Day 9, Part 1: The Feast
Lannister is up the earliest—though it'd be wrong to say that he rises before the others. He hasn't slept all night. Every moment of respite brings her back to mind, each time more painful than the last. And so he finds himself stumbling through the increasingly sloped woods without aim or direction, occasionally climbing a tree to avoid the wolves. Has the Arena always been this mountainous?
When the sky shows the first hints of light, he remembers the announcement. The Feast. The other tributes will undoubtedly be there, but he doesn't care about them. Or most of them. There's only one that matters to him—her killer—and he's sure that he'll be there.
So he stops. Turns. Swivels around, as if waiting for the universe to give him a sign. None ever comes. He's lost, without a clue as to where he is, with miles of identical trees on every side of him. For all he knows, he could be days away from the Cornucopia.
Lost. He grits his teeth; he cannot think; despair at his predicament is sinking in. Her face reappears in his mind's eye, and he moves on instinct, willing himself not to fall apart again. In desperation, he continues upwards. Perhaps there will be a break in the trees, an opening in the canopy where he can look out over the Arena, and perhaps he'll find his wandering way to avenge her death, getting Zeus, or the Capitol, or either, or both.
All for you, Jasmine.
Bryson shinnies up a tree, reaching for the gap in the foliage to get a good view of the Cornucopia. His heart pounds with every step. In the dim twilight of dawn, it's hard to tell what's secure and what's not.
"Careful," Barrett whispers from below, muscles tense and alert, ready to catch his ally should he fall.
Bryson grunts, creeping along a sturdy branch. He cranes his neck and squints through the lattice of leaves, eyes focused on the golden horn, already glossy though shadows still obscure the details. It looks nearly unchanged from the Bloodbath, with a large pile of unguarded supplies at the mouth of the horn. That right… The Star Alliance fell apart. Who's left? The Twos and the One boy? If they aren't there, then they must be working separately.
"There's no one there," Bryson whispers down. "No Feast yet."
Barrett sighs as if relieved. "Okay."
It irks Bryson—they came to the Feast to… win faster, after all. He looks down at Barrett, watching him carefully. He fully relies on his larger ally, after all. "The plan, right?"
"Yeah… the plan." Barrett wrings his hands, staring at the ground. "It just… don't feel right, y'know?"
The words remind Bryson too much of Dad, gentle and kind, so he turns back to the Cornucopia, away from Barrett. Dad wouldn't kill… and I have to kill. The sun's halfway above the horizon now, casting light over the Arena that brings the scene into focus. Just as he suspected—there's no one there, only the pile of weapons and backpacks and crates.
Suddenly, the ground slides open, and a banquet table rises from the ground, heaped with baskets and platters of food upon its silky white tablecloth. The Feast has begun, and the Cornucopia is devoid of tributes. Could it be a trap? He looks again—there's no way that the remnants of the Star Alliance would leave all those supplies there for the picking. But it's too late. They've already come this far.
"It's time," Bryson says, dropping down onto the pine straw that muffles his landing. "The table's up."
"Anyone there?"
"I didn't see anyone."
Barrett sucks in a deep breath and reaches for the whip coiled around his arm. "Then let's go."
The two cautiously step out from the treeline, trodding over the wilted remains of the blue flowers that once encircled the Cornucopia clearing. Bryson finds himself right behind Barrett, painfully aware that Barrett had agreed to follow him to the Feast, not the other way around. As they approach the central table, overflowing with luscious fruits and aromatic pasta—is that a steak?—Bryson's stomach begins to rumble. There's no one else here… it should be safe to stop and eat… right? Wary as ever, he scans the treeline, and then the table, and then the Cornucopia—
A tiny point of metal pokes out from the golden horn, twinkling in the morning sun.
"Stay back!" he yells, tugging Barrett's arm—thank goodness he stops!
The two freeze, about twenty feet away from the horn.
"Who's there?" Bryson says, voice shaking—it's his first real fight of the Hunger Games. "I can see you."
The girl from Two steps out, a bloody sickle in her hand.
Alia's hand tightens around the handle of her sickle, fuming at the embarrassment of being called out. That bastard boy from Nine! She was so close! If they had just walked a couple more yards, she could've decapitated one of them and then turned to fight the other. But now, she's standing in the open, staring them in the eye, trying to find a way to wipe the cowards off the Arena before they flee again.
"Are you going to run?" she spits, brushing a few stray hairs out of her eyes. "Again?"
