Ainsley Platte, 14
District 4 Female
The rain lasts all night.
Thunder cracks across the sky and lightning strikes flash beyond her closed eyelids.
(Maybe, if she shuts them hard enough, she can pretend she didn't abandon her allies. If she pulls her legs close enough to her chest, she can almost feel Ashe pressed against her back.)
Her hiding place isn't a good one, but it's out of the rain. She's in some sort of seating area, a restaurant, maybe. It's on the other side of the arena from the mountain (from Lana, from Lana's body, from Lana's blood, from—) and is slightly secluded at the very least.
The sun doesn't rise today.
Clouds cover it, keeping any semblance of light from peeking through. It freezes the arena in a perpetual night, causing darkness to gather in the corners and shadows to follow her every move.
God, she's just so tired. Tired of the Games. Tired of bad decisions. Tired of being alone. Tired of being Ainsley Platte.
Just tired of everything.
But it will be okay when she wins. She just has to win. She's already part of the way there. She's proven that she's heartless and doesn't care about her allies. What's there left to prove?
The night is long and sleepless.
Pouring rain keeps her awake. Thunder snaps her back to consciousness. Lightning blazes like beacons in the distance.
She puts her head between her knees. She wants to sleep. She wants the storm to stop. She wants to go home.
No. No, she doesn't. She doesn't like home. She wants her allies back.
She wants Ashe to comfort her. She wants to Eris to make an inopportune joke. She wants Lana to help her reason out her feelings. She wants Lyndie to smile softly and lift the weight of the world off of her shoulders.
Rain continues to attack the world around her, but Ainsley is dry.
She isn't sure she wants to be Ainsley anymore.
Ainsley ran away from her allies in need. Ainsley made any enemy out of anyone she could. Ainsley thinks she can win the Hunger Games. Ainsley thinks she wants to win the Hunger Games.
She doesn't like Ainsley. She doesn't want to be Ainsley.
But she is Ainsley. She is Ainsley.
It continues to rain.
Slowly, she uncurls her body, wincing at the snapping and popping of her joints. She stands, but doesn't do anything for a long moment.
Just stands. Exists. Unwillingly.
With the state of the exhaustion in her bones, she considers it a feat to stand at all.
The thunder begins to quieten, but she can't tell if it's all in her head. It could be. Right now, everything just seems…off.
Next, she blinks. She blinks, and she sees blood. She blinks, and she hears a sickening crunch. She blinks, and Lana screams.
She blinks through a slideshow of horror, of memories of Eris's arm in a trashcan's mouth, of blood trickling from Lyndie's mouth, of Lana being crushed between spinning chinaware as red sprays and screams pierce the air and—
She blinks again. The empty restaurant is back and it continues to rain.
Now, she starts to walk. She walks into the open air, where her clothes quickly become soaked and her hair sticks to her face.
Yes, it continues to rain.
Lastly, she lifts her face to the sky. Lets the rain wash over it, and she simply stares.
Lana screams. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Rain pours.
Hm. She likes rain. Yes, she likes rain. Rain washes away blood. Washes away death. Washes away memories.
If she tries hard enough, if she forgets enough, she can pretend to still be Ainsley. Sometimes it would rain in District 9. Everybody else liked it when it rained, so Ainsley didn't. It was something she (once) took pride in.
Somehow she ends up sitting on the ground. Out in the open. So vulnerable. But she doesn't care. It's raining, and she likes rain. That's all that matters right now.
And it continues to rain.
Her butt is in a puddle. Her clothes are sopping wet. Her hair is plastered to her forehead and she's tired.
She's tired.
So she stands up and returns to the overhang. She sits in a chair and she drifts.
In her hands, she clutches a soaked, knit sunflower. Her thumbs slowly run through the threads, pulling as if it will all unravel.
(Just like she has, just like she was always bound to do.)
She stares out over the lake, watching rain splash against its surface. One of the boats passes by, piloted by no one.
Lana screams. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Rain pours.
Somewhere in the distance, twangy music plays.
A thread comes loose on the sunflower. She tugs on it without thinking. It frays, drenched in rain, but she keeps tugging. Trying to unravel the flower. Unravel something like her.
Lana screams. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Rain pours.
Ainsley Platte cries.
