XXII: Arena, Early Morning, Day Four.
Micah Rossier, 18
District Eight Male
He's never felt so off-kilter.
Something has happened inside him that renders him more useless than before. That's what he is, indefinitely, after what happened. Not only did he fail to stick by Oksana's side, but he couldn't even escape on his own.
Micah has never had an easy time in the past admitting that he needed help. He was one of the providers of the family, getting up early for shifts and never making it to bed before midnight, trying to juggle school and keeping all of his siblings in line. Never in his life has he had someone reach out to him and offer support, even if it came in such an odd way.
Of course he's grateful for it. Without Hosea and Inara, he's not sure what would have happened to him. If he's lucky, he gets out within a few more hours in his own power. If not, his body wastes away on the floor of the elevator, hands pressed over his ears to try and block out the sound of the heavy thump that had hit the top of the elevator a few hours earlier, shaking the entire frame of it.
He hates that he has to be the one to lead them both back to the Archives; he doesn't feel equipped to, not steady enough on his feet. With every step it feels like he could suddenly pitch over and never get up. It's like he's never going to feel right again.
But if they find Oksana, if they can get her back… maybe things will change. That will give Micah something to prioritize other than his own miserable self.
Being in the presence of others continues to help. With a silent look, Hosea starts descending to the basement of the Archives and Inara urges him along, safely sandwiching Micah between them both. He feels like he's being baby-sat, an odd role-reversal to the types of situations he's usually in. They have no good reason to be doing this.
"I think she ran somewhere that way," Micah whispers, pointing to the left. It would make sense, considering her ran the other way and left her behind.
Not left her, though, because he's going to find her. Maybe not well, but alive. Micah will fix whatever he has to in order to make it right.
His stomach is in knots as they begin to file through the towering cabinets, shoes squeaking along the tiled floor. After the pressing darkness of the elevator, the fluorescent lights sting at his eyes, making it impossible to keep them steadily open. In his pocket he grips the little pointy tool, fingers shaking as he readjusts his grip. Better to be safe than sorry.
They stumble upon something else, first, and Micah takes a long moment to remember just what happened. Hosea scoops up the pitchfork, abandoned on the ground, and Micah shakes his head when he tries to offer it back to him. They had been sitting right here when they had heard the voices—Micah hadn't thought to grab the weapon, only Oksana, and even she had torn herself away quickly enough. Maybe he should have held onto the pitchfork.
And done what? Stabbed the little girl from Twelve? Unlikely. Even if he would have had the courage, she wasn't the only one to take on.
"I'll hold onto it for now," Hosea tells him. He'll be holding onto it permanently, but Micah doesn't want to tell him that right now. It's a better fit for someone from Ten, anyway. Besides, a little bit of shared trust calms his ever-fraying nerves and makes him take a deep-breath despite the still-iron-clad grip around his lungs, as if someone is squeezing at them.
They don't have to go much further. Even behind Hosea's broad back he sees the blood on the floor, dried to the color of rust. A few smears of it, a large pool of it, small footsteps leading away from the worst of it before they fade off and disappear.
His own blood goes oddly cold, filled with ice. Hosea's white shoe comes away clean when he touches it; it really is dried.
"Could they have brought her somewhere?" he asks, but he already knows the truth. Micah wants nothing more than to sink to the ground and cry, scream until his throat is raw and his face hurts from scrubbing at it. A failure, then, as well as weak. Micah always knew that's what he was. Just because he can make everyone else be their best doesn't mean he can do it himself.
"If she was bleeding that much and they carried her off, somewhere, there would have… well, there would have been a trail," Hosea points out, scuffing his shoe over it. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay."
"It's not—"
"I'm fine," Micah says, rubbing at his arms to rid the sudden chill that's encapsulated them. "Don't worry about me."
He feels like a broken record—is that all he knows how to say these days? Micah isn't okay. When was the last time he really was, anyway?
"You can stay with us, if you want," Inara offers.
