Floccinaucinihilipilification

by symphorophilia

"What right do you have to determine what their lives are worth? What right do you have to label them, to kill them, to write them off as meaningless criminals, lost causes and basket cases? What right, Coriolanus? Tell me!" Part III of Dealing With Devils.

31. day six

day six: witch hunt

---

A spider bite is a natural wound, but a dagger in the back is a plastic tomb;
So let it burn, let it burn, singing songs of truth - an honest man is a shade of blue.

---

Contrary to popular belief, nights are rarely darkest just before dawn.

Ansel Zilliah would know – he's spent many mornings walking along the derelict knoll by the graveyards, counting the cracks in the cobbled street beneath the dim light of the sky. Though the sun rarely emerged as early as four o'clock, the aura of it was always present, lingering around the streets in a bleary haze. He could feel it in the warmth of the air, could see it shimmer around the lampposts lining the vacant streets… golden threads weaving through the grass beside endless rows of headstones, omnipresent despite the dark.

Today, Ansel finds the arena much the same - a picturesque landscape of dark and light, as fickle in its fluctuations as his own dwindled morality.

In different circumstances, the complexity of it might be reassuring; he's painted enough canvasses with lines of nightscapes and shattered scenery under the break of light to see a dawn as comforting. Yet in the here and now, with Atlanshi's haven standing tall before him, the only sensation Ansel can register is dread.

Dread, for what he intends to do.

Dread, for the mistakes he's made and cannot erase, be it Xay, Kanessa or his fucking brother…

He can't breathe.

It's as if there's a block inside his windpipe, made worse with every push to expand his lungs. Every shaky inhale and tepid exhale fills his chest with air that burns acidic behind his sternum. Though it's not painful enough to be debilitating, there's something about the pain that makes Ansel's body feel… overwrought. By fatigue, by despair… by fear over what's to come, in a few short minutes. He's not the sort to regret, never has been, but the stress in his bones is more telling than he'd like.

After all these months scheming for his own benefit… years of selfish decisions borne from a desire to survive, to thrive and predicate his own success, regardless of what costs it might bring to others… Ansel Zilliah is starting to doubt the path on which he's been set.

He doesn't want to do this. Doesn't want to kill the sole person who dared to see him after all the ills he wrought, despite how little he may have deserved it. Atlanshi was no friend to him, but he had the decency to at least let Ansel speak without passing judgment. And his tolerance…

It shouldn't mean anything.

Ansel's jaw tightens as he turns his head to the side, swallowing roughly.

(This isn't the time to question himself. He's done enough of that to last a lifetime, and what has it earned him but headaches? If he's going to play these Games the way he's meant to… follow this path of mangled grudges until he reaches his bitter end…)

(He needs to quit fucking around.)

(No matter what he thinks of Atlanshi, death isn't something to second-guess.)

With one foot placed beyond the threshold of the cabin door, Ansel remains still, both arms resting idle at his side. His supplies have been stashed away – not so far he can't retrieve them, should Atlanshi choose to fight, but far enough that he won't be tempted to act early… kill before he's ready to step off the edge of the precipice and resign himself to the role of villain, with no room left for potential nuance.

Ansel's mouth curls into a frown, one hand reaching back to brace against smooth wood, using it as an anchor for his own instability. This is a courtesy call, he reminds himself. Not murder, not an execution. I'm not here to kill Atlanshi. Not yet.

"You needn't hide from me, friend," a voice speaks from inside the din, and Ansel watches as his former acquaintance gets to his feet, turning slowly to face him. Though it's been a mere five days since they've last interacted, the sight of Atlanshi's body is almost a shock to him, with dark skin tinged by a sickly yellow that Ansel's come to know intimately.

Jaundice. Alone it would be telling, but in conjunction with the perspiration on his brow and the weakness of his gait…

"Atlanshi," he greets, leaning against one side of the wooden archway, arms crossing over his chest as he gives Four a once-over. "Pardon my bluntness, but it seems the week hasn't been kind to you."

"The week…" Atlanshi reiterates, and - oh. Is that a hint of animosity, meshed within the weakness of his downtrodden words? Perhaps he's not the only one that's hit his wits' end here, hounded by fragments of tragic memories, his sorrow breeding ire and his ire breeding disgust. "... has not been kind to anyone. And while I might take solace in my continued aspiration, the dead are not so fortunate… 'tis they who deserve our sympathy, Ansel, far more than the living."

Ansel smiles, though the gesture doesn't come close to reaching his eyes. "Fair enough."

Atlanshi's own mouth twitches – just a touch – before his gaze flits to the wall of the cabin, transfixed by the darkness beyond the open windows. He takes a deep breath in, exhaling slowly.

"I confess," he addresses, "I hadn't thought to expect you until this evening. Is there a reason you've come knocking before we set the blaze?"

"I wanted to talk," Ansel responds with a shrug. He turns his head away from Atlanshi, eyes honing in on the same spot the Four boy's been ogling outside the window, rustling branches of burnished trees tapping against the glass pane. "Closure is something you deserve to have, should you so desire it."

"Ah." Atlanshi's shoulders slump. His eyes slip shut, and within seconds he's turning on his heel, striding back to his weathered chair to reclaim his residence. Ansel pushes away from the doorframe, taking the sudden shift in energy as a signal of assent. The floor creaks under his feet as he strides toward the fireplace, past the occupied chair to a nearby stool.

Atlanshi's mouth presses into a line, though his reticence doesn't keep him from answering once more.

"You will forgive me if my hospitality appears lacking," he says plainly. "Conjuring amity is difficult for me today – especially after you took it upon yourself to derail my earlier plans."

"Don't expect an apology," Ansel replies as he eases his body down upon the edge of the seat, hands resting on the cushion beside his hips. "I had my reasons for taking the doll, just as I have my reasons for choosing violence over sentiment. These Games are made for the heartless."

"'Heartless,'" Atlanshi echoes, crossing one leg over the other. He leans back in the chair, contemplative. "That's what you consider yourself? Incapable of feeling, incapable of condolence, with no traces of empathy or passion to permeate your pragmatic hollowness?"

Ansel raises a brow. "Do you disagree?"

"I do," his companion says, something brittle, twisted and hurt caught within the statement. "You may loathe yourself for what you've become, but you are the farthest thing from hollow, Ansel Zilliah. You're human."

At his side, one hand begins to curl into a fist. Ansel's eyes bore into Atlanshi's, grey stones dancing across the surface of pitch-dark pools, a shudder coursing down his spine.

"Do you really believe that after what you've seen of me?"

Atlanshi's teeth graze across his lower lip, split near the middle for reasons unknown. Ansel stares until the window of expression begins to close, his eyelids shuttered tight as black lashes dust his cheeks.

"Yes," the younger of the pair muses, voice so quiet it's scarcely a whisper. "Why would I not?"

Why indeed.

Ansel pushes a hand through his tousled hair, long strands hanging dull around his face, obscuring his vision as he leans forward. His nails graze over his scalp as he tries - and partially fails - to brush it aside, finding it difficult to look at his fellow tribute.

By the time dawn comes tomorrow, one of them is sure to be dead.

(And for the time being, Ansel would prefer it not be himself.)

He sighs. "I'm going to kill you."

"I know."

"And it's hardly personal," the Eight boy continues, ignoring the way that Atlanshi's response strikes at him, his forthright acceptance oddly melancholic. He draws himself up, pangs reverberating from the cracked husk under his ribs. "Every tribute in this arena has something they want to live for – something they would kill to achieve. When you consider the stakes, it isn't so farfetched to imagine other lives becoming obstacles. Pragmatism encourages survival of the fittest."

Atlanshi doesn't respond, but his gaze remains on Ansel as he returns to his feet, kicking the stool back and to the side before brushing down his clothes.

"For what it's worth," he says beneath his breath, reservation becoming dismissal, "I want to say that you've kept my respect. And…"

This time, his teeth sink into his tongue, biting so deep that he can sense the blood leeching, an ache leaping from his tongue, to his gums, to his hard-set jaw. He raises his eyes.

"I am sorry that it's come to this."

"No," Atlanshi shakes his head, sadness shading his dark features. "You're not."

The false platitudes hang in the air as Atlanshi smiles, his expression rewarded with the turn of Ansel's back, uniform shirt coated with muck from the rugged outdoors. With no more words left to say, the boy from District Eight returns to the entryway, door held open and left ajar in such a way it seems more like an omen than a promise of welcome.

"Goodbye," Ansel speaks calmly as he slips back out into the dawnlit night, faint rays of light visible on the distant horizon.

"Farewell, Ansel Zilliah," Atlanshi returns, no sounds to indicate that he has either stood, or left the haven of his chosen chair. "May your trials prove fruitful before you meet your end."

(And perhaps one day,
we shall meet again –
be it in the perils of another life,
or as drowned souls
in the endless depths of the Great Below.)

---

Mornings always seem to come too soon.

Or, at least they do where Cordura Faux is concerned, her legs stiff and her head overrun when she finally stumbles out into the main hall of the lodge, one hand pressed to her spinning head. Adrenaline is one thing when you're in the moment, but it's another entirely when it comes to making a walk of shame in the hours after. It would be one thing if nobody were around to capitalize on it, but she's rarely had the luxury of being so fortunate…

Especially when it comes to a pair of mischievous Fives.

"Sounds like somebody had fun last night," Velezen quips as he watches her enter, his words unabashedly teasing. "What exactly did the pair of you do in there? Maevyn sounded like she was getting mauled by a bear."

Cordura crosses her arms, knocking her chin up with a braggart's smirk. "Less a bear and more a butch, but you've got the gist of it. Where's the demonling?"

"Probably out wreaking havoc on other unsuspecting children, if her word's to be trusted." Velezen laughs.

Cordura's brow lifts into an arch as she glances over toward the back door, where the broken screen continues to flap around in the morning wind.

