day six, part one: metamorphosis

Something's changing, rearranging me; amputating what I no longer need.

So they're gone, now. All of them.

Scrim, Madigan, Kellie. His former allies - not friends, not with the circumstances at hand, but companions at least. Companions that he'd honestly expected to outlast him… Madigan was stronger. Scrim was more clever. Kellie was more spirited, more resilient. Yet they're gone, all three of them, done in by the repercussions of their own actions… and for some reason, he's still alive.

Cal doesn't understand. He doesn't get it - why he's still alive, why there's only five tributes left, why he's made it this far when so many others - others, like his allies, people who were tougher, more equipped to deal with the Games in general - failed to do so. He looks at himself (to whatever degree he can) and he sees somebody whose only real strength is luck. He's been running, hiding, slipping away from bad situations before they have a chance to do him in, but not contributing, not acting productively.

It'll have to change. A lot will, he tells himself, pulling his knees up closer to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he allows his body to shift to the side, leaning against the unblemished, white wall he's found himself beside. He's sure it'll be covered in soot and ash once he pulls away, blackened and tarnished with reminders of the chaos from the day before… the fire, and Kellie…

He doesn't think he'll be able to stop hearing the screams.

They'd persisted through the entirety of the night, ringing in Cal's ears, haunting him, so loud and so present that he hadn't managed to get any sleep. He can feel them still, pounding against his brain as he struggles to maintain a hold on his consciousness, echoing off the inside of his skull, just… bouncing around, every time he dares to try and focus. It's almost unbearable. Almost. Not totally. Just almost. Almost.

… I'll pull through. This far in, I have to. I can't afford to let myself get distracted, can't afford to let my guard down. So I have to deal with it. I have to keep myself together.

That's how I win. By keeping it together. By acting rationally.

(I have to be rational.)

Right, Cal thinks, pressing his lips together, a low hum sounding from in his mouth. I can do that. I've been doing that - before I was reaped, with school, with Dad and Bianca.

… Mostly, anyway.

Cal knows that he never really left much of an impression, back home in Five - not on his peers, not on his classmates… not even on his family. Part of keeping your head down means never really being seen, on either a broad or small scale. And he can't complain about that; it was his choice to better himself rather than look for ways to branch out, his choice to stick to tried-and-true methods for dealing with conflict or hardship, always preferring to stay in his own lane rather than venture out, always tackling obstacles that were laid before him in ways that were absolutely textbook. He'd been cautious with pretty much everything; Archie liked to poke fun at that occasionally, chiding him with remarks like where's your sense of adventure, Cal? and so that's it, just stick to the rules and follow them for the rest of your life? What about risks, what about fun?

Risks are overrated, Cal recalls saying - more than once, actually - in response to his best friend's needling. His father never took risks; he had his job and his family, and he stuck to them like glue, doing what he needed to provide and keep them afloat in whatever ways he was able. Bianca didn't really take risks either… Cal always thought it was because she didn't need to, didn't have any reason to try and let her reach extend beyond herself when she was always so competent, always seemed so good at everything she did. Now he thinks that maybe she doesn't take risks because she can't afford to.

He'd broken down a little after losing Mom - grew more wary of other people and unknown situations, started doing everything he could to avoid bringing unnecessary hurt into his life by committing himself to little things and compartmentalizing bigger ones. Bianca might have done the same… no, not just might, she did, even though Cal hadn't really noticed it before the mess hit with the reapings. She'd been so tired when she said goodbye. Worn out and worried in a way that he isn't sure he'd really noticed before - like it wasn't just her brother she was losing to the Games, but her life.

"It shouldn't be you," she'd told him, a hand on his back, her head resting atop his own, face half pressed into his hair. "It isn't fair that it's you. You haven't done anything wrong…"

He never saw the tears, but they'd been in her voice, the entire time. They'd sat together in silence for four of the five minutes, the two unremarkable Kelvin children, alone in an unremarkable room in an unremarkable district.

"I guess it's a lesson," Bianca commented after the quiet had overextended itself, still as a statue. "You can try your hardest to do everything right, and something's still going to end up going wrong."

"You tried," Cal told her, some sort of hard-to-place guilt striking him. "You tried to make everything work, Bi. I know that."

