XLIV: The Capitol - Training Center.
Micah Rossier, 18
District Eight Male
Hosea seems to think this is a bad idea.
And, to give Hosea some credit, it may just be.
Micah isn't sure where his need to do this comes from other than the fact that this is just always how it's been. He checks in on people. He makes sure they're alright. And he hasn't spoken to Milo, not properly, since that time on the roof.
The absence of his siblings and parents is gnawing at him like some sort of wild animal, making it impossible to function without projecting everything he usually does onto other people. No one else will really let him—well, Milo probably won't be keen on letting him either, but he may be someone who actually needs it. Oksana is too busy doting on Ambrose to spend too much time wallowing, Inara has yet to speak to him, and he thinks things with Licia are finished.
That leaves Hosea, who's right by his side as the elevator doors slide open, something skeptical to the arch of his brow. Micah releases the breath he had been holding since they stepped into the elevator in the first place. He's only in that elevator because of Milo, not that it matters. He still feels like it owes it to him to check-in.
Except, upon first glance, there doesn't appear to be much to check-in on other than the mess that's been left in someone's wake.
There's something smashed across the ornate table top, shards of glass spread about haphazardly and the neck of a bottle only inches away from rolling off. A dark stain lies below it where enough liquid has dripped off the edge to spread.
The place is empty—too empty.
Hosea moves forward before he does, leaning over the table with a sniff. "Whoever wasted perfectly good vodka deserves to have their ass kicked."
And, well, Micah can't say he's wrong. Not that he would know. The television drones on quietly in the background, the lights dim, but no matter how long of a look he takes around, no one shows themselves to take ownership of the mess.
He watches Hosea pluck a shard of glass between his fingers, revealing a worrying red tint to the edge of it. "That's blood," Hosea says flatly. Not quite disinterested, but rather stating the facts. If anything that only makes him look around quicker, as if some bleeding human is going to stride through the door like nothing at all is wrong. Only a few drops left behind on the carpet prove that anyone was harmed at all.
What he knows, just from a quick glance, is that there's no trail to the elevator. It moves towards the entrance to the hall before it dwindles off.
Micah heads for it without thinking. "Can you go get someone?"
"Get—like who?"
"One of the mentors. A Peacekeeper. Anyone."
The second he steps into the hall he sees the flicker of light from beneath the main bathroom door, just enough to mean something.
He doesn't stick around to see if Hosea actually listens. If he did it was like sticking around for a lecture. Hosea tries to see the good in people too—he helps. Micah doesn't think that helpful nature extends to just anyone, though, and he can't ask that of him anyway. This is Micah's choice, something he's dedicated to. He has to see it through.
The bathroom door isn't even closed, let alone locked. Something in him wants to hesitate, but he swings it open with a nervously pounding heart.
It opens, as it turns out, and nearly collides with Milo's sprawled out legs. He's slumped back against the edge of the porcelain tub, head stretched and resting on the lip of it so that his eyes are staring directly into the overhead light. It can't feel very good, but he's hardly blinking. There's a fog to his eyes. Micah can smell the alcohol.
And there are his hands, limp in his lap, palms cut open and still bleeding sluggishly.
He forces himself to breathe again—it takes so long that finally Milo's head rolls to the side, blinking confusedly at him. "Fancy seein' you here."
Micah snatches up the nearest towel and drops down next to him, ignoring Milo's poor attempt at shuffling away from him as he drags both of his arms closer, wrapping both of his hands in the towel. "I'm surprised you even know who I am," he says, trying to ignore the slipperiness of the blood as it sticks in the grooves of his fingers. It wasn't something he was ever hoping to feel again.
"Why would I not recognize you?"
"Because you're absolutely plastered and hurting yourself, apparently—"
"I'm not hurting myself."
Milo tries to move his hands. Micah only tightens his grin, forcing them still. When Milo looks at him once again his eyes are still just as dazed, but he's trying. Clarity is trying to force its way in through the fog.
"I'm not," Milo emphasizes. "Hurting myself. I'm not fucking… suicidal, or whatever. Maybe I should be."
Micah tries to ignore the last part as hard as he dares. It doesn't matter that Milo's hands are still bleeding, because he feels relief course through his veins at the mere thought that it was an accident. He still smashed a bottle open along with God knows what after downing practically the entire contents, but that's something for another day.
