day two, part one: tear

I'll tear you apart, make beautiful things…
from pieces of you (I'll make everything new.)

He's sleeping when he hears the scream.

Celesto's head knocks against the wall as he opens his eyes, hyperventilating before he's even managed to register the source of the sound (not in here, he's alone, knows he is…)

But it's too close - always too close, and with the door gone it makes him nervous, antsy, terror-stricken. His brow's marred by sweat, goosebumps up and down his arms as he shudders from the cold in his chest, spreading through the vicinity of his ribcage and out into his limbs. His fingers clutch at the blanket, back exposed but mind too panicked to even think about moving. He's frozen. Still. Trapped.

"- so sick of these bloody idiots trying to outsource private funding! I've put years into building connections in this circle, and now Dale fucking Carrick's trying to rip that network of contacts from my grasp!"

"Jadier, you know that Carrick doesn't have the rapport to make that happen; his plan is -"

"Trash! It's trash, Amalie, just like that rotten bastard and his nouveau-riche status. Should've stayed in Seven, the ruddy philistine -"

There's a crash, followed by a roar. A hand, pounding against the wall, over and over again, so near to Celesto's head that he almost flinches; even the barrier of the wall between his room and his parents can scarcely contain his father's temper. The force of it is frightening… always has been, always is.

(He never realized it wasn't normal - the screaming and hitting and constant venom-spewing, directing caustic insults at one's own peers, at their spouse, at their children - until he'd gotten a bit older. Hadn't seen it as a problem, until he'd broken free of his sheltered existence and started trying to connect, befriend peers, talk to them, entertain them. It was a surprise, at first, how friendly most of Ten's "riff-raff" really was… how warm they could be in conversation, how generous their thoughts and actions seemed. And the worst part is that Celesto thinks his father knew it, too; knew that his wealth was the only thing keeping his reputation afloat, because without it he was nothing more than a temperamental egomaniac with no children eager to uphold his legacy.)

He gathers his blanket closer to his body, shrinking in on himself atop the bed, almost curling into a fetal position with how intent he is on keeping himself safe, staying invisible, staying protected, no more, please stop talking, stop shouting, stop the banging and the noise and the pitch and the fervor, no, no no no, just go away, go away go away go away!

"Hey, wake up. Celesto… Celesto, come on. Wake-"

A hand touches his shoulder. Celesto's eyes fly open and he jerks back in the chair he's been sitting in, back pressed tight against too-warm leather, but his hands are clammy, his mouth's dry, and his mind's swimming. He glances to and fro, anxiety peaking when he makes out the figure standing at his side, taller, darker hair, darker skin, unfamiliar, shouldn't be here, this isn't -

Oh.

Celesto takes a deep breath, licking his lips as he tries to find the mind to speak. It's Kahlan. Just Kahlan. His ally. (His friend.) Not in Ten. In the Games. Alright. I'm alright.

"Sorry," he apologizes, his voice meek. "You, um, surprised me… hopefully I didn't…" Hurt you, he thinks, but cannot say. His mouth curves upward into a smile, and the concern in Kahlan's scrunched-up brow seems to diminish, though it doesn't disappear.

"It's alright," the Eight boy murmurs. "No harm done. Here, at least. You were…"

Kahlan sits back down in his own chair, humming. Celesto blinks, waiting patiently for him to finish his sentence.

"You looked like you were having a bad dream."

It takes a moment before Celesto can bring himself to nod. "Yeah… I was. Thanks for waking me."

He eases himself out of the chair and onto his own feet, blinking when he notices something akin to sunlight streaming through the gap in the blinds over the office window. Nothing on the other side, so far as he knows, but he's pretty sure it was dark earlier. They must be trying to simulate daylight. Remind us of the time that's passing.

"Are you okay?" Kahlan asks. Celesto startles, turning around, resting one hand on the desk as he faces his companion.

Should I be honest?

No. Lying's easier, it's expected, it's -

Not necessary anymore. Not really. Is it?

Celesto parts his lips, considering his answer. He smiles again, halfheartedly, but less forced than it was previously.

"I don't know." He pauses, then decides to continue, throwing caution to the wind. "I was… thinking about my father. A memory. It wasn't really that pleasant…"

Kahlan nods in understanding.

"I'm sorry you've had to deal with that."

