day one, part two: my own summer
I think God is moving its tongue… there's no crowds in the streets and no sun (in my own summer).
At least it isn't raining.
Maevyn grins as she surveys the launch area, both hands resting steady on her hips. Even though the fighting's come to an end, there's plenty of traces left behind from the bloodbath. Mostly, y'know, blood, though all things considered that should really be a given. The Capitol does call it a bloodbath, and Maevyn thinks they've pretty well delivered on expectations this year, given all the boom-booms that are now ringin' through the sky.
(She's gonna have to give Velezen a pat on the back for that one. Once he's feeling better, of course - right now the poor guy looks about two seconds from fallin' apart altogether. And she can't exactly blame him, after goin' toe-to-toe with the ice princess from One; Vyn can't think of anyone in their right mind that would wanna face down that piece of work, and right out the gate, too! Granted, she had attacked first, so it's not exactly surprising that Zenzen got his face smashed in, but the point stands. Five got themselves in a real mess with that explosion trick…)
(They're just lucky they had her an' Cordy watchin' their six.)
Vyn smiles as she turns her head to watch her allies stumble their way into the massive summer lodge. Cordy's got Velezen's arm wrapped around his shoulder, and Argenta's ducking past them to run inside, an eye-splitting grin on her face that Maevyn can't help but find precious.
"Look at all the knives!" The Five girl's voice rings out from behind the door. Her words are cheery enough to pull Maevyn back to her feet, legs carrying her back over toward Cordy and Zenzen, who are both lookin' pretty banged up. Vyn steps in front of them and turns around, walking backward into their new clubhouse with her eyes wide, one hand reaching up to poke at Velezen's cheek.
"Wow, you really took a beating!"
She's not wrong. The skin of his face is all swollen and red-purple, and he's got blood gushing from his nose. Not just dripping, but like, gushing gushing, the way that water does when you jam a spial into a tree.
(Of course, water doesn't come out of every tree, just certain ones, mostly in Four, and Maevyn only knows 'cuz Madora used to drag her for walks along the beach, and one time she'd brought a pointy metal thing and showed Maevyn how to jab stuff with it. It was surprisingly fun, even if she'd sorta dragged her feet on the way back - walks can make ya real tired if you haven't planned for them. But…
She'd had fun. She always did when she was with Madora. Although now that she's rememberin' and all, she thinks Mads had gotten a little flustered, and that dampened a bit of the mood. She wasn't pregnant yet, or at least Vyn doesn't think she was, but she'd had the same sorta weariness hangin' around her that she did those last two months, when her stomach got so big she couldn't hide it.)
(Looking back, Vyn's not sure how she didn't realize she was bothering her. Madora had been so patient, letting her ramble on and on without askin' for anything in return, and she hadn't thought a thing of it, just kept goin' and goin' until she'd tired herself out. It was questions, mostly - dumb questions, about the tree and the spial, which Mads had tucked into her pocket and told her to keep, 'cause it was a memento of all the time they'd spent outdoors together.
"Can ya do that with other plants? What about a rock? Could you suck the water out of a human with that if ya really went for it, or wouldja just get lots of blood?" Vyn had asked, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. Madora just smiled and gripped her hand tight, indulging her questions with patient answers - yes, it works on cacti. Rocks are too hard to tap, unfortunately, even when they're porous. You could jab a person with one, but it doesn't really work the way you're imagining, and you'd probably just kill them.
That had just sent Maevyn into another flurry.
"Well, do they have 'em in the Games? I've never seen somethin' like that in the Academy, an' I've been there four whole years now! Mads, you gotta show everyone, I betcha the trainers would let ya teach the survival stuff if ya wanted! You're so smart!"
"I'm not that smart," Madora murmured with a blush. "And I don't think I'd make a very good teacher. People aren't really… easy for me."
Vyn remembers giggling at that, swinging their joined arms back and forth. "Me neither, but I think you'd be excellent! I mean, who else in our year knows as much as you? And don't you dare say Bolivar, 'cuz we both know he's a big dunce."
"Point taken," Madora agreed with a tiny little smile. Seeing her happy made Vyn's chest feel all warm. "But I still think I'd rather -")
"- that good with you, Vyn?"
Maevyn blinks. Madora's face is replaced by Cordura's, and it's sorta funny how she never noticed the similarity between their names before. Mah-dor-ah. Cohr-dur-ah. They both just sit right on her tongue, tasting the color of red and moving through her lips like a whistle. Pretty. Perfect.
She misses Mads.
"What're we talkin' about?" Maevyn asks, looking up at her (kinda-sorta-more-than-an) ally and batting her lashes. Cordura smirks and shakes her head, a little whisper of "airhead" leaving her lips, but it doesn't sound mean like most people's insults. Just… affectionate.
Maevyn really doesn't mind getting called names if it's Cordy doin' the calling.
"I said that I'm going on patrol," Cordura repeats, rolling her eyes as she helps Velezen over to one of the open benches. It takes him a second to turn, but once he does she doesn't have any trouble easing him down onto the seat. Being tall must come in real handy when you're dealin' with injured folks. "I'll take Argenta with me since she's so eager to run around brandishing weapons, and you can stay here with Velezen. Stop the bleeding, maybe try and put something on his face? I'm sure there's bandages in the supply pile somewhere."
"Actually, I think I look better this way," Velezen says, forcing humor through his swollen lips. "I always wanted a nose job. Think One just saved me the cost."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Cordura laughs, snark abundant in her tone. "You just went from a six to a two in record time. I'm not going to spend the Games walking around with someone that's got raw meat for a face."
"Eight, you wound me," Velezen replies, just before she claps him hard on the shoulder. "Agh - rather literally."
"Good. That means there's no serious damage." She gives Maevyn a wink. "Don't feel too bad if you have to manhandle him, sweetheart. I think there's merit in a tough love approach."
Straightening up to her full height, Cordura turns and walks toward the supply pile, wasting little time in snatching up what Maevyn thinks is a metal club. She waves Argenta over, looking devilish.
"Hey, demon baby! We're gonna go look for stragglers!"
"Sick!" Argenta says as she springs up from her perch over the dismissed backpacks, a massive, rusted sword held between her hands. "If we find someone, I'mma take their head off!"
Maevyn turns back to Velezen.
"I'm gonna find ya some gauze strips," she says, nodding her head at him. "And if there's nothin', you can just use my shirt! I've always wanted a hot girl summer."
