XXXV: Arena, Day Seven.

Micah Rossier, 18
District Eight Male

When Micah settles, he can't help but feel like it's a resting place.

A final one, if you get his drift.

Oddly enough, the thought doesn't start a riot in his head. Micah doesn't even have the faintest clue where they are anymore—the mansion, of course, but whether or not they're in a room or just lying out in the open, he can't tell. A hall stretches to his right, a staircase towering up to his left. Milo is there too of course, but he's blurry. Not just a side-effect from the smoke.

He hurts, of course, but dying isn't as painful as he thought it would be. Just really, really quiet.

He doesn't think Milo is ever going to settle. It's not in his DNA. In a way Micah is almost glad he's still on his feet. It gives him something to focus on, the rhythm of his footsteps on the cold marble floor, the way he eases a knife back and forth through his fingers.

Micah doesn't know why he's still here.

He leans back against the wall, allowing his eyes to slip shut. He focuses on the noise only, a comforting pace almost like a heartbeat, only Milo's is much faster than his own. Now that the adrenaline has faded off from their journey over here Micah just feels dull. Faded, almost, like a specter of himself. No matter how long he keeps his eyes closed, though, there's no pinpoint of light in the darkness, no tunnel to journey down. Is it really just darkness all the way through, forever and forever?

Exhaustion pulls down harder at his eyes, his entire body. He wishes it was just that, though.

For a moment, eyes still closed, he swears his own heart stops. The noise does, anyway. A moment later there's a hand on his leg, not gentle but not exactly forceful either, and he flinches, eyes snapping open. Pain flares like a lit match in his leg once again as Milo examines it, the knife resting on the floor by Micah's legs. It's such a curious sight to see him without a weapon in his hand, but even more-so that he's touching Micah, refusing to look up at him entirely but still so close.

He doesn't move much, only a few layers of the bandages. Micah thinks he catches sight of discolored skin, swollen and inflamed, but he can't even feel Milo's hands on him.

"Dying isn't fun," he whispers, swallowing. Tears spring to his eyes regardless of how much he tries to hold them in. Milo lets go of him, rocking back on his heels.

"Did you think it would be?"

Micah shrugs. What did he think about any of this, really? It was never a good idea no matter how hard he tried to spin it as one. He always knew he was going to die, but…

But what? There's nothing else to it. Micah expected to die, and now is he.

So why is it so deeply upsetting?

The worst part of it all is it doesn't matter for a damn second what Micah thinks or feels, not anymore. In a short little while he's going to be dead and all of that will be gone anyway. He looks at Milo again, whose eyes are above them, examining the elaborate fresco painted across the ceiling as if he actually cares about it. If Micah wasn't so terrified of the prospect he'd ask Milo to kill him, finally. At least it would be quick.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Milo."

"What?"

He can't do anything for himself—all Micah has left is what he can do for someone else, and Milo just so happens to be the only person here. "You… you killed those three people, right? And I don't know what else you did, but I want you to know that I don't think you're a bad person."

Milo huffs. "That's 'cause you don't know me. You'd have a different opinion if you did."

"I do, though. At least a bit."

"Okay then."

"I know that… that you felt too bad to kill me. For whatever reason. Because I saved your life."

He expects denial, the vicious kind. Micah can't exactly fight back against it right now—he doesn't have the energy. Milo is quiet, though, studying Micah's leg once again. What makes him a worse person than Micah, even? One person or three or a dozen… there's no difference anymore. This place does it to all of them. It tries its worst and most of the time it succeeds.

"You're not a bad person," he continues. "Just remember that."

"Talking like you're a second away from death isn't a good way to remedy it, you know."

"I made it pretty far," Micah whispers, allowing himself to slump further down the wall. It's more comfortable this way; he might as well do that for himself, if nothing else. He really did make it far, further than anyone thought he would. In the long run he's still going to be just as dead as twenty-three other people, but at least his family held onto some hope for a while. He can allow himself to dream about the fact that they continue to hold onto it long after he's gone.

"Are you scared to die?" Milo asks, and he can't help but blink, surprise overcoming his features just for a second.

