Would you like to hear a story?
C'mon. It's a story of a friend of a friend. Put down the pot, man, it won't kill you. There. See? Wasn't hard.
Now. Tell me. What can't a rebel survive without? No, no, it's not weapons. Courage? Important. No. One more guess. Goddamn, you're shit at this.
Bards.
Go on! Laugh it up, Lennie. Tell me. What's courage without inspiration? You don't get inspired seeing orphans shot down. Righteous fury. Sure. Not inspired. You might as well do an interpretive dance on the gutter punk's grave. God knows who else visits.
Now songs. That had real power. In the olden days, d'you know how our ancestors survived? Course you don't, you diddly-squats. Story. You wanna know why the Capitol chased the roadrunners like their dicks were being sawn off?
It's cause their dicks were being sawn off. Nah. Story. Those little pesky pockets were gettin' out of hands. Go on. Destroy the manuals. Vids. Propaganda. All you want. You're not winning. They're still singing.
We needed bards. Still do. Who else to tell our revolutions to? You're lucky I fancy myself one.
The revolution can rest. We'll need that cheering-up. It's a campfire night, eh? Mist, crackling flames… that's crack-a-lackin'. Just like our tale.
We start with an Ingenue.
Before volunteering, Elixabette Harrow heads to the scrapyard.
The home-away-from-home gleams. The sparks dance off the rebar. Yellow leaks seep out of the wreckage. The gas amber of the dusk is a formidable thing.
She shuts her eyes. The metals transform. Burring through blood and weathered slashes, scars and sobs and heartache betrayal. Into gold. Glistening gold. Salvation gold. Enough to sustain her family gold. Their parents' tired eyes won't be tired anymore gold. More-than-can-be-spent gold.
It'll be worth it.
Their hand flits over the wrecks. A sharpness upturns their palm. Another gnarls. Another softens. There is a life to this desolation - a repurposing, a something-made-anew in the trash. Some emo outer District rats may relate to that. For the matter, she'll just laugh.
No tragedy, sorry not sorry. Isobel Harrow and Cassius Harrow would be the envy of Two. If Two wasn't obsessed with wifebeaters and strict-as-shit parents for quality Academy children.
This is why her parents can neverknow she's volunteering.
Her Mom's panicky yells are already ricocheting in her head. "What do you mean, you're volunteering?!" She'll bust out the full name - "Elixabette Harrow, get back here at once!" - and they'll be hearing all about it till the sun gleams tiny rays over the horizon. She'll try to volunteer, but only to be, like, stuck lock and chain down by a screaming Isobel Harrow. Nobody wants that to happen.
She winces. Sorry, Mom, they mouth. And Dad, too, for the matter. But it's okay. I'll be coming back.
They have to. Who's gonna relish in riches if not? Elixabette would die a hundred deaths over than see One lavish in more crystals than they needed. Yikes. Nobody needed to encourage their kleptomania.
(Even if she does die an ignominious death… rumour has it that Two doles out a hefty life insurance payout.)
There's no losing. Win, don't win— their parents' scrapyard is safe. Three can't steal their business if she pays the Capitol to switch back to them. Not that she would. Not that it's not tempting.
The scrapyard will live on. Her parents deserve that. They've sacrificed everything for this passion. Why can't they have a victory?
By volunteering, Elixabette can give them the world. It isn't a hard ask.
"You'll come back to us, Harrow," Arthur says. His grin's sugar-sweet. The decade in the Academy did nothing to wear that off him. It's the very thing she loves about him. Elixabette may rib him forever about it. But. Never lose your heart, Steelpoint.
"Uh huh, tell me something I don't already know." Her grin's lazy. Doesn't hide the palpitating heartbeat haywiring in her lungs. Thump-thumpthumpthump.
"Okay, well," Anna says. "How about this? You're going to die, Harrow. You're gonna prove yourself wrong. The gash you gave my shoulder? You know, when you yelled "I'm gonna win, bitch"? A lie and a half. Your corpse will be back in a week's time, max."
Arthur gasps. "Brianna!"
"Is that a challenge?" Elixabette says.
"You know it."
"The only parade I'm coming back to is going to be blasted with confetti," Elixabette knocks back her chair. Legs up the table. Arms behind head. Sunglasses and she's in Four's mythic sands.
"I know I'll win. Your sad prospective Peacekeeper ass can die thirsting over the sight, babe."
"Boo-hoo. Where's the less boring burn, Lisha? So far up your ass even you couldn't find it?"
"I'd trust you to look for it, but your batons are still sobbing in the lost, never found…"
"You know," Arthur says. "She's not wrong there."
Anna's eyebrow twitches. "Damnit Steelpoint, not you too." Her lips pucker - menacingly sweet - at Elixabette. "Is it hard finding scraps for a living yet fail at scrapping together a good insult?"
"Ouch."
"That's funny," Elixabette says. "Pardon if I can't trust the word of a girl who scrapped Careerdom for Peacekeeping…"
Anna's eyes widen. Then she chuckles. "I fucking hate you, Lisha. I could kiss you right now."
"I dare you."
Arthur mock-gasps. "Leave some for the rest of us."
"Oh, c'mon Steelpoint! We both know looking's free. 'Sides, how can we be homies if we don't kiss each other on the lips goodnight?"
"You're so right, actually. That's my job as the homiest of homies."
Anna rolls her eyes. "It's the way I can never tell whether you two are dating or not."
"Neither can we," they chorus. Anna only sighs. Truth is - Elixabette's still crushing hard on Anna. The way she pulled out the curved knife from the racks has been replaying in her mind.
She loves Arthur. She doesn't think she can ever stop loving Arthur. But who says love has to go one way? Her lovers understand that. She thinks it's the only way she can live. Their heart has too much to give.
"Why are we friends again?" Anna says.
"For the Victor clout?" Elixabette raises an eyebrow. "Obviously?"
"Oh man. We better get used to looking at Elixabette, then, Anna," Arthur shakes his head, sighing. "They'll forget all about us after they win."
"Yeah, duh? What else did you expect?"
Straight faces. A fraction of a second. A fraction of another. Out bursts full-blown laughter.
"You lasted half a second, oh my gosh," Anna gasps, grasping Arthur's arm.
"Okay, but so did you!"
"Fuck. But for real. I could never," Elixabette chokes out between giggles, "Even if I wanted to. You bitches live in my head rent-free. Unfortunately."
"Tell us something we don't already know," Anna says. "... I can't believe I'm saying this. But you better win this battle, Harrow. I'm not accepting that an outlier or a Career can kick my training partner's ass. And if not I and Arthur are gonna vandalise your grave."
"What?!"
"Yeah, we already decided. Pour a graffiti out to the homies, right Arthur?"
"Absolutely. It's what they would've wanted us to do."
"No. You two are so not vandalising my grave."
"Sometimes I can still hear her voice…" Anna murmurs, wistful. A fraction of a second. A fraction— nope. The laughter explodes out again.
"We thought you'd like it, Harrow," Arthur grins.
"Oh, no, she absolutely lives for it," Anna says. "Payback for changing your height every week, Lisha!"
"Okay, but it was funny."
"It was not funny wondering whether I suddenly dropped an inch. Or not."
"But it was funny. Arthur, c'mon, it was so funny wasn't it?"
"Seeing Anna lose her chill and a few braincells was pretty funny."
"See? That's that."
"Sorry, Anna."
"You suck, Arthur."
