XLIII: The Capitol - Training Center.
Ambrose Clarion, 16
District One Male
Making his way downstairs is not an easy task.
Frankly it's not something he would assign to anyone, not even if they were his worst enemy. Not even if they were the person who rained damage on his throat in the first place. Nobody out there deserves to have something like this torn away from them.
He thought when Dimara vowed to join him that he would breathe easier. He thought that when Oksana tagged along at the last minute that he would feel less terror, but that only seems to make it worse. Before yesterday Ambrose couldn't remember the last time he had broken down in such a way, if you didn't count the arena. That amount of vulnerability wasn't something that got you anywhere, and it had been seen by people who already saw him so much, who wanted to watch him grow. Instead he had only fallen apart even further.
Ambrose knew that Oksana didn't care—neither did Micah, he knew, but it was the weakness that stung. It was never a good thing to bottle up your emotions either, but Ambrose usually had other ways to express them. Healthier ways. They could transfer into a few artfully written lyrics or the chords of his guitar as he played on the street. In a way, everything he felt could make other people happy.
All he had seen in Oksana's eyes yesterday was a form of misery. Pity, even. She felt bad for him.
That was almost worse than hardly having a voice in the first place.
There's no shedding that now, though—the only way to get rid of it is to hope the doctor has some good news. As they make their way through the ward, just as awfully sterile as he remembers it, he knows that everyone is looking at him the same way. They don't even know him, never will, and yet they hold onto their pity like it's all they have.
He's not sure what he would rather deal with; waiting, or returning to the hall to wander while they wait for the doctor. Sitting on the edge of the bed while he swings his legs back and forth feels aimless. Childless, even. Dimara and Oksana talk quietly to his left but Ambrose hardly hears it, focusing only on the footsteps that drift unseen past the curtain. Sooner or later, one of them will come for him.
When he finally arrives, their silence is noticeable. Dr. Crawford, as he introduces himself, looks so District that Ambrose can't help but wonder if he is, an almost welcome intruder into one of the Capitol's coldest wards. His hair graying, skin weathered by the sun and dotted with blemishes. His eyes are kind, though.
Kindness is good when you have so many memories of the opposite.
Ambrose has done his best not to think about what's going to happen, letting Dr. Crawford pull away the bandages they insist on keeping around his throat. He knows it's healed even if it sometimes feels otherwise, like his head is about to pull free from his neck. He can feel his nerve endings alight with terror as his searching, fingers brushing against the scar.
He doesn't move, but his eyes flicker to the side. Oksana has a scar on her neck too, but it's longer. Thinner. Cleaner. Even a knife was better than whatever the hell Ambrose got.
"It's healed quite nicely," Crawford says. Part of Ambrose wants to see, though he's not sure he's prepared for the stark gruesomeness of it. "And I assume you've been resting? Taking it easy?"
Ambrose nods when he pulls away, still feeling not unlike a mute. Is this what the Avoxes dealt with, having to respond to things inefficiently, no words at their disposal? Ambrose feels almost useless.
But he knows it's coming when he sits up once again. There are no new bandages placed around his neck—he doesn't need them anymore. It's time to face the world head-on as he looks now. One day, when he's ready, they'll get rid of this scar if that's what he wants. First he has to work up the courage to look in a mirror, first. Maybe later.
"Let me hear it, then," Crawford says, and Ambrose swallows. At least it doesn't hurt to do so anymore.
"What do you want me to say?" he asks, trying to ignore the sandpaper-like sound of his own voice. Crawford smiles, something wry in it. As if there's humor to be found in this situation. If there is, Ambrose has missed it thus far.
"Well, to me it sounds like there's been some improvement—"
"Really?" he interrupts. At least he doesn't sound hopeful; there's not much he does sound like these days that doesn't somehow correlate with pain. Besides, Ambrose has trouble believing it at face value. Even Dimara doesn't look convinced, eyes narrowed. The few times he's spoken in the past have all sounded the same, at least to him. No one has made a single comment about him improving until this doctor he doesn't even know.
Surely there's no reason for him to lie… right?"
