training: breaking skin

We're weaker than we care to admit; we scratch and itch, we're graveyard shifting.

patron midori, district nine male

…

There's a body in his bed.

Two bodies, actually, if he wants to be precise. Venice and Tatiana. His client and his fuckbuddy - although how exactly a girl of all people wound up securing that title is beyond him. Patron has never been inclined to lay with a person of the quote-unquote "fairer sex," regardless of how much fuss his parents made about securing the Midori lineage. Women are not his cup of tea. Leia Chianti should have made that perfectly clear. And yet…

Tatiana's here. Sleeping in his bed, half-naked, with only the body of a lanky blonde boy left to separate them. Her arms are stretched out haphazardly, dark against the pale canvas of silken sheets, painted yellow nails a perfect match for the crescents imprinted on Patron's side. Because mistakes always leave marks. Funny how a pinch of stardust can distort a person's sensibilities.

At least the deed is done. And done well, naturally, because Patron knows better than most how to take a dick without choking. He doesn't necessarily enjoy giving head, but he's not going to deny that he's damn good at it when he wants to be. No matter how much Edward or any of the other people he'd fucked down in Nine's redlight District would prefer to deny it, Patron has talent.

(He deserved the starring role. He deserved praise and accolades, roses at his feet, his name up in lights, because he'd given two years of his life to perfecting every inch of the club's routines, every inch of his facade. It was no small task to be two people, yet Patron had managed all the same, forcing himself to play the prim schoolboy throughout the day, transforming into the seductive starlet once day reached night. He'd devoted so much time, so much effort, to Edward and the club, and yet what did he gain from all his efforts? A fall from grace.)

(They'd given Leia his dances. They'd let her take his roles, her pretty face enough to book shows full night after night after night. Soon enough it was Leia that was in Edward's bed, hanging off benefactors' arms with a drink and a charming smile, her success met with her weight in jewels and en masse became the alternate, her second-rate successor, left to gather dust behind the stage while Leia flirted with fame and danced the night away.)

(She stole his favor. She stole his life. And so one night, after the cabaret had made its final curtain call, Patron followed her home and smashed her legs in.)

(He can still hear her screaming when he shuts his eyes.)

Not that it matters now. Nine is far behind him, and Leia is a mere pothole left behind on Patron's road to shame. With any luck, he'll never have to see her again. Her, or Edward, or his parents.

Tatiana moans, beginning to stir. He watches as she raises her head, face still half-smashed into a tattered pillow, one eye blinking blearily open to look around the room.

"Feels like... hungover…" she mumbles. "Gonna fuckin' puke."

"Not in my bed, you're not," Patron responds, curling his lip. With no hesitation. he leans over Venice's body and shoves Tati out onto the floor, a loud groan emitting from somewhere beyond his sight as her body makes contact with the wood.

"Yer an asshole," Tati says, and a few seconds later, a shoe comes flying up from the ground, overshooting Patron's head and crashing against the wall behind him instead. He almost laughs.

"Such an impressive throw," he mocks. "With skills like that, how will the Careers ever be able to turn you down?"

"Fuck you."

"Thought that's what Venice was here for," Patron retorts with a shrug, watching as Tati rises to her feet, still mostly nude.

Ew.

Patron rolls over onto his side to try and blot her image out from his sight, focusing instead on the ache in his legs, the odd spark of soreness that lingers in his lower back. He raises his head to look to the clock, and finds himself sighing at the way the hands seem to be sitting still, unchanged from the moment they'd stumbled back to Nine's suite together last night, Tati kissing Venice as he shoved Patron against the door, fingers eager to divest him of his clothes.

(Sex and drugs? Heh. That's why I'm here too, the One boy had told them in between drags from a lit cigarette, his back against the wall as they'd chatted outside the training room doors, Tati practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Guess we've got more in common than I thought.)

They'd taken the last of what Tati had before they made it to bed. Crushed the pills on the counter with the head of a spoon, snorted them up bit by bit, the three of them taking turns with taking hits. Patron had never been especially inclined to use before he'd hit the Capitol, but he supposes there's a time and a place for everything. His... present situation… has made that perfectly clear.

