day three, part one: blue monday
I still find it so hard to say what I need to say, but I'm quite sure that you'll tell me just how I should feel today.
There are fireflies hiding in the trees.
Elysia's been watching them since sunfall, for reasons she's not entirely certain she can explain. Distraction, perhaps, or a desire for escape - reprieve from the arena she'd sought to enter, because on some subconscious level, Elysia knows she doesn't want to be here.
Frankly, she doesn't want to be anywhere.
Not at home, listening to her parents hurl abuses at each other from the other side of a too-thin wall, their caustic voices so familiar that she'd long since learned how to tune them out. Not out in the streets, minding her drunkard sister as she slurred at passing boys and stumbled over her own feet, too fucking intoxicated to know right from left.
Not at the training center, where Anka's face seemed to appear everywhere she looked, plastered to the heads of the training dummies with teary eyes and a broken smile.
Elysia, it's okay, she remembers her saying, it's okay, you were upset, you won't do it again. It's okay, you're just stressed out, and you've got so much to deal with.
It's okay, I'm here for you.
It's okay, you didn't mean to.
it's okay - it's okay - it's fine, it's -
"Stop freezing up."
Elysia exhales, rolling onto her side, her back turned toward the open forest and all the beauty floating around it, lightning bugs fluttering around the stalwart trees, iridescent amidst the expanse of bloody-black. She closes her eyes, the pack beneath her head lumpy in all the wrong places, and tries to force away the thoughts - of One, of Anka, of everything that could've been.
She's tired.
Tired of getting stuck inside her own mind, so full of anger, pain and bitterness that she doesn't know how to be content. Tired of pretending that she's One's golden girl, their dutiful knight ready to secure victory at any cost, carrying their speeches about honor and glory on legs that are too unstable to even carry her, weighed down by all the guilt she's never dared to speak.
The Games were never about victory. They were never about pride, despite what her fellow trainees seemed to think, calling her haughty and hubristic when they thought she couldn't hear. No, the Games have only ever been about control: overcoming her fears and insecurities in order to prove her worth to a District that's never valued her in the slightest.
Elysia Ansaldi's here because the trainers decided she was expendable. Maybe she is, maybe she's not. Maybe Anka was right when she said she had a chip on her shoulder, and that's the only reason she's trying to fight, because if she doesn't have acceptance, at least she has her fists.
(Maybe she was always destined to turn out this way.)
(Maybe she's more of an Ansaldi than she thought.)
(It was easy to ignore the insults when they weren't directed at her. Easier still to pretend she didn't see the bruises on her father's body, or the prints like hands around her mother's throat, because she'd been thrown into enough walls to realize it was smartest to turn a blind eye. Getting involved meant getting hurt. Why bother fighting her parents when training gave her enough hurdles to tackle?)
(Anka wasn't the one she was mad at. Elysia knew she was blameless, but she'd been an easy target. She didn't fight, she didn't scream. She didn't spew venom like everyone else, all the cadets who told her she was gutter trash and didn't belong, that she'd never amount to anything, even if she were to make the cut for selection. She never tried to dismiss Elysia for where she came from, how she fought or how she talked when she was younger, so much more coarse before socializing refined her. Anka had looked at her and seen something worth loving, validated her when she vented, told her that her rage was normal, not anything to revile or be ashamed of. She accepted Elysia in her entirety. She wanted her!)
(But… you can't embrace glass and expect it not to shatter in your hands. Elysia's love was a broken love, comprised of fragments and twisted shards; touch any part of her, and you run the risk of getting cut. Ankara Lamotte did her best, but you can't salvage a shattered being. You can't love hatred.)
She heard the others talking last night; Ailith and Patron discussing their family, how they'd lost people through lack of care, unwillingness to let go of their personal desires. Tatiana chatting about Six and all the trouble she used to get into, Kellen responding with something about how he learned to fight while thinking on his feet, because unless you know how to escape, you'll never be able to really keep the authorities at bay. Tatiana replied with some offhand remark - that's what the drugs were for, escaping - and Elysia couldn't help but think of herself, her sister, all the people she grew up with and disdained.
It's funny, she thought, how it's the little things that really get to you. Me, Tatiana, Kellen… Ailith and Patron, the boy from Five and the girl from Eight… everyone's trying to get away from something.
Perhaps I'm not so different from them after all.
Her eyelids flutter open.
She's too restless to sleep.
Slowly, she begins to ease her body up from the forest floor, dirt covering her clothes and grass sticking to the bare flesh of her arms, slick from dew as much as her own sweat. It's tepid outside - not too hot, not too humid, but warm and muggy enough to perturb her.
Warm…
There's on odd sense of malaise hanging around her. A churning in her gut, the back of her neck hot with fever. She has a headache, and it's strong enough to run down the lines of her face, her jaw and cheekbones aching, as if they've been jabbed with needles. Something sharp prickles at the back of her neck, and before Elysia can waste any time contemplating it, her hand reaches up to grip the skin, a dull ache spreading down her back as her fingers begin to probe the stinging, hot flesh.
"Starting the day early?" A voice asks, quiet and yet still loud enough to startle her. "Or do you not trust me enough to let me keep watch?"
"I trust you," Elysia lies, letting her hand drop back to her side, a touch of heat flooding through her cheeks. For some reason, the comment almost makes her feel ashamed. "Or, well, I trust you as much as I trust anyone under these circumstances. Games aren't exactly the place to make friends."
"Fair enough," Kellen concedes. "Can't say I disagree, anyway."
"No?"
"Nah," Kellen raises his head, craning his neck to look at her. "Let's be real, One - everyone here is an enemy. Alliances are rarely ever short on betrayal."
Elysia glances toward their sleeping companions, each of them sequestered a good distance away from them, nearer to the campfire they'd erected than the clearing's edge. Her back straightens.