"You let her go hunting alone?" She asks, an edge of accusation creeping into her tone. Zen shrugs, not seeming especially concerned about her absence – though Cordura notes there's a hint of guilt in his eyes when he drops them to the table, where he's apparently been trying to etch artwork in with a knife.

"I'm her friend, not her keeper," he says, fingers curling tight around the dagger resting in his lap. "Besides, just because she's twelve doesn't mean she's innocent. Think she made that pretty clear during our game yesterday."

Cordura makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. "Don't tell me you actually believed that bullshit. Killing thirty-plus people at her age? Not to mention the methods she used? It's practically laughable."

"What, you're not scared of the terrible and trigger-happy Argenta Brandt?" Velezen retorts, flipping the knife around in his hand and stabbing the pointy end down into the mess table. "Hate to break it to you, Faux, but she's no more laughable than the rest of us. Maevyn thinks she's dead, you claim to have slept with over forty married women, and I've been running a chaos cult out of Five's sewers for the last however-many months. We can give the kid some leeway for exaggerating."

"'Exaggerating' seems like an understatement," Cordura huffs, but says no more on the subject as she approaches the bench, slipping into the vacant spot beside Velezen. "What are you making?"

"A mural of perversion and profanity to last the ages," he answers without missing a beat, whittling away at the splintered oak. "Don't worry, I've left a spot for you to put Cordy-plus-Vyn in a cupid heart over there on the left. Teenage romanticide is a classic summer camp staple."

"Five, I am literally going to punch you."

"Yeah, yeah, love you too," the cheeky bastard continues, shoving away the elbow Cordura aims at his side. A smile crosses his face as their banter dissipates into quiet, unspoken camaraderie leaving the air pleasant and warm.

Cordura sits up, reaching across the table to grab a bag from their supply pile, wasting little time in tearing open the plastic seal.

"Mm, trail mix. How delicious," Zen comments, his attention remaining on the wood as Cordura shakes some nuts and berries out into her hand, contentedly popping them into her mouth.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she responds, flipping him the finger while she starts to chew. "Gods, I would actually kill for a chiffon cake right now, though. Perhaps with a homemade au lait for added class –" She pauses briefly to shoot a glare at her smirking comrade, not appreciative of his cheeky skepticism. "Don't give me that look! Dessert is actually the breakfast of champions, I'll have you know."

"Well, if that's the case…" He starts to reply. Cordura, with an eyeroll, kicks him in the shin.

"Oh, shut up, you," she bites back, more fond than she'd care to admit. "At least I'm not a rat that drinks sewer water to start my day."

"What is it you told me, again? Beggars can't be choosers?"

"Wow, turning my own words against me." She grins. "I respectfully acknowledge the hustle."

"Learned from the best," Zen concedes, setting down the knife in order to roll back his shoulders. "Though with your praise, clearly I'm a talent unto myself."

"Moooooor-ning~"

The door to their sleeping area (or, as Maevyn has delegated it, the dream room) swings open with a crack, handle slamming into the wall. A sunny blonde steps out, grinning bright and manic when Velezen lifts a hand to wave her over. As she approaches, Cordura rises from her seat, her heterochromic gaze fixed on the saltwater blue of Vyn's own.

"Maevyn," she addresses, her breath a musing hush. "How'd you sleep?"

"Better with you," the Four girl replies, closing her eyes as her smile grows widers, exposing both her rows of pearly-white teeth. "Why'd'ja have to go so soon?"

"Probably a chronic fear of commitment," Velezen replies in Cordy's stead, receiving a second boot to the leg. "Don't worry, though, I think she's working on it."

"I do not have a fear of commitment!" She snips, in spite of the awareness that Velezen is at least partially correct. Vyn's arms wrap around her shoulders as she presses up against Cordura's side, gleeful as glee can be. She giggles.

"Aww, it's okay, Cordy. Monophony is kinda overrated, anyway."

"... do you mean monogamy?"

"Yeah, that!" Vyn rests her chin atop Cordura's head, long, messy locks of hair cascading down over the Eight girl's face, tickling against her nose. "I bet I could make ya like it, though. We'd get married on the seashore… seashells on the seashore, an' I'd weave 'em all up in my hair, and you'd get a pretty coral crown, and then we could make sand angels on the beach!"

Her hand creeps lower, down Cordura's chest and along her side, not stopping until her partner reaches up to grab it, squeezing her fingers tight and rubbing along her scabbed-up knuckles.

"That sounds wonderful," Cordura speaks sadly, the cavern in her chest aching as she swells. Emotion's rarely good to her – in this environment, it's even less so. Yet when Maevyn speaks with such enthusiasm…

"Zenny, I'm baaaack!" Argenta's voice suddenly shrieks, a blur of dark skin in bloody clothes whisking through the room to rocket up right next to the table, dropping a bloated satchel down right over Zen's artwork. "Lookie, I got'cha breakfast and I didn't even kill anyone 'cuz I knew you'd be all broody about it. Feel free to thank me."

"I'll consider it," Zen responds, winking at Cordura as he musses Argenta's hair, dropping the knife and using his free hand to undo the hold at the top of the bag. "Wow, now this is a bounty. How many of them are poisonous?"

"None," Argenta answers, bumping her head up against his hand, her grin absolutely savage. "Or, at least, I think none, since I didn't get crazy and start puking everywhere –"

"And this is why she requires supervision," Cordura says, shaking her head. Argenta plucks a berry from the bag and tosses it at her, slipping down off the table edge to stand between her and Velezen. Naturally, she catches it in her mouth. Sweet.

"By the way," the Five girl says offhandedly as Vyn peers over Cordura's shoulder into the bag, piled high with an assortment of fruits, "the Careers are over at the camp circle. I dont think they can stay away from us."

Velezen opens his mouth. Then, after pondering the statement, his brow furrows and he moves to close it, looking down at the burlap under his fingers.

"Wait. Are you saying you stole this from the Careers?"

Argenta gives him a look.

"Um, duh. Like it was hard?"

Zen's eyes wander over to Cordura, his silent proclamation of "I told you so" prompting the Eight girl to raise her middle finger. At least they didn't place bets on the murder baby's odds.

"Ooh, yummy! I love fruit!" Vyn chirps, clapping her hands together. "Can we stack 'em into li'l piles and skewer 'em with our skinny-daggers?"

"Fuck yes!" Argenta quickly seconds, jumping up on the table and going straight for the stack of weapons. "I call dibs on the red ones!"

"Why, because they squish like blood?" Cordura asks, plucking another berry out from the bag and turning it between her fingers. "I'll take some of the blueberries. Definitely more dignified."

"C'mon, Cordy," Maevyn takes the berry right out of her hand, them immediately stuffs it in her own mouth. "All fruits are dignified! That's why they're so fruitish!"

"... I have no idea what goes on in your head, but you're lucky you're cute."

With that declaration, Cordura tilts up her chin, kissing the corner of Vyn's lips, her own mouth drawn into a contented lilt.

(Though she's far away from District Eight, the love she's found here is like nothing she could have imagined. Maevyn, Argenta, even Velezen… they may not be her family by blood, or friends bound to her by actual time, but where she's concerned, they've proven to be invaluable. Sure, maybe it's the Games that brought them together, and maybe what they have is destined to be fleeting, but in this moment, she doesn't care.

She doesn't care about her life, nor the stakes, nor the odds.

She doesn't care about Eight, or her father, or that fuckwad Taffeta.

Today there are only four people alive in her world, and they are Cordura and the family she's fostered.)

(She may not be slated for the luck of victory, but here, victory doesn't matter. After all these wicked, bloody years, Cordura feels as if she's found herself.)

(She's not Spade Sinclair, and she's not Cordura Faux.
She is a girl with no stakes in a miserable world, loved and lauded for her personhood rather than the mask she's so long worn.
She is strength and support and confidence and hopefulness, and though this is nothing like the future she craved to secure, there is no denying it's the future she needed.)

(Eighteen years into life, and Cordy has finally, finally found her place.)

(Eighteen years in, and she's made it home.)

---

It's all been building to this.

The reaping. Meeting Tati. Allying with the Careers, and watching Venice get blown to bits before he could so much as blink. Ailith's distance and his own irritation, which only seemed to worsen Elysia's volatility and need for destruction. Couple their tension with Kellen's sly words, and you get a perfect recipe for a bomb, ticking away with each moment they've spent in proximity. The feeling of dread he's been carrying in the back of his head has hit an all-time high, needling him from the inside-out with twinges of urgency.

What happened yesterday was no mistake, but it's the wake-up call that Patron has needed.

He's always known that this alliance was built to collapse, but for a time, the pros of it had seemed to outweigh the cons. Though he never quite cared for the majority of his allies, their assistance had been enough to give him a safety net in the first week of the Games, one that Patron can admit he needed. But sooner or later every net becomes a liability – constraints, after all, can be dangerous. They only exist to benefit those who hold the end of the cord, and in this situation, it's not him.

(It's not Elysia, either, regardless of how Patron loathes her. She may be the one that's most damaged him, but even now she is not the one in control. That right belongs to Kellen – Kellen and Tatiana, whose hapless demeanor can only hide so much of the mask which lies beneath her face. She'll kill him if she has the opportunity; quite possibly, she'd kill them all, though Patron doubts she'll have that chance. Recklessness and risk-taking have done her few favors, and if she really has allied herself with Kellen…

She's got no chance of surviving their blow-out. None.

(Is it weird that knowing that almost makes him pity her?)

(Patron Midori has never considered himself a good person – on the contrary, he's far from it – but even he can have moments of compassion. Sure, Tati may be a pathetic, pestiferous pain in the ass, but she's also the closest thing in years that he's had to a friend. While he won't deny that she's crass, childish, obstinate, and insufferably foolish, she's treated him with a certain amount of respect that few people have deigned to afford him. Since word of his nighttime activities first came to light, Patron's found himself written off more often than not – when people hear his name, they don't think of him as a person so much as a cautionary tale, the reprobate heir who chose lust over legacy, and in doing so lost himself the world. Tati, on the other hand, has never given an indication that she cares about his past, much less the insults and assignations his "misdeeds" brought about. It's not apathy, but there's a carelessness to her that he finds refreshing, and the thought of Kellen taking advantage of that feels strangely upsetting.)

