day one, part one: come out and play
Like the latest fashion, like a spreading disease -
The kids are strappin' on their way to the classroom, getting weapons with the greatest of ease.
They have no idea what's coming.
Argenta can barely hold in her laughter as the countdown persists. Fifty-three, fifty-two… she can see the others stirring, so eager to spring from their pedestals and make a mad dash for the lodge's stockpile, all twitchy hands and roving eyes. It'd be cute, she thinks, if they actually stood a chance of getting there. Their little feet just running about in frantic circles, eager as ever to get from irrelevance to absolutely nothing at all.
(She, of course, is an exception to the norm. An exception to exception, even, 'cuz when Argenta Brandt decides to make a statement, she does it in a way that would put even some of the wildest minds to shame. When the cannons start boomin' and the blood starts rushin', she's gonna stand tall, smile, and do what she does best: kill. Kill anyone and everyone, kill indiscriminately, kill disgustingly, kill the kids that ask for it and the ones that don't, because she is a weapon of flesh and bone, every bit of her body taught to rend, heave, cleave and sunder. And she will not be irrelevant, not like everyone back home wanted her too. She's gonna be infamous. She's gonna be a threat.)
(She's already left a trail of bodies longer than anyone else here. Why not make the bloodstains on her skin even bigger?)
While Argenta's always loved the Games, even she won't deny that they can get a l'il boring. It's exactly the same, year after year: idiots rush in and idiots die, and it's super amazing but there's no room for novelty. Isn't the bloodbath supposed to be chaos? Isn't it supposed to be a time when the ground gets painted and the rivers run dark with the scent of death, when everything and everyone begins to lash out in fear, their usual reason abandoned in favor of their instincts, frantic minds howling at them to fight, flee or freeze?
Chaos is wonderful, but it's not s'posed to be predictable. If a murder match starts getting boring, it oughta be a hint that somebody's got a problem. Maybe with linearity. Maybe with branding. Really, what does Argenta know?
(That was one of the few things about Bruin and the Ring she couldn't stand - everything always wound up bein' predictable. Sure, they had their plans, their nice little organized ways of getting things done, but when push came to shove they never liked changin' it up. And don't get her wrong, she's not really the type to revel in spontaneity, but when you're a kid with hands as dirty as Argenta Brandt…
Being flexible helps keep ya alive.)
(Or, well, it helps keep other people dead, which is never a bad thing. Especially not in a place like this, where victory comes with a price of blood. Argenta's no innocent, and she's more than just good at wreaking havoc, but her love for murder and mayhem can only get her so far. People here are desperate; these kids are gonna fight teeth-and-claws for every scrap of their own sanity. And even though Argenta loves the fight, she's not a complete idiot, regardless of what some people might think.)
(It's like Bruin told her when she first started doin' hits. Desperation makes people dangerous.)
Forty-two… forty-one...
She grins.
Velezen's just one pedestal away, little twine balls resting in the palm of his hand. They couldn't carry too many without arousing suspicion, but they've got enough to cause a good stir, make the competition freeze and flee in abject terror. A few precise hits, a few exploding bodies… they wanted this year to be special, so it's only fair she start it off with a bang.
She slips her hand out from her pocket.
Thirty-two… thirty-one…
"Now!" She shouts, and Velezen tosses the first ball at the boy from District One, same time as Argenta lets hers fly toward the big guy from Ten, utterly oblivious to the danger he's in. There are heads turning, people watching her, and she doesn't shy from their attention, her stance high and proud as little orbs piano-wire twirl through the air, sparkling, glinting, glittering in the sun…
The world explodes in a mess of blood and guts.
Two cannons sound within the air as the mines around the pedestals begin to blow, sending the targeted competitors sky-high - or, well, bits of them, at any rate. Showers of red cascade upon the ground, little flecks hitting the side of Argenta's face and splattering all down her clothes. There are fragments everywhere, bits of bone, skin and viscera, and if she had more time she thinks she'd take a chance to splash in it. Opportunities to indulge her worst self don't come by every day, and Argenta has always wondered what it would feel like to dance in scarlet rain. There's something about it she finds kinda romantic, the thought of waves of blood washing over her, soaking through her skin to stains the brittle bone beneath…
Her ears are ringing. Around the launch circle, her competitors are starting to squirm, cursing and raving and screaming. She thinks some of them might even be crying. It's a far cry from how they acted before, so keen to just dismiss her and Velezen, write them off as lost fucking causes.
Look at the idiots from Five, trying so hard to rebel. Don't they know it won't get them anywhere? Don't they know they're just puttin' targets on their sorry backs, making themselves a one-way ticket to an early grave? Pair of loudmouths, pair of morons, they say they want chaos, but all they're really doing is yapping like a pair of feral dogs…
Argenta grits her teeth. She's never liked being compared to a dog. Plenty of people did it when she was running with the ring - guess that's what happens when you're a twelve-year-old working for a literal ganglord - dismissing her talents and her skills because they saw her as little more than Bruin's pet. It was no secret to anyone that knew him that the guy was still grieving the loss of his son. With one child dead and another under his grasp, they all knew she was meant to take the boy's place - be the child that followed in Bruin's footsteps, something his boy never got to do.
He hadn't been vicious. He hadn't been like Argenta, thirsty for blood and eager to kill, meant for violence even as a child. She was the perfect weapon, the perfect vessel for her chosen father's teachings, made to take every ounce of his knowledge and put it to use in his service. Lying, cheating, stealing, murder, torture - you name it and she would do it, if only for Bruin.
(She never meant to piss him off. She never wanted to displease him.)
(Everything she does, she does for him. Up to, and including, death.)
If she dies today, maybe it'll wipe the slate clean.
If she lives… he better start planning the Mayor's funeral. Once she's home, they can kill him together, then dance on the ashes of his ruined legacy. He'll be as dead as his precious Parker, as unrecognizable as that brat Jerome. It's his fault Bruin had to change things up, his fault Five believes Argenta is a patsy! She's going to kill him when she wins, damn him and everything else!
"Another!" She giggles, and snaps her hand back, her second ball sailing off toward the boy from District Four. A second too late, it seems to curve, knocking against a spot of air like it's hit an invisible shield. Argenta watches as the boy's eyes trail from her hand to her face, complete with a knowing smile, before the girl next to him gives a strangled yelp.