And maybe he's selfish, too, because Micah can't imagine anything worse right now than being forced to go off on his own and try to survive that way. He nods, blinking away some of the wetness in his eyes. Hosea gives him a gentle nudge to get him walking again as they turn back towards the stairs. If they hadn't found him, would he even have bothered getting out? Of course he didn't want to die in there, but even if he had found a way back out into the real world he isn't sure that he wouldn't have just laid there and waited for it anyway. Micah, all alone in some carpeted hallway, surrounded by things with faces that weren't real, looking for death.
He just wants to know that it mattered, somehow, that him going to Oksana meant something. Did he do any good for her, or is it outweighed by the fact that he left her die?
The weight of it is crippling and he's not meant to carry this much. Each steps up the stairs at Inara's back feels impossible, rocks tied around his ankles, sinking to the bottom of the ocean.
So many people back home rely on him to smile, to keep up appearances, to get through the day.
"What the—"
In front of him, Inara shrieks. Not pain—shock. Surprise. She rears back into him and nearly sends him down the stairs, almost , before she grabs a hold of the railing. At the crests of the stairs is a figure, small as can be—Twelve girl, his brain produces. She's back, she's not letting him go this time. The others are somewhere close.
But no one else appears, and then her fist, something shiny at her knuckles, collides with the side of his face.
Pain explodes there, pain and fire alike as his skin tears and something gives way and cracks, stars dotting his vision. Micah stumbles off and slams into the wall, the railing digging sharp into his ribs. There's a hand at his back—Inara, he assumes. The blood in his eyes makes it near impossible to see, dripping down the side of his face and staining his white clothes.
Hosea lunges for her, a neat jab of the pitchfork that nearly catches her in the stomach, but you can tell his heart isn't in it. Who wants to kill a little girl, really? Who wants to kill anyone at all?
He's too much for her, though. She darts towards them once again, easier targets. Crashes right into him, doing a neat duck under the pitchfork as Hosea swings it again. Inara can't save him, this time. He practically crushes her as the girl tackles them both down the remainder of the stairs, his hands fighting for the little tool in his pocket.
As he frees it, they roll over the last step. He prepares for her weight to come down on his chest, trying to wiggle any bit of himself free.
It just happens to be his arm that he was so convinced she had pinned to his side.
As she collapses down on top of him she lets out a punched out gasp, arms giving way. Micah feels blood soak his fingers, blood where they're wrapped around the hilt of the tool. He still has a hold on it when she pulls herself back and the tool rips free from her chest, tearing open a gash over her sternum. When she flops back onto the landing her hands come up to her chest, trying to coax some of the blood back inside as she gasps and seizes.
There's fear in her eyes. Fear that came from out of nowhere, like being stricken by a lightning bolt. She didn't see this coming. Death wasn't on her agenda for today.
… it wasn't on Micah's, either.
The tool clatters out of his hand, but he can't move. Inara scrambles up onto her knees, inching closer to the girl, but doesn't reach out. Eventually Hosea is standing between them, blocking most of Micah's view.
Is that for the best?"
Her breath is coming in a wheeze, now, more faint each time. It's a sound that's going to echo in his ears for a long, long while—if he even has that much time left. Whatever hourglass has his name on it has been tipped over. The sand at the other end is growing higher and higher with every passing second.
"Is she—"
One last, gurgling breath. A soft wheeze.
A cannon fires.
Micah refuses to allow his arms to give out. He hauls himself up, onto all fours, trying to see past Hosea's legs. After a moment, and a deep breath, Inara begins plucking knives out of the girl's belt and then pries the bloody brass knuckles off of her fingers. He can hardly feel the throbbing in his face anymore—it's distant, almost soft. The pain is above water and he's trapped far below it, in the darkness where no one can get to him.
"I'm going to take her outside," Hosea says quietly. "Just... just stay here."
He misses the moment when Hosea scoops the girl's body up into his arms; only sees her legs as they rise above his form, dangling limply. There's the sound of Inara packing things away, otherwise in silence.
There's a sudden burn on his cheek as salt runs through the gashes there.
"What did I do?" he asks, as his eyes fill once again. "I didn't… I didn't mean..."
Inara lays a hand on his knee, shushing him. He can't help it as she continues to pack the weapons away, tucking them places he can't see through the blur. He didn't mean it. It wasn't supposed to happen like that—nothing was.
She let him go. Threatened his life, sure, but she let him go.
And this is how he repays her?
