TRIGGER WARNING: graphic description of vomiting, and self-inducing vomiting
Embelia's mother had never hit her.
She remembers hearing fellow classmates at school speak of how their parents would 'clip them round the ear,' for misbehaving, or for swearing, or for not doing their chores. It had confused her, even horrified her, because Chrysanta Hackett had never raised a violent hand to her in all her years.
Except for once.
She knows now, in hindsight, she had not done so out of any desire for violence, or to punish her, but only to protect her. She had not understood, on that day when she was just 7 years old, why her mother had smacked her hand when all she had done was reach to pick a flower. But she had heard her words, and decided to obey.
"That's deadly nightshade, Embelia," she had said. "You're never ever to touch those."
Embelia had listened. She hadn't understood until years later that the plant was deadly, but even once she'd found out the flowers themselves weren't poisonous she still didn't touch them. Even now, when she's old enough to know there are parts of the plant that, when prepared right, are safe to consume, she still wouldn't dare touch it. She thinks the lingering memory of her mother's fright might have been putting her off.
Embelia knows that, even in their hubris, the careers aren't stupid enough to fall for deadly nightshade. None of them scored like she did on the plant test in training, but they all got somewhere above 20%, so Embelia would bet money on at least two of them recognising it right away. Even if they didn't, they still make her eat all the food she picks first, just to be sure. Nightshade acts fast, so Embelia's brilliant plan would be somewhat foiled by her keeling over and dying before the careers ate any of the berries.
So, nightshade won't do. She needs something obscure, something that acts slowly enough that she can eat it first and convince them it's safe. It's a plan that hinges on her actually finding something of that exact nature. There are a few options– but not enough. Slow acting, certain death, and in this climate? It's slim pickings, and she's not certain she even knows of any.
It's a terrible plan. And it probably won't work. But she knows it's better than nothing, than fawning until the careers decide her usefulness has come to an end. So she has to try.
She's not even certain she knows of any poisonous foods in this climate, not off the top of her head. But then, nightshade doesn't belong in this climate. Neither do the oranges she's picking as Cassius tries in vain to wrangle his allies into listening to his plan. Venus is half listening, Emerald is picking the dirt from beneath her nails with one of her knives, and Plaid is staring up at Embelia where she's perched in the thick branches above.
(Which, she knows, is wrong for an orange tree. They don't grow this high, or provide branches both sparse and strong enough to seat a fully grown girl comfortably. The gamemakers have made plenty of concessions to the true form of nature in order to fit their own needs.)
"Isn't this your job?" Plaid calls up to Embelia, making her jolt in surprise as she reaches for a particularly far off branch. She scrambles to grip the trunk, stabilising herself and her heartbeat before she looks down, nodding.
She's shocked he remembers such an innate detail about her, one she thinks she only mentioned in her interview. In training, Plaid didn't do much asking about her or her life, which she had been thankful for at the time. "Yeah. Orange picker."
Plaid laughs as she reaches for another fruit, filling the empty bag they'd swiped from the cornucopia before setting off to hunt. "Kind of poetic."
Embelia hasn't read a lot of poetry, so she's not certain she'd know.
"Make sure you get them all," says Venus, fully turning her attention away from Cassius, who grumbles to himself in annoyance. "Don't leave any for anyone else to find."
Embelia fights a grimace, giving a curt nod instead. It doesn't feel right. At work, she leaves the ones that aren't ripe; when she's foraging for herself and her mother, she leaves enough behind for others to benefit. Never once had she taken more than she needed or more than she was expected to.
"Even the unripe ones?" Emerald questions.
"Who knows how long this will go on? They could ripen by the time someone else gets to them."
"Or they could be modified to ripen faster," Embelia chimes in without knowing why.
Venus gestures her agreement, and Embelia moves to continue on with her picking. When the tree has been plucked clean, she tucks the bag over her shoulder and shimmies down the trunk. As always, they make her eat some of the orange herself first. Even though they all know what an orange is, she supposes maybe they just don't trust the gamemakers this time. But if they had poisoned the regular fruit, they'd all be dead by now. Embelia supposes she should be thankful that it means she always gets to eat.
She puts the orange in her mouth, relishing in the familiar tart taste. She always feels ridiculous when she does this– eating and swallowing while all four of her allies watch her intently. Ridiculous, and preyed upon. Like they're wolves watching a lamb fatten herself up for slaughter.
(Though, she thinks that the lack of protein is actually making her lose weight, but that's nothing her body can't handle.)
Once satisfied, they each take an orange for themselves and they eat as they walk.
