day four, part two: drowning in the sound
Assembly line authenticity, ghostwritten complicity - who are you to tell me what to do?
There is a saying they have in District Two.
It is a favorite amongst the Peacekeepers, a pre-Panemian phrase spoken primarily by those loyal few who choose to train as cadets in the Nut. Jade recalls hearing it most frequently from her brother, Pallas, though exactly why he seemed so enamored with it she cannot say. Perhaps he intended the phrase to serve as a warning, a means by which he could deter his siblings from wrongdoing. Perhaps it was simply a reminder of how things, once said, cannot be taken back - a lesson that Jade had the misfortune of learning well, the day she allowed Ailith to slip away with Emric in an effort to "save" the rebel underground.
"Factum fieri infectum non potest."
It is impossible for a deed to be undone.
These are the words that linger in Jade's head as she sits up from her makeshift bed, her head throbbing with the ache of malaise. There's a nausea that's overridden the calmness of her gut, fed all the more by the anxiety speeding her heart, and as she reaches up to rub at her eyes, she finds herself wiping away tears along with the remnants of exhaustion.
It may have been an accident. May have been… delirium, or the ramblings of a fever, simple heat exhaustion, Jade isn't sure. Ultimately, it doesn't matter what happened, only that the words she spoke were damning enough to spell her undoing.
She's not Ailith.
She's not a rebel.
She's not even supposed to be here.
Jade Echeverry is a fraud, and Kellen Akos is now aware of it. She may not have confessed her identity outright, but her District partner is smart enough to piece it together, and cunning enough to keep it as leverage. So long as he's alive, she's in danger of being exposed.
Danger… she's… in danger, she can't –
Ailith. By the stone.
She feels woozy. Sick, both in the head and in her stomach. The world around her contorts as Jade tries to keep her body upright, dirt and trees and blueish sky all swirling together into a mural of confusion.
The sun is high in the sky, gleaming like a golden blaze far off on the horizon, and the sight of it blots her vision, the wound in her thigh pulsating with pain when she finally deigns to shift the limb. She's injured - of that there's no question. Five's sword struck deep when they'd had their fight, and she can feel the sting of it even now, pushing through her flesh and penetrating layers of muscle, rending them apart and sliding through her veins…
She must have lost a lot of blood. More than she'd even realized.
Jade's eyes drop to the makeshift bandages that have been strung around her thigh, bracketing the wound so tightly that they're practically a tourniquet. Her shin and calf feel numb, the circulation of her blood cut short in what was probably an attempt to keep her stable. And while it worked…
She won't deny her concern about the repercussions. About the stifled movement in her knee, or the way pins and needles have been prickling the soles of her foot, an uncomfortable stiffness radiation up and down her lower leg, mere tingles of sensation remaining in the skin. Compared to the rest of her body, the flesh is cold, and the muscle beneath seems almost taut. The thought of trying to move around in this condition…
I'm a hindrance, she realizes, closing her eyes as her teeth clench tight. Dead weight. If we move today, I'm going to slow our progress - and they must be aware of that. So why did they save me? Why am I here?
Why am I…
"Kellen!" Tati's voice calls out. Jade's head turns to observe her District partner as he strides back into the camp, Patron following along at his heels. He's got something in his arms - something big enough to seem important, even though Jade can't make out the details, the size of an open blanket filled and tied off as equipment from a scavenge. Patron says nothing as they move over toward Elysia, nothing as they lay the cloth down on the ground, the weather warm enough to feel muggy, especially during the right time of year.
"Welcome back."
Elysia stands to her feet, waving Kellen over in the direction of the camping circle. Jade finds herself following his movements, the pulse at her throat beginning to speed. Kellen turns his head and her breath halts when he looks at her, black eyes glinting in the light like obsidian.
Calm down, she tells herself, fiddling with the bracelet on her hand, a gesture that Jade's certain appears half-neurotic. She turns her head away as Kellen sits, biting down hard on her waxen tongue. He hasn't said anything, and he's given you no reason to believe he will. Just focus on getting your strength back. Rest. Recover.
(You'll need more energy than this to overcome what's ahead.)
"I see you're finally awake," another voice pipes up, so close to Jade that she instinctively recoils. Pulling back and clasping her hands to her chest, she cranes her neck back to look at Patron, standing over her with an open backpack, his mouth pinched in distaste.
"I am," Jade responds. Patron gives a small hm, looking neither pleased nor displeased by the change in her condition. Jade's eyes narrow as he shifts his weight onto his heels, craning his head back toward the others before letting out a huff.
"Did they even notice I was gone?"
"I did," Jade says, allowing her shoulders to drop and her head to return to a forward-facing position. "Can't speak for the others."
"Naturally," Patron responds. Stars, she can practically hear his eyes rolling.
"Aren't you going to sit?" She asks him. Patron's arms cross, but Jade can see him shifting in the periphery, tired enough that he's certainly considering the idea. After a moment, he drops the pack and settles down, crossing his legs as he makes a space in the grass, not far from her side.
"Thanks," he whispers, not looking at her. Jade nods, amicable as ever.
"Don't mention it."
Silence descends over the clearing as Kellen's voice pitches down to a whisper, Elysia's occasional nods the only evidence that he's speaking at all. Patron lets out another sigh, pulling fragments of grass out of the clodded dirt, everything about his posture screaming restless. It's a feeling that Jade can sympathize with; frustration, tension, the impulsive urges that come with a lack of productivity.
She braces one arm across her chest, scratching at a small rash that's started to bloom over her bicep.
"You don't have to talk to me if you'd prefer not to," she begins, a bit awkward in her efforts to make conversation when Patron seems eager to do anything but. "I don't want to push. It's just… I can't help but notice you seem a little… off. Did something happen?"