Devan Del Rio, 18
District Four Female
They know this isn't who she is.
Devan knows this isn't who she is.
But there's nothing she won't do to stay in the in-crowd, to cement her presence in a group even if they are so much grander than her. A few weapons don't make their positions unobtainable. It doesn't matter what Devan has to throw herself into.
So it's bright and early for them, as always, too early for any rational human to be up. This time seems to be the one that Lex functions best in—she has them all up quickly and efficiently, not unlike a drill sergeant. Last time Devan checked she was in the fucking Hunger Games, not some sort of sick boot camp.
To each their own, she guesses. She doesn't have to like Lex's rules, only apparently follow them.
As long as Lex doesn't hate her, it's good enough.
Her allies from Seven haven't hesitated thus far to make their thirst for blood a secret. If anyone were to go out and hunt she thought it would be them. If Veles got his way, Ambrose would be tagging along with them while the poor old Fours got left behind at base, to guard their potential stash of lethal weapons and the place they were calling home.
But no, Lex wants to take her. Why, you ask? Well, Devan has no goddamn clue on that front. She's just going along with it.
And that's fine and dandy, really. She has no problem going. A problem with killing? Well, maybe. She'll find that out when the time comes, clearly. Devan has much more of a problem with leaving Varrik alone with Veles in this near-pristine bank, camped out near a half-open vault like that amounts to any sort of sense in the world.
The two of them are like bombs, the proximity kind. Too close together and you set them off. When they're alone, too? Destruction is almost a certainty.
They're not Careers. They won't suddenly become a hunting pack just because Lex leads her and Ambrose out into the great unknown for a few hours. Pretend as they might, that's not how things work. Knowing their luck, they'll wander around in a few big circles, Devan will no doubt disrupt anything they get close to accomplishing, and they'll return with a few more failures under their belt. She won't say that to Lex, though—Devan's not in the mood for a reaming. If she wanted one of those, she'd just walk through the front door of her house.
God, she misses them. Yes, even her annoying ass brothers, who can't keep their mouth shut even when told to. Runs in the family, honestly. Whichever of her parents passed out that particular gene only has themselves to blame.
She was always told when she was little that her mouth was due to get her in trouble, one day. Was this the trouble they could have anticipated?
"You ready?" Lex asks, a tinge of impatience coloring her tone. Ambrose is already waiting by the door, passing his rapier from hand to hand. She hasn't been able to stop thinking about what he told her, about what's in that damn backpack.
That's what she's leaving Varrik with. Veles continues to lounge on the floor, back against the vault door, whilst Varrik paces the length of it, an uneasy twitch to his fingers that matches, in some respect, the purple-blue shadows under his eyes. He won't last much longer without some sleep, but it goes in one ear and out the other—if it goes in at all.
"One second," she requests, ignoring Lex's annoyed look as it follows her all the way back to Varrik. She gives him a tight hug, ignoring his startled, bird-like squawk as she forces him into an embrace. They're not the hugging type, she doesn't think. He's like another one of her brothers. They're better suited for hitting each other to express their love.
But this is the only way it might get through.
"Hug me back," she hisses into his ear. "And listen to me, alright?"
She has to, alright? She begins to tell him and doesn't feel an ounce of remorse for it. Devan doesn't care what this fucks up. If she's good at anything, it's crawling out of even the worst rubble. This will shake something up, she's certain, but they'll figure it out. No earthquake will make them crumble.
Devan pulls back, looking him in the eye for a moment to make sure it's gotten through. When Varrik gives her a small nod, albeit a confused one, relief floods her veins. Nothing to worry about and nothing to see here, folks. If Ambrose hates her for tattling, that's his business. She's not here for him. She's not even here for Varrik, really, but he means the most to her and she can't very well let that go. When they get back in a few hours, he's still going to be here. Maybe she'll have killed someone, maybe not.
"Be safe out there," Varrik says. Despite his sleeplessness, his jittery actions, he's still here with her.
That counts for something.
"I'm always safe," she fires back, giving him a hard pinch on the arm. Varrik cracks a smile, making his eyes look less tired for a moment.
"See you later?" he asks.
"See you later," she confirms, and it's true. No matter what hell is raised, it's true.
