III: March: District Three.
You just can't differentiate between a robot and the very best humans.
So this is what the real world looks like.
No euphoria or elation. No feelings of being safe and warm and well-protected, as if encased in the most plush blanket created in all of Panem. No peace.
Just reality—ugly, bleak, soul-sucking reality.
Sloane doesn't like it one bit.
To see it unfiltered after so long is like waking up from a centuries long dream, unwillingly, yanked away from it by cruel hands. The Peacekeeper's gloves, shiny plastic digging into her elbows and the track marks lining her forearms as they dragged her from the pen and dropped her onto the stage. The prep team poking and prodding at her whilst her skin had burned like fire, goosebumps prickling along it at the same time.
And the pain. Muscles aching, stomach spasming. It hurt more than anything she could ever imagine.
She had last shot up the morning of the reaping with the last full syringe that she had gotten from Muze the week before—she had money in her pockets when they put her on the train, money to go buy more after the fact. If that was the last morning, then this is the seventh day. A week of cleanliness.
It felt like ten years.
Now she was here on this podium, in a gray-silver-blue atrium that spanned several stories above her head, all modern rooms and sleek, angular edges. A place where the best and brightest scientists of Three would go to do their research and build their projects. It wasn't like Sloane had ever been in any of those places, but she suspected they looked something like this.
The most blissful thing she could come up with was that no one was looking at her—it was as if Sloane was invisible, unseen by the twenty-three companions that rose up into the room with her. Of course she knows why. She was the addict captured by the throes of withdrawal, curled up under a bench in the training room with an Avox hovering over her, holding a bucket just in case she vomited up whatever bile was left in her stomach. It was no different to being on the streets of Three. No one looked at you. No one cared.
When the gong finally rings, it's the same. They start running, fighting, collecting supplies. Sloane is left to stand there like some sort of dunce without a clue as to what's going on. She may not be the brightest bulb to come out of Three, but she knows some things. Enough to step down and forward six paces, leaning down to collect the machete that seems perfectly ripe for the taking. It feels a tad too heavy in her hands, weighing her down. She'll need something smaller.
But not now. Now there is someone running towards her, more than likely past her, and Sloane only has one choice.
She is not going to die. She can't die.
Her arm flashes out, the machete with it. The faceless figure skids halfway past her and flies forward into the ground as she flays their neck open, blood raining to the ground in a thick, heavy arc. The thud of the body hitting the ground is somehow louder than the panic, the chaos. It's loud enough to be a car crash.
Sloane doesn't stare long enough to make out any details—it's not like she would know them even if she did.
She shakes herself, starting forward once again. It's easier, she realizes, to not know any of these people. If she's so scared to die, then they all have to go instead. Killing a stranger whom she has no connection to is the preferable option—while they all wasted time forming attachments and relationships, Sloane spent her time in the fetal position on the floor. Who knew that it was all for the best, in the end.
She's nearly to the mouth of the Cornucopia, now. Either no one has seen what she's done, or they haven't seen her at all. The blood on the machete's blade may as well not matter—it's like one of her half empty paint tubes, or the dregs of a now-empty spray can rattling about.
Sloane has no idea who is trying to take the horn, if anyone is. She has no idea about anything.
All her eyes can focus on is the boy just in front of it, arm halfway fitted through the strap of a large backpack. He's about ready to flee, and the look he gives her is almost relieved.
She's not a threat. She could hardly stand a few days ago, let alone fight. What's she going to—
If he truly was thinking it, Sloane stops it. She plunges the blade forward, where it sinks into the soft skin of his stomach; he folds around it, body turning inwards. This time, when she hears the resounding scream, Sloane knows it's directed at what she's doing.
Being a monster is only as scary as you let it. Sloane will learn to live with it in the aftermath.
She wrenches the backpack free from his arm and leaves the machete in its place, grabbing the much smaller knife that clatters from his hand instead—it fits better in her grip, doesn't weigh so heavily on her shoulders. Her eyes flit over the corpses that lay scattered around the main room, yet she doesn't find the perpetrators.
They're running. It's almost as if they've finally realized.
Sloane tosses the bag further into the Cornucopia and kicks a spare after it. She counts four other bodies besides the two she's put there, but the number six means nothing to her. She remembers nothing significant about the past two months, who lived and who died.
A silly bout of laughter nearly escapes her throat as she pulls another knife off the wall, just in case. What is she now, a Career? Better than the Sixes, better than the Fours… she's not so useless now, is she? So long she fought for her parents attention before giving up; no doubt they're watching on now in a mixture of horror and fascination.
Something shifts behind her, and Sloane turns to find a wisp of a girl leaning around one of the crates, halfway to making a break for the exit. Her eyes are huge as she takes in the blood that already stains Sloane's shirt, the knife in her hand, the slumped body.
"I'm sorry," Sloane says. It's not a lie. One day, when the guilt hits her, accountability taking the form of a looming monster she can't run from, she'll be glad to have apologized.
Now, it's just going through the motions. The girl shrieks something before Sloane steps forward, a nonsense coagulation of words that means nothing to her as she plunges the knife into her throat, sending her to the ground.
She turns back to the Cornucopia's entrance, the words poised on her lips to ward anyone off. Leave. Run. Get the fuck out of here.
But when she does, Sloane finds herself blissfully alone.
"Quiet, quiet," Vahla urges. "We're alright."
Her arm remains outstretched, laid carefully over Alia's back, hand resting on Landry's shoulder. Out of reach are Idelle and Aisa, crouched just beyond them behind a set of towering filing cabinets.
In the hall, what sounds like a hundred sets of footsteps race by, but Alia keeps her gaze fixed on the floor, counting the flecks in the shimmering tile in order to calm her racing heart. She's sure Vahla can feel her shaking—it's all she can do to dig her hands into the ground, searching for some sort of purchase.
There are five of them. In any event, Vahla is likely correct. Even if they only have two knives between them all, no one thinking rationally will run in here looking for a fight. There were six of them, though. It should still be six of them.
"It just happened so fast," Aisa whispers, though he says nothing else. He's right, too. She had been hand-in-hand with Idelle since the very start, having started right next to one another, and it felt like she was watching it in slow-motion, Aphelion's body crumpling around the machete the girl buried in his stomach, shock widening his eyes before he slumped to the ground.