(There's no reason he should care… but he does. Fuck, he does.)

Patron lets out a sigh, crossing his legs at the ankle. He's never been the sort to dislike spending time alone with his thoughts, yet there's something about the arena… something about the circumstances… that is beginning to eat at him. He's not sure what to make of it.

He just knows that he wants out.

Being in the cabin's only made him more certain of it. Though the room itself is cozy enough – and outfitted with enough supplies to cover his every need – the company he's keeping has him on edge, as does the memory hanging over the windows like a shroud. Patron's well aware that the only reason he's here is because of Thomasin: the bloodstained key in his pocket had fit perfectly into the rusted lock on the door, and just as his District partner indicated, the supplies that he'd found inside were bountiful. Whether or not he wants to admit it, she gave him a gift by leading him here.

And he'd chosen to repay it with bloodshed.

Leaning back on the creaky bed, Patron finds himself staring up at the metal rungs above his head, glad to realize that the upper bunk's been left vacant. Perhaps when the others return one of them will take it – but for now he's got the bed to himself. And while he may not be entirely alone here, at least Ailith is unintrusive.

The space is like a breath of fresh air.

(Elysia left about an hour ago with Kellen and Tati in her stead, and though she'd probably mentioned the reason, Patron hadn't cared enough to try and listen. He was more than happy to be free of her presence – to be left to his own devices, where he could sit and brood without the constant feeling of her eyes on him, scorching the shirt on his back and overanalyzing his movements. Each moment he spent with her felt stifling; as if her presence alone was enough to put him in a chokehold, her hands pushing and prodding and strangling the air from his lungs. It's reviling.)

"I hope they kill her," he says, teeth grinding against each other. "Elysia. She deserves it for being so witless. If I were there I'd do it myself."

"What?" Ailith asks, sounding shocked. Patron shakes his head, on the verge of a dry hysteria.

"I said," he repeats, "that I hope they kill her. Or let her die, if that works better. Not that I care, but good fucking riddance."

"Patron," the Two girl exhales slowly, her hands flexing against her legs as she sits stark upon the adjacent bed. "I get what you're saying, but I don't think…"

"Exactly," Patron snaps back, throwing an arm out in her direction, "you don't think! None of you! All you do is follow, follow Kellen, follow Elysia… follow the Capitol, like a good little sheep, always willing to abide by the rules they've set out for you, never daring to question if you have a choice, if you'd be better without them looking in over your shoulder, controlling your every move and moment and action. You're perfectly content to play along and live life in their shadow, because being complacent means not having to deal with consequence."

He laughs, retracting his arm and holding it across his face, shielding his eyes from the sight of her… and the room spinning around them. It's too much, all of it, but he's not going to just lie here and heap regrets on himself. Why should he?

"Have I finally worked out the truth of the Careers, Two? Am I correct that you'd rather play lapdog and lick their boots than get on their bad side because you're scared of what they'd do if you ever –"

"I am not," Ailith enunciates, cutting him off before he can end his tangent, "a lapdog."

The air of the room goes cold as she turns on him, a storm building behind her near-black eyes.

"Quit pretending this is about me, or Elysia, or the Capitol. This is about you, Patron. Denying it isn't going to help."

"Perhaps," he agrees, allowing the space to lapse once more into silence, taking in the frost of her dark stare… the coldness that underlies her words. How familiar her anger sounds… frozen over with an impenetrable layer of ice. He'd sounded the same, at times… after Edward's dismissal, after his parents let him hang in the eyes of their precious peers without a word of protest…

"Do you know what it's like in Nine? For people that kill their District partners?"

"I don't," Ailith admits, sitting up and rewarding him with her full attention, more stable than Patron thinks she has any right to be. "But I can imagine it's not good."

"Not good." Patron laughs again. Talk about an understatement. "They're ostracized. Completely and totally. Dismissed from their social circles, relegated to the role of a traitor and left to linger on the fringes of the district without a single word sent in their direction."

The Nine boy begins to shake his head, his bitterness all but boiling over. He can't help but feel like he's going to cry. How did I end up here?

"My district already thought I was a bogeyman," he admits, the sting of his scleras getting worse. "And now I've gone and done this. I don't even want to imagine what will happen if I make it back to them."

He rolls over onto his side, not wanting her to see him breaking. What he's told her is damning enough… but the emotion he can sense, distorting his features? That would be far too much to risk.

"For years," Patron muses, his voice dulled to a whisper, "It was instilled in me that my worth was tied to my heritage. The name that I bear. There's no question that being a Midori is what's defined my accomplishments – no doubt that it influenced the way my peers saw me, and likely my lovers too. I don't think there's a thing in my life that was actually mine, once you factor in the asset of influence. It's almost sad, honestly… I'm not typically one to indulge self-pity, but the way I was raised by them…"

He sighs, turning his face in against the stiff pillow, allowing his heart to slow and his eyes to fall shut.

"You're right," he says, ever so slowly. "This isn't about Elysia at all. It's about me. I'm scared."

He can hear the noise of a mattress behind him, creaking as the springs begin to raise beneath the absence of Ailith's weight. Her boots hit against the boards of the floor as she stands to her feet, breath heavy like she wants to say something, but can't quite muster the courage to get the words out.

"Patron, I –"

"Don't," he tells her, pursing his lips. "There's nothing that needs to be said."

"But there is," Ailith retorts, not without a slight waver. "I'm sorry that you had to deal with that. I can't say I know what it's like, but I can empathize with the hurt of having your voice go unheard… being defined by your parents… having a legacy linked to your name…"

She swallows, roughly, as Patron turns his head, turning away and making to gather up the meager pile of supplies divvied to her.

"I should check in on the circle," she says faintly, stepping around an abandoned pack as she wanders to the exit, movements almost sluggish. "The others are supposed to be back soon… it might be good to see –"

"Ailith," Patron speaks, staring at her as she continues to walk, his words leading her steps to halt abruptly.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

The gratitude stings on his tongue as it slips his lips, but he forces past the discomfort, giving her a nod. Ailith forces a smile and returns the acknowledgement, glancing back over her shoulder with her fingers lingering on the door's handle, uncertain but oddly prepared.

The bandages around her leg are fresh today, and stand as a sharp contrast to the beige of her uniform. Patron can't keep his gaze from falling to the strip of snowy white gauze, finding it easier to stare at than his ally's face. There's too much recognition to be found there.

"Hypothetically…" he speaks slowly, testing the waters, "... if I were to leave the alliance. What would you decide to do?"

"Hypothetically?" Ailith asks.

"Yes, hypothetically," Patron repeats, tracing a pattern over the cloth sheets with his index finger. "I can't say I intend to leave, but I'm curious. Would you stay with them?"

"I –"

Before she has a chance to push the words out, the door by her side bursts open. Tati stands in the entrance, disheveled and looking distraught, her yellow hair a frizzy mess around her weary face.

"Can we talk?" She asks, staring at Patron. "Alone."

Patron glances to Ailith, only to find her glancing between the pair of them, uncertain about the dynamic. Still, when Tati raises an eyebrow at her, she seems to find agreement in the hint and slings her backpack onto her back, pressing a hand to the wall and stepping around the Six girl to head outside. Patron's eyes narrow.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, do I have to want something in order to speak with you now?" She retorts, crossing her arms to her chest as Ailith closes the door. "Maybe I just wanted to check in. Is that a fucking crime?"

"Cut the shit and get to the point," he says, shaking his head. "I'm in no mood for your antics."

"Fine!" Tati shouts, throwing her arms out wide, fat droplets running down her cheeks. "You were right, is that what you want to hear? You were right about all of it."

"... not that I'd claim differently, but what exactly are you – ?"

"Elysia told me what you said to her. Snapped it at me, really. About Kellen, and – and I fucked up. Nine – Patron, please. I just want to talk."

Patron watches as her shoulders shake, the confident presence she usually exudes compressed into something small and horribly shaken. He sits up, more serious than before as the Six girl presses back against the door, hugging herself tight.

"Tati… what happened?"

---

They're outside on the porch step when the crackling begins.

At first, Velezen doesn't even register it - the sound of a voice overtaking the arena dome, the sky hissing and spitting with static as its maker begins to speak. Maybe that's telling of where his mind is at: infected by the splendor of the previous day, his allies' brevity acting as a boost to his own dour mood, enough that he's begun to feel at ease despite the demands that the arena holds. With a cackling child at his side and a pair of lovebirds less than a meter off, it's difficult to remember he's stuck in a deathmatch - and more difficult still to see the lot of them as competition.

Cordura. Maevyn. Argenta.

Over the last week, they've become more a family to him than his own ever was – closer than his parents, better than Aurelio, as full of care and lust for life as the only person he's dared to miss. While none of the girls that stand with him now can hold a candle to his memory of Theia, they've all left a mark on Velezen in some capacity… even if he'd prefer not to admit it.

The games they've played in this false prison - those of connection, humor, mischief and love - have prompted him into a fantasy so compelling that his rationality has decided to escape him. All things considered, he should have known that their good fortune would come to an end.

He should have known that they couldn't just hole up here, lose themselves to the lie of a reality where people accept them, care for them, desire them for who they are. He should have known that caring for them wasn't safe – might even be the worst mistake he's ever made, and given all the shit he went through with the Order, that ought to say something – and yet he still…

He still wants them.

Velezen's spent so much of his life as a cynic, inured to the woes of misfortune and ostracism. Half his childhood seemed to consist of nothing more than waking up and waiting for the other shoe to drop. How many times had suffering decided to rear its ugly head for no reason beyond his unwillingness to shut up and play pretend? His identity, his autonomy… his personal beliefs, values and lasting interests… all they'd ever been were fuel for his rejection. The rules that governed Five were the sort that encouraged consequence, whether it was deserved or not, and no matter what he felt, they're exactly the same here. Exactly the same, because he was never meant to find support in a world built for condemnation, never supposed to build a family from the ranks of people who'd wish him dead, it was a mistake, not for him, but for society, and because of that, he should have known it would be over too soon, should have thought, should have seen –

(It's been a long time since Zen's felt comfortable enough to think himself at home, but being here with the rest of them has managed to evoke a sense of security he'd thought to be long-buried.

