day five: backfire

They backfire, all these choices you're scared to make; so duck your head and run for cover, cross that bridge and just move on...
(Save myself but lose another, all my innocence is gone.)

From behind the cover of tall, rusted metal bars, Cal can make out Kellie's face half-cast in the light of a dull flame as she holds a match up in front of her face. He can see Madigan, with her hands raised and her hair a messy black halo around her head, her lips moving rapidly as she tries to calm Kellie down, murmuring words like we can talk about this, and just wait, Kellie, come on, you don't want to do this.

Cal wants to speak up, too; wishes he could, but his words are dead in his throat, and his mind has kicked into overdrive, trying to calculate the distance from their cell to each of the jail's exits, the trajectory of the flame that'll grow as soon as Kellie drops that bloody lit match, the positions of each of his not-exactly-allies and how much risk they pose. It's almost too much to keep track of, almost too much to work out; and as Kellie says in a stoic, almost unrecognizable voice, "It's me or you, Mads. I choose me," Cal's body seems to freeze, caught somewhere between panic, shock and horror as the Three girl drops the match, letting the brightly-burning flame spiral toward the floor, completely beyond anyone's control.

Cal decides, in that moment, that he can't bother to keep thinking. He can't afford to keep thinking. The time for action is fast approaching, and with Madigan, Scrim and Kellie all shouting at each other in the din of the cellblock, he's in a prime position to take advantage of their idleness.

The sheets at Kellie's feet catch fire, just as Cal ducks beneath Scrim's arm, leaping over the sheets closest to their door. He draws one of the knives Scrim had given him out from the waistband of his uniform, the blade glinting with firelight as it's unsheathed.

Kellie's eyes widen. The world seems to come to a stop, everything happening in slow motion.

"Cal," he can hear her saying, but the words are taking an eternity to reach his ears. He grips the knife, his boots scraping across the floor as he starts to run, and Kellie takes a step back, stumbling over her own feet. "Cal, don't, please, I didn't wanna, I -"

But Cal's already on her, knocking her to the floor and out of the path of the flame, urgency overriding his senses. It doesn't matter what she says, what she did or didn't want, no, because the fire's growing and the smoke's getting thick and he can't breathe, the air's stifling, he feels like he's choking, but she took advantage of our vulnerability and it's only fair that he does the same, now, while he still can -

"Cal!" Madigan shouts from behind him as he jabs the knife into Kellie's chest, just a quick motion, in and out. Kellie's knee finds his groin and she jams it upward and Cal yelps, curling in on himself a bit in pain, but he's not going to let her get away, not now, he can't. Former ally or not, Kellie's done something unprecedented and actions have consequences, I can't let her get away, even if we both make it out she'll only try to kill me again. She can't get that chance, I won't give her that chance.

Kellie's crying, rolling onto her stomach, trying to drag herself away. There's blood spilling over the stone and something smells like it's singed, but Cal can't pay it any mind, doesn't wanna pay it any mind, he crawls atop Kellie's struggling form to try and finish the job, reaching around her body and fumbling for the hilt of the knife that's still stuck in her torso. All the while Kellie's trying to hunch in on herself, bucking her shoulders and flailing her elbows as she tries to shake him off, still screaming "You can't, you can't, you can't!"

I can, Cal thinks. I have to. I don't want to, but I have to.

He drops back, giving Kellie the momentum to straighten herself up. She's got her knees back under her, is trying to stand to her feet, her hands clutching at the knife hilted inside her, trying to keep it in even as blood soaks through her uniform and spatter from the stabbing drips onto the floor. Cal can feel a pair of hands on his arms, trying to pull him up, or pull him back, he doesn't know, he can't even see who it is. He just knows that Kellie's turning, and the look in her eyes is full of resentment.

"Kellie," he says to her, not knowing why. To apologize? To explain himself? There's no reason to do either, not now. Kellie started this, and he was trying to end it, but now he can't think and the haze in the air is too much, the flames around them starting to spiral into chaos. He's back on his feet, and - Madigan, it's Madigan, is spitting at Kellie. Her hands relinquish their grasp on Cal's arms and he slumps sideways against too-hot cell bars as Madigan rushes past him, practically shoving him out of the way while she charges at Kellie without any trace of caution.

"You choose you, but it works both ways," she snaps. "I choose me!"

