iii. THE KILLER
"You're kidding me, what kind of outfit is this?"
Azaire's stylist — Kaila, as he's since learned — shrugs helplessly, holding out a pair of gloves.
At least he wasn't painted green to match her, though Azaire wishes they would've brought back the glory of arena outfits of old just for him. But no, instead of a royalty-inspired getup or a jumpsuit that lets you fly, he's stuck in a pair of ugly, tan overalls made of the thickest cargo material he's ever seen. A dark blue jacket covers the horrendous piece of clothing, and the heavy steel-toed boots look like they might be able to survive a nuclear explosion.
Azaire doesn't know whether to find that train of thought comforting or concerning.
He laces the boots and takes the gloves Kaila offers nonetheless; he knows he'll need them. The padding of the gloves pulls when he flexes his fingers, curling them into a fist. Durable, sure, but if it messes with his swordwork, then Azaire's gonna have a problem. The getup's only saving grace is the string of pearls pressed tightly against his wrist, a reminder of what — of who — he came here for.
Mindlessly, he lets Kaila fiddle with his hair and zip the jacket up to his chin until a voice over the intercom announces thirty seconds to launch. Azaire's footfalls are heavy as he steps up to the plate.
"Good luck in there!" Kaila calls cheerily before the glass lowers around him.
Azaire flashes her a smile that says I don't need luck, ruining her work with a shake of his head that leaves his hair naturally tousled— after all, he needs to look the part if he's to put on a show. The plate jerks beneath his feet, and he forcibly calms the thumping heart in his chest.
As the platform rises, the first thing Azaire notices is the heat.
Fine; he's never liked the cold anyways. This heat, however; it bears down upon his shoulders before his head even pokes above the ground, nigh unbearable as his plate clicks into place. The clothes they put him in— they're fucking stifling, but as soon as his eyes take in the arena around him he understands the necessity, the source of the heat.
The ground beneath his feet is practically melting.
Literally, in some areas; thick rivers of molten rock ooze through bulbous surfaces that look like they themselves were once liquid. Cracks of sharp orange permeate the ashen landscape, and some even spew flecks of lava. In the distance, dark peaks loom over the arena, their mere presence a threat. Azaire blinks, as if that can save him from this hellscape, or at least clear the dust and stinging air from his eyes.
Every breath tastes like poison; it's all he can do to keep from coughing up the fumes. 'Makers, this is gonna kill my lungs if I get out of here.
Shielding his eyes with his hand, he scans the field. It looks walkable, within the circle of pedestals at least. The cracks in the ground and red-hot magma rivers only begin outside; they must want their Bloodbath. The same igneous material makes up the Cornucopia itself, as if a tidal wave of magma had solidified into the shape of the horn. In front of it lay the bounty: weapons, supply packs, and a disconcerting number of gas masks.
Fucking hell. For now, that glinting silver rapier is all he needs, but now won't last forever.
Azaire squints against the glare; though the sun seems to be hidden by a cloud of ash, churning hotspots in the creeks of magma glow bright-white.
No time to get distracted. Thirty seconds on the clock.
Next to him, Azaire spots the boy from Thirteen, still blinking in shock at the landscape around them, muttering curses. On his other side, the Seven girl, her hand pressed firmly over her nose and mouth in an attempt to filter the air. Spaced out around the circle, his allies poise themselves at the edges of their pedestals, ready to run.
Azaire follows suit, sinking into a crouch.
Ten seconds.
He's always been enamoured by the way time seems to stretch in the heartbeats before. Something's gotta give, be it the heat, the clock, his coiled muscles.
It's an eternity, the moments leading up to fate. His fate. An eternity squeezed into—
Five seconds.
Azaire feels himself blink, the hard metal beneath his knee, his fingertips; the particles of black sand that swim before his eyes.
Four seconds.
Exhale. Inhale. Hold…
Three.
Two.
One.
The gong sounds and fire surges through Azaire's limbs as he springs from the plate. Even with the heat weighing him down, the heavy clothes on his back, his footfalls are swift, sure. Azaire's the first to the Cornucopia, Seraphima a half-second behind him from around the horn's tail; his hand closes around the curved hilt of the rapier — his rapier — before he turns heel, scanning for the closest victim.
Excitement blooms in his chest when he spots her; Thirteen girl. Just for you, Ronan.
In the two steps it takes to close the distance between them, she locks eyes with him, frozen in the attempt to snag a gas mask. Azaire's rapier flashes beneath her chin, a cut so smooth it looks at first like he missed— the blood that spews from her neck a heartbeat later says otherwise.