Patron scoffs. "Something always happens," he says, continuing to pluck at the grass. "Don't worry, it's not anything I didn't expect. Just… more evidence that I shouldn't have bothered sticking around."
Jade turns to him, surprised. "Did Kellen say something?"
"Kellen? Please." The Nine boy almost laughs at the question. "I'm pretty sure the world will end before ratboy decides to willingly engage me in conversation… not that I necessarily care. He's…"
Patron trails off, biting his lip.
"He's…?" Jade tries to prompt, but her ally merely shakes his head, closing up all over again.
"Never mind," he says. "It's nothing."
The quiet returns. Patron reaches for the knapsack he'd tossed down, pulling open the flap and reaching inside. He rummages for a moment, gathering something up with his hands, then withdraws from the satchel and extends his arm to her.
"Blueberries?" He asks. Jade blinks, looking down at his offered palm, and the suggestion take a second for her to register. Once it does, she reaches up to pluck a few of the little berries out from his hand, popping one into her mouth, the juice sweet on her tongue.
"Thanks," she says. Patron nods, retracting his hand and pulling it into his lap, the remaining berries in his palm disappearing shortly thereafter.
Jade polishes off her own ration, the snack serving as a decent distraction from the mess clanking about her head, a chain of repetitive thoughts circling around her skull. How long do I have before the others find out? Can I trust Kellen to keep my secret? What happened between him and Patron, put in the woods? What is it that he and Elysia are talking about? Where exactly did Tati go?
… at least the last one isn't a mystery for long.
"Bitchboyyy!" Tati half-greets/half-whines, throwing an arm around Patron as she settles down beside him, grabbing for the pack. "It seems like ages since we've talked, don'tcha think? Also, quit hoarding the food, I'm fucking starving!"
"Hands off," Patron says, smacking her arm as she fiddles with the strap of the bag.
"Aw, c'mon, buddy. What gives?" Tati retorts, hooking her arms around his and using her clinging hold to tug the satchel closer. "You'll share your bounty with Ailith, but not with me? I thought we were besties."
"Okay, first off, we are not 'besties,'" Patron says, yanking her sideways as her fingers desperately fumble for the pack's strap. "And second, I literally walked in on you stuffing your face with trail mix. Ten minutes ago."
"Um, no?" Tati says, shoving him right back, their arms madly clashing as they struggle for dominance. "If you get out of here, you should really get your eyesight checked. That was a hundred percent Elysia, not me."
Patron audibly ughs. "God, you're a worse liar than I am."
"Hey, you can't live a full life on an empty stomach, okay?" Tati huffs, Jade's eyes flitting between her hand and Patron's, batting idly at each other while their arms remain locked at the elbows. "I may look fine on the outside, but my stomach is still grieving the loss of edibles. The least you could do is give me a fucking berry!"
"Fine," Patron says, elbowing the Six girl away, plucking a single berry from the bag and chucking it at her head. "Here's your berry, fatass. Now go away."
"SERIOUSLY?" Tati shouts as it sails past her ear, watching the little blue object fly by only to land in the mud. "What the fuck was that?!"
"Malicious compliance," Patron answers. "Now are we done here?"
"You know your dick belongs in your pants, not your personality, right?"
"Tati… everyone has the right to be stupid, but you're really abusing your privilege."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck you."
"I'm literally sitting right here," Jade deadpans, the Six-Nine squabble slowly beginning to override her sanity. When they show no signs of letting up, she exhales slowly, closing her eyes and kicking away the cloth that had been lain over her legs, getting ready to stand—
"Are you seriously going to start doing this again?" Elysia snaps, approaching the duo with Kellen right on her heels. "Need I remind you there are people out there trying to kill us?"
"Well, duh, it's the fucking Hunger Games?" Tati replies, but takes the hint and closes her mouth, her jaw locking firmly in place. Patron dips his head in acknowledgement, gathering up the supply bag without another word. Kellen gives Jade a nod.
"Looks like you're back in the land of the living. Leg doing okay?"
"Well, it's no longer leaking blood everywhere," she answers, her smile forced but her relief at being rescued from the previous conversation entirely palpable. "I'll take what I can get."
"Minimal progress is still progress," Elysia says, giving her a nod. Kellen reaches down, arm extended, and Jade grasps hold of it, allowing him to pull her back onto her feet, stifling her gasp of pain by biting down on her lip. The makeshift tourniquet holds in place, knots clearly tied well enough not to be loosened by anything save intentional pulling, and though her body feels unbalanced, she's thankful enough to be able to stand.
"Loop your arm around my shoulder," Kellen instructs, his own hand bracketing Jade's waist as she tries to follow the direction, half-slumping against him regardless of her effort. Elysia's upper lip curls slightly, like she's actively trying not to grimace. Her disappointment is obvious, as is her glare, and Jade finds herself instinctively tensing, unsure what words are about to spill out from her mouth.
"This… isn't ideal."
"Tell me about it," Tati huffs, blowing a stray lock of yellow hair away from her face. "Are we sure moving base is actually a good plan?"
"We need the supplies," Elysia says, ignoring the first comment entirely. "Kellen, do you want to fill her in or should I?"
"I've got it," he says simply. The One girl nods, turning now to Patron.
"Good. Nine, you and I will start picking up the supplies. Six… don't touch anything. I'll let you know when we're ready to leave."
She begins to walk away. Jade looks up at Kellen, her brow furrowed.
"We're moving camp overnight? I hate to say it, but I have to agree with Tati. This seems impractical."
"I'm not the one calling the shots," Kellen replies, his grip tightening as she half-stumbles, injured leg practically dragging against the ground. "Besides, we're out of water - I gave you the last of my bottle this morning, and there's no way we're gonna last if we don't get more."
