XIX. Agonizing Slumber
I can see behind your eyes
Oh, your mind is getting wasted
But you're always getting wasted all the time
Getting concerned about your lonely days
Edric Grendel. 18.
District Six Male.
It's tiresome, but it'll be worth it.
Every conversation with a Capitolite exhausts him and he's most certainly running out of things to say, but Edric refuses to falter. He can't now, not when his life is quite literally on the line. He's unsure when he decided that his life is actually worth something, but he sure is glad he did. This stubborn determination to keep living is the only thing keeping him alive in this cage — he's got to hold onto it for as long as he can.
"The Capitol is lovely, thanks for asking," Edric replies to one of the flamboyantly dressed figures in front of him. As to how many he's spoken to in the past few hours, Edric has no idea. "Well, this particular part of the Capitol isn't my favorite, but overall I've enjoyed my time here."
More like he's been completely overwhelmed by it. He's not exactly accustomed to people actually giving a shit about him, much less people actively wanting to be in his presence. At times, Edric wonders if he's bitten off more than he can chew by tugging at their heartstrings during his interview, effectively transforming him into something of worth. Talking to person after person is somehow nearly as exhausting as transversing giant cities on only a bicycle. But it's going to be worth it. It has to be worth it.
"I don't expect any of you to like it in the zoo," some Capitolite mirthfully says. "But, I imagine you know why being here is important."
"Most definitely," Edric replies. "The Nine girl's actions were inexcusable. I'm glad that the Capitol has a day to mourn the fallen."
In all actuality, Edric doesn't understand why he's here. The Nine girl acted out of line so it makes sense for her to be punished, but why him? It makes as little sense as it does that he's here when it was his parents who wronged Six.
Even then, the Nine girl didn't deserve what happened to her this morning. Edric's certain there's murderers amongst the twenty-two Tributes that are still alive, but chances are their deaths won't be nearly as brutal as Nine's was. Does she only get the short end of the stick because of who she killed? If so, what makes Capitolite corpses worth more than the bodies Edric would find hidden in alleyways in Six? None of those people got their retribution the way the mentor did.
(None of the people who died of overdoses from Edric's parents' actions got their retribution either. At least, they didn't until Edric was shipped off to be slaughtered. Why is it that he's their definition of justice? Why is it that only if he dies will his parents' victims' deaths no longer be in vain?)
It's not fair — Edric's long accepted that it never will be, either. That doesn't change the fact that he wishes he could somehow do something about it besides kissing up to the people who oppress him behind his back in hopes that he'll be lucky enough to be granted life.
Then again, since when has Edric ever been lucky? If there was a fifty-percent chance he wouldn't be sent after the madness at the Reaping and even those odds were too low for him, why should he expect that his odds here will work out any better?"
(Why should Edric expect anything to go even slightly well for him when his entire life's been a series of unfortunate events that progressively gets more and more horrific?)
"Losing Androcles has been devastating," the Capitolite adds, her tone insincere and fake, just like everybody else Edric's spoken to thus far. "I imagine you didn't get a chance to meet him?"
"Unfortunately not," Edric says. "But, my mentor, Festus did say many great things about him." He turns to Asherah, who's been standing at his side for a while, but hasn't really spoken. "Did either of your mentors say anything about him?"
"Not really?" Asherah answers. "I think Pliny said he went to school with him."
Edric jabs his elbow at her ribs, making her recoil. He gives her a stern look and hopes she knows what he's trying to get her to say.
She does, luckily. The Seven girl continues, "Regardless, the loss is devastating."
Asherah then glances at Edric as if she's seeking his approval or something. He gives her a polite smile then returns to the posh woman in front of him. "Enough dwelling on the negativity, though. I mean, we could talk about Androcles if you want, but if not, that's also fine. Are you having a good evening?"
Bile rises in his throat. Edric knows that this isn't who he is, rather what he's supposed to be. Or at least, what he's supposed to be in the eyes of people who ultimately won't bat an eye if he dies. Then again, is there anybody in this world that'll care about him once his cannon fires?
(There's no point in wondering. Edric already knows the answer.)
(Even if what he and Asherah have vaguely resembles a friendship, she wants to live just as much as he does. If Edric fails to outlive her, that's ultimately just another person out of her way.)
The conversation continues for another few minutes, nothing of significance being discussed, to nobody's surprise. He hopes that the lady liked him, though.
"You're certainly making the most of your time here." Edric hears Moxie call to him from behind. He turns around and meets her steely expression with something similar around here. "I never expected I'd see this side of you, partner."
"Neither did I," Edric mumbles, tilting his head away from her and toward the ground. He's long accepted that yes, Moxie Adegoke is a manipulative person, and therefore he should view everything she does as suspicious. That doesn't change the fact she's horrific. There's something about her smug grin and caustic disposition, both coated with honey he can still see through, that makes Edric want to fold over on himself, but he knows that he can't.
Besides, he has better things to do than wonder what Moxie thinks of him and how much time he has left before he drops dead. Edric pivots toward the prison bars, hoping another overzealous Capitolite will be there waiting for him on the other side. However, such is not the case — Edric can't see anybody.
"They probably left for the day," he hears Asherah say.
Edric shrugs. "Yeah, that'd make a lot of sense."
Despite spending so much time so afraid of the spotlight, he can't help but clamor for it now. It's not Edric's fault that he craves attention from hypocrites, just like how it's not his fault he's here in the first place. He might as well make the most of it, right? He might as well soak up every ounce of attention he can get his grimy hands on even if it's superficial. It's better than getting ignored the way he always was.
(After all, it's time he decides to stand out instead of shrinking in on himself in every situation.)
"Attention Tributes!" A loud voice booms over the room. Edric turns his head to the cell's door where a Peacekeeper stands tall and proud. "All of our potential sponsors have left for the night. I sincerely hope you made a good impression on them, because this was your very last chance before the Games."
For once, Edric thinks he did make a good impression on somebody. They liked him, right? No, they definitely did.
"We'll be giving you the rest of the day to mingle among one another before settling down to sleep," the officer continues. "As always, don't try any funny business. Helen's corpse wouldn't mind a friend."
"We get the point!" Edric watches the boy from Twelve throw his hands up in the air. "Don't kill each other, don't make bad decisions! Yeah, yeah, yeah, you've made it abundantly clear, sir. We won't ruin everything for everyone until tomorrow."
"Now, Mr. Deathrage," the Peacekeeper beckons him. "Do you think that this is the proper way to talk to somebody in authority after… you know what?"