"Really," Crawford agrees. "Don't let that fool you, though—there's still a lot of work to be done. It will be a slow-going process, but there is some chance your voice could return to something resembling normalcy if you give it time. There's also surgery we could do at a later date, as I'm told you've been informed about, but I wouldn't jump to that conclusion just yet. We'll keep an eye on it and check in again a few days from now."
It's not a guarantee. That's all Ambrose can keep telling himself. He can't start thinking too optimistically and delude himself into thinking this will all magically fix itself over-night. If he ever gets back to normal—and that's a big if, it won't be anytime soon. He probably won't ever have the same voice again even if it does improve.
He so desperately wants to believe it. Before all of this, Ambrose feels like he would have without a doubt.
Ambrose nods. "Thank-you."
"No need to thank me. I'll see you again at the end of the week."
When Ambrose finally slips off the edge of the bed his hand drifts to his throat, almost afraid to feel what's there. At least he knows without a doubt that it's closed, no blood or torn skin to be found. The scar that presses back against his fingertips is jagged and thick. He only wishes his shirt collar was higher so that he could better hide it.
"It's not as bad as you think," Oksana says softly. "I promise."
And there's no reason for her to lie to him either. She's the girl who held him while he sobbed and never said a word about it after. She hasn't looked at him any differently for it either. He has her, at least, and Dimara, who pats him on the back and ushers him out of the little examination room with a low whistle.
"Well, there's hope yet," she says. Ambrose can nod no longer; he knows his silence isn't an answer, but he hopes it's enough.
At this point, everything for him just has to be enough.
Hosea Valdez, 18
District Ten Male
Being an early riser has always been difficult for him.
Today, there's something different. He actually has a mission, strange as that sounds. He's spent so much time with Inara—some would say too much time, though he doesn't have it in him to regret it. Now Ori is taking up time too while they try to patch old wounds if he's not trying to wrangle Lisse, though it seems she found her way back to her friends given enough time.
It's early, yes, but Hosea is alone for once. That gives him the perfect opportunity to find what is, in all technicality, the last missing piece of the puzzle.
When he goes to find Micah he knows in the very least that it won't be as painful as approaching Oriol was. Sure that worked out for the best, but that doesn't mean it was easy. Hosea has never been a person that hesitates, always throwing himself into things with a unique gusto, but this is different. Uncharted territory, if you will. No one can tell him how to operate now.
Luckily for him, there's no wild goose chase. Finding Ori had been hard enough, having to go through Nadir upstairs and then Licia downstairs before he finally made his way to the terrace.
Hosea doesn't regret it one bit, though.
He sees the both of them the second the elevator doors slide open—Penny's head swivels around, quite comically, and locks eyes with him before his feet have even made contact with the carpet. Micah was about to look back at him, he thinks, but Penny's sharp elbow directly to his ribs spurs him into further action.
"Well, I won't gawk," Penny says, leaping to her feet. "I'll be upstairs if you need me."
She trots past him and shoves her arm in the half-closed elevator without flinching, apparently uncaring if it crushed every bone in her forearm. She offers him a wave before she goes, looking so unperturbed by his presence that he wonders why he hasn't come down here sooner.
Hosea truly doesn't know.
When he turns back Micah is on his feet, now, still some ways away. "Hey," he says, rounding the couch so that they're properly facing one another. Hosea isn't sure what to say, really. Anything he can come up with feels too casual. At least with Oriol he had a game-plan, somewhat; Hosea didn't think of anything before he got in the elevator this morning.
He's never been known for his rational thinking skills.
"Good to see you still kicking," Hosea says. "You looked like a bit of a human punching bag towards the end there."
Micah laughs under his breath. "To put it nicely—Penny said I looked like a hot mess."
"That too."
It's awkward, somehow. It should be. Considering the last time they saw each-other the entire world was on fire around them, maybe that's a given.
"Listen, I—"
"I'm sorry," Micah blurts out. "Just… I had to say that."
He blinks. "Why are you sorry?"
"Do you not remember me leaving you?"