"Will you guys keep an eye out for any animals that look worth eating?" Emerald asks, voice a whiny complaint. "We'll survive on the fruit, sure, but we need something substantial."
"We could always eat each other," Plaid jokes, to no laughter. Embelia sees his face turn down into an uncomfortable grimace as he realises the implications of his joke, and the events that transpired only a year prior. "Sorry–" He then looks to the sky. "Just a joke, everyone. No need to bury us in snow."
Embelia hopes that garners a bit more laughter from the Capitol than it does from the people trekking along behind him.
It's then that they hear a twig snap. Several of them drop their oranges to the underbrush, all of them grab for their weapons. Embelia's reflexes aren't quite as quick, and only she's got a good grip on her spear a good second after everyone else. And by then, Venus is already throwing her axe at the noise, aiming for the offender who Embelia can't see.
Embelia expects to hear a body thump as it hits the ground, but instead she hears a yelp, then the axe hitting the underbrush, and then she hears rushed footsteps as the missed target runs away. It's hard to tell if the axe landed where Venus intended, for by the time Embelia spots the girl she's speeding off through the underbrush. Venus darts forward, pushing through the branches and reaching down to scoop up her axe, seeing it's clean of blood. She'd missed. In the short time Embelia's known her, she's never once missed her target. The realisation of her failure rips through her throat in a growl. Venus takes off running, and the other careers are following in a split second. Embelia takes a moment to follow.
(She briefly considers the merits of turning and bolting in the other direction, but the good sense that they'd only hunt her down overtakes that urge.)
As Embelia runs she hears a delighted laugh up ahead, and knows it's from Emerald. Her stomach twists as she rushes to catch up, unsure of what she'll do when she does, when they catch up to the girl who had been watching them, and when she has to watch her allies kill yet another of the tributes.
Quick and light on her feet as she is, it doesn't take her long to catch up to the others as they chase. But almost as soon as she does she almost slams right into the back of Venus, who has stopped sharp and sudden.
"Where'd she go?!" Cassius demands, slowing down and turning slowly in a circle twisting his sword over in his hand. "The little fucker– how did we lose her?!"
Plaid is looking up, searching the branches above them for just a glance of the small girl they'd been chasing. His brows knit tightly together, a frustrated grunt leaving him. Embelia looks up with him, spotting only a colourful bird that sits preening its vibrant feathers.
"Slippery," says Venus, and Embelia thinks she hears a hint of admiration in her voice.
She doesn't dare speak up, not until Plaid rips the spear from her hands and she protests, "Hey!"
Plaid ignores her, launching the silver javelin up at the bird and striking it right through the eye, watching it fall to the ground with an expression darker than Embelia's ever seen on him. He must be really disappointed to have missed the chance to hunt down that little girl.
"Dinner," he declares blankly, picking the spear up – skewered bird and all – and handing it back to Embelia. Embelia wishes she were more disgusted, rather than plain confused.
"That thing will barely feed two of us, fucking idiot," Cassius snaps, taking the words right from Embelia's mouth. (With some added sentiments.) "Can you focus? Where could she have gone?"
Embelia's not used to dealing with game, so she very awkwardly un-skewers the bird and holds it by the feet, gently wiping the blood from the spear with her sleeve. At least this blood isn't from a human, she tells herself, eyes flicking to the blood that still stains her suit. She tucks the spear away again, noticing the bird's feathers seem to have dulled already in death.
She looks back up, seeing the careers searching the area for their lost quarry. Embelia glances around too, just on the off chance she might spot something. She thinks she does a good job of not reacting when she does.
Her eyes flick toward a thick bush and grey meets blue. She freezes, gaze dancing over the bush to ensure it's not one full of abnormally blue berries– but no, it's green as anything decorated with blooming pink flowers. She lowers her gaze back to the pair of eyes watching her intently, heart thundering in her chest as she realises their prize is right under their noses.
For a split second, she considers it. Considers lifting her finger and pointing her out. It would certainly win her the trust she needs from the careers. What point is there in prolonging a life that will inevitably need to end? What point is there in cutting it short? If the others do spot the person in the bushes, Embelia has plausible deniability so long as she doesn't let her eyes linger too long. She could save a life, leave its end to someone else's hands.
So she winks at the girl in the bush, and turns away before anyone can notice she's been staring at one spot too long. After another moment of pretending to search, she declares that she'll set about cleaning their 'dinner.' She's never done it before, but after handling the cheapest, most meagre cuts of meat they could afford for dinners at home, she's certain she can at least stomach it.