"Wasn't your fault," Celesto shrugs. Kahlan sighs, bending forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"Yeah, I know. But I can be sorry for the circumstances - empathize with them. It isn't healthy to just dismiss your feelings, especially if you're doing it out of fear and trauma rather than genuine lack of concern."

Kahlan raises his head, shooting Celesto a knowing look. He flushes, turning his own face to the side, messy hair obscuring his expression from Kahlan's view.

If there's one thing that Celesto has always hated, it's being scrutinized. Makes him feel small.

(There's something so raw about being cornered; the way it makes you feel powerless, the fear that it can evoke over time, any actions or emotions amplified tenfold by the utter lack of room for escape. Nobody likes to be boxed in - nobody likes to be berated, castigated, chewed out for nothing more than existing. It's not simply demeaning or painful, it's traumatic.)

(... but Kahlan's got a point. And he isn't being scrutinized, not really. Not critically, at any rate. He's being seen.)

(That's almost worse.)

Celesto sighs. "Yeah… yeah, you're right. I know, Kahlan. Just…"

His eyes drift toward the door, then the bookshelves lining the wall nearest to him. The decorations… plaques, a flag, needless details meant to evoke some sort of image, uphold the theme of the arena. He wonders if it's wrong, that he doesn't feel out of place here; so much of this stuff, the ostentatious furniture, the political connotations, even the fighting and shouting and bloodshed are things he's accustomed to. Not in the same way, not to the same degree, but the atmosphere is still maddeningly familiar.

Celesto frowns, crossing his arms.

"Sometimes I just think it would be easier not to feel things… and now that we're in here…" He shakes his head again, posture slumping. "How are you supposed to deal with something like this? Mentally, I mean - the knowing you'll die, or knowing your allies will, like… I've tried to accept it. Tried to compartmentalize it, really, since that's what I normally do. But I don't know if I can, Kahlan. I'm scared."

He shuts his eyes, crossed arms acting as a defensive barrier between his body and the arena around him. Feeling is one thing… emoting's another. It leaves him so vulnerable.

Maybe Maddy was right about me being a liability. About my sentiment being a weakness. I'm not cut out for this. Neither of us are.

Ardelis is pissed.

Maybe she shouldn't be. Maybe the anger that's been practically consuming her for the last ten hours (or however long it's been) is superficial, pointless, unjustified. Ardelis can recognize that she's being a little dramatic, can appreciate that her rage is probably more intense than the situation calls for. But knowing what others think doesn't change how she feels. So yeah. She's pissed, and she can't even do anything about it.

It's not because of Angelo. Or, it is, but less because of his injury and more because of his personality. More because Ambrosia and the Fours have been fawning over him all night and getting themselves worked up with their concern and Ardelis can't fathom why. Why is he the priority, when he's literally fucking deadweight? Why are they fussing over him instead of ditching his injured ass and moving on? He ain't a Career if he's passed out. He's a weak link, and we don't need him. We're better without him! We're stronger without him!

But almost as soon as Ardelis' thoughts begin to spiral into a tangent, she forces down the words she wants to say, tries to reel in her bitterness and resentment, because if anyone's going to speak up about the situation it should be Sylvain. Or Aitana and Lazaro, though that's definitely not going to happen for awhile. Regardless - it can't be her. It shouldn't be her, because she's not even a Career really, not like the rest of her allies are, and she's got no fuckin' clue why she's trying to act like one.

(Nah, I know why. Angelo's a threat to me, and I want him gone. I want him gone, because I want to live. And that's a wrap; get rid of him, my odds get significantly better! But they might actually feel the loss. Ugh. This sucks.)

Ardelis doesn't hate the guy (although she's pretty glad to see the Robot Twins getting humbled so early on, because honestly, fuck them) but she certainly doesn't like him, and she doesn't want him to recover. She wants him… out. (Not dead, because she can't think about that, doesn't want to think about that, 'cause she doesn't like that word or the implications attached to it. Just gone. He can be gone, and that's how she'll think of it, not killing him but ousting him as he competition. Easier for this to all be a game.)

If Angelo's gone, she's safer. It's a selfish reason to consider… something like what she's considering, but Ardelis has always been pretty selfish. There's no reason for her not to keep up that track record in the arena.

"He's becoming a liability," Sylvain mutters, echoing her thoughts. Ardelis blinks, shifting her position to spare a glance to her District partner, who's currently kneeling on the ground next to her bench, tucking the remains of a half-finished cracker into one of the open satchels near her feet.

