VI: June: District Nine.
When you choose your fields of labor, go where nobody else is willing to go.
Everything around is taller than she is.
This is not an impressive thing of note for someone of her stature, but it's unnatural. Fields of wheat do not grow this high back in Nine. They don't swallow her whole, not like these ones.
This is not Nine, and this is not natural.
Casia has known this from the very beginning.
She hit five foot two just last month, the same height as her mother. She is the guiding light for the rest of her blood-siblings, left to wonder if they will be the first escapee of their mother's hazardous genes. None of the older kids had. Casia suspects that none of them will.
Almost no one here, either, will be able to peer over the very top of the wheat spikes. A handful of the boys, if they're lucky, but it won't do them any favors. Bigger means louder. Louder means attention.
Attention means all sorts of bad things in this place.
She knows all about how not to draw attention—she's been doing as much for thirteen years, and it's what she'll continue to do for the rest of her life no matter the length of it. That she inherited from her father, an instinctive quiet that has clung to her since birth. Her mom would say she barely even cried as a baby, and Casia believes it.
All of those instincts serve her well, now. It's why, when she looks across the circle of tributes and sees nothing but them and an endless abyss of fields, the decision is easy. There's no horn; piles of supplies lay cast about the flattened stalks, sickles and scythes and knives. Everything so stereotypical, exactly what the Capitol thinks of them.
She has no one to look for when the gong goes off. Casia lunges for the nearest backpack, testing its weight before she throws it over her shoulder, and grabs the rickety, rusty knife two feet to its left. Diving into the fields is the easy part. Though they're taller than they ought to be, it's no different from being back home, making the trek out to check that the silos haven't been damaged by a summer storm.
Any hint of the cacophony that erupts behind her is drowned out as Casia throws herself into the field, the stalks crackling and snapping, each one swishing loud enough to drown out the sound of her own footsteps. It's not until she stops that she can hear what's happening beyond—the sounds of death, she can only assume.
Death, but only for a few. A few that won't be going home.
Though none of them will be, now.
Casia picks her way carefully over the next five yards, forging an invisible path until she can crouch down, unseen. Anyone could run right past her and not even believe her to be there; running will only give someone a direct path after her, if there's anyone bloodthirsty enough to try. It's better to wait and bide her time.
The knife in her hand gives her the only reassurance she needs—if someone gets close, they won't walk away. She knows she can do it, even if everyone else is none the wiser. She is looking out for nothing but her own survival, the body that keeps her heart beating. Every moment in the Capitol was filled with questions. How do you feel about the fact that you won't be able to go home, now? Are you excited to live in the Capitol until January? Would you have done it, had you been in that much pain? Would you have tried to fucking kill yourself?
They weren't her words. Casia had heard them out of nearly everyone else's mouths, complaints and vitriol and upset. They had every right to be; being stuck in the Capitol, observed and monitored and kept under a lens, was not her idea of a preferred life either. But Casia did not want to go home; she did not care about going home. She just wanted to live.
Evidently Amani Layne hadn't thought the same, though Casia had never been under the impression that her and a Career would ever be on the same wave-length. She would do whatever she had to in order to escape this place. He would try to end his life, only to be thwarted.
Nobody could be trusted to be the same after this.
She crouches low, pressed to the dirt, as footsteps thunder in her direction. Someone shoots by her not ten feet away, the ground shaking beneath her dirty palms.
"We can't go!" someone shouts, but Casia cannot see anyone else. "We don't have enough—"
"We'll make do! Let's go!"
"There's not that many people back there, Deryn, we can—"
"I said let's go, Taya—"
One of them is a scant five feet in front of her, surely the girl lagging behind. Taya. Until Casia focuses, she can hardly see her legs hidden amongst the stalks, following the line of her back all the way up to a curly head of hair, face turned away from Casia's little spot.
She's got a bag. No weapon. No sensible person would do anything about the situation being presented before them. Taya would leave this place alive, for as many days as she has left in her.
Casia always thought she was a sensible person. Maybe the definition of sensible has changed.
She presses forward, stretching her arm through the stalks, and rips the knife across the back of Taya's leg. The girl shrieks, dropping like a stack of bricks in time for Casia to jump on her, pressing her full weight down. It's not very much, but it's enough. Taya rolls and kicks, nearly dislodging her until Casia slaps a hand over her mouth—and then plunges the knife into her throat.
Her answering scream is so quiet muffled against Casia's palm that she hardly hears it; she feels, instead, the resounding gush of blood against her skin as it tries to force its way from Taya's mouth, finding only a blockage in its way. Casia can't imagine what's worse—dying of a knife to the throat, or of a torrent of blood filling your lungs, no way to breathe.
Both, happening at the same time.
The quiet rings heavy in her ears as Taya goes still beneath her. Casia lets out a heavy exhale from her nose, refusing to make noise.
"Taya?" the other girl calls. "T-Taya?"
Inch by inch, she pulls herself back to the ground and tugs at the straps holding the bag to Taya's back until it's freed. Casia hugs it against her chest, staining the yellowed fabric with dark crimson as she scoots backward into the brush.
She doesn't know how far away she is when the other girl discovers her ally's lifeless body, the resounding scream sending enough of a signal in its own right. Casia imagines her looking around, wildly, eyes bulging from her skull as she tries to make out where the perpetrator could have gone, or who it could have been.
Casia is gone, though, melding into the field as if she is home there.
Unheard and unseen.
Lilou wants nothing more than to go home.
The worst part is, home is really nothing at all. A small house with a sloping roof, shutters to refute the cold winds from bringing the windows crashing in. Every morning her father would go off to get his field assignment while her mother clocked in at the bakery, and until her name was pulled out of that forsaken bowl Lilou would crawl out of bed just in time to make it to school with no time to spare.
Life was easy, mundane, such a routine carved from the barren open plains of Nine. She always knew what would happen the next day, and the one after that, a month from then and even a year.
When Cajus Ledger had pulled her name from that bowl in his sing-song, pleasantly deep voice, everything had changed.
Was it wrong to say that this was the most interesting thing to have ever happened to her? The most exciting? She wasn't equipped for this, had no idea which way was up or down, left or right.