"I told you to go."
"And… and maybe I shouldn't have listened," Micah admits. "Because then you died. I might have been able to do something if I had stayed."
Because that's what human punching bags do—keep getting beat up on even when they shouldn't. Hosea knows the truth—Micah wouldn't have been able to do anything. Not already injured, the woods burning in every direction, the Eleven's descending on them like vultures. Micah only would have ended up dead too.
Of course that was his eventual fate anyway, as they know now, but still. Hosea felt better in that moment knowing that even if he was dying, Micah and Inara would make it out alive.
"You really don't have to be sorry," Hosea tells him. "If anything I'm sorry—I let you go alone, injured, and then look what happened to you."
If he recalls correctly, Micah nearly lost a leg due to what happened to him. He wonders if anyone's actually told him that, or if they've chosen to ignore it because it didn't actually get that far. The infection could have done worse than take his leg if they hadn't managed to stave it off. It could have killed him even after they brought him back.
Hosea wishes he could have gone with them, Inara and Micah both. He could have protected them further. Instead he was forced to watch on a television screen as Micah died at the end of Inara's knife, practically asking for it, only to get butchered herself a few minutes later.
He can still see it even when he tries not to.
"Trust Micah Rossier to make friends with a Two," he says. "Of all the fuckin' people…"
"He's not that bad."
"I bet. You know what he did to Inara?"
Micah scuffs his heel over the carpet. "Yeah. I do. It's just… it's complicated. I mean, if he's bad, aren't we all?"
It's not just the two of them. Hosea still sees the pitchfork sticking out of Ren's back clear as day despite it being lit only by the moon. He's a puzzle piece too, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. It was his only kill, sure, but Ren was defenseless. He was asking for it almost as much as Micah eventually did, defeated and beyond repair.
"How is she?" Micah asks. "Inara."
He's deflecting, maybe—away from Two if Hosea had to guess, but it's not really worth his time to mull it over. "She's fine. I've been with her a lot."
On that front he's not sure what else to say. She is fine, so to speak. Hosea has spent enough time with her to know. Beyond that he knows she harbors anxiety—not just regarding Micah, but about all of this. She wants to patch things up, but she wants to get back home as quickly as possible. Judging by what little she's told him since they got out, he doesn't blame her.
"You want to talk to her, I'd guess?"
"If she will."
Hosea sighs, rubbing at his forehead. "I can't believe you two are going to make me organize it. I'm not old enough for this shit."
"I think you'll be fine." Micah laughs, still shuffling his feet. They've managed to let most of the awkwardness wash away in the non-existent breeze. The room is just quiet, now. Almost pleasantly so. Now that they've said their peace, things can resume their normal pace.
"So will you. You'll talk to her soon."
"Right. I heard that the Twelve girl is downstairs—Licia? I was going to go talk to her, but…"
"But what?"
"I'm scared she'll punch me again."
Hosea can't help but bark out a laugh. It sounds so stupid now, in this setting, when they're all in a relatively fine sort of state. It wasn't funny once upon a time, but what is he to do now other than laugh? He pulls back, reaching for the elevator buttons. "Want company?" he questions, noting that Micah at least looks amused. "If she tries it, I'll tackle her."
Micah steps forward to his side, finally releasing some of that tension from his shoulders. "You'll tackle a twelve year old?"
"I'll consider it."
He wraps an arm around his shoulders, giving him a good squeeze. The same thing he would do to Galvin if he needed a moment of reassurance, something Hosea knows how to do better than breathing. It feels good. It feels right.
It's progress.
Licia Asteron, 12
District Twelve Female
"Hey," Ilaria says quietly. "I think you've got incoming."
Truth be told, Licia had almost forgotten the other girl was here at all—she's perched to Licia's left on one of the tables in the numerous training set-ups, watching on in silence as her and Cal do… whatever it is they're doing.
Beating things up. Ridding themselves of some pent-up energy. Doing anything other than sitting around, waiting to get on a train.
