day seven: martyrdom
So many years of broken silence…
Giving way to pain and violence…
She tastes pain.
Pain in her mouth, sitting on her tongue like curdled milk, her blood boiling as vomit surges up from her throat, drying on her cracking lips.
Pain in her eyes, as she tries (and fails) to force them open, lashes sticky with tears that have dried against her cheeks.
She doesn't know what happened, but she feels like she's dying.
(Is she? Is she dying?)
It burns.
Pangaea presses a hand up against her head, easing her body up from the ground, but it's as if the world is at a standstill. Her lungs are aching, clogged to the brim with caustic ash that seems to scream each time she coughs. In her periphery, the only thing she can see is darkness, offset by the fluttering of brilliant orange. Red and gold like the hair she's oft seen in the mirror, glowing with the force of a thousand suns…
Something's wrong.
Pangaea rolls onto her side, ignoring the way her sling-less arm rattles, nerves crying out in protest as it's crushed under the weight of her chest. Her good hand reaches out, scrabbling for a hold against the metal leg of a nearby table, and though it burns beneath the grasp of her palm, she doesn't relinquish it once she's got it in her grip. Knuckles clenched and teeth sunk through her tongue, she hauls her body up and away from the dirt-streaked floor, pained wails falling on deaf ears as she rises - rises - rises to find…
Death.
He's here. So close to her, and yet so far, his visage held in the throes of unconsciousness, teeth poking out from behind his lips, all pearly-white and vicious. Though his skin's grown yellowed and distorted from the fire's breath, cheek and jaw swollen to something distasteful, Pangaea would recognize him anywhere; it's his face, after all, that haunts her dreams.
His face that she sees in her nightmares, leering at her with his fangs bared in threat to rip out her throat. His face,hovering above her with bulging eyes as his hands lock around her throat, Castia's blood still dripping from his pointed chin.
Hollister. That's his name, isn't it? Her monster.
… she could kill him.
She could, right here, right now while she has a chance. She could choke him, stab him, run him through – take him out before he has the chance to finish her, and nobody would be any the wiser. Not Rhys and not Six, who she's sure have fallen somewhere amongst the wreckage, too far off to spy her insanity… not the boy from Four, whose corpse lies smoldering just beyond her on the floor, his skin nearly burnt to a crisp even as she hears him wheezing…
The floor creaks as she steps forward, heart running amok with her growing fear. It would be so easy for her to get rid of him – so easy, and she wouldn't regret it, not after everything he's tried to put her through. Days upon days of running until her legs gave out… a broken hand, a broken head, each of her nights filled with terror at the thought of him sinking his fangs into her neck and bleeding her until her skin's gone dry. Twelve is a spectre that's haunted her since the bloodbath, and just like that, she could have him gone, make it so he never comes back, all it would take is a little bit of force, if she could only find the courage to move her hand…
…
…
No.
No, she can't, she isn't – just because she wants it doesn't make it right, and why should hatred make it easy? Murder is still murder, no matter how she tries to spin it. If she kills Twelve, she won't just be a monster, she'll be a hypocrite – an insult to her own words and everything that she'd like to stand for.
Violence for violence is the rule of beasts. So many people see fit to gorge themselves on the rush of blood and wanton destruction, yet it never earns them anything beyond wounds. They hate and they hurt and they lose their hearts to the onslaught – and for what purpose? Victory? Glory? Power?
Pangaea O'Shea wants no part in it.
The Games may have her innocence, but she won't let them steal her humanity, too. She's not a killer. She's not…
She's not him.
Her bloody nails bite into the flesh of her palm. Swallowing the anger that's found her, she tears herself away from Twelve's prostrate figure, lain burnished and cold on the dying floor. Heat climbs up the back of her neck, blazing a trail of injury over her skin – but she pays it no mind. She needs to find Rhys.
He's the only one that matters.
Frantic, Pangaea spins around, her eyes burning with the sting of teardrops, turned toxic by the arson's spell. Her chest tightens as she searches the room, gaze roving over walls and windows and overturned furniture... but all she can see is the blackened, twisted ruin left behind from the arson. No sign of the boy from Three.