"I guess that explains why you're so keen to get in front of it," she replies, pitching her voice an octave lower. Kellen's eyes flit to her before he lets out a bemused heh, turning again so all Elysia can see of him is his dirt-covered back.
"Guess so."
The clearing returns to silence. Stretching her legs out, Elysia reaches down to adjust her socks, then reties the laces on her boots, one of which seems to have come undone during the night. Once they're properly tied, she drags her knees closer to her torso and uses her hands to push herself up from the ground, standing to her feet with little issue, despite the pounding of her head. Kellen doesn't shift, even as Elysia approaches him, sitting back down at his side without saying a word.
"You look like shit," the Two boy remarks. She shrugs.
"Insomnia will do that to you."
Kellen hums, but leaves the conversation at that, keeping his shoulders squared and his arms around his legs as he observes their surroundings. Elysia's surprised to find the silence almost companionable. When was the last time she sat with someone like this, no words or obligations or anxieties passing lips? She's hesitant to call it refreshing, but…
A little gasp leaves her mouth as her hand flies back up to her neck, cupping the back of it reflexively. Her skin's prickling again, hot and still, though the awkward numbness is lanced through by twinges of pain. Running her thumb along the base of her skull, there's no doubt the skin is swollen - if not raised in places, one odd, raised bump standing out like a nail from a beam.
"Bug bite?" Kellen inquires, and Elysia rubs at the spot for a moment before dropping her arm again, rolling her shoulder back to try and counter the feeling of stiffness in her muscles.
"Probably," she concedes.
"Guess that's what we get for sleeping in the grass."
"Still better than risking our necks at the lodge," Elysia counters, rolling out her other shoulder in turn. "This gives us more mobility. And it's temporary - so there's no need for it to be defensible. Meanwhile, Five, Four and Eight are sitting ducks."
Kellen's eyes flit up before his head dips in agreement. "You're not wrong. They've got a building they can't fully canvas, and everyone knows where they're at."
"Exactly," Elysia agrees. "That paints a target on their backs."
"Yeah, but they're probably smart enough to recognize that - and they're sitting on the rest of the supplies."
Elysia quirks her brow. "You think they're expecting an attack?"
"You would be," he points out, and her mouth presses into a firm line. "Elysia, we underestimated Five once already; there's no saying what might happen if we do it again."
"So what do you propose, then? That we just leave them be and hole up here until we see their faces at the anthem?" Elysia snaps, a sudden rush of anger filling her. "I thought I was talking to Kellen, not Ailith."
"Please," Kellen scoffs, one of his hands curling into a fist. "I'm not saying we don't go on the offensive - just that Five's a hard mark to hit first. Us and them make nine, but there's eight others we haven't even considered going after -"
"Do you want to switch watch?"
Kellen blinks. After a moment, his eyes narrow.
"Unbelievable," he mutters. "You know what? Fine. I could use the extra sleep."
He gets to his feet. Elysia doesn't budge as he turns in the direction of the camp circle, annoyance emanating from his skin in waves.
(His frustration feels a lot like her own.)
"I'm taking Ailith and Tatiana to hunt tomorrow," she says before he can take another step. "You fine with playing guard?"
"Sure, whatever," Kellen dismisses, reaching for the bag he's left resting against a nearby rock. "Go ahead and get yourself killed. Less work for me."
Elysia frowns.
"Kellen -"
"What?" He hisses, spinning around with fire in his eyes. She swallows, her mouth feeling oddly dry.
"I didn't mean to -"
"Dismiss every word that comes out of my mouth? No, of course you didn't. You're just too fixated on your fucking grudge to listen to anyone but yourself."
"I'm sorry -"
"Are you?"
Elysia's mouth hangs open for a moment, her brain searching for words that she can't properly articulate. After a moment, she closes it, looking away from Kellen and off to the woods, unsure how to reply when the conversation is collapsing in around her.
It's her fault. Of that there's no question. But…
"That's what I thought," Kellen says finally, and Elysia keeps her mouth closed. His footsteps echo as he walks through the woodland brush, away from her and away from the cold front that's taken up his seat, the air left frigid by Elysia's carelessness.
She looks to her feet, ignoring the way vulnerability gnaws at her innards, leeching anxiety from her every pore.
The Games aren't about pride. They're about control.
(Perhaps that's why it's Elysia's ego, more than anything else, that continues to cripple her.)
It's snowing again.
At the edge of the wind-worn playground, Rhys stands with his back against a brick wall, huddled in on himself with both hands in his pockets. The air's warmer next to the school hall; always has been, even if the others want to deny it. It's a matter of physics, 'cording to Miss Karr; sound structures divert the wind. Open space lets it go right through. It's a matter of common sense - just like everything else 'round these parts.
Cold winter. Crowded beds. Cautious teachers and cruel labels, smeared on his profile by people with money. The headmaster's not needlessly mean, she's just a product of the mayor's dismissal, one of those uppity adults who looked at Rhys and saw orphan, waste of funds, waste of space and time and effort.
(Kids from the Home are all the same to the people in city-center: stupid, useless mouths they lose money to feed. Half of Three thinks they aren't worth the cost of housing, much less education, and Rhys can't say he blames them for it. He is worthless; always has been, always will be. Doesn't matter where he is or where he goes, because without money or a name, he'll only ever be a bottomfeeder. Trapped in the city slums. Trapped in poverty. Trapped in crime.)
(What's the point in fighting the inevitable?)
Out in the field, he can see the others playing kickball in the sodden grass. They're running fast enough that they've tamped down the snow, pushed in into the mud with their booted feet, and Rhys thinks it's only a matter of time before one of them slips. He's seen it happen before after a storm - sees it happen every year when the rest of the kids get too cocky, because there's always one special idiot that's too ambitious for his own good.
