tw: mentions of mila/d9 (nothing new, just references) in pov 4. stay safe!

Ardalion "Lio" Collingwood, 18, District 4 Male

June 17th, 88 ADD

12:03 PM

Lio could feel himself going numb.

The dreams, the memories- he couldn't get them out of his head, and he didn't think he deserved to. He'd shattered, just like that mirror, and the broken pieces kept cutting their way deeper and deeper into what was left. Wasn't it only fair to be haunted when he'd let his ghosts down? He should've saved Lyre, he should've spared Sirenna… he should've… he should've… he didn't.

(He deserved to be haunted. And he kept telling himself he didn't want that, because he needed to get it together. But. He hadn't dreamed so regularly of Lyre in years. It only hurt so badly to see her because there was still comfort, affection, joy between them, and maybe it was all worth it just to see her smile in his dreams.)

He wondered if they could see him now. He tried not to think of Lyre watching everything between him and Sirenna- the dancing, the kiss, the betrayal- and what she would think. Had she heard his confession, or how Sirenna had called her his "dead girlfriend?"

(Had she known that the things he'd liked most about Sirenna were the parts that reminded him of Lyre?)

How would she have felt, watching it all?

He should've told her everything while he still had the chance. He'd assumed they still had time, and he'd taken that time for granted, and he was wrong. He'd been wrong about everything- all the time Lyre had left, and Sirenna, everything with Sirenna, and all of it…

Lio was starting to feel that he ruined everything he touched. He was the common link.

So as the memories tore away at him, as everything dulled around him, he didn't fight the numbness. It helped. As he wandered the arena, he coped by letting the feelings fade. Just a little bit.

(And then a little bit more, and a little bit more.)

The part he was wandering right now was an absolute mess.

From what he could tell, it seemed empty of tributes. The floor was covered with cut wires, and as he walked further, he came across a charred staircase. The security cameras, which he hadn't been paying much attention to before, had all been smashed, leaving glittering shards of glass beneath their mounts. In one hall, a large brown stain circled the floor. Lio registered all these details and came to a simple conclusion: someone had died here. Maybe multiple people. The carnage and the chaos of the Games had made its mark here.

But there was something else, too.

This part of the museum was filled with doors, most of which were shut. Not far from the bloodshed, though, Lio found one door left slightly ajar. Hearing only silence, and brimming with curiosity, he stepped inside.

He couldn't deny that there was still chaos here. But while smashed cameras and burn marks seemed to indicate violence- a violence Lio was familiar with- this chaos was lighter, more gentle. There was paint everywhere, all over the floor and the countertops and the cabinets lining the walls. In some spots, it had puddled; in others the color smeared across surfaces, and some marks were clearly handprints. Two easels faced each other in the corner, and Lio went to take a closer look. Each was of a boy. One had straight brown hair and a pointy nose, and he wore glasses, and a smile lit up his face. The other was lankier, dark-haired and heavy-browed, his nose a bit crooked.

The numbness Lio had been pulling around himself like a shield broke.

The boys were familiar, though he hadn't known them personally, and he knew they'd both died by now. But looking at this room- the portraits, the colorful fingerprints on the walls- and all this evidence of their care for one another brought everything he'd been numbing himself to rushing back. There was no denying there was affection here, and while Lio didn't know them or exactly how they'd felt about each other, it all reminded him of himself, once, and how he'd been happy. He'd sailed Four's waters with the most beautiful girl in the world. He'd felt things.

And just like these two boys, it was all gone.

Lyre's gone.

Three years, and that simple fact still haunted him.

The Games had once been their dream. To compete together. Lyre had never gotten that chance, but her half of the dream had clung to him, like painted fingerprints on a classroom wall. Lio took in the whirlwind of color in this room and thought of her and how far he'd wandered from her dream. This was the sort of chaos she'd loved, and he could feel her here in every splash of color, no longer fully out of reach. He'd let her absence overtake him instead of strengthen him. He'd worked against his memories instead of with them. He stood in the safe haven that this room must have been, only destruction waiting in the steps beyond this place, and couldn't be numb anymore.

He had to pull those broken pieces back together again. If not for himself, for Lyre's dream.

"I'm sorry," he told Lyre. "I'll do better. I promise."

There was no response. Lio wasn't expecting one. He left the classroom. He turned to shut the door, and as the knob clicked into place, a small sound caught his attention.

