XXXII: Arena, Morning, Day Six.
Velcra Leight, 18
District Three Female
Something has to give.
Everything in here echoes. It's downright unnerving. None of her allies ever talked very much, but even their pacing or shifting about was enough to ward the quiet off. She had done something funny in ending up with three people who were on the quieter side of things.
You see, that's precisely what Velcra had been trying so hard to avoid. She had spent so many days as of late locked away in a cell, her only interaction being Lemaris or some other guard coming to walk her out. Velcra was rarely allowed around the girls, especially not unsupervised. She was hardly able to have a single, casual conversation without someone watching her like a hawk.
Velcra didn't realize how much she despised silence until this very moment. It's all she can do to keep tapping a knife along the ground if only to give herself a repeated pattern, a reliable sound in the quiet.
She'd rather be driving it into someone's flesh, but beggars can't be choosers.
Up until this point she had a very clear plan: she was supposed to go to the control room today and tear Ilaria limb from limb the way she so deserved. She was supposed to get revenge. That doesn't line up so well with the state of things anymore. The Gamemakers are keeping her alive—she's convinced of it. There's no good reason a stray ember hasn't let the Training Center go up in flames other than her being in here. She's their villain, their entertainment. Until they get a new one Velcra is here to stay.
It occurs to her that they probably want her to do something, then. Go out and kill Ilaria for real instead of just talking about it, or kill anyone, really. They can't be all that picky when Velcra doesn't think she'll even be able to see five feet through the smoke. Is it worth risking her hide for? The audience can't be so delusional to think she actually wants to venture out there and suffer the effects of extreme smoke inhalation. It's boring. No doubt they're watching other tributes going through it already and thinking the very same thing.
Velcra likes the way she is now, thank you very much. Well, mostly. Things would be a hell of a lot nicer if she wasn't gashed open in several places—the bandages still stick despite how often she changes them, and she's beginning to go through them at a rather ridiculous rate. The first-aid kits are getting few and far between, practically disappearing into thin air.
She should go look upstairs for more. Surely there's something hidden in a lonely cupboard upstairs, just waiting to be discovered.
There's one real problem, though. Velcra doesn't have a desire to move. The only thing she wants to do is get out there and push this game further along, but that doesn't seem sensible on her behalf. Velcra's the most sensible person she knows; why ruin that image now, when she doesn't even have to? If she parks it for long enough the Gamemakers will realize that they need to quell the fire. They'll do anything to keep her around, even if it means protecting her from things they should hold no bias towards.
Velcra feels surrounded by an invisible shield, her own personal force-field. Ilaria got close, but they must have wanted to see how Velcra would react to it. She's shown them she hasn't given up, that she won't stop until she's the only one left.
They love her. She's the favorite, she knows.
Unless there's someone else, but that would be silly, wouldn't it? There's no way any one of the seven left out there are better than her. Velcra may not be the specimen of their dreams—she knows she isn't, in fact, not built like a Career or as pretty as one, but that doesn't mean she isn't good enough. Her face will never leave their minds. Everyone watching her now will be doomed to remember Velcra Leight's face for the rest of time.
Just the way she likes it. If she knows one thing it's that nobody else in here deserves such an honor. They're lackluster at best, downright boring at their worst.
She's not about to let them forget it.
"Hey," she calls, leaning back against the table leg she's propped against. "How about sending me another one of those handy-dandy keycards?"
It would be so nice, wouldn't it? The door would beep and click open, revealing Ilaria's shocked face, eyes blown wide. Wider, still, when Velcra buried a bolt from the crossbow in precisely the right spot, just enough to incapacitate her. Not kill her, of course, because she has to make it slow. Velcra's tragically missed out on that opportunity one too many times now, stolen by Licia and Ilaria and unable to be done to Callister the way he so deserved. It's about time she was given her enough, at least enough to stain her hands with Ilaria's blood.
Is she that picky, though? At this point Velcra isn't so sure. It doesn't matter who the next person she sees is—they'll try to kill her, presumably, but they won't succeed. She'll laugh and smile in their face as they die beneath her, choking on their own blood.
Just as they should.
"Who should be next, do you think?" Velcra asks up to the ceiling, praying for a response that she knows won't come. If they could just give her a little bit of direction… that's all she wants. How can that be so hard for a group of people that have thrived off of watching the Games for so long? It's almost as if they're avoiding her, purposely letting her stew in silence to see if she'll crack. They know about her history; perhaps they know precisely how she'll react, too.
Well, Velcra just has to go and prove them all wrong then, doesn't she? She isn't going to crack. It would be so fucking asinine for that to happen now. To crack means inevitable death and when Velcra spoke just then she had no intentions of being the next one dead.
She can't be. She won't.