"Do you?"

He hadn't really, when he'd said that. Hadn't thought enough about it… his sister's position and what it entailed. How hard she'd had to try - especially to make everything seem natural for him. But he understands better, now.

When Cal was reaped, he'd acknowledged the death sentence of the Games as finite. He could try, but trying as a thirteen year old, untrained, unprepared kid from the workplant district almost seemed like a fruitless endeavor. He'd wanted to see it differently - wanted to hope - but reality was a cynic's product. He can't win the Games. Trying or not, he isn't victor material.

But he might be tribute material.

Fake it 'til you make it. That's what Kellie would've said. And that's what Cal's going to do.

I can act like I deserve to be here. I can act like I'm supposed to be here. If I win, maybe it matters. If I lose, maybe it still matters. There's no point in holding back anymore. No point in keeping my head down in the arena.

I need to kill if I intend to get out. That's being realistic.

… and I need to stick by realism. Limited options now. Limited time to act.

There's five tributes left. Pretty soon - whether it's me who dies or someone else - there'll only be four.

And I want to be one of them.

Aitana's been on the move since the anthem last night, wandering around the first floor with her spear gripped tightly in one hand, attentive to every shift in her surroundings, every indication of movement she spies. And there have been a few - not caused by tributes, it would seem, but by the grace of her own sleep-deprived, jittery mind.

Her ability to remain cognizant, to remain conscious, even, is rapidly waning. Every time she passes a familiar plant, or steps on a creaky floorboard, or peers into a dimly-lit office, she can't help being struck by a sense of déja vu; so much of the arena looks similar, repeated scenery and repeated wandering causing the world to blend together like some muddled, hazy photograph taken from a too-close viewpoint. She supposes she's looking for tributes - intended to be looking for tributes, anyway - but with her eyes bleary and a headache resting behind the flesh and bone of her face, her search isn't just ineffective, it's pointless.

Pointless… just like volunteering. Just like Lazaro's death, like the pair of us being here to begin with. There's no point to anything here… no point in being, not like this, and it feels like I'm going mad, I can't think, it's so difficult to see the end from where I began… it's like I waded into the shallows and ended up caught in a riptide…

Aitana shouts. She knows quiet is better - paramount, really, at such a late stage of the Games, but she's frustrated, she's tense, she's set on-edge and she's done with it… this walking around in circles, this second-guessing herself, questioning her decisions and her judgment. She stops near yet another wooden door, reaching her hand out and laying her palm against the wall, propping herself up as she closes her eyes, tries to breathe.

A moment. I just need a moment.

This repetition… this monotony that she's sinking into… it's not something that Aitana's ever done well with. She knows that - back in Four, she'd always craved novelty, looking for ways to subtly change the routine of her life without shaking it up entirely, needing something different, something dynamic to keep her interest piqued and her mind at ease.

People had called her aimless when she left training. Wayward. Confused. Unstable. Judgmental labels with stigma attached to them, her trainers tutting and her peers side-eying her with pity, assuming she wasn't cut out for the very thing she'd put years into trying to achieve. They acted like she wasn't making a decision for herself - like the thought she didn't know what she was doing by leaving the Academy, by ceasing her training at sixteen when it had, until that point, practically defined her life. They couldn't see that it was killing her… the weight of training - of expectation - was a visible burden that haunted her every time she looked in the mirror. She dreaded waking up in the morning, dreaded having to dress herself and tie her shoes and head off to the Academy, force herself to keep her head up and smile and pretend that everything was fine when it wasn't, when she wasn't.

The Games, or at least the goal of them, has already killed Aitana Cavine once. For two years, she'd been pushed into a space beyond herself, one in which her body was but a husk, her feelings were weaknesses, and her joy for life had evaporated. She had no control over her body, no control over her choices - no, every decision she made, be it what to eat, when to sleep, what to think about, had less to do with what she wanted and more to do with what was going to make her a better tribute.

She'd dreamed of being the ideal. And she'd envied those of her peers who were more accomplished than her, more adept, more capable… her seniors who were selected for the Games, flawless athletes who seemed perfect without even trying. She never measured up. No, she felt like she never measured up. Training had done that to her - the Games had done that to her, and why did I ever think it was a good idea to come back, why did I ever want this to begin with?