Alia's not sure what would have happened to them if not for Vahla—she and Aphelion were their rocks, the very pillars upon which the foundation of their alliance was built. She had started barking out orders across the Cornucopia; Alia doesn't remember what she had been instructed to go, the words that had come her way, only that she had simply obeyed. She was alive for it.
They couldn't say the same for Aphelion.
"Just breathe, guys," Vahla says quietly. "Once we're sure everyone else is gone we'll find somewhere better to hide out."
Anywhere has to be better than here. They're far too close to the Cornucopia here, Alia knows, and this place isn't suitable enough to be something like a camp. There's so much glass. Everything looks so fragile, like one stiff wind could shatter it all to bits. She fears even putting her hand on the glass desk's table-top in worry of sending it crashing to the ground.
"Do you think that girl's still at the Cornucopia?" Landry asks. "We could go back… get more stuff."
"We're not risking it."
"But—"
"We're not risking it," Vahla repeats more firmly. "We aren't empty-handed, and I'm sure we'll find a water source somewhere in here."
She sounds so certain, level-headed, mature. It's almost as if she has no choice to be. The four of them aren't babies, to be certain, but Vahla feels so much older. She's due to turn nineteen in a few weeks, so close to escaping this hell. If Three could have just gone a month later, she would have been spared from such a nightmare.
Alia wishes she could have been, but selfishly knows that she wouldn't be in nearly as good of a place without her. Vahla is inspiring her to remain calm, to shake off the fear and anxiety that would otherwise plague her. Her family and the life she's lived up until this point has instilled such things in here, but who's to say how Alia would truly be acting?
The family she has back home is hardly that; they won't mourn if she dies, and they more than likely won't give a damn if she comes back. She's been unwanted since the day she was born into the world, wailing and damned to be the very last thing on anyone's mind. This here is the family she's chosen, this little collection of oddballs with Vahla as their leader. They'll do it for Aphelion, and they'll do it for each-other.
Alia swallows, turning to offer Landry a small smile. "She's right. We'll be fine, hey? You've got us."
After a moment of hesitation, he nods. Alia squeezes his hand where it lies limp on the floor, meeting the eyes of each of her allies in turn. Idelle still looks about ready to cry, and Aisa quickly swallows away the lump in his throat, struggling to look composed.
She's not Vahla, nor Aphelion neither. She's no natural born leader ready to conquer the world. But what Alia does know is how to survive in a world that has no desire or care for her existence—the Games are more of the same. She may as well have been living in them for fifteen years already.
She has people to care about now, though, and people that care about her in turn. Alia refuses to let them down.
"Should we go?" she asks, looking up at Vahla. The older girl smiles at her, squeezing tight around her shoulders for a heartbeat before she lets go.
She doesn't have to be strong now—Alia always has been.
"We should," Vahla agrees. "Let's get out of here."
It's been quiet for too long.
Sloane slept soundly that first night within the horn, piling so much up around her that it would have been impossible for anyone else to sneak up on her. It was odd to be so aware of her surroundings as all the lights flicked off one by one, darkening the halls and eventually the large room in which she resided.
Sleep has been fitful, and less than calm, but that hadn't stopped her from wandering the next day, letting her restless feet carry her through the halls. It was less of a factory that she found herself in and more of a high-tech office building, holo-screens and touchpads available around every corner, the glass walls and windows and fixtures providing no cover for anyone looking to hide.
But somehow, everyone was, and her sleep was even worse that second night when there were no cannons, no faces displayed on the ceiling overhead.
She should move again now, three days in. It would stave off the boredom. Back home it would be easy to pick up a rucksack and trip over a few others on her way to find a clean slate of wall, the half-empty cans rattling against her back. The colors merging and blending into something more beautiful than even her creative mind could conjure was enough entertainment to last a lifetime.
There was nothing of the sort here. All Sloane could do was lie around and eat the memories of that first day away.
The bodies were gone—she had gone to sleep surrounded by them only to wake alone in the morning, each one taken away by some invisible force. Sloane doesn't know what's more terrifying; the fact that they're gone, or the fact that she didn't hear a single second of it happening.
Pretending none of it happened is easier when she can't see them, though. There's nothing to chase away that guilt. Ignoring it is for the best.
There's no morphling in any of the crates, nothing at all except some chalky white pills that weren't even strong enough to take away her headache yesterday. They know what they're doing keeping her away from that stuff. They fucking know it.
Sloane tilts her head back towards the ceiling, sprawling out on the floor. "I don't suppose anyone out there is willing to send little old me a gift?"
She waits for no reason at all; Sloane isn't stupid enough to except anything. As if the mentors of Three are going to willingly fuel an addict's habit… they're not called the brains of Panem for nothing. Sloane can't even remember which one of them was supposed to take care of her, if they ever even spoke at all.
Voxel or Isa or Clare or Heletha… they might as well all be a single person in Sloane's brain.
Something hits the ground two feet away, and despite the eerie gentleness of the noise Sloane startles, sitting bolt upright within a mere second. There before her, fluttering in the non-existent wind, is a mere scrap of a parachute. It's so slight it shouldn't have made a noise at all.
That doesn't stop Sloane from lunging for it, nearly faceplanting to the ground in her haste to grab it. There's no fucking way.
Her heart does an odd somersault when she pulls the parachute away and then falls straight away into her stomach when she sees the little note tied to the end of the cordage. Sloane scrapes away the tie holding it closed with a ragged nail, allowing the miniscule scroll to unfurl across the palm of her hand.
NOT A CHANCE IN HELL. - I
Sloane groans, throwing herself back to the floor in a move that can only be described as truly melodramatic. "You're an asshole, Isa," she spits, throwing up a middle finger that she wags in a wide circle around her prone form, ensuring that at least one of the cameras catches sight of it.
At least she knows who's taking care of her, now—apparently literally. Turns out a good mentor is one who isn't so willing to let you shoot up in the middle of the arena. Who would've thought? Her parents never fought for her like that. No one did. They didn't care if she wasted away in the street or died in some half-full ditch, unrecognized and passed willingly by those around her.
To have someone championing for her, even in such a small way… it's odd.
But Sloane finds she doesn't particularly mind it.
They're getting far too comfortable.
Alia knows it, but can't bring herself to say anything about it. The way they're chatting, collecting around one another… it feels more like a gathering, a prolonged sleepover.
She wouldn't change it for the world, despite the terrifying inevitability of how it will eventually end.
