"If you're gonna die, die with your boots on

If you're gonna try, well stick around

Gonna cry, just move along

If you're gonna die, you're gonna die..."

-Iron Maiden, Die With Your Boots On

CHAPTER 26

THE FRACTURE

DAY THREE, PART 2

Castiel Bomber (18), District 1 Tribute

8:24 AM

The deep-rooted anger that Castiel has begun to feel ever since yesterday's tumultuous events climaxes and churns with the flight of his district partner, betraying his trust yet again in the face of imminent danger. Not like I would have expected her to fight with us anyway, he thinks furiously as Asher and Hela approach from the Cornucopia armed to the teeth. Two more blows to my crumbling dignity. Great job, Bomber. Really fulfilled your life's purpose.

Not only has the Career Pack run itself to the ground right before his very eyes, but Crescentia had done Castiel a massive disservice by taking the only life left in the arena that Castiel had claimed as his to take. Seven was mine, and now Seven is gone. He had nudged the body with his boot, keeping his emotions controlled; controlled as they have always been, save for the spontaneous combustion of suppressed emotion last night, like supernovas exploding thick and thunderous off of his tongue.

All I wanted to do was kick the shit out of his corpse, Castiel thinks murderously, vengeance the only thought on his mind. After what District Seven did to Charming... Castiel tries to ignore the horrific image of his boyfriend's back riddled with arrows, his eyes glazed, his mouth red and crusted with blood. It's the image burned behind his eyelids, of what Seven did to his Charms, that keeps him up at night. That makes me hollow. Grief floods his veins and Castiel needs to close his eyes for a moment, sucking in a breath of dewy morning air. Don't think about him right now. Part of him is glad that his district partner finally stepped up to the plate, but stealing Castiel's long-awaited revenge isn't something that sits well within the dark stone-cold cell in the bottom of his heart. We'll take care of the viper and the wolf for now.

And I'll deal with the traitors later.

The thought fills him with a white-hot rage that is only exacerbated by the prowling of his nemeses, like two circling predators looking for an easy meal. They think we're prey. Castiel smirks, though it looks more like a grimace. "Moses," he instructs through gritted teeth, "take care of Foster." The brawny boy from District Two nods his head, knowing that now is the worst time to argue with whatever semblance of leadership hasn't been stripped from Castiel's hide over the last twenty-four miserable hours.

Asher is untrained, and the range of Moses' axe might match that of those goddamn claws of his. Not so unreasonable now, huh Finch?

"Alton, help as needed. If you have to jog back to the Cornucopia, get something conventional, like a sword," Castiel commands. The morningstar isn't going to cut it against trained opponents, Castiel thinks. "I'm going for Hela herself," Castiel murmurs as his rival stops short, just a small grassy stretch away. A spear's throw.

Suddenly, Castiel wishes that the Cornucopia had supplied them with shields; his arm feels naked without some form of protection, despite hours of training to increase his prowess in both styles of dueling. The center of his abdomen still aches from where Siren slammed the butt end of her spear into his stomach. Every ache and pain from the last day seems to arise and come alive as Hela tilts her head slowly, spear clutched in her hands. Deadly. "We're fucked!" Siren's voice screams in his ear, shrill and full of panic. "They're fucked!" his district partner retorts, the two of them disappearing from his peripheral vision.

Fucked they might be, but Castiel refuses to go down without a fight. Without taking Hela out with me, the bitch. The torment suffered over the last week has been almost unbearable. And like I said, I'm tired of everyone making me out into some kind of villain. It's obvious who the villains are, if that even matters. "Pissing your pants, Castiel?" Asher taunts, brandishing his claws. Those things took down a deer, Castiel remembers, heart thumping loudly in his chest. Shouldn't be anything the three of us can't handle.

"Tuck your tail behind your legs and run for the woods, Wolfchild," Alton sneers. "Leave the fighting for the professionals. This isn't some street scrap."

"You bastard!" Asher growls, baring his canines. Like a feral animal, Castiel thinks derisively. Alton steps forward, clutching his morningstar, and charges Asher, lifting the weapon over his head to swing it at the other boy, the motion backed with the full power of Alton's muscles and the weight of the spiked mace. Asher lifts both sets of claws, creating a mesh with them, and blocks the attack, grunting hard. Inertia causes him to take a few unsteady steps backward, and the two are locked in for a moment before Asher jumps backward, swiping a bladed glove at Alton's face. The attack catches Castiel's ally by surprise, the boy screaming in pain as the middle claw cuts through the bridge of his nose.

