“I don’t think they’re actively tracking us on the big screens,” Row says as Jiro digs the tip of the knife into Creed’s back. He doesn’t make a sound as the knife slides into his skin like butter despite knowing it has to sting. Jiro is cutting in the exact same spot they did, opening the wound yet again. He keeps the cut small but it’s still painful. The wounds are going to have to be wrapped well afterwards if we even have enough bandages. Who knows how much bacteria will get in there while we’re in the water. “I don’t remember seeing it.”

“Are you certain?” Achilles asks.

“They don’t have it on the screen. I think it’s more of a way for them to check the progress. If they use trackers, I bet they use ones that go offline when the body temperature drops below a certain point.”

“Which means they wouldn’t be tracking anyone who has died,” I say, blinking in surprise.

“Exactly. I think it’s a way for them to tell how many are still alive more than tracking us. Fitzgerald just decided to carry a box and use it to his advantage.” Row runs a hand through his hair. “This is all so fucked up."

Creed barely grunts when Jiro pops the little pellet out and sets it on the ground. Achilles slaps a waterproof bandage on it after wiping it with the antibiotic wipe.

“My turn,” Achilles grunts, turning his back for Jiro to repeat the process. Jiro cleans the knife and pours a little more alcohol on it before he starts to cut. This time, it’s me who cleans and bandages the wound. When he’s done, Achilles takes the knife from Jiro and forces him to turn. Carefully, he pulls a clean line across his skin and then squeezes the tracker. It takes a minute, the wound already healing around the tracker, before it pops out. Jiro doesn’t twitch. He doesn’t make any noise. Though with the tattoos he keeps hidden beneath his shirt, I suspect a small cut is nothing compared to the dragon artwork that twists around his torso and down around his ass.

“Okay, now me,” I say, turning my back, preparing myself.

Achilles moves forward, prepared to cut another line in my back after cleaning the knife, but Jiro grabs his hand before I can feel the cold steel. “Leave it.”

I whirl. “If you think I’m going to be tracked like a dog—”

“You’re the face of the Hunt,” Jiro interrupts me, his eyes hard. “If you remove your tracker, they’ll know what we’ve done.”

“And?” I growl, glaring at him.