If only he didn't already know the answer.

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Are you?"

Micah is right this time to not expect an answer, though Milo's silence is telling. He hardly has to look at him to understand at least some of the answer. Maybe Milo isn't afraid to die, exactly, but he isn't ready. Not yet.

Is anyone, really?

Milo stands suddenly, knife back in hand though his posture is still slack. There's no danger, he doesn't think, but Micah still watches him carefully as he scoops up the bag he had previously dropped without sparing another glance around.

It's clear what he's doing.

"Milo," he tries, but there's no point. Never has been, not to any of this. He's not going to know if his words ever meant anything.

But Milo looks him in the eyes—properly, he believes, for what might be the first time ever. The only time, really. "Thanks for saving my life," he says, a deep weariness to his voice that matches his dragging feet, the listless hold he has around the knife, foregoing the axe that rests in his belt entirely.

Micah can't even say anything before he's gone. His footsteps are quicker up the stairs than ever before as if he can't bear to be here any longer; not that Micah believes him, but loneliness drapes across his shoulders, heavy and sudden. Not quite enough to crush him. They wouldn't let him go like that, not when he's so close. Micah closes his eyes once again, blinking away the tears before they can fall. There's no use in him crying, now. His family doesn't deserve to see him cry in what little time he's got left.

So he's supposed to lie here, then. Lie here and wait for it because that's all there is to do. He has his knife of course, but there's no way.

Lying here it is. In a way, now that the quiet's back, it's almost peaceful.

Not peaceful enough, though. Micah closes his eyes and he drifts, endlessly, in a sea of black and gray with nothing promising on the horizon. Sometimes a bit of his mom's voice crackles through the waves, words so soothing but indistinguishable from one another. She's right there like she would be when he was little, when he was sick, gently stroking his hair back from his face, a hand smoothing over his shoulder.

He wishes he was back there now, young and unaware of what was to come. Anything would be better than this. At least that phantom touch is there to comfort him, though.

Phantom but it almost feels… real.

Strangely real.

"Micah."

He blinks. Tries to. There's a film over his eyes that makes the shadow looming over him shift in strange ways. A hand turns his chin to the side, fingers gentle over his burning skin. A face, familiar but so far away, like he couldn't reach for it even if he tried.

He's not dead yet.

"Inara?" he breathes, allowing himself to draw in another breath. She's here and she's alive, which means Micah still is too. He blinks some more, thanking each individual time for the clarity it gives him as she shifts into focus, eyes soft and concerned.

"Long time no see," she says quietly and he cracks a smile as well as he can, her teeth white against her soot-stained face. It hasn't been all that long, has it? It feels like longer. Somehow she's still here, though, even though it seems so impossible, examining him just like Milo had been. He sees the exact moment realization bleeds into her eyes, knowing as always. Fingers lace through his, squeezing tight, and Micah holds on for dear life.

"Why are you here?" he asks hoarsely.

"Just taking a walk." Inara smiles again, but it's weaker this time. "What about you?"

"I left my allies," he manages. "Messed myself up really bad."

She nods, her fingers still unyielding around his own. "He's dead, isn't he?" Micah asks, even though everything in him knows the truth. There's no one beside her, no one behind her. Inara's just as alone as he was a few moments ago. When she nods once again he thinks there might be a similar amount of sadness in their eyes, a now-permanent fixture.

The words are poised on his lips, the question he hasn't been able to ask, but Inara turns away to rummage through her bag, dropping his hand onto the cold ground once again. His fingers flex against the emptiness—she's a good kid, he thinks. Not really a kid at all, but she reminds him so much of Leighton that he can't help but think of her any other way.

When she faces him once again Micah laughs, unable to regret it as agony tears through his body. Nestled between her hands is that last bottle of juice, such a precious thing in a hellish place. Inara laughs as well, the both of them matched in rhythm and pace, just two kids with seemingly nothing else in the world. She doesn't even have to ask, unscrewing the cap and setting it aside before she helps him lift his head to take the first sip. Her fingers are gentle against the back of his skull, refusing to probe too deep at the damage there, the blood matted in his hair along with God only knows what else.

