Netta sits in the hovercraft, the low hum of the engines vibrating through her body like a second pulse. Outside the window, the world blurs past in greens and browns, the landscape slipping away as each turn of the craft twists the knot in her stomach tighter. The sharp scent of metal and antiseptic lingers, cold and sterile, making the air feel too thin to breathe. Her heart pounds, fast and uneven, nearly loud enough to drown out the Capitol attendant's monotone voice as they approach with the tracker in hand.
"This will monitor your movements in the arena," they say, no emotion in their voice, as if she's just another part of the machinery.
The attendant grips her arm, and for a second, all she can think of is home—her mother's worried eyes, her father's forced grin as he tried to joke about her strength. She squeezes her eyes shut as the tracker embeds itself beneath her skin, the sharp sting jolting her back to reality. She turns away from the device, the weight of it already sinking into her bones.
I'm not just another tribute, she thinks, her fists tightening in her lap.I'm not going to be a number they read out.
The hovercraft dips lower, the sky outside growing darker, heavy clouds rolling in like a warning. She swallows hard, pushing down the wave of panic rising in her throat.Just keep moving, she reminds herself, forcing her breaths steady. Each inhale feels fragile, but it's something, a thin thread keeping her grounded in the chaos that's coming.
The quiet hum of the launch room barely rises above Sirena's own breathing. She runs her fingers over the slick, dark material of her uniform—a cool, heavy weight against her skin. There's no mistaking the Capitol's intentions with this one. Xenia had picked up on it at once.
"Water," Xenia had said, eyes sharp as they skimmed the fabric. "Flooding, rain—this arena's meant to drown you. You'll have to be faster than the currents."
Sirena had nodded, but a familiar churn set deep in her gut. Not fear exactly. Just an awareness, a sinking feeling that had followed her through the week. She knew nothing could truly prepare her for stepping into the arena. The training, the simulations—they're all just preludes. Her lips press into a line as she slows her breathing, holding onto that thread of calm.
Across the room, Xenia leans against the wall, arms crossed, her gaze softer now but still sharp. "Let them panic. You stay calm. Strategic. Strike when it counts."
Sirena gives a slight nod, the words already internalized. She doesn't need generic advice at this point. Her strengths are clear. She knows how to fight, how to survive. But there's comfort in Xenia's steady voice, in the way her gaze holds just a glint of pride.
The sharp tone cuts through, signaling the inevitable. The Capitol's voice comes, detached and clinical. "Please enter the tube."
Sirena exhales, exchanging a brief glance with Xenia. Their eyes meet—something wordless passing between them—before Sirena steps into the glass tube. The door hisses shut, and the ground shifts beneath her as the platform starts to rise. The launch room, Xenia's presence, all fades below her. Weightlessness takes hold as she's lifted toward the arena.
Her pulse quickens, but her breath stays steady. Her mind sharp. Any second now, she'll be thrust into it. She can almost hear Thames' voice in her head, but she knows the truth now: none of it matters. No advice, no mentorship. Even Galene's gifts won't save her if she falters. A boy from District 6, years ago, had been given medicine that could've saved him. He'd accidentally dropped it off a cliff and died from infection a week later.
It's on her now.
The light above grows brighter, blinding, until it swallows Sirena whole. Then, with a final mechanical jolt, the tube vanishes, and she's thrust into the unknown.
A gray sky looms overhead, thick clouds pressing down like a lid over the arena. It's going to rain—soon. The jacket makes sense now. She stands in a ring with the others, twenty-six tributes all facing the Cornucopia, its mouth filled with supplies. To her left is Mercurie, to her right, the boy from District 10—Ruarc. Her gaze sweeps the arena: brown, crumbling buildings stretch into the distance, water lapping at her feet, barely knee-high. Nothing like the waves from the Quarter Quell, but water is good. Water she understands.
She inhales slowly, forcing herself to steady her pulse, to focus. The water, the ruins stretching out around them, the distance to the Cornucopia—everything slots into place in her mind. Chaos is coming. It always does. But the key is navigating it. Stick to the plan. Grab what you need. Get out.
The gong sounds, loud and final, and everything shatters into motion.
Her legs move before her thoughts can catch up. Water sloshes around her thighs, slowing her down, but she pushes through. Her focus narrows to a single point—the left side of the Cornucopia, where the weapons are. Bodies dart past, but she's faster, smoother. The drag of water is familiar. She knows how to fight against it.
Ruarc charges ahead, wild with desperation, while Mercurie lingers back, looking for a safer path. Sirena's only aware of them in passing. Her focus is locked on the weapons, gleaming under the gray light. A spear. She needs a spear. She spots the silver tip and pivots sharply toward it.
Fingers clamp down on her arm. Instinct takes over. She twists, driving her elbow into ribs, and the grip loosens. She doesn't pause. Can't afford to.
Zinnia from District 6 reaches the pile of weapons the same moment she does, but Sirena's already lunging, her hand closing around the cool metal of the spear. She rips it free from the heap, the weight grounding her.
Zinnia stumbles back, wide-eyed, but Sirena doesn't hesitate. The spear is hers now. She spins, poised to strike, and lunges. Zinnia throws a rock, grazing Sirena's arm before stumbling off, fleeing. Sirena lets her go.
Chaos explodes around her, blood mixing with water, screams tearing through the air. She stands at the Cornucopia's mouth, the sheer madness of it all crashing over her. The cameras will never capture it. Not the way it really is. Twenty-six people scrambling, fighting, killing.
The water churns red. The air is filled with clashing steel and dying breaths.