Cal has already noticed, it appears, but he hasn't warned her like Licia has. Suddenly, she's grateful for Ilaria's recent and continuous presence, even if said presence is built upon a great deal of silence. There's not much for them to talk about, really, unless they plan on bonding over their mutual hatred of Velcra and everything they're been put through so unnecessarily.
When she peers towards the doors, Licia expects it to be Velcra. All three of them congregated like this is too much of an easy opportunity for the girl from Three. If she sets a bomb down, all three of them will be caught in its blast. It's efficient and, most important to note, exactly the kind of thing she would plan on doing.
The last thing she expects is Eight. Eight and Ten, lurking behind him like some sort of bodyguard. He might like a tad more menacing if she wasn't standing next to Cal of all people.
"Hm," she hears him say. "Fighting all three of them sounds like a party, if you ask me."
Licia narrows her eyes. Ilaria sits up straighter. Cal is still silent as ever, expression impassive, but she knows he's at the ready.
For what, exactly? She's not so sure yet.
Like they know the possibility exists that something could happen, there are suddenly three Peacekeepers at the entrance to the Training Center where there is typically only one, a guardian to watch over them. All of the weapons have been removed, but it doesn't appear that they're in any rush to leave five kids with some potentially bad blood between them all alone in here.
Licia doesn't think it would be much of a bloodbath, not anymore than the real thing.
It would be quick.
She knows why he's here. Licia balls her hands into fists and turns back to the dummy she had been dismantling with her bare hands. "Just give him a minute," Ilaria suggests. "If you don't like what he has to say, tell him to screw off."
Oh, she'll tell him to screw off alright. She'll tell him much worse. "I don't owe him anything."
"Never said you do."
She looks to Cal, who, unsurprisingly, doesn't appear to care as he raises an eyebrow and then turns back to his own task. He's not going to offer his opinion when he knows she's going to make her own decision regardless of what anyone tells her.
Licia smashes her fist into the dummy's chest again. "What do you want?" she says, making sure that she's loud enough for her voice to carry. Not that it's ever been a problem before.
She hears him step closer, but only his footsteps. Ten is hanging back, watching. It's all the little things she was taught coming back to her, knowing what to listen to and how to judge it. Eight's nervous. It's noticeable in his hesitant movement, his too-quick breathing. When she had him at the end of her knife he was just as scared.
Licia slit his ally's throat. He should hate her. Everything would be so much easier if he did.
"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he says. "And that's…. that's not good enough, I get that, but I'm not sure what else to say."
She takes a deep breath. "Right."
"And I hope you know I mean that."
Licia nods. It feels like enough, but maybe he's just getting started. His lingering is already getting on her nerves, but it's not like she can rain down any violence on him. Not anymore.
"You—"
"I what?" she cuts in, whirling on him. He stops himself from stumbling back at the very last second, digging his heels into the ground when he realizes he's suddenly looking her in the eye. There are scars on his cheek—scars that she put there without a moment of hesitation. Before Licia had faded away, she had seen the terror in his eyes. The regret.
He hadn't meant to do it anymore than Licia had intended to die that night.
"You deserved better," he says finally. It's funny, really—Licia's small, an unfortunate by-product of her age, but he's not all that much bigger than she is. Definitely more frail. It's no wonder her singular punch had as much of an effect as it did.
Licia wants to hate him for robbing her of an opportunity that she rightfully deserved. She could have done more, gotten further, maybe even won. None of that matters now, though. The girl who won is sitting right by Licia's side right now and she's no different than the rest of them. Scarred from battle, weary. Waiting for a train that doesn't seem to be coming.
That's all he wants too, she suspects. To go home.
"What's your name?" she forces out, after racking her brain for something and coming up empty. She's never been good at the little things like that.
"Micah."
Licia nods, though finds it hard to look up all of a sudden. Would there be weakness in her frame, possibly even her eyes, if she did? "Well, thanks Micah," she says, and turns around on the spin of her heel back to the dummy. In her eyes it's the quickest way to end the conversation without her hating even more of it than she already does.
Micah's next words are softer. Softer than anything she's heard in a good long time, at least. "See you around, Licia."