"At least he's awake now," she grumbles, but can't hold back a huff as her eyes fall on Angelo's back, watching as he tries to steady himself on his feet.

"Would've been easier if he wasn't," Sylvain replies, and she tears her eyes away again, finally giving him her full attention.

"It's like you read my mind," Ardelis pitches her voice lower. "Should've offed him last night. I'd have backed you."

"Too risky," Sylvain sighs. "Ambrosia would've been against it, and you know as well as I do that the Fours prefer the Ones to us."

"Ugh, tell me about it. What the hell happened yesterday? She's got Lazaro wrapped around her dainty fingers. He's practically hanging off her every word."

Sylvain shrugs. "Dunno, and honestly, I don't think the reason's all that important. Just the implications. Which are…"

"That we're the outsiders," Ardelis' brow tightens, her mouth setting into a scowl. "Even though we're a bigger asset."

"Got it in one."

"It's not fair," Ardelis hisses, tears pricking at her eyes. "That we prove ourselves, throw ourselves into killing to show our worth, to make this team strong, and they don't give a shit. Everyone's gonna be kissing One's feet even though they're useless, and we just have to, what, take it? Sylvain." She bites her lip, shaking her head. "Why the fuck aren't we good enough? Why am I not good enough?"

"Hey, hey, hey." A hand wraps around hers, squeezing it tight, thumb rubbing along her knuckles. "Don't pull that bullshit, Ard. Not over them."

"But-"

Sylvain shakes his head, hushing her.

"Doesn't matter what they think. We're stronger than One. If they want a fight, they'll lose. Okay?"

"Aitana and Lazaro-"

"Will side with the victor." He winks. "That'll be us. We just need to tough it out for a bit. Hunt some of the others down, try and decrease the numbers. Once that's done, One dies."

"I wish they'd die now," Ardelis' voice is smaller than it ought to be, her previous tears drying before they ever have a chance to fall. "I don't trust them. They're going to turn everyone against us. Ambrosia's got her pretty words and Angelo's all logical. They're probably working Four over right now."

Her fingers tighter around Sylvain's hand, squeezing it hard as she leans in close to him.

"We should go, Syl. We gotta. Spill their blood now when they don't expect us to and book it. It's us versus them."

His mouth draws into a tight line.

"... alright. If the opportunity comes, we'll take it. But we have to play it smart, Ardelis."

She huffs again, rolling her eyes, but relents. "Yes, sir. Will do."

Sylvain's hand slips from hers. He stands to his feet, snatching up his sickle from amongst their weapons stockpile.

"Aitana!"

Their leader looks over, attention removed from Angelo for the time being. Good, Ardelis thinks, an irrational surge of jealousy striking her. Focus on the people that really matter.

(Please don't turn against us, too.)

"Yeah, what's up?"

Sylvain nods to the door. "Figure we should go hunting soon. Get a head start."

"Hunting?" Lazaro springs up from where he's lounging on the floor, immediately alert. "Can I go? Need to stretch my legs."

Ardelis' eyes narrow. "Actually, I-"

Sylvain looks at Ardelis. Don't do anything stupid, he mouths.

Her shoulders slump.

"Yeah, sure. Me, Syl, Laz… and Ambrosia, how 'bout?" She casts her eyes toward the One girl. "What d'ya say, Princess? You good for a hunt?"

"I'd like to go," Angelo says then, moving his hand from his head and turning to face her. "Ambrosia can stay back with Aitana."

Hah! He's almost making it too easy. Does he want to get himself killed?

"You're injured," Sylvain says. Angelo shakes his head.

"I'll be fine." He walks over toward the cornucopia, retrieving the sword he'd claimed during the bloodbath. "If you're concerned, we can pair up."

This time it's Ardelis shooting Sylvain a look, then jerking her head toward Lazaro and Ambrosia. They don't like it.

"... I'll go with Angelo," Lazaro states just a moment later, confirming Ardelis' suspicions. They don't trust us. At all.

"Ardelis and Sylvain work well together anyway," Ambrosia agrees, settling down on a bench again. She turns a stern gaze on her District partner.

"Be careful."

"I'm always careful," Angelo remarks, and Ambrosia almost smirks.

"I mean it. No more head injuries."

"Aw, what's the worst that could happen?" Lazaro grins, sauntering over to Angelo and throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Don't worry, Sia, he's in good hands."

