day two, part two: darkside

You can't run, you can't hide; that kid has got a dark side.
(Best believe it - if you push too far you'll see it).

Good intuition has never been one of Lazaro's strengths.

He's not joking when he says that Lazarus had the brains in the family, that his ability to be (at least most of the time) even mildly rational or discerning was mostly due to his friends' and family's influence, rather than his own "keen judgment." Because, to be honest, Lazaro's judgment is not keen (and never has been). He's lousy at reading a situation in general, but especially once heavy stuff gets brought into the picture. Like emotions. And head injuries. And silence. Silence is the worst.

Anyways. The point, when it comes down to it, is that he has absolutely no idea how to function in situations like the one he's currently facing with Angelo. He's not intuitive. He's not good at being proactive when it comes to important stuff. And the hearty cheer and fervor he'd typically try and use to provide his ally a sense of distraction? It's just gone. Killing someone'll do that to you.

(Well, that and being around people like Sylvain and Ardelis, who aren't sticks in the mud, but are creepy and bitter enough to suck the joy out of everything. Lazaro's kinda put out by it all.)

But… it's jarring to him, seeing the normally so composed and stoic District One boy walk around in a daze, eyes glassy and distant, feet dragging over the wooden floor as they prowl the corridors outside the courtroom. The Angelo that Lazaro remembers working with in the Capitol hadn't ever been the friendliest sort, but there had been something refined about him, even convivial. He'd had poise, just like Ambrosia did - a certain air of confidence and assurance that Lazaro had never once come close to attaining in his eighteen years of living.

Now there's just reticence. Apathy, or anxiety, or something in between even. He seems kinda… empty.

Lazaro has to admit that it's offputting.

"So," he says finally, drawing the word out and ending it with a little pop of his lips, wanting to cover up the fact he's got no idea what to say. Think fast, think fast. Uh… man, this is hard. He volunteered… so he must've trained for the Games, right? Training. Nice, safe, Careerish subject. We love that. "What's training like in One?"

Angelo blinks, coming out of whatever trance he's been in since they left camp thirty minutes ago.

"... it's training. I'm sure our facilities operate similarly to Four's. Primarily, we focus on conditioning our bodies, then learning how to handle weapons, then fundamental principles to keep in mind for survival. It's rather straightforward."

"I see, I see…" Lazaro nods, swinging his sword at his side as they walk. "Straightforward's nice. I mean, like all that systematic stuff and whatever else, we don't really have it in Four. No real Academy where I was - got some nicer facilities in the central areas, but it's more the ones where you just show up whenever and ask if you can try working out with a sword, y'know?"

"Is that what you meant in the interview? When Tal said that you weren't a traditional volunteer."

"Ding ding ding! We have a winner." Lazaro jokes, reaching an arm out to nudge Angelo's arm. "Don't you worry though, I'm good enough at handling a fight. Just not myself. But we've all got our weak spots."

"Do we?" Angelo asks.

"Huh?"

"Do we," he reiterates, "all have weak spots?"

"Uhh… I think so. I mean, like, nobody's perfect, Angelo. Take the Careers for example - Sylvain's a jerk, Ardelis has a few screws loose, Ambrosia shuts down under pressure, I'm too goofy…"

"What about me?"

Lazaro stops. Angelo's watching him intently, frown etched onto his features, his shoulders stiff.

"I…" Lazaro shrugs. "I dunno, man. Like, you're not really much of a talker, are you? So maybe that. You aren't great with people."

Angelo purses his lips, keeping his eyes on Lazaro for a moment longer. He doesn't speak.

Lazaro coughs. "Right, well, let's get back to -"

One moment, he's perfectly upright, trying to put an end to an (admittedly stressful) conversation of individuals, and the next… his head's completely empty save for an endless loop of what the hell circulating on repeat as a skinny, small shape with white-blond hair comes flying at his side. The tribute - of course it's another tribute, what else would it be? - slams directly into Lazaro, knocking the wind from his lungs as he goes sprawling, shoulder colliding with the wall at his back, sword momentarily knocked from his grasp.

