Morning 6
Jordan's footsteps are only becoming heavier as the hours slip past. He's taken more turns than he can count, not caring what direction as long as it's away. He no longer has the energy to run, but it feels wrong to stay put. He wants to rest, but he knows that the uncertainties chasing him will catch up if he pauses for even an instant.
He lifts his chin to take in a breath, hoping that maybe the cool air will calm him this time. However, when he looks up, all thoughts of rest and doubt are wiped clean from Jordan's mind.
He's grown used to the fog between the trees and the way it shifts around him like a dusted breeze. This is different. The fog ahead builds like a dense wall, towering over Jordan until he can't honestly say where it ends or even begins. The once-thin tendrils have packed together into an impenetrable barrier, blocking everything behind it from view.
The arena at his sides is unchanged, as if it doesn't notice the intruding wall. The weak beam of Jordan's flashlight shows the vague outlines of trees, but beyond is still a lake of darkness. He points the light towards the moulded grey wall, but even that is unable to penetrate the fog. In fact, the cloud swallows it entirely.
The fog moves as one wave, devouring the unknowing trees that lay in its path towards him. Jordan doesn't take the time to make sense of it, to wonder where it came from or why it's here at all. He tells his exhausted legs to move and they listen. Just like the rest of him, they're too afraid not to.
As she sits up, the first thing that Noemma notices is the silence. It echoes in her chest louder than the cannon that came before it. It settles against her ears like thick cotton, sending a shiver up her spine and bringing the hair on the back of her neck to attention. It feels like she's been thrust under the waves without a chance to take a breath. It feels like drowning even though nothing blocks her airway.
Her limbs feel heavy as Noemma pushes herself up to standing. The tremble in her hands makes grasping her spear nearly impossible. When the handle once again sits against her palm, the metal feels colder than it ever has. Everything is telling her that something is wrong, but nothing looks out of place. It's only when she turns around that she understands, but by that time it's too late to run.
She closes her eyes as the fog rushes around her. The air is dry on her skin and smells of nothing, yet when her eyes fly open again all Noemma feels is terror. Tendrils of fog float in front of her, whipping across her face as if she weren't there at all to block it. Noemma gasps, pulling in a deep breath that tightens in her lungs.
Which way is out? She wants to scream for an answer, but her chest feels too heavy to try.
Her next breath comes easier, but that does little to quell the rising panic. Noemma can't see her hands until her fingertips nearly touch her nose. All she can see are the grey claws of fog that reach out from the night curtain. She doesn't know where to go. Worse, she doesn't think she could get there if she tried.
Noemma thinks that she's still upright, but the ground feels too faraway to know for sure. In seconds, the black night has transformed into a whirling grey nightmare. Still, the air is heavy in her ears. Noemma can hear nothing that might be trying to point her in the right direction, but she needs to get out. When she feels the wind begin to nudge her forward, she obeys; Noemma doesn't have a reason to resist.
When Chiara's eyes open, the world around her is gone. The air, the ground, the trees- all of it has been replaced by a thick soup of grey that clings to every surface. It feels like if she opened her mouth, it would all pour inside to suffocate her. So, she doesn't. Chiara just hugs her legs tighter to her chest and tries to hold in the panicked sobs that pound against her lips.
I can't breathe, she repeats to herself. With every inhale, all Chiara can picture is the fog smothering every ounce of oxygen from the air. She hiccups on her next breath, allowing more of it to seep down her throat. Is she imagining the tightening in her chest? The shivering in her fingertips? She can't tell if the arena is actually spinning around her, or if that too is just the fog.
It's everywhere.
Chiara is shaking too forcefully to stand, so she begins to crawl instead. The fabric covering her knees is so worn that she can feel the cold ground beneath them, but she can't stop. She doesn't know which way is up, let alone which way is correct, but she has to keep going. It feels like she can't breathe, even as her chest continues to rise and fall in time. There are tears in her eyes, but she wouldn't be able to see without them either. She just needs to get out. She just needs to move.
Except the panic curls Chiara into the ground mere seconds later. She presses her eyes shut, trying to force herself to just breathe because right now that feels so impossible. She purses her lips and drinks in air through the smaller opening. She forces her nails into the cold dirt. She needs to calm down. She needs to breathe. The fog isn't stopping her right now; her own fear is stopping her.