The first blood's been spilled. Kegan yanks his spear from the girl from District 12 and shoves her limp body into the water. Not a great showing for Twelve. Two shiny new victors back home can't save her. Earlene from District 10 charges at Kegan, and Sirena's already moving, legs carrying her forward before she's even aware. Kegan's caught off guard, thrown down into the water, flailing.
Sirena's pulse pounds as she closes in on Earlene. She knows this girl's dangerous—high score, strong, capable. A real threat. Sirena tightens her grip on her spear, the metal cool and steady in her hands. She jabs, aiming to end this quickly, but Earlene ducks, a flash of her knife swiping out to deflect the blow.
Sirena doesn't back off. She presses, forcing Earlene to retreat, watching the panic creep into her opponent's eyes. Earlene isn't used to water like this. She stumbles, feet unsteady beneath the surface, her strikes growing weaker, more frantic. Sirena waits, watching for the moment she falters—and when it comes, she doesn't hesitate. The spear drives into Earlene's chest, silver tip sinking deep.
Earlene drops to her knees, hands clutching at the wound, her eyes wide and glassy. Her breaths grow ragged, desperate, until they stop altogether. The strong girl from District 10, the one everyone thought would last, dies at Sirena's feet, blood mixing with the water. Sirena pulls her spear free with a sickening squelch, her stomach churning. She forces down the nausea, breathing through her nose, sharp and steady. No time for weakness now.
Atticus turns, spotting the girl from District 3—too close to the Cornucopia, lifting a bag onto her back. He moves to strike, but the girl from District 7 emerges, hatchet in hand, forcing Atticus to throw himself backward, barely avoiding the swing. Atticus steadies himself, but now District 3 is armed with a long knife, keeping him at bay as he tries to close the distance.
Before he can find an opening, the girl from 7 pulls a throwing knife from her jacket, flicking it forward. Pain explodes in Atticus' shoulder, sharp and hot. He stumbles, clutching at the knife buried in his skin. By the time he regains his footing, the girls are gone, disappearing behind the Cornucopia, the splash of water fading as they flee.
Atticus forces himself upright, ignoring the searing pain, and sloshes through the water, chasing after them. But they're too far ahead, slipping into the shadow of the tall buildings that cage them all inside this nightmare. Atticus watches them disappear, his breath coming in harsh, frustrated gasps. As Atticus scans the field, his eyes settle on the bodies drifting in the water. The chaos is ebbing, the space around the Cornucopia quiet now, stripped of the frenzy that marked the start. The Bloodbath never lasts long. What he's never understood is why the Gamemakers wait so long to fire the cannons, letting the silence drag on.
He circles the Cornucopia, sword ready, but the fighting has mostly stopped. Ahead, his allies have formed a tight circle, and as Atticus moves closer, he sees why—they've trapped someone. No, two tributes. This is routine; there are always a few who don't flee fast enough and get caught here, stranded.
Slipping between Kegan and Luscious, Atticus takes his place in the circle. Fenella from District 8 and Paige from District 13 are cornered, surrounded by weapons and nowhere to run. Fenella's eyes dart, frantic, seeking a way out. Paige stands with her back to her, the two girls holding up their pitiful knives, as if they can fend off a group of armed Trainees.
"Wait," Paula says, wearing that infuriating smirk. "Let's give them a chance. You girls can fight, and the winner joins us."
Atticus' is about to point out how reckless that is—the survivor could just turn on them later, maybe kill them all in their sleep—but he doesn't get the chance. Paige lunges first, slashing deep into Atticus' arm. Sirena reacts without thinking, driven by instinct, and thrusts her spear through Paige's chest. Paige's eyes go wide for a moment, gray and unseeing, before her body slackens and crumples into the water.
Atticus wheels around, ready for Fenella, but Paula's already finished her off. There's nothing left to do.
An uneasy silence falls over the Cornucopia, the scramble for supplies already behind them. Atticus feels a cold ripple up his spine as he absently swings his leg through the water. The adrenaline fades fast, leaving him hollow, exhausted. He bites the inside of her cheek and turns, walking into the Cornucopia. His back to her allies, he hides from their eyes, their judgment, as his excitement fades.
"Water up to our fucking knees," Netta huffs. "And it's freezing."
The settlement stretches around them, vast and half-drowned, water rushing through the streets like a river gone wild. Everywhere, plants crawl over roofs and brick walls, clinging to the remnants of the city. Netta mentally notes the greenery—could be edible, something worth checking out later. But now, all that matters is putting distance between them and the Cornucopia.
She can tell the difference between herself and Oakley, between District 3 and District 7. Oakley moves through the water like she was born in it, gliding smoothly while Netta fights every step. "A lot of ponds and rivers back home," Oakley had said. District 3 doesn't have any of that. The closest thing to a body of water is a bathtub.
Netta shifts the straps on her pack, wincing as her shoulder protests. It's still sore from the scuffle with the boy from District 11. They both grabbed the same bag, and neither was willing to let go. He'd won in the end, landing a solid punch to her shoulder that left her thinking it was dislocated. At least she hadn't taken the worst hit—District 4's girl had that honor. Netta still hasn't thanked Oakley yet.
Her eyes sweep across the water surrounding them. From here, the arena looks deceptively quiet—just the flooded skeleton of a city, with only the tops of buildings poking through the surface. But she knows better. The Bloodbath has likely claimed more than a few by now, and the arena itself is far from done. It's alive in its own way, and if she's going to survive, she needs to understand it.