It's just a few hours. What's the worst that can happen?
Donatella Fontes, 17
District Two Female
"Can't sleep?"
She blinks, hazily, willing her eyes to focus on the room around her. Casi's frame swims into view above her before she takes a seat next to her, legs crossed neatly.
She was sleeping for a while, fitfully and with dreams of mixed reviews, but Donatella doesn't feel well-rested whatsoever. To see a familiar face is almost a relief after the swirling blackness that existed solely in her head.
"Not the best," she admits, sitting up slowly. The lack of sleep is starting to take a toll, a dull thud building up behind her temples. She rubs at them for a moment, hoping the ache will dissipate, but nothing is that easy. Not in her life, anyway, as has been proved the last few months.
"Well, nothing happened while you were sleeping, in case you were worried," Casi says. "I had it all locked down."
Of course she did. As if Donatella could expect anything else to come out of her mouth. The difference today is that she heard it, but the look on Casi's face suggests that she doesn't really believe it. A girl filled with such conviction, always speaking with an amount of brevity that doesn't seem to have an end in sight—something has happened to her in the hours they've left her alone with her thoughts.
Or perhaps it started yesterday while they were gone. Milo wouldn't have noticed it, and her and Hale both just wanted to get off their feet and relax for a bit after the whirlwind of a day. Casi had been quiet. Quieter than normal, anyway.
It hurts her to watch someone who is so obviously in the early stages of falling apart because she can recognize each and every one of them. Tella spent so many days locked in the bathroom filling the tub so that her parents wouldn't hear her broken sobs, wishing she could smash the mirror to pieces without facing repercussions or questions for it. She had to stand at her sister's funeral while they called her by Donatella's own name, everyone else believing they had lost one person when in reality she was standing right there.
She's too entangled in the web to escape, now. She is both the spider and the unfortunate prey that has been snared by it.
In her eyes, Casi appears to be in a similar situation. She's stuck, can't get out. She's drowning in it.
"Do you want to talk?" she offers quietly, keeping her voice low in case either of the boys wake up. It's safe to do so, now.
And she doesn't mind listening.
"About what?" Casi asks. Her act in feigning confusion is a strong one, Donatella will give her that, but not strong enough.
Much like the rest of her, really. It's not even a dig. She thinks Casimira knows it as well as she does.
She shrugs. "Anything you want."
The invitation has been sent—it's Casi's move, now. She continues to pick at the hem of her pants, displaying even more clearly her worry and unease that wasn't present before. "Was it easy to kill that girl yesterday?"
"Easy enough."
"I mean… I mean if it was the two of us, do you think we would have gotten her?"
"No way to tell. Hale was the one who stopped her from getting over the fence, and—"
"And I wouldn't have been able to do that."
"That's not what I said," Donatella interjects. "I was going to say the outcome could have been just the same, only it may have happened in a different way. Regardless, it doesn't matter. She's dead."
Dead, and she feels very little regard for the girl's life. Almost robotic. She knows Casi feels much the same, that killing the Ten girl was a necessary step in their path to the end. Donatella has never been the type of person to wear her heart on her sleeve, though, whereas Casi seems to have difficulty shutting it down. They're at an odd crossroads, here.
Casi, finally, lets out a low and bitter laugh. "You can say it. Everyone back home did."
"Say what?"
"That I'm a delusional little girl—a child. And that I wouldn't have been able to catch Eight yesterday. I could have gotten us both killed—"
"Where is this coming from?" she interrupts. She knew, of course, that Casi wasn't all she was cracking herself up to be. Facades were hard to keep up, after all, especially when walls were getting consistently smashed down.
"Nowhere. I'm just being stupid."
"You can tell me."
"Can I? No one is worth telling anything to, because no one's on my side. No one wants to be."
A day of stewing, and she cracked. She sat here, motionless—arguably useless, though Donatella wouldn't call it that exactly. Then they left her on watch for a few more hours, enough to solidify what she thought about when Milo of all people certainly wasn't going to talk her down off the ledge. It's a phase she feels that she's been in for months, culminating in standing on the ledge of the reaping stage, the distance to the ground below seeming so much further than it really was.
She wants to reach out, but doesn't. Human contact has been a rarity for her this past while. "I am. Or at least I want to be."