And she's certainly not going to crack.
Casimira Ruiz, 17
District Eleven Female
With each step comes a greater feeling of dread.
But with it comes something more, too. A purpose Casi hadn't felt before overtakes her, strengthening until it washes away some of the grief lingering within her.
She eyes Milo's back through the lingering smoke, doing her best to ignore the ever-present sting in her eyes.
She knows what she has to do. It seems so obvious.
It's the how that makes her wonder.
A flicker of doubt comes tearing back in with all the force of a speeding train, quickly making Casi worry over herself and everything she's thought about in the past few minutes. This time there's no one to boost her back up—Tella is gone, no comforting words to be had, and she doesn't think Hale really gets it. Would she even want him to? One person was enough.
Besides, he's behind her anyway. She's sandwiched between them both, footsteps lined up as they move single file towards the Training Center. If Casi's emotions were visible by her back he would ask, she knows, but she's not that pathetic. Instead she keeps her face flat, mouth into an even line beneath the part of her jacket she's drawn over it. Her watering eyes are easily excused on their environment.
And that's it. Casi looks normal like every other person in here. Better than most, really. Nearly untouched save for a few bruises and the ash that has stuck to her skin, giving her an odd, deathly gray tinge. Here she is, still kicking. Even making it this far is exceeding the expectations of everyone she left behind in Eleven; they never would have bet on her making it this far.
They never would bet on what she's about to do.
She slows, somewhat, keeping her feet quiet. Hale is quick enough on the uptake, at least, that he stops himself from bumping into her and instead continues forward until they're side-by-side, matching each other's pace. Milo doesn't slow or even look behind him, if he even noticed the chance at all.
Casi keeps her voice low, so slow that she hears the roar in her ears more intensely than her own voice. "We need to do something about that."
"About what?"
She nods towards Milo's back, watching the almost comical furrow to Hale's brows above his own makeshift mask, squinting through the smoke. If only he could pretend she was referring to anything else; there's no one else around, though, that she knows of, and hardly any buildings. Like she said, Hale's not an idiot. He knows when things have to end. Some things were always meant to.
Hale's hesitation is palpable. It's an odd look on him, but she can't deny its validity. Milo has been around a good long while. Dare she say there were even a few chances at friendship—Casi would still be considering it now if not for two reasons. He killed Tella, she's certain, and there's only five people left outside of the two of them. It can't be the three of them forever. When it serves him correctly Milo will kill her, too, and he won't think twice of it.
Casi has to do the same. She has to be that Career she envied so deeply, unfeeling and uncaring. Everything she taught herself, everything Tella built on, it's all for this.
"You know we have to," she says, sensing Hale's hidden frown without even looking up at him. "While he's too busy fixated on other things. We might not get another chance, you know that—"
"I know," he says quickly, still looking none too happy about the realization. Hale sighs, deeply. "That doesn't mean I like it."
"Never said you had to."
Some of her previous cruelty has seeped back into her voice, but Casi relishes its return. She can't forget Tella—won't allow herself to, really, nor the softness she had brought into Casi's life, but it has no place here and now. She's gone and not coming back. If Casi plans on getting out of this intact, then she needs to be the girl she always was. Sharp and scathing and confident most of all. Completely unafraid to fall.
She's not going to.
"What are we doing, exactly?" Hale asks. Milo's pace has already quickened somewhat, a mere hundred yards to the Training Center. Evidently, he's eager to have his theory proved right or wrong either way.
"Whatever we can," she supplies. "Just look for an opportunity. Take it, if you can. I'll be right behind you."
Hale nods, resolute. She knows that he'll protect himself, if it comes down to it. Milo or no Milo, Hale's life still means something to him.
"Remember what I said," Casi reminds him. "I'm not running."
He chuckles so quietly it sounds more like a figment of her imagination, but there's no mistaking the slight crinkle to his eyes. "That feels like a thousand years ago."
"Longer, I think."
Yet they're still here, and they both told the truth. Neither of them ran. It seemed impossible, back then, that neither of them would eventually give into the temptation, but instead she feels the loyalty stronger than ever. So unlikely. So magical, in the truest sense of the world. She has him, and he has her.
"Let's go, then," Hale says. Milo is at the main entrance, now, and already pulling at the handles without stopping to wait for them. They both hasten after him, knives at the ready. When the doors open they reveal a cool, artificial light that spills out into the smoke, illuminating every bit of ash that drifts past.
And then Milo takes off.
"Shit," she barely manages, but Hale is already moving, tearing off across the pavement after him. She sprints after them both, nearly crashing into the doors, uncaring for the brief flash of pain in her shoulder as it collides with the metal edge. The light of the Training Center is so bright it renders her blind for a moment, the gray walls ghostly white—Casi comes back down to earth to see Milo far across the room, ripping a hatchet free from one of the many weapons racks. The place is full of them.