He's too far away for any of it to dirty his clothes, but he's not immune to the screams that erupt around him, raw as they rip from the throats of the terrorized. They run from him, his allies; from Rocky's mace, from Hudson's arrows, Cosmin's sword and Raphael's looming form.
Azaire grits his teeth. He's used to applause and squeals of adoration following his actions, not this—
Ignore it, dammit.
That's one mark already on his ledger. In here, that means security among his allies, for now. No reason to overdo it, not like Remora; near the mouth of the horn, Azaire catches a glimpse of her stabbing down, down, down, a half-mad grin plastered across her cheeks. Beneath her, what looks like one of the Twelves convulses under her blood-soaked trident, the red liquid almost black against the dim glare of their surroundings. Azaire holds back a sneer of disgust, turning away, though the crack of a whip immediately draws his eyes.
Seraphima. Her district partner, usually at her shoulder, is nowhere to be found; she struggles to restrain her prey, mouth twisted into a scowl of concentration. At the other end, one of the outlier girls — Azaire forgets which; Six? Eleven? — paws frantically at the cord caught around her wrist. He starts towards her, but Grace's shield catches her in the chin before Azaire gets close.
He slows to a stop at Seraphima's shoulders, panting. They exchange a nod.
Before them, the outer-district girl screams, scrambling on her knees away from the attacking Career. Seraphima merely watches with an expression of passive approval as Grace slams her shield into the girl's skull again and again until her thrashing subsides to twitching, and then to stillness.
Grace huffs with exertion as she stands, brushing dust from her shield; its smooth surface left her victim with an eerily bloodless dent in her cranium. "Nice work, Grace," Seraphima says evenly.
"Sorry, I kind of stole that one from you—"
"Don't worry about it."
It takes a second for Grace's apologetic expression to vanish. Seraphima's smile isn't exactly reassuring, but an incoming arrowhead interrupts the effort; the Three girl just raises her shield in time. It glances off, landing uselessly in the dirt at Azaire's feet, and Grace's district partner calls out an apology, bow already strung and released into a group of escaping outliers, felling a straggler. "Watch it, dumbass!" Azaire hisses.
"Behind you!"
The three Careers scatter at Hudson's warning; a loud bellow nearly makes Azaire jump out of his skin as the lumbering Ten boy charges the spot they'd been just a second prior, hammer raised high above his head. Azaire dodges wide— if he gets far enough, it won't be his problem. Sure enough, another cry cuts through the air as Rocky meets Ten head on. With ease, she maneuvers him towards a supply crate; Ten stumbles backwards as he dodges her strike, and in seconds, she's upon him, spiked mace sinking irreparably into his chest.
Azaire leaves her to it; in his peripheral, he spots Cosmin taking on the pair from Seven. Somehow, they'd both managed to get their hands on a weapon, and that's all it takes for Azaire to sprint off in his direction.
He doesn't miss the relief that flashes in Cosmin's eyes as he approaches.
Neither does the Seven girl; her machete cuts towards Cosmin's face, but he catches it at the last second on his own blade. Her partner takes the opportunity, sword diving for the Two boy's leg.
Azaire's gets there first. With his rapier now occupied, he kicks out towards Seven's face; his enemy's cry of pain drowns out the sound of crunching bone. Another vicious kick sends Seven sprawling on his back, and he just manages to scramble out of reach of the incoming rapier blade. Azaire doesn't bother holding back his scowl this time, though Seven's not looking at him anymore. "No—Sammy!"
Azaire turns in time to see Cosmin's sword cut clean through his opponent's neck.
Seven — the alive one — shrieks in horror; the girl's corpse collapses, her nearly-severed head lolling in his direction, spattering dark blood across darker rock. Even Cosmin cringes at the sight, exchanging an uneasy glance with Azaire; their heads snap towards scrabbling movement as the Seven boy makes a run for it, barreling towards the outer ring of pedestals at breakneck speed.
Oh, no you don't. Without thinking, Azaire gives chase. Colors flash around him, but he pays no mind to the massacre in his peripheral — not the little one caught on the end of Remora's trident, nor the downed boy begging for mercy before Rocky's blunt catches him in the face, nor the girl that dodges Raphael's staff only to run into the path of an arrow. He's got eyes only for the target before him, and Azaire knows he's fast— faster than this soon-to-be-dead tribute.
Nevermind the toxic ache that already seeps into his lungs; between the unstable terrain and Cosmin on his heels, Seven won't get far.
If he ignores the churning in his gut, Azaire's almost elated. He can feed off the thrill, the adrenaline, in the heat of the moment, and it's all around him.
