robin verrillo-makrain. 17.

day twelve in the arena.

88 add.

original placement: 5th

The banjo disappeared into the darkness beyond the roof's edge, and Robin turned his attention back to Mavka and the knife she held to his throat. "Wait," he said, fumbling for his backpack, searching for something, anything he could use, "wait! You're a good fighter, like really good, and we could work together, right? We could work together! There's still other people left, and they're way scarier than me, we could go to the end together, the end, Two, think about that. My name's Robin, by the way, in case you didn't know, because maybe that's important if we're gonna work together, and you seem way more sane than Mila, which is good, but you're also trying to kill me, just like Mila, so that's not good, and just hold on a second, okay? What's your name, at least tell me that if you're gonna kill me-"

"Robin," she grunted, her face screwed up with concentration as she struggled to push him back, "My name is Mavka. Shut up, please."

"Mavka!" he repeated, his voice frantic even to his own ears. "Mavka, Mavka, that's a cool name! Mavka, please listen to me, okay? Please listen. I can't die here. It's too soon, and I can't die yet because there's so much left to do. I have a family, I have a dad and two half-sisters, they're twins and they're older than me, and I would have a mom but she's dead, she died two years ago, and I found her body, and please, Mavka, I'm so sick of death, I just want to live, can't you understand that?"

She shoved him back again, her arms straining against him. "Stop it-"

"Mavka!" he shouted. "Please! I don't want to die! I can't die yet, please, Mavka, don't you get it? I haven't even lived yet, it's just been death everywhere, all the time, and I finally have a chance to escape death and please, Mavka, listen- no one's even loved me yet. No one's loved me yet. I need to know what it feels like to live, for someone to love me, Mavka, come on, are you listening, please, Mavka-"

"Stop it, stop talking-"

He writhed underneath her grip, getting a hand out from her pin and reaching for his bag. She went to grab it, but he moved too quickly, his fingers wrapping around his beloved token before lifting it and shoving in her face. Before she could cut his throat, he took a picture. The light went off in her eyes, stark in the dark night, blinding her completely. She screeched, bringing her free hand to her eyes involuntarily, and Robin took the chance to grab her by her shoulders, bringing her around and slamming her against the railing.

Suddenly, their positions were reversed.

She was still dazed by the light, but she also had her weapon, and she slashed out blindly. Robin grunted with pain as her knife grazed his flesh, but he didn't let her go. He couldn't. He tried pushing her over the edge, but she hung on, stabbing at him again and again, her aim improving with every attempt. He moved to grab the knife, intending to throw it over the edge, maybe, but she feinted past him, pressing the knife back to his neck.

They froze.

He stared at her, his chest heaving. "But no one's even loved me yet."

"I'm sorry," she said, and Robin maybe even thought she meant it.

He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath, his camera comforting and familiar in his hand.

His camera.

His eyes flew open just as she tightened her grip on the blade.

He smashed the camera against her skull just as she drew blood.

She stumbled back, and he reached forward, grabbing the knife successfully this time and yanking it from her grip. There was no time for games anymore, and he drove the knife deep into her abdomen, making her double over, before dragging her to the roof's edge.

He shoved her once, twice-

-and then she was gone.

He watched her disappear.

"But they will," he whispered. He cradled the banged-up remains of his camera, not fully broken but well on its way, as he turned his back to the railing.

Boom.

He tucked it back in his backpack, and then he was gone.

When he woke up the next morning, his entire body hurt.

"Fuck," he grunted. He tried to stretch his sore muscles, but that only made his cuts and scratches and bruises from his fight with Mavka hurt even more. He cracked his stiff neck with a wince as he tried to remember how many they were at now.

Six? Five of us left now?

Five, I think.

He got to his feet. He wasn't sure which gallery he'd ended up in, but as he looked around, iron gates began to shutter over three of the exits. He stumbled toward them in a panic, but they descended too quickly for him to have a chance of taking those routes. He turned around, glancing at the one open exit- clearly, he was supposed to go that way.

Clearly, something- or someone- was waiting for him in that direction.

He sighed. He took his time, though. He made sure he ate breakfast first- he ate most of the rest of what he had, figuring one way or another, he wouldn't need his supplies much longer. He retied his shoes and smoothed out his shirt. For good measure, he took Mavka's knife and slashed through a few more paintings.