And that's what they do, the two of them. They sit there in a carefully crafted silence, the juice washing away the taste of blood and ash from his mouth. He pushes it back towards her to take the last sip, watching as she tips it back until every last drop is gone.

It's too quick. Micah wishes it could have lasted so much longer.

He doesn't want to say it. Inara's eyes are on the floor, her fingers looping loosely through his once again. If she looks up at him, he might just break.

"Inara," he whispers.

"I know, I know," she says hurriedly. "Just… just give me a second."

He has no choice but to allow it, squeezing her hand once again. This time it's her holding on back, desperation in her grip.

Inara looks up, gaze fixed somewhere above his head. "I told myself I didn't want to be the one to kill you."

Micah swallows. "I'm sorry."

Strangely enough there are no tears coming now, of all times. He just feels empty, now, hollowed out with nothing but the sweet taste of the juice's remnants left in the back of his mouth. That's all he has before he goes, what all of this led up to. It doesn't feel like enough.

Inara pulls herself up to her knees. Her hand is still in his but she pulls her knife free with the other, staring down at it. Micah forces himself to look away, eyes on the ceiling. Maybe Milo had the right idea—it's quite pretty up there. Something you could escape into if you looked long enough. Micah allows himself to succumb to the exhaustion that has been pulling down at him for so long, his eyes slipping shut.

"Me too," she says, but Micah swears she's already so far away. Too far.

Still, he feels her shift. Hand still in his. She hasn't gone anywhere; he wishes he had the energy to thank her for that. Inara deserves that much.

Micah hopes she knows.

The touch against his throat is gentle. It's over after this, he thinks. It's finally over. He's scared, but he was always going to be. She's still there and he's free from this and the cold steel bites into his throat, producing only the briefest flare of pain.

But he's okay.

Milo Poliadas, 18
District Two Male

Something's wrong with him, right?

Something has to be.

If there was another easier explanation out there, Milo is sure he would have found it by now. It would be hidden somewhere in these halls, a practical second home to be found in the towering walls and arched ceilings, in room after room of luxuries too grand to be found anywhere else.

Milo moves on, further than he thinks he could have ever gone before, and yet his brain continues to tell him to go back.

Any sort of rationale behind it has flown far, far away. There's no good reason for him to go back, not to someone who's going to be dead soon anyway. Why should Milo have to sit there and watch it? Because Micah saved his life? Not good enough, alright? It's not fucking good enough. He's not going to sit around and wait for things to get even quieter than they already are.

He finds an easy loop instead, a long balcony that overlooks a grand ballroom, and circles around it time after time. Waiting for a cannon like this is a fool's errand in its entirety, he knows, but he can't stop himself from doing it. By the time he hears the thing his feet are going to ache to a new point, he knows. Micah is damn stubborn like that—probably doesn't even realize it, either.

He shouldn't be any different from the others. Milo should have no trouble from walking away from him. He left Hale lying up there on the roof easily enough, didn't even try to look down to see what had become of Casi.

Apparently when someone steps up and decides you're worth saving it complicates things.

Milo has spent what feels like his entire life trying to prove that he's worth it, that he's good enough. He always knew he could if people would just give him the time of day; call if self-obsession if you want, but he would spend years showing other people just what he was made of if it would get him somewhere. He had always made a point of showing off. It felt good, and who had any right to take that from him? Nobody at all.

With Micah it's different, he's realizing. He doesn't know him—never will, now. He didn't have to prove himself. Milo could have passed out and been murdered, unconscious, none the wiser. Instead Micah saved his life when he knew it could end his own.

I don't think you're a bad person.

Jokes on Micah, really, because he is. He had killed indiscriminately and now Milo had left him to his fate instead of doing the honorable thing. The good thing.

He was never going to be good.

It's not as if Milo hadn't thought about it. The idea had crossed his mind numerous times, how easy Micah would go down. He was small, brittle, practically a head shorter than Milo with enough naivety still in his eyes to match the look. He wouldn't even fight back. Every-time he considered it, though, his hand faltered around whatever weapon he happened to be holding onto it. He knew what it would mean to kill someone who had saved him without much of a second thought.

