day five, part one: what i am

Awake and breathing, we halt and catch fire; timing's never what the soul desires.

It takes all the strength left in Maddy's body not to collapse once the anthem ends.

They're dead. Both of them.

… how?! It's only been… it hasn't even been a day, how could they...

She'd found it jarring to see their faces again, nothing more than holographic images projected onto the worn drywall of the room that she'd settled into for the night. It had been discomforting; unsettling, even, to the point where Maddy's gut was churning and sweat beaded along the back of her neck. Kahlan's image forced a sense of malaise to take hold of her. Celesto's almost made her keel forward and scream, bile swarming her mouth and disturbing the soft flesh of her esophagus and throat. But she'd stayed stoic, and placid; unmoving, even though her hands were aching to tear something apart and the restlessness that had mounted in her body urged her to lash out with frustration. She wanted to let herself go, wanted rage against the world around her in a way she hadn't since the Underground dissolved nearly a year before, their movement decimated on the same day that she'd lost Helen to a squadron of peacekeepers.

It's your fault that they're dead, Maddy tells herself. Just like everyone else; they tried to help you, they paid the price for it… and what did you do? Where were you, when death decided to come for them, in whatever form it chose to take? Running, like a coward. Abandoning someone good… someone compassionate, good-hearted, loyal… someone valiant… without even a second thought. Celesto saved me, and he trusted me, and now he's dead.

I could have stopped it, I could have prevented it! If I had just been there, maybe he'd still be alive. Maybe both of them would be alive.

Mom, Helen, Elowyn, Celesto…

Everybody who cares about me ends up dying. Every single person who's shown me kindness… who's stuck their neck out for me… who's put in the effort to try and know me, to try and help me… every. single. one of them. gets hurt. I hurt people. Because I'm weak. I'm cursed. I'm a liability, and I always have been. I let my shields down, and it's the people around me who pay for it.

I can't let it happen again.

She clenches her teeth, genuine tears spilling down her cheeks as she leans sideways against the wall, resting her head on the cool plaster.

Helping Elowyn was a mistake. Letting Celesto reach out to me… letting him try to help me… was a poor decision. On my part, not his. I didn't have the strength to let her die. I didn't have the strength to push him away completely.

From here on out, that has to change. No friends. No allies. No acquiescing to talk, no accepting help. There's eight tributes left, and seven of them will have to die for me to make it back to Dad.

… I need to patch things up with him. I need to do better. To be better.

When I get back to Ten, I'm going to change things.

And if Helen truly is alive… if I haven't lost her…

I'll do what I can to get her back. I owe her my life. I owe Elowyn, Celesto, Mom… so many people, so many fucking people…

I can't just give up again. I can't let their memories die with me.

Maddy's eyes are still affixed to the now blank expanse of wall where the faces had been projected mere moments earlier. Her eyelids flutter. She closes them, inhales slowly, and let's her breath out, willing the tears to stop leaking from her eyes.

"I'll make it out for you," she whispers, thinking of Celesto's bright red hair and nervous, soft-hearted smile, of Elowyn's wicked grin and childlike idealism, how both of them have shaped her so much in such a small amount of time, coaxing her from her reclusiveness and imbuing her with hope she'd thought to be long lost. If anyone deserved to get out of the arena alive, it would've been one of them. Not her - still not her, not given her history, the choices she's made, who she is. But somebody needs to make sure they aren't forgotten.

And by whatever strength I have left, I won't let the world forget you. Either of you.

Her eyes close. For a moment, Maddy allows herself to exist in the space of her own body; as Maddy Aldrich, not a tribute in the Hunger Games, not even a body in the arena. Her cheek remains flush against the chilled drywall beside her head as she begins to take steady, deep breaths, one after the other, her eyes remaining closed, her body unmoving. She can feel a sense of calm flooding her nerves; quelling the tension that existed previously, her anxieties, her rage, her raw despair. And in that lasting moment of calm, Maddy allows her weakness to claim her, her strength to reshape her. All of her memories, her hopes for the future, her dreams of the past… everything melts away, exiting her body with her next breath. She wraps her arms around her body, hugging herself even as her spine straightens and her shoulders grow tight, the back of her neck aching uncomfortably, her hair falling across her face as she lingers in the silent.