"I was going to fix it," Milo says. "M'tired, though."
Micah deflates—physically, mentally, emotionally. They're all so tired, no matter how hard they try not to be. He hates that he can see it too, the way Milo is slumped back, how unfocused his eyes are. It's not just the alcohol doing that to him.
No longer is Milo trying to fight him or take his hands back, so he shuffles away to root around in the numerous cupboards, eventually coming away with a first-aid kit much more grand than anything they were ever witness to in the arena. He would hate that it was stored in such a pointless place if it wasn't his saving grace at this exact moment.
Though he appears disinterested, Milo's eyes still follow his every movement. "You're still not a doctor," he informs him.
"No, I'm not," Micah confirms. "But I'm better at it than you are, and considering you're still alive I'd say I've done a pretty good job so far."
Milo rolls his head back onto the edge of the tub, and now he's smiling. "Y'know we're technically dead, right?"
"I've been trying not to think about it."
"We're zombies."
"Stop," Micah insists, but God if he doesn't feel at least a tad bit of amusement at the prospect. This is not funny. At least it definitely shouldn't be. So why is he trying so hard to fight off the smile he so desperately wants to show?
He tries to focus on the task at hand, fingers finding the edge of the towel. "Can I?" he asks gently. Micah never really asked, last time. It was more flat-out insistence, someone dying in front of him and him refusing to watch. But Milo is here in front of him, now, and they're both alive. Imminently, almost painfully, alive.
"Go for it."
"Just tell me if I'm hurting you."
"You're fine, Micah, christ," Milo mutters, shaking his hands loose of the towel. That can't be good for the state of his hands, but he doesn't react quick enough to stop it. Micah settles more firmly onto the floor, quiet and calm as can be. There's no use in being otherwise as he unrolls bandages and lays tubes of antiseptic across his knees, letting his mind drift back to the time they spent at the first-aid station during training. More than enough of it, at least, to deal with this.
He's already dealt with so much worse.
Milo is quiet while he works, not a complaint escaping his lips. Occasionally he shifts, no doubt trying to ease some of the ache from sitting on the floor like this, but he doesn't even wince no matter what Micah does.
"You should talk to someone, you know," Micah suggests, keeping his voice low. He's almost done. He's not sure what he'll do after this. Are they just going to sit here?
"I'm talking to you right now," Milo replies. Though it's quick as a whip he's fading—Micah's losing him. At least it's to the encroaching fringes of sleep and not anything worse. There's no use arguing with him, and worse, there's no way Micah can refute what he's said. Milo has talked to him. More than Micah ever thought he would.
That's something, right? That's good.
"Yeah," he agrees softly. "You are."
He hears the ping of the elevator just before the sound of voices. Numerous ones all bouncing off each other, growing to such a volume that Milo even turns his head to the door, blinking away approaching sleep. It occurs to him that in these minutes he was not once afraid—not of Milo, anyway, like some people would have been. The only thing Micah was ever afraid of was of something bad happening.
Whoever Hosea has retrieved is getting closer by the second. "Try and get a good sleep," Micah requests. Milo blinks at him—doesn't say anything, of course, but it feels like he understands.
Micah can only hope that he actually listens.
The door opens, almost slowly. Micah doesn't even remember closing it, as if this was some sort of private moment. Perhaps it was. He's still got Milo's bandaged hands between his own. They feel safer there than anywhere else.
Just before whoever is on the other side of the door appears, Micah releases them.
Marigold Voss, 16
District Nine Female
The knock on the door, at this hour, comes as a surprise.
Marigold sits up, some eagerness inside her despite the possible stranger that awaits her. Something in her almost deflates at the sight of Rooke—not because she's unhappy to see him, but because she's so used to his presence already.
She lives… well, not a fast-paced life back in Nine, but something more fanciful than this. Yes, even more-so than the Capitol. It's nice here, don't get her wrong, but Marigold knows there's so much more out there for her to do. For her to see, even the people she misses so much.
Rooke pauses, his hand braced cautiously on the door. "Someone wants to see you, if you're okay with it."
