day two: starless

The things I survived pushed me to the darker side;
With life as it was, the life that was yours should've been mine.

Cordura was just a child when her world was set on fire.

One of the worst things about living in Knocktown was the smoke, which billowed in dark plumes from the factories' smokestacks, thickening the air and poisoning the residents lungs. The rundown tenement that she'd called home for fifteen years always reeked of chimney soot, a smell that was only made thicker by Challis' affinity for indulging in cigars. She thinks her mother had smoked, too, but truth be told Cordura can't really remember. So many years have passed since she lost her mom - since she and Muslin watched from the dark confines of their hiding closet as their own father pulled a gun, raised it and shot Georgette in the head.

The blood that pooled on the floor had looked like the petals of a flower. A carnation, maybe, Cordura isn't sure - Taffeta was the one who dabbled in floristry, talking about how certain plants had certain meanings. Lilies were innocent. Asters stood for patience. Red roses indicated passion, but black ones were synonymous with festering hatred.

Cordura doesn't remember them all, but she remembers this: crimson carnations stand for heartache, self-pity and sins of the flesh. When Taffeta had told her that, the image of her mother's corpse, gushing blood from the open hole in the side of her head, had made sense. The afterimage of the blooming carnation was an embodiment of her parents' vices… vices that they had passed onto Cordura, in disgusting and depraved ways.

She never meant to become them. Never intended to allow her pain to break her innocence, or let her desire for acceptance dissolve her morals. Though Cordura had been tempestuous even as a girl, she had always done her best to mind her anger, refusing to fall victim to the jealous wrath that drove Challis into his frenzies.

"You can't let him win," she remembers Muslin saying, words fraught with the angst of her tears as she clung to Cordura's arm. "If you say anything, he'll kill you. Cordy, please, you're all I have."

A frown turns her lips as she tosses her token back up, snatching it from the air on the comedown. Worst thing about nighttime? It somehow brings up all the bad memories.

She shakes her head.

Heh. Could probably switch watch if I wanted… not sure why I'm waiting… guess Vyn's just too cute when she sleeps. Lucky brat.

Cordura glances out at the moonlit hall, the wooden floors still coated in places with the blood of the fallen. She'd dragged them out before they'd set camp - why let them hang around when all they'll do is attract flies? - and laid the corpses out in the launch clearing, but there are remnants that remain; streaks of red, here and there, bits of skin shorn from muscle, even a few hairs, matted still with gore. It doesn't bother her as much as it probably should - Cordura grew inured to suffering a long, long time ago - yet a part of her still feels… dismantled…

(They'd tried to hide when Dad got angry. Curled in on themselves in their Hiding Closet, little knees pulled up to their chests, nothing but a flashlight to keep them safe from the dark. Every time Father shouted, Muslin would start to wince, her fingers pulling frantically at the loose threads on her skirt, anxiety making her teeth clench.

Cordura always held her. Always, no matter what, because Muslin was shy where she was bold, soft where she'd gotten rough from years of torture. Even when Dad stuck his knife in her eye, she hadn't cried, hadn't fussed - she'd wanted to, 'cause it hurt and she hated pain when he pushed it on her, but for some reason she couldn't get the tears out. So Muslin cried for her - weeped in her place, because Cordura was too broken to give a shit about anything.)

(That was how they worked. Hard and soft. Abrasive and sensitive. Cordura can't recall any time more than one that their behavior had been different…)

Once. Just once.

(The coin's spinning. Shiny and bright, just like the sun, and Muslin's giggling at her side, her head resting right on Cordy's shoulder as she flicks the trinket, over and over again. The door's shut and locked, but she can still hear the smashes 'gainst the wall, all loud and heavy. She's used to them enough that she doesn't flinch, just keeps focusin' on the coin and letting it spin.

"I miss Mom," Muslin whispers, voice tiny and low like she's telling a secret. Cordy nods but doesn't say nothin', because if she talks too loud, then Dad'll hear, and he'll pull off the door again and take away their spot. She doesn't want that, and Muslin doesn't want that, so it's better to just stay still. Nod her head instead of saying "yeah, me too," even though she really wants to.

The coin topples over on the wood. It's enough to snap the little latch open and let the half-line show, and without thinking Cordy reaches out a hand, picks it up and shakes both parts out, her thumb running over the edge so reverent and gentle. If she touches them long enough, she can feel Mom - see her smile, weary and thin, and she hugged the girls against her in the night, playing little tricks with the golden coin and Dad's old set of cards.

"I want to learn magic one day," Cordy thinks she had said, cuddled in between her Mom and Muslin, a card just behind her ear. Mom had smiled and ruffled her hair, and Cordy turned partway over, looking at her with a plaintive face, wanting to ask but not able to do so - not with Dad so close.

"One day," Mom whispered, "you'll be able to do all this and more."

(You girls can do anything if you want it enough.)