"Shit," he curses, barely bringing his arms up in time to protect the kid's knife from hilting itself in his chest, his wrist hitting Lazaro's forearm roughly enough for the skin to bruise. Lazaro brings his foot up, smashing it into the kid's shin and leaving him to stumble, just as Angelo flanks him from the back.

But he's not quick enough. The kid dodges to the side, practically throwing himself onto the floor as Angelo's sword pierces the air where he'd been standing mere seconds earlier. He tosses his knife at Angelo's unguarded shoulder, other hand clumsily reaching for Lazaro's accidentally-discarded weapon. Angelo sidesteps the knife, but it's obvious from the way his stance falters and his body pitches sideways that his coordination's off. His foot twists and he reaches a hand out for the protruding wood column lining a doorway, keeping his wits about him as he turns to press his back against the plaster wall beside it, sword held out in front of him.

"Lazaro!" Angelo calls in warning as the other tribute lunges forward, his stance entirely untrained and uncertain, but the look in his eyes murderous. Lazaro drops to the floor as the sword swooshes through the air near his arm, sending his fist forward into the kid's stomach. He gasps, winded, grip on the stolen weapon slackening as he takes a step back. But Lazaro's on the offensive now, and he isn't backing down. He throws himself forward, arms latching around the kid's waist to keep his arm at his side and prevent him from moving the sword. He nods to Angelo.

"Now, do it now -"

"You Career bastards shouldn't even exist," the tribute in his arms cries, thrashing, letting go of the sword as he tries to knock his head back against Lazaro's unsuccessfully. "I just want to go home! I've done everything for it, given up everything, and I want to go home! You volunteered for this and I didn't, I don't want this -"

And then there's a noise - soft, but sudden, the rip of flesh that Lazaro's come to associate with fish being gutted back in his parents' home, while his mother worked in the kitchen to clean up the day's catches before a sale.

The terrified rush of words comes to an abrupt halt. Blood seeps out of an open gash on the kid's neck, his eyes wide and tearful as Angelo steps back, the end of his sword covered in crimson. Lazaro's left staring in shock for one moment… two… three… before it finally strikes him that he's holding onto a corpse.

He lets go immediately, jumping out of the way as the kid's body collapses in a heap on the ground.

Bang!

Lazaro steps back, observing the body with his mouth slightly ajar. Then, he snaps it closed, moves to pick up his stolen sword and straightens up again, turning to Angelo to resume their hunt.

He's facing the wall, one hand behind his head, fingers carding through his hair as he starts to pace. Back turned to Lazaro, bloody sword stuck back in its scabbard at his waist, the front of his uniform tinged with a matching red.

"Angelo?" Lazaro ventures to ask, but his ally doesn't seem to hear him. He's shaking his head, mouthing something to himself, practically oblivious to Lazaro's company.

"Angelo," he says again, louder this time, and Angelo's feet come to a halt. He twists his body around, so quickly that the same ankle that caused his stumble during the fight gives beneath his weight when the sole of his boot catches improperly on the floor.

Lazaro immediately rushes to try and assist him, free hand finding his arm and hauling it up over his own shoulders, even as Angelo lets loose a pained groan at the action. He reaches out to push Lazaro away, shaking.

"I can do it myself -"

"Yeah, man, I know, I just -"

"No, you don't know, Four. You have no idea as to what I'm capable of doing, nor what's going on in my head."

"You're right," Lazaro says, trying to appease him. "I don't know, but I dunno what's going on either so maybe you can fill me in a little?" He starts to relinquish his hold, giving Angelo the opportunity to slip free if he so wishes. "You know, cause we're allies and I promised Sia that I'd -"

"Stop. Talking."

The One boy shoves idly at his torso, trying to scramble away from him even as his knees buckle and then drop. The sound his kneecaps make when they collide with the wood causes Lazaro to wince, but Angelo hardly seems to care, his only reaction to the pain a slight grimace as he stays there, kneeling, not trying to stand.

"Hey," Lazaro tries again, "are you okay?"

"What does it matter?" Angelo asks, his tone callous, even mildly caustic. Lazaro didn't even know he was capable of caustic.