Maybe now he was only armed to the teeth because he felt so brittle himself. It made more sense than anything else.

Milo knew he was bad, but monsters were still worse. He liked to believe he wasn't one.

Deep inside where he could barely hear it, a prayer was chanted over and over. It wished that he wasn't.

He stops quickly on a random lap, too many to have passed to have easily kept count over them. Milo can't leave. He can't stay here forever, either.

Which means there's only one place to go.

Back.

With every step back towards the staircase he hates himself a bit more. Unpredictable until the bitter end, it seems his emotions are. He knew that in some capacity, but they're proving to be on an entirely new level. They want him to go back and self-destruct with whatever these unsettling emotions are inside his body. They want him to rain down like ashes in the sky, so many little pieces of him.

Milo isn't surprised by his quickened pace. Having something to do, foolish as it is, is still better than nothing. He finds the stairs easy enough despite being lost in a practical maze, descending down the first handful without so much as thinking about it.

But Milo stops. He has to. He hears it.

And then he sees it, too.

There's a girl there. Milo can't put a name to her anymore than he could for the Three girl, but this is worse—he can't find a single distinguishable feature about her. She's nothing more than a blank face, a shapeless mass crouched down by Micah's side. Nothing of worth.

Micah, well… well he's not dead. Not yet. As he steps to the floor below each foot feels as if it has a rock tied to it, or perhaps a dozen of them. He's weighed down once again. It's a miracle he can even move. The girl is just as slow to get up, stumbling back a few paces but no further. Micah is still at her feet and he hears that gurgle again, the sound of someone trying to breathe as blood fills their lungs.

He takes a few steps forward. More stones are added with each step.

Everything inside him feels oh so cold. Worryingly, abnormally cold.

All he can do is listen to the sick, off-kilter rattle of Micah's breathing as he struggles to do so around the line cut into his throat, red and oozing. Blood is still matted into his hair from whatever he dealt with before this time—it almost sounds like he tries to say something as Milo hovers above him, an odd gurgle that he doesn't find himself listening to as he leans towards him, sweat-slicked, blood bright on his skin.

He never saw what happened. Wants to see what's happened. Milo draws a hand through his hair, slicked down to his skull in the back. It's slippery, the congealed bit of blood and bone and brain he pulls free from the strands.

The girl still hasn't left—she stares openly, unabashedly, eyes wide with some sort of unspeakable horror as if she hadn't herself done this. Five, maybe. Milo truly doesn't know. He stands, gore running between his fingers as he releases Micah back to the floor. Micah, who has stopped choking on his own blood, stopped breathing. He died while Milo was touching him. People with a slit throat and a cracked in skull tend to do that, he thinks absentmindedly.

"You didn't run," he comments idly. Milo kicks away the disposed knife by his side and watches it skitter across the marble floor. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" she wonders, voice deathly quiet. Her feet shuffle back and forth. Her own knife gleams under the chandelier, the blood on her fingers black in the obnoxious light.

Milo looks up. Nudges Micah's body with the sole of his shoe, just in case.

Still dead.

"Because," he says slowly. "You're going to be number five."

Inara Brea, 16
District Five Female

She doesn't think, really.

She just starts running.

Probably should have done that sooner.

Inara only spares a glance behind her when she's reached the next corner—the boy from Two is still far behind her, apparently taking his time in chasing her. It's only a matter of time, though. With such little space between them they're not letting her out of this.

She has no idea how to beat this. She just keeps running.

She wants to curse Micah, if only for a moment. A cannon lingers along the sound of her smashing through the back door and out into the back of the property. Did Micah know he was there? Could he have warned her? She'd curse him if the thought of cursing a dead boy didn't make her stomach roil.

She just killed Micah.

If she wasn't running for her life at the moment, Inara thinks she may have taken a second to herself to throw up into the nearest bush.