He isn't ready to lose it.)

"Good morning, my few and fortunate remaining tributes,"the Gamemaker begins to speak, his greeting as lifeless as it is unwanted."Or perhaps, I should say 'remaining campers.' Today's schedule will be introducing a new activity to the weekly lineup, one that I'm sure will be met with enthusiasm by plenty of our bloodthirsty cast – after all, what's a little murder in the spirit of competition?"

Argenta drops the stick she was using to poke at a cobweb strung between two railposts, turning her head up in confusion. The soft giggling from the front door hushes as Maevyn pulls away from Cordura's arms, her blue eyes going wide, lips parting around a question she doesn't have a chance to voice. After a moment, she begins to turn her head, facing Velezen with a look that sets his blood pounding, the adrenaline of their morning ebbing off into something new, unfamiliar and draining.

(There's a wave headed in their direction, and when it hits… no matter what form or shape it may take… something is going to fracture. He can already feel it.)

" - don't worry. I have no intention of letting your risks go unrewarded, especially when the demands of the task may be… perilous. Games like this are something that requires incentive, and the Capitol is more than willing to provide. Should you choose to fulfill our request, you will indeed be compensated for your time and effort –"

Velezen leans back, stretching out on the dirty wood, and cocks his chin up at the too-bright sun, refusing to let himself be riled by the impending display of manipulation. Why would he choose now as a good moment to listen to authority, with all he's done to put himself on their shit list? Rewards, my ass. What has the Capitol ever done to help us?

"... but I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. Before you choose to compete, you should have an understanding of what we mean to request…"

In the bright blue of the cloudless sky, a spot of black appears. Then another, off towards the area above the cabin circle, and three more, somewhere in the direction of the woodlands. Something white and shapeless begins to float downwards, spiralling around at the end of a parachute, and with a pinched brow, Cordura steps forward from her spot at the door, slipping around Maevyn and Argenta to head down the lodge's stairs.

"The game that I propose is simple," the gamemaker continues to monologue as the drop finally touches down in the open yardway, parachute deflating like a popped balloon. "I choose a target, and you decide whether the price I've set is worth your notice. Provided you accept my offer, you'll have twenty four hours to hunt them down, kill them, and cash in for your reward… no more, and no less."

Cordura walks forward, crouching down beside their "gift" to examine it closer, biting at the edge of her lower lip. She seems… bewildered, at least at first. Then, her hands begin to move, unrolling the white object from the end of its tether.

"Oh, man. You've got to be kidding me," she says with a mirthless chuckle, shaking her head. Argenta perks up at the sound of her disbelief, hopping up from the ground to try and see the thing for herself.

"Who is it? Cordy, gimme, I wanna see –"

Cordura turns, holding up a thick slip of printed paper, displaying a name, District, and list of items that Velezen's sure are meant to be the "compensation." But it's not the text on the page that gives him pause so much as the image emblazoned above it – a familiar face, with a solemn expression.

A thud sounds from beside the door. Then, there's a whisper, pained and low and almost muted, undeniably in disbelief.

"No."

Zen turns around as Vyn's body falls sideways to collapse against the wall, her legs half-buckled beneath her as she covers her mouth. With slumped shoulders and an unnatural pallor, she turns her face away, unwilling to acknowledge the information displayed to her, instead choosing to shake her head, blonde hair hanging about her head like a curtain, obscuring her from the others' notice.

"No," she repeats, more forceful this time, like she's trying to will the event out of existence. "No. No. No. No."

"Today's bounty is set to run through nine o'clock tomorrow. Your target is Atlanshi Bleumoon. Happy hunting."

The panels in the sky click closed as the overhead voice fades from existence, a soft hum of electricity the only evidence to a speaker at all. Vyn's knees knock together as her stance finally falters, sending her crashing against the hard wood of the deck, just before Velezen stands to try and support her.

"Maevyn!" He shouts, a perfect mirror of the cry that emits from Cordura, who nearly stumbles in her haste to get to the Four girl's side, mismatched eyes full of worry. Argenta stands off to the side, her own gaze averted as she bites at her lip, seemingly unsure of what to say. She might be the youngest of them all, but it's obvious from the lilt of her mouth that she's the one with the least qualms – the only one that's seriously thinking about the Gamemaker's request, and what it could earn them.

Her dark eyes raise, looking to Zen, and without hesitation he shakes his head. Not this one, he thinks, hoping that she'll get the message, and though Argenta's breath seems to flare, she looks to her feet and nods her head, his advice the only thing she really needed in order to agree. Creeping closer, she moves to his side, and Velezen's arm wraps around her shoulders, the pair of them looking on as Cordura fusses over Maevyn, whose hysteria is verging on fervency.

"We have to find him," the Four girl says, every ounce of determination she can muster forced out in her words. "Before anyone else, we have to go. I'm gonna go. Shishi can't die on me, he can't, Cordy, he just can't. He's the only piece of Four I've got, and he's good, he's been good to me, you don't get it, but I can't let him die, he's not gonna die. Okay? We're gonna go get him, and – and he's gonna come back here with us, and it'll all be good, he'll be here too, and I won't leave him, he didn't leave me, and I owe him it, I owe him for you!"

Her arms wrap around Cordura's back, head burrowing in against her chest. Argenta turns her chin up, continuing to watch Zen for his response, but he can't muster the energy to talk.

(Isn't it funny how it only takes one moment to ruin the perfect fantasy?)

(Isn't it funny how humans can so easily trick themselves into believing their lives will work out, when they know in their heart that happiness is something they never had a chance at attaining?)

Ironic, isn't it, how he constantly seems to wind up pulling the short end of the stick. Being offered up as a sacrifice by his own lover; getting imprisoned for acting out in self defense… outliving his sister, after she tried to do something nice and cover his factory shift, because breathing was hard enough for him outside of the plants, and she wanted to keep him from getting stuck around the oil and smoke, if only until he'd had the chance to recuperate…

(It was his fault Theia died. He knew it, his parents knew it. It's half the reason they fell out of love with him, their insistence that he was "still" their child overwritten by the hatred he could see inside their eyes. Though his mother claimed that she could forgive him, her forgiveness was no different from her acceptance: conditional, fickle, and ever prone to being revoked.)

(It shouldn't have hurt, to slip from her graces. Yet for some reason… it still did. Even after all the years of near-neglect… being told that he was a problem, going through 'phases' and "rebelling for the sake of trying to rebel," Velezen had still yearned for his family's love. Still hoped that they could accept him – acknowledge him, respect him, love him like they'd loved his sister, his perfect, beautiful, saintlike fucking sister… the sister who had held back his hair when he crouched, puking, over the toilet at three in the morning, who sat at the foot up his bed, telling him stories of far away places until he'd drift off to sleep, reassured by her presence…)

(Is it stupid, that he had tried so hard to patch things up with them? To make it work after he'd come back home, stitches straight all down his arms, and his stomach still churning with an abundance of acid? Ilene – for he couldn't really call her mother, when she was so cold to him, so unwilling to accept him as a Vilarys – had been cordial after his attempt, but her words when she spoke were limited, just as her attention. She couldn't so much as look him in the face after losing Theia, and when she did, it was clear that she didn't care for the boy she saw... the boy that she'd never wanted.)

(Velezen knows as well as anyone what his parents truly wanted. He was always meant to be born a daughter - meant to live in Elaina's skin, despite how much it fucking hurt him. How many times had he pled with them, only for his words to fall on deaf ears? How many times as a child had he come home with skinned knees and dirt smeared over his face to be greeted with revulsion, revulsion that was only worsened by his mother's expressions of disappointment?)

(Ilene had never loved him. Neither had Valion.)

(... but Theia had been different. And the Games had been different. And the Order had been different. And Aurelio– )

No.

.

.

.

(No, Aurelio was no different from his parents.)

(He looked at Velezen, and wanted to change him – to shape him into something else, something that was quiet and complaisant and willing to match his own ideals. Though they'd led the cult with joined hands, the pair of them had never truly been partners; it is obvious now that Aurelio had always seen Velezen as lesser. His loving and devoted second, gifted with charm and quick in wit – but only when it served his uses. Velezen Vilarys was not a leader, merely the stray he'd taken in off the streets, conditioned by trauma to recognize him as a savior. But saviors don't try to murder their charges – and lovers don't abuse their imbalance of power.)

(The Order was only a home because he'd made it one. Just as he'd made one here…)

A breathless wheeze escapes him, something between a hiss and a laugh, whistled out from between half-closed lips. Cordura's head turns as she registers the sound, mismatched eyes meeting him in question, but Velezen only shakes his head, his throat feeling raw and parched from a lack of water.

(Nobody will take this away from him. Argenta, Maevyn and Cordura… they've become more than friends in the time he's been here. Perhaps their fates were only bound out of necessity and trauma, but to Velezen it matters not. Each of them... they are his sisters. They've supported him, saved him, cared for him...)

(Family is about more than blood. It's about acceptance. It's about respect. And in a way, it's about freedom.)

… freedom …

His lungs tighten immensely, impacted by revelation.

The Capitol's no different from Five. Like it or not, the only language those scumguzzling shitstains understand is that of violence. To them, Atlanshi's life is little more than cannon fodder – same as his, as Argenta's and Maevyn's. They could care less for the fact they're killing children, so long as it brings them entertainment. Velezen's always known that, but something about the knowledge feels different now… almost as if it's become more despicable. More callous.

(They've already tried to destroy you once.
They took your life.
They took your Order.
Don't let them rip apart your family, Velezen.

...

...