"Where exactly do you plan to get it, if you don't mind me asking?"
Her District partner sighs, stopping midmotion to reach into his pocket and fish out a pair of keys.
"We ran into Patron's partner in the woods. She was carrying a key to one of the cabins - apparently, it's where she's been getting her stuff the last few days."
"She told you that?"
"No, she told Patron," Kellen replies, pitching his tone to a whisper. "And believe me, I'm definitely going to be keeping a closer eye on him because of it. You should, too, if you know what's good for you."
A sense of uneasiness winds into her gut. This is how alliances split - by playing people against each other. Is he being sincere? Or is Patron just the easiest one for him to slander?
… no. Kellen hasn't given her any reason to doubt his allegiance yet. Even if he knows her secret, he gave her an excuse by which she could hide it, helped play off her mistake as a slip of the tongue, due to her delirium. If she should trust anyone in this group, it's him - he's her District partner and her safety net here. If he really wanted to hurt her, wouldn't he already have done it?
"What's the second key?" Jade asks, trying to keep momentum. Kellen sighs as they continue to limp forward, keeping her secure until they've reached the central circle, Tati following behind them and kicking at loose mud clods.
"Honestly? I have no idea."
"They aren't numbered?"
"No, Nine's is numbered - it's pretty obvious it goes to Cabin Seven," he holds them up to the light, the tag on the left key rattling in time with their steps. "The one I had - the one that was in our pack - has a B on it. My first thought is it opens the basement in the mess. Elysia suggested the boathouse. Either way, we have to get back to the main camp if we want to use it."
Jade frowns. "And… it's not better to check the area during the day?"
"Not so long as Five and their allies are holding the cornucopia. They'd have too much of an advantage if they saw us coming."
So that's what this is about, Jade thinks, unable to muffle her grunt of pain as her foot catches against a rock. Elysia's still looking to take down Five and Eight. Fantastic.
"Alright," she finally says. "If that's the plan, then that's the plan. I'll do my best to keep up."
The forest is silent.
There's something strange about the taciturn atmosphere, the stillness of the woods and the sturdiness of the ground, and Lethe has to admit that he finds it odd. He has never been one for noise, nor for idle chatter, but in this shrouded glen the quiet is pervasive enough to feel unnatural. Without the sound of a steady breeze… the hum and buzz of insects, the shifting of dirt under their feet… it feels as if he and Hollister have walked into a sound chamber, a place deprived of sensation where even words have no place.
He has not spoken a word since they set out on trail this morning, yet neither has his rabid ally. Since the moment Hollister woke from his slumber, he has hardly spoken a word to Lethe, hardly even voiced his own frustration. After the scuffle with the pair from Three and Ten, he had become insensate, hissing and spitting all through the day and only calming after they had found a camp, set their supplies down and found a patch of softer dirt where he could lie and recover his strength. His face was flushed and his hands were clammy, but Lethe figured it was more the ire than anything else. As such, he'd chosen to take the first watch. And then the second, when an attempt to wake the boy from Twelve resulted only in a strangled wail, his chest heaving as he began to shift, sweat dampening his pale skin.
He looks ill. Of that, there's no question; Lethe's seen the same tells of pallor in the flesh and glazed-over eyes many times in the streets of his District, hallmarks of addiction and precursors to death. He's not sure what changed between yesterday and this morning, but something's clearly gotten to his pet. Perhaps it was the blood he'd consumed causing an infection… or perhaps it was heat exhaustion, fatigue, something else entirely. Lethe doesn't know and he doesn't particularly care, given it's a problem either way.
If Hollister's sick, then their progress might be hindered. He has no use for an ally that's become baggage, less of an attack dog than a lame human, bemoaning his fate even though it was his actions that brought him to it. Although…
Lethe sighs, adjusting the straps of his pack as it hangs from his slumped shoulders, the weight heavier after days of hauling it about. Few things in the world are capable of disturbing him, and yet the… feelings… that he has started to develop are amongst that proportion.
(He should not care as much as he does. Hollister is no more a companion to him than the members of Six's underground - he's useful, he's impudent, and he has a personality that Lethe can weaponize, which makes him somewhat of a safety net in regards to the arena. Beyond that, however, he has no purpose. Not to Lethe, because he's a misanthrope first and foremost. Historically, he's always done better when left to his own devices. But… now…)
The Six boy bites down on his lower lip, speeding his pace as they continue to walk. He has no obligation to stay with Hollister, but the idea of leaving him stirs a sense of… dissatisfaction… inside his chest.
He isn't attached. He doesn't care about Hollister, or even like him. He tolerates his company, but that's all. If his presence becomes a hindrance in the Games, then Lethe will do whatever he has to.
(Whatever he has to. He'll kill Hollister, even if it hurts him. Even if he doesn't want…)
Ridiculous.
Batting the thought aside as they continue to trek, Lethe allows his eyelids to slip down over his darkened orbs, trying to focus on keeping his calm. Hollister's trailing behind him, his pace slowed to something scant, but Lethe can't be bothered to urge him to quickness. He's tired of this. Tired of thinking, tired of wandering… tired of questioning his own motivations, which are usually so candid and overtly rational…
Lethe halts in his track, gripping the straps of his pack with his calloused hands.
"We should rest," he decides, speaking to Hollister even as he refuses to look at him. Pulling the bag off of his shoulders, he slings it down by his right side, then heads for the shade of a large tree, bits of moss and ivy clustered along the ground, his voice projecting in the silence as if he'd spoken into a radio. Static greets his ears as he sits, his back to the tree's gnarled trunk, eyes fixed upon his pack as Hollister shambles closer. The Twelve boy stoops and drops his pack into the dirt beside Lethe's, then follows suit and kneels in the same spot, breathless as he falls back on his hands and starts trying to shift his legs around.
