XXIX. Nerves Of Steel

O'ercome the cruelty that bars me out
From the fair sheepfold, where a lamb I slumbered,
An enemy to the wolves that war upon it.

Everything is going according to plan.

It's been over a day, and virtually nobody has bothered him. Not even Atlantis, who's been notably, more mopey than usual (if that's even possible), but that's certainly something that Icarus can live with. So long as she stays out of his hair, or at the very minimum, as far away from his hair as possible, there's not a problem at all.

Their alliance has always been based more on shared productivity than interpersonal connection, and Icarus considers that a good thing. So often in the Games, people have fallen apart because they simply got too close with their fellow competitors. Ludovicus Jornmark and Haymitch Abernathy would've been much more effective victors if they didn't have their ties to Cyra Terranova and Maysilee Donner, even if the former made the smart decision to cut her down. People he'll eventually have to slaughter aren't friends. Atlantis Seasbane is not Icarus' friend.

(And neither was Lethia.)

(Icarus St. Augustine has never had a friend before. His mother told him people were meant to be used, exploited until no longer possible. Life's about keeping friends close and enemies closer after all; that's much easier when you don't have any friends to begin with. Aelia promised him, he'd be free to have friends once he won the Games, but at times he wonders if that'll even be possible. As soon as Icarus is crowned, he'll be placed on a pedestal, elevated above everyone else in One. It'll be hard for him to trust people want him for his personality instead of his social status then.

There were so many opportunities where Icarus could've actually formed connections with people. The boy Asher who he convinced not to apply to Valhalla because the Games would traumatize him, Alaban and all of his junkies, Lethia, but it's too late for all that now. Maybe he'd feel bad if his mother wasn't so proud of him whenever he used somebody else to get to the top. Whenever he was just like her.)

But anyway, the Games are going well. Even with just a single kill under his and Atlantis' belts, Icarus is confident their end, or more importantly his end, isn't coming soon at all. The girl from Nine was just their first morsel of prey, and the two of them will emerge from the dust as bonafide predators.

It's just a matter of when.

He saunters back and forth amongst the pews of the cathedrals, yesterday's cadavers pushed against the walls so he doesn't accidentally step on one. Kind of rude of them, he thought yesterday evening when it was clear the corpses wouldn't be removed from the arena via hovercraft as has happened during previous Games. Though maybe that's because the cathedral is indoors and it would be pretty difficult to get a hovercraft inside it. It doesn't matter to him anyway. The only hovercraft he'll leave the arena in is the one escorting him to his official victor duties.

"We should explore this place," Atlantis says from across the open room. She's hunched on the ground with a worried look on her face. Or maybe frustrated is the better word for it. Icarus took Atlantis as his ally primarily because he knew her utter bitterness and spite would come in handy for him, and so far that theories proven itself right.

He nods. "Definitely."

It's a rather large building, and there's lots more to explore besides the room with the cornucopia and the balcony from above. While some doors lead to the outside, others lead to extensive corridors that he hasn't ventured to just yet.

"Take this." Atlantis hands him a spear with a freshly sharpened tip. "I don't think anything will happen, but just in case."

"Just in case," Icarus repeats her, gripping the spear beneath his fingers. Atlantis cautiousness is another thing he enjoys about her. Even if she's demonstrated some volatile tendencies in training, she's taking the Games more seriously than anybody else would've.

He points to the door behind him, and Atlantis nods, so he begins walking towards it. The footsteps ringing in his ear are a sign she's following him; good. When he steps into the first room, the first thing Icarus realizes is that it's without windows, and therefore it's much darker than the main room. In fact, he can barely make out what's in the room once Atlantis shuts the door behind the two of them.

"Don't worry." The sound of Atlantis' voice in what was formally a void of nothingness admittedly startles him. "I bought a flashlight 'cause I had a feeling it could be dark in here."

With a slight click, she switches on the flashlight, illuminating the room with a soft yellow glow. The walls are lined with booths, each fitted with a wooden bench and steel pillars for a door. Carefully, Icarus tries lifting one of them open. Thankfully, it slides upwards with ease.

"Hmmmmm." Icarus hums in a low voice, prompting Atlantis to move the light in his direction. "You know, if we could figure out how to weigh these bars to the ground, we'd have successfully found ourselves a place for trapping people."

