Note that a trigger warning is in effect for this chapter due to themes regarding suicidal ideation and a semi-explicit depiction of suicide. If this depiction is triggering to you, please skip from the sentence "This, if nothing else, I can execute properly." to the end of the coinciding POV.
day six, part two: saturnalia
We're blinded by blackness; just empty shells in the deafening void of our last sunset.
(But I will still be here to hold you… no matter how cold you are.)
The longer that Angelo spends in the arena, the more disillusioned he feels.
It's the environment - the stark, overly meticulous appearance of the offices, the symbolic imagery in the bookcases and podiums and statues that he sees most everywhere he looks - that's weighing on him. And Angelo isn't quite certain why… he's seen displays that were both more gaudy and polarizing back in One, be it in the Academy or the merchant's square near the Justice Building. The gamemakers' courthouse isn't even all that off-putting, as arenas go; better than the sea freighter in the Seventeenth Games, or the catacombs from the Twenty-Second, just last year. Yet there's something unbearably disturbingabout this year's seemingly mundane trappings, solely because of the fact that they are mundane.
This place - the arena - is a distorted microcosm of somewhere real, a near-replica of the Justice Buildings that stand in each of the twelve Districts. It's Panem, but wrong; removed entirely from the world but still somehow connected to it, still attached to it because of the fixings and decoration that's too real to seem artificial. But it is - it's artificial, and the more time that Angelo spends lying on the floor in his state of dreamlike unrest, surrounded by fake windows and fake rooms and fake books that are filled with nothing but blank pages, the more artificial he feels as well.
The only real element of this place is death, he thinks, gazing up at the ceiling, backpack propped under his head as some poor excuse for a pillow. He allows his eyes to shut for a moment as he breathes in, deeply, desperate to keep his thoughts from spiralling yet again.
He can't, in the end. Thinkers think, even when it's to their own detriment.
… death is real, and it's constant, and I've caused it. But if I die, will I even realize that I'm dying? If I die, will I feel any more dead than I already do in this moment?
Why do we make sport of dying if we don't see it as desirable? If we don't connect to it on some subconscious level?
Why was I scared of dying? Why did I ever find death to be unsettling? It seems so much less…
Painful.
It seems less painful than winning. Than living. Than returning.
And therein lies the crux of the matter.
Angelo could probably chalk it up to too many hours wasted on ruminating, and too much time spent lying awake with only his own mind for company. He could reason with himself that his disillusionment is the root of his lapse into despondency, could make up excuse after excuse to keep his mind in firm denial of the feelings that he's growing increasingly more desperate to act upon. He could do any number of things to try and talk himself into complacency, into pretending that he's alright (he's not), pretending that he can still win (he can't). When he returns to One, he'll be revered, looked up to, beloved and recognized as the harbinger of glory he's always strived to become. He can win. He can live. He can go back home and let the Academy truss him up for celebration, let his brother and his family show him off as District One's newest Victor instead of Angelo Veroge, the Academy's volunteer.
I could make it back. I should make it back.
But I won't. I don't want to.
The more Angelo considers it - the possibility of winning - the more he realizes that it isn't a reality he wants. Not anymore, not after hauling himself over a string of corpses to achieve a false victory. The circumstances have changed from what they were at the reapings. Being here has changed him. Living no longer seems courageous. Victory no longer sounds heroic.
Death is the true victory. Death is peace. If he were dead, then…
Then he wouldn't have to think anymore. Wouldn't have to feel anymore. Wouldn't have to despise himself… and his brother… and the Academy… and the entirety of One… for setting him on a path that he'd never truly understood, forcing him to strive for a superficial sense of glory when in reality he's just another fucking murderer that thought of killing as a sport. He could let go of his anger - his melancholy - his desperation - his disappointment - and just be. Because he's not going to be Angelo Veroge if he wins. He's not going to be Angelo Veroge if he lives.
I'd be Victor.
I'd be Murderer.