Something wet tickles her cheeks as she flips the first coin, the two heads gleaming as they're caught in the flashlight's beam. A little sniffle escapes her throat, her vision clouding over with static as all the blood rushes to her head at once. Muslin's arms wrap around her back, and she shifts so Cordy's face is pressed into her neck, tears hidden by her sister's skin, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla.

Cordura can't help but laugh.

"I thought I was s'posed to be the tough one," she whispers, sobs choking her up. Muslin's fingers comb through her hair, thumb brushing the wet drops away from her face as she clings in silence, mourning everything she's loved and lost.

"It's okay," Muslin reassures her. "I won't tell if you wanna cry. 'sides, crying's not so bad, really… it helps you feel better, sometimes. I cry almost every night."

"I know," Cordy answers, gripping her tighter. "I can hear it when you do. I'm sorry I can't do more."

"Don't be," Muslin replies seriously. "It's the ones that lose their tears that I feel bad for. Not like you, you're still so real, but -"

"Like Dad."

"Yeah," Muslin agreed, nodding her head. "Exactly like Dad."

(No matter what, we can't let ourselves become him. We can't lose the heart that makes us human.)

(Cordy, promise me. Promise me you'll remember to cry when you need it.)

(Promise me you'll still think of me…)

"Shit," Cordura hisses as her coin clatters on the wooden floor, loud enough to make her allies stir. She turns slightly to look into the side room they'd chosen for their camp - small and limited in terms of space, but ultimately cosy. It's warmer than the main hall; Cordura can feel the difference just by leaning back. Her eyes dart toward the open sleeping bag, set in between Vyn's and Argenta's. Gods, even staring at it makes me tired. Maybe I should get some sleep. Maybe…

No. No, she's fine - she's done stakeouts longer than this, and in bloody heels at that. With how much time Spade and Taffeta spent at the casino, neither of them had time for any sleep. And frankly, Cordura had preferred it like that - it was difficult for her to see the dreamworld as an escape when all she ever had were nightmares. Though she'd have given anything to pass the days wasting away inside a fantasy, the invasive remnants of unwanted memories left her feeling out of place.

(Sometimes, she could hardly discern dream from reality when it came to the horror of her history. Her father, her sister… the Bengalines and the Foulards…)

(Them.)

Cordura quickly turns her head, refocusing her eyes on the supply tables, the windows, the barricaded front door. Honestly, she never wanted allies - never asked for Maevyn to start pestering her, or the Fives to waltz in with their brilliant audacity. Even now, she's not sure she can trust them; they owe her one, sure, but Cordura learned the hard way that humans are bad about keeping promises. Especially the angry ones.

… but she'd be a hypocrite not to give them a chance. Vyn likes them, they're relatively smart, and the demon child's downright cute when she's calling for someone's head. Not to mention, after the stunt they pulled yesterday, they're gonna be raking in sponsors like no tomorrow. Rebels or not, the Capitol loves a good show - so for now, Cordura's alright giving Five a pass.

Besides, she thinks with a smile, I give them props for trying to murk Ansel. It's a shame the kid's got trashy aim.

…

…

…

It's quiet. Aside from the wind rushing through the rafters, there's not a noise to be heard inside or out. Cordura casts another look back over her shoulder, blinking when she realizes that one of the previously prostrate forms is now sitting up, blinking at her with confused baby-blue eyes.

She doesn't even have time to open her mouth before Vyn's kicking off her sleeping bag and hopping up from the ground, making her way around Velezen and Argenta with no small amount of stumbles.

"What the fuck," Velezen groans. Maevyn giggles as she passes him by, practically stepping on his foot.

"Whoopsies! Sorry, don't mind me."

She twirls across the rickety floors until she reaches Cordura's side, then comes abruptly to a stop. Cordura raises a brow as Maevyn grins, plopping down on the ground beside her with her legs criss-crossed.

"Hiii," she greets manically. Cordura rolls her eyes.

"Keep it down or you'll wake the others," she reprimands. Vyn's mouth widens into an O, before she nods her head, trying to look serious. She scoots closer so their knees are touching, leaning sideways until her mouth is next to Cordura's ear.

"Is this better, Cordy?" She whispers, still caught up in her laughter, and the Eight girl makes a face as a few droplets of spittle shower the side of her head.

"Only if you keep the drooling to a minimum," she replies. Maevyn's cackling grows louder as she shoves her head against Cordura's shoulder, an arm winding around her rigid back.

"I'll be good, Mommy," she teases, her hair tickling Cordura's chin. Cordura hmphs but doesn't try to shake Vyn off.

Being cuddled is… surprisingly nice.

(It's been a long time since anyone held her like this.)

"You know," Vyn whispers, edging closer. "It was nice of you to go back for them. Argie and Zenzen."

"Oh, yeah, I'm a regular hero," Cordura snarks, her gaze once again fixating on her and Muslin's trick coin. "Trust me, as soon as he can move his face again, I'm getting Zen to repay my efforts. No good deed goes without a price."