Still, it feels strange to be high, aftershocks not included. Even now, the electricity coursing through his fingertips and running like a live current down the length of his spine is as unsettling as it is pleasant. He wonders if it feels the same for everyone, or if he's just a special case, unable to dissociate without still feeling a touch of bitterness.

(If that's the case, it'd be on brand.)

"Mornin'," a rough voice chimes from at his back, seconds before an arm curls around Patron's waist, a well-formed body pressing tight against the curve of his own, back-to-chest and thighs-to-thighs. "You sleep well, pretty boy?"

"I didn't sleep," Patron responds, "too many people crowding up my room."

"Aw," Venice chuckles. "Not much for company, are you?"

"Depends on my mood," he hums, turning his head. He looks at the One boy and gives him a smile, batting his lashes as his lips curl lazily upwards.

"Mm, I see. And what's your mood now?"

"Perturbed," Patron says, keeping a full smile. He gives his partner a peck on the cheek, then rests a hand on his shoulder to nudge him away, sitting up in bed as water starts to echo from inside the bathroom. "You know, you never gave us a straight answer about an alliance last night. I'd be happier if I knew whether or not we were actually in."

"You're in with me," Venice cocks his head, smirking faintly. "Isn't that enough?"

"Not if you can't promise your District partner isn't going to behead me if I walk up to her in training today."

"Oh," Venice's smirk grows as he leans back, arms behind his head watching Patron with evident amusement. "You're worried about Elysia."

"Does that surprise you?"

"Only because I didn't expect intelligence from someone who tried to fuck their way into the Careers," the Career laughs. "But I'll talk to her, don't worry. We need more people anyway, since she booted the Fours without even trying to talk to 'em."

Patron sighs. This is what he gets for shacking up (not like that) with Tatiana.

"I'm not the one who - ugh. You know what? Fine. I'll take that." He grabs for his underwear, then his pants, struggling to pull them back on before he gets to his feet. His depth perception's off. Bloody drugs. Bloody Tati. She's to blame for all of this. "Why'd she kick the Fours?"

"Beats me," Venice says, turning over to reach for something lying on the bedside table. "My guess, though, is that she didn't want a pair of wild cards fucking up her perfectly organized little Career pack. She's been trying to micromanage things since we got to the Capitol. Can't stand the idea of not being in control." A spurt of laughter leaves him as he shakes his head. "Almost makes me wonder if the rumors are true."

"Rumors?" Patron spins around, now fully dressed, to look the One boy in the face, his brow furrowing in concern. "What rumors?"

"Well, I can't say anything about how true they are," Venice begins. "Officially, she's here because she campaigned, same as me, but there was talk at the Academy about an incident."

The One boy casts his eyes toward the bathroom door, still closed to mask Tati's presence, then the door of Patron's room, almost as if he's wary of someone else hearing what he has to say. He finally looks back at Patron, pitching his voice lower as he concludes,

"People say she beat her girlfriend. Bad enough to put her up in the hospital for a few weeks. Can tell you for sure that Anka was a mess when she came back, whether it was Elysia who did it, or someone else. Either way, I've been watching my back. Don't need her goin' psycho on me before we even get into the Games, y'know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah," Patron says. "Yeah, I know what you're saying."

The water in the bathroom shuts off. There's a hacking sound, the noise of something smashing against the wall, and then the door pops open right on cue. Tatiana comes stumbling out, wet hair piled in a knot atop her head, and thankfully she's finally dressed, her training uniform rumpled as it clings haphazardly to her skin. She looks between her allies, then sighs in annoyance.

"Damn, I was only gone for like, what, ten minutes? The fuck is up with this ominous mood?"

Patron purses his lips and crosses his arms, as Venice casually starts to reach for his own things, apparently conceding to fun time being over.

"Nothing for you to worry about," he says casually. "Y'all are good to come train with us. Just let me know if Elysia bothers you."

He pulls on his clothes one item at a time. Then, he rises from the bed, walks to the door, and heads off without another word.

Tati looks to Patron, her mouth stretching into a grin.

"It was still a stupid plan," he says before she can open her mouth to speak. "Even if it worked."

lethe muralai, district six male

…

Lethe Muralai has developed a shadow.