No signs of life at all.
His voice rises unbidden in her head - What happened to the Capitol's sweetheart? Standing around a burning house, completely covered in fucking soot... seriously, Ten, do you have a deathwish? - and she fights to swallow the bile rising in her throat.
He can't be dead. He just - he fucking can't.
A sob breaks through her lips as she clutches at her abdomen, the thick clouds of smoke obscuring her vision.
Dread coils in her gut, prodding at her too-tense stomach, and Pangaea only just manages to catch herself as she begins to heave. "Rhys?" She chokes out, her voice a whisper amidst the suffocating crackles. "Rhys, please! Talk to me!"
The silence feels deafening. Overhead, she can hear the cabin beams beginning to crack as the roof begins to sag, the walls too brittle to carry its weight. Flames spit as they eat through the mangled curtains, lapping at the ground near Pangaea's ankles, and as she takes a step back, a window bursts, glass shards sent flying with the immense pressure of infernal steam. Her feet continue to backpedal, moving of their own volition, and with each step she can feel the floor shake, foundation as weak as the legs she stands on.
She shouldn't… she shouldn't be here. It's too risky. But…
Her teeth grind against each other hard enough to ache as she sags against the nearest wall. What was it that Rhys had told her yesterday? 'There comes a point when selfishness has to take precedence'?
Rhys would tell her to run. Get out when you have the opportunity, make the sacrifice to save your own skin. It isn't callous to want to live, Pangaea – it's just a matter of logic. Survival is the result of pragmatism, and pragmatism doesn't leave you room for friends. Don't waste time thinking about what ifs. If you have to do it, do it. Run. Leave.
(… you owe me, Ten.)
(I didn't save you just to watch you die like this.)
(I didn't do you a favor – you're still in the fucking Hunger Games. Chances are we'll both end up as statistics rather than a victor.)
(You know, it's so strange but…)
(I broke my rules for you.)
(I wish I'd known you before this. Outside of here.)
(We're oil and water, we wouldn't get on, but –)
(You're the closest thing I've ever had to a friend.)
(I'm sorry. Pangaea, I'm –)
"P-Pan…"
Her head snaps up at the sound of a voice – Rhys' voice, broken and effervescent inside the haze of ash – and Pangaea rushes forward, half-stumbling through the chaos with no regard for her own safety, even as her arm screams in protest.
"Rhys! Rhys, I'm coming, just hold on, okay, I'm–"
Another crash rattles the cabin and Pangaea barely has time to dodge the flaming debris before it's slamming against her shoulder, sending ripples of pain throughout her body. The heat sears into her clothes as she scrambles across the floor, a massive welt springing to the surface of her skin, scarlet red and stinging from the cuts shorn over the burn site. A low moan slips past her lips, but she forces herself to remain standing – she can worry about herself later. Right now, Rhys needs her.
She's the only hope he has.
With one last burst of energy she throws herself into motion, leaping over toppled chairs and splintered boards as she runs across the room, her body a practical whirlwind until she reaches the other side. Only once she's on solid ground does she finally drop to her knees, dragging herself on elbows and knees toward the untouched wall – and the prone form she can now see lying beside it.
"Oh –" Pangaea breathes, horror freezing her as she tries to take in the… charred, black-and-red thing that she thinks is Rhys. "Shit. Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit."
It's too much.
Her hands shake as she lifts them to his throat, checking for a pulse she's not even sure is there. Blood stains her fingers as they caress the burnt flesh of Rhys' jaw, mixing with the sweat and soot smeared over her hands. Pangaea's breath catches in her throat as she pulls the body closer, listening to its ragged breath, rasping and shaky and – gods, he's nearly a corpse, she has no idea how he could've…
"Please, Rhys," she whispers, her voice breaking as the scent of burnt hair and skin clogs up her nose. "Don't do this to me, not like this. Don't leave me –"
And then there's a hand on her arm. Calloused, mangled and impossibly sticky, but it's there, and his eyes are sliding open as he runs his thumb along her wrist, reassuring even though she's not the one that's dying, she's just – worried, that's all she is, worried, and it's so stupid, but she thought she lost him, thought he was gone for good, before she had a chance to even say goodbye, it wasn't right, it wasn't – fair, she couldn't…
"I t-told you this was a bad idea…" Pangaea blurts out, tears rolling down her cheeks as she cradles his head in her arms, the burns bright red and sickly, lined with char and melted skin scorched so dark it doesn't even seem real. "Following along with fucking bounties… and now look at you. I almost lost you."