Velezen shakes his head.
"I am surrounded by idiots," he proclaims, but Maevyn can already see the smile edging its way onto his lips, pleased despite his claims to the contrary. His eyes twinkle with mirth.
"Don't be like that!" She teases. "Doctor Vyn's gonna hook you right up. Bandaids, gauze, splints and painkillers, maybe even some booze if we're real lucky!" A giggle leaves her lips. "After everything we just did, I think we deserve a drink!"
Zen tilts his head a bit, brown eyes looking up at her through a ring of bruises.
"To unexpected partnerships?" He asks.
Maevyn grins. "To madness and mayhem!"
We're gonna have so much fun!
It could just as easily have been her.
As Jade Echeverry stands at the edge of the killing fields, her gaze fixed upon the burnished silver of Venice's launch plate, she cannot help but breathe a sigh of relief. Though her fists are bruised and her knees are skinned, muscles left aching from the sting of the Five girl's hits, she does not wince or cry from the pain. Pain, after all, is what makes her human, and truth be told she's borne more than this.
Her brother's caskets. Her parents' sorrow.
The burden of concealment, carried still because of a secret that she had never wanted. At her back stands a stolid girl calling out to her in anger, and all Jade hears is her sister's name. Ailith.
Ailith, what are you doing?
Ailith, come on - we have to go.
Ailith, it isn't safe here.
That one's a boy.
Kellen, she thinks, turning to glance over her shoulder, but the words she's hearing aren't his. Even for as genial as he's been toward her, there's this… venom that he's got. A caustic lilt that lines even his most florid words, and the message she's hearing doesn't track with that. It's too considerate. Too soft.
Too cautious for her abrasive District partner.
Jade's eyes turn toward the ground, bemusement turning her lips. She knows this is not the time to lose herself in sentiment, and yet...
She'd said those words, once; spoke them in the same tone, with the same warning cadence. Ailith, it isn't safe here, she recalls whispering, one hand clasped tight around her sister's wrist. A peacekeeper had been standing in the hallway, his eyes every bit as cold as the stone that lined their doorstep, and Jade remembers her sister crying. Shouting at the walls, hitting them with her fists, every bit of her body taut with desperation.
It was her hands that held Ailith back. Her hands that kept her sister safe, fighting Ailith's manic urge to throw her life away.
Her sister wanted to die - wanted it as much as she's wanted anything, and yet for all her anguish, Jade forced her to keep going. She'd made a decision at the reaping by throwing herself forward in Ailith's place, her protective instinct surpassing Ailith's desperation. It was her choice to take Ailith's place, her choice to shield her twin behind her, because Jade places faith in facts, and she knew as soon as she volunteered that her back was stronger than Ailith's. She could bear the weight of the Games. She could process the Capitol's avarice, deal with the consequences of death wrought by her own hands.
For the last several months, she has worn the same stoic expression, burying her guilt deep within her chest while letting Two's enmity roll off her squared shoulders. Before the Capitol, she hadn't allowed herself a moment to let her walls down and unbury her sorrow. For Ailith's sake, she'd done her best to remain composed, to be the dissident's voice of reason.
But now? What will her sister do, when her cannon sounds?
What will Ailith do when she dies?
Jade allows herself to taste the acrid sting of bile inside her throat. A sob leaps through her windpipe and she asphyxiates on it, choosing one more to bury her feelings in her chest, behind a wall that nobody present has the skill to breach.
She forces the tension from her shoulders. Her head raises, and with one final look she turns her back, dispelling the image of bloodied grass and scorched pedestals, coated by layers of human gore.
If Ailith were here, that could have been her.
No. It would have been her. Ailith never learned to bite her tongue, to muzzle her hatred and vestigial torment without external intervention. When she had a thought, she always voiced it - and though Jade's certain she'd have died in a blaze of glory, she's positive it would have been at the Capitol's hands.
(Just look at what they tried to do to Elowyn Eiken.)
Jade crosses her arms over her chest, wrapping them like a shield around her upper body. Her eyes find Elysia, her khaki-shaded uniform covered with dark specks of blood, and she dips her head in a half-formed nod. She's willing to indulge Elysia's orders for now - the turbulence of their situation demands it.
But that doesn't mean there isn't tension.
(Suffice it to say, Jade's not exactly comfortable wandering about the arena with a girl who, just a mere sixteen hours ago, had both hands wrapped around her neck. A single apology isn't enough to clear the air when it comes to assault, even if Elysia was serious in her supposed contrition. It'll take actions more than words for Jade to place any trust in the girl from District One. And to Elysia's credit, she seems to understand that. However…)
(Jade wouldn't be here if she had a real choice. Her options for an alliance were limited to begin with, and sticking with the Ones through training diminished most of her options. The only reason she stuck by Elysia after the gong sounded was because, for the time being, she'd rather have her as an ally than an enemy. The Hunger Games have never been kind to loners. She already has twelve of the seventeen remaining tributes out for her head, possibly more. Why encourage another threat?)
"We're heading out," Elysia declares as Jade returns to the fold, her authoritative tone leaving no room for argument. Jade parts her lips, her tongue dry and practically sticking to the roof of her mouth, but before she can speak Kellen shoots her a look.
Don't ask questions, his eyes seem to tell her. Just nod your head and play along.
(It's safer that way, a part of Jade's mind seems to agree. Acquiescence. Elysia's already picked one fight she couldn't handle, and it stands to reason she's upset about losing the cornucopia. With that in mind, Kellen's right that playing along is the better option. I don't want to give her another reason to snap at me, when it's clear she's got a hair-trigger.)
"Alright," Jade agrees, keeping her arms folded. "So where are we headed?"
"For now? After Six and Nine. I don't take kindly to being left behind," Elysia's voice pitches deeper, the last word practically a growl. She unfolds her arms and lets them fall to her sides, fingers on her right hand grazing over the hilt of a rusted sword. Jade bites her lip, but keeps entirely still, acutely aware of her own lack of supplies - weapons included. Given the beating she took from the Five girl, the thought of heading deeper into the fray wasn't one that even occurred to her. Risking further danger for a set of meager items hadn't seemed rewarding enough to validate the decision. But now that she's looking at Kellen and Elysia, the blades hooked through both of their sturdy belt loops…
She's starting to wonder if she hadn't made a mistake. A set of rusty swords, or even some dented knives, are a hell of a lot better than nothing. Especially with how volatile both of her allies have proven themselves to be…
She suppresses a shudder. It's going to be fine. Survive today and she'll have an opportunity to plan a defense strategy. She needs to take the hurdles as they come, and not waste her time dwelling on what ifs.