She cranes her neck, squinting through the evening light, and feels herself visibly stiffen when she finally catches sight of Ilaria's poised frame just beyond Rooke. Her initial reaction is unbridled fear, the same kind that struck her when they were ambushed so easily inside that little restaurant. Thankfully the pain is but a memory; despite the numerous scars that mar her body, they'll be gone one day soon. There's no weapon in her hand, no harm that she can bring down on Marigold's head.
Still, when she nods, it's with some amount of caution. She can't let her guard down just because she thinks Ilaria is a halfway decent person, someone deserving of the crown.
Rooke steps aside to let her in. "I'll be in my room if you need me."
Ilaria doesn't come close when the doors click shut softly behind her, staring around for a length of time that could almost be considered worrying. "Does yours look different?" Marigold asks, trying her best not to wince at the awkwardness.
"The exact same, actually."
She hums. Why would it look any different? Before the Games there was no one really ahead of anyone else—it didn't matter what your score was or who the audience favored. They had all been placed on equal ground. Ilaria's room, the room of a victor, was exactly the same as the one Marigold went to sleep in every single night.
Ilaria is just as much of a normal girl as she is.
"Mind if I sit?" she asks, and only approaches when Marigold nods once again, sitting down gingerly at the end of the bed. Close, but far enough away that it would be easy to put a quick amount of distance between them.
Marigold hopes it won't come to that.
"This may seem disingenuous," Ilaria begins. "You're not the first person I've apologized to. You won't be the last, either. But I feel like it's… necessary, at least for me, to tell you that I'm sorry. And I hope that can help you as well."
She was never a bad person. Even the best ones sometimes do awful things to survive; that's just the brutal course of nature. If Marigold had gotten further, she imagines she would have had to do the same. If it had been anyone else at their throats in that restaurant, she may have even fought back. It was so quick, too—in the moment it had felt like hours, but watching it on the screen Marigold realized just how little time it took up. Not even two minutes.
Ren spent longer dragging her along with him after the fact.
"If you hadn't been there," Marigold starts carefully. "What would she have done to us?"
Almost absentmindedly she presses her fingers against the fabric of her pants, feeling for the knotted scar where one of Velcra's arrows punctured. Every one of them save for Ilaria's single shot could have been non-fatal. Ren's, too, was so carefully placed that it hurt him enough to stall, but not enough that he gave up fighting.
Velcra never got to see through what she wanted. The closest she came was with the girl from One, but even that was quickly interrupted.
Her name may still be included on Velcra Leight's ledger, but Ilaria made it quicker.
"Hard to tell exactly what the details would have been." Ilaria shrugs. "If she had gotten both of you, somehow, she would have made him watch. Or maybe she would have taken turns with you. I'm not sure—I haven't liked imagining it."
Imagining it is the worst thing of all. Both of them lying there, bleeding and sobbing, the pair from Nine reduced from a previous bout of sunshine to nothing more than a miserable rainstorm, every drop red as blood. If it had been her at the end of a knife, Ren would have begged. They both would have cried and cried and cried until they had no tears left to do so. She still feels grief from what had happened in its place, but nothing compares to the atrocity of that possible image in her head.
Nothing ever could.
"Thank-you, then," Marigold manages. "For being merciful where she wouldn't have been."
Saying those words aloud feels like growing up. That childish girl with her frilly dresses and teetering heels, wandering through the halls of yet another manor house with Roarke by her side, is gone. In its place is something stronger. There are cracks in her skin both big and small, some just waiting to be split open, but Marigold feels as if she can handle it if those days ever come. Not everything will be perfect, but nothing ever has been.
No matter how close it's come.
"You probably have a few others you want to get to tonight," Marigold says. "But I appreciate it."
Ilaria nods. Now that she's sitting here in the gloom of Marigold's room she seems so much smaller. Not quite fragile, but breakable in the same sense that she is. Fractured, in some way.
She's not the only one struggling—she never has been.
She reaches over to squeeze Ilaria's hand quickly, ignoring the other girl's notable surprise. Maybe it's silly to be so kind to the girl that attributed to your death, but Marigold will never get anywhere harboring grudges. There are worse people out there than Ilaria Landucci; she's seen them with her own two eyes.