Breathe.
The word echoes in her mind and her body begins to obey. Chiara stares at the back of her eyelids and plucks the image of the fog from her skull. Her fingertips are the last to stop shaking, even as they remain plunged up to her cuticles in the ground. She still hasn't opened her eyes. Chiara knows that the moment she does, everything will overwhelm her all over again.
She can't stay here.
She doesn't know where to go.
The tears on Chiara's cheek cool quickly in the breeze. It's only then that she understands. The wind is coming from the right; it's pushing everything to the left. She has to go left. It's the only direction that makes sense; where the fog might not be yet.
Chiara opens her eyes. Her chest immediately begins to tighten again, but she doesn't have time to calm herself. She can't get disoriented; she has to move. Chiara breaks into a sprint, both hands out in front of her. It feels the same as when she left the Cornucopia, when the darkness was somehow more blinding than the lights.
Ashara clings to the Cornucopia, even as it's dark metal practically melts into the night landscape. She still has her flashlight, but it's comfortably resting in her pocket. Ashara wishes that she weren't so afraid of its weak light, but after so long in the darkness anything else feels vulnerable. She wants nothing more than to disappear into the shadows; to be gone to anyone who might come searching for her. In some ways, she knows that she already is. It's hard not to be comforted by that thought.
She has yet to sleep, but the heaviness of her eyes feels like it will soon overpower any sense she has left. Ashara can't know how much time has passed, but it feels like days since she last heard movement. Actually, it feels like that long since she last heard anything at all except the sound of her own breaths. Ashara is no stranger to being alone. A week ago, she would have preferred it as others tended to do little more than distract her. Now, it's as suffocating as it is reassuring.
When her silence is interrupted, however, it's infinitely more terrifying.
Ashara's on her feet before she realizes. The drumming of her heart is deafening as it echoes through her body. She pauses against the Cornucopia, becoming acutely aware of the iciness of the metal against her shoulder. Minutes tick by, though they could just as easily have been seconds. She hears nothing but her own heartbeat.
Is it possible she imagined the noise? Ashara still trusts herself too much to really believe that could be the case. She might not be able to see anything but the outline of her tattered vest, but she's not delusional.
She's not alone.
Ashara slides the gun out of her pocket. It feels almost unfair to have a weapon like this, but she's not stupid enough to throw it away either. She decided not to use it at the feast when the sound of gunfire would have brought far too much attention. Now, she doesn't have the same fear. There are only three others out there, and the gun has three bullets loaded.
If gunfire brings them closer, this whole thing will be over that much faster.
It would be so much easier if she could see, but Ashara still hesitates to bring out the flashlight. Her aim's never been terrible, but two hands might be able to straighten the shaking of her fingers. As well, she doesn't know who's out there. Ashara can't even be certain who's left at this point.
Anyone who's made it this far should be considered a threat, but there's only one tribute she truly dreads confronting. If it's Jordan's footsteps that are rustling through the grass, Ashara wants every advantage she can swing.
Her steps are slow but deliberate as they creep towards the sound. Ashara keeps the Cornucopia within reach, understanding that while she might be trapping herself she also can't afford another way for someone to sneak up on her. She wishes that her breaths were steady, but even those shiver as they slip through her teeth.
Footfalls stop and start over a dozen times; sometimes sounding further away but often dragging closer. Ashara can sense that they know she's here by the lengthening pauses. It's too dark to know who it is, too dark to know exactly where they are.
Ashara hears the clang of metal and realizes that they're not nearly as far away as she'd thought. She inhales sharply, stopping her steps to look around with squinted eyes. Without the moon, there is nothing to reflect outlined shadows back to her. All that stares back at her is darkness, even as the sound of movement eats at her eardrums.
She barely sees the silhouette before they push through her. Two sharp gasps mingle in the air between for a moment before the arena hushes that sound as well. Both tributes pull back until Ashara can once again see nothing but darkness laying ahead.
Ashara remembers the gun in her palm seconds later as she pulls herself from the ground. It's a blind shot, but fear takes over. The barrel quickly takes aim at the empty night in front of her.