"Wait -"
The ball smacks against her face. Unable to keep her balance, she topples backward from her pedestal, caught immediately by the mines' wicked hold. She can't even finish her sentence before she's getting blasted, her body becoming a sluice of meat, flying into the air as heraldry for the signal cannon's inevitable bang. Down the line, Argenta watches as the girl from Seven disappears, similarly ravaged by a mess of blunt force and fire, little pieces of her spraying the face of the boy beside her, who looks both cruelly amused and annoyed by the attack.
"Dammit!" Velezen hisses, and Argenta can only assume he'd been aiming for the boy from Eight, not the nobody from District Seven. The countdown continues: six… five… four…
It's too late to change anything now. But she's got one more to loose on the competition - she's gonna make it count.
The twine orb goes sailing through the air.
Three, two…
It arcs high, spinning faster and faster, out of her control when it begins to drop.
One…
Zero.
Boom!
The twine ball clatters uselessly by the One girl's feet, the mines underneath her finally deactivated. She watches as it bounces off the side of her platform, then rounds on them with a glare. Murder rages in her eyes as she starts forward.
At her side, Zen begins to laugh, tossing his head back and throwing his arms wide.
"How's that for a show?" He demands, stepping from the plate and spinning about.
The next second, the Careers are on them.
The signal cannon booms, but Velezen does not move.
In the aftermath of their cannon heraldry, he and Argenta are still as statues, their skin painted red with the blood of their enemies. Mirth fills Velezen's lungs as he looks to his District partner, who stands beside him grinning like an imp. When their eyes meet, he begins to laugh, loud and raucous and unsettlingly hysteric.
"How's that for a show?" Zen calls out, throwing his arms wide. For a moment, the world around him dissolves into a kaleidoscopic image of blazing flames, arching shadows clad in robes of black. He spins around, the heat of victory rushing through his cheeks as he all but taunts the Capitol's audience. "Did I finally meet your fucking expectations?"
The anger begins to pour out of him. Blurs of khaki and black fly past him as he basks in it, fury surging up through his stomach and manifesting as bile in the back of his throat. He feels like he's going to puke.
(Is it pandering to play into the Capitol's game, to make himself their entertainment for the sake of his own survival? Does the reach of their desire for conformity extend even here, in a place beyond law, liberty and reason, and if so, what does that mean for Velezen? What will Five see when they look at him? Will the Order still revere a Solar King if the King's been made to bend the knee?)
"Shut the fuck up!" A voice snaps, startling him from his reverie.
Velezen turns to see someone stalking toward him, their hands balled into shaking fists. Light flashes from the corridor behind him and his esophagus grows tight when the shape starts to morph, darkness clinging to its body and bleeding through the corners of his eyes. A cloak seems to spring from the creature's back, no doubt a product of Velezen's stress-addled mind, and the shade begins to overwhelm, drawing closer, closer, and closer-still, until all he can see is Aurelio.
(Aurelio, with hatred in his eyes, envy enhancing his hits as he slams Velezen down. Aurelio, holding his athame, bending over his captive body with that god-awful smirk on his worthless lips, saying you were always weaker than me, not worthy of respect and definitely not of love, you worthless fiend -)
Velezen only just manages to open his mouth before Aurelio takes a swing at him, the blow catching him in the side of the head. Argenta's giddy cackles come to a halt as the nightmare tackles Velezen to the ground, knocking him flat on the sodden dirt.
A hand locks around his throat. He gasps as his head raises, the delirium of raging fire dissipating along with his lover's image. There's ringing in his ears, fingers scratching at the inside of his skull, and when Velezen blinks the dream comes undone. Aurelio turns into the girl from One, her visage pinched tight in throes of spite. Spittle flies from her parted lips, her movements animalistic as she hisses in his face.
"You ruined everything!"
Elysia pulls her fist back and slams it down into his jaw, the impact enough to knock Velezen's head back. She hits him again, and his nose cracks to the side, teeth tearing a chunk from the inside of his cheek as something in his head snaps. He grins up at her as another hit lands, one hand tangled in the fabric of her uniform. He can feel fluid oozing out of his mouth, from his flared nostrils down the sides of his face. The skin of his face is so terribly raw that Velezen wonders if she's done more than just beat him; for all he knows, she could be hiding anything up her sleeve.
"All my plans - " One punches him again. "All that fucking work put into getting an alliance together, and you just blow up my District partner? Who said you could do that? Who gave you the right to fuck with me?"
This time her fist slams into his gut. He can feel her knuckles jam against his navel as she twists her fist into the growing bruise, the organs inside his abdomen lurching around them in protest. Whatever she hit's enough to make his gut churn, maybe enough to make him vomit, but instead of spewing, Velezen just wheezes, mania crawling back into his lungs.
"You Careers… are a fucking joke…" he rasps, laughter simmering under his insult. He reaches for a clod of dirt and throws it up in One's face, but the motion of his arm is too slow. Elysia rears her head back before he can get at her eyes, grimacing as she turns her arm and brings her elbow down on his temple.
"Says the literal cultist," she spits as his brain begins to throb, ache spreading in through his nerves and down the side of his face to his neck. "How much would you bet that Five thanks me for killing you? The way I see it, I think I'd be doing them a favor, getting rid of the filth they spawned. Do you even care how much you've shamed them with your rebellion? Your family, your peers, your little circle of followers? They'll be dead because of you. Because you wanted to parade about and play rebel, when you knew full well what consequences it would cause. In my eyes, you're not just an idiot, you're a disgrace."
One grabs the collar of his shirt and hefts his swollen head from the ground. She shifts her position to straddle him, sitting astride his hips to keep him in place, then leans forward so she's looking him right in the eye. Behind the veil of her grey irises, Velezen can see a storm begin to rage, anger and venom at odds with the terror hiding beneath. She's not mad so much as she's shaken, but her fear is fueling her want for wrath, just like his own had on that final night in the compound… when Aurelio took advantage of his trust and tried to drive a stake through his arms.
"If you really think that, why are you so scared?" He questions, foamy red still leaking from his mouth. He smiles, and if he had full use of his hands, he thinks it might be fun to give One a salute - added insult to injury, something to that effect. Her lip curls, grip on his collar tightening. She's so close that he can feel her breath across his cheek.