"Sounds good," she agrees. Elysia nods, turning around with an expression that says she expected nothing less. Jade looks to Kellen, but his back is already turned, having accepted the unspoken decision before it was ever said. Honestly, she can't say she blames him - who would want to stay here?
A shout rings out from up at the lodge, and that's all it takes to propel her movement, her feet taking up pace in turn with the others, carrying her on down the hill toward the glimmering lake.
She won't let Ailith Echeverry perish along with her name. For better or worse, the Games have finally begun - and she wants to at least stand a fighting chance.
So she'll do what she has to. Whether it's murder, sabotage... or subordination.
Her sister is depending on her.
He made the right decision.
Patron's sure there are people who would disagree - he's not fool enough to believe otherwise, especially when he's a pawn that's been placed on a national stage - but their opinion matters little to him. He cannot entertain the Capitol if he is dead. He cannot survive if he is injured, and without running, it's very likely that Patron would have jeopardized his position in these Games. One minute was all it took for him to lose his safety net. One minute cost the lives of four people, and those four people hadn't stood a chance at fighting. They were nothing more than sitting ducks.
Even with all of Patron's pre-Games planning, it took less than sixty seconds for District Five to render him powerless. They could have killed him if they wanted to, and he'd have been entirely at their mercy.
Just like Venice.
Just like Elysia.
He saw the metal ball Five threw at her plate. If it had hit even a second sooner, her body would be lying on that field right alongside Venice. With that in mind, he can't fault her for attacking - if he were in her shoes, he'd have been incensed. But when he watched her fly through the air, like a bullet in a barrel aimed toward her attackers, he couldn't find it within him to see her as anything beyond reckless.
She'd underestimated the rebels. They all had. Was it really a good idea to attack Five after what they'd instigated? Worse still, Ailith had followed her in, something that Patron hadn't seen coming. Of all his remaining allies, he'd had her pegged as the most rational - the most sound of mind.
Yet she had been just as keen as Elysia to gamble her life away.
What a disappointment.
Patron bites down on his lower lip. For all that he had discouraged Tati's planning, he had agreed that teaming up with the Careers was a good idea. One and Two were always crowd favorites, and their year hadn't been any different. Venice, Elysia, Kellen and Ailith had been noted by the Capitol as top competitors, the tributes that they figured would be hardest to beat. Even with all their bickering, their skills had been mostly solid. Patron had seen that with his own eyes. But now that the adrenaline is wearing off? Now that he's made the choice to strike out on his own?
He doesn't regret it. Not in the slightest.
The Games aren't just for gladiatorial sport. Patron can fight if he really needs to, but when his opponents are so opportunistic, knowing when to retreat is a necessity. Survival is about more than just throwing punches and knowing how to wield a blade. It's about caution. It's about logic.
Surviving means knowing when and where it is appropriate to take a risk. If he had stayed at the lodge, he would have died. That is an undeniable fact.
He saw the stained clothing of the boy from Twelve. He watched the girl from Eight rip the limbs off of dummies in training, saw how the boy from Six - Tatiana's district partner - threw knives at holographic targets, never missing the marks he was required to hit. It's not just the Careers that are a danger this year. Everyone was voted in for a reason, and Patron doesn't know the rationale behind halfof them.
What he does know is he's outmatched. Not by all of them. But by enough.
He braces his hand against the wood of a nearby cabin, feet finally coming to a halt. Simply running down here was enough to make him feel winded, between the spray of blood that misted his clothes and the sweat running down his forehead. His body is parched already, made weak beneath the rays of the bleeding sun, and he's smart enough to realize that no matter what condition he's in, he can't sustain excessive running in this sort of damp heat. He needs water if he wants to keep going. Water, food, places to rest. Fuel for his exhausted body.
He can't allow himself to get fatigued, especially when he has no provisions or noteworthy supplies.
He'll have to take things slow for the time being. Weigh the costs and benefits of his decisions, pay careful attention to his surroundings and the whereabouts of the other tributes.
Patron presses a hand to his forehead, tension building between his shoulders. A sigh escapes his mouth. How did everything manage to go so wrong?
No. It doesn't matter how things went wrong, just that they did, and he's now officially screwed. Perhaps he should have stuck with the alliance, but he can't waste time indulging his mind its second guesses. He should start looking around for a place to shelter - and for possible supplies. The cabins are bound to at least have some gear hidden within their wooden walls, and it's worth checking to determine his prediction.
He looks out toward the open circle. No sign of other tributes. Not even a footprint within the dirt.
Patron slips around the cabin's corner, making sure to wipe away his own trail as he moves. The move yields him a better view of his surroundings - twelve buildings surrounding a downset firepit, with the ruins of what appears to be a thirteenth off in the distance. He can see a foundation, with charred walls collapsing in on themselves, the roof caved atop its remaining skeleton, and the symbolism of the image isn't lost on him. These cabins represent the Districts.
Perhaps it's time to embrace the familiar.
He crosses the clearing quickly. There's a cabin built of light wood, yellowing like stalks of wheat under the summer sky. A golden 9 has been affixed to the door, right beside a dusty window. Patron makes his way toward the sill, stretching up to peer inside.
What he sees is entirely ordinary. A room full of organized bunk beds, fully made with sheets and pillows. There's a handful of items scattered about; a coat hanging from a hook on the wall, along with a sunhat and a pair of binoculars. Some papers laid out atop one of the beds, a canteen atop a wooden table in the far corner.
Seems my intuition was right, Patron thinks, scanning the room again to look for any visible traps. Looks like it's clear… the only question now is whether I can trust a first appearance. I wouldn't put it past the Gamemakers to play some tricks, given what happened last year…
His eyes narrow as he steps away from the window. It feels too simple to just head in through the front door, but he didn't spot any side entrances on the way down. Not that it should be too much of a problem - what does he really have to lose, besides the obvious?
Patron starts to turn. As he does, the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. He looks at the ground throughout the circle. There's footprints across the clearing.
His skin prickles beneath an unknown gaze. He isn't alone.