Ashara isn't sure which is more terrifying, the feeling of finally pressing the trigger or the realization that nothing happened when she did.
Is it possible for silence to grow quieter? That's what it feels like when the fog catches up to Jordan, first clawing at his back before finally cocooning all the way around his eyes. When he inhales, Jordan can almost feel the strange air as it coats it tongue. Somehow it tastes even more like nothing than the fresh air ahead.
One by one, Jordan's senses are plucked from his body. His fingers move as though they are travelling through liquid, even as nothing impedes them. The muggy forest vapour disappears from his nose only to be replaced with a smell he can only describe as water. The last to go is his sight when the fog pulls ahead of him and brings the grey curtain down in front of his eyes.
Jordan starts running again, crashing both hands into tree bark within the first few steps. He huffs in frustration and ignores the spots of blood that seep from his palm. The mild stinging doesn't even begin to compete with the deep aches that scream from the rest of his body. Regardless, Jordan has grown used to ignoring it all. As long as his lungs still pull in air and his spear is within reach, he's learned that nothing else matters.
This fog can't stop him. Nothing can.
His tense muscles begin to melt against the fog as Jordan focuses on the slight sounds he can still pick up. Most of them come from within his body, such as the drumming of his heart and the sighing of his breaths. Then there is the snapping of the branches he walks through and the soft squelch of earth under his boots. He thinks of these sounds and not of what might be creeping, unseen mere feet away. He won't allow himself to panic; that's not what he was trained for.
Panic will do nothing for him. Panic is for the tributes he comes across. Panic is weakness.
Jordan will never be weak again.
He no longer rushes to escape the fog, instead he walks diagonally through it. The further Jordan's steps take him, the more he is able to sense again. The fog has its own subtle noise, the gentle whir of wind that he can only just pick out. It's not simply a wall of grey like it first appeared, the fog ebbs and flows around obstacles. It's alive, and it moulds to the things it passes over.
Jordan knows the moment he's no longer alone. The extra footfalls are like trumpets to their arrival as someone moves towards him. He slows his breathing and plants the soles of his boots against the ground. The easy rhythm of their steps suggest they don't know how close Jordan is. The fog might provide others with enough cover to lose him, but it also affords Jordan an advantage of his own. They won't realize he's there until it's too late to run.
Jordan remains still as he watches the fog begin to move. Wisps of grey divert away from them even as the dense wall stands strong beyond. When bits of a dark silhouette begin to peek through the fog, Jordan doesn't hesitate.
Noemma doesn't have time to scream as something crashes into her. Her back slams against the cool ground and she feels a hand land forcefully on her shoulder. Noemma swipes out with her spear, catching something hard before the dark shape disappears just as quickly as it had come.
She coughs to catch her breath, but her body is already scrambling to get both feet back on the ground. As Noemma takes off in the opposite direction, the sound of heavy footsteps is quick to follow. After so long in silence, every noise is like thunder in her skull and just as impossible to place.
Their next hit catches Noemma's spear, but it's not enough to take her down again. She pushes out the long side of her weapon, hoping to knock them further away but only managing to hit air. She takes a few steps backwards, scanning her surroundings out of habit even though there's nothing to see. Each attack only gives her a second of notice, and Noemma isn't used to reacting this quickly.
Moving this fast, Jordan isn't able to see the tribute any sooner than they see him. Every strike out with his spear is blind, but he doesn't know what else to try. They know that he's close, and he knows they're trying everything to slip away. His frustration only grows with each empty strike. There's no reason they should be able to escape, not when he's so close to the end.
The next time Jordan's spear nicks something solid, he throws himself in that direction. He catches their legs and pulls them to the ground, scrambling for a better grasp as they fight against him. Even from a mere two feet away, Jordan isn't able to make out more than an outline of their head. It's not until he claws further up, a desperate attempt to pin the arm that flails a spear over him, that Jordan sees her.
Noemma's eyes lock with Jordan's and, for the slightest instant, there is a sense of relief. He's a familiar face in the sea of grey that's been so persistent in its struggle to drown her. Then, almost as quickly, the calm disintegrates in her chest as Jordan grabs for her weapon.