"I can hear you, you know," Velezen's voice calls back from the sleep-pile. Cordura smirks.

"Go back to bed, asshole! You need your beauty sleep."

"Says the bald giant," he grumbles. Cordura raises her middle finger. Somehow, Argenta's still out for the count, letting out snores that could rival a car engine.

"I think you're pretty, Cordy," Maevyn pipes up again. "Zenzen's jus' got bad taste."

She nudges her head again. Her face presses along the curve of Cordura's neck, breath warm against her once-chilled skin. Cordura sighs and pulls her closer, removing Maevyn's arm from her back in order to wrap hers around the Four girl's. Vyn lets out a little sigh, cuddling in against her broader frame, and she can't help but feel a little thrill at the proximity.

(Cordura Faux is no longer a child, but the world's still burning around her. Yet while fire spreads inside her heart, the spark it inspires is different - because Maevyn Voydanoi is not Challis Faux. Maevyn Voydanoi is alight with desire, not with rage.

For that reason alone, Cordura doesn't mind the thought of getting burned.)

She didn't ask to be saved.

Pangaea knows that she's not a fighter; she'd accepted that much before the Games, back in the Capitol when the only weapons she held in her arsenal were gracious manners and a sugary tongue. She may have spent years carrying crates out on the ranch, saddling and riding horses alongside her father and brother, but the menial tasks that she'd used to build strength back home are all but useless in light of the arena.

She doesn't know how to wield a knife, swing a club or parry a sword. She doesn't know how to forage in the woods, build shelters from branches or even splint a wound - a multitude of skills that she desperately needs if she hopes to survive this dangerous Game!

Regardless of the time she devoted to the Capitol's training, her talents are hardly a match for those of her competition. Though she'd kicked and punched and diverted daggers, she'd been as useless in the bloodbath as she was in Ten; her body cannot handle the necessities of survival. And her heart…

Her heart can handle even less.

She couldn't save Castia.

She couldn't even save her hand.

And if Rhys had been even a second slower, she'd be lying on the floor of that lodge, riddled in puncture wounds - or worse, bite marks. Hollister had attacked her and she hadn't stood a chance, against his blades, against his arms, against his gruesome fangs.

(Even when she sleeps she can feel him atop her. Pinning her to the ground as she screams, tears spilling free from her too-wide eyes. She remembers spitting, writhing and kicking and cursing his name, all while he wore that gods-be-damned smirk, blood clinging to his scornful lips.

You cannot fight, she hears him say, his every word only serving to emphasize her helplessness. You can scarcely run. Honestly, you're useless, Ten - pathetic, foolhardy, a dithering wretch. Prey, no different from Castia. How does your blood taste, I wonder? How well does it spill from your throat?)

(She remembers him lunging, swinging his knives through the air by her head, her neck, her torso, relentless in his efforts to make a cut. He hadn't succeeded yesterday, but in her dreams he does. He holds her in place on that bloodstained floor, mania in his pitch-dark eyes, and runs her body through. Guts her, tears her open, pulls out her exposed innards. Somehow, dying never kills her - she's seen him four times in the last twelve hours, and not once has he had the decency to let her die. Just like Rhys, Hollister keeps her alive - to torment, to ridicule, to slander.)

When she woke last night, she'd woken screaming. Shoving at Rhys as he scrambled to her side, her bandaged hand crying out in pain as her fingers flexed, fighting a monster that wasn't there. She remembers choking on her own breath, her lungs heaving as her esophagus gurgled, bile surging up through her mouth, leaving her to feel as if she were suffocating on her own blood. She doesn't know how she fell back asleep, she just knows she couldn't breathe. She couldn't - she can't - she won't -

Rhys.

Pangaea blinks open her eyes to face the open sky, blue and cloudless above her head. The sun's golden sheen beats down on the landscape, warming her tired bones and lining her brow with a sheen of sweat. She's not sure why, but it feels muggy. The air - it's so thick, so rife with humidity, she's not sure what's happening -

"I'm burning up," she gasps, and startles at the sound of her own voice. Raw, hoarse… defeated in nature. She doesn't want to give up, not so soon, but she's so tired of feeling helpless. Tired of devoting her strength to a futile fight, one she cannot win no matter how hard she tries. The Games are an uphill battle - the Capitol designed them to weed out the weak, cast aside those they deemed unworthy and damn them to death…

Why had she ever believed they were gracious? Why did her parents hold them in esteem, placing Capitolite culture on a pedestal for Pangaea to gawk at, their every action made to emulate a government that's worse than cruel?

The Capitol doesn't give a fuck if she dies. They don't give a fuck about anyone, even their own! Just like the socialites she'd always hated in Ten, they wear painted faces to hide their scorn, and leech their contempt out around flowery words. Just like her District's worthless mayor, so fraudulent he doesn't even deserve the grace of having a name, they throw their brothers under so they can get ahead, and reap their rewards through use of a scapegoat, isn't that exactly what happened to her father, isn't that exactly why Panno ran away, why Vukasin hated her - they're all fake they're all liars, they're perfidious and they disgust me! I disgust me!