Rhys supposes he should feel bad about it, but he's always got a secret laugh from watching those sorts fall. People watching's a hobby that was made for morose enjoyment - his, the teachers, anyone else that's smart enough to figure it out. Really, he's never felt -
"Rhys."
(A dark-haired boy lingers at the edge of the small playground set out behind Koehler's community home, shrouded in a space between shadow and light. His fingers are curled around a long stick, the shorn branch smooth to the touch and tapered at the far end. Good for prodding, Rhys considers, crouching down on his left knee, arms outstretched like he's reaching for a hug.
Before him lies the small, ice-winged body of a bird, cold and still in the expanse of glittering snow. Its limbs are a bloody mess of torn feathers, and when Rhys peers at it he can make out an eye missing from its skull, one leg bent and the other severed by some unknown predator. There's no question it's dead. No question its life has been snuffed out by the cold and the frost and the flurries that have been burying their end of the District, freezing both animals and people down to the bone.
He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be…)
"- Rhys -"
A voice is snapping at him. Any second, someone's going to storm over, latch their hands around his arms and drag him away, back to the commons or maybe his bunk, he doesn't know and he doesn't care. It's not as if he's going back. Not as if he's going to waste his time squatting at the community home when Three has so much more to offer -
"How many times do I have to tell you, Rhys? You can't keep running if you want to stay here."
He shakes his head. On the ground, the bird twitches, Rhys' stick gently nudging at its side. Blood spills out from a wound between its feathers, gushing like a crimson river, and he watches it go with wide eyes, unsure how to pull away.
It's not like he hasn't seen death; like most kids here he's seen plenty of it, maybe more than most, with all the time he's spent in the factory District, pulling out metal from garbage heaps and begging alongside the other homeless kids. He's seen bodies crushed under machinery, discarded on less trafficked streets, and some of them bled too - 'cause of that, the bird just reminds him of himself, a ruined mess of blood and feathers and sorrow.
(Is this the day he ran? The memories don't make it clear, but everything from back then kind of… blends together. It was snowing the day he left for good, snowing the day he decided that the shelter of the boys' house wasn't worth the headmaster's punishments, and why should he stay when all he ever got was hostility? He hadn't asked to be left here - hadn't asked for any of it, the mom that didn't want him or the life that he was left to, digging trash out of gutters and crying himself to sleep when the other kids were out and he made sure they couldn't hear. Nobody's ever wanted him, so the fact that he's here is a cruel joke. Mockery. Misfortune. He almost thinks he -
"- Rhys, come on, we have to get up, we have to go!"
His eyes blink open.
It's dark out. Dark, cool, but humid enough to make him sweat, the climate far too temperate for flurried snow. He's got his back pressed against a tree, and when he leans forward he can feel that its stiff, joints bemoaning the uncomfortable position as much as the bark that dug into his skin. Their uniforms are thin, to nobody's surprise - thin and uncomfortable, the fabric scratchy against his toughened skin. Maybe it's because of the dream, but it feels even worse now than it had before, the hems pressing into his flesh hard enough to sting.
He raises his head and looks to Pangaea, sitting in front of him with her hand cradled against her chest, eyes blown wide like she's seen a ghost. She looks frantic.
Rhys eyes narrow just a touch as he meets her gaze, words coming to his lips unbidden.
"What happened?"
"There's lights," she answers, her eyes practically popping loose from her skull they're so full of fear. "In the woods. Not the bugs, they're too big, but - they've been moving around, and I thought -"
"Shh," Rhys quiets her, raising his own hand to bring her back to silence. Slowly, he reaches over to take hold of his pack, slipping one of the straps over his shoulder in as quiet a manner as possible. Then he pulls himself onto his feet, reaching out for Pangaea's good hand and hoisting her up, unwilling to waste any time more than necessary on pulling out.
"Where did you see them?" He whispers, and Pangaea points over to their right, where there's a clear path back through the trees that Rhys thinks leads back to the camp circle. Sure enough, with just a few seconds of focus he can make out a faint glow through the brush, moving around in the unlit grove. It's close enough to make his gut churn - no wonder Pangaea was freaked.
"Do you think it's him?" The Ten girl asks, and though she's obviously worried, her tone is even. It's a practiced calm, false but believable, and Rhys is almost surprised by how easily she manages to affect a cool demeanor. There's clearly more to his ally than meets the eye.
(He'd be lying if he said she didn't make him curious. The pair of them come from different worlds, and their commonalities are few and far between. The only reason they're together now is for circumstance; if it weren't for the Hunger Games, their mutual desire to secure survival, Rhys knows without question that they'd have no reason to interact. Even if Pangaea was born in Three, there are too many polarizing factors for him to deny…)
(But that's a thought to pursue later. We need to move.)
Pangaea's good hand reaches out to brush against his shoulder, and Rhys does his best to force back a shudder. He shakes his head, lips pressed together while his teeth clench, eyes still focused on the nearby grove - and whatever lies within it.
"I don't know," he says after a moment, back and body rigid. "But we aren't sticking around to find out. Let's go."
Pangaea nods, cradling her splinted hand to her chest as the other adjusts the bag hanging over her back, trying to nudge it into a more comfortable position. There's exhaustion in her posture, evident in the slump of her shoulders and the staccatoed heaving of her chest, but Rhys doesn't bother to point it out. With everything she's been through since they met up in the bloodbath, it'd be a bigger shock if she wasn't tired - she's injured, frazzled, maybe even a touch traumatized. Near death experiences'll do that to you.
A slight frown curls his lips as Pangaea gives him a nod, the dark circles beneath her eyes making her look far older than she is. Rhys isn't one to pity others, but there's something in her visage that's so familiar it tugs at his heartstrings. He's known hardship - known what its like to endure abuse, to be cast aside by society and left to fend for himself, and whether he likes it or not, he can sympathize with Pangaea's fear.