Noemma doesn't try to hold in her gasp as she uses all her strength to kick Jordan off of her. The sole of her boot lands squarely in the centre of his chest, and Jordan grunts as his efforts refocus. Noemma pulls her spear far out of his reach, kicking wildly to try and get away from him. Jordan's face disappears into the fog even before he loses his grip on her ankle.
Noemma scrambles to the side, hoping that he won't expect the change in direction. Panicked tears are falling freely down her cheeks, but she manages to hold in the sobs that claw at the back of her throat. She can still hear his movement, but she doesn't know where it's coming from. Noemma doesn't know how long it will take for him to find her again.
Every muscle in her body screams to run but her mind knows that she won't make it. The second she takes off she'll be giving herself away with the only hope left being to outrun him. One misstep and he'll catch up to her. Noemma can run and let him find her, or she can play Jordan's way. The choice is clear.
"I know you're there."
Jordan's voice comes out as hardly a whisper, but Noemma can't be far enough not to hear it. His ears pick up nothing other than his own quick breaths, but she can't be gone. In that instant he saw her face, it all came rushing back. He felt the familiarity and the uncertainty, the anger and the weakness; it's like none of it ever truly left. He didn't hesitate, but he lost her anyways. If something doesn't change, this is going to end the same way. She'll still be alive and the games will be no closer to being over.
Jordan isn't willing to fail again. As anger bubbles up to flush his cheeks, Jordan's steps have already started to search for her.
Noemma's body shivers as she waits for him to appear. There is no doubt in her mind that Jordan will come for her, not anymore. He doesn't look different, but the desperation in his movement is not the same. Whether he's afraid like she is or something else, it doesn't exactly matter right now. The outcome doesn't change.
She only gets a split-second of warning before all of his weight crashes into her once again. Noemma gasps as her back hits a tree and Jordan's wrist lands over her throat. The blunt length of her spear nudges into her stomach, and she has to use both arms to force the metal forward. Jordan grunts as it catches him in the chest and stumbles back. The fog swallows him again before Noemma can even catch her breath.
Jordan doesn't waste another second. He lunges back towards her, spear pointed out until it sticks in the tree where Noemma had just been. As he attempts to free his blade, a flash of movement stops him. Jordan ducks to the ground as her spear arcs over his head. Noemma's advances are graceless, but they do the job. He has no choice but to leave the weapon where it is and play defence.
Jordan drops to the ground again to avoid the blade, then lunges forward to knock her off balance. He is able to grab one leg and pulls as hard as he can, bringing Noemma down with him. She swipes out with the spear at the last minute and metal cracks against his arm. Shooting pain forces him to release her leg, but only for a moment. A second later Jordan's hands find the spear just below the blade and he forces it back at her.
Noemma doesn't realize his plan until the breath has already been knocked from her lungs. She feels immediately like she's going to throw up as pain tears across her abdomen. The hit wasn't enough to break skin, but it's more than enough to crack her grip. She folds forward and both hands rush to the injury. Even that bit of movement makes her shrunken vision swim with the pain.
Noemma knows that she can't lose her weapon. That's the only thought that is able to fight its way through the agony assaulting her mind. Noemma reaches out and grasps the spear just before Jordan pulls it out of range. She doesn't have to think about it anymore. As soon as both hands are wrapped around the handle, she throws all of her weight back at him.
Noemma is able to feel the moment the blade rips through his skin. She wishes more than anything that it didn't feel so familiar.
She brushes the tears from her vision as she scrambles backwards. She doesn't know where she hit him, just that she certainly did. Jordan could come after her again and she can't afford to be caught here without her spear for protection. Still, Noemma can't force her shaking limbs to pull her from the ground.
Second later, the cannon comes louder than ever before, but it gives her the answer. Jordan's not going to attack again. He's not going to do anything again. He's dead.
He's dead because I killed him.
Noemma crawls the short distance to him, but the moment she sees Jordan her stomach empties onto the ground. The spear is sticking out at an awkward angle, its blade having cut through the length of his neck and buried itself just beneath his chin. Blood still oozes from the injury even though his body has gone still. She can't bring herself to glance at his eyes, which stare fixedly upward, for more than a second. Noemma can't bring herself to do anything but look away.