Alia has never had the chance to feel like this before; of course she had friends back home, classmates and peers, but she never felt like she could allow herself to care for them without knowing what the word meant. She was not raised on love or affection—until now, Alia isn't certain she quite knew what those words meant.
But she knows it now, in the way Vahla looks at them all so softly and Aisa's quiet laughter, Idelle's head resting on her shoulder. When she hears Landry's stomach rumble, Alia breaks off a chunk of her remaining granola bar and deposits it in his palm, earning a smile that only fades when he finally accepts the bite, knocking his arm gently into hers.
It's not right in any sense of the word. They have no right to be comfortable in this huge, screen-filled room, sitting on the too-hard floor with not a pillow or blanket to their name. An eerie quiet has settled over everything, the screens powered down and the tablets dark. Even when Alia swears she hears something, there's never anything that appears.
She can't stop herself from looking back, all the way across the room to the opposite wall where those things are. They look vaguely humanoid, all metal limbs and wires are cobbled together to form human-like shapes without a true face. Vahla had gone and poked at them upon their entrance yesterday, knife in hand, but they hadn't stepped free from what appears to be their robotic little homes.
Yet, anyway. Alia isn't stupid enough to think that they won't. Nothing is here without a reason.
Idelle lifts her head, hair tickling Alia's cheek. "They freak me out, too," she whispers. "I still don't know if we should be in here."
"At least this way we can keep an eye on them," Alia replies. "If one of us is always up and something happens, we shouldn't have to worry about it."
That's what she keeps telling herself, anyway. So far, everyone else has seemed to agree with the sentiment—that, or they're not keen on causing dissent within the group. They move together, make decisions together, ration food and look for water, all as one unit. There's no reason to doubt that they can't continue on with that for a while yet.
Idelle lets out a heavy sigh as she lays her head back down on Alia's narrow shoulder. No matter their care for one another, it hasn't stopped fear from rearing its ugly head at every possible turn. Landry is worried about starving if this whole thing goes on for too long. Idelle is worried about being attacked by things that have no human emotion, no brain or heart to be found.
They're all scared, petrified even, of dying.
Alia won't allow herself to think about that, though. If she spirals too deep down that rabbit hole, she'll never escape it. For now they're safe and they have each-other—nothing else, in the midst of that, should matter.
It would all be so much easier to believe if she didn't swear one of the things behind them has shifted the next time she looks.
"I know you're in here!"
A bang. A crash. A muffled, furious swear.
"You think hiding is going to help?"
People really are angry, Sloane is realizing.
She has no idea who's yelling on the other side of the wall in the next room over, nor who exactly it is they're looking for. The more shouting that erupts, the further their rage seems to travel.
Sloane hasn't seen another soul in days. No one's dying.
Someone might be about to.
She inches into the hall, pressing herself tight to the doorframe of the next room over. The girl in there is turning chairs over, smashing glass, picking up two long chunks of it in each hand to wield them as she steps forward, glancing quickly under desks and around half-walls. She has no idea that Sloane's even there. She isn't going to.
Sloane creeps in after her, coming embarrassingly close before the girl even thinks to look back. When she does, Sloane gets only a second to catch the sight of her wide, alarmed eyes, the white of them so close and so bloodshot that there's no room for her to move, to attack, to run—
The knife hits her clean in the chest, right over where the heart should be. There's not even that much blood, nothing to be truly frightened of. The girl sags, caught between gravity pulling her to the floor and Sloane still holding the knife firm in her chest. Eventually she twists it back out, allowing the girl to slip free. She lands so hard over Sloane's bloody shoes that her toes cry out in protest.
She never thought she would be relieved to hear the sound of a cannon, but after so long, too many days…
It's a relief.
She nudges the girl off her feet, glancing around the room. She seemed so sure that someone was in here with her—surely she couldn't be that delusionally wrong. Sloane peers under the remaining desks, opens the door to the back office, and finds nothing. There's nobody cowering behind the rack of long, white lab coats.
But there is someone in the supply closet just behind the main door; she hears them shift as she approaches it, wrenching the door open—
Sloane isn't sure what she expected to find, honestly.
The boy is curled up against the back wall, knees to his chest, holding tight to a pack. The look in his eyes bleeds rapidly from terror to that of confusion as he takes her in, head cocked to the side.
"You're not her," he says frankly. "Who are you?"
Sloane raises the knife yet again, and he lets out a practical squeak. "Oh shit, shit—please don't do that, okay, I'm not a threat to you, I swear to God, I'll do anything—"
He throws his hands up, squinting as if preparing for the blow. When Sloane holds her own hands out, he gets the message quick enough—without wasting any time he kicks the pack towards her. There's no point in her having it, but better than him.
"Why the hell was she looking for you?" Sloane asks, pulling the bag over her left shoulder. The boy looks up at her, still shrinking himself down as small as possible.
"That uh, that was hers," he stammers out, jabbing a finger at the pack. "She wasn't happy."
"You stole it?"
He nods.
"Ballsy," Sloane comments. "See you around, kid."
She steps out of the closet and slams the door shut behind her. Before she's made it three steps she hears him scrambling to follow. Balls or no balls, apparently this kid has swiss cheese for a brain.
"Do you really have to take the bag, though?" he asks, poking his head out.
Sloane keeps walking—out of the room, into the hall. Predictably, he follows, though he's at least sensible enough to leave a gap between them. "If you're not going to kill me, would you mind if I tagged along? I could really use—"
"I mind."
"Oh. Well. I promise I'll shut up and leave you alone, that type of thing. You won't even know I'm there."
"You were just cowering from a girl out for your blood and you think that's the beginning of your campaign for an alliance?" Sloane questions. "What the hell did you think hiding in the closet was going to do?"
"Nothing good. Certainly hasn't helped in the past," he mutters.
God, she wants to kill him already, and it's been less than two minutes since she made the decision to spare him. That's got to be a record somewhere. He clearly doesn't care though. The kid's desperate, if stealing supplies is anything to go by, not to mention the fact that he's following her around whilst ignoring the risks associated with it.
He doesn't know that Sloane's truly a threat. All he knows, if he actually took the time to realize it, is that Sloane killed the girl coming after him.
In his eyes, she's a savior.
"My name's Talos," he says finally, and when she glances back his shoulders are hunched. He doesn't look that young, but something about the positioning makes him appear smaller than ever. "If you were wondering."
"I wasn't."
"Figured. You're Sloane, right?"