Eventually he settles, both limbs stretched in front of him as he lies back, falling prostrate atop the darkened earth. Black soil contrasts against his deathly features, and beneath the khaki shirt of his uniform, Lethe can see his chest moving, the shift of his breaths so strenuous that he almost seems to be choking. He blinks once and then turns his head, gazing over the tall grass and the misshapen trees further down the path, huddled along the trail like phantom-figures, their branches little different than the image of grasping claws.
It's dark on this side of the arena. Though they haven't been walking for more than a couple hours, the sun's faded from Lethe's view, hiding somewhere beyond the dying trees and the leaves that hang overhead. He draws a breath in and exhales slowly, the whisper of air vanishing into the shadows around his body, mere moments before Hollister snaps upright, his fangs bared with malice.
"You know nothing of me! Nothing of this!" He spits, eyes ablaze with enmity. "Yet you nonetheless call me with derision, place upon me loathsome blame for the perils of your failure! Well, fie on you! Damn you, damn you all to hell for what you've done to her, you would have me rot below a well and stone me in tarnation while speaking nothing of your own highfalutin blaspheme! You ought be the one to rot, not me! Not me!"
Lunging up from his downed position, Hollister swipes one hand at the air, not an ounce of lucidity within his expression. On impulse, Lethe stands as well, his back still against the tree and his feet stable on the ground, observing his ally's crazed behavior. He won't deny that the sudden resurgence of Hollister's energy is enough to take him aback. He'd seemed so… reticent before that Lethe had nearly thought him declawed.
Clearly, he notes, quirking his brow as Hollister screams again, the insanity that overtook him the previous morning apparently renewed. Turning his head, the Six boy scours the vicinity, searching for anything that might have triggered Hollister's outburst… but unsurprisingly, he finds nothing.
More delusion, then. Wonderful.
Lethe rolls his eyes, pushing away from the tree and taking a few steps forward.
"Hollister," he says. The boy in question swerves to the left, unsteady on his feet. His head once again turns, and when his eyes meet those of his fellow killer, they appear to be fogged over - made glassy by a veneer of distance and dissociation.
"Do you know where we are right now?" Lethe asks, his question a cautious venture. It's obvious that his companion is unstable… for the time being, it's best to keep his voice low, make himself non-threatening and ply Hollister back into different than an animal - Mouse or Tav's mutt or any of the rats he'd found on the streets, tiny hissing creatures that would make the underground hell, unless one possessed the capacity to show them patience and coax their affection.
Hollister shudders, pulling back and looking past both his shoulders. Lethe takes another step forward, trying to be as firm as he can without overstepping, and reaches a hand out as he repeats the other's name.
"Hollister. Look at me."
And with that, the self-proclaimed vampire raises his head, stilling as Lethe continues - at a discreet, considerate pace - to approach his person. Hollister does not back away, and so Lethe does not stop, not until he's stood directly in front of his ally, their toes scant inches apart and Lethe's head tilted as he looks up into Twelve's face. Slowly, he reaches one hand up until it touches the side of Hollister's face, shifting his jaw just enough for the other boy to return his gaze.
"Do you know where we are?" He asks, and Hollister takes in a breath, reaching his own hand up to grab Lethe's and squeeze it tight in his grasp
"The arena," he answers. Lethe nods.
"And what are we meant to be doing?"
There's a longer pause this time. Hollister's thumb teases over the back of Lethe's knuckles, grazing the soft flesh with his broken nails.
"... were we not attempting to hunt?"
"You tell me," Lethe insists, but his brow pinches tight with confusion at Hollister's answer. Has he lost the entire day? Wandering about in… some sort of fugue state? There must be a physiological cause. Between that, his outburst and his current appearance, external influence is the most viable explanation.
Oblivious to his internal monologue, Hollister grins. "'Twas a hunt," he confirms, nodding at his own revelation. "Three and Ten, though something is awry. Did we not butcher them?"
Lethe's hand slips out of Hollister's, returned to his side as familiarity returns. He shakes his head.
"Not yet," he admits, trying to ignore the way his skin tingles, still warm from touch. "But we'll find them."
"... alright," Hollister agrees, surprisingly quick. "Though we shan't make headway if we linger. Ought we not be leaving soon?"
Lethe steps back, crossing his arms as he appraises the older boy. "Are you well enough to travel?" His fingers strum against his arm. Hollister gives him a perplexed look.
"As I am ever," he says, reaching a hand up to scratch at the side of his neck. Lethe's eyes follow the path of his hand, spying the red mark swollen against his skin, the skin around it half-inflamed, early tells of a rash trailing from a prominent dot. "Why? Did I cause you troub -"
"It's fine," Lethe answers, no longer in the mood for conversing. He nods to their supplies, deposited upon the ground, nonchalant as he can appear. "Grab your pack, and we can continue. You have nothing to concern yourself with."
Retrieving his own pack, he waits for Hollister to follow his direction, finally turning to dispel the Twelve boy's image from his sight. Those wretched bugs. Lethe can feel a headache setting in. He rubs at his brow, mouth twisted into a scowl. Mutts. It's the only thing that makes sense.
Hollister approaches his side and without speaking, he begins to walk, returning to their scouting mission with limited sociability.
Who knows what the Gamemakers engineered those things for - they could be venomous, could spread an infection…
I'll have to keep a watch on him. Tonight, tomorrow… there's no telling what he's capable of with this level of agitation.
Lethe's teeth bite into his lip, hard enough to hurt. He doesn't want to get rid of Hollister - the reasons why are ones he wouldn't dare name - but he very well might have to. Maybe even sooner than he'd anticipated.
