XLI: The Capitol - Training Center.
Callister Dechant, 18
District Six Male
It only takes them… well, if he's being honest, Cal has started to lose track of the days.
Still, it's too long. He's been awake and recovered for longer than just about anyone, really—in comparison to most of the others, Cal had little to recover from. Once they purged the drugs from his system it was simply about restarting his heart, and in the Capitol that was apparently as easy as pie.
There was nothing to sew up, no wounds to get rid of. Callister looked as unchanged as the day he entered that arena. He still had the same scars on his knuckles from the fight, the more recent ones that made the flesh there pink. When he looked in the mirror Cal saw the same thing he always had; that grizzled, world-weary fighter in the end that wanted more.
Here he was, with the same amount as before. Nothing to his name, really. They would send him back to Six, eventually, and he would have a favorable amount of money to have a comfortable life, but he hadn't gotten it himself. Not at all.
It was a hand-out. It was a way to appease the tributes they had brought back against their will, to keep them quiet. No one could complain if they sent them back to whatever they had before—their families or merely their own existence, with pockets full of cash and a dozen different pairs of eyes looking at them for the foreseeable future.
Cal, though… Cal could complain. There was no way Bryson paid him out for anything, not for coming twenty-second of all things. There would be no share in his father's company. All Cal could do was take the money the Capitol gave him like some sort of pathetic lap-dog, buy a nice place in the city close to better gyms, and live out the rest of his life. A life he still, at the end of the day, didn't care all that much about.
He hadn't cared whether he lived or died, really, but the manner in which he went still made his blood boil. He was a lot of things—motivated by greed and wanting something more than his miserly life, but he wasn't an underhanded traitor. Drugging someone and smothering them whilst already unconscious was at the very bottom of what Callister could call his own code.
Velcra did not deserve to draw breath. She was the worst of them all, and Cal wanted nothing more than to head down three floors and strangle the life from her. The difference between them was that she would see it coming—he had never been a ruler of subtleties, after all. She would see him coming and know, in the few seconds before his hands closed around her throat, that death was coming for her. That he had arrived.
Finally he had a purpose, and no one would let him fulfill it. They were watching where he went too closely.
Nothing would deter them from stopping him.
Cal saw fit to do the only thing they would allow them, even if it took many days of begging. When one of the Peacekeepers finally sees fit to escort him back to the Training Center, something like relief floods his veins. It's not the feeling that most people would hold close upon returning to their untimely place of death, but it's different this time. That was a replica—this is still the real thing. Down there is still a place Cal belongs.
He knows the answer even before he approaches her door, unsurprised when Ilaria refuses his invitation to come along. They haven't spoken much these past few days, not that either of them spoke a great deal before all of this. The shock that plagued her out on that stage is still clinging onto her weary frame like a parasite, and nothing he can do will get rid of it for her. Callister can't imagine how he would have reacted; surely not as emotionally or in such shock, but there's no way anyone could react appropriately to such an event. Is there any appropriate reaction out there?
She thought she won. Ilaria saw his body, saw so many dead at the behest of the control room, and yet here she is surrounded by them all again.
He'll ask her again another day once she starts showing her face some more. But he won't push.
There are some people made for that, and she is not one of them.
Though he's eager to head downstairs and finally release some of that pent-up energy, Cal steps into the elevator with that lone Peacekeeper and heads up, first, ignoring the perplexed look they send his way. He doesn't owe them an explanation, and wouldn't offer one even if they asked. Cal is still no one's but his own, and that won't change just because some doctors and others downstairs in the mental factory saw fit to resurrect him.
They gave him his life. Cal plans on taking it and running.
Now, though, the elevator doors open to reveal a blissfully empty twelfth floor—empty, at least, save for the sour-faced girl smack dab in the middle of the couch. Watching one of the recaps, Cal distantly realizes. It's as if she likes torturing herself. Licia is so absorbed in watching whichever one she's chosen that she doesn't notice him until he raps his knuckles against the wall, causing her to jump.
Cal pretends he doesn't see it, for her sake.
"Let's go," he orders. "Turn that off."
"Where?"
"Training Center."
Licia's eyes narrow. "Why?"
