Chapter Nineteen.
Misery was like a dark balloon, lifting up, up, up inside of Manny.
When it touched his heart, he felt the ache deep in his bones, and as it popped, the embers of rage grew red-hot. Hellfire to scorch the wicked.
His hands had been wrapped tight in the crease of Aurelian's jumper since he'd fallen by his body. Aside from the pool of blood saturating through from his back, sticking to the carpet and its fibres, Aurelian's face looked peaceful. Even in death, his innocence was transcendent. Manny hadn't even known him that long but he'd felt a genuine spirit locked away behind grief and pain of an upbringing that didn't belong to someone of his heart.
Manny had known pain and let it fracture him. Aurelian had never given into it.
He was the strongest person he'd ever met.
When he lifted his teary eyes to stare around the room, he caught sight of Reyan sifting through a pile of supplies strewn over up-turned luggage carts and ripped open suitcases. The desk behind him had huge gash marks that opened the polished wood to reveal flecks of green and a pungent odour that permeated through the air.
It was a horrible place and Manny had chosen to be here. The hypocrisy wasn't something he could easily miss. He felt foolish and stupid and above all guilty that he hadn't been there to help Aurelian before he was literally stabbed in the back. If he'd just killed Callisto it would have been easier. If he'd just done a lot of things maybe it'd be different.
A whole chapter of what-ifs and he was still living midway through the pages.
"This might be useful!" Reyan's shout caught Manny by surprise and he winced, unhooking his fingers from Aurelian and wiping the blood on his trouser leg, the anger so forceful he felt his entire body vibrating. "What do you guys think?"
He is smiling. A putrid, lecherous smile on his smarmy, wicked face. He doesn't even care – Aurelian is dead, his ally, and he doesn't even care.
But what did Manny expect from a man who had perfected the art of wearing masks for deception? He should have known this was going to happen. Aurelian was just a chess-piece and it had been knocked a little bit earlier than expected. In Reyan's mind, a minor disturbance.
In Manny's, the masks were shaking. They were vibrating with his anger, and he felt his hands go for the knife drenched in Aurelian's blood, the thick crimson coating the handle. Manny gagged but just as he looked at Reyan, who now had his back to him from across the room, he pictured it and all the pieces came together.
Fuck wearing a mask. Try to find a mask that can protect you from a fucking knife you—
"Don't be stupid."
The knife was kicked from a direct boot to the handle and it scuttled along the ground. As quickly as the anger had boiled over the rim and erupted into determination to murder an ally, it subsided and the misery balloon drifted up and up once more. Manny looked blearily into the eyes of Phobos who was shaking his head. A blank slate of a face. Nothing.
Manny didn't know what was worse. The fact that Reyan was so clearly unbothered in a way that made him smile, or the fact that Phobos had never really cared at all in the first place. The emptiness in his eyes hurt Manny. It made Aurelian so insignificant. The life of a kind person nothing more than wind in the sky. Drifting into nothingness.
"I don't know what to do – I just – I –"
Manny's voice faded as Phobos shrugged his shoulders. "Go over and try and kill him. I won't stop you. It'll be fun to watch you two fight. It's inevitable anyway," Phobos said, so casually, so flippantly. "Or wait and be smart about it. I don't care about either of you but right now, you're useful, so I'm going to do my best by our alliance. Think about what's best for you right now. And what he would have wanted."
He.
"He has a name."
Phobos shrugged again. "I don't care. He's dead."
Before Manny could snap back, Phobos stalked away, over towards Reyan and his bundle of supplies like trophies around him. The other bodies had now been carried off, or to put it more accurately, the carpet had swallowed them. Panels or something were underneath and they had been ferried back to the Capitol and eventually District Two. Where a system that fed on the delusions of so many children had caused them their deaths.
And I'm one of those very same children. How proud of me you must be, Mother.
Aurelian's body was still here because Manny wouldn't let him go. He knew he had to. Not just for his own sake, but for Aurelian's friend at home, the one friend he'd told Manny about that actually cared about him. He'd said it so dismissively like he wasn't deserving of genuine companionship – as if the family that used him for nothing more than a sacrificial lamb were warranted in their abuse – but Manny had told him that was stupid.
He should be given a proper goodbye. From a friend who loved him. Let him rest in a peace he never had.
Manny stood up and walked away from his friend, hearing the whoosh of a metal panel and when he looked over his shoulder, Aurelian was gone. Nothing more than a puddle of his blood remained from where the body had been and Manny closed his eyes, forced the tears back, and in his head thought about what he wanted from the future this Arena had to offer him.
He could wallow in self-pity and the hypocrisy of him being here and end up dead.