The boy from Twelve has been hovering around him like a vulture these last few days, always lurking at the edges of his vision, always with the same expression upon his face. Intrigue. Curiosity. Desire, too, although Lethe cannot imagine what sort of thing a deranged coal rat could possibly want from somebody like him. Has he not made himself outwardly callous and unapproachable? Has he not intentionally kept to himself, away from his competitors misplaced camaraderie and foolhardy gazes, dismissive to any attempts they make at conversation? For Twelve to still be trailing in his steps is so asinine, so completely and utterly asinine, that Lethe is almost impressed.

It's a rare thing for people to defy his expectations. Though admittedly, Lethe's kindled intrigue does not discount his ire. There is so much rage within him that his blood has begun to heat, rippling in his arms and searing his veins whenever he dares think about his circumstances. As if being in this wretched place was not miserable enough, he's also attracted a stalker.

I should kill him, Lethe thinks, raising a hand to press at his sore temples, eyelids fluttering tightly shut. His brow creases as his shoulders arch, tension spreading through each of his bones and muscles until his entire form starts to feel rigid, so overcome with stress and annoyance that he couldn't relax even if he willed it. It would be worth the consequences to be rid of that stare… those eyes on my back, always watchful no matter how I try to spurn them…

Who does he think he is, to follow me, of all people? Who is this imbecile, to cling to my back like a parasite, no matter how frustrated I am, or how much I try to shake him? Is he trying to unbalance me? Does he want to see me snap?

Lethe's teeth clench. He can't be bothered to deal with this… this harassment… at the present moment. He's got more pressing issues to attend to; the private sessions for one, the arena for two. Then, of course, there is his District; the assembly of people who wrote his name on that paper, led in their scripts by a squadron of Peacekeepers who Lethe knows wanted him dead.

He never imagined they would go so far as to have him reaped, when the majority of the District knew nothing of either his name or his crimes. Though Lethe knew of the Quell twist, he'd assumed that he would be immune from persecution, if only because he'd barely crossed anyone's radar. His days were spent languishing in the sewers, only emerging to scrounge for scraps among dumpsters long after the sun had set. He had kept to himself, biding his time without causing a stir, and yet his arrest was met with scorn all the same.

Perhaps it was absurd of him, to believe he could hide forever. Honestly, when the Peacekeepers raided the Underground, Lethe had expected they would simply let him go. He had no real affiliation with the rebels, beyond an agreement for food and shelter, and his family's deaths were months past. Why should he be voted in when so many kids from Six were scum, the streets full to bursting with junkies like Tatiana and murderers like himself? For all the loathing he seemed to have garnered, he was but a single fish in a large pond - one criminal amidst thousands. He belongs here no more or less than anybody from his District, anybody from the cesspool he'd called a home.

Lethe sighs. At least, for all the drawbacks of vilification, there are also perks to be found once you've accustomed yourself to being hated. Widespread avoidance, accepted social deviance, an aura of intimidation that never dissipates… really, the whole 'criminal' persona has done wonders for his misanthropy. All he's ever wanted is to be left alone, and it seems that Six would have gladly granted him his wish. Even Tatiana is no longer bothering to speak with him, a feat for which Lethe is (almost) grateful. His stay here - unwelcome and trying though it is - has been far more peaceful without her needling.

It would be better still if Twelve would finally get the memo and fuck off, Lethe muses with an exasperated hiss. He opens his eyes once again, staring at the array of wire sitting beside his feet, the half-finished snares all but taunting him. It's been difficult to focus, knowing there are bared teeth waiting to strike at his back. Although…

If Twelve is so dead set on making my acquaintance, I might as well take advantage of the situation. Lethe doesn't have much use for a stalker, but an ally… a companion… that could have promise. Normally he wouldn't bother entertaining the idea, but Twelve seems to know how to keep his mouth shut. If he's willing to assent to Lethe's authority, follow the plans the younger boy lays out for him…

I think it's time to introduce myself.

Lethe stands to his feet, striding away from his traps and past the weapon racks, heading away from the majority of the training stations toward an archway at the far end of the room. He nods to the trainer beside the entrance as he reaches for a slim handle, pulling open the door to the archery room and slipping inside without another word. Once the door slips shut behind him, he presses his back against the cement wall… and waits.