The water. It's the key.
Narrowing her eyes, Netta watches the currents carefully. They aren't random; there's a pattern, a pull. Every ripple, every swirl is part of something larger, directing the flow toward the center. The Cornucopia.
A faint smirk tugs at her lips. The Capitol designed the arena like a trap, a slow pull that'll bring tributes back together, whether they want it or not. The water isn't just an obstacle—it's a guide, steering them into each other's paths. No matter how far they drift, the current will always nudge them back to the heart of the chaos.
Smart. And unsettling. The Capitol wants them all in one place, again and again, just in case things get dull. But knowing the layout gives her an edge. She could ride the currents instead of fighting them, let the water take her where she needs to go, conserving energy for when it counts.
Her gaze flicks back to the Cornucopia, barely visible in the distance, a jagged relic rising from the flood. Supplies still sit there, untouched by some. If things got desperate enough, she could risk going back.
Move smart, move quietly. Netta repeats the thought, fingers brushing the hilt of her knife, though she doesn't draw it. Observation will be her sharpest weapon for now. Let the others rush in and exhaust themselves. When the time comes, the arena will do the work for her.
When Aaranay hurls the brick through the window, the shattering glass echoes far louder than he expects, but he doesn't care. He glances over his shoulder out of habit before slipping inside, into the emptiness of the building. High up, tucked away in an apartment far enough from the Cornucopia, he doubts anyone will bother climbing this high unless the Gamemakers flush him out. For now, he's safe.
He sinks to the floor, his body aching from hours of constant movement. His legs throb, his back screams, but at least he's not dead. When the gong rang, he ran without looking back. It didn't stop the screams from reaching him, though—sharp and terrifying, even from miles away. The arena is a labyrinth of decaying buildings, mile after mile of crumbling stone and stagnant water. Knee-deep and foul. He can't help but think of the Seventieth Hunger Games, the one where the arena flooded, drowning everyone in its path. The thought lingers, gnawing at him, though he knows better than to try and guess what the Gamemakers will do.
Pulling his knees to his chest, he shivers, the cold already seeping into his bones. He regrets listening to Hector. He should've grabbed something—a blanket, at least. Or food. Anything. The sun still hangs low, but the chill is creeping in. It's going to get worse when night falls.
The first cannon goes off, sharp and sudden, making him flinch. It sounds quieter in the arena than on the screens back home. Then, seven more follow, each one dragging out into the silence. Eight gone, just like that. He tries to remember if he caught a glimpse of Telemi during the Bloodbath, but there's nothing. No sign of his ally. Maybe he never even made it to the supplies. Maybe he's already gone.
Aaranay's stomach churns, a dull, nagging ache reminding him how empty he is. The city sprawls around him, hollow and lifeless. Towering walls close in on every side, their slick surfaces offering no promise of food or shelter. He hasn't had the chance to scavenge—hasn't dared to, not yet.
His eyes catch on a rusted metal panel, peeling away from a nearby wall. He crouches, prying it loose, exposing a tangle of delicate wires beneath. His fingers work with a familiar ease, pulling the wiring free.
If I can't find food, I'll catch it. He twists the wires into snares—quick, efficient, like he's done a hundred times before back in District 9, when the harvests were lean and the orphanage didn't feed them enough to get by. Patience, he's learned, is a skill as much as survival.
He sets the snares in hidden crevices, along narrow streets, and retreats to a shadowed space between two walls. The stone presses cold against his back as he settles, the faint echoes of the city all around him—distant footsteps, water slapping against broken buildings. His stomach growls again, but he swallows it down, exhaling slowly. He's gone longer without food before. He just has to wait.
But waiting makes him restless. Aaranay's eyes flick from the alley to the traps he's set, his mind running through possible escape routes. He can't sit idle. The arena feels full of invisible threats, lurking just beyond sight. The last thing he wants is to be caught unprepared.
The chaos finally settles. Water laps at the debris, and the alliance stands among the bodies. Atticus wipes his sword clean in the water, watching as the blood trails off in thin red streams. His gaze flickers across the dead, faces blurring into cuts and strikes, the moments that had landed true. He still feels the weight of it, how the boy from District 13 had folded under his blade.
"That's eight," Luscious says, her voice low but sure. No one needs her to clarify—they know whose names match the corpses at their feet.
Sirena tosses her hair back, breath heavy. "Paige was mine. Ruarc, too." She barely looks at the bodies, her spear still dripping with water before she tosses it carelessly aside, striding toward the Cornucopia.
Atticus winces, feeling the burn of the cut on his arm. That girl from 13 had gotten too close, closer than she should have. He lifts his arm, inspecting the jagged wound carved along his bicep. "She fought like she knew she was finished," he mutters under his breath.
Paula catches it, glancing at what's left of the girl. "Shame she didn't land it cleaner," she says, a dry edge in her voice, almost amused.
"She did well enough," Atticus grits out, crouching by the Cornucopia, his hands rummaging through scattered supplies. His fingers close around a small canister of healing ointment. Popping it open, he slathers it over the gash, sucking in a sharp breath as the sting flares, then fades.
Kegan and Albinus sift through crates nearby, already staking their claims. Albinus has a bow slung across his shoulder, counting arrows with quiet satisfaction, while Kegan's hands move methodically through the dry food packs, weapons scattered like spoils at their feet.
"We've got enough to last weeks," Kegan says, pulling out a bundle of medical kits, eyes gleaming, calculating. "But we'll have to defend it, hawk-eyes on the lookout. They'll come for it soon enough. This arena's a wasteland."
