Evanescent
Lectic (D3)
It's early in the morning, a patch of orange bleeding into the deep indigo horizon. Neither of us are particularly well-rested. The terrain has become patchy and poorly maintenanced, the only interjections to the engine's hum and the jolts of the tires on the rough asphalt being Demetra's muttered oaths as the steering wheel does not instantly obey her over the worst of the potholes.
She has introverted herself since the birds at the rest stop. At first, it was a bit of a relief, as what she says generally stings quite a bit. But I'm beginning to worry I've done something unforgivable by her district's standards, and she is contemplating my grisly murder.
Not that it wouldn't surprise me, of course. When I recall reaping day, when I watched the events one by one over dinner with my mentor, I expected her to kill me.
Rather, I never would have expected her to pass up a chance to.
Hopefully, she isn't breaking some unspoken District Two law by letting me live at her expense. In fact, just thinking that makes it seem extremely likely.
"Lectic?"
I turn to her, flinching at her lip bandage which is once again drenched in blood. She's been chewing on it, again. In the eerie light of the morning, she looks like something out of a horror film.
"What's wrong?" I ask, noticing that her brows are knitted together in some unexpressed emotion.
"What would you do if I just… up and left, right now?"
"Most likely die. Why do you ask?"
"No reason. What if I tried to kill you?" she continues, with an air of careful casualty.
"Definitely die."
I force a small smile, feeling too weary to respond in any intelligent manner. This is what she's been ruminating over.
"Seriously. Would you be… okay with it?"
"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have a choice. Especially if I was, you know, dead. There's no 'try', about you killing me."
At her arched eyebrow, I sigh and continue.
"Fine. It would depend on what you were going to do, and whether I thought I would be able to help. If you wanted to hack someone's Games stats page, I'd try to come with. Why are you asking?"
"That would be extremely stupid. Can you promise me that if you woke up one day and I was gone, you wouldn't follow me?"
"Why?"
"At this point, it would suck to have to kill you," she deadpans, and my smile withers as I realize she is serious.
It's sometimes hard to tell with Demetra. I wait a second for her to say something, but she turns back to the road, thinking, again.
"Do you want to leave?" I ask hesitantly, entirely unsure of what her answer will be… and what I'm hoping she'll say.
"I'm just not sure right now," she sighs. "It's getting light. You want breakfast?"
"Sure."
I undo my lap belt as Demetra slows the car, hopping out the second the engine goes quiet, flamethrower in hand. She's at the trunk by the time I make my stiff-legged exit, and tosses me a sticky bun.
"I'm really starting to hate these things," she comments, tearing open a bright orange bag of cheesy corn chips.
Taking one of the smaller jugs of water from the back, I drink deeply, handing it to Demetra, who does the same. We pass it back and forth, slowly washing the cloying tastes of the snack food down our throats.
I watch the sun as it slowly materializes in the orange haze, a sliver of gold on the horizon, flickering through the distant trees. Mornings here are things of beauty.
Demetra follows my gaze, and scoffs.
"You're gonna blind yourself, genius."
We stretch in a state of near silence, me trying to work out the knots in my neck from sleeping in the car, her doing some bizarre one-legged thing that seems to involve balance, strength, and looking like a complete head case.
She brings her foot down from her shoulder abruptly, looking to have made some sort of decision.
"I want you to try to incapacitate me. I'm attacking you. Right now."
"Do we really have to do this? I suck at fighting."
"Come on. Let's see a palm to the solar plexus. It's not as if you can hurt me much."
I crack my fingers awkwardly, extend the heel of my hand, and sort of half-tap-half-nudge her. She's balanced on her heels so while I push her back about an inch, she rolls forward again, smirking at my attempt.
"Lectic. You need to learn this." There's a surprising amount of seriousness in her comment.
She darts over into the brush, grabbing a stick about the width of three fingers and a bit longer than my arm and handing it to me.
"Try this. They make good clubs. Lots of leverage. Even someone smaller than you could catch me at the right angle and smash in my skull.
Hesitantly, I raise it in the air.
"Oh, no. You're not practicing on me. But bring it in the car with us. I'll find you some trees to beat up in an hour or so."
She rubs her knees, still badly scraped from her fall despite the feathery landing.
"I hate trees," she growls, and I can see the muscle in her arms flexing as she tightens her grip on the flamethrower.