No matter how badly her feet ache Inara doesn't allow herself to stop, ignoring every rock and burning ember that dig into the soles of her feet as she weaves through the many paths that make up the back garden, past statues with eyes that seem to follow her with every turn and towering trellis' of flowers that are struggling to grow beneath the smoke and smog. It doesn't matter how far into it she runs—Inara isn't going to lose him. All she can do is buy time to figure out a plan.

So what if he's just about twice her size? So what if he said number five as if it was the most flippant number in the world? He's killed four people. Inara… Inara has killed two.

There has to be a way out of this.

Inara nearly smacks right into the glass building that appears out of nowhere, a large dome that disappears into the smoke. She runs her hands along the side of the greenhouse until her hands curl around the handle for the main door, pulling herself inside and the door after her with hardly a sound. Maybe he'll walk right by and miss her? Unlikely, but she can dream.

The air inside is still hazy, but much easier to breathe in without immediately coughing or spluttering. Inara can't run forever, though. Her feet would give up on her, if not her lungs. Better to lay low and come up with something, fast. She's got her wits, still, and her knife. Sometimes that's all you need.

She winds down a few of the paths inside the greenhouse as quick as she physically can, disappearing amidst the random rows of roses that seem to tower up into the ceiling. Sometimes being just as Inara is can help. It's an advantage. At the next bend in the path she thinks nothing of diving into the greenery, ignoring the thorns that cut into her palms as she pushes the branches inside, sinking to her knees in the dirt to pull herself further in. Unseen. Hidden.

Hopefully, anyway.

Inara clutches the knife in her still-shaking hand, ignoring the streaks of blood that run fresh down her arms. The adrenaline has made it so that she hardly feels any of the new cuts, pressing herself as close to the earth beneath her, dry as dust. They're things to deal with at a later date.

As the door comes crashing in, Inara forces herself to mimic one of the statues lost somewhere in the roses, still as can be. Branch by branch the foliage around her comes to a rest, finally still after her whirlwind entrance. She lowers her head to the dirt and takes a deep breath; the last one for some time, she suspects. Only her eyes are still moving, flicking to every bit of the path she can still see from this position, only a few scant inches of it between the leaves.

This place is a practical labyrinth—he has to pass her at some point. When he does she'll start to shimmy out, quiet as can be. She'll be able to get the jump on him. One well-timed, perfectly placed hit. That's all she needs.

She feels a spike of terror flood her veins listening to his footsteps and she forces herself to think of the girls, all of them. How they're watching this right now, just as scared as she is. She needs to show them that she's still in this, that she hasn't given up.

It's all for them.

The flicker of his shoes that she finally sees, ten feet or do down the path, are splattered with blood. Her own are streaked with dirt, now. Inara feels like she's back in Five, a little too filthy to be considered appropriate and gallivanting around anyway without care for what anyone thinks of her. She always managed; it didn't matter what she looked like. It certainly didn't matter now.

There's no mistaking how he pauses on the path in precisely the spot Inara entered the greenery, though she forces her eyes to stay on him, unblinking. Eventually he continues on, slower than before. He knows she's here, there's no doubt about it—he just hasn't figured out where.

He's about to.

Inara waits, not so patiently, as his footsteps begin to fade off once again, rounding the bend away from her. She was born for this. Inara knows how to be quiet, how to get to where she needs to be without repercussions. She's done it plenty of times.

She wedges her elbow forward and pulls herself through that first few inches of dirt, silently. It's just like Five.

Just like home.

Something locks around Inara's ankle so suddenly that she can't help but shriek, a noise so unlike herself that she's almost more startled by it than the action itself. That noise is quickly cut off as she's dragged backwards, her head slamming roughly into the dirt. It's fingers around her ankle, a hand pulling at her. He's pulling her out of her hiding spot.

How long did he know?

No time to think about it now.

Inara locks both arms around the base of the nearest bush, bark scraping at her underarms, and tries to hold on for dear life. If he wants to kill her, he's coming in here after her. Inara isn't fighting him face-to-face out on the path, no chance in hell. She kicks with all her might, her free foot struggling for purchase as it slams against him time and time again, to no avail.