"I…" The Ten boy meets her gaze, though it's evident that he's nervous by the way he fights to keep staring straight at her. "Not this time."
"Good." She smiles, a rush of adrenaline rushing through her veins. Finally, it's the fight she's waited for this entire time. The two outnumber her, but it'll only be more glorious when she wins.
When the two don't move, she takes a step forward, her sickle at her side, challenging them to come at her. The two seem frozen, with Ten and his whip in the front and Nine in the back, armed with nothing but a small dagger.
Well...if you're not going to move…
She charges in swinging. Ten only has a whip; he swings it, but she dodges, slipping in close enough to render his defenses useless. She cuts; it connects with the whip's handle, a solid weight that could easily knock a person out. Its momentum forces her hand back, and she rolls out of the way to stay out of the deadly club's range. She just needs him to move, to swing, to get carried away with the momentum of the lead handle so that she can strike from the other side.
But it doesn't come. Ten stands at the ready, watching her every move.
I'll have to change that. She narrows her eyes. "Come at me, coward."
His eyes remain on her, tense yet unflinching, seemingly unbothered by her taunt. The hair on her arm bristles, more bothered by his steadiness than anything he could've said.
Footsteps, pounding closer and closer from behind.
She breaks left to avoid getting sandwiched in the middle and turns to look. It's Zeus, a frown in his face, a sword in his hand, the flashy set of knives in his belt. The sight of him makes her blood boil.
Oh… you thought you could end me. You thought you knew better. But I'm not dead.
Barrett (and the effin' Nine kid) on her left. Zeus on her right. She knows Barrett won't charge her. Zeus is the priority now. She turns to him with a smile, flipping her hair back in one clean, carefree motion while keeping her sickle at the ready. "Team up for now? We're District Partners and all."
His stone-cold face turns a different shade of gray, but he grunts in approval.
"Ten and Nine are mine," she says, waving her sickle at the pair. She nods towards the woods on the other side of the Cornucopia, where a small figure darts out from the underbrush. "You get that side?"
He nods and leaves, keeping a wary eye on her while he backs off.
Once he's sufficiently far away, she turns her full attention back towards Ten and Nine. It's a pity that she's giving up a kill to Zeus, but if she can take Ten down, it'll all be worth it. Zeus can have the small fry. She's here for the big kills. Nine… then Ten…
Then the other tribute from District Two.
It's Evelyn's worst nightmare. The girl from Two. The boy from Ten. The boy from Two, running up to them. All the biggest, scariest tributes are there; the very sight of the unsheathed steel urges her to turn around and flee. But there's food on the table. Her stomach roars—she can smell it, the fragrance of gravy, the aroma of butter! All three of the scary ones are in a triangle, watching each other with their weapons drawn. Maybe I could slip in…
She waits for Reuben's signal, but it doesn't come. Reuben's death still isn't a dream, no matter how many times she tries to make it happen. She's on her own.
So she takes a deep breath to calm her nerves—perhaps it's my last?—remembers her parents, sick brother, Reuben, and sprints, pushing for the wonderful smells that beckon her closer and closer, keeping her head low in hopes that the others won't pay any attention to her.
As Bryson watches Barrett and the Two girl square off, he can't help but feel a little bit useless. He doesn't have the strength. He doesn't have the speed. All he can do is stand just a bit offset behind Barrett, limiting the girl's range to keep her from looping around.
But I have my mind. He breathes deeply, racking his mind for a way to gain the positional advantage. It's two on one; this fight should be winnable! But his stupid, useless self can't do anything but hide behind Barrett, completely negating any potential benefit that a numbers advantage should bring.
But if I could get behind her… Her attention would be split. His strength doesn't come anywhere near hers, but if he only had to deal with half of it, he would actually have a chance. Not to mention Barrett, who would then easily overpower her. His heart races in excitement at his plan—victory is so close!
Barrett swings, and Two girl parries, opening up her left side.
It's now or never. Bryson rushes into it, ducking behind her with his knife in hand. She's caught between them; either Barrett swings or he stabs and they'll have won. He thrusts the knife forward—
She kicks him hard in the gut, almost enough to force the air out of his lungs as well. How did she respond so fast? He doubles over in pain, wildly missing his swing, clutching his abdomen, where it feels like all his inner organs are rearranging themselves. He closes his eyes, pictures Dad, clenching his teeth in anticipation of the life-ending sickle—
Crack!