It's hard to tell. She's already coated in water, and she doesn't sob. Doesn't really move at all. She just sits and cries and doesn't have it in her to be embarrassed, to wonder what's happened to her and if she'll ever be the same.
No, she just cries.
Somewhere in the distance, a younger Ainsley is angry. Angry at her for what she's become. Angry at the world, for doing this to her. Angry at everything, just like she always was.
God. She's tired.
She tears a piece of the thread off of the sunflower and twists it around her finger.
Still, it continues to rain.
Some part of her feels angry. But she doesn't want to be angry anymore, doesn't want to be anything. She wants to go back to the way things used to be—but at the same time, she'd give anything to never be Ainsley Platte again.
Lana screams. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Rain pours.
It didn't rain when Lana died. It didn't rain then, but it rains now. The rain seems all consuming. It's the only thing that matters. Just endless torrents that attack her mercilessly.
Another threads comes loose. She picks at it. It, too, frays. Ah. Just like everything else. Everything is designed to fray.
Thunder crashes across the sky. She jumps, the flower falling from her hand and into a puddle below. It lands with a nearly inaudible splish, and for a moment, she simply watches it float.
Slowly it turns in a circle, broken threads sticking into the air like arms, as if it were drowning and begging for help. The breeze battens the threads around, making them wave desperately for help. Eventually, the flower becomes waterlogged, and it sinks into the grimy puddle.
She watches it with mild interest. It makes her think of the parade.
Flashing lights. Screaming fans. Stupid costumes. Flowers.
Roses, raining from the sky. No, not raining. Rain is endless. Flowers are temporary.
Roses, falling from the sky. A lot of them. Too many of them. She remembers the road after it was over, a graveyard of flowers soon to meet their demise. Hm. It doesn't seem that far off from the Hunger Games.
She blinks.
Lana screams. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Rain pours.
She stands abruptly, retrieving the flower from its puddle and returning to her hidey-hole. She draws her legs to her chest and leans against the wall, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the rain, fingers ghosting over a ragged sunflower from a time long past.
Rainwater dribbles down the wall behind her, soaking into her shirt as if it were not already wet. It's cold.
She sighs in contentment. Yes, she likes the rain.
Lana screams. Blood sprays. Bones crack. Rain pours.
Ainsley, mercifully, sleeps.
Tamarah "Tam" Colt, 16
District 10 Female
It's been a long couple of days to go without alcohol. A few long, sleepless nights, and now, a very rainy morning.
Tam is, thankfully, out of the rain. The thunder kept her up—at least, that's what she's telling herself—and at some point during the night, it occurred to her that Liesel once said she liked storms.
Ah. And there it is again.
Liesel.
They weren't in love. Not yet, at least. They could have been, had they met under different circumstances. Tam won't lie and say she didn't find Liesel attractive and entertaining. They complimented each other—and now Liesel's dead. It's a hard thing to come to terms with. One second, Liesel was here. The next, she was dead.
Who can judge her for struggling a little bit?
And withdrawal is not fun, which adds to her struggles and her unhappiness. A dull headache pounds behind her eyes, reminding her too much of a hangover. A hangover is a promise of more alcohol. A hangover brings miserable sobriety. No, this is not a hangover. But it is miserable sobriety.
She's so sober that it is literally painful.
The headache brings insomnia and nausea. Put it all together, and Tam is an anxious, grieving, vulnerable mess.
She's found herself a hiding place, some kind of theater with a tank in the middle. There is no sign outside giving it a name, but she can tell there once was.
The tank is empty. She checked a long time ago. Again, there once might have been something inside, but whatever it is has long since been removed.
The seats are a different story: hard, plastic molded to look like leather, each outfitted with a restraint of some kind, sitting atop a bar that hangs over the chair. They don't exactly exude "safe situation".
Needless to say, Tam sleeps on the floor. Well, here "sleep" means "lays on her back and stares off into space for hours on end". Sleep doesn't come, no matter how much she wishes it would. There is no reprieve for her.
So she entertains herself in the only way she can think of: she fantasizes. Imagines a world where both she and Liesel are raised in District 10. Maybe, in this world, Tam never turns to alcohol to have fun. Maybe, in this world, they meet in a cute way, like tripping over each other at the market and both reaching for an item at the same time. Maybe they have crushes on each other for a while, dancing around each other in a will they, won't they way. Maybe they'll fall in love. Maybe they'll get married, adopt a kid or two out of the community home. And, of course, maybe they'll never get Reaped for the Hunger Games.