She exhales shakily, straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders.

"Maybe I just need to accept that I made a mistake. I should have stayed in Four."

"You probably should have," a voice says from behind her. Aitana spins around, her grip on her spear tightening, knuckles turning white from the intensity of her grip. She presses her back to the door, sizing up her apparent company. It's the girl from District Ten, the one who was always scowling and brooding back in the Capitol.

"Same could be said for any of us," Aitana replies, keeping her voice even. "The Games are bad news."

"Yeah, but there's a difference between the rest of us and you Career kids. You volunteered for this. We were forced to be here." Ten draws a knife out of her uniform, readying herself for combat. "I didn't want to be here."

"I know," Aitana says, her tone softer than it probably ought to be. "I'm sorry… if that means anything."

"Not really," Ten replies, but Aitana can see the glassiness that overtakes her eyes as she swallows, her throat bobbing. "But thanks, I guess."

She doesn't move.

Aitana shifts slightly, readjusting her stance, holding her spear like one would a lance - tip out and ready to skewer Ten the second she gets close. She flexes the fingers of her free hand, building herself up to an attack - spear against knife, I have the distance advantage. I can take her down if I go in mindful; this is a fight I can win.

It's a fight on my terms.

… or so she'd thought.

A knife goes whizzing past her head as Ten dives to the ground, going low and striking at Aitana's legs. Aitana swipes at her defensively, her spear striking against Ten's shoulder in a way that tears her uniform but doesn't manage to pierce her skin. Ten hooks an arm around her legs and Aitana flails, her back colling with the wooden door she'd been idling in front of, and it gives with her weight, swinging open and leaving the Four girl to topple to the ground, Ten struggling to make her way up Aitana's body from where she's trapped her legs.

"Nothing personal…" Ten gasps out, winded, as Aitana swipes at her again. She knocks the spear from Aitana's hands and it clatters against the tile floor at her side as Ten takes ahold of her wrists, trying to pin her arms. Aitana knees her in the stomach, using her foot to push at the other girl's legs, heel jamming into one of Ten's knees. There's a sharp crack, and Ten is wincing, drawing back as Aitana rolls out from under her, pulling herself back onto her feet.

"Exactly," Aitana comments, breathless, as Ten clutches at her leg. "Nothing personal. Just business."

She collects her spear as Ten backpedals, looking around desperately for her missing knife. Aitana draws closer and, seeing no other choice, Ten throws herself into one of the bookcases, shoulder checking it once, then twice, then again before it starts to drop, leaving the both of them to dive out of the way of a mass of books as they come tumbling down from the wall. Aitana braces her body against a desk as Ten lunges at her again, desperation etched across her face.

She swings her spear upward in a defensive arc, the wooden shaft shielding her body from Ten's blow. Using a two handed grip, she pushes outward as Ten fumbles to try and knock her weapon away, utilizing the shaft in place of a shield to knock the other tribute off, bringing her leg up and extending it in the same motion to kick Ten in the gut. Ten doubles over, the air leaving her lungs as she grabs at her side, and Aitana uses her weapon's reach to knock Ten on the head, forcing her already unbalanced body to tilt sideways. Ten clutches at a table that's within her reach, trying to stay upright, but there's too much weight on her injured knee, too much pain for her to keep her body steady. Her legs go out from under her, and Aitana steps forward, prepared to deal the killing blow.

She isn't expecting somebody to jump onto her back.

Aitana flails her arms, dropping her spear again as she grabs demandingly at whatever - or whoever - has a hold of her shoulders, knocking her head back, swinging her hands and swatting at her own shoulders to try and get them off, get off of me, get off, I can't - I can't breathe, I can't, I can't -

There's a rope around her neck.

Her hands fly to it as soon as it catches her attention, tugging and trying to tear the cord in half as she attempts to free herself, spinning around to see the boy from Five, his hands clutching one end of a curtain cord, the same curtain cord that seems to be wrapped around her throat.