Unfortunately.

Ardelis shrugs as she gets to her feet, stretching her arms up over her head, rolling her shoulders to try and dispel the stiffness in her muscles.

"Right, it's a date." She punches Sylvain's arm playfully as she walks past him, nodding toward the door. "Let's go, tiger. Tired of sittin' on my ass."

She's not sure what's going on.

Elowyn doesn't remember much past leaving the bloodbath - or much of what went on during the bloodbath, for that matter. She knows she was stabbed. She knows her leg's throbbing like a bitch, that there are black dots clinging to the periphery of her vision, threatening to overwhelm her sight completely each time she raises her head. She remembers wandering… stumbling away from the courtroom while clutching her leg, half-collapsing in some room that's so dim and dank she can hardly make out her surroundings.

Her eyelids flutter as she shifts, wrapping her arms around her body which has grown cold, far too cold, so, so cold over the last few… minutes? Hours?... enough that it's become uncomfortable. Something shifts at her side, and her teeth clench, a visible shudder wracking her limbs.

"'S bad," Elowyn mumbles, as her head lolls against the shoulder of - Ten girl, Ten girl, what's her name? - her new ally, fingers idly clutching at the other girl's arm, drawn to her warmth, fuck, she's so warm.

"We need to move soon," Ten responds, but doesn't move. Elowyn's grip tightens, and she shakes her head with a groan.

"No, no… five minutes… just five m're mins… please…"

Ten stiffens, but her shoulders slump in a way that Elowyn's come to associate with concession. Relenting. Accepting. Like Mom, just like Mom… Mom…

Shouting. Anger, directed at a peacekeeper trying to arrest a girl for going through the dumpster behind Seven's bakery; she's too young. Innocent. Just trying to get by, just like everyone else, but the Capitol doesn't care about that, wouldn't care about it. He's dragging the girl into the streets by her wrist. Elowyn can hear her crying - so loud, she's just a kid, they're all just kids.

(He was a kid, too. Blond, like Elowyn, like Aralyn. Big blue eyes and messy hair. She's seen the picture in her mother's keepsake box, tucked away beneath baby blankets and ornaments and a book of pressed flowers. Finnegan, holding her mom's hand, a man that Elowyn thinks could have been her father smiling in the background. He's not, of course - couldn't be, not as a corpse, but sometimes she wonders how different things might be if he'd lived. Either she wouldn't be, or she would, but as someone else, not an Eiken, probably not even Elowyn.

Strange thing to consider.)

The girl's got blonde hair too. Looks like El did, back when she was eight or nine and still innocent, or at least more innocent than she is now. Mom always calls her naive, but she's not, not really, just brazen, willing to speak up, not the type to indulge bullshit. She's not wrong for being loud, for calling things like she sees them. She has a heart. She's emotional. She's -

(Being patched up in the clinic, sitting on Mom's table with a too-big too-open gash on her arm, skin flayed halfway up from the spot where the buckle on the peacekeeper's boot caught her, her pale skin smudged with dirt from where he'd stomped on her forearm to try and keep her down. She'd been hurling insults, lashing out, so frenzied she could hardly stand it - hands, fists, feet, teeth, rage, rage, rage…

"You need to be more careful," Aralyn's saying, and Elowyn's still mad, still shaking, still unable to keep it together, imagining that too-large gloved hand around a tiny, fragile wrist, while the other's locked around a baton threatening violence.

"Yeah, because that's working out so well for the rest of you."

"El, I'm being serious. Your father and I -"

"Would prefer to keep your heads down instead of facing your problems? News flash, Mom. Peacekeepers suck, they aren't going away. Hunger Games? Aren't going away. And everythi-"

"- are trying to make this work! If you would just listen to me for one minute-"

"- and if you're not gonna be angry, then I'll just have to do it for you."

Her mom's face drops. Her lips curve into a frown, and Elowyn has the audacity after a moment to feel ashamed. She doesn't want an argument. She doesn't want her mom upset. She just…

"I love you, Mom. I love Seven. I'm not trying to hurt you…"

"But you are, Elowyn, you're hurting me." Aralyn shakes her head. "And you're hurting yourself. It's never been bad enough to require stitches…"

"Not for me, at least." Her shoulders droop. Aralyn's don't, not immediately… but then…

"I know." A sigh. "And I know you mean well, love. But you're my baby. The thought of losing you…!"