The parrot makes for a measly dinner, and Embelia gets the undesirable offcuts of it though she doesn't much mind. It fills her stomach well enough, and settles the aching in her teeth from all the fruit she's been eating over the past two days. The fallen shows only the boy from Seven, and Embelia feels a bit of warmth in knowing that Korren's face has still been spared of a projection in the sky. She hopes she can get to him before that changes. The tension in the pack is thick that night, and when Embelia gently tests the waters with an offer to take first watch, she's denied it – though not aggressively. Emerald, tired and resigned, says she'll take it.
Embelia, satisfied with how calmly she was denied – not with distrust, but with simple resignation that it's someone else's turn – settles down and sleeps better than she had the night before.
It's another half day – and one more cannon – before Embelia finds what she needs. First, she finds the motivation.
"Say, Embelia," says Plaid as the group trudges through the jungle on another aimless hunt. "How'd your district partner earn that score anyway? He got the same score as Celeste."
Embelia falters in her steps for a split second, brief enough that she hopes no one has noticed.
Why does he care?
She knows why he cares. Korren is a threat, and she knows that. He's always been. Somehow, she'd just never considered that he was on the careers' radar. She had wondered earlier if the cannon that sounded was Korren– had Plaid wondered the same?
Her brain flies through responses at miles a second– excuses, lies, the truth. Warning bells are ringing through her skull, telling her to be smart, to protect Korren. To protect herself.
"I don't know," is the gracious response she lands on. And, well, it's the true response. Another thought occurs to her as she stares at her feet– had they split her up from Korren intentionally? Had they wanted to get the both of them alone to make them less of a threat? Or was Korren being alone simply an added benefit of taking Embelia into their tightly guarded pack? Emerald's voice echoes in her head.
"I was gonna try to take care of him, but he's quicker than he looks."
She had been so distracted by the chaos of everything else she hadn't even stopped to consider that Korren might be a long term target for them rather than someone Emerald had simply hoped to kill with her opportune starting plate.
Plaid hums in what sounds to be disbelief. "He didn't tell you?"
She shakes her head, toying with her sleeve. "We kept our private sessions a secret. We're not supposed to talk about them, right?"
"Not to the audiences, but to each other isn't forbidden."
Embelia swallows, keeping her head raised high so her nerves didn't show. "Well, we have an audience now. So I couldn't even tell you if I did know. I know as much as you do about what Korren did in training."
"Come on," says Emerald, slowing a bit so she can walk beside Embelia. Coordinated. "Can't let us in on a little bit of the behind the scenes action? I know you said he was your ally, but where has he been for you so far?"
Hiding from you. "Um…"
Embelia's head spins– the Ones make a good team in coordinated attacks, leaving her without much opportunity for a response that doesn't put herself or Korren in danger. They're smart. But Embelia is smarter.
(She has to be.)
"We were just allies," she begins, words calculated and careful. "Because we're from the same district. You know? It was a loyalty thing. We're not friends or anything."
There's no way to tell whether any of them believe her, but none of them say any more on the matter.
Next, Embelia finds the means.
In the days she's been here, she's spotted maybe half a dozen plants that don't belong here. Namely the oranges and the deadly nightshade. She's sure there's countless animals that are out of place here too, but she doesn't know quite enough about them to be certain. Eventually, she's certain something obscure is going to stick out to her.
When it does, it takes all she has not to jump with joy. Instead of celebrating like she wishes she could, she says, "Hold on."
The group stops and looks back at Embelia as she makes her way to the base of a tree, reaching up on her toes to pull a branch free.
"Lychees," she tells them, holding up the orange berries to show them.
(They're most certainly not lychees, but she'll stake her life on the fact that the careers don't know that.)
"What?" says Cassius.
"Lychee. A little berry. They can taste a bit bitter–" Not really, but these will. "–but they're nutritious."
"I'm not really hungry right now," says Venus, and the others nod in agreement.
Embelia nods, playing up the fawning. "Yeah, I know. We can have them with dinner."
The group concedes with mumbled agreements and turns away, continuing on their path to nowhere in particular. They leave Embelia a few steps behind and as she stuffs the branches into her pack, she allows herself to grin.
(She can already see that smile being played on the day's highlight reel on the screen.)
Plaid manages to shoot down another bird, bigger this time, and much scarier looking. Embelia turns its face away from her as she cleans it, unnerved by its wide beak and the eyes that seem to pierce through her even in death. She thinks she recognises it, or a form of it, from home. It's different enough from the ones at home that she can't pick it right away, but she doesn't know enough about it to name it. She isn't paid to name the birds that fly over the fields.
She lobs off its head and throws it into the fire as soon as she possibly can, murmuring a soft apology to it before setting its plucked body over the flames to roast.