Madigan's arms catch Kellie around the waist, hauling the Three girl backwards, her hand fumbling around until it hooks about the hilt of Cal's knife, and she yanks, ripping the blade out of her chest as Kellie's legs flail and she starts to thrash again.

"No, Madigan, no, I won't let you, I won't let you, let me go let me go let me go!"

Kellie knocks her head back into Madigan's face, overly forceful, and her fist catches the Six girl's side as she twists out of her grip, spinning about and shoving outward with all the force she has in her body. A knife sails through the air, and Cal hauls himself up, blinking rapidly to try and figure out where it came from…

Scrim. Scrim's still here, they're still… Madigan's still…

"AGH - DAMMIT! NO!"

A curse of pain echoes through the walls, accompanied by an agonized shout.

But it doesn't belong to Kellie.

It belongs to Madigan.

The knife - Scrim's knife - is half stuck in her back, and her arm's twisting behind her body, trying to reach up and feel at it, loosening her grip from Kellie's body. She's only distracted for a few seconds. Only unfocused for a few seconds, but it's enough for Kellie to turn the tables, two open palms catching Madigan in the stomach when she spins around.

And suddenly, there's a flare of brightness at the centerpoint of Cal's vision as Madigan's body is engulfed in flames.

"Madigan!" Scrim yells, starting to move, their footsteps drawing closer until Cal can make out their form in the thick smoke near his side. He reaches out to grab their arm, hauling them back as Kellie drops to her knees on the floor, blood gushing out of the now-open wound beneath her sternum. He watches as the fire takes Madigan's body completely, her shouting growing more panicked as she throws herself on top of Kellie, a blazing mess of agonized cries.

There's a clang from the back of the cellblock, and even though Cal doesn't know what it signals, even though he can't be sure whether it's the result of the fire, whether the room's started to come down around them, whether Madigan and Kellie are stable enough to keep moving and come after him, he tugs on Scrim's wrist and moves toward it anyway. There's a sudden heat against his leg - searing, not just hot like the rest of his body is, and his skin is tingling and then there's just pain, white hot pain, and he's clinging to Scrim, pushing at their back, telling them to move, move, come on, we have to go.

"I killed her," they mumble, and Cal just shakes his head, coughing as his esophagus starts to burn too, too lightheaded to really think.

"Go," he chokes out. "We… we have to…"

He breaks off in a series of coughs, slumping partially against Scrim's side. They both pitch toward the floor, and Scrim's still talking, but they sound distant, far away… almost unrecognizable.

"No cannon, no cannon, we could get her out, she's not gone -"

"We have to go!" Cal forces himself to say, but all he can see is fire, everywhere he turns. He reaches for one of the cell bars, righting himself again, moving sluggishly toward the cell at the end of the aisle, past the thickness of the smoke, so dark it's almost hidden.

The door's open. He blinks, teary-eyed, trying to see what lies beyond it - where the noise came from - but his vision's fuzzy. He starts to drop. It hurts. Breathing hurts… and he's so hot, too hot, he feels like he's suffocating, can't move, can only feel the heat and the pain and the…

Bang!

An arm wraps around his back as the cannon booms, and Cal welcomes it, his legs twisting under his body, hardly working. The door's getting closer, and with it… air. He can't tell where it's coming from… can't see, but he's feeling around, and there's…

"Scrim?"

"Don't," the Six tribute mumbles, and then there's screeching metal, the sound of iron scraping over stone as Scrim pulls a grate away from the wall and all but pushes Cal into it, climbing in behind him, the both of them scrambling forward into the hidden chute.

He can't see, can't hear, can't think… all he can really seem to do is feel, but he's cognizant enough to know he needs to move, has to try and leave, however he can, he can't stop moving. Another cannon sounds, but he's already inside the open chute, coughing and hacking up a storm as his lungs tingle and burn under his skin. His hands use the smooth metal surrounding him as a guide, helping him to push his body along, out of the cellblock, away from the fire, away from… Madigan, Kellie, their supplies, the terror and the panic and the frustration of it all, why'd she do it, why now, why not wait, why'd she have to…

He knows why. Kellie even told him. I choose me, she said, and Cal gets it, because he'd done the same, or at least tried to, and he's doing the same now. Because the truth of the matter is that as much as he liked Kellie and Madigan, as much as he'd wanted to help them out, wanted them to live, wanted them to be alright, this is the Hunger Games. They're dead, and it's better that way. Better for me, not for them. But they chose themselves and I'm choosing myself… and Scrim, don't know what they're gonna do once we're out, but at least we're out, at least we didn't burn, at least we didn't choke on the smoke and die in that room with no way out.