"I don't know, to have a fucking picnic," he deadpans. "Why do you think?"
Licia mutters something under her breath as she gets to her feet, fishing about for the remote. Cal's quite certain he hears the word jackass tossed around in there at least twice. Apparently she's not so subtle either.
Admittedly, though, Licia has been a little bit of sanity for him. In the days where Ilaria had either been left, still, in that arena, or holed up in her room, when he was dealing with a premature death at the hands of someone who didn't have the right, she was there. Like an irritating little sibling, almost, even if Cal didn't quite know what those words meant. It was certainly what he imagined being a big brother was like, even if he had nothing to compare it to.
They both died earlier than they know they should have. They both died at the hands of people who shouldn't have gotten the chance, in one way or another.
And they both know it, too.
"How'd you convince them?" Licia asks, kicking around a number of shoes not far from the kitchen until she finds a pair that will do, shuffling over to him.
"Enough asking and they cave to anything."
"Duly noted." She hums, taking a step into the elevator before Cal has even made his way back inside.
For the most part on the way down, it's silent. They don't talk much either, Cal realizes, though he's never cared. Silence has always been the lesser of two evils no matter how much trouble it can get you in. Sometimes they talk about their rather… unfortunate ends, you could say. Others they just sit in silence and watch the blood splatter over the projection screen.
"Thanks for coming to get me," Licia says. Her eyes are focused out the window as the elevator speeds down, intentional. She doesn't want to look him in the eye and admit gratefulness.
And Cal can respect that.
"Of course," he answers. Ilaria or no Ilaria, he always would have come to get her. Someone who can appreciate the same things as him deserves that much.
Right now, it appears that Licia is damn close to all that he has—not that Cal has ever had anything before, really. But like he said, he's avaricious. Just because he's never had anything doesn't mean he doesn't want it.
And having Licia is not such a bad thing, really.
Ren Mantau, 16
District Nine Male
He doesn't know where the girls have wandered off to today.
They do that, sometimes. Ren never asks where they go or what they get up to, not even what they talk about. It's not his business, really. Besides, if he thinks about it for too long it starts to get to him. His chest starts to ache from the familiarity.
He could be acquaintances with everyone in Nine that he liked, but no one ever chose him for permanence.
Marigold wouldn't do that to him. Even Penny, he thinks, isn't keen to leave him in the dust at this point. But does Mazzen only talk to him because he has no one else, or does he find that keeping Ren's company is actually worth it? So many questions, and it strikes Ren all at once that he has all the time in the world to get them answered.
He's alive after accepting his own death, after asking for it. He has a chance at a better future.
No one's around for him to better it, though. Rooke kept him company through breakfast like he always does, but Marigold was long gone by then. Mazzen hasn't come looking for him either, and Ren isn't the type to bug him. That's how he's always been—useful to a point. Useful until he realizes that no one really wants him for him.
He has to shake that thought, though, and he has to do it fast. They brought him back for a reason. They wanted him back.
Ren can't let that be for nothing.
So he wanders, too. It's not inherently bad to be alone for some time too—Ren actually thinks it might be good for him at this point to clear his head and deal with his own problems for at least a few minutes. Besides, he never got to explore this place beforehand, too preoccupied with relationships or his lack thereof with the Games rapidly approaching. The more he discovers, the better stories he'll have to tell his sister when he returns home. Brie, if no one else, will love to hear about these things.
He should have known it was inevitable. An elevator up, an elevator down, not so many places to go in-between and Peacekeepers at every corner, watching him like a hawk. It doesn't matter that there are cameras at even intervals throughout the ceiling because they're all around him, ever-present, like something is about to go wrong.
Nothing does go wrong until the elevator doors open and reveals the last person he was prepared to see today.
Ren feels himself stiffen, though at the same time his legs quake, knees practically knocking together. Not that there's anything to be scared of, really. It's not like Rex killed him, no, it was the other way around. It makes more sense now that there's information to explain it, but that hasn't eased Ren's guilt. In fact, it eats away at him now more than ever as he takes in the variety of emotions written all across Rex's face.
Anger. Fear. Worry. It's all too much for the face of a thirteen year old boy—Ren wishes he could make it all go away.