Not again.)

(If you want to succeed, you need to fight. Fight for me… fight for them…)

(You deserve to have a good life, little brother. That's what I wanted for you...)

(...)

(... that's all I've ever wanted…)

"Well."

Velezen speaks and his voice is calm, full of a surety he's rarely had. He can feel confidence filling him up, washing over the tides of insecurity and rewriting the pain that's in his blood. When he was in Five, he'd had little to fight for – but now that he's been reaped, he's found purpose. In his message, in his autonomy… in his want to live, and purge corruption. In his sisters, and in love for vibrance. In his heart…

It's been such a long time, since he felt his heart…

"Well," he repeats, this time almost jovial. The Five boy puts on a catlike grin, stepping forward with his arms spread. Recklessness, on him, has never looked better. "If there's one thing that never fails to bring me joy, it's taking advantage of an opportunity to ruin the Capitol's day. I'll go get our stuff."

"... Velezen?" Cordura asks, looking at him in surprise. Zen shrugs his shoulders, nodding down at Maevyn.

"If she thinks we've got a shot at saving Atlanshi, then let's fucking take it. I never planned to live long, anyhow."

With a nod to the pair of star-crossed lovers, Velezen reaches out for Argenta's hand, gripping it tight as he pulls her back into the lodge, toward the door that houses their main stash.

"Don't worry," he whispers to her as she follows along, a slight grimace twisting her mouth. "There'll be plenty of blood to come our way, with or without the Capitol. You'll get another moment soon."

"Promise?" Argenta asks, her fingers wrapped to his so tightly she's all but breaking the circulation. Zen only squeezes it tighter, a fond smile on his lips.

"Yeah. I promise."

(His life was already ripped away from him once. He won't let it happen again.)

---

The silence that permeates the air around the pair of them is thick with dread.

It's coiled deep inside the pit of his stomach – twisted like a serpent, exacerbated by the unrelenting sharpness of hunger. Constant and omnipotent, a sense of alarm washes through his skin, sparking his nerves and filling him anew with something not unlike agitation.

As the Gamemakers' words dissipate from the sky above their heads, their presented offer left crumpled and filthy on the ground, Rhys takes a sharp breath…

… and he realizes that he is afraid.

(Not afraid of the announcement, nor the wicked implications of the hunt… in fact, it may be to their benefit that a target has been labeled, as callous as it makes Rhys feel. Six and Twelve are much more likely to rise to the bait than they are to continue chasing them. It pains Rhys to think of death in such a trivial way, but he never knew the Four boy anyway – why should he care if he lives or dies?)

No, what Rhys is afraid of is that he's right.

He's so tired of being right – of having his cynical, compromised worldview proven time and time again. That every time Rhys expects the worst, he's given it – who would believe in optimism then?

Not that the Games have much place for that, he decides.

Pangaea might have been an optimist, once. But that too has changed. Survival is now their only priority – really, the only thing that ever mattered.

(His feelings on the subject do not… perhaps they never did, because when has Rhys had a say in the sour ways his life has changed? When has his voice mattered, or even been heard?)

In the arena, the only concern a person should keep is for themself. Their own survival… their own good fortune.

He's wondered at times if his cynicism is perhaps excessive, but the Capitol has proven him correct to be mistrustful. The caustic indifference they hold toward the remaining tributes is downright appalling. Rhys, the others… they're drowning in the disregard of a world that doesn't want them anymore.

Although…

One of them might have a chance.

One of them is going to win. And although Rhys hates to admit it, Atlanshi Bleumoon's plight will buy the rest of them time – something he and Pangaea have been running out of since the moment their names were called at the Reapings. They may need to be wise about how they use it, but having it is certainly better than not.

Be pragmatic, not empathic, Rhys reminds himself. The only life that matters here is yours. Not Atlanshi's. Not anyone's.

(Not anyone's… except for her.)

Rhys knows he's a hypocrite. Caring so little for Bleumoon after what he did for Pangaea O'Shea only proves as much. He had no reason to care if Pangaea lived or died, no qualms with their stalkers, no attachments or adversaries. He had arrived at the Capitol alone, trained alone, and entered the arena alone, all by his own designs…

Solitude is not a state that he necessarily wants for, but it is a state which he's deemed to be safe. So long as he's alone, the only worries he's made to keep are those which center around his own safety, removed from that of others. It's better not to get attached, not to think or feel – but he's gone and caught himself up in feeling nonetheless.

(What differentiates the life of the gamemakers' new target from the girl sitting beside him?)

(What is the point of survival after being delivered at the devil's doorstep? Was there ever really a point in living for oneself, or has Rhys unconsciously been clinging to the idea of a savior, futily hoping that someone could come and rescue him from his fucking mess of a life?)

(Perhaps Rhys Intarsia is meant to be his own savior – once with a life worth little more than the piss and dirt beneath other's boots, now fighting for it.)

(Is that why he saved Pangaea? Not because he could, but because somewhere deep within himself, he's been clinging to nothing but vestigial hope beneath his mask of indifference?)

(Does it even matter why he saved her, when they're both nothing more than sheep for the slaughter?)

"We need to get a move on," the Three boy says, stuffing their meager supplies back into their sack. "Easier to keep our eyes open when the sun's high. We'll need as much luck on our side as we can get, after that announcement."

"Wait, are you thinking about going after him?"

Rhys says nothing.

Sliding his dented knife into the front pocket of his shorts, he rises to his feet, preparing to set out for yet another day of wandering. At least today's trek won't be aimless, he muses, grazing his teeth against his tongue. Perhaps that will be a benefit. Less monotony… more incentive.

"It's the logical move," he finally responds, zipping up the pack and tugging it from the ground, one strap slung across his left 's eyes go wide with realization as she watches him, injured arm clasped against her chest in horror.

"Rhys… you can't be serious."

"Why not?" He questions as he slides on the second strap, readying himself to hike. "You know as well as I do that we're low on supplies – we don't stand a shot at surviving unless we try to rectify that. I'm no fan of the Capitol, but they've given us an out."

"Oh, yes! Supplies at the price of murder." The Ten girl's teeth grind together as her voice takes on a sharper tone, something wild and halfway feral overtaking her expression. "I thought the whole point of being a rebel was to push back against injustice."

Rhys sighs. There's no reason to get into it right now – no reason to let her words rattle him, and yet…

"You're a fine one to be mentioning injustice, O'Shea."

"After everything you told me the last few days, everything you've been through, you're just going to sell out for a cache of food?"

"Don't you talk to me about selling out!"

Like that, a match is lit, burning his feet and bringing his frustration to a boiling point. He whirls about, words amped up to a shout as he watches his impertinent ally – his rich, pampered, loyalist ally who thinks she has any right to pass judgment on his decisions?

"Is it really the murder that bothers you, or the knowledge that if you kill someone you won't be able to bury your head in the earth and continue harping on that victim label society's been so keen to assign you? You may be different from your parents, but you can't just cast off the mantle they gave you. Not that easily."

…

…

Quiet.

Rhys' jaw sets in place, locking his teeth together in rigid consternation. He's not in the mood for any arguing today, be it with Pangaea, or the Four boy or practically anyone else. Communication at this stage is more trouble than it's worth, and he's...

He's got enough shit to deal with right now.

"Listen," Rhys says, his shoulders slumped as he gazes down the path ahead of them, feeling as if all the weariness in the world has been set upon his back. "I understand wanting to keep your hands clean, but there comes a point when selfishness has to take precedence. Trust me when I say that pacifism isn't the hill you want to die on."

Pangaea's lips set into a firm line. She swallows, letting her eyes drift in the direction of the forest, away from the path and towards the wooded glen at their side, her forehead creasing in thought. Rhys doesn't think it would be improper to say she looks forlorn – lost, both in her own mind and in her surroundings. Maybe even lost with him; they've certainly had their share of squabbles over the last few days. Although…

"I'm sorry for what I said," Rhys apologizes softly. "Both about you and… and your family. It wasn't fair of me."

"I'm pretty sure that life's not fair, from everything you've told me," Pangaea says, doing her best not to look at him even as he clears the air. "But… I appreciate the apology. I'm sorry, too." Her hand grips to one of her arms, fingers reddening the skin from the tightness of their hold. "Even if I don't… agree about going through with this, I know you're just doing what you feel you have to."

"I am," Rhys agrees, turning away from her. He takes a deep breath in, elbow bending so that his fingers can trail along the strap of his pack, the texture of cloth wedged between them allowing him to feel grounded. Whether or not he wants to headhunt the other tributes is irrelevant; in this game the Capitol's made them play, competition is far from friendly. Winning may come with the cost of losing himself, but at least if he lives he'll have a second chance.

If he dies, however…

(If he dies, it'll be nothing more than par for the course. But just because he expects loss doesn't mean he wants it. He's eremetic, not suicidal.)

"In places like this," he advises, keeping his words even as they're posed to Pangaea, "it's better to lose your moral compass. Helps you keep it together."

The only response the advice earns him is silence.

Rhys' tongue trails over the grooves of his teeth, pressing flat against the back of them. He supposes there's nothing else that really needs to be said.

"Come on," he says, somewhat terse. "We need to get a move on while there's still light. Four could be hiding anywhere."

Her feet shift atop the dirt, loud enough that Rhys is prompted to chance a glance at her, surprised by the accepting nature of her tone. If she notices his look, though, she doesn't acknowledge it – her gaze remains fixed on a distance beyond his body, over his shoulder and away from their conversation. Even at this distance, the creases near her downturned mouth are hard not to notice – they speak of conflict, no different than her eyes, overcast as they seem by clouds of self-doubt.

"I won't ask you to do anything you don't want to, Pangaea," Rhys speaks again, waiting for her tension to settle. "But please – don't judge me for wanting to survive."

Pangaea blinks, her eyelids fluttering as she unclenches her good hand from the fists it's been shaped into by her frustration. Giving Rhys a nod, she steadies herself with another breath, traversing the ground between them until she stands at his side, worrying her lower lip with her teeth.

