The third day
Oliver actually wasn't having too bad of a time.
The first day was kind of rough, and hearing the cannons freaked him out, but other than that it had actually been pretty fun. He and Crickette had gotten into the library, an expansive room full of books. Oliver wasn't all that interested in reading, but Crickette's excitement about it was infectious. Soon they were both looking through all kinds of books.
"Hey!" Oliver called to Crickette, pulling a large book off of a shelf. "Guess what I just found?!"
The face of his ally, smiling, eyes bright, appeared around the corner of the shelf he was looking at. "What?" the tribute from District four asked.
Oliver showed them what it was. It was a very vibrantly-colored book with the title, TWINKLE PINKLE'S JOKE BOOK FOR DUMMIES.
Crickette giggled. "That one looks like fun! Look at this comic book I found!" They showed them the cover, which had an attractive man on the front cloaked in black. The title, in red letters, read, PHANTOM.
"Woah, that's awesome!"
"You look like him!" Crickette chirped happily.
Oliver's ears went red. "You think so?"
"Oh yeah!" You could totally dress up like him. The art style's really neat and it's super action packed!
"Does he have a peppy young sidekick?" Oliver asked, grinning. "Perhaps one that wears a white hat all the time?"
"He has a sidekick, but no, he doesn't wear a white hat." Crickette flipped the book open. "That's him. He's the Scarlet Feather."
"You could pull that off," Oliver said, and they could. The sidekick had freckles and bronze hair like Crickette. "I guess you'd have to tuck your hair, or cut it."
"I've always wanted to cut my hair," Crickette sighed dreamily. "My parents never let me because they thought I would regret it too much."
"Well, they're stupid."
"I know. Until I can have it cut, I guess I'll just tuck and pretend."
"Nothing wrong with that," Oliver said, and Crickette gave him an energetic smile.
"Tell me a joke from that book now!" Crickette said, bouncing happily on their feet.
"Why would I do that?" Oliver asked, causing his ally to blink in confusion. "I'm a man of the night, I don't tell jokes!" Oliver proclaimed boldly, causing Crickette to burst into giggles.
"Not even one for your incredibly peppy sidekick?" they asked.
"Don't be absurd, Feather," Oliver said. "We're saving the world, now is not the time for jokes!" Oliver put his fist out like he was flying and started running, weaving in and out of the shelves and making whooshing noises with his mouth. Crickette was still laughing as they quickly followed him. Oliver jumped up on a table, putting his hands on his hips. "Power Pose!" he said happily, and Crickette hopped up on a table and imitated him, standing tall with their hands on their hips and their chin up.
"Prepare to die evildoer!" Oliver's voice boomed, and Crickette chimed in with a, "Yeah!"
Soon, they both collapsed at one of the tables, panting and laughing together.
"I wish… We had capes!" Oliver panted, laughs escaping between sharp breaths.
"Me too!" Crickette said, laughing and panting. "You do a really good Phantom though. Super dramatic."
"Thanks," Oliver said, laughing. The pair caught their breath, grinning at each other across the table.
"Want some water?" Oliver asked, pulling the canteen out of the backpack.
"Yeah, sure," Crickette said. "But we probably shouldn't waste too much of it."
Oliver remembered that they had a limited supply. He sighed, but they both took one brief sip before putting the canteen away.
"Good thing you don't care about getting my cooties," Oliver said. "We'd be in trouble."
Crickette laughed. "Cooties don't exist," they said matter-of-factly. "I hang out with my older brother Angler and his friends all the time and I've never once heard the word cooties spoken."
"Ah, I see. How old is your brother?"
"He's seventeen. Like you."
"Oh, so you just naturally get along with seventeen-year-old boys," Oliver teased, and Crickette giggled.
"Yeah, I do. What about you? Do you know a lot of fifteen-year-old girls?"
"No, actually," Oliver said, laughing a bit. "In fact, I think you're my first fifteen-year-old friend."
"Well, I am mature for my age," Crickette said, flipping their ponytail, causing Oliver to laugh.
