Chapter 8 : The Last Day
The weapons stations were fortresses.
I'd known they would be—every blade, every bow, every instrument of death under constant observation. Trainers watched for safety violations. Cameras tracked every grip and swing. The Careers circled like sharks, claiming space through presence alone.
My Blind Spot sense found nothing. No gaps, no moments, no windows of opportunity.
I spent twenty minutes at the knife station anyway, learning what I could while appearing clumsy. The trainer corrected my grip three times, each correction teaching me something genuine beneath my fumbling act. Blade angle mattered. Wrist rotation determined depth. A knife wasn't just a weapon—it was an extension of intent.
I'd never killed anyone in my first life. The thought had never even occurred to me. But in five days, I'd need to drive steel through flesh, and hesitation meant death.
Practice helped. Even fake practice.
Cato brushed past me as I returned the training knife to its rack. His shoulder caught mine—deliberate, calculated, a reminder of the food chain.
"Nice work," he said, voice dripping contempt. "Maybe you can scare a squirrel."
I kept my expression blank. Stepped aside. Let him claim the station like a conqueror taking territory.
Remember that when my knife finds your back.
The camouflage station offered refuge from the circling predators.
Paints and dyes covered the workbenches, alongside reference images of various terrains. Most tributes avoided this station—it wasn't flashy, didn't demonstrate combat prowess, wouldn't impress Gamemakers. But survival in the arena meant more than fighting. It meant hiding. It meant becoming invisible.
Rue was already there when I arrived.
She worked with quick, efficient movements, painting her forearm to match tree bark. Brown and gray blended seamlessly, the colors shifting as she angled her arm toward different lights. Professional quality. The kind of skill that came from years of practice.
I took the bench beside her and started working on my own attempt. My effort looked like mud compared to hers.
"You're good at this," I said quietly.
She didn't look up. "Trees are safe. Ground isn't."
"Climb high, stay hidden. Smart strategy."
"It's not strategy. It's home." Her brush paused. "In District 11, we work the orchards. Highest branches get the best fruit. Overseers can't follow us up." A ghost of a smile crossed her face. "They tried once. Broke his leg."
The image materialized unbidden: a small girl scrambling through branches while an overseer crashed to earth. Dark humor in a dark world.
"In the arena," I said, "the Cornucopia will be chaos. Grab what you can and run. Don't stop to fight, don't try to help anyone, just get clear and climb the first tree you find."
Rue finally met my eyes. Brown and sharp, older than her twelve years had any right to be.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Because you die in the original timeline. Because Marvel's spear finds you, and Katniss holds your body, and the Capitol broadcasts your death like entertainment.
"Because you're smart," I said instead. "Smart tributes deserve to last longer than the bloodbath."
She studied me for a moment. Then: "Thanks for the bread."
I blinked. "What bread?"
"The roll you left near my training station yesterday. I saw you." Her expression was unreadable. "Thresh told me to stay away from you. He thinks you're dangerous."
"Thresh is protective."
"Thresh is paranoid. But he's not wrong." She returned to her painting. "You're pretending to be weak. I don't know why, but it's working. The Careers barely notice you."
"That's the idea."
"What happens when they figure it out?"
"Hopefully? I'm already gone."
Rue made a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite agreement. She finished her arm and began cleaning her brushes with methodical precision.
"Keep surviving," I said, and moved to another station.
Katniss found me at lunch, carrying her tray to my isolated table without asking permission. She'd spent the morning at the archery station again, and I'd watched from across the floor as tribute after tribute gave her wide berth.
The archer from District 12 had claimed her territory. Nobody was stupid enough to contest it.
"What are you doing with the eleven girl?" Her voice was low, pitched to avoid the cameras.
"Nothing. She's smart. I want her to live longer than the first day."
"You can't save everyone."
The words echoed in my mind. Thresh's warning, Katniss's caution—everyone assuming I had some savior complex, some suicidal urge to protect the weak.
Maybe I did. Or maybe I just remembered what it felt like to die alone, surrounded by machines and strangers, with no one willing to fight for me.
"I know," I said. "But I can try not to make more enemies."
Katniss considered this, chewing mechanically on protein she probably couldn't taste. Finally: "Tomorrow, the private sessions. What's your plan?"
"Get a six. Maybe a seven if I slip. Show them competent survival skills, mediocre knife work. Nothing that screams threat."
"And me?"
"Win them over." I met her eyes. "You're the archer who volunteered for her sister. That's a story they haven't seen before. Let them see you. Really see you."
Something shifted in her expression. Not quite warmth—Katniss Everdeen didn't do warmth—but recognition. An acknowledgment that we were playing the same game from different angles.
"What about after the sessions? The interviews?"
"Charm offensive for you. I'll figure something out. Maybe play the mysterious angle." I smiled slightly. "The Volunteer from District 12. Nobody knows why I'm here. Maybe I keep it that way."
"That's not a strategy. That's a prayer."
"Sometimes that's all you have."
Haymitch brought dessert that evening.
Chocolate cake, layers thick with frosting, the kind of indulgence that didn't exist in District 12 outside of merchant birthdays. He set it on the table between us with unusual solemnity.
"Last night before sessions," he said. "Eat something that isn't strategy for once."
I took a bite and let the sweetness overwhelm my tongue. Rich, dark, probably loaded with enough sugar to fuel my healing factor for hours. My body practically sang with gratitude.
Katniss ate more slowly, but she ate. Her expression softened fractionally as the chocolate dissolved.
"Why do you care?" she asked Haymitch. "About us. About any of this."
"I don't." But his eyes said otherwise. "I care about winning. You two have a chance—a real chance—if you don't get yourselves killed being stupid. That's worth caring about."
"Twenty-three other tributes. Half of them trained since childhood."
"And none of them volunteered." Haymitch leaned back, glass in hand but untouched for once. "That means something to sponsors. To audiences. To the Gamemakers themselves." He looked at me. "Why did you volunteer? Really?"
The question hung in the air. Effie had asked on the train. Katniss had asked on the parade night. Everyone wanted to know why a boy from District 12 would choose death.
"Because waiting to die felt worse than running toward it."
Not the whole truth. But not a lie either.
Haymitch held my gaze for a long moment. Then he raised his glass. "To running toward it, then. May it work out better than expected."
The cake disappeared in silence. Tomorrow, I'd stand before Gamemakers and sell them a lie. In six days, twenty-four children would enter an arena and most would never leave.
But tonight, for one moment, chocolate tasted like hope.
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