"It's the way you thought I wasn't in on it too…"
"I hate you all."
"Love you too."
They're all smiling.
So yeah. Her friends may be shitstorms in flesh, but they're her friends. And lovers, sometimes. Kissing down Anna in the weapons holds, rough hands shoving jackets down. Sloppy kisses with Arthur intermixed with laughter - because it was impossible to take third base seriously. Here and together again. Her favourite stupid bitches. Her best fucking friends.
So they'll get back to them, no matter what. Breaking two hearts isn't on the agenda.
"What is going on?"
"I have as much of a clue as you do," Callisto Rius snorts. Her mentor still hasn't outgrown her trash on the world phase. Elixabette, thus, wins the bet. Arthur somehow believes that Rius's Games character development would've gotten her somewhere. Psh, as if.
They're always right on these things. Arthur doesn't understand the arrogant, bitchy, whiny kind like they do. Partly cause they kin them with their soul, being exactly those descriptors.
But anyway.
The volunteers shimmering on the screen stand still and reticent. Wouldn't be a problem if they were actually Careers.
But District Three's hauled off into the trains, and then the Fives are, and the Eights follow along like rats to Pied Piper's doomshucking whistle. By the time the lone Ten raises her hand, Elixabette has her hands in her face and a sigh shaking the depths of her throat.
"This is the wildest alternate reality. One Quell Victory. One Quell Victory and they start thinking they're the shit."
"I know, right? As if Abernathy's Victory actually counts." Callisto sighs. "I cannot wait to see them slaughtered."
Elixabette would be happy to deliver that rude awakening. But something doesn't add up. Volunteering in pairs. The determined grit in their eyes. Shoulders held back, puffed-out chest. Birds of a predatory feather knowing they've made the catch.
This isn't your usual nutjob outlier volunteering. It's something else.
Their pack is a shitshow, so it's a good thing Elixabette isn't planning on staying.
Let's have a rundown, shall we?
A dropkickable child. Mattie Marini. Sixteen. Either a prodigy or well in over her head. Judging by the smiley faces and forever bracelets, it's the latter.
They won't be sad to see her go, per se, but it is appalling. To see somebody… so unprepared. Does she even realise her life's on the line?
Whatever. That's too bad.
Next. Marini's District partner. Bloodbath material.
Also Bloodbath material. Elixabette's District partner, flinging nunchucks around. Cosplaying a D-list movie star booted out of One.
Misogynistic nightmare. Talon Ivory. He's such an insufferable dickhead it impresses even her, the resident mean bitch.
"A bow and arrow?" Talon Ivory laughed. "That's some weakling weapon shit."
"Says the boy who thinks the dual-wield will give him a bigger dick. Hey, tell me this, I'm curious. How micro does it take to become you?"
His eyes bulged. The anger that fumed out of his face was so funny.
And, well…
Ilyda Nagini looks at them up and down, with a gaunt jaw and crossed arms. She doesn't even get the privilege of being a Heze 2.0, because she's conspicuously missing all the augments. Somehow kept all the sullen bitchiness. What is in Four's water?
"Well, if you're gonna be that kind of bitch…" Elixabette trails off, raising an eyebrow. If this girl wants a fight, by god and all the scars on Anna's back, they are ready to throw hands.
A flare ripples up in Nagini's irises. But a sec later, it's in nowhere-land again.
"No," Ilyda says. "I'm sorry. I was… in my head." She exhales deep as if remembering she breathed in this world again. Still not any less out of her head. "It's nice to meet you."
Sure, Elixabette thinks. It's nice to know who I'll be stabbing on my way out of the Career pack.
"Nice to meet you too." A pause. Ilyda still isn't meeting their gaze. "What's up with the shifty eyes?"
No reply.
Wow. This girl sure loves her inner world.
"Some tributes," Ilyda says, glancing toward the volunteers. "Deserve to be put in their place. What do you all say?"
Talon Ivory laughs. He scoops up a blade from the racks and tosses it between his hands like a football. "I'd say fuck yes."
"Yes! They need a scaring," squeals Mattie Marini, the hundred per cent not scary child.
Elixabette doesn't trust Ilyda one bit.
But…
Their lips pucker. An itch's twisting in their soul. An irritating feeling that they just have to quell. Outer Districts stealing the spotlight is not a vibe.
(And it's weird. Way weirder than Elixabette likes. Up there with Ilyda Nagini's weirdness.)
"Come on. Who's the first idiot that's gonna shit their pants?" scoffs Talon. "I'm ready."
Ilyda has a burn ensnared in her smirk. "I'll lead the way."
They don't like that at all, not the way Ilyda's eyes turn gets a depth darker. But Elixabette won't protest, no matter how hard she wants to open her mouth and… say something.
At least not yet.
"Let me guess. You're here to terrify me."
Elixabette chuckles. If mice had an overgrown and impaired form, that would be Glasses. District Three. Whatever.
He's next up the scare trip visit. Ilyda's having a lesson in anger management with the Eights. Talon Ivory's off to a sword and steel tea party with the Fives. Mattie Marini, bless her stupid heart, is having a stare-off with Ten girl. Points for contribution.
They've got time. Why not humour the dumbshit a little?
"Yeah, I am," Elixabette says, baring a grin. It should look monstrous. "You know the deal. I'll gut you like a fish. You better watch your back. Don't wanna learn what I can do with a bow. Any last words. Et cetera."
An eyebrow raises. "You're bored."
"A great observation." Elixabette drawls. "Don't get me wrong. I'm always up to freak pipsqueaks out. But I am starving and you're all, excuse me, not very interesting."
"Don't you want to know why I volunteered?"
Crap. Yeah, they do. But they're also more intrigued by the prospect of Victory and winning more riches than her family needs, so…
"Nah, keep your secrets," Elixabette says. "As if I care."
"But you do." Why is Glasses amused? "If we are worthless pipsqueaks, Ilyda wouldn't be threatening us all."
Ilyda. Okay, this is more than weird. Why is an outlier on a first name basis with a Career?
Ugh. Freaking Fours.
"Say that again when you're chowing on the sea floor."
"Dirt."
"What?"
"I'll be chowing on dirt," Glasses says, smiling. "We're having forests again this year."
Okay, what the actual fuck.
It's not possible. It is possible.
She lays out the arrow on her bed. Not possible. Another. Possible. Another. Not possible...
Possible.
Elixabette groans. Glasses couldn't have hacked into the Games. Yeah, no, he was definitely fucking with her. Like the volunteerings. Nagini. All a conspiracy to fuck Elixabette over. Riiight.
Even she can't believe that.
The sunken depths in Ilyda's eyes hold the wealth and secrets of a thousand shipwrecks. Elixabette knows how to dive for scraps.
"You're not telling me the whole story, Nagini." Elixabette slams open Four's door. A day of training is too long to hold her bite.
"What's it matter to you?" The low hiss from Ilyda's lips is a deranged serpent's. "Trust me, Harrow. You don't want to know."
"Pretend I do."
But Ilyda isn't here. Her head snaps back as if slapped. A hand caresses her forehead. Covering up the furrowed brows, the wear-lines. Elixabette's seen it often. Her parents weren't good at hiding.
"I'm gonna fix this. I will. I will."
Respectfully, what the fuck?
Doesn't affect their Private Sessions, though.
The Gamemakers up are chattering. Ignoring. Crowing. You're all boring. None of you will show anything I haven't already seen before.