Barrett's whip rings like a gunshot, distracting the girl long enough for him to blindly stumble forwards, sideways, any direction as long as it's away from the Two girl. He gropes around in the pain-induced darkness, his foot catches on a rock, and his head hits hard cold metal.
His vision finally clears and his heart sinks into the ground. He's backed against the Cornucopia, the Two girl in front of him, her side angled towards him so she can keep an eye on both of them.
I've made a mistake. This is it—his story's over. Two girl could easily lop his head off and turn back to fight Barrett without a hitch. But he won't go down without a fight, no matter how little his thirteen-year-old self can do.
As Two girl's face dawns with realization and a horrible smile spreads across her face, Bryson raises his knife, wiping at his tear-soaked cheeks, and glares at her with as much hatred and defiance he can muster.
Even as Zeus turns his attention to the girl from Six, who's nearly arrived at the mountain of food, he glances back at Alia every few seconds, glaring at her. That brat, leaving to him the dirty work of killing the defenseless. But he doesn't stand up to her. He doesn't need to; he's not in it for any glory or recognition.
Besides, why argue when you can (quite literally) stab her in the back?
First this girl, and then the tribute running in from the side, and then Alia. It's the surest way to victory, especially if Alia can manage to kill Ten. He grits his teeth and gulps in air; even this innocent, weaponless girl has to go. Emotions and mind steeled, he lunges towards her, sword in position, ready to swing.
The girl nearly slams into the table before she sees him. She screams, falling back, cowering away from him. Keep yourself together—he reminds himself, gritting his teeth even harder.
But something wet splashes across his arms. They instantly erupt in burning pain, stabbing into his hands and arms like a thousand long-thorned nettles. A yelp escapes his throat; he rubs his arms against his jacket, trying to rub the corrosive liquid off; the sword falls to the ground. The girl from Five stands trembling off to the side, a red and blue garden gnome in her hand.
F— — all of you.
When Zeus yells, Marleigh's heart chokes in her throat, suffocating the apologies that well up inside. Painful red patches appear up and down his arms, shaking his rock-solid grip. It hasn't even been ten minutes and she's already failed her goal: Don't hurt anyone; don't get hurt.
The gnome falls from her outstretched hand—I hurt someone! First Elena, and then Chaos, and now Zeus—
No, Marleigh! Don't die! Her survival instinct kicks in, and she sprints to the table, fighting the urge to help the Two boy up. In one smooth motion, she swoops in, plucks a basket of bread off the table, and doubles back. Now to the woods—I'll be out!
But no matter how much she wants to rush for the woods, she can't bring herself to pass Evelyn, the poor, fear-frozen girl from Six. She grabs the girl's arms and pulls, trying to drag the girl after her, but her malnourished frame nearly collapses back.
"Please…" she grunts, her heart pounding faster and faster when she sees Zeus pull his weapon off the ground. "He's coming!"
The girl finally suddenly springs to life with a terrified cry; half-crawling, half-running as she scrambles to her feet and runs for the woods. Marleigh follows right behind her, clinging onto the basket for dear life, but all she can hear is responseless Zeus' yelp of pain—how much does the acid hurt?
She looks back; he's reaching for his knives, but his hands are unsteady, his face straining from the pain. The pit in her stomach grows. She hurt one… She saved one…
But I still hurt one too many…
Bryson… why? Barrett's heart sinks—he can't protect Bryson if the boy runs off like that! His first whip crack distracted the girl enough to buy Bryson a few more minutes, but now Alia's slightly offset, no longer right between them. The three of them form a triangle, and it's one that won't end well for Bryson.
Barrett gulps. "Alia—"
"No!" she says, eyes blazing with terrible excitement. "You're not taking this one away from me."
"But—"
"I gave you a chance," she huffs. "But you chose Nine. So now you'll die with Nine."
She stands at her vertex of the triangle, sickle pointed at Bryson. Barrett's eyes go back and forth between the two—Alia, eyes alight, hair rippling in the wind, posture relaxed, resting her weight on one leg in confident nonchalance; Bryson, eyes of burning hatred, cowering at the base of the Cornucopia yet trying so hard to keep his raised knife steady.
He already feels his resolve draining away; in his mind's eye, he already sees Alia murder Bryson and every nerve in him strains under the terrible anticipation of blood-splattering slaughter. He's done his best to protect the kid—and for what? For Bryson to die now?
He sucks in a deep breath; there's only one thing left to do. He remembers the ones at home, watching and waiting for his return. I'm sorry, y'all… It ain't gonna be me. But is it any surprise? He never did expect himself to win, did he? He sealed his own fate the moment he decided to ally.