Or, he could be the master of his own masks, listen to Phobos, and fight the sort of game that would be in memory of Aurelian, and carry Manny as far as he could possibly take himself. It was hard, the hardest thing he'd ever done his entire life, to walk over towards Reyan and talk and smile at him.
But if this was a role he had to play until the moment was right, then there was no one better than Manny to do so.
Until the moment is right.
For Aurelian, for himself, he knew what he had to do.
Reyan had his own deception, Manny had his.
Only time would tell who wore the better mask.
And that person would survive.
On their arrival to the Arena, descending down the glass tubes, the tributes had seen several tunnels that were encased in metal, and others in sheer glass looking out onto the deep blue of the water.
Viorica, Valdis and Kaia were side-by-side, taking small footsteps down an open tunnel, the view tremendous, schools of fish in a rainbow of colour swimming up and over them.
Viorica thought it was beautiful and if it had been anywhere else, she would have taken the time to bask in the moment. Valdis seemed entranced but that was just Valdis to a tee. Kaia, ever the daydreamer, seemed particularly focused on a blue tang hovering near to where the three of them were. She had a smile on her face and Viorica was glad that her allies had all made it out. They were still a strong trio of trained tributes focused on the Arena but with a relationship between them that would take them far.
Not all the way – the knowledge of only two Victors still hung like a heavy cloud over Viorica – but for now, they were a steady unit. Viorica was glad for that.
"Look."
Viorica followed Valdis' raised finger and through the glass she could see several extensions onto the tunnel where tinier domes were shrouded in metal, blocking off whatever they had inside. Her curiosity got the best of her, excitement mixed with fear and the palpable adrenaline still pumping through her in the wake of the bloodbath.
She'd wanted to be here her whole life. Ever since she was a girl, Viorica had idolised the Victors, bought the ticket willingly into a life that followed the pathway that each and every one of them had taken. She hadn't let it get the best of her positivity but it had crafted and cultivated the competitive edge she had.
Even now, she walked slightly in front of Valdis and Kaia, subtly leading them towards their new focus of the Arena. She wanted to see it first. She held her weapon out in front of her, nerves on edge but also an excitement constantly bubbling away in the pit of her stomach. She wouldn't let anyone lay a finger on Valdis, just like she'd protected her brother their entire life from schoolyard bullies, and the trained tribute in Viorica knew that a threat could be lying in wait imminently.
For all the frills of a pair of friends playing games in a pool, Viorica was not foolish. She knew how this worked.
She turned the corner and stopped, pushing the metal door open with the open-toes of her sandals. Fucking sandals. It creaked at a pace that seemed to take ten minutes, her allies peering over her shoulder, the three of them fixed on what they were about to see.
Further down the tunnel, it led to another large open expanse that was fully sealed, and earlier they'd heard footsteps. Viorica had almost launched herself at the glass out of a sheer drive to prove herself. She didn't want to kill but it was a necessary part of the Hunger Games.
Her path to becoming one of those Victors she cherished with stars in her eyes.
"It's empty," Kaia said curtly. "Do we go inside or-?"
"—yes, obviously," Viorica interrupted. "I don't know about you but there could be supplies or something. Or a secret to the Arena. Or…" Her mind went a million miles an hour as she thought up all possible scenarios that might be hiding further inside but when they eventually crept as a trio across the threshold, she was bitterly disappointed to find nothing but a bed, some desk furniture and a light flickering on and off.
"Oh…" Viorica exhaled, brow furrowed. "Do you reckon the other rooms are like this?"
Valdis turned around and Viorica immediately bolted to his side. She was scared for him for some reason. He wasn't a volunteer. He didn't seem as pleased with what Kaia had done than Viorica was when she'd hurriedly expressed her actions towards Vinicius Grecco. Viorica was pleased because of the Career-hat she had on, not pleased at the actual idea of the death. It put them in good light. If Kaia was making gains in this Arena, then for now it looked good on all of them.
But sooner or later, I need to outshine her. My time will come.
She opened the next door and though the room was exactly the same size, it mirrored where they had started the Games in all its horrific renovation. The bed was scorched with blood-tinged corners. The bulb had completely shattered leaving glass to crunch under their shoes. Kaia picked up a sock that had a splatter of something that Viorica disgustedly thought resembled guts. She focused on keeping her stomach calm. It would not be a good look to upchuck her breakfast from this morning.
Speaking of breakfast… "We should gather our supplies together and have lunch. Something small to keep our energy going."
"I'm not really hungry," Valdis said.
Kaia nodded her head. "I could do with a rest, though." Of course, you could, Kaia. If this were a game of who could sleep for the longest, you would win hands down. "There are plenty of rooms. It might give us time to gather ourselves. Talk about what our plan is moving forwards."
"Well we can't go backwards," Valdis quickly said.
Viorica looked at him. "Why not?"