"How could I have ever been so blind?"

She weeps, pressing both palms firm against her eyes, her crushed hand throbbing and shrieking. The pain's so deep it's touching her blood, and fuck does it sting her deep…!

"Pangaea, it's okay," Rhys says, his hands locking gently around her wrists, pulling her guard away from her head and Pangaea cringes because he shouldn't see her like this. So bloody broken, verging on helpless. He won't stay with her if she's deadweight. Won't want her, will probably be sorry he even let her live. If she stays like this, injured and delirious, he's going to abandon her and then she'll be alone - she can't let that happen, she won't let it happen -

"- breathe -"

Pangaea's eyelids flutter open and closed, bloodshot orbs rolling in her skull. She can't think - her chest, her head, it hurts.

"Rhys," she manages to say, still feverish and flushed. "I'm going to... slow you down. I can't..."

"Breathe, Pangaea," he tells her again, stern like her impervious mother. "I didn't save you to let you die like this."

Am I dying?

Pangaea laughs, breathless and airy. No, she's not dying. Not yet. Rhys is right.

He went back for her. He had no reason to save her, no reason to attack Hollister, grab her supplies, bandage her up when they reached the forest, and yet he did it anyway. He believed she was worth the effort of keeping alive, and Pangaea will be damned if she doesn't repay that kindness.

Rhys helped me in good faith.

Good faith demands that I push through this.

"Don't worry," she says, sounding a bit more like herself. Her eyes finally discern the shape of his face, brown skin, curly hair, a brow pinched with a cynic's concern. Pangaea grins. "I'm too stubborn to go out like this."

Rhys' pursed lips start to even out, the corners twitching up. It's only a touch, but she thinks it's enough. There's some warmth still in his eyes, and it's growing more potent by the second.

"Good," he says. "I'm only willing to save your ass so many times."

She laughs again, and this time it's richer, full of the spirit she thought she left in Ten. Shifting her good arm back, she rests her weight on her elbow, easing her acedic body up from the grass, little fragments sticking to her peachy skin. It's hard to balance her frame with just one arm, but Rhys' hands are steady on her shoulders, supporting her uncertain movements where he can.

"Thank you," she tells him once she's able to sit, her legs curled partway underneath her, lame hand resting in her lap. The cloth and gauze feel strange, so tight around her fingers, but the sticks Rhys used to keep the bandages in place have held up well enough to take off some of the pressure.

"How'd you learn to do this?" Pangaea asks, curiosity getting the best of her. Rhys shrugs good-naturedly, his face stoic as ever.

"When you grow up the way that I did, you learn pretty quick how to take care of yourself." He turns his head, looking off into the brush behind her shoulders. "I also brushed up in training. Figured first aid would come in handy. Though it probably won't hold together for long - twigs are a pretty bad substitute for metal."

"Well, regardless of the longevity… I'm grateful."

Rhys once again dons that secretive little smile, and when he looks at her he almost seems mirthful. Pangaea can't keep from smiling back.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Rhys says, his voice betraying his bemusement. "It's just… the way you talk -"

"You're hardly any better!" Pangaea retorts, and this time he chuckles, shaking his head.

"I was going to say it reminds me of someone. Calm your tits, Princess."

"It does?" Her brows lift in inquisitive surprise. Rhys plays it off with another shrug, crossing his arms over her chest.

"Yeah, but it's not anyone worth talking about. Just another snooty businessman from the industrial sector."

"... oh." Pangaea responds dumbly, not exactly sure how to take that. She goes silent, returning her attention to her lap. Rhys pulls back and starts to stand.

"Anyway," he continues, "we should probably get moving whenever you feel well enough to stand. I haven't seen anyone lurking around here, but I figure it's only a matter of time. Better to stay on our toes than be sitting ducks."

"Oh… yeah," Pangaea agrees. "That makes sense."

"You think you'll be good in an hour?"

"I don't know… but I'm not sure it matters. If you think someone's coming -"

"Only a matter of time."

"Right," she agrees. "It just… sounds like we ought to make a quick exit. Keep moving while we have the chance, before anyone has an opportunity to catch up."

"Exactly," Rhys nods. "I'm sure the Careers will be out hunting - them and the boy from Twelve. Who I'd imagine is none to happy with us."

A chill climbs up her spine. Pangaea shudders.

"He's the last person I want to think about," she practically hisses, caught somewhere between terror and animosity. Just the thought of his eyes… that smirk and his fangs, bared like a viper waiting to strike…

"So let's make sure we stay out of his lane," Rhys concedes. "I'll start packing."

He starts to move toward the shade of a large tree, heading for the backpacks that are resting beneath it. Pangaea listens to his footsteps as they crunch through dirt and leaves, heading further away from the peaceful clearing and back toward the more imposing woods. Her gaze never leaves her hands, the fingers on her good hand curling as she stares at her splint.

