XXXIII: Arena, Night Six.
Inara Brea, 16
District Five Female
It seems that everyone is getting down to business. Getting things done.
Inara can't even see more than five feet in front of her.
It's funny, how separated from all of this she feels. For a while she was in her own bubble—it hadn't even burst when Oriol had fallen and split open like a melon on the elevator car down below. Inara had been in a snow globe but it had been cracked open; now it was shaking and raining down ashes instead of any flurries.
Everything, still, is happening around her. Inara knows she needs to do something, and fast. If only she could come up with what, exactly, to do.
All she can do now is keep on looking for a pair of shoes. How stupid does that sound?
Undeniably stupid, Inara knows. At least she hasn't voiced it aloud. The Capitol is just watching her wander about aimlessly instead as she tries to pick out stores from apartment buildings in the smoke, staring through glass windows that are so obscured there's no telling what's on the other side. You'd think there'd be more clothing options around here; Inara's not picky, but the smell of smoke clinging to her clothes is so overpowering she's practically choking on it even with most of her face covered.
Do something, or hunker down? Neither seem like particularly appealing options. They both have their consequences. If she decides to sit down and take her sweet time once again the Gamemakers might feel inclined to take out their wrath on her. The other tributes finding out there were only four of them left would be enough to spur them into action. Inara doesn't want to be that fifth, the catalyst that makes everyone else move.
What is she supposed to do out there, though, but wander around in circles? She can't see the street signs anymore—they're so far overhead, so dangerously obscured. If a cliff happened to open up in the middle of the street, Inara isn't even sure she would see it. She would stumble off the edge and right into a never-ending, black abyss. That's what she would deserve.
She needs a break. Inara knows she hasn't exactly earned one considering she's done approximately jack shit since she left that shop in the first place, but it's about time. Her feet are sore and due for a change now that the initial fabric she had wrapped around them has lost its plushness, her lungs constricting tightly with every uneven breath she takes. Inara knows she's the picture-perfect definition of browbeaten, as if she's been heckled since the moment she sent off by words unknown. Killing Oriol was hardly impressive considering the elevator would never have been open had Hosea not been there to help, unintentionally. That feels so long ago, too, even though it's only been days. At this point Inara is merely a blip on their radar, if she's even there at all.
Their views on her can't get any weaker, in the very least. She's going to take a break, it's decided. She picks her feet up carefully as she moves off the road, refusing to tread on any cracks or sharp edges. Her feet don't need anymore of a beating than what they've already been through. Her legs are no better, blistered in places, the skin beginning to slough off, but at least they're free from any great deal of pressure.
If they could sponsor her a new pair of legs, however, Inara wouldn't complain too much. They could do that, right? It's the Capitol.
They won't, though. No one cares about a lost little girl from Five with no direction in life.
It's not easy to live with that thought in the forefront of your mind, but Inara has been doing it for quite some time now. It keeps her going, makes the riskier moves easier when they have to happen. She holds the knowledge close as she picks her way over the sidewalk, skimming past a few storefronts until she finds yet another clothing shop. Perhaps there will be some shoes in there…
The bell over the door chimes obnoxiously when she pushes it in, wincing as she looks around to check for any distant silhouettes. Would anyone who heard the noise coming running towards her, or away?
Inara's not sticking around out here to find out.
Almost immediately there's a thump from somewhere further in the shop and she freezes, the crystal sconces on the wall making her shadow wobble in strange ways. She frees the knife from her belt, taking a cautious step forward. That's the one good thing about going barefoot—she's quiet. No one would have heard her coming at all if not for that damned bell.
It might not be anything. Just a scare tactic, if she's lucky, or a mannequin struggling to maneuver its way through the cramped back halls
But, as she comes to discover, that thought was much too kind. The main hall, leading to numerous closed doors, is full of detached plastic body parts, piled on top of one another until there's nowhere left to walk. It's a practical mountain of them, as if what little was left of them in the streets decided to congregate here and simply disintegrate, one last resting place. Joined, at least, together.
The source of the noise becomes clear, though. There's something halfway up the pile, shiny as chrome, fabric still fluttering lightly. It's shifted some of the limbs around it in its descent.
The pain in her feet is forgotten about as Inara wades through the sea of plastic, reaching for the parachute with greedy fingers. Almost immediately the contents are obvious, and she barks out a surprised laugh.