"It matters because -"

"Because I'm your ally, Lazaro? Because of Sia?" Angelo bows forward slightly, shoulders hunched. "Leave me alone."

Lazaro steps forward, resting a hand on Angelo's back. He doesn't immediately shake it off, which seems… good. That's gotta be a good thing.

"We can head back for now. Your head's probably not feeling too great, right? I mean, the last time I got concussed I spent, like, a whole month asleep, and even when it was better trying to do anything just made me feel whack. You know, bad high sort of thing. We can go back and you can get some sleep, maybe eat something…"

"The others think I'm useless." Angelo mutters. "They think that I'm dead weight. Ask Ardelis, ask Sylvain… ask Aitana."

He turns to look at Lazaro over his shoulder, expression guarded, the relatively fresh bandage that had been wound about his skull marred once more by spots of blood.

"Perhaps they're right. I couldn't even kill some outlier kid on my own, not without hesitating. You had to hold him down for me. And even then, I…" Angelo swallows, then looks away once more. He nudges his shoulder upward to jostle Lazaro's hand, getting to his feet.

"You're right. Of course. We should return. One kill ought to be enough to appease the bloodhounds."

It feels like they've been walking in circles.

"Pretty sure we passed that exact plant two minutes ago," Madigan says, stopping in her tracks, arms crossed as she leans back against a pillar. Kellie turns around to face her, shrugging her shoulders up and down in a gesture that clearly says what d'ya want me to do about it?

"Mean, we can stop walking." Kellie says instead, though, eying the plant in question, then the door beside it. "Been in the office. Been in the stuffy place that made me wanna sleep. Been in the room with the round table. Went through the place with all the little cubby desks. That's four whole rooms and we ain't even gone downstairs yet. I'm tired."

Madigan sighs, running a hand through her hair.

"Yeah. Let's call it quits."

"Office seems like a good place to rest anyways," Kellie says, pointing toward the desk. "Place to write." Then she nods toward the tall bookcase in the corner. "Stuff to read. Distractions. Bet they got a pen too."

Perfectly content, the thirteen-year-old wanders over to the desk and begins pulling open drawers, much to Madigan's chagrin. She practically leaps forward to grab Kellie's hand - then quickly lets go of her ally's wrist once it's obvious nothing's going to spring out and possibly kill her.

Not before Kellie's had a chance to become irate, though.

"Ow! What's the big deal?" She snaps, snatching her arm back and taking a couple steps away from Madigan.

Madigan's left gaping for a second. Then her brow pinches in anger. "Did you even think before touching those? They could've been booby-trapped."

"As if," Kellie retorts, crossing her arms. "What'd the point be? It's not entertaining 'less kids be killin' each other."

Fair enough.

Madigan sighs, tapping her shoe against the ground. She spins on her heel and slumps down in the nearest chair, feeling both utterly relieved that Kellie hadn't accidentally gotten them both killed and utterly foolish, given her cautiousness seems more like paranoia at this point.

"... you're right." She says. Kellie's visage takes on a look of incredulity.

"I am?"

"Yeah, probably," Madigan admits with a sigh. "Just try and be a little more cautious next time, 'kay? I don't wanna see you dead if I had a chance to stop it." Her frown becomes more intense, expression darkening. "Don't want that guilt weighing on my shoulders."

"Yeah," Kellie agrees. "Guilt sucks."

She returns to the desk, peering into the first open drawer, not deterred but a bit less animated. Madigan wonders if she should feel bad for giving the girl a scare - but it's for the best, isn't it? Especially if they're supposed to be working together.

"Thanks," she says, not sure if it's because she's glad to see that Kellie listened or if she wants to ease whatever feelings she'd hurt by practically jumping on her. Kellie shrugs again, agreeable as ever.

"No big." She pauses, opening the second drawer slowly after the first one's closed. "Why'd it scare you so much anyways?"

"It didn't scare me," Madigan says, even though she's not sure the answer's true. Something set her off. Being in the arena, maybe. Probably. Something like that's enough to make anyone a bit jumpy.