"I can hear you," he bluffs, keeping his voice as steady as possible. "Like it or not, I know you're here. Show yourself."
… nothing.
He presses his back to the cabin wall. Better for him not to leave it unguarded.
"Come on," he chides the lurker again, readying himself for an attack. "Don't be shy. I can see your prints in the di -"
"BOO!"
Patron jumps as a familiar figure leaps down from the cabin roof, her yellow hair wild with static. She laughs, loud and raucous as Patron's brow immediately furrows, tension prodding at his sore temples.
"Oh man, I totally got you. You should see the look on your face -"
"Is this a joke to you?" Patron questions, cutting Tati off mid-sentence. True to character, all she does is grin, her petulant aura entirely mocking. He sighs and looks away. "Gods. You are such an idiot."
"Oh, we're slinging insults? After I ran all this way just to save your sorry ass?" Tati asks, crossing her arms with a huff. "Bitchboy, that hurts. Really."
"I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but I think that counts as 'cruel and unusual punishment.'"
"Tell me, Patty, is your ass jealous of all the shit that comes out of your mouth?"
"Oh, you're a fine one to talk, Tati. You're about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. Save my ass? All you've done is tell everyone exactly where I fucking am -"
"Fight me, you ceramic bitch!"
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Nine, I swear, I will boil your fucking teeth -" Tati sneers, leaning in closer to his face. Patron shoves her back and spins around, preparing to stomp off in the opposite direction - but stops before he can take a step forward.
Tatiana may be a colossal pain in the ass, but… if she really did follow him out of the bloodbath…
"Do you really want to be allies?" He asks.
"Um, duh. I thought I made that pretty fucking clear."
He turns back around. Tati blinks at him, her face dusted with red from her previous frenzied shouting. Patron scowls, but nods his head at the door of the cabin.
"Fine. Let's go."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that," he agrees, unsurprised when Tatiana smirks, reaching out to punch him in the arm.
"I knew you'd come around."
"Yeah, alright. Keep telling yourself that," Patron glowers, trying not to spit when she throws an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the wooden stairs.
Just remember, he tells himself, it's never a bad idea to have a potential meat shield. Especially if there's a mutt.
(Someone has to be the one that runs slower.)
Could this day get any worse?
First, her sponsor ticket gets blown up. Tati's not actually all that broken up about Venice, but she's well aware that his presence was the only thing keeping Elysia Ansaldi from marking an X on her back. She may be an idiot, but she's not dumb enough to ignore the signs of a personal vendetta, and the loathing that the One girl has for her is extreme. So extreme, in fact, that if boiling teeth was actually a thing, Tati believes that Elysia would probably fucking do it, just to prove a point about how little she thinks of her.
Usually, being hated's just as fun as being loved. That's half the reason she spent so much time fucking around with Taji, even after he dissed the business and became a fucking pissant. But things are different here. Back in Six, if Tati pissed someone off, the worst she'd have to deal with was gossip, nasty insults and vicious rumors, with the occasional death threat here and there. Now that she's in the arena? Making enemies means ruining your odds, and she's not in the mood to deal with that shit. Elysia's one thing, but Ailith and Kellen? If they're pissed at her too, she's not going to stand a chance!
And yet she still ditched them. She put her ass on the line for the ungrateful dickwad that is Patron Midori, because she figured he'd make for a better ally than the ones that never really wanted her to begin with. They met their first day in the Capitol - Tati wanted to believe they made a connection. But now that she's here with him? In the arena, in person?
She's starting to wish she stuck with One and Two.
Which brings her to her second complaint: she has absolutely fucking nothing to show for her survival efforts. No supplies. No food or shiny weapons. She left the Capitol with jack shit in terms of sponsorship. And now? Now she's stuck with Fuckboy Patron who'd rather whine about her existence than accept the fact she's legitimately trying to help him.
Sure, maybe it's for her own self gain, but what does that matter? Tati came after him. She stayed, and…
… everything's a fucking mess. She's a mess. The Careers - if she can even call them that - are going to be on their tail soon enough, and Patron's wasted several minutes trying to kick down a locked door to absolutely no success.
It's times like these when she can't help but think of Taji's old adage, the words that half her District lived and swore by: life sucks, and then you die. That's it. Full stop.
… they're never getting through this door.
"Why can't things just be easy?" Tati asks, throwing her hands up in consternation. "Just once. I mean, come on Capitol! It's just mind game after mind game with you possum-mouthed dipshits."
"Could you please, for once in your life, just shut up?" Patron asks, and Tati purses her lips, throwing him a look to convey her annoyance.
"That door's not coming down," she tells him.
Patron rolls his eyes. "Yes, Tati, that's become increasingly obvious."
"If it's so obvious, why are you still poking at it?!" She hisses, reaching over to smack his bright red hand, noticing immediately that his fingers seem to have gotten stuck in a half-curl. "Let's just call it quits and get out of here."
"What happened to 'not backing down from a challenge?'" Patron questions, raising a single, polished eyebrow. Tati scowls and bares her teeth.
"Fine. But if somebody walks in on us, it's your bloody funeral."
"You're the one that's bitching. If they're smart, they'll kill you first."
"Wrong. I intend to live forever." She raises her chin, just a touch. Patron laughs and shakes his head.
"Right. How's that working out for you?"
"Pretty good," Tati replies, feigning a shrug. She raises her hand and pretends to examine her nails. "I mean, I've survived enough overdoses to pretend that I'm immortal. As far as I'm concerned, that gives me bragging rights."
Patron sighs. "Tati -"
"Hey!" A stern voice shouts, halting Patron in his tracks. He rises to his feet as Tati spins, only to be greeted by the sight of one very choleric Career, storming towards them with a sword in her hand.
Elysia.
"Damn, I was hoping they wouldn't find us this quick," Patron mutters behind her, but follows Tati as she makes her way down from the cabin stairs, trying to hide her fear behind a pleasant wave.
"Yo!" She calls back with a laugh. "Patron and I were just talking about going to look for you. Guess you found us first."
She plasters on a disarming smile, but it does nothing to halt the One girl's movements. Before Tati can even react, Elysia's hands are on her shoulders, shoving her back with excessive force. Her feet slip on the dirt beneath them and almost immediately she goes sprawling, falling flat on her ass while her former ally stands before her with a glower, murderous rage burning in her eyes.
