Let's Kill (Tonight) Chapter 4: Part Four: Standoff, a clique fanfic

Let's Kill (Tonight)
Part Four

stand·off | ˈstandˌôf
noun
a stalemate or deadlock between two equally matched opponents in a dispute or conflict
synonyms: deadlock, impasse, stalemate, level, toss-up

Dusk has fallen by the time Massie arrives at the Cornucopia, sauntering in like she's late for a party or some otherwise more interesting engagement. It takes all of her strength for her to act this way, just the words go win giving her the drive to step forward after she spent an hour (two?) standing at the treeline. So, really, she got here before dusk, but it doesn't matter because she's walking towards it now, not then, so dusk it is.

She presses her palms to her thighs as an unwelcome voice calls, "Would you look who it is! She returns!"

At the top of the horn, Kemp lounges, squinting at her, watching her, tracking her. He looks oddly at ease up there, like he was born to be here, in this arena. He probably was. "I have to say I'm surprised to see you here."

"Alive?" she croaks.

He shifts positions, dangling his legs over the side, and smiles. "Yes," he says. "Without me I really thought you'd be dead by now."

She hates him.

(She loves him.)

"You told everyone not to touch me," she reminds him. "Of course I'm alive. It's what you wanted."

"People aren't good at listening," Kemp returns easily, like they are talking about the weather. "That's why it's surprising."

"Mm." Massie shifts her weight, swallows. She's nervous, and it's showing, and she's never had nervous tells before, so what is this? "Skye was one of them, I guess."

Kemp hops off the Cornucopia. "No, she listened," he says. "I told her she had to keep you in piece, and she did, except for…" He is in front of her now, so close, too close, with his fingers on her face, tracing the lines of her scars. It makes her nauseous. Her mind doesn't even recognize, doesn't like, his touch, but her body reacts, leaning into him for a moment. "I like them, though. You look hot."

Massie breathes in deep to avoid jerking back. Show no fear. Show nothing nothing nothing. "You told her she could hurt me," she whispers. Even she can hear the betrayal in her tone. "You said you were the only one allowed to hurt me."

"I am," he replies, just as soft, but worse. Meaner. "Because I am going to hurt you in all the ways that count. Skye will be nothing compared to me, and I can't wait."

"You will have to," Massie says around a mouthful of blood. She's bitten her tongue. "It is not down to the two of us just yet." She tears herself away from him, plops herself down on the grass, and surreptitiously rubs at her face to rid herself of the slime his fingers placed on her skin.

"Oh, I know," Kemp sing-songs. "They will be disposed of soon, don't you worry."

Massie nods, stares at her hands. They, he said. T h e y.

A part of Massie's heart leaps and she hates herself for it. He is expecting more than one person. More than one person. She knows this to be true, looked at the images in the sky, but hearing someone other than herself confirm it... Massie was never really good at math, but if Carrie's cannon was the only cannon that sounded recently, that makes it one cannon, and one cannon means there are one, Kemp, two, Massie, three, Andy from Eleven, and four, Derrick, left.

That's what the Gamemakers showed her; that is what Kemp believes. So it is right.

She rips at the blades of grass in front of her to keep him from seeing her smile. She does that now, thanks, Skye. "And when will they be getting here?"

"Soon," Kemp answers. He's too busy looking out and around to notice her new good mood. "Look. Listen."

Massie lifts her head, follows his finger as it points towards the part of the forest she'd killed District Five in. A wave crests over the treetops, tall and strong and a monster all on its own. It rears up, gets ready to go, and then crashes. After the splash, it is silent, but she knows the water is racing, swirling, killing.

On the other side, she hears the growls of the mutts. Not birds, she guesses. Wolves. Dogs. Cats. Something with fangs and claws and long, lean, powerful bodies.

Derrick can survive a flood like that, Massie remembers. He is a swimmer. He is from District Four. She hopes he is on that side of the arena.

She pulls at grass again.

Kemp breaks the silence with a question: "Have you had much fun?"

Her answer is no answer at all.

"I have," he says, like her silence means nothing, like she doesn't even need to respond for him to have this conversation. "I beheaded some kid, and it was so funny, the way he begged me to spare him. I almost did, just to entertain myself, but I thought better of it. You're the entertainment. My prize for being the best. I decided to wait for that."

"Interesting." Massie lets the blades of grass go, flips her knife, and shoves it into the ground as deep as it will go without extending it. She pulls it out, does it again elsewhere, over and over.

"And," adds Kemp, "I got an even better weapon. A gift."

"Interesting," Massie says again.

"Do you want to see it?"

"No," she answers. "I want to be surprised by it when you kill me."

She feels like they are sitting in the training center of their school back in One, not in the arena of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games. It's like they're casually talking about the day, or their recent class, or how they imagine the Games will go when they finally get picked. When she turns her head to spare Kemp a glance, she sees the way his face has lit up, and she wonders if he's thinking the same thing. She always used to play along with him like this, discussing her death like the morbid teen she is. She never had any real issue with it back then, but now… The thought makes her sick, and so does Kemp, and the Capitol, and the knowledge that only one of them of the four left will win. Will live.

And even though she hates him, Massie still memorizes the planes of Kemp's face, the sharp cheekbones, the jut of his chin. This is a face she has looked at almost every day for ten years, has loved for ten years, and she wants to remember it.

To her left, there is movement.

A body races through the trees, sliding into the safety the Cornucopia provides as a tidal wave crashes behind them. It is stopped by some unseen force, and it slams against it over and over, wanting to move but forever kept in one spot. They do not want them to die from water, or trees, or even muttations; they want them to kill each other. The last four, all put in one place with nowhere else to go. All there is left is death.

It is the boy from Eleven, Andy. He looks like he's been to hell and back again, and he probably has been. He's waterlogged, spluttering and hissing.

When he sees Massie, he takes a step forward, gets ready to defend himself. She doesn't move, head snapping in the other direction, where the mutts are, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Nope," Kemp says.

Andy startles, his gun dropping to the ground.

"Not yours," explains Kemp. "Please wait for the other one to get here. You can have him."

Massie gnaws on her lower lip, waiting for Derrick to come bursting from the forest. Where is he where is he where is he?

"I'm sorry?" Andy asks. "Are you… are you deciding who gets to kill who?"

"Yes." Kemp lays his hand on Massie's head, territorial and possessive. "It was always going to end with me and Massie, didn't you know?"

"Yeah, she looks positively fucking thrilled," Andy snaps. "That's not how it works, One."