At least we're alive.

I'm alive.

And I'm the only one that matters, now. Me first. Me. It has to be me.

The metal grate gives way with a shudder as Cal and Scrim, covered in a mess of dirt and soot, uniforms scorched and lungs afire, force their way through the wall's paneling into what seems to be another courtroom. Cal's the first to pull himself out, gasping for breath, his nails scrabbling for a hold on the wood of the walls at his side as he hauls himself out of the suffocating hole, vent around them still reeking of smoke. He collapses on the ground, easing himself up on his elbows as Scrim tugs themselves through behind him, their eyes bloodshot and their hands shaking, legs too weak to properly hold themselves up when they fit them through. Their knees hit the floor and then go slack, sliding out from beneath their body as they wheeze and pant, body desperate for air.

"I'm sorry…" Cal tries, but it's clear he can scarcely manage the words with how damaged his throat probably is. "A-about - Mad… Madigan… I just…" His speech devolves into a bout of coughing, so loud it sounds like he's about to hack up a lung. Scrim reaches an arm out and smacks Cal's back inelegantly. They grab hold of a nearby railing, forcing themselves up from the ground and back onto their feet, though their legs are shaking and their muscles feel atrophied. Even the effort of standing is difficult.

"C'mon. We… go... gotta go…"

"I didn't… mean for -"

"It's fine, Cal, just shut up!" Scrim shouts, only just managing to get their legs to work before their body pitches forward and they fall half-over the rail they've been using to prop themselves up. Their hand catches against one of the benches as their body nearly folds in two atop the barrier, metal hitting their stomach and knocking the wind from them. They crumple.

"Damn it." Scrim curses. "Damn it all!"

They haul themselves up again, trying to work their way toward the aisle between the benches as the rail takes the weight of their body. Cal seems to have drawn the same conclusion - that the railing is their best support until the haze left behind by the fire diminishes - and Scrim hears the kid stumbling along behind him, his feet dragging.

"We made it out," Cal murmurs, as if trying to remind him. "It'll be fi-"

Scrim stops in their tracks. Cal bumps into their back as they start to laugh.

No. It's not fine. Of course it's not fine. Literally nothing is ever fine. The universe has gone to shit, and now?! Now we're getting the icing on the cake. I mean, what are the odds? We escape a deathtrap and get tossed right into another. The belly of the fucking beast. This is why we can't have nice things!

"Don't." Scrim reiterates sharply, a crazed smile on their face. They edge their elbow back a little to nudge Cal, gesturing with their head to the very much occupied judge's seat at the far end of the aisle.

Cal stiffens. "Spoke too soon, sorry."

"It's fine," Scrim says, even though it's really, really not. They'd expected a lot of things out of the arena - death, destruction, mayhem, losin' their mind and bashing in a few heads. They weren't expecting a fucking Judge. Even worse, the damn thing's got a skull for a face, and is poised like it's planning to hold a bloody trial. Can't just be for kicks, no, the Capitol's playing another game with them for nothing more than the sake of driving Scrim insane. Well, they're already insane, but point stands.

This is getting ridiculous.

They take another step toward the aisle. The judge turns so fast that Scrim has no chance to duck before its gaze finds them.

"Ah, it seems you've finally arrived. Not a moment too soon, either. Please proceed to the defendants' box." From somewhere amongst the benches, voices begin to whisper. The Judge waits for Scrim and Cal to move closer to the aisle before it takes hold of its gavel, banging it against its podium.

"Order! Order in the court!" Its focus turns back to the pair of tributes now directly in its line of sight. "A raucous crowd today, but we do have a trial to get underway. If you would please take your position in the defendants' box, tributes."

Neither Scrim nor Cal move.

The judge sighs dramatically. "Uncooperative. Very well, if that's how you wish to act, we shall proceed. Please state your names for the record."

Scrim turns their body, throws a sideways glance at Cal. The Five boy shakes his head -

Only for the judge to slam their gavel down once more.

"Your names, defendants. Now."

Cal shudders. "Calvin Kelvin."

"District?"

"Er. Five."