One of Twelve's allies, the boy from Seven, slaps him on the wrist and sighs. In return, Twelve mockingly pouts. "Fine, I'll be a good little boy on my best behavior until the Games start."
"That's what I thought."
The Peacekeeper crosses his arms and begins patrolling the room. Edric can't help but stare at him, worried that he'll start talking again at any given moment.
"Is everything okay?" Asherah asks, somehow still by his side despite how tumultuous today has been.
Edric sighs. "Everything is fine. I'm just really tired and don't see myself getting much sleep here tonight."
"Why's that?" In his momentary panic, Edric completely forgot Moxie was standing next to him.
He furrows his brows. "It's just that I'm used to sleeping in beds mainly, and this is… dirt."
"Not surprised," Moxie remarks. "Considering how well your parents' phony business was doing, it makes sense that you'd have a warm place to live, unlike most people in Six. You know, the sort of people your p—"
"You don't need to talk about them!" Edric interjects. "You already know I don't agree with their bullshit."
Moxie inches closer to him, "Convenient of you to say that now of all times."
Edric's face reddens. This has to be a trap — it simply has to be. Moxie's setting him up to get really upset, probably because she wants to see him snap. He can't let that happen. Edric can't let her win whatever mental battle she thinks the two of them are playing. He's not the aggressive monster everybody in Six decided he was — his behavior here can't change that narrative inside his head.
"I don't know what you mean," Edric says with an innocent whistle.
"Sure you do," Moxie narrows her eyes and whispers. "You can avoid the truth all you want, but it'll come back to haunt you whether you like it or not."
It's not the truth, though. Edric won't let it be.
As Moxie walks away, Edric leans against Asherah's ear and mutters, "We've got to get away from them sooner rather than later," so faintly, Moxie hopefully can't hear.
"You said it, not me," the Seven girl quips back.
Before Edric's thoughts can shift to something different, Ripley pokes their head in between him and Asherah. "H-how a-are you g-guys doing?"
"We're fine, Ripley," Edric says flatly.
Even if he and Asherah plan to up and leave everybody else when the moment comes, the others don't know that yet. They've all approached Edric a few times today, and even though he's been doing his best to be cordial, he can feel his patience slowly start to wear thin.
"You a-are?" The Tribute from Five says. "That's o-odd, bec-cause M-Moxie was w-worried about y-you both."
"She was?" Asherah's eyes widen.
Edric groans. "Of course she was."
"S-should I w-worry t-too?" Ripley asks.
"You don't have to worry about anything, Rips." Moxie returns to the conversation once more. "Remember what I said – I do all the worrying."
"Yes y-you do," they reply.
It's almost sad to watch just how easy it is for Ripley to fall for Moxie's manipulations. The only reason it isn't is because Edric knows that no matter what he says to her, Ripley won't budge. Five's already gone too far off Moxie's deep end and at the end of the day, only they can set themself free.
(Not telling Ripley has its advantages, too. Edric can feel bad for her all he wants, but that's not going to set him free from the bindings that have weighed him down since the day he was born. The only thing that can give himself a second chance at the rare privilege of being alive is winning.)
"You know, I have been doing a whole lot of worrying," Moxie says. "I think it'd be best if the six of us gather around for a group meeting before tomorrow. Don't you agree?"
Moxie Adegoke. 19.
District Six Female.
It should come to nobody's surprise that she, of all people, is less than thrilled to be stuck in a cage. While yes, Moxie's used to being surrounded by animals, at least Six was more of a rainforest than, well… a zoo. Still, it's the same for any ecosystem — the lion resides at the top of the food pyramid and everybody else can rot. Even if she's inhibited for the night, Moxie is still the zoo's fiercest predator, and everybody else will be prey when tomorrow comes.
"I think it'd be best if the six of us gather around for a group meeting before tomorrow. Don't you agree?" It takes everything in her not to laugh at her own words. Moxie knows damn well that her alliance is hardly unified, the six of them basically just three pairs that don't hate one another. But, everybody else seems moralistic enough to have a sense of care for each member of the group, and that's something Moxie can and will take advantage of.
She has to, considering who her "partner" is. Ripley's a talented healer and all, but despite their immense height, they still lack a spine. It's nice to have somebody she can keep on a leash and use as insurance for any dangerous encounter, too. But, Moxie thoroughly doubts that the Tribute from Five will last long in the arena, so she can't entirely bank on them.
"What did you want to meet as a group about?" Edric asks, his voice implying that he thinks he knows what he's doing when in all actuality, he does not. Good on him for thinking that he can gain autonomy in the darkest of times, though.
Moxie twirls one of her dreadlocks around her left index finger. "You know, the Games are in less than a day. Now that we don't have any future sponsors to flirt with—"
"I wasn't!"
"—it'd be best if we finalize our strategy for the next few days." She watches as Edric's face goes red. "Please don't interrupt me in the middle of my sentence when I'm trying to help multiple people and you're only one of them."
"I think a meeting sounds like a great idea," Asherah offers. She sounds polite, but Moxie's sure she's just overcompensating since her poor precious friend acted out of line.
"Me t-too," Ripley adds, because of course she does.
Edric's eyes dart between Moxie, Ripley, and Asherah. He takes a deep breath and then sighs. "Yeah, a meeting would be a great idea."
"It would." Moxie nods and then scans the room. "Has anybody seen the other two? The last I saw them was a couple hours ago when—"
"We're right here, silly!" Elio runs up to her, Dasani in tow.
She ever-so-slightly bends her knees and coos. "Yes, you are, Elio my friend." Moxie tilts her head to Edric, hoping he's taken note of how she didn't mind Elio interrupting her the way she did with him and that's now given him something to be self-conscious about. She knows that Edric doesn't like her, but he seems desperate for her validation anyway. It's like she's waiting for him to wave a magic wand over his head and cast a spell declaring him not as bad as Six's other sleazebags because he decidedly has morals now. Even if magic existed, Moxie wouldn't cast such a spell on him.
"That makes everybody then!" Moxie sits down and gestures for her standing peers to join her in doing the same. She gives them no more than five seconds to catch their breath before continuing to speak. "I was glad to see everybody actively engaging with potential sponsors. We really made a name for ourselves, and I'm proud."
Ripley nods, which is laughable since all they did was stand around and echo everything Moxie said. At least they've yet again confirmed to Moxie that she has them under her thumb.
"Tomorrow, however, is when everything really matters. Are we fine playing offense in the bloodbath?"
Moxie knows from Gremory that the Careers — if she can even call them that — aren't organized enough to put up too bad of a fight against her alliance, and presumably some other Tributes. So, it should be feasible for her team to get some supplies without getting too beaten up.