"True, Eleven." The number falls from Kemp's lips like it's dirty, like it's worthless, and Massie flinches at the malice there. Everyone has a home. Just because it's not as extravagant and nice as One doesn't mean they should treat it any differently, doesn't mean Andy doesn't love it, doesn't mean he doesn't want to go back. "But I made sure it would work out how I want."

Massie shoots back as the words register, Kemp's palm falling from her hair. I made sure it would work out… "You did not," she spits, because how fucking dare he, "you didn't even kill as many people as I—"

"Maybe," Kemp interrupts, "but let's remember what happened here, shall we? You just stood here. You did nothing that first day. I killed everyone coming our way, like I was supposed to. You and Four were deadweight, which I find odd because you were all about expectations and traditions and following the rules when it came to our alliances, but when we get to the bloodbath, you don't even act like you're supposed to! Tell me: did you fuck him yet, the kid from Four? Did you get what you wanted?"

Her knife digs into the ground again, the result of her anger, disgust, and annoyance, and she accidentally presses the button to elongate it. Something snaps beneath her hand—she really hopes it's a rock or some particularly hard dirt, or maybe she's found the center of the earth and did not just destroy her blade—but she leaves it, snapping, "You're a piece of shit. I did what I had to, and then I was better after it. You cannot take this from me. You cannot take anything from me." She pauses, pushing herself to her feet, and adds, maliciously, "Was fucking Skye all you dreamed of? I can't imagine she knew what she was doing since she was shit at everything else."

Kemp smiles, almost… pleased with this turn of events. "I merely spurred on your bloodlust when I allowed you to kill the kid from Twelve. I made sure you got here." He strides forward, tucks the fallen strands of hair from her braids behind her ears, holds her face tight enough to hurt. "I made you, Massie Block."

Made

You

Massie

Block

You

Made

There is a brief moment of surprised, infuriated silence where Massie lets his words sit, simmer, boil, like a pot of tomato sauce on a cold Sunday afternoon, and then she screams. Bloodcurdling, high-pitched, flabbergasted shrieking.

Made her. He thinks he made her.

She can't stop, can't keep the sounds to herself. The frenzy encompasses them, envelopes them, until it's the only thing Massie can hear. Not the growling of the mutts, not the washing of that colossal wave, not Kemp, not Andy. Just herself,

because Kemp thinks she is nothing without him, that he created her, that she has no say in who she is or what she does.

She killed six tributes. Six. One more than five, one less than seven, three more than the amount he killed.

She made herself.

Fuck him.

Massie stops suddenly as a figure bursts out from the other side of the Cornucopia, practically barrel rolling away from a particularly vicious mountain lion, all golden-haired and predatory. It roars, louder than Massie screamed; the trees shake at the intensity. It cannot move, though, like the wave cannot reach them, and it sits on its haunches, watching Derrick get to his feet again.

It never stops watching, even as it licks at its paws, hair matted with blood.

Derrick's mouth is forming her name, but he's not saying it out loud, and Massie is torn between being happy he is alive, right there, and not dead like she imagined, and screaming again because his leg, the same leg Kemp had stabbed, is hardly recognizable to her. It's there, and he doesn't look too pained by it, but his pant leg is in even more ribbons than it was before, and the blood, the same blood on the lion's claws and muzzle, soaks his sneaker and stains the grass as he makes his way towards them.

His eyes scan her body as hers do his, panic leaving him with every step as he realizes she is fine, there are no apparent injuries, she is not going to drop dead in front of him—

They make eye contact, then, and she thinks she is going to cry, but she doesn't. She turns away, sees the positively gleeful look on Kemp's face, and feels her heart drop to her feet.

"Thank god!" Kemp shouts, clapping his hands together once. "The prodigal boyfriend arrives!"

"What," says Andy.

Derrick rolls his eyes, stabs his trident into the ground a little ways away from them—too far away from them, actually; Massie itches to touch him—and leans his body weight against it.

Massie's foot takes a tiny step forward, all on its own. Derrick notices it and shakes his head.

"You didn't know?" Kemp asks Andy, stalking forward. He pulls on Massie's braid as she does so, dragging her forward, and Massie reaches to grab his wrist, pulling him away. "Did you not pay attention? It's not like they kept it a very good secret."

Andy rubs at the space between his eyebrows with his free hand. The other grips his dart gun with white knuckles. "I was too busy trying to survive to pay attention to—"

But Kemp never intended for him to answer, and he continues grandly, putting on a show for them, and the people watching at home, tugging harder and harder on Massie's hair like she is a dog and he is her owner and she destroyed his new shoes.

"I am not stupid," he tells them all. "I am very observant. I know you had a closer alliance than the rest of us. I know you worried over each other, and you worried over that stupid little girl, and you disliked being away from each other. I know you lied about how he killed Nine, because knives do not do that, but that trident does, and I know you love him."

Massie hisses, smacking her hand against his chest. Her head hurts. It hurts so much. He needs to let go. She doesn't even react to his words, doesn't fight his accusations, because is he right? Does she love him? Is that why she cried when he was injured? Why she cried when they were separated? Why she retreated into a world where they lived together and ate together and it made sense? Is that why she can't find it in herself to kill him?

Why is he holding her hair like this? Let go let go let go—

She takes his hand, squeezes his fingers. She can't get it right, can't find a way to break them—

It means nothing. He doesn't feel her. Doesn't care.

"How was it?" he asks Derrick. "Was it worth it? Is she any good? I haven't been able to get in her pants and she's had a crush on me since she was fourteen." Derrick stares back at him blankly, doesn't even react, but his eyes are trained on the way Kemp is holding her. "No matter," Kemp says. "She is still mine, and you are dead. You've been dead since you decided to play her little game."

Andy bleats, "Are we supposed to let you talk and talk? Massie, why don't you just—"

"Shut up, Eleven," Kemp growls, and he's crazed enough that Andy does what he is told, eyes wide. "You see, I've changed my mind. I was going to wait until you two were out of the picture, but I think it will be much better if I kill Massie first, and let you watch. How does that sound?"

No no no no no no NO

Massie wrestles against him, finally finds the room she needs to take his thumb, and breaks.

"Bitch," Kemp snaps. He drops his hand from her hair, lightening up the pain there, only to wrap it around her throat. His thumb is broken and he is still using it like it is not and Massie is starting to choke. Pain really is a mindset. She never believed it before.

She kicks and coughs and scratches and tries to remember how to get out of a hold like this but can't think of anything she ever learned in training it is like it is gone and she never spent the years she did under careful watch of professional fighters and—

"Go ahead," Derrick says, carelessly. "Kill her. See if it breaks me."