"Sure did," Kellie says. "I know 'cause Mrs. Bright gives me the same look when she thinks I'mma get hurt. You don't want me gettin' hurt?"

Madigan blinks. "We're allies, Kellie."

"Doesn't mean you gotta care."

Kellie pulls back, waving a pen at her with a toothy grin. "Glad you do, though. Wasn't sure, before."

"Neither was I," Madigan says, then blinks. "Sorry. I don't mean anything by it, just - you know…"

Kellie nods, unbothered. "Yeah, I gotcha."

She sits down on the floor, criss-crossed legs, her hair a giant bundle of frizz about her face. For an indoor arena, the air's pretty humid; Madigan's been sweating all day, and she can't even tell why.

"So what's the deal with your journal?" She asks, looking at the notebook that Kellie's retrieved from their supply bag - the same one she'd been carrying around through training, that she'd been scared enough about losing she'd had to keep checking her bag for it all day. District token's one thing, but Madigan knows sentiment when she sees it.

"'s my mom's. Was my mom's." Kellie says, quirking her head to the side as she opens the journal up to a random page. "Now I just put down everything and anything in it too. 'snot a diary, really, but somethin' close I guess. Personal, y'know?"

"Yeah… I do," Madigan answers, letting the corners of her lips twitch upward for all of a second. She reaches a hand into her pocket, feeling around for the familiar weight of the little pewter traincar tucked away amongst the cloth of her uniform.

"Wanna see mine?" She asks. Kellie looks up.

"Your what?"

"My token," Madigan reiterates, her expression a little warmer, her posture a little less tense. She gets back to her feet, walking over to Kellie and plopping down onto the floor beside her, knees up by her chest and legs slightly outstretched as she pulls the trinket from her pocket, holding it up so that Kellie can get a look.

"It's real Six of you, innit?" Kellie jokes, smiling. Madigan rolls her eyes and curls her fingers around the pewter traincar, then reaches out and knocks her knuckles against Kellie's head teasingly, the same way Hal and Ander used to do to her when she was that age.

"Just for that you ain't getting a story."

"I was just makin' fun..." Kellie sticks her tongue out, batting Madigan's hand away. "And the hair's off limits!"

Madigan chuckles, ruffling it anyway. "Shoulda told that to the arena."

"Ick. I know, I'm all sweaty-gross." Kellie shakes her head, her nose wrinkling a bit the same way Madigan's been told her own does when she finds something distasteful.

It's strange, Madigan thinks, how mundane it all feels. Five minutes ago she was freaking out because Kellie opened a drawer, and now they're sitting on the floor together, bantering and cracking half-jokes with each other. Really, it's almost nostalgic. The laughter and show-and-tell-esque feeling of flaunting her token, poking at Kellie like an older sibling would… like Shirin would, way back before the drug stuff came about.

What's she doing now, without me there to keep her from getting too far in? Is she back at the morphling den again? Or with one of her exes, prodding them for sex so she can get a high out of of again? Is it even just morphling anymore, or is there other stuff too, uppers like they got in Two or worse, even? Is she alright? Is she taking care of herself? Is she even alive?

Madigan can feel her stomach drop at the last thought, all her nerves suddenly set on end. She feels sick. What if Shirin's gone, and she doesn't even know? What if this is the week that both of them end up dead, if only because Madigan's not there to check in on her anymore or make sure she's using responsibly?

(She's not your responsibility.)

(Yes. She is.)

Madigan coughs again, a shallow laugh forcing its way out of her as her mood starts to plummet. Even if Shirin's not alright, she can't do anything about it. Not when she's stuck here, so far away from Six she might as well be in another universe.

"Tell me about your mom," she blurts out, then quickly adds, "I mean, if you want to. Don't wanna pry."

"You ain't prying," Kellie says, tapping her pen against the blank page she's looking at. "What you wanna know?"

"Don't know," Madigan says. "Anything, really. What you like most about her?"

"Well, I never really got t'know her," Kellie says, but silences Madigan's attempted almost-apology with a smile, raising her hand. "But she was Kellie Rove, lot like me. Just older and cooler and probably way more fun. She wrote somethin' here about when she first knew about me, and between us? It keeps me goin'..."