He can't even move though. Ren is frozen outside the elevator, so close to getting in, and Rex is refusing to come out. It doesn't matter where either of them were headed before this very moment. Now that they're staring each other in the face it's like he has tunnel vision, everything else around him blacked out. Some people would consider that a good thing.
Ren isn't so grateful.
"Rex," he says quietly, cautiously. "Can I—"
"Don't come near me."
"Rex," he tries again, holding out his hands in a placating manner. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"You weren't going to hurt me last time either, were you?" Rex fires back. "Look how that ended up."
The guilt is like a wave and Ren can't swim, never could. He's going to drown in it, his lungs screaming for air, his lips pressed tight. They'll still give in eventually. They'll let the water in when he has no other choice. He takes a half-step forward, hesitant, and Rex snaps to full attention. The Peacekeeper by his side holds out a hand, too. A warning.
"Kid, maybe you shouldn't."
"Just let me talk to him," Ren pleads. "I want to—"
"It doesn't matter what you fucking want," Rex snaps. "Get the hell away from me or I'll… I'll—"
He trails off. Confusion fills his eyes. Rex clearly doesn't know what he could do in this situation; with a Peacekeeper right next to him and half a dozen cameras watching their every move, this is a far cry from the arena. He wouldn't even get a single punch in before someone was there to intervene, and there's certainly nothing nearby that qualifies as a weapon.
But that doesn't stop the confusion from turning into rage, as if Rex knows just how futile the situation is. That doesn't stop him from stepping forward, halfway lunging; the Peacekeeper suddenly has an arm wrapped around him like he's nothing more than a troublesome pup, slamming down on a random button with their free arm. That's the last Ren sees of them as the doors go sliding shut, giving him freedom once again.
Freedom is nothing, though, when he can feel his eyes rapidly filling with tears. He never meant for any of this to happen. He never would have struck out at Rex in the first place if he knew what the outcome would be, and still Rex hates him. Had someone not been there with them just then, Ren is certain he'd be laid out on the ground right now, the victim of a particularly ruthless thirteen year old raining down punches on him no matter what effect it had.
The elevator isn't coming back anytime soon. Ren backs up to the nearest wall lest anyone else try to appear out of virtually nowhere. Though he squeezes his eyes shut a few stray tears escape, leaking stubbornly from the corners of his eyes. No doubt the cameras are watching that, the security team behind them observing yet another child break without interfering.
Ren just wants to get out of here. He wants to get on that train with Marigold and with Penny too, if she wants to join them. He wants his sister and his parents and his life back, even if it wasn't the most picturesque.
Ren can fix those parts of his life, you see.
But he doesn't think he can fix this.
Inara Brea, 16
District Five Female
Inara does her best to ignore the commotion as one of the Peacekeeper's brings Rex upstairs, kicking and thrashing.
She knows what Hosea is off doing even if she's trying not to think about; all Inara can do whilst she's alone is try and distract herself. Even some offbeat Capitolite reality television show isn't enough to keep her attention when everyone disappears from the room, Soran and Icarus after them to find out what the hell is going on now.
Inara can hazard a guess—Rex is a tornado that never quite touches down, always forming and spinning in the sky, a second away from damage. No one knows where it will hit, only the stark inevitably of it. There's loud conversation from the other room, but that, at least, Inara is used to turning out. The cacophony that constantly spiraled around the orphanage was deafening most days, and she wouldn't have kept her sanity this long if she hadn't learned to ignore it.
If she is still sane, that is. She's not so sure on that front, and perhaps that's why she's avoiding Micah like the plague even while Hosea goes off on his own mission.
She will deal with it. Just not right now.
When Soran and Icarus return they're in no hurry to disturb her, taking between themselves while the shouting from the other room gradually eases off. Inara peers over the back of the couch, but there's no sign of Rex or the Peacekeeper. It appears someone has been put in a supervised timeout, at least for a little while.
"What happened?" she asks, turning her attention back to the real interest at hand, though she muted the television long ago.
Soran throws himself down in the armchair adjacent to her while Icarus perches on the arm to her left, both giving her more than enough room. At least they're courteous, she'll give them that.
