"It's going to be dark soon," Ruby says. "Do we head back to the Cornucopia or risk a night hunt?"
"I say we head back," Miles says. "Who knows what could happen to the Cornucopia while we're gone?"
"Don't be foolish," Bellona says reproachfully. "We keep hunting."
Canteens and bellies full of liquid, they set out with a renewed sense of purpose and all the subtlety of a fleet of barges chugging into District 4's harbor. Of course, there's the matter of food to consider, but perhaps sponsored gifts will arrive once some action happens.
In Finnick's opinion, the first night of the Games is the most tedious part of the whole affair. Year after year, the Career pack essentially stumbles around the arena blind, at the mercy of whatever prowls in the dark, waiting for some helpless, stupid tribute to fall into their laps. But they can't split up. The Career alliance only lasts so long before it breaks, whether it happens via a predetermined unified-district ambush or a lone attack. For survival's sake, they usually try to stick it out until most of the Callows are eliminated, but that doesn't mean they trust each other. At this point, to suggest separating is to suggest breaking the alliance. Finnick might as well paint a giant target on his back and hand Bellona his spear.
So they stick together, as inferior a strategy as it is, and methodically roam the arena like a gaggle of District 4's orphan children scavenging for shells on the beach. It isn't long before dusk sweeps over the sky and the flashlights come out. The thin beams of white light are meager substitutes for a bright sunny day.
As soon as it gets dark, the anthem starts to play in the sky. Collectively, everyone decides it's time for a break and sits down to watch the nightly recap.
It's common for members of the pack to applaud each Career when the tribute who was killed by that Career shows up on the screen. This Games is no exception. When the first face appears—the girl from Three—Ruby says, "That one's mine." The Career pack cheers appreciatively. Then comes the boy Finnick speared. It's the male tribute from Five.
Miles claps Finnick on the back. "Great job," he says. "You've got a good aim."
Finnick doesn't know what to do—thank him? Brush him off? "Easier than spearing fish," is what comes out of his mouth, but by now the next tribute has come up, and they're congratulating Bellona on her kill—the poor girl from Six. The other tribute from Six and Eight's female are Alabaster's, and he hoots and pumps his fists in the air. The boy from 9 is a surprise; he must've been the victim of the river mutts. Then a wave of nausea hits Finnick as the boy from Ten fades into view, and he half expects Alabaster to start arguing with him again. Instead, Alabaster makes a dismissive gesture at the screen.
"Arrogant prick," he grumbles, fingers playing along the hilt of his sword. "Should've kept his Callow mouth shut."
Finnick lets out a breath. The other two tributes—the girl from Eleven and the boy from Twelve—flash by, accompanied by the usual accolades, then the sky goes dark.
They resume their search with renewed vigor, perhaps heartened by the sight of their kills. Tonight, though, it seems their luck has run out. They scour the rainforest for hours, trampling vegetation underfoot, scaring away every bird and animal within a mile radius. Finnick has a good guess where the tributes from Seven have gone. While it's wet and huge and crawling with insects, the arena is still populated densely by trees, which is where they've most likely hidden themselves if they have any brains to speak of. It's where Finnick would look if it weren't so dark. Tomorrow, he tells himself. Once it's light, we'll find them easily.
By now, everyone's moods have soured considerably. Finnick imagines they all look a fright, having tramped around a muddy jungle for a better part of the day. He prays the bloodbath had been engaging enough to occupy the audience and allow the players some desperately needed respite.
Bellona caves first and breaks into her tiny stash of food. The rest quickly follow suit, even Finnick, though the shame of wolfing down every scrap and crumb by flashlight makes his ears burn. Though nothing goes to waste, the food barely serves to take the edge off his hunger. Judging by the surly expressions on the rest of the pack's faces, they feel the same way.
They need a better strategy. Finnick knows what he would do. Out on the open ocean, where tuna could be located anywhere in the entire ocean, Lachlan's fleet trawls the areas where they've learned fish are most plentiful: on the continental shelf, where food is close by, where predators are few. Where they feel safe. Where would Callows feel safest here? Seven would take to the trees. Nine, to areas of dense foliage akin to fields of grain. Before he can voice these thoughts, his subconscious arises in the form of Mags' voice.
