XXXVI: The Games - Day Two, Middle of the Night.
Alia Maduro, 15
Tribute of District Three
There are logical explanations, and then there is the obvious.
How quick her little friend had been to disappear, seeming almost eager to be free from Alia's side. The screaming. The cannon.
Everything in her heart tells Alia that Asha is dead.
In just a matter of minutes it feels like her world has shifted; the angle is so perilous it nearly throws Alia to the ground, her head spinning with the change. She thinks she might be lost. She didn't even know where she was going, let alone how to get back. All Alia knew was that she had to find Asha and somehow stay alive at the same time.
That, and pray that Asha was alive, too.
The idea that Asha had willingly abandoned her didn't sit right in Alia's stomach. There was more to it, she had certain. Had Asha seen something? Heard something? If that wasn't the case, how come she hadn't just said something? They both could have run while they still had a chance. Both of them had done it before.
Asha had run from an ally before she could find her own death, twice over. She had run from Aisa, practically forced him to be the sacrificial lamb that would ensure her own survival.
And because it had worked, that meant she had to keep on living—Alia would not continue to walk if it meant dishonoring the memory of the people that had brought her this far, whether through willing action or not.
Was that all this was, in the end? Was Asha only trying to save her.
Alia doesn't want to imagine from what. She's heard enough noises in the past twenty minutes to last a lifetime, screaming included. Whatever is scuttling along the pathways and through the greenery has avoided her thus far, but to believe that will last forever is delusion at its finest. While she may hold onto a shred of optimism that she will find Asha in one piece, it doesn't stretch quite that far.
She can worry about whatever's out there later as long as it leaves her alone. Right now, her priority is Asha and Asha only.
Instinct tells her to run and take the opportunity that her ally has given her, but she can't bring herself to continue moving in the opposite direction. The boom of that cannon continues to ring in her ears, a sound that haunts every single one of her nightmares. She doesn't like it being real again—she doesn't like being so close to it.
Her only relief comes in the form of the intersection appearing, the one she's certain she last saw Asha. There's only so long she can stare at her surroundings before Alia forces herself to move, practically tiptoeing down the path, hardly making a sound. It feels more and more like she's losing herself, gripping tight to a sharpened tree branch while she tries to rationalize a set of directions in her head as if there's any reasonable way to look at it. It doesn't matter why Asha left her—it's not like she knew the paths or could have possibly had an idea of where she was going. She was lost, too.
She squints against the darkness, tree branch clutched in her trembling hands, and steps in it. Alia doesn't realize what she's found until the sole of her shoe sticks against the ground. The tread of it is black when she lifts it up.
There's more on the ground. Splatters of it, drips, a still puddle about the size of her palm in the middle of it all. Alia smudges her fingers against her shoe, relieved when the only immediate side-effect appears to be a cloying stickiness. As she raises her hand the moonlight strikes against it, illuminating the paleness of her skin and the scarlet dying her fingertips.
Red. It's blood.
She backs against the wall without thinking, head twisting each way as if expecting to find the perpetrator, the one who caused such blood to run, watching her the entire time. Alia is left alone, as one would expect, but her heart continues to hammer away in her chest regardless.
Of course it's blood. She's stupid. But whose? Asha's? Regardless of who it belongs to, there's not very much of it, and her eyes find a zig-zagging trail leading away from it, the drops smaller and more sporadic until they eventually end. But there's no body, and unless she's truly lost hold on her senses, there was no hovercraft this close to her.
There's been no hovercraft at all. They could be waiting.
Or perhaps they don't plan on coming.
"Breathe," she mutters to herself, still pressed tight to the shadow against the wall. "Figure this out."
It has to belong to Asha. She knows the pathing is correct, and she's almost certain the screaming came from this direction. That means that, although injured, she gathered the strength to get up and move away from whatever—or whoever—attacked her.
Alia can find her. She can make this right.
She finds herself moving faster than before, fearing little what lies in the darkness—her ally is out there, somewhere, and if she truly is hurt than Alia needs to be there to help her. She's beginning to suspect more than ever that Asha left with the intention of saving her—something she wasn't bold enough to do the first time around, and something Alia was never good enough to deserve.
She had to leave everyone behind, too. Even Idelle. Alia remembers the recap all too well, seeing her friend's body so close to where she had been searching yet just out of reach. A few more footsteps, less of a threat, and she would have found the blood. It was too late then, but it doesn't have to be now.