"I'm actually the youngest of my family," Oliver said. It was true. He was kind of in a weird position because he was the youngest person of two divorced parents, and both of them wanted to see him a lot. Both of his older brothers had already moved out, so the living situations for them weren't weird, but Oliver's was. He was constantly going back and forth between houses. It wasn't exactly ideal, but that was life. If that was how he kept his parents from coming near each other, so be it. Every time they were together they argued. That was how Oliver learned how to ease tension with a joke. And, because they were both his parents, they were always obliged to laugh at his jokes, even if they weren't that funny. So it wasn't all bad. Not to mention that he loved to visit his brothers in their apartments. "My oldest brother Lodge is twenty-five and Corrado is twenty-one. They both moved out."
"Really? That must be so weird."
"Eh, it's quiet, but that's life."
"It must have been nuts, growing up with nothing but older brothers for company," Crickette teased.
"You'd know," Oliver teased back, and they both laughed.
"How about a joke from that book now, Oliver?"
Oliver grinned. "Alright, alright. Give me a random page number.
"How about…" Crickette grinned. "Sixty-nine."
Oliver rolled his eyes, but laughed. "Alright, fine." He flipped the book open to said page. "Let's see…" He skimmed some of the jokes on the page, but most of them were either really lame or really cheesy. "Hm… What do you call a cow without legs?"
"You would know, Cowboy," Crickette teased. Oliver laughed at that. It was honestly probably a funnier answer than the actual one in the book.
"Ground beef."
Crickette laughed a bit. "Wow, that's dumb. What else?"
"I bet my brother a hundred dollars I couldn't build a car out of spaghetti."
"That's a dumb thing to bet on," Crickette commented, eyes alight with amusement.
"You should have seen the shock on her face when I drove pasta!"
Crickette gave Oliver a look which made him laugh. Sometimes, disgruntled reactions were more fun than laughing. They reached across the table, so he gave them the book. They held it up over their head and threw it across the room.
"Wow," Oliver said, but he couldn't help laughing at the sight.
"That thing belongs in the trash. How is it we can make fun of a joke book?" Crickette asked, grinning at him.
"Maybe we're just too funny for a stupid book," Oliver said, grinning.
"I think we definitely are."
"Want to look for something better?" Oliver asked, and Crickette nodded quickly. They had been exploring the library ever since they'd gotten here, and this was nothing but fun for them. It was like an uncharted isle. Oliver barely spent time in any library, after all, and from what he gathered about his ally, neither had they. This was a fun experience, even if neither of them were very intent on reading any of the books that were here.
Soon, they'd separated again, both of them taking a different area to explore. Oliver was having so much fun he totally forgot where he was. He looked at the books, many of them old, torn, and faded, probably to keep up with the whole creepy old house thing. He pulled out a couple with interesting titles, but when he saw they were novels he quickly put them back. Oliver liked to keep it light whenever he could. That was how he coped with adversity, after all. Keeping it light and fun.
"Oo! Come look at this one I found!" Crickette said cheerfully.
Oliver looked up, realizing that he'd lost his ally in the mess. "Where even are you?" he asked. He started to look around for Crickette, waiting for their response.
Suddenly, he heard a gasp and a thumping noise. Oliver looked up, eyes wide. He had no idea what that was, but part of him wasn't sure he wanted to.
"Crickette?" he asked quietly, his heart dropping to his chest. Probably just another of her dramatic games, he thought, biting his lip nervously. It has to be. "Crickette?" he asked again, his voice significantly quieter as he slowly rounded the corner, looking in each aisle between shelves.
Oliver stopped cold when he heard a cannon boom. His heart started to pound in his chest as he got more frantic. Had someone come in the room when they weren't looking!?
"Crickette!" he said, voice getting louder as he panicked. "This isn't funny anymore Crickette, come out now please so I know you're okay. Crickette!"
Oliver turned the corner and the sight he saw made him gasp as he froze in pure shock. His ally was there alright. They were there, collapsed on the floor, body at an awkward angle, a wound on their back pouring out blood that was staining through their shirt to their jacket.
Oliver's mouth was agape in horror. Crickette was… Dead. Someone had killed them.