(The thought of losing….)

Ping!

Elowyn groans, blearily opening one eye. "What's… did they…"

"Don't talk," Ten hushes her, easing Elowyn's body away from hers, hands steady on her arms as she helps her to sit up, then rests her head against the wall they've been lying against. Elowyn reaches for her, dazed.

"Where're you going…"

"Don't talk," Ten repeats. "I'll be right back."

There's scuffling noises, followed by an exhale of breath, boots making their way across a hard floor. The door creaks, and Elowyn's eyes open wide, watching her companion as she slips into the hall and out of Elowyn's sight.

And I'm alone once again. Classic. Should've bled out yesterday and gotten it over with, huh? Less burden on everyone… me, dead… Mom and Dad and the sibs getting to move on… Ten'd still have her supplies. Better for her… dammit, I don't want to die like this, I don't want to die, I'm…

Ten steps back into the room. She's got something in her hands, Elowyn realizes, and she forces herself up from the wall, trying to be attentive.

"Here she is… the lady of the hour, bearing gifts." Elowyn grins, wryly. Ten snorts.

"Wait until we open it before you get excited, Seven."

"That would require patience and I don't think I got any left. Probably slipped out with the blood." Elowyn slides back into her previous position, moving her leg to try and keep her thigh from aching worse. "Fuck me."

"Not in the arena."

Ten kneels at her side, fiddling with the metal box she's got a hold on, undoing the latch on the top to open it. Her eyes narrow in confusion as she reaches down for a slip of paper, holding it up to her face, unspeaking. She turns from the note to Elowyn, shaking her head, then resumes her focus on the paper. Then, she crumples it up and stuffs the note into the collar of her uniform, presumably for safekeeping.

"Dunno if that's the best place for it," Elowyn points out, and Ten holds up a small tube of ointment, along with what appears to be a roll of gauze.

"Not sure that's any of your business. You want me to take care of that injury or not?"

"Not," Elowyn says, then immediately backtracks as Ten raises a brow and begins to withdraw. "Wait… wait, wait. Don't, I's… was joking… c'mon."

"Say 'please'."

Elowyn rolls her eyes. "Please, Ten, fix my bloody leg."

Ten's eyes crinkle as she smiles. "Fine. Since you asked so nicely."

Her hands find the tear in Elowyn's pants where the blade cut through when it pierced her leg. She takes hold of the fabric with both hands, fingers slipping into the tear in order to get some leverage. Then, she's ripping into it, pulling the hole wider to get at Elowyn's injury, much to the Seven girl's dismay.

"Hey! I need those." Elowyn protests.

Ten lets out a chuckle. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

Elowyn grits her teeth. "Great bedside manner you got there."

"You wanna do it yourself?"

Elowyn closes her eyes.

"Yeah," Ten continues. "Didn't think so."

Scrim's always been a light sleeper.

Probably that's to be expected; too many years of fencing off stolen goods instilled in them a sense of paranoia - though barring cautiousness. They oscillated, most of the time, between carelessness and panic in regards to their peddling; the panic had been first, when they were younger, more jumpy, more easily agitated, and (unfortunately) more trusting. The thought of being dragged away and bound to one of Six's whipping posts in the square to be left half-clothed and freezing while they were beaten mercilessly was still an unpleasant one, but it was downright horrifying at the beginning, after they'd lost their mother.

Now, having been punished and bloodied more times than they can count, there's little that fazes Scrim. They don't care about pain, or death, or killing - and with as scarred and disfigured as much of their body is, it's probably fair to say they don't really care about themselves, either. And why would I? Sure ain't attached to this fleshbag… just blood and meat and bones that's somehow still hangin' around even though it's been busted to hell. If it gives out, so be it. Bam, pow, dead. I prolly won't even feel it, and even if I did, 's not like I'd be around long enough to give a damn.

('sides, I don't have shit to live for anyhow.)

They roll onto their side, doing their best to make themselves comfortable on the cold wooden slats of the Records Room floor, arm pillowed beneath their head to keep their skull away from the ground. Despite the temperate atmosphere, they feel at once both too cold and too hot; sluggish and worn down as much as they are sanguine and ready to leap to their feet at the first sign of danger. Seriously paranoid, they consider for a second, then scoff, keeping their eyes tightly shut as they draw their legs up toward their body. Or not. Who's t'say, really? Maybe it's perfectly normal of me, losin' my shit in here. Maybe it's what I shoulda expected, to get all shuddery and scared the second I hear somethin' shifty. Dunno. Don't care, really. Not my problem, not yet.