And then, at last, she opens her eyes.

It's dark out; the shadows in their hideout offset all the more by the dim glow of the streetlamps that illuminated the underground tunnel which used to be a part of Ten's railway. Though their furnishings are paltry and their surroundings glum, Maddy has no qualms about sleeping here; remaining in this place of budding hope buried under the rest of her home District, the same hope that has been keeping her sane for the last ten years.

Hope that things will change. That the Capitol will see justice. That she will see justice, for her mother's sake, if not her own.

Helen's arm wraps around her back, and Maddy instinctively relaxes into her lover's touch, her tension easing beneath Helen's warm hands, the soothing breath cast against her ear, the chin resting on her shoulder.

"Sorry," she kisses Maddy's neck gently, brushing her hair to the side, away from her shoulder. "It's not much to look at yet."

"It will be," Maddy says, her hand finding one of Helen's, twining their fingers together as she keeps it close to her side, longing for the embrace even as it frightens her. She hasn't been held, truly held, for such a long time. Not since after her mother passed. Not since the day she'd seen the peacekeepers wheel her away from the whipping post on a cart, no care for the condition of her corpse, no care for her innocence or the pain of her family. To them, Sylvia Aldrich was a rebel, and a rebel who got what she deserved… not a person. Not a mother.

"I miss her," Maddy says. Helen kisses her shoulder this time, still soft, still gentle. She's always so gentle; Maddy didn't quite believe it at first, the kindness that lay beneath the girl's gritty and defiant exterior, but she'd come to realize that Helen didn't exactly show it to just anyone. You had to earn softness from her, had to work for it.

"I know," Helen whispers back as Maddy turns her head to the side, their gazes meeting. She smiles, letting go of Maddy's hand and reaching up to cup her face instead, rubbing her thumb along the line of her cheekbone.

"She'd be proud of you for fighting. Just like I am. We're so close, Maddy, I can practically taste it. This is how change starts."

"A pair of sixteen year old girls in a sewer?" Maddy asks, and Helen just laughs, kissing her again, coaxing her mouth open, her tongue teasing along Maddy's lower lip as she wraps arms tight around her, pulling her to her chest.

"No," she says when she draws back, still grinning. "With hope. With kindness. With courage."

"With passion."

Maddy eases herself away from the wall, blinking rapidly as she tries to reaccustom herself to the splendor of the arena, its imposing aura made all the more intense by the contrast of light and dark that hangs over every room, every corridor, every balcony.

I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to get you back.

And I won't let the Capitol stand in my way.

"Well, this is awkward."

Madigan stands with her back braced against the door leading down into the cellblock, one arm at her side and the other outstretched to prevent Kellie from stepping forward, a knife leveled at her throat. Yet despite the seemingly imminent threat of death that the blade near her neck signals, her attention is focused solely on the pair of tributes standing in front of her, one with a 6 stitched into the sleeve of their uniform, the other with a 5.

They're working together, she thinks somewhat wryly, unable to disguise the shock that she's certain is written across her face as she levels Scrim with a glare, one that quickly dissipates into a smirk as they take a step back, tucking their knife back into their uniform and adjusting one of three bags on their back, only slightly outdoing the two that Calvin's got for himself.

"Fancy meeting you here," her district partner pipes up with a shit-eating grin. "Miss me?"

"You aren't dead," Madigan addressed them bluntly, bypassing their attempt at making fun. She shakes her head, nearly chuckling, and Scrim braces a hand to their chest, feigning offence at the remark.

"Why, Mads, you sound almost disappointed. Didn't think I'd go out that easily, did ya?"

Madigan does chuckle then, finding it easy to settle back into banter with them even after the five days that have passed since they'd last had a chance to interact. She knew they weren't dead - the death toll projected on the walls every evening was testament enough to that - but she hadn't seen much point in trying to riddle out where either her district partner or her former ally had been, what they'd gotten up to. Their paths hadn't crossed, and she'd started to suspect that they might not, even with the dwindling numbers. She looks them over, her eyes appraising as she takes in Scrim's bedraggled appearance, their missing shoes, their dirty skin. They'd never exactly been concerned with their appearance to begin with, but even their appearance at the reaping had been better than the disarray they've fallen into now.