Angelo rolls onto his side, making sure to keep pressure off the wound in his back. He isn't sure how long he's been awake; can't tell how much time has passed since he killed Nine and killed Sylvain, how many days have gone by since his former allies died, how long he's been lying here with his back against a too-cold floor, watching Ambrosia sleep without attempting to wake her. Angelo's certain his own shift has ended twice over, but he can't bring himself to rouse Ambrosia - less out of pride and more because the effort seems utterly pointless. Even if Angelo wanted to sleep, he wouldn't be able.
There's this… tension in him. A sort of nervousness. An unfathomable and strange brand of fear. It isn't foreign to Angelo, but it's consumptive; expanding beyond the limits of his self-control and mental constraint, eager to devour every part of his mind and body. It's telling him that he isn't real, that winning won't make him real. That winning won't save him, won't absolve him, won't take away his thoughts or his concerns or his want to end it.
If you plan to end it, you should do it now. Idealism has no place in the arena, and it has no purpose in a Victor's life.
His gaze flits to Ambrosia, lying only a few feet away, her back turned toward Angelo, sword lying at her side in a way that parallels his own.
One can still have their Champion. They can still celebrate.
Perhaps it would be better…
He exhales. There's too much doubt plaguing him. Too much fear. It's the same fear that's been with him since the train, when he'd sat in the back of One's car beside a wide window and watched the world outside pass by in a blur of half-formed shapes and muddled colors. It's the same fear that ate at him every time he interacted with the tributes from Two and Four, the same fear that plagued him when insomnia kept him up after the interviews, third place repeating in his head like a mantra.
It's the same fear that he'd felt when he thought he'd died, the first time, after Six had cracked his head open and his allies had mocked him for it. Except...
Ambrosia had been supportive. She's still being supportive. And for the life of him, Angelo can't understand why. She says they're similar - says that she sees herself in him, that she empathizes with him, that she knows him - and cares! - and he's almost inclined to believe her.
Almost.
She doesn't really know me. And she doesn't really care. Two weeks isn't enough time to form a connection of any more significance than temporary partnership, even if it's disguised as camaraderie. It's been… good, to have her companionship.
It's been good to have a friend.
But we both knew that only one of us would be allowed to live. That only one of us would be able to win.
Angelo eases himself up from the ground. Ambrosia stirs, drawing her legs up toward her body as she turns her face in toward her pack, one arm around her abdomen. He watches her for a moment before he stands, knowing full-well how easy it would be to wake her, how easy it would be to ask her for help, for - anything.
But he can't. He can't do it, the fear won't let him, the shame won't let him. So he swallows his words as he pulls himself onto his feet, making sure to keep quiet as he retrieves his sword, and lifts it from the floor as well.
Ambrosia's light snoring is reassuring. She won't be waking if she hasn't already. And it's better that way - if she meant to stop me, I have no doubt she'd be more than able to do so. She's rather strong-willed when she means to be.
… unfortunately, I don't believe I can say the same.
His district partner doesn't move as he steps around her body, keeping his tread light as he moves across the floorboards toward the hallway door. He reaches out as if to open it, needing to be free of Ambrosia's presence - needing to be free of his own mind - yet ultimately can't bring himself to grasp the knob and turn it. He can't bring himself to leave. This room… this dark, cold, artificial room… has an aura so damning that Angelo's shame feels connected to it. He won't leave. He can't leave.
If you proceed here, she'll find you, he reminds himself, his breathing shallow. Ambrosia needn't be privy to your failure.
(Does it matter? A larger, more desperate part of his brain seems to shout. Does it matter, do they matter, does she matter, does this…?)
… yes, it does. All of it.
Angelo grasps the doorknob, turning it until its as far to the right as it can go. Blessedly, the door doesn't screech as he pulls it open, wedging his body through the crack and stepping out into the main corridor that leads back to the courtroom. There's a bench off to his left, just a short distance away, and he makes his way toward it, sitting down on the hard leather and laying his sword flat across his lap, staring down at the sharp blade in abject terror.