She doesn't have forever with this thing; it's roots are shifting. It's giving up on her.

Inara does all she can think to do: she lets go.

His next heave is so massive, so sudden, that he stumbles back when he finally rips her free from the undergrowth, losing his grip on her ankle. Inara raises her arm and the knife with it, not even thinking about where it's going or what damage it will do as she stabs wildly towards him. She thinks it connects somewhere, dragging through flesh, but it's only for a moment. Not enough damage.

Deep down, Inara knows that her first hit needed to be better. Bigger. It had to be the one that caught him off guard and took him down, all at once.

That wasn't what she just achieved.

She failed.

Inara doesn't even see the axe come down but she feels it as it connects with her leg, sinking in through each layer of her flesh until it's scraping against bone, drawing an unwilling scream from her throat. Her fingers grip at the edge of the path, trying to tear herself away from the scene, but it feels nearly impossible when he's still holding onto her like this. Not even with his hands, anymore, but the blade—he's not even trying to hold onto her.

He knows what Inara refuses to admit.

"It's nothing personal," he says above her. She goes still. It certainly feels personal, doesn't it?

"Fuck you," she spits, and he rips the axe free from her leg. Inara practically whimpers when it comes free. She sounds like a little girl, like someone Inara should be taking care of.

If only there was someone to take care of her now.

She waits for the hit that doesn't come, looking up at him as he stares back. They're both frozen. She knows there's no point in moving, even if trying to defy him one last time is tempting. That will only bring her more pain in the long run. Even if Inara was willing to face that, her girls don't deserve to watch it. She won't let that be the last thing they see. No, Inara is going to sit up and stay strong.

Just as she always has.

"I'll die of old age first if you don't get on with it," Inara snaps. Oh, well, at least he looks mildly angry now. That's better than blank.

Still nothing. Inara tears her backpack free in some of the last moments she has, noting his flinch. It takes all of a second to tug one of the shoes free from the rest of her supplies; she winds it back, brings her arm forward, and throws it at him. The solid thwack that emits from it connecting with his chest is satisfying, if nothing else. He watches it fall to the ground between them in silence, still simmering.

At least she got to do that. She feels better now. Better than she thought she could in this situation. There's still the kids back home to worry about, but soon enough Inara won't have to worry about anything.

She'll just be gone.

Inara flops back against the path's edge as blood continues to flow from her leg in a great gush; she's getting woozy, now. She throws her arms open wide, an invitation. Small as it is, it feels like her own act of rebellion. He expected a greater fight than this.

So did she, if she's being honest, but she's done fighting. The fight is no longer hers to tackle.

Someone else will have to take it on. Thinking that, Inara feels more free than she has in a very long time. There's nothing she has to worry about anymore; no responsibilities, no fears, no dread. That in itself is ugly and selfish but she finds she doesn't care much about that either.

Freedom is so much more welcoming than she thought it could be.

When he raises the axe, she looks beyond it to the smoke far above, billowing against the glass dome. She lets it carry her away even as she's still laying on the ground, the blade descending towards her chest.

She's going somewhere better.

Ambrose Clarion, 16
District One Male

The tunnels that interlace throughout this underground world are more peaceful than anything he found top-side.

There's something to be said about how comforting darkness can be once you've experienced a certain degree of it. It's no longer this unfamiliar creature looking to swallow you but more like a comforting hug, the first one you ever receive from a new friend. Different, but not bad.

It's easier to breathe down here, sloshing through pools of standing water while he ignores the distant scuttling of whatever small creatures call this place home. Ambrose keeps one hand along the wall, tile slick beneath his palm, if only so that he doesn't get lost if anything splits apart. So far, though, it's been one long, unbroken tunnel—obviously he hasn't been moving very fast, making even slugs look impressive with his pace, but he wonders how long it can truly go on without an end.

For a while he tried to count his steps, and then each rail that his feet met when that failed. He lost track quickly, somewhere in the early hundreds.

It's been a while since then.

