𝐌𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬; 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐎𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐫.

chapter 10 - Plan

"Same goes for you , Orla."

The mix of the dewy morning air and Katniss' gasp is enough to rouse me from the light sleep I had been drifting in and out of. I sit up with a start and draw a knife from my belt, only to see a look of awe of the flaming girl's face.

Her burn , which was an angry red welt the size of my hand, is now a soft brown colour and has scabbed over neatly. My own face reflects shock. The wonders of Capital medicine.

It's still not light enough to see if the pack of tributes are still waiting for their chance to gut us down on the ground, the sun has not risen, so I sit and watch some birds that chirp on a nearby branch. I whistle a note , and they sing it back.

Mockingjays.

I flick the grey eyed girl's pin with my finger and she turns her head to the birds quizzically, watching them intently. She whistles her own little tune , and they sing it back to her , before long the whole tree seems to be alive with music.

"My father used to sing to Mockingjays," she starts, " they'd all go silent and wait for him. It was the most memorising thing to watch." Her face displays fondness.

I sit up from my branch. "Does he not do it anymore?" I ask.

The fond expression fades from her face , and one of solemness takes its place. Katniss shuffles around with her rope.

"He, uh, died in a mine explosion. I was eleven." she says.

I immediately feel awful , for asking such a question. But also for the fact that the girl on fire and I share a loss so personal.

I scoot closer to her and take her pale hand in my own.

"Katniss , I'm so sorry," I know I shouldn't be showing such vulnerability when we are most definitely on every television in the country, but the girl in front of me and I are so similar in the most painful way, that I don't care.

"Took out about thirty of our districts best men." she says indifferently. "It really impacted our family. That's when I started taking care of us."

I think back to my father, how after my mother died there was the period of time where he was essentially catatonic. Katniss and I may as well have had the same lives , twisted and ripped apart by loss. Having to grow up before we were even teenagers.

The faint hiss of a whisper makes us snap our heads to the left to a tree about four feet away. There ,hidden amongst the leafy green branches, stands the little girl from District Eleven. Rue. She leans on the flimsy limbs , feet and arms poised as if she is going to take flight. She's pointing to something above us , and we crane our heads to see.

It's a wasps next, and a large one.

Tracker Jackers.

We have them in Four in the summer time , but most have been removed or have simply withered away. This one , from the clear hum that now registers in my ears, is fully functional. Fear rushes through me , but Katniss' steady grip on my arm stops me from moving and possibly disturbing the nest.

I look to Rue again, and she makes a sawing motion before pointing to the ground. Right where the Career pack sleep, unbothered by the singing of the birds. Drop it.

Before I can look to the tiny girl again , she's gone, jumping from tree to tree like a bird. Katniss and I look to the pack on the ground. Sound asleep. Now is our chance.

"I'll cut it off. You stay here and wait for my signal to go." she says, and before I can object she's already climbing up to the nest , knife in hand.