"I'm fine playing offense," Dasani says, as if that weren't obvious. "You can put me in wherever you want, coach!"
There are times where Moxie wonders if she should've made Dasani her main pet instead of Ripley. Whenever he opens his mouth, she knows she made the right choice.
"Offense?" Elio's jaw drops. "'Ani, why? I thought we were both going to run and get supplies!"
"That's what offense is, little dude," Dasani explains. Their tone's far more gentle around Elio than anybody else, almost as if he's an entirely different person. "We're not going to like, attack people, don't you worry!"
"Good," the Ten boy enthuses. "You know how I feel about attacking people."
"I don't," Moxie points out. She actually does, but she wants Elio to say it as it'd probably set off some of the other alliance members internally. "Would you mind telling me and everybody else?"
Elio looks at Dasani then says, "I don't want to attack anybody."
"And you won't have to either," the Four boy replies. "Not as long as I'm by your side."
"I'll be on the offensive side too," Moxie decides. In other words, she'll be the entire offensive side, which is fine because she wasn't expecting much help here anyway. "Edric, Asherah, Ripley, would you be fine on defense? I'll need one of you to guard each of us."
"I'll guard you!" Ripley quickly chirps.
She won't, though. They have an ego forming regarding how much attention and focus Moxie gives them, and that can't last forever. Like any good animal keeper, Moxie must pay attention and give affection to all of her pets the same. So, she completely ignores Ripley and instead asks "What's that, Asherah?"
"I didn't say anything," the Seven girl says. "But yes, I'm more than fine with defense."
"And you'll guard me?" Moxie asks.
Asherah nods. "If you want, yes."
Really, she wants to separate her from Edric for as long as possible. Them running off separately is inevitable, so the best she can do is put a few dents in their friendship. "Ripley, you take Dasani and Edric, you can have Elio."
Chances are, Dasani's going to get himself hurt, so having a medic watching over him is probably for the best. Elio, on the other hand, really just needs a meat shield to prevent him from messing up too badly.
"That s-sounds g-good to m-me," Ripley says.
With them and Asherah both having expressed satisfaction with their positions, Edric's now left with no choice but to be satisfied with his. "Works for me, yes."
"Excellent."
Moxie lets her mind wander for a bit. It's too early to decide what to do after the bloodbath being as she doesn't know what the arena's like. But, she can still figure out a course of action that'll work no matter the arena's terrain. And, if she can be vague enough with her words, her allies will think that she's some kind of prophet. After all, the more Moxie figures out now, the less she'll have to figure out on the spot, not that doing so would ultimately be much of an issue.
"We should probably settle close to the Cornucopia, but not too close," Moxie explains. "Maybe we can find some sort of dwelling and rest there? Ideally, we should have somebody observe the Careers from afar once a day, just so we know what's going on with them."
That somebody will be her at some point, thus, her allies won't be weary when she eventually ventures off for her meeting with Gremory. What happens then is still a mystery. To some degree, Moxie does feel bad about presenting Elio as a malicious entity to him, but knowing that the Careers are less of a threat than they lead on instantly soothes her. Besides, she's not going to pawn him off right away when he's capable of making a good distraction.
"I can take watch!" Elio chimes in. "I watched the animals at home — I think that makes me good at watching people."
"You might get hurt, buddy," Dasani says.
Elio brushes them away from him. "How would I get hurt when all I'm doing is watch?"
"The Careers are really scary!"
"I'm not afraid!"
"C'mon, Dasani," Moxie interrupts their quarrel. "There's no reason to be so overprotective. Elio seems really excited for this."
"I am really excited," Elio beams.
"See?" She tilts her head. "Unless anybody else is desperate to do it themselves, Elio's going to take watch tomorrow night."
Whether or not he's effective is anybody's guess. It'd be surprising but on-brand if Elio, for some reason, was an incredible watch dog. It's only a matter of time before Moxie finds out. She looks over the Ten boy's head and focuses on Gremory, who's standing as far away from her as possible. He's slouching, which is definitely unusual, and seems less confident than he was last night. Moxie can only imagine what happened to lead to a crack in Gremory's prideful demeanor. Whatever it is, she knows it'll likely benefit her somehow.
"Last thing." She shifts her attention back to her own group. "I'm sure I'm not the only one who's noticed this alliance spends a lot of time in pairs."
Ripley stares at her with dread in her eyes. Moxie whispers "you're right to worry" without any emotion in her voice, then scans the expressions of everybody else. After a second passes, Moxie mumbles, "you weren't supposed to hear that." Little does Ripley know, she was the intended recipient of those words. Moxie's done a few verbal "mess-ups" today, just to make sure they're still clamoring for her attention come tomorrow.
"I think it would be beneficial if we mixed things up and spent the next few hours as a group." She already knows that Ripley has trouble with groups, and chances are Edric and maybe Elio do too. But, Moxie needs these people to feel comfortable around one another. She needs everybody's guards to be as low as they can be so that at the end of the day, they're comfortable relying on one another. They'll never be too comfortable though, not if Moxie has her way with it.
There are so many unknown variables about the next few weeks, and if Moxie thinks about them for too long and at once, they'll become too real. So, for now Moxie Adegoke will leave the future's problems for the future, because she knows for a fact she'll live long enough to get around to them.
After all, a lion's supposed to devour every bit of prey eventually.
Lucifer Deathrage. 13.
District Twelve Male.
You mean to tell him that after all this time, all he had to do was really just think?
The whole time he's been here, Lucy's been laser-focused on doing whatever it takes to prove himself worthy to his father, yet he missed out on something important. He's a damn idiot for not realizing it sooner, too. There's no need for him to wonder if any given outcome of any given decision will make his father proud — the guy's been here this entire time!
And here Lucy thought his father had sent him an entire two bodyguards. That's such a waste of space. If only Lucy'd actually taken a second to just really think, then he'd have realized by now that one of his companions isn't just some desperate follower. He's almost embarrassed he was delusional enough to believe for an entire three and a half days that Olathe is just your average succubus and not the Devil himself.
All the signs were right under Lucy's nose. For one, he clearly has a made up name. Calling somebody Olathe Whitethorn is about as sensical as calling somebody Alec Lightwood — not very. There's more to it, though. The reason Olathe didn't approach him right away during training is because he was still deciding whether or not Lucy was worth speaking to. Once he saw Lucy recognize Aleister's true form, he knew he made the right decision in sending him here. And of course, that's why Aleister was so incredibly obsessed with Olathe the moment he laid his eyes on him. If Lucy knew who Olathe really was, he'd have been the same way.