"He saw Nine," Soran says, with no other explanation. "You can probably guess how that went."
"I'll give it a shot," Inara says, leaning back into the couch cushions. It's not like she has anything better to do. "He went nuts on him?"
"Tried to. If our friend in there hadn't been sticking close, he definitely would have decked him."
Inara can think of a number of people, herself included, that deserve to be decked more than Ren Mantau. Murder aside, he's beyond remorseful, judging by his instantaneous reaction to Rex's sudden death. Most people weren't so lucky. She wouldn't be surprised even for a second if Oriol tried it with her, one day, and Inara knows it would be warranted.
In fact, she would probably let him. She owes him that, at least.
"Good thing he's under supervision," Inara hums. It's quite funny, though, that no one's watching her. As manic as Rex is, he has no blood on his hands, whereas she killed two people and kept moving, kept running. You'd think the murderers would warrant a more careful watch than the ones that are trying to remain as innocent as the day they arrived.
"We're all in agreement there," Icarus says, and she nods. Harsh as it may be, she's grateful she doesn't have to deal with Rex.
Inara has enough to think about.
"No one's comfortable sending him home in this state," Soran explains. "We've tried contacting his father—not the most welcoming fellow, that one. Sounds like an asshole if you ask me."
"Why do you want to talk to him?"
"I don't," Soran says firmly. "But someone has to. We can't just send him back to Five and let life go on. He needs… support, or something. Fuck if know."
Inara snorts. She thinks Icarus does too, but he just hides it better. They really don't know what they're doing here, not any of them. It's welcome to know that she isn't alone in that department—they're not that much older than her, after all. All of them are just trying to figure things out and failing over and over again until something works.
Still, she wants to go home. She wants to take whatever the Capitol gives her, grab her kids, and get the hell away from the Sisters.
It has to happen soon.
Somehow, it's like Soran knows what she's thinking about. "He's not the only person we tried getting in contact with."
She blinks. "What?"
"Well, the witches who call themselves heads of the orphanage weren't so forthcoming either, but someone got sent in to check. I can't give you much, but I can tell you all of those kids you mentioned in your interview are still kicking."
As much as she hates it, Inara feels a lump form in her throat. They sent someone to check. They did that for her because she noted their importance. As much as the mere thought of them makes her chest ache it makes her remember that this was all worth it—the killing, the dying, and everything in-between. She's still going back to them after all of this.
Life will never be normal again, but they can form something better. It was all Inara wanted but would never breathe aloud for fear of having it ripped away.
No one can stop her now. Not the sisters, the encroaching darkness that came from the Games, or even the end of the world itself.
"You didn't have to do that," is all Inara says. A simple thank-you would have sufficed, but she fears getting more emotional than she already is.
Beside her, Icarus shrugs. "Was easy. Don't worry about it."
"Besides, aren't you technically our responsibility now?" Soran asks her. "That means we're supposed to look out for you."
"And what a terrifying thought that is," Icarus grumbles, still managing it even through Soran's responding grin. Inara finds herself smiling too. None of them were meant for the roles they're in now, but they're finding ways to fill them.
It's ugly. It's messy. It's as imperfect as it could possibly get.
But Inara is going home to her kids, and that's all she really cares about.
Oriol Heliodor, 15
District Twelve Male
As nice as the terrace is, he's starting to get sick of it.
Oriol knows why, too—it's because he's alone. That's not something he's used to no matter where he is, back in Twelve or in the Capitol or even in the arena. He hadn't been alone then either, not until those last few seconds. At least it was so dark then that he couldn't make sense of anything going on around him.
The fear, too, had kept him from registering just how long it was. Not that Oriol had much time for fear, really. The amount of time between being pushed over the edge in the first place and hitting the elevator far down below hadn't been very long at all.
Sometimes his stomach still plummets out of nowhere, as if he's falling all over again. Being on the terrace doesn't fix that—in fact, it almost makes it worse. Granted he would have to clamber over the glass divide between the terrace and the freefall below all without anyone noticing, but he would garner himself the same end result. Broken into a thousand pieces on whatever was below him.