"And why would we do that?" She questions him. "Are you suggesting we create our own prison of sorts?"

Well, it sounds a lot more cruel when you put it that way, he muses. Icarus just thought that having a dedicated array of cells for those who cross the two of them would be a worthwhile investment. That way, they could just lock people up before they kill them, which would make the whole thing way easier. Or they could have a bit of fun and… never mind. There's no need for him to be excessive, even if that's what his mother would want.

"Do you have a problem with it?" He scoffs, his voice sounding more harsh than he intended. "Because if you want to talk about morals, I could easily say—"

"I don't!" Atlantis cuts him off. "I just question the effectiveness of solitary confinement in a killing pageant." She lifts the chains herself, then gently lets them sway against the ground. "I mean, if you wanted to though. We could probably bolt these down. Though we don't have screws or anything."

He bites his lip and nods. Softly, he inhales, exhales, and pauses for a second to think. Atlantis is definitely not wrong when she says there's little practicality to the cells, but it certainly doesn't have to be that way. Finally, he asks her, "Did we have rope in the other room?"

"We did, why?" She quirks a brow upwards.

"I have an idea of something we can build," Icarus answers. And it's easy too. They've got more than their fair share of bladed weapons stored, so it would be easy enough to spare one and attach it to a rope. Once that's done, they can suspend the contraption to the top of a gate, and then if somebody trips, chances are they'd be decapitated. "Let's just say, we're changing directions."

"Don't be coy with me," she stammers. "I want to know what you're doing before I agree to do it."

Icarus rolls his eyes. He hates that she's rightfully suspicious of him. "Makeshift guillotine. An easy trap that still gets things done."

She offers a menacing smile. "I like the way you think."

Atlantis pushes open the door beside them and rushes back with four backpacks in her arms. Icarus asks her, "What're those for?"

"They're basically empty," comes her reply. She lifts up the gate and tosses them inside the small booth. "I figure it'll be easier to lure people inside with them. The only think they're filled with is beef jerky. Not much, but enough that it tempts people to walk closer, and them boom!" Atlantis clasps her arms together with a dramatic clap. "Off with their heads!"

He giggles. "I like the way you think too."

She seems to take well to that compliment based on the way she smiles before unraveling the rope and tying it to the handle of a machete. She pulls against the rope and watches as it gets closer to the ceiling. "No offense, but I'm kind of a genius."

"You are, you are," Icarus says, walking over the rope to examine her successful handiwork. "Now it's just… another matter of waiting."

He hates to say it, but he's so sick of waiting. If patience is a virtue, Icarus wishes he could be the devil himself, but no, he must wait. His mother said he must always wait before he strikes. And so, he masquerades around the cellar until his shins brush against a wooden object.

"Give me some light." He gestures to Atlantis who shines the flashlight closer to him, revealing a chest. Carefully, Icarus unlatches the hinged lid and smirks at what he finds. "Atlantis, I believe we've struck gold!"

He reaches inside the chest to lift up two feathered pairs of wings and straps that resemble those on a backpack.

"Do you think they're real?" Atlantis asks, reaching over at one of the pairs.

He walks outside the dark chamber and fastens them to himself. He takes a deep breath, then begins levitating as he exhales.

Atlantis chases after him, her jaw dropping when she sees him several feet in the air. "Holy fuck…"

"You try!" Icarus enthuses, mimicking swimming strokes with his hands and flying in circles.

She straps the wings to her back, giggling once she begins to take flight. "This is fucking brilliant!"

It sure is, Icarus muses. And now that he's got his contraption and his wings, the Games are a mere matter of trying not to fly too close to the sun.

Mozi is… well, fucking pissed to say the very least. That really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone by now considering grudges and spite make up a large portion of her mentality, but today she is especially perturbed, and there is nobody to blame for that besides Judas Nazario.

She knew what she was getting when she welcomed her into her and Malin's little alliance; he's petty, easily jealous, and just as full of himself as she is, but that doesn't invalidate her anger at all. When she ran off from home to become her own woman, she decided right then and there that everything she feels is correct, even if ethically speaking, it really isn't. Mozi's aggravation with Judas is no exception.