(No, not just her fear. Her anger, her resentment, her bitterness. The despair, the loss and the hurt, the combination of sadness and anger that's potent enough he can see it consuming her, sapping the life from her skin and muscles. Exhaustion's wearing her thin; if she doesn't get some rest, it might eat her alive. And once that happens, there's no saying where she'll end up.)
(Dead, possibly. Crazy, more than likely. Suffering? Everyone in here's going to deal with some of that. It doesn't matter who they are or what their damage is, just that they're capable of weathering the storm the Games will leave in their wake. Nothing about survival is easy. Nothing about fighting is easy.)
(Though Rhys is no stranger to emotional trauma, he's had years to try and figure out ways to cope. Pangaea, on the other hand? She's had two days.)
(She's going to break. He can already tell. And yet…)
He reaches down for Pangaea's wrist, tugging her along as the stars glitter overhead, moonlight bathing the forest in a sea of greyscale-dark. He doesn't know where they're going yet, just away, and maybe that's enough for now, but they can't keep running forever. At a certain point, hiding won't be a viable option. They'll have to go on the offensive. They'll have to fight. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but realistically, it's only a matter of time.
Twelve will come for them. The Careers might, too. Five, Six, Eight, Nine - any of them could be a threat with the right conditions. Rhys has always known that, but Pangaea… she doesn't see it.
She'll have to learn if she wants to make it in here: how to inure herself, how to be pragmatic instead of idealistic. That's a lesson that Rhys can teach her, if she has the stomach for it.
He's not used to taking care of anyone besides himself, but there's a first time for everything.
He's not attached. That would be foolish. And yet…
Even if Pangaea isn't his friend, she's the closest thing he's really had to one. Rhys can't say why, but that means something.
For now, they're a team.
(For now, she's an asset.)
Beneath the light of the crescent moon, Hollister Crowe is unleashed.
The forest is dark, a fen of onyx that pulses and shifts as he moves. His feet ache as they dash along pathways carved from dirt, waves of moonglow casting shadows through the gloom and highlighting the pallor of his filth-stained skin. Hollister cannot help but find it exhilarating, darting about trees like a creature of shadow, unbound by the confines of cobbled streets and dusky hallows.
This place is open.
This place is free.
Here, he can run - can track and hunt and rend flesh from bone, with no regard for so-called propriety. Indulgence is what matters inside the arena; the Capitol has indulged his craving for blood, and now he shall indulge their violent delights.
Violent delights are oft said to have violent ends…
A thrill races along the curve of his vertebrae, skittering waves of adrenalin surging through Hollister's limbs. His toes curl and flex within his boots, legs gripped by a sudden fervor that urges him to chase. There is prey here - prey that still moves, writhing and flexing, he can practically feel the pulse of their hearts! They may live now, but they shan't for long; Hollister requires sustenance.
He will tear their flesh and rend their limbs, leave them to flail in their pitiful, mortal fragility. All who cross his path shall fall beneath the might of his monstrosity, sapped of strength as well as blood. Should they dare to fight their fate, Hollister will take pleasure in ripping them apart - after all, he is no stranger to reaping death.
Little Castia. Reprobate Vehaan. The unfortunate Hargraves, his almost-parents and almost-sister. Four bodies from outside the Hob - unfortunate stragglers who hung around harking wares just a tad too long, drunkards who reveled in acts of debauchery… the desperate were always the simplest prey. So prone to infatuation. So easy to trick.
(Killing addicts felt like child's play. Truthfully, Hollister prefers his victims more alert; 'tis more fun to toy with humans when they still possess their cognizance.)
He'd had other bodies, too - a pair of fighters, impoverished and world-weary - but their deaths had gone ignored, just as that of true-mother. 'Twas no surprise, for a place so inundated with discriminatory classism; there were no peacekeepers to fret when a Seamrat went missing, and if they wound up dead, it was merely the 'way of the world.' Naturally.
(A part of Hollister still seethes at their dismissal - hells, one might even say he empathizes. 'Tis half the reason he is reluctant to reflect on his Seamborn victims, for to do so would be to ruminate on guilt that only conflicts him. Did any of the humans he sucked dry deserve the fate with which they were saddled?
No. They did not.)
Alas, the past is not his concern; in this moment, all Hollister cares for is the present.
Lethe. Bloodlust. Prey. Arousal.
There is a preternatural stillness about the woods, made all the greater by the contorted trees, dangling limbs and gnarled branches. All around him, the world seems quiet, but Hollister is alive with passion. The hunt is on.
… and he's getting closer.
(… closer… and closer…)
(Soon enough, he will be upon them.)
Three and Ten, his unwitting victims. 'Tis they, more than any other tributes in this arena, that have shamed him; in his defeat, he tasted humiliation, and the yield of blood he wished to harvest was abruptly cut in half. Because of their intervention, his stock is running low; though Seven's blood still lingers in his throat, his canteen has been depleted - and that simply will not do. They owe me a sanguine debt, and mark my tongue, I shan't rest until it's paid.
His steps slow to a sprint, then a saunter, and finally a halt as an incandescent grove blooms before his eyes. The dark that surrounds him is far from pitch, tinged by a haze of blooming green that allows contorted shapes to form. Hollister's lashes flutter and he draws a deep breath, drinking in the taste of the air around him. Sap, moss, tree bark and dirt - 'tis a scent he is not unused to, though he finds it fresher here than he does back home; in the arena, there is no coaldust to clog his lungs, no smoke to permeate his every swallow.
Perhaps Hollister would call it pleasant, under different circumstances. Tonight his mind is elsewhere.
Blood.
(blood, bloody throat, bloody limbs,
blood shorn from broken flesh
blood dried upon his lips
spilling over the ground and staining the earth
blight, calamity, and yes, it is red,
always red, good and rich,
flesh asunder, limbs pulled loose by their sockets
bones rattling on human hinges,
paint the ground, paint his throat -!)
(It is not enough to kill them.)