She nearly stops dead in the hall, narrowly avoiding tripping over her own feet. Why the fuck does he know her name? Who the hell bothered to learn it, and why? When she glances back his eyes appear so damn earnest it's almost pathetic. He's just a good kid who wants to survive—better than her. At least he's not a fucking monster.
Sloane takes a deep breath, forging forward once again. "Talos?"
"Yeah?" he asks.
"If you annoy me, I'll kill you in your sleep."
"Deal. I mean, that's not too bad. At least if I was sleeping I wouldn't see it coming, I mean—"
Sloane sighs. It's going to be a long fucking day.
There are a number of things Alia would expect to be awoken to.
An alarmed cry spilling from Vahla's mouth was not on the list.
It's so dark when Alia opens her eyes, and despite the alarm she still feels far too much fatigue—it wasn't anywhere near her time to begin watch, that much is clear. That means it has to be something worse.
The electric blue glare peeping from under some of the machinery is their only source of light, and Alia can't begin to count how many shadows are around them now. Too many, a number much higher than five, but the half-assembled androids behind them are still all there in their neat little row, all jagged edges and too stark in the gloom.
The ones in front of them are real, all the motions of a human being. They're under attack.
Alia reaches over herself to shove whoever's closest to her just in case—as she scrambles to her feet, there's a sickening howl of pain, the heavy splatter of blood over her face. Someone tumbles to the ground at her feet and twitches only once before going still. The chaos around here is reduced almost to nothing, the roar in her ears far more prominent.
Landry.
Behind her, Idelle screams. Aisa lashes out wildly at one of their attackers, the knife looking suddenly so dull. As whoever dispatched Landry comes to fall down on her, too, an older girl gripping a lengthy sword, Vahla launches herself between them. Screens shatter. The desk they collide with cracks and splits as they crash into it, hitting the floor with a flurry of movement that Alia is hardly able to keep track of.
She's weaponless, but she can't just stand here and feel useless. Alia dives into the fray, trying to find purchase on Vahla's shoulders so that she can drag her back. Another spray of blood ricochets back—Vahla's knife has found a home, intentionally or not, in the girl's throat. It's stuck there, the girl's fingers flying up to grasp at the hilt, the blood that bubbles out around her fingers.
She yanks Vahla back, and the sword comes with her. The sword that's sticking halfway out of her abdomen.
Vahla falls back into her with a punched out breath, a choked noise that sounds halfway like a whimper. The other two girls, still on their feet, take off at the sight of their fallen ally—Aisa is hot on their heels, still flailing about with the knife, but he goes no further.
Her ally, their leader, is so worryingly heavy in Alia's arms. She loosens her grip, maneuvering them both so that Vahla is instead draped over her lap. "Hey, it's okay," Alia soothes. "Idelle, we have that first-aid kit, right? Idelle?"
The girl in question is sniffling, hiccupping on half-hearted sobs. "Oh—oh God—"
"Idelle, c'mon."
"Alia," Vahla says quietly. "Look at me."
The hoarseness to her voice drives a stake straight through Alia's chest, each word nearly broken by an onslaught of pain. Even looking down at her like this makes Alia feel sick—already there's a newfound paleness to her skin, a sheen of sweat clinging to her forehead as she shakes against the hole being torn through her.
"Don't… don't waste it on me," Vahla says. "It won't be enough, anyway. You just, you keep it for you three, alright?"
"No, no, we're going to fix this, you're going to be alright—"
"You three," Vahla says. "You three will be alright."
Alia shakes her head, the rapid burn of tears beginning to fill her eyes. Behind her Idelle's quiet cries are only increasing in prominence, and she can hear Aisa's rapid, frightened breaths nearing hysteria, beginning to verge into something like a panic attack.
Aphelion is gone. Landry's dead two feet to her right.
Vahla is slipping away in her arms.
It's becoming more and more apparent to her that families just aren't meant to be no matter how much you wish it.
"Just take care of each-other," Vahla whispers. "I want to see two of you go home, you hear me?"
She nods, feeling tears finally slide down her cheek. If she had the energy she knows that Vahla would be reaching up to brush them away not unlike a mother would, doting on them from the very beginning. If she knew what ending it would bring her, would Vahla still have done it?
Alia doesn't doubt it in the slightest.
"We will," Alia assures her. "I promise."
Before she's even finished her sentence, Vahla's eyes are slipping shut. She knows the older girl hears it, though, because she dies with the barest hint of a smile affixed to her lips, like nothing could have made her happier.
So that's it, then. There's no other option. Alia made a promise, and she refuses to let it turn to dust.
It seems impossible, so far off, but nothing is just that. They'll find a way.
They have to.
He has absolutely, undoubtedly, annoyed her.
He's also… strangely endearing?
If you had asked her a few days ago, not only would Sloane have been incapable of answering, but she's not sure she could have given an appropriate example of the world. No one wandering around Three's streets was so darling that she could refer to them as such. They tossed needles inside the same piles of garbage they rummaged through.
Talos was different. Not rich, not poor, but coasting along in the middle, basking in the rays of the sun every-day he possibly could. He had already explained to her how ordinary his life really was, but Sloane didn't believe him.
He had two loving parents, three younger sisters. He got good grades in school and did errands for his elderly next door neighbor in return for nothing at all. One of his biggest dreams, so he repeatedly claimed, was to one day own a dog.
He also never stopped talking, but Sloane came to terms with that an hour after meeting him.
He's wandering after her now, silent for once. She keeps looking back expecting to find him gone, instead watching his curious eyes flit about the walls, eyeing the machinery like he knows all about it. Sloane can't help but doubt it—he's sweet as pie, but there's a little bit too much air up top-side for him to understand such intricacies. At least they're in the same boat with that one.
What worries her is her musings on what will happen if they run into someone. Granted, it seems like a big if—three cannons yesterday, following the one before after she had killed that girl, and still nothing. It seemed impossible that everyone was hiding, but Three's were crafty. Smart, if you looked at faces other than hers and Talos.
It's a blessing in disguise, really. There's no telling what Talos will do in a fight, if he'll run or go find another closet to hide in. Something tells Sloane that he would try his damnedest to help her out but only succeed in getting in the way.
"... hey, Sloane?"
"Hm?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Shoot," she answers, knowing damn well Talos will ask anyway even if she didn't offer her agreement.
"What's a body part you wouldn't mind losing?"
She stops. Talos, with a muffled curse, runs directly into her back and then immediately smooths her jacket down when he steps back, offering a quiet apology. "The fuck kind of question is that?" she asks.