She bursts into tears, every gasping breath bringing new waves of agony to her abdomen but she is incapable of stopping. Noemma hugs her arms around her stomach but that does almost nothing to stop the pain or the sobbing. It's impossible to know what she should be feeling. The only thing she can think about is Jordan. Jordan's dead. Why is he dead? She killed him.
The next gust of wind is strong enough to force Noemma's eyes closed. The one after actually hurts the exposed skin of her hands and face. She braces herself against the current, but it doesn't let up even a little. She needs to move, but how can she? Just one look up at Jordan sends fresh tears streaming down her cheeks that turn to ice with the breeze. It feels too wrong to leave him, even after all of this.
I can't care anymore, Noemma reminds herself as her eyes once again lift to see him. Not about anyone but me.
She has to survive this, and it's not over. Even if her slice of the world collapsed in on itself within seconds, even if her stomach feels like it's been torn open, she's not done. Noemma pushes herself up but has to reach for a branch to steady herself. Her body might ache and her legs might tremble, but she's not giving up.
Noemma passes by Jordan's body until she finds the tree where his spear is still lodged. It's more stuck than she'd hoped, but there's no questioning that she needs a weapon. Even as the wind crashes against her skin in the time it takes to free it, that's still better than the alternative. Noemma just can't bring herself to take back her own spear.
Every step is excruciating, even with the wind at her back pushing her forward. Jordan's spear feels heavy in her hand despite being identical to the one she left. When the fog finally parts in front of Noemma, the dark curtain is almost a welcome sight. She turns her head to see the dense wall of grey still solid behind her, but it travels no further. In seconds, Noemma collapses to her knees without the current to push her forward.
All at once, the night gives way to an impossible brightness. It's too familiar, like she can almost feel the ground moving beneath her and the click of the platform once again. Those same desperate screams echo in her mind- the sounds that first welcomed her to this hell. As she steadies herself against the soil, Noemma chokes on those same burning tears and allows them to force her eyes shut.
Chiara forgets all thoughts of the other tribute as the lights return. She clamps both palms over her eyes, doing everything she can to bring back the darkness that's been so quickly stripped away. It's several seconds before she can move her hands, because at first even the light burning through her eyelids is blinding. It must have been at least a minute before she can start peel them back open again.
Through her narrowed eyes, she can see the tribute standing in front of her. They cannot be more than four feet apart, but this is the first real look Chiara gets and it's somehow more terrifying. She's staring at the District 1 girl, the one that she and Doran ran into at the Cornucopia days ago. It's almost fitting that they should both be here again, blinded once more by the stadium lights.
Even though so much has changed, it feels like Chiara never left the clearing. She can almost hear Doran calling her from behind the dense fog wall. Chiara wants nothing more than to run to him, to have him lead her away from Ashara like the last time.
Except he's not waiting for her. He's already dead. And if she doesn't start moving, Chiara knows that she could soon be as well. There's no one that's going to help get her out of here; Chiara has to do that on her own.
Ashara's eyes are just barely open enough to see the tribute's back as she darts away. Her head aches with new fury, but she's doing everything possible to ignore it. She tries to search the ground for her dropped gun, but Ashara's vision swims as she ducks her head. Against her better judgement, she chooses to leave it behind and takes off after the girl.
Ashara is unwilling to prolong her stay here any longer. With the last cannon came the knowledge that there are only two others still out here. If yesterday she was yearning to leave the arena, right now she's downright desperate. Home is so close she can nearly reach out and grasp it; the only things stopping her are two more people. Two more bodies.
She knows that she doesn't deserve it, but Ashara's going to fight tooth and nail for the victory anyways. Her body won't let her do anything else.
Noemma commands her legs to stand and, to her surprise, they actually listen. Spots spin across her eyes and her limbs shiver but she won't allow anything to take her back down to the ground. She can see the two other tributes running in her direction. Right now, resting is the same as dying as far as Noemma's concerned. She's not willing to do either.
Noemma plants her feet firmly in the dirt as his spear shakes in her grip. There are two of them, but she can't remember if there should be more. It's hard to think about anything except the growing agony in her side. Even the sharp thoughts of Jordan aren't able to cut through for more than a few seconds.