Oliver had no idea what to do. He couldn't make himself move, he couldn't even make himself breathe. All he could do was stand there, stand there like an idiot frozen in shock at the sight of his ally, his friend, his goddamn friend, just lying there and… Bleeding!
"Now you're really Scarlet," he blurted out, which made him laugh a little bit before clapping a hand over his mouth. He didn't mean to say something like that, but that was how he coped with tragedy. Oliver felt a sinking feeling as he ran away quickly, he ran as fast as his feet could carry him away, weaving through the shelves, trying to escape the horrible sight of his fifteen-year-old ally lying dead on the ground because he hadn't been paying attention.
Oliver found some beanbags in the back corner of the room, where he quickly collapsed, the tears pouring out of his eyes. He couldn't hold them back anymore.
He knew he was a horrible ally, a horrible friend, a horrible person. He had tried so hard to hold it together for his parents' sake, to show them that he still loved them and cared about them, even though they were going through this time in their lives. He was their rock, both of them, their sunshine, the one constant in their lives, and he had to fill that role all the time. He never once complained about being passed around like a hot potato, because he didn't want his parents to feel bad or like they failed him. He didn't let it out to his brothers because they didn't have very much time together anymore and every time they were all together, Oliver just wanted it to be happy all the time. He had become so used to being happy all the time that sometimes he just felt like a fake-ass robot that always coped by making people laugh so they wouldn't see his negative emotions.
Now, though, he just couldn't stop it. He couldn't stop the tears from pouring out of his eyes. He felt like the blood was on his own hands. It was his fault that this happened. He was the older one, the stronger one, he could have protected Crickette if they were both together. They could have fought together. Crickette didn't even have a weapon. They were totally innocent, unarmed, just having fun, and it was so fast that they didn't even get the chance to fight back.
Oliver had no idea who it was that killed Crickette, but he fucking hated them. He hated the monster that would dare do this to someone so young and sweet and full of love. Crickette was innocent. They weren't related to rebels, they weren't hateful or rude, they never once made a single person angry. They were just trying to live their life to the fullest, and some bastard came around and just… Just killed them! And Oliver had just let it happen.
Just minutes ago, they had been laughing together, and now… Now she was just… Gone!
Oliver sobbed loudly, not caring if he could be heard. His heart pounded as he started to hyperventilate, gasping for air between sobs. His entire body was shaking as the tears kept coming. Oliver sat there and cried, sobs escaping between sharp breaths. This had all happened because of him!
"I'm so, so sorry Crickette," Oliver sobbed quietly. "This is all my fault!" He tried to get control of himself, stop the tears. They were pointless, and they would just put his guard down. Maybe the tribute that killed them was still in the room. Oliver's heart pounded at that, his entire body quivering in fear. He wasn't ready to fight anyone. He hated the person who had stole Crickette's life away, but Oliver wasn't ready to take anyone's life. He couldn't help it, though. He couldn't stop crying, he couldn't stop gasping and hyperventilating, he just couldn't stop it. His heart was in too much pain to even comprehend. He felt guilty, angry, sad. He wasn't ready to calm down yet, dammit! They had so much to live for, so much waiting for them back home and just like that they're just… They're lifeless and dead! Goddammit, they were fifteen! He hadn't even been there to fight for them! Hell, if they hadn't spoke right before it happened, he wouldn't have even known anything was wrong!
Oliver knew he should try to breathe, try to calm down, but he didn't want to. Horrible allies and friends like me deserve this pain, he thought, clenching his fists tightly as he quivered and sobbed. He was nothing but angry at himself for letting this happen. They deserve to cry till they pass out, they deserve to feel sorry as fuck and know that this was all their fault. That's what I deserve. I deserve to be miserable. I deserve to be helpless and wonder what I'm going to do without my ally.
Oliver squeezed the beanbag in his fists, but it didn't help. Nothing would help. Nothing would ever help. Nothing would ever make Crickette come back. Nothing would ever make their death not his fault.
He deserved to pass out from sobbing. He deserved to feel lightheaded until the whole world went black. He did this to Crickette. He deserved all the pain and sadness he was feeling because he let this happen to them, someone so sweet and kind, someone with so much potential to do good in this world. And he'd joked over their body.