His stomach churns. His eyes water. The more he thinks about going through with his plan, the less certain he is of his decision.
But he moves his hand to hold the hilt anyway, allowing his body to act as if on autopilot.
I won't let the fear sway me. Not now. Not in this.
This, if nothing else, I can execute properly.
Angelo picks the sword up, turning the end so it's level with his stomach. He can feel the adrenaline picking up in his body, his skin tingling, his hair on end, his heart racing, his breath hitching. As if guided by an unseen force, he slowly begins to press the blade's tip into his belly, feeling his abdomen recoil in response to the threat of pain before his uniform tears and his skin breaks, heat flooding his gut as he begins to leak blood.
He panics, and jams the blade into his body, pulling it to the side in such a quick motion that he only feels the agony for a moment. There's tearing, burning, searing pain, and blood, so much blood, but he cut himself properly, he's sure he did, he's been trained to use a blade and use it properly, he can't have been wrong, he can't be…
Angelo slumps forward, his body curling in around the sword still inside his gut. He pulls it out quickly and it slips from his shaking hand, the metal knocking hard against the floor, loud enough to cause a stir. He presses both palms to his stomach in agony, unsurprised when he pulls them back again and his fingers come away red, thoroughly bloodied. Oddly enough, he can barely feel the pain… it's so much, so, so much that it seems his body can no longer process it. There's just warmth and tingling and he can't breathe, but he feels feverish, and tired, so tired, he needs to lie down…
He slumps onto his side, one hand still pressed against his disemboweled stomach, the other arm hanging idly off the edge of the bench. He presses his face into the cool leather and closes his eyes, appreciative for the relief the cushion brings to his too-hot skin, he's burning up and it's… indescribable.
Is this what death feels like? It isn't cold at all. It isn't desolate, it's… relief. So… so much of it… knowing that it's ended… the Games. The Games are over...
And I've won.
She wakes to the sound of a cannon.
Ambrosia rolls onto her side, one hand reaching for her weapon, the other outstretched in preparation to wake Angelo as she blinks, trying to adjust her eyes to the room's darkness. It takes her a few moments before she realizes that the space beside her is empty; when she touches the floor, she finds the wood cool already, untouched by the warmth of a body atop it for some time. There's no trace of a fight; no trace of a scuffle, and Angelo's knapsack is still lying on the ground in the same place where his head had previously been positioned. But Angelo himself is nowhere in sight.
Did he… leave me?
The thought doesn't sit right with Ambrosia. They'd agreed after the Career split that it was the two of them, until it absolutely couldn't be; her and Angelo as an allied unit, a team, fighting their way to the finale together before duking it out for the crown. Ambrosia may have been the one to suggest their partnership remained intact as long as it could, but Angelo had never protested, never given her reason to suspect he didn't agree with her logic. For him to simply disappear…
The cannon.
Ambrosia's blood runs cold. A chill courses down her spine as she sits up abruptly, her shoulders protesting the movement with a slight crack as she pulls herself forward, first onto her knees, then up onto her feet, snatching up her sword and making for the door.
It can't have been Angelo, she tells herself. He's only been gone for… it can't have been more than an hour. And he's a Career - the strongest one left, even, stronger than me, competent, he can handle himself, he knows what he's doing… he's fine. He'll return any minute now, tell me what's going on, tell me…
She opens the door, and her heart skips a beat.
"No." Ambrosia manages to vocalize, her hand tightening around her weapon's hilt, her face falling, her shoulders shaking as she takes a step back, elbow catching against the doorframe. She shakes her head, her eyes tearing up, her vision glassy.
No. No, no, no, no…
"Angelo?" She asks.
He doesn't reply.
Ambrosia drops her sword.
"Angelo," she says again, more insistent.
Still no response.