The judge looks to Scrim, empty sockets of their eyes demanding acquiescence. Their spine instinctively straightens, head snapping up as their body is held at attention.

"... Scrim Aarifi." They answer, throat raw, voice strained. They sound like an avid chain-smoker, and if they weren't already wheezing they might have laughed. "District Six."

The judge nods. "Excellent, Mister Kelvin, Mister Aarifi. Your compliance is appreciated." And forced, apparently.

"Sure thing," Scrim attempts to jest. The judge pays their comment no mind.

"Do the pair of you intend to plead guilty to the charges levied against you?"

"What?" Scrim asks before they can stop themselves. The outburst prompts another round of coughing from them. Cal casts a glance toward the courtroom exit, which is no longer empty; two skeletons dressed in peacekeeper uniforms have taken up a flanking position in front of the doorway near the back right of the room, near the vent that led back to the burning cellblock.

This is bad. This is really fucking bad.

"Would you like to plead guilty?" The shadowy judge asks once more, skeletal fingers wrapped around the gavel resting atop their podium.

Cal flicks his eyes over to Scrim. Their brow furrows, gut dropping as they wrack their brain for any means of escaping this situation - any means of keeping the mutts at bay, preventing themselves from being judged.

"No," Cal tries, and the judge raises their gavel high, slamming it down against the wood.

"'No' is not an acceptable plea in this court, Mister Kelvin! We, the officiators, have seen your crimes with our own eyes, have already found enough evidence to convict you of murder in the second degree. You will plead guilty, or you will forfeit your right to trial."

"Evidence?" Cal mutters. Scrim puts a hand on his shoulder to keep him in place. They step forward, head high. They don't know what they're doing - well, neither of then really do, but Scrim in particular is willing to admit that they know little of "practical legal matters," beyond the obvious you talk, you're dead and fuck, he's got a gun!

But they've been on the wrong side of the law one too many times to be totally ignorant. They steel themselves and clear their throat.

"I want a lawyer."

"Indeed, Mister Aarifi." The judge motions to the recorder, standing near the door closest to the tributes' position, their hand rapidly jotting down notes. "Let it be noted for the record that the defendant has exercised a right to legal council. Until a lawyer is present, this trial must be adjourned."

Holy shit. That actually worked?

Scrim takes a step forward -

- and is immediately faced with a procession of skeletal mutts entering from a small doorway near the back of the room on their left, moving past the recorder in eerie silence, garbed in the robes of a jury.

"You are not free to leave, defendant," the judge's jaw clicks as they rise to their feet. "Your council will arrive spontaneously. For now, please step forward and present yourself to the jury."

Cal's hand wraps around Scrim's wrist, tugging them back a step.

"Scrim, don't. I have a bad feeling about this."

"Oh, really? You don't say." Their heart flutters, a lump building in their throat, mouth running dry of saliva. They swallow. "I'm open to suggestions, aight? Got anything?"

Cal's brow creased, his eyes squinting. His hand stills as he gives a little nod.

"Yeah, but it might make things worse."

"'Might make it worse' is better than 'just let things play out like the GMs want.' Shoot."

Their ally nods, licking his lips. His voice pitches higher.

"We would like to exercise our right to remain silent until council is present."

"You are already on trial, Mister Kelvin. Should we take your choice to exercise silence as a confession of guilt?"

"No, but -"

"Then let it be noted that you currently cannot exercise your right to silence if your intent is to plead innocent -"

"What exactly are we being tried for?" Scrim shouts. "I'd like to at least know why you're keeping us here when there's four other tributes out there who ain't having their reps shit on in a courtroom."

"You are on trial for second-degree murder, the punishment for which is -"

"Fuck you. It's manslaughter at best. Sitch was kill or be killed, and the Capitol's to blame for that. Your precious lil gamemakers and your precious lil president and whoever the hell else is in charge of these things. Take the feds to court and then we can talk about murder."

"Scrim," Cal warns them again, but Scrim pushes the Five boy away, hard, their hands shaking, tears spilling from their eyes.

"It ain't my choice to be here, it's yours. I didn't wanna kill anyone, you made me do it, and don't you dare tell me otherwise -"

"Councillor," the judge addresses another figure that has emerged from the back door of the room, wearing a tweed suit. "Please remind your client that -"

"Remind me what, that I'm in a fuckin' deathmatch and better watch my mouth? Uh-huh, yeah. Well, I may have the right to remain silent, supposedly at least, but I don't have the ability. Sides, you were all eager for me to talk a minute ago, your honor, so what changed? Huh?"