"I don't know. I was just thinkin' about it."
"Why?"
"My brain always goes to the worst case scenario, usually." He shrugs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I like to sort of… counteract it, I guess. Does that make sense?"
He really is an oddball, but isn't she, too? Talos chooses to ask her questions such as this instead of prying into the rest of her life. He had tried, that first night, asking her what part of Three she was from. Sloane still didn't have a good answer for it. She was born in Sector Six, same as half the population; her parent's house was still there, and her bed. Sloane only claimed it when she would crawl in and out of the window so that her parents wouldn't see her glazed eyes and stumbling walk. They knew, of course, but their disappointed gazes weren't something she was keen on seeing anymore.
Most of the time she was couch-surfing. Sometimes, during the day, she would slip into the upstairs apartment of a repair shop and take a good, long nap. At least she didn't sleep in the alleys like some people, not that the thought hadn't crossed her mind. She liked a good, cushy pillow more than anyone else.
When she hadn't answered him then, Talos hadn't pried. He hadn't asked her anything worryingly personal since.
He was just a damn good kid.
It's what makes her focus so intently on the question at hand, genuinely considering it for his sake only. "A toe, I guess," she decides. "Pinky toe."
"You need your toes to balance."
"I'm sure I'd survive without one," she fires back. "What about you, genius. What's your bright idea?"
"An ear. You only really need one."
"You think a single toe is going to make you lose balancing capabilities, but not a fucking ear?" She snorts. "Kid, there is something wrong with you."
"I don't know!" Talos flaps his arms wildly, strangely reminiscent of a bird. "My biology teacher never said. Or maybe he hasn't gotten to that lesson yet."
And maybe Talos is never going to be there to hear it. The thought hits her like a punch to the gut, and it takes every single ounce of her focus to keep walking and not check that he's still behind her. Sloane can hear his footsteps, his breathing, nearly the gears turning in his half-filled skull.
Talos doesn't know any of the real things about her, but she gets the sense he wouldn't care. If she pulled up her sleeves to show him the tender bruises that lay imprinted on her skin, he would probably fucking hug her.
Sloane can't remember the last time she was on the receiving end of the hug, nor when she cared about such a thing.
This is what she was missing out on during so many months of a blissful haze, wasting her life away. On that path she'd be dead in a ditch by twenty-five, if she even made it that long, going unclaimed in some morgue because there's no way her parents would fork out any money for a proper burial at that point.
People like this have existed around her the entire time—a kid like Talos, who really isn't a kid at all. He's barely a year younger than her. He has family and friends and biology lessons, for crying out-loud. He should live.
More than anyone else in here, she believes, he deserves to.
Sloane doesn't know if she's so willing to sacrifice herself to make that happen.
Two cannons go off simultaneously, practical rapid-fire.
All three of them jump in perfect unison. Idelle slaps a hand over her mouth to avoid gasping—Aisa shrinks into the wall, as if he can blend into it and disappear.
Alia… she just tries not to be terrified. It's a sound.
Everything seems so much more heightened with only three of them. They have few reassuring words for one another; they exist in mostly silence now, pressed tightly together but hardly speaking. It's as if one wrong word will splinter them apart, and Alia isn't so sure that it wouldn't.
Before they can resume moving, there's another cannon. Idelle closes her eyes, whispering something under her breath. Alia doesn't dare ask what.
"I guess things are going too slow for the 'makers," Aisa murmurs, hardly above a whisper. If she wasn't so close, Alia wouldn't have heard him.
"Do you think—"
A clanking, from down the hall. Idelle whips around at the speed of light, unheard words trailing off into nothing. Aisa's hand launches out and tangles in the sleeve of her shirt, fingers shaking even through her jacket. There's nothing there yet, not at either end, but somehow Alia knows. The uneven, heavy movement. The mechanical squeaks.
They're alive.
The first one rounds the corner, all silver-blue elegant limbs and glowing red eyes. She doesn't remember them having eyes before.
"What do we do?" Idelle whispers.
"There's only one," Aisa counters. "We can fight one… right?"
But there isn't just one—Alia can tell. She can hear them, moving staggered like some sort of fragmented marching band. The noises are all around them; below and above, seemingly coming from every room and every hall no matter which way she strains to hear. There's no running from this.
"We could barricade ourselves," Alia says, but she already knows it's too late. It's as if her optimistic thoughts are all she has left. "We could—"
One moment it's at a standstill and the next it's rushing forward, seemingly at the speed of light. It has no human gait to its movement, just a painful, high-pitched squeal as it rips across the floor. Aisa has his knife at the ready, and Alia has hers too, but how do you fight something that doesn't bleed with a knife, something that won't feel pain?
It collides with Aisa first, tossing him aside like a ragdoll. The knife goes flying before Alia can even blink, arm thrown out in front of Idelle as if she can hope to ward it off. Nothing can just be easy, can it? The world will take away Aphelion and Landry and Vahla and it will just keep on taking for as long as they're in here.
It's robotic arm swipes forward as two more appear down the hall, larger and looming. She shoves Idelle back, wincing as awkward metal fingers entangle in the end of her hair, strands pulling free from her scalp. Aisa stirs on the ground, clutching his side with a wince as he pulls himself onto his knees.
There's no humanity in it, but it's looking right at her. "Alia," Idelle breathes as the other two start forward at the same break-neck pace. Within seconds, they'll be on top of Aisa if he doesn't get to his feet.
These things want nothing more than blood
She doesn't even get the chance to plead. Her brain cries out for it, a stark don't make me do this, but she can't speak the words aloud. Aisa sends her one last panicked glance as they converge together.
She thought they would find a way—she told Vahla as much. A promise is a promise. If she's not following through with it, then what good is she? Alia can only stay positive for so long, and this… well, what sort of positivity do you find in the midst of this?
Alia makes sure to look him dead in the eyes. I'm sorry, she mouths as she raises her foot, preparing to strike.
The last thing she sees is his mouth fall open, sheer disbelief.
Her foot connects squarely with where the thing's gut would be, sending it stumbling backwards with a series of grating cracks. It topples back and over-top of Aisa just as the others take their places. It's all four of them at once, three metal bodies writhing on top of one flesh and blood. She hears something crack, distinctly human. The scream that pierces her ears seems to drive directly through her chest.