"Why?"
"Because you're not useless. You're here, aren't you? Of all the people in Eleven, and they picked you. You were one of the first people in this arena to take action—a girl is dead because of us. Both of us. It doesn't matter who got the final hit."
Casi blinks a few times. She can't help but wonder if anyone has ever told her these things—that she's good, that she's worth it. Everyone has their fatal flaws, and occasionally they bring you crashing to your knees in the face of adversity.
That doesn't mean you can't get back up.
"Besides," she continues. "I'm not who I say I am either. Not even close."
"How so?"
It almost comes out. Her own name almost spills free from between her lips, a desperate cry for someone to recognize her. She doesn't want to be Armina anymore. She's going to die as Armina, probably, and for what? This is who she is. The girl who makes decisions in a split second whether or not she'll come to regret them, who doesn't even let her own brain tell her what to do in any logical sense. That's who she wants to be again.
But that's not possible.
"You can tell me, too," Casi says quietly. The urge to reach forward is stronger than ever, just the faintest thing. Folding her fingers over Casi's own where they're resting on her knee would make her feel so much better, even if it was just a second.
There's something wrong with them both, something likely irreparable. It could be said about this whole room, she thinks, a collective of shattered individuals, but something is different here.
Tella keeps her hands where they are. "Maybe I will."
Danger lights up under her skin. It feels good. Makes her feel like she's got something to live for other than the legacy of carrying her sister's name. Perhaps today is the day her hands finally break free from the soil—no longer is Donatella Fontes doomed to be buried underground.
She has come alive again.
Ilaria Landucci, 18
District Six Female
It feels like she's never going to come back.
It feels like Ilaria could stand at the door forever, waiting.
There's fact and then there's fiction, here. Fact is that Licia is gone, and judging by the fact that neither of them ever got woken up for a watch, she's been gone for some time. Another fact—Licia wandering off on her own is not exactly suspicious, at least not in her eyes.
She has another lingering thought, but it could be fiction. If she really did kill Cal, then there's no excusing Velcra from the fact that she could have killed Licia and dumped her body while Ilaria was asleep.
Wouldn't she have heard the cannon, though? She heard Cal's.
There's not much Ilaria is certain about anymore.
What she does know beyond any shadow of a doubt is that Licia can handle herself, no matter her age or disposition. She's strong, stronger than most people would take her for. Ilaria wouldn't hesitate to bet money on her in a fight given the opportunity.
But something is wrong. That is fact. It could be a multitude of things, but something is.
She could have just left. Ilaria wouldn't blame her for that. Dealing with Velcra for a few days would exhaust anyone—Licia didn't ask for that part of their alliance. She didn't take the supplies for a long journey, though, only her weapons, and that decidedly is not Licia. She's reckless, sure, but she's not an idiot, and venturing out into the arena with hardly anything on a more permanent basis isn't something she would do.
Perhaps she found something, a new building or a cache of supplies that are even more interesting than the things they've got here. For all Ilaria knows, she's going to show up any minute now and reveal her finds with a wild, foolhardy grin on her face. As if nothing had happened. It would be a welcome change from the grim, harsh frown she always wears, has worn since they were met with Cal's dead body on the floor.
She could have run the route they talked about as well. It wasn't discussed about how they would do it, exactly, but the idea was there. Licia could just be taking things into her own hands.
It wouldn't be the first time.
There's a pit in Ilaria's stomach, though. A yawning pit with no end in sight, the kind that filled her when she was running after Altair tried to force himself on her. It was something that never truly went away—fear and dread and worry, all mixed into one worrying and dangerous cocktail. Deep down, Ilaria knew the truth.
She knew Licia wasn't coming back, for one reason or another.
"That's enough sitting here, I think," Velcra decides, standing behind her. Ilaria feels herself fold over on instinct, trying to look like less of a visible presence. Force of habit. The problem now is there's nowhere else for Velcra to look.
She never wanted to be alone with in a room with such a person.
"C'mon, up and at 'em, ally!" Velcra urges, reaching down to pat her on the shoulder. Ilaria only just reigns in her visible recoil. "I do believe we have a day to conquer."
She already knows what her decision is. "I want to stay here and wait for her."