Lilou was going to die—her parents knew it, her mentor and Cajus, all of the audience during her interview as they sat there in silence, pondering her monotonous existence. The only one who didn't know by now was Sadie, and that broke Lilou's heart most of all. She could only imagine how the scruffy little terrier looked sleeping at the end of Lilou's bed all by her lonesome, wondering where her favorite person in the world had gone.
Sadie would never know if she lived or died, but she would be the one that cared the most. When her parents mourning ran out, there would only be a dog wondering why she didn't get taken out on walks anymore.
Selfish as it may be, she wished Sadie could be here with her now. She was no guard dog, that one, but the company would have been better. Lilou's second friend is solitude, but it's different here when every noise makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, when every shift in the air could mean death.
She had nothing, now, save for a rock that fit snugly in her palm and the scampering of little feet over the dirt—mice occasionally skittered by just out of view, flitting between the stalks that floated in the growing breeze. It was good to know that she wasn't wholly alone.
Nobody knew her well enough to ally with her, and no one cared enough to try to know her. It was an awful balance, but one that she had come to terms with quickly enough. Her dad did say that she could be a bit… snappy, sometimes. Pig-headed when she didn't get her way. Having allies would only complicate things, and Lilou could think well enough on her own.
First, she needed to find water. Then, something to hold it. She could survive a while without food before she became desperate for it.
It was good to have something to focus on, a task at hand. Only five cannons fired after the bloodbath.
Lilou can only suspect that they're in it for the long haul.
When she's sure everything around her is quiet Lilou rises halfway up, beginning her careful walk in the opposite direction from which she came. She'd much rather charge forward, in no fear of what could be around her waiting to strike, but that's no longer possible. This isn't Nine, as she's learned. She can't run here like she runs amok on the well-traveled streets with Sadie by her side, no consequences ever present to catch up to her.
One wrong move and she's dead. It's what everyone is waiting for, an easy expectation. When the time comes, at least, Lilou wants to be able to look skyward and at least say she tried.
There's nothing else she can possibly ask for.
Everything seems so stagnant.
With nothing happening around her it's been easy to keep track of the days—last night, before sunset, Casia made quick work on flattening a small patch of the field to call her home. She had slept right at the edge of it, making good use of the shadows. The chances that anyone would find her in these unending plans seemed unlikely, but that wasn't a risk she was willing to take.
It's a good place to stay, safe as she's going to find, and it wouldn't bother her in the least to remain immobile. She killed someone that first day, which is more than a lot of the others must be able to speak about.
Moving is good, though. Moving ensures she won't be caught like a sitting duck, just waiting for the sky to fall down over her head.
Her breakfast is meager at best, but it's not as if she needs a feast to keep herself going. More curious about her food are the mice that scamper about in her flattened circle, searching out seeds in the deadened grass. Like hell she's going to give them her food—the little things have more fat on them than she does, and it's not as if there's some sort of market nearby to replenish with.
She forces down a last bite of tasteless jerky, scraping up some of the seeds from beneath her crossed legs before she lays her hand flat on the ground, waiting for them to return. One races forward almost immediately, the biggest one she's seen yet, and steals a seed from her hand before it flees the scene, crossing the clearing to munch away on it.
The mice back home aren't so forgiving of human nature. They don't come so close. Only the cats and dogs that roam around the homestead will eat from her palm like this, and some of them are so eager they've left scars on her fingers. Casia misses that thought, feeding them whatever dinner scraps are leftover. There's never much—you pile thirteen kids under one roof, and they eat like ravenous wolves.
Casia always saves them something, though, Rocky most of all. The fluffy gray tomcat is by far her favorite, always so gentle when he trails after her in the twilight hours, winding between her legs and keeping her company when everyone else refuses to do so.
These creatures before her are far more frenzied, however, racing across her palm for the prize until there are none left within a scant minute. The first finally returns, sniffing anxiously along the line of her fingers for something it will never find, tail twitching in the dirt.
"Sorry, bud," she says quietly. "All gone."
As if that deters it, nose continuously twitching along the length of her palm in its quest. As it forages its way to the tip of her index finger there's a small, sharp burst of pain. Casia curses, dragging her hand back, but the mouse comes with it. It's teeth are fastened firmly in the pad of her finger, hanging on for dear life even as she raises her arm, bringing it a foot off the ground.
The mouse dangles, little squeaks escaping its mouth as it's legs pump furiously. After a moment, it's teeth release from her finger, and it drops to the ground with an unceremonious thud. Blood streams down the edge of her nail in a single, thin line—the mouse rises on its hind legs, stretching towards her as if curious at the sight.
"No," she tells it firmly. It almost seems to look at her, head cocked, before it turns tail and disappears amongst the stalks further out.
Her finger stings as she wraps it in the hem of her shirt, ignoring the throbbing that seems to pulsate from the end of it. She should've shook the damn thing off, really, instead of being so polite. Leave it to Casia to be nicer to a mouse than a person.
Sam had deserved it, though. He was the exact sort of person that deserved an unkind ending. It hadn't mattered to him that he had been divorced from Casia's mother for some fifteen years now—it hadn't mattered that he was not welcome, or appreciated, because he had acted like he was.
All the years she's seen her mother suffer through her vitriol, watched her siblings cower in his presence while their father was at work, none the wiser that he was lurking around the house.
There was always an excuse. He was helping to bring something into the house. He was fixing one of the shutters. He was coming to pick up Ginger for a fun father-daughter day that would never happen because they would never quite leave.
At least mice were good for something. They were intelligent. They were a part of the natural food chain.
Sam had never been good for anything at all besides trying to ruin their new life.
Casia finally gets to her feet, watching carefully in case the bloodthirsty little creature decides to make it's quick return. Maybe this is her Sam, now. Maybe she has a chance to change the course she took just a few months ago.
If she could turn back time, though, she would do the same thing. She would watch him leaning over the edge of the roof armed with a hammer and nails, patching up some of the weathered shingles that hadn't quite held on right after the winter. She would drive her foot into the ladder as he had sneered down at her, asking her what the hell she was up to.
She would watch as the ladder flew over sideways, sending Sam tumbling to the hard-packed ground beneath it. She would stand there as the crack erupted around the side of the house, his neck snapping like a cheap pencil.