"Because that's where we started. There will be tributes there. Whoever took the room will surely be claiming all those supplies left behind."
Oh yeah… Viorica thought about an impending fight with another tribute. So far, she'd gotten off rather luckily, only receiving a bump to the shoulder from a fleeing tribute. Kaia had actually murdered someone. Valdis had witnessed it. They were already in a darker light than Viorica and part of her was… jealous? And she hated it. It was not a look Viorica wanted; now or never.
"We'll have to fight eventually," Viorica stated calmly, a fact that hung in the air for a moment before she smiled, relaxing her shoulders and nodding her head. "C'mon. You can have the bed, Val', if you want?"
For a second, she almost laughed at the way Kaia's face dropped.
This was the Hunger Games. This was a place where she had to prove herself by killing actual teenagers with actual weapons and spill actual blood. This was no longer a pipe dream. Or a teenager's fantasy as she thought about those Victors, walking by the gilded gates of their village.
She was in it right here and right now. But that did not mean she couldn't be the Viorica she'd always tried to be. Marrying those two halves of herself into this one, perfectly crafted whole.
There were cracks, sure, but that made her human.
And as long as she felt like she was herself, she knew she had the strength to keep going.
For all of them.
What do I do now?
Do I keep moving, do I drift further from my body, or do I plummet into nothingness?
Damali felt the last of her tears drip down the bridge of her nose and patter against the tiled flooring. Her head rested against the glass of the tunnel, where for what felt a lifetime she hadn't moved a muscle. Only her tears and her ragged breathing. Only her tears and her eternal loneliness.
Only her tears and herself.
If she listened closely enough, Damali could hear the whistle of the arrow, plaguing her subconscious in a loop designed to torment her. She heard her name screamed through broken lips to protect her life. Gravity anchored her body to the ground. The upside-down world of fractured jewels and the slow-motion camera reel replaying footage of the arrow… the arrow… marked with blood yet to spill.
River.
Damali groaned and hugged her body with her arms. Somewhere else in the back of her mind, she could hear the traumatic squelch of Tavius' brains oozing out onto the ragged carpet. Damali wondered if he had family and friends. She suddenly realised how little she actually knew of their intimidating ally. He had been such an enigma behind painted smiles and Damali had grown to loathe him.
It had always been herself and River in these Games. In her trajectory of where she would go forwards to survive. She'd learnt to hate herself so much that it felt easier to survive simply for the sake of another. Now that she was alone… I don't know what to do.
Whispers.
Damali thought she was falling ever deeper into the well of her mind. The whispers like a ghostly breeze bringing forth voices that were created simply to hurt her further. But when she heard them get louder and louder, the tell-tale sound of footsteps to accompany them, Damali's head snapped up and she sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
In the tears sliding down the glass, she drew a picture in her mind of River's smiling face. And now she was gone forever.
"We can't go back yet."
"They'll expect it. He'll expect it."
"Poor Bex."
"Fuck that bitch."
She heard the name Bex. It produced a lightbulb moment in her mind where she pieced together a blonde face framed with icy hair that River had despised so much. Callisto Rius? And with her, always lingering with an evil smile, the leader of their pack.
Whatever happened to the wicked ol' witch?
Damali could not die. Not because she feared death, but because she had lost the ability to do things for herself any further. If she died, River had succumbed to darkness for no reason. If she died, her mother would win. And that would be a victory she would not allow.
"Svanna!"
The footsteps were louder. Rushed, focused, murderous. Damali yelped out as Svanna Hyland barrelled into her, on her coat-tails her allies floundering after the girl from Sector One. Damali had a backpack rattling around some food and odd bits and bobs but apart from that, only a knife that had failed to defend her friend.
She brought it up to meet Svanna's axe and the metal on metal clash made her wince. It ricocheted from glass ceiling to tiled floor and Svanna glared at Damali with determined, yet not unfriendly eyes.
"It's nothing personal."
Behind her, she caught sight of Callisto Rius, and the memories of River continued to surface, swimming around, refusing to drown themselves and leave her be. She needed River even in death. A constant companion to drive her forwards.
Svanna killed River. Svanna murdered her friend.
"This is."
Damali was not untrained. Sometimes she forgot about that herself, especially in a sea of such strong personalities and character. Maybe she'd never caught the attention of the great Svanna Hyland because when her hands gripped fistfuls of blonde hair, the girl's eyes widened and she cried in pain as Damali smashed her head sideways into the glass.
How reminiscent of Tavius… poor, cruel, damaging Tavius…
Svanna yelped with pain and stumbled backwards, red budding between closed fingers as she brought a hand to the side of her head. Damali saw her allies get even closer and she legged it, hearing their pursuit like a driving force behind her, telling her to go, go, GO, GO and that voice became River's and Damali did not stop running until the tunnel opened into a large, well-lit room, filled with greenery and nature from the threshold to wherever it ended.