She shakes her head again, finally deigning to speak. "Not disappointed, just surprised."

"'Surprised?'" Scrim echoes, wiggling their brows.

"Yeah." Madigan grins. "Don't know if you wizened up or just got lucky. Though I'd be willing to bet money it's the latter."

"Hey, hey! I'll have you know, Smarty Scrim took over for a full day. We been on our A-game," Scrim wraps their arm around Cal's shoulders, pulling the Five boy into a half-hug to flaunt their supposed 'solidarity.' They give her a cheeky wink and Madigan debates the pros and cons of facepalming, exasperated by their antics as much as she's amused with them. "Can you two say the same?"

"Wouldn't be here if we couldn't," Kellie pipes up with a shrug. Madigan inclines her head in agreement, but doesn't shift her focus, her watch fixated solely on her district partner. She only turns her head when Cal moves, the Five boy shrugging off Scrim's arm with a huff and rolling his eyes.

"How'd you get roped into working with this scoundrel?" Madigan asks her former ally, redirecting her attention to him. Cal sighs.

"It's a long story."

"Got time," Kellie replies, her words blithe. "'Sides, y'all wouldn't believe some of the stuff we've heard the last couple days. 'pparently there was some huge mutt attack upstairs that totally wrecked part of the arena. Never saw it, buuuut..."

She trails off, eyes twinkling. Cal looks to Scrim, and they bite their lip, something obviously weighing on their mind even though they don't bother elaborating.

Madigan raises a brow, and Scrim just waves her off, shaking their head. From at his side, Cal sighs, crossing his arms as he sizes them both up. His eyes finally fall on Kellie and a frown turns his lips downward, his ever-typical squint returning.

"Sorry about Virian," he tells her, and it's clear from his words that he means it. He looks to Madigan next. "And I'm sorry for taking off during the bloodbath. I just didn't see any way to -"

"It's fine," Madigan cuts him off with a shrug. "You were just looking out for yourself. Can't fault you for it."

"Right," Cal replies, and Madigan can sense that he hadn't expected her to take the incident so well. But she means what she said; she'd considered ducking out, herself - probably would've, if it weren't for the miracle of Virian's sacrifice.

She nods at their bags instead.

"So what's the deal? Spill."

"Secrets'll cost you," Scrim snickers as Cal shifts, shifting one of their packs again as they bounce from one foot to the other.

"Please," Madigan snarks back, "you're practically dancing in excitement. Don't you want to brag about your exploits?"

"Ugh, you caught me. I can't resist a good brag now and then," they laugh, then clear their throat with a little cough, nudging Cal. "You wanna do the honors?"

Cal's exasperation can't fully overtake the pride in his eyes as he states, simply: "We raided the cornucopia."

"You what?" Kellie questions, her mouth falling open just a bit. Scrim's cheer has reached manic levels.

"You heard the kid, Three! Me and my buddy Calvin Kelvin snatched up all the Careers' fun little supplies while they were twiddling their thumbs. Dunno who's even left, but they've gotta be pissed."

"Shit," Madigan snorts. "I'd love to see their faces when they realize."

She glances back to the cellblock, warring with herself mentally. Even if the two tributes standing in front of her were practically her allies back in the Capitol, there's only eight tributes left standing in the arena. She and Kellie make two, Scrim and Cal make four. They don't have the ability to get comfortable with each other… shouldn't be getting comfortable with each other, when it comes right down to it, because they'll have to fight sooner rather than later.

But…

"You gonna stick around," Madigan starts, "or you got plans to take off and leave me again?"

The question's addressed to Cal as much as it is to Scrim, but ultimately it's her district partner that answers, shrugging their shoulders up and down playfully, nearly vibrating with their giddy-crazy energy.

"Knew you missed me," they step forward and clap her on the shoulder, inclining their head to the door Madigan had only just exited. "C'mon, let's catch up."