As Alia lifts her sickle, he grips the handle of the whip and rushes her, disregarding the blade that turns right toward him. He hears Bryson scream, he swings blindly, he feels the club deflect Alia's swing. Panting for his likely final breaths, he skids to a stop between Alia and Bryson, dangerously close to her sickle.
"No."
It stings.
Zeus grits his teeth, scrambling for a knife. The two girls are fleeing the Cornucopia; they're still in throwing range. But then he sees Alia, back turned towards him, honing in on the Ten boy, who's shielding Nine from the incoming sickle. Even with the acid, the girls aren't much of a threat, but Alia…
He throws the knife at her.
The instant the knife leaves his hand, he knows it's off. There are a million things that could be at fault—maybe it's the acid burning into his arm, or the unfamiliar curve to the blade, or the knife's uncomfortable handle—but it grazes her leg, leaving a thin line of red.
Alia whips her head towards him, her mouth gaping. Time freezes as they size each other up—was she planning to do the exact same thing? He sets his face into a sheet of stone; he never owed her anything in the first place. Sure, they're from the same district, but to him, she's no better than any of the other tributes.
The corner of his mouth curls up when he sees the Ten boy moving behind her.
When Alia looks away, Barrett has his chance. With a furious yell, he raises his whip and cracks it, booming like a gunshot that rattles the air. She whirls back around to face him, just in time for the whip to strike her in the face, leaving a bloody trail from one cheek to the opposite corner of her forehead. She recoils from the impact, screaming at him, but he's beyond caring now.
The way she looked at Bryson… Just remembering her hungry gaze causes him to see red, and it's not just the red dripping down her face. By some twist of fate, the universe has decided to give them another out, and he isn't going to waste this chance.
"Let's go!" he roars, straining his voice.
Bryson staggers to his feet, shaking so hard he can barely run, so Barrett stays one step behind him. To his great relief, Alia doesn't pursue, staring at them escape with a snarl on her bloody face. There's a stab of guilt—even she doesn't deserve that—but he keeps his focus on Bryson, relieved that both of them are still alive.
Bryson's barely into the woods when his legs give out from under him. He collapses into Barrett's arms and buries his face into Barrett's jacket, soaking it with a torrent of tears that spring up from deep within, blurring his thoughts into a deluge of thoughts that overwhelms every logic gate in his mind.
He hates the girl from Two. Hates, hates, hates her, and he doesn't know why. Her devilish smile is forever burned into his memory, grinning with glee as she prepared to lop his head off. His breath catches; he's back in the moment—I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die—
But I'm not dead. His fingers claw at Barrett's jacket, clinging onto him as if letting go would mean falling forever into an inescapable void.
Equally imprinted on his mind is Barrett, charging in towards him with a death wish, stepping between him and the sickle. He hears Barrett's roar ringing in his ear—"No!"—and then re-sees his ally's shadow cover him, shading him from the murderous rays that emanated from the Two girl's eyes. And then he's running, tripping, running, stumbling, fleeing into the woods as the entire world shook and rolled through his blurry vision.
"It's okay," Barrett murmurs, patting his back. He feels Barrett's chest rise and fall with every panting breath, regularly, over and over, a rhythmic cycle that whispers safety.
He saved me. His mind is still on pins and needles, numb with overstimulation, too shocked to feel guilty. Timidly, he lifts his head out of his secure haven and looks up into Barrett's eyes, filled with relief and worry—and sadness too, but Barrett blinks and it's just relief and worry.
"Are you okay?" Barrett says.
Bryson sniffles and nods, any and all words hopelessly choked up in his throat.
"I ain't leavin' you."
He can't look anymore; his energy drained with the tears, leaving him cold, numb, and exhausted. Without a second thought, he falls forward again, where Barrett instantly envelops him in warmth. His eyelids droop, too tired to be wary, and his strength gives out. Distantly, he feels Barrett on the move, carrying him in his sturdy arms, and he lets go, one singular thought in mind before he fully drifts off. It's a statement of fact, one so simple yet fully unthinkable only a week ago.
I trust Barrett.
Ten and Nine escaped, and it's all Zeus' fault. She doesn't even bother to watch them disappear into the woods. They're past gone, and there's only one fish left for her to catch here. Through her red-stained vision, she glares at Zeus, that son of a witch. Never mind that she initially planned to fight him after they took out their respective sides of the Feast—he betrayed her long before their agreement expired!