"Ow! What's the big deal?" Tatiana snaps, already feeling the abrasions on her arms as she tries to ease herself up from the dirt. Elysia scowls.
"You know very well what the deal is," she retorts, leveling her sword at Tati's neck. There's a set of footsteps rushing forward behind her, the sound of two voices calling out, and when Tati glances past Elysia's shoulder she can make out the shapes of Ailith and Kellen, rushing to get across the camp circle. "You left us. Venice died, and you fucking ran, exactly like I always said you would."
Ailith appears at her back, her shoulders bent slightly forward. She reaches out to put a hand on Elysia's shoulder, only for One to brush her off, her fury unyielding. Tati swallows.
"W-wait," she says, and her intonation is so weak it nearly pains her, "we can talk about this. It's not as cut and dry as it looks."
"Really?" Elysia looks skeptical.
"Really!" Tati lies, pushing herself into a sitting position. She can feel jitters in her arms, a shudder coursing through her spine. Panic swells within her stomach, turning it over and surging up into her chest, making it hard for her to breathe. She feels helpless, just like she had on reaping day, when the escort called her name for selection. Like when Taji sold her out, casting her back into the gutters without a second glance, because he was too self-righteous to see the merit of her designs. When push came to shove, he'd had no qualms about selling her down the river to save his own skin, cutting her loose as collateral damage to secure himself an out. Where had it even gotten him?
Lowtown kids grow up with nothing. Crime, poverty... the ills of morphling, X and dust. Those are all staples of their miserable lives, staples of the unfortunate who are destined to live either on their backs or on their knees, bleeding themselves dry for respect they'll never obtain. People might hate Tati for dealing, but she had her reasons for getting into the business, and both she and Taji needed the money. If she lost her soul in the quest for recognition, what did it fucking matter? At least she'd have something to show for her efforts.
(They'd had a good thing going with their drug business, plenty of income, plenty of customers, and he threw it all away for what? A guilty conscience?)
"I don't believe you," Elysia sneers, not budging an inch. "Why should I? Only lies come out of your mouth."
Tati bites down on her tongue, stifling the words that want to spring from her vocal chords.
"You like to talk, right, Six? Let's talk. Give me one good reason not to kill you."
The tip of the sword edges closer, resting under her chin. The threat is enough to turn Tati's head up, forcing her eyes to meet Elysia's, so cold and distant even when they're spiteful. She swallows, her throat bobbing as she looks to Patron, to Ailith…
To Kellen.
The others are expecting us to cause trouble, but they aren't expecting us to do it together,she remembers him saying, a snakish smirk upon his lips as he stood outside Six's door in the centre. Us loose cannons have more firepower as a united force. Don't you agree?
Tati's lips part as she watches him, her expression practically pleading. Come on, Kellen. If you meant any bit of what you said, put an end to this right now. You can stop her. Just say something. Say - !
"Elysia, we need them."
Ailith's hand is firmly placed on Elysia's sword arm, halting it for the time being. Elysia's head turns and Ailith frowns, but she doesn't make to drop her hand, nor does she step back. She's resolute.
"Do we?" Elysia asks, raising an eyebrow. "What have these two done for us? Nothing of significance. Nothing of value -"
"They bolstered our numbers," another voice says, and that one is Kellen. Fucking finally, Tatiana thinks, using the interlude to edge her throat back from Elysia's blade. "Think about it, Elysia. Five's running with Eight and Four now - you told me as much when we left the cornucopia. With Venice dead, they've got us at a disadvantage: four to three, if we don't take the outliers. So why not use their presence to our advantage? Even if Patron and Tatiana aren't fighters, keeping them around will even our footing. We'd have better grounds for a confrontation. And if nothing else…"
Kellen looks to Tatiana. His lips stretch into a thin line, the barest hint of a venomous smile.
"We'll have two extra bodies at our disposal. There's plenty of value in that."
"Oh, fuck you," Tati says, her eyes narrowing. Kellen rolls his eyes, but the smile remains upon his lips, even as he turns his back.
Elysia lowers her sword.
"I can… see the logic," she agrees, sounding as though it pains her to admit. "Fine. You're with us."
Ailith drops her arm, and takes a step forward, extending it to Tati. Their hands clasp tight around each other and she hefts the Six girl up from the filthy ground, not letting go until Tati's posture has been righted, and she seems stable enough to walk.
"... thanks," Tati murmurs, though the term sounds unappreciative. Ailith doesn't seem perturbed by it, though, and merely offers her a nod of condolence.
"Of course. What are allies for?"
Ansel is used to being disappointed.
Regardless of how others might try to spin it, his life has been little more than a flurry of disappointments; one negative consequence after another. His parents' deaths - or perhaps abandonment on the part of his father, who left one morning and never returned. The authorities hardly even bothered to look for him; what point was there in combing the streets for a lowlife from Knocktown, when the simple answer was that he'd been either killed or arrested? Plenty of people from their side of the tracks disappear without a trace. It's nothing unusual. Unless Ansel returns, District Eight will be quick to forget him.
(They were quick to forget Xay, too.)
After his parents there was Andre. The older brother who never saw his hidden potential, who always treated him like a pathetic child, despite Ansel's intellect and his skills with a knife. He was no less adept at smuggling drugs than his sibling. He was not a liability to Andre's business, never even interfered in his work until the day that Andre snapped, told him that he was a waste, he didn't know anything about how the world worked, that his ambition would eat him alive and leave him dead inside a gutter, no different from their missing mother.
You're in over your head, Ansel, he had said, turning his back on the brother who once revered him. You think this life is easy? You'll kill yourself.
(Not that it's a concern to me. You die, and what do I lose but problems?)
Ansel's fingers curl into the palm of his hand.
Andre had visited him before he left. Cuffs around his hands, he'd let the Peacekeepers escort him into the Justice Building under the guise of saying goodbye. If only goodbye had been his chosen phrasing - even now, Ansel can feel his words, cutting into his flesh like razorblades.
I never wanted you. I raised you because I was forced to.
If I had simply left instead of keeping you close, giving you succor and shelter, I wouldn't be stuck rotting. You're a poison, brother. You destroy everything you care about, everything that surrounds you. I won't mourn if you die in the Games.
(I won't miss the monster you've grown into. Despicable. Disgusting. Depraved.)