Ambrose knows this has to end eventually. They won't let him be lost in here forever. All he can do is put one foot in front of the other and not think about what he could be walking into; his mind is able to produce all sorts of terrifying, unwanted fantasies, each one worse than the last. Then again, what could he possibly imagine that's worse than what he's already been through? He swallows, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of pain that ripples through his throat, just like always.

He's going to be okay. Or at least he thinks so until he hears the faintest noise from far down the tunnel, so quiet Ambrose wonders if he's imagining it. He stops, water rippling away from his feet, each careful drip enough to make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

It's so quiet, but it's getting closer. Like something brushing against the wall or floor, a faint tremor running through the tiles beneath his palm.

The mutt…

It can't be. Not here, not now. He's lost in the darkness—Ambrose will hardly be able to see it coming. That doesn't stop him from pulling the rapier out just in case as he takes a few steps forward around the next bend, squinting into the never-ending blackness. There's a light up ahead, faint, stemming from the right side of the tunnel. Another platform, by the looks of it. It could be up there, he supposes, but what are the chances it's just lying in wait for him? Are they really that cruel?

Ambrose steps forward until the light from the platform's edge brushes against his feet, eyes scanning the booths and benches for signs of life. There's nothing there—he doesn't have to be any closer to know that. Should he go back, or risk the platform?

He can still hear it… whatever it even is. The rumble is growing stronger.

Further down the tunnel, a pinprick of light appears. He forces himself to stand straight; that's all he can do, right? Make himself stand up to it? There's nothing else left for him. As he watches, though, the circle of light grows bigger. The wall begins to shake under his hand, the rails beneath him shivering in the ground. It's not the mutt at all, is it? No, Ambrose knows exactly what it is.

It's possible he's never moved faster in his life.

Ambrose launches himself forward—it doesn't matter how badly he hurts as a result of it. In the distance the light continues to grow, the train it's attached to coming to life, growing in shape and size as it barrels closer. There's only one hope, and that's the platform. If Ambrose doesn't get there the train is going to blast him to smithereens like he was never there at all.

It seems so tall from down here, but that doesn't stop him from jumping higher than he ever has before, fingers scrabbling around the edge for a tight enough hold. His nails claw against the ttle, tearing open from every direction as he swings a leg up onto the platform. His throat scrapes against the edge as he throws himself over, panic igniting fiercely in his chest at the mere thought of it tearing back open—what outcome is worse? Bleeding out will be slow, sluggish. At least the train would end him so quickly he'd hardly have time to feel it.

Ambrose rolls across the tiled platform just as the front of the train blares into the station, wind slamming into him as if a hurricane has somehow made its way down the tunnel. He squeezes his eyes shut against the dust that's kicked up, beyond relieved when he feels a complete lack of fresh blood seeping through his bandages. It's all the old stuff, still, crusted over and stuck to his skin everywhere he feels.

He allows himself a few deep breaths, chest heaving as beside him the train begins to slow, almost ominously. The glare from the windows drifts past his peripherals, all of the seats strangely empty, not even a director to be found. Something squeals further down the tunnels as it comes to a halt, the breaks and engine and tracks all coming together to leave it lying just before him.

The doors nearest to him slide open with a welcoming ding, everything inside the car eerily pristine. Untouched from the hell that has overtaken everything else, it practically becomes him.

Ambrose has yet to get up—he's still lying there when two blasts shake even the platform beneath his back.

He breathes in once more before he realizes. The dots are connected. Two blasts. For a moment, he almost believed they came from beneath the ground, as everything seemed to.

The blasts… they were cannons.

Ambrose sits up slowly, hardly willing to believe his ears. Cannons but also music. That's what it could be if he was anywhere else.

Two cannons, like music. It's only him and two others left in here.

The train still has yet to move; in any other normal circumstance it would have been long gone by now. Ambrose knows what that means, even if the thought is terrifying. It leaves him with no other choice—it's waiting for him. It knows where to bring him.

He stands up, collecting the rapier once again, and steps up to the doors. The air inside is blissfully cool and he can't help but close his eyes as he steps inside. Hardly a second passes before the doors slide shut behind him, leaving him there to anchor himself to one of the seats before the train speeds off again. He doesn't know where it's bringing him, but it could be anywhere.