It's a nice fantasy, and it helps to keep Tam from going crazy. But it's only a fantasy. It's not real, and Liesel is dead.
That said, she's…guilty? Yes, guilty it probably the right term for it. She watched Liesel die, and then she ran like the coward she truly is. She didn't do anything about it.
(A piece of her whispers that she couldn't have done anything when Liesel was already dead. But the guilty part of her wins out.)
That's the moment that an airy, breathy laugh shakes her out of her thoughts.
Eyes widening, Tam sits up and looks around. And there she is, right in front of her, like nothing ever happened.
Seated on one of the plastic seats is none other than Liesel Leenheer. She's laughing, a pretty sound, a sound that Tam could come to love. A smile is painted on her face, but that doesn't make sense. Liesel is dead.
"L—liesel?" Tam stammers, scrambling to her feet. "What—how—I—"
Liesel laughs again and stands. "Heya, Tammy. Missed ya." She steps toward Tam, arms outstretched as if to give her a hug.
Tam backs away despite desperately wanting the comfort. "You're dead. I saw you die."
This laugh is different. Sharper, meaner, choked like she is in pain. "Well…yeah. I am."
"W-what?" Tam looks her up and down: she's still wearing the same clothes she came into the arena with, exact same hairstyle and everything. Nothing has changed. She looks…perfect. Too perfect.
"I am dead, Tammy. I died in some mystical corridor of alien cutouts." Liesel dances in a circle around Tam, still laughing. "You remember, don't ya? That's why I'm here!"
Tam presses her fingers to her temples, trying to massage away her headache. "Ooohkay, time to add "hallucinations" to the ever-growing list of withdrawal symptoms." She drops heavily into one of the plastic seats, closing her eyes as if Not-Liesel will disappear.
"Taaaammmyyyy," Not-Liesel sings, sounding like she's right next to Tam's left ear. "Don't ignore me. That's meeaann." She slings an arm around Tam's shoulder, and it almost feels like actual human contact. Almost.
"What do you want from me?" Tam snaps, still massaging her temples, eyes squeezed shut. "I know that you're dead, that I'm not getting you back! What more can you take?"
Not-Liesel giggles, now on Tam's right. "I'm not here for anything, silly! I'm just an illusion created by your grieving conscience in an attempt to placate your survivor's guilt!" Her sentence is punctured by another cascade of giggles, and it's so not Liesel that it's almost painful.
"God, I could really use a drink," Tam moans, leaning back in her hard plastic chair.
Not-Liesel simply laughs in reply. Man, that's starting to get annoying.
But she could use a drink. Tam can usually use a drink. Now more than ever, because alcohol would ease her pounding headache and her grief and maybe, just maybe, make Not-Liesel go away. It's a lovely dream, yet woefully unattainable.
Not-Liesel laughs again. Tam can't stand it anymore, so she gets to her feet and leaves the theater as if she knows where she's going. She winds her way through the long hallways until she breaks into daylight.
Well, not really daylight. Rain continues to pour from the sky, dark clouds gathering in the sky making it seem more like late evening than early morning.
Tam pauses for a moment on the threshold, wondering if getting away from Not-Liesel is worth getting soaked. She remembers a restaurant down the path, inside of the big, circular thing in the middle of Tomorrowland. Even if there won't be alcohol there, there will be food, and damn she could go for a burger.
"Well, what are you waiting for, Tammy?" Not-Liesel says in her right ear, and it is all the purpose Tam needs.
She powers off into the rainstorm, immediately becoming soaked and chilled, but within a few minutes she's under the overhang of the circular thing. She wrestles with the lock on the door leading to the restaurant's kitchen for a few minutes before giving up and crawling through the pick-up windows. It's not the most comfortable arrangement, but she ends up in the kitchen so it works out. She starts to dig through the cupboards, looking for something edible when she stumbles upon the jackpot.
Lined up neatly in a cabinet are bottles and bottles of alcohol.
Tam reaches for one of them, practically feverish in her desperation, but her hand falters. She shouldn't. It's too dangerous. She's in the middle of the Hunger Games and…
…who is she kidding? Tam snatches up one of the bottles, unscrews the lid, and chugs half before she even takes a breath.