Don't reveal your hand too early. You're a clever boy, Finnick. If even one of them figures it out, they'll turn on you as a pack, and not even you can hold off all four of them. If sharing the information you possess is not critical to your immediate survival, keep it to yourself.
So he does. Hunting on nights like these is like searching for a single sardine in the whole ocean, and it doesn't take long for everyone to realize their search, at this point, is futile.
"Let's head back to the Cornucopia," Ruby suggests. "It's higher ground, and we can regroup and head back out in the morning."
This time, no one disagrees.
By the time they make it back to the Cornucopia, Finnick's stomach is growling loudly enough he's sure everyone can hear it. Maybe instead of hunting for tributes they should've been searching for food, but that's not the way a Career pack operates. Finnick had already rebelled enough by suggesting they make water their priority. He wasn't ready to invoke their ire by pushing their limits further.
"We'll get an early start tomorrow morning," Bellona tells them as she switches off her flashlight. They're bone-weary and too hungry to argue. None of them mention the fact that without food, their hunt for tributes will be miserable and very short-lived.
"I'll take first watch," Finnick volunteers.
Alabaster grunts and heads for the mouth of the Cornucopia. He grabs something—a mottled piece of fabric Finnick couldn't ascertain the purpose of—and rolls it out on the pavilion floor. The rest do the same, though neither Bellona nor Miles is lucky enough to snag as comfortable a bed as Alabaster. As Finnick watches Bellona settle down next to Miles, her white-blonde hair stark in the shadows, he wonders if this is how she sleeps back in District 2: on a cold cement pallet with nothing but her arm for a pillow.
"I'll stay up, too," Ruby says. "Not very sleepy anyway."
"I'll go around the other side," Finnick suggests. "That way we have a lookout on both sides of the Cornucopia." From this high in the air, they'd be able to spot an ambush from the moment it emerged from the tree line.
Ruby smiles coyly. "Whatever you say, Pretty Boy." She starts to saunter away, then turns at the last second. "Hey, I never did thank you for saving me from the river mutt earlier."
"Like I said, you'll pay me back someday," Finnick replies, a smirk flitting over his lips.
Ruby's eye twitches. "Don't push your luck."
"Who, me? Won't be a problem, because my luck never runs out." Finnick flops down on the top step and leans back against the pavilion floor, arms crossed.
"We'll see," is all Ruby says in response. Then she swivels and walks away. Finnick watches the sway of her hips as she goes.
━━━━━━━━━ ♆ ━━━━━━━━━
The first night of the Games, Finnick doesn't get much sleep. When he wakes Alabaster to take his shift as sentry, he lies down with his back to the Cornucopia and tries to slow his racing thoughts. They dart around in his brain like a school of fish, incredibly unhelpful to Finnick, who knows he'll need a fresh mind and body for the next morning.
During his interview, Finnick constructed the lens through which the Capitol would view him throughout the entire of the Games. A tragically young boy plucked from his seaside home and family, thrust into an arena with allies who are much older and more experienced than he. It's just like Mags taught him: Every tribute has an angle, a narrative they advance to best ensure their own survival. Judging by how popular this narrative is with audiences, the Gamemakers will either let it play out or tweak it to fit their agenda. What kind of story will Finnick's be? He's already proved himself as an efficient killer, but the ability to kill is only the bare bones of the edifice he is fabricating around himself. He needs substance, depth. He needs personality, more than Ruby's coquettish shrewdness or Miles's aura of mystery.
A piece of Mags's advice, oft repeated, comes to him then: You write the narrative, Finnick, or the narrative writes you.
He's still pondering these things when someone is shaking his shoulder and his eyes are snapping open. It's Miles, eyes a piercing blue in the dim light, staring down at him with such intensity Finnick is momentarily incapacitated.
"We're getting ready to go," Miles says.
Finnick shakes off his temporary paralysis and scrambles to his feet, trying to ignore the painful growl of his belly. The rest of the pack are rising as well, Ruby stretching her arms above her head and yawning like a little girl.
"What's the plan?" Alabaster asks, carding his fingers through his braids. "We could split up to cover ground faster."
Ruby shakes her head. "It's the second day of the Games and we don't know what's out there yet. We'd be better off sticking together."