Chiara reroutes herself when she spots the other girl. Even without looking, she knows that Ashara is going to be close behind her. She's not confident enough to think she'll be able to outrun her so she needs to think quickly. It's hard to do that, however, when Chiara catches sight of the spear posed in the new tribute's hands. All of a sudden, her knife doesn't feel quite as comforting.
When Chiara hears the footsteps getting closer, she forces her body to still. She's not faster than Ashara, so she needs another strategy. At the last second, Chiara spins with her knife pointed outward but Ashara avoids it easily. Chiara watches her cringe as they both hit the ground, and she quickly takes the opportunity. She's never been a very hesitant person, and the arena hasn't changed that. However, the clamped feeling in her stomach as Chiara's knife catches the girl's arm is certainly new.
Ashara grits her teeth as pain tears up towards her shoulder. She can feel the blood dripping steadily down her arm, but she doesn't have time to do anything about it. Ashara kicks the girl off of her, giving herself just enough time to pull her knives free from her belt. She allows her eyes to squeeze shut for a brief second, trying everything to keep her vision from blurring again. Every change in position feels like another blow to the back of her head when she's still not over the first one.
When she opens her eyes, Ashara half-expects the girl to already be on top of her. Instead, Chiara's turned her attention to someone else. It takes Ashara a moment to even recognize Noemma. Her freckles look almost black against her paled skin, and her eyes are heavy like she hasn't slept in days. Something's wrong, that much is clear even if Ashara can't spot what that something is.
I don't care, Ashara insists. She wishes she didn't believe herself so easily.
Noemma swings her spear in a wide arc towards Chiara. The movement is slow, but it hits the tribute across her back and sends her stumbling forward. Immediately, Chiara turns her attention to Noemma. The knife in her grip is so small compared to the girl's spear but worrying about that won't change anything. With the two tributes bookending her, Chiara just has to move.
The next time the spear swipes towards her, Chiara grabs it above Noemma's hands and pushes down as hard as she can. Noemma is pulled forward, but Chiara brings her knee up at the same time to catch her. The flash of pain that rips through Noemma's stomach is enough to darken her vision and send her to the ground.
Chiara stands frozen as Noemma drops against the soil. It feels like time has stopped; like cotton has taken over the space between her ears and dulled Chiara's every sense. All Chiara can do is stare down at the girl, whose head lulls limply to one side. She's never seen someone go so still. She never thought it could happen this quickly.
Chiara's mind returns to the Cornucopia, to the first day. She sees people running. She can hear screaming, but she doesn't know where it's coming from. Emilia's there; Chiara's so close to her. She watches Emilia's hands go up and her feet step slowly backward. When Emilia fell, was she this still too?
Chiara doesn't know. She never got the chance to see. All she did was run.
And that's exactly what she does now.
Chiara doesn't chance a look back to see if Ashara is going to follow her. She can't even stomach another glance down at Noemma to see if she's moved. All she can do is put one foot in front of the other as she sprints straight for the fog.
The air cocoons around Chiara more tightly than she remembers. She lifts her hand to her cheeks, but she cannot see her fingertips until they're already touching skin. Quickly, the relief is flooded out by the familiar panic. This time, however, slowing her breaths does nothing to quell the feeling of suffocation.
Ashara is up the moment the girl starts to sprint for the fog. She can't be sure that Noemma is dead, not without a cannon, but she's confident enough that she's not going anywhere for now. Her first priority has to be Chiara. She can't be allowed to escape. Not when Ashara is so close.
Two more bodies.
That's all Ashara can think about as she breaks through the fog wall. Immediately, it feels like she is being suspended mid-air. She turns her head in every direction, but she can see nothing beyond the grey wind. Ashara's steps pause as her chest heaves from the effort, but that doesn't help the tightening in her lungs. It feels like the air is sucking the oxygen from her throat rather than replacing it. It feels like she's drowning.
Ashara gasps for breath as she falls back into the clearing. Every rise of her chest brings a new wave of coughing, and it still feels like there's fluid in her lungs waiting to come up. She's shocked not to see Chiara emerging with her, but at this point she's unwilling to follow the girl further. If Ashara's lucky, maybe Chiara will suffocate before she even has to kill her.
Ashara shudders. Never before has one of her thoughts felt so foreign to her.