She seems calmer, now, but not in a way that's beneficial; rather, her calmness feels numb.

(It's a feeling that Rhys knows well.)

"... alright, Rhys." Pangaea says, releasing an airy breath. "Lead the way. I trust you."

---

After seventeen hours and counting, the rouge tint in Hollister's cheeks still has yet to fade.

It would be a lie to say that it doesn't suit him; on the contrary, a blush sits quite well on his face, better than the pallor that so typically colors his cheeks. If he were somebody other than himself, Lethe might even find such a look attractive – though his judgment needn't be given on such a trivial subject. Waxing philosophy is something that Lethe Muralai has always found baseless, be it in the context of morality or… something different, that he'd be more inclined to call foreign. Tooth-sharpening and bloody kisses… it's all so asinine, isn't it?

What he feels for Hollister is not love.

Desire, in and of itself, is not an indicator of romance; merely avarice, mixed with hints of wistfulness and desperation. It might come as a result of romantic feelings, but by and large they are not the same, and there's no *need* for Lethe to work himself up wondering if he's meant to equate them. He can't deny the fact that he kissed the boy from Twelve, but he can deny that it meant something - anything - in the grander scheme of their alliance.

(Yesterday's altercation was born of nothing beyond Lethe's inability to dispel his childhood melancholy. The hurt that he'd felt after losing his father… his mother's hypocrisy and lack of warmth, all the scorn he'd endured from Six's citizens, both for his family's wealth and the crimes he later chose to commit. For the last decade he has been made to endure the tumult of being an outsider, regarded with scorn and suspicion no matter which social spheres he attempted to orbit. The dismissal he'd learned to accept as normal was something Lethe had grown to nurture as he grew to adulthood; with each year that passed him by, his misanthropy would escalate, leaving him resigned to his anticipated solitude. He'd never considered the future bleak, but he had always expected he would spend it alone: unmissed, unmourned, undesirable to any who might surround him…)

(He'd always assumed it would be better like that;
to live in a world of his own design with no people to bother him,
and no feelings to miss.
Relationships were something he considered overrated –
society, too.
He had no desire to give the world
notions of his mind and heart,
if they were made
only to be torn into pieces.
He had no love
to either spare or lose
for those whose existence
seemed only to be a perturbation,
whose sentiment would outlive their selfishness,
and whose rationality Lethe found to be severely underdeveloped.

While Hollister might be anomalous to Lethe's schema regarding the nature of people,
he is not so different that Lethe would choose to let his heart overrule his head.)

He is a useful tool that Lethe's primed to serve his interests. Nothing more.

Wanting more will only serve to distract him. And he doesn't need that.

(He doesn't need him.)

"We do intend to effectuate the Capitol's offer, yes?" Hollister pipes up, his words jilting Lethe from his frenetic reverie. "'Tis not as though I require a sacriment so soon after the last, but 'twould certainly prove beneficial to my fang and standing. Hunts are made to bring us sustenance… if 'twere me, then say I that we should relish in this opportunity and stake 'pon it a great advantage – are you listening to me, Lethe?"

The Six boy tugs up the zipper on the side of his daypack, tucking one dagger away between the grey flaps. Then he slides the second of his knives into his belt loop, affixing it to the side of his waist in a position that's easy to loosen, should he have need of using it. Behind him, he can sense the vampire's eyes focused upon his back, following along with each of his slight movements as if trying to will his head to turn.

"– should we not make use of a boon once given, when Three and Ten have twice humiliated us, and left us hung like rafter-cloth to waver in the wind as –"

"Shut up."

Lethe's eyelids flutter closed, a sigh departing his lips. Maybe the attention isn't entirely terrible, but he won't give Hollister the satisfaction of seeing it returned.

There are better ways for him to occupy his time this morning.

Like gearing up for the hunt they're soon to embark on, or configuring a decent plan of attack. Based on the observations Lethe made in the Capitol, the boy from Four is a crafty sort – crafty, and vexatious. Though he didn't seem especially charming, his words aren't something that should be trusted; if they show their hand too early, it's likely he'll find a way of turning the tables. Lethe can't have that happen.

When he attacks, he'll need to toe the line with caution… portray himself as unpredictable, but also take care to remain calculated. Hollister should be an asset where opportunism is concerned, but he can't be trusted to adhere to strategy. It's best that Lethe builds a plan around him rather than with him.

Flexibility will leave them less room for fuck-ups.

Lethe draws in another breath, deep and withered, then exhales it all at once, his chest expanding as his shoulders start to relax. He can handle whatever Four tries to throw at them – and he most certainly can handle Hollister. Today's hunt is going to be fruitful for them. He knows it.

"I have," he begins as he rises to his feet, grabbing for the strange mask he'd found in their cabin's trashbin the day before, the indented white face oddly pleasing to him, "every intention of claiming today's bounty. There's no need for you to fret, Holly."

He undoes the strap around the back, pulling the cover up over his face and fastening it to his skull, making sure that the holders are secured in place. Then, finally, he turns, tilting his head up to gaze at Hollister, a smile settling in place on a mouth that the Twelve boy cannot see.

"L-Lethe," Hollister stammers, almost taken aback. "What are you…"

"Wearing?" Lethe finishes for him, continuing to stare at his partner with his head half-cocked, an indescribable exhilaration filling him up. "Why? Do you like it?"

Hollister's flush begins to worsen, blood in his cheeks spreading down his neck and along the lines of his dark features, every bit as prominent as the shadows that surround him. His lips part as Lethe takes a step forward, wet with the faintest tinge of saliva, and as his ally begins to approach, he takes a step back in the direction of the door, watching the Six boy with obvious 's a trace of shock in his wide eyes… no, not shock, fear, like the change of face has unsettled him, left him drained of his bravado and self-importance.

He shouldn't want this, but he does.

He shouldn't do this, but he is, is because it sets a thrill in him, because Hollister's somehow adorable when he looks like prey, all nervous and bothered and wary of what Lethe plans to do with him. His grin widens as his pace starts to hasten, blood rushing so fast he can hear it in his skull, pounding against the facets of his brain and swishing on past his eardrums.

He crosses the short distance between them to lay a hand on Hollister's chest, drawing fingers along the line of his collar, down the front of his shirt and over every button, the thrum of his partner's heartbeat causing Lethe's skin to prickle. There's no doubt in his mind that what he's doing is aberrant – that he's deliberately fucking himself over by playing into his foolish whimsy – but he can't tear himself away. Twelve is just too easy to mess with, to tease and maneuver and rile up to his breaking point, and while Lethe would never in a million years have dreamt of liking it, the adrenaline coursing through him leaves no doubt that he does.

"You know," he taunts, pressing flush against Hollister's body, using his free hand to lift the mask back up past his face, obsidian eyes twinkling with a cruel mirth. "For a vampire, you certainly do seem to run warm. Why is that, I wonder?"

Hollister blinks, dumbfounded before his eyes narrow, nose scrunching up and mouth twisting in a huff. "You know perfectly well the cause of my temperament, Lethe."

He raises a brow. "Do I?"

"Yes," Hollister snaps, seizing the hand that Lethe has rested against his chest and taking it in his own, leaning down so that their faces are but a centimeter from collision. "So dispense with your mockery. If you wished me to kiss you, you need only have asked."

Something inside him shifts. Lethe's mouth closes, his brow beginning to pinch.

"No," he says, drawing his head back, his hand pulling free of Hollister's. The other tribute frowns, apparently not prepared for such a response, and when Lethe looks to his face again, the only emotion he can see is confusion.

"No?" Hollister asks, sounding hurt. Lethe's head begins to shake, his fingers moving to pull the mask back down as his feet continue to carry him backwards.

"No," he repeats, unable to keep himself from sounding disgusted. "Enough of this. We have a hunt to attend now. Grab your things."

Snatching his own pack up from the floor, Lethe whirls about and stomps past Hollister, trudging out the shack's open door into the summer breeze. What happened to keeping my focus on important endeavors? I should be better than this. No, I am better than this, and our success is dependent upon my guidance. Murder is the only indulgence I can allow myself. I have no room for kisses or feelings or… people like Hollister! My head is meant to be set on trapping the boy from Four… narrowing down the competition. At this stage, that's all that matters.

Hollister means nothing to me. And if he's smart… he'll realize that I mean nothing to him, either.

---

For a human, Lethe Muralai is certainly perplexing.

Mayhaps such realization ought not be revelatory. 'Twas Lethe's oddities, after all, that brought them together. And moreover, 'twas Lethe's oddities that Hollister had found himself most enamored with. Had the boy from Six been as mundane as the rest, he would never have drawn Hollister's eye. He has a callousness to him that presents a thrill… some amalgamation of misanthropy and mystére that makes him seem like poison. While he may not be kindred to Hollister, his deadliness has proven rather alluring… much like the blood that sings inside his veins. His human is unique. And yet…

He is also infuriating.

Though Hollister does not claim to be the most seductive of his brethren, he's always held the belief that he's at least competent in regards to such magicks. After all, previous mortals have never shown signs of being immune to his wiles; with naught beyond his alluring gaze, an affect of a smile and a few honeyed words, he'd had many in Twelve eating from the palm of his hand. His temperament may leave much to be desired, but he's learned well enough how to woo a human… so why does Lethe remain immune? What possible reason should his partner have to spurn him for his interests? His denial makes no sense, and worse still, it is aggravating.

(With the bloom of attraction between himself and Lethe, logic dictates that their engagement ought be mutual. Yet, while 'twould be remiss for Hollister to think his companion incapable of feeling for himself, in this moment such a truth does not appear to be. Lethe's demeanor is cold and frigid, fraught with the sort of apathy that sorrowfully taints all which lies in its path. In no manner does he seem keen to address what's happened between them – or stars forbid, acknowledge it – despite Hollister's prompting glances and indicating hums.)

Hollister can scarcely stand it.