She turned around on the balls of her feet and watched the alliance race towards her.
"Fuck you, Svanna."
Damali was surprised at the venom in her voice as her hand slammed on a button embedded into the wall. Metal doors closed the tunnel off from whatever room she had entered and the alliance disappeared into nothingness.
She was alone, this time truly.
When she turned around she realised that the idea of loneliness in the Arena was a lie. Not only were there cameras broadcasting her to every inch of this detestable country, CCTV devices were fixed into the rafters, almost like black, beetle eyes blinking at her.
As Damali slumped down, another tear rolling down her nose, a second light-bulb flickered into mind.
The footage must be fed somewhere. The Arena has eyes, and there's a place where I can watch it all. Maybe I don't have to be alone after all.
Maybe she'd have every tribute with her, miniature versions on screens, and she would be in control.
For River.
She would not give up.
Glass rained down upon the bar.
All Tayte could do was watch as a stool went smashing into already broken bottles. In all the carnage and uproar around him, he barely realised the claw marks ripping chunks of wallpaper from the restaurant walls, mouldy flood contaminated with green left uneaten on plates atop tables and chairs.
"FUCKING BASTARDS. WHY DID THEY-?!"
Another stool and Tayte gritted his teeth together, wincing as it collided with the tank and already dead fish cascaded down in a river of glass to the carpet. He watched a tiny red one and Tayte's eyebrows creased in sadness. It was the same colour as the blood Kasiani had been left in. The same red that had spurted from the back of Brodus' neck.
In the space of five seconds, their alliance had been cut in half.
Tayte could barely force a word from his mouth. Ryland had plenty and they were all profanities. If it had been in the Capitol, or if a stool had been directed at a Peacekeeper's head, he might have had something to say. But he felt so fatigued in such a short space of time. As if someone had cut a string from his mind and he'd lost the ability to…
To what…?
Everything became silent and he realised he was looking at Ryland through a watery haze. His hands touched his cheeks. Oh… They pulled away wet and he realised he was crying. In that moment, he became aware of where he was, he became aware of the invisible eyes staring him down, laughing and pointing fingers at the Career who was shedding a tear in a place that he had volunteered to be in.
He was not the type of toxic male that felt crying was for the weak. But watching Ryland's shoulders move quickly up and down, the red in her face, the anger in her fists, he stood up and felt a flower of embarrassment spread its roots round his stomach and he felt sick.
I can't cry. I can't. I won't.
"Finished?" he asked.
If it sounded rude, Ryland didn't show it. In the space of a single second, the hostility and rage simmered out of her and she collapsed to the ground, a lone fist slamming feebly into the carpet as she gazed up at Tayte.
His heart snapped. He did not know Ryland that well. Yet, he had seen her with Kasiani, eating breakfast and laughing. He had seen the silent presence that was Brodus do something inside Ryland's head. He had tried to be their faithful, kind leader and Ryland had been out there, making connections where maybe she shouldn't have been, allowing people inside her feisty walls.
And it had left her on the carpet, staring up at Tayte, waiting for something, needing something.
"I don't know what to do…" Ryland said, her voice wavering, and she shook her head, a bitter laugh breaking from her cracked throat. "How fucking stupid. I'm wearing a pink fucking dress in this shitty bar where the food looks whack and I'm crying about… about somewhere I chose to be. I'm stupid."
"You're not."
He knelt down in front of her. Tayte had always led with kindness because it was a possibility even in the world he'd chosen to be a part of. And in that kindness, he'd found his alliance. He'd found Kasiani with her unhindered laughter, Brodus with his sullen yet polite maturity, and this spitfire in front of him.
It was not over for them. And this Games was different. It meant that… that we can both do this…
The Ryland from yesterday might have bit his fingers off. Tayte even felt a glimmer of fear stab at his heart as he reached a hand out. Instead, Ryland nodded her head, clenching her eyes shut tight for just a second, and opening them, grabbing onto his hand and the pair of them standing up.
Their eyes in unison gazed around the area they were inhabiting and the two of them finally pieced it together. In the middle of the far side, the opening of the tunnel that they'd ran down, a toxic silence between them, heavy and thick with what they were leaving behind. Some of the bar and restaurant had been devastated by whatever had preceded their arrival, the blood now sticking out like a sore thumb, bearing down on Tayte as he did his best to take deep breaths, focusing himself, aware of the cameras and aware of who he was and what he intended to do here.
He had to find his strength and use the memory of his friends to push himself. He could not allow himself to flounder and die like the fish in a puddle of putrid water at his feet. In memory of Kasiani and Brodus.