"That I do," Ilaria says finally. "Good-night, Marigold."
"Good-night," she murmurs. Her family back home would be proud of her. She's pushing her quick judgements back, the attitude that has made so many people wonder just exactly who she is in the past. Like she said, she's changed.
And Marigold thinks it's for the better.
Varrik Varnett, 18
District Four Male
It's after midnight when he creeps out of his room.
Varrik knows the precise time the Peacekeeper stationed at the elevator takes his leave for the night; it's the same as all the other nights. He tucks in early, it appears.
That works well for him. The arena has already conditioned him into managing without sleep, although manage might be a generous term for how it all eventually went down. Does a part of him feel bad? Sure. It may just not be what he should feel bad about.
It could be a crime, it could not. They can't exactly punish him for it now.
Varrik half-expects to be caught creeping through the sitting room, foregoing the elevator in front of the quieter entrance to the stairs. Any second now Devan is going to leap out of the dark like a fucking boogeyman and scare him half to death, or something. The last thing he needs is to scream so loud that he wakes Rory—that would foil his entire plan.
Again, plan being a generous way to put it. Varrik's not sure what he's really doing once he gets up there.
Each step up to the seventh floor, too, makes him less and less certain. This is just asking for it, certainly. If Lex won't even look him in the eye, how is he supposed to talk to her?
He wants to, but he can't force her. He would never force her.
The seventh floor is just a shade away from pitch black—early sleepers, the whole lot of them. Varrik can't possibly relate to that. His eyelids feel glued open at this point, and he keeps suspecting that when they stitched every part of him back together that they did something to his eyes as well. It's not like he would be any the wiser to it.
They adjust quickly, too. It's a good thing he's used to it. That doesn't stop Varrik from nearly slamming into the coffee table and then an awkwardly placed bust by the window, catching it at the very last second. He has no idea which room belongs to which person, but he'll figure it out somehow. Lex already isn't going to appreciate him breaking into her room in the middle of the night—he thinks anyone else would appreciate it even less. She's around here somewhere. He just has to pick the right door.
But which one, when there are so many options?
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
Well, that's decidedly not Lex.
Varrik hardly has time to even think it before a hand locks around his shoulder, spins him halfway around, and then slams him so hard into the wall it echoes. So much for being quiet. Veles' eyes are near feral when they lock with Varrik's own, hand closed around his shoulder, thumb edging into his windpipe. Huh. Funny how things change.
"Ow," he emphasizes. "Also this is a little bit kinky for you, I feel—"
Veles' hand tightens just enough to be noticeable. "Answer the question."
"You asked me a question?"
"Why are you up here?"
"To see your beautiful face," he manages, trying to wiggle free. Veles looks less than impressed, just like Tristan would. God, it's no wonder he killed him. "What, not a joker? Alright, let me go and I'll try again."
"I should smash your fucking head in," Veles hisses. Maybe he should, but he probably couldn't. Though he probably thinks so, Veles isn't nearly strong enough. Besides, Varrik has plans, plans that involve his head being relatively intact. At least enough that he can think.
In all technicality, Veles could kill him right now. Grab a knife from the kitchen and just… end him, really, if Varrik wasn't quick enough in getting away.
And he would have every right to do it, too. In most people's eyes, anyway.
He's starting to get a little light-headed. Veles is putting all his weight behind the force closed around Varrik's neck, probably trying to strangle him in a way that he could pass off as accidental. A big old whoopsies, you could call it. Waking up to one Varrik Varnett dead in the hall wouldn't be the weirdest thing these Seven's had ever seen.
Varrik barks out a wheezy little laugh. "I heard about your daddy. Sucks."
"Why can't you just go back where you came from and leave the rest of us alone?"
"Back where I came from? I mean, I'd really prefer not to go crawling back into the womb—"
A door bangs open somewhere to his right. Veles looks to the source of the sound immediately, but Varrik is too busy trying to draw air into his lungs to focus. There's no immediate intervention—it's not Rory, then. He forces his head to the right under Veles' iron grip, and Lex is clearly visible even through his slightly blurry eyes.
Varrik waves a hand out aimlessly, shocked when Veles doesn't bat it down. It feels to him like the universal signal for help, but Lex doesn't budge.