She should have known it would be this way.
He's moving again, hardly another second having passed. Beyond him the elevator doors are sliding shut, and they come together too fast for Milo to intervene, hiding the lean shape of the girl on the other side.
Undeterred, he redirects somewhere to the left. Towards the stairs, she knows, hidden away in the corner of the room. Of course Milo is going after her regardless of the effort it takes him to do so.
"Hey!"
She jolts. Hale waves an arm at her and she extends her arms just in time to catch the spear he tosses her way, nearly fumbling it from her arms. He's holding a similar axe, slightly bigger, entirely body coiled for flight. He's ready to go.
Casi is the only hold-up.
She nods not just in agreement, but in allegiance. They're doing this. They have to. She feels it in her bones. Only one thing has been felt more strongly than that in her entire life, she thinks, and those lips will never touch hers again. All she has left is this feeling.
She has to chase it. She has to do this.
It's now or never.
Milo Poliadas, 18
District Two Male
He's robotic.
His legs move. Arms, too. He's sure they're burning by now, but Milo doesn't feel any of it. Like he said—a robot. That's the only rational explanation. Each step up the stairs seems inconsequential, like he was meant to take it. The elevator is shooting far above him, surely, but that only makes him move faster.
She thinks she's going to get away, but Milo saw. The number she chose was clearly displayed above the elevator doors as they closed on him, saving herefor only a few more minutes.
Thirteen. The roof.
She really thought she had a chance at hiding.
His lungs ache something fierce—he knows the smoke has taken a toll and the exertion now, too, but it only fuels him further. There was noise far below him, his name echoing up the stairwell as they tried and failed to catch up, but all Milo could recognize clearly was the gray floor, the gray walls. With every step he grew closer to the roof and another body, heart still beating.
But not for long.
"Milo!"
Did they want him to wait? It wasn't happening. He needed this again. It wasn't enough the first time. Milo couldn't allow anyone else to beat him there, either. She was his.
He doesn't even recognize the fact that he's ascended all thirteen floors until there's no more steps left to climb, only a vast gray door before him. There's no hesitation in him when he crashes into it, not so much turning the handle as he forces it open, the clang as it hits the opposite wall oh-so satisfying to his brain. More satisfying, still, is what lies before him now.
There she is.
"Thought you had gotten away, did you?" he asks, except Milo isn't so sure. She's far across the roof, wind buffeting through her ginger hair, crossbow poised and raised in his direction as if she was expecting him. He can't even bring himself to recall her name—Three, he's sure, but he knows nothing more than that. Whatever has happened to her so far, she's been at least partially put through the ringer. Her arms aren't holding onto that crossbow as confidently as she believes.
Milo hefts the axe higher, the feeling of it beneath his palms electrifying. It's going to feel so good; better even than he ever could have anticipated.
"You seemed like a talker in training," he recalls. "Couldn't stop, actually. What's wrong? Cat got your tongue?"
He paces towards her. She backs up until her heels are dancing dangerously with the roof's edge, finger about to push down on the trigger. An arrow comes flying towards him, right at his chest, and Milo's brings his arm across each other so that the bolt drives through the meat of his arm instead of his fucking heart. He hardly feels the pain as he pushes the arrow the rest of the way through until he can crack it in two, shaking his arm out. Blood splatters onto the rooftop.
She stops reloading suddenly, head raised high. Defiance blazes like fire in her eyes. "You don't deserve it," she claims.
He blinks. She drops the crossbow at her feet, abandoned.
Milo sees her begin to shift backwards in the nick of time, and he's not allowing that to happen.
As if he'd let her get away with fucking jumping.
He lunges towards her, catching her around the legs before her body can begin to slip off the roof's edge, and slams them both into the ground. Her breath leaves her in a great whoosh of air, so small and fragile beneath his hands that he's surprised she doesn't crack. Milo lifts himself up, pressing her so easily down into the ground despite her wiggling. He pulls the axe out from beneath their combined weight without struggling whatsoever, turning the blade so that it catches every fleck of the garish light over their heads. The blade already looks wet with blood.
"Is this how you expected it to end?" he asks, leveling it over her face. "Did you want more glory?"
She shifts, and then spits in his face, a wet gob bursting over his cheek. He squeezes his knees tighter into her hips so that he's sure it hurts, wiping it away with his free hand. Does a part of her still believe that she can escape this?
Because she's wrong.
Milo stands so suddenly that she doesn't even have time to react, to try and move now that she's been freed from his weight. He brings the axe down, a wide arc, and watches the blade sink into her stomach, the only bit of softness he can feel on her. She shrieks, the noise shrill in his ears, and her entire body follows for a moment when he pulls the axe back out, stuck so thoroughly that Milo is surprised when it finally comes out.