"Scrim," Cal warns, but they wave their hand at him, as if urging him not to kill the moment. Cal sighs, and trudges forward, smiling at Kellie as he passes her.

"It is good to see you again," he says. Kellie grins.

"Yeah, you too."

Scrim nudges Madigan forward, making her choice - reprieve rather than fight - for her.

"Tomorrow," they say, entirely serious for once. "We can duke it out tomorrow. But for now…"

A pause. Madigan turns her head, curious.

"For now," she picks up where they left off. "It's just nice to see a friendly face… even if it's yours."

"What do you think it feels like?" Angelo muses, his body stiff even as he stretches out along the length of the wooden court bench, back stinging as the fabric of his shirt brushes against the edges of the gash in his back, pain rushing through him. He can't bring his mind to focus… or his body, for that matter. Standing, sitting, talking, staying silent… whatever he does, his discomfort remains, a constant in a place where there are few stable variables. He's tried to stifle his wincing; tried to keep his pain to himself, but Ambrosia isn't having any of it. She's keen, alert, discerning - same as Angelo himself. She's got eyes that are able to pick up on details that others miss, ever watchful, practically omniscient.

He wonders why he'd never noticed it before, back in One; why he'd never noticed her, an outsider amongst the other trainees, athletic but never so much as to stand out, diligent, but only as much as he'd been himself. Perhaps, he thinks, Ambrosia didn't care to be noticed, didn't care for attention; she's diplomatic, yes, and far more sociable than he is, but she's also secretive, closed off, her walls built so high that they're impossible to surpass without her granting permission. And he thinks he understands it, a bit, why she hides so much of herself, why she's so determined not to let herself be vulnerable, when vulnerability can be a thing that kills… it's never easy to cede control over one's situation, and Angelo thinks Ambrosia's been made to do so anyway, one too many times for her own comfort.

"'It?'" Ambrosia replies, a trace of confusion in her otherwise level tone. Angelo rests his hands atop his stomach, his gaze flitting about the courtroom ceiling, tracing the shape of angles, contours and arcs within his mind, so many times that the blueprint of the space might as well have been burned onto his retinas. He closes his eyes and the image remains, pulsing red like the pain in his head, and his vision's so dull it's giving way to bits of static, his thoughts dancing about in an unending flurry. The throbbing starts again along his crown, moving through his temple down the bridge of his nose and into his teeth as they grind against each other. He snaps his eyes open once more, too tired to search for his district partner's form amidst the sprawling courtroom, but not too tired to elaborate upon his question.

"Dying," he says softly. "What do you think it feels like to die?"

Silence. It stretches out, the words hanging in the air between Angelo and Ambrosia with a solidness that's dense enough to physically seem present. He can't see Ambrosia's face, but he can hear her breathing, steady and metered, no hitch in her voice when she clears her throat and starts to answer.

"Cold," Ambrosia says. "... desolate."

"Akin to winter," Angelo muses. "Stifling, yet freeing at the same time… perhaps painful, perhaps not." He wets his lips. "Do you suppose you notice the pain, really? Or does it just… fade? Is it peaceful? Would you even notice it was happening before you're gone?"

"I don't know," Ambrosia's tone is solemn. "I'm not sure anyone does."

"A fair assessment…" Angelo's mouth shapes around the words, but there's a ringing in his ears as he tries to sit up, and whatever sound the syllables produce never seems to vocalize. He eases himself up, using an arm to steady himself against the banister as he makes his way down the aisle between the seats to stand in front of the cornucopia, looking it over as if in a trance. He turns to slip past it, hand still outstretched, working forward as his palm slides against the wood-and-metal exterior of the structure, his feet continuing onward without pause until he reaches the space before the judge's seat, looking out over the courtroom from a high perch.

It's symbolic, in a way; the divide between court, council and audience, the power dynamics that are set into the room's layout as much as the order the space is meant to symbolize. Even though the seats are empty, Angelo can't help but feel scrutinized as he stands before the assembly of seats, gazing up at the unattainable position of the judge's chair, then the witness' seat to his right, only a short distance away. He wanders toward it, outstretching his fingers to touch the wood, feeling more drawn to the structure than he has any right or reason to be.