The trainer back at home had the same face. Oh, another on the outs. Unless you're on the tip-top, you'll amount to nothing. Scraprat.
Their hand glides to the scimitar on display. Scraprat. She'll show them boring.
No.
She forces her nails into her palm. Not today.
Not until the Games.
Her fingers curl around the bow. Thud thud thud. Chatter doesn't stop. It'll be a usual score. 8. 9. 10. Whatever.
Doesn't matter.
When they leave the room, a smile pulls up their lips.
It's a scimitar game.
That is when Elixabette learns she has won already.
Her earrings are how the interview will go.
Elixabette rescued the pieces from a crushed Peacejeeper long ago. Strung them together. Looped a twine. Configured a knot. Beamed when she came to her friends and curled a finger by her ear. Look what I made!
Anna giggled. Arthur hugged her.
Scrap and sharp. Out of hand. An earsore. Who cares what the Capitol thinks? Her scores say it all. They're not toning down personality for their benefit.
Case in point.
"Aren't you a special one," Flickerman says. He's holding up his smile fresh out of her last insult. His hands grace the lapels of his "if a unicorn shat out rainbows" suit. Sir's not affected. Sure.
"So you've noticed," Elixabette says, leaning back. Comfy enough. "And? Tell me something new. Aren't interviews supposed to be interesting?Jeez."
"We find it's the tribute that makes or breaks an interview," Flickerman says. The smile still straining on a thread.
"And I find it's usually the interviewer that royally fucks it up."
Quiet.
A slow clap from the audience. Then a smattering of applause, applause, applause again. It dies with a whisper when Flickerman does not laugh.
"Who do you think you are, Elixabette?" Flickerman says. He doesn't say-it say it. But she gets the gist. The haughty dot in his irises. The gripped fist. The straight-back posture, the easy shoulders, the I'm better than you challenge.
He chose the wrong person.
"Who I am?" They chuckle. "I'm a Harrow, in and out of my soul, from the peachy keen scraps of Two. I'm a Career, a best friend and a fucking nightmare at once. I do my best for my family and the people I love. That's more than you need to know."
The bite twinges on their tongue. Maybe they shouldn't have slipped out that part about family and friends. But like they said.
Challenges get them.
Silence pervades the auditorium.
"I appreciate your confidence!" Flickerman laughs. As real as a Capitolite can. Their ugly, explosive colours render the attempts at humanity ineffective. "Elixabette Harrow of District Two, everybody!"
The claps are explosive.
They don't love her. But they don't not love her either.
Huh.
That's good enough for now.
The rise into the Games keeps them agitated.
She has nothing to worry about. Her index snaps her thumb.
There will be a scimitar.
Her index snaps her thumb.
They will win.
Her thumb snaps and snaps.
Bright lights.
Glasses was right. Dirt and forests. Dulcet notes of earthy enchantment. Tangs of swirling fruit and alkaline. A heady, insipid viridiscence. As if the Gamemakers couldn't help but overpaint an eerie grandeur to their masterpiece. Here, it says. We are sublime.
Three. Two. One.
Run!
They take the Cornucopia.
Well, the Careers do. Elixabette's less than involved in the effort. As she's always said to Arthur: the Ingenious Scimitar Plan requires a strength check.
"I'd hardly call it that," Arthur smiled. "The 'get the scimitar and run it through the first ally you see' plan isn't that ingenious."
"Let me boost my ego!"
Skulking by the crates help. Nets her two bags of supplies. A bow and a quiver of arrows. The crown jewel snatched from the centre.
Her scimitar. Tipped with a spike. Etchings carved upon the metal. Hilt bound with ribbons. Weighs like her own one from home. She'd almost dumped it with the rest. Unwieldy. Extra. But she was making proto-weapons, and the thing was a fine form.
(She never broke the scimitar down. It was perfect on its own.)
Isn't she glad now.
The camera's trained on her. Oh, this is a twist, The Capitol will think. Is this what Harrow meant? When she said she was nobody but herself?
Yes. It's not even an act, she thinks, when she strikes through Talon's gloating throat. His jaw drops to the shaft of her scimitar and falls out fully when she retreats her blade.
Get fucked.
A scream shrieks. "She can use a scimitar?! What the fuck!"
The bloodsong in her veins tingles. The aftertaste of his ebbing fear is divine. And so is the appetizer - so repulsingly, revoltingly heavenly. When she turns to her District partner with a raze of a smile.
Her blade tears through his throat and his exclaim becomes his last words for time immemorial. Sharp and tart. Sorry not sorry.
Two left.
They whirl the scimitar into its sheath and twist out an arrow. Right between Ilyda Nagini's narrowed eyes. The rancid drama the girl hauls on her back's past rotting. Elixabette has a Victory to attend.
They shoot.
Ilyda slices the damn thing in half. The arrowhead clatters between her feet. The shaft drops down, snapped like a twig.
Well, fuck.
Time for part two.
Run!
The hurtling undergrowth crashes into her baggy pants. Her feet slip upon the mossy logs and she drops, almost, but rights herself again. The slippage will give her pace. Elixabette Harrow must run.
She hates to run. The Academy had king of the hill once a month. Fight to conquer. Lose to die. Running was the safest and sanest way. Trainees played only to turn tail and flee. Can you believe it?
Elixabette never backed down. Not once. Escape is for the weak.
It's not her way.
But Ilyda Nagini is less than human. A thing gone wrong from Four's depths. They need to bite down their pride. Their life's at stake.
She can't die yet. Ilyda's gaining. She can't die. She grinds to a stop. She unsheathes her scimitar.
"Oi, Nagini! Don't you want me?" echoes a yell to her right. Elixabette's head whips. It's Glasses. Waving from the trees. The glint of white makes his eyes unreadable. Everything except his smirk.
Ilyda snarls. She twists sideways and charges— crashing right into a pit. He drops down from the trees, and glances at Elixabette with a nod. "We don't have time," he hisses, as Ilyda's roars thrash the leaves and vines. "A minute's headstart."
They run.
And come to a stop. Elixabette raises her scimitar at Glasses' chin. "What was that for?" she hisses.
The low reech of crickets stands between her and Glasses. The whites still obscure his eyes. Why can't they read him?
"I was saving you," he says. In a tone that had the duh, obviously.
"Okay, and I can kill you now. Point being?"
Whyisn't he fazed? It's irritating.
"The point being, you won't kill me. Because you know I know things. You need my help to win."
"As if."
She should kill him for the suggestion. They don't need anyone, other than their two good hands and their scimitar.
Certainly not the help of Three spawn.
"Ilyda's still coming," Glasses says. "She'll raze the Arena down for you."
"I'm counting on it."
"You're not listening. I know this Arena like the back of my hand. For Ilyda, it's ingrained in her soul. You don't stand a chance."
"Watch me."
Glasses smiles. "Kill me, then."
"What?"
"I said. Kill me. If you're so egoistic to think that you don't need me."
They can. Another cannon would look great on her resume. A Three cannon, nonetheless. That's salvation.
But she wavers.
The Capitol already aren't her biggest fans. Not that she cares for ratings. Grit gets you to the end, not sponsor gifts. Ilyda Nagini is not a big fan of Elixabette either. Not that she cares. But sponsor gifts can get you somewhere.
She wouldn't care. But when that somewhere is Elixabette…
"Let's make an agreement," Elixabette says. "I'll make sure you don't die, or whatever. In return, you make sure I get to the end."