Before anyone can say a word, Moses is hurtling across the wet grass at full speed, tackling the Wolfchild and sending the redheaded boy careening into the ground. "Get a blade, Kersey!" Castiel shouts, not caring how bossy the words sound as they leave his lips. The boy from Four nods sharply, thick gouts of blood spurting from the cloven bridge of his nose. The whistling of a knife catches his attention, and Castiel shouts in surprise as one of Hela's knives grazes the tip of his ear. The queen bitch herself, he thinks scathingly. "Challenging me at last, Mistlyre?" he asks, lunging for Hela. Castiel swings the sword in a glittering arc above his head, the silver steel catching the first rays of dawn that crest the treetops and permeate the gray morning mist.

And misses. He stumbles, regaining his balance and whirling around to catch Hela's spear with the edge of his blade, foot pivoting in the marshy ground. Get rid of her, Castiel! Hela grins cruelly, her eyes holding a dark glimmer as she feints left with the spear and smashes her balled fist into his temple, knuckles connecting with his skull. Stars dance before Castiel's vision, and his head swims as he grips the sword with both hands, slashing blindly at Hela's torso. His adversary ducks and leans leftward toward the ground, simultaneously retrieving her knife and thrusting her spear at the back of his leg. The jagged metal tip grazes Castiel's upper calf, and he bellows in pain, bringing the pommel of his sword hard down on Hela's exposed back.

She lurches to the side, her movements erratic as she twists back to face him, barely able to parry his sword stroke with the shaft of her spear, the blade creating a nick in the wood. Hela's eyes are blazing with the flames of lost dignity, her lips pressed in a grim line. His ears are met with the clangor of steel, and he spares a quick glance at Moses and Asher, the former's axe lodged in between the interlocked claws of the latter. Tough shit, Castiel surmises, jabbing his sword at Hela. She sidesteps the move and brings her spear down with enough force to send his weapon flying into the sodden ground. They stare at each other for a fleeting heartbeat before Castiel bolts for his sword, scrambling like an animal across the mud.

Just as Castiel wraps his hand around the hilt of his sword, a painful warmth blossoms in his shoulder, his skin prickling beneath his jacket. What the… the fuck? Castiel spins around to see Hela a few yards from him still, a knife missing from her bandolier. Only then does the pain and anguish fully register with Castiel, who shouts in agony, his shattered voice ringing in between the trees as he wrenches the knife from the back of his shoulder, hurling the stained blade back at it's owner.

Hela flinches as the knife connects, the blade tearing through one layer of fabric and exiting through another, the only contact made with her jacket. Castiel curses and pushes himself desperately to his feet as Hela strides forward, raising her spear to attack him, the barbed end like the stinger of a scorpion as it hangs suspended in deadly balance.

"Last words, you golden-haired fuck-up?" Hela snarls, her emerald eyes narrowed and her raven-dark hair hanging in sweaty strands around her face.

Eat shit, Mistlyre, he wants to say. But a blur of teal blue and bulging olive muscles on his left makes Castiel grin instead. "Enjoy hell for me," he says sarcastically, Hela's eyes transforming from confused to wide with shock as the words register with her. Alton's sword sinks into her skin, the blade pushing into Hela's abdomen. Alton's face is twisted in rage, beads of sweat rolling down his face, but any tension held between his brows disappears the second that Hela's spear enters his ribs, the metal creating a sickening crunch as it makes impact with bone.

Alton's sword slips out of Hela's abdomen as he falls to his knees, a mere two inches of his blade coated in red. She hasn't bled enough yet for it to be justice, Castiel thinks angrily, charging Hela once more as he watches one of his pawns fall.

It doesn't matter. He's already too late.

Hela Mistlyre (18), District 2 Tribute

8:30 AM

The steel makes a sharp ringing noise as it connects once again with her sparring partner's sword, the noises parallel to the fighting going on around the Cornucopia, though Hela's own mind wavers between a dreamlike fantasy of the past and her own lethal realities. Hela can smell the sweat dripping down Castiel's face, down Flarian's brow, each simultaneously beginning to tire with Hela's deadly assault.