An hour later, she would listen from the fields as Ginger and Ivan discovered their father's lifeless body, the horrified screams of her half-siblings erupting across the plains.
But Casia Braddock would never, ever feel bad about it.
She's decided she hates the dead of night most of all.
The air comes alive with cricket-song that shatters the night sky, loud enough to drown out the anthem that had sounded a few hours previous, no faces to blot out the stars. Mosquitos buzzed around Lilou's ears, the broken stalks crushed beneath her back as sharp as knives.
Even all of that, though, the harmonious symphony and the dull pain digging into her back, isn't enough to disguise what sounds like footsteps moving through the field. An attempt at being quiet thwarted by a heavy frame, unable to stop the ground from crackling to life beneath their feet.
There's no way to tell where they are, if they're coming in this direction or not. All Lilou can do is curl up as tightly as possible, silent, and pray to something that she doesn't believe in that whoever it is won't see her.
Her trembling hand, still curled around the rock she holds close to her chest, knows the truth. The noise is getting louder. Closer.
It seems like it can be enough until someone kicks her squarely between the shoulders.
Lilou lets out a downright pathetic squeak, unable to quell it with her hands as the force jolts her forward. The person over her, still, is louder—they let out a surprised shout as they go careening over her, sprawling across the ground with an almost comical thud. They didn't kick her, she realizes—they tripped, unable to see in the dear impenetrable darkness.
The boy flails in the dirt a moment before he rights himself, swiveling on his heels to look Lilou dead in the eyes. He's not frightened so much as shocked, clearly unprepared to have stumbled upon someone quite so literally.
Of course he's armed, though. The sickle in his hands gleams dully in the sliver of moonlight they've been given. His hand is not shaking, though. Not like hers is.
Or perhaps he just looks more steady, holding form when he lunges at her.
The ground affords her next to no purchase as she tries to scrabble away—he's no top of her before she can move more than a scant few inches. Sharp pain tears through her shoulder as the sickle's blade sinks into her skin, blood soaking the back of her shirt. He slams her head into the ground, each individual rock and pebble seeming to stand out tenfold as she collides with it, little starbursts of pain flickering throughout her skull.
"Please," she chokes out, hands flying up. The sickle sinks into her arm, presses deep until she feels it scrape against bone, can hear the harsh scrape of it. Lilou screams, the sound shattering the night into little pieces—if the boy cares, he shows no indication of it. It's all she can do to squirm and wiggle around, a worm trapped on the end of a hook just waiting to die.
Sickeningly enough, he's struggling to remove the blade from her arm. It's caught on something, spilling blood down onto her shirt in a steady stream. Each time she moves it only hurts more, but it's all she can do.
Something digs into her spine, making her curl upwards. The boy tears the sickle from her arm, leaving a throbbing, useless appendage in its place. With her left arm Lilou wiggles her hand beneath her back, ignoring the hands that bruise her and continue to carry on their assault.
Her fingers grip tight to the rock. Her very best friend, now. Who ever knew it could be such a thing.
On her first swing with it, she misses. The boy dodges and instead smashes the blunt end of the sickle into her temple. Her vision floods with red, but that doesn't stop her from swinging—finally, though she has no idea where it connects, the boy tumbles off of her and to the ground at her side. Lilou can't see him, not one bit, but she pulls herself to her knees and brings the rock crashing down with a hand on either side of it.
She hears every thud, every movement his skin breaks and the rock strikes bone. She goes until her right arm refuses, collapsing backward into the dirt. Lilou can't allow herself to remain motionless, however—she pulls herself forward, flattening the stalks beneath her, until she's sure there's a few feet of space between them. Blood soaks into her shirtsleeves as she presses them to her eyes, ridding the stain that prevents her from seeing.
He's still breathing, chest rising and falling in shallow, wheezing breaths. The mess that Lilou has made of his skull, infringing down onto his forehead and brow, makes her look away anyway, wishing she hadn't dared to look in the first. She never thought she was a squeamish person, but that…
That's death, five feet away. She's never been so close to it before, never had to look it in the face.
When his cannon fires, she jolts. Lilou can't even make herself move towards him, not to grab his weapon or to shed him of his jacket. She's bleeding, still, and she can't make herself do anything about it.
It's not him that feels like the danger, anymore. It feels as if when she touches him that the death will spread, infecting everything beneath her skin.
It was pure luck. If she hadn't rolled onto the rock, Lilou would be dead. Whilst she was off in Nine living the simplest of lives, this was the sort of shit that was happening around her. On the backroads and in the fields on the scorching summer days. Everywhere she didn't bother to look.
It's terrifying. It can never happen to her.
It can't.
It must have been hours since Casia first heard the girl.
She hasn't seen a soul in days—hasn't heard anything except the rush of the wind, the rustling of the grain spikes in the wind.
It had been too many days, and somewhere in the blend of them Casia had lost track of the number, didn't know what dawn or nightfall she was experiencing anymore. Two days ago she had found a dilapidated little shack, more walls fallen than standing, and she had left it just as quick. She had never liked the unnecessary attention.
The decision was something she couldn't help but doubt, now—it's true that she was a better wanderer than anything, but the darkening clouds gathering on the horizon made her rethink it. Having half a roof over her head if the sky opened up would have been better than nothing.
Casia knows she couldn't have stayed put for two days even if every single instinct told her to. It was better to move. To follow.
And follow she was.
It seemed ridiculous that the other girl hadn't caught wind of her yet, but unlike her Casia didn't talk to herself, or go crashing through the field, or sigh loud enough to wake the dead. The girl was frustrated, that much was clear, but couldn't she at least do it quietly, for her own sake? It was wishful thinking now that Casia had found her; she hadn't seen her, had no idea what she was dealing with, but it didn't matter.
When it came to a nervously chattering bit of prey and a hidden predator, there was an obvious winner every single time.
Casia had been steadily creeping closer for some time now, practically slithering along the earth on her stomach, moving in barely noticeable increments. Though it's impossible to catch sight of the girl, as long as she stills herself and waits she can pinpoint exactly where she is, listening to the echo of her footsteps as they move back and forth. As she continues to weave an uncertain, zig-zagging path through the stalks, she only makes it all the more obvious.