He knows her name. Of course he does.
Licia doesn't turn around to watch him go. Besides the noise that comes from them walking away and her fist eventually driving back into the dummy, there's not a sound to be heard. Nobody says they're proud of her for hearing him out, but she sees the signs—a little happiness in Ilaria's eyes that wasn't there before. An ease to Cal's posture.
They don't have to say it, anyway. She feels it. It's as if a foreign weight has been lifted off of her chest, one she hadn't even known existed.
Somehow, Licia feels better than she has in a long while.
Devan Del Rio, 18
District Four Female
Devan has never been a huge fan of all of this routine bullshit.
It's just not her thing, alright? She's used to something new everyday—if she didn't organize herself, one of her friends would. It was always a nice challenge, somewhere new to see, a plan so wildly concocted that it didn't even make sense.
But Devan would do all of it without batting an eye. To think that she was going back to it soon… well, it made her heart swell more than she could have anticipated.
She didn't know her heart could swell at all.
Until then, though, Devan was stuck in this monotonous world, everything in one boring shade of gray. There was hardly any life. Everything that existed to her currently was a minute-ride away in an elevator, if that. They had their floor and the Training Center, but no one had been keen on letting them down there thus far. Devan had no good reason to head back to the ward, either. Without those things it was the fourth floor or the basement level with Shoah's office.
She takes Varrik down there every-day like clockwork. Of course it was only a matter of time until Shoah caught her and manhandled her into a session, but there wasn't much to talk about. Maybe it was wrong, somehow, that Devan wasn't as traumatized as most of the others. Of course there were some negatives—she still saw that spider-mannequin-freak in her mind sometimes, and she sure as shit wasn't sleeping as heavily as she used to, but they were small prices to pay in terms of the whole life and death scheme that they had been put through.
Devan airs her grievances easily, few and far between as they are. Shoah seems surprised, almost. For once in her life, Devan isn't being looked at like she's the crazy one. That would be hard considering how much time she spends with Varrik anyway, but her relative lack of trauma has put her on a level that few others share.
She can return to a normal life. She can be normal.
As normal as Devan Del Rio ever was, anyway.
When she exits out of Shoah's office for the first and only time, Devan is finally confronted with something. Someone, rather. It had somehow been so far out the back of her mind that seeing him makes her pause. The Peacekeeper at the door does the same, looking between the two of them like…
Well, like what? It's not like Devan is going to beat the shit out of him.
She'd only hurt her own hands if she tried.
"Hey, fucker," she says. "How's your voice-box?"
Ambrose has a healthy dose of fear in his eyes like he's staring at good old Peter instead of a girl shorter and arguably less capable. Probably less capable, considering he killed her without much of a fight between them. Asshole.
Does she hate him? Devan can't really decide. A part of her wants to, but she's never been good at taking things seriously. Besides, hating someone for playing along with the rest of things sounds sort of exhausting; she's tired enough. Somehow, Ambrose still isn't as bad in her eyes as Veles is, the deluded bastard. Now him she would punch.
"Are you going to answer me, or should I leave?" she asks. As expected he stays quiet, only raising a hand—he doesn't quite give her a thumbs up or thumbs down either way, but leaves it hovering somewhere in the middle. Ah, well. Could be worse. It doesn't help that he shrinks back into the chair afterward like he's awaiting a blow. Devan stretches forward to kick his chair, wincing at the pain in her toes.
"Hey," she says again. "You killed me. I'm alive again. Hooray! What, do you think I'm going to beat the shit out of you? First off, thanks for the vote of confidence, idiot—I really appreciate it. Secondly, I'd feel at least a little bad throwing hands with someone who can barely talk. You feel me?"
It doesn't look as if Ambrose gets her, no. Not that she expected it to. Varrik seems to be the only one who can, these days, so what does that say about her mental state?
Nothing good, she reckons.
"I'm sure everything will turn out fine," she tells him. "Just maybe consider not picking anymore fights with a giant plastic spider."
"Will do," he responds, and Devan bites down on her tongue to avoid saying anything about the state of his voice. Time and place, Devan. Time and place.