Whoosh.

Lio pulled the shield from his back and thrusted it in front of him in one practiced motion, just as three knives hit his shield so hard they stabbed through the metal. He looked around, but there was no sign of an attacker. And based on the angle of the knives, they had come from- above?

The wires on the floor, he realized. They were traps.

Now that he knew where to look, he was able to make out an unbroken wire under the debris, leading from the door he'd just closed, under his feet, and back up the wall, where it disappeared.

Perhaps this door hadn't been left open on accident.

Perhaps it was a safe haven, once, but not anymore.

"Hmm," he muttered. He began to move back out through the wing, keeping his shield up, until he'd reached the end of the destruction. One he did, he yanked out the knives- they were incredibly sharp, if old-looking. Something about them seemed familiar, but he couldn't place them. His shield, on the other hand, was much less usable. The knives had punched right through it. The whole shield was fairly dented and dinged up by this point in the Games. And as he examined it more, seeing flakes of dried blood on the edges, the memories of Sirenna's scream created a lump in his throat.

If he wanted to do better- if he wanted Lyre to be proud- he couldn't let the memories numb him anymore.

He opened the nearest classroom door cautiously, and when no traps revealed themselves, hid his shield inside. He'd long lost his suit jacket, and his button-down was dirty and bloodied and torn, so he threw that in there too.

He would do better.

So with a renewed sense of purpose, he set off into the museum once again.

Abner Beacon, 17, District 5 Male

3:19 PM

The loneliness was setting in, and paranoia came with it.

Abner had been alone in the arena for the first several days, all the way from Byron's death to finding Yuzu. But he'd lost Yuzu, and all of his allies were dead, and he was once again alone. But it felt different this time. There might have been fewer tributes running around the museum, but the stakes felt higher. The final fight was nearer. The remaining opponents were more dangerous. He was used to it being him against the world- he lived alone in an abandoned warehouse, for hell's sake- but he'd always had something to fall back on. He'd always known Ozias was out there somewhere, and then that Faven would always be there, and then he had Byron and Yuzu and everyone else. His loneliness had never run this deep before, and it set him on edge.

(As the minutes wore into hours, hours into days, that tiny voice in the back of Abner's head was growing louder. He'd killed Yaroslav, and he'd lost Yuzu, and he'd lost Byron, and he hadn't found Hunter in time. His parents died. Ephraim got himself killed. He'd always hated Ozias for leaving him and saving his own skin, but maybe Ozias would be with all the others if he hadn't.

Maybe Ozias had been right to leave Abner behind.)

There was also the knowledge that he would have to fight again. Abner had never wanted to fight- he'd never wanted to be like Ozias, who fought for money. To entertain. And to be in the Hunger Games, with promises of riches and a real home… wasn't that what this was? He remembered all too well the feeling of the knife in his hand hitting Yaroslav's skin, and he cringed every time he thought of that moment. He didn't want to do it again, but God, he didn't want to die. His self-preservation was too strong- he wouldn't let himself die.

(He would give up his strongest belief to not die… how would he cope with himself, if there was an after? After the arena, the Games, after taking lives… how?)

Maybe it was for the best that he hadn't seen anyone else. Since the incident with Yuzu and Yaroslav, there had been multiple cannons. Four more, if he was counting correctly- two later that day, one yesterday, and one the day before that. He knew it was wishful thinking, but maybe he could just wait it out until no one else was left. After all, his district partner Kyanna had been the one to die yesterday- he didn't want to watch people like her die. She'd always been nice to him. He'd rather ride it out as long as he could. Avoid facing death while he had the chance.

(The longer he stayed in this state of paranoid paralysis, alone the longer he could cling to himself. The Abner that Faven knew, who made jokes and missed his family, instead of the Abner who let people down and killed in cold blood.)

He'd made it this far, enduring loss after loss on his own. People had left him before, and now they were gone once again. If Abner had managed to keep going when he was thirteen, he could do it again in the arena. Moving on was the only way Abner knew how to live.

He would do his best to cope with his mistakes, and he'd try not to make any more, and he'd keep going.

He had to keep going…

Mavka Aelin, 18, District 2 Female

4:30 PM

"Attention: the museum is now closing. Please proceed to the nearest exit. We hope you enjoyed your visit with the Hargrove Museum of Performance Art, and we look forward to seeing you again soon."