"I assure you," she enunciates, "that whatever you think you see, it's not fear."
"So, if I see that your hand is shaking," he whispers. "What does that mean, then?"
Elysia relinquishes her hold. His upper body slips backward, shoulders and neck smashing into the dirt at the drop, their soreness no less painful than his head. "What does it matter?"
Velezen shakes his head. He pushes at her shoulders as she shifts above him, no doubt thinking about how she'd like to finish him off. Argenta's shouting filters through his ears, and he can only just make out her shape, running closer with an older girl on her heels - the girl from District Two.
A set of Careers, he thinks. Damn. I was hoping we might actually have a shot at getting out of this.
"For the record," Elysia murmurs, her voice dropped to a near whisper. "I actually did appreciate your plan. Hitting the mines before the gong sounded - it's unconventional, but brilliant. Almost makes me sorry I have to do this."
"Aw, One," Velezen says. "I'm touched."
He thinks of Theia, wonders if she'll be waiting for him on… well, whatever constitutes "the other side." Is there even such a thing as an afterlife, or will death consign him to absence, an eternity of drifting in an abyssal void, with no anchors, no feeling or thought or memory?
(He wants to believe there's more - not for his sake, but for hers. Theia deserves better than void. She deserved better than him, too. He should have been with her when she went. No, he should have died instead. He should have - if things were different - he wishes things had been different - !)
The weight on his chest disappears. Velezen's eyes fly open to see the girl from Eight hauling One up and off of him, arms wrapped tight around her arms and chest. One's kicking and shouting obscenities, but Eight doesn't seem inclined to listen. She looks past her shoulder and gives Velezen a wink, firing off a cheeky, "No questions, just go with it."
Another figure - the girl from Four, Maevyn, hadn't they just spoken on the hovercraft? - kneels at his side, sliding a hand under his back to coax him forward.
"Argenta -" Velezen starts to say, and she shakes her head.
"Nope, just Vynnie! But dontcha worry, Argie's got Two on the defensive. It'll all be over soon."
Velezen's smile is halfway to a grimace as she eases him into a sitting position. It'll all be over, he repeats to himself, grimace slowly morphing into a frown, then something else altogether.
"That's what I'm worried about."
The One girl's snarling in her arms, her body a mass of thrashing limbs. There's venom in her spit, hatred behind each of the kicks she aims at Cordura's legs, but for all her anger, she remains trapped - lashing out like a muzzled wolf, unable to do much more than bark and hiss.
Cordura won't lie - the sight brings her immense satisfaction.
She can't say why, precisely, that is; maybe because One's an uptight bitch. Maybe because she's so similar to Taffeta with how she carries herself, riding around on her high-horse and acting like she wants the world to fall at her feet when they don't owe her jack shit. Maybe because that sneer she wears is no different than the smarmy look Tartan had when the escort cried "Cordura Faux!" at the reapings, watching with glee as her life collapsed...
Her arms tighten around the girl's body, squeezing so hard that she's practically ripping the breath from her lungs.
"Fuck you!" One's head rears back, smacking against her chin. An ache reverberates up her jaw and Cordura clenches her teeth.
"No," Cordura grits out, blood on her tongue as her teeth sink into it. "Fuck you. You don't get to say shit like that to me, you ratbrained F-tier."
She doesn't let up her grip even as One rails on her, kicking and screeching and cursing up a storm. Not until she's dragged her far, far away from District Five, to a place where anger won't win her anything. Not against an even match. Maybe Cordura hasn't trained, but she's got force in her arms and her hands, enough to strike a man dead if she really wants. She's done it before, so she can do it again. One's not even half the size of daddy dearest. All it'll take is some brute force and a proper strike…
"Get off of me!" One screams as Cordura throws her back against one of the lodge's pillars, the force of the motion causing the wood to shake.
"Now? But I'm having so much fun," she says with a smirk, snapping forward and pinning the Career in place, her mismatched eyes delightedly gleaming. One's lip curls back as she bares her teeth. She punches out and Cordura laughs, shifting closer to bracket the other girl's body with her own intimidating form.
"Is that really the best you can do?" She smirks, utterly refusing to budge. Even as One's knee slams upward into her groin, and her hand smacks at her bent shoulders, Cordura stays perfectly still, a bastion of iron forged from years of torment and abuse.
She won't bow for One.
She won't let herself break. Not when she's taken worse hits than this, gotten so inured to the idea of pain that bruises and cuts feel like kisses in her memories.
If she closes her eyes, she can still feel it. The belt her father so favored lashing hard enough to leave scars down her back, Taffeta's hands tight around her aching throat… they thought they could shape her into their personal plaything, wear her down until all she was filled with was misery and complacency, but they were wrong. Cordura Faux lives for herself, not for the monsters that willed her to be.
(And compared to what they put her through, enduring One is practically child's play.)
"Hit me," she taunts. "Come on, One, harder! Aren't you supposed to be a Career? These are fucking love taps!" She smacks her hand into the wood beside One's head, feeling it splinter beneath her palm, sturdy but not without its flaws…
Sort of like her.
Her stomach drops. For the briefest of moments, the arena disappears. The sound of One's shouting starts to fade, replaced by the static of white noise buzzing inside her skull. She and Muslin are standing together, their backs against a wooden wall not dissimilar to the one she's facing now. Her palm is sweaty as she grips her sister's hands, so tiny and soft against her own.
Muslin wasn't a fighter. If anyone was to endure scrapes, cuts and bruises and burns and calluses, it would be Cordura.
She'd always done her best to protect her sister. No, not simply her sister but her twin - identical to her in every way, from their hair to their eyes to their dumpster-salvaged clothes. The only difference they'd had was temperament. Muslin was sweet and Cordura was vicious. Muslin was quiet but Cordura was raucous. She always had a snappy remark - a taunt, an insult, a question. It's why Challis hated her.