Alright, he probably deserves that.
Varrik is patient while Lex watches for a few more seconds. She doesn't ask. When she strides forward, unwarranted relief strikes him all at once. She begins to peel away Veles fingers from around his throat, digging in until he's finally released. Varrik claws back for the opposite wall, trying to hold onto it as air returns once again.
"Of all the things to wake up to," she mutters. She gives Veles a shove, hard enough that he looks offended. "Don't you have beauty sleep to be getting?"
"Hard to sleep when there's a fucking gutter rat skulking around."
"Oh, never heard that name before," Varrik manages. "Nice one."
If Lex wasn't standing there, Varrik would be getting throttled again. In a way, it's nice to know that Lex of all people is between him and a grisly demise. Maybe she does care. Maybe she just doesn't want to be the one trying to scrub blood out of the carpet.
When he finally rights himself, Varrik is surprised to see them both still standing there, watching his uniquely awkward charade of trying to breathe again. "Can we talk?" he asks, trying not to sound desperate. He's trying not to even look at her, really, because this is the only good opportunity he's gotten in a while and she's fucking distracting. Tired, of course, because he just woke her up, but that doesn't make her any less. As if she ever could be. Maybe his brain is a bigger pile of mush than he thought.
Lex, it appears, takes a deep breath. "Go back downstairs, Varrik."
"Lex—"
"Please," she says, and it sounds so genuine he's taken aback. Almost pleading, like she really can't do this. Or maybe she just doesn't want to. How could he blame her for that?
She waits for Veles to go first. When she finally steps away, her back to him, Varrik doesn't reach out yet again. He can't even say anything. Someone in her seems almost deflated, like she's more exhausted than she's letting on. Hollow, even.
It's all so unlike her that he wishes he could say something. Do something, even, but she wouldn't let him. Shoah would tell him to help himself before he even thinks about running to the aid of others, but he's never known how to do that. Blocking it all out has been easier. The less you listen, the less it hurts. At this point, it's basically law.
Varrik wants to help her. He wants to try.
He just has to figure out where to start.
Hale Mavala, 17
District Eleven Male
He'll be glad to never come back down to this ward again.
It's too much the opposite of everything he knows. Eleven is golden and warm at its best, the humidity sticky on your skin and cloying at its worst. Even in the most run-down parts, where the crops don't grow as well and the houses are more like shacks, it's still familiar. Home.
Down here it's too sterile, too perfect. It's how he looked at his arena outfit, too, before he spent a good amount of time ruining it.
Hale was never meant to be clean in any sense of the word.
Even though Casi has grown up so differently than him she seems to share the same sentiments. If she could have run out of here by now, she would have the second she woke up this morning. That would involve getting up, though, and she's still too weak and unsteady on her own feet to get every far. Though she's dressed now, looking every part the stubborn, pig-headed girl she always was, she won't win this battle.
Casi can't fight a wheelchair even if she wanted to.
With some help she could probably walk upstairs, but it will be slow and awkward and probably even painful. Hale would carry her upstairs if offering wouldn't earn him a smack. That leaves her stuck down here, unless she plans on sitting down in it anytime soon. He gets it, okay, he does—to her, that chair means weakness. It means being broken beyond repair.
But she's not. She just needs time.
They all do.
"I heard that someone was being uncooperative," a voice says just before the curtains are pulled apart. He's instantly relieved at the sight of Donatella—Casi could fight him forever, but not her. The kryptonite has arrived.
Casi's face is still sour, though. "I hate every part of this."
"I know," Tella agrees easily. She loops Casi's arm over her shoulder without blinking, gently tugging her down off the edge of the bed without giving her a choice otherwise. Hale holds the chair steady while she's deposited down into it, face unbelievably annoyed. Betrayed, even, like they've done her wrong by allowing this to happen.
Donatella doesn't let go of her that easily, helping Casi shift about until she's comfortable. "How is he?" Hale asks, carefully averting his eyes. He focuses his eyes instead where his hands are curled around the wheelchair, ready to get the hell out of here.
He expects the newfound softness to her tone, as if speaking any louder will set someone off. "Still asleep. Probably will be until the afternoon, at least, but they're getting a doctor to look at him once he does. Make sure his hands are good, and all that."