(It is not, never has been, not for him, he needs, he craves
to take them apart, eviscerate them, vivisect them from stomach to neck -
split their torsos and hollow them out, exsanguinate every inch of their bodies,
how dare they,
how dare they slander him,
make him a mockery, make him a laughingstock,
he is not just bitter, he is mad -
full of vitriol, so choleric
he cannot break free of his contempt and nor can he sit with it!)
(He will take his time. Bide it. Make it slow.
Let them suffer.
Carve them piece by piece as they hang by their feet,
captive prisoners left alive, alive so the blood stays sweet,
rich and warm.)
Hollister's lips part around a wheeze of a laugh, his arm pressed up against the rough-hewn skin of a nearby oak. He has not felt so angry since he was incarcerated - no, since Veronica found him with blood still staining his incisors - no, since he lost true-mother to the Seamrot and winter filth -
What is happening to me?
From the haze of the glen, a light emerges, flitting about on glossy wings. Hollister turns his head, messy hair falling across his face as one light become a dozen, the insect's buzzing growing unnaturally contorted as a swarm of fireflies come spiralling out from the grove, darting up into the sky and swarming the divots between trees. In the distance, something snaps, and a pressure settles upon his arm, steadying him as his legs begin to waver.
"Lethe -" He says, but his compatriot shakes his head, bringing Hollister's inquiry to a close. The hand - for now he sees the pressure for what it is - remains in place, fingers half-curled about his muscle, a millimeter below the cuff of his sleeve. Hollister quirks his head left and immediately stills, his gaze transfixed by a vision of aesthetic purity.
Lethe's visage is… otherworldly.
Cast half in light and half in shadow, his alabaster skin appears nearly phantasmagoric. Translucent as a bloodless corpse, penumbral as a starless night, a perfect duality of imperfect shading. Hollister can feel his air catch, the pulse at his neck a stutter. Behind Lethe's eyes lies a malice most foul, corruption enough to entice insanity.
Hollister is speechless. And as he swallows the emotion he dare not express, the chasm of his dead chest aches, desire for companionship overtaking his resignation to eternal solitude.
Not for the first time, he finds himself yearning.
Lethe moves his hand, and Hollister remembers how to breathe, his brow creasing as another question springs to his lips.
"Why -"
"Quiet," Lethe commands, arm still raised despite his grasp being removed, and with his certainty, Hollister can only concede to listen. Like a fragment of a fever-dream, his yearning dissipates and his adrenaline renews when a second rustle sounds from a few paces out, earnest whispering meeting with his ears.
"Do you think it's him?"
Hollister's eyes widen. Without thinking, he leaps forward, rushing toward the open grove in pursuit of the human sound. Whispers turn into footsteps as the hidden figures break out into a sprint, frantic in their efforts to escape his pursuit. He breaches the treeline to the sight of rustling leaves, a glimmer of red hair disappearing around the bend of a sycamore.
"Hollister!" Lethe hisses, but he dare not listen, not with the proximity of his quarry. He remembers that hair - red-gold, thick and long, it had felt so soft when he clasped it between his fingers, yanking Ten's head up so he could bare her neck for his knife.
He's allowed her leave once already; this time he shall not do the same.
"You cannot hide, girl!" Hollister calls after her, his tone nearly singsong. "I know your scent… and your blood is mine!"
There is a voice calling out from behind him, hissing and crackling like the shifting branches, carried forth by force of the wind. The words that it speaks do not reach his ears, and Hollister presumes it better that way - better, for this is not a time for distraction, not a time to be bogged down by the affairs of his heart or the alliances he hath forged. Ten vanishes into the woodland, and the clearing vanishes around Hollister, his senses heightened, vision narrowed to a pinpoint on the sight of that gleaming hair, whipped about by windy gales.
He can hear them, Ten and Three. Can hear the pitter-patter of their blighted steps, crossing rough over the forest floor; can hear the heavy thud of their boots as they slam into rock, snapping brittle twigs with muddied heels.
Yet more than that he can hear fear. Ten's heaving breath, overwrought with terror, her neurosis so potent every time she moves her tongue. She's gasping for air, asphyxiating on her own spit and the reek of her horror is so delightful, queer and beautiful in its own revolting way.
Hollister leaps forward, all sense abandoned as he dashes mad into the trees, maniacal laughter welling out from his esophagus. He cannot see himself, yet he knows he must look deranged, for there is anticipation in his form that he has nary felt before. He is bestial as he chases his quarry, alight from head to heel with some odd fanciful thing, a thing that screams hunt-stalk-kill, wring-their-necks-and-bleed-them-dry, put-them-in-their-shallow-graves, Holloster-you-know-you-want-to.
The cackles spill out of him like chaos, pitching higher and higher and higher still, dispersing on the wind and carried off through the trees. In the darkness, the footsteps before him break, but he does not dare to tarry, swinging right on whim before both can twice escape his fangs. Subsume one and I subsume the other. Lethe may handle the other. They shall die before this night departs, this I state as Night-child. I shall have them. I shall have…!
Something catches beneath his ankle. Hollister cannot so much as cry out before his body is sent sprawling, cast out in the filth like the Seamrat he was born as, with mud and rud and rock digging into his flesh. Sticks jab into his torso, leaves scratching at his skin, and though he intuits the wounds are superficial, they are still enough to bleed. Dots of alizarin spring out from his skin, leaching into his clothing to mix with the stains already there. Hollister gasps and raises his hand, gazing transfixed at his torn palm.
When was the last occasion on which he had bled?
(When, prior, had he allowed himself to be human?)
"Hollister!" Lethe shouts for him again, and he blinks, regaining coherence as he forces his brain to calm.
To his great dismay, the sound of his prey's steps have faded. Once more, the girl from Ten has escaped him, aided by the cunning of her streetwise comrade.
"No!"