"What, nothing to say?" he questions. Brings the axe down again, in nearly the same spot, and is rewarded with an agonized scream as he cuts further into her. "You could at least make it interesting…"
Should have known she wouldn't. They never do.
He brings it down again. And again, and again, and again. The axe continues to cut into her stomach and then up into her chest when her abdomen turns into too much of a gory mess to make sense of, the odd purple-pink of her intestines intermingling with the blood that pools over what little of her skin remains intact. She's not making much noise, anymore. The only thing he can really hear is the awful squelching of her blood, the stickiness of the droplets on his face a sick reminder.
And a cannon, maybe. Was it a cannon?
"Milo!"
The axe cracks into her chest, dead center. Splits something open. The voice sounds far away, almost too far. She's motionless below him, body curled awkwardly around the blade caught in her chest as if that eased some of the pain.
But the cannon… was it one? Is she dead?
He pulls the axe out. A silhouette moves to his left, a blur too fast to make sense of. Three refuses to move. He's dead, she thinks. He's pretty sure at least.
A force suddenly crashes into his side, hands grappling at his jacket. Milo's feet collide with the dead girl's leg and down he goes, like a giant falling, someone's weight on top of him. A knife digs into his ribs, just the edge. Above him Casi's face is blurry, but her anger isn't. Did he have this coming? Does he deserve it, despite what the girl from Three said to him?
Milo doesn't think he does. Pain ignites in his ribs, the axe having fallen to the ground.
He doesn't think. Just moves. Milo shoves them both back until all he can feel with an outstretched arm is empty air, a deathly nothingness, and then he yanks them over the edge. There's a scream, genuine fear in Casi's voice as she goes tumbling over the roof's boundary, arms wrapped tight around his legs. Her weight, though minimal, nearly sends them both falling into the abyss of smoke below, his fingers scrabbling at the roof as he struggles to hold himself up. He doesn't care about her.
Never has, really.
And then there's hands locked around his arm to keep him from falling. Milo cranes his neck up as Casi kicks frantically below, threatening to send them both plummeting. Hale's got him, fingers white-knuckled around Milo's arm.
He's got him.
"You fucking bastard!" Casi shrieks, and a little smile comes to Milo's face. "What are you doing—"
"Trying to kill me, are you?" he throws down at her. "Not very nice, Casi!"
He could die here. If his fingers slip, if Hale lets go… Milo is done for. Casi's weight continues to drag down on him, her grip frantic as she struggles to stay up. They're in the same boat, there. It's not like Milo wants to fall either. It's just the only way.
Here he thought they were making progress.
"You killed her, didn't you?" Casi shouts up at him, fury realized. "You can't lie about it!"
Well, he can. Can and has. Milo can't even force the smile off his face to try and deny it, not with Hale looking down at him, saving Milo from falling to his certain death. The two of them, really. He's got their lives in his hands—literally.
"You're not going to let us both go, are you?" he taunts, looking up at him. "I know you won't."
"Why the fuck are you doing this?"
"Were you planning on helping her kill me?" he asks instead of answering. No use paying attention to stupid questions; why not just get to the real nitty-gritty? "C'mon, you can tell me. I won't be mad."
"Did you kill her?" Hale asks.
"Don't pretend like you care."
"Answer the question!"
"Okay, fine," Milo admits, rolling his eyes. Not the right move for someone dangling God knows how many hundreds of feet off the top of the building, but the onlyone he knows how to go through with. "I did it. Happy now?"
"Why?"
"Enough of the twenty fucking questions!" Casi shrieks, still wiggling. Does she not realize how much worse she's making this for all of them? Hale's straining to hold onto both of their weight and, as always, she's enjoying making everything so much more difficult for everyone involved. "Just fix this!"
He doesn't know what to do. Hale's always been so torn, pulled in two different reactions. His loyalty is part of his strength, but at his core he's scared. The only question is what he's more afraid of—pulling them up, or letting them both go. Will he be able to live with himself if he lets them both fall?
"Your move," Milo says calmly, even though his entire body is on fire from the strain. They don't have much longer. "Both of us, or neither.
"Hale," Casi begs, hysteria beginning to creep into her voice. It's a delight to hear.
Hale's hands are so tight around his arms that they're going to leave bruises, bruises that Milo will be able to see and press into because he's going to be alive at the end of all of this. No other option, really. He already knows what has to be done.
"The second I pull you both up, you leave," Hale forces out. "Do you hear me?"
"Aye aye, captain."