Massie stops struggling immediately.

Kemp laughs. "Would you look at that, Massie, baby?" he coos and it is mean and it is hurtful and it tears her heart right in two. "You still have really shit taste in men."

She looks at Derrick only to find his face closed off and his eyes blank.

The ocean spray roars in her ears.

She can't breathe.

The floor beneath her is sand, not grass.

She closes her eyes.

The hand around her throat is now a hand held in hers.

She is gone.

...

The sunset is particularly beautiful today. A part of her is shocked by it, which is weird, because she's seen her fair share of sunsets before. Part of her, though, thinks she hasn't. Something about artificial light and tall buildings and everything being too bright to even see stars, but she's never been in a place like that before. She's only ever been in pretty places, like here, on the beach, where the sky is turning orange and pink and purple in front of her, and a boy is holding her hand while they watch it.

It is so nice, and she is so happy, and she goes to tell this boy that only to find he is not as happy as she is.

"What are you doing back here?" he demands.

The setting sun makes him look even more beautiful than he already does, and she takes it in hungrily like she may never see it again. She reaches up to touch his cheek, but he pulls back, which upsets her.

"Why did you do that?"

"What are you doing back here?" he asks again.

"What do you mean?" she questions. "I'm always here. I live here."

He shakes his head. "You don't. You decided to hide here."

"Hide? Hide from what?"

He lays his leg flat out in front of her. "Look."

What she sees she hates. "What happened? Why is your leg like that?" The skin is shredded, in pieces, like it has been clawed at, bitten at. There is a hastily treated stab wound beneath his knee. If he does not get this checked out soon, it will get infected and he may lose it. "Why is your leg like that?" she asks again, bordering hysteria.

The sight of it makes it hard to breathe, like someone is choking her, and she scratches at her neck, trying to quell the panic. She was never good with panic, always tried to ignore it, because if she didn't acknowledge it, it wasn't there. But she can't ignore this, not the racing of her heart or the blood all over him and the sand, and she can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe.

He's not getting up either, and he doesn't seem upset about his leg, only stares at her.

"You need to leave," he says. "You can't hide forever."

"Hide from what?" she asks around gasping breaths. It's hard to talk, to think, to be.

"Leave," he orders. "I don't want to see you again."

What?

"Why?" she asks.

He looks at her again, and she can't decipher the emotion in his eyes. He hates her? He doesn't hate her? He's sad? He's happy? What is it? Even his next words make little sense. "You don't belong here."

Of course she belongs here. This is the only place she's ever belonged. The only place that makes sense. No one can hurt her here. But he is hurting her here? Why is he hurting her?

Stop hurting her stop hurting her stop hurting her he would never hurt her he said so he said he said he said!

She gasps, gropes around her, scrambling for something concrete to hold on to. She finds a knife in her pocket, but why is a knife in her pocket? She's never killed anything. Never had to kill anything. She doesn't even catch the fish they eat.

But she has killed, hasn't she? She's killed people. Why has she killed people? Were they bad? They couldn't have been, they looked so scared, and they are filling her mind, and she is still unable to breathe, but she is gripping that knife tighter and tighter, making it meld into her fingers, and then she is stabbing in front of her, into the sand, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing—

...

The weight loosens.

She can breathe again.

...

She is stabbing, stabbing, stabbing.

Over and over, panting for oxygen, methodically bringing her blade in and out of the body before her.

They grunt and gasp and she thinks they say her name but she doesn't care because they tried to choke her to death and she knows with a certainty she's never known anything before that they need to die or else she will.

Go. Win.

A cannon blasts, but she doesn't hear it.

Stab.

She is aware enough to taste the blood on her lips, to feel it dripping off her knife and onto the ground, onto her hand, onto her arm. It gets all over her somehow, and she can't stop moving even though her opponent has stopped his own, and is just laying there. Not breathing, not fighting back.

Dead.

Someone pries her away from her task. It is an important task, so why would they do that? She needs to finish it.

It is finished, someone says.

But it is not. She knows it is not. Her opponent needs to be without his fingers, and without his head, and without his mouth. She needs to get rid of them because they've done nothing but hurt her, ruin her, own her.

"No!" she shrieks, and she kicks, and she bites, and she cries. She tastes that, too, salt mixing with copper. "Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!"

No, they say.

"Why do you care? Why are you bothering? Leave me alone!"

Her knife is pried out of her hands, but not fast enough, and she shoves it through skin, hears the sharp intake of breath and knows she hit her target, whatever it was. As long as it was this body holding her back she does not care.

I'm sorry, they tell her, and they hit her over the head.

...

She is in a kitchen now, hands wrapped around a warm mug of coffee. It is black, with just a hint of sugar. Not too much or it is gross. Cinnamon rolls are cooking in the oven. There is a plate of fruits in front of her to nibble on. She reaches for a strawberry.

"You came back."

"Are you angry?"

"No," says the boy across from her. He looks very familiar and she knows she likes him a great deal. "You did what you had to do. I'm sorry I told you to leave."

"It's okay," she tells him. Is it? She doesn't know. She drinks her coffee.

"Do you know what your name is?"

What a stupid question. "Of course I do."

"Well, then, what is it?"

She sighs, annoyed, and opens her mouth to respond—only to realize she doesn't know.

She blinks.

The boy smiles. "Do you need help?"

"No," she replies stubbornly. "Give me a second."

"It's your name," he says. "It shouldn't take a second." Then, sadder than before, "Please. You can't hide here."

"Why would I hide?" she questions. "There isn't a storm coming, is there?"

The boy leans forward to grab her hand. "There will be. There are always storms on the horizon."

She shakes him off and stands to look out the window. The sky is the perfect shade of blue. The sun is shining. There is not a cloud in sight. Even the sea is behaving. From here, she can see all the children jumping waves and swimming.

"I don't see anything," she says.

He comes up behind her, rests his chin atop her head. "When you remember, you will see it," he advises, quiet, "and when that happens, you will have to make a choice."

Choosing sounds scary, but she chooses things all the time. What to eat, what to wear, what to say. This cannot be any different, but she does not want to do it.

"Let me help you," the boy pleads. "I want you here, but I don't want you like this."

She braces her hands on the window. A cloud rolls across the sky, but it is white. Not a storm. Why does she feel like one is coming though? How had he known?

"Something terrible is happening," she whispers.

"Yes," he agrees. "Something terrible." He pauses and wraps his arms around her waist. "Tell me your name."

She knows now, just as she knows the clouds coming in will be filled with rain, and the winds will pick up, and the children will have to come back inside.