He's far too… hasty in spite of being injured, and that fault in his pragmatism is enough to unnerve her a considerable amount. But, maybe that's her problem, not his. Ha— who's she kidding? Mozi Hongqi is fucking flawless (well, except for the ruthless murder and deep-rooted paternal issues and the whole megalomania thing), just ask her. Judas on the other hand… well…

At this point, Mozi has several options with him. Perhaps the easiest and the most simple one would be just… murdering him, since he's already weak, but that isn't the most practical choice at the moment. If it's just her and Malin, then they can no longer call themselves one of the larger alliances in the Games, which would put them at a disadvantage if they ran into the same trio from the bloodbath. While Judas is probably the worst fighter out of the three of them, his physical bulk can't be undermined. He's built like a wall, and worst case scenario, he can be collateral damage.

Still, treating a human being as a meat shield isn't exactly ethical. Mozi knows that she isn't ethical either, and the Hunger Games certainly aren't either, but still, this would be an extreme, even for her. It's one thing to kill a stranger, but to be passive about the downfall of somebody she still somewhat considers a friend is a whole separate issue. But maybe it's what she has to do in order to win.

She told Rangani in the justice building that she'd do whatever it took to get back to her. She promised her lover, "Nothing's too extreme for me. I'll do it if it means I get to see you. I'll burn that whole arena down just to see your face for five minutes once more." That's a promise she intends to keep, so why is she suddenly so torn up?

(Because she was her father's collateral. She took falls every night so that he could someday fly. He sacrificed her safety for his own success, and she doesn't want to morph into somebody just as bad.)

She's not though, right?

(Yes I am; why can't I fucking admit it. Everything would be better if you just admitted you're as unhinged and greedy as the man who raised you in his image. You're not a good person, Mozi. Quit pretending you have morals when you so clearly don't— you killed a twelve-year-old, for fuck's sake. Who cares if he was annoying, he was a fucking child, and you fucking killed him. Your father never killed a child. Your father never used you as a meat shield. Who are you to claim you're not the villain?)

Her father was never in the Hunger Games. Her father was never in her current shoes, dressed in a white shirt stained with bloodied proof that she'll never be close to normal again. Being normal's overrated; that's what everybody says these days.

"We're leaving now," Mozi announces to Malin. "It's time for our scavenger hunt."

Their manic smile turns into a face of worry, lips moving in a nervous panic. "That still sounds pretty harsh, I'm just saying— well, not saying, but you get what I mean."

She smiles slightly and nods her head in amusement. "I already told you that we're not killing him, silly goose. Would you prefer I call it a scavenger adventure?"

Malin's smile returns, and they give her a thumbs up.

"Well, then scavenger adventure it is!" Mozi enthuses, grabbing a bag off the counter and slinging it over her shoulder. "I have a knife packed away in case he tries attacking us, but I'm keeping it hidden for his sanity. You should consider doing the same."

They nod and grab their own bag, lifting up the flap ever so slightly so that Mozi can see the knife tucked inside. "Well, we should be good to go," they mouth.

She walks by their side and instinctively grabs onto their wrist. Even though Malin is the furthest thing possible from somebody who needs protecting, Mozi can't help her urges to do so. The kid can't speak after all; it's the least she can do. She somewhat hates how fond of them she is though. This wasn't supposed to happen, yet she's somehow attached to a human dumpster rat, and she gets the feeling there's no going back.

What would Rangani think? Of course, she'd tell Mozi to snap out of this odd platonic infatuation, because that's not going to help her in the arena. The arena isn't for friends, it's for Mozi to reclaim the glorious life of her dreams yet… she can't help herself, and that honestly sucks.

The two of them trek through the underground village, peaking behind rocks, benches, and trash cans in hopes of finding Judas, yet they continue to be unlucky. Her feet begin to ache, probably due to the uneven walking surface, but she's too stubborn to actually complain about it. So instead, Mozi continues searching, looking into the windows of small shops and being disappointed each and every time.

"Do you think he left the mountain?" Malin taps her on the shoulder and moves their lips to ask.

She sighs. "Possibly? But I don't really know where else he'd go."

"Um…. Like, everywhere else in the arena, duh." They giggle at their own response.

"Fair enough." Mozi continues looking around the area. "It's only been maybe two hours since he left though. He couldn't have gotten far, especially considering he's injured."

"You make good points." They tilt their head to the side. "Or, he's faking his injury. Yesterday he wasn't, we literally saw it, but maybe today he just wants sympathy."