She's at his side in seconds, all but throwing herself into a sprint, crossing the hallway and sinking to her knees beside the bench, her hand on her District partner's face, smoothing back his hair, cupping his cheek. His skin's still warm - enough that he has to be alive, she knows he has to be, he can't just… just leave her, not like this, he wouldn't do that, they're allies, they're district partners, they're friends, he would've said something, he would've...
"Angelo, wake up!"
She smacks his face lightly, red blossoming over his cheek, the lividity only causing Ambrosia's breath to quicken and her desperation to mount. There wouldn't be any color on the cheeks of a corpse. There wouldn't be any warmth in a dead body. He isn't dead, he can't be, she was only asleep for...
Angelo's head lolls further to the side, his wide eyes glassy and wholly devoid of life. Ambrosia casts her gaze to the open wound in his stomach, still gushing blood onto the seat of the bench beneath his body. She braces a hand to her mouth, trying not to sob, trying not to scream, she doesn't want to scream, she's -
"It's alright. I can fix this… like I did before, with your concussion, and your back, I have some bandages in my bag, I can just…"
She reaches toward her shoulder, only to realize that her satchel's no longer hooked over it. Her gaze flickers to the open doorway where her sword's still lying on the ground, untarnished save for a few crusted remnants of the Eight boy's blood from two days ago. The lights over her head flicker. From down the hallway, she can hear the sound of footsteps.
Someone killed him, she thinks, sinking her teeth into her lip, clenching her hands into fists. The other tributes - they gutted him and left him for dead, and now they're running away. They need to pay, I have to make them pay, I owe it to Angelo, I -
(What am I saying?)
Ambrosia almost recoils in response to her own flurry of thoughts, tainted by the sight of red and the feeling of anger, so much anger that she's full to bursting from it. She closes her eyes. Opens them again, looks to the blood-covered sword lying on the floor… Angelo's sword, that's Angelo's sword, he wouldn't… the angle of the tear in his uniform, the gaping wound beneath it that's so large it's impossible not to notice, like he was disemboweled, like he tore himself open, did he tear himself open, why did he…
(You know why he did it. Don't lie to yourself, Ambrosia.)
(You can't ignore the signs.)
His curled hands. His bloody sword. The lack of new wounds - even bruises or scrapes - on the rest of his body. The way his head was lain against the cushion and his body was folded in on itself, like he'd laid down intentionally, chosen to sit here, chosen to…
To die here.
I'm so sorry. Ambrosia closes her eyes again, squeezes them shut, wrapping her arms around her body as she rests her head on the leg of the bench, bringing her legs up toward her chest. Angelo, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I didn't see. I'm sorry I didn't know. I thought…
I don't know what I thought.
Ambrosia laughs, curling her fingers around her arms and digging her nails into her skin, tears spilling down her cheeks.
I thought I could help you. I thought I could support you. I wanted to support you. I wanted to save you. You were so much… so much better than me. I've never had half the strength or the courage that you have. I couldn't stand up to my mother. I couldn't stand up to our allies. I couldn't bring myself to make my own decisions… always said what they wanted me to, always acted like they told me to act. You changed that. You were real. You were so fucking real to me. You weren't like Regina, or Etienne, or the Academy, you were different, you saw me, you cared about me.
You saved me.
It's true; when Ambrosia first volunteered, she'd felt desolate, lonely in a way that had been almost crushing. Angelo changed that. From the moment that she'd took his hand back in District One, he'd been nothing but kind to her. He'd never asked her why she volunteered, never mentioned her relationship with Galen, or the sordid rumors that relationship had created amongst their peers in training. He hadn't shunned her for her family's name, or worse yet, tried to cozy up to her for it, not seeming to care one way or another about the Salazar's wealth or revered social status. And when it came to her doubts, her fears, her shame… all of the emotions she'd shown over the past few days that Regina would've called weak, that Etienne would have scorned… Angelo accepted them. He acknowledged them. He validated them.
He validated me.