He sighs, tamping his concerns down and burying them where they will never be discovered. What will be, will be.
There's only room for one of them at the end, anyhow.
They're on their last legs.
It's one of the pitfalls of being chased; a person can only go for so long without rest before their stamina begins to drain. Rhys and Pangaea have spent too much of their energy on movement, with little in the way of fuel to help sustain them. Their supplies are wearing thin. The water's starting to run out. Sooner or later, something will have to give…
And it's probably going to be them.
Since yesterday, Rhys has felt the Twelve boy practically breathing down his neck, every hiss of air and snapped twig in the woodland a reminder of his revolting presence. He's still following them - probably, at least, because there's nothing that can drive a person like rage, and Twelve's got that in fucking spades. Though he and Pangaea have stopped to catch their breath, there's an urgency about them as they sit together, the pressure to continue moving weighing heavily on their shoulders.
But… he's tired. They're both tired.
And so as Rhys kneels on the ground, working to reinforce (and redress) the splint on Pangaea's contorted hand, he decides to take his time. He can feel the sweat built up on his body, his breath unsteady and his muscles sore. So much momentum has left him winded, and Pangaea's even worse. They need time.
They need time that they don't have.
Rhys sighs. If there's anything he can say with certainty, it's that their luck can only hold for so long. Twelve has been outrun and outwitted, but he's a tenacious creature, driven and fueled by his want to kill. And while Rhys could certainly guess at his motivations… the vendetta and enmity he seems to harbor, his evident dislike for being humiliated… what the other boy does or does not feel is none of his business.
Twenty-three of them were sent here to die. The Capitol's provided a motive for murder, not just for Twelve, but for all of them. As such, the creed he's expected to follow in the arena really isn't different from that which he observed back home, when he was still a street wretch, picking over salvage in the city sewers.
Survival is what matters.
Survival, at any cost.
(The most important lesson that Rhys learned as a child was the one that he'd come to by accident. Life is a mosaic of failures and successes, made from glass that's both strong enough to carry a picture and fragile enough to break beneath a proper force. There are moments of beauty just as there are moments of suffering. And in that suffering…
Escape isn't always an option.
Survival means putting up a fight, no matter how much or little you really want to. Rhys could spend his life running, but it wouldn't be enough to ensure his safety. It wasn't enough, back in Three…
And it won't be enough here.)
He blinks, twice, trying to clear away the tension headache he can already feel setting in. It's better for now to focus on the present; the concept of future is one that's always in flux.
"If Twelve attacks us again, I'm going to have to start replacing your gauze with pieces of your shirt," Rhys comments, securing the knot around the brace's support, all four sticks holding strong despite Pangaea's nasty tumble. Then, without missing a beat, he takes the dirtied gauze and begins to wrap it about her wrist, layered over the new bandages in hopes of making the splint more stable. Pangaea rolls her eyes, and with her other hand, gives him a light flick on the knee.
"My mother would probably throw a fit," she says, and with the little information he has to go on, Rhys wholeheartedly agrees.
"Think she'd try and get us censored?"
"Probably," Pangaea replies, a hint of a laugh slipping past her lips. The anxiety in her body begins to dissipate, seemingly weak when faced with good humor. She closes her eyes, letting go of a deep breath before licking her lips. Then:
"Can I ask you something?"
Rhys doesn't bother to raise his head when he hears the question, all of his focus trained on the new set of bandages he's winding around Pangaea's hand.
"Shoot."
Pangaea nods, though her hand remains still, position held by a practiced poise.
"Why did you help me?" She asks.
Rhys meets her eyes momentarily, an amused smile coming to his lips. Averting his gaze again, he finishes tying off the bandage, trying to keep his expression stoic as he considers his potential responses. "Not sure."
Pangaea looks as if she wants to say more, but she doesn't. Instead, she waits for him to finish with the wrappings, then pulls away, lying back against the ground. Red hair sunlit, she stares up at the sky, cradling her arm to her chest as clouds pass by overhead. The sky's starting to darken - soon enough it'll be evening.
Exactly what we need, Rhys thinks to himself, sarcasm dripping from the unverbalized words. At this rate, we'll never be able to catch a break. It's just one sleepless night after another, made worse by the constant threat of maniacs popping out of the woodwork. Fuckin' ace.
Rhys can't help but feel a sense of bitterness as he watches his ally stretch out in the grass, tendrils of ire needling him deep. He bites his lip.
"I broke my rules for you," he admits. Pangaea remains still, gazing up at the dusky sky with her face a placid mask.
"Okay. Doesn't exactly answer my question, but…"
She raises her head, watching him with an expression so calm it appears surreal. Rhys says nothing, merely exhales a breath that sounds like a laugh, standing and stretching his arms up over his head. "You really want to know?" He asks.
Pangaea gives him a look, one eyebrow half-quirked, bemusement coloring the corners of her lips. Rhys laughs again, and this time it's purposeful.
"Gods, you're stubborn," he murmurs, halfway under his breath. "The easy answer is I didn't. Alive or dead, you're still in the Hunger Games and that's not fucking changing. But… in terms of the bloodbath…"
He takes one step forward, then another. A few more and he's crossed the clearing, close enough to Pangaea that he can hear her breathing. Sitting beside her, he crosses his legs, a sigh escaping his lips as he settles on the ground.
"I could lie to you," he continues, refusing to turn his head even though he can feel her gaze piercing into his turned cheek. "I could say it was because of my conscience. Maybe I was so struck with sympathy that I couldn't bring myself to leave. Or… maybe I was selfish. Maybe I'd be better off calling it an effort of pragmatism, an effort to improve my appearance for sponsors. Is that what you want to hear?"
Beside him, Pangaea shakes her head, her good arm hooked beneath it like a pillow as she rolls onto her side. "No. I want the truth."