As they breach the ring, the ground wavers beneath his feet, magma hotspots and creeks popping up around them. Azaire instinctively slows; Seven's only meters from his reach, and closing fast. The other boy doesn't have such luxuries as caution, not with a pair of Careers breathing down his neck.
His mistake; it's almost disappointing when he stumbles.
Disappointing, until a strangled, gut-churning noise reaches Azaire's ears— half a scream, half a gurgle, entirely agonized— and Azaire blinks at the sight of Seven's half-submerged, thrashing form, the viscous creek of lava that flows around him. It clings to his face and hands, and the nauseating smell of burning flesh hits Azaire like a truck. Frantically, he covers his nose and mouth with his jacket, but the filter offers no relief from the fumes. Still, Seven jerks and howls before him, flopping around in the molten rock as he attempts to escape it. Bits of hardened lava cling to his face, his hands, stark against the bright red of third-degree burns, his unseeing eyes long-since melted from their sockets, and Azaire can only stand frozen, watching—
"Help me!"
Azaire blinks; Seven's still blubbering, still convulsing, his boot gripped tightly in Cosmin's hands as he pulls— "Azaire!"
He's not strong enough, not with Seven hindering the fight. Tucking his weapon in his belt, Azaire scrambles to reach the boy's other leg, and together they drag him from the smoldering flow of magma. The minute he's free, his foot slips from Azaire's grasp; his breath comes in gasps and wheezes, and again he covers his mouth and nose with the hem of his jacket, hardly able to comprehend the sight before him.
Seven's chest still rises and falls, but slowly, barely. The bits of his jacket that haven't been charred away dance with tiny fires, though Azaire can't tear his eyes from the boy's face— or what's left of it. Stripped of skin, only a mess of reddened flesh, blackened rock, and bits of bone map out the boy's features; the arena's demolished anything that could've placed him in Azaire's memory, their previous fight lost to the haze of adrenaline. He doesn't envy the loved ones that'll cry over his body as they bury him, or however the hell they do it up north. As he watches, the twitching in Seven's limbs stops, his chest falling still, and Azaire knows it's over.
"Good god," Cosmin murmurs once he catches his breath.
"…I've got a feeling he won't be the last one to go for a swim."
"'Makers, Azaire."
"You know I'm right."
"Don't jinx it."
Good point. He only huffs in response.
"We should get back to the others."
Azaire turns away from the raw, melted corpse, offering Cosmin an unaffected smile. "Lead the way, my friend."
• • •
The first thing Azaire does when they make it back to the horn is snatch one the cumbersome masks and shove his face into the contraption. He wishes he could say it offered some relief from the noxious air, but even the high-grade filters can't save his lungs from the filth that already contaminates them. A sharp fit of coughing interrupts his inhale; Cosmin slaps him roughly between the shoulders as he winds down.
Azaire tries to bite down his annoyance at the discomfort; the strain in his lungs, the plastic pressing into his face, the oppressive heat. He's not the only one that went for a mask. Thankfully, the rest of the pack made the connection that since they're included, they're probably necessary; everyone save for Remora and the Ones.
His idiot of a district partner's still bouncing off the walls — rocks? Whatever — over her kills, swinging her bloody trident for emphasis. "Did you see that, Ser? I got that bastard right in the eye, that's three kills—"
"You fight like a fucking savage."
Remora recoils at the sheer disgust in the One girl's tone. Seraphima sits stone-faced, her district partner a shadow hovering behind her shoulders. "All of you—"
"Excuse you," Azaire snaps, his voice muffled through the mask. "Perhaps you weren't paying attention, but I do not fight like a savage." He didn't spend nearly every waking moment at the Islands forcing elegance into his flowing movements to be reduced to a brute.
Seraphima only scoffs. "As if. Raphael, Grace, and I are the only ones who know what it means to fight purely."
Grace blinks in surprise. "I do?"
The look Seraphima sends her is absolutely withering, but Rocky cuts her off before she can continue. "I've got no clue what you're going on about," she says sharply, flicking the gore from her mace, "but it sounds like you signed up for the wrong game."
"Come on, guys…" Cosmin's tone is already placating. "Let's give it a rest. It's the first day."
Seraphima's narrowed eyes flick between Cosmin's bloodied sword, Rocky's dripping mace, her allies' raised hackles. She relents with a huff and a nod, which seems to speak for Raphael as well.
"Fine," Rocky says evenly. "How many are left? Remora, you said you got three, I got two…"
"Two for me, I think," Hudson supplies.
"One," Grace huffs through her mask.
"Same." Cosmin turns to Azaire. "You?"
"Also one."
"What about Seven?"