He doesn't walk around much up here. He's taken to laying down recently, basking in the sun until his skin begins to burn. Sometimes Licia joins him in silence, but usually not. Today is one of those days.
He hates the sickening quietude that comes from being alone more than he thought he could hate anything.
That says a lot considering the demise he met.
When he hears the door open up behind him Oriol tenses all over, going rigid even in his prone position. It's not Licia, that much is clear. She's far too quiet to be the owner of the heavy footfalls that approach and then stop some ways away, almost hesitant despite their intensity. Oriol has heard those very footsteps before. He knows who it is.
He hears Hosea take a deep, almost apprehensive breath before he speaks. "Peace offering?"
Oriol rolls his head back. The angle is bad upside-down, but he recognizes the carefully guarded expression on Hosea's face and, more quickly, the bottle of liquor in his hands.
He fixes his gaze back on the sky. "What is that? More whiskey?"
"Rum, actually. Couldn't find any."
"Couldn't find a flask either?"
"I think they're hidin' them from me, you know, bad past experiences and all that. What they didn't account for is—"
"The fact that you're totally shameless and will take a full bottle anyway, even if they were watching?" Oriol guesses, an amused smile fighting its way onto his face. Considering Hosea smuggled a flask into the arena, somehow, he doesn't know how anyone could possibly put this past him. If they even tried to stop him, that is.
Hosea's feet shuffle over the ground. It's so unlike him to be nervous.
"Mind if I sit?"
Oriol shrugs. "Sure," he says, keeping his voice even. He's not afraid of Hosea, or anything, but if this is as awkward as he expects it to be nothing good is going to come of it. Even Oriol's carefully crafted words can't save them from the inevitable disaster that is sure to arrive any minute now. He doesn't even allow himself to look over at Hosea too long as the older boy sits down beside him, knees pulled up, the full bottle cradled between his hands. He hears him take a large swig, though, and is unsurprised when suddenly the bottle is dangling over-top of him.
"Remember training?" he asks. "I drank half the flask before you found out and then you wouldn't let me have any for the rest of the day."
"Times have changed."
"So they have."
He waits a moment. Letting Hosea squirm isn't necessarily a bad thing. Finally Oriol pushes himself up and takes the offered bottle, trying not to wince as the smallest of swigs burns a path down his throat. Not a good look on anyone, he reckons.
Oriol rolls the bottle between his hands instead of handing it back, wincing slightly. "I think we could all use a drink, after…"
"After all of this shit?" Hosea finishes. "You're telling me, buddy."
Hosea died too, he reminds himself, and far more brutally than Oriol did. He didn't even feel anything. One second he was falling and the next he was gone. On the other hand Hosea laid in a burning forest, alone until his last few seconds, while he bled and feared and wondered if this was really it. No matter what happened, Oriol wouldn't have wished that on anyone.
Not Hosea, at least.
"I'm sorry," Hosea offers finally. He knew it was coming, but it still makes him look over. Though his eyes are fixed forward he reaches across without looking to snag the bottle back, taking another large gulp without so much as flinching. Liquid courage, and all that. "If I had known what she was about to do…"
"Would you have stopped her?"
"I don't know what I would have done," Hosea admits quietly. "I really don't fucking know."
It stings. It stings in exactly the way Oriol would have expected it to. In a way, though, the honesty is appreciated, though it makes him feel all the more worse about himself. Hosea is baring nothing but the honest truth, here, to a person he knows damn well is a virtual pathological liar.
Oriol's never admitted it before, he realizes. Not aloud.
Not even to himself, really.
"I'm sorry, too," he says quickly.
"For what?"
"You know what." Oriol swallows, wishing he could tear the bottle back. "The lying. For not trusting you, for not trusting anything. I wasn't a good ally. Or a friend, for that matter."
Hosea takes another sip but this one is smaller, more controlled. "And I was?"
Oriol can't help the slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles its way out of his throat. They really weren't, were they? Being close with him seemed so easy early on, but as the trust fragmented and Oriol's insecurities rose up like some sort of vengeful demon, it all began to fall apart. And then Hosea opened up that elevator door, prying apart Oriol's ending without even knowing…
They both messed everything up.
"I think we should admit that we both could have done things better," Oriol says. "Does that work for you?"