And then I'll spear you in the throat.
"Deal." Glasses says.
They don't say tell me the Arena's secrets. The Games are still her challenge. But a helping hand can't hurt to get there.
(They need to get home, at all costs. She's starting to doubt if she's a worthy competitor. If an ace comes in the form of a mousey boy... so be it.)
Elixabette doesn't notice the stir, at first. Then a step and the ground rumbles. Like the slide of car pieces interlocking and creak-screeching when she'd accidentally hopped on an unstable place. The undergrowth shudders underneath as if to gape way for an abyss.
"Run!" Glasses yells. She doesn't need to be told twice.
Their refuge is up in the trees.
Bound tight to a branch. Lounging against oak. Elixabette had crawled up Two's straggly trees, as Anna and Arthur cheered on. Way more times than she can count. But the smog-beaten and crumpled-in trees were vastly different from these.
Strong. Wide open, like thrown out shoulders. Ravenously proud. It'll keep them out of Ilyda's sight.
"I've never climbed a tree before." Glasses says.
"Of course you haven't. You're the tech District," Elixabette snorts. "I'm not shocked if this's the first green you've seen in your lifetime."
Glasses scoffs. "I could say the same to you. Aside from holing up in the Academy all day, what do you do? Have you tried touching grass?"
Her temper flares. The oak branch gnarls harder into her fist. They don't like his implication. That's all there is to you. A killing thing clacked out of the Academy factory. You're not fun. Not special. Not Victor material.
"Choke on dirt, Glasses," Elixabette scoffs. "You make even the grommets look pretty."
Silence.
"… How do you know that word?"
Great.
"Because I touch grass, once in a while," Elixabette rolls their eyes. "Hello? We have scrapyards."
"Huh."
The irritation's drumming in her chest. "Don't you?"
"Yeah," Glasses says. "I used to play in them with my friends. Mangling pieces together. Getting the broken parts to work again. What's it matter to you?"
Elixabette holds her tongue. Why should she reveal shit? More for the Capitol to kid about. Mom. Dad. Anna. Arthur. They don't need any of their names in a Capitolite's mouth. What's the point?
But they miss it. They miss home and their friends. Yeah, they'll be back soon enough. If they aren't…
Reminiscing can do no harm.
"I've always liked diving for pieces. Stuff people couldn't see value in. Repurposing. Renewing…" Their hand turns over their scimitar's sheen. "... that was one of my favourite pastimes."
In some way, Glasses is sorta like one of her scrappy pieces. He's a mousey misfit. But with more bite to his bark. She can respect a kid unwilling to back down. That's more than she can say about Two's trainees.
"Oh," Glasses says. The screw of his face lessens. "I didn't know that Two had them. Always thought what you guys had was paradisal, or whatever."
"Nah, no shit it isn't," Elixabette chuckles. "Well, I thought you all were rich, futuristic and parasitic." Getting our gains. Stealing our jobs. Plunge-us-into-hopelessness.
"We're not."
"I know now you're not," Elixabette says. It's easier to see now. What's the difference between Two and Three? One is a Career and the other an outlier. But when it came down to it - when it really came down to it - they shared a sunset over the scrapyard.
The same kind. Working and tryingto make by in a world the Capitol had decided for them.
"... Thank you," Glasses says. His fingers unclasp the belt tying him to the tree. "It's dawn. I know a place where we'll be safe from Nagini. Let's keep going."
"We're here."
An abode stares back at them. Worn wood. Grown old in the ages it stayed with the forest. In suspense - a frozen tranquillity eerier than peaceful.
"What am I looking at?"
"The home of the Eldritch," says Glasses. "The only place where the arena is stable. Come on. We don't want to be here when he gets home."
"Why the hell are we here? When I said we should get away from Nagini, I didn't mean we should switch enemies."
"Look." Glasses says, pulling the door open.
Pans and pots. Tinker parts. Mountains of mayhem. All she could have ever wanted.
The abode is just like a scrapyard.
"Oh," Elixabette says. And then she begins to laugh.
This will give them everything they need. Elixabette's never gotten a chance to augment her scimitar. Her fingers rummage over a broken-off handle. A pan with a triangle cut out of it. There has to be something…
Something.
Sobbing crashes their thoughts to a halt. Again. It's getting harder to ignore the situation on the other end of the abode.
Maybe they should deal with it. Practice their weapon on it. Crying on mixtape does not make for a good working environment.
"Harrow, I need your help."
Fine.
Ten girl's caught in an osier cage. Her hands clutch upon the bars, as if they were clay that she could knead. I don't want to die, the child's whispering, over and over, I don't want to, I'm not, I'm not…
Elixabette raises her eyebrows. Out of everyone, of course it was Goody Two-Shoes that got caught. Passing out sunny smiles like ambrosia and sweets. High-fiving the thick-headed Twelves when they learnt to distinguish between toxic fungi. Dear god. She hoped the girl died early.
No such pleasantries.
Dread crawls along their lungs when they take stock of the other cages. Of leftover flesh hanging between bars. Gouged out eyes sitting on the steel. Yeah, no, this is a grotesque fate.
The kill's going to be easy. Throat stab. Done and done.
"Van Nelle! It's okay, we're going to get you out. She's my ally," Glasses says, twisting at them with a finger out and jabbed. "You're not killing her."
Irritation flares up in her. When did this become about your game? But they close their mouth.
Baby steps, Elixabette. Being dealpartners (not allies) means working together. Dealpartners means tolerance. Managing expectations. If Glasses wants Goody, that's that.
If it doesn't work out, her inner voice chimes, you can always kill the bitch in her sleep.
Also true.
"We don't have time for this," Elixabette mutters. She glances out towards the glossy window, heart thudding in her stomach. The Eldritch will be back.
"Trust me, Harrow," says Glasses, the glint flashing upon the metal curves of his frames. "We need her."
He's never been this forceful before.
They could ditch this bitch, hurry up the timeline on the throat-spearing, and get the hell out of here. That's what Elixabette Harrow, top of the Academy and Grade A+ Dick would do. Self-preservation. Duh. Why are they endangering their life?
For two scrappy idiots. Of all people.
Goddamnit. Anna needs to deck her for this one.
"We need to find a way to get her out, then," Elixabette sighs. They could cleave down the lock with their scimitar, but denting the blade in any sort of way would curdle her soul.
Lockpicking it is.
They need scraps. If only…
Oh wait.
Their fingers trail towards their ears, curving over their dangly earrings. A grin slowly spreads over their lips. Damn. I am so smart.
"You better not break them," she mutters to the lock, as she sticks the sharp ends in, "It's DIY by a thirteen-year-old Harrow, one of a kind. I can't replace it, okay?"
The lock gives way.
Yes!
They curl the earrings back on. But not before Goody slams into her, sobbing and burying her head into Elixabette's midriff.
Awkwardly, they pat the child. "It's okay…" they trail off. "... you're free now."
Please let go.
Goody sniffs and doesn't let go.
"You'll like Elixabette," Glasses says. "She's been protecting me, and she'll be protecting you too."
Elixabette closes her eyes. Glasses, she wants to hiss, I appreciate the sentiment but wrong timing! Worst timing! Ever!
I did not. Adopt two outliers.
Nope.
"Thank you for saving me," Goody whispers, clutching Elixabette's shirt. Elixabette bites back a tiny groan. Now that needs to be washed.
"Yeah, yeah," Elixabette says. "Can we get to the important part? When are we leaving?"