Asha deserves better than to be abandoned and left to fight all on her own, and maybe, if she can convince herself of it, Alia deserves someone in her life willing to protect her.
She found herself a true friend here, something worth finding.
Alia can't let her down now.
Weston Katsouris, 18
Tribute of District Six
Good things truly do come to those who wait.
And, apparently, those who run off not expecting the drawbridge to fall at that exact moment.
Weston is moving faster than he ever has before, keeping pace with Jordyn for once. The blood clinging wetly to the tree branch still gripped in his hand is an afterthought, as well as the cannon that went off just after midnight. There's no telling if it's Eleven or not, and they won't know until tomorrow night judging by the timing of things.
He doesn't care, anyway. If she's gone, then so be it. That's one less person in his way.
"One of these things is gonna catch up to us eventually," Jordyn pants. Just like everything else surrounding them, Weston has been choosing to ignore the stony shapes that seem to flit in and out of his vision, there one second and gone the next. Frankly he thinks they already could have caught up by now—it seems more likely to him that the mutts are letting them go.
They've already committed acts of violence. He'd smashed that tree branch into her curled up body a dozen times, and Jordyn had only added to it. By the time they left she had been sobbing, but it was deathly quiet, almost as if her strength was waning even in that respect. The Gamemakers won't want to kill people who are willing to bring on the action, nor the ones who are so innocently just trying to get back to the moat.
They're almost there, though—he knows because the slope of the hill is igniting a fierce burning in his legs, one that he wills himself to ignore. There's a treasure trove waiting up there for them, entirely new things to experience.
And he's going to be the first one there.
"Shit," Jordyn snaps the second they crest the hill. His view is blocked only a moment before she slows, allowing him a good luck at the moat and what lies beyond. He sees the flicker of torchlight, only serving to illuminate the grotesque-looking gargoyle that lurks in the middle of the bridge.
She still hasn't stopped, though, and Weston doesn't plan on letting her. "You're faster," he says. "Duck around it."
"And what about you?"
"Don't worry about it. Go."
Jordyn's not worried. She cares just enough to question his safety, but not enough to stay put after he's given her permission otherwise. Weston slows nearly to a walk, watching as she races towards the thing dead-on, lunging away at the last second as it leans back onto it's hind legs, preparing to pounce. It goes soaring through the air, missing here by inches as she sails past it and through the massive archway that leads into the castle's interior.
Weston starts running when it lands, tumbling head over heels as it rolls closer to the bridges edge. It's like it wants this. It turns towards him at the last moment, stone teeth bared as if it has a choice in the matter.
He imagines the water rippling again—he's not sure if what lurks beneath the surface will have any impact on stone, but it's about to find out.
Not Weston. He's not sticking around long enough to watch.
His boot lands solidly against where its ribs would be. Stone splinters beneath it, its mouth opening in a soundless scream as it tumbles over the edge and lands with a thunderous splash in the water below.
"Trying to show off, are you?" Jordyn shouts. She's nearly lost in the darkness just inside the castle itself, but he can see her impatient stance clear as day. Clearly she has no plans on waiting for him—by the time he's arrived she's moved further into the large room that clearly serves as their entrance. Torches line the wall at regular intervals, but the ceiling rises so far above them that Weston can't even see just how far it goes. The stone underfoot is just as neat as the kind that lines the walls, as if someone spent years building it from the ground-up with nothing more than their bare hands. It's laughable, really—the Capitol would put in just as much physical labor as Weston would, but there's still something impressive about it.
There's something cold about it, though. Even the stone around the torch he pulls from the holder on the wall is frigid to the touch. A few more layers wouldn't have killed, would it?
Jordyn is clearly thinking the same—she shudders as she cranes her neck back, trying to see just as well as he did and getting no further. He knew, from the looks they got outside, that it was going to be massive, but Weston doesn't think they truly grasped the scale. This place is grander than anything they could have imagined.
"They want this to go on for a while, don't they?" Weston asks. If they wanted bloodshed at a rapid pace, why not keep everyone outside for all of eternity until they inevitably run into one another?
This is the type of place where you could hide and never be found, no matter how good the searcher may be.