Finnick nods his head in agreement. There's no discreet way for them to communicate in the jungle; if they split up and one of them is hurt or killed, how would one party let the other know? "I'd take everything you want for the whole day." He nabs his backpack and spear from the day before, discreetly peeking inside to make sure nothing had been taken during the night. He also grabs a small backpack and fills it with the day's essentials: A pack of bandages, water purifying tablets, a flashlight. Lastly, he grabs a hatchet and sticks the handle through a loop in his pants.
"We're hunting?" Miles asks.
"We're hunting," Bellona affirms.
"We're hunting for food," Finnick corrects. "We can't always count on parachutes to feed us. We have to be at least a little self-sufficient."
"And while we're out there foraging like peasants, what are the Callows up to?" Bellona demands, eyes flashing indignantly. "The longer we wait, the more prepared they'll be for us."
The Primaries, in all their coddled arrogance, have assumed the mindset of domesticated dogs: Sit, beg, roll over. A sponsor or two will throw you a bone. But they don't know about the blight in Ten and Eleven. They don't know why the Cornucopia is so void of food, or that it will most likely be slow to come from sponsors. Finnick does, and that knowledge affords him a distinct advantage. But how can he convince them to follow his lead without giving his little secret away?
"Food is more important," Finnick insists. "We can't hunt Callows if we starve." Besides, they only have a short span of time before the bloodbath reruns have lost their novelty and the Gamemakers decide to spice things up. If there's anything past Hunger Games have taught him, it's that the Gamemakers will never leave tributes to their own devices. If they did, the Games would never end. At some point, something is going to happen to force them into conflict. Finnick would prefer to be well-fed when it happens.
Evidently Bellona comes to the same conclusion, because she jerks her head—the closest she'll probably ever get to acquiescence. "Fine."
This time, when they head back into the rainforest, Finnick looks up. The treetops rustle with activity, further increasing Finnick's hope.
"Back home, we grow a lot of our own food because the weather is almost always good." In fact, the year-round growing season is one of the reasons his district is not starving like many of the others. If you're not on a boat, then you're tending one of the gardens rooted in the swathes of District 4's fertile ground. Peacekeepers and Capitol officials don't care; the variety of fresh produce shunted their way is more than enough to keep their bellies full, and therefore their mouths shut. "This weather is kind of similar, if not wetter."
"What kind of food are you looking for?" Ruby asks. "I'll help."
Finnick points at a series of round, rock-like objects scattered beneath a tall, nearly branchless tree. "Those nuts I recognize." From the arena floral station back in training, but they don't need to know that. He points to another tree. "Bananas. Figs, too. And look! If my memory serves me correctly, I'm pretty sure those berries are edible." If a tribute could make it to the canopy, they could hide forever, living on fruit and waiting for everyone else to kill each other off. The girl from Seven, with her mane of scarlet curls, floats unbidden before his mind's eye. She perches like a squirrel amidst the foliage, big brown eyes peering down at them.
"How many of you are good climbers?"
Bellona shrugs, Alabaster scoffs. Ruby's nose wrinkles. "I don't want to muss my hair again." She must've fixed it during the night, because it looks better than anyone else's.
Finnick shrugs and kicks off his boots and socks. "Suit yourself." He stands at the base of a banana tree and takes a flying leap at the trunk. Though the tree bears no branches, its loose, paper-like bark provides excellent handholds—much better than the rough material of rope. Finnick climbs the tree similarly to the way he climbed the rope during his private evaluation with the Gamemakers, except he uses his knees and feet to push himself further up the tree, like a caterpillar. Reaching out as far as he can, he manages to snag two bananas from a huge bunch before sliding back down the tree.
"Here." He tosses one to Bellona and one to Alabaster—peace offerings, if they're capable of interpreting them as such. Then he flings an arm out, narrowly stopping Bellona from biting into the fruit, skin and all. "Here, you peel it first." He takes the banana, peels it, and hands it back. Eyeing Finnick like she's debating sticking him with one of her many blades, Bellona takes a bite. As she chews, her mouth draws into the closest shape Finnick has seen to approval. Alabaster follows suit, wolfing his down in three bites.
"Not bad," Alabaster proclaims, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
"I can weave a basket and collect more," Finnick says. He's feeling inordinately pleased with himself, providing for and satisfying his companions.