"What now?" Ryland asked.
Her voice was quieter but when he looked at her, Tayte was relieved to see a smile on her face; a smile closer to the girl he'd met in the Capitol. He looked around once more and felt the weight of the backpack on his shoulders, the anchor of the weapon in his hand that was trying to force him to the ground.
"I'm exhausted."
Ryland nodded, humming in mutual agreement. "Set up camp here?"
"Let's maybe move to the side a bit. Or behind the bar. We could—"
"Welcome!"
They were trained Careers and at the end of the day, in an Arena designed to murder them, an unexpected friendly voice was the same thing as Reyan Nalara or Phobos Arroyo trying to spear them in the gut. Ryland swivelled on the balls of her feet and a knife arced through the air, splitting a glass bottle that shattered in rivulets of wine besides a…
What the fuck is that?
Tayte looked at Ryland and she looked at Tayte.
"What the fuck is that?"
Ryland vocalised Tayte's thoughts and the two of them gawped at a metallic man, a bloody handprint on the side of his head, wiping a broken glass in his hands with a dirty towel. If it had noticed how chaotic its environment was, it didn't seem to mind. An apron was tied round its waist and it stared at the two of them, its face devoid of any human features, a metal, emotionless slab that stood rigid except for the circular motion of its hand.
"Welcome."
Lights blinked on the side of its face and Ryland laughed. Not just a laugh but a full-on belly laugh.
"I think it's a fucking bartender. Or a waiter."
The pair of them walked up towards it. Tayte kept his hand by the knife at his belt just in case. He couldn't help but find it even more hilarious at the dichotomy between the Ryland he knew, and the Ryland that waltzed towards the bar in a pretty pink dress.
There was nothing to laugh about where they were and what had happened, and yet it didn't stop them. Because if they didn't laugh, they'd cry.
Both stood in front of the bar and it repeated its friendly welcome, staring at them expectedly. Once again, the two exchanged a look, and Tayte raised an eyebrow, unsure. Now is not the time to… to do this… and the bloody handprint on its shiny head… what did that… what…?
"I'll have a vodka."
"Would you like a mixer with that?"
"Uh," Ryland paused. "More vodka."
The robot bartender-waiter-whatever-the-fuck-it-was responded to Ryland's request with verve, spiralling around and grabbing a bottle that wasn't broken, a glass that wasn't shattered, and Ryland stared at it with wonder in her eyes.
"I need a drink," she said in response to Tayte's look, shrugging her shoulders. "Only one."
"Only one," he repeated.
His eyes fell on the tunnel across from the bar and knew anything or anyone could come running through the darkness at any moment.
Yet, he couldn't bring himself to say something to a hurting Ryland. Not now, not yet.
If he had to protect the pair of them, he would play that role. For the friends that had died today, leaving with them their hopes and dreams of surviving the Hunger Games.
Kasiani and her restaurant. Brodus and his desire to be something more.
Tayte nodded to himself, staring through the tunnel, listening to Ryland gulp her vodka down in one clean hit.
I will not let you down, he thought. I promise.
Svanna hissed in pain and Syrella slapped the top of her head irritably.
"Stop moving," she said as the needle went through her skin, pulling the thread taut, beads of blood welling between the wound. "If you move, I'll let you bleed out."
"That's not going to happen from a single cut."
"You'll be surprised."
Svanna went quiet and Syrella resumed her work, enjoying the peace of the clinical room they were in. Branching from the tunnel they'd travelled down after previously escaping the initial bloodbath area, Syrella had been the first to open the doors onto an expansive medical bay, gurneys lining the walls with all sorts of equipment that Syrella had studied over the years.
If she pictured the faces of several girls who looked down on her for studying hard, keeping her nose in the books, besmirching the great Tyriage name, she wondered what they'd think of her now. At least this felt better than floundering throughout the carnage, trying to help Callisto and being battered and bruised by Manfred Vargas, left to feel utterly hopeless. A shell of a Career.
Svanna winced again and Syrella sharply slapped her once more.
"You're an idiot for chasing Damali anyway."
"What?"
Svanna's voice was laced with both pain at what had happened to her, fury at herself no doubt, and hostility to the notion that she had made a foolish move. One thing Syrella had learnt from her time with the dominant flame that was Svanna Hyland was that she'd spent so long being told who to be, in her rebellion she refused to ever hear that her actions or words were wrong.
It was a stubbornness Syrella was trying to unshackle herself.
"You heard me," Syrella said.
"It's the Hunger Games and she was alone. I thought it was good idea."
"We were several feet behind you before we'd even realised what you were doing. And we're all trained here. Don't be stupid."
Svanna ground her teeth together. Syrella could feel it as she cut the string and grabbed hold of Svanna's face, turning it to examine her handiwork. Perfect, of course.