"Milo—"
"I heard you," Milo groans, and then yanks one of his arms free from Hale's grip just to punctuate the urgency. Casi shrieks as they go swinging in one direction, off-kilter, and he just barely manages to swallow down his answering laugh. "I promise. You'll never see me again."
He presses his arm tight behind his back, out of view. He makes sure to hold Hale's eyes as he gives a great heave, Milo's forearm beginning to scrape against the roof's edge. It's incredible, really, how easy it is to make someone feel bad with just a look. Hale has caved. Milo is going to make it out of this. He keeps gaining ground as Hale pulls, inch by inch. His forearm and then further up to his shoulders until his elbows are digging in. He's there. Hale releases him to scoot closer to the roof's edge around Milo's sprawled form, reaching for Casi, still dangling.
Milo finally allows himself a laugh, and it feels so damn good. "By the way," he says, undeniable relief tinging his tone. "My fingers were crossed."
After that it's only a blur, nothing but chaos without uncertainty. Casi is so close yet so, so far, just out of reach from Hale's outstretched hands. Milo rolls, Casi's grip on his legs faltering with a frantic shriek as she goes swinging about like a pendulum. It's too easy to tug one of his legs from her fingers, the feeling of them falling away one of the best things he's ever felt.
His right leg is free—blissfully, tragically free. Milo kicks down with it, feeling the sole of foot connect hard with his shoulder despite the fact that he's not able to see it.
How he wishes he could see it.
Her grip slides. Almost gone. He kicks again and hears her gasp as he drives it directly into her throat, and then her grip is gone for real. Gone for good.
Her scream is like a siren rapidly spiraling away. Milo scrabbles away from the edge as fast as his limbs will carry him, fingers finally closing around the axe once again. He turns around just in time for Casi's distant screaming to stop, all at once. A cannon fires almost instantly. Hale is frozen over the roof's edge, arms outstretched like she's still there. Like he can hold onto her, catch her, save her.
Except there's no saving a dead girl.
When he stands it feels almost in slow motion, his jittery legs finally coming to a stand-still. The axe dangles from his hand, at the ready as always.
It feels so good.
Hale's eyes are wide with horror when he pulls himself back from the roof, arms still frozen in that same position. A similar axe lies abandoned by his knees; he's not nearly as prepared as Milo is for what's about to happen. He should be. It's a long time coming.
"So," he says slowly, smiling once again. "How are we doing this?"
Hale Mavala, 17
District Eleven Male
It's not happening.
It can't be real.
His brain enters into that same territory that it did months ago when he was standing outside that burning barn, nothing more than a blank screen that refused to respond no matter what someone did to it. Then he had been staring the searing flames in the face, trying to wish them away in his mind. Hale kept thinking that if he blinked hard enough, it would simply disappear.
He was trying that now, too, but the truth was obvious. It wasn't changing.
Her body was so far, a mere pinprick on the concrete below. Twisted and broken beyond repair, bones cracked into fragmented pieces, a puddle of blood growing beneath her visible even from the height. There was blood dripping off the roof's edge from the Three girl, too, still growing larger despite her heart not beating.
Casi's dead. He's alone up here.
Alone except for Milo.
A stiff bout of wind could knock Hale over when he rises to his feet, hands shaking around the axe. Milo passes his own from hand to hand, ignoring the blood that's stained his sleeve. The injury doesn't even appear to be bothering him.
"What the hell did you do?" he asks, voice weak, almost disgustingly so. It's strange, because Hale feels so much growing rage in him—he wishes his voice could match that feeling.
"Seems pretty obvious to me."
Hale takes a step forward and downright falters when Milo raises the axe. That's a first. He's forgotten how to properly tackle a situation. He didn't want this, okay? He only saw Casi's point. As much as Hale didn't want to admit it, it needed to happen. Everything's gone to such shit; it was such a short time ago that she said that to him, and now she's dead.
"There's something wrong with you," Hale says, evenly. He tightens his grip, pulls the axe back behind him. Ready to swing.
"C'mon, tell me something I don't know." Milo snorts. "Got anything interesting to say?"
"Shut up."
"Or what?" Milo sneers. "You're not going to make me, are you?"
"I will."
"Well, that's a little suspicious honestly, but if you insist…"
And he's had enough. He dives forward, axe raised, and Milo's ready for him. He was always going to be. The blades clash between them, metal scraping together and grating against his ears. Milo sweeps a leg out, trying to knock him off-balance, but there's no chance in hell. Hale is too solid, too steady. Always has been. There's no running right now. He does this or he dies.
He shoves Milo back; the axe goes swinging past his face, the breeze almost cool and refreshing in the smoke-tinged air. Hale keeps advancing, throwing his own axe out to force Milo back step by precarious step; the closer they are to the edge of the roof, the better. Milo won't throw him off so easily, not like Casi.