"I wonder how many of the others figured this out," Ruby ventures, squinting up at the treetops.
"My guess would be Ten and Eleven," Finnick replies. And anyone who took the time to complete the arena flora station. Inexplicably, he doesn't mention Linden, the girl from Seven, but doesn't allow himself time to wonder why. "Tributes from urban districts like Five and Six are at a disadvantage in an arena like this." He makes a wide gesture with his arms.
"So what?" Alabaster throws the peel of the banana aside and rests his hand casually on the hilt of his sword. "We're going to survive on fruit and rocks for the whole Games?"
Finnick shakes his head. "Not if I can help it. Have any of you ever built a raft before?" Their responding blank stares are answer enough. "I need vines and straight, light logs—lots of them. I'm going back to the riverbank."
Bellona raises a dubious brow. "You plan on getting eaten?"
"If we're smart, that river will be able to feed us the whole Games. We won't have to rely on sponsors." Finnick is gratified to hear the confidence in his voice. "There's no way the whole river is filled with those mutts all the time, or else nothing would be able to survive here. Remember the pig thing we saw yesterday? It has to drink water at some point. We're going to fish that river, and we're going to do it today."
"Why should we take orders from you?" Alabaster demands. "For all we know, you could be setting us up to get ourselves killed."
The urge to sigh rises in Finnick like a wave. With some difficulty he swallows it back and says, "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't be feeding you, would I?"
A little impudent maybe, but he gets his point across. His response must seem reasonable, because all of them, even Alabaster, disperse without another word of protest.
As the others tramp off to fetch his supplies, Finnick heads back down to the river. He does a little reconnaissance before he picks a spot, looking for signs of Callows or animals lingering nearby. He visually sweeps the river at regular intervals, searching for those beady yellow eyes poking above the surface of the water.
Part of him is hesitant to show these people his secrets. Once they know how to do what he can, his presence becomes unnecessary. But it's a risk Finnick has to take. Learning to fish, climb trees, and harvest edible fruit take time and effort—luxuries he doubts they are willing to sacrifice as tried and true Careers. Without Caspia around to watch his back, he needs insurance, something to guarantee his place in the pack is secure. He needs to make himself too valuable to be killed. If that means feeding and watering them for a while, then so be it.
It takes the Primaries the morning and part of the afternoon to find what he's looking for. By the time they return, logs and vines in tow, Finnick has fashioned himself several fishhooks and attached a valuable length of fishing line to each. He also creates a couple of crude oars, hacking off bits of wood with his hatchet. By the time all of the supplies have been assembled, he's in the process of weaving a basket from the rushes sprouting along the riverbanks. It's nowhere near as good as Mags, and won't hold anything smaller than grapes, but it'll work. He stands when he hears them approaching, Alabaster and Ruby squabbling like siblings, Bellona and Miles marching in like soldiers.
With everything and everyone ready, Finnick gets to work on the raft. When he was younger, forbidden from stepping foot on one of his father's boats, Lochlan taught him how to build a raft on the beach outside their home. Finnick never dreamed he'd have to use the same knowledge to construct one in the Games, but he's eternally grateful now. Under Finnick's careful ministration, the bumps are smoothed from the logs with his hatchet, and notches cut in their ends. Then he assembles the frame, layers the rest of the logs across, and lashes them together with the vines, using a tight overhand knot.
The raft is finished. Finnick stands, stretching his sore back. "Not bad," he says, half to himself and half to the rest of the Careers. Then he turns to fact them, grinning. "Who's gonna take her on her maiden voyage with me?"
Alabaster shakes his head vehemently. "No way."
"Come on, Alabaster. You aren't scared of a little river mutt, are you?"
"Of course not!" he blusters, drawing himself up to his full height. "I just don't wanna get my leg bitten off."
"Can't blame him there," Ruby says with a nonchalant shrug. "Sorry, Pretty Boy. You're on your own."
"I'll go."
Finnick blinks in surprise as Miles steps forward. He notices Finnick's stunned expression and shrugs. "You got us this far. I want to see how this is going to work."
"All right, then." Finnick gestures at the other end of the raft. "Let's get her in the water and see how she floats."