"Let them," Luscious replies, running a hand along the curve of a large blade. "We've already taken down eight. We can handle whatever's left."
Atticus stands, rubbing the ointment in until the throb dulls, though the sting lingers in his mind. He glances at the supplies, feeling the weight of it—a victory, but not enough to chase away the frustration. "We did well," he says, the words catching on the edges of his own disappointment. His injury gnaws at him, a reminder of weakness, of his humiliation back in the private sessions.
"Stay sharp," Sirena warns, gesturing toward the city sprawled beyond the Cornucopia—the half-flooded streets, the crumbling buildings. "The real game's out there now."
Atticus nods, eyes following the jagged lines of the streets. The others who escaped the slaughter—they won't be hiding forever. His grip tightens on his sword as he steps toward the bodies scattered around the Cornucopia, his movements cold and deliberate.
The girl from 12 lies nearby, her face frozen in terror, limbs bent awkwardly in the shallow water. Atticus doesn't pause. His sword plunges into her chest, the sound dull and wet. Dead.
His gaze sweeps across the bodies, moving with methodical precision. Earlene from 10, crumpled beside a heap of supplies. Another thrust. Dead.
There's a rhythm to it, a grim duty passed silently among them each year. Atticus steps steadily through the carnage, his blade cutting through each heart with practiced ease. Milljana from 9, Amir from 13. Each receives the same treatment, no hesitation, no emotion. Someone has to do it.
Ruarc from 10 had fought hard, a flash of raw talent with a knife for a boy so young, but his struggle ended like the others. Atticus' sword slides through him cleanly. Dead.
He crouches by Lena from 5, another flicker of memory surfacing—her frantic scramble near the edge of the Cornucopia, Kegan's spear finding its mark. Atticus drives the blade through her chest, just the same. No movement. No breath. Dead.
His mind, as cold as his hands, keeps tally. The dead stack up like numbers, each one another step closer to the end.
He finishes with Paige from 13. The sword sinks into her chest one final time, the water rippling briefly before stilling. Atticus wipes the blood off his blade with the hem of his shirt, stained and filthy from the day.
"They're all dead." Atticus's voice is low, steady. "I stuck eight."
Only then does he allow himself to really take in the arena.
The city stretches out like a graveyard, crumbling buildings barely rising above the floodwaters. The Cornucopia perches on its platform, just high enough to stay dry, but everything beyond it is submerged. Streets are clogged with wreckage—collapsed bridges, broken structures, debris drifting aimlessly in the shallow currents.
In the distance, a few rooftops and spires pierce the water, skeletal remains of a drowned world. The air hangs heavy, thick with moisture, the faint stink of algae mingling with the sharp tang of blood.
"This place," he mutters, eyes scanning the horizon. "Fucking sucks." A labyrinth of hazards, a maze of narrow channels perfect for ambushes. Perfect for hunting. He sheathes his sword, the steel clicking into place with a finality that echoes the end of the Bloodbath. The arena couldn't be more different from District 1. One look at Luscious, and he knows she feels the same. They'll just have to deal with it.
Atticus wipes the blood from his hands and moves to join the others at the edge of the Cornucopia. Behind them, the bodies sink into the murky water, but the hum of a hovercraft fills the air, lifting the dead into its belly. The alliance stands in a loose circle, catching their breath, some still glancing over their shoulders, wary of any tributes who might have escaped the slaughter.
Sirena speaks first, her voice low but sure. "Most of the outliers will still be scrambling. This place is too unpredictable. They're either hiding or trying to get their bearings." She crosses her arms, eyes gleaming with the same fierce energy that had driven her in the fight. "Tonight's the best chance to pick them off before they settle."
Albinus nods, wiping water from his face. "We hunt after dark, thin the herd. Keep them confused. But we need to secure the Cornucopia." He gestures to the supplies—food, weapons. "This is ours. We can't let it slip."
Atticus listens in silence, piecing together the next steps. They've got the advantage, but the arena is a nightmare. The water makes everything dangerous, and night will make it worse. If they lose control of the supplies, they're as good as dead.
"Alright," Sirena says, stepping forward. "We split into pairs. Two stay to guard the Cornucopia while the rest of us move out. We can make a lot of progress tonight."
Sirena's eyes sweep over the group, pausing on Atticus and Paula. "You two are on guard duty tonight."
Atticus stiffens, a flare of anger sparking in his chest. Beside him, Paula groans, rolling her eyes. "Seriously?" she mutters, just low enough not to challenge outright.
"I should be out there," Atticus snaps, the frustration seeping into his voice. "Not stuck babysitting supplies while the rest of you pick off stragglers. Who made you the leader?"
Sirena doesn't blink. "We need strong fighters here. You're sharp with that sword, and Paula's got quick hands. We can't risk anyone slipping in while we're gone."
Paula huffs through her nose, clearly as irritated as Atticus. Guard duty feels like a slap in the face. But Sirena isn't wrong, and that's enough to settle his outrage—barely.
"Fine," Atticus mutters, the edge still sharp in his tone. "But once your shift's over, we're hunting."
"Deal." Sirena's face is unreadable as she turns back to the others, already mapping out the night's plan. The rest of the alliance doesn't seem to mind the arrangement, but Atticus grits his teeth.
Standing watch while the others roam the arena, racking up kills? Not how he pictured his first night.
Paula crosses her arms, staring out at the flooded ruins. "Great," she mutters dryly. "Exactly what I wanted—watch duty with you."
Atticus shoots her a sidelong glance, smirking. "Likewise."