"Who, Licia?" Velcra looks out the door, hand raised to shield her eyes from the sun. "I'm sure wherever she is, she's fine. No need to go running after her."
She's looking as if she cares, as if it matters whether or not Licia comes back. To Ilaria, it matters. She's been looking into the distance for ages, now, uncaring that Velcra didn't feel the need to watch with her. She was hoping to have seen someone by now—anyone, at this point, would have been better than the wide open avenue with nothing beyond it.
Because Licia is dead, her heart tells her. Dead or she left you. You were worth staying for once upon a time, but not anymore.
Ilaria raises her head. "When she comes back, she's going to wonder where we are."
"Leave her a message, then. Let's go."
Right now it would take a second to strike out and sweep Velcra's legs out from under her, run her sword right through her fragile chest the second she hit the ground. Is she even good enough to do that anymore? If people won't stick around for her, she doubts it.
As long as she doesn't look that way on the outside, though, she can continue on. It's not like she's about to start readily revealing her emotions to Velcra of all people.
She gets to her feet, ignoring the expectant look the last of her allies sends her way as she strides back into the room. No pen or paper to be found here, but she retrieves a chunk of charcoal from the fire making station and wastes no time in clearing off a chunk of the table that houses most of their remaining fire.
"Where are we going?" she asks, making her voice loud enough that it carries back to Velcra, still at the entrance.
Only she's not there, anymore, but a few feet behind Ilaria's back. Silent as ever.
A true snake.
"Do you want me to ruin the fun?" Velcra asks. It sounds teasing, but Ilaria knows what menace lies behind her innocent tone. "Besides, I'm not in the mood to point an arrow right towards our next location if someone else happens to stumble on this place. Are you?"
So the note is for nothing, really. If Ilaria thought it would go anywhere, she would fight harder for an answer.
She straightens once again and scribbles a quick message across the table-top: WE'LL BE BACK BY NIGHTFALL. STAY PUT.
"Oh we will, will we?" Velcra asks. Ilaria busies herself with shouldering a backpack and double-checking her weapons, securing an extra knife to her belt. She won't be caught out there like Licia, unprepared and fleeing like she's left a crime scene behind. Hopefully it won't come to that, but you can never be too careful. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"
Ilaria rounds on her, finally. "Tell me where we're going."
Velcra smiles—it's not even unnerving, or suspicious, but true happiness. It's almost scary how out-of-place it looks on Velcra's face. She fishes something out of her pocket, practically bouncing on her feet, revealing a card about the size of her palm. It means nothing to Ilaria personally, but judging by the look on her face, it's important.
Important enough to make Velcra happy as a clam. She doesn't ask where it came from; getting an answer would be about as likely as Licia walking through the door in the next minute.
She refuses to budge. Velcra refuses to explain. She waves the card in Ilaria's face for another moment.
Her desire to wipe that look off her face is stronger in that moment than it ever has been before. At least the Halflings were good for something—they made her stronger. Not unbreakable, but harder to access. It wasn't all bad.
Most of it was.
Velcra's smile, she thinks, is still worse. "You'll find out."
Varrik Varnett, 18
District Four Male
Well, she wasn't lying. Devan would never lie to him.
Right?
If Devan would never lie to him, he may have a serious problem on his hands. Like, worst of the worst level shit. It would be easiest to just keep his distance from the backpack, knowing well enough that the guy with the easiest access to it wouldn't hesitate to saw off his head. That would be what most people chose to do. In Varrik's world, though, it was the wrong choice.
Leaving Veles with easy access to that thing? It simply wasn't happening. People like him, people like Tristan… you let them get away with one thing, they never stop. They end up ruining a bunch more shit like it's their birthright. Tristan ignored the teasing, spilled one untrue rumor, and Varrik was too quick to react.
And then it was game-over. His whole life, the truth and the fabricated bits, aired out for all of Four to see.
God, he fucking hated him. It was always nice to remember that.
He sort of hated Veles, too, for having the audacity to remind him of the guy. It hadn't really hit him, at first. Maybe he was just too hospitable—hospitable and annoying, really, but he had tolerated his presence. Just like Tristan. They worked at first, for a while, could make it through things as long as neither side cracked.
