Bloodbath treasures now in her hands, a canteen in one and a knife in the other, Sable knew it was time to move. She saw the opening to what she knew to be tunnels under the Arena, and she passed it. She'd head down later, after all the other tributes who were going to use them made their way further, deeper, and Sable wouldn't have to fear every single corner. Now, she took to the stairs of the stands and ran up, up, up, until she could hardly breathe, until she'd made her way into a room that overlooked the Cornucopia far below.
She wasn't sure where she was. She remembered this Arena from her history classes, of course, but this room hadn't been something that was covered, as far as she could recall. And perhaps that would be to her advantage. Perhaps other tributes wouldn't think to come up here. Perhaps she could hide, lock the door, and wait out the Games.
But, when tested, the door didn't lock. Taking in her surroundings - chairs and tables, like the viewing rooms in the Tower - Sable gave herself time to even out her breath. She took a long drink from her hard-won canteen and gasped until she managed a steady rhythm, in and out. She needed a plan. She needed the strategy that Brighton had studied. She needed to be Brighton. But if there was one thing she'd learned in the Bloodbath, it was that she wasn't Brighton. She was Sable, and she didn't have what it takes to win.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as her breath threatened to lurch again, this time in sobs. She couldn't let it. She placed her canteen on the ground next to her and bit down on the fist that didn't hold the knife to silence herself as best she could, lest some stray tribute overhear - or worse, a tribute who had followed her. Or even worse than that, a mutt. As Sable cried, presumably ruining Brighton's spotless reputation, she waited by the door, ready to attack whoever came in, because she had to try, dammit. She had to try.