Not that there will ever really be one for this situation, but she's trying alright?
Devan waves over her shoulder as she departs. "Have fun in there!" she tosses behind her. At least he won't be reduced to awkward conversation, judging by the notepad tucked in his lap. That's lucky for him; not so much for her.
It's over, though. She talked to Shoah, said everything that came to mind whether it was stupid or not. Devan even spoke to Ambrose and kept it relatively appropriate—that's a practical fucking miracle in her books.
Devan knew it—she can go home, no problem. Easy as taking candy from a baby, really.
If she's lucky, she'll be doing something as silly as that sometime soon.
Penelope Priestly, 17
District Eight Female
As the day grows closer, Penny begins to dread it more and more.
Packing up and getting on that train is easier said than done.
Penny is not going back to Eight. It doesn't matter who tries to board her onto that train or who gives her explicit orders. She won't do it. The only way they're getting her back there is kicking and screaming—Peacekeepers from all over the damn country will have to drag her onto Eight's station platform by both ankles if they want her back there.
The thought of seeing her father again is nauseating; worse, still, being forced back into the exact same sort of things that got her mother killed.
She died, okay? She died and there was no white light, no tunnel that led her to the loving arms of her mother. Maybe she wasn't dead long enough for that to happen.
Or maybe it just doesn't exist.
Her mom, though, would want Penny to be happy. To go where life takes her, to be free from the trauma that has bogged her down for so long. If she wants to get on a high-wire again or stick a sword down her throat, then she'll do it far, far away from any hands that would force her to. She's trying not to be dramatic, but the idea sort of makes her want to die.
She's already done it once and would prefer to never again, thank-you very much. At least not until she's old and gray, after she's lived a long, fulfilling life.
Now that she has the chance at one, she can't very well let it go.
Penny is in control of her own fate; she has to be. Anything else is unbearable to imagine. They brought her back, but they have to let go eventually. She'll find her own way from there.
She's so lost in thoughts of her rapidly approaching future that the knock at the door makes her jump and nearly roll off the bed—she could catch herself, of course, but Penny sits up and runs her hand through her hair in an attempt to make it look like less of a nest before the door opens. She flops back down into the covers at the sight of Vance, who appears only curious. If anything she was expecting it to be Micah returning from his daily adventures, whatever those usually entail. He's up to so many of them at this point that she can hardly keep track.
A lot of people would say the same thing about her.
"What's up?" she asks, staring at the ceiling.
"Just wanted to make sure that you're okay."
"I'm good."
Though she can't really see much of him at this angle, Penny hears him shifting his weight. "Really? 'Cause you don't look okay."
Penny sits up so fast that her head spins, waiting until her vision rights to look directly at her reflection in the mirror. What is he talking about—she looks fine. Rather presentable, even. Her hair isn't even that nest-like despite all the nonsensical rolling around she's done in her bed.
He laughs, lightly. "You're fine. Just… is something wrong?"
Penny sighs. There's no use in hiding it, really, especially not from Vance. He's heard the worst of it ten times over already. They spent several long nights up alone together watching the Games as they spiraled on. A lot of it was in silence, but Vance always cared enough to check in on her when it was apparent he could do nothing for Micah.
It's nice that someone cares. Of course he's less like a father and more like an elder brother, but she's never had one of those either.
It's not so bad.
"You know what I told you, about going back home?"
"Mhm."
"If anyone tries to force me back there I'm going to bite their fucking hands off and not take any responsibility for it."
And he laughs again, like this is somehow funny. She's serious, alright! "To be frank, if anyone tried to force you, they'd probably deserve it. I'll back you up."
Well, that's a relief. Penny assumed as much, but hearing confirmation of it aloud is still nice. Reassurance isn't something her father gave her much of, especially in the later days. Of course she never needed it, but apparently humans are just classically conditioned to appreciate it anyway. If she didn't have to die in the future to receive it that would be nice.
In the next span of silence Penny forces herself to take a few deep breaths before she speaks again. "I'm serious, though. Promise me you won't let anyone send me back."