They settle in for the night as the others slosh away into the dark, leaving behind a lingering tension like a storm about to break. Paula leans against a crate, eyes scanning the distant horizon.
"I can't believe Mercurie and Harry got off so easy," she mutters, sharp with annoyance. "Neither of them even drew blood during the Bloodbath. What kind of fighters are they?"
Atticus, absently rubbing the cut on his arm, tightens his grip on the sword. He glances toward the two outliers, now far enough away to be out of earshot. "They should be here guarding the Cornucopia, not us. We did the hard part. They get to play hero?"
Paula scoffs. "Exactly. They're getting rewarded for doing nothing."
Atticus nods, their usual tension dissolving in their shared irritation. "We could've wiped out even more tonight if they'd actually pulled their weight."
Paula gives him a surprised look, almost amused at how easily they're agreeing. "They'll either step up or they'll be dead weight."
For once, they're on the same page—united by their frustration rather than their usual sniping. Albinus and Sirena were already on edge; if those boys don't start contributing, they won't last long.
As the night stretches on, Atticus finds his mind wandering, slipping away from the dark horizon and back to District 1. The quiet between him and Paula makes it easy to drift into memories—his family, their expectations, the weight that comes with being a Tribute. He thinks back to the Justice Building, standing tall as he said his goodbyes.
His father's voice, firm but laced with a pride that cut deeper than any blade: "You'll make us proud, Atticus." The pressure was always there, unspoken but suffocating. The demand to get his family's name etched into history.
I have to.
The Bloodbath had been brutal, but even as he fought, striking down tribute after tribute, the doubt lingered. Were they watching back home? His mother's sharp eyes, his father's approval. Or had it not been enough? Would it ever be?
He looks down at the drying ointment on his arm, the sting of the cut barely there anymore. But the sting of expectation—it never fades.
His family had taught him to be strong, to be clever, to never falter. They needed him to be the victor. Taking a deep breath, Atticus grips his sword tighter. He'd make them proud. One way or another.
Netta's eyes flick to Oakley, who's still gripping her axe like it's the only thing keeping her upright. The girl hasn't said much since they left the Cornucopia—just followed Netta's lead, moving through the flooded ruins until they found a place to settle. But silence isn't going to get them far. If they want to survive, they'll need to start trusting each other.
"What's District 7 like?" Netta's voice is low but steady. Oakley blinks, clearly caught off guard. Her grip tightens on the axe as she casts a wary glance Netta's way.
"We've got to pass the time somehow," Netta adds with a shrug. "Nothing interesting happens the first night."
Oakley hesitates, then shrugs back. "It's mostly trees," she says, her voice soft. "Forests. My family works in the lumberyards. It's... peaceful, I guess."
"Peaceful sounds nice," Netta murmurs, though peace feels like something she barely remembers. The water laps at the edges of the ruins, soft and almost soothing, but she knows better than to be fooled. The arena's quiet now, but that just means the real danger is waiting.
The silence stretches, and for a moment, Netta wonders if she's pushed too far. Then, Oakley speaks again, voice barely more than a whisper. "For miles and miles, the forests are all you can see."
Netta imagines it, the concrete of the arena replaced with endless trees, a horizon that never ends. It sounds suffocating in its own way.
"We start working young," Oakley continues, "around ten, when you're strong enough to handle an axe. The younger kids don't do much—just train. The older workers don't want us in the way. It's dangerous work. I just started moving with the camps on weekends and during school breaks. Hard work, but... it feels good to be out there. Being by yourself, it clears your head. They feed us a lot, so we can handle it. Most kids in the games are from the mills, though... they don't get that luxury."
"Your district has a lot of victors, though," Netta says, more to fill the quiet.
Oakley shrugs again. "Six in seventy-seven years isn't a lot."
"District 3 only has four. Two of them are dead."
"Well, we both know why our districts don't have more winners."
Netta shoots Oakley a look, her thoughts drifting to the loyalists who already control the Cornucopia. Superior builds, sharper reflexes, and all the supplies—that's their advantage. It's always been this way. She remembers the Quarter Quell two years ago when a few outliers tried to take them down, break their grip on the supplies. It had felt bold at first, like maybe they had a chance. But one by one, the outliers fell, scattered, separated, and slaughtered. The plan didn't stand a chance.
"We can't stay out here," Netta mutters, running her fingers through her tangled hair. "We need shelter—somewhere high. If the water rises, we're done."
Oakley's wide eyes scan the horizon before she points. "That building. A few blocks away—the top floors look like they're still intact."
"Stable for now," Netta says, her voice low. But Oakley's right. It's their best bet.
The Quell still haunts her thoughts as Netta crouches, laying the sleeping bag across the cracked concrete floor. She shifts it, trying to make the jagged surface a little more forgiving. It doesn't help much. The cold seeps through, but at least they're hidden here, tucked out of sight from the loyalists. For now.
"We'll share it," she says, glancing up at Oakley. "One of us guards, the other sleeps. We'll switch off."
Oakley crouches next to her, eyes wide and pale, watching Netta's hands move swiftly through their haul. It's not much—a bit of rope, a thin tarp, and a few scraps of food—but it's something. The Cornucopia had been chaos, and the fact they escaped with even this feels like a small miracle. Oakley clutches her axe, knuckles white, her breath still shaky from the sprint to safety.
Netta's eyes flick over the supplies, mind turning. Rope could be a lifesaver—not just for traps, but maybe for navigating the water if the currents pick up. The tarp, flimsy as it is, could give them a little cover when the rain comes, though she knows it won't hold for long.