Sylvain and Ardelis are already back at camp by the time Angelo returns, Lazaro at his side and keeping a close watch on his back.

He can't blame Lazaro for being concerned - or Ambrosia, for that matter. Angelo's concerned, himself; he feels drained, physically and mentally exhausted to the point of being burnt out. And while he's done his best to keep from remembering the look of sheer terror on the boy from Nine's face when he'd sliced open his neck, Angelo's finding the thought impossible to block out.

It's worse, he thinks, that Nine was expecting it; that he'd known exactly what was coming, and how futile trying to escape would be with Lazaro pinning him in place and his weapon on the ground. After the fear, something like resignation had permeated his gaze, and it took all of Angelo's resolve not to turn away from the boy when he dealt the killing blow. He'd felt… off, since it happened. He still feels off. Not upset or sick or stressed like he probably ought to, like Lazaro admitted he'd been after killing the girl from Five. Just numb. Distant. Removed.

He's numb now. Distant, as he settles into a seat away from the other Careers, removed when he finally undoes the sheathe at his waist and removes his sword, setting it on the bench beside him. Should clean it later, he thinks first, then sighs and shakes his head. No. There isn't any point. It's likely to be bloodied again sooner rather than later… especially if Two has their way.

(A barbaric mindset, with Two. Acting as if killing's sportive rather than damning.)

(They call it the Hunger Games for a reason.)

"Guess Angelo's finally joined the club," he hears Sylvain say, and Ardelis laughs in sync immediately after, her arm around her district partner's back, head resting on his shoulder. Angelo raises his head to look at them; gathered around the cornucopia and sitting in a circle on the floor, the Twos and the Fours and Ambrosia still beside them, wedged in between Aitana and Lazaro. She raises a brow when she catches sight of Angelo's gaze, and he turns away, not in the mindset to deal with interaction yet. Let Ambrosia worry if she wants to. He never asked her to care. He never asked her to be concerned.

"Good thing, too, saving face after his got bashed in yesterday. Can't imagine One's all too happy about that," Ardelis snickers, her hair falling across her face as she practically uses Sylvain as an armrest. Angelo hears someone tut.

"You shouldn't make fun, Ardelis." Sylvain, but his tone's more mocking than disapproving. Angelo can tell that much.

"Hard not to, after our stint together in training. I mean, can you believe it, really? The Robot Twins being something less than perfect? It's fucking karma. Now he's gotta admit he's just a regular fucking person like the rest of us."

Another laugh. Then, Sylvain raises an arm, gesturing at Angelo.

"Yo, Ice Prince! Get over here and join us."

"Yeah, yeah!" Ardelis echoes. "We gotta celebrate your big moment, right? Quit moping, One, your face'll get stuck like that."

"Guys," Aitana says, ever the mediator. "Leave him be. I think he just wants some space for the moment."

"I'd be happy with some quiet. Not everyone cares to play at theatrics."

Angelo's words are clipped, mechanical. He doesn't so much as raise his head to look at the Twos when he speaks, nor does he bother to face them. He's fully aware of how Sylvain and Ardelis perceive him; inept, antisocial, prissy even, and not cut out for his Career status. And he hates to admit that he cares - that even just knowing how little Two thinks of him makes his blood boil and his muscles tighten with anger. He's trained for this longer than either of them. He's dedicated himself to the art of fighting, to mastering bladesport and survival skills. He's a Career. He is undeniably a Career.

Yet his injury in the bloodbath - a weakness that boiled down to pure chance - has put Angelo at a disadvantage. It's left him to be reviled and scorned by his own comrades. Their taunting quips and passive-aggressive jabs are all but burning labels into his flesh. Outsider. Interloper. Pariah. Out of all the trainees One could have sent, they picked you. The useless wimp, the foolhardy philosopher. It's laughable that you believed you were cut out to be here. Laughable that you thought you could ever - would ever - be able to measure up to the rest of us.