"The truth," Rhys repeats, and the term sticks inside his throat, filling his mouth with a bad taste. What is he supposed to say? As far as Rhys can tell, he didn't even do it for her so much as for himself. And yet…
He cares about Pangaea. Though Rhys can't pinpoint the reason why, he finds himself comfortable with her presence, and that alone has been enough to soften his edges. After everything they've been through the last few days, each struggling to push forward in a chamber of constraint, this sort of… mutual camaraderie has been almost a blessing. He's not sure why he saved her, but he…
(For the majority of his present life, Rhys Intarsia's scars have been the thing that defined him. Even once he'd been reaped and stuck on that bloody train, watching Three vanish into the periphery outside the gold-trimmed windows, the pain of his trauma had kept him company. All of the slights and insults he'd received… the dismissal he'd experienced, society's discrimination… they'd molded to his body like a second skin, one that Rhys couldn't scrub away in the shower, or pry loose no matter how he tried.)
(He remembers when he'd stood in the bedroom that first evening away, letting his clothes slide from his body one millimeter at a time. Rhys had forced himself to stare at his reflection as he'd divested, clothes left to pool on the ground beneath his feet, and all the while he'd felt nothing. He looked at his body and he saw a statue - forged from the desires of clients he'd indulged, with a forgettable presence and a forgettable face. If it weren't for the flaws that marred his skin, he might not have recognized himself at all.)
He doesn't have any qualms about their alliance… how it's turned out.
"Then the truth is I did it because I could," Rhys says, his eyelids fluttering as he picks at a loose thread on his khaki pants. "There was no reason for how I acted. Maybe I felt sorry for you. Maybe Twelve just pissed me off. I don't know, and frankly, I don't care."
Pangaea continues to watch him, visage contorted. Now, Rhys can feel her frown along with her staring eyes, not judgmental but certainly disappointed. He sits forward, elbows resting near the bend of each of his thighs.
"The part that matters," he continues, his tone dropping an octave, "is that regardless of my reasoning, I believe I made the right choice."
"Do you?" Pangaea asks. Rhys' shoulders move up a touch, his teeth grazing across his lower lip, pulling at the roughened skin.
"Let me put it like this," he begins. "You needed somebody to be there for you. So did I."
The Ten girl's eyes do not break from his face, and as their gazes match, she continues to look on, blue-grey irises overtaken by a shade of sadness.
"I wish…" Pangaea begins, her voice cracking a touch. "I wish I could have met you before. Without the Games, or any of this."
"... yeah. Me too."
Pangaea turns to lie on her back. As she does, Rhys looks away, allowing his mind to drift up toward the clouds, gathering and dispersing across the now-clementine sky.
"It's their fault," he hears as clementine is run through with lines of rosedust and aubergine, looking like a painting out of a storybook rather than an artifact of the natural world. "My parents, and - and the Capitol. I was raised to believe that they treated us fair, but it was all a lie, wasn't it? No different than anything else…"
Pangaea trails off, her tone thickened as she holds back tears. Rhys can hear them inside her tone, muffled and quiet, just like his were before they'd been taken from him. Stifled by the burdens of age and responsibility, his sorrows drowned into the cotton of his pillow, where he would press his face deep to stifle the noises of his composure falling apart.
They had their whole lives ahead of them, once. Now they both have nothing.
"Why did they do it?" She asks him, her sorrow finally overflowing. "Why did they condition me to be loyal when it's loyalty that broke me? Why did they stifle me – ?"
"Power and control," Rhys whispers. That's all it ever is.
They stay in that spot until the sun drops, falling lower and lower in the distance until its disappeared from sight. Once the world is colored black, Rhys stretches his legs out and lays down in the grass beside her, their arms nearly brushing as they observe the stars, constellations taunting them with a universe of fiction - empty lines and broken promises.
"They don't lie to you because the truth will hurt your feelings," Rhys answers at long last, folding his hands atop his abdomen, the muscles beneath his shirt clenched tight with hunger. "They lie to you because the truth might provoke you to make choices that aren't in their interests. We live in a world that shames queens for daring to make it and prizes pawns for retaining their shape. The only reason I'm in here is because I couldn't lie back and follow their rules."
He tilts his head to the side, blinking slowly in the quiet dark.
"So I say fuck their rules. If you have to live, it's best if you live for yourself."
She could get used to this.
The arena. The alliance. The fabricated world of a Capitol-made summer camp, where she's been made to mingle with like-minded people: cultists and mercenaries and murderers little different from herself.
For the first time in a lifetime, Cordura Faux understands what it's like to have friends.
Leaning back against a pillar, she watches as Maevyn and Argenta twirl around the lodge, the Four girl holding the Five girl's hand, almost shockingly small inside her own. Music blares over the lodge's speakers, the result of her allies' playful digging, and though Cordura knows they'd do better to silence it, she can't bring herself to pull the plug.
She feels… warm. Pleasant, in a way that is unfamiliar to her, in no small part because of Maevyn, and she'd be loath to relinquish that feeling now. It is rare for Cordura to linger in her sentiments, but tonight she can scarcely keep feeling out of her mind, her thoughts clouded by strands of blonde hair, matched with baby-blue eyes and a siren's smile, sharp teeth gleaming white with good humor.
(She isn't used to things like this. Being… accepted. Being liked. In the arena, Cordura Faux doesn't have the luxury of getting to hide herself, and yet in this moment, she feels weightless. Even without her mask, Maevyn, Velezen and Argenta have put their faith in her and brought her into the fold, choosing to treat her with validation and confidence even when she scarcely deserves it. This alliance… this… new, fragile thing she has that the others have chosen to call friendship… she's grateful for it.)
(She's grateful, even though she knows that it's going to break her.)