And it fades, in quick succession, as the new pair of shoes come to rest in her palms. They fit there so neatly. They're too small.
"Oh, c'mon," she says flatly. "You couldn't have double-checked my shoe-size?"
She waves them up at a ceiling despite not being able to find a camera—she knows they're watching. How hard would it have been? It's not like Inara hadn't spent several days being dressed up like a doll, or anything. Surely someone knew.
If she gets out of here, she's giving Soran and Icarus an earful. Soran mostly, she suspects. He probably thinks it's funny.
A note rolls out from the left shoe and Inara sighs, watching it twirl to the ground for a moment before she even considers bending down to pick it up. Her legs hurt, alright? She finally unrolls the note between her fingers, staring at it for much too long.
They'd just make it worse. Throw them at someone.
Ridiculously, Inara starts to laugh again.
No matter how hard she tries she can't quite manage to stop. It's hysteria, surely, and some of the pain finally getting to her, but it also feels a little bit good. Logically she knew that shoes were a bad idea—when she went to wrap her feet in the first place she made sure to keep the dressings light so that they wouldn't be further agitated. Here she was begging for shoes like they were going to help.
They were never meant to be worn, she realizes. Never meant to help. They're simply a reminder that she's still got people watching her, checking in on her.
She raises her head and her arm both, making sure that any available camera can clearly see her extended middle finger. "You suck," she says hoarsely, but the smile on her face is still too silly to put any real punctuation behind it. Before she settles and removes the last of her first-aid supplies from her bag, Inara makes sure to tuck the shoes away, carefully. Like they're a prized possession.
Inara may just have to take the note up on its offer. It's not a bad idea.
And like she's accepted—it certainly can't make anything worse than it already is.
Milo Poliadas, 18
District Two Male
Milo opens his eyes, but doesn't remember ever closing them.
So he's dead. Milo imagines that's what death feels like. Painful for a moment until the quiet and calm overtakes you.
Milo didn't imagine that death would be so white though, so clerical. If anything it was supposed to be red and orange and burning. They wouldn't put him anywhere other than hell, and perhaps that was where he belonged. It's what got his parents in the end.
There were plenty of things that didn't make sense, but this was close to the top of the list. A persistent ache in his side kept him from relaxing and accepting the afterlife, whichever one he had been given. It only grew stronger the longer Milo focused on it, unable to think of anything else. Was being dead supposed to involve this much pain? Shouldn't it have gone away?
That leaves only one option, then: he's not dead at all.
That's… strange.
His eyes are indeed open. The strange, white blur before his eyes begins to form back into concrete shapes—tables and racks of weapons, pinpricks of color along the rock wall across the room. Brightest of all somehow was the rusted red patch beneath him that bled into his clothes, staining everything in sight. He was still in the Training Center, somehow.
Most definitely alive.
The source of the pain comes back to him quickly after that, the gash in his side that had been half the length of his forearm when Milo had finally dared to inspect it. That had been halfway back down in the elevator watching his blood drip onto the floor in a steady stream, peeling his shirt away from the insides of the wound and tearing open more of his skin in the process. Hale couldn't have just sat there and died like he was supposed to, no, he had to take a chunk of Milo out with him.
In that elevator he had been so convinced he was going to die, light-headed and fighting against unconsciousness even as black continued to encroach at the edges of his vision like a solid curtain.
And then… then something else. Eight.
Micah.
Milo wedges his elbow underneath himself, looking around. It hurts like a bitch, but it's bearable. The patchwork now adorning his side is nothing to write home about, but he's alive, is he not? Whatever Micah did saved his life, stupidly so.
There's something in the water those Eight's drink, he's convinced. How idiotic can one person be?
Milo would believe the guy had some sense about him if he had left after the fact, but he can still hear him. A scratchy, uneven breathing, deep as if in sleep but still wrong, somehow. So not only did he leave Milo alive, saving his sorry life in the process, but he decided to stay close by and then… go to sleep?
Nevermind. He's not giving him any credit.
The axe is on the bench above him but Milo unsheathes his knife instead, forcing himself up onto his wobbly knees. There he is, past the table and asleep next to one of the weapon racks. He's curled up into a tight ball, legs clutched up to his chest with a slipping grip. Even in his hazy, pain-riddled mind when Micah had first shown himself, Milo had known something was wrong. The guy could barely walk—no wonder he had saved Milo's life. He probably couldn't even think straight. No one in their right mind would have done it.