Ambrosia sniffles, wiping her tears from her cheeks. She pulls herself back onto her feet, resting one hand on Angelo's head, her fingers combing through his dirty-blond hair, a smile coming to her lips unbidden.
I'll win for you, she promises. And when I get back to One, I'll make sure you get a proper funeral, with a proper speech. I'll make sure that you're honored - that your sacrifice is honored. And I'll make sure your family gets a share of my winnings. Your siblings… your parents. The people who loved you. I'll take care of them like I took care of you. Like we took care of each other.
Ambrosia reaches for Angelo's hand, taking it in her own. His palms are calloused, his fingers rough, but his touch is familiar. She tightens her hold and squeezes, seeking the familiarity of reassurance that she'd found in his grip before, her cries practically beginning anew when he seems to squeeze back.
I can't do this alone, her mind cries. I can't do this without you!
(You can, Ambrosia.)
(You must.)
Give me strength. I need your strength, Angelo, I can't do this, I can't…
"Ambrosia Salazar," a monotone, robotic voice speaks from behind her shoulder. "You've been summoned."
"Give me a minute," she stammers, unable to think, her hand still locked around Angelo's.
"The Judge demands your presen-"
"I said give me a minute!" She screams.
I don't want to leave him like this. I can't leave him like this, I can't -
"If you do not submit, force will be requir-"
"I don't care," she spits, shaking her head. "I'm not leaving him. I need time. I need…"
I need to go.
She shakes her head, forcing herself to release Angelo's hand, bending down to pick up his sword instead. She doesn't feel ready. She isn't sure she'll ever feel ready. All she wants is to grieve. My friend is dead. He died so that I could live. He died without giving me a chance to stop him. I could have stopped him. I could have…
A pair of hands grab her arms, and her feet fall into step automatically, the mutts at her sides keeping her upright as she walks down the hallway toward a too-familiar archway.
I can't give up now. I have to win. For Angelo.
I can't fail him a second time.
Cal wakes to a booming voice and a pair of hands holding tightly to his shoulders.
"We have to go," the girl from Ten - Madeleine - is saying to him as he pushes himself up from the floor, blinking rapidly to try and focus himself. A pair of skeleton mutts clad in Peacekeeper garb stand on either side of the door, framing it like statues. One has a hand on its baton as it watches them, the focus practically demeaning despite its 'eyes' being nothing more than empty sockets.
"What are they doing?" Cal asks in a hushed voice. Madeleine doesn't answer, deigning instead to haul him onto his feet, standing at his side with her posture fixed in a stiff position, obviously unsettled.
"Collecting you." The mutt to the left of the door says in such a monotone and robotic voice that it leaves goosebumps along Cal's skin. "For trial."
"Just us?" Madeleine asks defensively, shifting closer to Cal, a hand moving to the pocket in her uniform's coat where she's stashed her knife. The mutt on the right raises its baton in warning, and Cal reaches a hand out to the Ten girl, practically unthinking. Don't.
"Ambrosia Salazar is already in the courtroom," the mutt answers, as it steps to the side of the archway, waiting for the pair of them to assent to its wishes. "If you would."
Cal looks to Madeleine. She gives him a nudge.
"After you."
He doesn't have a good enough grasp of the situation to protest that. So he steps forward - albeit with a great deal of trepidation - and walks toward the mutts, stopping just before he reaches them and turning his head to examine the one on the right, a cold feeling of dread washing over his body, his fear spiking.
I've seen that one before.
Scrim.
… was it really just yesterday that they'd been killed, that Kellie started the fire and caused their camaraderie to splinter in all of a few minutes? Was it really just yesterday that he'd had three allies and more supplies than he knew what to do with, that he'd felt comfortable, if a bit wary, spending the day in the jail cell with them, hearing Scrim and Madigan banter while Kellie told stories about her time in District Three and her time in the arena, Cal listening attentively through it all without protest? Was it really just yesterday that all of them - Scrim, Madigan and Kellie - were alive?