"Touchy! What crawled up your ass and died?" Ardelis fires back, shooting a wicked grin at him. Angelo glowers at the picture she makes. Feral. Capricious. Tactless. She's too much of a loose cannon to be here, too much of a loose cannon to trust, and yet even Ambrosia seems perfectly content to put up with her combative goading, not bothering to rush to Angelo's defense, just as silent as the Fours.

She's picking her battles, Angelo tells himself. I can hardly fault her for that.

"I hardly think I'm the touchy one," he replies, hoping that Ardelis will just keep her mouth shut for once. "But then, I'd rather be touchy than overdramatic, raucous and willfully ignorant, so. Shall we agree to disagree?"

Ardelis is bristling when she sits up, Sylvain's hand on her shoulder probably the only thing keeping her from leaping to her feet and charging Angelo then and there. "You want a fight, One?"

"Not particularly, but it seems you can't say the same."

Ardelis' laugh this time is wry, bitter even. "Yeah, you're right. Me and you got issues, asshole."

"Do we?" Angelo asks, his fingers itching to grab up his sword, despite knowing exactly what doing so would entail.

"Yeah," Ardelis repeats. "We do. Seriously, you think Syl and I can't tell that you want to split? I mean, let's see… you never interact with the rest of us, you push Lazaro away when you go off with him on patrol and try and get him to ditch you - yeah, we heard about that - you only ever talk to Ambrosia, and even when you don't, you're sending each other all sorts of weird half-glances and whispering like there's something you don't want us to know-"

"You told them?" Angelo questions. He doesn't know why he feels betrayed. It shouldn't be a surprise.

Ardelis waves off the comment before Lazaro can respond, continuing to rant. "Point stands. You want to leave, and since you can't, you've made a little elitists' corner for yourself to play pity party in while you sneer at the rest of us. I can't speak for everyone here, but I sure as hell don't see any reason to trust you, and I think Sylvain's on the same page. So again, I'mma be straight: we got issues."

She allows her eyes to narrow in on him, the enmity in her gaze practically enough to melt skin from bone. The look is unnerving… pure animosity, and Angelo isn't sure why he didn't register the strength of her loathing before. It's so obvious at this point that it should have been impossible to miss.

She hates him. This isn't just disdain or disappointment or even extreme irritation, no, Ardelis is seething out of spite. Antipathy. She hates Angelo so much that she wants him dead, and knowing that helps him to understand that she's beyond reason; there's no salvaging this situation. Not that he even wants to, at this point.

Angelo's mask fixes firmly into place as he stands, gaze flitting between Ardelis and Sylvain, sizing them up.

"It doesn't matter what I say," he concludes. "You've made up your minds already - the Careers have a weak point, and that weak point is me." His gaze finally settles on Aitana, steady and firm. "The only question now is what you're planning to do about it. Cast me out? Or perhaps you'd prefer to -"

"I'm fucking done with this!" Ardelis springs to her feet, her voice deepened to a growl. "If we're gonna fight, let's fight, Angelo!"

She grabs for one of the throwing knives sitting on the ground beside her, impulsively enough that she seems to have jabbed herself with it. Blood soaks her hand as she draws her arm back, obsessively single minded in her drive to confront her newly-christened enemy, passion overriding her sense entirely.

Angelo springs out of the way, falling sideways against the bench as he dodges the airborne blade, in time for it to breeze past where he'd been standing previously. He can't tell if Ardelis intended to miss a vital spot - if she'd been toying with him, or trying to intimidate him, or simply unbalanced by her new injury. What he can tell is that no matter her intentions, no matter her skill, she's just set something in motion that none of the others have the power to change.

But he doesn't want to face this alone.

"Ambrosia," he calls to his District partner, "Meet me by that statue in the west hall. The one by the staircase."

"No!" Ardelis shouts, on her feet now with another knife in her hand."You aren't going anywhere! Sylvain, back me up!"

"Ardelis, think for a moment," Angelo can hear Aitana saying, her tone even as ever, the pitch low. "We need solidarity for now. Angelo and Ambrosia aren't a threat to -"

"But they are, Aitana. They are. You're just too blind to see it."