Oliver Wilson knew that he deserved everything that was happening. He deserved it all, the pain and sadness, the regret, he deserved it all. Oliver had one last thought before he passed out, curled into a ball on the beanbags.
I deserve to die.
.
Malthe's hand shook as he gripped the door handle tightly. He clenched his teeth and tried to stop shaking. He was well-rested and ready to go. He was an older tribute, he was strong from working in the fields, and he had done everything he could so that fate would be on his side. He was completely in control. He had to get home. For Hillevi, if not for anyone else.
The Capitol promised riches to the Victor, right? If Malthe was the Victor, he could spend money on better health care for his sister. Not to mention he could bring his family out of poverty caused by the war. Nobody would have to go hungry. He couldn't help but want that. Who wouldn't?
The only way to end this was to kill people. Malthe had realized that the first night, when he'd killed a twelve-year-old. He had to, though. It was kill or be killed, after all. And Malthe wasn't ready to die. He couldn't afford to die. His family needed him. He held them together, he kept Folke and Flemming from arguing, and he raised morale when spirits were low. Malthe didn't want them to have to find a way to live without him. There was still so much he hadn't done.
Malthe took a deep breath and slowly, quietly pushed the door open. He wasn't arrogant enough to think that he could take on any tribute he wanted, especially when some of them had paired or formed groups. After all, he was only one person, he didn't exactly have the advantage of numbers.
Malthe slid out of the door, staying against the wall to make sure nobody could sneak up on him from behind. He was officially out in the open. And that meant that he was officially at risk. Not that he wasn't at risk before, he was just especially at risk now.
The boy from District Seven took a deep breath, as quietly as he possibly could. The hallway was dimly lit, so he couldn't see very far in front of him.
He knew he couldn't just stay there against the wall forever, but he had to take a second to calm his nerves. His hands were still shaking as they clutched the wall behind him, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He had to be ready for a fight with anybody at any time.
Malthe briefly considered going back to the kitchen again, boarding up the doors, continuing to hide, just for a little while longer. But these Games weren't going anywhere. Someone had to take a life. Malthe figured he was already guilty, what would be different about doing it a second time?
He just couldn't make himself move, though. He was frozen. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he was just asking for death. Maybe he was going to get himself killed doing this. He took a quivering breath and almost retreated, but shook his head slightly. He couldn't. He had to keep this going. He had to do whatever it took for him to get back to his family. He was the one that was in control, and he just had to remember that.
He took a quivering step forward, as quietly as he possibly could. He just had to make one kill. Then there would only be… seventeen left. God, that was still such a high number. How were they supposed to get down to just one? Six deaths was already enough for Malthe. That was a fourth of the people whose names had been called at the reaping.
He clutched the knife he got from the Cornucopia tightly in his hand, holding on for dear life. It was his only defense against someone else that wanted to steal his life away. He walked slowly, not sure which door to open. The dining room was on his left, it was connected to the kitchen and he knew that there were other tributes in there. The bad news was that there were two of them, and only one of him. He didn't want to take them if he didn't have to. On his right was a staircase. Malthe didn't want to go up. Not yet. He knew that some of the power players must be up there, and he didn't want to risk losing his life by going up. There was another door, but Malthe had noticed that the dining room had two doors when he was there last, which meant that the closest room that he wasn't sure about was the first room on the right.
Malthe stepped and heard a creaking noise, and froze. He looked around, heart pounding harder, breaths shaking slightly with fear and adrenaline. Luckily, though, there was no response. It appeared as if none of the other people, what were they called, tributes, were particularly intent on ending the game quickly. Hunting. No, hunting was an ugly word. That wasn't the word Malthe wanted to use. Even if… It was probably the right one and somewhere in his heart, he knew that.
He slowly pulled the handle to the door, as quietly as he possibly could. He wanted to have the element of surprise if he could, especially considering he had no idea who could possibly be behind the door. Maybe it was no one. Maybe it was the hulking boy from District Twelve. Malthe couldn't be too careful.