Her thoughts race. The water—it's both their enemy and their edge. Moving fast through it is a risk, but it'll slow the others down too. She could use that. She could turn the arena to her advantage.
"We'll need to follow the currents," she says, packing the supplies back into her bag with quick hands, slinging the tarp over her shoulder. "If we learn how they move, we can move faster—get to higher ground, maybe grab some supplies on the way. And we can set traps by the water. Anyone chasing us? They'll be funneled right into them."
Oakley presses her lips together, eyes sharp as she grips her axe tighter. "What if the others figure that out?"
Netta glances at the dark clouds above, heavy and waiting. It won't be long before the rain comes, before the arena floods and flushes everyone out of their hiding spots. She shifts her gaze to the waterlogged streets, the sluggish currents winding through the ruins. The whole place feels like it's sinking.
Aaranay moves carefully, hugging the shadows, keeping low. The ground beneath him is uneven, scattered with debris—chunks of stone, jagged metal. It's a slow crawl as he clears a path, pushing aside broken glass, clearing a way from his hiding place to the streets beyond. His hands move with purpose, steady, creating an escape route before he settles again, ready to wait this out.
If I'm trapped here, I'll need to move fast. Aaranay glances up at the towering walls, smooth and unforgiving. No handholds, no way to climb out. But the alley opens in three directions. Left leads toward a ruined marketplace. Right, where the flooded streets churn dangerously. Straight above, deeper into the labyrinth of crumbling buildings by rusting ladders. He maps each route in his head, instinct already choosing the quickest escape.
Satisfied with his work, he steps back to survey the setup. It's not perfect, but it'll do. The snares are tucked out of sight, hidden well enough that anyone chasing him would miss them in their hurry. His retreat is clear. If he has to run, he'll make it out before they even know what happened.
Dusting his hands, Aaranay glances at the darkening sky. He'll wait, listen. The faint lap of water, the occasional call of some animal in the distance—those he can ignore. But if he hears anything else, any sound out of place, he'll be gone.
The sky deepens, and as the moon takes its place, the anthem begins. Faces flicker into view one by one.
Lena from 5. The Careers are all still alive. Telemi, too, somewhere out there. Fenella from 8. Milljana. Earlene and Ruarc from 10. Robin from 12. Paige and Amir from 13. The eight dead, their faces disappearing as the Capitol seal fades, leaving the sky blank once again.
Milljana. She's been dead for hours, and Aaranay hadn't even known. They'll have already started preparing for her body back in District 9. She probably died quickly. The Careers don't waste time on the younger ones. A small part of him respects that, their efficiency on the young ones. Quick, clean.
Eighteen left. Aaranay counts them on his fingers. He'd hoped more would be taken out in the opening bloodbath. It feels wrong, wishing death on anyone. But eighteen's still too many for it to feel like he's any closer to home. The Careers are still eight strong. Six traditional tributes with the two boys they recruited. Ten outliers left. In theory, they could be overwhelmed, but Aaranay would need to know where the rest are to even consider it.
Netta and Telemi from 3. Zinnia and Aaron from 6. Oakley from 7. Quiltan. Wrenley and Rolland from 11. Randolph.
Aaron had been with Milljana and Ruarc. Aaranay wonders what he'd do, thirteen and alone, after watching his allies get cut down. Probably stick close to the Cornucopia, close enough to keep an eye on the Careers. Zinnia's still alive, though, so maybe the kid's looking for her. She'd been with Earlene, if Aaranay remembers right. Both Sixes are alone now. Aaron's cannon will likely sound in the next few days unless he finds someone willing to take him in.
Aaranay's thoughts flicker to Telemi, and his chest tightens with hope. He's out there, somewhere. But finding another tribute in an arena like this? Nearly impossible, unless you're with the Careers or it's late in the game when the Gamemakers force everyone together.
Aaranay crouches beside a crack in the concrete, where stubborn green vines snake out from the decay, creeping over the bricks. He plucks a few leaves, turning them over in his hand. Some look familiar, others not. A few have the shape of herbs he remembers from District 9, used in broths at the orphanage, but he can't be sure they're safe. The Capitol twists even the simplest things into traps.
He hesitates, bringing a leaf close to his nose, inhaling. No pungent smell, no obvious danger, but that doesn't mean much. He's not ready to risk it. Not yet. Carefully, he tucks the leaves into his jacket, saving them for later.
The steady drip of water in the distance reminds him how alone he is in this crumbling alley. His stomach grumbles, a persistent ache, but he ignores it. Eating something that might slow him down—or worse—would be reckless. Better to wait on the snares. At least then, he'd know what he was getting. Aaranay moves up the alley in near silence, crouching beside where he'd set the wires between two rusted-out vehicles. The last bit of light stretches the shadows long across the ground, and his gaze narrows, tracking any flicker of movement.
Instinct warns him not to stray too far. He sinks down by a cracked wall, positioning himself so he can keep watch over his snares and anything else creeping closer. His stomach twists again, but he ignores it. If something gets caught tonight, he'll have more than leaves to gamble on.
He shifts against the cold stone, his mind drifting to Telemi. They'd split in the chaos at the Cornucopia, Telemi swallowed up by the scramble. Smart kid, quick on his feet, but this arena is a death trap—flooded streets, shattered buildings, unseen dangers. Still, no cannon for him yet.
Aaranay pushes back the gnawing uncertainty. It's useless to chase ghosts, he knows that. But even so, the urge to find Telemi won't leave him. They weren't close allies, not officially, but they understood each other in a way that didn't need words.