If Twelve really is out for her blood…

Well, she's sure he won't make the same mistake twice.

Patron's used to feeling out of place.

In Nine, he felt isolated; caught in a liminal space between the sordid world of the nightlife and the bureaucratic world of his parents. The Midori name was practically a staple; everyone who was anyone knew Patron's father, and though his mother's name garnered less attention, even she had a circle of admirers. Thus, his upbringing was that of any industrialist from the outer crest of Panem's heartland - utterly privileged, and seemingly free of responsibility to anything beyond his parents' legacy.

What onlookers didn't understand is that any child born to wealth is also born to conditions.

His parents had never really loved him. In fact, for all that they deigned to brag of his accomplishments, tout about his grades and his community projects like they were spots of pride for the Midori clan as a whole, they had hardly even been around to raise him. He'd spent more time being coddled and shuffled about by nannies than he had in the arms of his mother, the self-absorbed and materialistic bitch who could scarcely be bothered to remember he existed. Patron's father had been better, but their conversations had always felt a bit one-sided; Father would talk about his work and the flow of business, and Patron would listen, nodding along whenever his intonation began to chance, doing his best to appear studious and devoted. As the sole heir to his parents' fortune, he was expected to be obedient - not prodigal.

(And yet that's exactly what he had become. The aristocracy's prodigal son, a lesson in how not to raise one's children, a cautionary tale for his wealthy peers. How dare he seek a life for himself, outside the boundaries that his family had set for him? How dare he indulge with the vices of the impoverished, letting his lust for life and love addle his brain, turn him into a wastrel?)

He'd lost his family's respect.

He'd lost Edward. He lost the dance.

Patron's not sure he has the emotional range to express how much that hurt him. Being cast aside for a newer model, then disowned entirely by the very man he'd sought to call a lover. Sure, their relationship had been one of mutual benefit, more of a business arrangement than anything else - but he had cared for Edward in his own way.

When he first hit the burlesque scene, he didn't fit in. His wealthy upbringing and lack of relative experience with Nine's "shady underbelly" was more than apparent; he had struggled to gain the recognition of his fellows without the use of bribery, and the men he found to sleep with only ever did it for the money. In a way, it's ironic that Nine should call Patron a whore when he was the one paying for transactions - flaunting his assets in the hopes that it would further his prospects.

Though he was always considered to be brilliant, his intellect did not extend to the streets. He was messy. He was foolish. He'd been assaulted, pickpocketed and mugged, and yet none of it had deterred him from finding his way back, night after night - to the red light sector and the underground clubs, bars that would look the other way when they learned Patron's age so long as he carried the proper cash. He wouldn't call himself naive, but he had been… reckless.

By some stroke of luck, Edward found it endearing. He became Patron's sponsor. Bought him the most extravagant gifts and showered him with affection - everything that the little Midori heir never got from his parents.

He supposes that's why the falling out was so painful.

But, all things considered, he hasn't done too badly for himself. Even with the brand of black sheep and bogeyman, he'd been getting his feet back under him before the reapings hit. Sure, the process was slowgoing - but his upbringing and his forays into Nine's clubs had taught Patron the virtues of being patient. If he'd given it enough time, he could have worked something out. Brokered a peace with his parents. Found a new sponsor, maybe in one of his fellow aristocrats. If worse came to worse, he could have even resettled in another District; he had the skills to make emancipation work, should he so desire…

He hadn't expected the Games. Perhaps he should have; wealth can only save a person so many times when they have no standing to accompany it. Nine had decided the moment he delved into battery that his name was practically forfeit. Like his father and mother, they cast him out. Like Edward…

He's out of place. Even here, he doesn't belong. Tati is one thing, but the Careers are another. He can feel Elysia's distrustful eyes following his every move, can sense the enmity bubbling under Kellen's skin whenever Patron so much as dares to approach him. The only one that's different is Ailith.

She's been… welcoming. Not friendly, per se, but congenial enough to stop Patron's flesh from tingling, his paranoia having grown near consumptive over the last seventeen hours. Though he's been assured of his supposed safety, he cannot help but feel that placing so much as a toe out of line might be grounds for his execution - most likely at Elysia's hand, though Kellen might give her a run for her money. Without Venice here to cement his position, he's well aware that this alliance isn't secure.

Not for him. Not for Tati.

He lets out a soft sigh, settling back down on the downed log that Kellen deemed secure enough to serve as a bench. The flaking bark is rough under his hands, scratching up the inside of his palms, but Patron doesn't have enough energy to care if he gets scraped. He's got bigger things to worry about - like the fact that he's going to be expected to fight against the maniacs that blew up Venice, and the same amazonian girl who beat the shit out of Elysia. With the vast difference in their skillsets, it would be a miracle if he survived in a contest of brute force with any of those tributes - or even the girl from District Four. From what Venice and Elysia said back in training, she's no less of a Career than the rest of them, regardless of her dismissal from the pack. The bone of contention between Elysia and the Fours came from the fact that she saw them as detrimental to her hyper-controlling plans.