(She'd asked him that last night, after he was flogged and bloodied and beaten to a pulp, why he chose to kill Muslin. Why it was her twin, and not her, whose life he snuffed short, for though he claimed the choice to be random, Cordura could never be certain that it actually was. Sometimes, she thinks he wanted to punish her - all those sassy comments and furious hisses, her frequent nagging that drove him up the wall. Why did you kill Mama? Who was that woman on the step last night? Where did all the money go? Why do we have to burn our shoes? The leather's not really edible, Muslin says it gets cured. When you're at the casino, what do you do? Do you play cards like we do in the closet? Would you ever teach me? Why didn't you want me? Why do you hit me? Why did you try to cut out my -)
One's hand smashes into her face. The blow's enough to drive her mad, and before she can even move, Cordura slams her head forward, cracking her skull against the other girl's, with force hard enough to deafen her. She puts her hands on One's shoulders and tosses her aside, stepping back as her body goes flying, feet carried from under her and balance disrupted. She hits the wall and starts to sink, her dirty blond hair obscuring her face as she attempts to rise.
It's to no avail. No sooner has One raised her head than Cordura is kicking her in the jaw, her skull snapping back with such severity that Cordura wonders if she's actually killed her.
She hasn't - nothing can ever be that simple - but One's continued movement doesn't deter her from finishing her barrage, a kick in the chest, in the ribs, off the side of her hip. If she's going to answer One's aggression, she might as well do it with equal fervor. They're both unhinged, both angry enough to blaze a trail through the arena, and Cordura's just as eager as One to see the bodies start piling up.
"You look like him, you know," Cordura sneers. "All curled up and pathetic. You can talk the talk but you can't walk the walk, bitch. Start putting some money where your mouth is and fight back! Fight back! Fucking do it!"
Kick after kick is leveled at the downed Career, and kick after kick is endured, without comment, without pushback, without the slightest hint of perturbation. One looks up at her and Cordura can feel the contempt leaking from her skin, leeching off of her like it would leech off Taffeta, when Cordura had her in their bed, hands tied to the posts and her throat swollen with strings of bruises. She smirked even when Cordura dragged a switchblade down her chest, goaded her when she was at her worst, like she knew that no matter how bad Cordura pretended to be, she was nothing more than a caged animal. A little bird, pecking and screeching while it fluttered about, doing damage that never left real marks, because what power did she actually have?
Taffeta always said she would amount to nothing. When they'd sat in their filthy hovel together, watching the twenty-fourth recap on the half-broken screen, she put her arm around Cordura and hugged her tight, gesturing at tributes like Padma Youssef, Isabelle Harmony and Sevilin Verrillo with a smirk. "See, you could never do that. If you volunteered, you'd die in the bloodbath, no question about it. You're fucking weak, and the weak ones never win."
Cordura kicks One again.
I'm not weak, she thinks. I won't ever be weak again.
(Cordura Faux is the product of violence. She was born in it, raised in it, inured by it and damned to it. She refuses, however, to die in it.)
(Her reaping was supposed to be a death knell. But for all that she's wanted to die, she's never felt more alive. She's here, she's free... and she's ready to take the crown she rightfully deserves.)
(If society won't give her a place amidst its pages, she'll rip the bindings apart and carve a space out for herself. She's already done it once, under the guise of Spade Sinclair. Perhaps now she can do it as herself.)
(She's not weak. She won't lose.)
(And more than that… she won't let her father win.)
Elysia Ansaldi does not run from fights.
The song of battle lives in her blood. It's been branded upon her body through years of training, ingrained in her like a predator's instinct - sharp, demanding, impossible to ignore.
Running is weakness. Fighting is strength. The Games are everything you could possibly want, glory, wealth, honor to your District. You know your family could use the money - what exactly do you have to lose?
(My life, Elysia recalls thinking. She can't remember if she voiced her concerns aloud or if she kept mum, the way she normally did when confronted by the trainers. All she can remember is the way Trainer Rholagus tutted, how Trainer Veroge looked down at his hands, words on his lips he wasn't willing to voice.)
Everyone's heard about your… spat, with Ankara Lamotte, she remembers Trainer Myelis saying, her words clipped and pointed. Domestic violence isn't a good look for you. If you stay here, people will talk. A campaign for tribute could save your image… should you accept our patronage.
You're a promising cadet, Ansaldi. If anyone has a chance of winning this year, it's you. The outer Districts will be voting in the worst of the worst - some of them will be killers. Most are probably criminal. There aren't many trainees I could see standing a chance against that sort of crowd. But you… you're one of the best.
Elysia smiles faintly as she pulls herself up from the ground. Eight's attacks probably did some damage - she can feel bruises forming across her ribs, her guts groaning in protest as she struggles to right her body. The pain brings her focus - clarity that she desperately needs to bring her mind through the haze of frustration, wrath an obstacle she has no need for.
She's not one of the best. She never has been.
She's only here because she's just as bad as everyone else. Poisonous, malicious, rotten to the core. One likes to preach on their expectations for honor and glory in battle, but most of the trainers grew up rich; they've never been as low as Elysia.
They've never really been desperate.
And that's why she doesn't take another swing, even though Eight's bearing down on her, rearing her leg back for another kick. Elysia ducks, her knees bent as she crouches, and she pushes herself forward into Eight's stomach, tackling her back with a similar maneuver to how she'd pounced on Five, using the force of her momentum to take the bitch down.
Eight's taller. Eight's stronger. She's already proven that much.
Elysia's only advantage here is that she's faster.
She slams Eight's head down against the wood, lashes out with a precise hit at the hollow of her throat, enough to leave the other girl gasping and struggling for breath. It's not a blow that will cause serious damage, but it's a distraction, and for now that's all she needs. She bounces back up onto her feet, turns her back and rushes for the entrance to the lodge before Eight has a chance to pursue.
Careers don't run from fights. But Elysia Ansaldi's not really a Career, is she?
Her hands grasp for purchase on the frame of the large metal doors, the grey paint stained from water and speckled red, no doubt a result of the recent violence. Beyond the archway, Elysia can see a body lying on the floor, blood pooling around its broken head. She can't recognize his face; one of the outlier boys, maybe the one from Seven, though Elysia doesn't necessarily care to learn his identity. It's irrelevant to her; the boy's dead, and she's down another competitor.
Five and counting, she muses, her brow creasing as she steps past the body, then around it toward the cornucopia. Who's next? The girl from Twelve, the boy from Three?