One minute.

Two minutes.

Five minutes.

Lethe's brow creases as the clock on the wall continues to tick. Is Twelve going to take the bait, or not? I assumed he'd be thrilled to finally have me alone… perhaps I misread the signs…

He uncrosses his arms and shifts his stance. Fifteen minutes. It seems his shadow isn't interested in speaking, after all. A shame.

Lethe starts to walk toward the door. But almost as soon as his fingers brush against the cool metal of the handle…

The hinges start to squeal. A dark head peers into the room as the boy from Twelve enters, drawn into himself with a caution that deserves applause.

Lethe slips behind the door as it opens fully, waiting for his stalker's back to turn. He can hear Twelve's short, scattered breaths as he surveys the space, can make out his turning head, his frantic eyes, something feral and wild lurking in their depths as he growls, low and beastly. His guard is so well composed that Lethe finds himself admiring it - there's sturdiness in how he holds his shoulders, but swiftness in his feet, one fixed firmly in place as he pivots, raised hackles a clear tell to how alert he really is. He's intelligent, Lethe realizes. Walks like a hunter. Carries himself with confidence. But it's a bit misplaced. Oh, well. He can learn.

Lethe pushes the door closed and pounces.

His hands shove against the boy's back. Twelve spins around, but he's not fast enough to prevent the attack, his body toppling onto the mats as Lethe flies forward into his chest, tackling him to the floor without hesitation. Twelve shoves an arm up into his chest, but Lethe grabs hold of his wrists, shoving them down beside his head and leaning over his body, his knees pushing into Twelve's stomach, one foot jammed back against his thigh. He smiles, cold and derisive, allowing his eyes to pass from Twelve's arms, to his face, to his…

Fangs?

Lethe blinks. That's… unexpected, but still, he's seen stranger. Six's sewers are home to a number of odd creatures, though he'll admit, he's never seen a human with so strange a mutation. Not that it really matters - I'm not here to ogle his teeth.

He sits back, letting go of Twelve's wrists once it becomes obvious he's not going to thrash. "Do you want to speak first, or should I?"

Twelve blinks, his expression befuddled. Lethe scowls, and crosses his arms, leaning back as he appraises his stalker, noting that he's a good bit taller than he'd originally thought. Tall, dark, brooding, fanged. He almost reminds me of a…

"You are… human," Twelve says, and he sounds so surprised that Lethe rolls his eyes.

"Well, of course I am. Were you expecting something different? A bloodthirsty monster, maybe a cryptid?" He asks, sarcasm permeating each of his words. "So sorry to disappoint you."

"That isn't -" Twelve begins to protest as Lethe sighs and pulls off of him, rising to his feet.

"Your observational skills need work. Any other circumstance and I would've killed you."

And enjoyed it, he barely refrains from adding, irritation coming back full force now that he's finally incapacitated the thorn in his side. Perhaps he should reevaluate the alliance idea; Twelve's hardly spoken a word and Lethe already wishes to be rid of him. Truly, he is not the sort to play well with others - a point that his mother loved to chide him with. She had always hated Lethe's misanthropy, almost as much as his apathy toward all things social.

Oh, Lethe, what's gotten into you?

You can't just say things like that to people, what's poor Emani going to think?

Even your brother's capable of being civil.

Stars, with the things that come out of your mouth, people are going to think you've been raised by wolves, not a civilized family.

The least you could do is mind your manners when you're talking to Tav. Politics aside, he's not a bad man.

(I beg to disagree, Lethe recalls responding. So do the twenty homeless addicts he just fed to the firing squad. Not that it's any concern of yours, given you got engaged to the pig and seem to think he can do no wrong.)

(Consider this an eye-opener, he'd said as he grabbed a knife from the kitchen counter and shoved it into her chest, cutting her forceful response off before it could be finished. Blinded by your ignorance… such a stupid way to die.)

His mouth goes dry as he licks his lips, shutting out the memory of his mother's voice before it can grow more incessant. Twelve is still on the ground, looking at Lethe with an uncanny sort of reverence as he stretches out a hand to pull his shadow up, more strength in his emaciated form than the boy seemed to expect.