All too easy, she reminds herself as she guides the spear furiously toward Castiel, the golden-haired boy barely able to duck out of the way as she strikes the sword from his grip. Just like training. The stakes are different, the strokes are the same. In the arena, Hela is well and truly out of her element, with no trainers singing their praise at stifled actions each morning, and no lunchtime meals locked alone in her chambers. It's nothing like I would have ever imagined, Hela thinks, battering any lingering fears away from herself. She fumbles for a second with a strap of the bandolier, her dexterous fingers selecting a perfectly balanced knife.

One second, the blade is between her fingers, and the next it is sailing at a target, another blue plastic dummy standing motionless on the far side of a training gymnasium. The blade is sinking into the back of Castiel's shoulder, a crimson stain blossoming from the wound. Hela grins, laughing high and haughty again. He deserves the mockery. What a fool, Hela thinks, grimacing in fury and disgust at how much she has grown to hate the boy in front of her. "Might as well have been doing something more productive with your sad little life…" Castiel begins, his words from last night's explosive argument hitting too close to home, like a wound stripping her flesh to the bone, a serrated knife twisting into her chest. Something more productive than wasting it training for an event I'm going to lose, Hela finishes, filling in the blanks

Like this asshole knows anything about my life. Anything about hardship. Hela flinches as his knife misses her body entirely, but returns her attention to leering at a captive prey, debating how humiliating it would be for Castiel to be caught under the weight of her net too, rendered helpless to whichever methods Hela chooses to utilize to send Castiel home in the wooden box he so thoroughly deserves.

And I want to be the one to put him there. She strides forward, a primal fury fueling her movements, and hoists the spear until it is level with his throat. "Last words, you golden-haired fuck-up?" Hela snarls, feeling a wild edge creep into her voice. What a mess we must look, she thinks, the thought of the fight being filmed almost making her laugh. Entertainment for the masses, somehow. She wonders briefly if her sister Lokir finds this entertaining, or if her drunken deadbeat of a father has even cared to turn on the television screen in his lavish home in the Victor's Village, a place Hela has yearned to see for years. Undeserving. Worthless.

I'll show him. Killing the self-proclaimed leader of the Careers is a good place to start.

"Enjoy hell for me," Castiel says sarcastically, catching her completely off guard. In a moment, she is wrenched once more from the top of the world and subjugated with the piercing sensation of a blade impaling her skin. Dirty motherfucker, Hela groans, swiveling her upper body to face her attacker. Alton. The target is the same; just another home for her spear, and this time, Hela Mistlyre makes her mark, the weapon sinking deep into his sternum. Bullseye.

There is a sickening crunch, and Castiel gasps, pushing himself off the sodden ground. The pain that coalesces like burning magma in her side is nothing compared to the triumph that floods her veins as the tip of her spear penetrates through Alton's ribs, the weapon sinking deep into his unprotected chest. Hela twists it out cruelly as Alton sinks to his knees, croaking, and doesn't flinch as a spray of warm blood douses her torn jacket. It takes just a single second before the tears come, cascading down Alton's cheeks, bitten-off screams dying in his throat as he collapses, blood pumping through his fingers as if the rivers inside him are running dry.

Hela licks her chapped lips and surveys her victory, time seeming to slow down for a millisecond as she revels in the death she has dealt, a crushing blow that smites her first enemy as if he were nothing more than the carcass of a cow, hung in the Academy's larder with its fate resting in the blades of a practicing cadet. Meat and flesh, Hela thinks darkly, brushing the fear out of the shaded corners of her mind. That's all Alton ever was. It isn't hard to depersonalize him in her mind once she's skewered him; just another boy lost to the fatal attractions of glory and fame. Meat and flesh. "And did Hela whittle down the competition at all?" Castiel's voice creeps into her ear, condescending and cruel. Why, yes, Castiel. I believe I've eliminated one of your knights, she muses sardonically. I do believe it's time for a checkmate.

There is a ear-splitting wail from behind Hela and Castiel, both teens turning to locate its source. Moses slams his fist into Asher's nose, the Wolfchild bleeding and battered from recent assault. Moses is gasping for air, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and distress. The act of killing feels wildly different, too, than Hela imagined; a foul sort of pleasure that tastes like acrid red wine upon her tongue. Moses is bleeding from thick red lines across his arm, Asher's claws having found some kind of purchase on his skin.