"Bastard." She snarls at him. "You betrayed me."
He snorts, sword at the ready in his red-splotched hand. "You first."
"And you sabotaged me."
"I did."
She hisses—he sounds so proud of what he did to her. "Let's settle this."
He raises an eyebrow, and she attacks.
The first swing of her sickle clangs against his sword. He twists the blade, likely trying to disarm her by taking advantage of the curvature in her sickle, but she's ready for it and pulls her weapon back—she expects no less from a trained tribute of District Two, and she can't afford to overextend herself.
Then he lunges at her sickle hand. She curses—why didn't I expect that? Her time in the Arena with more passive enemies must've dulled her instincts! She barely pulls her hand back in time to keep it from being sliced right off, but the metal hits the sickle and it slips out of her sweaty hands.
In a panic, her eyes dart to Zeus, emotionless as always. She can't die to this treacherous rock; she won't let herself. It's not over if I act fast. She spies the red sores on his arms and hands—she heard him yelp earlier—and slips up right next to his hulking figure, dodging his swings. She clamps her hands on his burns and squeezes as hard as she can.
He suddenly sucks in air through gritted teeth, and her heart leaps—good, it hurts. She slides her hand off of his and onto his sword's hilt, wrenching it out of his slightly loosened grip. He knees her in the chest and the sword slips from her hands, clattering on a nearby rock, but she kicks it before he can grab it, spinning it away in a cloud of dust.
"Now we're even." She grins, hands in front of her and feet steady, ready for whatever he sends at her.
But he doesn't tackle, or grab, or even punch. He mirrors her stance, alert and poised, yet he doesn't beckon for her to attack first either. He kicks once, but she evades it easily with a light skip backward. He strikes; she avoids again.
What's he doing? His third kick comes, but this time, her foot hits something hard behind her. There's a rock there; her eyes grow wide. That snake, trying to trip me. She leaps, but it's too late. He kicks her legs and shoves—she's not on her feet anymore. His hands grab her shoulders and throws—her back hits the Feast table, sending meat pies and salads and cakes flying as she rolls to escape his next blow. A pitcher of lemonade falls on her, splattering its acidic juice all over her cut face, yanking a scream out of her throat that leaves her breathless.
The pain… too much… can't be over…
She forces a single eye open through the face-shredding pain and sees Zeus' face, a sheet of metal with a slight lift to the corner of his mouth as he comes in for the kill. He's pleased. The thought burns into her like a brand—she can't let him, she won't let him.
She grabs the now-empty glass pitcher and slams it against his head, where it shatters into a million clear razors. Zeus growls and slams the table, tipping it over. The avalanche of food carries her with it to the glass-covered ground, where a sharp edge bites into her left shoulder.
A shadow falls over her—he's coming for me!—she searches the ground blindly, lacerating the skin on her hand until her hand closes around a larger shard. Blood's clouding her vision. Though the red, she spies the outline of Zeus' figure, dark against the bright sky as he bends down with a knife from his belt.
One final shot.
She slashes the makeshift knife, and when she feels it cut through flesh, she knows she found her mark. A weight falls on her—Zeus' body—gargling the blood that spews from his cut-open throat.
Boom.
She tilts her head back—is that a cake behind me—and closes her eyes. The sun's rays shine down on her bloody face, warming the skin. Gingerly, she moves her hand, but it brushes against glass and she stops at the sting.
I won.
Won what? The fight against Zeus? The cameras undoubtedly are capturing her face right now, but she's too drained to wave, or gesture, or even just smile. The fire she thought would carry her to victory now leaves her burnt out and spent. Sooner or later, she'll have to move Zeus' bloody body off of her and get to her feet, wash in the river and clean her wounds. She doesn't want to. She must look horrible on the television screens of the Capitol, beaten and bleeding, but there's no physical or mental strength left.
A salty drop runs down her face, stinging when it catches in a cut.
There's something in the air. Orysa saw it all happen—one moment Baize was twirling a long stick in his hand; the next the stick snapped, half of it in his hand, half of it smacking him in the face. He freezes and turns his head back, staring at her with wide eyes.
"What was that?" she says, racking her brain to make sense of the nonsensical situation. It was almost as if the stick hit something midair and ricocheted back.
"I don't know."
"Let me see!" She plucks the broken-off portion of the stick and tosses it forward. It's barely flown past Baize when it hits something invisible, flashing a brief spark before it bounces back, hitting Baize again. Once it lands, she picks it up to inspect it—the part that hit whatever-it-is is charred.