To think, Lucy had the audacity to make Olathe bow down to him that one time — what nerve! He also threw a few of those tantrums in front of Olathe that he'd told his mothers in Twelve he'd work on managing. Oh, this entire thing has been far too embarrassing. He really thought that Olathe was being a prick about the whole birthday sacrifice thing when really he was just testing whether or not Lucy was ready to kill. It also explains why he was so willing to protect him when things got crazy.
(All he feels is warmth, and not the gentle kind.
Even though he can't see, Lucy knows what he feels isn't a hug from his mothers or a pat on the back from Aleister. It's like he's being burned alive instead, boiling water churning beneath him and bubbling against his skin.
For a split second, Lucy wonders if this is what dying is like. He wonders why it is that he failed this miserably and what he could've done better to prove his place as the Devil's son.
… or maybe he was never the Devil's son to begin with…
… maybe there's never been a Devil at all…
Is it not until now what Lucifer Deathrage realizes there's no divinity in his blood? Is it not until when he's coughing up a lung and tears are burning down his face that he realizes he's spent his whole life as a naive moron that believes everything his mothers told him?
Somehow those thoughts are more horrific than that of letting his father down. Too bad Lucy never had a father to disappoint in the first place.
Even though he tries to fight through the smoke in his chest and the heat that surrounds him, the only thing Lucy can do is curl up on himself and silently scream as the colors begin to fade.
He's not sure how long it's been, but at some point the burning stops and it's easier to breathe. Does this mean it's over now? Did he really just die without doing anything to prove that he lived?
It's then that he opens his eyes, expecting to see his father, even if he's not the Devil and instead somebody else.
It's then that Lucy sees Olathe and the puzzle pieces inside his head finally click into place.)
At least he can say he finally got his birthday wish of meeting his father for the first time, as small of a victory as that now sounds like.
It's hard to believe that not even a day ago, he was anxiously waiting for his party to start without a care in the world. If this were a fair world, Lucy would be in the Hunger Games now, and he wouldn't have time to sit around and question everything. But this isn't a fair world. It can't be a fair world when he's the son of the man that'll someday destroy it and that man is sitting a mere five feet away from him.
Lucy's been watching him all day and he still doesn't have the faintest clue as to how he's going to bring up the elephant in the room. It's not like he can just randomly start a conversation with "Hey, Olathe, I know that's not your name because your name is actually Satan which is my dad's name because you're my dad!" That'd just make the guy swear to never reveal himself to Lucy.
Still, Lucy can't help his urges to say something. He knows that his father expects him to say something, too. He doubts that he really wants to go the whole Games being called "Olathe" and not "father," especially by his son. It's just a matter of how…
"Can we talk for a second?" Lucy murmurs in Aleister's ear. The two of them have been sitting side by side against the same wall for what's felt like days. Of course, Olathe was able to sleep without a problem. On the other hand, Lucy's too afraid of what'll happen when he closes his eyes after the last time, and then of course, Aleister has to watch over him.
"Of course we can, dark one. Is everything okay?" the boy from Nine whispers back.
"I'm not sure." Lucy shrugs. "I want to tell you something, if that's all right."
Immediately, Aleister tenses up. "I'm so sorry, Lucifer dearest. I didn't mean to hurt you!"
"You didn't," he says earnestly. Nine re-relaxes his posture and sighs in relief.
"I just wanted to tell you that I know," Lucy continues. When it's clear that Aleister doesn't get what he's talking about, he adds on, "I know who Olathe is."
"A succubus, yes?" Aleister points to the boy across from them, ever so still. "Didn't we talk about this together?"
"He's not a succubus and we both know it!" Lucy jeers. He then lowers his voice, so soft that he isn't sure he's making any noise, and says "I know that Olathe's my father. I know that he's the Devil."
Aleister gasps and a smile blossoms onto Lucy's face. "You're glad I figured it out, aren't you?"
"Lucy…" the Nine boy's voice trails. "Lucy... Lucy… I can't tell if you're being serious."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Lucy raises a brow. "I don't see the issue here. Was I not supposed to know that Olathe's my dad until the very end? Did I just ruin the big reveal, or something?"
"There is no 'big reveal,'" Aleister says. "Olathe's a succubus just like we agreed!"
Aleister's lying. That, or he didn't know Olathe's true identity either, he was just inexplicably drawn to him for some odd reason.
"He's not," Lucy insists. "It's okay to be shocked — I was too when I figured it out myself."
"Why do you think he's your father?" the other boy asks, his voice on the verge of shaking.
"He kept to himself during training, and then—"
Aleister cuts Lucy off. "No. I mean, why do you think it's physically possible for Olathe to be your father, the Devil. He doesn't look anything like you and he's eighteen."
"Or, he could have shapeshifted," Lucy argues. "He could've shape shifted into an eighteen-year-old with a made up name because he wanted to physically be with me during the final steps of my journey."
Quietly, Aleister shifts his body closer to Lucy's. He takes a deep breath and covers his eyes with his hands.
Lucy shivers — is he crying? He's used to bringing people to tears with the blink of an eye. In fact, he's usually happy when he does. So why is it that all Lucy feels now are claws of dread and misery tearing through his skin?
Aleister sighs. "Lucy."
"What?"
"You're wrong. I don't want to upset you, but I need to tell you that you're wrong about Olathe because I'd regret it forever if I didn't. He's not your father; I'm sorry."
Something in Lucy's chest sinks to his stomach. He's not sure if it's his heart because he's never really known if he has one. Still, it's heavy, and with every passing second, it makes Lucy ache.
Aleister's just acting. He's just saying this to make it more of a surprise later when Olathe does reveal who he truly is. That's what's happening — everything is fine. As much as this hurts, Lucy has no reason to cry. Why would he cry when everything's going to turn out all right in the end?
(Unless it doesn't — that's a very real possibility.
It could very well be that Olathe's just as ordinary as Aleister said he was and Lucifer Deathrage is the fool once more. It'd be fitting if he messed up again, after all. That's just about the only thing he's good at anyway — no wonder his father doesn't want him.)
(Devil or not, it's not like anybody should want somebody like him as their son.)
"It's fine." Lucy huffs back his tears. "I'm sorry for bothering you."
"You weren't bothering me!"
Yeah right! He rolls his eyes. Just like how he wasn't bothering his mothers whenever he talked too loudly or too much. For all he knows, Lucy never had as good of a relationship with them as he thought. There's got to be a reason neither of them made much of an effort to reconnect him to his father. There's got to be a reason it's now been left all up to Lucy to prove whether or not he's worthy.