Is he really that much of an ass that he'd fake an injury for attention? Yes. Yes he is, fuck.

Why does Mozi even care this much anyway? The fact it's taking the two of them so long to find the bastard should be an indicator that chasing after him for the sake of using him is a bad fucking idea, and yet…

Maybe it's yet again, Mozi's pride that's holding her back. Nothing surprises her anymore.

"That would be fitting for him," she responds. Again, she turns around. As if this time will be different and Judas'll be magically standing there. Idiotic of her. Idiocy's something Mozi can't ever afford, no matter how much money she has. To be an idiot is to be successful enough that you can just fade into complicity, and while she yearns for millions of dollars, she'd prefer it without a side of ignorance. But then again, beggars can't be choosers.

She takes several steps again, then pouts. "Yeah, we're not finding him today."

"So should we just let him go?" Malin mouths.

Mozi sighs. I don't know what the fuck we should do, my friend. Not with Judas, and definitely not in general. Everything would be so much easier if she truly was the cold-hearted bitch that people said she was. Her life wouldn't be this utterly miserable if she wasn't so willing to treat her loved ones like she treats herself, yet it is what it is, and Mozi's beyond changing.

"I guess so." She hunches her back over in defeat. "Which means it's just the two of us now. How do you feel about that."

"Not great." Malin moves their lips then rolls their eyes. "I was at most a few days away from Judas spitting in my mouth and letting me call him daddy, but we both know you won't do that."

"You're fucking deplorable," Mozi laughs. A drop of saliva leaves her mouth, so she rubs her hand against it and huffs. "That's fucking disgusting, you know that."

"Fuck yeah I know that," they mouth, their eyes widening. "Why else would I want it?"

"Oh Malin, never fucking change." She earnestly smiles, then crosses her hands.

Oh Mozi, never fucking change. Don't let yourself become your father, good lord, please don't. Please, let yourself enjoy this. Let yourself have a friend.

But she never does anything for her own "enjoyment." Business is business, and when push comes to shove, Mozi Hongqi will be forced to become a shark. She just doesn't know if she can handle the inevitable blood in the water, and whether or not she's willing to be the one who bleeds.

In the arena, everything is the same as it was before.

In the arena, his demons once again take the leading role in his mind, and Beowulf Haleot is still trapped in the cage that life has bound him in.

The only difference is, there's a crimson coated sword in his hands, and when he looks at his reflection against the steel, his shirt is painted the same color with blood. The veil of innocence his stylist carefully dressed him in has been tarnished by his own actions, and now he's forced to live with it.

(It's either the bloodied shirt or no shirt at all, and Beowulf prefers to be clothed whenever possible. The nightmares of looking in the mirror at home and having his mother point out the way his ribs stick out through his skin are still fresh in his head. Even if he's gained a fair bit of weight in the past year and a half, Beowulf is scrawny compared to all of Two's previous volunteers. Agility doesn't mean a thing when he's still forced to remember the protein shakes his mother forced him to down, hoping they would be enough to make him look physically intimidating. It's as if she never quite realized, her son is doomed to never be enough. At least in her eyes, that is.)

The boy from Eleven wasn't even the first person Beowulf killed in his eighteen years. That was back at Raleburgh when he was no older than seven and one of his Trainers took him into a dark room, clapping him on the back even though he was clearly nervous.

"C'mon Haleot, this is going to be great!" The instructor says. Beowulf's never even met him before, or maybe he has, he just doesn't remember; all the brutes in Two look the same. "Don't even worry about any of it."

He glances at the longsword in his hand and nervously smiles. Don't worry. You're going to be great! His instructor's words echo in his head, yet they do next to nothing to actually sooth him.

"Do I have to?" Beowulf wants to ask, but he doesn't, because he already knows the answer is "yes." They warned him the previous week that he'd be taken into a room to kill someone if he wanted to progress to his second year of training. At the time, he said it was fine, but now? Now Beowulf isn't quite sure he can do it.

His mother told him that kill tests are an "incredibly important" part of training, and that she did the same thing when she was a kid. Obviously, he needs to make her proud, and she even said that she'd take him to get ice cream if he did a good job. Beowulf's always liked ice cream almost as much as he likes making his mother proud, especially if it has cherries, sprinkles, and of course, plenty of whipped cream!