Well, he's going to regret it. He's going to die. What, are there four other people in this arena besides Milo? He can make it three so easily.
And he's going to.
He forces himself to his feet, leaning most of his weight off his injured side. The knife is easier—quieter, less weight, less strain. A knife can do the job just as well. Besides, he's already in such a bad way that Milo's not entirely convinced he won't just die on his own. He hobbles closer, hovering over Micah's prone body, knife extended. He's shivering in his sleep, giving the odd, occasional jerk as he seizes in a full-body shudder. Feverish, sweating, dark shadows around his eyes that somehow seem to seep into the rest of his form. He's been bleeding too, it appears, from more than one spot. His leg, his head, his face haphazardly taped together with butterfly stitches, unable to hide the grotesque bruising beneath.
Milo needs to stop looking, stop absorbing all the details. It's not doing anything for him.
The knife gleams a lustrous silver under the artificial lights—one clean cut. That's it. By the looks of it Milo is just putting him out of his misery anyway.
The blade is nearly pressed against the skin of his throat, and Micah opens his eyes.
Milo's blood runs cold with the feeling of ice. Everything freezes over, so far from hell in that moment that he wonders if it's possible that they've been transported elsewhere. Micah goes stiff as a board, eyes widening almost comically as they glimpse the knife. And Milo… Milo can't make it move. Not the weapon, not his arm. There's something to be said about his own statuesque state, perfectly still despite the agony rippling out from his side that makes him want to curl up into his own ball.
There's something to be said, too, about how troublesome it is to look people in the eyes, especially when they're so… so good. You can just tell he is. No one else would have saved Milo's life. He's not sure if the blood staining Micah's fingers is his own or Milo's; he's not sure he even wants to. He hovers there for far too long, willing himself to bring the knife down, but he can't. Not with Micah looking at him like that, helpless to do anything but lie there. He can't move fast enough to get away. If he moves, it's like he knows that Milo is going to startle and do it anyway. All instinct.
Donatella was face-down in the fountain. The Three girl's eyes were closed after the first swing, clenched in agony. He didn't bother looking when Casi plummeted to her death, and Hale… well, he kicked Hale over for a reason. Milo didn't want to look.
"Milo," Micah says, finally. Well over a minute has passed without either of them moving, but it's the sound of his own name that makes him flinch. Micah does as well, eyes flicking down to the knife. Shouldn't have told him his name. His foggy, pain-riddled brain is a separate entity from the rest of him and a traitorous one, at that. He always knew he couldn't trust it.
He only means to shuffle back a pace or two, but his ankles quake alarmingly and he ends up sitting down, grip still white-knuckled on the hilt of the knife.
It won't do him any good to let go of it.
There are a million and one rational responses he could expect to see from Micah's end, namely that of getting far, far away. He doesn't get up, or even attempt to scoot backwards. No, he just sits up, slowly. Warily. His hands tremble as he grabs at his leg, holding onto it still even as he straightens himself, sweating with the exertion of it. Milo thinks their eyes are unfocused nearly in the same way.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Milo asks, head cocked. What the hell has he stumbled upon in the middle of all of this?
"Mentally," Micah forces out. "Or physically?"
"Either or."
"Well… well I got stabbed, and fell into a sewer. Punched pretty good, though that was earlier on." His voice shakes—Milo can't tell if it's fear, or pain. If he was smart it would be a healthy dose of both, though it doesn't appear intelligence is high on his current priority list. "As for mentally, no clue. I just wanted to help."
Milo's nodding before he's even finished, though he can't quite pin-point why. It's not like he gets it. Helping isn't exactly his forte, you see. Though he's sure that'll come as a massive surprise to everyone watching, kicking Casi away from his legs had been practically second-nature. That's what you did when people you wanted to trust turned on you; you got them before they got you. That was how it was supposed to go, right? He's not the only person to have ever killed an ally—not in here, and not in the hundred-and-sixty years of Games that come before him.
"Milo," Micah says again, eyes finally flitting to his face. It's easier to look at him now that he's not holding a knife to his throat. "Those three people that were up there with you… did you kill them all?"