Cal's expression is frantic now, his eyes wide as he gestures at Scrim to stay quiet. But they can't. Silence isn't in their nature, isn't who they are. They can't back down now. They won't be fucking broken.

(You can go play at being on the straight and narrow, but what we did a couple days ago? That was living. On our terms. And it felt good. It was real. In the middle of all this fake, we did something real. Don't tell me otherwise.)

(If I die, it'll be on my terms. Not yours, scumbag.)

"You killed Mads. Not me. And… not even Kellie. You, and the sadistic toymakers that put you here. So yeah, said my piece. Capitol? You can kiss my ass."

There's silence for a long moment. The judge casts their eyes to the jury, then the recorder. They set their gavel down and rest their hands atop their station, utterly untouchable in their callousness.

"Mister Aarifi seems to have chosen to plead."

"Nah, I ain't pleadin' shit to you."

"But you already did, Mister Aarifi. You've pled guilty to perfidy, treachery, dare I even say treason."

The temperature of the room seems to drop as the judge rises.

"And the punishment for treason is death."

The room seems to grow smaller, walls fading into the background, the only thing in their sight the judge at its podium, the dozens of bony faces with missing eyes fixated on Scrim's position.

Their heart seems to still, the temperature so cold now that they can see their breath in the air before their face.

Death.

Scrim turns to Cal.

"Go."

His ally doesn't waste a second. As soon as the word is uttered, Cal's on his feet, first tripping over them as he tries to find his balance, then back up and running toward the closed door where the recorder's still jotting down notes. His arms swing in a wide arc as he shoves the mutt out of the way, wrestles the door open, and sprints off into the darkness beyond, not sparing a single glance back.

Scrim doesn't have the chance to follow.

As soon as they launch themselves out of the aisle, one of the peacekeeper mutts catches them with a clothesline, baton slamming into the side of their head to disorient them. They can feel their arms being wrenched behind their back, hands bound together by what must be a link of chain, less sharp than cuffs, more textured. Scrim tries to jerk away from the hold, thrashing in their restraints, legs kicking and teeth bared in a snarl, biting at the hand that nears their face to no avail. They only have a moment to register Cal's feet pounding against the floor of the far hall beyond the court's reach before their vision starts to fade.

Their knees hit the floor. A hand pushes into the back of their neck to keep their head down, and Scrim tries to elbow the mutt's arm, even as the weakness in their frame threatens to overwhelm them. They're still trying to recover from the fight with Madigan and Kellie. From the fire. It's too much at once… too much to try and fight, their energy's sapped. They squirm away from the mutt's grip, but it's absolutely futile. They've lost.

At least the kid got out, Scrim thinks, ruefully. Little things that count, yeah? Small fuckin' mercies… doesn't save my ass, but we knew this was comin'. Death. We been knew on it… for a long time. Longer than I've been in the Games, before the reaping, before the before…

Life sucks. It really, seriously sucks.

Maybe death'll be easier.

"The defendant's fate will be left to the jury." The judge stands. "This trial is over."

A chair screeches. There's a foot catching them in the side, then a boot slamming into their spine, the heel digging into the small of their back as the baton is brought down against their head again. They scream, their body twisting about, writhing in pain as they grab at the mutt's legs, hands clawing at their dark robes, the only thing in their field of vision. Then they feel something sharp, and pain starts to blossom in their arm, blood and flesh squelching as their skin tears open. A knife draws across the back of their leg and they gasp, kicking out reflexively, but not fast enough, they can't stop it, and then there's something cutting into their neck, a sharp whack against their spine as their back splits open and their shoulder cracks and there's just tearing, hot fluid leaking from their skin, and they're screaming, crying, pleading - no, not pleading, never pleading, but it hurts, they're dying, is this what it feels like, everything's wrong, it hurts, it fucking hurts, kill me, what are you doing to me, kill me, fucking kill me already, KILL ME, KILL ME -

Bang!

The third cannon startles Aitana out of her half-slumber, echoing throughout the arena and leaving a loud ringing in her ears. Her hand flies to the knife tucked against her side, raising it before she's fully returned to consciousness, ready to fend off any threats eager to present themselves. But there's nothing - no threats… no mutts, no tributes… no allies. No Ardelis. No Lazaro. No Ambrosia or Angelo or Sylvain.