"T-thanks for the reassurance," he stutters instead. The trainer shuts the door behind him and turns on a spotlight to reveal a bald man in shackles on the ground. "Is this h-him?"

The trainer gestures at the man, "Sure is; go at him, Haleot! I believe in you."

Beowulf doesn't think that this practical stranger actually believes in him, but the thought is nice.

What's less nice however are the purple bruises that line the man's pale skin, and the crooked smile on his face with five of his teeth missing. There's a hole on the left side of his head where he should have an eye, and a jagged scar runs across the side of his cheek. Beowulf doesn't even want to imagine what happened to him before he was sent to this room. He jeers even though the chains severely restrict him and he's forced to grunt with every movement. The man jerks in Beowulf's direction. He doesn't even get close, but the desperation in his voice is enough to make Beowulf flinch. "Please… please, little boy. Please save me."

"Don't listen to this hoodlum," the trainer instructs him. He stands by Beowulf and wraps his beefy hands around his little ones. "Let's just raise the sword like this, okay?" He draws the sword behind Beowulf's shoulder and points the blade sideways. "You ready?"

"Yes." Beowulf lies. His hands are sweaty and the beginning of tears are forming in his eyes. A single droplet drips down the side of his cheek, and when he opens his mouth, he's greeted with the salty taste of his somber on his tongue. I can do this. I can do this.

I can't do this.

Reluctantly, he takes a step closer to the man. I have to do this.

The man furrows his brow and grunts, "Save me, you fuckin' pig. It'll be so easy, and I won't hurt you. I promise."

(His mother made the same promise to him, and he's still not sure she's going to keep it.)

"I-I'm sorry…" Beowulf takes a deep breath, grinding his teeth together as he pushes out the air. He squints his eyes so he doesn't have to see the atrocity he's about to commit.

Another deep breath, and he swings his sword from left to right, the blade immediately digging through the man's neck.

He hunches over and coughs, bile and blood foaming at the corners of his lips and phlegm spat against the ground. Beowulf turns around so he doesn't have to see the man die, but the trainer turns him right back around and says, "Give him another swing, buddy!"

Beowulf nods, then again raises his sword. This time, he aims his swing towards the back of the man's head, his flesh peeling off from his spine as his head droops forwards towards the ground, and Beowulf is left holding a sword soaked in blood and skin and standing over the disheveled body of somebody he just killed.

He blinks his eyes to rid them of tears as the trainer wraps him into a hug. "You did it, Haleot! That wasn't so hard, right?"

"I guess not…" The pressure of the hug soothes his anxious heartbeat.

The trainer releases Beowulf and stares at the corpse he produced. "You sure did give him a beating, didn't you. I'd say he deserved it."

Beowulf croaks, "W-what why?"

"He had a son the same age as you, my friend," he responds. "And I say had, because he drowned the little guy in his own blood right now. Hence why he was put on death row, and you well… sure did a good job executing him."

Oh…

From that day on, Raleburgh began to teach him that some people simply deserve to die. The kill tests went on year after year until Beowulf was completely numb to senseless slaughter. They said it was so that he'd be "ready for the Games" or whatever the hell that meant, but they failed to acknowledge one thing. The people he was forced to kill in Two were rightful pariahs. They were the lowest of society's scum, and if anybody ever deserved to die, it was them. But in the arena? Beowulf's forced to cut down literal children who have done no wrong, and all for the sake of "glory," a word he's no longer sure he knows the meaning of.

Every single day of his life has been for the sake of patriotism. Every injury he sustained, every sleepless night in anxious misery was for the sake of District Two, for the sake of Panem, for the sake of my mother. And now that Beowulf's here, now that he's in the thick of it all, he isn't sure what anything even means. He's supposed to die for the sake of a country that refused to let him live in the first place.

He let his entire life go to waste to train for a glorified genocide, and now there's so many things he's afraid he'll never get to experience. He never had a friend who genuinely liked him without wanting to take advantage of him. He never had the safety of knowing he was enough, no matter what happened to him. Beowulf Haleot spent eighteen years without anything at all, and the worst thing is, he can't feel anything but numb.

This is supposed to be his dream, or at least he thought this was his dream. All the adversary of his life was supposed to come to an end the second the arena gong rung, but instead it just lead to more. It just lead to dread and hurt and the fact that when push comes to shove, it doesn't really matter what becomes of him.