"Alton!" Moses shouts, the words ringing like the aftershot of a bullet across the clearing. "Alton, no!" Moses drops his battle-axe at the boy's side and clutches his soaked hands, lacing his dark fingers with Alton's crimson ones. Hela levels her spear with Moses' back, and almost sends it puncturing through his shoulder blades, a solitary thought keeping her arm held steady and motionless. This is love, Hela thinks, the emotion raw and sticking into the back of her throat. Not like what Asher and I feel… it's love, of some sort.

The one and only thing Hela has ever craved, deep down in the confined dungeons of her steel-gray soul. And the one thing I can't take away from Finch, she thinks sadly. There is a small ounce of allegiance left inside her, owed to her district partner and his endless insecurities and boundless strength. Hela holds all the power; to end his life or spare it; and in the end, it is the one emotion she isn't qualified to express that stays her hand.

Just this once. For him, she thinks pitifully, watching Moses' broad shoulder shake. Instead, she turns her attention to Castiel, the boy looking small and utterly shocked, his muscular shoulders curled slightly inward. "Remind you of Charms?" Hela asks, her words barbed and cruel. Castiel isn't deserving of the same grace. She had put the pieces together last night; his grudge against Seven and the word whispered in his sleep, spoken softly and often enough to be a name.

A dead name, but one that holds immeasurable weight in Castiel's head, apparently.

He snaps immediately, his eyes furious and filled with tears of rage. "How dare you speak his name, you bitch!" Castiel charges her yet again, his movements clumsy, and Hela tiredly unsheaths a knife from her bandolier as he strikes, sword aimed at her head. Instead, Hela clamps her hand around his wrist, jerking out of the way to dodge the blade. Her knife flashes up toward his outstretched arm, cutting a gouge in the palm of his hand.

Castiel howls, saliva flying everywhere as his face reddens. Calf. Shoulder. Palm. Enough calculating blows to leave Castiel with a permanent reminder of his failures; maybe an infection to compliment them if Hela is lucky. "Wolf Boy!" She shouts over Castiel as he struggles against her grip, sword slack in his injured hand. "We're leaving."

Moses looks up as she says this, his eyes puffy and wet. "Hela," Asher hisses, pointing his claws at Moses. "We can kill them right now and make light work of it," he says urgently, almost a plea to off his enemies. But Asher doesn't understand the rules as well as Hela herself does. Enough show for today. We can lay low and hopefully get a few sponsors before we encounter these two again. Even for her, there has been enough blood drawn for the masses.

Hunter and prey; a simple enough law of nature. She shakes her head quietly and turns her back on Moses' anguished face, on Alton's dying whispers and Castiel's bleeding body. "His cannon hasn't even fired yet!" Asher protests. "Aren't we supposed to be the best, Hela? Isn't that what you had planned?"

"It will," she replies coldly, her pace brisk as she heads for the trees. The cannon sounds on her heels, masking Asher's curses. He'll fall in line behind me, Hela decides.

After all, you are either with Hela Mistlyre, or you are against her.

All in due time, she thinks ruefully, allowing the gloomy forest to swallow her up. All in due time, those against her are going to die.

Moses Finch (18), District 2 Tribute

8:44 AM

The raw despair that fills his chest is unshakeable, even in the long seconds later when it feels like a tepid pond of sorrow has come to a rest in his lungs, only to shake and slosh at the mere thought of Alton's breath leaving his body. The wound is clearly fatal, blood pumping thick and red between Alton's fingers. Moses laces his fingers in between his partner's, ignoring the warm stickiness of his blood, and cries freely, the tears dripping down his face at how quickly the world has wrenched everything good away from him.

"A-Alton, I love you, okay?" Moses asks, his other hand cupping his boyfriend's face gently, Alton's eyes pained and teary. He is biting back another scream, instead coughing, sending a fresh cascade of crimson down the front of his chest. There's no going back.

You can't save him, Moses.

You have to let him go, just like Gideon.

Memories of his first fling fill his head briefly, followed by phantom pains across his body, knuckle-shaped bruises forming deep on his skin. Everything you are is wrong. Disgusting. Shameful.

Worth loving. Beautiful. Strong. Empathetic. Moses remembers Alton's strong arms wrapped around his torso, his lips drizzled in a honey sweetness, their first kiss shared on the training floor with tension in the pits of their stomachs. When Alton takes a leap of faith and kisses him, quick and electric, the second stronger and richer with the entrance of Moses daring tongue into Alton's mouth, the two locked in a finite cycle of reassuring pleasure, a beautiful sixty seconds that makes Moses' heart swell at the seams, ready to burst.