"I am not stupid."
"Yes you are," Syrella said, matter-of-factly. "You ran towards a tribute by yourself. You could have died."
Svanna opened her mouth to retort but Syrella was not in the mood for it. They'd lost Bex and she would happily be the first to admit the loss wasn't a transcending sort of sadness sweltering above them. They barely felt it. If there was something to come from losing Bex, it was the silence and Syrella was happy to accept the reward.
It felt callous but Bex was a huge threat anyway. And if Syrella thought about it properly, she was jealous of Bex's strength. She was glad she was gone.
"They're doing it again."
Syrella was pulled from her musings at the sound of Svanna's voice. When they met eyes, she nodded in the direction of the far-right corner, where Palatine and Callisto were walking side-by-side, sifting through cupboards and metallic trays and examining various vials and liquids in syringes. Or, to be exact, Palatine is doing all the examining. Callisto is doing what she does best and looking pretty and empty headed.
Svanna had a smirk on her face when she realised Syrella had clenched her fists round the bedsheet atop the gurney Svanna had initially refused to lay on. Syrella felt embarrassment like fire in her cheeks and immediately let go.
"Bothers you, doesn't it?"
"I don't know what you mean," Syrella stammered, knowing full well she was so obvious in her emotions and thoughts, a transparent book with see-through covers. "Callisto isn't annoying me right this very second and for that I'm grateful. You should be too."
"Oh unclench, Syrella. I'm not coming for you. I just think it's cute you care about him so much."
"I – I – no I don't."
But you do, of course you do. In the wake of Svanna's smile and shrug of her shoulders, Syrella continued to stare at Palatine and Callisto, whispering to each other, words that were muffled by distance. Syrella wished she could be a fly on the wall to their conversation. Palatine was the smartest person she'd ever had the pleasure to meet and Callisto was… the total opposite. Somehow, they'd been drawn together and the one person Syrella felt understood her more than anything, her unique position of being a Tyriage and a girl that felt her securities and insecurities fighting each other every single second of every single day, was clinging to a girl that had dust for brains.
What are they thinking, what is he thinking, can Callisto even think?
Svanna chuckled. "Isn't it obvious."
The one thing Syrella liked about Svanna more than anything was her honest nature. She didn't bullshit. It was a double-edged sword but a sword Syrella was glad to have in their arsenal.
When Syrella shook her head, Svanna leaned in closer to Syrella and the corners of her lips twitched downwards into a frown. As if the words dancing on the tip of her tongue were painful.
Painful for who, Syrella wasn't sure.
"This whole two victors shebang. Callisto has latched onto someone vulnerable enough to allow her in, with the smarts to back it up, and Palatine has realised the sheep behind the delusions that Callisto is," Svanna said, calmly. "We're too strong-headed for the game Palatine wants to play. You said it yourself, he's clever. And he knows strategy. It's all you two were talking about back in the Capitol."
Syrella opened her mouth but closed it like a stupid, ginger fish. Svanna was right and it hurt Syrella to realise it. If they were in fact conspiring against the other half of their alliance, the stronger half of their alliance, then she knew Palatine had the tactics behind those nervous eyes to piece together a way of overcoming them.
Or am I being paranoid? Is Svanna the enemy here, whispering venomous words into my ear?
Syrella had no idea what to believe.
But as she glanced over at Palatine and Callisto, the latter laughing at something her small, nerdy companion had just uttered, all Syrella could see was the boy in the training hall, clutching a book hungrily, devouring the words with his eyes.
An unconventional guide on how to win the Hunger Games. The dos and don'ts of a Quarter Quell.
Fuck.
"I'm here for you, Syrella," Svanna said, before swinging her arms and moving away from the frazzled girl in question. "At the end of the day, two of us can't win. Think about it."
Svanna was not a shit-stirrer. Quite the opposite really. The one girl she would have expected it from had died in the bloodbath. In the relative peace and quiet that had followed her death, something else had been planted and its roots were wrapping round Syrella's inner strength.
Only two Victors.
Does Palatine want it to be me and him? Or is his game leading towards him and Callisto?
Syrella had no idea what to think.
And thinking was her forte.
"They keep staring at us."
This looks medicinal – painkillers maybe? Or perhaps it's a trick set by the Gamemakers. A neurotoxin? A poison? Could I-?
"Huh?" Palatine's mind was so entranced by the vast array of jars, vials and syringes around him that he barely heard what Callisto had just said. And when he did, he gazed upwards and the same chill ran down his spine as it had done the first time Syrella had looked at Palatine with a tinge of mistrust. Of hurt. Of… what have I done?