"I'll cheers to that, if nothing else."
Oriol watches another swig go down his throat—so much of it is gone, already, and he's not even phased. It was obvious from the get-go that his tolerance was through the roof, but witnessing it whilst sober is almost frightening.
Maybe Hosea can teach him a thing or two about that.
For now he takes another sip when Hosea offers the bottle back. This time, he lets himself wince. It feels like exposing himself, too much laid bare. Too much honesty in one little movement, really, but that's what he has to do now. He has to be better.
They all do.
Veles Altobelli, 18
District Seven Male
God, he cannot wait to be rid of this fucking hellhole.
As grand as it may be, the Capitol still has nothing on his own—not the grandness of it, the history. He needs to get back to it as soon as possible.
It's not just his aesthete desire that drives him to wanting to return home. At the end of the day, Veles knows his purpose. He knows his place. Already he's lost too much time withering away here while his family, no doubt, has been moving along without him. No doubt one of his siblings is trying to take away what's rightfully his when he's too far away to do anything otherwise.
He died. There's no worming his way out of that one. Still, though, Veles is back now and it only makes him want to fight harder for what his father surely has to give him.
For fuck's sake, he literally died for it. That has to mean something, right?
Veles knows he's seething. Everyone walks around him as if the floor is made of eggshells—Lex takes a wide berth around him, and Tanis doesn't comment on his attitude much unless she's in a particular mood. She's here today, though, and he knows she's watching him as he stares at the blackness of the projector's screen, unable to focus on anything else. They all look so worried to be around him.
There's a reason for it—Veles just hasn't figured out what that reason is. It's not like he went berserk on someone with a chainsaw.
When Tanis sits down on the coffee table in front of him, blocking his current staring path, he glares. The second he tries to rise to his feet she pushes a hand to his knee and forces him back down. Veles knows he's strong enough to break her grip, to turn in the opposite direction, but something in him stops. Whatever that something is, he doesn't like it one bit.
"What?" he asks, letting the irritation leak into his voice.
"We need to have a talk."
"If it's about the fucking therapist, I already told you I'm not—"
"It's not about her. Though, realistically, she would be telling you this instead of me if you would just agree to talk to her. Evidently that's not happening, though."
"What are you talking about?"
Tanis scrubs a hand over her face, looking exasperated. "I am so not equipped for this."
"What?"
Tanis looks… concerned, all of a sudden. Not an expression he would associate with her normally. Veles thinks dealing with the two of them had beat most of the concern out of her body a long time ago; she knew it was better to let them handle things themselves instead of intervening. But here she was, doing it anyway. For once, Veles doesn't speak. Though he wants to take her by the shoulders and shake her until she says something, he forces his hands to remain in his lap.
"Something happened back home, while you were in the arena."
"What?"
"Your father, he…"
Somehow, all at once, the air gets sucked out of the room. It's something he's never quite experienced before, his lungs so empty that he struggles to get a breath in. Even dying didn't feel quite the same way.
"He what?" Veles asks, and his voice is far quieter than he would like it to be. Almost small.
"He passed away. From what I can tell there was no autopsy report—it was a suspected heart attack. Your brother said he had been dealing with heart problems for some time…"
Whatever she says next is lost to him. There's a faint ringing in his ears, growing louder and louder. It's all he can hear. Anyone else, he knows, would feel grief crush them immediately if the shock hadn't come in first. They would cry. Scream, even. They wouldn't just sit here blank-faced, an iron-clad grip around their lungs.
Veles does not feel grief. He feels… he feels terror.
"If he's dead," Veles manages. "His will…"
"At the time of his passing all of his assets were left to your sister. Verbena."
No.
Veles wants to throw up. He wants to hit something, and even Tanis would be an option if he wouldn't face repercussions for it. His sister, Verbena… she has it all. The house and the company and the fortune, everything that made their family name what it was. While Veles was off risking his life to prove a point, maybe even while he was dying, his sister was whisking away what was rightfully his.
He laughs, almost bitterly. "You're fucking lying, right?"
"I'm not."
"You have to be lying," Veles says again. "There's no way, that's not—not fucking Verbena, she doesn't deserve it."