(Robin Verrillo-Makrain was once a jester, but he had never been a fool. He knew where this path led. It fucking terrified him. He did not want to die; he never had. The possibility of death here, now, somehow felt more real than it ever had.

So yeah, he slashed up a few more paintings. A few more pieces of evidence he'd existed. Just… just in case.)

And then he descended into the maze.

The maze was beautiful. He couldn't deny it: it was beautiful. He'd wondered, several times over, how this qualified as being part of an art museum, but the extended time wandering the rooms proved their beauty. They were intricate, finely made; half the furniture alone, the beds and chairs and tables and chandeliers, were art pieces in their own right. Even the less grand rooms were detailed and lovely and… alive, somehow.

(Robin loved them for that, in the same way he loved his photographs.)

But his nerves could only be calmed so much, especially when two cannons went off in short succession.

This is good, he told himself. Two less for you to deal with. Only three now. That's better than five. This is good.

Still… he liked knowing things. He liked knowing what was going on, and the lack of information only set him further on edge. He was hopeful that whoever was left had been injured by now, too- at least as much as he was.

(Two cannons. Two deaths. That little Mila voice in his mind, that he'd been ignoring so persistently, was thrilled. Two more souls released from the hell of existing, the pain of living, but no no no, Robin shut that down- two more lost, with permanence, and he could only hope they'd be remembered… Mila's voice was familiar, but not a comfort, it was not, he was done listening to her, and he wouldn't join her. He wouldn't.

That didn't mean he enjoyed the fact that for him to deny Mila, two more would have to join her.)

He continued wandering the maze, his grip tight on his knife. The silence was deafening. For once, he didn't dare fill it. It was the same reason he didn't destroy the artwork in the Thorne Rooms- he didn't want to leave a path someone could follow. But as someone who had always been associated with someone else before himself, he couldn't help but feel the loneliness.

(No. He hadn't always been tied to someone else. There had been a life before Mila, and there would be one after.)

It was okay that he was alone. He needed that. He hadn't known it at the time, but he needed it now.

(Even if he didn't like it. Even if he wished he didn't miss her.)

(It occurred to him then that Mila had fucked him up more than a little bit.)

He took a deep breath and continued forward.

One step after the other.

He was about to try the handle on the door to the next room when he caught the sound of voices. They were arguing.

Holding his breath, he pressed his ear against the door, his heart beating almost too loudly to make out the words.

"National fuckin' TV-"

"-don't know shit about me-"

"-someone who's already dead-"

"-sob story-"

Well, that didn't sound like fun.

Robin stepped back from the door as quietly as he could, intent on letting whatever was happening on the other side of the door play out. Sure enough, moments later, a scream ripped through the air, and he didn't have to be pressed up to the door to hear it. His eyes widened at the pure agony- he hadn't heard a scream like that since…

(Mila had the girl from Eleven pinned, laughing hysterically as she emptied a can of spray paint into her eyes, laughing so hard Robin wasn't sure she was weeping. Eleven screamed, and screamed, and-)

Another cry made its way through the door, louder than the previous. Robin winced in sympathy.

Yeah, he'd let this play out.

The screaming went on so long Robin lost track of time. It lost some of its volume as their throat went hoarse, but there were plenty other awful noises to make up for it, shrieks and wails and weapons meeting flesh. Robin had witnessed plenty of pain- his mother, Mila, countless other tributes and victims- but he'd never been forced to listen to anything quite like this for quite so long, and he couldn't get his body to relax.

But slowly, ever so slowly…

…the arena returned to silence.

Boom.

Robin pressed his ear against the door again, listening intently. All he could make out was soft weeping.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself.

(He was so tired of the horrors of this arena.)

But he forced himself to open the door and take in the scene on the other side.

There were two bodies strewn across the tile floor, much of which had been coated with blood. One of them was no longer moving, his chest still as his eyes, half-lidded, gazed at the ornamental chandeliers hanging up against the ceiling. He wore no shirt, and there was a gaping hole in his chest, right over his heart. Blood still leaked from it.