"We can only do our best to rectify it," Jordyn states. There they stand, in an empty room with at least a dozen directions to head, and yet she still has the ability to be assured of both their capabilities. A massive staircase leads up to half a dozen floors, and even more doorways stretch out within arm's reach, begging to be opened. Weston glances behind him, but the bridge remains starkly empty. Either no one is quite as quick as them, both to realize or to move, or they don't want to chance what is now certain death.
It's almost a shame that they're going to ruin this place so tremendously—Weston thinks he deserves a castle of this caliber, a crown of which he can lay upon his head.
Then again, he wouldn't so necessarily mind if it happened to be drenched in blood.
Sanne Levesay, 16
Tribute of District Seven
They've clearly had what seems to be an amazing advantage, yet Sanne is still unable to calm her swirling nerves.
They have yet to leave the tower, but there doesn't seem a reason to be—the thing is massive, as if it's somehow bigger on the inside. The set of twisting stairs seems to go on for miles, at very landing there's at least a set of doors that lead to rooms beyond. Ilan looks almost comical with everything he's gathered in his arms; a large rucksack stuffed with extra clothes and thin blankets, the lumpy mass of a flashlight digging into his arm. She still has her own haul of food and water, but it's only been added to.
She hates that she's nervous, but anyone could come after them and do enough damage, weaponless as they are. That rock Ilan still has stuffed in his pocket isn't going to save them if it comes down to it. There has to be something hidden in all of these bedchambers and studies, a secret hidden amongst the ancient bookcases or tapestries.
Sanne wishes, of course, that it just wasn't a secret.
She cracks open the wooden door to the next room as cautiously as she has the rest, eyeing the canopy draped over the bed as the wind blowing in through the open windows sends it fluttering. It looks similar to the rest—a trunk at the foot of the bed, a massive wardrobe and stacks of books, an ornate desk and foggy mirror. That must mean there's nothing in here either that she's looking for.
Of course, she doesn't let it stop her. Sanne pulls out a thicker fleece top from one of the drawers to pull over her head, hoping to ward off the cold. An extra pair of socks would be nice, but she's not that optimistic to think the Gamemakers care about the state of her toes.
"Anything?" Ilan asks from the door, head poked through the crack she's left. Sanne shakes her head as she pulls open the rest of the drawers, ducking down to check beneath the bed.
This has been a good distraction for the both of them. Searching pulls them away from the reality of what is happening outside these walls and whoever died somewhere out in the gardens—it happened so fast Sanne hadn't even had time to think about it before it was over. It was only one, but that was enough for her.
She hopes not to hear anymore throughout the night.
"I think there's only one more floor," Ilan tells her. "I'm going up."
"Alright," she murmurs. She hasn't felt any fear in being left alone thus far, knowing his proximity—he'll hear her if she happens to run into trouble, and she'll be able to get to him in mere seconds it he finds the same. The echo of his footsteps as they drift away up the spiral seem to last longer than expected, though, and Sanne finds herself hurrying through the room faster than expected.
This set of stairs does go on for longer than the other, stretching up into the heavens. Before long she can hear Ilan rummaging around, allowing herself a breath as she follows in her frantic following. The tower opens up at the top—instead of a series of doors the room presents itself immediately. It appears mostly barren aside from a few rugs and places to sit, as if it was meant to be more of an observatory than anything else.
The flickering of the torches makes it difficult to see Ilan's back and what lies beyond him, a flash of silver getting her attention. She hears a few odd creaks before the harsh grating of a blade, standing at attention as Ilan turns around, a narrow sword gripped in his hands.
The suit of armor behind him is now empty-handed, the gauntlets curled around nothing more than air.
It's a good sword for him. She thinks about what Amani said—something in the middle, not too heavy and not too light. Ilan gives it an experimental swing, looking apprehensive as he finally tucks the weapon beneath his belt.
"That's a good thing," she says, unsure if she's reminding him or herself. Though neither of them are inherently violent people, they need a weapon if they want to stay alive.
Sanne can only think about Hawke, and how quickly he had plummeted from the wall to the ground below. Truthfully, she was surprised to see him still moving. After being struck that hard and falling such a great distance, an unlucky person would have been killed instantly.
They had done that together. It was something like a shared glance, both of them moving simultaneously to reach for the chain that tethered him there so that they could get him away. If Hawke had gotten up, he never would have left them alone—Sanne would either be dead right now, or alone if she had managed to escape. The night wouldn't have ended with both of them making it out.