It takes every bit of Noemma's strength just to lift her head, and even that feels like agony. She can't remember why she's on the ground or why her body is shivering with the bright sunlight. Noemma presses up to her elbows, but her shoulders collapse just as quickly back down to the soil. All she can think about is getting up, but her muscles refuse to listen.
It's impossible to believe that any part of her wants to give up, but the more she tries to struggle onto her side the more obvious it becomes. Noemma's hand glances over her side and even that light touch makes her flinch. She lifts her shirt slightly and beneath it her abdomen feels like stiff cardboard. When she looks down, purple bruising paints the skin up to her ribs. Noemma can't take her eyes off the dark colouring, even as tears begin to blur her uniform.
Ashara's steps take her to Noemma, even as her mind tries to convince her to just walk away. If possible, the girl's skin has grown even paler with time and Ashara can barely make out the shallow rise and fall of her chest. It makes perfect sense to end her now, to sound the second-to-last cannon and take another step closer to home. Ashara has no reason not to. No reason that she should care what happens to Noemma when it's her life on the line.
Except when Noemma's eyes lock with hers, it's not so easy to think strategically. The same desperate eyes from the feast have glazed over, but they're not dead yet. Ashara can still see the life in them even as she tells herself not to gaze so deep. She imagines that hers look just as downcast, but nowhere near as spotless.
During those first days of the Capitol, Ashara wanted to believe that Noemma was like her. She didn't want to be alone even if she was more than capable of it. Now, Ashara wishes she could be like Noemma instead. There's still an honest turn to her lips that she knows will never match her own frown. Neither of them chose this, but Ashara was prepared to convince everyone that she had.
But it's not enough to just pretend. That's another thing that Ashara's learned.
She uses the tip of her boot to turn Noemma's face away. Without the sad eyes staring up at her, it's almost too easy not to care. Ashara tells her fingers not to shake as she draws her blade across the girl's throat. It doesn't surprise her anymore when her muscles obey. As blood sprouts from the smooth incision, Ashara turns her attention back to the clearing.
Chiara feels lightheaded when she finally emerges from the fog. She ducks behind the Cornucopia, hand pressed against her chest as she struggles to catch her breath. Without the darkness to hide behind, Chiara focuses on quieting her breathing. She knows that Ashara and the other girl are still out there.
It might have been a mistake to leave. It almost certainly was an even bigger one to remain within the suffocating cloud for so long.
The way that Noemma hit the ground, like all of the life had been drained from her on impact, made Chiara's body feel weak. She looked so dead even though the lack of cannon tells her otherwise. Out of everything she's experienced in the past days, that might have been the most horrifying thing she's seen and it was her fault.
Chiara just needs to breathe; to prepare herself for so much worse than unconsciousness. Both of those girls are going to be dead; Chiara needs them to be dead. There's no other way.
Chiara is barely out from the metal wall when she spots Ashara running towards her. Chiara ducks out of the girl's grip the first time but gets caught from behind a moment later. Chiara's hand slams against the Cornucopia and she bites her tongue to keep from crying out. Her lungs still burn from the fog, but that pain stands no chance against the adrenaline coursing through her. Chiara swipes her knife out in a wide arc and that's enough to send Ashara a couple feet back.
Chiara's mind shuts off as her body take over. If she doesn't have to think about it, she doesn't have to remember what's happening.
Both tributes pause as cannon fire echoes between them.
When the arena returns to its silent apathy, Ashara is the first to recover. She lunges for Chiara without a single glance at the knife in the girl's hand. It's almost over. That's the only thought that Ashara's mind can come up with. It's almost over and she's still breathing. It's almost over and she's going to make it out. Just one more body. That's it.
Chiara gets only a second's warning, but it's enough to throw herself out of the knife's path. She thrusts her own weapon forward, catching Ashara just under her collar bone. Ashara gasps, but if anything this only quickens her next attack. Ashara pushes herself forward and her wrist lands roughly on Chiara's chest, slamming the girl back into the Cornucopia.
Chiara cries out as the metal bends beneath her weight. She struggles against the arm that still pins her to the structure, slicing her own palm deeply with the blade held in it. Chiara digs her nails into Ashara's arm, but the pressure on her chest only grows in response. Chiara can feel the moment she breaks skin by the wetness that soaks her cuticles.