"She's right," Sylvain concedes, snatching up his sword and standing to his feet, shaking off the arm that Lazaro tries to stop him with. "The Careers are done, and I'm with Ardelis. You're with us or against us, Four. Make your choice now."

Aitana looks torn, staring at Ambrosia, who's slowly backing away from the rest of her allies, taking her place at Angelo's side.

"I'm sorry, Ambrosia, Angelo." The words seem genuine, but are lessened in their empathy as Aitana collects her spear. "But I'm with Two."

"... and so I told her we were going to the river park and that was that. She kept picking the dandelions by the sidewalk? Tried to weave them into my hair when I wasn't looking. Think I was sitting on the swings and she just sort of pounced on me with 'em before I had a chance to protest. She still thinks they're flowers, you know. And I mean we aren't Seven, so they might as well be, right?"

Kahlan smiles to himself, leaning back against the desk with his hands resting on the edge, eyes cast toward the door across the room.

"Anyway, Aubrielle and I went down there a lot, when things were bad. Home was a lot like this, all… claustrophobic. High walls. Not a lot of lighting. And with the screaming and fighting and weird dysfunctional distance between everyone on top of that, well… it never really felt like a happy place. I don't know." He shrugs, turns to look at Celesto, expression soft and posture unguarded. Entirely an open book, for the time being.

"But yeah. That's my favorite place in Eight, I think - the river park. Actually, I used to see Althea there, sometimes. She wasn't in my year, but I knew her name… and then at the Reapings…"

He swallows, averting his eyes. "Well… it's worse when you know them, I think."

"I can't imagine," Celesto says, mournful. "Going in with someone you've met, knowing only one of you can make it out… and that's with luck. I just…" He shuffles his feet, then crosses the room toward one of the ornamental bookcases. "I didn't know Maddy before… and I guess I don't really know her now. But she's from home… and the thought of her dying, it's…"

"Painful?" Kahlan offers, as Celesto trails off, struggling to finish his thought. The Ten boy nods, but his frown deepens even as he accepts the offered term.

"Yeah. It's painful."

The room lapses into silence again. Kahlan crosses his arms over his chest, eyes remaining rooted to the office door, pensive.

"So what about your siblings? You volunteered for your brother, right?"

"I did," Celesto agrees. "Denver. He's… well, he's my brother. A bit of a wild personality sometimes… like, he jokes around a lot. With his friends, though, not really with me or Callista."

A sigh.

"I don't know if he's even going to notice I'm gone. If either of them will, really, we just…" Celesto closes his mouth, brow pinched when Kahlan looks his way. "We aren't really close, like you and your sister."

"I'm sorry," Kahlan offers, because it seems like the best thing to say. Celesto nods.

"Yeah. Me too."

A taciturn atmosphere pervades the office again, as Kahlan uncrosses his arms, stands up straight again.

"So what did you think of-"

There's a crash in the hallway. Kahlan stills, forgetting what he'd intended to say. Celesto freezes, his eyes wide, his teeth gritted, arms shaking as he slowly turns around.

They stay like that for a moment - rooted in place, too nervous to speak. The silence continues. One moment, two, a few more without interruption.

Kahlan tries to relax his jaw, then his muscles, a little more confident that the sound was a fluke rather than any actual danger. Fighting, probably, but it's done now. Still, maybe we should…

A cannon fires.

And then there's screaming.

"Get back here you fucking cowards! Son of a bitch, you fucking cowardly son of a bitch, how dare you - how fucking dare you, One, I'll skin you alive and use your flesh for a canvas you piece of shit!"

Footsteps, pounding across the ground in rapid succession, either in flight or in pursuit. But they don't stop at the door - just breeze right past it and head off down the corridor.

The voice from before - Kahlan thinks it's the Two girl, is pretty sure it's the Two girl - lets out another raw, agonized scream. There's the sound of metal clattering against wood, and then sobbing, heavy enough to be omnipresent, even though Kahlan's sure she's at least a couple rooms away from their position.

"I'll kill him, Aitana, I'll fucking kill him! Sylvain's dead because of him, because of Angelo. He killed my brother and I'll have his gods damned HEAD! Oh no… no, no, no, no… this can't be happening, Alec, Alec, please…!"

