Chapter 15 : First Night
The stream appeared around midday.
A ribbon of clear water cutting through the forest floor, cold enough to numb my fingers when I tested it. My Blind Spot sense registered minimal observation in this area—cameras existed, but attention was spread thin across the arena. The Careers would be consolidating at the Cornucopia. Survivors would be scattered, hiding, trying to last until nightfall.
I followed the stream uphill, looking for defensible ground.
The rocky outcrop appeared after twenty minutes of climbing. A natural formation of weathered stone, providing shelter from above and clear sightlines in three directions. The stream curved past its base, offering water access without exposure.
Good enough for a temporary camp.
I settled against the rocks and began inventory assessment. The backpack from the Cornucopia contained: dried beef strips, crackers, a length of rope, empty water containers, matches, and a thin sleeping bag compressed to the size of my fist. Standard survival kit, probably worth a fortune in sponsor points.
Combined with my pre-stored supplies, I had:
Weapons—four combat knives plus my District 12 blade, one small axe. More than any tribute should possess after a bloodbath.
Water—three Capitol bottles plus stream access. Purification tablets from the medical kit I'd stolen during training.
Food—Capitol bread, dried fruit, the backpack's rations. Maybe four days if I stretched it, less if my healing factor demanded payment.
Medical—bandages, the Capitol cream from the Remake Center, basic supplies.
Tools—cord, wire, fire starters, emergency blanket.
Miscellaneous—Portia's button pin, the silver fork from the train, the decorative flower from the parade.
Twenty-six items in storage. An arsenal hidden in empty air.
The Gamemakers would never understand why I survived. That was the plan.
I spent the afternoon establishing my position.
Water first. I filled every container from the stream, added purification tablets, waited the required time. The Capitol's chemicals worked fast—thirty minutes, and the water was safe to drink. I drank deeply, refilled, stored the extras.
Shelter came next. The sleeping bag from the backpack wouldn't keep me warm through a cold night, but combined with the emergency blanket and my jacket's insulation, I could manage. I cleared a space between the rocks, arranged my bedding, tested the sightlines.
Food I rationed carefully. Half a portion of dried beef, a handful of crackers, one bread roll. My healing factor grumbled but accepted the compromise. Full meals could wait until I had a secure food source.
The arm wound had faded to a thin white line by mid-afternoon. By evening, even that was gone—smooth skin where the knife had cut, no sign of damage except the bloodstains on my jacket. I cleaned the fabric as best I could with stream water. The stains remained, faded but visible.
My first scar of the Games. Except it wasn't a scar at all.
The anthem played at sunset.
I was positioned in the rocks, hidden from casual observation, watching the sky through a gap in the stone. The Capitol seal appeared first, golden and enormous, followed by music that had no business existing in a place where children killed each other.
Then the faces began.
District 3 male. Young, scared-looking even in his official portrait.
District 3 female. His district partner. Both gone in the first minutes.
District 4 female. A Career, killed by her own alliance probably. Cato didn't tolerate weakness.
District 5 male. Forgettable, forgotten.
District 5 female. The clever-looking one they called Foxface. Wait—no. Her face didn't appear. She'd survived. I'd mistaken her portrait in my mental count.
District 6 male. The boy I'd told to run.
There he was. Dark hair, dark eyes, eighteen years old according to his file. He'd lived maybe three minutes after our encounter. Long enough to reach Cato's sword range. Not long enough to matter.
District 6 female. His district partner.
District 7 male. Both from 7, then—the lumber district.
District 7 female.
District 8 male.
District 9 male. The first death I'd witnessed up close, Clove's knife taking his throat.
District 10 female.
The seal returned. The anthem ended.
Eleven dead. Thirteen alive.
Katniss's face hadn't appeared. Neither had Rue's. Both survived the bloodbath, both somewhere in this forest, both potential allies if I could find them.
The Careers from Districts 1 and 2 were all alive. Cato, Clove, Marvel, Glimmer—the hunting pack would be forming at the Cornucopia right now, deciding which tributes to kill first. A girl with an eleven on her training score would be high on their list.
I needed to find Katniss before they did.
Night in the arena was absolute darkness.
No moon visible through the tree canopy. No city lights to pollute the sky. Only stars, distant and cold, and the occasional hum of a camera drone adjusting its position.
My Blind Spot sense became invaluable.
The pressure of observation ebbed and flowed as cameras tracked different sectors of the arena. When attention shifted elsewhere, gaps opened—paths through the darkness where I could move unseen. I followed these gaps like a fish following currents, drifting through forest that wanted to swallow me whole.