All Ambrose knows is that it's bringing him to the end.

Ilaria Landucci, 18
District Six Female

It happens so fast.

That sounds so stereotypical, doesn't it? Like everything hasn't happened so fast.

It's only the seventh day. She's been stuck here all of one week. It could feel like forever to some, but to Ilaria it feels like only the blink of an eye. For some reason she expects the last few rounds to be drawn out, each death dragged out to an unbearable length of time. It would be fitting after losing so many people in the frame of only a week.

That's why, when she hears the cannons, it doesn't seem real. She feels as if she's in a dream, floating through nothingness, suspended by things she cannot see. Ilaria knows a dream cannot be possible because it's too calm, too kind. When you're in hell you don't get a break.

She's already not far from the avenue when the two cannons erupt over the sky. A few mannequins are trailing along behind her as if caught on a string, led only by Ilaria's aimless feet. It's the only place left to go that isn't enclosed, and the only place at the end of all of this that seems right. They're going to end this where they started; that's what the plan has been all along, even if the fire has thrown a wrench in things. She truly believes that.

Ilaria tries her best not to let any hesitance show in her movements as she finds one of the many public entrances to the stands. There's no telling who's here already, if they're watching her or biding their time until something more promising shows itself. She stretches her injured arm out, bringing some of the minimal feeling back to it even as she keeps her sword drawn in the other hand.

Before she continues on her journey Ilaria stuffs her pack behind the bleachers, hidden too thoroughly for anyone to hide. All she takes is her sword and the few knives she has left, stuffing the elegantly curved fork and butter knife into her back pocket just in case. Silly, possibly, but she's not taking any chances. She can't—not when she's so close. She can't allow herself to slip up.

Besides the fire, everything is so quiet it's almost suspicious. Ilaria makes her way to the empty circle between the starting plates and turns until she's glanced everything over, unwilling to believe that she's alone.

But it appears she is.

Well, home advantage is good. This isn't her place anymore than it is the rest of them, but if she's the first to arrive she might as well station herself. She begins the long walk down the avenue, eyes never ahead for too long. Ilaria checks over her shoulder every other second, watching the dark shadows beneath the bleachers for signs of life. Only the mannequins begin to appear, more of them than what was following her all along. There are dozens of them, some scorched black from the fire, their clothes in tatters. She can't miss the way they're forming up as she approaches the stage.

It's only fitting that they're going to watch. They are the Capitol, after all.

This is their final audience, both here and far.

Though the mannequins have stopped, forming a loose half-circle some distance from the stage, Ilaria ascends the stairs, rolling back her shoulders to rid herself of the pain that spikes from the stab wound. They're all watching her, waiting.

So is she, really—all she can do is wait.

Up on the stage all Ilaria can manage to feel like is something she's not, the center of attention that she has been shying away from for some time now. Once upon a time she craved it. Enjoyed it, even. With so many eyes on her, fake as they may, Ilaria feels as if she can only be about to enter back into that territory once again. The spotlight will be shining on her whether she wants it or not.

She knows this isn't what they wanted from her—a blood-streaked, mess of a girl, hair askew with weapons in both hands.

But that's the version of Ilaria that they're getting.

She looks, but no one appears. All that's left to keep her company for the time being is the mannequins, curious as always, and the ever-encroaching fire. Ilaria takes a seat at the edge of the stage, allowing her legs to swing over the edge. This is the version of her she likes, she's decided. The one she can perhaps learn to be proud of, no matter how long it takes.

But for now, all she can do is wait.

And so she waits.

5th. Micah Rossier, District Eight Male.
4th. Inara Brea, District Five Female.

And so our finale arrives... who ya got?

A traditional three, as I'm aware, but that's the way it always lined up best in my head. That will be going up either next Tuesday or Wednesday in one last bid to let anyone who's not caught up get there in time for the finale. We made it, y'all. We're almost there.

Also yes, this one hurt like a bitch, you don't have to tell me that. I'm the one that's been sitting on it for over three months.

Until next time.