"What if I did?" he questions, ignoring the desire to flop back onto the floor, not a care in the world.
"I'm just asking."
"Has asking questions never gotten you in trouble before?" Milo asks. "'Cause it could."
Micah swallows. There's a bit of fear, he thinks, but it's a logical amount. Though he's still not running, Milo finds himself appreciating that Micah can register the magnitude of the situation he's stumbled right into. He hauls himself to his feet, ignoring Micah's slight jerk back. It's more away from the knife than him, he thinks. He's more scared of the object than the person holding it.
If Milo didn't still feel a few moments from death, he would show him that it's always more logical to fear the person over the weapon.
When he stands everything spins, dragging him through a vicious, repeated circle. He launches a hand out for one of the weapon racks before he can go down in a heap, hearing Micah shuffle about behind him as if he's about to get up and steady him. Nope. Not on Milo's watch. That is absolutely fucking not happening. "Don't even think about it," he snaps. It helps that he's still holding onto the knife. When the world settles around him Micah is half-risen, arm extended. Frozen once again.
Good.
"You should take it easy," Micah suggests quietly, easing himself back down. "I didn't stitch you up, or anything. If you do anything too drastic you'll make yourself bleed again."
"I could tell," Milo mutters. Micah's handiwork isn't that bad, really—better than anything Milo could do. He's not going to start being appreciative of it, though. That means a whole conglomeration of unsettling things; softness and caving in and he can't afford any of those things. Not now, not ever. "Don't ever plan on going into medicine."
"If I get out of here, I'll remember that."
His voice is equally soft. Unafraid now that Milo has turned around, putting distance between them once again. He wants to bark out a laugh, spit something like it's not going to be you, but the words form a lump in his throat and nearly choke him. If he can't kill Micah, who knows if there's anyone out there willing to do the job. At this point he has just as much of a chance as the rest of them.
Five total. Despite how much he despises it, Micah's right. Once the morning comes, he's getting up and going out. He's ending this thing once and for all.
That's just how it has to be.
Ilaria Landucci, 18
District Six Female
She's only staying awake long enough to see the faces.
It was one of the last things Ilaria made sure to do before she packed up everything for good, one little switch that responded to her touch, operational at all costs. She didn't want to be out here without knowing.
Ilaria has them memorized; One, Two, Three, Four boy dead because of her, Five, Eight, both Eleven's. Seven people between her and getting out of here for good. Three of them weren't doing too well in their current situations—Ambrose and Velcra, but Ilaria had known that, witnessing things she shouldn't have had to. The boy from Eight, too, was clearly suffering to some degree. His vitals were struggling to keep up with whatever his heart wanted.
That was before she left, though. Clearly things had happened since then to warrant three deaths, all so close together. No matter how hard she strained her ears there was no sign of a fight anywhere close to her. Not that Ilaria necessarily wanted a fight right now, but it would be nice to do something.
She knew what she had to do, and she wasn't far from the Training Center. Though the idea of creeping up on Velcra in the dark was a tempting one, Ilaria knew it wouldn't go the way she wanted. They weren't going to make it so easy.
The morning it was, then. Ilaria would be ready by then.
Velcra was going to die.
The idea of it seemed fictitious, straight out of a storybook. Evil never died so easily. You had to fight for it tooth and nail. Living in a world where Velcra Leight and her tortuous ways didn't exist seemed too good to be true. Ilaria wouldn't allow herself to enter into a mental state where she lost no matter how much her mind cried out in protest; it knew the truth, even if she refused to think about it. It knew she wasn't perfect. It knew she could fall, same as everyone else.
But she wouldn't. Not tomorrow, anyway.
Ilaria ducks underneath an overhang at the street's edge as the anthem blares throughout the night sky, leading back to some sort of quaint little theater tucked in a nicer part of the city. It's almost too fancy, destroyed by layers of ash. The fire is far enough away that it might be able to escape the worst of it, but Ilaria doesn't think anything is safe at this point. The red sky is anything but peaceful. It serves as a reminder that anything can change, even over only a few hours. The entire world can be flipped on its head.
It looks like a good place to stay as she peers through the glass, studying the bar-enclosed booth that must sell tickets and the numerous doors that branch out from the lobby. Not too big, not too small. She'll scope it out as soon as she's done out here.