The web she's caught in is not one easily escaped.
Pushing away from the wooden support, Cordura unfolds her arms and turns to face the hallway. Blurs of black and white pass her by as she strides toward the door at the lodge's rear, where Velezen sits upon a stoop, looking out at the glorious night, the faintest trace of a smile on his lips.
She nudges his hip with the side of her boot, then moves to sit atop the open step on his right, legs stretched out far enough that her feet are touching the breezeless grass.
"Penny for your thoughts?" She asks, and the Five boy chuckles, carding a hand through his messy hair. He leans forward, his face pinched with the tells of a person deep in thought. After a minute, his mouth looses a breathy sigh, eyes cast down at the ground. Then he speaks.
"Don't suppose you know of a spot in here where I could grab a smoke?"
Velezen throws her a glance from over his shoulder, his gaze filled with a spark of mirth, and this time Cordura is the one to laugh, leaning back with her hands pressed flat against the wooden slats.
"No. Unfortunately," she responds, a half-smirk curling up her lips. "Hey, tell you what, though. If you find a pack, I'll trade you for some of the cookies I managed to wrangle."
"Cookies?"
"What can I say, the people love me," she teases. "You and Argenta need to step up your game."
"Asshole," Zen responds, but his tone is affectionate, even as he shakes his head. Cordura reaches out to give him a little smack on the arm, and isn't surprised to receive a hard flick in return, same as her sister used to do whenever they squabbled.
Not that this is a squabble, really. It's just… nice.
(She doesn't deserve nice.)
(She doesn't deserve this, this camaraderie, this… goodness so boundless that it feels almost like a trick. While Cordura wants to believe her partners mean the best, she can't deny that their acceptance unsettles her, too - it's like something meant to placate her, a mirage that's intended to lull her into dropping her guard. Not genuine support. Not acceptance. Who is she to be granted friendship?)
(Who is she to feel loved?)
Lying back, Cordura feels her head knock against the floorboards, her arms now at her side, the edge of the top step digging into the small of her back. Taking in a deep breath, she closes her eyes, trying not to fixate too long on her frustration.
She has no reason to be brooding tonight, yet here she is doing it regardless. Gods.
It's been a long day.
"Careful."
"What?"
She opens one eye, looking to Velezen with a scowl. He laughs, shaking his head.
"Your frown," he elaborates, shrugging a bit. "I know it's hard, but… try and relax, Eight. Not everyone is out to get you."
Cordura's eyebrow arches, her other eye finally blinking open as well. "What makes you so sure?"
"The numbers," Zen answers. "Four out of sixteen. You're safe here for the time being."
"Safe," she says, like the word itself is an insult. "Please."
So long as she's been kicking, she's never seen a place that was truly safe. Not the home in which she was raised, not Eight's streets or ritzy casinos or the shack she shares with Taffeta, made miserable by their constant arguments. Her allies may like her - hells, maybe they even trust her, but Cordura?
She can't reciprocate.
Cordura Faux is the sort of person that was born to fight. It's the sole reason she managed to withstand the trials of her upbringing… damages inflicted by her father and manipulated by her lover, her spirit so broken she had lost half the fucking pieces.
(She never wanted to be a warrior. Never wanted to be… this. Vicious. Desperate. A killer, in every sense of the word, made to face an uphill battle without cause or opportunity for escape. She may not have chosen the path of a fighter, but regardless of her desires, it's the role that she was cast in…
And it's the role that has defined her.)
She sighs, once again sitting forward, her body twinging as she tries to leverage her elbows in a way that will help bring her torso up. She can feel the wound in her shoulder whenever she moves her arm, a perfect hole gored out from her skin and large enough to appear uncanny. Before Velezen had packed it with gauze, she'd shoved her finger into it, the calloused digit pushing back and through with no resistance from her muscle. If she survives this, the thing is almost sure to scar, just as all the other injuries her body has received.
(Lashes across her back. Fractures under her skin. Cuts along her arms, some of them from the grasping hands of others… and some of them self inflicted.)
(It hurts.
It hurts, it does, hurts like a bitch, she doesn't want this, doesn't want any of it, her life is gone and she's trapped here, trapped in this miserable, base existence, purposeless save for the wealth she can steal and the cons that grace her face. Taffeta said it would work, she'd be better, feel better, but all she does is fucking LIE, and Cordura Faux is sick of it! Sick of her, sick of them, sick of existing – she is made of nothing and she was born nothing, sooner or later she'll die nothing and her own lover will dance on her grave, make vicious mockery of her wilted life because she isn't meant to exist, it was her not Muslin, her not Muslin that Dad's bullet was made for, she can feel the spot for it in her skull…!)
(He's gone now, her sister tells her, whispering in her static ear. He's gone, Cordy, it's okay, we're safe. He can't hurt you. He can't break —)
(Her father had clawed at her while she killed him, grabbed at her wrists and dug in his nails, hit her with the rage of a dying wretch, vitriol apparent in his eyes. She wonders what he saw when he looked at her, counting down his final moments in a of green and brown.
Did he see the girl that he was meant to call his daughter, or did he find himself gazing at a stranger, so overwrought by her pain that she had no idea how to say goodbye? It's a question for which she'll likely never have an answer.)
(The whole of her family is in the ground. The hovel she was raised in was demolished after Challis, leaving Cordura with no ties to her unfortunate youth - or, at least, no ties that she could call material.
Her past lives inside her body, now: every scar and spiteful word that leaves her lips is a remnant of the child she once had been, willing to do anything if it meant that she could live.)
(She knows why she was reaped – knows why Spade was reaped, for conning others out of their coin and leaving them to bemoan their losses, taking joy in the misery that she could draw from Eight's nouveau riche, their failures seen as a mark of her own success. How often had Sinclair cheated her way to victory and left her lessers scratching their heads, divested of their money as well as dignity - and on occasion, even blood, when the stakes got a little too rough?