"Massie," she answers.

"Tell me more."

"My name is Massie Block. I am from District One. I volunteered for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games. I just killed my district partner."

"Yes. What else?"

"You're Derrick, and you said something I didn't like, so I came here."

Derrick brushes his lips against her temple. "Anything else?"

She grips his hands at her waist. "I think I love you despite all of that."

She feels him smile against her skin and then: "Massie," he says, pleading, reverently, apologetically. "Wake up."

...

"Massie," Derrick says, pleading, reverently, apologetically. "Wake up. Please wake up. I'm so sorry—"

...

Massie's head is pounding when her eyes flutter open.

She recalls a vivid dream where she is living in a beautiful house by the sea. The imagery there fades as the arena comes into focus, unnaturally green grass, and tall trees, and a sky painted a blue that is so fake it makes her frown. The world has never looked like this. The imperfections that make it so uniquely pretty are erased to create a perfect atmosphere. It is as sickly sweet as chocolate is on teeth, but the bitterness bleeds through anyway; as nice as this place is, the ugliness is in the children they throw in here. Beautiful trees, lakes, and meadows—they're inhabited by terrible teens who throw knives and carve into skin and hack away at body parts.

It makes Massie sad. She wants to go back to her nice beach, to the kitchen with the fruit, and the world that was only overcome with storms because she remembered this place. If she never had to remember the arena she'd be alright.

Derrick is washing her face, hands soft and careful as he cleans her skin. Her eyes roam over him, diligently removing the blood from her skin, and her breath hitches when she sees the tear tracks running through the dirt on his cheeks.

He doesn't seem to really notice she is awake. His hand curls around the back of her neck, fingers brushing along her throat, and he frowns, like he doesn't like what he sees.

Before he can see she is fully conscious, she forces her eyes closed. Why, she doesn't know. Maybe she wants to give him his privacy. She's never seen him cry before and it is upsetting to her.

He brings the wet moss to her face again, rubs it as slowly as he can to not aggravate, and sniffles. Has he been crying this whole time? She doesn't like it. "I'm sorry," he says again. She knows he's said that a lot. "Please wake up so I can explain. I… I lo—I just need you to wake up."

Massie doesn't think she really wants to be awake, or alive, if the memories that assault her are anything to go by.

They play before her like a movie. She doesn't remember most of them.

She is seven, and she is small for her age, and Kemp Hurley is several inches taller than her, mouth twisting into a grimace. "This is my partner?" He groans. "You're so tiny."

"So are you," Massie shoots back. He is rude. She doesn't like him. "Anyway, we don't get to fight until we're ten. We learn now."

Kemp Hurley rolls his eyes. "My dad has already let me throw spears at targets in our backyard."

Massie smiles, big and nice and disarming. "My daddy uses an axe. Do you think I don't know how?"

She is ten, and it is her birthday, and Kemp Hurley is bringing her a cake. It is vanilla. "I know you don't like vanilla," he says, cutting a slice, "but I do."

She eats the whole thing just so he can't.

She is thirteen, and Kemp Hurley gifts her with a boomerang he stole from the equipment closet. "You always like when things come back to you," he says.

He has a black eye when she sees him next. You are not supposed to take things out of that closet without permission. Interestingly enough, no one asks her to put it back.

Kemp spends three months staying late after school.

She is fourteen, and Kemp Hurley is handing her a bouquet of flowers he picked on his way to training. It made him late. He has to do more laps than the rest of them, but he doesn't care. He says, "Bet you can't pick out the poisonous ones."

She pulls the calla lilies and baby's breath out in one fell swoop and Kemp kisses her, mouth sweet from the gum he chewed and soft because sometimes he is nice.

She is fifteen, and Kemp Hurley convinces her to skip Friday's training so he can take show her something. They sneak into the trainers' offices, and he pulls a piece of paper from their binder, slaps it with his hand.

"Look," he says. "We're next."

Their scores are displayed in yellow highlighter. She is the best girl in their group. Kemp is the best boy. One of them will win next year. One of them will bring glory to their district again.

"Kemp," she starts to say, but he silences her with his mouth against hers. Sometimes when he gets excited he gets affectionate. Massie wishes he'd be like this more often.

She is sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is kissing her cheek on that Reaping stage instead of shaking her hand. "It's you and me, baby," he says, and the words fill the district, fill the world. "You and me against the world."

She is still sixteen, and the Kemp Hurley in front of her is not the Kemp Hurley she grew up with. This Kemp Hurley is obsessed with killing her where the other versions of him were content with loving her.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is running his hands over her legs, trying to get her to succumb to him. She wants it, but she's mad at him, because he only wants to kill her, and she pushes him away. Puts a wall between them.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is scaring her, looking at people in her alliance in a way he's only ever looked at kids in their training class. Those kids never come back.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is choking her because Derrick Harrington is a threat to him and everything he worked for.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is choking instead because she's dug her knife into his throat.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is losing too much blood to fight back.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is dead beneath her, but she can't stop stabbing him, over and over, because she's mad at who he is. Who they turned him into.

I made you, Massie Block.

I can't wait to kill you.

I was going to wait until you two were out of the picture, but I think it will be much better to kill Massie first, and have you watch.

I am the only one that gets to hurt you.

I've seen the way you look at me.

She is still sixteen, and Kemp Hurley is dead, and she killed the only friend she ever had.

Derrick has to know she is awake now because she is sobbing against the moss he's using to wipe her face.

"Massie," he breathes, and she can see his hands fluttering around her. He doesn't know what to do. Neither does she, but she keeps crying.

If only seven year old Massie could see herself now. She'd be so ashamed.

A sob gets caught in her throat.

"Massie," Derrick says again. He presses his palms against her cheeks. She can feel how relieved he is, but she only wants him to go away.

"Stop," she whispers. "Stop stop stop."

His hands drop. "Stop what?"

"Go away." Her throat is tight.

"Go… away?"

She nods. "Go away. Go away. Go away."

Memories of her relationship with Kemp are not the only thing she's been assaulted with.

She remembers everything about Derrick, too.

His bad flirting, which was actually good, apparently, because it affected her.

His insistence on training with her, on eating with her, on making her friends with Ripple, who is dead, who was twelve, who deserved better.

His hand as it woke her up on that roof, his body as it trained with her until four in the morning.

His steadfast presence throughout most of these Games—beside her during watches, beside her as they slept, beside her as they ate.

His loyalty to Ripple, who is dead, who was twelve, who deserved better.

His hands against her face. His lips against her mouth. His words, which she believed.

His kisses. His touches. His trident and how he wielded it.