But he knows it's coming. Instead of giving in, Milo only tries to re-route them, pushing back just as hard, the axes colliding again and again without either of them gaining ground. The wind roars around them stronger than ever, and a flash of red-tinged metal far above catches his eye only for a second—a hovercraft is coming to collect the bodies now that they've moved to the far side of the roof. They've deemed that it's enough room. For anyone else, it would have been.
Instead of blocking his next thrust forward, Milo lets it happen and ducks under the swing instead. Hale waits for the hit, the blunt force that will be Milo's body crashing into him, but it never comes. Instead he's gone, legs carrying him across the roof so fast that he's hardly visible even as Hale chases after him. The claw reaches down, nearly closing around the girl's body; bits of intestines trail out as they slip under her, ready to pull her skyward. Milo is reaching for it—reaching for what, he doesn't know, but whatever he's planning Hale has to get there. He can't let him do it.
He's almost there, a second away from grabbing him, and Milo dives to the side. Hale can't stop his own momentum.
He slams into the claw instead, feels his feet slip in the girl's blood left behind, grappling at the claw itself to try and stay on his feet. A foot drives into the back of his knee, forcing him closer to the ground. Milo knows what he's doing; he always has.
Hale refuses to let go of the claw. It's whirring frantically as it tries to escape his grip, but he can't let go. He continues to yank himself back up every-time Milo tries to kick him back down, waiting for the moment when he falters. For when the kick doesn't come in time.
He counts seven more connections in which he can hardly feel his leg anymore before it takes a heartbeat longer—Hale dives through the gap between the claws, over the girl's body, and clear out the other side. The barrier between them, Hale sucks in air that he so desperately needs, trying to scoop the axe up at the same time. This is what panic feels like, true, unadulterated panic. This is the real version and Hale thought he already knew what that was like.
Oh, how wrong he was.
He's up on his feet again just in time for Milo to finally give in and crash into him, sending them both flying back into the claw once again. Hale's head cracks into the cool metal, stars bursting behind his vision. It disappears without warning as the claw finally succeeds in its quest, dragging the girl's body up. Hale goes flying backwards, Milo driving him back into the ground. He's not sure anymore if any of them even have an available weapon, but it doesn't matter. Fear overtakes him in seconds. This is what he did with the girl from Three, pinned her and then butchered her. Hale's not like her, but he doesn't think Milo cares.
It's evident to him that Milo hasn't cared in quite some time. Was all of that casual conversation last night a ruse meant to comfort him?
He's an idiot, and maybe he deserves this, but that doesn't stop him from fighting with all of the breath in his body, pushing up and then rolling them over until he can drive his fist into Milo's face, trying to ignore the knee that drives into his gut. Neither of them can move the axes enough to do any damage, not this close. Milo's legs twist into his, rendering them useless for a long moment as he pulls them over again. Hale lets him this time, digging his nails into the hole he can feel in Milo's arm, blood streaming down his fingers.
Milo lifts himself once again, stretching out for the axe by his side. Hale takes the opportunity to slam him into the ground right at the edge of the roof, wincing as he collides with the metal edges despite the situation they're in. He pins his arm over Milo's shoulders, the crown of his head over the edge of the roof, the breeze ruffling his hair.
And he smiles, still, like nothing at all is wrong. "You're going down with me if you try it."
Hale doesn't doubt it. He reaches back without looking, struggling for the knife in his boot, but can't quite get there without removing some of his weight. Milo knows it, too—that's why he's so limp, allowing this to happen. Smiling with blood in his teeth.
"It appears we're at a stand-still."
Even if they wouldn't both go over, Hale doesn't think he could push him and watch him fall. He could reach down and wrap both of his hands around Milo's throat but he would fight it even if he was blue in the face—he'll look Hale in the eyes and make sure he remembers every second of it.
Somewhere during the middle of it, the pressure he's continued to drive into Milo's shoulder has lessened. Hale doesn't even realize it.
But Milo does.
He goes flying to the side as Milo shoves up into him, the sudden burst of strength too wild to fight back against. He locks both hands around one of the railings at the edge, forcing himself back a few inches, but he should have known Milo never had any intentions in pushing him. That's not good enough for him. He would have done more to Casi if he had the chance. Hale's the only one left.
He rolls over, eyes to the heavens. For a second, he doesn't see Milo at all, just a shadow over him. Black as the night, silhouetted by the glowing red sky behind him.
It's no wonder he doesn't believe it's Milo—he looks more like the devil.
Even the devil wouldn't be burying an axe in his chest, though.