Patron doesn't have enough information to say what any of their skills are in full, but he's got enough to figure he's outmatched. And though he's certainly made comments about turning Tati into a human shield, he has no interest in becoming one himself.

He'll have to figure out how to break away. Ideally soon.

Patron's never been comfortable with vulnerability, and right now he feels exposed. He's got no control over his present path, no control over his capricious allies… what's to stop any of them from throwing him by the wayside when the Games start to get tough? For all he knows, if Elysia doesn't prove herself by getting a kill, she's likely to just off him out of spite.

Well, no. That's not entirely true. She'll probably go after Tati first, given she can't seem to stop running her mouth. Gods, her voice is just beginning to grate on him! He can only handle so much idiocy in one place.

"- stressed. Everything alright?"

Patron's brow creases. He raises his head to glance around the clearing - mostly deserted, since Kellen and Tati left on their shift to scout the forest. Elysia's still hanging around, but she hasn't moved from her position by the treeline, seemingly in need of time to herself. Patron can't say he blames her. Although the day's been fairly quiet - Ailith's not the sort to be vocal, and neither is he, normally.

(It goes without saying that Tati Terranova brings out the worst in him. Honestly, she's got more of a knack than he does for pissing people off.)

"Sorry, come again?" Patron asks, making a physical effort to even out his features. He's not sure exactly how contrite he looks, but if Ailith's commenting on his expression, he's certain it's nothing pleasant. He'll have to work on that in the future.

"I just said that you seem a bit stressed," Ailith repeats, her words entirely even. She takes a few steps forward and to the right before she turns to sit, taking up the empty space on the log beside him, her hands resting against her thighs. Patron pauses, considering his possible options for a response. He could be honest, or he could lie - could make up a story to explain the look, or dismiss it altogether and stay aloof, pretending that he has no idea what she's talking about. If he's dismissive, Ailith will probably stay out of his hair. She's not as persistent as the others; not as openly skeptical. Perhaps he should…

"I'm fine," Patron says at last, scraping his teeth over the worried flesh on his lip. "Just have a lot on my mind."

"Because of the arena?"

"That's part of it." He shrugs, not bothering to turn and face her. Leaning forward, Patron rests his elbow on his leg, propping his chin up with his hand as he watches Elysia start to move, walking along their campsite's perimeter without even a nod in their direction.

"Let me guess," Ailith says, her voice dropping on octave. "Elysia's setting you on edge."

"It's not so much her as it is her type," Patron rebuttals. "She's a control freak."

"And that perturbs you?"

Patron smirks. "A bit. Don't get me wrong - I'm the sort that likes to have all the cards in one hand, myself - but I don't usually couple my perfectionism with my anger. It's a recipe for disaster."

"Sure," Ailith responds, neither dismissive nor fully empathetic. "I mean, I've met enough Peacekeepers in Two that I can appreciate that sentiment. But what exactly can we do?"

"Not much," Patron admits. "She's dead set on being the leader."

"So let her," Ailith says, shrugging one shoulder. "It's better for us to focus on keeping the peace. Leaders are the sort to wear themselves out trying to prove a point."

Patron's eyes flit over to her as he lifts one eyebrow, appraising.

"I'm surprised you see it that way," he responds. "Aren't you supposed to be some sort of rebel?"

"Even rebels have to know when to exercise caution," Ailith answers. "Being reckless is one of the reasons I lost my brothers. I don't intend to let myself die for the same mistake."

He blinks. Of everything the Two girl might have said, Patron hadn't expected that. An attempt at camaraderie? Sharing her loss? Is she trying to manipulate him, or is she simply making conversation? If it's the former, he can't say it's a very good attempt. But the latter…

"I'm sorry to hear about your siblings," he acknowledges, the sentiment tasting bitter on his tongue. Ailith inclines her head.

"I appreciate the condolence, though it's not necessary." She draws in a shaky breath. "What happened was my mistake. But I've learned from it."

Patron nods. "Sometimes that's all you can ask for."

Across the clearing, Elysia turns on her heel, her patrolling more like a disgruntled pacing, telling of her internal strife. The conversation dies out and Ailith remains quiet at his side, watching as the light in the open sky begins to dim, seconds turning into minutes.

"It's almost dusk," she says, rising to her feet. "Kellen and Tatiana should be back soon."

"She prefers Tati," Patron comments, unsure of why he does so. Ailith's eyes widen a touch, but she recovers her indifferent with a nod, reaching down and stretching a hand out to him.

"I'll keep that in mind." She says as he pauses a moment, before eventually reaching up to reciprocate her grip.

"Take first watch with me?" Patron asks. "Elysia won't trust me to do it on my own, but she might be more lenient if there's a dog to mind me."