There had been no cannons today. Mavka turned back to Esper, expecting the announcement to end there, but before she could comment-

"Good evening, tributes. Congratulations! You have survived ten days in the arena. To celebrate this accomplishment, a feast will be held in your honor, tomorrow, at the museum's closing time. While attendance is not mandatory, it is thoroughly encouraged. For anyone still debating… this is no ordinary feast.

"Every item present rightfully belongs to one of you. You may have noticed a lack of sponsorship gifts throughout the competition. Every single gift that has been purchased on a tribute's behalf will be present at the feast: however, to claim your items, you must get to them first.

"As always, may the odds be ever in your favor, and we look forward to your attendance."

The announcement ended without a signoff. Mavka looked at Esper, whose eyes were fixed on the speaker, lost in thought.

"That's crazy," she murmured.

"Can you imagine," Esper said slowly, "exactly what people would have been sponsored? The sheer potential… how many weapons they would've sponsored the Careers, food for the outliers, medicine… we have to be there right when it starts. We can't let Lio get a shield, or Nine or Five get real weapons. We have to make sure they're ours."

"You want to be there right when it starts?"

He finally tore his eyes from the intercom. "Of course," he said. "It's been closing earlier and earlier, so let's get there as early as we can. People aren't just going to leave the good shit lying around. We have to be there to take it, and then we get the fuck out of there. Or- we use what we find to narrow the playing field…"

"I just think there's value in holding back a little…" she trailed. "If other people make the first move, you can catch them off guard."

He stared at her. "You don't like making the first move."

"What?"

"I've noticed," he stated. "After you were supposed to be the one to tell Lio about Sirenna and Tyger, and you couldn't do it. You don't like to make things happen."

"There's nothing wrong with patience."

"But there is something wrong with complacency."

"You think I'm complacent?" Mavka asked.

"I think if nothing forces you to act, you won't," Esper said. "You don't have to come with me to the feast if you don't want to. Going is a risk. Not going, as far as I'm concerned, is death-"

"I didn't say I wasn't going," Mavka interrupted. "But if we hang back a little, we can catch people in their mistakes and minimize the risk."

"I disagree. If you let other people make the first move, they get the opportunity to take it away from you," he retaliated. "And I refuse to let that happen."

"Esper…"

"Let me make this clear, okay?" he continued. "I'm not fucking around. I'm trying to give us the best chance of getting to the end. I'm taking this seriously, and I'm taking you seriously. This isn't a game to me-"

"I never accused you of that."

He blinked. "What?"

"I didn't say you were 'fucking around,'" she said. "And I didn't say it was a game to you. I didn't accuse you of any of that."

"...Oh."

"I just want to make sure we're discussing all our options," she said. "We can make sure we get there first. I want you to consider that if we want to target Nine, it may be worth it to let him find us, instead of going after him and scaring him off."

"But-"

"It's still worth it to go after the feast items, I absolutely agree," Mavka interjected. "And we shouldn't let anyone take what belongs to us. But let's not take our things and run away immediately. I've done enough running away for a lifetime."

Esper took a moment to regain his composure. "Fair enough," he said. "We get what we want, then we lie in wait."

"Yes."

"Hmm."

They sat in silence for a while, both still processing the news of the feast and each other's words. Mavka leaned her head against the wall, trying to prepare herself for tomorrow. She hadn't seen any real combat since the Bloodbath- just secrets and politics and schemes, which she'd only survived by keeping her head down and sticking by the right person. To survive another day, she would need to switch back from defense to offense.

The skirt of her navy blue dress caught the corner of her eye. The fabric was dirty and a bit torn after wearing it for over a week, and she kept getting annoyed when it caught around her ankles. Maybe it was time for some hemming. She reached into the backpack she'd taken from the Cornucopia and removed one of the x-acto knives, setting to work.

Esper watched as she tore and cut and tied her dress into something more functional. "Do you have anyone watching at home?" he asked quietly.

She was startled by the question, but tried not to show it. If this was one of Esper's rare moments of vulnerability, she would let it happen. "Yes, why?"

"Because everyone you've ever told me about is dead," he said.

That did manage to startle her. "I was telling you about how I ended up here, in the Games," she said. "My friends are the reason why. They just also happen to be… dead."

"Well who are you fighting for, then?"

"Still them," she replied. "And my family, too. I have parents and two brothers and a sister at home who would like to see me again."

"You've never mentioned them."

She sighed. "I love them, but we're not very close. And it's not like you've ever mentioned your parents, either. I've heard about a sister and a brother, but that's it."

He stiffened. "That's because my parents are drug addicts who prefer to spend their time high in some warehouse than parenting. If I never saw them again, that would be fine with me. They're shitty people, and they're not my favorite subject."

"Hmm." Mavka yanked another knot tight, draping her skirt away from her knees. "Makes sense. Why did you ask, though? You were the one who brought it up."

"Just thinking about some things," Esper responded. Mavka glanced up at him, but he wasn't looking at her. His usual sharp gaze had become more distant, and it wasn't the first time Mavka had noticed his lack of focus. Whatever 'things' Esper was thinking about, they weren't in the here and now.

Mavka could relate to that. Half her thoughts-

(Odessa's eyes, brown and warm, danced with mischief-)

(Gemini's smile was reserved but undeniable, poking shyly through her features-)

(Sonya's hand was outstretched, beckoning to her, cheeks flush with excitement-)

-took place in the past anyway.

But unlike Esper, she didn't let herself dwell in them right now. Instead, she finished remaking her dress, preparing for the battle that was sure to come.

Robin Verrillo-Makrain, 17, District 9 Male

8:27 PM

After a thorough ransacking of the gift shop, he'd found the big fancy umbrellas, complete with Hargrove Museum of Performance Art printed between the spokes, to be an excellent substitution for a baseball bat. He'd also stocked back up on food- there had been plenty of snacks hanging on the walls, which he was all too happy to claim for himself- as well as water.

But there was nothing left to wreck inside the gift shop, so he'd taken his spree of destruction out into the museum. He'd knocked paintings off of walls, sent statues crashing to the floor, and he'd smiled the whole way through.

He was alive, and every piece of destruction left in his wake was proof.

He'd spent the morning working from Arts of Africa to Arts of China, Japan, and Korea, the latter of which he'd wrecked to his satisfaction by early afternoon. He'd pranced through Arts of Asia, umbrella hitting each display haphazardly, loving the ache in his arms and the resounding crack of ancient pottery hitting the stone floor. He didn't even mind the steady pain in his broken nose, which was the only injury not finished healing from the Bloodbath. All of the chaos fueled him, making Robin feel more alive than he had since… since who fucking cared, 'cause he was alive right now.

(How long had it been since he'd prioritized himself? For the last two weeks, he'd been planning to sacrifice himself, and finally letting that promise go was exhilarating.

He hoped that wherever she was now- if she'd been right, on the throne of the realm beyond- she could see him thriving. He hoped she knew that she'd failed to drag him down with her, and he was better off without her.

He didn't miss Mila Nazeryan-Perdanez at all.

He didn't.)

He was alive! He was running through a museum, making his mark! He was… he was…

…where was he?

He stopped, panting, and took a second to get a sense of his surroundings. He hadn't been in this room before- in his gleeful rampage, he'd lost track of where he was going. This room was smaller, off to the side, and the walls were filled with frames. He immediately recognized what was inside them- how could he not? He'd loved them before Mila, and continued to love them after.

Photographs.

He dropped his trusty umbrella and stepped closer, immediately intrigued. The pictures held all manner of subjects- people, locations, objects… they were in black and white, color, all sorts of filters and techniques. He moved from photo to photo, drinking them in greedily. His camera grew heavier around his neck with each new artwork, and suddenly Robin felt the need to be a part of this. He'd already made his mark with chaos. Maybe he could make another one with something more beautiful.

He had the roll of film, and all he needed was a way to develop them.

His eyes landed on the black curtain hanging in the corner.

"No fucking way."

He ran towards it, ripping it aside to find himself bathed in red light. As his eyes adjusted, he found himself speechless- everything in here was the nicest version of the equipment he'd used in Nine that he'd ever seen. From his beaten-up camera to the old plastic bins he'd used, everything here was better and brand-new. Professional. He ran his fingers over the enlarger- a bit dusty, but it was real. It was as though the Gamemakers had known he was coming.

(Well, possibly more likely they'd intended for it to be a hiding spot, or an interesting setting for a fight, but Robin liked to think it was meant for him.)