"I promise."
"Vance—"
"I promise," he repeats. "Trusting people isn't always easy—I get it. But you can trust me when I say that."
Of course she hopes she can. That's what mentors are for. Besides, Vance hasn't given her any reason to believe otherwise. He dealt with enough bullshit at the hands of the Capitol back in his day. At this point keeping anyone else far away from the aforementioned bullshit is probably quite high on his priority list.
"Dinner's soon," he continues. "I'm not sure where Micah is—"
"I got it," she cuts in, shimmying off the side of the bed. If Penny is good at anything, it's getting the job done and being quick about it. "And… thank-you. Seriously."
"No worries. S'what I'm here for."
A part of her is still afraid, and it's not something she's comfortable feeling. If she can level a sword down her throat without blinking, a train and the threat of someone forcing her down an unwanted path should be nothing. Penny should be able to take said sword and cut that fear into pieces before it can even properly form.
But she really is human, apparently, and humans feel all sorts of things.
At least she feels a bit better now about her future.
Donatella Fontes, 17
District Two Female
It's been some time since her heart felt anywhere close to full.
Even thinking that seems so childish—her sister is still dead. Her parents, the truth hidden from them for so many months, now know the truth about a daughter too far away for them to place repercussions on her.
A part of her heart still aches, too, but it feels fainter than usual. She's sure it will come back in full-force sometimes in the form of crushing grief, a weight so intense that it practically drives the breath from her lungs. Until then, though, she feels almost whole. Almost is good enough for her.
Casi is awake now. Still not in the best shape, but they got her up and walking today, as slow-going as it was. Considering they had to put her back together like a broken doll, seeing her up on her feet was nearly enough to make Donatella cry right then and there. She hadn't, of course, because that was just asking to ruin Casi's progress, but for once the threat of tears hadn't been all that bad.
She had Hale, too. Unexpectedly. The news had rendered him distant for a while, but that was nothing he hadn't already been before. With Casi back it felt like their fragile little bridge had been re-built, that they could one day cross it again.
And then there was Milo, just as much of a villain as Velcra Leight. The one everyone wanted to call a monster. He was across the table from her now, forearms stretched out so that he could pillow his chin on them. His eyes were vacant as he stared past her, unseeing. Even having spent her fair share of time in some sort of funeral ensemble, Tella isn't sure she's seen the exact definition of a thousand yard stare until that moment.
Between them is a clear bottle, a few inches of the vodka inside having been depleted. At least she thought it was vodka, but it tasted better than anything Two ever produced. Courtesy of the Capitol, she supposes.
She knows they're not supposed to be drinking, but Blair and Seren left for an evening meeting sometime ago, off to talk to some of the other mentors and officials about the plan to send them all home. Not that the plan extended to them, but it was important that their mentors were still there to hear it. Besides, if Ten was drinking in the arena of all places, she had a right to a little bit right here. At least she was being responsible about it.
If feeding alcohol to someone who had killed six people was responsible, anyway.
Hopefully it would help him, though. Milo hadn't been sleeping nearly as much as she should—it was recognizable in his eyes. He had some of that same daze that Varrik carried around before he snapped on Seven. It wasn't quite to that manic degree yet, but no one wanted to get to that point. There was a reason Seren finally got the stationed Peacekeeper to get off Milo's back. Everyone needed a break at some point.
Tella was all too aware just how alone they were on this floor. Casi was still downstairs in her hospital bed—Hale was probably with her. If Milo let himself go again, she doesn't doubt that he could kill her. History repeating itself, as it often did.
He trusted her, though. At least he used to. Tella thinks she owes it to him now to try and build some of that trust back up.
She stretches forward for the bottle again, letting more spill out into the crystalline glass that lies before Milo's forearms before she fills up her own once again. They're going slow enough that she doesn't really feel anything, just yet, but Tella doesn't think she would hesitate to embrace the comforting, mind-numbing fuzz that vodka would bring. For once, it would be nice not to think.
Milo takes another sip, hardly lifting his head. "You don't have to sit here with me."