"As soon as possible." Glasses says. He's putting down contraptions… weird. They're not exactly traps. Electromagnetic. Sparking.
"Is that some Three technology I don't know about?" Elixabette says.
"Could say that."
Elixabette strolls back to the scrap-heap. There are some liquids in a flask, jangling in a bunched-up sack dangling from a shelf. She takes a few and shoves them into her bag. Can't ever go wrong with that. I need some spoils for this freaking quest.
Outside, the arena shudders.
The abode shakes. Elixabette shrieks. She grasps the counter. The scrapheap slides, the pots jangle, I'm gonna have Glasses' fucking hide! But a moment later the abode is still. She peers out of the window. They're… ten feet aboveground.
Raised up on chicken legs.
Oh.
This is why it's stable.
Her giggles are explosive.
An hour passes by before the abode sinks down into dirt. "Are we done?" Elixabette's saying, "Cause I don't fancy our prospects," when the door creaks.
Goody whimpers. Glasses curses.
A monstrosity of bedraggled leaves and entwisted vines drags its way in. A snarl's engraved in their vineyard of a mouth, twisting down into their throat and a forever excess.
It looks at them with hollow, voided eyes. The snarl creaks up wider.
"Look who's he-ee-re," he sing-songs. "Childre-ee-n for the fe-ee-ast...!"
… Fuck it.
The Eldritch wants a challenge?
Well. She was never one to back down.
Elixabette unsheathes her scimitar. Bring it on!
The Eldritch lumbers towards her, a wicked grin smoking his lips. "Look who intruuudes," he hisses, and the coal-carved hollows of his eyeholes leer at her. The slithering snakes on his branch-entwined breastplate coil up, down, and around his body, hissing a euphonic serenade. His satyr legs clop against the wood, and each step morphs, as if this abode were alive with him.
Shit.
Elixabette draws a grin over their lips. Their shimmering scimitar's pointed ahead. In its silver reflected is the Eldritch's beastliness. Inhale. Exhale. Pretend. You're facing off Anna.
You've got this.
"Look who forgot to lock the door." Elixabette charges. The hook of their scimitar carves a clean arc up the Eldritch's nose. It slams, and the chipped wooden pieces clang at the tiny songbird cages dangling above.
The Eldritch begins to laugh.
"That was weeeeak, child," he whispers. Every word constricts her being. Like the snakes have leapt off his breastplate to strangle. His spindly fingers, like sharpened needle-branches, twinge under Elixabette's chin. "I thought a Career would at least have wrought me a challenge…!"
Suddenly, he shrieks.
When in doubt, go for the groin.
Elixabette slams her scimitar into the Eldritch's chest. Drags the hook up, and the snakes caught between her blade squeal. Their bodies squelch in half. She's in training. Anna's rolling her eyes, chuckling, as her shoulders sway sideways from the finishing stab.
They wind the arc of their blade right and catch the Eldritch's dodge. The Eldritch grunts as he slams into the kitchenware. The severed snakes missing their heads hiss from the flesh tubes left.
"You dare…" growls The Eldritch, as his spindle-fingers push himself back up from the counter. "Oh, I so dare," Elixabette snarls, and slams her scimitar through the centre of his chest. He drops dead. Peace again.
Except he doesn't. Humour carves its way through his worm-infested lips. "Oh, chiiild," he murmurs. His fingers clatter a rhythm against her scimitar. He strolls deeper into her blade, like the hole in him was worth nothing. Deeper towards her. "You truly believed that I would die?"
Shit.
They stumble back and drag the blade out of The Eldritch's chest, but it's stuck. The remaining flesh-tubes of the snakes coil around where the blade's buried. The susurration of leaves and the crackle of brambles constrict in his chest. Her scimitar's encaged in his heartless heart.
No.
They can't leave their scimitar. But it's not like she has any other choice. Muttering a curse under her breath, Elixabette backs up. Her back slams against rickety wood. Her shaking fingers reach to draw an arrow from their quiver. This isn't a preferable aim, there's no range, but what can they do?
The Eldritch doesn't even flinch when the arrow meets its empty socket. Doesn't at the second arrow. And the third. And the fourth.
What would Anna do what would Anna do what would Anna do?! But the chorus in her brain and the replays of their training days couldn't have prepared her for this.
How do you face a mutt that can't die?
Every arrow is met with a hoof's clop. Her scimitar is stuck in its chest like Excalibur. She has no weapon.
The thing draws closer and closer until it looms over her. They can't even run. Its spindles descend between her arms and her body. She understands how Goody wound up entrapped in his cages.
But he has no such mercy for her.
The Eldritch drags an ugly gash along their arm. Her scream sends the birds shrieking. They gasp. Tears bud in their eyes. Fuck. This can't last any longer. Her mother's face, her father's face, her friends pass by. She so desperately wishes she was right. They're in training with Anna, and laughing with Arthur in class, and renovating the scrapyard with her parents. I'm gonna win. It's already a given. The ghost of her fingers drape over serrated skin. She wishes she was right.
His grin is a glowing menace of viridescence. He will swallow her whole and she loathes that knowledge with every fibre of her heart.
"Be quick with your last words, chiiild. I have more victims to taaaste… tweeeenty-four more to satiate my appetiteee."
No.
It's not over yet…
I refuse.
Elixabette grits their teeth and configures it in a hard-harsh grin. "It's cute that you think I'm dying." Curled in their fingers is the last thing left in their arsenal - a flask of liquid.
She crushes the thing in her hand and the hiss of liquid sears her palm, bubbling like a plague stir that's stolen her flesh as a cauldron to boil. Her scream is a cackle of victory. When she grasps the Eldritch's face in her sagging, sloughing skin.
He recoils and screeches. The Eldritch's spindles go towards their smouldering face. "Yeah, I dare, " Elixabette mouths, as black burs in her vision. The last thing they see is The Eldritch's leaves swishing, their hand grasping their armour as he rushes out of his own abode.
Hah. Take that, you… beast…
They don't even feel themself hit the ground.
They come to Glasses and Goody peering over them.
The former raises his spectacles. "Oh, good, you're awake," he says and leaves her line of sight. Goody's forehead lines break shore as a wide-ass grin moulds its way onto her face. "You're alive!" she gasps and envelops her in a hug.
Not another one, Elixabette wants to groan. But they can't bring themself to push Goody off. Because they have no strength whatsoever. Yeah.
"You're delusional if you think I'm dropping that fast," Elixabette says.
"We were super worried!" Goody says. She cups her hands and lowers her voice, but nowhere near enough to actually muffle what she's saying. "Munroe was, like, so disturbed by the idea that you were dying that he didn't even talk to me for the past half hour. He usually ignores me, but that's a lot."
"Huh."
"We chopped up medicine and grabbed one of the Eldritch's tomes to figure out what to give you. And it worked!"
"I'm sorry, you fed me while I was unconscious?"
"Yeah! It worked, obviously, because you're awake."
"You could've poisoned me! I could already be dying." They press their hands to their forehead.
No allies. That was always her plan. Glasses and Goody are doing a splendid job proving why she was always right the first time around.
"Okay, well, if that's true then you can totally kill me dead," Goody says. "But! I'm that confident that it worked. Don't you feel not achy at all?"
… It's true. Their arm's been stitched back together, and the cream spread over's tingling in a nice, massage-y way. They won't say they feel brand new, but like a battle-rested hero.