Azaire shrugs, joining his allies in absently rummaging through the supply crates. "That's on him for being slow and clumsy." At Cosmin's uneasy frown, he adds, "I didn't push him or anything. You were there." He can't claim that particular horror— he doesn't think he wants to. Just drop it, Cosmin. "What about you two?" He nods to the Ones. "This is, what, ten so far? Eleven?"
"We didn't manage to kill anyone yet," Seraphima says plainly.
The rifling pauses. Each Career turns to her, an expression of bewilderment beneath their masks. "You're kidding," Rocky says.
"No."
Neither Raphael nor Seraphima appear put-out by the turn of events. "We will kill when the opportunity presents itself to do so with utmost purity," Raphael intones. "Not before." Immediately, Azaire gets the sense that arguing with that type of conviction would be like trying to politely convince a brick wall to crumble. He's never heard so many words from the One boy's mouth either, not even in his interview; frankly he could do with less.
For better or worse, Rocky seems to share his sentiment. "See, you've said that before. Care to explain what exactly that means?"
"A bloodless Victory," Seraphima murmurs.
Perhaps he should've paid better attention to their interviews. None of them could've predicted an issue so idiotic as this.
A stunned silence follows her words, and Azaire can almost hear the arena itself — the churning of molten rock, the hiss of hot liquid meeting cooler air — before Rocky scoffs. "You can't win without killing."
"I never said that."
"You mean that very literally," Azaire muses out loud, and the Ones nod.
"To our knowledge, no Career has ever done it."
"Right," Rocky says, slapping her knees as she stands from her crouch. "I've had enough of this religious bullshit—"
"It's not—"
"Cosmin?" The Two boy looks up at the sound of his partner's voice. "Are we going hunting or not?"
"Oh, um right… We should take inventory first, actually." Rocky lets out an irritated huff, but relents. "Then we'll scout the nearby area, but I think we should be extra cautious." He meets Azaire's eyes, and he knows the Seven boy's untimely end still plagues his ally's mind.
Nods of agreement follow, and Grace tosses the One girl a gas mask. "Here, Sera. You might want purity of air first."
• • •
Scouting takes more time and energy than any of them anticipate, between the heavy air and tenuous landscape. They leave the horn completely to allow the hovercrafts to clear the bodies. At Rocky's insistence, they split evenly, striking out in opposite directions parallel to the looming mountain range. Cosmin takes the boys, and it's a relief to be out of Remora's presence, even for a short while.
Azaire figures that's the only kind of relief he'll get in a place like this.
They trek in relative silence, the only words exchanged being guesses on where the other tributes could've run off. It's just Cosmin and Hudson talking; Azaire doesn't bother paying attention, and Raphael's practically an Avox without Seraphima around. He keeps a quiet eye on the One boy just in case; Raphael may have no kills, but Azaire can't shake the unsettling read he's getting from the boy's presence. He takes up the rear for that reason.
Unfortunately, it allows his mind to wander; back to home, back to Four.
Which place can he even call home?
The Rivette villa, with its ghosts and disappointment and unfathomable expectations? The Islands, with the sun on his skin, sand between his toes, a nameless boy in his bed?
Either way, it's certainly not here. This is not the warmth he's come to crave, but it may very well be the last thing he knows.
What a miserable thought.
Azaire focuses on his feet, one in front of the other. Avoid the magma, keep an eye on your allies, count the cannons…
They ring out overhead. The party pauses, chins tilted upwards to listen. One, two, three…
Azaire closes his eyes. Each one brings him another step closer to home.
To where?
Nine, ten, eleven. Silence.
"Eleven," Cosmin hums. It matches with the count they'd taken before, which means no other outliers have tripped and fallen face-first into boiling lava in the meantime. Pity.
They stop for lunch soon after, half rations and half sponsor gifts once those on high catch on. Azaire barely tastes his portion as he shovels it down, not willing to spend any more time than necessary breathing in toxic air. He'd kill a man for a cool ocean breeze right now. He'd kill several.
Instead, he aimlessly circles his still-eating allies, kicking around loose rocks. Raphael's gaze tracks him silently, unflinching even when Azaire meets it. "What's your problem, big boy?"
The One boy doesn't deign him with a response.
Azaire rolls his eyes. Cosmin's hand reaches out to stop him when he passes. "Settle down, Az." Azaire looks at him long enough for the touch to burn, even though the thick gloves and pant legs; he grins when Cosmin lowers his hand, ruffling the other boy's hair. "Hey—!"
"Think the girls are having more fun?"
"I haven't heard any cannons, so no," Hudson says.