Don't think about it, he reminds himself sharply, even as he thinks of Kellie and Madigan burning to death in the cellblock, and nausea starts to turn his gut. Don't think about them. They're dead. Nothing changes that. If I do what I'm supposed to, play it smart here, I can get through this.
I will get through this.
He passes the mutts and steps out into the hallway, head held high, jaw tight. Madeleine follows, actively averting her attention from the mutts' uniforms, her eyes focused solely on the floor. Still, she makes a point of jostling Cal once they're both in the hallway, stepping past him as the mutts take up a position at their backs.
"Must be the endgame," she mutters, her voice equal parts disdain and mockery. "Always have to put on a show, don't they?"
"They are broadcasting this," Cal reminds her with a shrug. He's certainly got no love for the Capitol, but he's not about to raise his voice to them now. Not when they're so close. Not when -
"Walk." One of the mutts commands, and Cal allows his feet to move without protest, one step after another over the wood floor until he's pulled his pace up to a stride.
"What does the judge have planned?" He asks finally, though the effort of forcing the words to pass his lips seems to zap any remaining strength from his body.
They wouldn't kill me like this, he tries to remind himself. Not so close to the end. Not when they have a finale to get underway.
"Quiet." The mutt commands, and suddenly his arms are being wrenched behind his back as he's shoved forward, a short cry parting from his lips at the unexpected rough treatment.
"Just like the real thing, aren't they?" Madeleine scoffs. She doesn't make any move to help him.
The walk toward the courtroom - the very place where the Games first started, the very place where everything had been plunged into chaos - seems to take hours. Once they reach the door, they're shived unceremoniously through it - Madeleine first, then Cal - before it's closed at their backs and a bolt clicks into place. Across the room, standing in front of another now-shielded archway, stand the girl from One, her hair askew, her uniform soaked in blood, tears dying to her face.
"Looks like someone's seen better days," Maddy grumbles, stuffing her hands into her pocket.
Cal's focus turns toward the front of the room.
"... a lot of someones, actually."
He doesn't have to count the bodies to know that there are twenty-one, all of them positioned along the long benches of the gallery with their backs straight and their heads facing forward. From behind the podium at the very front of the room, a too-familiar Judge rises from its seat, stretching its arms out.
"Ambrosia Salazar. Calvin Kelvin. Madeleine Aldrich. A congratulations seems to be in order - out of the twenty-four tributes who entered this arena, only the three of you remain. And, after the proceedings today, three shall be whittled down to one."
The Judge's voice seems omnipresent in the cold silence of the desolate courtroom. Madeleine isn't speaking. Cal doesn't know if he can speak. And the One girl - Ambrosia - seems as if she's hardly there at all, her eyes glassy and distant as she stands before the other door, swaying slightly on her feet.
"A Victor should embody three qualities, above all else: Dignity…"
The judge motions to Ambrosia.
"Resilience," it says next, gaze turning to Cal.
Then it points its gavel at Madeleine, gesturing at her. "And conviction. Each of you has made it this far because you embody these qualities - or a variant of them - in some form or another. But for one to rise, two must fall. So, the court has moved to call a trial by combat. By the judgment of Panem, you shall fight to the death."
The Judge slams its gavel against the podium hard enough to split the wood. Madeleine, Cal and Ambrosia stay fixed in place beside their doors, bodies heavy, feet practically nailed to the ground.
The Judge waves its hand.
"What are you waiting for? Commence the trial!"
4: Angelo Veroge, District One. Committed suicide.
A/N: Next chapter is the finale - exciting stuff! Now for questions!
Who is your predicted victor?
Who is your preferred victor?
If you could've had any tributes in this story make the final three, who would you have chosen?
As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the chapter and the writing. Hope everyone is doing well and staying safe right now. Sorry this update came a bit late! Thanks again to y'all that are sticking with LT and continuing to read, I appreciate you all.