Alia can't make herself stay as blood starts to pool on the floor, his body still writhing beneath the weight. She has a knife in one hand, Idelle's arm in the other. She drags the other girl after her away from the carnage, ignoring her frantic shrieks and how she tries to pull away. There's nothing either of them can do to save Aisa now.
It was always only going to be two of them. Aisa had the knife. He was the one that moved. If it had been Idelle in his place, she would have done the same thing in dragging him away too. Alia has to save someone.
All she can do now is focus on the two of them. No family anymore, no hope in growing something better.
She should've known, right? It was never going to change.
"God, there's so many of them," Talos breathes. "It's like a friggin' army."
Sloane keeps her hand knotted in the collar of his jacket just in case she needs to yank him back down—she's quite content sitting behind this desk and not looking at them, but Talos' number one priority is popping his head up like a damned gopher and watching the robot parade float by in the halls.
"If it was an army, we'd be dead," she murmurs. "Count your blessings."
He nods, but keeps his head exactly where it is. Sloane finally pulls him back to a regular sitting position, nearly whacking his head off the nearest drawer.
That doesn't stop him from looking around, head swiveling about as if it's not attached properly.
"Quit it," she demands.
"I'm just worried we're gonna get stuck in here, y'know? Too many entrances."
Alright, fair. Kid's got a point. There's the main door to the hall, one on the left wall that leads to some type of lab, and another on the right that leads to more and more computers. Robots or not, these things are controlled by the Gamemakers, and if their deaths have been forewarned there's no escaping it when it comes.
"Should I go into the next room?" he asks. "Two entrances is better than three. If they come in one, we can get out the other."
There are far too many other variables that go along with it, but it's as simple of a point as they're going to make. If Sloane thinks about it too hard her head will start to hurt, and God only knows she's hurt enough the last two weeks or so. She presses herself to the desk, allowing just enough room for Talos to shimmy around it, scampering on his hands and knees to the door on the right. He slips through to the other side in silence, closing it so softly that even Sloane doesn't hear the click.
It was easier before when she could move to distract herself, when Talos could talk for hours without fear. Everything's far too quiet now, even if the metallic coalition roaming the halls doesn't exactly sound the most welcoming.
When things get quiet, Sloane can think. Sloane doesn't really like thinking.
And when she hears the scream, Sloane wishes for quiet all the more.
She's on her feet before she's made the conscious decision to do so, rocketing towards the door. She's never heard that sound before, but she knows. She knows it's him. There's no care in her for how starkly she stands out, her feet slapping against the floor, nor how the door squeaks when she yanks it open.
There's one on top of him, pinning him to the floor. There's no telling where it came from, if it was just waiting in a corner somewhere for his imminent arrival. She kicks it off of him, foot singing with pain at the moment of impact. Her leg nearly buckles when she keeps her pursuit after it, but there's no point in giving up when it's still moving. Her hands find the nearest chair, arms already aware of their exhaustion before she even scoops it up and hefts it over her head—she brings it down with a mighty crash over the robot's neck, the chair's legs driving deeper and deeper each time.
It must be ten, even fifteen hits before it severs, and nothing about it is clean. Bits of metal ricochet off the floor, cables and wires severing with a quiet hiss as the thing twitches before it deflates with a strange sigh.
"You can't be trusted to go anywhere alone, can you?" Sloane questions, rounding on him. He's still on the ground just like she found him.
That's when she sees the blood, and Sloane isn't sure how she missed it all in the first place. The adrenaline, maybe. The spike of panic.
It's fucking everywhere.
"Talos?" she asks, voice alarmingly weak. He gasps, hand twitching out in her direction. Her foot continues to throb as she crouches down at his side. It's razed his lower chest and most of his stomach to little more than shreds, ribbons of flesh and muscle sticking out in slippery lengths that do nothing anymore to cover the white of his exposed ribs, the odd pulsating movement of his stomach every-time he breathes.
In only a few seconds.
He's still gasping, but the second she settles next to him his hand launches out and tangles in her shirt-sleeve, holding on for dear life. She lets him hold on as she lowers her hand to his forehead, brushing away the few strands of hair that have begun to stick to the sweat gathering at his temples.
This is why the haze was better. Reality is ugly.
So fucking ugly.
The look in his eyes is going to be burned inside her brain forever, haze or not. He's terrified. She lays her hand over his where it's still clinging to her arm, thumb brushing gently over his forehead.
"You're going to be okay," she murmurs. She never should have let him tag along. She never should have gotten attached. "Perfectly fine, alright? You just close your eyes, and when you wake up you'll be in the Capitol safe and sound. You'll get to talk Merride's ear off again. See your family. Sound good?"
He doesn't nod. It's likely better that he doesn't. Sloane thinks he tries to smile, though, more for her benefit than his own. She wishes she could tell him that she doesn't need it, that she doesn't care. He's just another dead kid amongst thousands.
But her hand shakes when she unsheathes her knife, only doing so when she's certain he's truly closed his eyes. It's never shaken in such a way before. At least he can't see it—not the tremble to her hand, nor her lowering the blade to his throat.
The slash is brutally quick. Efficient. His hold on her arm is tight for only a moment longer before it slips away and falls, limp at his side.
It takes a minute longer for her to let go of him in turn, even after his cannon sounds. She slumps back against the wall next to them, his blood pooling dangerously close to the edge of her shoes. Left in his wake is the true brutality of silence, an empty space where just a few minutes ago so much life had been filling it.
The haze is better. That's the place she wants to go back to.
And she's never going to let herself care about anything ever again.
When she wakes up, Idelle is gone.
Alia is torn between two things—fright, and a deep-seated resignation. Last night was the first time that Idelle hadn't slept close to her side. Instead she had faced the other way, back turned, and Alia swore she heard her soft cries until she finally fell into a fitful sleep.
Idelle is not the type of girl capable of brutal survival, not on her own. If she's gone for good, then perhaps deep down she'd rather die than stay with Alia any longer.
She let Aisa die. An active choice, made all on her own.
So much for her promise to Vahla.
That doesn't mean she can't search for her, though. Idelle's as scared as the rest of them. She ran instead of taking the chance to hurt Alia while she slept; that has to mean something.
Even as she gets to her feet, though, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and collecting her meager belongs, she suspects that her desire to see Idelle again is merely that: a desire. Alia doesn't think she'll ever see her again. She didn't even take the knife, for crying out-loud—she's alone out there, entirely defenseless. Anyone else who's made it this far will kill her before she even has a moment to scream.