When they divide it up to eat, Embelia pulls out the berries. There's enough for a few each, but she's betting they'll only need one. She moves to hand them out, but Cassius clears his throat.
"Right," Embelia says sheepishly, cracking a berry open and popping it in her mouth. It's as bitter as the books promised, but it's palatable. She chews, swallows, and shows them her tongue.
Slow-acting, the book had said. She hopes, for her own sake, that's true.
Emerald seems satisfied first, holding out her hand for the berries. Embelia hands her two, then passes them around the rest of the group. She watches Emerald eat one first, then another. Her eyes light up, and Embelia's brows furrow just a little.
"These are awesome!" she says as the others eat their own.
"You have the weirdest taste," says Plaid, face twisted as he swallows. "It's awful."
Embelia watches the other two try it, and both twist their faces up in disgust. It's okay; one should be more than enough. Emerald may just face worse symptoms than the others, or die sooner.
Embelia eats another, chewing slowly on the bitter fruit, before covering over the taste with her cut of the bird. Part of her thinks she deserves more than what she's gotten considering that it was her that cleaned and cooked it.
(It won't matter after tonight regardless.)
"I'm going to relieve myself," Embelia says maybe half an hour later, standing up and setting her pack and spear down. She keeps her knife on her, though, unsure of what waits in the trees. The others, instead of insisting on escorting her, wave her off and let her go. As Embelia turns her back, she smirks. (And tells herself it's all for the cameras.)
She knows that the cameras usually look away when a tribute goes to relieve themself, but she hopes someone out there is paying enough attention to see what she does. When she's far enough away that she feels she's out of earshot, guided by the bioluminescence of the jungle, she drops to her knees and takes a steadying breath.
Then, she shoves two fingers into her mouth and pushes them back as far as they'll go. She's not exactly sure what she's doing, she'd only heard of this in books and has never had any reason to throw up what little food she gets. After a moment, she pulls them out and takes a breath, throat feeling raw from her nails – chipped powder blue polish and all – poking around back there.
"Come on…"
She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes before shoving them back in again, and after a bit more pushing she finally begins to feel something coming up. She removes her fingers just in time for her to retch and for her body to push the contents of her stomach out onto the underbrush in front of her. It burns on its way out, and it feels as though her stomach muscles are pumping it up so that it just keeps coming, pushing stinging tears into Embelia's eyes.
After maybe three bouts of projectile vomit, Embelia leans back and takes a coughing breath, wiping the tears from her cheeks, and the mess from the corners of her mouth. She sits there on her knees a moment, panting and trying to swallow the taste of bile that clings to her throat and burns her tonsils. She presses her palms to her eyes, hoping she'll never have to subject herself to something so vile again.
She slowly brings herself to stand, kicking the loose underbrush over her vomit and turning back around, checking herself for any signs of sick before nodding in satisfaction and making her way back to the pack.
"You were gone a while," says Cassius.
"Hey," says Emerald, shrugging. "You gotta go when you gotta go."
Embelia sits down, shifting slightly and leaning back against the trunk of a tree. "Sorry."
She's spared any further conversation about her bathroom habits by the anthem blaring through the arena. The fallen is short, showing just the boy from Six before displaying Panem's seal for the rest of the anthem. That's twelve left now, isn't it? Halfway there.
Halfway home.
"I can take first watch," she offers, and this time she isn't denied. The others nod, settling down to rest as Embelia grabs her spear and holds it over her lap. She sighs, ignores the feel of burning in her throat, and waits for them all to fall asleep.
She waits hours. Staring up at the trees and watching the jungle live over her head while she waits for the others to fall deep into sleep. When she hears Cassius snoring softly, she slowly stands.
'If consumed, purge immediately. Consumption leads to manic convulsions of the body.'
She looks over her allies, stomach twisting with a sharp pang of regret, of second thoughts. But it's too late now– the job is done, so she has to be okay with it. The ends have to justify the means. So she picks up her pack, her spear, and starts walking. Any direction but the way they came, but with no goal in mind but distance.
'The convulsions can be so severe that muscle tears away from bone. Victims are said to have achieved bodily positions that would not be possible otherwise, with death following from exhaustion or cardiac arrest. Do not eat.'
Embelia walks without pause for what must be an hour before she hears it.
BOOM.
Embelia stops in her tracks. And, despite herself, smiles. She can only imagine the panic overtaking the camp she abandoned, the realisation they'd been betrayed. Or maybe they're all in too much pain to notice.
Two more loud booms follow in quick succession. Embelia tilts her ear to the sky, waiting for the fourth. Minutes pass.
It never comes.