"You have the grace of my kind," Twelve speaks at last, staring thoughtfully at their joined hands. "The might, as well. 'Tis not something I would expect from one born mundane, but I would be remiss not to acknowledge that it is impressive… that you are impressive."

Lethe cocks an eyebrow at the boy, withdrawing his hand from the chill of Twelve's grip, the coal rat's broken nails scoring lines into his flesh. He takes a step back, putting space between their bodies, trying to ignore the shudder that runs down his back when he gazes into the other's eyes.

"Is that all?" He questions, stoic and stern. Twelve's lips part, then return to a stiff line as he watches Lethe, seeming uncertain of whether or not he should speak. Eventually, his desire to connect wins out and he straightens his posture, clasping his hands in front of his body, the absolute picture of propriety (not). Lethe waits.

"I will admit that you are not the broodmate I was searching for, but I find myself nonetheless in awe of your skills. Though it shames me to admit that a human might possess the skills of my kin, you have proven yourself adept as a hunter… and perhaps a killer. As I see it, 'tis prudent of me to request the formation of a blood-pact, as hunting for prey alongside one so effectual would be an honor I cannot rightly express."

…

Lethe blinks. What the fuck? "I… why do you keep calling me human?"

"Well, because you are one, of course." Twelve says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Now what say you, Six? Shall we endeavor to join forces, or shall we part as enemies in this competition? Choose wisely."

"You're haughty," Lethe remarks, eyes narrowing. "Arrogant."

Bloodthirsty. The boy from Twelve smiles, his fangs once more on display, and something clicks in Lethe's head. Does he believe… he really thinks that he's…

How delusional. Lethe bites his tongue, sizing up his stalker yet again. But that's not a bad thing. Delusions can be weaponized. If I could leash a supposed monster thirsting after human blood, turn him against the other tributes… oh, the possibilities are too good to deny. The only concern is the matter of disposal, once the Games begin to wind down… but what's another murder on top of everything else? Twelve is a pet I doubt I'd mourn. And since I don't have Mouse… I could use a guard dog.

It's settled.

"But," Lethe continues, "I suppose I should expect nothing less from a vampire. Shall we talk terms?

"Terms?" Twelve looks taken aback. "Well, I… suppose that's only fair."

A smirk blooms on Lethe's face. "Correct answer."

He'll have to plan carefully to make this work, but he won't lie: though the entire situation proves to be unexpected, the Games are about to become far more interesting. And with a new ace up his sleeve…

The odds really do seem to be turning in Lethe's favor.

ansel zilliah, district eight male

…

There's something to be said about the happiness of tedium.

Ansel's not usually the type to enjoy mundane tasks, but he'll be the first to admit that structure can be… pleasant. Be it folding paper, sorting cards, running a paintbrush across a canvas until the world comes together in its purest form… suturing a wound… there's grace to be found in the repetition of motion. There's satisfaction to be had in observing success, and more so, the work that goes into it.

Which is why it is relaxing to be here. Sat before an array of plastic mats, with a needle between his fingers as he knots thread through a training dummy's abdomen - or, more specifically, the deep tear in the external cloth. He's had plenty of experience with stitching things together; clothes most frequently, flesh most notably. Every body that he cut into back in Eight required aftercare, be they living or dead, for human organs can only last so long when exposed to the elements. And for all the faults that Ansel may have had, being sloppy with his work was not one of them. He did his research. Learned every skill that proved to be necessary, and even some that weren't. He kept his hands nimble and his eyes keen, because harvesting is no different than surgery when it comes down to it, and there are few who would gladly be operated on by an inattentive doctor… or a shaky set of hands.

Though suturing serves a different purpose today. Yes, today Ansel is using stitches as a distraction, a means of keeping his brain occupied through monotonous busywork, if only so he can no longer dwell on the chaos of yesterday. He cannot deny that he was hurt by his District partner's seething words - not emotionally, of course, but figuratively, in a way that requires context to be understood. The Games are not the place to be making enemies, and yet Ansel is almost certain he has more now than he ever would have before, due to the silence that surrounds him, and the sideways glances of his fellow disavowed.