"You remember when you asked me to pick a weapon? To pick my poison?" Alton had asked him. "What if I told you the poison I want to pick… was you?"

The throbbing wound in his arm nor the armed and lethal enemies that surround the duo are going to be enough to stop Moses as he grabs a fistful of Alton's blood-soaked shirt and kisses him fiercely, ignoring the metallic taste of salt on his tongue. His mouth is feverish and warm, with Alton shifting gentle focus onto Moses' bottom lip before breaking away to gaze into his eyes. Alton's warm brown eyes are filled with a sparkling galaxy of tears, searching for some kind of reassurance from Moses' own.

"I love you too, Moses," Alton says softly, his voice catching in his throat. "More than you know. These last few days with you…" he trails off into a whisper, as if he might not have enough strength to finish. "They've been some of the greatest of my life."

There is too much left unspoken, but Moses nods, feeling his shoulders shake with silent sobs. "Moses, you've made me realize that I should have never spent so much time being ashamed of who I am," he says hoarsely, making Moses bite the inside of his lip to stop from crying uncontrollably. "When you get back home, promise me you'll finally feel the same way," he whispers, squeezing Moses' hand. The tears fall freely now as Moses leans in and kisses Alton one last time, breathing a silent 'I will' against his cheek.

Moses can feel Alton's lips becoming slack as the life leaves his body; just before the cannon sounds and its thunderous noise shatters Moses' heart into a thousand tiny smithereens, scattering like a handful of pebbles thrown off the side of a cliff. He's gone, Moses thinks solemnly, brushing tears from his eyes with the back of his thumb, trying to memorize each line of Alton's rugged features. You couldn't save him.

Let him go this time.

Tears blur his eyes, Moses' vision looking as if he has been plunged underwater, an icy shock running down the length of his spine. He's dead and there's nothing you can do anymore. The pain settles like a cinderblock into the bottom of his heart, the fleeting golden days snatched away from him. The world around him feels desolate and bleak, blurry movements barely registering with him. Words are lost in translation, a thick layer of silence taking their place instead. Moses braces himself for the impact of a spear or a knife, flattening his shoulders. The movement causes the tears to fall from his eyes, hot and unbidden, onto Alton's chest, and suddenly all Moses can think about is getting away from the pain that has begun to consume him.

He was your shot at love. The only love that has ensnared Moses in such a way that every partner since Gideon has been unable to; not the Israel twins, despite their proximity, nor Siren and her ebony tresses. When the love is gone… what does that make me? he wonders, bowing his head. Nothing.

The blade does not come; instead, Moses hears the wet sound of footsteps against marshy ground. They are slow and uneven, making Moses stand up, his hand wrapping around the hilt of his battle-axe. Though I doubt I could have the strength to swing it anymore, he thinks miserably, ears ringing with the cannon blast.

Instead, he is greeted by Castiel, limping over with a scowl on his face. "It's just you and me now, soldier," he says with a grimace, eyes alight with a spark of their old mirth as the joke falls flat between the two of them. "Things can only look up from here." Castiel looks over his shoulder, his yellow ochre windbreaker caked in blood. Castiel pats Moses on the back, the latter bristling at the seemingly patronizing gesture.

"Look," Castiel grunts as the harsh whirring of a hovercraft appears in the sky above them, blocking out whatever sunlight had started to filter between the trees. "The best thing you can do is fight for his memory," he advises as the two trudge away from Alton's battered corpse, covered in streaks of mud and blood, his eyes glassy and upturned toward the sky because Moses didn't have the heart to force Alton to see darkness as he slipped away into the void.

The two silently return to the Cornucopia, ducking inside the eerily quiet horn, and Moses starts rummaging through whatever supplies have been left behind as Castiel leans against the metal surface, looking unsteady on his feet. "Why don't you sit down, Castiel?" Moses says, unable to keep an edge of contempt from showing.