(There's got to be a reason his mothers lied for thirteen years.)
When Lucy doesn't say anything further, Aleister repeats. "You weren't bothering me."
(Then why is it that he still feels awful? Is it because deep down, Lucifer Deathrage knows that he's just like his mothers and that by existing so close to Aleister, he too is lying?)
He doesn't know what to say besides sorry. That wouldn't be very helpful either, though. Even though Aleister would never admit it, Lucy just changed everything. He just ruined everything.
But Lucy can't say that out loud, so instead he ambles toward where Olathe's laying down and sighs.
"I'm sorry for trying to meddle with things," he whispers. "I didn't mean to mess up… again. You still love me, right?"
Even though Olathe doesn't say anything, Lucy pretends he does. He doesn't pretend Olathe says anything in particular; just the illusion of his voice is enough to calm Lucy down.
Suddenly, the idea of feeling like he's on fire again isn't the worst one. It's better than feeling like he's alone.
(It's better than feeling the full force of his eventual reality all at once.)
Lorian Naciri. 17.
District Two Male.
If he had any optimism left after his pathetic excuse for a private session, it'd be deeply misplaced now.
In retrospect, there are many episodes of Lorian's life that would've ended better if he didn't do or say the wrong thing. Oddly, the past thirty or so hours wouldn't count as one of them. No, he hasn't made a single mistake since Gremory left Two's apartment after interviews, yet such excellent behavior has still landed Lorian here.
When he first saw the zoo, he swore that he was in some twisted nightmare. Now that it's the middle of the night, there's twenty-one people around him, and he somehow feels more alone than ever in his seventeen years, Lorian knows he isn't dreaming. Not even the worst parts of his mind could bring him to the half-rotted resting place of Panem's vermin, the place he swore up and down to his parents and himself he'd never end up in. Even if he's not actually in jail, it's the thought that counts and this one nearly kills.
The fact he's not just in any jail, he's in the zoo only worsens things. Lorian's heard more horror stories about this place than anybody would be comfortable with from his father. During the war, his father and his troops would jam-pack as many rebel soldiers as they could into this exact room, lock the door, and watch with wide eyes as everybody slowly went insane and turned on one another. When Lorian's father told him the story about the two sisters that devoured their brother's flesh, he didn't sleep for a week, and that was just a single example of the terrors that've occurred here.
"We didn't call it the zoo solely because it used to be one," he'd explained at the dinner table a number of times. "It was also because the people we kept there were basically animals. Sure, they didn't seem too messed up when we first threw 'em in, but we always knew they had an odd sense of depravity in their wretched hearts. That's probably why they were so quick to get at each other's throats."
Aldric Naciri's words weigh heavier than ever tonight. Lorian doesn't particularly consider himself a depraved animal, but he's still in the venue for them. He knows it's not his fault that he's here either — he'd never have to say he even got close to the zoo if it weren't for that idiot from Nine. Still, he hates that he's here and he hates the version of himself he's become since stepping through the metal bars.
It took every last ounce of self-control left inside him to stay stone-faced when Belacaine suggested they pretend they're both in a horror movie earlier today. Lorian wanted to scream when she joked that this place is probably haunted. If he did believe in ghosts, they'd all be here, pulling at his throat and telling him that he's just as monstrous as the people around him, something he's begun to believe less and less since yesterday. There's no way anybody can tell Lorian that he's just like the girl who killed her own mentor. He, at the very least, recognizes the Games' importance.
Or, rather, Lorian did recognize the Games' importance. These past few days, they've seemed more superficial than anything else. Growing up, Lorian thought that when he was finally mere hours away from entering the arena, he'd be excited. He thought that he'd be bursting at the seams, a beaming smile on his face because he's just so close to finally bringing honor to his family and to Two as a whole. Now though, he's just plain afraid.
Not that you should be, Lorian reminds himself. You're the one who dug this grave — lay in it!
He's given up on sleeping tonight, too. It'd take somebody smothering him to knock Lorian out, but that'd be against the rules. If he wants any real rest, it'll just have to wait until after the bloodbath. Hopefully Belacaine will be willing to let him before they run away from the others, assuming she still does want to go off with him and only him. They do need a plan for that — Belacaine wasn't being too helpful when they discussed it earlier. Lorian would like to assume he'd be better off with her than with the others, but he can't be entirely sure. While yes, she's been the kindest to him out of anybody else here, he's a bit worried that leaving Gremory and Charon would put a target on his back which is the last thing he needs.
"You're really still awake?" It's not even close to sunrise when his District partner taps him on the shoulder and whispers.
Lorian jolts. "Do you have a problem with that?"
"Yes, actually," Belacaine says. "You should really get some rest before tomorrow."
"Believe me, I would if I could," comes his reply. He stares at her blankly, expecting that she'll have something to say back to him, but after half a minute passes, it's clear that she doesn't. "We should make use of this time, Belacaine. Do you want to work out logistics for the following days?"
"What's there to work out?" She shrugs nonchalantly. "We don't like the other guys so when the time is right, we simply dip."
"That's too subjective!" Lorian squeezes his hands together and shakes. Even though he can feel his cheeks getting hotter and his heartbeat getting faster, he can't afford to get too angry now. "We're dealing with a serial killer and somebody who was able to successfully swindle him into killing somebody. We need to have a clear strategy and make our getaway as clean as possible."
"I hear what you're saying." Somehow, Lorian isn't completely sure that Belacaine actually does. "But, if we make this calculated dramatic plan, it'll probably make them think that we're plotting against them."
"Aren't we?" Lorian asks.
"Sure we are." Belacaine nods. "But, we should make it seem like we were forced away from the group so they don't just decide to target us once we're gone."
"How would we even do that?"
"That's the part I don't know yet!"
Lorian rolls his eyes and sighs. "We could just run off during the bloodbath like I said we should. That'd make this a whole lot easier, you know."
But of course, when he suggested that earlier, Belacaine was quick to dismiss him. She does the same now. "So you want us to waste our bloodbath? I thought Shindy's taught you better than that!"
"They certainly taught me not to go to the bloodbath for the sake of making a spectacle that forfeits everything else I've planned," Lorian mumbles to himself.
Even if he respects her, there are still some things about Belacaine that make him feel sick. Her adamance and occasional show-offishness are two of them. Her training score showed that she's not the threat she thinks she is — not that Lorian is either — so chances are, the other Tributes would laugh if she went into the bloodbath with the expectation that she'll leave it covered head-to-toe in their blood. Sure, Lorian knows that Belacaine's capable of murder, but using a crowbar on a still target bares no competition to the challenges of the Games. She thinks she's some sort of a savant without any proof of the claim and it's ridiculous.