"Fucking idiot," Casi mutters under her breath, though it's not easily missed. Hale agrees with the sentiment, if he's being honest. When Donatella ran out of here last night like a bat straight out of hell, the last thing he expected to be wrong was something about Milo. The one who could handle himself through anything, who had killed six people and hardly batted an eye.
Casi's right—he's an idiot. Beyond that, even. But something in Hale's gut can't sit right with the fact that he cares so little about himself that he's getting hurt when no one's watching.
Not that it matters. He can't do anything about it.
"It's a good thing Micah found him," Tella continues. "It got me back up there sooner."
"Micah should run for the hills if he doesn't want to get his poor little neck snapped," Casi interjects. "He fucking killed all of us, or did you both forget?"
"I didn't forget," Hale murmurs. He's just been trying not to think about it—all of it, really. He just wants to get back home to his brother. Even being down here reminds him so much of Arley that his chest aches. Hale may have volunteered to bring Casi back upstairs and help her get settled somewhere more comfortable, but it brings him back to their little house, having to carry his brother back to bed when his pain got too unmanageable.
He can go home and fix that, now, but the awful memories are never going to leave.
Hale knows that all of them are going to hold onto each of their own personal hells for quite some time. Him and his fires, Casi and her plummet. Donatella seems to be making progress with Milo where it counts, but she's got enough haunting her already.
Before she rises back to her full height she squeezes Casi's hand, bending down further to kiss her cheek. He doesn't allow himself to focus too intently on it, same as everything else. It only makes his brain hurt worse.
"Are you ready to get the hell out of here?" Donatella asks. Hale swears he's never seen such brightness in Casi's eyes, not even when she stepped onto the stage next to him in Eleven's greatest square. There's a light in her now that he only hopes she can hold onto, despite everything they've laid on her since the moment she woke up. They're whole now. All twenty-four of them, alive again.
"I've never been so ready," Casi says. She reaches back, smacking at Hale's hand. "Let's go, or I'm getting up."
"I'm going, I'm going."
Hale turns the chair around quicker than he thinks anyone would recommend, but Casi seems to appreciate it. She parts the curtains with her own hands, wincing at the light. Even that isn't enough to diminish the little spark that's appeared in her at the prospect of freedom, at getting what she wants. Donatella's hand is still in hers, keeping them linked as Hale steers them down the hall and far, far away from this little piece of hell.
Maybe not even hell. This is purgatory. They've been stuck here for so long, and now they're finally getting out for good.
They can finally begin to move on.
Velcra Leight, 18
District Three Female
She's heard that someone is on a little apology tour. Her favorite someone, in fact.
If Velcra thought she was getting one, she would sit patiently.
She's not, though. Not in a million years.
In her eyes, Ilaria owes her an apology more than anyone else. Killing is one thing, betrayal another. It doesn't matter much that Velcra did it to others, because that was playing the game at the best time. What Ilaria did to her was unwarranted anger, an impulse that couldn't be controlled. Everything she did in that moment she had no right to.
It left Velcra broken, battered. It forced her to run from a situation that she ultimately could have handled, instead being butchered like some leftover carcass.
So Velcra waits. Marconi was already lovely enough to spill that Ilaria went up to see the Nine's last night, so it only makes sense for her to continue her little tour today. Descending order would mean that she goes to Four next, and it's just oh so close. All she has to do is pay attention, watching the elevator carefully for any signs of life.
When the interception occurs, it's at a near-perfect timing. When the elevator begins to shoot up for the sixth floor, Velcra halts it in its tracks and slips through the door without Marconi following her. She's sure the Peacekeeper will be infuriated to discover her taking her off on her own, but if Marconi wants to stop her, she better pay closer attention in the future.
It's not Velcra's fault she's not easily kept track of.
She doesn't even have to press a button. Velcra presses her back to the glass wall furthest from the door, almost out of sight. By the time Ilaria steps in and sees her, backpedaling away will look cowardly.
If there's anything she knows about Ilaria, it's that she's not afraid of much.
When the doors open, she puts a mask over her face. She doesn't smile, or even look to the movement that rapidly approaches. She lets her eyes rake instead over the beginnings of the city skyline and the pretty morning sun as it rises above them all.