She'd be surprised if they haven't already been killed, left as fodder for those who hold a thirst for blood. This year's lot is eager to fight; eager to maim and slay and brutalize, let the consequences be damned. Elysia's not sure she fits with them, but she belongs here more than Venice ever did. More than Ambrosia Salazar, or any of those pristine, icy, buttoned-up girls from school; more than Anka, her sweet, beautiful Anka, so soft and pliant and stable, her personality a yin to Elysia's yang. She could have volunteered, yes, but she wouldn't have gotten far.
She's too good for this place.
(And she's too good for Elysia.)
She won't let the others win. Regardless of the self-loathing she's carried with her for so long, she's here because she means to fight. One wants the Games to swallow her up, consume her whole and spit out the remains of her twisted ambition, the ambitions to slay, to beat, to destroy all obstacles in her path. She relishes control, perhaps more than the trainers, but they knew that she would always be beyond theirs. Sometimes she thinks her anger had scared them; she had been a top trainee, but most had always thought her uncouth and undisciplined.
(Why can't you be more like your classmates? Why can't you comply with graciousness, like Grey, like Ambrosia or Tallis?)
(You say you're honored to have this position, but your impulsivity shames us. The Games require diplomacy, not simply force and fortitude.)
Elysia scowls as she passes the first supply table, sparing nary a glance in its direction. A few things have been picked over here and there. She spies empty spaces where items are missing, clutter scattered around the open seats. Yet the mess belies no scavengers; she looks around the vicinity, the wide tables and massive pillars, but no tribute can be found in the open space, beyond those that are already dead. Beyond…
There. From the small storage room on the right; a flicker of movement, the shape of a shadow on the sun-lit floor. Elysia grabs the first weapon she can spy from atop the tables - a dented, but still perfectly useful sword - and readies it, confident in her ability to best whatever foe emerges from the doorway. She's already been caught off guard once today - it is not going to happen again.
"Show yourself," she barks, and the shadow freezes. The door creaks slowly open and out steps a familiar figure, his tall stature and mop of black hair easy identifiers for the girl who'd spent time with him through most of training.
"Kellen," Elysia says, relaxing her stance. "I assume you're responsible for what happened by the doorway?"
"Guilty," Kellen answers, shooting her a smirk. Elysia appraises the weapons hung from his belt, the knapsack over his back, large enough she's sure he's carrying at least a few supplies. She nods in approval, then cranes her neck to look behind him.
"Don't suppose our little friends from Six and Nine are with you?"
"As if," he snorts. "They bolted the second Venice's plate blew. Though I figure they'll be easy enough to track down - Tatiana's such a loudmouth, she'll practically be broadcasting their location."
Elysia smiles coldly.
"Of that," she says, "I have no doubt."
She looks toward the tables. Following Kellen's lead, she gathers up a few useful looking items - a multitool knife, a small orb she thinks is a compass, another sword to stash through her belt loops, ready for use whenever the opportunity arises. Then she snatches a pack, throws it over her back, and inclines her head back toward the doors.
"Come on. We've got to move."
Kellen's brow raises. "You're going to abandon the cornucopia?"
"I'm not risking a second round with Eight," she snaps back, her eyes narrowing. "Believe me, I don't like the thought any more than you do, but until we come up with a plan to reclaim it, we're currently at a loss. Ailith was getting her ass kicked by a twelve-year-old and Venice is obviously dead. We can't hold this place with just two people. More are going to come, and we might not be a match if they're in groups."
"So you can strategize when you really want to." Kellen says, and his tone is so sardonic Elysia wants to punch him. "Color me surprised."
"Just get your fucking bags," she replies, turning around.
She's not planning to be gone for long. Eventually, she'll be back - and whoever's still hanging around will regret camping in such an open spot.
A part of her hopes it'll be Eight. Her, Four, the moronic renegades from District Five. Any of them will do. The point is that she's got a vendetta to claim; with Eight, at least, she wants a rematch. This time on her terms, with no surprises. If it takes murder to teach some of this lot not to fuck with her…
So be it.
Pangaea can't help but feel like she's made a mistake.
Her hands are shaking as she begins rifling through the backpacks, nerves alight with anxiety. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have gone to the cornucopia, she should have turned and she should have ran, as far as her feet could possibly carry her. She wouldn't have supplies, but she'd have her life, which all things considered, is worth a hell of a lot more than some scattered junk.
That's what's in most of the packs, after all. Junk. Broken lighters, open packages of food, dented bottles and scratchy blankets. She's taken the bottle and the woolen coverlet - they're not damaged enough to simply discard - but she's not sure how much more time she can waste on perusing the contents. A few minutes? Seconds?
She snatches up a couple of the cracker packets, along with a loose-lying bag of trail mix. It doesn't take her long to stuff the food into her chosen pack, less still to sling it over her shoulder, hefting the black bag onto her back as she turns. The weight of it is significant, but not substantial - much to her delight. She'll still be quick on her feet when she heads out.
(… and with any luck, nobody will be around to catch her.)
"Ah -"
Pangaea gasps. Without hesitation, she spins around, bracing her body against the wood of the table to stop her legs from going numb. She should have grabbed a weapon. Should have, because no matter how little she wants to fight, she needs to be prepared to defend herself. Everyone here is a threat. She's alone, she's unarmed, and she's trapped within the heart of the chaos. Anything could be a threat here. Anyone…
Her jaw fixes in a firm line as she looks over the other tribute. She swallows, a wave of guilt washing over her as she takes in the girl's scared face, her big, dark eyes and her flushed skin, hair loose and wild around her face.
District Twelve, Pangaea thinks, her shoulders dropping. She's no threat. Just a scared kid…
A scared kid in need of help.
"Hey, it's alright," Pangaea offers her a shaky smile. "I don't want to hurt anyone; I'm just here for supplies. Okay?"
The girl blinks, staring at her open hands, the pack on her back. After a moment, she nods and starts to relax.
"Okay," she says. "Can… can I look with you?"
She… wants to look with me? Pangaea's brows lift in surprise. Is that… an offer? Would she want to -
"Why?" She asks, her voice betraying her shock. Twelve looks down, sheepish as she shuffles her feet, biting down on her lower lip.
"You're not… cruel," she whispers. "Not like Hollister. Or… or the others. You just - I think I could trust you. If that's… if you're okay with that."
Trust. She… trusts me?