Just Aitana, and an otherwise empty room.

Alone, I'm alone - maybe it's better this way, maybe it's not, but I have to look out for myself, I can't afford to be distracted, can't afford to sleep. Nobody to watch my back anymore -

She casts her eyes about her surroundings as she sits up, eyes drifting to the bloodstain across the wooden floor, devoid of a corpse but no less unsettling. The door to the records room is still cracked - just a touch - and seems to be in exactly the same position that it had been when Aitana entered. Good, she thinks, nothing's changed, nothing's wrong, it's all the same, and I'm here, I'm fine. Five of us left, and one's me.

I'm alive. I'm safe.

(And I'm alone. Maybe forever… when I get back to Four… if I get back to Four… there's no guarantee anything will be the same. Not for me, not for my family, not for my friends or my trainers, or… anyone. Things will have to change.)

(I'm not sure I'm ready for that much change.)

Aitana pushes herself up from her makeshift bed atop the records table, easing her way off of the long desk, swinging her legs around and using her hands to steady herself as she places her feet down on the floor. The hard surface - partially carpeted though it is - has left an imprint on her back, and her neck aches, a headache beginning in the back of her skull that seems to have started in her reaches up to the nape of her neck in an attempt to work the kink out of it, rolling her shoulders back. Her breath catches as she massages the screeching joint with her hand, trying to force her body to relax.

It's… not really possible. Aitana sighs, her eyes fluttering shut.

Probably ought to be moving on soon. It's quiet now, but it may not be for long.

After all… we're almost to the endgame.

She glances to the door. Despite her relative security for the moment, she can't help but let her mind run rampant, concerns over her security and frustration at her own impuissance overwhelming her ability to focus. She leans back against the table once more, taking a deep breath to calm herself as she allows her fingers to linger at her neck, the pad of her thumb pressing into the crook of her shoulder.

Safe for now, she reminds herself. Maybe I did just get lucky, but I should make the most of it anyway; I doubt anyone's going to show up in the next five minutes.

Her stomach grumbles, possibly in affirmation of her decision; she's hungry. And even though Aitana's pretty sure - no, positive - she ate just a few hours ago, there's a sharp pang in her abdomen that's growing more intense by the minute.

She looks to her knapsack of supplies; meagre in comparison to what she would've had at the beginning of the Games, but more than enough for one person. She still has everything she'd taken with her after the split -

(when Ardelis had proposed that they go hunting, some manic, dissociative look in her eye as she'd looked at Aitana and said, point blank, that no number of deaths would be enough to make up for losing her brother, losing her district partner, losing-)

(Aitana can still feel those rough, chapped lips pressed against hers, too rough, too sudden, her teeth are grazing her lip and she tastes blood and I don't need this, I don't, not for my first, not here-)

(No. She's gone, Lazaro's gone and… right, that's what she was doing, getting ready to eat something to settle her stomach. Right. Focus. I'm focused.)

- her supplies. She has her supplies, along whatever remained of both Ardelis' and Lazaro's effects once they'd passed. No reason to let their things go to waste, she'd told herself at the time. Yet thinking about it now… taking from the dead, looting corpses like a scavenger… makes her uneasy; it's undignified, Aitana's brain tells her, and dishonorable. Makes you look like a heartless opportunist.

Maybe I am an opportunist, she tacks on after a moment. Maybe I have to be. I can't keep letting myself be bogged down by ethics - not at this point. No unnecessary suffering for the others, no unnecessary harm, no torturing, no manipulating. But taking what I need to survive… nobody would begrudge me that. I'd encourage anyone to do the same - look out for themselves - were they in my position.

She leans over, pulls the strings on her bag until the top slips open, then hauls it into her lap to peer at the contents.

Trail mix, she notes. Good enough.

She grabs for the bag of nuts and raisins sitting on the top and tears it open, shaking some of the contents out into her hand before all but stuffing them into her mouth. No point worrying about manners anymore. The time for decorum's long since passed.

Unless you're Ambrosia or Angelo, she thinks, somewhere between fond and amused. She chews and then swallows, then opens her mouth to sigh.

Ambrosia and Angelo.