They didn't stick around long enough to see what became of him. Sanne maneuvers to the window and dares to lean out over the edge, ignoring the harsh spin to her vision as she takes in the height and everything that lies below.
She looks down, all the way to the bridge below and the moat even further—if that's where they left him, he's long gone now. She can't say she's surprised.
Where could he have gone, though? He's all alone, and injured as well. At least she would have Ilan to rely on in that circumstance, someone to take care of her… he doesn't have anybody, and yet Sanne didn't think twice about causing him grief.
Acting irrationally has always been her greatest personal source of it.
"It is," Ilan agrees finally, but she hardly hears him. It's been too long to assume he believes it, anyway. The fear of being so high up is gradually floating away, replaced by sheer relief that they're so far away from anything else. She can see movement in the gardens below, inhuman movement. Whatever's down there, Sanne hopes she never finds out.
In an ideal world she could pretend that staying up here forever was an option—she wouldn't be the damsel in distress, the princess locked away in her room, but she would be safe. Find a door to bar, and call it a day.
Living the rest of her days in a castle, with someone she trusted, wouldn't be so bad.
"They're like ants down there," Ilan says quietly, laying a soft hand on her shoulder. They're both squashed against one another in the little cubby that this place dares call a window, but she doesn't feel trapped, or even nervous. For once, Sanne thinks she feels alright.
There's something to be said about being so high up while everyone else below is in the line of direct suffering; if they are ants, Sanne and Ilan are practically Gods.
Up here, no one can touch them. Sanne will pretend, for now, that things will remain that way.
Clementine Alinsky, 17
Tribute of District Eleven
He had the gall, even in the end, to look surprised.
She had seen it, amidst a heavy dose of confusion and pain horror. Surprise. Shock. Everything that Pietro shouldn't have been in his final moments when he knew exactly the type of person she was.
Wasn't that who they both were?
His corpse had been an odd sight on the ground—she hasn't seen one for a good few months, now. Clementine thought she'd be used to it by now but something about the stillness, the awkward fold of his limbs against the ground as his body heaved out his last breath… it unnerves her, even still.
It hadn't helped, the damage she had to beat into his skull. Fragments of bone had splintered onto the pathway beneath her feet, the rock growing more slippery each time she brought it down. Clem isn't sure where she threw it, after the fact, but she certainly didn't have it anymore. As much as she had scrubbed her palms against her pants, she could still feel it in the grooves of her skin, the underside of her fingernails thick with blood.
She had stared at him for longer than expected, as if this was some sort of practical joke. Surely she hadn't just killed an ally after they spent days joking about it in week's past—they each knew the other was expendable, but Clem didn't expect it to come so soon.
If only he kept quiet about Zoya, or simply kept quiet in general. The irritation had stretched too far. He was bossy. Dogmatic, even. That wasn't the type of person Clem could keep around; she would never sleep again if she had to worry about his every thought.
Atropa had told her many times that she might be best without any allies, and all Clem remembers is fighting her on it.
But maybe, just maybe, she was right after all.
Clementine doesn't want to find Zoya. She doesn't want to find anyone that she can't kill. Whoever it is doesn't matter when all she wants to do is go home—to a brother that doesn't favor her type and a father who hardly pays her any mind. When she gets back they'll figure something out, and she'll finally have them looking at her in the way she wants. Like she's worth something.
In order to do that, though, she had to get her ass moving. She's still standing here like some sort of idiot, two feet away from Pietro's body, watching as if it's going to melt into the stone. Already his olive skin is beginning to go pale, the blood that is awash over his face drying in thick, sticky waves.
She looks up, expecting to see a hovercraft waiting in the distance, silently begging her to get away. Clementine finds nothing. No matter how hard her eyes strain, she finds nothing but the star-dotted sky; they're going to leave him here, aren't they? Leave him here like they did all the Twelve's in the first place, except this time they're all going to get the same cruel treatment.
She does not want to rot away in a place like this. Especially not after drawing first blood. If anything, she should be rewarded for it.
This time, when Clem looks up, she's praying to see a hovercraft racing towards her, a parachute spiraling down from the sky above. Surely someone will recognize what she's done. It's not lost on her that Pietro's cannon has been the only one. No one, save for her, has been capable of giving the audience what they've craved and waited for.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" she hisses under her breath. She's waiting for nothing, it seems. A part of her wants to lash out and kick at Pietro, as if she can transfer some of the blame to his corpse and have it whisked away, but she couldn't even get that lucky. There's no one coming for either of them.