His trust in her and, in return, her trust in him.

His words, minutes, or hours, or days ago, she doesn't know, that made her want to die. Go ahead. Kill her. See if it breaks me.

She is crying again, but now she doesn't know why. All she knows is her insistence that he leaves her alone. She doesn't want him touching her, doesn't want him near her. Go away go away go away.

She killed her district partner. Her best friend.

The boy she was highly attached to said her death wouldn't bother her.

There is a reason they tell you to not forge relationships during the Games. She is recent proof of why.

Derrick doesn't move that much farther away from her, and Massie hates it, so she crawls back until she's hitting the side of the Cornucopia and he is out of sight. She knows he's not really gone, but she doesn't care. As long as she can't see him, she's fine.

She presses her face into her knees, lets the sobs take her over.

Even her father hadn't believed in her. Or maybe he believed in Kemp more than her. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter. No one thought she'd be the last of District One standing, and here she is, the reason their winner, their diamond, the one they've been rooting for, is dead.

If her memory serves her, she stabbed him thirty six times.

The only reason she did not hit forty is because Derrick pulled her away, physically dragged her, ignoring her attacks against him. He had to hit her over the head, that's how inconsolable she was, but it's not like she really remembers that. The memory is in her head like a video she watched years ago. It is vague and slightly familiar, but it is there, and she knows she's seen it. All she needs is a reminder and reminders are everywhere.

The knife she used is still laying there, where she imagines his body must've been before they came to take it away.

The grass is stained red, red, red, and it will probably turn brown once time has passed.

Her arm hurts from the nonstop motions. Her hand is still stuck in the position it was in when she held the weapon. When she stretches it out, it aches.

She killed Kemp.

She killed Kemp, but he was killing her, his hand around her throat, squeezing squeezing squeezing. She did nothing wrong, but she feels like the world is ending.

"Massie," Derrick says again, calling from the other side of the Cornucopia.

"Don't," she snaps, because even though she is dying from Kemp's death (from her murder of him), she is losing everything else from what he said.

Go ahead. Kill her. See if it breaks me.

She always knew Kemp was going to kill her, or Kemp was going to die. There was a script she was supposed to follow, once upon a time, but she met Derrick, and he showed her a world no one let her believe in, and she changed her mind.

That script said Massie was supposed to lie low and let Kemp get all the glory before she died, but Massie flipped it so it was even. At the end, if it came down to Kemp and Massie, it would be a glorious bloodbath. It would not be a story she was helping play out. Whoever won won fair and square because they were the best.

Nowhere in that script did it say Derrick was supposed to egg on Massie's demise, but he did, and it hurt her, and—

Go ahead. Kill her. See if it breaks me.

She would have never said that about him.

...

She is back in District One, laying on one of the mats, trying to catch her breath. She hears Kemp a few feet away, throwing spears at dummies in the corner.

"You gonna lay there all day or what?"

"I'm tired," she snaps. She's just spent the past two hours throwing boomerangs across the room. She's hit targets, missed getting sliced up herself, and found out she can kill four people in three minutes if she's fast enough.

(She will be fast enough.)

"So?" Kemp demands. "I'm tired too but you don't see me stopping."

"That's what is going to get you killed," she tells him. "You need to listen to your body. You keep getting bad marks because of that. You aren't superhuman. You need rest."

He snorts and she hears him throw another spear. The sound it makes is obvious enough that he's missed the target by a long shot. "Rest gets you killed," he hisses, angry at himself. He stalks forward, takes another spear from the rack, and throws.

It also misses.

"It does if you aren't in the Career alliance," Massie replies. "You need to learn to let go. To trust. I will never let anything happen to you."

"Yeah, and for how long?" Kemp snaps. "It's not like the two of us can win, so when does your generosity end? I need to learn to throw on no sleep. On no rest. I will learn how to kill twenty-three people without sleeping for a week if it means I win."

Massie sighs, used to his tirades, and pats the mat next to her. "You can learn that all in the Capitol," she proposes. "Come lay with me for a bit."

"No, I cannot be my best if I am cuddling with you." Kemp throws again. The aim is better, but he is still missing. "Fuck, why can't I get the heart?"

"You're tired," she says.

"I'll be tired in the arena," he retorts.

"And that is a different kind of tired," she comments. "Here, we can train and train and it means nothing because we aren't in there, fighting for our lives, fighting to win. There's a difference between training for it and actually doing it. We will not know what we will do until we're faced with it and we can't keep trying now. The Reaping is tomorrow. We've learned all we can." She turns her head, sees the bunching of his muscles, and swallows. "Come lay with me."

"I—"

"Kemp, we've already proven we're the best. What are you trying to do now? There are no other obstacles in our way."

He slumps, neck and then shoulders and then the rest of his body falling under the sweetness that is the ache of being tired, and he lets go of the three spears he is holding to pull himself over to her. He drops like he can't hold his weight, and rolls into her side, pressing his face into her shoulder.

"I can't allow myself one moment of weakness," he tells her.

"You can," she replies. "I will be there to watch you."

Kemp is silent, his breath soft against her, and she thinks she is asleep until he says, "You say that now, but wait until you meet the tribute from Four."

"Chris Abeley?" she shoots back. "Why would he matter to me?"

"No," says Kemp. "Derrick Harrington."

"He's not the volunteer from Four." Massie pushes herself onto her elbows, or tries to. Kemp wraps his arms around her and brings her back down. "Kemp," she insists, "the volunteer from Four is Chris, right? That's what Cam says."

"Yeah, sure," Kemp agrees sleepily. "But listen, I am not going to matter to you once you meet the boy from Four. You should trust him. He's the only honest person in these Games, excluding his partner. I feel bad about killing her, you know. She was only twelve. She shouldn't have been here, but… she had to go. I wish Landon hadn't murdered her like that. It should have been quick, but he wanted to rile the boy." He sighs against her neck. "I should have done it, and I should have killed Landon. I'm sorry the girl died like that."

"Kemp, I don't understand." They haven't killed anyone yet. They haven't been Reaped yet. What is he talking about?

"Massie, I'm not going to be the person you know in the arena," he tells her. She can tell he's falling asleep. "Don't feel bad when you have to kill me. I won't feel bad when I try to kill you. It's part of the game. It's why we are there. We've spent our whole lives getting ready for this. I just need you to know something."

She blinks and it is much harder to catch her breath now. It is like it is just out of reach, teasing her. She wants it, she needs it, but it is nowhere near. "What?" she croaks.