"You-" Aitana rasps, reaching for him, though her vision's too blurry now, worse than before, she feels like she's been submerged in water and it's tight, why is it so tight, I can't breathe…

A blade rips through her back, and she tries to scream - would have screamed if she had any air left, but the more she tries the less she can breathe. Ten pulls the knife out and blood starts to spill down her back from the wound in her shoulder as her hand finally catches a proper grip on the cord and yanks it loose… or looser, only looser, but it doesn't matter, she has air, she can…

There's a hole in her chest.

Red begins to spill out of her, gushing from the open wound as Five withdraws his knife. Aitana's hands find his shoulders, dragging him down to the floor alongside her as she collapses, coughing and sputtering still as he drops the end of the cord and tries to push her back, eyes wide with shock.

"Why… did I…"

Ten's arms wrap around her upper body, dragging her away from Five and tossing her to the side, Aitana's bloodied body hitting the ground with a thwack, laid out next to her spear. She can see Five getting to his feet, Ten standing over her with a solemn expression, head slightly bowed.

"It's the way things have to be," the boy from Five says. "I'm sorry."

Ten bends over and hefts Aitana's spear into her hands, placing the head level with her heart.

"I'll make it quick." She promises.

The spear plunges into Aitana's body.

Her vision fades into black… and then she sees the sky. Stars twinkling against a backdrop of obsidian, the smell of saltwater filling her nose as the breeze ruffles her hair.

If this is what dying feels like… maybe it won't be so bad.

I'm ready to go home.

The cannon fires.

Maddy steps away from Four's body, spear still in hand as she turns to face the boy from Five. He's small - short, thin, covered in what looks like a mixture of soot and ash, his uniform ripped in multiple places. Looks like he's seen better days, she thinks, a slight smirk on her lips that fades after no more than a few seconds. But then, I'm not really one to talk, am I?

That's true. While Maddy's surprised the kid's still alive - surprised that he's one of the finalists - it'd be hypocritical of her to underestimate him. After all, not only is Five one of the last four tributed standing, he also caught a Career off guard long enough to take her down. To Maddy's benefit, actually;Four had been seconds away from killing her. Maddy even expected to be killed. She knew what she was getting into as soon as she'd seen the other girl, leaning against the wall with her spear in hand and her eyes half-closed. A rough fight against a trained opponent, someone stronger and more prepared for the Games than she… surviving against Four had been a long shot. And yet...

"Why me?" She asks, still wanting an answer for as skeptical as she's feeling. This scenario… her, being approached by another tribute, being aided by them… has occurred too frequently for her liking. She doesn't want others to help her, never asked for it, never demanded it. No, it's just people, too kind and too empathic for their own good, putting themselves at risk for her sake time and time again. And Maddy's tired of it. She's tired of being assisted, tiredof being saved... inside the arena, outside the arena, always unwarranted, always undeserved...

"It was the smart decision." Five responds, almost too softly. Maddy raises an eyebrow.

"Because she was a Career?"

"Because the other two are Careers. The ones who are left." Five presses his lips together, looking her straight in the eye. Maddy turns her head just enough to avert her gaze; his scrutiny makes her uncomfortable. "It'll be the two of us against the two of them."

"So you're hoping I'll ally with you because… what? We're both outliers?"

"No alliance," Five shakes his head. "Not at this point. Just a partnership to try and even our odds. They've trained, we haven't. Pretty simple plan."

Nothing about this is simple.

"Don't be condescending," Maddy huffs. Five's eyes widen just a tad.

"I didn't mean-"

"But you're right," she acquiesces before he can apologize, cutting him off. "It's the best plan we've got. Puts us on even ground."

Five nods, letting go of the long rope in his right hand. "Glad you agree."

"You convinced me of the logic behind an… a partnership," Maddy replies diplomatically, shrugging. "Common threat and all that. I get where you're coming from."

She moves toward the desk, propping the Four girl's spear against it before moving to the chair and taking a seat in it, leaning back and stretching her legs out as she takes the opportunity to gather herself. Five watches her for a moment, then cautiously moves toward the other chair, gingerly sitting on the edge of the cushion, his tongue flicking over his lips like he wants to say something.

Maddy sighs. "What?"

"What's your name?" He asks. Maddy blinks.

"Why do you care?"

"I'd like to know who I'm working with," he says.

Maddy shakes her head. "No, you wouldn't."

"I-"

"You wouldn't," she reiterates, more forcefully. "You're Five. I'm Ten. And beyond that, I don't want to know you. I don't need to."