He watches Ailith's face carefully, trying to discern her reaction to the comparison, but she remains frustratingly blank, only giving him another nod.

"Sounds like a plan."

Patron gets to his feet, relinquishing his ally's hand. Ailith wastes little time in turning her back, wandering back toward Elysia, who has finally decided to approach the camp. He watches as they stop beside one another, Ailith's lips moving as she relays the request he'd just made. Elysia nods, then passes her by.

He's not sure what to make of it. Not sure what to make of Ailith, so phlegmatic compared to the rest of this group's tempests. But perhaps he doesn't need to have all the answers.

For now, she seems to be on his side.

Maybe for now, that's all that matters.

There are few things in life that Lethe enjoys.

One would be solitude; the ability to exist in a space on his own terms, without the possibility of interference. He's grown accustomed to dealing with the company of other people, but should he have a choice, he would always prefer to spend his time alone. Socializing is, and always will be, overrated. Part of the reason he prefers Mouse to humans is because the little mutt never pipes up unless something's awry - exactly as Lethe prefers it. People would do much better to talk less.

Another would be food. He hasn't been able to really cook for some time, but before he left his mother's house, he had spent quite a bit of time in the kitchen. Baking relaxed him; the simple act of kneading dough with his nimble fingers, twisting it into shapes entirely of his own design… it was, for the most part, a pleasant pastime. Lethe preferred to make desserts, in no small part because he has a sweet tooth, but he'd learned plenty of dishes to satisfy his other cravings as well. Salty, savory, spicy; food was a language entirely its own.

(Nowadays, he can eat mostly anything, including garbage. Living underground tends to limit a person's options quite drastically.)

The third enjoyment of Lethe's is odder than the others - partly because he's always revered silence, and partly because were anyone else to take up the hobby, he has no doubt he'd find them pestiferous. Yet regardless of the hypocrisy that underlies his appreciation, he enjoys the sound of music - singing, whistling, noise procured from well-made instruments.

His harmonica.

The object falls into a category of its own, and yet since Lethe spotted it in the bottom of a workshop's dumpster, he's been entirely taken with the thing. Better still, it's small enough to fit in his pocket - one of the reasons he'd chosen to bring it to the Games as a token, once his name was called. He had few possessions of any meaningful worth, but his harmonica… his stupid, frustrating, worthless little harmonica…

It's special to him. Lethe isn't certain why, but he feels almost surprisingly attached to the thing. He'd had few comforts through his time in the sewers; perhaps that inclined him to love the object more than he should. However, regardless of the reasoning...

It takes him a second to find the right pitch, his own breath oscillating between airy and thick as he blows into the instrument. The sounds that emanate from the harmonica's other end become far more tolerable, caught in a tune that's almost somber. Lethe supposes it fits the mood.

Death is quite the somber affair.

"You do realize," Hollister says, terse as fucking ever, "that fiddling about with that... inaniloquent contraption... is going to garner attention?"

Lethe pulls the harmonica away from his mouth, letting out a breath far less melodic than the last. He looks at Hollister, eyes narrowed, taking in the older boy's crossed arms and tapping foot. Ironically, Lethe notes, it seems to be moving in an almost rhythmic pattern, not dissimilar from the tune he had recently hummed.

... well, then. It appears his blood-lusting companion is less irritated than he wants to appear.

Lethe raises an eyebrow, his gaze moving from Hollister's feet back to his ired face. When their eyes meet, a tinge of red seems to appear in the Twelve tribute's cheeks, flushing them a shade dark enough to contrast the rest of his pallor. Lethe drops his brow again, unsure what to make of that conniption. It's not as if Hollister cares for him in any way beyond the obvious. Even if he's been acting... off.

(Come to think of it, he did say some... unusual things last night. Which isn't exactly uncommon - most of what Hollister says could be deemed "unusual" - but the phrasing that he'd used was more... florid... than it typically is. Lethe had originally disregarded it; frankly, he disregards about half of what Hollister says, by and large because his companion is so relentlessly histrionic. What was another mystical declaration of monologue, after spending nearly a week being inundated with Hollister's verbiage?)

No, Lethe thinks, the barest hint of a frown fixing to his lips. That's... absurd. No, not just absurd, it's - asinine. This is the Hunger Games -Hollister's as aware of that as I am, and we both know that our arrangement can only last so long. Why would he bother bringing sentiment into this?

"Lethe?" Hollister says, and Lethe realizes after a beat that he must have been staring. He turns his head, focusing his mind on the previous question - or, rather, the previous complaint, given his dog seems given to do nothing but bitch.

"Don't care," he says simply, maneuvering his instrument back to its rightful position. Once more, he takes a deep breath and begins to blow, his fingers working against the open holes to turn chaotic volume into an organized tune. He hasn't had an opportunity to play like this for quite some time, so he intends to enjoy it.

