The Capitol Games

7

OCTAVIA 

I wake up, pack my stuff, and head out of my hiding hole before the sun—whether it be real or artificial—rises. Every crack in the trees makes my hair stand on end and I stalk cautiously, like a mouse wary of a cat. Every crunch under my feet gives me the urge to rip my shoes off and go barefoot.

Training taught me to remain still even when every impulse told me to jump out of my skin when the cannon went off in the sky. Looks like not everyone had the easy nights rest as I did.

I only had a little left in my canteen, half of it gone last night. I'd have to refill it soon. Not to mention the gnawing that was beginning in my stomach, but I knew I could go much longer without eating if I needed to. But I had to keep my energy up.

I travel deeper into the woods, out of the way of any of the other Districts' areas. I hoped I was alone out here, it would make it harder for the Gamemakers to draw us together—a tactic used when the Games were becoming boring. Considering the cannon fire, I figured I had time.

My knife laid in the waist of my pants, my baton never leaving my hand. I scanned the land for any live prey, but found none. I figured the trees would be a good place for squirrels or rabbits but I've seen no sign of life besides myself.

Maybe the rebels planned to have us slowly starve. It would be painful, slow, and boring—not something the Capitol would ever allow and the rebels were beginning to become more like President Snow every day.

I wonder how Adriana Snow was doing. Maybe that last cannon was hers. I wouldn't find out till later tonight, but I doubted it. If I was a Gamemaker, I'd draw her torture out. She was the one everyone was watching, not the little daughter of the Commander Peacekeeper who has almost died three times in the first day alone. And she was supposed to be the capable one.

My thoughts were the only thing to distract me from my constant worry. I wonder if that's what going crazy felt like.

I shake it away. I promised myself things in the past, but I'll have to break them if I hope to survive the arena. I had a gun to my head, forcing me to kill others to save my own life. I didn't have a choice.

Or at least that's what I told myself.

I repeated it over and over in my head like a mantra. I mouth it, never actually saying in the words in fear it would attract the attention of a rabid animal or other tribute

My feet hit mud and I stop. With my hands, I dig the soft ground away until a small puddle forms underneath. I glance up at the sun—now high in the sky—and decide it's safe enough for a fire.

I make a small circle of rocks and tinder in the middle. I use the flint to light it and I break it twice before I manage a few feeble sparks that gets it going. I keep the fire small, feeding it when I have to. I pour some of the water into my shirt, filtering into my canteen before holding it over the flames.

The flames tickle my hand, but isn't close enough to burn. The warmth helps dry my clothes as I sit there, my fingers rubbing the hilt to baton. Father's old advice flows through me.

"Your instincts are good during battle, but after, they do nothing but get in the way. You must remain calm no matter what. Heart doesn't belong on the battlefield."

I had tried to convince myself his teachings were wrong, but they were very, very right—sick, but right. 

The water boils and I hope I did it long enough to get anything harmful out. I pack it up, stomping out the fire, and moving away. I had enough being thrown at be and to add a forest fire of my own creation probably wasn't the best idea.