(Not that he's good himself. No matter how proudly he boasts that he's going to win the Games and finally be a thing of value in his father's eyes, Lorian knows that's not true. The way things are now, he's on path to crash and burn the way everybody warned him he would.
He can't let that happen.)
"Lorian?" Belacaine snaps at him. "Do you have any ideas or are you just going to stare into space?"
"We'll talk about this more in the afternoon," he says. If he argues with her too much now, he'll regret entertaining this scheme in the first place and then he'll be even further wedged between a rock and a hard place. "You go back to sleep and I'll try the same."
She nods, then lies down on the ground beneath her. "Take care, Lori. Tomorrow is going to be tons of fun!"
Fun is certainly one word for it… Lorian turns his head to the opposite side and yawns. He's able to make out the shape of two people in front of them. Or at least he hopes they're people — Lorian already has a long list of worries, he'd prefer to keep the paranormal off of it.
He curls his body into a ball and begins rocking back and forth, hoping his movements will soothe him into maybe possibly going to sleep for like fifteen minutes or whatever else he can get. After five minutes, it's clear that it's not working and honestly, how dare he try?
His father always used to say that he could only go to sleep at the end of each day when he'd performed at the best of his abilities and these past few days, Lorian's hardly come close. That does, however, raise the question of what exactly Lorian needs to do in order to be worthy of sleep, to which his mind draws a blank. He's done his best — that's not the issue. What is the issue is that Lorian's best is hardly sufficient, not now or ever, and thus he doesn't deserve to reap the rewards of a more competent man's efforts.
Lorian looks at the dirt on his hands and winces. He turns his head around at Belacaine and notices she's physically pristine. Why is it that he has to mar himself again and again for the sake of nothing? Why is it that he tries again and again to be at all sufficient in anything, only to have it thrown in his face that he's inefficient and incapable? His District partner gets to sleep like an infant, high on her delusions that she actually has a chance in the arena while Lorian's forced to rot in the truth. Almost everybody else gets to rest in spite of their felonies, so why is it that he can't?
Is it because he was right for thinking he doesn't belong here? Was he right in thinking he doesn't deserve a place amongst Panem's most notorious, because at least they were able to make something bad out of their lives while he couldn't even make up his mind?
Being here is just a participation prize for living seventeen years in misery and uncertainty, and it's not even one Lorian deserves. It's his mistake for wanting to be here at all, but even if he wasn't so imbecilic last week, he'd be stuck anyway. With phlegm and tears piling up in his throat, Lorian accepts it — he's living a life that was never really his. All he's ever been is a vessel for his father to express his foul temperament and that's all he ever will be unless he does something to change it. While he may be here because of the bastard who raised him, if he makes it out alive, he can start over as his own person. That may be the best thing Lorian has to fight for.
(It's also the only thing. Everybody else would be fine without him. His mother and sisters would cry but get over it with time and his two good friends always liked one another more. If Lorian dies in the coming weeks, he's leaving behind the legacy of a stuck-up prick that never did anything worthwhile. Winning is the only way he can fix that.)
He steals another look at Belacaine and takes a deep breath. She'll just have to work for the time being. After that? Lorian tries to make out the faces of the two people in front of him. He notices one of them coming toward him, a average-sized girl with dark hair and round features.
"Are you okay?" the girl asks as she takes a step closer to him. "I don't want to be your ally or help you in the arena —"
Not yet you do… Lorian's brow furrows.
"—But I couldn't help but notice that you seem unwell."
Now that she's closer to him, Lorian's able to identify her as the girl from Seven.
"If you're nervous about the Games or anything, that's okay," she continues. "Just try to get some rest, please. I promise, it'll be worthwhile."
Even though Lorian doesn't know her, Seven's tone is far more genuine than Belacaine's. That doesn't mean he trusts her, though, not that he thinks she's asking to be trusted.
"Thank you," he says flatly. "I'm doing my best, I promise."
Belacaine's going to get herself killed eventually. You probably need somebody who's more sustainable. Still, the potential devil that resides inside his District partner is better than one living in a stranger.
"I don't doubt it," Seven replies. "If you really can't sleep, though, my ally and I have been suffering through the same thing. If you want somebody to spend time with, you're more than welcome to join us until everybody else wakes up and it's time to leave."
Lorian's nearly suspicious of her, but it's not like he's in the Games and he has to be. As long as he doesn't say anything too revealing, he should be fine, right? Besides, he's never had somebody in his life so willingly enact kindness and charity toward him. If he does die, he'd like to have experienced even just a small form of genuine compassion before then.
"Oh, I'm Asherah, by the way!" She introduces herself then points at the figure behind him. "That's Edric — he's from Six."
"Lorian." He extends his hand.
Pieces begin to circulate in his mind. They're both in the other big alliance so they could very well be trying to steal information about him. He doesn't need to let them. In fact, he can do the opposite. Considering how easily Edric ratted out his parents on national television, Lorian could probably get more out of him.
"Show me to your friend," he says to Asherah. "We can all have a little 'no-sleep party.'"
Thana Achillea. 17.
District Eleven Female.
She wishes she could be happier about this situation, so to speak.
There was something about last night in the Five apartment that felt final. Thana went to bed with full acceptance that the next time she'd see Melchior would be in the arena as the clock ticked down. Yet, the fire alarm rang and now here Thana is, hunched up against a wall with her friend doing the same in front of her.
(It's almost ironic that fire's chosen now of all times to somewhat betray her. Almost.)
She's found that she doesn't particularly mind the captivity — Eleven's always been something akin to her cage. This afternoon's macabre affair didn't bother Thana either. For all she knows, Nine could've been as much of a prick as everybody back home. There's no use dwelling on it, even if there's nothing else to do here besides dwell.
That's what Thana hates. Melchior nearly taught her to ignore the fact their time in the Capitol was finite, but here, it's nearly impossible to pay attention to anything else.
(And it's all because of fire.
It's all because the Nine girl started a fire and killed somebody. Thana's long accepted that her own actions left a trail of corpses behind her, but fire never punished her for that. Being sent here was hardly a punishment anyway since it meant getting out of Eleven for once. It turned into a reward even once she met Melchior.
Yet, fire decided that Nine deserved to die for her actions. It's only so long before it decides the same for Thana.)