A rumble of thunder crackles to life in the distance and Casia launches to her feet, using the noise as cover. That's how she allows herself to move over the next minute, letting the wind and the sky disguise each of her calculated movements as she forges forward, ever closer. When she finally catches sight of the girl, relief floods through her chest—she's not even that much bigger than Casia is.
She'll be easier. There's no reason to even go for the legs.
When she's less than five feet away, Casia doesn't bother waiting for something to hide her—she leaps forward, hands grasping at the girl's shoulders, and reaches around to drag the knife over her throat. There's not even enough time to scream, though her body jerks backwards, still halfheartedly determined to throw Casia's weight off.
She only lets herself down when the girl's body begins to fall, knees sagging. Still, Casia holds onto her, lowering her gently into the dirt without hardly a sound. There's no telling who else could be around. The quieter everything is, the better.
She may have been caught more off-guard, but somehow there's emotion in this girl's deadened eyes, messy streaks of tears trailing down her face as if the few moments of pain Casia put her through were beyond imaginable. At least it was quick. Not everyone else will be given the same.
The girl seems to be empty-handed save for a few packages of granola stuffed into her pockets. Casia lets her eyes flit back to the sky briefly, and pries the girl's boots off too, ridding her of her socks. With the rain comes the cold, and a few extra layers will do her no harm. It's not like this girl needs them anymore, even if her jacket is too big for Casia, weighted heavily on her shoulders.
She pulls back, finally, unlacing her boots to pull the extra socks on. As soon as she sets the pair aside a trio of mice scamper across them. Casia can only watch them warily, ensuring they will come no closer to her unprotected toes—the last thing she needs is to lose one of them to a starving little mouse.
They pay her no mind, though, and there's far more where that came from. A practical flood of them emerges from the path Casia had just crashed through, the ground blotted out as they swarm around her, making it to the girl's body in record time. It only takes one to crawl over-top her for the rest to follow.
She hears the rapid, repeated clicking of their yellowed teeth. Manic squeaking erupts over them as if they're engaged in conversation.
It only takes a moment before she sees blood, vividly scarlet.
Casia launches herself to her feet, one boot still in hand, and backs off. Their heads are all burrowed down, seeming to move in unison as they… well, Casia knows what they're doing, and they're doing it with the same urgency that the one had clung to her finger so many days ago.
They're bloodthirsty. They're not going to stop, either. It's no wonder the first of them was so rotund.
Morbid fascination keeps her eyes fixed to the scene as they feast. Blood soon soaks the ground; one of them is burrowing into the line Casia cut into the girl's throat, fur matted red. It's as if, by not shaking the first of them off when it bit her, she gained their favor. Instead of going after Casia, they'll bide their time until she feeds them once again.
That's not much of a choice, when you really think about it.
She shakes herself, finally turning her gaze away as lightning forks across the sky in the distance, splitting the rolling clouds in two.
She can't stay here. She can't keep watching whatever this is.
Besides—Casia thinks she'll be seeing it again before all of this is over.
There's a house.
Of all the things to find in this barren, never-ending land, there's a house.
It looks as if it should have crumbled to the ground a dozen times over—the roof is hanging on by a thread, boards hanging loose from the walls all the way from the rickety porch to the second story. The scent of rotting wood lies heavy on the breeze, the rain misting down coating everything above the roof's peak in a heavy fog.
The clouds have hung heavy over Lilou's head for at least a day now, and gentle as it is, the rain has not called it quits. If she stays out here for much longer, wandering at such a slow pace, she's going to catch her death.
Besides, her arm hurts. Her shoulder aches fiercely with every step. It's not like she had been able to do anything about her wounds besides shred up her own jacket and decide to patch them—she had no bandages or gauze, nothing to help with the pain. The only thing that could do her an ounce of good now was a break.
Still, she couldn't help her overabundance of caution; it struck her then, for what might have possibly been the first time in her entire life. If anyone was inside, they'd know she was coming—the stairs creak alarmingly under her weight, holes rotted through the wooden boards. Even her careful steps don't lessen the noise as she presses up against the door. Being under cover is nice, at least, but the inside is still so tempting…
Lilou cracks the door open with her heart in her throat, stepping across the threshold before she can tell herself not to. The curtains left dangling on the inside flap wildly in the wind that seeps through the broken window panes, but it's still so much warmer. She shivers, wrapping her arms around herself as the door click shuts behind her. This is the first sign of civilization she's seen in a week, and she's happy for it.
"Get the fuck out."
She gasps as her eyes adjust to the gloom, flattening her back against the door. A shadowy figure swims into view, poised halfway up the staircase that twists halfway up throughout the main room to the upper floor.
They look like her—as much as Lilou can see anyway. They're not attacking.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she manages, teeth still chattering away.
"I could've told you that," the girl spits back. "You look like shit."
So she does. She has no idea if the other girl is in a similar state, or if she's just hostile to strangers. "Please, I just… I just want to get warm. Get dry. I won't come anywhere near you."
Lilou never wanted allies anyway. She was good on her own, never too eager to seek out the companionship of two-legged folks. Perhaps this girl is the same way. They could be kindred souls in that respect.
"You stay down here," the girl decides finally. "Upstairs is mine. If I even hear you coming up…"
"I get it."
"You're dead. Is that clear?"
"Crystal."
She's scared, scared as Lilou is and trying desperately to cover up it with a shadow of bravado. The girl watches her as Lilou picks her way across to a dusty, sagging couch. She can't be sure that the blanket draped over the back of it isn't infested with something, but she works her way out of her jacket and draws it over her shoulders with a grateful sigh.
Each of the girl's footsteps are horrifyingly loud as they ascend back up the stairs, and Lilou can still hear her once she's out of sight, the ceiling creaking overhead. They both have their ways out if things go south—the balcony up top is only a slight drop, really. As much as she had charaded in that direction, Lilou doesn't believe the girl will kill her, either.
She curls up onto her side, finally relieving the pressure of her injured arm. The throbbing in her head eases for once. The blanket is scratchy against her bare, damp skin, the fabric beneath her cheek smelling of rot and mildew, but Lilou thinks this might be the closest thing to comfort she'll ever find.