"You can say it all you like, but copies were made. Plans. It's all been signed over to her."
If he doesn't throw up, he may very well pass out instead. Veles is halfway convinced that he would black out if he tried to get to his feet at this very moment. Just because Tanis says it doesn't make it the truth. She doesn't know anything. Not him or his family or what his father was going to do. She's making it all up.
And even if she isn't, it doesn't matter. Veles is going back home soon. He's going to tear the house keys out of Verbena's hands, tear every single copy of the will to shreds. He'll make Iva help him and he'll burn the place to the fucking ground if someone doesn't give it to him, the house and the company and Verbena too, if she doesn't comply.
It will all go down in flames if Veles doesn't get what he came out here for. He's going back home.
He's taking back what's his.
Milo Poliadas, 18
District Two Male
They might as well have put him in a straight-jacket, locked him in a white padded room.
His own room isn't all that far off.
He knows there's a Peacekeeper stationed outside the door though he hasn't seen them for far too long. Milo hasn't talked to a soul since Micah yesterday, sad as that may be. He returned to their floor and he's been in his room since, waiting for someone to drop meals outside of his room. No one comes to disturb him. No one comes for a simple little chat.
Milo doesn't blame them. They're giving him space, or something like that, to process what's happened. He rubs absentmindedly at his forearms where the tubes came free, though he hardly even has scars to show for it already. Being in his room isn't doing him any good, he doesn't think, but his desire to be out there interacting with everyone is even less. Either he has to pretend like everything is normal, or they're going to get to talking about things.
He can't do either.
Like clockwork, there's a knock on his door just after six. Milo pulls himself off the floor next to the bed, legs creaking in protest. His dinner will be waiting outside. The Peacekeeper will have backed off enough to allow its delivery, and as soon as Milo retrieves it they'll come back to their station. Just like always.
He waits, as is typical, to make sure the delivery person of the night has left, and then opens the door.
Except they haven't gone at all, and Milo comes face to face with the one and only Donatella Fontes.
She slams a hand against the door before he can shut it in her face. "Can I come in?"
Of course she's got his dinner in her other hand, too, holding it hostage. Milo is not a fan of the idea of starving alone in his bedroom, though they wouldn't let that happen. Someone would sooner put him back in a hospital bed and force-feed him through a tube.
Donatella's gaze is even, almost vacant. Over her shoulder the Peacekeeper looks on warily, waiting for the explosion.
None comes.
Milo doesn't trust his voice; he steps back, only, making enough room for her to slide in. He's more than surprised when she shuts the door behind her and then goes so far as to lock it, severing her connection from the outside world. If he were to attack her right now, she would be relying on someone to break down the door and help her out. It's not like the arena now, though—she knows what he's capable of. What he already did.
She won't let it happen a second time.
He yanks the plate free from her hands and sits down in the same spot, the carpet still slightly warm. She hovers over him, unflinching as he rolls the fork back and forth in his palm. His cheek burns with the memory, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
"What do you want?" he asks, eyes fixed on the plate and nothing else.
Donatella sits down beside him, up against the bed. Here he is, side-by-side with his first kill. Their shoulders are practically brushing.
"I don't hate you," she says finally, once he's shoved a few bites into his mouth. Eating is the only thing that makes him feel human right now; otherwise he feels about ready to crack again, not that he should tell her that. She might just leave if she suspected that he would hurt her again.
He doesn't want her to leave. What the fuck is wrong with him?
Milo swallows, though it feels as if something is caught in his throat. "You're the only one."
"That's not true."
"The Peacekeeper told us you talked to Eight yesterday. Clearly he doesn't hate you."
"Eight," he starts, unwilling to say his name. It's too personal, too connected. He can't deal with that right now. "Is, I suspect, making me his fucking pet project. Like he can save me, or something."
They've already gotten through more words than he would have guessed without going for each other's throats, so that's something. Donatella leans back against the bed, trying to look relaxed. He knows her guard is still up; it always will be. That's something laid intrinsically in her the same way mania is to him, no matter what else happens.