Katniss had run toward the eastern tree line during the bloodbath. I'd marked her direction before losing sight of her. Now I moved that way, looking for signs of passage—broken branches, disturbed leaf litter, anything that suggested a tribute had come this way.
Hours passed. The temperature dropped, and I was grateful for the jacket Portia had given me. My breath fogged in the air. Somewhere in the distance, I heard screaming—probably a tribute finding out why sleeping on the ground was a mistake in Career hunting territory.
Near dawn, I found the tree.
Fresh scratches on the bark, maybe fifteen feet up. The pattern of someone climbing quickly, desperately, seeking high ground before night fell. The branches above were arranged to support weight—a natural platform created by the tree's growth pattern.
Someone was up there. Someone who'd survived the bloodbath and chosen the smart play: climb high, stay hidden, let the Careers hunt easier prey.
I settled into the brush at the tree's base and waited.
First light filtered through the leaves in shades of gray and gold. The shape in the branches above began to move—a slow awakening, careful stretching, the movements of someone trained to avoid noise.
She shifted position. Her braid caught the light.
Katniss.
I stayed perfectly still. She hadn't seen me yet, hidden in the undergrowth and shadows. If I called out now, startled her, she might put an arrow through me before recognizing my voice. She'd grabbed a backpack during the bloodbath—there was a decent chance it contained weapons.
Better to wait. Let her come down on her own terms.
She moved to the trunk and began descending, feet finding holds with practiced ease. Hunting skills transferred directly to climbing, apparently. She was halfway down before she noticed me.
Her hand went for her belt—a knife, not a bow. No arrows then. Good. Less chance of being shot.
"It's me," I said quietly.
She froze. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by relief so brief I almost missed it.
"Nolan." She finished descending, dropped the last few feet to the forest floor. "I thought you were dead. The cannon count—"
"Eleven dead. Neither of us among them." I rose from my hiding spot, keeping my hands visible. "I've been looking for you since yesterday."
Her eyes scanned me—checking for wounds, weapons, threat level. The same calculation I'd performed on a hundred people in training. We were both survivors, both dangerous, both very aware that alliances in the arena could end with a knife in the back.
But we'd made a promise. Partners until the end.
"You're bleeding," she said.
I looked down. The jacket's bloodstains from my arm wound were visible even in the dim light. "Not anymore. The cut healed."
"Healed." Her voice was flat. "It's been less than a day."
"I heal fast." Not a lie. Not the whole truth either. "Something about the tracker injection, maybe. Or the arena's medical treatments." Definitely a lie, but a plausible one.
She studied me for a long moment. Whatever she saw—or chose to ignore—she apparently decided to accept.
"What's your situation?" she asked. "Supplies, weapons?"
"Better than expected." I retrieved my backpack from storage, let it appear in my hands like I'd simply been wearing it. "Water, food, basic equipment. A few knives. You?"
"Backpack with some food. A knife. No bow." Her jaw tightened. "There was one at the Cornucopia. I couldn't reach it in time."
"We'll find you one. Or sponsors will send it."
"Sponsors." She laughed, short and bitter. "After that bloodbath, I'm not sure anyone's betting on District 12."
"We're alive. Half the tributes aren't." I offered her a water bottle—my stores were deep enough to share. "That's worth something."
She took the bottle, drank deeply, handed it back. Her expression had softened fractionally—not trust exactly, but the beginning of something like it.
"The Careers will be hunting," she said. "They'll have seen the death count. They'll know I survived."
"Then we don't let them find us." I gestured toward the deeper forest, away from the Cornucopia, away from the hunting pack. "I found a spot with water and cover. We can base there, plan our next moves."
"And then what?"
The question hung between us. We both knew the answer—eventually, one of us would have to die for the other to survive. The Hunger Games only allowed one victor.
Except I knew something she didn't. The rule could change. Had changed, in the timeline I remembered. Two tributes from the same district could win together if they played the narrative right.
"Then we survive," I said. "One day at a time. And we make sure the Careers regret hunting us."
Katniss held my gaze. Whatever calculation she performed, whatever she decided about trusting the strange volunteer who'd chosen death beside her, she reached a conclusion.
"Lead the way," she said.
We moved into the forest together, leaving the climbing tree behind. The first alliance of the 74th Hunger Games had formed. Now we just had to stay alive long enough to use it.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1