The other tributes want nothing to do with him. Since Cordura deigned to make her little speech with no care as to proximity and volume, she has done irreparable damage to his reputation. Made him a pariah amongst pariahs, doomed to experience the same disgust and revulsion he had dealt with back in Eight. He had hoped that being so far from his District would provide opportunity - to reinvent himself, create a new reputation and amass at least a small number of supporters who could be used to his own ends, but it seems such a thing will not come to be. It's a shame. A real shame.

(And it's all Cordura's fault.)

But enough of that, Ansel thinks. It's no matter to me, regardless. Her resentment is just another hurdle for me to surpass. Having an enemy in the Games will prove to make things more difficult, but ultimately what she does is of no concern to me. If she tries to come after me, then I will rise to meet her with equal fervor... and I will cut her down without tumult or trepidation. Her opinion means nothing. Her ire…

… well. It's an obstacle; nothing more.

He has to make it home. Xay is waiting for him.

They're relying on him to finish what he started; the process of their reconstruction. Their rebirth.

… his District partner can slander him all she wants. The fact of the matter is she doesn't understand. She makes petty judgments, spouts false accusations, but at the end of the day, she's a hypocrite who laid a label on him without bothering to verify the truth of it.

Damn her.

"I'm not a fucking necrophile," he mutters, "regardless of what Eight says. Cordura Faux is as cracked as the rest of them."

"Perhaps," a voice says from Ansel's back, as a shadow approaches from across the floor. "Though I believe everyone is a little cracked, prone as humans are to flaws in their judgment."

"Perhaps," Ansel responds, merely echoing the other's assertion. Beyond that, he says nothing more.

The speaker kneels on the floor by his side, slowly but carefully stretching their legs out as they take a seat.

"I know you aren't a necrophile," they say softly. "I mean, you never actually slept with the body, did you? All you did was replace its organs."

"Exactly! It was a surgery, and the weariness was unintentional. I had a plan -" Ansel cuts himself off as a lump forms inside his throat. His eyes narrow as he swallows, thickly, a sudden unease falling over his flesh. "How did you know that?"

The boy - for it is indeed a boy that kneels at his side, with coarse hair and dark, unblemished skin, an aura of twisted radiance seeming to occupy the space around him - smiles at Ansel, inclining his head.

"I know many things," he says. "What there is, what there has been, even sometimes what has not yet come to be."

There's a pause. Ansel finds his eyes wandering along the contours of his new companion's face, trying to gauge something from the depths of his shrouded eyes. There is something odd about his appearance - a guise of mystery and near deadness appears almost inhuman. And yet at the same time... where there is death, there is also warmth, flowering on his body like rot.

Ansel won't deny their appearance sparks something in him. A sense of familiarity? Of... sentiment?

But that's absurd, he reminds himself. We've only just met.

He raises an eyebrow at the odd stranger, shrugging away the unusual sensation.

"So," he begins, "if you know so much, what do you need from me?"

"Oh," Four smiles, his hand moving to grab hold of a strange pendant that hangs over his uniform, clutching the metal between his dark fingers. "Yes, of course. I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor?" Ansel almost laughs, not bothering to hide the disbelief in his tone. "And why should I do you a favor, Four? I know nothing about you. You're a stranger to me."

"I understand your need for caution, friend. But you needn't worry -"

"Do you want an alliance? Is that it?"

"An alliance?" The Four boy furrows his brow. "No, I'm not... I haven't any need for an ally. Just a person who can fulfill a particular role."

"Oh, certainly," Ansel responds, rolling his eyes. Is this conversation seriously happening? "I suppose that's why you sent your partner over to talk with Cordura. Because you needed her to 'fulfill a role' as well?"

"She is fulfilling her own role as I've determined it," Four replies, glancing in the direction of the girl from his District, who seems to be in the process of scaling a climbing net, with a fond glint in his eye. "There are two of us from District Four. Four times two makes eight, and when divided, eight by four is two. A pair. Eights and Fours... they go together. Don't you think?"

"Cryptic," Ansel says plainly, turning away from his unusual shadow to continue his suture on the arm of the training dummy. "I'm not averse to doing favors for shady individuals, although I won't agree unless there's something to be given in return. Reciprocity... that matters to me."