There's a serene quality to this place, he considers, when it's not overrun by people. When it isn't so… chaotic. So messy. So disorderly.

"It's actually quite beautiful," he muses again, examining the woodwork of the witness' box, the emblem of a pair of scales carved into the smooth oak. "The arena, that is. So much detail put into this room… I find it emblematic, actually, in a sense." He blinks, then, as if coming back to himself. "Forgive me, I'm not sure where my head is."

"If it's attached, we're fine," Ambrosia says. "There's no harm in rambling a bit."

There is, actually. More than you know.

"It's… unbecoming," Angelo responds instead, blinking rapidly as his head begins to pound. I'm unbecoming. "No logic in it."

"You don't need to be logical all the time, Angelo," Ambrosia chides him, a sadness clinging to her words. "It's alright to say what's on your mind."

"Pardon me, but I object," he replies, and Ambrosia laughs.

"Was the legal joke intentional?"

"Not particularly," Angelo rolls his eyes, but acquiesces to her good humor. At least she still has the mind to be sporting. He hadn't been sure after the Eight boy… after her kill.

Hers, not mine, he reminds himself, as his throat closes up and his hands start to feel clammy. We're both killers now, but Eight wasn't my fault. His death is not on my hands. The other two… the other two. Yes, that was me… two days back, two bodies… how has it only been two days?

How are we down to just eight remaining tributes?

Seven others left. Seven more lives that will need to end, if Angelo intends to make it back to One. Ambrosia happens to be one of them.

He wonders, not for the first time, if it would be safer for them to part ways now, be it either a separation on friendly terms or an attempt to break things off with combat. There's only so long that the two of them can remain together before their circumstances fully unravel, and admittedly, Angelo isn't particularly eager to see their alliance come undone. He doesn't have any desire to kill Ambrosia… and after everything that she's done for him, done with him, helping him heal and rest, talking him through his thoughts, allowing him to be weak without berating him for it, without chastising him… he isn't certain he can kill her.

All things must end eventually.

Angelo's body sags a little against the barrier beside him, and he doesn't even bother trying to keep himself upright. Momentum takes him to his side, and he clings to the wood of the witness box with his face flushed, his vision cloudy, the whole of his body screaming. He doesn't think it's the pain that's hitting him this time, or at least not pain of a physical sort. It's reality; after everything that he's done to get here, all his training, all his vigor, all his valor, all his voracity, he's starting to think that he might not make it out after all. And even if he does make it out - even if he returns home a wounded, unstable mess, rather than a body in a coffin - he won't be the same, not really. He won't be a victor, and he won't be a hero. He'll be a murderer mourning the loss of a girl who's come closer to being his friend than anyone has in years.

And that's not what he wants for himself.

It's not what he wants for her, either.

But it's how it must be; I entered the Games for a reason.

… although I'm not certain I remember what that reason was, anymore.

Kellie hasn't been able to purge the thought from her mind - the idea of death, of killing, of surviving. Not since she and Madigan ran back into Cal in the hallway that afternoon; not since the four of them decided to play it casual and slipped off to the cells to try and sleep, happy enough to let the murder talk wait 'til morning. And it ain't a bad thing - really, it's not. Kellie's pleased as punch to have Cal back, and she's equally pleased that she didn't have to fight him… or Madigan's district partner, who's so scrappy and manic she trusts 'em about as far as she can throw 'em. Which is to say: not one bit. But Mads seemed happy to see them, and Kellie was happy to see Madigan happy, so she just… let it slide.

She's let all of it slide. The regrouping. The divvying up of supplies, which really did more for her and Madigan than it did Cal and Scrim. She shouldn't be upset. Shouldn't be uneasy, there's no reason to be, but it's the final eight and so Kellie's here freakin' out anyway, because as much as she wants them around - as much as she wants Cal and Madigan and, fine, Scrim too, to be her allies, her friends, her compatriots, and not her enemies… Kellie knows her wishful thinking is just wishful thinking. Because when there's only seven kids left 'sides herand she's been sitting around with three of them…

They gotta die. They gotta die if I wanna live.