Callisto had done nothing in the bloodbath. Nothing to back up the drawn-out proclamations of strength, or the desire to kill her way to the top, or the denouncement of her fellow competitors throughout the Capitol. She had frozen like a deer in headlights and Palatine had killed Aurelian Eldridge.
It hung like a heavy shroud over his heart but he knew, from all his books, from all the recaps of Games, from just growing up a different sort of person in Two yet still part of the same canvas, what he had to do if he wanted to live.
Aurelian Eldridge was but a name now attached to a corpse. He could grieve later.
But Callisto… she hadn't left Palatine's side and every-time he looked up at Syrella, he wondered what she was thinking at the new bond the two of them shared.
A million and one strategies were going through his head. Blurry pages from text books and misty words from instructors. What game do I want to play? What chess piece do I want to use?
It was either Syrella or Callisto. It could not be both.
And Svanna was the enigma of the group. She was not one to be overlooked. An unknown entity towards his path to surviving when the odds had been stacked against him right from the word go.
"It's fine," Palatine said, turning back around, ignoring the burn on the back of his neck directed from the other half of their alliance. "We're all just tired."
Two Victors.
Palatine could feel the confliction like knives to his gut.
He had no idea what to do.
Decrepit and unforgiving, the tunnel they'd escaped down had opened onto a wall-to-ceiling aquarium, grated walkways leading off stairways to the second level and a basement area entrenched deep within the well of the central floor.
Some of the glass tanks were shattered, puddles built atop the metal. Others were intact with dead fish bobbing atop the putrid green, uncleaned water. And some were still together, luscious, vibrant fish darting this way and that in water that appeared as if it had only just been attended to.
Sivan furrowed her brow and sat on the tourist bench, crossing one leg over the other.
As soon as she leant back against the wall, a loud clang echoed through the room and she jumped up, startled, heart racing as her hand instinctively went to the knife in a sheath clipped to her waist.
"It's just Ozias," Briel said calmly, sitting down next to her. "He'll calm down soon."
Juliet stood by her shoulder and Sivan observed without meaning to the blood on both their hands, dried and caked into the skin, flaky where they'd tried washing it earlier.
The first day was almost over and Sivan had spent it completely shaken. She didn't like the emotions that betrayed her weakness to the outside world. If she wanted to own her fear, it was a private matter. It wasn't for the world to see her in the shadow of two tributes like Juliet and Briel so stoic in the wake of their actions, so unbothered by Vinicius' death, so… so devoid of anything but the relationship between them.
It unnerved Sivan. She knew eventually where their loyalty would lead.
Another sound ricocheted as something was thrown. Sivan couldn't help but wince through gritted teeth, jaw clenched in frustration and fear. The pit in her stomach felt humongous and ever-growing. Eternal in its desire to consume her.
"Will he calm down?" Juliet asked, looking at Sivan.
As if I was ever the Ozias whisperer. I barely know him.
Sivan shrugged. "Vinicius is dead. It sucks."
"I didn't know he cared so much about him," Briel replied.
Sivan opened her mouth to almost chastise her for being so callous, but something caused Sivan to hold her tongue. As quickly as Vinicius had been murdered by Kaia, Ozias had ran to protect Sivan from anything that may have been heading towards her. For that, she owed him a debt. From those actions of loyalty, surely Ozias was someone she should trust, someone she could latch onto.
But something about the way Vinicius spoke to her on the couch back in the Capitol after her meeting with Jasper. Something about the way Ozias almost allowed him to speak. As if permission was needed. It led her a down a different hypothetical route.
She did not know Ozias but there had always been whispers of the name Evermoor drifting through the District. Even in the far reaches of Sector Twelve, those whispers had travelled in the wind. She knew Juliet had a shady past. She knew Briel was a fireball waiting to blow up.
Ozias was something Sivan couldn't put her finger on.
Another thing to add fuel to the fire of her fear.
"I don't know if he cared so much about the person Vinicius as he did the idea of Vinicius," Sivan said. Yes, the idea of Vinicius being a reaped tribute. The only untrained person in these Games. Because yes, I was reaped, but I come from an Academy, I have a sister who has been here before despite her early death. Vinicius was the most innocent of us all. And to Ozias, that was intoxicating. "When he realises that idea has gone, he'll find a new one. Or…"
"Or?" Juliet arched an eyebrow.
"Or we'll have to wait and see what happens."
She caught sight of their lanky leader moving slowly between glass tanks. Juliet and Briel fell into a conversation that Sivan already knew she was excluded from without even asking. Their relationship scared her because not only were they so physically strong, Ozias right from the off had labelled them the muscle. They were in a different sub-category to what his overall plan was for his journey in these Games.