With a shrug, Azaire continues his circle while the others clean up their meal. A half-melted chunk of lava stands out against the rock and Azaire picks his way over to it, poking at the viscous material with the tip of his rapier. The indent stays, and he kicks at it for good measure. As hot as the thing probably is, Azaire doesn't feel it through his boot; when he stamps it with his footprint, the heat doesn't even singe the rubber of his sole.
"Hey!" Azaire looks up at Cosmin's voice. "What are you doing? We're leaving!"
"Coming."
Evidently, the biggest drawback to securing Cosmin's leadership is having to follow him. This is aimless, Azaire thinks with a huff, but really, when has anything in his life been any different?
When you volunteered for Roe.
(…'Makers, stop thinking about him.)
Cosmin shoots him a funny look, indecipherable behind the mask, but doesn't say anything. "Well? Let's go then."
And they're off, though the Two boy leans over to Azaire, his voice quiet. "Please be more careful. I don't want you to get hurt doing something stupid."
"Me? Never."
Cosmin jostles him lightly in the shoulder; clearly it's his way of relieving the tension. Azaire can tell what the other boy was thinking, though, and sure, he's got no intention of ending up like Seven, but he's already done what he intended to do in volunteering. Monroe is anywhere but here. Azaire feels guilty enough already for making himself a martyr, but maybe he could fix things, if…
Who is he kidding, Azaire's always caused more problems than he's ever solved.
Still, Azaire can't help another wave of discomfort when Cosmin lays his sleeping mat next to Azaire's for the night, a small, self-conscious smile dusting his freckled cheeks before he replaces his mask. Watching the faces of the dead play across the sky doesn't help either. Discomfort, guilt… Cosmin's mentor was right when she said he didn't deserve this. Even after the others' muffled snores fill the air, Azaire can still feel Cosmin's eyes on him, and he knows, he knows, the other boy's thinking of the previous night.
(Usually, this is when he'd leave.)
(Damn his lovers and their pining, Azaire doesn't have the wherewithal to handle that shit. The tighter someone clings to him, the stronger the urge is to throw them off; Azaire can't help but wonder if he got that from his father.
Either way, that's not an option here. He fucked his way into this mess; he'll slaughter his way out if that's what it takes.)
Instead, he lays an open hand between them; it's not long before Cosmin's fingers intertwine with his. Between the sharp edges of the gas mask and his temporary lover, Azaire doubts he'll get much sleep tonight.
• • •
"Why won't you talk to me?"
Azaire exchanges a here-we-go-again look with Cosmin over breakfast as his district partner once again attempts to get into Seraphima's good graces.
At least Ronan was right— sponsorships have been good to them, providing a hearty morning meal of various sandwiches. Certainly better than most tributes are getting. The gas mask dangles uncomfortably from Azaire's neck as he finishes off his meal; already, enough dust particles have gotten beneath the plastic linings to render it maddening.
It's almost entertaining to watch Remora beg for the One girl's forgiveness. Azaire's been on the receiving end of that more than once; he can thank his reputation and the string of lovers he left behind in District Four for that. Something like vindication swells in his chest at the pathetic pleading of his district partner; the fact that she managed so many kills so early grates, though Azaire will never admit it.
(Everything from the sound of her voice to the air in his lungs grates on him in here.)
If anything though, this serves as proof that he's right in his assessment of Remora Riley's character, even if her skills surpass his original beliefs. Her mistake to tie herself so tightly to the One girl.
Perhaps it's the dark splotch of blood that stains her jacket, but Seraphima's ignorance is adamant. She only reacts to bat Remora's outstretched hand from her shoulder, and it's not until Grace pulls the Four girl away that she finally gives it up. "Christ," Azaire mutters before he replaces his mask. Cosmin doesn't say anything, though he catches Rocky's irritated glower just as she makes her way over to the pair of boys.
"Cosmin. Since you're the leader—" (the slightest hint of a sneer stands out even in her whisper)— "this is on you: I want them out."
The dig flies over Cosmin's head. "What?"
"The Ones," Rocky hisses under her breath. "They're out of their fucking minds and I want them out."
"It's the second day," Cosmin reminds her patiently. "We can't kick them with no clear basis."
"Zero kills is clear enough. So much for those elevens in training."
"Rocky, come on."
"Remora's way too attached to Little Miss Perfect for that to go over well," Azaire adds snidely. His expression turns pensive. "Though, it might just go both ways," he says, recalling the morning before the Games. While he can't quite get a read on whether she's using Remora like he's using Cosmin — it's the Hunger Games, what else would you expect? — perhaps he can take advantage of that. Perhaps the three of them could take advantage of that; himself, Cosmin, and Rocky…
Rocky opens her mouth but Cosmin cuts her off, unexpectedly stern. "Drop it. I don't want us fracturing so early on my watch."
There's a decisiveness Azaire hasn't seen before in his voice. It's enough to shut down Rocky's demands, enough to raise their voices to a loud whisper. Maybe too much; at the prickling at his neck, Azaire looks up to find Raphael's cold eyes staring back at him, as if he could see right through the mask.
Rocky only gives him a look. "Think it's a little late for that."
• • •
"Keep your eyes peeled," Cosmin calls over his shoulder. "I don't trust this terrain."
Almost on cue, the nearest magma creek spits hot liquid a few meters into the air with a hiss. Azaire skitters out of reach, nearly bumping into their leader; he'd be flushing with embarrassment beneath his mask if the heat weren't potent enough to keep him permanently sweating. He adds Rocky's quiet chuckle to the growing list of things that grate at his nerves, though he imagines the Gamemakers must be having a bigger laugh as they tug at the strings behind the scenes. Fuckers.
At least they left Remora behind. Both Azaire and Rocky had been adamant; as soon as Seraphima and Raphael had volunteered to stay at the Cornucopia, the deal was sealed.
Good riddance.
Rocky had suggested splitting up again, but Cosmin drew the line, citing the potential dangers of the arena and outlier alliances.
So far, they'd only encountered the former.
The five of them headed out opposite the mountain range, but further they went from the Cornucopia, the more the ground itself seemed to strain against the weight of the heat. Angry red cracks split the rock beneath their feet into odd, almost hexagonal tiles of varying heights, slowing their pace to a careful trek as they pick their way across. Seven's melted face flashes again in Azaire's mind as he leaps nimbly across a half-solidified chunk of rock.
Again, he avoids that fate by a hair. It won't be long before he becomes desensitized to it.
"I hate this place," he grumbles, squinting past the glass of his goggles in an attempt to judge the horizon. Far away, the strange rock columns appear to gradually stretch skyward, though the hazy sky clouds his vision almost as much as the dirt-caked lenses.
"I think it's kind of beautiful," Grace counters. "These structures, at least."
Her partner voices his agreement, slinging his bow over his shoulder as he steps to a higher column ahead of them. "I could do without the lava, though."
"Yeah, no shit," Azaire huffs under his breath.
Unfortunately, the Twos are close enough to hear. "Not much we can do about that, pretty boy," Rocky's muffled voice says.
"Aw, you think I'm pretty?"
"Not really. But Cosmin does."
In lieu of a response, the Two boy slugs her in the shoulder, and Azaire smirks to himself as Rocky teeters for a second on her pillar. She smacks him back before they join Azaire on a larger slab. "I sure hope so," he preens.
"Guys…" Grace's voice sounds distracted.
Cosmin clears his throat. "She's right, enough messing around."
"No, look."
Azaire's gaze follows her outstretched finger; ahead of them, the cracks between the tenuous ground glow brighter the longer he looks. The light— no, fire— snakes towards the group, faster than he can blink. It skirts his toes just as he leaps to higher ground. His allies scatter to tentative safety atop taller basalt platforms, Grace poised with her shield hovering protectively over herself and Hudson, and a sudden scenario plays in Azaire's mind; the lava rising into a river, sweeping him away, drowning, suffocating—
(Just like his mother, he'll be pulled under, crushed against the rocks.)
Tense glances pass between the Careers; they're helpless, and they know it, Azaire can't stand it.
The light surges white, and he can't bear to look, can't bear to breathe…
Just as the glow nearly scalds his retinas through the glass, it recedes. The quiet fade to yellow mimics the exhale of relief that floats from Azaire's lips through the filters of his mask; yellow to scarlet to dull red.
"Oh, thank god," Cosmin breathes.
Grace's hesitant glance flits from Cosmin, to Rocky, to her partner, then Azaire; slowly, she drops her shield. "…Should we go back?"
Four pairs of eyes land on Cosmin; Cosmin's land on Azaire. "Uh." He clears his throat. "No. We push forward."
Grace adjusts her grip on her shield. "Are you sure?"
"Cosmin…" Rocky's tone is a warning.
"He just said so," Azaire snaps; even though Rocky can't see his glare, he's sure she knows it's there.
"We're scouting, aren't we?" Cosmin says, harsher this time. "Let's go—"
The arena cuts him off with a crack.
Rock shifts beneath Azaire's feet, and he nearly stumbles from his perch. Heart pounding in his chest, he regains his footing as a chasm wrenches the solid rock apart. It slices through the pack, separating the Threes, and almost in slow motion Hudson loses his balance; his hand shoots out for Grace's.
For a moment, their fingers lock.