Neither of them have killed anyone. Alia hasn't been deluded into the fact that the Gamemakers are letting a bunch of innocent souls travel unharmed to the end. Everyone out there is dangerous. A wolf.
And they're just the little sheep, waiting for slaughter.
If she hears a cannon, sees her face magnified on the walls, then Alia will give up on her miniscule amount of hope. She let Aisa go, yes, but she refuses to be labeled as a heartless monster. Just because her own family would so readily cast her to the side does not mean that Alia will do the same to the family she's found here.
Idelle is the only member of it left. She has to try.
It's easier said than done, though. Alia makes way for the hall, inching out the door, and makes it less than five feet before she hears footsteps—suspiciously human footsteps. The robots appear to be sleeping once again. Idelle's name is poised on her lips, but something keeps her from speaking it. The footsteps are too heavy, not cautious enough… it can't be her.
Alia ducks back into the room, pressing herself back until a shadow passes the doorway—it's most definitely not Idelle. The boy that she catches a mere glimpse of is twice her size, she predicts, and there's fresh blood on the end of the hatchet that swings back and forth from his hand. It drips in a rhythmic pattern onto the tile floor, as if he couldn't care less about someone seeing it.
Had she slept through a cannon? It's not impossible. It couldn't have happened that long ago.
It could have been Idelle. She needs to check. It doesn't matter if her body is already gone—Alia just needs to be able to say that she looked.
She slips out the door once again on silent feet, taking careful steps to the next corner. The hall is so long that the boy is still in view, the back of his bloodied shirt so starkly red in the midst of the otherwise ghostly area. Alia keeps her eye on him as she moves forward, each step seeming smaller than the last. This is the only chance she's going to have to see if he killed Idelle or not. There's no good reason for him to turn around.
Except for whatever reason, he does.
There has to be something said about the feeling of eyes watching you—perhaps his skin was crawling, his senses tingling.
"Hey!" he shouts as she takes off running, not bothering to see what his course of action will be. He sounds angry enough that Alia can hazard a good enough guess. There's no time to look for Idelle, now—at the next open door she shoves through it, slamming it shut behind her. After that it only takes a moment to drag a chair over, wedging it beneath the door handle.
Just as she backs up, he presumably launches himself at the other side of it. The entire door rattles in its frame, a fist thudding against the door. "You think this thing is going to hold forever?" he yells.
No. She most definitely doesn't.
There's nowhere to go, though. There's no doors leading to a side room, no obvious places to hide. A million options run through her head at once, but each one seems more impossible than the last.
A repeated pounding against the door starts up. Alia can only imagine that he's trying to kick it down, and that eventually he'll succeed. Panic makes it nearly unfeasible to think as she spins in circles, eyes trying to find a solution.
Until she finally does.
Alia scrambles up on top of the nearest desk. One of the monitors goes flying, the keyboard clattering to the ground as she stretches up for the ceiling and the vent cover that protrudes from it. Her fingers are shaking so badly she can hardly pop it open, shaking the screws loose until they fall and ping across the floor. Closing it after her doesn't even matter. He's not small enough to crawl in.
Not like she is.
It takes every bit of strength in her upper body, which isn't much at all, to get a firm grip around the duct and shimmy up into it. The metal groans in protest at her hold, legs swinging into the empty air just as she hears the door come flying in.
Fingers graze against the legs of her pants. Nails dig into the fragile skin at her ankle. Alia shrieks, kicking wildly, until the sole of her shoe connects with something solid. The boy lets out a howl as he releases her, and it gives her just enough time to yank her legs up, pulling them tight to her body.
There's no room to turn, hardly any to even look at her shoulder. Not that she'd want to, anyway. Alia plants her arms underneath her chest and begins to propel herself forward, the walls of the ventilation system pressing at her tightly from all four sides. What fuels her is the shout of frustration she hears echoing behind her, a sure sign that the boy has realized what Alia already knew. He's unable to follow her. She's escaped.
That doesn't stop her from thinking about what she may have left behind. Idelle could be down there, somewhere. He may very well have killed her.
And now Alia may never truly know.
A parachute hits her square in the head, and that's where it remains.
Sloane feels zero inclination to move. If anything, the fabric is doing wonders to blot out the artificial lights that buzz overhead, doing wonders to try and lull her back to sleep. That's all she's been attempting to do since.
Sleep.
If she had to learn the definition of pathetic seventeen years in, that would be it. Sloane has no idea how long it's been since they took his body away, but what she does know is that she hasn't left this room. Even with him long gone the rusted stain where his body had been remains, along with the cloying, phantom scent of his blood, sharp and metallic in the air.
Evidently she had done enough in the previous days to warrant being left alone, but that grace period has ended if the parachute is anything to go by. The worst thing is, Sloane knows exactly what lies within it. There's no weight to it, lying as gentle as a feather across her cheek. It was the same the first time too.
The urge to crumple the entire package into a ball without acknowledging it is strong, but Sloane tears through the cordage without looking until she can feel the scrap of paper between her fingers. Only then does she crack open her eyes, wincing at the light, to make out the small sentence.
GET YOUR ASS UP AND FINISH THIS - I
"Fuck you, Isa," she spits, giving into the urge finally. The paper tears between her fingers.
It's no different than the first day, really. No actual help. No words of encouragement. Just blunt sayings, impolite demands.
Sloane knows if their situations were reversed she would be saying the exact same thing to whoever her poor tribute was, lying in the fetal position on the ground like their life was already over. She wouldn't coddle them.
She'd make them finish the job, if said job was so close to being finished
Her mentor knows more than she does—if this is Isa's way of telling her how few of her competitors remain, then it's quite the bold one. She knew that it was the only way to get through.
Sloane has never seen anything through in her life. Even her last hastily sprayed piece on the back wall of the Morrow Bakery went unfinished, any chance at completion, stolen away by the reaping. She knows damn well that she's a failure to everyone around her, unremarkable in all the best ways. That's how she'll die, too, if she refuses to get on with it.
She finally sits up with a groan, and immediately smashes the crown of her head into the desk's edge. "Fuck's sake," she mutters. "If that's not foreboding, I don't know what is."
Talos would have been cracking up had he been a witness to it. It only makes the silence ring louder.
Her head throbs, now, but she drags herself to her feet, knife in hand, tapping the edge of her shoe along the stained floor before she moves to the hall. His memory is coming along with her, the chance to be something less than a disappointment.