And then, footsteps stuttering to a halt.
Velcra keeps her eyes where they are. "Don't wait for the next one on my accord."
Her last ally is guarding herself carefully, each step calculated as she moves into the elevator and takes a position on the opposite side. Her first moment of surprise comes when the doors close behind her, her hand yet to move.
When Velcra finally looks, Ilaria has yet to press a button. Motionless they remain, suspended in air, staring at one another.
"Going somewhere?" Velcra asks, appearing so lackadaisical that she's sure it would infuriate anyone. Crossing her arms over her chest only solidifies the image as she leans back against the glass, the perfect picture of casual.
"What's your game here?"
Ilaria looks good. Well-rested, healthy. Velcra feels like she's wasting away being stuck in yet another place. She wishes she could do anything to ruin that idyllic little image Ilaria has created for herself—smash her own teeth down her throat, crack some of her fingers back off like they were never re-attached in the first place. She looked better on the ground, bleeding out, fully at Two's mercy.
"What game?" Velcra wonders, feigning innocence as she raises an eyebrow.
"I'm not scared of you," Ilaria says flatly.
"Why, I never said you were," Velcra says, finally allowing herself to smile. There's something she needed. "Why bring it up, then?"
Ilaria is scared—of something, anyway. Perhaps a multitude of them, all carefully locked away where no one gets to see. She plans on chipping away at every single one of them for as long as she gets, until there's too much distance between them for Velcra to do much of anything. She already knows they're not letting her go home. It's obvious. Why should she not entertain herself through justifiable means before she's left all alone here to rot?
Finally, when her ally reaches for a button, Velcra steps forward. She snatches Ilaria's wrist away fully well knowing that she could break Velcra's grip without so much as blinking. Much to her surprise, her fingers tighten around Ilaria's bones, digging in, and aren't immediately removed.
The only time they were closer was when they were fighting to get the advantage, blood intermingling with one another's. Now it feels like the playing field has evened some.
"You saw the recap," Velcra tells her. "But I've watched the tapes. All of them. I saw your face when you realized I was dead. When my face appeared in the sky. You lost all purpose then, didn't you? You may have hated me—you still do—but I matter to you more than you will ever admit."
And isn't it so nice to matter? To be so hated that you strike fear into the hearts of people who were once by your side, who shared a home with you?
Mazzen was only the beginning.
"You will never be rid of that," Velcra says, almost gently. "But I wish you luck in trying."
When she releases Ilaria's hand, Velcra reaches first for the button that will take her back to her own floor. She refuses to move away, invading every inch of Ilaria's space for as long as she's granted such a thing. Much to her credit their eyes stayed locked, almost unblinking. Where Ilaria's face is carefully composed, Velcra is finally unable to hide her grin.
It just feels so right on her face. She's deserving of it.
When she backs away upon their arrival she smiles for real, like Ilaria is her first—and only—true friend. "And good luck with the others, too. They may not all be so forgiving as me."
It's difficult not to linger. What good fun it would be to shadow Ilaria all day long until someone finally pulled her away. There's power, though, in stepping off that elevator and remaining there until there's nothing left but a sliver between the doors, both of them still watching one another.
She may have lost the battle, but she's winning the war.
In fact, she may be closer than she even thought.
Rex Bascom, 13
District Five Male
Rex didn't think they would force him to come back here.
It's something to do with Ren, he's sure—fucking Ren and his too-pleasant smile and his fake demeanors and none of it's real, it's never real, he fucking ruined everything. Losing it on Ren wasn't a good idea. They have no idea what Rex would have done if the two of them were alone, and if Shoah thinks he's going to willingly talk about it she has another thing coming to her.
He's not worth Rex's breath anymore. Not many people are.
Shoah really isn't either, truth be told, but no one's giving him a choice anymore. Once he was autonomous, but that version of himself exists no longer. Rex is but a puppet in everyone else's little side-show, being dragged around by strings that were implemented there, he assumes, in those hours between being alive and being dead.
"What is it this time?" he asks, hoping that if he refuses to beat around the bush with it this conversation can end as quickly, and as smoothly, as it did last time. "I thought we didn't have to talk anymore."