Only eight of us left. Half of us in this room. Me, and Cal, and Mads, and Scrim.

Four of eight. May be bad at math, but that ain't a minority. Not no more.

She bites her lip, rolling it between her teeth. As usual, she's got all sorts of thought roiling in her head, nonstop and heavy, just constant constant constant.

You know what you gotta do.

They're my allies.

They're my competition.

They're friends.

They're threats.

You know what you gotta do, Kellie, you or them, 's you or them.

I can't. I can't - I don't wanna think about it, I don't, I can't, they're not threats yet, they ain't, we got time, I got time, I…

… I'm running out of time.

She sits up in her bunk, her hair messy around her face, the ultra-thin, scratchy blanket she'd pulled around her body sliding away from her shoulders and falling across her lap. Kellie blinks, turning to look at Madigan, then turning to look at the cell bars.

Cal and Scrim are right across the hall.

And they're armed. They got knives. Kellie saw 'em, when they'd been gettin' cosy and exchangin' stories earlier. Madigan had given her a look when she'd tried to say something about it, and Kellie shut her mouth because if there's one thing she's getting better at in the Games it's keeping stuff to herself.

Even when she really doesn't wanna. Even when it's the sorta stuff that just gets her. Like Scrim and Cal bein' armed while we aren't. Like them acting all buddy-buddy when they've only been with each other four days, if that. That's bad. They're bad. For me, for Madigan.

… for victory.

Kellie pushes away from the bed and gets to her feet.

Gotta walk. Clear my head a li'l. Maybe morning'll be better.

… maybe they'll be gone.

Her brow creases. She's not used to having such dark thoughts… not used to having impulses like the ones that are tripping her up now, telling her not to run but to kill, to act now while she has a chance and while they can't put up a fight. Even as Kellie rounds the open cell door and makes her way into the long aisle dividing the block in half, she can't help but cast her eyes over toward each of her present allies, contemplating their presence in silence.

Maybe I ought to go. Maybe it'd be better for me to go… right here, right now, when ain't nobody gonna see me or stop me.

… Madigan.

Kellie's feet pad softly over the ground as she approaches the warden's desk, reaching down to let her fingers trail along the metal surface as she walks past it, head raising to consider the metal door just a few meters from where she's standing.

I don't wanna leave Mads.

It's been nice to just have someone… a friend, a sister, a stable, real person that listens to her and cares about her and doesn't mind her jokin' around or bein' a little offbeat sometimes. Madigan's the sort of person older Kellie woulda liked, too; a real one, even in the arena. Trustworthy. Brave. Like a knight outta one of those fantasy books.

… but I can't just stick by her side and hope she protects me like Virian did. I gotta make moves for myself here - and I can. I can do this.

I've held on this long, haven't I?

Kellie steels herself and heads toward the door.

Her fingers clasp around the handle, pull on it to try and swing it open. She winces a bit, expecting the hinges to squeal, but they don't - in fact, there isn't any sound coming from the door at all because it's stuck right in the same position it was before, fixed in place, not even budgin' as she puts her other hand on the handle and uses her whole body to tug on it.

Open. Open, open, open! C'mon, it's not that hard, you got this, needs a little arm grease but I can do it, c'mon, door, just move! Move already! MOVE!

… no dice. Period. Thing's sealed up, completely immovable, completely impassable.

Kellie's face heats, and her hands clench into fists when she steps back, sizing the exit up.

They closed it on us, she realizes with horror, not so oblivious that she can't put two and two together. They locked us in.

… they did it cuz they know exactly what we do, that we're four of eight and all mixed up together. Half the tribs, so we can't all just go our separate ways without a scuffle.

Kellie's eyes start to water as she takes another step back, recognizing the futility of her situation.

I gotta do it. I gotta… I don't have a choice now.

She sniffles, reaching an arm up to brace across her mouth, wanting to muffle the little whimper that comes out of it. Her eyes fall to the floor, gears in her mind turning quick as she tries to decide what comes next.