Clementine begins to back away, choosing the longest path she can possibly find that leaves her in sight of his body. It feels like ages before her back finally brushes against a wall—his body, now, is nothing more than a shadowy mass in the middle of the path, indistinguishable from anything around it. She's far enough away now that they've be retrieving him, if they so planned on it.
And yet Clementine waits anyway. It doesn't seem right to just leave him there lying like that, but what else is she to do? There's nowhere she can drag him to that's any better, and she's certainly not pulling his ass all the way back to the pedestals to bury him. She has better things to do.
Besides, it's not like he really mattered. She knew him for all of a few days, and now he's gone.
She can rationalize it by telling herself that he was dead weight, or that he was only going to do the same to her, considering it over and over, before he finally struck. They were not meant to be loyal companions. They were allies.
Or at least they were supposed to be.
Kai Melchior, 15
Tribute of District Five
For once, the twisting in his guts has nothing to do with sickness.
Kai didn't realize before just how lucky he got the first time around not dealing with any mutts. He did have to deal with a certain someone blowing the reactor, but at least that didn't move. Kai knew where it was safe to go and where it wasn't without having to second guess it.
But mutts? He's realizing, very obviously so, why they're such nuisances.
The worst part is they hardly make any noise. Unless they're full-on running or they have the misfortune of their stone claws clicking against the ground, there's nothing at all. No breath or pants, no snarls, just deathly silence until you're unfortunate enough to stumble upon them. Of course, Kai can hear something right now. He was just trying not to think about it.
Running feet. Not just the mutts, but something human. He knows Ravi hears it too—it's just on the other side of the wall. If either of them were to get up and look instead of remaining halfway crouched to the ground, they would know exactly what was going on.
But Ravi is cautious, and Kai is trying to stay alive, thank you very much. If having to crawl around for the entirety of the night ensures that, he has no issue with it.
"For fuck's sake!"
The shout sends him to a grinding halt, knees aching against the stone. Ravi, half a foot ahead of him, looks up, towards the top of the wall.
The look he sends Kai is not very reassuring. "Was that…?"
Kai sighs. Let's his forehead drop all the way to the ground, where he allows it to rest for a moment. Of course he of all people has gotten himself into trouble. Isn't that just fucking typical. He knows Ravi is watching him, trying to gauge what Kai is thinking. No doubt he's thinking about their next move, unwilling to actually make it until Kai is in agreement.
He looks up. "Should we… intervene?" Ravi asks, sounding skeptical.
"Or I could kill him," Kai says flatly. The look Ravi shoots at him is not exactly disapproval, but it's close. Any worse and he would look the pinnacle of Kai's grandfather when he said something that he shouldn't have. C'mon, though, who can blame him? All Zoya has done in the rough month he's known him is gripe and annoy and generally destroy anything he happened to touch.
And now he's in trouble, clearly.
Kai grips at the wall, slowly pulling himself into a standing position—nothing more than the top half of his head pokes over the wall, but he feels exposed. There's a good reason for it, when surrounding the fountain lies a dozen empty pedestals. And then, of course, the person who has managed to draw the attention of every single one of them.
Kai has to admit that Zoya's at least doing a halfway decent job at evading them, forging zig-zagging paths to duck out of their way, sending them flying far beyond him. Regardless, they're not going anywhere fast, and Zoya won't be so quick for much longer. He's succeeding, but for how much longer? They could sit here and watch him die if they wanted to.
He looks down at Ravi, still crouched against the wall. Clearly he's ready to pull Kai back again, both if he's in danger or simply if he wants to leave.
Ravi wouldn't leave, because Ravi's a good person. Despite the fear, he'd rather save someone than let them die.
Kai's not that good.
"Fine," he hisses. "Help me up."
Ravi gives him a simple handhold to boost himself up, swinging his leg overtop the wall. He helps his ally scramble up after him, trying to keep track in his peripherals of where Zoya's ended up. He's more a blur than anything else, unaware that aid is on its way as he occasionally lets out a shout, as if his annoying voice will drive them away.
Kai's feet hit the ground. The moment Ravi lands beside him he's gone, but Kai doesn't feel the need to keep track of him. Wherever he's going, whatever he's doing, Kai knows that it's worth it.