"So we shall barter!" The Four boy exclaims suddenly, energized by an incredibly sudden cheer. He claps his hands together and leans in closer to Ansel, fervor overtaking his voice even as it drops to a whisper. "A favor for a favor. Name me your price."

Ansel hums, not looking up from his half-finished work.

"I want my District partner out of my way," he says. "Permanently. She's a threat to my survival, and she's besmirched me terribly."

"You wish her dead?" Four's whisper loses its breath. "I... I'm afraid I can't do that. Another target perhaps, but she has a role I need her to play."

Ansel's fingers clench tight about the sewing needle, a migraine pushing at the sides of his skull. This conversation is draining him far more than it has any right to.

"If you won't kill Cordura, then any deals are-"

"What about Kanessa?"

Ansel goes still.

"... what?"

"Kanessa, Kanessa, the one you used to play cards with, the one you called your friend. Pretty black hair, helps you with your dealing. Sold a bottle of painkillers to you and your lover, not even a year ago. You know she didn't make them sick, but still you suspect foul play. Is she guilty or is she innocent? It doesn't matter, does it?" Four starts to laugh, the sound as menacing as it is childish. "I can kill her if you like. Just mind the exchange."

"What are you?" Ansel asks, dispensing with any attempts at formality. "You shouldn't know that. You shouldn't know any of that."

"A wise man does not share his secrets, Eight." Four pulls back and puts a finger to his lips, glancing from Ansel, to the wall, to his partner, swinging from the climbing nets as the trainers try to grab hold of her legs. Then he looks to the plant station. And he smiles.

"You used to smuggle drugs." He says. "You and your brother, they say?"

Andre.

Ansel's hand begins to curl into a fist. It's been two years since he's seen hide or hair of his sibling - the one who raised him, and the one he sold down the river for a petty squabble. He would be lying to say there aren't times that he regrets it. Andre could be... abrasive, caustic, impossibly single-minded... but he was the closest thing that Ansel ever had to a parent. It was Andre that brought him up on the Knocker streets, who gave him food and made sure he was sheltered, put clothes on his back and mended his wounds through year after year after year of hardship.

The Peacekeepers took him, that day in the square. They came and they beat him and they dragged him away, because of purposeless violence… personal greed. Andre was arrested, and all because of Ansel's bitterness.

The worst part is… he didn't even fight it. He didn't argue that he was innocent, didn't try to resist.

He didn't even tell the Peacekeepers about his no-good, conniving, senseless brother. The one who had been packing drugs for him since he was six years old. The one he got roped into smuggling, the one he taught to be cruel, because without cruelty, nobody survives the streets of Knocktown.

Andre taught him how to survive, and what did Ansel do to repay him?

He knifed him in the back over a sibling's squabble.

Between the two of them, Ansel was always the bastard. No matter how much he sometimes loathes to admit it.

(What good had it done him, in the end? What good came of betraying his own flesh for a petty grudge?)

(Ansel knows the answer: absolutely nothing.)

(There were only two people in the world who ever loved him. And he's responsible for destroying them both.)

"Ansel."

Four's hand rests atop his own, thumb tracing circles over his chilly flesh. Ansel doesn't pull away. Xay used to do that, he thinks. Before they...

"I know you dabble in black market trade. It is why you are most fit for this task."

He raises his head to look into Four's eyes, but all he finds is an endless abyss.

It's like looking into a mirror. Ansel's soul is entirely gone. His heart is black. His mind is burnished.

This... boy, this Four, this - this witch. Ansel... understands him.

"You want me to extract..."

"From castor bean. Overlay it with foxglove - that's used for treating heart failure. I need a tincture. It has to look natural."

"What are you doing to me?"

"I'm helping you," Atlanshi Bleumoon says, each of his shockingly white teeth bared by his grin.

Ansel has half a desire to smile back.

"Fine then," he agrees. "If you hold up your end, I'll concede. A life for a life."

You can have your revenge... and I can have mine.

A/N: Breaking Skin by Nonpoint.

Happy Halloween, dear readers! As always, I hope this chapter finds you well and in good health - sending my wishes that you have a lovely evening if you're doing anything, and a lovely week ahead of you. I'll be back on November 8 with the final training chapter! See you soon.