The cries devolve into sobs. Kahlan breathes in a sigh of relief that they seem to be mostly in the clear, willing himself to relax.

"I don't think they're coming this way," Celesto says, returning to his seat. But before he sits he stops, looking at the office's closed door in contemplation. "Maybe we should put something in front of it. Just in case."

Kahlan surveys their options.

"The desk?" He settles on. Bookcases are too tall to move, and he doesn't see the chairs doing much against an armed Career desperate to break down the wall.

"Sounds good," Celesto agrees, moving to one side and taking hold of either side with still-shaky hands. "You get the other and we'll pull?"

"Sure," Kahlan agrees, mirroring his ally's position at the opposite end. "Ready? One, two -"

They both attempt to lift the desk at the same time, but it doesn't budge. Not even a bit. Kahlan winces at the strain in his shoulders, stumbling a little as his expectations for the situation are completely uprooted.

He exhales and pulls back, chuckling to himself. Celesto smiles.

"So much for that plan."

"Should we move?" Kahlan asks. Celesto shakes his head.

"No. We only have two directions to head in once we're out that door, and there are tributes both ways. Ardelis and whoever she was chasing. We're better here for now."

Kahlan mulls it over.

"Yeah." He states. "You're probably right."

He takes a step forward, past the desk. The rug is bunched under his feet, even though none of the furniture has moved. Kahlan leans down, curious.

"Huh. That's weird."

"What?" Celesto steps around the chairs, coming to his side. Kahlan points to the rug.

"Why would it be bunched up like that if the desk's bolted to the floor? Actually, how is the desk bolted down if it's sitting on top of a rug?"

"Bolts through the rug," Celesto provides, and Kahlan nods.

"Okay. But that doesn't explain the bunching."

He steps back, using his foot to shift the area of fabric on question, nudging it to the side.

There's a gleam of silver.

"There's something under it!" Kahlan exclaims, then drops his voice as he considers their current situation. "Let's move the chairs."

Celesto grabs onto the back of one of the heavy office chairs, dragging it off of the rug and onto the wooden floor near the bookcases. Kahlan does the same with the second.

It's more obvious with the chairs gone that something's off - there's a protrusion beneath the rug, almost in the shape of a square, starting beneath the place where each of the chairs had sat and continuing toward the desk, the edges of what seems to be a large panel apparent under the fabric.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Kahlan asks. Celesto's already getting on his knees, hands tugging up the far edge of the rug and pulling it up, revealing a set of metal hinges and, shortly thereafter, a handle set into the floorboards.

"Do we open it?" The Ten boy asks, looking to Kahlan inquisitively. Kahlan licks his lips.

"I don't know," he says honestly. "Where do you think it goes?"

"No idea." Celesto presses his lips together, shaking his head slowly. "But I think maybe we should leave it alone. I don't know why, I just… I have this feeling."

Kahlan knows exactly what he means. There's something about their find that's both ominous and foreboding at once. Like it's a literal trapdoor, rather than just a hidden passage.

"I think we should get out of here," he says. "We'll give it an hour, but no more."

There's definitely something under there. And whatever it is, it isn't good.

15: District 9 Male. Killed by Angelo Veroge.
14: Sylvain Fournier, District 2. Killed by Angelo Veroge.

A/N: Darkside by grandson.

Not normally one to do eulogies for fillers (apparent reasons) but I'd like to give a small one for Sylvain, who admittedly I made purely to be a plot device for Ardelis' development. But man, the relationship the two of you built up… was way more meaningful than I'd intended for it to be, and you sort of stepped into the role of surrogate for Ardelis' brother the longer that connection persevered. RIP.

And then there were thirteen… y'all know what that means. Apologies in advance to those of you about to lose your children over the next few chapters. I love them all. Each of these tributes has come to be very important to me as a writer, and to be honest, if I could keep all of them alive I would. But such is the price of writing in THG fandom…

Question of the chapter: Who do you see being the first to fall and why?

Additionally, there's a new poll on my profile asking about the first death prediction as well... sans room for elaboration of course. Would love it if y'all could go vote!