Why did you save me? tangoes on her tongue. I fought a mutt and was knocked unconscious and you should've slit my throat. What's wrong with you? You two, for the matter?
But Goody's looking at her in earnest, with you-saved-me-and-I'm-returning-the-favour giddy eyes, and Elixabette can't bring herself to let that out.
"Don't you get what sort of game this is?" Elixabette says. It comes out more hoarse than harsh. "We're competitors. This isn't…"
An alliance. If I were you, I'd have killed me two hours ago. But… you're keeping me alive. Why? What part of "all us except one's gonna die" don't you understand?
You - you - volunteered for this. Like me.
Out of all people. You two should get it. The Fives should get it. The Eights should.
So why are you doing this?
"..."
Goody's face crumples in. The earnestness dims. But a sad smile still bites the hook of her lips. "I do get it. But we're playing the Games a different way, this time," she says. "That's why."
She gets up. "I'll leave you some time to rest. But Munroe doesn't trust how long the Eldritch's gonna be back. He's still working on his contraptions… on configuring the, um, wires. Don't disturb him. He gets pretty mad when I do. We're supposed to stay till he's done."
What's up with that, anyway? Elixabette opens her mouth to ask. But Goody leaves her in the bedroom with a click of the door.
Then silence.
Perhaps Elixabette was wrong the first time. They don't take pride in admitting their fallibility. Though about the whole partnership thing...
Maybe she does need them more than she wants to admit. Goody. Yes, even Glasses, the asshole. She's tried brute-forcing her way into Victory. Didn't work the way she wanted. (Well... a little. The Careers tossing in their hovercraft coffins protest.)
They aren't allies. Can't be. Term's bile clogged up in her throat. The righteous rod up her ass refuses to call her infamous "get the scimitar and run it through the first ally you see" (Arthur's credit) plan a dumb idea.
Her dealpartners saved her. She butchered the Career pack because there were no trusting allies. Because allies are friends, and friends belong at home, not here. But these two...
... Maybe she doesn't have to backstab these idiots. (She doesn't like that she doesn't want to.)
Even if said teammates are hyper children.
"Come face me, Harrow!"
The echo of a District Four voice.
Elixabette isn't looking out of the window. She doesn't need to see Ilyda Nagini's self-righteous and extremely punchable face. But Goody gasps an oh my gosh what.
And she looks.
Ilyda's spinning Elixabette's scimitar.
What the fuck!
Then she gets her answer. The Eldritch looms behind Ilyda. A monstrous colossus. The grotesque grin mars up on his lips. Her scimitar's bash is wrecked in there permanently. The snakes severed bodies still skim up and around his chest of brambles. At least they did some lasting damage.
Its eyes bore into Elixabette's. He doesn't even spare a look at Ilyda. Doesn't even look... oh.
"How did she tame that thing?" Elixabette says. "It's a mutt!They can't be…"
"I don't know," Goody whimpers. Her chipper self's shrunk back into its cave. "I don't wantto face them, Lisse. We don't have to, Glasses is almost done, we can wait this out..."
To some level, Elixabette agrees. She's not at full strength. She doesn't like her odds against the Eldritch alone. Let alone the Eldritch and the most unhinged bitch to grace this town.
You should run, Arthur would say. I don't like your chances here.
I prefer you alive, Harrow. Anna would say. Please don't die because you couldn't resist proving the enemy wrong.
Though.
It's not about that now. Sure. When was she ever one to back down from a challenge? But this isn't merely a challenge. Her life's on the line. Goody's is. Glasses'.
They shouldn't matter to her. But it's getting more difficult warding off Anna and Arthur's faces from their visages.
"Look," Elixabette says. "We run and they'll catch us. Without a doubt. We're talking about a Career and a mutt here. But if we stand and fight…"
She lets Goody's imagination do the rest.
"But they're so strong," Goody whispers. "I don't know how we'll be able to do it." She casts a look into the room, where the whirs and bangs steer from. Goody's feet taps upon the wood, rap-rap-rap, and she runs her tongue over her lips. "Elixabette, please, we should listen to Glasses…"
"And wait for the Eldritch to come knocking back at his home? To destroy us in his territory? Fat chance." Elixabette exhales. "I know we can defeat them together."
They look at each other. There is something more than Elixabette understands in Goody's gaze. Something wistful and away. She thinks it would've been her gaze, when she looked in her mirror and bit her lip, after another volley of smiles. I'm excited to help out in the scrapyard in the summer. No, I don't know who's volunteering. I know, what a jackass. Yeah, too much to hope for Two, huh? Yeah. Good thing I'm not going near that. Yeah.
That's okay, though.
Because Goody nods.
That's all she needs.
...
...
...
"Elixabette," Goody breathes. "There's something you don't know. It's something we should've told you from the start."
But the Career's already out the door.
"You have my weapon."
"I do. What's it matter to you?" Ilyda twirls the scimitar in her hand. It's irritating how wrong it is. The grip's off. The swordhead's upside-down. Nagini's swordhand is the most peeving thing about this affair.
"I hope The Eldritch did a number on you," Elixabette hisses.
Ilyda shrugs. "Hardly," she says. "He gave the scimitar to me upon his knees. He loves me."
"Not for long." Goody musters.
"Brave!" Ilyda laughs. "The Finch. What a pleasure it is to encounter you here."
Goody stiffens.
The Finch...?
"And you." Ilyda's scimitar turns towards Elixabette. "Harrow. I didn't realise you were the rebellious type, but everyone's prone to shocks in self-realisations." The bitter curd dripping from her tone could've fed the entirety of District Twelve.
"I also didn't peg you for a monologuing type, but it's great to know you're a drama queen too." Elixabette scoffs. "Spoiler alert. Killing the pack's not revolutionary nor rebellious."
"You think I'm talking about that?" Ilyda chuckles. "No. I appreciated your audacity. But this…" Her jaw sets. "... this I cannot tolerate."
Elixabette's arrow thunks into a tree trunk an inch away from Ilyda's body. The scowl on her face's compounding. Good.
"Get them!"
The Eldritch roars. His lash of snakes launches at her body. But Elixabette slashes them through with her bowstring. They've been there once. They're not making the same mistakes again.
Goody launches at the Eldritch, burying the blade deep into his eye socket. True to form, the Eldritch groans in fury. His spindles grasp for his assailant. But Goody's legs whack his splinter-fingers, tearing them through. The noise of knuckle cracks slam through.
Hell. Yes.
"Keep him occupied!" Elixabette yells. The smile turning up their face's real. Who knew outliers could be so useful?
Elixabette swivels to the mainstage. "You're looking for me?"
Ilyda smirks. "Absolutely." Her scimitar's unsheathed.
"You have something of mine."
"Is that so? You can fight for it."
They clash. Ilyda's strong. The type of strong that Elixabette had trained for, when practising fighting against Four's modded. But even they were never like this.
What are you…?
Ilyda laughs. "You're not defeating me, Harrow. Neither are your little friends. I'd reconsider my friendships if I were you."
Elixabette grunts. "Trust me, I've tried," they grin. But that joke's undercut with a darker undertone. "What do you know?"
"Too much," Ilyda says. "Enough to know that they're using you. I would know."
"And using how?" Elixabette hisses. They're only half paying attention. The openings upon Ilyda's body won't stop whirling away. And the cursed scimitar's still in the bitch's hand.
"You know nothing, do you? Pity."