If he dies, he's just another stone in Two's enormous grave, and he wins, he'll never not be stuck in Ludovicus' shadow. How would he have ever predicted that his best of times would turn out to be the worst?

How was Beowulf supposed to know that the weight of his guilt would be already crushing him alive just two days into the Games?

Most importantly, where does he go from here?

Up. Because that's the only direction Beowulf Haleot can travel in if he wants to touch the stars. It's the only direction he can go if he wants to be his own man instead of the collateral damage of his mother's misery.

So that's where he'll go.

(It's better than being six feet down.)

He's spent the past twenty-four hours with a gun in his hand, shaking and squirming whenever his fingers get too close to the trigger.

It's a familiar device, one Simeon never thought he'd see again. He's not tempted to use it, of course he isn't, but its presence is the furthest thing from soothing. How odd is it that a machine meant to protect people is the leading cause of his dread?

And why does Ascot seem so frightened whenever he gets too close to her?

Fuck. Simeon knows why, and it's his fault— because when is it not? While he's able to justify his actions at the bloodbath in his head (Ayala was going to kill her, roughing her up was the only way to prevent it), he knows how scary he can be when he's angry. He hates how scary he can be when he's angry.

(When he returned home from his tirade at the bar, the first thing Dinah told him was that he looked different. Simeon's face was as red with rage as the bloodstains on his shirt, but he considered it worth it. He'd done it for her, yet instead of feeling relieved, Dinah just seemed disturbed.

He tried to explain himself to her, but time and time again, Dinah would just deeply sigh and say, "You didn't have to. I would've been fine."

But to Simeon, she wouldn't have been fine. To him, she deserved justice in the highest form. She deserved vengeance on the people who wrecked her, and shooting them dead was the easiest way to get it. Instead, Dinah was plagued by survivor's guilt, even if she was the only person worthy of surviving.)

The thought of his family watching him lose his temper is terrifying. They already saw him storm off in anger with vein's popping out of his head once, and he had hoped they'd never have had to see it again. He knew when volunteering that the idea of hurting people again would likely cross his mind, but Simeon didn't think he'd give in to his emotions so easily. He didn't think it would just take a slight shove to set off the bomb living inside his head.

And it was one of his own too. He saw somebody from District Ten, somebody who he'd already destroyed mentally, and he didn't even hesitate to physically ravish her. Even if he didn't cause her death directly, Simeon's soul is still painted black from sin.

He tried to sleep for at least a few hours earlier in the day, but his brain was plagued with nightmares. He couldn't stop thinking about Ayala's mother who had already lost her husband, now losing a daughter, and the fact both crimes were attributed to him. He couldn't stop thinking about how afraid of him she must be, and how afraid his own family must be that she'll come after them in vengeance.

Simeon's here to protect them, but now he worries they'll be worse off instead.

So of course poor innocent Ascot is afraid of the monsters living inside his head. Anybody in their right mind should be, so why is Simeon unable to make them disappear.

Their conversations have lessened throughout the day, because Simeon doesn't even know what he's supposed to say to her. He can tell that she wants him to leave, but he has no idea where he would even go. And he's supposed to protect her, which he can't do if he's not with her. But he already tried protecting her, and that just made her afraid.

District Ten was right, Simeon Coello deserves to die. He's a problem to everybody he comes across, so why does he even try? He's an open flame, and anything that gets too close to him is ultimately destined to burn.

Ascot's destined to burn if he doesn't stay away.

Because it's only a matter of time before Simeon get's angry again, and now that he has a gun, he isn't sure he can promise that he won't let it fire. He doesn't want Ascot to suffer because of something he did again. Associating with him is just a set-up for failure, and Simeon doesn't want to be the reason that she fails. If anybody deserves to be punished, it's him.

And so, he places the gun on the glacial ground, and sighs. "Ascot?"

"What do you want?" Her tone is somewhat somber. It has been the entire day, like she's afraid that if she makes just a single misstep, he'll go off on her with all his rage.

"I don't want anything." Simeon's hands begin to sweat despite the cave's cool climate. His whole body shakes with dread as he tries to take deep breaths, but finds that he can't. "I just wanted to let you know, that I think I'm going to leave in a bit. I think it's best if we part ways. I'm sorry."

