Who| Luke and Sam; Luke n' Rochelle
What| Luke meets up with Sam, who's been giving him first aid refreshers back in the capitol. The week after, Luke gets familiar with the wonderful world of tracker jacker stings, Rochelle pays him back for his help by dragging his ass out of harm's way.
When|  Week 2, Week 3
Where| The forest
WARNINGS| Gore, hallucinations, more added as they come

Sam Wilson:

The night deepens, alive with sounds.

The rustlings of little creatures in the brush and a careless twig-snap somewhere, frogs from the Biblical rain-plague dumped over their heads humming endlessly. The distant rumble of the cannon, too, few and far between.

Luke scrubs at his face, glancing back as someone ducks out of their hut-like shelter to relieve him of his post. He murmurs a quiet ‘thanks’, standing to stretch the kinks out of his legs, axe at his hip. After the better half of the day spent helping to expand their temporary shelter, an effort supported by supply run punctuated by close calls and supply runs, he’s as exhausted as the others. But wired, too. Always aware of the low hum of tension in his gut. Always waiting for that goddamn shoe to drop. Such is the price of survival, he supposes.

Though he’s familiar enough with the surrounding area, he has the sense not to wander all too far from camp. Being armed doesn’t guarantee much in a place perpetually on the cusp of change, on a gamemakers’ whim. To say nothing of the threat other tributes could pose.

Rochelle:

He never sees it coming.

Barely hears it with the wind battering his skull, whistling in his ears. There's no gunshot rolling across the woods, swallowed up by the mist hanging low and heavy over the arena like a blanket. Just a whining hum, a furious, high-pitched thing like a dentist's drill, before what feels like a bullet rips through his shoulder and again through meat above his armpit, barely missing his collarbone. He gasps, staggering sideways while his brainpan erupts into frenzied starbursts of lights and colours. But even half-blind with pain and panic he has the sense to scramble for cover, pressing his back against the trunk. The bark scrapes his shoulderblades.

Wouldn't matter who or what attacked him if he was already dead.

He breathes and breathes, sides drenched in anxious sweat,  carefully reaching for the axe hilt at his hip. Going still when his fingers brush something slick and sinuous -- and very much alive. That’s when he sees it dangling from the sheath-strap at his waist. A long, shimmering snake raising its head, studying him through slitted pupils. Then it rears back.

fuckfuckFUCK

It’s wicked-fast, uncocking like a spring -- but so is Luke when he’s wired with just about enough raw adrenaline to jump-start a car battery. Hissing out a curse, he manages to snap his hand from its hooked fangs, blinking the sweat out of his eyes.

And then it’s gone. Not slithering deep into the brush or winding up a tree but full blown faded-out-of-existence gone a magical asshole snake -- and all he can do is stare stunned into empty space, pulse racing in his throat. His axe is there, on him where it always was. Why wouldn't it be?