They're still alive, as far as Aitana's aware - her former allies, the allies that she'd betrayed when the pack's tension came to a head. She wouldn't be surprised if they hate her for the decision she made. Aitana's not proud of it herself. Siding with Ardelis cost her everything - Lazaro's life, her first kiss, half her sanity, and her sense of morals to a degree. With Angelo and Ambrosia, it might've been different… might've been functional, might've been better. Lazaro might still be alive. She wouldn't have been an accessory to torture. She wouldn't have…

I wouldn't have felt like a monster.

Aitana takes another handful of trail mix from the bag, taking to the mundane task of eating in order to distract herself from ruminating too deeply on things beyond her control. There's no guarantee One would've been better. If she'd sided with them, it's possible she'd already be dead… possible she would've ended up as one of Ardelis' art projects, flayed and with her tongue ripped out and her eyes gouged, left to bleed out in a dark room over the course of several hours rather than a few minutes. She doesn't know - she can't say. Maybe things worked out for the best, maybe for the worst.

She can't change the past, all she can do is move forward. All she can do is try to win, try to survive and protect herself.

She finishes off the bag of trail mix eventually, only half aware of what she's doing, barely tasting the salt in her mouth or sensing the texture of the nuts and fruit as it's devoured. Once she's done, she rolls up the empty wrapper and stuffs it back into her bag, grabbing for her spear again and jamming the base into the ground. She pushes her body away from the table, using her weapon as a prop to help her stand before she redirects her attention to the hallway - and what lies beyond the closed door of her hideout.

Ambrosia. Angelo. Girl from Three. Boy from Five, pair from Six, girl from Ten. That's who was left. Three of them are gone now - and if the odds are in my favor, two of them could be Ambrosia and Angelo. If I'm the last Career…

Aitana starts to walk, dragging her spear along at her side, the end scraping along the wooden floor as she moves.

Let's hope I'm the last Career.

The hall seems dimmer when she steps out into it; less vibrant, more shadowy, the air chilly and dark, almost oppressive as she blinks, trying to adjust to her new surroundings. Some of the lights have flickered out since she'd entered the records room, making the arena appear gloomy, decrepit. There are cracks in the wall that Aitana doesn't remember seeing before, splintering the plaster and adding to the ominous aura she's quickly coming to loathe. She doesn't feel safe. Doesn't feel secure. And the more she thinks about it, the air, the walls, the lights, the arena, the more she loathes it, her gut churning as the food she'd only recently downed threatens to come back up if she so much as moves incorrectly.

I'm almost out, she tells herself. Four more deaths, and I'm out. I'm free. I'll have won.

It's that thought - the thought of victory - that gives her the strength to walk toward the stairwell, pushes her to make her way back up the stairs to the main floor where she'd first begun the Games, away from the darkness and away from the memories. Seven. Ten. Lazaro. Ardelis.

I need to put them behind me for now. I need to think about myself.

… but I can't. I can't, it's not that easy, not that simple.

Her eyelids flutter as she leans against the wall momentarily, all too tired for having just slept.

I have to make it out, she thinks. I have to win.

But… I almost don't want to, now.

I'm not the Aitana Cavine that volunteered back in Four. I've changed. And I don't like what I've changed into.

I'm tired.

I'm so tired.

8: Madigan Millet, District 6. Kill credited to Kellie Rove and Scrim Aarifi.
7: Kellie Rove, District 3. Kill credited to Calvin Kelvin and Madigan Millet.
6: Scrim Aarifi, District 6. Executed by the Jurors.

A/N: Backfire by Egypt Central.

My sincere apologies to Claire, Tyler and Morgan for offing your tributes this chapter; Madigan, Kellie and Scrim were honestly three of the characters in this story whom I cherished most, pretty much from the moment I received their forms. I'm honestly tearing up with the knowledge that I'll no longer be writing POVs for them or playing with their relationship dynamics; Madigan and Kellie's sisterhood, Madigan and Scrim's unique give-and-take banter with each other, Scrim and Cal's jester/straight man dynamic (which honestly was one of my favorite Games alliances to write!)... ugh. I already miss you three so much!

Anyway, with this chapter we are down to the final five: Ambrosia, Angelo, Aitana, Cal and Maddy! Did any of you predict these five to make it this far from the beginning of the Games?

Question for the chapter: Who do you think will make final three? Any ideas regarding the victor?

Thanks to everyone reading, reviewing, PMing me or just generally keeping up with this fic. It means the world!