If I find him… Aaranay lets the thought hang. What then? Partnering up means splitting food, supplies, risks. His mind sorts through the options. They'd last longer together, at least for a while. But he'd have to leave his traps behind, leave the quiet safety of this little corner he's carved out.
There are others, too. Quiltan—thoughtful, quiet—still could be out there somewhere. Aaranay had a soft spot for him, though he'd never say it aloud. Quiltan wasn't built for the brutality of the Games, but he had a sharpness, a way of slipping by unnoticed. Then there's Randolph, steady and calm, a presence that Aaranay could use right about now. He hasn't seen either of them since the gong, but they're survivors in their own ways.
Stick to the plan, but stay flexible. If he could find Telemi, maybe even Quiltan and Randolph, they'd have numbers, more ground to cover, more resources to share. It's not a solid plan, but it's better than nothing.
Aaranay pulls his jacket tighter, eyes on the snares again as a quiet sigh escapes him. First, make it through the night. Then he'd figure out how to track them down. If they're still alive.
The blood still hangs in the air, faint but unmistakable, as Mercurie trudges through the flooded streets, the Cornucopia shrinking behind him. Water sloshes against his legs with each step, thick and murky, as though the city itself is trying to pull him under. Shattered buildings rise around them, skeletal remains of a world long forgotten—some half-sunken, others looming like crumbling monuments. He keeps his eyes fixed ahead, on the figures of Luscious, Albinus, and the rest of the Alliance moving steadily through the water.
The city seems to breathe around them, alive in its decay. Ripples spread across the surface, stirred by unseen things lurking just beneath. Every sound echoes unnervingly—drips from rusted pipes, the groan of structures teetering on the edge of collapse. It's too still, as if the city holds its breath after the Bloodbath, waiting for whatever comes next.
Mercurie can't shake the feeling that the arena is watching him.
It hadn't fully sunk in until now—what it means to stand here, knee-deep in filthy water, surrounded by decay and crumbling ruins. The weight of it presses down on him, cold and suffocating.
This is it. I'm in the Games.
No more preparing, no more rehearsing strategies. Every step forward drags him deeper into the arena, closer to the death he's spent his life dodging. The Capitol's spectacle—once distant, almost unreal—now holds him tightly, and there's no slipping out of its grip. He's in it now, part of the show.
He glances at Sirena, just ahead, her movements precise, almost graceful despite the sluggish water. Her hair clings damp to her neck, but her dark eyes are sharp, scanning the surface with a quiet thrill, ready for whatever might lunge from the depths.
The others are locked in, their focus razor-sharp. Harry's jaw is clenched, his gaze darting to every shadow, every broken window, searching for movement. Kegan moves with confidence, his hand always close to his weapon, ready. But Mercurie—he tightens his grip on his spear, trying to mirror their resolve. It feels wrong in his hand, the weight unnatural. A gnawing pit in his stomach deepens with each step. They're hunting the others down, and he knows his turn will come soon enough. He isn't a killer. Not yet.
The arena stretches out endlessly before them, a maze of sunken streets and collapsed alleyways, barely enough solid ground to stand on. The water is cold, foul, soaking through his clothes and into his skin, making every movement sluggish. It drags at him, pulls at his limbs like the weight of everything he's left behind in District 5. Unresolved conversations.
"Stay sharp," Sirena calls over her shoulder, her voice cutting through the stillness. "This place is disgusting, but the others won't stay hidden for long."
Her voice bounces off the hollowed-out buildings, carrying through the stillness. Mercurie wonders if any tributes nearby hear it too. If they're huddled in some corner, listening to the pack's approach, knowing what it means when that voice rings out—when their shadows flicker in the dim, broken light.
He's one of them now. That thought gnaws at him, the knowledge that he's meant to be the predator, the one others fear. But as they wade deeper into the city, there's no thrill, no hunger. Just the sinking dread that a lot of people back home probably think he's disgusting. Fenella's death flashes again in his mind, and the guilt sinks like a stone in his gut.
Sirena signals for them to stop, crouching by the wreck of a half-submerged car. Her knife slices through something—string. Her eyes flick up to meet theirs, her expression clear: someone's nearby, and they've set traps.
Mercurie swallows hard, his throat dry despite the damp air, and looks past the crumbling buildings to the maze of alleyways winding deeper into the city. Somewhere out there, someone's watching them. Just as ready to fight for their life as he's supposed to be.
The city feels like a graveyard. Every step pulls them deeper into a place meant for their coffins, the ruins whispering stories of what once was, now just the backdrop to this battlefield. Mercurie shivers, not from the cold, but from the hollow black windows that seem to scream silently at him.
He's in the arena. The thought echoes again, sharper this time. It's not just the deaths or the chase—it's the way the Capitol warps everything, even the world around them, into a twisted game. Life and death, entertainment for the masses. Mercurie grits his teeth. He needs to stop moping, toughen the hell up if he has any chance of surviving this.
As they move forward, the sound of water slapping against stone fills the air, hollow and constant. Dread creeps up his spine again. The sun is gone, swallowed by the jagged horizon, and darkness stretches across the floodwaters, pooling in every crack and crevice. Mercurie's pace slows, his chest tightening as the distant clamor of his allies hums through the streets—quiet orders, splashes of water, the sound of a hunt closing in.
"They're getting closer," Harry murmurs beside him, his eyes fixed on the shifting shadows ahead.