The business of selling drugs came with its own hurdles. More than half of them were business partners. He's got scars beneath his clothes, the remnants of places where his body was beaten, shot and stabbed. So many allies had tries to strike him down, thinking they had the right to fuck him over because you're a Knocker and you ought to expect this.
If Ansel had more time, he'd have found them. Hunted them down, one by one, and carved them up like a bloody butcher. He knows how to kill, how to make people suffer. If the Games hadn't called for him, he could have done it. He could have done… so much…
(What a waste of potential.)
But that's besides the point. His lifetime of wheeling and dealing is over, now. He has no family, no work, no colleagues with greater than suspect motives trying to drag him down. Except… that last part isn't exactly right, is it? There was one; a boy he met in training, a boy that he tried to follow.
They could have been partners, but Atlanshi's chosen different. His presence, which Ansel had monitored with the detached interest of admiration, is nothing more than the latest in a long string of disappointments, and Ansel isn't sure what he expected.
Nothing in his life stays close for long. In that sense, perhaps he is a poison.
… or perhaps Atlanshi simply wanted a pawn. Just like everybody else.
Ansel laughs.
"So that's it?" He questions. "You want to part ways, after everything I did for you? Everything you confessed to me?"
"Yes. You upheld your end of the bargain… and as of last night, my own promise has been fulfilled." Atlanshi says, his arms clasped in front of him, his words steady and even. He looks at Ansel's face, unflinching in his stoicism. "There is nothing left for us to offer each other."
"Oh?" Ansel questions, stepping closer to his so-called business partner, his stature imposing enough to shadow Atlanshi's form. He stares at him with a reticent glare, unyielding stone fixed upon a set of darkened pools, anger roiling beneath his skin. "Are you sure about that? Ready or willing to stake your life on it, when you haven't given me so much as a sliver of evidence that our compromise was met?"
"Ansel," Atlanshi whispers. "You can trust me."
"I don't trust anyone," Ansel snaps, no small amount of vitriol within his jagged words. He knows better than to put faith in human beings, flawed and fragile as they all are. Atlanshi may be different from most of the lot - intelligent, conniving, ruthless enough to demand Ansel's respect - but when you boil it down, a witch is as flawed as any other human. Their compulsion can only extend so far.
"You are making a mistake," Atlanshi taunts him. "I displayed my back to you because I had hoped that we might part on relatively genial terms. But now that I see you in your fervency, it's clear that my faith was misplaced."
"Not the term I'd use," Ansel sneers. Something in his gut shifts, organs turning beneath the skin, fat and muscle that comprises his abdomen, and he grits his teeth to force back his nausea. It is rare that he allows himself to feel the full force of his emotions, but in this moment he cannot contain his frustration. Atlanshi has used him. Just like Andre. Just like her -
No. This isn't a betrayal. Not by definition of the word. But there's something grating about Atlanshi's indifference that stirs the blood beneath Ansel's skin. He has never responded well to dismissal. Be it by his peers, his brother, or the pathetic denizens of his ill-favored District, the sting of an insult is hard to ignore, and a dismissive attitude is insulting.
Ansel curls his lip, bruises smarting beneath his uniform. He doesn't have time to waste on a person as difficult as Atlanshi, and yet here he is anyhow, incensed by his aura of mystical mischief. The voice that he had found to be so endearing when they met in the Capitol has become almost grating, like thumbtacks coated with a veneer of paint, poison doused in delicious sugar. Atlanshi opens his mouth and Ansel grabs hold of his shirt, dragging him closer, closer closer, until he can see every blemish of his skin and sunspot on his dark cheeks.
"You swore an oath to me -" He hisses.
"And I upheld it." The boy from Four smiles, remaining still as a blighted statue, without even a hint of perturbation worn in his expression. "Our partnership was forged to last only for the time Fate deemed necessary. Now that the stage has been set for absolution, such necessity has expired. This is where our paths diverge, Ansel Zilliah. You have no reason to cling to me."
Ansel's fingers uncurl from his shirt, his hold easing significantly. He's pissed, but he's not going to show it. Not when there are other, far more practical ways of sating his ire toward the boy from Four.
"You're correct," he responds plainly. "So I will not cling."
Atlanshi frowns. His eyes dart away, the lines of his face barren from guilt. He licks his lips.
"... perhaps that was an improper term," he murmurs, hushed and low as Ansel releases him. "I apolog -"
"Save your breath," Ansel says simply, his hand moving toward the twisted cloth protruding from Atlanshi's pocket, lips downturned in warning. "I'll leave you, but remember this - if you refuse to be my ally, then you must settle for being my enemy. If you die, I will shed no tears, nor will I bother to mourn your memory. If I see you again, I will tear into you without hesitation, and I will continue to do so until your body is well and dead. Your life means nothing to me."
He pushes his former ally away, taking another step back, his visage to be split by a frosty smile.
"I have little love for those I consider rivals."
He turns on his heel. As he expected, Atlanshi does not chase after him, nor does he call out as Ansel walks into the forest, a satchel of supplies strapped to his back, his shoulders set in resignation. He reaches the treeline without glancing back, but cannot help turning his gaze when a gust of wind comes rolling through the woodland, ruffling his hair and his absurd-looking clothes.
When he deigns to turn his head, Atlanshi has disappeared.
Ansel's gaze wanders down the hill, across the open and bloody field standing in front of the grand entrance hall. Two figures have lingered, milling about by the front entrance, and Ansel knows instinctively that one of them is Cordura.
She has her allies. If he goes after her, she'll put up a fight.
But if he can snare her into a trap… perhaps he'll be able to settle his score.
Cordura Faux. Atlanshi Bleumoon. What does he care for either of them?
Ansel has always been alone.
It's for the best that it stays that way.
It's been some time since Hollister last had a feast this grand.
Twice this day he has held a blade to the neck of unwilling prey, and cut a line through supple skin to find the treasure which lay beneath it. Thrice this day he has tasted blood, for only two of this day's numerous deaths can be lain across his shoulders. He would never have crossed paths with the third had Lethe not been beside him, watching him rejoice in the red tides of battle, seeking targets to further his pleasure and enhance the bond that they've created.
They are not broodmates, but they are close - they are darkness, they are cryptid, they are vicious, primal maleficarum in the form of two damned children. Through the sacrament of their joined hunt, Lethe has become ken to him; though he is human, he is also not, and there is something about that which thrills Hollister immensely.
Lethe may not be vampiric in his nature, but he is a worthy creature in his own right. Human-yet-not, mythoi-yet-not. It is a curious thing to see his detachment from the term he has used to define himself. Human… human… is Lethe human or is he bestial? Is he the sort of being that would dare to pose threat to that of Hollister, whose many nights stalking Twelve's barren streets have only proven the accuracy of his choice to call himself vampyr? He has cut through so many creatures; rodents, mammals, carrion… none stood a chance at resisting his fangs. Yet this ally of his… this spectre of sublimation…
He is worthy of Hollister's affection.
As he sits atop a wooden bench, gaze cast upon the mirror-lake's rippling surface, Hollister finds himself ruminating. This symbiosis that has sprung between them 'twas not something he expected, and yet it feels perfectly natural. The blood which sits heavy in his tarnished bottle merely affirms this conclusion. They are poised to carve destruction - through this Games and through their lives thereafter.
He looks up at the sky as the Capitol's anthem sounds, a fitting cessation for the cannonfire concerto that still rings within his ears.
"Seven," Lethe says from at his side, and Hollister nods accordingly.
"Fifteen left to stalk and kill," he concedes. Sooner or later they'll all be fallen, but he intends to savor this moment. Twelve sent him here and told him to die, but instead he shall reap death from all who stand and live around him. Should he soon pass, it will not be in silence.
"We should make camp," Lethe says, but he does not move. Hollister nods his head, captivated by the haunting tune of a country that should be familiar.
(He does not consider himself to be of Panem. Nor do most of the people in Twelve, abandoned as they've been by their countrymen. Perhaps that is why he has felt so displaced, ever since he set foot on the Capitol's train. He is not simply inhuman, but alien to Panem's people and overarching culture. Senn had used the term 'backwoods,' and Hollister does not deny that it is fitting, even if his mentor was quite crass. Outside of the arena, their worlds are vastly different. He imagines it would be a similar case were he to divulge details of his past to Lethe, who grew up in a land of railyards, smokestacks and rushing cars.)
When the first of the fallen overtakes the sky, Hollister takes another swig from his uncapped bottle, savoring the taste of the blood within. It has a sting that lingers upon his lips, the vital fluid caressing his fangs and lulling him into a place of contentment.
Tonight he shall rest easy. His thirst has finally been quenched.
One's face fades into the girl from Three, the boy from Seven, so on and so forth, until the procession finally ends, sparing him of further tedium. The mirror-lake continues rippling, glistening with the consistency of liquid crystal beneath the rays of a thousand stars.
'Tis the night of a new moon. As such, the sky itself remains darker than most, lit only by a shallow crescent that Hollister finds quite lovely.
This day hath been a day of indulgence, fruitful in its completion.
Yet with that said, he cannot rest. He still has quarry to find, come the 'morrow: the girl from Ten and the boy from Three, who have proven themselves far peskier than Hollister would like. He would have them both eviscerated for what they have done. Their escape is a taunt, slandering both him and the pride he has clung to, worn thin by weeks spent on the floor of a prison, his hands and feet locked in shackles.
(Never again, Hollister resolves. Never, never, never again.)
A chill takes him, the path of it arcing over his half-bent spine, breaking loose to trace the path of his undying nerves. He cannot keep his form from tensing at the unusual sensation, the canteen within his hands shaking as he moves to cap it over, concealing the remnants of Lethe's gift.
'Tis strange for Hollister to feel so human, with his vessel half-bare and vulnerable, but 'tis stranger still that he dothn't mind it. He cannot remember being so soft since his last eve spent alongside the Hargraves - his almost-parents, who held warmth enough in their hearts to make haven for a Night-born Child, despite the understanding that he was never one of them.
Perhaps they did not know of Hollister's affliction, but his low birth was never a secret. The Seam's stench has always clung to him, coaldust scorched throughout his blackened veins, like ichor from Twelve's blighted earth laid to rest inside his tormented body. He had seen it on Belladonna's lips that final winter, watched it burrow through the scabs upon her legs, rotting her flesh from the inside-out.
(Others called it tissue-death, a plague that Twelve's highborn termed as necrosis. Hollister had only ever known it as Seamrot, and he is aware that it lives within him, festering with taint. The only reason he has lived this long is because true-mother blessed him - her blood made him strong.)
He licks the last droplet of red from his lips, tucking his canteen inside its burlap holster. Between Vehaan and Lethe's gift, a child who died without a name, Hollister feels rejuvenated. So long has he craved the taste of life's essence that he forgot how well it died on his lips. His eyes find the shape of Lethe beside him, and in a moment of tomfool, Hollister extends his hand, resting his fingers on his benefactor's arm, fondness on his visage unbidden.
"Lethe," he says, and his compatriot turns his head, his flesh gleaming with youthful virtue, unweathered by the blemish that stains Hollister's own. "Your goodness hath forced me to a silence."
Beneath the blanket of abyssal night, Hollister relinquishes his trenchant guard, exposing his true and most honest emotions. He forces them to rest at the tip of his tongue, allowing himself to feel the thrill of split skin and open wounds, atrocity perpetrated by a pair - not simply an individual.
"In all shapes under the most fearful aspects that can appear," he professes, voice softened to a whisper. "I am yours."
His ally, much as he expected, does not respond, does not so much as spare glance to Hollister's face, and for that he is almost grateful. On a cool eve such as this, 'tis awkward for his cheeks to hold a dash of color, especially after such admission. He turns his head and looks away.
At long last, Lethe withdraws, rising from the dirt to stand on his boot-clad feet.
(For the first time in many moons, fate has smiled upon Hollister Crowe.)
(For the first time in many moons… he feels euphoric.)
Kellen Akos is a monster.
He's been averse to calling himself that; averse to claiming the name that his District gave him when they caught him prowling the streets, dressed in shades of midnight black, switchblade tucked away inside his right pocket. How many nights had he wasted lurking in alleys, waiting behind corners for a challenging mark with fat pockets he could readily pick? How many days did he spend with his skin coated red, hands drenched by spurts of blood as he murdered those that Vaclav deemed unwilling, snuffing out lives for the sake of avarice?
It's true that Kellen is avaricious. His head is filled with greed and the lust of ambition, his spirit constantly in tumult over his desire to indulge, to corrupt and consume. After so many years spent bowing his head, his skin coated by the grime of orphanhood and poverty, he'd been desperate to carve out a place for himself. He wanted to be strong.
The weak will die without resolve. That's a lesson he learned early - before he'd ever taken hold of a knife or cut a man's throat, before he'd so much as picked his first pocket. To survive, a person must prioritize only themself - their own livelihood, their own desires. Their own aspirations, whatever those might be. Empathy is nothing but an invitation for danger. Vulnerability is tantamount to suicide. And yet, even with his mentor's training, the choice he made to turn his back on his family and forsake the past that hurt him, Kellen is still…
He sighs.
He can hear the others talking behind him. Tatiana sits by herself on the stump of a tree. Elysia's gone to check the perimeter, despite Kellen's assurances that everything was clear. Even with their agreement, he can tell she's not the type to put faith in his work. That could easily prove a problem further down the line. Kellen will have to keep a close eye on her - well, closer than the one he already is. If he can't get into her good graces before the time comes for a split, the knife he sticks in her back won't sink as deeply as it needs to. Given his overall situation, he can't afford to make any mistakes.
He closes his eyes, drawing in another breath. The first day may be at an end, but he's still got plenty of hurdles left to tackle. Elysia. Ailith. Patron and Tatiana.
The boy from District Eleven.
No. Kellen's teeth sink deeper into his cheek, blood pooling on his curdled tongue. Don't think about that. Don't think about him. He's not worth the weight of guilt. He. Was. Nothing.
(… he wasn't nothing. He wasn't strong, he wasn't tough, and when Kellen attacked him with his daggers, the sorry brat didn't even try to fight back. Kellen had no real reason to kill him, much less to tear him open the way he did, and yet he had done it nonetheless. For the sake of the Game.)
(For the sake of his victory.)
At the fire, Ailith is chatting with the boy from Nine. Patron, Kellen reminds himself, for it's never a bad idea to know the names of your enemies, especially when you'll be breaking bread with them. There's a lilt to her voice that rings of personal sentiment, and the sound of it gnaws at him, piercing deep into his ears like a doctor's needle, poison to his fucking brain.
(What was Eleven's name?)
(Better yet, why does he care?)
His time on the streets jaded him, but Vaclav made him ruthless. Kellen's hands are stained with blood, bound to violence and calloused by sin. He's not even sure how many people he's killed over the last few years, only that with every death there was a consequence. This sort of… aching dread that dispelled into apathy, anhedonia clawing at his bones.
(What would Kayla say if she could see him now, drowned and subsumed by the waters of his own desperation? Would she still show him her love and affection? Would she still claim him as her little brother, the one she said she stole away to protect from their parents' hedonistic self-destruction? She and Kaden meant everything to him once. In a way, they still do. He hasn't wanted to admit it, because he's not the brother they knew or trusted, but he still - he feels - he - fucking feels - !)
A shout escapes him as he presses his hands against his head, digging fingers into his scalp, his messy hair, his throbbing skull.
Shut up, Kellen thinks. Shut up, shut up -
"SHUT UP!"
He is a monster. He is chaos, and venom, and caustic aggression. He is wrath and greed and rage and hate. He is pain and all that entails, but more than that, he is - he's -
Fucked in the head.
"Kellen," a voice says, and it's not her, it can't be her, but the echo of her voice is so fucking similar it's grating. Ailith's hand rests upon his back, in a facsimile of comfort that his mind still registers as Kayla, sister, safety, help. He can feel the warmth of her hand between his shoulder blades, seeming through the fabric of his clothing to strike at his very core and it isn't right, it's fucking pointless, get away from me, get away from me before I snap I'm not your ally I'm not you get away from me and stop it with the godsdamned talk - !
"I don't want your sympathy," Kellen hisses, unable to say anything else. He can't - hold himself together, can't calm himself, they're all so annoying, so frustrating, so motherfucking loud!
His shoulders start to tremble. Looking down at the fair-skinned hands resting in his worthless lap, all he can see is the blood beneath his nails, fragments of corruption he can never dispel. He can't resurrect the dead. He can't unkill Eleven or get his fucking life back because he's an idiot, he's a sentimental fool, he is fucking weak and he was asinine to believe he could usurp Vaclav. Asinine to believe that his life meant anything, when his own parents never gave a fuck about him, squandering their time with drugs and liquor and pointless games of poker while their children were left alone to spiral. He's still pissed that she didn't tell him, still so fucking bitter, but it's been five - seven - ten bloody years since he learned the truth, and it ought to be ancient history.
The past never stays buried, Kellen's inner voice whispers, soft and subtle as if the words are clandestine. He's heard that phrase before; doesn't know where, maybe it was a mark, the faces of the dead have all but blurred together, so many kills, so many wastes.
Kellen's teeth grit together, bared in a snarl as he turns his head, shrugging Ailith's touch away. He doesn't want it. He doesn't want pity.
"Sorry," she says, "I just thought -"
"You didn't think," he snaps, "that's half the problem. Nobody here uses their fucking head!"
He reaches for his knife, laid to rest in the forest dirt. Overhead, the sky is fully dark, stars glittering like teardrops against the backdrop of void. Kellen looks at them and he feels lost, a minute and infinitesimal presence amidst a predacious world that only threw him in here so they could watch him burn.
It's true that a part of him wanted the Games. In fact, there's a part of him that still does, regardless of what's been said and done. A competition that separates weak from strong; a place where those who call themselves survivors can assert before the world their superiority and claim for themselves the title of Victor through sheer skill and force of will. It's always sounded so idyllic. And yet…
One part does not constitute the whole.
Kellen grips the hilt of his dagger, standing to his feet.
"I need some air," he says, turning away from the fire and his supposed comrades, all pawns within the design of his grand plan. The only rival he has here is out in the forest, depreciating his work and his literal effort, and fuck if he doesn't want to bash her head in.
"Be careful," Ailith says, and Kellen laughs.
"I always am," he replies, sliding his dagger back into his belt.
He was taught to be a weapon.
(It's not his fault if other people wind up bleeding when they get too close.)
A/N: My Own Summer by deftones.
Honestly I'm not super happy with how this one turned out, barring one or two POVs, but hopefully you all enjoyed anyhow! The pregames poll is finally closed, and the results are up on my profile; there will be a new poll around the time we finish Day Three's set of chapters, so keep an eye out for that. Hope everybody's doing well and having a lovely weekend. Until the next!