"Okay, you ready to head off, then?" I ask, with a cheerfulness I don't feel.
"Oh, shut up, Lectic," she sighs, pursing her lips.
We re-enter the car, me not quite understanding quite what is going on, but still feeling pleased that I recognize, at least, there is something off. Demetra's fingers drum the wheel, and I catch her glancing at me more than once as the machine hums to life.
"Do you want me to fix your bandage?" I ask, noticing that it is doing very little to stop the flow of blood as she chews her wound.
The car jolts over an uneven patch, and Demetra growls 'shit!', swerving towards the trees and then back. The poor road has been costing us time and fuel, and I'm not completely sure how much farther the gasoline in the Capitol tank will get us, or even really how the engine works.
For all I know, we've been leaking gas slowly the entire trip, and the tank itself is just a decoy to stop me from messing around under the hood.
Also, I've got an odd sort of intuitive feeling that Demetra's comment earlier about leaving wasn't entirely in jest, but I would really rather not consider that. Instead, I try to imagine what is going on in the Capitol.
They will most likely be watching some sort of drama somewhere else, or we would be having more trouble than a broken road. Non-fatal mutts, a small disaster, a little betrayal, something of the like. Or perhaps they know something I don't about Demetra, and they are holding their collective breath, waiting for her to kill me as violently as possible.
Yay, entertainment. This train of thought is getting me nowhere. I stare at Demetra's hair, which is wildly curly, though less in the way you see in Three. More… loose, I guess. Very brown. My mother's hair is tightly crinkled, though I would call it curly as well.
Thinking of such things, I run my hand over my own head, still almost expecting to feel a full head of hair to rake my fingers through as I think. To my surprise, I find fuzz. Just a little, around the crown, but my hair is beginning to grow back…
Demetra turns to see me smiling uncertainly, not sure what to make of the development. She seems to notice my hand on my head, and tilts her head in thought.
"You know, if you put on a wig, I bet you could pass for a girl," she comments.
"Lovely. How can you always tell exactly what I'm thinking?" I sigh, though it does little to stop the smile that is growing on my face.
I feel better in control, knowing that something as unimportant and trivial from before the arena is back with me again. I was always indifferent towards my hair- it was maybe a little thicker, maybe a little straighter than average for Three, but mostly because of my dad's mom, who was originally from a part of District Four.
I never saw losing it as an identity thing, but having something back that I thought had been taken away from me, along with my chances of survival and the possibility of seeing my family again, means a lot.
"Don't get too excited, it'll be a while before yours is even half as glorious as mine," Demetra sniffs, seeing that I am pleased. She begins to crack her knuckles, one by one, which is both irritating and terrifying.
"You're inhuman. It's unlikely that I'll ever achieve even that," I say blandly, returning my attention to the landscape.
"Exactly. See, this is why we get along."
"You remind me of my cat," I laugh. "That's pretty much how our relationship works as well. Only the only way he ever honestly helped me was by passing up a chance to knock me down the stairs. Turned out it was only because his attention was occupied coughing up a hairball on my bed."
"Excuse me, I can't recall the last time I vomited on you. This proves I am the superior life form. To everything."
"I never said you weren't. I value my life."
We pause for a second, both realizing that we have stopped more-or-less ignoring one another, and have inadvertently slipped back into our usual repartee.
"Demetra," I say slowly, "why do you want to leave?"
"Damn. I was trying not to be obvious about it."
"You asked me what I would do if you did. It was a bit of a tip-off."
She huffs in displeasure. "Well, you ask me stupid questions about death and stuff all the time! That doesn't mean you're planning on killing me."
I smile wryly. "Or does it?"
Her snort tells me that I am not even a little bit of a threat to her. It occurs to me that there is probably very little in the arena, or even Panem, that Demetra considers a threat. If the rest of us left had the ability to turn various appendages into machine guns, she would almost certainly mock us into insecurity before gleefully murdering us in our vulnerable state of self-consciousness.
Really, she's the best suited to win. It was stupid of me to ever think that wasn't what she was planning to do every second, from allying to… now.
"Are you even listening to me? There are so few people left. I have to assume that most of them are dangerous, and aren't going to get any less dangerous as we keep running away."
"What about… what's at the end of the road? There has to be something, remember?" I can't quite understand why this is bothering me so much.