Ping!

…

Her eyes raise to the ceiling. There's a little gap in the vent high up on the wall, as a metal box slides loose from the chute beyond it, the cloth parachute attached to it snagging on one of the screws and keeping it from clattering to the floor.

Kellie blinks.

She knows what that is. Well, sorta. She's heard enough 'bout the Games to know about sponsors and whatnot, even if she never really expected to get one.

She stands on her tiptoes. Her fingers brush the edge of the box, not enough to do more than shift it. Kellie's teeth clench in frustration.

Couldn't make it easy on me, huh?

She glances back toward the other cells, looking for a sign of movement. There is none.

Kellie jumps.

Her hands catch hold of the box and she tugs, ripping it straight off the parachute and stumbling as her feet hit the floor again, too loud in the otherwise silent cellblock. But she's got the gift - has the box pressed to her chest, and she's hugging it close, shielding it with her body despite not knowing what's inside. Kellie blinks, coming back to herself, and pulls it away from her body, crouching as she places the box on the floor and starts to unscrew the cap, distracting herself by wondering about the contents.

Food? A knife? … a book to read, maybe a harmonica, some sorta fun game to get me through bein' stuck in a prison? Literally anything more than what I got now, I dunno. A train ticket back to Three? Please?

Her eyes widen when she reaches inside and holds up a single, small, square object, the patterning on the outside leaving no question as to exactly what the gift is meant to be used for.

They want me to…

Kellie can feel the tears wanting to come again, but this time she just pushes 'em down, swallowing her apprehension. There's a note wrapped around the little booklet and she unfolds it, eyes scanning the single sentence printed on the white paper.

You know what you need to do.

Kellie's hand wavers as she looks down at her gift and allows the note to fall to the ground beside the box. Don't think, just act, she tells herself. Simple.

(Except it ain't.)

She rises to her feet, leaving the metal box on the floor. Turning on her heel, she begins to walk back toward the other cells, her head held high and her shoulders squared, trying to keep her body determined even if her mind doesn't wanna cooperate with the plan that's been laid out for her. She stops a ways off, turning to head into one of the cells, grabbing the blankets and sheets off one bed, then doing the same for the next. It's not ideal - and the springs on the mattress are squeaking as she tries to undo the coverings tucked around them - but she doesn't have time to hesitate. It's now or never.

Don't think, just act. Don't think, just act.

She drags the blankets and sheets out into the hall, laying them out on the floor and kicking them a bit so the fabric isn't so bunched up. Then she moves into the next cell and starts to do the same, untucking the bedclothes from the mattresses, pulling them out the door and tossing them into the hallway.

A voice breaks the silence.

"Kellie, what are you doing?"

Madigan.

Kellie's lip trembles, but she doesn't speak. She just goes into the third cell on the left, pulls loose the blankets and sheets from the beds, hauls them up in her arms and throws them onto the dirt covered floor, her body running on autopilot and her mind too nervous to catch up with it.

"Kellie," Madigan says again. But Kellie doesn't look at her. Can't look at her, because now Cal and Scrim are talking too, their voices clear from behind the wall of a cell she can't see into, already getting worked up.

"Mads, what gives?"

"Where's Kellie?"

Kellie pulls back the cover of her matchbook, removing a match from the little pocket inside. She strikes it against the edge, and a flame flickers to life, sparking in the darkness and lighting the space around her with an unnatural orange.

Madigan's eyes widen.

"Kellie, don't. Not like this - we agreed that…"

"We agreed to wait 'til tomorrow," Kellie says. "But the doors're locked. It's just the four of us down here, and it's me or you, Mads."

Her expression is sympathetic, even seemingly haunted as she holds the lit match out over the sheets, the flame burning down the wood.

"I choose me."

No confirmed deaths.

A/N: what i am by Crown The Empire.

Sorry to leave you with such a cliffhanger… or, well, I'm not really sorry. Good for suspense, you know. Thanks to twistedservice for looking over this chapter - you're awesome!

As always, I appreciate all the wonderful feedback readers have given to me. It means a lot!