"I've loved you my whole life," he admits, "but I didn't love you enough. If I did, I would've found a different girl to volunteer. I would've spared you. I would've made sure you were here when I went in the arena and I would've made sure I came back to you."

Massie's heart stutters.

"But I didn't. I let you volunteer because I knew all of your weaknesses and I knew you would have my back until I didn't need it. I know I am going to kill you." He squeezes her again and she imagines he is crying. There is wetness against her shoulder, but he never cries, doesn't do that, hasn't since they were eight and nine respectively, so why would he do it now? "You want to know who will love you more than me and will mean it?"

Her throat is too dry for her to answer.

"That boy from Four. Derrick." Kemp sniffles and he makes up for that by pulling her too tightly against him. "Massie, with him in the picture, I'm already as good as dead, don't you know? You need to talk to him."

"Why would I talk to him after what he said to me?" she asks, because even though she doesn't know him she knows he said something she doesn't like.

Go ahead. Kill her. See if it breaks me.

"He was playing the game," Kemp replies. "He didn't mean it. He was egging me on to see what I would do, so he could figure out his countermove. You know I can't ignore taunting. That's also why I get bad marks here. I let people into my head and I don't rest when I need to."

She doesn't say anything.

"I loved you when I was supposed to," Kemp continues, ignoring her silence, "and you loved me when you needed to. That time no longer exists. Tomorrow I will stop loving you because I can turn that off. Tomorrow you will love someone else. It will make me angry but I will understand." He runs his fingers through her hair, sloppily, tiredly. "I am not going to live. For some reason, I know that, but I want you to."

"What do you mean? We both know everyone wants you—"

"They do, but that's not how it will turn out. Chris Abeley will not volunteer, but Derrick Harrington will, and you will fall in love with him. No one anticipates what you will do, and because of that, I will die. I will die and I will be happy about it because for the first time you will be doing something you want to do. Your whole life has been series of decisions based on me. You never did anything for yourself." He yawns against her collarbone, presses his forehead against her skin. He is burning up. "I need you to do one last thing for me, though."

"Okay," she whispers. She doesn't like this conversation. Doesn't like how vulnerable Kemp is. She blames it on the fever he obviously has. There is no other way he'd be this open. "What is it?"

"I need you to wake up," Kemp tells her. "Get out of your head and never come back. You did what you had to do, and now you need to deal with it." He grimaces and she can't tell if it is from his sickness or the honesty in which he is speaking to her. "There is a boy out there who loves you and you are punishing him. Don't do what I did to you. Don't push him away. Let yourself love him in his entirety."

Massie shifts so she is looking at him, at his tired eyes, and his hot skin. "You loved me? Really?"

"Of course I did," he replies, "but I never deserved your love in return, even if I got it. You gave it to me because it made sense. That boy from Four… he's your first real choice in years. You deserve that. You deserve someone who has never fantasized about your death."

"But he said—"

Go ahead. Kill her. See if it breaks me.

"He never meant it," Kemp tells her. "Believe me. I know. Regardless of what he said, me killing you would've destroyed him. Me strangling you practically made him undone. He's only ever fantasized about your future together." Kemp smiles sadly, though the malice she's grown to know in him is still set there, in his teeth. "Wake up. Tell that boy how you feel. You are allowed to make your own choices." His voice shudders, like he can't believe he's about to say what he is going to, and he grabs her hand. "Win the Games on your own terms, Massie Block, and know, no matter what happens, I was always proud to be your district partner."

...

She is still crying when she returns to the arena, having left Kemp in the recesses of her mind. His words, though, do not leave her. She just wishes the real him had said them to her once.

Her voice breaks when she calls out, "Derrick?"

He responds in an instant, her name sung like a prayer. He does not move to find her, respecting her wishes, and she realizes she is so cold without him. She hiccups, pressing her face harder into her knees, and asks, "Do you love me?"

There is no hesitation in his answer.

She chokes on a sob, cries wracking her body, and she squeezes squeezes squeezes her legs to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. She is not good with emotions, has never been, really, with who her family is, but even if she was, she never would have expected such strong feelings to be cultivated in the length of time she's been here. In the length of time she's been Reaped, because she's felt this way for a while, hasn't she? She's just ignored it, ignored it until it mattered.

She is unaware she's even answered him back until he's standing over her, and she looks up, furiously wiping her tears away.

"Really?" he asks.

"Really," she says, even though she doesn't remember. She just knows.

Derrick drops to his knees, and there are apologies and explanations on his tongue, all of which she doesn't acknowledge. For some reason, she understands. She understands why he said what he said in the same way he understands she didn't mean to stab him when she did, because she did, she stabbed him. It's right there in his side. He's bandaged there, so he must've received a gift in the time she's been catatonic—does that mean their alliance is broken?

She lays her hand against that very bandage, stares at it hard. She did that. Why did she do that? Because he pulled her away from a dead body? Because he tried to reach her in her madness?

"I'm fine," he says. "It wasn't bad."

Massie is not inclined to believe him. The bandage is pink where the wound is.

"Hey," he says. "I'm fine. You're fine. It's… it's okay."

It's not okay when you kill your district partner, but when your district partner is not the person you remember him being maybe it is.

"How long has it been?" she asks.

Derrick chews his lower lip, holds out a hand. She takes it. "I don't know," he tells her. "I'm no good at reading the sun here, but it's been… a while since the hovercraft came."

"Is it just us now?"

"No," he says. "Andy ran when you started stabbing K—when you… you did… when you—"

"When I started killing Kemp," she supplies. The words hurt her, but she pushes past them. It is the truth. It is what she did. Just because Derrick is afraid to say it to her does not mean it is not real. "So there are three of us left still."

He nods. "I couldn't… I tried," he offers, "and if he doesn't get any help he'll die soon, but I'm sure someone will send him something, no matter how expensive it is. Eleven hasn't gotten this far in years, and—" He breaks off but Massie hears it.

Eleven hasn't gotten this far in years and you're not all there and they know I won't kill you.

"Right." She tries to swallow around these facts but finds them too disgusting to acknowledge. This is not the Games she was prepared for. Once it got this far she was supposed to be dead… or close to it. She doesn't know what she's supposed to do now that Kemp is dead and she is in the final three. She looks to Derrick, who has been strong and steady through this whole thing. "What now?"

"We should sleep," he provides, and it is then that Massie notices the darkness around her. She's been hard to reach for hours and he's never left. That makes her want to cry some more.

"We should," she agrees. It is nice to be near someone who knows the importance of rest. "Where?"

Derrick throws a suspicious glance towards the forest around them. "I don't trust that," he tells her, "and I don't know where Andy ran off to, so I think here is fine. We can go in the Cornucopia."