(Not my problem, 'til it is.)

Scrim blinks their eyes open for a second, peering toward the door from their secure spot beneath the records table. Still closed. Supplies still in place. Everything's exactly where they left it. They still got the wooden beam from the courtroom stashed next to them, the knives they'd snagged tucked underneath their shirt. Plenty of security. Plenty of precautions.

Can't be too wary, right? No, no, no… just an average amount of wary. Peachy keen, yes indeed.

(Since when have you ever cared about caution?)

Their eyelids shut again, tighter than before, so tight that their eyes are nearly stinging as their brow creases and their teeth snag against the inside of their cheek.

(I don't.)

(But you do, really. Under all that brevity and insolence and 'I don't give a fuck, I'mma watch the world burn, Dad's fucked in the head and it's the Capitol's fault and I ain't ever gonna roll over for those PK dogs because they put mummy in the grave' - under the 'y'all are bastards, fuck the law, damn the rules, gonna do things my way, gonna be a jackass for the sake of bein' a jackass since I'm the only one in the world that knows a bloody thing about anything and that's the tea' - under the 'bet I can outboast you, outjoke you, outsmart you, got my own system and anyone who thinks I'm wrong is delusional' - you know the truth, Scrim. You know that you're a fucking coward who can't do anything right, you're useless just like your father, you're wasting your life and wasting your time by sitting around squandering sleeplessness in a bloody records room that's nicer than anywhere you've hung out in the last fifteen years you've been on the planet. You're nothing, you've always been nothing, and even though you told Mads you were living on your terms it's a lie, you're lying to yourself, you -)

"Shut up." Scrim hisses, their voice borderline hysteric.

Their inner voice - whatever it is, conscience, the echoes of ghosts from history past or just the incarnation of every single shitbag that's seen fit to deride them over the years - laughs, all breathy and hollow and so frustrating I wanna shove my knives in my ears and get rid of it, go away, leave me alone -

The Capitol came hollerin' and now you're here. Daddy dearest's coffers are broke as shit, Mom's bones are literally broke as shit, and you're living it up on TV, sleeping under a table and surrounded by books you can't even friggin' read.

The irony.

Scrim giggles. Oh, man, it does not get much better than this. No, no it doesn't, really really truly -

Outside the door, there's a creak. It's quiet - soft enough that it could've been their imagination, might've been their imagination, who even knows it this point, who can tell? But Scrim's brain's going into hyperdrive, as they glance to their supplies, the door, their position, the distance between them and the room's exit…

Stay down.

They ease their body back toward the far side of the table, a bit more in the shadows, a bit more out of sight. Their fingers curl around the wooden beam in their belt, as they pull themselves back behind the chairs, slipping their shoes off as they begin to make their way around the table toward the room's entrance.

Just the wind, probably. Old buildings, big arena, gets a little drafty. Nothin' to be concerned about -

It's still bright in the hallway, has been since they snuck in here after tumbling down the stairs, and that hasn't changed, shouldn't change. They can see the light filtering in from the small crevasse between the base of the door and the ground, still there, still unobscured. But their body's on edge; the hair on the back of their neck's standing on end, and every nerve in their body is telling them to wait, keep still but don't let your guard down, you can't let your guard down.

Scrim's focus stays rooted to the light on the floor. They bite the inside of their cheek, ignoring the halt in their breath, the skip in their heartbeat. For a moment, everything's frozen…

And then the sliver of light that they've been so closely guarding flickers, blocked out in part by the impression of a shadow.

Scrim's fingers tighten around their "weapon." The door handle turns. Slowly, the hinges begin to squeak as the door itself is pushed open, their own body barely obscured by it as the glow of fluorescent lighting floods into their camp.

A leg steps into sight. Then there's a hand, curling around the edge of the door, a torso, a head peeking into the room, not looking at them, but focused on their supplies, still stacked near the far wall. The tribute takes another step inside, but away from the door, their back fully turned to Scrim, fully exposed, can't let them go, can't just let them go.