"Do you like drinking alone?"
"Can't say I've ever tried it."
"Well, it's not fun," she tells him, remembering that night on the cold bathroom floor when she stole her father's favorite whiskey out of the once-locked cupboard in the hall and replaced it with that watered-down cider they liked to buy from the market. If she hadn't drank then, she would have spent the entire night crying her eyes out.
She's sure someone noticed, eventually, but if Armina was grieving in her own way, her parents would allow it. Just this once, at least.
If it had been Donatella with that bottle it would have been another story entirely.
As he pushes the glass back and forth between his curled hands she can't help but watch the slosh of the liquor as it rises nearly to the edge of the glass. She knocks back most of her own, letting the burn warm her insides all the way down. In an odd way, Milo has been keeping her steady—you know, that good old partner of hers that killed her? Matching pace with him, at least, is keeping her from tipping too quickly off the edge.
Considering how long she's been on a precipice, it's nice to have someone keep her from slipping off even if they aren't really trying.
"You know what I mean, don't you?" Milo asks. "You don't have to be here with me. Figured you'd be downstairs with Casi."
Because she owes him nothing, evidently so. Not after what he did.
"They're letting her out tomorrow morning." She hums, tracing a finger around the rim of the glass. Casi hasn't been cooperative, per-say, but she's spoken to enough people that she's agreed to listen for the time-being. She can't say the same for Milo, who won't speak to anyone outside of this floor unless forced like he's some sort of insolent, pig-headed menace out to make everyone's lives more difficult. Counting Eight is even difficult, because she hasn't seen him around.
A part of her wants to bring it up. Milo talking to anyone else would be good for him, even if he can't admit it aloud. Tella doesn't think Eight would be taken kindly to her dragging him here.
Or maybe he would. She has no idea with the two of them.
Never has, really.
"If they're letting her out in the morning, I thought you'd want to spend time with her. Y'know, before everyone else is always around."
"It sounds a lot like you're trying to get rid of me. Got a hot date I don't know about?"
"That's me," he drawls, scooping up the glass to waggle it directly in her face. "And this is my date."
Leaving him alone feels… wrong. Tella can't put her finger on it. The idea of sitting downstairs with Casi for as long as they'll let her is appealing, she'll give him that, and she knows she isn't technically responsible for him, but something is still off.
Before all of this, she always felt like she had to watch Armina's back. She was the one with the bite, the one who would step up to defend her if anyone even looked at her wrong. The softness that made up Armina's body was enviable, but not the most productive in a place like Two. It wasn't meant for the Games, either, but she still tried to end up here.
In a lot of ways, Armina dying before she ever got anywhere close to this place seems like a blessing. Not everything broken can be so easily fixed.
"You can go," Milo offers, though the trepidation she feels watching him down his entire glass says otherwise. That doesn't stop her from getting up and dumping her own glass in the sink, leaving him with the half-full bottle and his own glass just waiting to be refilled. When she turns back to him, he waves her off.
"Are you sure?" she wonders.
"I'm sure, mom," he says, but he winces, like the words are thorns that cut him on the way out. The same thing happens to her when her sister's name escapes her mouth. If they weren't the same in that regard, Tella doesn't think they'd be here at all.
A part of her is grateful they are.
"I won't be long," she vows. Even if that's what she wants, lying downstairs with Casi does nothing for anyone. It may offer her some comfort, sure, but this life has never been about what Tella wants—not then, not now. She's the sacrifice, the lamb that goes to slaughter first when none of the others want to. It's a role she's fulfilled in silence; a role she'll continue to own.
She can't be long. Casi will be fine downstairs, after a while. All they need is a little bit of time.
It doesn't matter how quick it is, though—Tella steps into the elevator, and regardless feels like she's leaving Milo to his own self-destruction.
Sorry for the delay, but it's here.
I know right now this may seem a bit aimless, but I promise it's going places. It does appear that this lovely website has it's reviews down again, but I appreciate everyone that's been leaving them and the ones I'm sure I'll get soon, even if I can't properly see them.
Until next time.