Chiara angles a kick at Ashara's shoulder that finally manages to release the girl's grip. Chiara uses all of her strength to push back on Ashara, doing everything she can just to grow the distance between them. Chiara's trapped if she stays here, with the Cornucopia at her back and nowhere to run. She needs to get away if she's going to stand a chance.
Ashara isn't about to give Chiara the chance to run. Not when she's this close. Ashara grabs Chiara's wrists the moment they begin to retreat from her and forces them back against the Cornucopia. Quickly, Chiara slams the handle of her knife into the side of Ashara's jaw. The blow forces Ashara's eyes shut again as her vision swims with fresh darkness.
Chiara is up and running before Ashara can even realize. One look at the fog reminds Chiara that there's nowhere to go, but she needs time to come up with a plan. Unfortunately, time isn't exactly something she has in spades right now. Ashara has more weapons than she does, and clearly more skill too. Chiara needs an advantage, and before long one catches her eye.
The thought makes her sick, but Chiara forces her feet towards the other girl's corpse. She reasons that she won't have to actually look, that the spear is far enough that she could stoop down and pick it up without seeing anything. Chiara knows that she's kidding herself as a bitter taste begins to coat her tongue with every step.
By the time Chiara thinks to look back, Ashara is already running straight for her. Fear pushes Chiara forwards as her eyes lock on the spear. In seconds, however, Ashara in on her. Her knife dips into Chiara's back as Ashara takes them both to the ground. The rolling plunges Ashara's vision into blurriness and tightens the vice around her skull, but her nails only dig deeper into her grip as the girls skid to a stop.
Ashara brings the knife down quickly, cutting Chiara's wrist deeply as it comes up to shield her neck. Chiara screams, but the sound doesn't reach Ashara over the blood pulsing in her ears. Ashara can feel the familiar tearing as she pulls her blade away, then plunges it back down at the tribute. Again and again, Ashara doesn't know whether the knife meets skin or bounces off but she doesn't stop. Ashara's eyes squint against the throbbing in her head but she can't stop. The cannon hasn't sounded; she's not dead yet.
She has to be dead.
Tears blur Ashara's sight further as she brings the knife down again. When she tries to pull it back out, the handle is too slick to hold onto. Ashara clamours for a grip, sobbing against her frustration because she needs to keep going. She's so close. She has to do it. She has to win.
A cannon erupts behind her and Ashara's eyes raise slowly to the empty sky still staring down at her.
"Citizens of Panem, I am pleased to present to you the Victor of the 12th Hunger Games- Ashara Nox of District 1!"
Ashara clamps her hands against her ears to dampen the applause that follows. Red streaks across her temples as her fingertips dig into skin for stability. Her eyes drop to the corpse beneath her, dozens of gashes ripped across her skin making Ashara forget what she even looked like whole. All of the adrenaline melts away as she watches the blood soak down through the soil. Around her, the grey curtain begins to dissolve into the air.
All of the voices, all of the cheers, yet Ashara doesn't want any of it to be for her.
4th: Jordan Kalisco, District 4
3rd: Noemma Dobra, District 4
2nd: Chiara Truist, District 6
Victor: Ashara Nox, District 1
A/N: And there you have it. I apologize that this chapter took a bit longer to get out than I had anticipated but finales have always been one of the more difficult chapters for me to get through. Not only that but choosing a Victor this time around was particularly hard. I can honestly say that every one of them deserved it in their own way and it was a difficult decision to make.
First there's Jordan, my downtrodden Career who became one of my all-time favourite SYOT villains. Then Noemma, my sweet bean who learned to fight for herself and not just others' opinions of her. Chiara, my spirited protector who showed that she could wrestle through vulnerability while still staying strong. And finally, Ashara, my stoic perfectionist that I just couldn't say no to in the end.
Congratulations to Remus who submitted this amazing character. Ashara's gone through a lot and changed a lot more, but your darling made it out of the nightmare forest! I'm proud to be able to give you your first Victor, it's well deserved.
The next chapter will follow Ashara's journey as she leaves the arena and readjusts to life on the outside. That chapter will bring an end to this story as I move into my next project In the Cut which is currently accepting submissions until December 21st.
I hope you're all ready for the end because I'm certainly not.
~ Olive