Oh, she'd had a time of it at Casino Foulard… a time of it as a grifter, lulling her competition into a sense of false security as she pilfered their jewelry and broke up their marriages. And that had been its own thrill - initiating torrid affairs with the very people who had most hated her father, Cordura's own feeling of helplessness soothed by the sensation of heated flesh, bodies pressed beneath her own and lips parted by her tongue, Spade's hedonism putting her in a position to have control.)
(Cordura never had control. Cordura was weak.)
(Weak, unwanted… and unloved.)
Fuck.
"Thank you," she says to Velezen, too absorbed in her own emotions to try and continue their conversation. "For patching me up earlier. I could've done it myself, but –"
"Just returning the favor," Zen says, watching her as she gets back to her feet. "Go get some rest, okay?"
Cordura laughs. "No promises."
She turns around, bracing her hand on the edge of the doorframe, laughter spilling out from the open corridor. Vyn's laughter, she immediately thinks, knowing she could recognize it anywhere. She sounds…
Happy.
The Eight girl takes a step forward, shoving her hands into her pockets. Good, she thinks, decisive in her own mind. That's… good. Vyn being happy. After all the shit we've had to deal with since getting stuck in here, the distraction's probably a bit stabilizing. For the kid, too - she and Maevyn are a good match.
Exhaling slowly, Cordura wanders back into the main room, not wasting a moment before she slips away to their resting area, settling down beside her own sleeping spot and trying to calm her headache. Her left hand closes around her trick coin before she pulls both palms out from her pockets, then turns to sit with her legs crossed, fingers locked in place around her secret token.
She's tired. Tired of everything. Fighting. Suffering. Losing…
"Cordy? Y'alright?" Vyn asks, popping her head in through the door, and it's only then that Cordura realizes the music has stopped, world around her utterly silent save for Maevyn and the sound of her own breathing.
"... yeah, I'm fine," she lies through her teeth, lifting her head to give Vyn a smirk.
Vyn's curious expression softens into a grin, and as Cordura looks at her she practically beams, rocking back and forth on her heels.
Cordy raises an eyebrow. "Are you just going to stand there?"
"I dunno," Vyn says, impish as ever. "Am I allowed ta come in?"
Cordura's smirk deepens. She reaches over to pat the ground next to her, an open invitation if there ever was one.
"Sweet!" Vyn exclaims, practically hurling herself through the doorway. She springs across the wooden boards, half-stumbling over Velezen's bed before she gets to Cordy's, then plops right down in front of her, looking feral. Cordura reaches a hand out to brush her hair back from her face, the gesture as mindful as it is affection. Maevyn giggles and starts to nuzzle her, reaching up her own palm to bracket Cordura's.
"I like you," she says, and the spot behind Cordura's sternum begins to ache, yearning with all the desperation she could possibly possess.
"Yeah. I like you too," she responds, each word stinging as it passes her tongue, her thought drifting to Taffeta, who she's sure is watching. Oh, Cordura, you really are pitiful. Pining over girls you know you can't have… you would think losing Spade might teach you a lesson, but it seems you just can't stop failing. It's pathetic, honestly. You're pathetic.
"Really?" Maevyn asks.
Cordura, unable to speak, nods her head, wishing that her reassurances didn't feel so much like lies. Maevyn's eyes pop as she takes hold of her less-impaired hand, linking their fingers tight and bending forward to laugh into her shoulder.
"Y'know… I got a gift for ya," she whispers, her aimless amusement bubbling over. "Zenzen found it when you and Argie were out yesterday, and I couldn't help but think of you, 'cuz well, I always think about you these days. D'ya wanna see it?"
She pulls back. Cordura blinks at her, and apparently that's enough to count as a yes where Vyn is concerned, because she immediately reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a small, rectangular box, holding it out like an offering.
"Here." She enthuses, waiting for Cordura to grab the other end. "I dunno how ta play, so you're gonna have to teach me, but I know ya did gambling and stuff back home, and I just thought you might like a l'il thing here to rememberate - commemorate - oh, you know what I'm saying!"
The Four girl claps her hands together, watching as Cordy turns over the box, then lets go of her hand to open the little tab at the top, sliding the deck out into her waiting palm.
She doesn't think it's a coincidence that the hearts suit happens to be at the top.
"Maevyn…" she says, something painful stinging at her eyes. "This is…"
Her voice cuts off as she begins to choke up, setting the box down so she can cover her mouth.
She is not going to cry. Not in front of Vyn.
"Super rad?" Maevyn offers, as Cordura's silence draws on. She braces her hand against her lower face, thumb outstretched to one side of her jaw, then gives an answering nod.
"It's perfect," she says, removing her hand and raising her head, her gaze allowed to fully match Vyn's. Sitting forward, she wraps her arms around the Four girl's back, tugging her forward and pushing her own face into her neck, utterly enamored by her existence.
"It's perfect…" Cordura repeats, "... just like you."
A/N: Drowning in the Sound by Trivium.
And finally we are at one of the final exposition chapters of this story, if not the last chapter that is purely arc-weaving! I hope you are all as excited as I am to get into more serious stuff with Day Five, which hopefully I can get typed up and posted by the first week of April. Your tributes may still have a couple chapters safe from death, but they certainly are not safe from trauma and injury... and you can believe that is a warning for content to come. A huge thanks to everyone who has left me reviews, comments or thoughts on the most recent chapters... it's hard to believe it took us seven Games chaps just to set up, but what can I say, this story is a fickle one and it quite enjoys being extra. ;)
See you all in April with Days 5 and 6!