The sky glimmers behind her with light, the red broken up by flashes of pale blues and grays. A face is reflected back at her in the window, distorted and shimmering.
She thinks she knows what it is, but Ilaris turns around anyway. Just to really see.
And… and it's Velcra.
Ilaria blinks, unable to keep her mouth from falling open. A particular gust of wind blasts her in the face, sending the taste of ash straight to the back of her throat. She chokes and sputters, eyes watering as she struggles to make out the faces of the remaining Two. It's the Eleven's, the both of them, girl and then boy. She's bright, almost artificial. He's stoic, mouth set in a flat line. Neither of them are able to erase the image of Velcra's face from her brain—hair blinding against the plain white background, the corner of her mouth crooked up, eyes sparkling with some unknown mischief.
She's dead. Just like that.
It doesn't make any fucking sense.
Ilaria slumps back against the wall of the theater as the sky goes dark once again. They're tricking her, right? Now that she's left the control room behind she has no way to check if the sky is lying to her or not. It has to be fake because Ilaria isn't there yet. She was waiting until the morning.
No one else could have killed her. It doesn't fit how things were supposed to go. Ilaria was supposed to inflict retribution even if it wasn't in her blood, for Cal and for the way Licia was abandoned, for the people Velcra killed so wrongly. She wasn't going to kill her in that same way. It was going to be quick—not necessarily painless, because nothing was, but quick. A better death than someone like Velcra deserved.
Ilaria can't help but wonder if she suffered. Did whoever kill her know what she had done, or were they just continuing on? Getting the job done?
Did they even care?
She pushes the door open to the theater without looking, feet sinking into the plush carpet. Ilaria drags down her shirt, sucking in a breath of untainted, cool air as the door eases shut behind her. Velcra's gone. All of Ilaria's purpose has floated away in the wind like it was never there at all, as intangible as mist. There's something out there, she knows. There always is. But what, exactly, is she supposed to do now?
She has no direction. No path. Her feet and mind alike have been set on a course with no distinct ending point.
What is she supposed to do but hope that her face isn't in the sky the same way?
A few mannequins float past her further into the theater like ghosts. Ilaria hardly sees them, shimmering figures that have no real effect on her brain. Only one bothers to catch her attention, trailing along behind the others as if it's been forgotten about.
It's hard to tell in the darkness, but she thinks it has red hair.
It hasn't been forgotten about at all.
Micah Rossier, 18
District Eight Male
He hasn't been able to go back to sleep.
His body cries out for rest despite how much Micah has been giving it already. Besides the numerous other things, that's the main one telling him something is deeply wrong.
It's so hard to keep his eyes open. Exhaustion pulls down on them, a haze-like film that blurs everything around him stronger than ever. It's not enough to disguise Milo from him, a red-and-white figure sprawled out on the ground, equally as awake. There's no resting between the two of them, but it's not out of fear. Not on Micah's end, at least. Milo nearly had a knife to his throat, was going to cut him open from ear to ear, and he's not scared.
Why? Because he didn't follow through? That's not a good enough reason. He wanted to, probably would have if Micah hadn't chosen that moment to wake up.
He presses his fingers to his leg absentmindedly, the flesh a deep red, swollen, oozing pus around the edge of the bandages. He hasn't peeled back the bandages recently but he doesn't want to, either. Micah suspects whatever lies under the bandages is far worse than the already worrying state around them. Across the way Milo is in a similar state, hand folded over the wound in his side, blood ingrained deep under his nails.
If he gets up and leaves now, Micah thinks he has a chance. Milo wouldn't chase after him. The problem is he doesn't know if he can get up. Somehow, against all odds, he's getting worse.
There's a quiet string of words released from Milo's mouth some twenty feet away. "Fuck this," Micah hears, and Milo's figure is a near blur as he rises to his knees, dragging himself to his feet. The backpack is collected first, the knife as he secures it back into his belt, reaching for the axe.
"Where are you going?" he asks, bracing his elbows behind him as he leans up, watching Milo's wobbling figure. That may just be his eyes, though. Micah isn't sure anymore.
"Anywhere but here."
"You… you can't," Micah manages, but it's so faint he hardly hears it himself. Why can't Milo go? Because he's said so? It's not like he's listening.