"Come on…" he grumbles.
She doesn't notice or even really care—what's going on here? A strong wind shakes the trees, wrenching leaves loose from their branches and sending them into the invisible boundary, which shoots them right back. The drier leaves hit the ground half-burnt. She narrows her eyes and purses her lips, bewildered.
Then Baize sucks in air, his eyes alight. He tosses a twig forward and laughs when it returns with a sizzle.
"What?" She frowns, a little peeved that he seems excited when she's still lost.
His grin reaches from ear to ear. "We've reached the edge of the Arena."
Capitol
When the boy from Eight and the girl from Nine took a few steps away from the forcefield, Adrastus released a held breath. Even though the two were trouble—in a normal year, he would've sent the killer woodpeckers after them—it wouldn't do for one of them to die like this. An accidental tribute death via forcefield was the exact opposite of what the doctor (or Sena—, well, President Snow) had ordered, and any mistake could be used against him to ask for his execution.
But killer woodpeckers would have to wait. He turned back to his main work screen, scouring screen after screen of ultra-high-definition security camera footage for any sign of an intruder. A sensor had picked up suspicious movement along the backside of the building a few nights ago, yet he hadn't heard anything about it from the incompetent security department. Of course, it could've been a stray dog or something else, but he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had broken in.
Trying to hide things from me, eh? As he scrolled with his right hand, flicking through hours and hours of footage, his other formed a fist. What were they thinking? He'd have to fire every last one of them for threatening his life.
He squeezed his eyes shut, sore from staring at the screen for half a day in vain. He hadn't found a thing. Leaning back in his seat, he ran through the evidence once again—the sensor that had picked up movement and the suspicious series of camera errors, beginning from the outside cameras to apparently random ones throughout the building. Second floor hallway had gone out; front lobby had stayed on. Kitchen had gone out; elevator had stayed on. Forcefield maintenance had gone out; security office had stayed on. There had to be a pattern, yet none of the pieces made sense together.
If he didn't figure it out, it would be his death.
What if… On a whim, he scrolled the time forwards to the end of the outage and returned to the security footage, hoping against hope, checking the rooms whose cameras had gone out. Second floor hallway… Kitchen… Forcefield maintenance…
A square of black caught his attention. The vent in the ceiling of the Forcefield Maintenance office was open, with a chair directly under it. He set the time to right before the outage happened—the chair wasn't there. Whoever broke into the room must've moved the chair.
Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he returned to the scene with the open vent, searching every corner of the frozen image for clues. When the darkness revealed nothing, he pulled open the storage code for the footage and adjusted the contrast, hoping for anything that could present him with a sign.
Perhaps the intruder was already long gone? It couldn't be—accepting it wasn't an option. Besides, someone from above shut the vent merely minutes later. His gut told him the answers were right there, even though it increasingly felt like a dead end.
Suddenly, a pair of eyes appeared in the shadows. Trembling with excitement, he captured the image and ran it through the Capitol resident database, breath held and heart pounding. Moments later, it returned a name: Silvia Yeh. Her official picture stared down at him, almost as if disgusted with him, and every official detail—address, number, etc.—flowed neatly below it in a spreadsheet. He instantly dialed the head of the Capitol Peacekeeping force, so tense that he pressed the wrong number and had to redial more than once.
"Hello?"
"This is Head Gamemaker Beaufleur."
"Oh! Good day, sir—"
"I'll need a Peacekeeper raid," Adrastus interrupted, trying to forward the details with his free hand as he spoke. "I'm sending you the address now."
"But—"
"It's a national security threat." And a threat to my life, he silently added, praying to whatever higher entity there might be that the Peacekeepers would be quick and thorough. "Oh—do whatever it takes to get information out of them."
The Fallen:
Zeus Strikon (D2M), killed by Alia Bernold (D2F) — 9th Place
It's our Mama's boy Zeus… :(. Yes, I loved him too, even though he killed Jasmine, and it made me sad when everyone got mad at him. In my mind, his mindset was pretty simple: get in, get out, save Ma. There was a world-weary, suspicious aspect to his personality that I regret not expanding, and if I ever had a chance to redo this story, I have so many ideas of where I'd take him. I'm sorry to everyone that wanted a Lannister/Zeus showdown…
I have plans for Lannister soon
A/N Sorry, Bradi, for the relative lack of deaths. This is Part One. Part Two coming (hopefully) soon (after clearing my review queue and updating Justice). 'Nuff said.
Thoughts?