"But you do. Don't you?" Elixabette counters. "If you want to convince me of anything, then you better stop riddling, Nagini."
"If I were riddling," Ilyda says, "then it would be a simple one. What do vultures do when they go home to roost? They blow themselves up."
Ilyda throws her scimitar in an arc. Elixabette slips under its curve and grits out a laugh, "Weak, Nagini", and then she hears a scream.
The scimitar bleeds out of Goody's shoulder. Her hold on the Eldritch's eye socket loosens. She thuds into the Eldritch's crooked palms.
"You bitch," Harrow hisses. Ilyda breathes hard, looking at the sight with deranged darkness in her eyes. "The Finch deserves what she's getting."
When she throws herself in the fight, Elixabette isn't thinking. The only thing they're seeing is the Eldritch's spindles, cradling Goody's fallen form. Dipping down to wrench her head off. They nock an arrow, an arc up and she'll slice his fingers through, Art'll be safe, Art—
Arthur. Laughing in his god-given endearment. That none of the Academy has. "It's chill, Elixabette," he says, as he curls a strand over her ear. "You didn't have to beat him into a pulp."
"And he was teasing you for being a softie, so he'd got what was coming to him," Elixabette says. The ghost of fingers over her ear's making her shiver. "Only I can do that. Duh."
The kiss is scintillating in its own way. Awkward hands, unbidden touches, a slip of her jacket down her back, a rhythm in a rhythm. He kisses her and it's endearing how clumsy he is, she is, this melody that won't let go of their throats, best friends till last breath—
The arrow curves up an arc, as she slides on her knees between the Eldritch's hooves. But it doesn't slice through his fingers. He crushes Goody's skull. Spindles through her skull. The Eldritch hangs her body through the spindles gouged through her eyes.
No!
The scabbing on her knees and the dirt gritting her hurts. It hurts more than she thought her heart could hurt. Shake it off, she's telling herself, they're not - them, outliers dead is all, you don't care about Goody, your people's at home, what's it to you to sob?—
But the trickles down her cheeks don't fade. Tears of frustration, as Ilyda Nagini approaches. She kneels down and slides Elixabette's own scimitar under her throat.
The instinct drilled into her brain's telling her to roll, dodge, slide, get out any means how. Elixabette doesn't move.
"Here's where I give a riddling speech," Ilyda says. "About your betrayal from the pack." The nerves in Elixabette's fingers don't tense. "Comeuppance, or retribution, or what's-it-deserved for traitorous hearts."
Ilyda's chin tilts up at the body. Then at the abode. "But there are bigger offenders," she says and lowers her blade from Elixabette's throat. "You're not like them."
Suspicion throbs in the core of Elixabette's body. She pushes herself up.
"You can kill me, if you want," Ilyda says. "But you don't want that. Do you?"
Does she?
Elixabette doesn't respond.
"You want answers."
She does.
"Well," Ilyda says. "You'll get them in the abode."
She doesn't respond. But she turns away from the body.
To the abode.
"Harrow," Glasses says. He hurries towards the Eldritch's counter, bags of contraptions clacking together. "Good to see you again."
He doesn't even look at her.
Elixabette's grip on the bow tenses. "Goody's dead."
Glasses stills. "What?"
"The Eldritch and Ilyda knocked upon our doors," Elixabette says. Her voice's sullen. "We fought."
"What did I tell you?!" Glasses exasperates. His bags clatter. He goes up to her and jabs a finger at her chest. "I said, stay in the abode. Don't go anywhere. Goddamnit!" His foot crashes into the counter drawers. "I was so close. She didn't have to die. Damn you, Harrow, she didn't have to die."
"You're delusional if you believe that." Elixabette grits out. "This is the Hunger Games. Spoiler alert. As much as Goody was our ally, she would've died anyway!"
"She wouldn't." Glasses says. "We are - they were - the Games' keepers. She would've lived, had you not gone off your harebrained idea to face down the Eldritch and a Career! You were our muscle, and you ruined everything."
Our muscle?
"What do you mean, our muscle?" Elixabette hisses. "I'm nobody's anything."
"Yes, you are," Glasses snickers. "It's funny you think that still. We needed you to replace Ilyda Nagini. That's all."
Replace… Ilyda?
"Oh, of course Ilyda was involved in this shit." Elixabette laughs. "What, was she your little leader, once upon a time? Because I sure see where she was coming from with needing to wring your goddamn necks!"
"Hah! What is it with traitors on their hypocrite horses?" Glasses rolls his eyes. None of that humoured shine sleeks his frames anymore. "You all are a spineless kind. That's why this world is ours."
"Ours? Need I remind you, oh, I don't know, the past three Games were Career sweeps?"
"I'm not talking about Games. I'm talking about the Capitol. The future." He chuckles. "You'll see, soon. What do you think I was doing in the Games, Harrow? Ever questioned it?"
She did. She always knew that Glasses was up to something - and that something had to do with disruption. Tinkering, contraptions; he wanted to game the system, somehow. Like he gamed his way into knowing the Arena's mechanics…
But Ilyda's words echo in her ear. There are bigger offenders. The hitlist. The wrath tinging Ilyda's hands when she felled an outlier.
(Somewhere, along the way, Elixabette thinks she's always known.)
"You think you'll destroy the Games," Elixabette says. Her voice cold. "You think you'll escape."
Glasses grins. "Oh, yes, yes! Unearth will break this world and you all will die to the wrath of Vultures."
This wasn't part of our plan. Elixabette wants to growl. Isn't part of our deal. A chorus sings in her head, clanging too loud for sanity, Elixabette Elixabette Elixabette what did you expect, here's an outlier and here's a Career. How well do those combos go? They never last, never last, never last, you thought, you thought, oh you really really thought.
"You never wanted to help me," Elixabette shakes her head, laughing. "You only wanted to level the fucking Arena."
"And?" Glasses says. "You're a Career and I'm a rebel. Come on. Game of survival, right? I was playing the game, Elixabette. You're a traitor, and traitors get what they give."
"That's rich! I never lied about my loyalties."
"The fact that you killed the Career pack aside," he says. "You're also a traitor to your own self. What's the Games to you but a cash grab? Killing children so you and your family can live happy. That's the humble valour of Two you boast."
"Also rich," Elixabette says, "Coming from a guy that wants to drag us all down. Be a rebel, sure. You don't have to involve other people in your bullshit. You don't have to fuck us over too 'cause you want change!"
"Us? No. I'm selfless. I'm revolution," Glasses whispers. His frames alight with silver. "Are you even hearing yourself? This is beyond your pathetic little scrapyard. This is bigger than that. This will help us all. But," and he sighs, smiling, "I shouldn't have expected a Career to understand. Ilyda didn't. You wouldn't have, either."
"The scrapyard." Elixabette chuckles. "Was that real?"
"Does it matter, Harrow?" Glasses' smile is bitter. "We're different kinds. You're a fool to believe we're the same."
She nocks an arrow. It should be easy. Strike into throat. Let him glug his last breath and it'll be fucking over forever.
But he ducks down. He pushes his contraption into the abode's wall: the thing whirs and clacks and glints. The abode shakes. Her back hits the ground with a thump and she's sliding back out of the doorway.
"Fuck you!" Elixabette screams.
"Goodbye, Harrow," Glasses says."By the time you find me, this world will be char and the Vultures will be rising. Good night."
The knockback into the ground jars blackness in her sight. The abode, upon its creaking chicken legs, dashes away into the enchanted forest.