I've got a big enough graveyard in my head already, and putting names on the tombstones just makes everything worse.

"Oh," Five narrows his eyes and scrunches up his brow, as if he's trying to discern the underlying meaning to her words. He seems to glean the meaning well enough, because he nods, and looks away from her. "One of us will be dead tomorrow… so there's not any point in me talking to you. Right?"

Maddy shrugs, rolls her eyes.

"Something like that."

He doesn't need a direct answer - just like he doesn't need to know her name, or the fact that he isn't the first tribute she's tried to strike up a… partnership… with. He doesn't need to know about Elowyn, or about Celesto - one partner choosing to give herself to a vicious mutt in order to allow Maddy a chance for escape, the other dying just hours after she'd abandoned him to what Maddy knows was a gruesome fate, far more than he'd ever deserved. She saw the body - yesterday, when she'd been searching for a place to rest on the lower floor, lying inside a clerk's office. He'd been covered in stab wounds… face gouged as if by an animal, the entirety of his body ravaged in… in unspeakable ways. Just thinking about it makes Maddy feel sick. And if Celesto was that bad, then she can't even imagine what Elowyn looked like after being dragged off by that mutt…

The Capitol denied them the sanctity of a peaceful death… and the dignity of having autonomy over their bodies. It's their fault… not mine, not mine, NOT MINE.

"I'm Cal," Five says, and Maddy freezes in shock. She can feel her chest tightening, can sense the sadness as it wells inside her eyes.

"Why would you…" She starts, then sinks her teeth into her tongue to keep from voicing the question in whole. Names are too much. Too personal.

Too human.

"If you make it out, you'll remember." Cal rationalizes, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Plus, I'd rather die as Cal than as Five… at least to somebody in here."

Maddy's tonsils seem to swell, her throat burning, her teeth clenching and cracking as she grinds them, her next words feeling almost acidic on her tongue.

"I'm Madeleine."

She doesn't smile. She can't - not even as reciprocation for Cal's gesture of good faith. But maybe the offer… the offer of vulnerability… is good enough. No, it is good enough; it is, because it's too much. The first teardrop rolls down her cheek, and she bites her tongue again, hard enough to sting this time.

"Madeleine," Cal says with a hum. He seems to mull the information over for a few seconds, cocking his head to the left. "I knew a Madigan," he says finally, relaxing further into his chair, teeth grazing along his lower lip as he watches her. "Girl from Six. We were allies back in training."

"How'd she die?" Maddy asks, in spite of herself. Cal blinks, then just shakes his head.

"Alliance didn't work out."

"It never does," Maddy sighs, thinking of Elowyn, limping toward the looming Executioner mutt in the gallery; of Celesto, lying dead in a pool of his own blood. "Do you miss her?"

"I didn't really know her," Cal says simply.

Maddy presses her lips into a line. She didn't really know Elowyn or Celesto or Kahlan either.

"Do you really think we have a chance?" She asks the Five boy, not looking at him. "The pair of us against a pair of Careers? Stronger, allied for longer, better armed, better equipped for a fight?"

"I don't know," he answers, and Maddy can sense the honest edge to his tone. "But we'll never know unless we try. All we can really do is hope."

(This is how change starts, Helen reminds her, cupping Maddy's cheek with her hand, her eyes sparkling in the Underground's low light. With hope. With kindness. With courage.)

(With conviction.)

"Alright," Maddy says, readying herself to stand. "Then let's head out there and try."

5: Aitana Cavine, District 4. Killed by Maddy Aldrich and Cal Kelvin.

A/N: Metamorphosis by Blue Stahli.

And then there were four.

I literally can't tell you how much it's hurting me to write these last few chapters; a huge shout out to Alison for sending Aitana in and allowing me to write her over these last few months; she was truly one of my favorite voices in LT, if a bit harder at times for me to procure than some of the others. I'll have a eulogy on the blog for her shortly.

On another note, I'm going to be moving out of my old apartment over the course of the next week, so there will be no Friday update! LT will resume on Monday with Day 6 Part 2, and the Centrifuge blog will be posted this Friday instead. Sorry for the lapse in the usual schedule. Take care and wear a mask!