"Look. This was… never really going to last, anyway. It probably even shouldn't have started. Imagine if you won, right now… if everyone just dropped dead. Think about it."
The mental image that develops involves a disturbing fixation on attempting to revive Demetra.
"You couldn't go back to your district," she clarifies. "They probably all hate you by now. Don't worry, Two hates me more."
Of course. Of course. There's never been any love between Three and Two. We're the much-disliked little brother, barely tolerated because of our occasional usefulness in taking blame and improving life for our big sister, whom we despise in equal measure for her success.
Also, they tend to kill us. Accidentally, calculatedly, or in a full-on Cato rage. We're not too fond of that.
"See, you may not have realized it, but it was only a few important guidelines and the obvious difficulties in accomplishing such a thing that were keeping my mentor from killing me. She didn't like you very much."
"I get it. For the district? I just… didn't think you were the type to care that much about public opinion," I say hopelessly, curling my knees up to my chest and wincing as my wounds, already grown stiff, begin to bleed sluggishly once again.
"Psh. Fuck the district. What about my family? What's my mom thinking about this? She knew my mentor. They went to school together. She would probably take her side. I wish I could talk to her. You know how parents are."
No, not really. But I nod anyway.
"So you're sure, then."
"I'm not sure about anything. But I want to go home. And I honestly don't want to be the one to do you in. But if it comes down to it…"
"Don't worry about it. I've been expecting if for a while," I mutter dully, just feeling sore and confused and so, so tired. "It's what you do, after all."
"Yep. It kind of is."
"What's next, after you win?"
"Food. I'll never eat another corn chip or sticky bun. Lots of steak."
"Could you do me a favor?" I ask, trying to think of things that I would want to do myself.
"Depends on the favor."
"Says the girl planning to kill me," I laugh humorlessly. "Could you take care of my cat? Bring him back to District Two with you? I think he'd be better off there. Just keep him fed, if you can. He'll let you know what he wants. Your personalities are remarkably similar."
"You're taking this far too well," she remarks, her brow furrowing. "I'll take care of your cat. I like cats."
I grip the large, club like stick that leans on the door, feeling the sticky bun rolling around in my stomach. Maybe I am under reacting. Maybe I should be asking her not to leave. But I can't help but feel like the outcome will be the same no matter what I do. Why make it worse for either of us? I never should have gotten so invested.
"The scream-y noises he makes mean he wants attention," I say halfheartedly. "He's a bit homicidal. Be careful."
"I'm sure we'll get along well," she says, glancing at my face. "Oh, Lectic, don't be miserable. This is really for the best."
She switches her flamethrower to her left hand and extends her right, patting me awkwardly on the shoulder. I close my eyes as tightly as I can.
"It's really been an honor. Tell my family I love them," I murmur, wishing I could flick a slow motion key and stop the moment from passing so quickly.
Demetra punches the horn loudly, then again, jolting me into full awareness. She leans in, whispering to me quickly, her lips barely moving.
"We'll see each other again. But when we do, I'll have to kill you."
She stops her assault on the horn, smiling thinly.
"I'm not good at goodbyes. Sorry."
Slowly, she eases off the gas pedal, turning back to the seat behind us, yanking a few bags of chips and a gallon of water into her lap. Then she kicks the door open, flips the safety on her flamethrower, holds her arms to her chest, and rolls headlong out of the car.
I lunge after her, worried she slipped, but she is already on her feet and running in the opposite direction. My seatbelt catches me before I would have had the chance to catch her, anyway.
While the car continues to move forward, I slide into the driver's seat, gazing behind the car as she disappears into the woods, never looking back. I close the door behind her. My eyes feel swollen and my throat is heavy. I am barely conscious of putting my foot back on the gas pedal.
Her leaving happened so fast. But when I turn around, I can no longer see her running. I still occasionally check the passenger seat, expecting to see her lounging there.
The car feels empty. So do I.
-x
I'm sorry. For a lot of things, not the least of which is how long it took me to write. My only explanation is that I've been in a crazy boarding school and have had about 7-10 minutes to myself a night to write.
LittleSchemer, both of the potential victims will be visited in the chapter after this one. I would love to know your gift choice by then. :)
An enormous thank you to each and every person who reviews. This represents a surprising number of stolen minutes of my time.