Pangaea opens her mouth, her words practically breathless as she speaks once more.
"Yes. I mean - I'd like that."
Twelve smiles. Hesitantly, she stretches out her hand, fingers reaching for Pangaea's, still curled in against her palm. Pangaea starts to right her posture, then reaches back. Something happy swells inside her as Twelve links their fingers, and she can't help but squeeze her hand.
Maybe… maybe she can do this. Maybe, if she has Twelve…
"What's your name?" Pangaea asks quietly, and Twelve's mouth trembles, tears spilling down her cheeks as she steps forward, clinging to Pangaea's hand like a lifeline.
"C-Castia."
"That's pretty," Pangaea says, still smiling. "I'm Pangaea."
"Pangaea…" Castia repeats. "I like that. Do you think, um… maybe we could -"
Her question never comes. Pangaea freezes as Castia's shoulders arch, her body freezing mid-sentence. Red spills out from between her lips, dribbling from the corners of her mouth. Atop her khaki shirt, crimson flowers start to bloom, soaking the thin fabric straight through.
Her body tilts forward, collapsing against Pangaea, and all she can do is hook her arms under the girl's, desperately trying to steady her.
"No…" she whimpers, crystals clouding her red-tinged vision. "No!"
Her head raises as the girl sinks to the floor, the boy behind her grinning as he raises his knife, his incisors menacing as they glint beneath the light.
"Why, hello there," he says. "I must admit, you've caught me unawares. 'Tis such a surprise to know little Castia made a friend!"
"You - you're -" Her saliva thickens inside her mouth, the dryness of her tongue making it hard to swallow. Twelve raises his brow, waiting for her to finish.
She never does.
So he takes the initiative.
"Hollister," the boy greets, and his voice is so polite, that Pangaea's momentarily caught off guard. "I shan't call it a pleasure, seeing as I intend to dispatch you, but I suppose I am charmed. Do me a favor and keep still, will you? I find killing is far simpler when the prey doesn't struggle."
His smile widens. Pangaea shudders as she takes another step back, Castia's body slipping from her reach to fall still upon the floor, her anxious eyes now dead and cold. Her pulse flutters inside her throat, her lungs struggling to take in air she desperately needs. Hollister raises his knife, the silver blade still coated with undried blood - Castia's blood.
Pangaea can feel her nerves beginning to fray. The bag slips from her shoulder as she tries to steady herself against the supply table, her vision narrowed to a pinpoint upon Hollister's face.
"I'm not prey," she protests, feeling shaky. The boy from Twelve chuckles.
"Keep telling yourself that, darling."
That's all the warning she's given before he attacks.
The first strike is aimed at her neck; she can see the shimmer of ruddy metal as the knife comes flying, the grip of Hollister's hand around the hilt, clenched so tight his knuckles have purpled. Pangaea lets out a shriek as she dives to the side, the table's edge jammed into her abdomen as she falls, pulling with her a dozen worthless supplies. She hits the floor hard, the pack crushing her tension-filled back, the whole of her weight borne by her elbows as she tries not to collapse. From behind her, Hollister growls and she begins to shimmy, dragging herself forward by her beaten arms, trying to shelter under the open table. The seat catches on the back of her pack, and her head turns to see him bearing down on her, spindly hands snatching for her ankles.
"No!" Pangaea screams as Hollister drags her back into the light, her arm smacking against something warm as she attempts to twist around. The supplies in her satchel are digging into her back, sharp along her spine and shoulders. She feels something crack, but she refuses to give. Her left foot swings, back and forth, kicking upward at Hollister's head. "Let go of me! You're a monster, you're demented!"
She tries to sit up, her hands grabbing for his loosened shirt, fingers curling into wet fabric. Hollister drops her ankles, shoves her back as she tries to pull him down, and Pangaea whimpers as he stands over her. It only takes another hit before all the strength in her body starts to dispel, her head turning to look at the body, a body that had a name, a body that was too scared, too meek, too innocent to die.
"S-she was a kid," Pangaea whispers. "She was just a little kid…"
"Children die as well as anyone," Hollister says. "Take heed what I say, for I would know."
Pangaea reaches out toward the scattered supplies, her fingers grazing against a metal can. Her arm tenses as she starts to strain, clawing fervently for her last chance at survival.
It can't end here. Not like this. Not at the hands of someone like…
Someone like them.
Hollister's boot comes down on her hand. A ragged shriek tears itself from her airless throat and she begins to curl inward, her mind just as conflicted as her death grip on the cylinder.
Don't let go, don't let go… one good hit, it just takes one…
Why would they do this? Why would they leave me to die when all I've ever done is give to them?! I supported the Capitol! I lived my life following their rules.
"I was loyal!" She shouts. "I was fucking loyal!"
"All the more reason for me to steal your breath," Twelve says, twirling his knife.
Pangaea closes her eyes… and thinks of home.
For as long as Rhys can remember, it's been him against the world.
He hadn't had company growing up. Even as a child, Rhys had been alone, fighting for scraps in the halls of the orphanage and struggling with adults on the streets as they accused him of stealing, deriding him for his unfortunate clothes and his maddened eyes. Of course he's a thief, just look at the wretch! He's a rat, a vagabond, not worth the clothes on his back. Skinny little brat belongs in the gutters - not roaming around in uptown like he's got business being there.
He's pathetic. He's worthless.
(He's a slut, Rhys can hear Esme saying, her words scalding as she hurls them across the room. At his side, Silas remains still as a statue, saying nothing to defend Rhys from his wife's tirades, and nothing to elaborate upon her allegations. You ruined our marriage, and for what? Some skinny, useless, broken piece of ass? It's a disgrace, Silas. You're a disgrace.
He recalls how Silas' arm slipped from his waist, how his eyes closed as he took a deep breath, whatever traces of warmth there were in his figure utterly crushed under the weight of Esme's loathing. Rhys, go, he had said, and so Rhys went - just as he'd been asked, just as he was told. Silas didn't follow, so he didn't bother looking back.
Their relationship had been meaningless.
Everything had been meaningless.)
Some would call him a cynic for his quickness in dismissal. Rhys prefers to consider himself a realist.
People can't be trusted. Relationships aren't worth the effort given to sustain them. And as for Rhys Intarsia, the homewrecking heathen himself…
He's better off staying alone.