"We can?"

"There's an opening right there." He points to the left side. "I didn't notice it until today."

Massie nods. "Okay." She wonders if he knows how much she trusts him.

"But before we do that, I just want… I want you to know that I didn't mean—"

"I know," Massie says. "You did what you had to do."

"It didn't do anything," Derrick says. "I just stood there and let him strangle you and I tried to find anything to do without hurting you but there was nothing and then you were just… you disappeared, Massie, and I didn't know where you went. Even Kemp noticed. One second you were present and then you weren't, and then… then you were back, and you were just… you were doing everything I wanted to do, but I was stuck."

She caresses his face, remembers Kemp's words—there is a boy out there who loves you and you are punishing him—and says, "You helped."

"I didn't move," Derrick snaps, more at himself than her. "There's no way I could have helped."

"But you did," she insists. "You made me leave. I got so scared that I found my knife."

Derrick's brows furrow. He doesn't understand. He won't. He wasn't there, in her head, not really, but all that matters is that she was there, and she made him, and her version of him was the sensible part of her brain that told her to fight back.

"You helped," she tells him, more insistent. "Without you in my life, I'd be dead and he'd be the Victor."

"Without you in my life I'd be dead too," Derrick whispers. "Even if I never met you I would know something was missing."

Massie sniffs around a fresh batch of tears, hears Kemp again as he says win the Games on your own terms, Massie Block, and know, what ever happens, I was always proud to be your district partner. She knows real Kemp would never say that, but her mind gave her something he never did. It gave her closure.

"Let's go to sleep," she offers. "Tomorrow is another day."

"But before then," Derrick says as they settle into the horn of the Cornucopia, draped with blankets they found in crates, and surrounded by weapons they don't normally use, "can I kiss you?"

She doesn't use words to answer him.

He continues to apologize against her mouth, more upset than she is that he said what he said and did not do what he wanted. Massie shakes her head, whispers stop, and takes control of the kiss, telling him everything she's already said and more.

It is a kiss that lasts longer than it should with cameras and all of their country watching them, but they do not seem to care. When she pulls away to breathe properly, he presses his mouth to her jawline, her throat—though he is soft and careful there—marking her up like they are home in their own districts without any other care in the world. She winds her fingers in his hair, tugging tugging tugging, and he swallows a groan against her skin, nipping at her collarbone. They kiss like the teenagers they are and for a moment—a long, long moment—they forget where they are and what they are doing there.

The sun begins to rise and they are still kissing, lips swollen and eyes wet, because somewhere along the line they started crying over what they are doing and what they can never have.

Derrick falls asleep after he kisses her forehead, soft and sweet and something that tells her he cares for her more than his mouth kisses can say. She takes a bit longer to follow his lead. The birds sing their good morning song when she finally allows herself to go under, wrapped up in Derrick's embrace, hidden from Andy in the center of the Cornucopia.

The last thing she thinks of is the words she cannot rid from her mind.

Win the games on your own terms, Massie Block.

...

Kemp pins her to the ground. "It's dangerous, but it's a good plan."

Massie struggles against him, wriggling and moving, and heaves her shoulder up. He is a rock above her. He cannot be budged. "I'm nervous."

"Make it count," he replies. "Kill Eleven first and then do not take the easy way out. Make it good. Give them a show."

"Obviously," Massie bites back. "I'm not stupid."

"Stop crying and maybe I'll agree." Kemp smirks at her, annoyed with normal bodily functions. She is too but she hasn't cried in so long that she physically cannot stop herself now that the dam has broken. "It's embarrassing."

She throws her shoulder again. Nothing. "Do you know where Andy would be?"

"Why are you asking me? I'm dead."

"You're the one who crazily studied the districts," replies Massie. She ignores his last comment. That can't be right. He's currently winning their wrestling match. She can feel his heartbeat.

"Didn't bother with Eleven," Kemp admits. "Didn't seem like a threat."

"How wrong you were," Massie murmurs. "He's in the final three."

"Ask your boy toy," Kemp suggests. "He let him go, didn't he? He knows where he ran off to. He's not going to like your plan, you know."

"Who?"

Concern washes over his face, so unlike him, and Kemp releases her, sitting back on his haunches. "Come on, Massie, remember."

"Remember what?"

Skin opens up with knife wounds above her. Blood spills from them, staining his shirt and pooling on her stomach. There are holes all over his body: his arms, his shoulder, his chest, even his throat. She counts them in her horror, there are thirty-six in total, and when he opens his mouth again—how can he open his mouth again he is bleeding out he is dying what's happening—he says something, maybe it is remember, but she can't hear it over her screaming.

...

Inside the Cornucopia is not a good place to scream. The sound bounces off the walls, intensifies it, makes it loud loud loud.

Massie does not know why the screaming won't stop and slaps her hands over her ears. She presses harder and harder to block out the noise but it is still there. Stop stop stop stop STOP!

"Hey, hey, hey." Derrick's voice seems to overtake the screaming and he is all sleepy and his words are slow and Massie drops her hands, overcome by this warm fondness spreading through her heart. Ew, part of her thinks, but the bigger part is overcome at the sight of Derrick right now. She thinks this is her favorite version of him. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Is she okay? An interesting question. The answer is no, because she is here, in this Cornucopia, and it's actually really cold, but the answer is also yes, because she is here, in this Cornucopia, and he is with her too.

Then she realizes she was the one doing the screaming and flushes.

"Oh," is all she says.

Derrick yawns, reaching his hand out to drowsily run his fingers through her hair—which is no longer in braids, when did that happen?—and slowly blinks until he is awake.

"You're pretty," he tells her.

She frowns.

"You are," he says. "I wish…"

"No." Massie presses her fingers to his mouth. He nips at them, little kisses that make her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard. "Don't say it."

"But I wanna," he whines.

"We need to find Andy," she says, changing the subject. "We need to get rid of him and then—"

"Then one of us needs to die," Derrick finishes.

Massie doesn't like that, but she nods anyway.

They don't know how long this will take them, so they roll the blankets up as tightly as possible and shove them in their packs, with that dried jerky Massie hates, some can of beans probably, purification tablets, and a few canteens of water.

"Do you think they'll lead us to him?" she asks, adjusting the straps on her bag. It's heavy and hurts her shoulders. Guess her suit only protects her from offensive attacks, not weight.

Derrick moves to help her. "Dunno," he says. "Didn't work out well for them last time. They only got one."

"You think they wanted it to end then?"