Infuriated, he begins to scream. Crying, cursing, blighting the heavens, cowards, curs, half-wit starvelings, abortive, gutless, rooting wretches! How dare they make a fool of me, how dare they heap me with mockery, leave me outwitted on the palms of mine own damnation? Curse them, sod them and every breath they take, I will have their heads and I shall hang them out myself, those impudent cad-faced heathens who darest to defy my will!
"Damn you!" Hollister wails, slamming his hand into the ground, the pointed pebbles jagged and raw, lacerating his flesh in a most joyous way. The sting lingers, but he delights in the pain, delights in feeling something after so long seeming empty, cast to prison, cast to hells, abandoned, unwanted, called an abomination by the same humans who birthed his depravity.
His fangs sink into his lower lip, carving trenches through plump flesh, and when hands grab for his back, Hollister does not possess the spirit to force them away. He curls in on himself, hand fisting in the pristine fabric of Lethe's shirt, and thoughtless he begins to cry, salty trails soaking lines down his cheeks, shaming him by their presence.
"I'm dying, Lethe," he weeps, unable to rein himself in. "They're killing me, can you not see?"
Night ebbs away before his eyes, the sky turning from black to blue in all of a blink. Still, Hollister does not move from his place on the ground, does not stand, does not speak, does not utter a sigh.
He simply falls, and lies there in the dirt - pathetic, ruined, clinging to Lethe's shirtsleeves as night becomes dawn.
He might as well have pulled an all-nighter.
It's not even light out when the shouting begins, the caustic, frenzied screams loud enough to kickstart Kellen's adrenaline. Elysia's on her feet before any of them can speak, up and grabbing for her discarded sword, and when dawn emerges in the sky overhead, she wastes little time in waking the others, shaking them from their slumber with an impatience that's almost impressive.
"Up," she tells the others. "We need to get a move on before whoever that was takes off. Ailith, Tatiana, you're with me. Kellen, watch the camp."
They're gone before he can blink, not that it especially matters. After their argument the previous night, Kellen's plenty glad to be left alone - or perhaps he should say, as close to alone as he's likely to get in this group. Stuck with the boy from District Nine.
To Patron's credit he's pretty unintrusive. Bit of a bitch, definitely prissy, yet somehow easier to stomach than the rest of the lot. Oh, sure, he's got his share of issues - like the fact he'll be fucking useless when it comes to a fight, not to mention how snappish he gets over his bloody appearance - but in the end, it's all pretty relative. He's tolerable.
Heh. Kellen almost smiles. He's not surprised that Nine's been chatting up Ailith - it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for, far more than the hotheads or the idiots. You can never quite tell what they're thinking…
(That's alright, honestly. He doesn't need the specifics, just needs to know that it's happening, so he can keep an eye out. Patron Midori is an unknown variable. Sure, he's not a problem now…but it's only a matter of time.)
Another scream echoes from behind the trees. Kellen looks up, observing the stillness of their open clearing, and finds that it looks exactly the same as before. Nothing has changed. Whoever it is that's responsible for the outburst… they're a long ways off from here.
And if he's lucky, they'll stay that way.
Those cries are not cries - not in any traditional sense of the word. They're guttural, primal howls, vicious and full of hatred, and the venom of them is practically indescribable.
How easy is it to pin down the sound of a person dissolving into madness?
How can you give a name to the shouts of a creature so desperate that it's lost its instinct for self-preservation?
(Kellen has never heard a sound so raw as the morning wails, even from the people Vaclav had him mark for death; he's been privy to plenty of curses, shouting and begging and frantic pleas for mercy, but Two didn't have a place for wailing like this. Regardless of how downtrodden the people were, they made it a point to keep their guard up; to maintain their resolve, whatever the cost. Sure, you had your share of cowards and basket cases, just like anywhere else, but they were far from the norm, especially on the streets.
You can't be soft when you're looking out for yourself. Growing up poor is a lesson in toughness, and in the gutters, the thin-skinned always wind up dead. He's seen that firsthand; seen the beggars huddled in on themselves on the streets, their pride keeping them from piping up, even when winter was at its coldest. Seen the addicts that would kill for the sake of having drug money, taking no issue with beating strangers within an inch of their life, so long as they could sustain their habits. Hells, his parents were ready to pawn off their own kids so they could get a fix - if Kayla's journals had any truth to them, then it was obvious they'd never loved them, never wanted them, never cared for them. All they'd cared about was whetting their own hedonistic appetites - Kellen was just an afterthought.)
(Maybe he didn't agree with what Kayla did, how she'd handled their parents' fuck-ups, but he can't say he doesn't get the sentiment. She wanted to escape their parents. He wanted to escape everything. He wasn't going to go through life used, discarded and dragged around by others. He was going to forge his own path - away from the parents that thought of him as dirt, away from the sister who tried to steer him in a certain direction, meddling in his business when he didn't need it. Kellen Akos is his own person, and he doesn't have to listen to anyone - not Kayla, not Vaclav, not even his fucking District, so petty they didn't even have the guts to cut off the snakes head, just play around with his underlings!)
(Two may be the wealthiest district, but they'd rather brush real problems under the rug than take the time to fucking deal with them. Even as a child, Kellen was taught to recognize that in a district of wolves, everyone must fend for themselves. Mercy isn't for the weak, it's a tool of the weak, and death is simply a motivation for self-betterment. You either cut a place out for yourself in the mountain-stone, or you die like a fucking dog, bled dry on your knees.)
(Kellen chose the former.)
(He's not a pawn. He's a stone-damned king.)
(He decided two years ago that he wasn't going to keep bowing his head for fucking Vaclav, nor for anyone else. That hasn't changed just because he's in the Games; even in here, he's still his own person. Still autonomous. Anyone who thinks otherwise can fucking burn.)
(Fuck Elysia. Fucking bitch.)
A scowl turns his mouth.