Castiel obeys his instructions, tilting his chin toward the ceiling, where a thin scratch from a sword forms the only marking in an otherwise flawless structure. "You know," he begins sullenly, "we're in the same exact boat, you and I." Moses pauses. a small medical kit clicked half-open in his palms as he listens to Castiel. "I lost my boyfriend two years ago," he admits, the secret finally coming to light. "He volunteered early and died just as brutally. I was crushed," Castiel explains, swallowing thickly as if it takes a great deal of effort to share. Moses crouches, having found a needle, and dabs a small amount of antiseptic ointment on his finger, smearing it across Castiel's thigh where he's rolled up his pant leg. The other boy seizes up, clenching his teeth, but says nothing, instead watching Moses wrap a bandage around his calf.

"It doesn't get easier," Castiel admits, and Moses looks up at their former leader, surprised to see how equally vulnerable and detached he looks. "If you truly loved Alton the way I think you did, it's never going to fully go away," Castiel admits as Moses applies a topical layer to his shoulder, his own injury from the Wolfchild's claws already starting to scab in some places.

"I barely knew him," Moses remarks offhandedly, his chest feeling empty and hollow. As if I'll never love so fully again. "Seven days isn't nearly enough to truly know anyone," he explains regretfully. "But maybe that's the most it was ever meant to be." Start as strangers and end with no physical reminder but the fresh scarring on my heart.

Yet somehow, through the pain and madness, Moses has found some kind of magic in this nightmare. Even if it only lasted for a moment.

"I know you're stronger than this, Moses," Castiel tells him. The first positive thing he's said to me since we launched, Moses thinks bitterly. It's hard not to blame each and every failure of the functional Career Pack on its leader, the manipulative man he is. "Fight with everything you have left; fight for Alton, for whoever is waiting for you back home. No one else deserves the Victor's crown more than you or I do," he mumbles pensively. "It has to be one of us."

Death has done us part, Moses thinks sourly, watching from inside the Cornucopia as the hovercraft spirits Alton's body away from them, leaving nothing but a dirty ache of longing in his chest.

But for once, Castiel is right.

Moses may have taken a momentary respite from the Hunger Games, but fate willing, he will come back harder and stronger.

For Alton… but more importantly, for me. Just this once.

EULOGIES:

15th: Alton Kersey (18), District 4 Male (Submitted by 20). Killed by Hela Mistlyre via a spear thrust through the ribcage/sternum. Alton is the first Career to die, though I initially had it being Siren before I re-navigated her arc. Alton was a really solid tribute, and I felt like he added a lot to the dynamic and flavor to the Pack because he had a softer side he showed with Siren and Moses, and also became defensive quick to stand up for himself against other, more antagonistic Careers. I think Alton had a lot of growth potential, and obviously I've been blessed with a fantastic Career Pack, but he did fall onto the less compelling side of my Career spectrum, so here he rests. I enjoyed getting to explore his romance with Moses and the fallout against every single other Career. Alton will be greatly missed - RIP.

ALLIANCES:

Hallelujah, It's… Men?: Castiel (D1M, 1), Moses (D2M, 0)

Parley in Pas de Deux: Crescentia (D1F, 1), Siren (D4F, 1)

Fight For Your Right (To Riot): Hela (D2F, 1), Asher (D11M, 1)

Angsty Teen Romance II: Sorrel (D5M, 1), Nyx (D5F, 0)

Shooketh: Tangaria (D11F, 0), Mariela (D12F, 0)

Flying Solo: Axel (D6M, 1)

From Ember to Flame: Halley (D8F, 1)

Ya Blew It, Bud!: Padds (D9M, 0)

The "Apex Predator": Ruben (D10M, 1)

Author's Note: Aaand there it is! We've officially fractured the Career Pack, and rather early enough as it is. Pretty short chapter because all of the POVs were centered around one event and I didn't want it to drag on pointlessly. I have begun the inclusion of a kill count embedded into the alliance list, and on one more note before I get to the CQ's, all sponsor items WILL be increased by five points once the next chapter is posted. If you want to take advantage of something low-cost, I suggest you do it now.

Chapter Questions:

1 - Are you surprised that Crescentia and Siren made it out unscathed? Did you expect Siren to stick with Moses and Alton instead?

2 - What are your thoughts on the position of the three Career alliances now? Do you think Castiel and Moses earned the Cornucopia or did Hela and Asher give it to them in a way?

3 - Did you expect a Career to die in the split? Did you think the first Career death was who it actually was or did you expect someone else?

Bonus - Go vote on the final 8 poll on my profile! :)

That's all from me for now, as usual. I hope this finds everyone well and if it didn't, I hope it took your mind off things even if only briefly! Much love and I hope everyone has a great day/night! :)