"And why can't I?" Milo tosses back, making a slow rotation around the room, picking things up as he goes. Some of the food, but not all of it. Several water bottles, but he leaves a few. Almost as if there's some kindness left in him, enough to make sure that Micah's not left with nothing. No one's just a monster. Micah's never believed that. There's always an explanation, something that leads to it making sense. If Milo was completely gone, he'd be dead already.
Is Micah so wrong for wanting to believe that people are good when he's seen otherwise?
He doesn't answer. Micah pushes himself back to one of the weapon racks instead and uses it to pull himself up, teetering on his good leg until he dares to flatten the other down, leg and body alike both overcome by immediate anguish. It would be the perfect excuse to stay here and hunker down.
But he can't.
When Milo turns towards him he holds his ground—it's not as if he can move very fast away. He stops some five feet away, eyes curious. Micah feels like a true specimen, some sort of rarity that's only been observed a few times.
"Your leg's fucked, you know," Milo informs him. "Definitely infected."
Micah swallows. "I figured."
"It's probably going to kill you."
He… he knew that, he thinks. In the very least he was starting to realize it. His descent downhill was never going to spell out anything good regarding his future. It's going to keep at it until it takes over his whole body, and then Micah is going to die. Simple as that.
He doesn't want to die. He definitely doesn't want to die alone.
"Why won't you kill me?" Micah asks, definitely skirting around a conversation he's not sure he's prepared to have. It would be so easy for him, one quick flash of the blade, and he has another kill added to his list. It'll make him more favorable. It'll give Micah a quicker death than the one he's headed towards.
"Don't ask me questions I don't have the answer to," Milo responds—all bark, there. No bite. He's had numerous opportunities to kill Micah at this point and hasn't, for some strange reason. That has to mean something. Considering he almost certainly did have at least a hand in killing those three people upstairs, Micah's immunity is something to be treasured. Saving someone's life does some good after all.
Micah toes his own bag closer, though there's not much in it except for the remainders of the kits he's pulled apart. Half a bottle of water. He sweeps the remaining few off an adjacent table and forces himself to the table holding the last of the food, ignoring the grating screech as Milo pulls a few more knives from their metal holders, examining them before he selects a particular handful and hides them away.
Logically he knows he should pick something else too. Having more than a knife would do him some good. He brushes his fingers against the hilt of a machete to his left, goosebumps raising over his arm. Could he do it? Bury it in someone's stomach, their chest, their back if they never even saw it coming? If it was just Micah and one other person, would he have the strength?
He wants to. He knows he doesn't.
"If I follow you," Micah starts carefully, keeping his eyes elsewhere. "What will you do?"
The surprised stutter in Milo's footsteps is obvious even from a distance, halfway to the door. It would be easy to blame it on his injuries, but he's not even holding himself as if it hurts. Micah knows it has to.
"Watch as you get further and further behind, probably." Milo shrugs. But what if? What if Micah could keep up with him? Like he said, he doesn't want to be alone. The word repeats in his head, a siren. A broken record, over and over again. He can't be alone. Micah doesn't even have the courage to ask Milo if he's seen the faces in the sky; he doesn't want to know if Hosea and Inara are out there somewhere. He doesn't think he can handle knowing the truth.
It's dangerous, he knows, but Micah risks it away. "You owe me."
"For what?"
"Saving your life."
"You're alive," Milo says flatly. "Is that not good enough for you?"
But likely not for much longer. Milo said it himself—Micah is dying anyway.
"No," he decides. Selfishness rises to the forefront of his attitude for the first time ever, Micah thinks. It's foreign in his body and he already doesn't like it, but it has to be done.
Milo shuffles from foot to foot; Micah notices the wince he makes when he puts too much weight onto his right side. "If you can keep up," he says slowly, each word chosen carefully. "I'll be impressed."
And he turns to go, eyes forward, but Micah notices his pace. Even. Careful. Almost cautious. None are words he would associate with the boy from Two, but then again Micah doesn't really know him. Probably won't, ever. He could be moving slowly for his own benefit, trying not to further aggravate his own injuries, but Micah knows the truth even if Milo doesn't.
Maybe he doesn't want to be alone, either. Not like he thought.