"Yeah," he answers. "There was no way back in the forest after we all got here. It was like there was a shield up around the whole thing, locking us in place."

"How did Andy get away then?"

"I guess… I guess you gave them what they wanted."

Thirty-six stab wounds. Not forty because Derrick pulled her away.

"Right." She marches over to that spot of grass in particular and snatches her knife up. It's one of the tiny jeweled ones she stuck in her jacket, not the nice gift someone had given her. She broke that in the ground.

The blade is still covered in blood. It's old and dry. She inspects it carefully, imagining herself shoving it in and out of Kemp's body. The thought doesn't seem to horrify her as much as it did before.

Derrick makes his movements loud and deliberate as he comes up behind her. "Do you want me to clean that?"

"Are you always that noisy when you walk?"

"No." He shows her, moving around to stand in front of her. "I wanted you to know I was coming."

She twists the knife in her hands, runs her thumb over the last piece of Kemp she has left. "Afraid I'll stab you again?"

Derrick laughs, sort of. It sounds kind of uncomfortable, like maybe he is afraid she'll stab him again. He says, "Nah. Didn't want to scare you. Do you want me to clean that?"

Massie takes her lower lip between her teeth and peers up at him. Is he afraid of her? He doesn't look it. "No. It's okay." She sticks it back in her inside pocket and offers him her hand.

She counts the seconds.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Fours seconds after she's put out her hand he is taking it, a frown pulling at his brows. Does this mean he is? Is he worried she's going to kill him? But isn't that what he wants? For her to win? He said that, right? But Derrick says a lot of things, she's found out, and sometimes he doesn't mean them. What has he said that he means, then, and what has he said that he doesn't? Did he mean what he said yesterday or did she build everything up in her head? Her head is a nice place to be sometimes, she should go back, where the beach is pretty, and the kitchen is stocked with all her favorite foods, and Kemp tells her the truth, and Derrick holds her hand without hesitating, and—

And she can see it all now.

It's pulled away sharply when Derrick says, "Are you sure?"

"Sure about what?"

"Not cleaning it." Their fingers are twisted together now, like they belong there, like they are one person, not two.

"Oh. Yeah. It doesn't matter," she tells him. "It will just waste time."

He frowns again, and Massie realizes it is because of this, because of her knife and Kemp, not because of stabbing him yesterday.

She lets go of his hand abruptly and tugs at his jacket, pulling it away from his body and tangling it around the strap of his backpack.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

She pulls the bandage off his side and looks intently at the skin there. It is covered in an ointment she remembers from days ago and the wound is closed, the puckered edge pink against his tanned skin.

"No damage done," he tells her. "All healed."

"Hardly," Massie snaps. "How is are your insides?"

"Fine."

She pokes it.

"What is with you and always doing that?"

She ignores him, drops to her knees, and inspects his leg. He is standing on it, and it is clean, there is no blood or skin or any sign that he was brutally attacked by anything, just two thin lines down the calf. There was a mutt, right? She remembers one, but she also remembers an ocean, and a kitchen, and a training room, so she isn't sure.

"Sage sent more medicine," Derrick provides. "I should be fine for a few days."

A few days. The medicine has an expiration date? That doesn't make sense.

Massie crawls around him, looks at the back of the same leg for the other wound he has there. She still doesn't know how he got it, just that it made her cry, and she thinks she may cry again now, with medicines having expiration dates and everything. She knows she will because even though he'd quite hastily applied the cream to this too, the cut is ugly and red and kind of yellow and how does he not feel it getting infected by the second?

Her heart is in her throat and his hands are under her armpits, picking her up and crushing her to his chest. She is shaking now. He is saying something to her, comforting her, but it is not what she hears.

She hears: Then one of us needs to die.

It comes to her with stunning clarity, like she can see the future: They will hunt down Andy together. Derrick will help her kill him. It doesn't matter how long it takes. The longer the better. All the while he will stop putting the medicine on the back of his leg and the wound will get grosser and grosser until he can't walk, until he can't do much of anything, and the last cannon will sound, and Massie Block, District One, will be the winner of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games.

Win the Games on your own terms, Massie Block, comes Kemp's voice, ringing in her ears.

"Give me your backpack," Massie orders, pushing Derrick away. He stares at her, confused, and she yells, "Give me your backpack!"

His eyes are wide as he does what she demands, never leaving her face. She sifts through it, pulling out all the things he'd meticulously packed, and letting cans roll away from her and water to spill from canteens. Still, Derrick does not move. Just watches.

She finds the canister of ointment buried beneath a length of rope. She places it gently on the grass next to her, fights against her trembling hands to pull a knife from her pocket, and uses it to saw at the one of the blankets.

It doesn't slice through it like she wants. The blade is dull, covered in dirty blood, and Massie does not let herself think what knife she pulled out before she is throwing it across from her, away away away. She finds another knife, this one sharp and shiny and covered with tiny diamonds at the hilt; she finishes what she started with the other, rips the blanket into a strip of fabric.

"Massie," Derrick starts.

"Shut up," she returns. "I hate you. I hate you so much."

"You don't mean that," he says, though his voice wobbles when he gets to don't like he's not sure of it either.

"I told you to be quiet," Massie says. "And I do. I do hate you. I mean it a lot. I mean it so much."

He takes her words to heart, staying silence, but she can sense the confusion and the hurt radiating off him as she slathers the back of his leg with ointment and ties the piece of blanket tight. Then she sits back, suddenly tired.

Derrick turns to face her, and he is blocking the sun again, like he did days ago, and Massie forces her to look up at him. Her eyes sting like she's cried for a very long time, but her cheeks don't feel wet, and she doesn't remember doing that today. Maybe she is all out of tears and this is her body telling her that even though she wants to, she can't.

"Can I talk now?"

She shakes her head no.

Instead he shifts his weight from one leg to another. She can tell he's feeling less pain now by the relief flooding his irises and that makes her angry again.

"I hate you," she says.

He opens his mouth but she shakes her head for a second time.

"You don't get to leave me," she insists. "You don't get to die on me."

"There can only be one winner," he tells her, voice soft. He winces a bit as he drops into a crouch, getting on her level. "We'll get Andy, and then it will be you and me, and I will not kill you." He runs the pad of his thumb over her eyes, her nose, her mouth. "Don't put the ointment on my leg again."

"No," she replies, hard, unmovable.

There is a sadness in his eyes that makes her ache down to her very core and she presses down on her sudden urge to scream. "There can only be one winner," he repeats.

"No," she says again. She grasps his wrist, holds tight. "Either we leave this arena together or we don't leave it at all."