It's not home, that's for certain, but it's better than nothing.
They're talking to a fucking bird.
Casia couldn't believe it at first. Somehow, after even more days on her own, she's found people once again, and they're not even trying to be quiet. They're chattering on, laughing. They're talking to a bird. It feels a lot like she's listening to Luther, but she's quite certain neither of the two boys in the field before her are anywhere close to five years old. That's the only excuse for something like this.
It doesn't help that they're doing it loud enough to be heard over the rain, Casia can't help but think. It makes them sound even more deranged than they certainly are. You'd think talking to each-other would be good enough so that you wouldn't have to resort to speaking to something that would never say anything back.
They sound young, though, even from a distance. Even younger now that she's close. It's rich, coming from her—age isn't something that matters much here. Not many of the facts that hold firm in the outside world do.
The only numbers that matter currently is how many of them there are: two. Casia has lurked long enough to tell, picking out their voices and the patterns in which they speak, recognizing each type of lilt and tone. Occasionally, as if entertaining them in conversation, the crow balancing precariously on the stalks will squawk back at them. The bird is the only thing she can see, towering above all three of them.
At least its presence has seemingly scared the mice off for the time being. They've been following her like some strange little army. Casia has about as much desire to see these two boys devoured as she did the first time.
If she can get it and get out she can spare them of that, at least.
Her plan is perhaps too simple, but it's the only one that fires in her brain every-time. Regardless of who they are, there's still two of them and only one of her. Maybe they're not fighters, sure, but they're allies, and who knows how long they've been together. Trust can go a long way when you're in the thick of a fight—one wrong move, and they trap her. One wrong move and Casia's dead.
The crow has been a sufficient enough distraction that they've missed her tracking down a good-sized rock in the dirt, hefting it in her palm. They're none the wiser to her presence, nor to what's about to happen. Casia locks eyes where the crow still dangles overhead and lobs the rock forward, watching it sail overhead and plunge into the field, right where she guesses they are.
One of them yelps. The other gasps. "Wait, Manu!" one shouts, voice frantic. "Don't run, it's okay, stay with—"
Casia does not give him the chance to finish his sentence; he's told her enough. The other one has taken off in his fright.
That's good enough for her.
She doesn't even get a good look at him, crashing through the field and directly into him. He slams into the ground so hard that she hears the air whoosh from his lungs, eyes blinking dazedly as he throws his arms up to try and shove her off. Casia wastes no time in forcing the knife into his chest, stabbing as deep as she can in one swift movement before she stills, ears straining.
His rasping breaths don't even reach her ears. It's the silence of the field surrounding them that takes control—the other one isn't running.
He's hiding.
Casia waits for the first one's cannon before she rises, slowly, tugging the knife from his chest. He knows nothing about hiding, not like she does. Casia has spent days learning how to meld into this place, so quiet that she hardly makes a sound as she steps forward, each placement of her feet calculated well in advance.
She's the apex, now, the one people run and hide from, the thing you imagine lurking in the darkness. She was never supposed to assume such a role—kids her age are supposed to grow up in a loving household, be tucked in at night and covered up with heavy quilts. Everything surrounding her was always much too busy for that; as much as her parents loved her and her back to them, they couldn't always be perfect. This was not their fault, whatever little creature had grown up in Casia's place. They had not raised something inhuman.
But that's what she had become anyway.
A bolder person would speak. A more arrogant one would call out to the other child hiding in the bush and make them beg for survival. She doesn't need any of that.
She can hear them. A soft snivel, a frantic inhaled breath.
Casia pulls a mass of stalks apart and finds him cowering there, a boy who can be no older than she is. His eyes are huge as he stares up at her, tears streaming down his face before they wobble away and land on his knees, pulled up tight to his chest. A whisper escapes his lips, something desperate that doesn't seem to form into words.
"I'll do anything," he blubbers out eventually. "Please don't kill me."
He's young, just like her. Had his whole life ahead of him.
Had.
"Please!" he shrieks as she raises the knife, hands held in front of his face. "I'm just a kid, please, we're just kids…"
Him, maybe. But Casia knows the truth of what she is, and it's not whatever this strange boy is deeming to call her now. At the end of the day, his words will have as little effect on her as everything else, which is to say none at all.
She is something much, much worse.
And when she brings the knife down, he's dead soon enough.
What was once a tentative truce has accidentally blossomed into something more.
Even more seems too powerful a word—Lilou still does not have an ally. She doesn't believe she ever will.
Neither of them have left, though. The storms have only grown more powerful, filling the silence the two girls leave; they do not speak about it, not once, but neither of them leave. Lilou stays on the bottom floor while the other girl remains overhead. It's not something that will last forever, but for however many days Lilou has had it, and for as many as she will continue to, she'll be grateful.
Sometimes the other girl comes down to the landing on the stairs and sits down at the very top of it, easy enough to see but still far enough away that Lilou isn't worried about her. Almost every-time she brings with her a small, leather-bound journal. It takes a healthy amount of squinting through the darkness for the name imprinted along the spine to be revealed to her, but Lilou doesn't speak even when she makes it out.
It's Erena. She's not sure if it's the girl's name—it could be a friend, or a sibling. A gift from someone she loves, or an entire stranger. There's no telling.
Having a name to refer to her by seems easier, though, than thinking of her as a distant shadow. She allowed Lilou refuge when most others wouldn't have. Having rested for some time now, Lilou can't deny how much better she feels—she still has her wounds, bruises flowering along her arms to go along with the scrapes that line her knees, but she feels more human than she has in days.
She can't help but wonder if Erena feels the same; the company they provide each-other is hardly that, distant at best, but it's something. Is she able to sleep like Lilou is, without worry? Does she harbor a weapon up on the top floor throughout every waking hour, paranoid eyes refusing to close?
They're questions she won't ask. Once you get personal there's no going back, and Lilou doesn't believe Erena wants it any more than she does.
She's half-asleep when the other girl comes creeping down the stairs, shielding her cracked open eyes with the blanket she never strays far from. Erena creeps along the line of counters along the far wall, eyes fixated on the window. This is the first time that Lilou has really seen her, lit by the faint gray of the outside world, a flash of lightning casting her face in a glaring white for no more than a heartbeat.