Micah pulls the machete free from it's grip without allowing himself to think about it, watching as Milo disappears into the smoke. Each step is excruciating, pain licking up his leg like a million little lightning bolts, but he pushes onward. Out the door. After him.
He can only hope he doesn't regret it.
Ambrose Clarion, 16
District One Male
With every step, Ambrose can't help but wonder if he's about to split apart.
There are so many ways it could happen. His head could fall away from his neck as if a sword cut the rest of the way through, or perhaps it would go right down the middle, crown of the head to his waist. Split in half, like a magic trick. That's how they do it, right?
Probably not.
Any second now he expects fire to appear out of nowhere and incinerate him, melt the skin away from flesh and bone in great scraps. It would be a fitting ending in the very least—Ambrose already feels like he's partially gone up in flames with embers raining down on him non-stop.
When he descends into the earth following a grand, metal staircase he doesn't think much of it, only imagining the prospect of something more closed off. Something cleaner. The subway station that emerges before him is pristine, not even a fleck of dirt to be found in the grooves of each individual tile under-foot. The tunnels are empty and quiet, the oncoming rumble of a packed train car nowhere to be found. He almost wishes one would show up and whisk him away.
Ambrose's back finds one of the numerous pillars and he leans back against it, fingers skimming along the bandages lining his throat. There's no sign of fresh blood, but that time is coming. The second he's forced to really move he's going to bleed again.
He already can hardly breathe, and it only has a little bit to do with the smoke. Nothing in him works properly anymore. It's all been broken like he's nothing more than a toy, and maybe that's what he was always meant to be. Something to wind up, a crank between his shoulder blades, a tinny voice to emerge from between plastic, poised slips. Enough to entertain for a few minutes or so, but not forever.
Just like one of those toys, his time in the limelight was coming to an end. He was interesting for a while. Still could be, but it was unlikely.
Once a toy broke it was no good anymore.
Something shakes above him, flecks of the well-manicured ceiling fluttering gently down to the ground. It could be anything—a horde of mannequins, a collapsing building, the fire growing ever-closer. All Ambrose can manage to picture as he presses himself tighter against the pillar is that damn mutt, a dozen beady eyes, its teeth in his throat. Varrik screaming as it razed through his skin in seconds. To think he named it, too, him and Devan both. They fought about it in their own unique way.
Ambrose can't remember either of the names no matter how hard he tries.
The ground shakes again. He squeezes his eyes shut, biting down on his tongue until the fresh tang of copper slides along the back of his throat. The taste never went away, though. It was always there.
It's going to crawl down the stairs, all limbs working in tandem to bring it closer until it finds Ambrose under the buzzing lights. When it finishes what it started he won't even be surprised. He's just going to scream like Varrik did, or maybe lie there in silence and let it rip away at him until there's nothing left but a mere pile of what he used to be, flesh and muscle all bleeding together, commingling as one. What will he look like when he's strewn out on the floor like that? What will he be worth?
His father always said that the singing and the playing would amount to nothing—he never said that Ambrose would, not in so many words, but the meaning was always implied. Ambrose knew what he meant without hearing it. It appears his father will be right after all.
He'll be nothing.
At the next shake of the earth a few tears finally escape his scrunched eyelids, hot and burning along his face as they slip down to his jaw and wobble away. He wills them to stop, but it's not good enough. He shouldn't have ended up here. Ambrose shouldn't have done a lot of things that have long passed, made irreversible by actions done since then.
He crumples to the ground like he's made of paper, as if his body is already giving way. Nothing comes sliding down the stairs but that doesn't stop Ambrose from imagining it, every gruesome second. When he reaches deep into his pockets, fingers trembling, the pick that had been stowed there is gone. Long gone, he suspects. Ambrose didn't even notice. He spent so many days before strumming it against guitar strings, clutching it between his fingers, and he didn't even notice it disappear.
It's gone. So much of him is. The tears come faster.
As the sobs rise so does the pain, intensifying until he can hardly breathe. Ambrose can't even cry without feeling like he's going to be split open.
Maybe he will. Maybe that's how this all ends. Not with the spotlight, the glory, everything he always wanted.
It only ends in red.
A chapter title that's an ode to Haiden/symphorophilia and his verse, if nothing else. Please check it out, you won't regret it.
I promise I'm almost done drawing this out. Only three more chapters left to go and then it's over.
Until next time.