"Have you ever considered that you're worth saving?" she asks quietly, sounding more like the Tella he halfway knew than ever before. Milo nearly scoffs, busying himself with pushing food around the plate like that's going to solve any of his problems.
Typically when you face evil, you banish it. That's what they should do to him. Disposing of him is the best thing anyone could do right now. He's wrong, splintered apart somehow—he doesn't like it, but it's the truth. If there's anyone out there that could possibly patch him together, Milo isn't sure he's met them. Probably never will, at this rate.
"Why did you kill me?" she wonders, and he starts. "Can you give me a straight answer?"
"I…"
"You were scared, weren't you? Scared and unsure of what was going to happen and I don't doubt that the fire helped, anyway. You trusted me and you began to suspect you shouldn't have."
His hands begin to tremble, almost imperceptibly. A part of him hates her—well and truly hates her. How does she know? There's no use in letting anyone know just how much fear his body held in that moment. The only thing that diminished that fear was holding her underwater until she ceased to exist. Everything he put his trust in had to go—that was the only way to solve the problem.
She never would have hurt him. Maybe if they were the last two left, but even then… even then he's not so sure. When he had his sisters to go back to and she had practically nothing, what use was there in living?
"People are going to call you a monster," Tella says. "There's no avoiding it. But you don't have to prove them right."
"I already did."
"That was the Games. We've got our whole lives ahead of us, now. So prove them wrong."
Is that even possible? She's the only person outside of Micah who's even attempted anything. Neither of them have looked at him with any fear in their eyes, not outside of the arena. They know he can do nothing to them now, or maybe they never thought it was warranted in the first place. Tella's right, is she not? He was scared. He snapped.
And he doesn't want it to happen again.
An apology doesn't force its way out of his throat, and for that he's grateful. That feels too close to him crumbling. She has to know, right? She knows that he hates this as much as the rest of them, that it was never supposed to get this fucking ugly.
Everything around him continues to burn down. It's just inevitable.
Out of nowhere Donatella pushes away from the bed, swiveling to face him. "Let's start over," she offers, holding out a hand. "Donatella Fontes. Nice to meet you.
He glares. "I'm not shaking your fucking hand."
"Figured." She settles back down, letting the hush fall over them once again, but not before she knocks her knuckles gently into his shoulder. Milo doesn't jolt. She doesn't shy away. He forces another mouthful of food down his throat before he can think too deeply about it.
Milo can't help but wonder about an implosion, still. Not everyone is her. She betrayed him and he betrayed her back—they're about even, now. That doesn't change what he did to Hale and Casi, what he made everyone else watch.
Those things aren't so easily fixed.
It takes longer than he expected for a fist to bang against the door from the hall, heralding Blair's obnoxiously loud voice. "You two better not both be dead in there!"
"We are!" Milo yells back. Donatella offers an eye roll at that, but she makes no move to unlock the door either. For the time being this is fine the way it is, and nothing has to interrupt it unless they let it. He listens to Blair sigh on the opposite side of the door and finds that he too has relaxed somewhat, even if it's not all the way. That's good enough for now.
"Well, I'm sorry to interrupt your second deaths but you might want to get up."
"Why?" Donatella wonders.
There's a pause. Far too loaded for his liking. "She's awake."
Tella doesn't gasp like some people would—her eyes widen, more emotion rippling across her face than he thinks he's possibly ever seen from her. Milo wastes no time, now, in grabbing her arm and doing his part to shove her to her feet from his awkward position on the floor. She obliges quickly, but not quite fast enough for him to miss the nervous shake that's overtaken her body.
She looks down at him. "Go," Milo insists. "I'll… I'll be here."
She smiles. It's real. Not like that terrifying smirk when she had dropped her truth bomb on him, but small. Almost soft. There's a real girl under all of the mess she got herself tangled in.
When she goes, Milo doesn't find himself worrying too much. Casi is awake—someone she cares about, someone who Milo so easily ripped away from this earth. For a while, by the sounds of it, they didn't know if she would wake up at all. Though it only serves to terrify him further, it's a good thing. It has to be, right?
Milo certainly hopes so.
Sorry for the delay. Had a long week and gave myself a slight break from editing for once. Regardless, I hope the kids are (mostly) to your liking.
Until next time.