The pain doesn't hit him all at once. It's slow like the ocean ebbing up to shore—a silly comparison if he's ever seen one. The ocean means nothing to him. But it's slow, almost calm, and then the next wave crashes in with a fury. It hurts, aches, burns. It feels like everything all at once. His hand is still outstretched, just barely brushing against the hilt of his axe, but it's not enough.
"To think I had zero intention of killing either of you when we set off this morning," Milo says, wiggling the axe's blade around in Hale's chest almost casually, igniting further pain. "It's funny how things change, isn't it."
Is it? Hale doesn't agree. The pain is making it hard to think, his brain and eyes foggy alike. His fingers wrap around the axe. It doesn't matter. He's dying, isn't he? You don't come back from this, though he wishes he could. God, he hopes Arley isn't watching this. Anything but that.
Despite him trying to drag the axe closer, feeling it brush against his side, Milo only gives it a curious look. "Nice one. What're you planning on doing with that?"
Something. Anything.
One last ditch effort.
Milo tears the axe out of his chest; Hale's entire body reacts, viscerally, jerking in response. His hand trembles so viciously around the axe that he can barely hold onto it as Milo leans over him, looking at him like some sort of experiment. Whatever he sees, he clearly doesn't like it. He's so close, though. Closer than he's ever going to be again.
His entire body protests as he brings his arm up, the axe nearly slipping out of his grip. It doesn't hit anywhere near where he wanted or expected it to. The top of the blade sinks into Milo's side, digs into his ribs. The howl he lets out is purely animal.
It makes sense, for what it's worth.
He gets a particularly vicious kick for his efforts. Hale thinks something in his wrist snaps as Milo stomps at it, kicking the axe away. Through the haze that's over-taken his vision he can see his side rapidly being stained through with blood, pulsating through the fingers he has clasped over his ribs. And Hale allows himself a smile, too. At least his is clean.
A foot lashes out again, landing so solidly on his ribs three times over that he's forced onto his stomach, his open chest pressing into the ground. It doesn't hurt so much anymore. It feels like the best part of the ocean, calm and quiet. So much water surrounds him there's no fire to be seen at all. He's at peace with that, if nothing else. That's the way he always wanted to go.
I'm sorry, Arley. Please be okay.
He wishes he could say it aloud.
"It was fun while it lasted," Milo says above him, some pain to be found in his voice. Hale smiles hysterically into the ground—was it, really?
He's still smiling when the blade of the axe finds a home in his back.
Micah Rossier, 18
District Eight Male
Why hasn't he moved?
He has to move. Can't. Doesn't want to? Micah's not so sure on that front anymore.
All he knows for sure is that those doors open—the girl from Three takes off at the speed of light, impressive for her previous injuries. One is right on her heels, and two more follow. Micah only takes the quickest glance, enough for his heart to begin racing.
Or maybe it never stopped.
It's the Eleven's. The ones who put a knife in his leg and scattered the three of them like buzzing flies, never to be seen again. They started the fire, too. They're the reason he's here right now, entire body crippled by pain that seems much too strong for what it is. A stab wound is supposed to hurt, he knows, but not like this. It's not supposed to take over his entire body.
He's not sure he can move, is the thing. At least not fast enough. Whoever survives the confrontation above him will hunt him down anyway, so Micah stays curled behind the rock wall, leg an angry red around the bandages he's pasted to it, hot to the touch. He feels sick to his stomach—Micah can barely take a sip of water without feeling like it's going to come back up.
It feels like he's somewhere else entirely listening to those cannons fire. Three of them. He waits for a fourth, prays for it, but it never comes. Unless things have been kicking off somewhere else in the arena, one person is about to come back down if they're not bleeding out far above him.
All he has to do is stay quiet. Seems easy enough. They'll leave, won't they?
They have to.
The elevator dings open. Micah squeezes his eyes shut, cradles his leg tighter in his hands even though merely touching his skin is agonizing. The footsteps that follow are just as uneven as he's sure his own would be, a harsh stumble with labored breathing to match. The tell-tale sign of someone injured, so much so that they can't be bothered to hide it.
Micah opens his eyes, lifts his head.
Every sense in his brain is telling him not to, but he grabs one of the metal supports up against the wall and hauls himself up into a sitting position, wincing with every inch he scoots closer to the far edge of the wall. They're far across the room, back to him. Bleeding. Micah can't even see where it's coming from, only that there's a lot of it, pulsating in great waves through their fingers.
It's not either of the Eleven's. Not the girl from Three, either. Micah wracks his brain for a name but can't come up with anything. He only remembers two things about the boy from Two, as funny as that is: the twelve, and when he waved in the direction of Micah and Oksana during training, not a care in the world. Oh, how the mighty fall so far. It appears as if he can hardly stand now.