"It's fucking moving," she whispers finally, hand pressed to the pane. "What the hell…"
"What's going on?" Lilou asks. Erena jumps, as if somehow she had forgotten about Lilou's presence entirely. She keeps her distance even as she rises to her feet, leaving at least ten feet of space between them. Only when Erena turns around once again does she feel comfortable moving closer, certain that the other girl has decided Lilou isn't much of a threat.
The rock still weighing heavily in her pocket says otherwise, but she's trying not to think about the role dumb luck has played in her survival.
"You see it out there?" Erena asks, pointing. "It's closer than before."
Through the heavy sheets of rain Lilou once again finds the towering scarecrow installed in the fields about a hundred yards out—or, at least, it had been a hundred yards out when she had first noticed it yesterday during a break in the storm.
"Is it?" Lilou murmurs. Surely her eyes are playing tricks on her.. it's up on a post at least ten feet in the air, and scarecrows don't just move.
Not back home, anyway.
"Definitely," Erena replies. "That can't be good."
Lilou can only wish that focusing harder and balling her fists up made her feel as confident—she just feels angry, instead, that something was clearly happening while she was none the wiser. If it's moving closer, then what does that mean? That they've been sitting here too long? There have only been a handful of cannons the past few days, and clearly they haven't been responsible for any of them…
Sometimes sitting still is even more dangerous than running.
It's not moving right now, though. Lilou can tell that much. Only problem is they have no way to tell when it will start again unless one of them watches it constantly, and that feels like too much of a plan. Too much like they're allies.
It can't happen.
She can't help but eye the notebook tucked away safely in the inner folds of Erena's jacket—Lilou didn't even bring a token. It was the very last thing on her mind whilst she was sitting in the Justice Building, both of her parents silent and horrified before her. It was only when Cajus asked her on the train and Lilou searched her pockets, expecting to find something that wasn't there, that she realized she had nothing at all.
It's the most trivial of things. It doesn't matter what she has. A little trinket isn't going to stop her from dying, especially from something previously inanimate that's lurking just outside.
When death comes knocking, nothing is going to stop it. Nothing can.
Nothing but her.
By some miracle, she found the ramshackle shed again.
Casia had been half-blind from the rain by the time she stumbled upon it, quite literally, smacking into one of the two standing walls before she had tucked herself into the corner and shivered half the night away.
It was the first time—the only time—in which she had thought that the dead had it easier. That maybe it would be better if she were that way herself. The last thing on Casia's priority last was freezing to death alone in the middle of this field for no fucking reason after everything she had done. What was the point in that?
The wind got bad in Nine, the rain too, but it was never like this. She always had a house to go back to, even if it was cramped and reeked like her brother's sweat and it was never, ever quiet. Casia never thought she would miss that house.
Her whole body aches from not moving. Casia is nothing more than statuesque, now—knees drawn up to her chest, cheek pillowed to the side, trying to hold in what little body heat still remains inside of her.
Is it hours? Days? The only thing she knows is that she doesn't move, and it feels for the first time like Manu's assessment almost had some sort of truth to it. If she froze here like this, she really would be just a kid. A stiff, blue-skinned corpse that would be packed away in a coffin much smaller than the ones they made for the average tribute. Less money wasted that way.
Any other kid would cry, though. They would beg for it to stop, call out to their parents. Casia thinks of them, of course. It's impossible not to when the only thing left to do is let your brain run wild.
Harmonia, harried and frantic, but oh so steadfast. Always standing tall in the face of Sam's abuse, ignoring the gossip of their neighbors and the whispers that followed her throughout the town's center. And then her father, of course. Marvin Braddock was Casia in thirty years time, quiet and devoted, head always down and focused on the next task.
He wouldn't cry. It wouldn't even cross his mind. Dad would just put his head down and wait for the storm to end.
So that's what she does.
When the rain finally slows, she doesn't dare believe that it will last. Casia only stretches her legs out before she fears that she'll be unable to move them if she remains here any longer—they scream in protest at every inch she forces them out, shoulders locked into place. She grits her teeth against the aching pain; it's nothing more than a hiccup, and it will fade fast enough. Relatively speaking, she's fine.
It does not stop entirely, but the wind seems to slow, turning into a gentle breeze that carries away the damp strands of hair plastered against her forehead, fanning them into something more manageable.
Almost as soon as she raises her head the squeaking catches her attention—Casia has no choice but to give the mouse that runs along the edge of the shack's wooden floor the most threatening look she can muster, unable to move or shift away from it. They're still friends, by the looks of it. It gives her nothing more than a curious look before it leaps away, sending a bundle of seeds flying into the air as it departs.
She expects more to come, a new tide to follow, but only one more appears. It dares to get as close as the tips of her shoes, peering curiously at the soles, before it stretches up. Just like before, she resists the urge to fling it away, watching as it's little paws scramble skyward, eyes fixed to the heavy clouds.
Casia looks up, too, just in time to see the parachute just before it lands in her lap.
She jumps at the weight of it as it lands against her thighs and the mouse scurries off. It's not even all that heavy, but she's been huddled up for so long that her skin prickles from the sensation—it's warm. Her fingers shake as she struggles to unwrap it, eventually pulling free with a container that practically burns against her palms. She can smell it already even with the lid closed, the spice and heartiness of a freshly prepared soup calling her name.
That, if anything, would be enough to make her cry. Perhaps she would have if something else hadn't rolled out of the silver fabric, a dark sheath that nearly blends into the damp floor.
Casia sets the thermos aside even as her brain cries for her to hug the heat to her chest, fingers stretching for the sheath—it's fabric is rough and coarse underhand, but she has little care for that. What slides free from it is much more tempting.
The long, pointed dagger is unlike anything she's ever seen before, the grip firm beneath her hands. The guard glimmers with gold, a dark stone set in the middle. It seems almost too ornate for her, as if whoever sent it found it amongst buried treasure, an ancient weapon from an ancient person. Somehow, now, it belongs to her.