Although it isn't impossible to believe him uncaring, Hollister's read on the previous night was enough to lead him to carry an assumption of want. The terms of their engagement may remain vague, but he was almost positive that such an intention had been presented – and that it was, in turn, also accepted. Should that not be enough to stake a claim to the Six boy's heart?

Gripping his knife tight inside his palm, Hollister follows behind Lethe with all the presence of a shadow against his steps. His groan is audible as they pass by another runed tree, boot heels scuffing against the dirt. Not a single word has passed between them since their departure from the hovel, in defiance of Hollister's predilections and preference for a thoughtful trek.

(Lethe's choice to position himself five steps ahead has also proven quite a deterrent, though that is neither here nor there. Blast and damnation.)

Hollister sighs. He scarcely has motive to feel so put-out, but the sentiment is there nonetheless – and he detests it.

He detests everything.

They've been out for some time today, pushing onward against the sun's heat and the coming inevitability of dusk – and to be truthful it has left Hollister rather drained. He is sick of this confounding forest; sick of the twists and turns of tree-infested trails, sick of the humid air that clings upon his flesh, feeding down his windpipe while remaining musty enough to stifle. Following the path of an unknown enemy is not the type of hunt conducive to his tastes, especially when the prey is so… witchy…

He walks on, nonetheless. Shadowing Lethe, examining the canopy of overcast oaks and their engraved trunks, where runes sit amidst the hew of bark in patterns that are near indiscernible. Beneath him, he can feel his feet beginning to cramp, toes flexing hard in the confines of his shoes (too stiff to be meant for a real hunt. Capitol's sake.)

The more time that passes, the harder it becomes not to ask.

"Have we yet reached him, Lethe?"

His compatriot stops, halted in the forest without warning. At his sudden pause, Hollister narrowly avoids a collision with his back, stiff and stern-shouldered as he draws in a breath.

"No," Lethe responds stoically. "But we'll be there soon."

"I daresay not soon enough," Hollister pouts, moving around the Six boy to continue forward, his fingers reaching up to graze the leaves on the hanging trees. "Did we not see this supposed cabin of his yestermorn?"

His feet cross the threshold of woodland into a stretching patch of grass, devoid of footsteps and sound. The scent of burning refuse meets with his nostrils, and Hollister's nose pinches, his tear ducts beginning to rouse. He hadn't smelt it before, nor had he seen it through the mess of trees, but there's a campsite ahead; amidst the field, he can see a plume of smoke rising into the air from a danken pit, with a tarp stretched out on the earth beside it.

The remains of a nightfire.

So he is near!

The Twelve boy grins, allowing for all his fangs to display. Perhaps he owes Lethe an apology – it appears this eve will be fruitful.

"The Hunt continues," he calls back, approaching the fire without hesitance. Yet no sooner does he draw near than the smoke begins to shift in direction, embers turning amidst the pit as they are swallowed up by char. Ashes float away on the wind as Hollister leans over the earthen pit, examining the ruined contents of wood and kindling… along with a number of black-stained bones within.

Malaise overtakes his body.

Behind his eye, Hollister feels a pressure; 'tis small at first, hidden away like a nerval tick, but it only takes an instant for the pressure to grow, spiralling along the shape of his brow, up into the confines of his skull. the pressure becomes a sting, melding into his head and traversing down the length of his spinal cord, every bit of it screeching at him to look away turn aside asunder break free of it break from it all, escapeescape youmustescape thereisnosensebeinghere turnawayHollister doitnow !

His gaze darkens as the lids of his eyes squeeze tight, shuttering his soul-mirrors in an attempt to protect them. Along his neck, the insect's puncture pulses, hot to cold then back again, each throb a tell to the flow of blood beneath his skin.

He's felt this before.

Seamrot.

(Weakness, death, turmoil and tumult – dying like his mother, all over again. the jaundice of his skin, the sepsis in his blood… he's seen firsthand a body's deterioration,but it hadn't felt quite like this… hadn't been so raw, so open and bare… oh, the ache is worse, worse than death and worse than undeath, though underneath it there is pleasantry… something… coarse and gripping, oddly electric… as if he's stuck his knife in an outlet rather than the dirt, and he's – what is he doing?!)

Hollister shudders, ripping himself away from the pit. His shoulder slams against the ground, but in his pain he holds only gratitude. What he felt just now… what he… saw…

(This place was not meant for their eyes.)

"... Lethe…" he begins to speak, finding his breath at last. "Do you feel as I do? The chaos in this space –"

"We aren't alone."

Fingers wrap about his wrist, chilly as Twelve's river, frozen over in winter. Hollister allows his arm to be pulled, leading his body in turn away from the pit and back in the direction of the woods, where ground more solid lies unexplored. Their feet cross over stick and stone, nails scratching against his unmarred skin, and the further they walk from the camp, the more Hollister is forced to notice the hand lingering on his arm – as well as its owner.

(It stings him – angers him, even – that his partner is so contrarian. Why is it that Lethe seems so unwilling to admit to their connection, when it has presented itself thrice with such fervor?)

"Unhand me," Hollister growls, and Lethe does, pushing him sideways with force enough to hurt. Hollister's fangs prick at his lip as he stares down on the other boy, the assent causing him to feel surprisingly worse. None of this is as it should be! Not Lethe, not the Games, not his place within this arena, scorned like an animal when he should be revered as a creature of the Night, myth and legend incarnate –

He opens his mouth, wishing to force the issue into the open, but the opportunity never befalls him. To his left, the world distorts, pitching miserably downward, and in an instant he sees a blur – a tribute's uniform and a flash of copper hair.

Ten.

"Lethe," he says, on the verge of cackling. "It's them."

His words are soft but they have an impact – in the foreground, his partner stills, and then there's sound of a frenzy; Hollister's breathing, Lethe grinding his teeth, the pitter-patter of the Ten girl's heart, so scared and desperate as it is. Hollister turns and there's a cry as footsteps take off running in the direction ahead. One pair, two pairs, ever so frightened… Hollister makes to chase them, but Lethe holds him back, the grasp on his flesh returning tenfold with the notion of peril, incited as always by Hollister's impulse.

"Four is our objective," the other boy reminds him sharply, his words holding a note of warning. "Not Three or Ten. Put your vendetta to rest for now and see sense, Holly."

Holly.

(The sound of the nickname should rile him, moreso after the last hour, but all Hollister can feel is need. Lethe's voice entwines with his mother's, the familiar nickname dancing its way into his chest, plying at his heart and making it swell once again, riveted by life in spite of its long death. He loathes it, but he nearly wants to…)

"It shan't matter," Hollister finds himself saying, mouth moving of its own accord. "The pair of them shall be in our orbit, regardless. Do you see the cabin?"

His hand gestures to a shape, outlined with greying golds in the nearish-distance, and Lethe's hand wraps around his own.

"Not yet," he warns, trying to keep their feet in place. Hollister laughs again, though this time the laugh sounds tinny, quite unlike his own.

"We have to go," he responds maniacally, nodding his head in agreement with the speech. "They're all waiting for us."

At the cabin doors, a head of rose-gold appears once again, accompanied by shades of black. Ten and Three reach for the handle, and it's as if Hollister's beset by tunnel vision, focused only on their movements, their constant presence. With Lethe's hand still in his, he starts forward and breaks into a run, speed inhuman as he runs to the door, the door, the Devil's Door, darkened on doorstep as it's darkened inside, just waiting for their arrival…

(This is how it's meant to be,
this is what we meant to be…)

(Once you move forward, you can only look back.)

---

All things are now as they were meant to be.

How long has he been waiting for this moment? A year, a week? Aeons upon aeons, enough to seem like an eternity after the losses his family has suffered… it will not be the end of the tyrant's reign, but perhaps it will be a beginning. Tonight, one chapter of the story shall be brought to a close; in his death there will be guilt, yet also hope. As he carried the mantle of Valentin Verduin, so too shall another carry his; the Blue Moon will set in the east, and he will remain Atlanshi of the Burnt Earth.

In the aftermath of his vengeance, his siblings and parents shall find retribution. The Dark Mother will not allow his trial to be forfeit.

Atlanshi smiles, tucking his stones back into his pocket. The wooden figurines stand upright on the table, taking as much comfort in their stature as actors upon a stage. Two near the door, making their approach – two with their backs pressed to a wall, already allowed inside. One more still stands beyond; hidden in the trees as four rush to the scene, auras bright and shimmering in the dimness of the eve. Maevyn Voydanoi is among them; his sister in spirit, their connection kindled on pain of blood. She shouldn't be forced to see what's to come, but her sight is needed nonetheless. Her horror will enflame her anger… stoke the fire that is needed to produce an explosion, not for herself, but for the one.

Their One.

"Might I fetch you something? Berries, water… parchment, perhaps? I haven't much, but what's mine is yours in this Arena. All you need do is ask."

His beam turns upon the first visitors, now sitting along a bench, watching him with eyes full of questions and – fear. Do they truly fear what he is? When he has posed no harm to their position, nor denied them their chance at bounty, the very lure which they had meant to devour?

"We're alright, thanks," the boy says, his tone wary and fraught with skepticism. His partner, the girl, stays silent, focused only on her newly bandaged arm, the blisters lining her hand made worse from the dome's humidity. It… stings at her, stings as the aftermath of a burn, itching and crawling as if infested with sickness, but so far as Atlanshi can tell, it's free of contamination. They must have kept her injuries well dressed.

Interesting.

Atlanshi hums, continuing to watch them until the boy at last turns his head, unable to match the weight of his gaze. The girl's eyes raise, then flit to the door, and Atlanshi raises his hand good-naturedly, waving her concern away.

He doesn't fault the pair for deeming him untrustworthy, but he's not so fickle as to choose a side. That honor should be left to fate… she will fulfill it, as she fulfills all things in the world. This, he knows.