Scrim leaps forward, the short wooden pillar held like a bat as they swing it up and back, then bring it down in one fluid strike against the back of the tribute's skull. They stumble forward, dazed, and Scrim draws their club back, swings it forward again, catching them in the back of the neck. Can't let them go can't let them can't let them keep hitting, like the One boy, but more, more, do it again, again, it's not a game, it's survival, I don't wanna die I don't wanna fucking die -

They're on the tributes back, smashing the heavy wood into their skull, again, and again, and again. Knees on their back, the entirety of Scrim's weight bearing down on the body under them, trying to keep them down, don't let them get back up, they'll kill you, they'll kill you if you let them go, shit shit shit I'm not dying here, I'm not fucking dying…!

Bang!

The beam hits them once more. No, a second time - a third - they're alive, right, they're alive, they have to be, but there's blood everywhere, pooling around their skull and seeping out of their busted flesh, the bones caved in and it's all squishy, pink and red and leaking, dribbling everywhere, mashed brains and they look like putty, what the fuck am I doing, stop it, they're dead, stop -

Smack.

Smack.

Smack.

The pillar drops from their slack hand, but their fingers stay locked in a facsimile of a hold, frozen in motion even though there's nothing for them to actually grip. Scrim blinks, their eyes wet, trembling as they pitch forward, hands slamming into the ground above the other tribute's head, knee jamming into their spine hard enough to elicit a sharp click.

They're - no, they're - no, it's not - that's - I'm not - I didn't - I didn't have a choice, I didn't, I'm…

Disoriented, vaguely nauseous, and more than a little confused, Scrim pulls themselves forward, trying to ignore the blood coating their hands as they pull themselves across the ground and away from the very obviously dead body, trying to ignore the feeling of cooling skin and muscle under their legs, fleshy, I hate fleshy, oh hells, the noise…

They shake their head, something metallic flooding their throat, overwhelming their taste buds with blood, blood everywhere, it's on my lips, in my mouth, my nose, my ears, my eyes. Nuh-uh. Gift bad don't want it. Supplies… supplies good. Right, supplies. Get the supplies. Get the, uh, the stick, the -

Their eyes fall on the makeshift-club lying on the ground next to… Twelve. Girl from Twelve. Don't even know her name, Girl from Twelve, just "Girl from Twelve." Or corpse. Corpse, now. Meatsack. Fleshbag. Dead. Bad no matter how I say it, okay, okay. Weapon is, weapon is…

It's snapped in half.

Scrim glances down to their stiff hand again, frowning. The realization hits that the blood covering it might actually be theirs, and that's funny enough they want to cackle.

But they don't. Not this time. Joke later, plan now. Caution now, hate saying that, but it's good, 's good, yeah, get the supplies, get your ass outta here….

(Hurry up! We don't have all day, moron.)

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Scrim mutters, dragging themselves onto their feet, snatching up the bags by the wall, one after the next. They eye the empty water bottle, brow raised, and then sigh loudly, kicking it over with their sock-covered foot -

Oh, yeah. My shoes. Whoops. Kinda want those before I slink away into the night, possibly to never return. Or I guess I could leave 'em to wig someone out… maybe? Maybe just a bit? Nah, nah. Smart, we're playing smart. Kay. Right. Smarty Scrim, that's a first.

They don't look at Twelve as they find their shoes, slip them back onto their feet. They don't even look at her when they bend down to check her body for supplies, keeping their gaze averted from the bashed-in head that crowns her cooling corpse, the viscera and blood and gore coloring everything around her. She's gone, she's dead. She's not their priority, they can't hold themselves responsible, it's the Capitol, it's always the Capitol, and they're -

A killer. I'm a killer.

They pull another meagre knife and a roll of bandages from Twelve's pockets, stuffing them into one of the now-three-and-counting bags on their shoulder. Then, they rise to their feet, stepping around her splayed-out legs and turned-backwards hand, over to the door, over to the flickering fluorescent lights beyond it.

Scrim doesn't look back. They close the door, readjust their supplies, and start walking.

16. District 12 Female. Killed by Scrim Aarifi.

A/N: Chapter title from TEAR, Part One by Son Lux.

Another chapter down and another filler tribute dead… not too much longer and I'm gonna have to start killing off the main cast. :') We all knew this day was coming. Shoutout to my awesome beta Firedawn'd for the assists with these Games chapters. You're a gem and I don't know what I'd do without you!

In other news, the poll's now closed - congratulations to Celesto for taking the win this time! He's truly a sweetheart.

See you all Friday!