But even her frantic movements do nothing to stop the spout of fire that shoots up from below. Azaire recoils as it singes the ends of his hair.
It envelops the Three boy completely.
The roar of liquid fire drowns out Grace's shriek, and when it settles, Hudson is gone.
The boom of a cannon proves it.
• • •
Grace doesn't speak on the way back, but by the way her masked face keeps turning towards Cosmin, the defeated slump of her shoulders, Azaire knows what she's thinking. No doubt Cosmin knows too. He's already apologized to her enough times to get on Azaire's nerves.
It's not worth trying when he'll never be able to make up for it. Azaire learned that lesson long ago.
Everything about Cosmin says he hasn't.
Azaire sighs.
It's clear that the others are content to place the blame on Cosmin's shoulders, and maybe rightfully so. Azaire might be the only one that doesn't particularly give a shit.
Himself, and the Ones, though Seraphima at least tries to pretend by hailing the Three boy's death as honorable and pure.
"It's not honorable, it's the second fucking day," Grace snaps. But she lets the One girl console her after it's clear no one else is going to; that alone earns her a dirty look from Remora.
Still, Hudson's death shadows the overall mood of the pack in a dark cloud, almost as oppressive as the arena itself. Azaire doesn't know much about District Three, but judging by Grace's reminders that "Hudson was always one of the smartest," and "He scored better than me on just about every midterm," she almost seems more concerned about how they'll remember her partner than the fact that he's gone. The non-stop tap-tapping of her gloved fingers against her shield is a dead giveaway that she's worried about her own fate too.
Only natural. Again, Azaire's never been one to judge (unless you're Remora). The next morning, they leave Grace and Seraphima at the horn again for the day once the One girl offers.
Nothing suspicious about that.
This time, however, they split.
"Maybe we'll get you some kills this time, big guy," Rocky says, nudging Raphael roughly in the arm. As usual, he doesn't respond.
Cosmin speaks instead. "Actually, I think we should search for a water source today." At Rocky's quizzical head tilt — (Azaire's glad he can't quite see her expression; no doubt it's scathing) — he elaborates. "Cornucopia supplies won't last forever, and gifts will get more expensive throughout the Games. Better sooner than later."
"You can do that," she huffs, jabbing Raphael again. "I'm taking this one hunting."
Azaire opens his mouth to suggest that she take Remora as well, but his district partner gets there first. "I can help, Cosmin. I'm pretty good at finding water."
Cosmin shoots him one pleading look, and Azaire knows he's staying. Fuck.
"…could use a divining rod," Remora's saying when Azaire realizes she's still talking. "That's how my dad—"
"A divining rod?"
"For dowsing. That's what my dad used to find a spot for our water well."
Her father might be a bigger idiot than mine. "Even if that weren't utter bullshit, where the fuck would we get one?" Azaire laughs, gesturing to the barren landscape. "Let me just yank something off the nearest tree— oh wait."
Remora doesn't have an answer for that.
Her mentor does, apparently, judging by the tinkling sound of a sponsorship gift drifting down from the sky. It lands neatly in Remora's outstretched hands. To her delight, she extracts a fancy-looking forked wire.
Azaire glares at the gift. "Really?"
"Oh, this one's nice," Remora grins. "It's not hard either. You just hold it like this…"
Aaaand Azaire tunes her out. He falls into step behind Cosmin and Azaire can't help but think of what a waste of money it is, sending Remora some magic stick instead of actual water. Maybe it's just Ronan taking the piss out of him.
"This is ridiculous," he mutters.
"Do you have a better idea?"
Remora pauses next to a creek of lava, waggling the forked stick, and Azaire mimes a shoving motion. "Fine," he hisses in response to Cosmin's light smack.
"I think there's water here," Remora calls.
"That is boiling lava."
She flicks the rod in irritation. "I meant underneath."
"By all means, feel free to dig," Azaire snarks. "I don't think we're gonna find water here," he says under his breath to Cosmin.
The Two boy only sighs, his shoulders deflating ever-so-slightly. Nevertheless, they continue the fruitless mission, though Azaire and Cosmin seem to share a silent agreement to keep a keener eye out for tributes. Azaire keeps a lingering hand on his weapon as they walk.
Neither tribute nor water make an appearance, and they return to the Cornucopia just as empty-handed as Rocky and Raphael.
The following day, Azaire volunteers to guard the supplies on his own.
"I could stay with you, if you want…"
He can tell Cosmin doesn't actually want to. "Don't worry about it, Cos. Go kill something today."
"…Right." Cosmin tosses his sword from palm to palm before sweeping it in a pointing gesture. "Let's head out then."