Whatever. She's a dick, and he's over it - at least for now. Doesn't matter if he's pissed as fuck, because anger's just a part of him, so what's the point in overreading it? Like her or not, he still needs her.
So what if she's acting like a massive fucking twat? So what if she's being a stubborn asshole that won't listen to a goddamn thing he says? So what if he's the one that should be leading, not some controlling ice queen with a stick up her ass? He's played second before - it's actually safer to be the adjutant, so long as he's stuck here. Less blame getting thrown at his head if shit goes sideways. Nevermind the fact he hates the rest of this fucking alliance, that he could've killed Elysia this morning and he would've felt nothing, because if anyone here deserves it, it's her, trying to force everything into a box, because she needs it all proper and organized if she wants to micromanage them. Fuck her. What does he care if she wants to play commander and boss them around like they're fucking soldiers in the Nut? What does he care if she's hindering his progress?
(They're two of a kind, Elysia and Vaclav. So demanding. So rigid. Thinking they're king of the fucking world and everyone else is just fit to serve them, no matter how they feel or what they think or if they've got ambitions and dreams of their own.)
... whatever. If he thinks about this any longer, he's going to puke.
Propping his feet up on the pack resting in the grass, Kellen's eyes wander over to Patron - the only real distraction he's got, so long as he's stuck sitting here. He's fiddling with something in one of the cans that they'd brought back yesterday - berries, probably, since Elysia had been acting anal about collecting them when he and Tati told her about the bush they'd found. Not like they could tell which ones were actually edible, but that hadn't seemed to matter to her, probably 'cause everyone else is fucking expendable and -
Kellen rubs a hand over his face, stuffing a laugh. Nine's a rural District - maybe he's got some idea what he's doing. That'd be a first.
"What?" Patron asks, having noticed his apparent staring. He gives Kellen a look, eyebrow raised with some kind of condescending irritation, and Kellen shakes his head, utterly dismissive.
"Nothing," he replies. "Just thinking."
Patron hums. "About the alliance?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
For some reason, the snappish tone seens to garner Nine's full attention. Patron raises his head and turns to give him a once over, his eyes narrowing as he sets down the tin of berries. Kellen crosses his arms.
"What's your problem?" He all but hisses. Kellen shrugs.
"What makes you think I have a problem?"
"I don't know, maybe the fact that you're so surly that trying to make conversation is like being prodded with a stick?" Patron quips back, his eyes narrowing, and Kellen laughs.
"Yeah, okay," he says, brushing his unwanted ally off again. Making small talk with a prat really isn't worth the effort.
The clearing lapses into silence, nothing to be heard but the buzzing of insects in the field grass. The fireflies are gone, but there's plenty of other things lurking about - Kellen can't count the number of worms he'd stepped on trekking up here last night, and he's pretty sure he caught a spider sneaking into one of the bags this morning. All things considered, they seem harmless… although…
That bite on Elysia's neck… he wouldn't say he's concerned, but -
It's weird. Everything about this shithole is.
Shifting his legs back off of the pack, Kellen braces his hands against the fallen log and gets to his feet. He can feel Patron's eyes fixed on his back, watching him as he stretches his arms up over his head, trying to work the tension out of his shoulders. Sleeping on the ground's a fucking killer when you're not used to it, and it's been a good minute since Kellen's had to pass nights on a muddy floor. Damn if he isn't sore.
"Everything alright?" Patron asks, sounding cautious.
"Sure," Kellen calls back, keeping his back turned. Nine can stare as much as he wants, but the fact is they're not close enough for him to try and make nice. Not in any way that matters, because Patron's made it clear that Kellen's not even on his radar. Anyone with a braincan tell he's only here because he thinks it'll benefit himself.
… probably. Possibly. If Elysia hadn't been so adamant about going after their outlier companions, would Patron have willingly stuck around? Maybe he's just here because he feels trapped. Kellen wouldn't be shocked; even he feels trapped, and he's been pulling most of the strings. Patron wouldn't be a fool for wanting out. Everybody here wants out. The Games…
Kellen closes his eyes.
He isn't bitter. not about the shallowness and tumult of the alliance, not about Elysia's unintentional subversion of his plans, not even about the argument near the end of his watch. He doesn't care that Two voted him in, that they put an end to his criminal empire before it could even come into being, seeing him as street rabble that served little purpose to their District as a whole. The Capitol could care less if he lives or dies, and honestly, his family probably could too. Kayla and Kaden… what has he ever done besides make their lives miserable? They'd be stupid to want him back.
All Kellen's ever done is fuck things up for people. His life has been a series of bad decisions, one after another, after another. And what does he have to show for all his scheming, his plans for the underworld and his… partnerships… with Vaclav and Daxton? Absolutely nothing. Jack shit.
He lets out a sigh as his arms fall back to his sides, exhausted from the little effort it took to work out their kinks.
It's strange, but more than anything he feels… empty. Drained of all the shit that makes him a person - his feelings, his resolve and philosophies…
It's as if his body is a chasm. There's a tiredness that plagues him, but it isn't physical; isn't something that can be soothed with time or restful sleep. There's a despondency hiding just under his skin, and it's started to nag at him - worming its way through his veins, filling him with some sort of vapid oblivion he's got no idea what to do with. He hates it, not because it makes him mad, but because it makes him nothing. He's drained and restless all at once, unable to rid himself of his emotional fatigue, and for some reason, the emptiness aches more than the anger.
(He wants to lash out, to hit, to stab, to break and throw things, to curl into himself and lose his mind to his frustration - if he could just do something, anything, maybe it would get rid of it, this… void, this hollowness, this unending feeling of futility…!)
(Behind his eyes, he can see the boy from Eleven, overlaid by twin images of Kayla and Kaden - siblings he forsook, family he abandoned. Had Eleven had family? What about all the people he'd mugged in the allies, knife to their throat as he demanded they hand over their belongings, his voice steady and calm even when he had to plunge a blade in? There must have been people waiting for them back home; almost everyone's got someone, even the ones as despicable as Kellen. Maybe that's why he's here - not because of Vaclav, but because he's a scourge, responsible for ripping away life after life, inured to the flaws in his own design.)
(He wonders if his siblings will mourn him. Despite his clandestine meetings with his sister, he had little space for her in his life; her empathy is nothing but a hindrance, nothing but weakness prone to being pounced on. His brother was different, incredibly different, maybe even capable of following his footsteps, but no matter how much he wanted, Kellen couldn't force Kaden to choose a criminal's path. He couldn't force him to stay, couldn't let himself grieve for either of them because he chose this, chose to leave, to run, to steal and kill— he made himself a weapon, Vaclav's hands were just the tool used to shape him! Kellen wants to say he's responsible, wants to blame because its easier to hate people you can't control, but when it comes down to it, everything that he's done has been of his own volition and that is why he cannot grieve, cannot attach, cannot regret or try to turn back—)
(His weakness will consume him should it have the chance.)
A noise sounds from somewhere beyond the camp. The snap of a twig, the thud of weight crashing into the earth, a subtle hiss almost too soft to hear. Kellen immediately grabs his dagger, whirling about to scan the perimeter, the whole of his body waiting on edge. Blood is pounding in his ears, his pulse rocketing higher and higher as his killing hand begins to twitch. Should he attack? He wants to attack. Even if it's nothing - if the sound was his imagination, he can still strike and slash and hurt to get the ache out. It would make things better, perhaps. Being reckless. Acting instead of perceiving.
But it's not worth it.
The camp returns to silence. Kellen drops his shoulders, forcing away his suspicion, though the omnipresent sound of Patron's breathing makes it difficult, especially when the Nine boy is still staring at his back.
He compartmentalizes his tension, trying not to let it is weakness. Stress is weakness. Suspicion is rational, but only useful when it's kept under Patron thinks that he can intimidate him - if he takes Kellen to be compromised in any shape or form -
"Do you know why Elysia wanted you to stay with me?"
Kellen pivots to look at the other boy, observing as his eyes widen just a tad, before he shakes his head, closed-lips. He scoffs.
"It's because I'm the only one she even moderately trusts," he continues, the words only half a lie. "Tatiana's an imbecile. Ailith's a problem. You're an unknown variable, and one she suspects won't serve her interests."
"What?" Patron asks, his gaze flashing dangerously. Kellen settles back down, this time in the grass, dagger still gripped in his right hand. He smirks.
"Let's put it this way, pretty boy. The last two days she's made sure to keep you and Six separated - why, exactly, do you think that is?"
"She doesn't trust us," he replies quickly. Kellen nods and slams his knife down into the ground, blade burying in the dirt. He holds up a finger.
"True, but that's not all it is - the two of you combined are a threat. She takes you both hunting, and it's two versus one if you decide to knife her in the back. She leaves the pair of you here alone and there's nothing to stop you from taking off with the supplies," he raises his head a touch, meeting Patron's gaze. This is a gambit, but he should be able to make it work. "Ultimately, she has to separate you; keep one with herself and send one off with me, or else the odds shift out of her favor."
"And what about Ailith?" Patron questions. "What makes her problematic enough that she can't be left alone with me?"
"You haven't figured it out?" Kellen replies, acting disbelieving. "Let me give you a word of advice, Nine, in case you're considering something stupid - Ailith isn't someone to put your faith in. Rebels are always more trouble than they're worth."
Patron crosses his arms. "What makes you say that?"
"The Twenty-Fourth," Kellen shrugs, leaning back on his rock. "Everything that's happened for the last three decades. Ailith's whole reason for being here. The pair from Five, the chaos that Ten keeps coughing up, the way the Capitol reacts when they hear so much as a smidge of rebellious talk. Ailith's not a bad person… but she's got more reason than the rest of us to be selfish. Idealists always act in their own interests - no matter how jaded they've become."
Patron's lips quirk. "So you don't trust her?"
Kellen laughs. "Of course not! I trust all of you about as far as I can throw you."
"Maybe you're just cynical," Patron retorts, but he's frowning now, Kellen can see it. He shakes his head.
"Everyone's got a secret, Patron," he mutters. "Me, you, Ailith. When it comes right down to it, this alliance is nothing but a sham - we've known each other for what, a week? How close can anyone really get in a matter of seven days?"
"You'd be surprised," the Nine boy says, but Kellen simply shakes his head again.
"No. Love in the Games is infatuation. Friendship is just an attempt to allay loneliness. Alliances are for survival - that's what they've always been, pacts forged out of opportunity, because humans are social creatures that stand a better chance working together than facing twenty-three competitors alone. You already know Tati's not really your friend - hells, she led the rest of us right to you."
"It's not her fault her personality's a safety hazard," Patron rolls his eyes. "But I get what you're saying. Relationships here are superficial -"
"No different from the arena," Kellen agrees, reaching down for his knife and snatching it back out of the dirt. "So take some advice and watch your back around Ailith. She isn't what she says she is."
Twirling the knife about, he takes a second before sliding it back into his belt loop, resecuring the blade against his khaki-clad hip. Patron's brow is pinched, furrowed in consternation as Kellen turns back to their supplies, a feeling of assuredness overtaking bits of the hollow behind his sternum.
The seeds of doubt have been sewed. With any luck, if he keeps them well-watered, he won't even have to kill Ailith himself.
A/N: Blue Monday by New Order (playlist version covered by Orgy).
Yes this chapter is absurdly long. No, I doubt the next will be this way… but I say that every time, so I'm possibly just lying to myself. LOL. Thanks to all that are reading and reviewing! Happy end of February, and my fingers are crossed everyone starts March on a good note. :)
Til the next~