She tilts her head in confusion. "What do you mean? I thought you were sticking by me until the end. Or at least… for the foreseeable future. Please don't tell me you suddenly stopped caring about me just like everybody else."

"Oh my fuck," Simeon stutters. He grabs Ascot's shoulders with his hands and pulls her closer to him. "I'm leaving because I care about you. I'm not somebody who's safe to be around. You saw me in the bloodbath, you know the sort of anger that I'm capable of."

Ascot nods her head. "I did, and I already told you that I understand it, but it was still very scary."

"I know, and you don't deserve to be afraid." He rubs his hands together for warmth, then places them on Ascot's cheeks. "I'm not trying to guilt you, I promise. I just, don't want you to get hurt, and being with me is a liability."

"So is being a thirteen-year-old girl," she remarks.

Am I being stupid? No… He reassures himself. She'll be fine. Ascot's a trooper, and if I give her enough supplies, she won't need me. She told him she could do martial arts decent enough, and while Simeon doesn't know what "decent enough" means, it has to mean at least something.

"Not if you have this." Simeon lets go of Ascot and picks up the gun. They both shake as he hands it to her and sighs. "I'm sure you know that there's only one bullet in here, but that's better than no bullets."

"You expect me to shoot someone?" Ascot quirks her brow. "Simeon, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm protecting you," he pleads. He rummages through their supply bag and holds up an arsenal of knives. "And if you already have used the bullet, you can use these. But also, the gun itself can be used as a bat. If anybody gets near you, you'll be fine. I swear, you'll be fine."

She still doesn't seem convinced so Simeon continues, "And you won't even have to worry about food either. I'll go find some for you and bring it back every day. The only thing different is that I myself won't be there, which just means you're less likely to get in trouble. Trust me, this is a good idea."

"I trusted you when you said you wouldn't get angry, and look where that got me." Ascot points at her black eye. "Actually, maybe it's better if you leave. Maybe you were right; you are a liability. Don't worry about getting me food, I'll be fine on my own without you."

Is she trying to guilt me, he ponders. Her expression seems serious and confident though, so maybe she's being dead serious. Simeon didn't expect hearing his insecurities recited to him by a thirteen-year-old to hurt this much.

"Let me get you food," Simeon begs.

"I already told you, I'm fine." Ascot stomps her feet against the ice. "Just go, please. I'll be fine, just like you said. I promise."

He sighs. "Alright then, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize," she scoffs. "I know you're going to find food for me anyway, so I'll see you when you do. Just, don't do something that gets me killed, please."

"I won't," Simeon says, and he means it with his entire chest. "I promise. Goodbye Ascot, I'll see you tomorrow, I hope."

And with that, Simeon leaves. He doesn't run away; he doesn't let his anger consume him with his steps. Instead, he just walks, turning his head over his shoulder once to see Ascot pouting on the ground with the gun in her hand. She looks just as disheveled as she did when Simeon first talked to her during training. The only difference is that she looks more scared, and that's all because of him.

"She'll be better off without me," he whispers to himself as tears fall down his face. Everything is better off without me. If only it didn't take this to learn it.

Once he's far enough away from her that she can't see him, Simeon sits on the ground and puts his head in his hands. He's so fucking tired of being the problem, but maybe now he'll finally be the solution. If his retribution leads to Ascot succeeding, it means that everything he's done was actually worth it.

Please, let it be worth it.

Y'all thots really thought that somebody was going to die this chapter, didn't you? Silly gooses, you're all so fucking silly. Maybe somebody will die the next chapter? It's been a hot second, hasn't it. Or maybe I'm just edging you yet again. I'm a whore, I can't help it. If this chapter stressed you the fuck out, congratulations! That was sort of the point.

Oh, and I'm sorry for the two week gap between chapters. I moved back to college which required packing, and then I thought I'd be able to write in my arrival isolation (fuck Covid) but instead my computer decided to fucking break, so I had to take care of that. Y'all probably knew all of that though, I was definitely vocal about my anger on Discord LOL.

I hope you enjoyed the conclusion to a tense second day in the arena, and probably the most peaceful it'll be for a while over here in heaven. The next chapter is going to be a bit longer than this one because more shit needs to happen, but I will do my best to get it out sooner than last time.

Fuck this shit and y'all's children, I'm out,
Linds