Micah should sit back down and hide again, but his heart won't let him. His foolish, bleeding heart. Unless he's lost his mind, Two could've just killed three people. Micah could so easily be the fourth. If he goes out there, he's almost certainly going to be.
As agony continues to flash through his body, Micah pulls himself to his feet, all the while eyeing the massive, still nearly full first-aid kit lying on his feet. His brain still says let him die, you know you have to.
But Micah can't.
He takes only two steps, the first-aid kit tucked under one arm, before Two turns around to look at him, surprisingly fast for someone in his condition. Micah can hardly put any weight on his leg, head spinning, the nausea building up in his stomach once again. Despite all of that he can't tear his eyes away from the axe in Two's hand, so covered in blood that the blade is almost overcome with it.
"If you come any closer to me," Two says, struggling for each word. "You're dead."
Well, Micah doesn't doubt that, but he also doesn't have much of a choice. He wobbles a bit closer, just a bit, and lowers the first-aid kit to the floor, giving it a hefty shove. It doesn't quite make it there, but Two watches as it stops sliding towards him, stopped dead maybe five feet away. And he laughs, something hysterical in it. Doesn't move, either, only stares at it. "Just when I think the stupidity can't get any worse today…"
Micah knows he ought to be offended, but it takes all of his energy just to remain standing. "You're going to bleed out," he manages. There's blood growing on the floor beneath him, a steady drip that rolls off his fingers like a leaky faucet.
He still doesn't reach for the first-aid kit. His body is leaned up against one of the many empty tables, forearm braced against the edge to keep himself from collapsing. Sooner or later, he will. Micah knows because the same thing happened to him.
"If you can calm yourself down, you should," Micah suggests. "You'll bleed less if your heart isn't beating so fast."
"What, are you a doctor now?" Two asks, and then he lowers himself to his knees, still breathing just as hard. God, he's going to die, isn't he? Micah should let him. One less person to worry about—one less dangerous, threatening person.
So why can't he?
He makes his decision, stupid as it may be. Micah hobbles forward, ignoring the axe as it tilts out in his direction. He doesn't want his blood added to it, but that doesn't stop him from moving.
"What did I say?" Two asks, and Micah remembers very well what he said. Five feet away he stops, just out of reach from the axe, hands flattening along the kit.
"What's your name?" Micah questions. He wishes he could remember. It feels like this would be so much easier if he could.
"Don't."
"Just tell me. Not that hard."
His eyes are unfocused. Fading. Micah should want him dead.
"Milo," he says finally, voice quiet, and there it is. Micah can't let him die now, not that he knows him even in such a small way. He nods, fitting his fingers under the latch of the first-aid kit, ignoring how badly his leg quakes beneath him. He can do this, right? This singular good thing. He let Oksana go. He let Hosea and Inara go. For all Micah knows, they're all dead.
"I'm Micah," he says, ignoring the lack of response from Milo's end. He's already moving so cautiously, dealing with a wild animal that's been caged for the first time. "I can help, okay? Just… just let me help."
"You're not very smart, are you, Eight?" Milo wonders. It's not his name, but it's fine. The fact that Milo even has the frame of mind to know where he came from is good enough. "You'll regret it."
Micah allows himself to remove the largest roll of bandages left, wrapping it around his fingers to keep it from spiraling away. "Maybe," he agrees softly. He probably will. But Micah knows that he'll regret not helping him too, and that might just be worse. No one else has to go, not on his watch. Not again.
He sets aside everything he can think of, gently lowering himself down to extend his leg, relieving some of the pressure. It still hurts like hell, but Micah doesn't think that's going away at this point. Weakness has overtaken his already fragile body, making everything ten times worse than it ought to be. Maybe that's why he's helping Milo; he's too weak to do otherwise. Too gullible, too naive.
Micah has heard all of those words before in some context, but can't bring himself to regret them.
When he looks up, Milo's eyes are closed, his body slumped against the table's side. Micah leans forward, so slow that it feels as if he'll never make it that far, reaching for Milo now-slack arm, slippery with his own blood. Micah can hardly get a good grip on his wrist, but he feels it, the fluttering, uneasy thump of his pulse recognizable against Micah's fingertips. He's still alive.
As awful as it sounds, he'll be easier to help, now. Unconscious is somehow better than awake and defiant. Maybe he will regret this eventually. It seems at this point that he will.
But he will not regret trying to be a good person.
8th. Velcra Leight, District Three Female.
7th. Casimira Ruiz, District Eleven Female.
6th. Hale Mavala, District Eleven Male.
One of the biggest Happy Birthday's (!) imaginable to one of my Day One's (close enough). Love you, Z. Your chapter thirty-five throuple jokes, not so much.
I'm not sure what else to say here, so uh... yeah. Nothing good comes to mind, honestly. I'll just leave.
Until next time.