The indiscriminate alcohol burns as it rushes down her throat, but she certainly doesn't care. In fact, she embraces it. It feels so good. It feels almost like home.
"What, none for me?"
Tam takes another swig. Not enough alcohol yet.
Not-Liesel pouts across the kitchen, sitting on top of a counter, bouncing her legs like a hyper toddler. "You're so meeaann, Tammy. Don't you wonder how this treatment makes ol' Liesel feel?"
"Not Liesel," Tam mumbles. "Liesel's dead." She takes another drink.
"Oh, that's right! Liesel is dead. And I'm just a manifestation of your survivor's guilt, haha! Silly me, I'm just so forgetful!"
Tam tightens her grip on the neck of the bottles and drains the last of it. She sets it down carelessly and grabs another bottle. All she needs is enough alcohol. That has to make Not-Liesel go away.
"Taaaammmyyy, you're being so meeaann," Not-Liesel coos in a sing-song voice, dancing on the counter with a pout on her face.
It's Not-Liesel. Not-Liesel. Even if Tam wishes it were.
Another long drink of alcohol seems to do the trick. Not-Liesel falls silent, seeming content to sit on the counter and stare out of the pick-up window. She starts humming something, a slow, pretty song with cascading notes and lovely beats. It's nice, almost. It would be nice if it were actually Liesel.
But it isn't Liesel. It's Not-Liesel. So Tam drinks some more, and hopes it will be enough to make her forget.
Wonder Hammerfort, 12
District 2 Male
Living the department store life isn't exactly ideal, but it works and Wonder is relatively safe. After the first night, no one has come past the doors, not even an inkling of danger coming near him. And Wonder can appreciate that—he's spent his entire life running, trying to escape, find a safe place. He's glad to have found one so early on.
Really, the place has everything he needs. Food, water, shelter, plenty of things to use as weapons, entertainment.
So, yes, Wonder knows that he's being boring, and that he's due for some excitement, but he also doesn't really mind. He just wants to be safe for one second of his life, and so far he has been unsuccessful.
The only time he ever truly felt safe was in Wake's arms. And it's been far too long since that happened for him to remember the feeling. Sometimes, he lays awake at night, wishing he still had Wake with him. His sister could comfort him. Make him feel safe, like she would protect him from any sort of harm.
He still remembers when Wake announced she was volunteering for the Hunger Games. He remembers how it felt—to know that he might lose his only source of comfort in the world. And he did. He did lose her.
As Wonder sits in a nest made of stuffed animals, staring out the windows at the rainy evening, he wonders what Wake thinks of him now. Is she proud of him? Is she horrified?
Well, Wonder is horrified by the fact that he'll ever know. Because Wake's dead. She's been dead for a while. And Wonder still doesn't know how he feels about that.
The rain finally starts to dry up as the evening wears on. When Wonder sits on the steps of the store, finally enjoying the open air, he breathes in the lingering scent of rain. The moment is peaceful, calm.
So, of course, something has to shatter it.
Out of the shadows come four men, dressed in matching, orange-and-white stripped suits. All of them wear boating hats and are…snapping, in unison?
Wonder gets to his feet, watching the men in confusion and apprehension. "Whaaat…"
And then. Well. Then the first man takes off his hat and starts to sing. "The seaweed is always greener in somebody else's lake!"
His voice sounds tinny. Metallic, almost.
Wonder watches the second man remove his hat as well, and realizes that they must be robots of some kind. Not real people, but equally as unnerving.
The second man sings, "You dream about going up there, but that is a big mistake!"
"Just look at the world around you, right here on the ocean floor!" adds the third man, hat also removed.
Finally, the fourth man finishes off the verse and sings, "Such wonderful things surround you, what more is you lookin' for?"
Silence follows the last note, and for a moment, Wonder thinks the quartet is harmless. Maybe they're just here to sing a song, and then leave. After all, the arena hasn't seemed that dangerous yet. He's stayed in a store for six days and faced no opposition on that front. So, maybe he's still safe. He'd like to still be safe.
"Under the sea!" belt the four men in unison, and they converge.
Not safe, not safe, not safe, Wonder thinks frantically as he runs across the square, the sound of blood pounding in his ears and feet slapping the pavement almost drowning out the singing robots.
Almost.
"Under the sea! Darling, it's better, down where it's wetter, take it from me!"