Sloane knows what will happen if she gets out of here. She fucking knows.
That doesn't mean she can't pretend otherwise for this last little while.
It's the two of them.
The girls responsible for killing Landry and Vahla.
Vahla got the third, somehow, but these two.. they're still alive, and they're still together. Their intentions are clear, and they're still hunting.
Alia's refusal to leave the ducts has finally paid off—when she finds them, of course, they have no idea they're being watched. Following along after them is no easy task, navigating through the confusing labyrinth that is the ventilation system, but even when she loses sight she always hears them. They don't have fear of anyone out there.
But Alia does. It spikes in her blood when she sees the boy, the very one that had nearly dragged her out of the vent.
It's ugly, of course. It was never going to be anything less. There's shouting and a flurry of chaotic movement and, eventually, one of the girls knocking him to the ground. It's the other ones spear-tip plunging into his throat, and Alia squeezing her eyes shut at the ensuing fountain of blood, his wet and off-kilter gurgles.
These girls will swat her away like a fly. It will be as if Alia never existed, a blip wiped away on a map. Gone, just like that.
It's easy to think so, until the third girl shows up.
Through the narrow slots in the vent, Alia struggles to make her out at first—shortly cropped hair, tired eyes, a knife clutched in her hand that's more red than not. There's been so much time, it seems, since she last saw her, that Alia had almost forgotten about her entirely.
What were the chances that the person who originally shattered their family, Aphelion's murderer, was still alive and kicking?
They were evidently high.
"This doesn't seem so fair, does it?" she drawls, sounding exactly like Alia expected she would. Disinterested. Almost bored.
She can see the ferocity light up in her eyes, though, a spark not yet extinguished when the pair of girls rush at her in perfect unison. They've done this before. They rushed Landry the same way, too. This is not unarmed and unprepared Landry, though—Aphelion's murderer is an unlikely storm of a girl, and destroy she does.
Alia knows she should do something, but she can't make herself move. There's nothing wrong with staying involved, letting things play out…
Not to her, anyway.
The Gamemakers are another story entirely.
It seems to happen in slow-motion. The taller of the pair, dark-haired and frazzled, lets out a shrill scream. She stumbles back from the fray with both hands pressed to the hole torn in her throat, hitting the ground hard on her knees, while the two left remain at a standoff, weapons extended, unmoving even when the cannon fires.
Alia knows what they're waiting for—an announcement that will never come. Not while Alia remains alive.
"If there's someone still out there, we can work together," the smaller one says. Now that she's lost her partner, she doesn't look so confident. "What's your name?"
"Sloane."
"I'm—"
"No offense, but I really don't care," Sloane says. Her knife flashes out. It almost connects.
She doesn't get the chance to swing again before the ceiling gives away.
Alia feels every second of it happening and still doesn't expect it. The vent shudders and creaks. The entire ceiling seems to come alive, plaster raining down on both the girls below. Everything collapses into one all-consuming cloud, Alia with it. She goes tumbling, spinning out of control. She only gets one good look at the floor below her before she collides with it.
There isn't a place where pain doesn't explode in her body. Her ribs, her hip, her back. All of the breath is driven from her lungs as she lands, unable to move for so long she fears paralyzation. When her toes twitch to life she nearly sobs, eyes burning as her fingers flex against the ground.
"You don't see that every-day," Sloane says, lost in the cloud. Despite the sudden intervention, she sounds as unconcerned as ever.
Alia tries to raise her head and stars fill her vision, her back spasming with pain. A silhouette moves through the debris floating through the air, ever closer. If anything, she would expect it to be Sloane, come to finish the job.
In the end, that would have been the preferable option.
The other girl appears like a specter, and launches herself down over Alia's body. She sees the knife coming, but there's hardly anything she can do to avoid it. The blade glances off her arm and slices through the thin skin at her wrist, finding no resistance. She's tired, too. Alia can see it in her eyes, even as she pushes the blade towards Alia's chest.
Even as it sinks in, pressed up against her breastbone, sinking dangerously close to her spine.
It doesn't seem real at first. Alia feels almost no pain, nothing worse than what's already coursing through her body. She can see it though, the hilt sticking out of her chest, feel the blood running fresh along her skin.
"Nothing personal," the girl says, and Alia knows it. She was the easier target. This girl doesn't know her from the next corpse along their road.
Alia can still feel her hands, though. They feel like the only thing she still has control of as they inch towards her pocket, fingers fumbling around the hilt of her own knife. "Back at you," she whispers, voice trembling. The sentence sounds so garbled to her own ears that she's not even sure the girl understands it.
Her hand launches out, knife and all. She thinks the realization finally hits the same time the knife does, cutting deep into the girl's neck.
She screams. She tumbles sideways off of Alia's body, and she only just manages to hold onto the knife. Blood rains down in a heavy spatter over her face and chest as the girl falls out of view somewhere to her left, gasping.
Sloane is still there before them, watching, head cocked to the side. She's all Alia can make out beyond the shadowy hilt of the knife still embedded in her chest. "Please," Alia chokes out. She can end this, can't she? She can make sure the other girl dies.
All Sloane does, though, is lower herself to the ground before them both with a heavy thump, crossing her legs. "May the best woman win, I guess."
Alia loses track of time after that. She watches Sloane lower her chin into her cupped hand, closing her eyes with an exhausted sigh. She listens to the dying girl beside her rattle away what could be her last breaths. She feels the shift of the knife against her insides.
What she doesn't learn until later is that it takes nearly ten minutes for the other girl—Corvina—to succumb to what Alia has done to her. Ten minutes that must feel like centuries, but she wouldn't know. Alia only lasts through eight of them before the shock takes her under, unconsciousness a more fitting state for a body as broken as her own.
Sloane never moves. When the cannon finally fires, she doesn't even shift over to check which one of them has survived. She gets to her feet, the knife falling to the floor between them.
As she looks to the ceiling, she sounds more tired than ever before. "Get me the fuck out of here."
THE VICTORS OF DISTRICT THREE... SLOANE LAURIER (17) & ALIA MADURO (15).
thecentennialcelebration . tumblr . com
Thank you to David and Axe for Sloane and Alia. ❤
This is a chapter I actually wrote... very recently, and thus felt the need to be as lazy as possible whilst editing it. If you see mistakes, no you don't. Let me live. Regardless, though, I hope you're enjoying everything thus far and thank you for all of the discussion in any way it can be received.
Until next time.