Always has been. Always will be.
No matter what people think or dare to say about his behavior, Rhys is no gold-digger, and he has no need for a partner. He's looked after himself for eighteen years. Even when the odds were against him, he persisted... and he survived.
His independence is what gained him a life in Three. So why, now, does he feel like giving it up?
Ten doesn't need his assistance. He hardly even knows her! Yes, he took a moment to speak with her in training - but only because she'd practically mowed him down blazing a trail away from the plants station. The words they'd exchanged were hardly enough to draw appreciation from the twisted husk he calls his heart. Though he'd felt sympathy when he looked at her shell-shocked face, pity's not a reason for provocation.
It shouldn't matter to him if she dies.
Ten's failures are Rhys' gains. She's not his ally - she's competition, and worse still she's a loyalist. Exactly the type of wealthy, insincere brat that he'd grown up hating, because anyone who supports the Capitol supports division. They were born of different ilk, and Rhys is sure if their positions were reversed, she would abandon him to die in a heartbeat. But…
He doesn't see a loyalist hiding under that table. He doesn't see a rich prick or a pampered princess - just a disgraced child ready to do whatever it takes to ensure her own safety. And that… that resonates with him.
He's been in her position. Fighting because he wanted to see another day. Railing against a world that he felt abandoned him, full-to-bursting with bittersweet anger. He'd had no worth before he became a whore; even his misfortune meant little to anyone, save for depraved clients who saw him in his orphanhood, his poverty and starvation, and thought to fetishize his traumatic circumstances. Rhys hated the majority of those he slept with, and he hated still that he catered to their whims for the vice of money - anything the rich wanted could be bought. His dignity, his sanity, his silence.
Maybe Ten's loyalty was bought, too. It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
He watches as Pangaea's fingers wrap around a metal can. Watches as the boy from Twelve steps on her hand, bringing his boot down with a practiced grace, clearly bemused by the thought of causing her pain. It's not enough to jar him, but it's enough to… rouse something. Frustration? Pity? Familiarity?
(Though Rhys does not know her so much as he would like to pretend, there is one thing he knows with absolute certainty, and that is this: regardless of how dissimilar they might seem, at her core Ten is no different from him. There's a fire in her that he can see now, more poignant than it was before. He'd thought it best when they met in training to reject her camaraderie on principle, because he could see no benefit in an ally without fight or skill. But looking at her now… being able to empathize with her, regardless of how little he wants to…)
He can't let her die.
No, correction: he won't let her die. At least not yet.
Making sure to step quietly, Rhys makes his way out from behind the wooden pillar, stepping around the scattered supplies and alizarin pools that litter the lodge's floor. Twelve is hunched over now, his waist bent as he leans over Ten, close enough to sneer and hiss without being perceived by onlookers. Rhys can only just see the firm set of her jaw, the tears glistening on her pale cheeks as she squirms, her head turning front-then-sideways, away from Twelve's cruel gestures. He's got his knife at her chest, poised above her left breast. Rhys wonders if she can feel the tip of it against her heart, ready and willing to run her through, shatter her as that Three had shattered him when they put him on that stage, their voices shaming him with the curse of his own name.
Her eyelids flutter open. She's looking at him. Chapped lips part around a wordless plea, mouthing out a hopeless "Help - help me - help me please -"
Rhys takes one step forward. Then another.
He reaches for one of the unclaimed backpacks, hefts it up with both his hands. He doesn't know what's inside, and he doesn't care. Whatever it is, it's not enough to kill, but he's sure a hit will be enough to stun, and that's all he really needs. A good hit. A moment of reprieve. Twelve's collapse, in lieu of his desired damage.
This time, when Rhys approaches, he does it quick. Raising the back over his head, he brings it down against Twelve's head, the hit sudden enough to unbalance him. He falls to the floor and Rhys hits him again, throwing the satchel down on his chest, then reaching for another and doing the same.
He's not going to kill him. Perhaps he could if he really wanted to, but for him, death is not the priority. He only wants to survive. And maybe… he doesn't want to be alone.
He's tired of loneliness. Rhys Intarsia may be a solitary creature, but there's a part of him that has always thrived under the eyes of others. Ten wanted him as an ally - she reached for him when nobody else dared, and in doing so she struck a chord.
He throws something at Twelve's face, then his pack-covered chest, his knees, his shins. At his side, Pangaea gets to her feet, rights her satchel, grabs another and slings it across her opposite shoulder. Rhys nods to her and she starts to run, away from the Twelve's madness and the broken body, impossibly small on the filth-covered boards.
"Don't come after us," Rhys warns, pulling back one foot at a time. "Don't look for us. You've done enough damage for one day."
Twelve throws the packs off, but his victory is far too late. Rhys follows Pangaea to the back of the lodge, his raw feet carrying him to the swinging door, faster, faster, faster still.
He has to run.
He has to go.
Him and Pangaea, they aren't fighters. Merely survivors trying to stay ahead amidst a society that's tried to damn them.
If anyone damns Rhys, it'll be himself. His mistakes brought him to the arena, and he may have made a mistake in rescuing someone with no love lost where he's concerned. He's still convinced he'll die before he makes it out of this hellhole, and for all he knows, Pangaea might be the one to kill him. But for now…
For now, they're allies.
For now, she's indebted to him. And if he can't trust her as a person, he thinks he can at least trust her to honor that.
It seems the madness is finally winding down.
Lethe watches in silence as the girl from Ten scrambles toward the door at the back of the lodge, the boy from Three hot at her heels. Hollister growls from his position on the floor, but his vitriol is lost on the fleeing pair, who do not spare him even a glance as they flee the battleground. A trail of blood marks their sorry path as one, then the other, slip free into the light of day, far beyond the reaches of Hollister's fangs - and Lethe's bloodstained blade.
"They will pay for this," the Twelve boy spits, and Lethe spares him a glance, his expression cold, bitter and unfriendly. Still, he has enough of a heart to reach his hand down and pull the mongrel to his feet, eyes roving over his soaked clothes and pallid face.
There's a cut running across his cheek, splitting the pristine skin in an almost ghastly way. Lethe reaches up to run his fingers along the cut, humming as he gently turns Hollister's head to face the wall.