"Now, now, why the long face again?" Melchior nudges her. "I thought we were working on the whole smiling thing."
"Were we?" Thana chuckles.
Every word she exchanges with Melchior is just a reminder that at some point in the near future, she'll no longer be able to do as such. Even if he doesn't leave Thana the way everybody else did, time will eventually tear them apart. When it does, it won't even bat an eye in remorse.
"I thought we were, yeah," Melchior says. "Even if I didn't directly say, 'Hey Thana, let's work on you not frowning all the damn time,' I sort of thought it was a given. You smiled lots last night, too!"
"Is this enough of a smile for you?" Thana flashes her teeth at them but the shape they make is less of a smile and more of an oval.
"If you have to ask me that, the answer's no."
Sometimes, Thana doesn't know what the hell's going on behind those wild eyes of theirs. As chaotic as Melchior is in nature, there's something about them that's somewhat soothing — though Thana doubts that's intentional. It's just that of course her of all people would find comfort in a wicked scientist who thought they could play with lightning and win.
"Seriously though, what's up?" Melchior asks after a few minutes of silence.
"What isn't?" The last thing Thana wants to do is burden them with her feelings. Megaera always told Thana that her myriad emotions made her difficult. Even if Melchior and her faux-mother couldn't be more different, that latter's words still have weight.
Thana darts her eyes away from Melchior, knowing that if she looks at them for too long, she'll be forced to tell them how she really feels. She muses, "What do you think of this whole zoo thing? I never asked you, did I?"
"I don't mind it," comes their reply. "Sure, I'd rather not have my hands cuffed together like this and it is a bit stuffy with everyone else here —"
Right. The other Tributes. Is it wrong that Thana's hardly perceived them? She vaguely remembers the Nine boy from when he briefly approached her the first day of training, and as irrelevant as he is, she knows Xan exists, but that's all. She knows it's objectively a bad thing that she's sitting in a room of people who for the most part, wouldn't care if she died, but Thana can't find it in herself to care about anybody here who isn't named Melchior.
"—but I've got you to keep me company without the distraction of the Hunger Games for one more day, so I really can't complain much."
Thana sighs. Of course the two of them have wildly different interpretations of what's ultimately the same. Of course Melchior's is far healthier, yet Thana can't adapt to it no matter how hard she tries.
"What about you?"
She clenches her hands into a fist and closes her eyes. Just tell them how you feel, Thana begs herself, still unable to let the words fall off her tongue. They won't know how you feel unless you tell them.
After what feels like hours, she finally admits, "I hate it here."
It's like a weight's been lifted off her chest and now she's flying. She may not be sure where she's headed, but it's better than being stuck on the ground.
"I hate that I'm stuck here, even if I'm stuck here with you. This place is just too permanent." Thana speaks quickly in a monotone, refusing to let Melchior get a word in edgewise. "Yesterday I made peace with the fact our period of mutual safety was coming to a close and began thinking of what the Games would be like, but today's different. I'm tired of sitting around and waiting for what's bound to be awful. I just want the Games to start happening so we can figure out what we're supposed to do in them."
Because I don't want to lose you, and if I do, I want it to be quick, Thana adds but doesn't say out loud. For one, Melchior's still hellbent on their whole immortality thing — who'd Thana be to deny somebody the right to an imagination? More so though, Thana can't come on too strong, the same way she probably did with Sage. If Melchior's the last person Thana befriends before she inevitably dies, she wants it to last.
"So you're bored?" Melchior inquires. "Or less bored and more… unable to think of anything to do besides sit around and worry about things?"
Thana nods.
"Do you want to think of something else that isn't theoretical impending doom?"
"I mean… I'd like that, sure," she deadpans.
Melchior fumbles with one of their pockets until they're able to dig out two objects: a sewing needle and a fountain pen.
"How'd you get those?"
"Easily," Melchior says. "Two of the Capitolites from earlier today dropped them as they were leaving."
Thana wouldn't have known. While Melchior was doing their very best to charm them into seeing him the way Thana does, her head was in the clouds. She only vaguely remembers the far off fantasy place that her mind took her, but Thana knows for a fact that it wasn't here, and she and Melchior were actually able to be happy for eternity instead of a few weeks.
"What are they for?" she asks. Hopefully Melchior doesn't mind her brusqueness. It's just that Thana isn't sure how many words she has left and doesn't want to waste any of them.
"A logical question, yes." Melchior bops their head side to side. "I know this is totally crazy, but ever since yesterday when you showed me that art, I've been looking for some way for it to be a part of me. Well, not that exact sketch, but like... anything you can draw — or rather, tattoo on me."
Thana's jaw goes slack. She's not quite sure how she's supposed to process that. It's by far the nicest compliment anybody's ever given her — well, it was more of a question than a compliment, but the point stands. Even though every single muscle in her face is telling her not to, Thana smiles the most genuine and radiant grin of her entire life.
"I could do that," she says.
Or, at least Thana thinks she can. She's never given somebody a tattoo before, nor does she really know how to. That's mainly because nobody's asked her for one nor has she been satisfied enough with her own art that she's wanted it permanently embedded in her flesh.
"Really?" Melchior's eyes light up with flames of an inferno.
"Really," Thana repeats. She grabs ahold of the pen and the needle, which is somewhat difficult to do because of the handcuffs. "What do you want me to tattoo on you?"
"Whatever you want."
That certainly complicates things. How is Thana supposed to decide something for Melchior that'll be as eternal as the lightning scar that runs down their back and arm? Granted, Melchior never asked for that marking but still, this is different. If they hate whatever Thana tattoos on them, they'd be able to tell her. It isn't like they could tell lightning they were displeased with their scar, if they were.
That's it. Lightning.
But then Thana thinks a bit longer. She thinks about how Melchior already has a permanent tribute to their love of lightning and how they told her that they want some piece of her art, which could be code for them wanting a piece of her.
Fire?
"Do you really mean whatever I want? As in, anything?" Thana asks.
Melchior nods. "I mean, I'd prefer if you didn't put a bag of dicks on me or something, or like a dead rat."
"I'd never," she promises. It's true; she wouldn't. "Give me your wrist."
Thana unscrews the pen's top half, exposing the barrel of ink beneath it. She dips the needle inside the well and hovers it above Melchior's left wrist. "Am I doing this right?"
"Actually, you're not," they cough out.
Thana trembles and pulls the needle away. Melchior changed their mind, didn't they? They finally came to their senses and decided they don't want a tattoo from her of all people.
"Come back," Melchior immediately pleads. They dig their fingernail into their shirt until they're able to pull out a long thread. "You need to tie this around the end of the needle so you don't have to keep dipping into the ink as much!"