He pulled the camera off, missing its familiar weight as soon as it left him. He fumbled to pull out the strip of film, and he set to work. He'd gone through this process more times than he could count, and there was something soothing about the familiar steps, the way his hands knew what to do without being told. He was tempted to let his mind drift, but he knew where that would lead-

(Her laugh in his ears, her head on his shoulder, the betrayal in her eyes-)

-so he didn't. He focused on what he was doing, and let it carry him away.

He didn't know how long he spent working. Hours, probably, as he was painstakingly thorough with each step. He wanted his pieces to be perfect, and he didn't care about how long it took to meet his own standards. He developed all the pictures he'd taken since he got to the arena, and once they were dried, he carried them out to the rest of the photographs. He found some tacks in there, and he brought them with, stabbing them through his art and into the wall.

There was the very first picture, the one he'd taken to blind the Career boy. His hand was in front of his face, but he hadn't moved fast enough, and his eyes were half-open, his expression caught in a grimace. It was almost comical, but the picture had saved Robin's life. He pinned it up.

Next was Newt, splayed out on the ground, his head flopping to the side at an awful angle. His lips were parted slightly, his green eyes already faded. Robin pushed down the lump in his throat. Newt could've easily saved himself, but he listened to Robin's call and answered it with sacrifice. Robin was grateful. He didn't regret that he'd caused the kid's death- he suspected Newt had never expected to win- but he respected him, and he would be sure to remember him. That was what the photographs were all about: remembering. He put it a few photos down from the first.

The next picture was from only a few minutes later. It was taken at the top of a staircase. Georgette sat at the bottom, an x-acto blade in her fist, staring into the camera with doe-like fear. Frozen in the headlights of his camera's flash. Unable to run. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but he failed to see any uncertainty. She had always trusted Mila, all the way to the end. He hoped she wasn't afraid anymore. He stabbed the tacks through it and into the wall.

The last picture was Mila.

Her hair was a mess, one eye ruined and the other empty. She stared at something behind the camera, and a knife was buried in her heart.

Everything was different, but the resemblance was uncanny.

(Suicides Are Growing Absurd! the headline had read. Daria's picture laid just below it, an accidental slip of Robin's stunned finger. Wasn't that what this was? An accident Robin had immortalized? One he had, once again, failed to stop?

His mother, Mila- why had they both chosen death over him?)

Robin closed his eyes, willing himself to remember the weight of his father's arms around his chest, holding him tight. He pinned Mila's picture to the wall and let the memory of Sevilin's embrace drag him away once again, away from the wall and back into the rest of the gallery.

After Daria's death, he'd found Mila, and she'd been the one to show him how to embrace death. She'd already started gaining followers at that point, and looking back on it, that's what Robin had been- another person who needed help learning to cope. She'd let him stick around much longer than most, had let him kiss her and play his banjo for her and take her picture, but both had always known who was in charge. She was the queen, and Robin wasn't her king, but her jester.

Robin didn't want to be a jester anymore.

He'd always been fascinated with the idea of death- his true muse- but it had always been in contrast to life. Robin liked the opportunity of life, the knowledge that it could leave at any time, preferred the in-between to the end. Maybe it was time he redefined his muse. Not death, not Mila, but life.

He knew danger awaited him tomorrow. He fully intended to attend that feast. He was going after what he wanted, and that was Victory. For himself.

But for tonight, he contented himself with all this evidence- some of it his- that life went on, and that for now, he was undeniably alive.

no eulogies today!

kills:

serenity peace: 2 (vikram, boe)
vikram lamentations: 1 (portia)
mavka aelin: 2 (byron, khione)
tyger troy: 1 (newt)
berenice kavanaugh: 2 (hunter, kyanna)
yaroslav katratzi: 1 (yuzu)
sirenna jin: 1 (cloud)
lio collingwood: 3 (archer, tiger, sirenna)
abner beacon: 1 (yaroslav)
esper myrellis-verilla: 3 (khione, byron, vikram)
georgette hemingway: 1 (georgette)
mila nazeryan-perdanez: 1 (georgette)
robin verrillo-makrain: 2 (newt, mila)

alliances:

mavka & esper
berenice
lio
abner
illy
robin

notes from me:

- blog updated momentarily like always

- feast next chapter! who's excited?

- idk i don't have much to say today how's everyone doing

rb