She didn't need any of it—not the soup, and not the knife. She could have scraped by without eating for a little while longer, and she already had a weapon. Of course it's about ready to fall apart any day now, and it's nothing like the one she has in her possession now, but…
But what? These things are hers, now. Casia has fought and survived for them. She's earned them. No one can take away from her that she is the finest example of a little underdog that anyone could possibly witness, a once in a lifetime type of find.
Someone out there is rooting for her. Someone out there wants her to win.
She has no choice but to do just that.
"Get up," Erena hisses. "Get the fuck up."
She can feel the girl's breath on her face, the tightness of her hands digging into the boniness of Lilou's shoulders. She jolts when she sees her eyes a mere inch or two away, freezing when Erena presses over her lips.
Rain patters against the window-panes. The wind howls and makes the house shudder.
A rhythmic, heavy thumping begins from the area of the front door. Bang. Bang. Bang.
It's here, Erena mouths, releasing her hold in Lilou to take a step back, watching the door with wide eyes. As she squints through the darkness Lilou sees the door shake in its frame, cracks appearing in miniscule amounts throughout the wooden boards. Another tribute would have just opened it.
Erena must be right.
"What do we do?" Lilou whispers. Erena hushes her quickly enough, approaching the door with cautious steps and empty hands. She has no weapon; has it been like that this entire time? The only thing even on her person besides the clothes on her back is that stupid leather journal still tucked into its hiding spot. Lilou's hand grips the rock tight in her pocket, fingers trembling.
How do you kill something inanimate? At least in Three the robots looked vaguely human… this is nothing more than a heap of straw charading around in clothes that she might wear if she were back at home. Do they cut it up? Rip it's head off.
Are they even going to get the chance?
Erena doesn't seem interested in discussing any sort of plan; they haven't thus far, and it doesn't appear they're going to start now. Lilou refuses to free the rock, keeping it tucked away for a reason she can't explain while she watches Erena creep closer to the door. It's going to come down in the next minute. If anything they should be running, climbing out one of the back windows or risking the jump from the balcony upstairs. Anything is better than waiting for the inevitable.
Will it give chase, though? If they leave without confronting it, will they just find something worse waiting out in the fields?
Lilou doesn't want to find out. If given the chance, Erena will throw her to that thing's whims before Lilou can so much as blink.
They both want to live; Lilou doesn't think both of them will, tonight. In fact, she knows it.
The idea is sick. She has no right. Then again, she had no more of it to kill that first boy either, and she still did it. Maybe it's worse because it feels purposeful this time, because Lilou knows what she's doing as soon as the idea forms in her head. That thing out there is nothing more than a puppet—if the Gamemaker's had a choice, they'd rather the tributes spill blood than one of their mutts.
She takes a deep breath as she frees the rock from her pocket, approaching Erena's back in silence. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs.
The rock strikes her skull and Erena shrieks, sagging to the floor. Her arms wave about wildly, catching around Lilou's wrist before she brings the rock down to strike her again, loosening the girl's fingers. It only takes two more blows before she falls to the floor and does not move again, blood spilling into her closed eyes.
The door slams open. Lilou lets out a choked noise, half a whimper at the silhouette that comes forth against the night sky.
It's like a tale to scare a child, come to life.
"I killed her," Lilou manages. "I did it, are you happy now?
The scarecrow doesn't respond, but she didn't truly expect it to. Lightning flashes, illuminating it's garish face for a heartbeat, just long enough for her to see it's vacant expression, pasted on buttons for eyes and a crooked mouth. How can something so silly be so terrifying?
She scrambles back as it seems to shift. "No," she snaps. "Don't you fucking come near me."
It's a risk—everything has been. Killing Erena and hoping that would appease the Gods, telling off an inhuman mutt like it has any brains. Lilou is pleading to the Gamemakers, now, begging them to listen to her.
She's done what they wanted.
A gust of wind is ushered through the door. As it buffets against her face and tangles her hair, the scarecrow collapses. Hay rustles against the ground in a great pile, individual pieces quickly scattered by the storm across the porch and into the foyer. She hears the buttons bounce against the floor, watches the dated shirt get lost amidst the rest of it.
Lilou takes a careful step over Erena's prone form with a shuddering breath, stretching her foot forward. When there's no movement, she kicks into the pile with all her might, sending the rest of it flying.
She took the risk, and it worked. There's no going back from that now.
Lilou doesn't think there's enough time for that now regardless.
She's being led somewhere.
There's no concept of time or space in these fields, certainly not location. Everything looks the same unless you happen upon a structure, and there's not very many of them. Every stalk grows a similar height. The storm has turned everything into the same darkened, angry gray.
All Casia truly knows is that a force out there, unbeknownst to her, has a direction in mind. The mice are ahead of her in a neat, uniform trail. The wind only blows one way, now. The clouds push on behind her, making her pace ever faster.
This must be the end, or at least something like it.
Casia has no clue what to expect out there—with her having made it this far, it could truly be anyone. What she wouldn't give to stumble upon two other kids who had only made it there because they were too stubborn to die, even if they hadn't truly fought. People that she could take out easily, efficiently… that was dreamed.
And this place seemed much more like a nightmare.
Something had changed. She couldn't find people the way she had before; Casia felt like she was blundering about in circles, following along paths she had already created. Even the mice were trailing off, now, disappearing one by one into the field as if her presence no longer mattered. Casia was meant to be here, that much was certain. But who else was?
"Is someone over there?"
Casia goes still, allowing herself to blend into her surroundings as best she can. The question, at least, means they haven't seen her. They've just found her before she could find them.
It's not good either way.
"I'm not… not going to hurt you," the voice says. "I think there's only one other left. He's older than me. A lot bigger. Has a scythe."
Of course he does. So much for pathetically easy. Casia still can't help but ball her fists up indignantly at the mere thought of needing someone else's assistance with getting out of here—she's made it this far all on her own. She could win, too.
Or she could just kill the voice's owner. It'll be more difficult now, but there's no harm in trying.
Unless there is.
"You have no reason to trust me," the voice says. "But I don't want to die, and I'm not so confident that I'll survive him."
Casia has pinpointed the voice, now—behind her and slightly to the left, probably about twenty to twenty-five yards back. They were probably following her. The thought is more unnerving than anything Casia has seen in this hellhole thus far.