Until one side did. Now, Veles had no reason to hide his disdain, perhaps because at any given moment he could unleash a chainsaw on Varrik's poor, unsuspecting self and tear him to shreds.
It didn't help that Varrik hadn't slept—not at all, really. Lex kept getting on him about that, which was funny, because it meant Lex cared even when she said she didn't. He was having even more trouble focusing than usual, couldn't sit for longer than a few seconds and couldn't look in Veles' direction without thinking he was doing something he wasn't.
Now he was in one of the main bank vaults, trying and failing to pry open some of the drawers inside. Why had he been left alone with Veles? Who had allowed that?
Varrik knew well enough what was expected of him. He was to wait until everyone else got back like a good little ally, guard their supplies, and hope they got something accomplished out there. Him and Veles weren't going to talk and likely weren't even going to look each other in the eyes—were they? They could. At least if Varrik was watching him, doing something, he could make sure he wasn't about to get another knife in the back.
The first one had hurt bad enough, and Veles had even more of a reason to plant one there than Tristan did.
"You could help me, you know," Veles grunts, pulling at one of the drawers. Varrik jolts, registering the words but failing to realize that Veles actually wants his help. "What if there's something good in here?"
What if there isn't? Varrik doesn't care. Not really.
He doesn't move. Veles glances over his shoulder, scoffs, and tosses him to the wayside once more. It's a good thing Varrik is used to it.
Another one of the drawer jiggles in place as Veles struggles with it, producing more noise than one would expect. The backpack is right at the edge of the vault, misshapen, halfway between them. Varrik sits down with a thud and forces himself to stay there, ignoring Veles pointed look. He pats at his pockets, double-checking for the knife; it's getting hard to keep track of the thing, really. Blame it on the sleep deprivation.
Veles is still at it. He doesn't have to look—Varrik can hear it.
Inch by inch he begins pushing himself back; he's much more unassuming while seated. No one is going to expect any quick, sudden movements out of him if he's on the floor. He waits until Veles is occupied with yet another fruitless drawer to loop his hands around the backpack, pulling it up to his side. God, the thing's fucking heavy. How did no one notice?
Bless Devan's heart, really. Ambrose's too. He always knew they were worth it.
It's easy enough, then, to use his body as a shield as he begins to pull the chainsaw out until it's cradled against his chest, the ultimate prize. It's not as big as he would have expected, but the blade could still do plenty of damage. It doesn't even need to be revved up, either—one push of the button on the side and something is getting felled.
Or someone.
Despite everything, Varrik still feels like his own person. He can't lose that. It would be the very thing to knock him flat, something unable to be recovered from. There's no way he's staying here like this, allowing this situation to fester. Veles doesn't care about him—that's not going to change. When you spend your whole life being pushed down and silenced, humiliated and unaccepted, something has to give.
Even if that something is him. He's not going to be powerless—he can't be.
Varrik stands and steps over the thresh-hold into the vault, kicking the backpack away. He clutches the chainsaw against his chest, reaching back for the door with his other hand. It feels like the weight of a thousand stones at his back as he drags it closed, the thud harsh as it echoes around the now-enclosed chamber.
It's sad to say he relishes in it, but the way Veles looks when he turns around... well, it's something.
How nice it is to see someone else powerless, for once.
"So," Varrik begins, slow as can be. He watches all of the blood drain from Veles' face, turning him into a ghost, rendering them both into pale, shadow-selves. "What do you say we get this over with? How does that sound to you?"
Veles gapes, a dying fish on one of Four's many beaches. Varrik lets his finger over the chainsaw's button and feels electricity spike in his veins; he feels awake for the first time in days.
He even allows himself a smile. "Well, if you're letting me choose, I think it's a pretty easy decision."
Maybe it should feel like a bad thing. Maybe Varrik himself should feel bad.
But he doesn't.
It feels good. It feels right.
It feels a lot like revenge, served at long last.
17th. Licia Asteron, District Twelve Female.
Well, yep. That all happened.
Sorry for distressing you, if that was the case? Among a multitude of other things, but at this point I have no idea what I can nail down and what I can't. I hope you enjoyed it regardless, and thank you for two-hundred reviews.
Until next time.
