Roland joins the rush to grab something, anything that might be useful. Knife, yes, rope - it'll get wet, but chains are far too heavy, get the rope. What the hell are those? And that? He can't even look around to see if others think whatever those are could be useful. Too dark, too suddenly. Too dangerous to linger trying to figure it out.

It isn't until he stands and starts in the same direction as most of the others that the feelings that've been floating in the back of his head actually develop into real thought. As he'd been flown in with the rest of the tributes, he hadn't been able to help a feeling of awe - like most things in Panem, the ship seen from above had seemed like something from one of the old tales of his childhood, except nothing in any of those tales had dared to be that grand. When Roland thinks on the fact that they've all been forced into this place to kill and die for no greater cause than idle amusement he feels sick, sick in a way entirely separate from his familiar anticipatory nerves. But when he thinks of this ship, of the machines he can hear even now still trying to keep it afloat -

The first time Roland had entered an airplane, there'd been no time to indulge his curiosity. More important things to do, and quickly. But here? Now?

He tugs at the fine powder-blue material of one sleeve, tucking the knife under the mass of lace ruffles spilling from it. Ridiculous, but handy, making the sleeve tight enough to keep the blade in place. The rope gets wrapped over one shoulder and under the opposite armpit, sitting high enough on his chest that it won't get caught in the pad of more of that lace ruffled at his throat.

Then he starts in the opposite direction from the one most of the rest seem to be following. Toward the sound of the explosion. Toward the deep rumble of those failing engines.