That still means Kai has to do something.
He pulls the machete free—some good it's going to do against solid stone, but he feels better with it in its hands. Zoya dives away from the mutt closest to him, sending it crashing into the wall. The second he rounds the fountain he's going to see Kai standing there, and what is he going to do? Continue yelling obscenities?
Apparently not. Kai spots the exact moment Zoya sees up, and it's almost comical. The stereotypical widening of the eyes, the slackening of the jaws… if this was any other situation, Kai thinks he would find himself laughing.
But not this time.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" Zoya shouts, feet stumbling on the pavement—it's as if he's unable to decide what's worse between Kai in front of him or the mutts behind him. That slowness, for nothing more than a split second, allows one of them to make a flying leap towards him. Kai knows the collision is going to happen before it does, bracing himself for the impact.
Even though the gargoyle isn't very large, it slams into Zoya's back and holds on for dear life, sending him sprawling face-first into the pavement. There's very little either of them can do, it seems. Instinct tells Kai to let him deal with it, just for a few seconds, but he finds himself springing forward regardless, driving his foot into the thing in his quest to free the District partner he isn't even sure he likes.
What is he doing?
Kai can't even quite tell what's going on below him; Zoya and the creature continue to writhe against the ground, one desperate to hold on and the other only wanting to escape. The others are closer, now. They have seconds to move before they're swallowed whole by the pack.
Zoya screams something—not quite fury, but pain. Blood splatters over Kai's shoes. With one last shove he rolls the mutt sideways, gray limbs milling about as it tries to right itself.
Before he can reach down there are hands locking around his arms, dragging him back. Though his brain knows that is has to be Ravi, he still can't make sense of it until he's released, shoved back in the opposite direction. By the time he's sent stumbling backwards, Ravi is already reaching for Zoya, hands locked around his collar to drag him up. If Kai had the frame of mind for it, he'd cackle at the image of Zoya being manhandled like a newborn kitten, unable to get away from its mother.
But he sees, then, what Ravi was pushing him towards, and he doesn't think he's ever ran faster in his life. He's never been capable of it. Kai knows he's going to pay for this over-exertion ten times over, but an escape is too sweet to pass up. He can't deny the relief he feels when he throws himself across the threshold, the pain felt from colliding with the ground an afterthought.
It helps, a little, that Ravi basically does the same to Zoya, dragging him over it and then dropping him to the ground without thinking twice about it. Ravi dives back for the gate, dragging the wrought iron back with both hands. It rattles into place, the lock shuttering down as three of the creatures slam into it from the other side.
They're not small enough to navigate the gaps—even if they were, Kai gets the sense that the Gamemakers would reward them for being able to escape at all. He allows himself a breath, leaning back against his hands.
"Are you okay?" Ravi asks him. He nods.
"Yeah, I'm fucking peachy, why are you asking him?" Zoya snaps. He has his fingers locked around his wrist, but now that the chaos has eased he can see blood dripping down his skin, soaking his hand. No matter how hard he squeezes, blood continues to spurt out.
"You're welcome," Kai tells him.
"I wasn't saying thank-you—"
"Fine. I take it back, then."
"Why the fuck haven't you expired yet?"
"What do you think I am, a bottle of milk?" Kai throws back.
He feels just a little bad at the way Ravi is looking between them, utterly perplexed. Up until now he's been slowly removing the backpack from his shoulder—Kai knows what he's going for, even if he's not exactly happy about it.
Ravi's only step towards Zoya is met with indignation, Zoya jolting away from him as if he's some kind of monster. Ravi freezes, first-aid kit in hand.
"Just let him help you," Kai mutters. "He knows what he's doing."
Zoya is torn, he knows, between dealing with the pain on his own and accepting help that he doesn't technically want.
"Let him, or lose your only good hand," Kai says. "I'd like to see you fight off some mutts then."
Not that a good hand was of any use to him this time—the second he tried to shove the creature away, it tore into him with unbreakable teeth. It's no wonder he screamed; anyone else would have done it louder, and much longer.
He sees the moment Zoya deflates, his hands dropping into his lap. Though his shoulders are still tense, this time, when Ravi crouches down beside him, he stays exactly where he is. He's not used to help, not used to having someone who can actually do something. At least Kai has always had his family, his friends, even Ravi. People who would look after him in any state without complaint.