As they head out towards the foggy horizon, Azaire lets out a sigh. While he doesn't prefer solitude, it'll be a relief to be out of their presence for a bit. He takes his time cleaning the lenses of his mask with a cloth from the horn's bounty, and while he's at it, he picks through the supplies as well, shoving anything worthwhile into the pack he's claimed. Matches, a sewing kit, a roll of gauze, iodine tablets in case someone's successful in finding water… And there's Ronan again with lunch. Azaire smiles his thanks to the sky, and for once the calm is blissful.
A cannon shot makes him pause mid-chew.
Absently, Azaire wonders who made the kill. Sure I'll hear all about that when they get back.
In the meantime, Azaire washes down his sandwich with a swig of lukewarm water — Cosmin was right, we should be careful with this — and tosses a pack of pain relief pills into his bag just in case. With nothing else to do but watch and wait, he settles into the old familiar stretching routine they run the kids through at the Islands to work out the kinks in his muscles. Could at least give the viewers at home something to look at.
Arms outstretched towards the yellow sky, he tugs at one elbow, then switches, and a flash of movement catches his eye.
Azaire frowns. He scoops up his rapier in a heartbeat, instantly alert.
There aren't many places to hide around here; the basalt columns where Hudson met his end are too far to offer cover here. Just a few swooping lava formations, the odd boulder, the Cornucopia itself. Azaire picks his way closer to the area that drew his eyes, weapon poised to strike.
If he has to bet, there aren't many supplies out there. And no hoards so obvious as the horn.
He grips his rapier tighter, but no movement happens again, no one dares show their face. If I were an outlier… "If anyone is going to attack," he drawls, "now would be the time, while it's only me here."
He almost hopes they do. But only silence greets him.
Azaire narrows his eyes, scanning. "I promise I'll kill you quickly. Maybe."
Nothing.
"Fine. I get it, I wouldn't want to fight me either."
When he returns to the Cornucopia, one of the spare bags is only partially zipped.
No other movement catches his eye, but Azaire doesn't dare drop his guard, not even when the others return looking just as tense, if not more, as when they left. When Azaire offers the leftovers of his sponsored lunch, Rocky pegs her gas mask at the ground.
"Sheesh, thought you'd be happy about the kill," he huffs.
"Wasn't us," Cosmin says.
Azaire hums. That explains it. "Who was it then?"
"Fuck if I know," Rocky snaps. "We saw jack shit out there, again." Hefting her mace, she stalks over to the ring of pedestals and starts swinging at the lava formations. Shards of rock fly from the impact points; the sound itself is enough for half the pack to fling glares her way.
"You'll hurt yourself," Azaire calls blithely. He gets a rude gesture in response.
Wow, a Two girl with anger issues. What a novelty.
According to the nighttime obituary, it was the Five girl. Whoever killed her remains unknown and on the loose, be it another tribute or the arena itself.
No one bothers to ask Azaire what he saw.
• • •
That night, Cosmin sets himself and Azaire up at the side of the horn to take watch, out of view of their allies. "How are you holding up?" Azaire asks, knowing very well that the answer is 'not great.'
"Grace still won't talk to me." He leans against the wall of frozen lava, deflated. "I'm a shit leader, aren't I?"
Azaire shrugs. "Who cares? We can just kill her and run off."
"Stop."
"I'm serious." He is. The thought is oddly tempting. "If not tonight, then tomorrow night, or something." He grins beneath his mask. "Hell, why don't we just kill them all? It could be fun."
Cosmin is silent. For all Azaire knows, he might be considering it. He sinks down next to the Two boy, bumping Cosmin's knee with his. "Not Rocky," Cosmin murmurs.
"Hm?"
"I don't really care about the others," he admits, though it sounds like it pains him. "But not her."
A breathless laugh slips through Azaire's teeth; he's not expecting the sudden thrill of excitement at the thought. "Whatever you want, Cos."
The other boy huffs, more exasperated than amused. "You're a horrible influence on me."
I am, aren't I?
The excitement withers as soon as it came. That stings more than Azaire thought it would; especially 'cause it's true. That's the only reason Azaire even got involved with him in the first place, wasn't it?
Aren't you tired of that?
He can't keep thinking about this, how Cosmin doesn't deserve this, how I don't deserve him. But that's never stopped him before, and it won't stop him now. With a gentle hand, he pries the mask from Cosmin's face; the Two boy lets him, even leans in when Azaire removes his and presses their lips together for a brief second.
When they pull apart, Azaire slips the mask back over his face so Cosmin doesn't have to see the expression he's wearing. They don't speak for the rest of the night. When Azaire wakes Rocky for her shift, he doesn't sleep either.