We can all get out. It takes her brain a few moments to correct itself. They can all get out.

And then, the voice of pessimism comes to join her self-hatred, stewing in her mind and settling into determination. She knows better than to hope for cooperation in an Arena - this isn't Panem's Best Friends Games. She knows better than to think a bunch of scared people won't murder their way to pushing back the deadline. And so she decides then that her goal will be to get her allies out; an Arena of Victors is so optimistic as to be delusional, but ushering three marginally competent people to the finish line is feasible.

The new setup throws her for a loop, Tributes facing outwards rather than in. It makes sense with the maze, she thinks. It's likely booby-trapped to keep that permanent death option hanging heavy, and the Gamemakers will want people to flood it as soon as the gong rings. She doesn't look even a little scared as the countdown starts, only wary, only focused. She looks at other Tributes and where their gazes fall. She looks at the maze and wonders where it goes, what horrors lie down the paths the hedges yawn to. The numbers reach the single digits, marching towards the gong.

"Courfeyrac, get a pack!" she yells, breaking the unwritten law of silence between the Tributes during the countdown. And a second later, the gong rings, and she sprints into action. She covers ground quickly, taking the first thing she sees - a machete - and turning back around to jump back into the fray. She isn't looking to kill, only to find her allies, but people are already spilling into the maze. She sees a flash of curly hair and runs after it, only to find herself wiggling down the vein of the maze path like a blood clot and too slow to keep up.

She stops running and starts walking. She does that for a while. At corners, she uses the machete to hack lines into the walls, which serve less as a guide than as a grim reminder of how hopeless her sense of direction is when she runs into her initials over and over. Little girl lost, she thinks. She stops and listens a few times, but hears nothing except the unsettling quiet of a wilderness without birds.

Except about an hour in. She hears footfalls, and she turns a corner, machete gripped tight but not aggressively. She's light on her feet, prepared, but the grim expression on her face changes to a smile when she recognizes the face down the tight labyrinth hallway. One of her allies.

"There you are!"