The other had curled in on himself, trembling, red suit stained with more red. He clutched at his head as he sobbed, and through his fingers, Robin could make out a mess of gore.

It was a nightmare.

(There was no joy in this destruction.)

Trying to keep his steps as soundless as he could, Robin made his way to the two bodies. When he was about five feet away, the other boy raised his head, making eye contact with him. Robin cringed at the sight of him- his cheek had been shredded too, and almost his entire face had a layer of blood coated over it. His tears had helped the areas by his eyes, somewhat, but… god. This boy was barely living.

Holding his face together with one hand, he reached for the knife laying in the blood, his fingers twisted. Most of them were clearly broken. Robin's reflexes were quicker, though, and he kicked the weapon out of the boy's reach.

The boy- Robin thought this was the one from Six, though he was barely recognizable- glared at him, even as tears leaked from his eyes. "Fuck y-you," he spat.

"I'm sorry," Robin said quietly.

"Yeah, right," Six replied. He tried to lash out at Robin's ankle, but Robin stepped out of the way. "Y-you… you're one of the fuckin'... the V-volunteers…"

"Yeah," Robin said, not sure how to handle this. Six was so close to the brink already, but it was so clear that he still wanted to live, and it was making him hesitate.

"Fuck you," Six repeated.

"Yeah, I know. Fuck me."

Six made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh. "S-so w-what?" he asked. "Y-you're gonna t-try to kill me n-now?"

"Probably, yeah."

"I… think that's b-bullshit."

"I'd agree."

"Y-you came here on p-purpose, you fuck… a-and I j-just wanted to g-go h-home."

"I, uh. I did, but it wasn't really my choice. If you can understand that."

"Y-yeah, 'cause it w-wasn't m-mine, either."

"Fair."

"No, it's n-not…"

Robin cleared his throat, which had become increasingly tight. This was fucking miserable. "I really am sorry. Even if you don't believe me."

"F-fuck y-you."

"Is there, uh… a way you'd prefer I do this?"

Six stared at him. "What?"

"However you want me to do this," Robin said, "I will."

(He'd had his choice taken from him once before. As best as he could, he wouldn't take Six's choice from him now.)

(He wouldn't be like her.)

Six stared at him, tears and blood still pouring down his face. He made no effort to conceal his thoughts, and Robin could read him like a book.

Anger.

Defiance.

Pain.

Defeat.

Terror.

Sorrow.

More pain.

"I d-don't c-care," Six finally said, the fury gone from his voice. "As l-long as y-you t-tell them… my b-brother and sister… that I l-love them."

"I'm sure they know," Robin said, trying to reassure him.

"T-tell them," he insisted.

"I will."

"And j-just… m-make it quick."

Robin nodded. Six leaned his head back against the tile.

"I l-love y-you," he whispered. "I-love you b-both. I'm so s-sorry I d-didn't m-make it."

Robin took a deep breath.

He leaned down by Six's side.

And then he drove Mavka's knife into Six's heart.

It only took a few seconds.

Boom.

Robin stepped back, letting himself shed a few miserable tears as Six's body went slack. With trembling hands, he reached for his camera.

Click. Six.

Click. The other boy, who Robin now recognized as a Career.

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

Why couldn't he stop crying?

"Today's fallen tributes include: Mavka Aelin, District Two; Berenice Kavanaugh, District Three; Ardalion Collingwood, District Four; Abner Beacon, District Five; Esper Myrellis-Verilla, District Six; and Illyria Fleetwood, District Seven."

So much fucking death…

(Would he ever escape it?)

The loudspeakers crackled to life once more. Six and Four's bodies- no, Esper and Lio's, those were their names, Robin would make a point of remembering them- hadn't even gone cold. "Now presenting the Victor of the Eighty-Eighth Hunger Games!" it shrieked. "From District Nine, Robin Verrillo-Makrain!"

Robin buried his head in his hands, sobbing. It was sorrow, and relief, and despair, and everything in between. He didn't know what to do with himself other than cry.

But he did know one thing, and he held on to that fact as tightly as he could. He'd always loved facts- the certainty of them, the reliability. It was why he'd read the encyclopedia as a kid. Facts had never failed him, least of all this one.

There was a life before Mila.

There was a life during Mila.

And there would be a life after.