Nothing again.
But Ilyda's still there.
"Come with me." A glazy hollowness echoes out Nagini's eyes, empties them out and opens them up again. Nothing and nothing - except for the unstable shards rattling inside - and Elixabette thinks, I never thought I'd see you so pitiful.
"We can kill them." A breathy rasp. "Don't tell me you don't want to." A broken breath. "They manipulated you, Harrow. Used them like they used me. If there's one thing I know in my soul, it's that Vultures deserve to burn."
Elixabette closes her eyes and the scrapyard golden reflects back; leaking the setting sun all over. Herself, nine then, parted metal to find a scimitar. (She made a promise that she told no one. I'll end everyone who fucks with me. I'll make them regret.)
They are a Career, a scrapper, a child, a killer, a best friend and a nightmare. They are not a promise-breaker.
The way:
Vulture pair dead. Exploded into the night. Pitiful debris. It feels good. The furnace of furore and the exaltation of death, through chests; creative curves and otherworld murder.
Scorched earth. Burn. What's the worth of keeping a straggling mystique? She and Ilyda have always survived in the cloak of ruin.
More tributes dead. Vultures or not. Killers or not. Still they must die. Still they must atrophy.
Still no him.
Glasses games the system. Ilyda and Elixabette are out to get him. He games the system. Turns up the abode's machinery. The enchantment and the Eldritch were an allure. They are in no grotesque excess. No viridescent hell.
Only in a stage of make-believe scraps.
It had to end.
His abode bends down to their gazes.
Three left. His smirk ravages her brain.
She shoots an arrow. The abode's window shatters. The arrow doesn't meet flesh. It wasn't meant to.
"Thank you for the warning, Harrow," Glasses says. "I can't begin to express my appreciation."
His intonation says more than his frames would obscure. I'm desperate, his undersong says. I'm faltering. It is day nine and the Vultures still haven't arrived.
The cocksure dies.
Ilyda moves. She swings her blade at the abode's legs. Clangs - doesn't break. Under the fleshy facsimile is metal again. Construct and pieces.
To render this thing into scraps again…
The abode must be crushed.
Then it's indestructible, she thinks, as the abode's legs swing out a kick. She slides under claw and comes out the other side heaving. Notches an arrow. Come on, Harrow, think, there has to be a way…
When we try to crush a Peacejeeper, her Mom says, And it doesn't work. We lather it in acid. Not the unsalvageable kind. The kind that breaks down bonds.
Oh.
Oh.
Elixabette draws out her flasks. Fitting. They slide in on their knees and splash the bottles whole upon the abode's creaking joints.
The thing shudders. The abode crashes on its knees, like how Elixabette crashed in front of Ilyda - no, like how Anna had, how Arthur had, how all the trainees had under their might.
(They were always that much more powerful.)
(They would not do dishonour to themself and forget.)
"Well done, Harrow," Ilyda's saying, but her voice's static. Like the birds' chirps. Like the crickets' waves. All the whirs of the glade. All the forestsong and more.
Only she and he.
Elixabette kicks her way into the sizzling colossus. Glasses is right there with hands behind his back and a gleam in his glasses. He's smiling. Why is this fucker smiling?
"I may be a traitor," Elixabette snarls, levelling the scimitar at his chest. "But you should've known that cheaters never prosper, you little bitch."
And she says it. Loud. Truthful. Breaking her soul—
"Oh, little Munroe…"
"I volunteered for my family, yes, but you know I can't deny the sing of my blood."
"I loved it when your friends died."
"I'll love it when you die."
"I'll adore it even more. I've thought this day, over and over. The scimitar will wring you like it wrings laundry on rope; up and wrenched and hanging. A knot will cut through your neck and your corpse will be a gallowsong."
—and he laughs.
"The grudge you have is nothing! Nothing against the decades you killing machines slaughtered us." He spits and he laughs and why is the gleam of his grin so brilliant?
"Our families. Our friends. Our history has you as the conquerors and trust me I am thirsty for your turn on the gallows!"
His glasses gleam a solid white. When her scimitar slashes his throat.
The abode slumps in on itself. The legs drop down back into dirt. The facsimile of god's green earth returns again. (The grotesque is for another Gothic day, and they have run out of those Arena days.)
It's over.
It's all over.
The Ingenue exits the abode and the Witch Hunter grins. "Hadn't it felt so good?" The Hunter whispers. The lascivious tones and leering grins say more than the Ingenue (hah!) needs to know.
"Let's finish this," The Ingenue says. "Thank you, Harrow," the Hunter murmurs. "It is because of you that I have my justice."
The Hunter sheathes her blade. She laughs when the Ingenue crooks their eyebrow.
"I don't need to win. I've done what I came to do. Martyrdom's fitting. Don't you think?" The Hunter's teeth gleam. "My cause will reign Four for decades… and they will look at my example. Here. I am the hero, see? I am."
The Hunter's arms spread wide. Under the glittering nightsun. The enchanted forest teems its agreement. No more guttering, dark rots. No more greasy underneaths, no more pestilence-wetness and sticky moulding things eating. Why, the dirt's always covered by great green grass.
"The game's won, Harrow. Kill me now and we'll relish in our victories in valhalla. The dogs are dead. The witches burn in hell. Cheaters never prosper. The game's right again."
It isn't even a fight. That's the most depressing part. Ilyda's up in arms with her blade and it should be exhilarating. Her adrenalin should thump as every part of her primal lights up. Skewering flesh, collapsing bodies in dung heaps and life skidding away from irises…
But fighting doesn't even feel good anymore.
Ilyda lurches with giddy exhaustion in her lidded brokenness. Hilt's limply held in her two hands. Her frame is sogging with drunken victory.
The final fight isn't even one. The scimitar glides through Ilyda's throat, clean. They swear she whispers a thank you before the cannon blows.
When they call Elixabette Harrow's victory, they have everything. All the wealth in the world. Her parents' scrapyard saved. Quiescence in Two. No revolutions. No birds. No nothing.
Her grin is up to her lips and her eyes.
(Why doesn't it feel like Victory?)
This, dear listeners, is how the tale resolves for our Ingenue.
She returns home to the confetti shrieks of a parade. Her shoulders push through the roaring, screeching, subaltern things.
To her friends-and-lovers. They welcome her back, arms wide, heart full. If only she could answer their enthusiasm with the same.
To more wealth than she can spend. The scrapyard is nearly beautiful. Back to flourishing and upkeep again. But the yellow dusklight can't be scrubbed from her eyes. Not without a connotation this, a connotation that.
To love. Her mother hugs her sobbing. Doesn't let her go. Her Dad's more subdued. Ruffles her hair: I'm glad you're okay. Don't ever scare us like that again.
They don't mention how glimmering fear shanks underneath their parents' eyes, more than they can hide. Not for them, this time.
Do they heal? That's a question. For the better part, Elixabette Harrow does. She lives out her days with her family and friends. The glory day stays, Two loves them, relishes them, of course - but it is a cross to bear.
It would be bliss.
But a glint of a glass still makes her flinch.
How's that for a tale, boys? Ain't the revolution hearty.
fin.
a/n: thank you so much to poppy for elixabette harrow! it was an absolute joy to interpret and write them for my verse; they could not have been more fitting. the 53rd games was always going to be a special one lore-wise in disr, and i was glad to have a character like yours to explore for it. i hope you've enjoyed this story, and of course, thank you all for reading.