Fodder, eventually. But useful fodder. And in their eyes, being the strongest of the group, it would one day blow up right in Ozias' face. Sivan, in that moment, knew she had to be the new idea Ozias latched onto. If she played it right, the idea that might bring both sides together enough so the friction didn't overwhelm them for a long while.
I can do that. For Vinicius.
She stood up and walked towards Ozias, hesitant in case of his reaction, but when he caught sight of her, she saw the smile on his face and took it as an invitation to bridge the gap fully.
"Hey," he said.
He sounds so… off. As if the soul has been ripped from his body.
"Are you alright?"
He was quick to answer. Almost too quick. "I'm fine. Honestly. Vinicius didn't deserve what happened to him. It's just sad, is all."
"It's been a horrible day for all of us."
Ozias laughed then. And it wasn't a kind laugh. "Those two seem awfully content about it."
"It's the Games and they got two kills between them. I don't think they ever cared about Vinicius. They're fulfilling the role you gave them."
The cruel smile fell from his lips and he nodded. In a quick second, his face contorted with pain as an idea raced through his mind, an idea Sivan could literally see behind his eyes, but it was gone quickly in a composed sort of look that took over.
It was a look that resembled more of the Ozias from the Capitol than she'd witnessed so far in the Arena. He was their leader and Sivan needed him put-together and intact. If it were a normal Games with one Victor, she would have chosen Juliet and Briel for their strength and used it to topple over the others.
But in these Games, Briel and Juliet were already decided in who was going to win this. So, she needed Ozias. Not because she liked him, but because he was useful in his own way. Sivan was not the manipulative kind who played the games of the bitchy mean girls vying for attention, but she was determined to be more than what her sister had made her entire family out to be.
If she was going to die, it was going to be on her own terms, fighting to the very end.
"I'm here to help us all," Sivan said, placing a kind and comforting hand on Ozias' shoulder. "That's my role. You told me you were here to help me, and we need that Ozias to have his head focused. Our leader."
He had an ego and she was feeding it. Let him be fed, for now. Let him have his fill.
Ozias looked at her with a smile just as the Capitol anthem jarred every single sound coming from the living animals within the tanks. In a game full of strong players, Sivan had no idea whose face she would have preferred to see.
When she saw Bex's, she was reminded of the girls back home she couldn't help but despise. The girls she'd sometimes, inadvertently, pictured horrible fates down a path of their own creation. She was strong and that was all that mattered.
Good riddance.
Ozias barely blinked at Kasiani's face. Aurelian. Poor Vinicius. Tavius. River.
Brodus.
Sivan couldn't help the pained gasp that broke from her lips. When Briel had told her earlier that she'd killed Brodus, for a moment she'd wanted to hurt her. To run away. Because the quiet yet polite and kind person who was the closest to her part of Two back home had been killed by her ally.
But then she remembered where she was and that wasn't possible. If she gave into her emotions too much, she would suffer for them. She was doing her best to hold back just a little.
Enough to survive.
The Capitol anthem finished. The faces of the dead faded from the ceiling and they were left in a dark, miserable silence. Sivan turned to Ozias, opened her mouth to speak, but something seemed to slow down time in the widening of his eyes, the horrific look that swept across his face as it drained of colour.
A huge metal clang burst through her ear-drums and Sivan heard a name, clear-as-day, ripping through the aquarium at the top of Juliet's lungs.
Briel.
Sivan didn't want to look but knew she would have to.
Ozias darted past her, knocking Sivan sideways, and she quickly pelted after him. Juliet had his sword out but Briel was nowhere to be seen. He raised a shaky finger as the lights flickered hauntingly above them, stains of blood and a handprint leading towards an open hatch in the ground, and a scream tore through the shadows of wherever it led to.
But no cannon. Only fear within a scream coming from a girl who felt her emotions more than I do.
"What happened?" Sivan said, barely able to get the words out.
"Something took her," Juliet said, in a manner that Sivan knew wasn't like him, an emotion that he'd probably have rather bottled up. "Something took Briel."
When Sivan looked at Ozias, gone was the boy quaking in anger, gone was their fractured ally who looked as if he was unable to put the pieces back together.
He was now their leader.
He was Ozias Evermoor.
"We'll get her," he said. "If there's no cannon, Briel is still alive. We'll get her back."
Into the darkness of wherever the bloody handprint leads.
Not foreboding at all.
"Fuck," Sivan whispered, fear wracking her body, shivers gripping her spine. "Fuck."
Fuck indeed.
Pretty standard post-bloodbath chapter.
No deaths, setting up some things, making sure everyone is shown to see how they're getting on. As you can see, I'm still using third person but I'm not doing omniscient like I did with my last SYOT. I thought I'd tried normal POVs so we can still get the perspective of these wonderful tributes. I enjoyed writing this a lot!
Cheers for all the support guys. See you with the next chapter :)