This, he accepts. Though he is wary of the shadows which encroach on him, it would be unwise for him to fear such a thing as death, when it is natural and meant for all. In death, every creature is equal – brought to their lowest low, then elevated into myth, their tales set to live on in the hearts of the living. Those who matter will remember those who are lost, and such memory will honor them in ways paltry ceremony can't. His essence will remain alive…

(His essence will haunt, too – of that, Atlanshi is certain. Traitors are not the sort to rest easy… especially when they remain beholden. His brother's sin will be harshly judged, by their Dark Mother and the whole of their ken… when they speak of Telismar, they will speak only of his greed.

And it will be just.

Telismar's avarice led them to slaughter. Telismar's avarice ruined the coven, shamed the craft and charred Burnt Earth down two wicks. His deeds are deserving of an early grave, but whether or not he earns it is not for Atlanshi to decide; they are twins of an age, but his path ends here, while the Dale's son will live to reap his rewards, drinking wine from their ritual chalice and slicing bread with their mother's athame.)

(The betrayal makes him want to weep, but he will retain his posture. To keep one's cards level with their chest is to refrain from spilling secrets; he may be the reaped child from amongst his siblings, but he refuses to abandon his sense of propriety for such insidious cause.)

(His game thus far has been righteous. This, he must believe.)

"Fear not," Atlanshi says to the pair from Ten and Three, urging a sense of comfort to seep from his dulcet tones, warming the air of the cabin's center. "Our next guests may cause you upset, but you retain my blessing. Until the time comes, they won't attack."

The girl, this time. "How can you be so sure?"

Atlanshi shrugs. "I can't."

But he knows.

He knows that he knows.

Right on cue, the door bursts open. Wood scrapes wood as the hinges turn inward, revealing two imposing figures armed with knives. One wears a wicked mask, while the other exists barefaced – though his fangs do seem menacing enough. Atlanshi's posture relaxes at the sight of them, and he spreads his arms in greeting.

"You've arrived!" The Four boy exclaims, jovial in his welcome as he has attempted to be in his dealings. "I bid thee welcome, Hollister and Lethe! Please, settle yourselves as you wish. We have only one more guest to wait on."

"Guest?" The masked boy repeats, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes are piqued curiously from behind the open slits, but his echo remains utterly mirthless, less concerned with receiving elaboration than answer.

(… it matters little. Elaboration is all that Atlanshi Bleumoon is willing to give, in light of his coming doom. Lethe Muralai shall deal.)

"Certainly. You are all guests in my abode," he acknowledges, turning around to make his way back to the open stove, desiring a chance to stoke the fire. As he moves, four sets of eyes rest on his back, each piercing daggers between the blades of his shoulders.

He exhales. A cloud of smoke wafts up from the open grate, blowing over his face and dissipating around his shape. Still, the others stare, demanding their questions answered.

Atlanshi's eyes close. He nods.

"You may not understand it, but the four of you possess what I require for this phase of turning."

"What do you mean, turning?" The cynic asks, presence sharpening by the second. He could be as dangerous as the other two, if he wished it – Atlanshi can feel his blood boiling.

"Four temperaments. Four cycles. Four essential humors. Four components of apocalypse. Four turns of the season, and four celebratory phases." The Four boy shrugs, continuing to prod at the ashes in the stove with his rod of iron. There's no reason to explain further.

He's said enough to make his point.

(Everything beyond this shall lie in the Dark Mother's hands. Ansel's interference may have been a setback, but it remains minor. What he's done brought damage to Atlanshi's plans, and Atlanshi's plans alone. Such affects will not hinder the plot of his parents, nor the heart of insurgence growing beneath the streets of Panem's cities. Their country shall have rebellion… if not now, then soon. A year, a decade… the Capitol can stave off the fringes, but they will not cut the head from the braying horse. Eventually, the people's wants will decide their fortune.

(And his victor will help them to see it through.)

"Lethe Muralai," he acknowledges first, running his tongue across his lip. "Our resident wolf-turned-rat-turned-wolf-again. Have you no shame for the misfortune you brought on your blood in cutting down your kin? What would your father think of you?"

Atlanshi turns one of the logs inside the firehold, examining the glow of embers as they overtake the bark, burrowing deep into their offering like maggots on a corpse. At his back, the boy's companion shifts, some odd level of defensiveness striking through his outer shell of delusion. Well, now… that is curious.

"I think it fitting that fate brought him to you, Hollister Crowe. Is familicide not a burden that you share?"

Hollister's breath starts to fit.

"I – I never –" The Twelve boy hisses, only to be cut off as the poker clangs against dark metal, silencing his speech mid-protest.

"You think yourself a Child of the Night, but you haven't a clueas to what that truly means. To live as one of theirs is to be dead, in every possible manner you could fathom. There is no need for vampir to have a heart when their existence is void. You, Hollister Crowe, are human – and you always will be."

"Do not speak as if you know me, witchling!" The Twelve boy shouts, readying for an attack that stops before it can begin. Atlanshi rises once more and turns his head, almost imperious as he examines the pair, so different that they seem an improbable match… at least on the surface.

He sighs. "I know nothing more than what you know yourself, and nor do I claim to – much like our friend Rhys Intarsia, I consider myself a realist… although unlike Rhys, my definition of the word extends only so far. Realism is not removal – you may hide yourself from the world, but they'll see you for something regardless. Wouldn't you rather make your truth known than give your detractors more reason to speculate?"

"Get to the point, Four," Three retorts. "I'm not interested in your games."

Atlanshi's watch diverts to Pangaea, her clenched hands and shuttered jaw, every inch of her statuesque. The reason for her posture is uncertain, but her rigidity doesn't fully cover the venom of her silence… she has much to say, but no desire to draw the others' attention. With a crowd like this, her judgment seems wise; with others, however…

You want to know why you're here.
Why I've summoned you.

(Mother, I've come to kill you.
Why waste time on pleasantries?)

Ah, I see. They've promised you something, haven't they? Promised you…
Wealth.
Power.
Riches.
Enough to break free from the river towns,
so long as you purge Four of the rest of us.
Living as we have, in the bayou, I can hardly say I blame you.

(Please. Wealth, power… status for a witch?
Give me a break, crone!
All I wanted was to be rid of you –
my freedom is reward enough to merit this.)

Do you really believe that I'm so cruel?
That I would not give you the world –
the world and more, if only you had asked me for it?
Telismar, I'm your mother.

(Telismar, you break my heart.)

(I'm sick and tired of being your lapdog!
Stars are made, not born, Sidra.
So what if they made me promises?
Will you call me bastard for improving my station?
Didn't you teach me that to thrive, we must tear ourselves apart and reforge our craft from the shards?
Tell me, am I a monster for knowing my worth?
Do I shame you by daring to claim it?
Answer me, hag – !)

You would cast aside your own blood for a Peacekeeper's back pocket?

(No, Mother – for reverence.
My silence was given for glory;
soon, I'll be the one crafting empires
from the bones of those in the deep.

My talents will not be for you.)

… Atlanshi.

Leave us, Atlanshi.
(Leave, while you still can.)

"He sold me down the river. My own brother."

"What?"

"The traitor, the wretch – he thought himself a king, but was possessed of no dignity. The undignified do not deserve to rule in this world; this is a truth to us all. The five of us, in this room - the four of them, who lie beyond. My brother lost himself, but the rest of us will set ourselves to blaze, before we wind up in his position."

"You're mad."

"No, I'm not. You know I'm not."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"Tav. The Caspers. Mayor Shaw. Twelve's Jailers. You know of whom I speak – and you know they cannot be allowed to ruin those beneath their thumb."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"The others know it too. They'll see it soon."

"There's something wrong."

"'Tis feverish here… that malaise, the one of before… I can sense it turning anew…"

"He's right, you know – right about all of it. The reason we're stuck here, what society's done to us – "

"... but that only explains a part…"

"I have something to ask you."

"I have something to tell you."

"We need to go – Rhys, please, we need to go –"

"Why did you bring us here?"

Tears slide down Atlanshi's cheeks. It won't be long now – not long at all. Ansel is right outside; he's where he's meant to be, no different from the rest of them. Both their partners will be on his heels, in little to no time at all. He only needs a few more seconds… another minute, perhaps, just one… he needs…

"I took you because of the bounty. I take the bounty because of the craft."

Whether or not I wish to live has long been a thing irrelevant."

He grins, rueful when he turns from them to step past the fireplace and sink back into his claimed chair, much as he's done every day before this day.

"In honesty, I have expended myself," Atlanshi admits, grasping to the hewn flower chain that hangs 'round his neck, wilting atop his diseased skin. "Death has been dogging me since I arrived in the Capitol. Truthfully, I merely bade it happen on my terms… amongst like-minded individuals. I'd have invited more, but I didn't want Maevyn to see the results of my missteps. Does that make sense?"

Heat begins to bloom from his toes, climbing his feet and seeping into his legs.

It's time.

Finally, Mother, it's time.

"I always professed that were I to go, I'd die as a star – set to burn myself out in the force of procuring flame. Apologies for the ruse, but my bounty's already been claimed."

Atlanshi tilts his head back, mouth opening in a scream as his body starts to burn. The window of the cabin breaks beneath the weight of stone, and a blazing doll flies through the opening, smeared with something innately flammable. As it impacts the floor, the wood starts to smoke, smouldering and crisping before flaring up too, just as bright and rampant as his own decay.

A line of flame whooshes up toward the ceiling and dispels in every direction, rattling the shack's foundations. Atlanshi stands, scream becoming a cackle when he hears the sound of panic, four voices becoming eight, becoming two – the whispers of a boy with nothing to live for, and another boy with nothing to lose.

One a murderer, the other murdered.

It's as good an end for him as any – Fours and Eights, they go together. Like the phases of the moon… or a gambler's ace hand.

---

15: Atlanshi Bleumoon, District Four. Killed by Ansel Zilliah.

---

A/N: Million Years by Nico Vega.

It literally took a month… gods I'm fucking sorry. But hey, hopefully this was worth the wait. We are, to quote the MCU, "in the endgame now" – enjoy this last safe chapter for your children, as their deaths will be short at hand. :)