He sprints across the square, glancing over his shoulder to check if the quartet is following him. Unsurprisingly, they are, and—oh god, Wonder thinks, watching their hands start to spin wildly. Singers with razors for hands. What a day.
"Up on the shore they work all day, out in the sun they slave away!"
Wonder runs underneath an archway as a train trundles cheerfully overhead. He comes upon what looks like sets of gates, aside from the walls that are built through them. Still, he throws himself against the gates, banging his fists against it as if that will save him.
(It does not save him).
"While we devotin', full time to floatin'! Under the sea!"
The four men surround Wonder, pushing him back against the gates, hands spinning and humming.
Wonder fumbles with the small dagger in his back pocket, holding it out with both hands, trying to ward off the signing automatons. At last, one of them gets too close, and Wonder swings wildly, slashing the monster across the face. It sparks, skin and metal shredded, before it straightens and attacks with twice as much fervor.
"Down here all the fish is happy! As off through waves they roll—roll—roll—roll—" The robot voice seems to break as it wags its saws in Wonder's face, narrowly missing him as he ducks and turns. "Roll—roll—roll—roll—"
Wonder slides beneath its legs and continues to run. The other three members of the quartet follow with terrifying speed, seeming to ignore the broken one which lags behind.
At last, Wonder throws himself around a corner and finds himself in a bathroom. The ladies', he notes, as he curls up there, hyperventilating as he tries to get his breath back. He listens to the quartet careen past, and once they're gone, he relaxes slightly.
He doesn't know how long he sits there. He waits for someone to come investigate the noise, because the singing had to have woken up one of the Careers, right? He should be in hot water right now.
And then he hears it.
"I'll be back, Shad. I'm just going to find out what happened down here and if—"
A scream. A horrible, guttural scream of pure agony. It echoes, long and miserable, through the otherwise silent air. It sounds like it comes from a woman, and Wonder shoves his fingers in his ears and waits for it be over.
It isn't over for at least fifteen minutes, but it feels like hours. The woman just continues to scream and scream, until the sound of scraping metal and sparking, and she falls silent.
Eventually, Wonder bucks up the courage to figure out what happened. He slowly creeps out of the bathroom, peering around in the darkness. He steps in a puddle.
After a moment, he realizes that it is a puddle of blood. Lying a few feet away from him is a pair of people. Both of them are from District 1, he wants to say. The boy is beside a sword, unconscious. But the girl. He thinks her name is Calista.
She's lying there, sobbing, clutching her left arm to her chest. But there's something wrong with it, Wonder notes, as he approaches. Her arm looks too short, coated in blood and all—all—all—
The three automatons lie broken and destroyed on the ground. Beside one of them, razor hand covered in blood, lies a human hand.
A disembodied, severed hand.
Wonder can't help himself.
He screams.
He turns, and he runs. He runs into the department store and throws himself into his nest of stuffed animals, and he sobs. He sobs, desperately, miserably, terrified, trembling, practically incoherent.
Eventually, the world starts to slow down and come back into focus. Wonder lays there in his nest, snot and tears running down his face, breathing heavily, and he listens.
"Jesus Christ," the boy says. "Cal, I don't…I don't know if you're gonna…you know, survive this."
"Bull—shit," Calista answers, words wrought with pain. "Clean it, band—bandage it, I'll be—okay."
The boy makes a dubious noise, but judging by the noises of pain that Wonder hears, he obliges.
And Wonder sits there in the dark, hands covering his ears, tears silently running down his cheeks. He never should have gone outside. He never should have volunteered for this. He never should have done anything.
Wonder drifts off wishing that he didn't exist. It would all be so much easier if he didn't.
A/N: Only a day late on my planned update this time! I much prefer this to six months like last time.
Shorter chapter this time, although clearly not without action. Next up we'll have another interlude which hopefully won't take me very long to write.
ALLIANCES:
District 1 Abuse: Calista (D1F), Shad (D1M), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M)
Yikes: Eris (D7F), Ashe (D11F)
Less Sad Lesbian + Even Deader Weight: Afandina (D10M), Ishtar (D12F)
Defo Having a Breakdown: Ainsley (D9F)
Definitely an Equinophobe Now: Everett (D9M)
Not Vibing: Wonder (D2M)
Besties With Donald Duck: Sterne (D5M)
Director of Bad Decision Making: Tam (D10F)