Hollister can either suck it up, or he can shove off. Lethe doesn't care either way. He's never been a particularly social creature; never been the sort to indulge others in conversation, or pay attention to their pathetic cries for validation. It isn't his responsibility to entertain individuals when they are fully capable of entertaining themselves! If Hollister doesn't wish to pass the time listening to him play, there are plenty of other ways he can busy himself; he's old enough that he should be able to make his own decisions.

Lethe isn't in the mood to coddle him. Nor is he in the mood to ruminate on his ally's potential feelings of affection - or, stars forbid, his own.

(Perhaps Hollister does admire him, but what does that change? Admiration is the furthest thing from understanding.)

(Take Emani Avarese. His mother thought she was lovely, and perhaps to some people she was, but Lethe had found her to be a nuisance, more than anything else. No matter how she tried to shove her off, she was constantly getting underfoot, pestering him with her shyly flirtatious greetings and her acquiescent temperament. Lethe had always acted aloof because he thought that dismissal might drive her off, and yet his frequent snubbing did little to deter her grating sense of affection.

Emani liked to cling. Even worse, his family had encouraged it, inviting her over to break bread with them, pushing him to make small talk with her over dinner. I don't know why you won't indulge her, he recalls his mother saying. You should be glad she's taken an interest! It isn't healthy for a boy your age to be so isolated from his peers. Not to mention, people will talk, and I'm almost certain you don't want that.)

(Rumors can be vicious, sweetheart. You were raised to know how important it is to keep with expectations.)

(After everything your father did for you, everything he sacrificed, you're going to sit there and squander your potential? Let people whisper about you and call you a freak, knowing just how much shame you're bringing on his name?)

Lethe closes his eyes, trying to blot out the words and the thoughts from his brain. Somehow, it's harder to dispel the image - his mother's wagging finger, turned on him in accusation. Emani's jubilant rambling when he dared to give her the time of day, her tongue stumbling over words as she tried to keep a smile on her face.

… Hollister's blushing cheeks, such a contrast to his piercing eyes, dark and rich and full of hate. He seethed with malice for the world around him, and yet when he turned his gaze on Lethe, the bitterness of his glare seemed to dissipate. Even on that first day, when Lethe pinned him against the mats in the archery room, he hadn't seemed to be incensed. Rather, he just seemed curious. Fascinated, intrigued… a touch jealous, but still able to praise.

He's an oddity. Not merely for his delusions, but for the fact that he's managed to hold Lethe's attention, merely by proxy of existing. He didn't need to make an ally - the presence of another person is always so vexing, so aggravating, so troublesome that it's hard to deem worthwhile. But Hollister… his ally, his bloodthirsty, bombastic, brilliant vampire… his pet, his partner, his...

What is he to him?

Lethe's tune pitches as one of his fingers slips the key. The melody is ruined, the cadence fractured. His harmonica slips from his fingers and all that remains is a ruined note, hanging in the air like a belligerent spectre.

His eyes flutter open. The lake fills his vision, open and untouched, a mirror beneath the moonlight, no different than before.

"Lethe?" Hollister repeats, but he's not interested in speaking. He has no real reason to right now, what with the confusion still ringing in his ears. Frustration makes it difficult to speak.

He reaches down to pick up the harmonica, using his shirt to wipe any traces of filth or dust from its still mostly-shining surface. Tucking it away, he stands to his feet, moving past Hollister to the edge of the pier, and the sturdy pole that's been propping up their packs.

"Nighttime's better for a hunt," he tells his partner. "We'll have the cover of darkness. Surprise gives us an advantage."

"You wish to depart?"

"Why not? Neither of us are the sort to waste time by sitting around. Besides, I thought you had a vendetta."

"I…" Hollister begins. Lethe slips his harmonica into his bag, then reaches down to pick up his pack, securing the straps in place on his shoulders. He thinks, at once, of the key in his pocket, resting between the folds of khaki fabric with an unexpected weight. It would be good to figure out what door it opens - if they're fortunate, they may even find some better gear.

"We're leaving," he decides, rounding on Hollister. "I may not want Ten and Three dead as much as you, but the Games exist for the sake of spilling blood. It's time we get on with our task. Don't you agree?"

"I do," Hollister says, meriting a smile. Lethe nods once, then pivots back toward the land, striding forth in the summer air with lighter steps than before.

He's never liked lingering on his feelings. For now, the best distraction he has is to keep moving forward - dirtying his hands, spilling blood, piling up the bodies just as he did back home. He's not the sort for whom killing is compulsive, nor would he call himself eager to fight… but sometimes his urges get the best of him.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Stars forbid anyone impedes his path.

A/N: Starless by Crossfade.

And that's a wrap on day two! Had a bit of a harder time writing this chapter, and it was a good bit longer than I think I'd planned (one of the issues with doing several of this games' days as single chapters rather than in parts) - but hopefully it was enjoyable nonetheless. We have a couple quieter chapters left here before things start getting a bit more chaotic, so enjoy the "calm before the storm" while you still can... this arena may look nice, but I've got some pretty nasty plans in the works already. :)