He pushed the door open slowly and quickly darted inside, keeping his back against the wall.
Malthe looked around, his eyes widening at the sight. It was a library. But this wasn't like the small, shabby library from back home that was set on fire when the bombs dropped… This was… Absolutely spectacular. It was huge, and beautiful, with towering shelves that almost reached the ceiling full of books. There was probably a little bit of everything here. Malthe couldn't help but wonder if they had comic books like the library back home.
The library back home had exactly four different comic books. Many of them were ripped and torn, one of them was even missing an entire page, right in the middle of the action. Flemming never seemed to care, though. Every other Tuesday after school when they were younger he'd drag Malthe and Hillevi to the library so that he could return one and pick up another. Even though he'd read them all so many times, he still had unmatched excitement when library day came around. Folke never came with them, truth was he never cared much for reading, but Malthe and Hillevi always liked to go. Sometimes, they'd stay and read, sometimes they'd just go, check out books, and go back home. Malthe had no idea how he could continue to be so excited to have something he'd already read so many times before, but that was passion for you. Malthe probably didn't understand because he had never really gotten the chance to find a passion.
Malthe snapped out of it quickly. He knew that he absolutely couldn't afford to get lost in his thoughts now. He had to stay focused on winning. Thoughts of home were good food and encouragement, but when there was a possible battle happening, he couldn't afford to be lost in his thoughts. He looked around, staying close to the wall. There was a pretty chandelier hanging over the room, which gave a warm light that was much better than the eerie, dark halls. He was out in an open area of tables, so he quickly ducked behind a bookshelf. There were so many of them, this would be a great way to sneak up on any others.
If there actually were other tributes, of course. Malthe was starting to consider that maybe there weren't any. That was, until he heard a voice.
"Oo! Come look at this one I found!" it chirped happily. Malthe took a deep breath. Knowing what was going to happen, his heart pounded.
"Where even are you?" asked another voice. It didn't take long for Malthe to place it as Oliver from District Ten. The boy had made sure everyone knew what he sounded like. He was constantly cracking jokes, practically yelling. It was probably just his goofy nature, but it was probably more of a weakness from anything.
Before the fifteen-year-old from District Four could answer, though, Malthe spotted them. He knew he had to be quick to prevent a scuffle with the older, strong-looking boy from District Ten. They started to respond, but all that came out of them was a surprised shock and a wet gasp when Malthe plunged his knife through their back. They hit the ground at an awkward angle, their eyes still wide, lifeless.
Malthe immediately started to escape. He knew that he could have fought the District Ten male, but he didn't want to risk it. He had no idea what Oliver got from the Cornucopia, and it definitely could have been a weapon much worse than Malthe's tiny, crimson-covered knife. Before he even saw Oliver's face, Malthe had run away, closing the door behind him hastily. He looked around the hall, but not for very long. His heart was pounding as he ran back to the kitchen, not caring how heavy his footsteps sounded.
Another canon boomed as Malthe slammed the door shut, panting. His heart was still pounding and adrenaline was still running through his veins. He stared at his knife, which was still dripping with the blood of a fifteen-year-old, a person who was younger than Folke.
Malthe took some deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He quickly crossed the room and washed his weapon in the sink, gulping down water and trying to remind himself why it was necessary that every last one of these people died.
He wiped some of the sweat from his forehead and decided to eat something. Surely that would help with the shaking. He could only hope. Getting some food in his system did make him feel better, and soon he had stopped shaking.
He made sure the door was tightly barricaded, just in case, and slumped to the floor.
Seven had died. Seven had died, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for them, it wasn't enough. It wouldn't be enough until twenty-three were dead.
Only one would remain.
And Malthe was going to fight to make sure it was him.
.
A/N: Whoops, almost forgot this. I'm so sorry Crickette T.T But also I'm hype to start giving arcs to characters that were nothing more than bloodbaths in the first draft, which is super fun! :D
* CQ: If you were a portrait ghost in this house (based off of Luigi's mansion, haha), which room would you want to haunt? (Basically if you had to spend eternity living in one room which would it be?)