"Oh." Thana grabs the thread and does as Melchior instructed. She then dips the needle into the ink once more and asks Melchior, "Are you sure you want me to do this still?"
"Of course I am," they enthuse. "I wouldn't have asked you if I wasn't one-hundred percent sure this is something I want."
Thana takes a deep breath then pokes Melchior's wrist with the needle. They flinch in response, and her world immediately goes cold.
"Did I hurt you?" she guesses. "I'm so sorry, oh my goodness."
She didn't mean to hurt them. Never in a million years would Thana want to hurt them. And yet…
"It's fine," Melchior affirms. "I think the whole point of tattoos is that they're supposed to hurt a little."
"That's true." She lets out a sigh of relief. "I just don't want to hurt you."
"Well you're not," they say.
"Good."
Thana goes in for the second dot of Melchior's tattoo, her hand shaking in fear. She tries her best to calm herself, though. She can't mess this up.
(She can't mess this up.)
A third and then a forth poke and all Melchior says is, "It's looking great so far!"
"How do you know that?" Thana asks. "It's just four dots."
Melchior smirks. "Well, I know it's going to be great!"
"I hope so," she quips.
With every additional poke, the flame begins to take shape. At some point, Melchior decides to close his eyes because they " want to be surprised" which admittedly frightens Thana at first. The feeling doesn't last long though, Melchior's reminders are able to cast away the shadows that live inside her head.
It's a bit odd how miserable Thana doesn't feel considering just how sad she was ten minutes ago. Alas, Melchior has that effect on her and she has no choice but to let their light in.
"You can open your eyes now," Thana says once she's completed the small flame shape and gone over it once more. It's not her best work nor is it close, but the fact anyone would be able to tell it's a flame is a win for her. It also doesn't hurt that something as simple as a flame is hard to mess up, part of the reason why Thana chose it instead of a raging wildfire.
Melchior's eyes flicker open and immediately dart to the tattoo. They don't say anything for a moment or two which predictably makes Thana panic. But, before she can, Melchior enthuses, "Holy shit… this is incredible!"
"You like it?" Thana beams, relieved by the weight that's now been lifted off her shoulders.
"I don't just like it," they say. "I fuckin' love it!"
If Thana's previous smile was the sun, this next one is the entire solar system. Tears water in her eyes as she grazes her thumb against Melchior's tattoo. She did this. And it's a part of Melchior forever. And they love it.
"You can tell what it is, right?" Thana asks, just to make sure.
Melchior nods. "Of course I can tell what it is — it's you!"
She'd never thought of that. Thana knows that fire's a part of her, but she never stopped to think it is her. Even though Melchior didn't mean it that way, Thana's now left wondering, is fire all that I am? It can't be. She's also peculiar art and a wild imagination. She's the sound of branches whistling in the wind and the taste of a lemon in the spring. Thana's the warm feeling you get when you're sure something good is going to happen and the ache of disappointment and dread when it doesn't. She may not be entirely good things, but she's not just fire.
(But if that's what Melchior thinks she is, does that mean the flames didn't actually betray her last night?)
Noticing Thana's silence, Melchior adds, "Okay well actually, it's not you completely."
"How so?"
"Because it needs a face, obviously." They roll their eyes.
"I assume that means you want me to draw one." Thana says.
"Fuck yeah I do!" Melchior extends their wrist to Thana once more.
She tattoos six dots — three for each eye — then shrugs. "What sort of mouth do you want it to have? If you're hellbent on this being my self-portrait, I'll do a frown but—"
"Do a smile!" they interject. "I know it's not completely accurate to how you see yourself, but if it's on my body, I want it to reflect how I see you."
"So you see me smiling all the time despite my attempts not to that occasionally fail?" Thana teases. "Maybe I should've come to this conclusion by your whole immortality thing, but you really are delusional."
"I'm not, actually!" Melchior boasts. "Even if you say you don't want to smile sometimes, I know you do. So, do me a favor and give your flame-sona a smile."
They're almost right. Close enough, at least. If Thana did enjoy smiling as much as Melchior claims she does, she still wouldn't be physically capable of maintaining a cheery disposition. Her jaw already aches a bit from the few extended smiles her and Melchior have shared.
Still, Thana relents and pokes at Melchior's skin until the face has a smile. "Is that better?"
"Definitely." Melchior smirks.
For a second, Thana worries that Melchior's going to ask if they can give her a tattoo in exchange, but they don't. If they did, Thana isn't sure what she would do. If she said no, Melchior's feelings would be hurt, but if she said yes, every prick of the needle would feel like flames swallowing her whole.
"I'm glad you like it," she says. "I thought maybe you wouldn't because you're lightning and I'm fire and maybe you would prefer if I did something related to lightning."
"The fact it's not lightning is what makes it perfect," they reply. "I wanted your art to be a part of me, sure. But the fact it's not just your art but you that's a part of me now? That's incredible."
How in the world did Thana get this lucky?
(Why is it that this luck will someday run out?)
"Again," Thana repeats. "I'm just glad you like it."
Hopefully Melchior knows that she means to say more than that but doesn't know how to.
"Does this place feel more permanent to you now?" Melchior asks.
"For sure."
"I was hoping you'd say that since this is permanent ink," they admit. "Okay, probably not permanent. I don't know the exact chemicals in this ink but they're probably going to last a long long time. That, and depending on the formula, it may—"
Melchior continues to ramble but Thana doesn't mind. She'd listen to him talk all day about the same things if it meant not having to face the fact only one of them will be alive in a few weeks if they're lucky. Even if they weren't, she'd listen to them anyway.
Because, even though she and Melchior exist in this odd purgatory now, it won't be this way forever. And when the scene changes to one drenched in blood, it won't matter. They'll always be themselves and Thana will always feel this reverential sense of joy when they're near.
It'll always be more than enough.
Dying in a Hot Tub - Palaye Royale
"See you in two weeks" they said y'know, like a liar.
Yeah, oops! I'm not dead, I promise. Sometimes college simply does be like that. Burnout is also very real, but hey I did the thing just like I knew I would. Hopefully, I still served cunt, even if it's a bit late. For those not on Discord, Kio was rebranded to Dasani because Kio and Elio were too similar it made me want to die a bit.
I'll see you… idk hopefully in less than a month, with launch. The goal is to be done with that by the time I'm on winter break and I feel confident that I will. S/O to Erik for beta-ing this and being perfect xoxo.
QOTD: What did you do in my absence?
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds