day four, part one: pit of vipers

I can almost feel the tick like clockwork, hearing all the voices in my head each time I go.
(There's a game they play that I'm not part of - tearing at the weaknesses and all the faults they know.)

It's cold tonight.

Ansel isn't sure exactly why - the day had been as temperate as each of the others, warm and fraught with humid weather, sun bleaching the ground and casting its way through the sprawling trees, leaving no place for permanent shadows. Though he'd spent his own day holed up inside one of the lakeside cabins, he had seen the light flickering on the windows, warming the interior of his base merely by virtue of its presence. It seems odd that the heat would so quickly change, but nonetheless he can feel the difference: an aching chill at his back where the breeze continue to hit it. A frigid wind that wails with an eerie sense of finality, rustling through the tall grasses.

In the shadow of the circled cabins, he takes a seat upon the ground, crouching down in the half-red dirt and leaving his eyes to wander. Though he is alone, he does not feel it - there's a presence that's been following him, crawling along in his morose footsteps. A small black shadow that clings to his side, leaving marks upon his skin from its hot and sticky breath. Ansel's certain he knows the cause of it - the little doll left sitting in his backpack, shaped in the form of a featureless human. It seems that Atlanshi is up to his usual tricks.

Ansel can't say he's surprised.

He opens the flap of his pack, drawing the doll from its linen wrappings, the weight of it steady inside his shaking hands. His fingers run along its spheric head, trailing down to the remnants of a K still in place upon its terrycloth chest.

I can kill her for you, he recalls the boy saying, that first day when they'd met in the training center. Kanessa, the one you used to play cards with, the one you called your friend. Pretty black hair, helps you with your dealing. Sold a bottle of painkillers to you, not even a year ago. You want her dead? How about a bargain?

(What is life but a series of bargains?)

Ansel scoffs, rolling the doll back into its linen and stuffing it in through the open flap of his pack. He can hear the rustle of an unopened bag as his fingers lay the thing back along the depths, and his stomach begins to rumble with an audible question.

Food, he feels it growling at him. Food, need food, want to eat. But, like usual, Ansel does not listen.

He has no reason to feed himself. Food is indulgence, and that's something he does not deserve tonight.

For the third day in a row, he has made next to no progress. Atlanshi hides inside the woods, and Cordura has holed herself up in the lodge, surrounded by allies who seem keen to protect her. The two madmen and her little Career… between them, she's safe as safe can be. He won't be able to attack her so long as she's got partners.

(Partners can always be eliminated, some little voice reminds him, threading into his thoughts and looping them over one another, Cordura's image overlapping with a reflection of his own, broken and kneeling beside Xay's dead body. Why should she profit while you are destined to lose? Why let her rejoice when you can only suffer, having lost what she now possesses more than just a single time?)

(You saw them in the elevator, her and her pet from District Four. That proximity, that spark, that look of longing… she doesn't deserve it, not after all she's disparaged you. Nurture your grudge and let it burst, then leave Spade Sinclair to die in the shrapnel! It's what you desire, and you know it. You know…)

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Ansel draws his legs up toward his chest, allowing his mind to drift away as he gazes toward rippling black waters. It's true that he has always held an affinity for chaos. Even as a child, he'd been one for problems - the sort who got his kicks by causing trouble and starting fights, throwing hands in the school yard until his knuckles turned black and blood seeped from the cuts in his callow skin. But for all the fights he found himself in, he rarely ever won, not unless he resorted to trickery. And Cordura…

Nurture your grudge, his mind speaks again. You can scar her so she understands. It might take planning, but you're more than capable… aren't you?

Ansel scoffs, reaching down to take hold of a rock, hurl it off at the glimmering lake. Cordura and he are cut from the same cloth - that should make them resonate with one another. And yet somehow she has become his antithesis… forged by revulsion, yet allowed to ascend, to join the ranks of the golden few who had money to burn and people to depose. She had become privileged while Ansel was stuck as one of the miserable few, a penniless wretch with little to show for his torment in the slums. No matter how he fought or turned to violence to make himself heard, his voice had remained stifled… just like his growing vitriol.

Since the day he and Andre were left by the Peacekeepers to scrounge about in those fucking ditches, the only status Ansel had claim to was that of a worthless statistic. Male. Child. Orphan. Impoverished. Those were the parts of him that society knew; traits that were defined by numbers, stacked in columns on the Commander's census. They could care less about his intelligence - about his tenacity and resilience and ability to be conniving, about how he could talk his way out of conflict with honeyed words, live his life as a common rat when in actuality he was a viper, full of venom and poised to kill. He was so full of untapped potential, and yet they'd written him off, decided he was a lost cause, a foolish boy not worth acknowledging —

(they were the fools, all of them!

insipid fucking mongrels

parasites that got off on leeching the blood

of those beneath them,

howdaretheyignoreme

howdaretheycallmeNOTHING)

He had tried not to take it personally. After all, Ansel was used to being dismissed. If Eight's wealthy and witless refused to see him, what did it really matter? He had Xay, he had Andre, and that was all he needed…

(should have been all he needed, should have been enough,

but he wasn't satisfied,

never has been, never will be!)

… wasn't it?

(He'd never wanted to lose them. The best friend who became his lover, the brother he'd owed his life to… yes, both Xay and Andre had been anchors for Ansel, the only spots of stability to remain amidst the storm of hatred growing inside his mind. He'd relied on them to keep him human, force him to remember his roots and the empathy that had once stemmed from them, before he had lost… loved and lost…)

(He hadn't always been like this. Once upon a time, Ansel Zilliah had been normal, a normal boy with normal ways of thinking, able to attach and sympathize and connect to others without the help of lies. Where that boy went, he doesn't know, but in the process of growing older his innocence had been cast off; it was a hindrance for him, a poison not worth indulging, and Ansel knows that he's better for casting it off. To be naive is to devalue yourself, and he'd had enough of being constrained.)

Ansel flexes his hand, reaching for another rock to pitch into the night like the one from before. There's dirt beneath his nails, scabs upon his fingertips, but he ignores the way it claws at him, knowing that filth is nothing to be wary of. The pebble he grabs is cold and smooth, and it leaves his palm in a high arc, soaring up toward the sky before crashing down with a tiny splash, infinitesimal beside the lake's grip.

He heard the cannon, yesterday. The sound of it had been overshadowed by a montage of frantic shouting, shrieks and cries and curses filtering out from somewhere in the forest - a true prelude to the coming slaughter. Ansel had been in the cabin when he'd heard the frenzy, the stark bang! in the distance nothing but a reminder to how fruitless this competition can truly be.

The tributary of blood has never been anything but an actual game. If you don't make the right moves, you'll lose yourself to the fray of violence - if you decide to forfeit your cards instead of keeping them by your chest and playing to win, then you'll wind up buried in the earth, rotten and riddled by infested holes. Ansel knows the world's rules, and the arena's are no different.

Those without resolve lose themselves. Those who have it survive. The soulless profit and the soulful become fractured, hollow husks of the people they may once have been, forever altered by the shattering of their idealism. Ansel's lucky in that he's already rid himself of morals; like those who profit upon their golden thrones in the Capitol, he has no soul left to despair. His sole purpose in this arena is to perpetuate horror - to break and wear down and aid in the destruction of others, for to win one first must lose, and there is no greater sign of loss than a turn to villainy.

(He's going to destroy Cordura.)

(No, not destroy. He doesn't want to ruin her, because if she breaks, it will be unsatisfactory. She just needs a few more cracks - reminders to be carved into her flesh, ideas that will linger in her brain, haunting her the same way Ansel's losses haunt him. He doesn't want her gone, he just wants to show her what she truly is. A mirror image. A shattered reflection.

A girl from Knocktown, elevated by disgrace.)

Ansel shifts, stretching his legs out over the dirt, his uniform rumpled and smudged with dirt. The shadow of Atlanshi still hangs across his shoulders, curling around his neck as if it means to choke him, but Ansel forces it away, closing his eyes and silencing his head. He has enough demons keeping watch over him in the night; quite frankly, he doesn't need another.

As he slips into a haze of false serenity, he sees a canvas behind his eyelids, stark white lined by marks of abyssal black, his own hand drawing the brush over an empty frame, with no concept of what the image is meant to be.

Once it's finished, there will be a story in the art; a tale of woe and unabashed cruelty, spurned by the derision of a colorless world. Eight is the place that spawned him, and Ansel has left pieces of himself behind there - shades of a boy that called himself darkness, which will dwell in the shadows long after he's passed.

(Perhaps when they put him in the ground, they will put him beside Xay.

It would be a kinder fate that he deserves… but he should like to see their face once more.)

She's in bad shape.

He'd known it since Elysia brought her back last night - stumbled into camp with Ailith's body slung over her shoulder, Tati trailing along behind them like a jilted animal, a mix of both horror and venom in her eyes.

"You should have left her," she spat at Elysia, standing with crossed arms as Kellen helped the One girl situate Ailith down on one of their tarps, her body stiff enough to practically be deadweight.

"We need her." He recalls Elysia snapping back. "She's an asset to us. So shut up and get the fucking pack for me."

Kellen hadn't said a word. He hadn't needed to - not with Ailith bleeding out all over the ground, the sheer size of the gash in her leg evidence enough to back Tatiana. When people can't fight, you cut them loose. It's called survival of the fittest, not the deserving.

… the deserving.

Who's really deserving?

(Not Kellen, that's for certain. Not the fucking poverty-stricken bastard with the deadbeat parents and the distant siblings, whose hands are so soaked with innocent blood he can't even see his flesh through the red. Oh, he's not the only one of Vaclav's little gang that could be demonized and called guilty, but he's the one that's here, and today more than any other that doesn't feel like a mistake. It coulda been Daxton, could've been any one of the fucking pawns that his old mentor surrounded himself with, taught to rob and kill and scrounge for meaning, but it was Kellen because he's valueless. What worth has he ever brought to the world but wasted potential and pipe dreams?)

(Kaden was right not to follow in his footsteps. Fuck, he'd be right to cut Kellen out entirely after all the shit he's caused both him and Kayla. His sister's an idiot for letting him come crawling back, indulging his desire for conversations when most years he's hardly tried to speak to her, but his brother's more of a cynic. Young enough to hope, but old enough to understand that Kellen's nothing but a fuck-up. If he's smart, he won't make the same mistakes.)

(If he's smart, he won't wind up here.)

Kneeling on the ground by the side of his District partner - a girl he hardly tried to know, and doesn't want to for the sheer fact doing so will make him pathetic - Kellen feels nothing but a growing ache. He doesn't know how long he's been sitting here, but it's long enough that his mind's started to drift - to old haunts, old deeds, memories he's got but doesn't want, even though they forged him into what he is.

"If she wakes up, come get me," Elysia tells him. It takes a moment for the words to register, Ailith's bloodied pants more prominent than anything else in his vision. She got lucky the wound wasn't any deeper - off to the side, just a smidge, and her femoral would've been worse than nicked. Good fortune or bad, Kellen doesn't know, but he supposes staying alive's enough of a consolation. For now.

He nods. Elysia rises to her feet, hair falling loose of its ponytail as she wipes her brow, the skin gleaming with dewy sweat. She's tired - they all are, but it's obvious that the Games have taken a greater toll on the One girl than the rest of them, given how much energy she'd sacrificed dragging Ailith's body back to camp.

Kellen knows it's callous, but he almost wishes Elysia had left her to die. It'd be better, in the long run - less messy, because if Ailith died yesterday, he wouldn't have to worry about killing her, wouldn't have to feel bad for thinking about it while she'd laid up in camp, drowsy and incoherent. The wound in her leg is deep, but not fatal - Patron and Elysia had patched it well, tearing strips of cloth from their blankets to fashion a makeshift tourniquet, pack the injury so it didn't keep leaking as she slept. There's still a chance that infection might set in, but for now she's stable.

… stable.

Kellen nearly laughs. Are any of them stable in this place - this snakepit, this dysfunctional hellhole? They've made it through three days, and maybe it's getting easier to believe with that much time under their belts, but he's never been foolish enough to ignore the bigger picture. Fifteen of the remaining sixteen are dead men walking. Can you really consider your position stable in a place where death is only a heartbeat away?

"Look after her," Elysia says, and then she's off - heading back toward the fire circle where Tati and Patron are sitting on logs, so visibly discontented it makes Kellen smile.

On the inside, at least. It wouldn't do to show his feelings candidly; not when he's kneeling at the side of a dying girl, her olive flesh so stark with pallor she might as well be a corpse already.

It'll be easier to play on their emotions if they're upset. Tati's manipulable anyway, but fear should make her more so, and Patron… well, he's too composed for Kellen to get much of a read on. But that composure's beginning to unravel - he can see the tension in his jaw, the concern in his face, his brow drawn like he's deep in thought and his teeth running over his lower lip, a nervous tic if there ever was one.

Maybe he can capitalize on their stress. Use Ailith's injury to leverage more influence for himself, take advantage of this weakness just as he was taught to. It would be the smart thing to do. The pragmatic thing, even, knowing where they are and who he's with. Kellen needs to secure every possible advantage that he can - needs to have things he can laud over the others, play them against each other, maybe even -

"... c-cold…"

Ailith's stammered words dispel the thoughts from his mind, and he reaches down for her upturned hands, her curled fingers reaching for something that isn't there.

"Ailith. How are you feeling?" He asks, trying to sound as empathetic as possible, all while ignoring the scratching ache inside his chest, some useless part of his brain telling him that his concern… is real.

"Ailith…" his District partner murmurs, tossing her head to the side. "She needs me. I need… I need water."

… what?

"Water?" Kellen asks, and Ailith (?) nods her head. Just once, but it's enough to spur him to acting, sitting up and reaching over for the closest pack, undoing the flap and pulling out their last, filled canteen. He uncaps the lid, holds it to her lips. She cranes her head, one arm reaching up to curl fingers around Kellen's wrist, holding his arm still as she gulps down the liquid.

After a few seconds, she relaxes her grip, and Kellen withdraws his arm, recapping the bottle.

"Thank you," she says, her eyes still closed. Kellen hums and tucks the canteen away, right back into the pouch that had secured it before.

"Ailith," he says, but the name doesn't sit right on his tongue - not after what he's just heard. "Who needs you?"

"Sister. Needs me, Aili- no, Jade - Jade needs me. I have to get back to her. She's… she's the only one left…!"

Her whispers are frantic, rushed, and before Kellen has a chance to react, her eyes are flying open, one hand reaching up to clutch at her throat, half-desperate. Her eyes dart around the camp - trees, the fire, their other allies - before coming to rest on Kellen's face, terror clear as day.

He watches her, not speaking even as his District partner gapes like a fish, her mouth opening and closing in turn. It seems like she's trying to say something - remediate the damage, maybe, even though it's already been done. She's finally given up her secret.

But she doesn't need to think about that.

"Easy, Ailith," Kellen says, reaching out to steady her torso, easing her back toward the ground with a false smile. "Your body's been through a lot. It's best if you rest while you have the chance."

"Kellen, I -" She starts to say, her dark gaze matching his own, not abating even as her head once more hits the ground, black locks a mess on the ground behind her.

"Don't worry," he tells her, grin widening a touch. "Give it a few hours, and you'll be feeling much more like yourself. Blood loss is just a bitch."

"But I -"

Her brow pinches in confusion. Kellen gives her a slight wave, then rises to his feet, following the same path as Elysia back to their camp's center.

"She's conscious," he tells the One girl, taking up residence beside her on a long, his legs slightly spread, elbows resting on his thighs. "A bit delirious, but I think she'll get over it. Give it a day, maybe two."

Elysia frowns, the motion causing deep lines to appear in her visage.

"We're too exposed here," she admits, turning her head. "And we're running low on supplies. We need water, food - a better shelter. Something that'll keep us safe while we gather our strength."

"I can take Patron scouting," Kellen offers. "We could check some of the cabins down by the lake. It won't be easy to move Ailith, but it'll give us a better vantage if you're still planning to go after Five and Eight."

"Sounds good," Elysia agrees, the quick assent surprising him.

"Wow. Who are you, and what have you done with Elysia?"

"Oh, hush, you," she says, reaching over to thwack Kellen's knee. "I'm just tired, alright?"

"You and everyone else," he responds, half-smirking. "Let me guess - they didn't cover stuff like this during your fancy training."

"No, they did," she corrects, laying both hands down on the wood near her waist, her upper body tilting back as she watches Ailith sleep. "But it's different seeing the real thing. Everything I dealt with in One… the survival courses, the sparring, the pace trials and endurance tests… all of it hinged upon something theoretical. Theoretically, I'm trained to withstand the elements. Theoretically I can hunt down the other tributes and kill them, even with a half-assed weapon."

She eyes her saber pointedly, the frown returning in full force.

"Theoretical isn't the same as actual. When I found Ailith yesterday… gods. It's like everything I learned just disappeared from my head. I didn't know what to do. Sure, I managed to patch her up, but it's like my brain was running on autopilot - working without my input. I had absolutely no basis to understand what was happening."

"You felt like you'd lost control," Kellen says knowingly, and Elysia nods.

He glances over his shoulder, back to Patron and Tati, the latter of whom is tossing pebbles into their fire with little regard for her proximity to the flame. Kellen sighs and shakes his head. Such an idiot, he thinks, knowing that the words are directed toward himself as much as the Six girl. What the fuck is he doing here?

"I'm not going to bullshit you," he continues, turning back to Elysia. "When you're stuck in a situation like this… staring death in the face, having to choose between fight and flight on a regular basis, eschewing morals to save your own hide… there's nothing you can really do but keep pushing forward. Rules get thrown out the window; the only law in a place like this is shape up, or die. Survival's for the strong, not the weak."

He claps her on the arm, returning to his feet.

"That's my mantra, at least. See if it encourages you."

She's finally got a project.

Well, it's two projects, actually! Number one is make Argenta the world's best eyepatch. She thinks she's doin' pretty alright there. The knots might be a l'il loose, and there's a possibility the straps aren't gonna fit the way Zenzen said they needed to, but overall it looks okay! She'd gotten the darkest fabric they had to help cover up the socket, since divots sorta show through fabric if its too light, something Vyn's learned from personal experience. Such is the life of a trainee!

Anywho, the eyepatch seems to be well in hand, even if its sorta-not the best, so that leaves Vyn with project number two: get Cordy to fall in love with her! And that one's gonna take some work - even after yesterday an' her talk with Velezen.

Getting past her guilt is only half of the struggle. Cordura's gotta like her back before Maevyn can even think about them bein' more-than-buddies, and the only way that'll happen is if she makes herself irresistible. Which is a lot easier said than done!

It was different when she was in Four. With guys, all she'd have to do was show 'em a bit of skin and tempt them to her via kisses. And that strategy worked on some of the girls, too - the ones that Vyn met in passing, who just wanted a bit of fun while they were hangin' out drunk. Beach parties and trainee-frequented pubs are always good places to find fun, so long as ya keep an open mind - but the difference there is that there's no strings. It's not like Madora, who she had to build up a rapport with before she could secure affection, and it's not like Cordura, where Vyn's gotten in over her head before they've so much as held hands!

Like Madora, Cordy's special. She deserves a fairytale romance, all the longing looks and sweet kisses and little gifts plus terms of endearment. Maevyn just wants them to be happy; here and now, while they still can.

She doesn't just wanna have sex with Cordy - she wants to win her heart. And while that's a pretty tall order… at least she's got a place to start.

Soon, Maevyn promises herself. I'm gonna give it to her soon. Today. Maybe. I dunno - yes. Today.

I gotta show her.

I wanna tell her.

"- don't fucking touch it like that! It's sensitive!"

Argenta's shouting snaps her from her thoughts, loud enough that Maevyn nearly jumps at it. She sits forward, peerin' over at the door where the other girls have disappeared to, her curiosity piqued. It doesn't take long before there's a loud cry of "BITCH!" proceeded almost immediately by a thwack.

"Come on, Five, it'll be over before you know it," Cordura responds in full-mommy-mode. "Don't be a fuckin' baby."

There's the sound of something clattering inside their dream-room, then a thud, a shout, and a copious amount of belligerent cursing that Vyn simply has to chuckle at. Her hand flies up to her mouth, tryna stifle the giggles that are gonna start spilling out, utterly bemused by her buddies' antics.

(It had been real scary seein' 'em yesterday, barreling home like a couple of zombies, one with a mangled face and the other ran through by a literal sword. They'd been so bloody that Maevyn wasn't sure if they were gonna make it. And she'd started to cry at that, because maybe if she'd gone out with 'em she coulda prevented it, done something to keep Cordy from being ran through and Argie from gettin' bad-poked, because out of all of them she's the one that's trained for this. She's the one that knows what they're supposed to be doing, the one that's ran through the courses and weathered the survival stations, and yet she's the one that stayed behind - left her allies fucking helpless, and for what reason? Cordy could've stayed with Zenzen. Argie, too. But she'd let 'em hunt and she'd let 'em go, and if they died it was gonna be on her, no different than her Mom or Madora –)

(I let her die, I let her die! Maevyn had wailed, clawing at her flesh and hitting herself in the head, drawn up on the riverbank with water in her hair. Her clothes were ripped and her flesh was torn, but she hadn't had the energy to mind. She'd felt the blood leaking from her cuts and looked down at her red-soaked legs, painting a trail from the bank to her encampment, where Mads' gear still hunt off a drooping branch, her journal laid out on the torpid ground.

"Maevyn… what did you do?" Bolivar whispered, the bag of roses dropping from his hand as he looked at the ripples where Madora went under. His face contorted and Vyn saw a demon, black-red-glowing-vicious, horns sprouting from his head as he opened his mouth. Her hand tightened around the necklace - Mads' necklace, laced into her palm, all the seashells broken an' clawin' at her flesh, and when she finally turns her neck to look at it, she sees nothing but a broken cord.

A cord not hemp-thread or beads. The cord of a birthed child, dangling from her grip, a baby's screams still shrill in her ear. Except - that wasn't right, wasn't - Mads hadn't been that far along, she would've known!

The umbilical becomes shells again, and the shells turn to dust, sliding from her gnarled fingers and vanishing on the wind. Bolivar's hands are on her shoulders, and he's mad, madder than her, his spittle flyin' in her face and eyes nearly bulgin' from his head. He shakes her, still screamin' the same old thing -

"What did you do, what the fuck did you do to her?!"

- and Maevyn smiles, her teeth pointed like a mer-beast, the sirens her father had so often told her about as a child, draggin' men from their boats and luring them into the depths. Tears stream down her cheeks as she stays eye-level with his chest, lettin' him scream at her, shake her down -

His fist connects with her face. She can feel her skin mutating under the hit, flesh-and-scales-and-rot-like-death.

He's killed her.

Bolivar killed her.

Madora -

Madora killed her. She broke her heart. She broke —

"I HATE YOU!" Maevyn screams, thrashing in a Peacekeeper's grip. "All of you sons of bitches, I should kill ya for what you've did! My Madora, he killed my Madora! My Madora!"

My Madora…)

Vyn feels a spell overtakin' her mind. She shakes her head - snaps the skull, back and forth, tryna figure out which way is up - in hopes that it'll rattle the worms stuck in her head, feastin' on her skull like they always do with the dead.

She's not supposed to be here. She's not supposed to be alive, not after that night. Not after what she…

What she did.

Don't think about it, jus' don't think about it, bad thoughts hurt the head, bad thoughts let 'em win -

"GET OFFA ME, YOU'RE CRUSHIN' MY SPLEEN!"

"YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE YOUR SPLEEN IS, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

Velezen pokes his head in around the lodge door as Argenta starts to wail, looking around the room curiously. He turns to Maevyn with a questioning gaze, and she raises her hand, pointing with one finger over to their sleeping spot, mere seconds before Cordura emerges from the den.

"I'd call that surgery a verified success," she says, grinning at them with hands firm on her hips. "Vyn, you got that eyepatch for me?"

"O-oh. Right!" Maevyn exclaims, hopping back onto her water-swelled feet, givin' Cordy a one handed salute. "On it, Captain!"

She snatches the little cloth-and-leather contraption from where she'd left it on the table, pleased to see that the knots around the covery-part have held up well. Usin' backpack straps wasn't really ideal for arts and crafts, but the cord seems to be doing okay, and if nothin' else, it's adjustable 'cause she got the piece with the little holes and clasps. She tosses it to Cordy, and the Eight girl doesn't miss a beat for timing. She reaches up and snatches it from the air, giving Vyn a wink in return.

"You're a gem, Maevyn," Cordura praises, and Vyn feels the words like a kiss. Heat rushes to her face as Cordy disappears back 'round the doorway, leaving her and Zen in the main hall, the latter with a raised brow.

"Well," he says, after the Eight girl is well out of sight, Argenta's grumbling starting up again. "Are you going to go after her?"

Maevyn's eyes widen. She looks at Zen, jaw hanging loose, before the lightbulb over her head finally turns on.

"Hooks and sails!" She exclaims, practically leaping over the bench and chasing Cordy into the dream-room, with no mind for her own self-preservation. "Cordy, I got a thing for ya! Can you an' Argie wai -"

Vyn pauses, blinking at the sight of her younger ally. Argenta's sitting with her back against the wooden wall, blankets bundled up around her legs. She looks halfway to feral from how pissed she is, but her hair's pulled back in a cute l'il bun and she's got the eyepatch pulled over her face, the straps adjusted to make it a perfect fit.

It's ugly, but Maevyn loves it. She presses her hands to her face and squeals.

"Ohmigoshhh!" The Four girl starts to coo, dropping to Argie's side and turnin' her head, hand grabbin' her chin as she inspects the new addition to her uniform. "You're like a little pirate! Argentaaa."

"Your sewing skills are shit," Argenta says, crossing her arms in a sulk as Vyn continues to fawn over her, ignoring the sharpened quip.

"Now all ya need is a hook over your hand and a big ol' ship to call your own!" She enthuses, poking at the twelve year old's cheek. "And maybe Zenny'll lose an eye too, and then you'll be twinning! Not ta mention, super intimidating. I wonder if I could -"

"Maevyn?" Cordura asks, crossing her arms. Vyn's finger boops the end of Argenta's nose as the Five girl gives her a teasing arr! - then promptly tries to bite it. She pulls back and looks at her kinda-maybe-not-really-just-a-crush, scratching at her head with an awkward laugh.

"Yeah?" She questions. Cordura cocks her head.

"You wanted to show me something?"

Vyn blinks a couple times, trying to recall what exactly she's talking about. Her mind wanders to the cardstack tucked into her pocket - a random find of hers from when she and Velezen were patrollin' around the lodge yesterday - and suddenly her words get stuck in her throat, her heart feeling sort of… flustered.

"Oh, umm, yeah! I did. Or - uh - I mean - I do. But like. Maybe later?"

She grins at Cordura, the action only causing her partner's confusion to arch, tinting into her eyes and the curve of her mouth and - fuck, she's frowning! That's not right. I gotta fix this.

"Tonight," Maevyn promises, rising to her full height and stepping over her sleeping mat, closer and closer 'til she's able to touch Cordy's chest. She reaches up and slings her arms around the Eight girl's neck, pulling their bodies flush to take in the warmth.

"Tonight, I promise," she repeats, as Cordy awkwardly begins to return the embrace, crushing Maevyn to her chest and resting her chin atop her head.

It's been a long time since she's felt this loved.

But maybe she deserves a second chance.

Maybe this time, she can do it right. Love Cordura in the proper way. Let go of her pain and the death that haunts her. Lay Madora's wailing spirit to rest…

(And drown herself in the waters of her own tormented mind.)

Patron's beginning to actively hate the arena.

He's not sure if it's the humidity, or the heat, or all the fucking bugs flying about and getting in his clothes… the fact he's spent days sleeping on dirt, his body reeking of sweat and muck, so unlike the hygiene he'd been sure to keep back home that it disgusts him every time he lingers on it… but it's definitely starting to get to him. Has been getting to him, because he can just image the reactions of everyone back home, his mother and her frivolous friends sipping wine as they discuss how unfortunate it is that he went and got himself voted in, but it's not the fault of the parents if the son's a bad egg.

… psh.

(Patron likes to tell himself he isn't bitter. He likes to pretend that he doesn't care about his family, or how easily they disavowed him, the same way he doesn't care about Edward spurning his affections his banishment from Sway Cabaret, or Leia Chianti's crippled leg. So what if he lost his future the same day that he lost his present, condemned to be nothing but a miserable sot hidden away in the Midori garden? So what if he's had his titles revoked, been denied his right to call himself an heir just as he had been denied the right to claim he was lead dancer, the only labels still of use to him those of bogeyman and slut?)

(He hated growing up in that worthless place with its worthless fields, acres upon acres of ground covered by nothing but stalks of wheat and unhusked corn. He hated waking up to a dull grey sky and a bland, lifeless world, not a dot of color to be seen anywhere beyond the nightclubs, even within the Midori home. Being wealthy didn't exempt Patron from Nine's casual monotony; frankly, it only made it worse.)

(Money cannot buy contentment. Nor can it breed validation, regard, or affection. Those were things that Patron had needed to work for, and he had, more fervently than most anything else. He'd even earned them for a time - admiration from a man who showered him with nothing but praise, affection from showgoers whose laps he could sit on and whose mouths he could kiss, a performance in which he had reveled…)

He hates them. He hates them all.

… and he really doesn't need to be letting his insecurity needle at his thoughts, when he's meant to be completing a task. Kellen's only a scant few yards off his current path, crouched down beside a pack that's sure to be more full than his own, and the sight of him causes Patron's lips to turn. Bastard, he thinks, unsure why the sight fills him with such pressing anger, but apathetic enough he doesn't care to reflect. His brow pinches as he pushes past another tree, discontent gripping his innards. I bet he's just waiting for a chance to get rid of me. He does seem like the type. And if it happened now, who would question? Ailith's already injured. This arena is a place of death, and mine would hardly merit concern from any of my supposed allies. He's even armed - fucking brilliant.

Patron passes one tree, then a second, then a third. Finally, he stops before a bush and crouches down, rifling through the thorny branches to grab at the berries that are there. Wild blueberries. A perfectly standard type of fruit, one that the others can't possibly find fault with. Even if they don't trust him…

Patron sighs and starts to pick the berries off, taking them from their branches one at a time. He could poison them if he really wanted; he won't say the thought of it hasn't crossed his mind. But given what he's up against, it's safer to stay with the pack… at least until the numbers start to drop. They've got more manpower as a group. Two of them know how to kill. For now, that gives them an advantage, and benefits Patron by proxy. He's not going to -

There's something glimmering at the base of the bush, just on the opposite side from where he's sat. Patron leans forward, squinting at the object, but with the mess of branches in his way, he can't quite make out what it is. He draws back, stands to his feet. Maybe if he can grab a stick…

Taking a step back, he examines the bush, along with the grass and the arching trees, the abundance of flora not appearing to be out of the ordinary… but one can never be too careful. Patron isn't sticking his hand in a bush without seeing what's on the other side, especially when something appears amiss. He takes a minute to survey the ground, looking over the fallen sticks until he spies one long enough to give him both a reach and some added distance. Perfect.

He strides over to the branch, picks it up, and carried it back to the blueberry bush, kneeling once more in the slightly-damp dirt as he feeds the stick into the brush. Tapping it around on the other side, it doesn't take long before he hears a clink - the sound of something metal, and definitely not naturally placed. He taps the stick against it again, hearing another little pling, then begins trying to shift it closer, out from the foliage and toward his position…

Something snaps.

Patron jumps back, dropping the stick and dodging to the side as the tree beside him begins to groan. A rush of air whooshes past his face, followed by a second snap, this one sounding less like a branch and more like a cord, under the pressure of extreme force. He barely has a moment to react before an axe flies through the clearing, striking into the ground before the bush with an almost uncanny precision. It's not so close to where he was that it would have killed him, but if he'd been a second slower, Patron's certain he'd at least be injured.

"Patron?" He hears Kellen's voice call from the path nearby, but he ignores it, more focused on the threads he can now see wrapped around the axe's base, running up and down its haft. Raising a brow, he grabs ahold of his branch again and starts to prod at them, but the wire's clearly broken - detached from the rest of the trap, which he supposes is somewhere up in the tree by his side. He figured something was off (after all, a random bit of metal in the middle of the woods isn't exactly discreet) but he hadn't expected something this elaborate. For a trap, the design seems surprisingly competent…

He grabs the axe's shaft and tugs it up out of the earth, turning the weapon in his hand. All things considered, it's a solid weapon; bit heavy for what Patron prefers, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Now… where's the trapmaker?

"Patron, I swear to fuck if you got yourself killed -"

Kellen's words are now accompanied by the sound of footsteps, drawing closer to his position. Fuck, Patron thinks, clambering to his feet and turning to position the axe behind his back.

"I'm fine!" He responds, hoping his words will be enough of a deterrent. "Just - knocked a branch loose on a tree."

Though his words aren't especially loud, they're loud enough to almost mask the sudden intake of breath he hears from amidst the foliage. Patron snaps his head to the right as a flash of beige appears inside the greenery, accompanied by a rustling, and without taking another moment to think, he hefts the axe up and charges, the sudden movement accompanied by a cry.

"Shit, you're a bad liar," he hears Kellen say, his movements now rushed as he storms into the clearing, but by the time he breaks through, Patron is already gone. The trapmaker's in front of him, stumbling through the trees on shaky legs, their steps rushed but also harrowed, too harrowed to keep their pace strong. Whether it's exhaustion or sheer ineptitude doesn't matter - Patron's faster than they are. He urges his feet to move faster, the refinement of his muscle from years of dancing helping him keep pace with the smaller figure - up to the point where he could probably lunge at them, should he really want to.

(He doesn't. He should, but part of him just wants to turn, leave the trail, forget about foraging or hunting or catching tributes in the first place. Patron doesn't want to be a killer. He can tolerate the idea of it - or at least that's what he tells himself - but theory and practice are two different things. If he goes through with this, he won't just be ending somebody's career - he'll be ending their life.)

Patron's arm snaps forward, grabbing ahold of the tribute's hair, his fingers tangled between long strands of dull, dirty blonde. The sight of it looks oddly familiar, and a sense of nausea overtakes him, bile flooding into his esophagus and welling up the back of his throat. The tribute cries out, shoving back at him and thrashing to try and get free, but Patron's in too deep to let her go. He tugs on her hair, then shoves her forward roughly, the rapid combination causing her legs to give out from under her, even before he brings her to her knees.

Patron raises the axe, arm drawn back in preparation, only to stop before he can bring it down. The tribute turns her head, and he realizes with a surge of illness why the tribute had seemed familiar… why he almost thought he had recognized her.

"Thomasin?" He gasps out, and she starts to shake, a single tear slipping from her eye as she looks up at him

"I didn't know," she says, sounding remorseful, and Patron's grip on her hair slackens at the intonation.

"Didn't know what?" He almost snaps, trying to shove away the roiling in his stomach, his chest a-flutter with anticipation. Thomasin frantically shakes her head, her eyes focused on the axe in his hand, looking pale as a sheet.

"I didn't… I didn't know it was you," she whispers, sounding on the verge of a breakdown. "If I had, I never would've checked the trap, I swear it."

Patron watches her for a moment, his lips slightly parted and his mouth dry. He looks into her eyes - frightened and grey, so scared, he doesn't remember her looking so young - and swallows, a lump building in his throat.

Why is he hesitating? She'll have to die for him to live, and being from the same District is no reason to guarantee for loyalty. Certainly, he could let her go, but is it worth it when he'll just have to fight her again later?

"Are you going to kill me?" Thomasin questions.

Patron's lips purse, an expression somewhere between stoicism and consternation overtaking his visage.

"You were going to kill me," he points out, only for Thomasin to shake her head, adamant in her denial.

"Patron, I wouldn't have, I swear. You're the only thing in here that's familiar." The single, crystalline tear in her eye slips free to roll down her cheek, her grey gaze glassy as she watches him. "Please, just let me go."

… he can't do this.

The axe falls from his hand, thudding into the hard dirt as he lets go of Thomasin's hair. He steps backward, one hand moving up to clutch at his own throat, the adrenaline still coursing through his body and setting him on edge.

"Okay," Patron whispers. "I'll let you go."

He waits for her to move, to get up and run, but she stays surprisingly still there on her knees, slumped forward like she's waiting to be struck.

"What are you waiting for?" He snaps. "Get out of here! Now, before Kellen comes -"

Thomasin shakes her head. "Patron, I…" she begins to speak, running her tongue over her lips to wet them. She turns her head away, wrapping her arms around her upper body, one hand covering what Patron can now see is a string of bruises across her arm. "I have to tell you something."

"No, you don't," Patron says, shaking his head. "We may be District partners, but that doesn't mean I give a shit about you -"

"Maybe not, but you could've killed me," Thomasin retorts, although this time she at least has sense enough to stand and get her wits about her. Turning around, she looks Patron dead in the eye, her gaze more tenacious than he expected. "I just want to repay the favor.

"Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that?" Patron asks, crossing his arms. "Unless you're offering the rest of your supplies, there's nothing you have that I want."

"I have information," she spits out. "I can tell you something about your allies."

Kellen's voice filters through the trees behind them, shouting Patron's name with pertinacious rage. Patron looks back over his shoulder as Thomasin grabs hold of his arm, her touch alone making him want to recoil. Fear seeps into his brain as he glances to the axe in the dirt, dropped in his moment of sudden weakness, and he gnashes his teeth together to quell his panic.

"Fine," he grits out, Kellen's calls getting louder. "But make it quick."

Thomasin nods, still holding onto his arm - then quickly brings her foot up and swings it forward, the unexpected kick leveled directly at his crotch.

"WHAT THE -" Patron starts to shout, crumpling in on himself as Thomasin grabs her fallen axe and steps away.

"Have to keep up appearances," she said. "That's for pulling a chunk of my hair." She points at a patch on her head where the blond strands are thinner, Patron's grip strong enough to have torn a portion out by the roots. Then, offering him a smile, she slings the axe back onto her back and continues in her divulgence. "Two and Six are gonna betray you. I heard them talking the other day while they were walking around. He said if he handled - Elia? Something like that, anyways - then could she handle you, and she was frowning, but she said she could. And then he stuck something in her pocket. I didn't see what it was, but if I had to guess, it's nothing good."

"Where the fuck are you?!" Kellen raves as Patron stays there, one hand clutching his hip and the other his groin as his District partner slips away, waving the axe at him as a goodbye.

"If you check by the trap, there's a key to one of the cabins. It's where I got my supplies. There's more there, so if nothing else, it might help you last a little bit longer. I really am sorry about this."

Turning heel, she starts to run, and as she does Patron lets out a scream, all of the frustration he's held in through the last few days coming out in a single, wrath-induced moment.

"KELLEN!" He shouts, watching Thomasin's retreating back. After a moment, he grits his teeth and slumps to his knees, eyelids tightly closed as exhaustion over takes him. "Fuck you and fuck District Nine, I swear on the Capitol -"

Kellen's warpath rounds the tree, and a hand clamps down on Patron's shoulder, firm enough that it's hardly a reassurance.

"She got away," Patron lies, and Kellen's grip tightens, a single curse exiting his mouth to fall on willfully deaf ears. "And I'm not a Career, so don't give me a lecture. Fighting's not one of my strengths."

"Wasn't gonna," Kellen responds, letting go and clapping him on the back, then stepping forward to examine the area.

"I need to go get my pack," Patron says, trying his best to act nonchalant. He winces as he gets back to his feet, the area around his groin nearly pulsing with pain. "You coming?"

"In a moment," Kellen answers, looking back to him and quirking an eyebrow. "You can wait that long, can't you?"

"Sure," Patron says, more surly than he intended.

"Good. Wouldn't want you getting lost again."

Kellen smiles at him, but there's nothing behind his eyes. The show of teeth feels predatory, far more than it has before, and Patron wonders - not for the first time - if there's any truth behind Thomasin's words. He's been expecting a betrayal from Kellen, but Tati's a different story. How did he rope her in? And better yet… when did he do it?

His eyes narrow as he wraps his arms around himself, turning away to face the trees.

If Kellen and Tati really are planning an attack, he'll need to prepare himself. It'll be difficult to abandon his allies, but he's been contemplating it since the beginning. He'll need a couple days to prepare, but he can be smart about it… cautious.

If he's lucky, he'll get out before they can act.

If he's lucky… they'll be too preoccupied with one another to even care that he's gone.

A/N: Pit of Vipers by Simon Curtis.

Lots of plotting and intrigue around these parts… pretty soon, things are going to start getting serious. I hope y'all are buckled in for the ride. :') Thanks again to everyone reading, reviewing or commenting in the discord channel, it means the world that you're enjoying the story thus far! The next update will hopefully come before month's end, so I'll be back on track with what I'd wanted - up to day five by the end of March, where we will officially be moving into some action rather than continuous set-up. Until the next!