Mercurie nods, his gaze darting between the empty alleys. "Let's keep our distance," he murmurs, the unease in his voice plain. He knows the others are better at this, their confidence in combat a far cry from the knot tightening in his stomach. A flicker catches his eye—a shimmer in the ruins to their right, too subtle to be random. Something's wrong.
He veers off, instincts tugging him toward it.
"Mercurie, what are you—" Harry starts, but Mercurie raises a hand, silencing him. He doesn't answer, too focused on that glint in the gloom, his breath shallow. One step closer. Then another.
Suddenly, the ground vanishes beneath him.
The world flips upside down, air whistling past his ears before his body jerks to a halt. A rope digs into his ankle, suspending him in midair. The blood rushes to his head, making the scene below swim—the flooded streets twisting with his spinning hair.
"Mercurie!" Harry's shout slices through the blur, edged with panic.
Mercurie curses under his breath, fingers clawing at the rope. He twists, trying to free himself. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, frustration bubbling as the knot holds tight. "I'm working on it."
From the shadows, another figure emerges—the boy from District 9. His face appears first, curious and wide-eyed as he realizes what his trap has caught. He'd come to check for food, maybe something small and easy to scavenge. Instead, he finds Mercurie, hanging helplessly in the snare. Aaranay's eyes lock on Mercurie's, the weight of the situation dawning quickly. His gaze flickers to Harry, then to the rest of their allies splashing over to help.
For a second, Aaranay freezes, weighing his options. Footsteps grow louder, deliberate and heavy. Too late.
Harry's already moving, his breath uneven with panic. "I'll cut you down," he says, frantic, reaching for his knife, but Mercurie shakes his head sharply.
"No! Don't—" Mercurie's voice barely escapes, caught in a knot of hesitation. Before he can finish, Luscious strides forward, a grin slicing across her face, her eyes glinting in the murky light.
"Well, well," she purrs, her voice thick with amusement. "Look who's hanging around."
Luscious doesn't wait for a response. With a flick of her wrist, her knife catches the faint light as it slices through the rope. Mercurie crashes into the water, the cold knocking the air from his lungs. He's drenched, freezing, pain shooting through his side, but before he can gather himself, chaos erupts around him.
Aaranay lunges at Luscious, his small knife flashing with desperation. They collide in a flurry of limbs, grunts, and sharp exhales echoing in the tight space. Mercurie watches, frozen, his heart pounding but his legs refusing to move, heavy as stone.
"Get up," Harry hisses, fingers digging into Mercurie's arm, yanking him upright. But before Mercurie can even process the words, the rest of the Inner Alliance surges forward.
Albinus barrels past, eyes locked on Aaranay, who's already scrambling to escape. The chase begins, the alleyway swallowing them in shadow as they tear through the flooded streets, the water sloshing violently with each step.
"Flank him from either side!" Albinus barks, his voice cold and steady, orders cutting through the air. "Sirena, you're the fastest in water—get around him!"
Mercurie's feet move on instinct, trailing behind the others as they wind through the broken city. His breath comes in ragged bursts, his grip on the spear slipping—too much water, too much sweat. Up ahead, Aaranay's shadow flits through the cracks between walls, barely a glimpse. The air feels charged, thick with the thrill of the chase, but it doesn't settle in Mercurie's chest the way it does for the others.
Sirena presses forward, relentless. She isn't after the kill, not really—just the end of it all, the part where this game chews someone else up and spits them out. Behind her, Luscious wears a grin, eyes bright, like she's already savoring the moment Aaranay's run will end. The pack tightens, closing the distance with every step, and Mercurie feels his pulse quicken, the rush creeping in despite himself.
Aaranay's stumble seals his fate. They're on him now—he's not fast enough, not lucky enough. Mercurie has seen this before, how quickly the gap between predator and prey snaps shut, how it ends in blood and silence. But even as the others ready their weapons, something in Mercurie falters. He holds back, just a step behind, unwilling to cross that line.
Aaranay's frantic movements gnaw at him. There's no honor in it, no satisfaction—just a boy, fighting for another breath, and Mercurie isn't sure if he wants to be the one to take it away.
"Go on!" Albinus barks, glancing back. "He's slowing. We've got him. Mercurie, Harry—one of you finish it."
Mercurie tightens his grip on the spear, the weight of it pulling at his hesitation, but his feet drag. He knows they're all watching, waiting for him to prove he's not dead weight. His breath catches in his throat—he can't just plunge his weapon into someone running for their life. Someone who still thinks they can get out. Every second he delays, the pressure mounts, the unspoken rule ringing in his head: Loyalists kill outliers. Those who hesitate don't last.
Up ahead, Luscious is already closing the gap, the alley narrowing to a tight corner. Aaranay stumbles into it, chest heaving, eyes wild—he knows it's over.
Mercurie's pulse pounds, hot and loud. One thrust. That's all it would take. The others are primed, ready to strike, ready to end him.
But then Aaranay scrambles, clawing at the bricks, tearing his hands bloody as he pulls himself up. He moves with a desperation Mercurie hadn't expected, gripping onto a rusted ladder rung and hoisting himself out of reach. For a second, they all just watch—Kegan hurls a knife, but it flies wide.
Aaranay spits down at them, flashes a crude gesture, and vanishes over the wall.
Luscious spins, fury in her eyes as she shoves Mercurie and Harry hard. "Good job, you useless fucks. We had him!" Her voice drips with contempt, a sharp edge to it that digs deeper than any blade.
Sirena throws herself at the ladder rungs. "Get your asses up here now! We've got a rat to catch!"