It's easy to see that Zoya has never had such a thing.
Kai settles back against the wall as the mutts finally give up, their silence eerie as they back away towards the fountain once again. He can feel the exhaustion setting in already—he should be resting like everyone always insists on.
Instead he's doing this.
Nobody, least of all him, could have ever seen this coming.
Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four
Of all the things to happen in the world, Amani can't find it in him to be surprised about this.
They hate him, and rightfully so. Amani nearly ruined the Capitol's grand finale when the year was not yet halfway through. He had the audacity, as they would claim, to not only bite the hand that has kept him fed but try to run from it, too.
They handed him a twelve for skills that matched the same as the last. They've ranked him highly in the hopes that he'll be seen as a target. Everyone out there wanted that first cannon to be his.
He's already avoided one outcome.
It does appear, though, that they're putting in the work to ensure that he's given grief throughout the night. Amani has lost count over how many mutts he's batted anyway with nothing more than his bare hands—focusing on his first task at hand in finding Sander has dropped to the bottom of his priority list. Right now it's all he can do to stay alive.
He never thought he'd be fighting so hard to do it.
Amani isn't quite sure what's driving him to move. It's the training that lingers in the back of his head, his father's voice repeating over and over that he had to be the best, untouchable in every way. No matter what Amani tells the tired reflection that looks back at him in the mirror, he can't get rid of that voice. It keeps him up at night. Evidently, it keeps him alive, and yet he still can't find it within himself to be grateful. Amani would be at peace if he could find a modicum of silence.
Of course, asking for that only means the mutts are going to come. There's no telling how many he's downed, but he's certain there's one still following him now. He's exhausted, most certainly dehydrated, and has never wished more to see the sun.
He has not yet asked himself what happens if they don't leave then.
He's certain that if he makes it to the castle, at the very least, that there will be a place to hunker down until dawn. That means he has to get there in one piece. If only they would leave him alone.
Amani isn't expected to be given such a break.
He turns, facing the thing head-on as it rounds the corner, claws clicking against the stone. It's no different than the rest—stone wings protruding awkwardly from its back, body oddly misshapen and exaggerated. Stable though they may be, there's nothing alive within it. There's no intelligence to be had.
And stone breaks.
There is no moving or avoiding it. He braces himself as he has the last dozen times, arms at the ready as it leaps towards him. Just like always, it's claws come within centimeters of latching onto the skin of his arms before he twists them both, sending them sailing to the ground. The creature hits it back first and splinters, stone fragments pattering over the path.
The way they go limp and lifeless, it almost looks human.
He can't think about that right now. Amani gives one spare kick to its head, nearly disconnected at its apparently fragile neck, and forges forward. He can see the drawbridge now where it touches the nearest shoreline, and no matter how many minutes of moving it will take to get there, Amani knows that safety is closer than ever.
If they'll let him have it.
"Hey!"
Amani whirls, only to find no one there. The voice is distant, as if about ready to drift away on the distant breeze.
"Up here! There's another on the side of the wall!"
He looks up—up and up and up until his eyes find the top point of the tower. Something moves in the narrow window just below it, a face lost in the shadow of uneven torchlight.
The air behind him shifts just enough for Amani to know what it means. Without thinking he dives, skidding to the ground as another creature comes careening off the top of the wall to his left, missing his head by an inch. It's pathetically easy to grab as it rolls across the ground, beginning to right itself as Amani grabs its skull and smashes it back against the wall. Chunks of its horrific face break off in its hands, dust coasting his fingers.
His heart still hammers viciously off-beat in his chest when he looks back up, only to find the tower window empty. It's like no one was ever there. He knows better than to leave it when he was warned.
He knows who it was, too. It appears an act of kindness can stretch even further than they thought, if they were willing to warn him against his own death.
Amani isn't sure who's more curious—the creatures, or the two who make up District Seven.
Regardless, he doesn't plan on finding out tonight—not on either front. He scrambles back to his feet, hurrying along towards the drawbridge. No more voices call out to warn him. No more mutts leap out of the darkness to finish the job the Capitol so desperately wishes would be.
He won't believe he's safe, but he's made it. For one night, he can handle that much.
If I'm absolutely fucked for writing A/N's now as of 37 I'm genuinely not sure what I'll be writing down the line, so let's hope I get some jokes or something. Beyond the alliances I'm putting together that is.
Until next time.