"I'm not allying with you," Casia says firmly. "If something goes south, I'm not trying to save you."
"I wouldn't expect you to. All I'm asking is if you have an idea to… to kill him."
Casia always has a plan. Going into something like this without one is practically suicidal. She can do this, and if she does it right it will practically be without risk. Either the other boy left will kill whoever she's talking to, or Casia will get him first. When there's no losing in a situation, of course it sounds like the most fascinating temptation.
"What's your name?" the voice asks, less hesitant. More steely.
She takes a deep breath before she answers. "Casia."
"Casia. I'm Lilou."
She nods, ignoring the fact that the other girl still can't see her. There are no pleasantries exchanged—it's not nice to meet, not in a place like this and not when they haven't even set eyes on each other's faces. Casia has zero desire to change that fact if this girl is just going to be added to Nine's tribute grave within the day.
Whichever one of them it is, Casia will live with it. She'll learn their faces one day soon, as is the standard.
First, one of them has to die.
She raises the dagger to eye-level, examining the blade shimmering in the pale gray. It's singing for action, begging to spill blood. All Casia can do is let it fulfill its purpose.
"I have a plan, Lilou," she says evenly. "As long as you listen to me."
Whoever she is, Casia is putting Lilou far more at risk with this arrangement of hers.
If only Lilou wasn't too damn stubborn not to go along with it.
It seemed simple enough. Casia wanted to be led to where she had last seen the boy—after a few minutes of guessing, she had managed to find the exact spot. Droplets of blood stained the ground, and it certainly hadn't been Lilou that had caused them.
He had been covered in it, the blade of the scythe more crimson than not. She had barely survived that first boy, and this one was twice as threatening. If she didn't have help, Lilou would fucking die—she hated to admit it, but it was the ugly truth.
Casia was her only hope. A stranger without a face. Someone who she may never truly see.
But she had to do it.
They're silent for so long that Lilou almost begins to think that it's useless, enough distance between them that only one will be noticed. When she hears the crackling of the stalks in the distance, the telltale noise of them breaking underfoot, she freezes. She can imagine the cameras lasering in on her face, her wide-eyed look. A deer in headlights.
Heart hammering, she reaches forward and gives the stalks before her a hefty shake. The noise in the distance freezes. No doubt he thinks he's hallucinating hearing such an obvious noise so close.
If Lilou was back home watching this, looking at another girl so willingly to be the bait, she would be shaking her head. Calling them an idiot. She should have refused from the get-go, told Casia to do it herself if she was so desperate for her plan to work.
But it's like she said—stubbornness is a poison, and she's full of it.
"I'm over here!" she calls, voice like a siren as she lets it travel across the field towards him, before she turns tail and takes off.
The thundering footsteps that start up behind her may be the most terrifying thing Lilou has ever heard in her life. He sounds not unlike a giant chasing after her, trampling everything in his path without an ounce of caution. Why would he? Despite herself, Lilou probably sounded like nothing more than a scared little girl just then. If he knows it, there's no reason for him to be scared.
She thinks of the blood on his scythe, on his shirt, and it spurs her on faster. Each time one of her feet hits the ground she launches herself on without looking back, weaving a path through the field so quickly that she must look like a blur, a bolt of lightning not unlike the kind that had lit up the sky so many days previously.
Her throat burns. Each breath that tears from her mouth makes her think of her easy walks with Sadie back home, the leisurely pace that only she could set with her best friend by her side, looking up at her with loving eyes.
She won't go back there. The Capitol won't let her. Amani Layne saw through to that when he cut himself open and bled all over the rest of their dreams. But it's the dream—that dream, that makes her run faster. If death is so terrifying, she won't be joining its ranks for a very, very long time.
One day she can be back with Sadie, safe and sound. As long as she keeps running.
But everything behind her has gone silent.
The realization feels so belated that Lilou nearly trips over her own feet when she grinds to a halt, spinning around to trace the path behind her. There's nothing—no towering figure emerging from the stalks, no blood glinting off the edge of a scythe. The shaking of the earth as he gave chase is gone, leaving an unnerving stillness in its place.
She can hear something else, though—a series of sickening thuds. The squelching of wetness.
"Casia?" she calls, relieved to find that her voice doesn't tremble. Despite the scratchiness in her throat, it holds. She takes a few steps back the way she came, eyes looking for a change in the field. Something has happened. Something, for someone, has gone wrong.
A cannon fires. Her breath catches in her throat and lodges there.
"Casia?" she asks again, voice quieter this time. Her next few steps reveal light in the field, a wide break in the growth that wasn't there before. Hints of color seep between each stalk, shifting in the wind. Movement exists where it shouldn't.
She stumbles upon it so suddenly that Lilou almost steps on it—the body, that is. His body. He's face-down in the dirt, shirt ribboned open and soaked with blood where gouges have been stabbed into his back, at least a dozen of them. They line his shoulders and crest along his spine, creep down to the edges of his ribs.
Worse, somehow, is the slight figure that pulls themselves up from the ground where they had hung over him and stands. They do not tower over him. Nothing could change so much for it to be described as such. This is Casia. Frighteningly small, as if a stiff breeze could carry her away. The dagger in her hand looks as if it belongs to someone else, though it matches the mess made of her face—both painted with fresh blood.
She is emotionless as she regards Lilou, blue eyes bright and alive. There's no fear in her.
"May I present to you the victors of District Nine—Casia Braddock and Lilou Holbrook!"
She's so young… they both are, really.
Somehow, in this backwards world, that never mattered at all.
THE VICTORS OF DISTRICT NINE... CASIA BRADDOCK (13) AND LILOU HOLBROOK (15).
thecentennialcelebration . tumblr . com
Thank you to Nell and Birdie for Casia and Lilou. ❤
Baby victor District. Yes indeed.
Happy we're officially halfway through the initial set of Games day! I already feel like I'm running out of interesting things to say beyond that which is truly pathetic but eh, whatever. Not like you guys really need extra things to read after I drop something over 10k on you every single Friday. Regardless, I hope you enjoyed and are enjoying, and that you continue to do so in the future.
Until next time.