Shoah laughs lightly under her breath. "I don't recall saying that."
Absentmindedly, Rex wonders if he could beat such a memory into her without the Peacekeeper outside noticing. Probably not.
He'll have to see if it's worth trying.
This time, however, she has no notebook. No pen poised between her unblemished fingers, tapping away in the brief periods when she's not writing something down. All of her looks more casual today.
"I'm sure you're aware that, at the end of the week, they will be allowing a great deal of you to travel home."
"I know. I'm not deaf."
"And they're not letting just anyone go home—you have to be cleared. By me."
"Cleared how?" he spits. "I didn't ask for a fucking shrink and I still don't want one. You can't make me talk to you."
"I wouldn't want to force you either, Rex," she says gently. "But in sending all of you kids home we want to ensure that we're doing it in the best way possible, setting you up for future success. We want to make sure everything is resolved, so to speak."
Ah, so this has to be about Ren, then. At least partially. He's not planning on resolving anything about that, then, unless it's with a hammer and Ren's skull getting caved in by the end of it. He wanted to once. That just means he'll have to try again. Then all of his problems will be solved, easy as that. Rex can go home and have all the future successes that he wants.
There was one boy he never got to. Abram, he recalls, a year his senior and so often behind all of the poking and teasing and jibes that sewed themselves into Rex's skin. He had been building up to Abram as the reaping approached, figuring that if he got chosen he could, in the very least, come back eventually to finish the job. On top of that, they wouldn't even be able to persecute him for it. How funny would that be?
Rex doesn't think the same rules apply anymore. He's a half-assed survivor and that doesn't grant amnesty in any sense of the word.
He'll just have to be careful with Abram, is all.
"What do I need you to say so that you'll sign off on it?" he asks. Rex is willing to play along if it means she listens—she will, if she knows what's good for her. He has little qualms about being careful with her, too. Abram won't be the only one he sneaks up on if she keeps it up.
"It's the same as before," she explains. "You can tell me anything."
"There's nothing to tell."
"So that's it, then?" Shoah wonders. "We can send you back home and support you and your father will be okay with all of it?"
Rex stares down at his lap, twisting his fingers around one another. His father has never been okay with it, not anything. He'll scream, still, and he'll curse Rex's name long into the night and his mother's, too. If he's lucky he'll live to hit twenty, rid the earth of the scum in Five that laugh at the sight of his face. If not his father will take the hammer to him, as well. His mother tried to leave and that's what she got for it. What will he do to Rex now that he's already taken off once?
It strikes him, then, that he's probably done for. The second Rex steps back into that house if he doesn't get his father first, his father will get him in return.
But his Dad loves him… right? He has to. That's why he did what he did.
"Rex?" Shoah prompts. He can't lift his eyes from his lap, fingers shaking against his thighs. "Is everything alright?"
He's going to die a second time. Abram is the least of his problems.
"Rex?"
He wants to break everything in here into a thousand little pieces. He wants all of this to be over, for the laughing and the teasing and all of their smug fucking faces to be so far away from them that he can no longer even imagine it.
"You can tell me," Shoah says once again. She has such concern in her eyes. Not once did his mother ever look at him like that.
Not once.
"He's going to kill me," Rex realizes, voice almost deathly silent. His mom made a mistake and he did, too, and now they're both going to go out the same way only no one will be watching through the crack of a door when it happens to him. Rex will die with his father's figure towering above him no matter how hard he swings back.
"Your father?" she asks slowly. "Why would you think that?"
"He already… he—"
"Did he do something, Rex?" she questions.
Rex shakes his head. His eyes are stinging. "Not just him, I… I did something, too."
Shoah leans forward, forearms braced across the edge of the desk. Rex knows he's being examined deeply, almost too deeply, but he can't even shy away from it. At least he's not a laughing stock, not being made fun of until the teasing voices are all he can hear when he tries to close his eyes at night. You'd think the cracking of someone's skull would overtake it, but even that wasn't strong enough.
Does Shoah really want to help him?"
Her eyes are still so gentle, so curious. "You can tell me."
So he does.
And welcome to 300k. What a journey we're on, but at least it's more than halfway over now.
Until next time.