Day 7 was the next major 'event' day in the arena—a wholly necessary venture, given how the tributes were so far less dead than at the same time every previous year, but not one that any looked forward to.
In other words, trees began shooting up from the ground so rapidly that they could easily kill anyone who didn't notice something sprouting from below them quickly enough.
Oliver—both because he was from the 'trees' district, and because he'd led the fight against the previous fire event—was put in charge.
This was… easier said than done.
The point of this event, Oliver thought, was very specifically to narrow down the competition—and so the trees seemed to rise almost solely underneath a tribute's feet, and in particular those the Capitol likely deemed too boring—Harry was more or less playing hopscotch throughout the day, and he was far from the only one.
Oliver also had no doubt, at all, that they were being targeted more than the other teams in the arena—after all, their Alliance certainly seemed to have control of the area but they weren't using it to instigate mass carnage, so clearly their stranglehold on the arena had to be broken.
The problem, of course, was that Oliver didn't want anybody to die. That no one in the Alliance (known or otherwise) wanted anyone to die.
But someone—someones—would, before this all was over.
Oliver had screamed himself hoarse well before noon; he was used to doing that, having captained a quidditch team for so many years, but all the same his throat was killing him and he wasn't about to get any butterbeer to soothe the pain.
Around him, amongst the already grown trees, he could see the younger and older tributes dashing about, trying to keep their defenses in place as they tried to keep themselves in one piece. Those who were able to had been ordered (by him) to climb into the tallest trees they could, both for their own protection and to act as scouts. Everyone else—everyone who was still on the ground—was given what weapons they had, to chop, hack, and swing at any new growth that came in their way.
It wasn't enough.
By the end of the day they'd managed to get nothing done in their desperate struggle for survival, and even that had been… lacking.
District 6's twelve-year-old Dirk died first—the tree had shot up just under his right foot, and had been a type Oliver'd never seen before—a spiky, spiky type.
The same tree got District 4's eleven-year-old Pascaline less than an hour later.
District 5's Matilda, well after they'd learned to avoid the shaking that seemed to precipitate that particular tree's arrival, was killed instead from one of the fastest growing trees, made to become progressively taller and therefore more dangerous as the day progressed—she was flung bodily through the air, and no one saw where it landed until the helicopter came to collect.
No one outside the alliance died.
It was a bad day.