"This is going to scar," he says simply, and - for added insult to injury - flicks at the wound before withdrawing his reach. Hollister winces, and Lethe nods at the bag resting on the leg of a nearby bench. The spoils of war are mediocre this year, but after spending months hiding in his District's sewers, Lethe's sharp enough to recognize their uses. "There's gauze in that one, and a flask. No antiseptic, but we can make do. I've heard certain types of moss are quite adept at leeching infection."
"As if I would deign to smear moss upon -"
"Deign or not, the idea has merit," Lethe remarks, halting his partner's sentence. He turns his back on the other boy, scanning the vicinity of the mess for any signs of life.
The Careers had wasted little time this year in cutting their losses. He'd call it a surprise, but after seeing the beating their leader took, he supposes the decision was not short-sighted. The girl from One had met her match…
… and said match stands just beyond two large, metallic doors.
He can hear them milling about beyond the walls; the girls from Eight and Four, the troublesome pair from Five. Based on Eight's previous interference, he can only assume that the four of them are now allied - something that does not bode well for himself and Hollister. Once Five is back on his feet, they're likely to make their way inside - and injured or not, two-on-four does not make for an even match. If they had more time, he might be able to lay a trap for their arrival, but as it presently stands…
They're better off taking their leave.
Lethe glances at the bench behind him. He's already picked through the Gamemakers' supplies; anything of use has been tucked inside the backpacks he selected. They're prepared enough to make an escape once the others arrive, and yet…
The supplies are not his greatest concern. No. That would be the boy.
He's got blood leaking from the side of his temple, soaking his pants where Lethe slashed his calves, hobbling him to the point where he can no longer run. With his crippled legs and bruised-up arms, he's not in good enough shape to struggle against Lethe's bondage, if he should even dare to try.
Yet in spite of his broken body and his… grievous injuries, the boy is far from dead. Lethe knows how to track blood loss, and Seven's is only significant enough to leave him unconscious - not kill him. The blows he struck were precise enough to be considered a work of artistry. It's just a shame that neither he nor Hollister are fit enough to carry him.
Seven's blood would have made a fitting gift for his ravenous pet, and he's certain Hollister would have lapped it up eagerly. Though he'd made transgressions in killing his stylist - and they are certainly going to be discussing that in greater detail, once they've gotten themselves settled - he's performed admirably today by distracting the others, attacking even the smallest of interlopers before Lethe so much as heard them approach. He's still not sold on the idea of partnership, but Hollister's been good… mostly.
Dogs that behave deserve to be thrown a bone in compensation.
(Lethe's sure the idea is inhumane, but he would have done the same for Mouse. Not for Tav's dog - that filthy bloodhound was trained to kneel at a peacekeeper's call - but he wouldn't have minded allowing his mutt to gnaw on a man's leg now and then, if he truly wanted to. Call it a prize for good companionship; as far as Lethe is concerned, that dog remains the only creature in Six that has any actual worth. He's quiet when he's asked to be, attentive when Lethe demands it, knows how to sit and fetch and rip at their enemies whenever such an order is made. Perhaps Mouse isn't entirely obedient, but Lethe doesn't need him to be - he's grown accustomed to being with that scrappy, little runt over the last few months, and leaving him behind was enough to stir melancholy inside him.)
(After so much time spent being reviled, he'd been glad to have congenial company. Though he'll never admit such a thing aloud, having a companion… a pet, one that was his and wholly his, not given to acknowledge any others… had been nice.)
(Mouse was a good boy. His good boy. His… friend.)
(For the time being, so is Hollister.)
Lethe twists his lip between his teeth. He doesn't like the thought of wasting a gift, after all the effort he went to procuring it… but all the signs are telling him that keeping Seven alive is now a futile gesture. The voices beyond the exit are drawing closer. Footsteps sound against olden wood, the boards under him creaking as those outside do the same.
Lethe looks down at his knife. He turns it over.
He raises it and quickly plunges it into the boy's throat, stabbing into Seven's carotid before dragging the blade to the side in an effort to sever his arteries. It's no spectacle, though the blood cascades from the gaping hole like water from a fall. The kill is quick and wholly efficient, not a second wasted on drawing it out. Lethe wipes the knife off on his pantleg, then stashes it in his chosen bag, fastening the flap closed over his gear. He pulls it up his arms, secures it in place on his back. Then he nods to Hollister, who remains still behind him, watching Seven's throat leak with a morbid fascination.
"I hope you realize," Lethe says, "I intended to save him for you."
Hollister's eyes widen just a touch. Lethe steps toward him and raises his head, looking him in the eyes with a blank face.
"Fill one of the canteens, then follow me through the back," he commands. "If you don't, I have no qualms about leaving you here. Though I should warn you - you'll be heavily outnumbered."
He lowers his gaze and steps back, brushing past Hollister without further comment. As he goes, he pats the Twelve boy on the shoulder, fingers trailing across his upper arm for reasons Lethe cannot rightly explain.
He knows, rationally, that he does not need Hollister. In fact, after his stunt during launch, keeping him close is likely to be more hindrance than help. Yet for some inexplicable, impossible reason, the thought of abandoning his bloodhound practically saddens him. They work well together… they both can kill…
Lethe drops his hand.
If Hollister has any sense, he'll listen to what's been said. If he doesn't, it's of little importance - the Games will simply be down another competitor. Really, he has no stake in the matter…
Ultimately, only one of them can win. Between the two of them, Lethe's the better option.
He's gone through life prioritizing himself. Why would he care to change that now?
24: Venice Bardineau, District One. Killed by Velezen Vilarys.
23: Vukasin Halvardir, District Ten. Killed by Argenta Brandt.
22: Morena Lectrion, District Three. Killed by Argenta Brandt.
21: District Seven Female. Killed by Velezen Vilarys.
20: District Eleven Male. Killed by Kellen Akos.
19: Castia Basalt, District Twelve. Killed by Hollister Crowe.
18: District Seven Male. Killed by Lethe Muralai.
A/N: Come Out and Play by The Offspring.
As of this chapter, the status check page has gone live on the blog - check there for states related to occurrences in the arena. Hopefully this bloodbath met expectations for y'all. I really appreciate your readership! Hit me up with thoughts, predictions, theories, et cetera - I'll see everyone in a couple weeks or so with the aftermath chapter!