"... c-calm… d-down… don't… die, not… that easy…"
The hand squeezes her forearm and her chest tightens painfully, her heart leaping up into her throat. Slowly, his face twists into a smile that she's half sure shouldn't be there: wry, cynical... it's laughable, but it almost feels like a reassurance. Mirth amidst the madness of an almost-death… unbelievable.
"I can't believe you," Pangaea says as she wraps her arms around him, trying to drag the Three boy back onto his feet. For his height, he's surprisingly light – in any other circumstances, it wouldn't be a good thing, but here, it feels like a blessing. He won't be hard to move… and the door's not…
The door.
Wrapping Rhys' arms around her shoulders, Pangaea keeps a tight hold on his waist, letting him rest against her as she half-drags, half-carries him over to the closest exit, the floor shifting precariously under their combined weight.
"S-spare… me the lecture–" Rhys wheezes, clinging without protest as they edge along the wall, keeping clear of the most apparent obstacles. Pangaea sighs and shakes her head, squeezing him tighter as she pulls him low, ducking under a fallen post, then skirting around a pair of backpacks, toppled and spilling sacks that are half-ablaze.
"Ten!"
Her bad hand grabs onto the doorframe, bones cracking as she clings to it with all the force that she can muster, her back rigid as her muscles tense. Pangaea turns her head to find her nightmare, standing again on his tarnished feet, and as she looks at him, he hunches, clutching at the remnants of a half-dead couch, his breath mangled and sick as spittle slides down his chin.
She waits there for a second, two and five… but nothing else comes to leave his lips, his silence as concerning as it is a relief. He watches, unmoving, as Pangaea pushes Rhys out onto the porch, the night air freezing as it hits her face, raising goosebumps along her arms as she heaves, stifling a shudder.
"Guess it's… t-too much t'ask… f-fire would get rid of him…" Rhys grumbles, and if he notices the frown that shifts her lips, he's at least kind enough not to comment on it.
"Unfortunately," she says to herself as much as anyone, "the odds aren't in our favor."
Readjusting their stance, she urges her ally over toward the shack's steps, crossing them one at a time until their feet come to rest against solid, unwarmed dirt. At their backs, the fire surges, high and hot over the nighttime sky, but Pangaea's only focus is on moving forward, toward the woods ahead and the future that hopefully lies beyond.
No matter what the morning brings, she and Rhys will be able to handle it. Just as long as they're together.
(For the first time in her life, Pangaea has a real friend. And like it or not, she still owes him.)
(Rhys won't die under her watch. Not if she's got any say in the matter.)
If words are lost we kill each other –
pretty thoughts we won't recover.
Maevyn doesn't remember falling asleep.
She blinks a couple times, eyelids stuck tight over her ocean eyes, and still she can only see fish, swimming along in a void-abyss that sorta looks like a sky. There's ringing in her ears, like that tinny-word thing she used t'get when she was younger, and even when she reaches, tries to slap her face, she can't seem to rid herself of it. Ringin'... ringin'... the whole world's gone mad with ringin'. Why can't I really hear it? Cordy and Zenzen…
Wait.
Her nostrils flare as she exhales through them, wanting to force the reek of scorch away, as far away as it can go, 'cuz she's never liked smoke, even when she's the one makin' it. Vyn's head shakes, back-forth-back-forth, raising up from a galaxy of unconscious horror, her hair plastered to her forehead and skin as she parts her lips, wanting to ask what happened, where are we, what's goin' on –
Laughter is the only sound that comes out.
As the fire rises from the rooftop, arcing out into the sky with swirls of vibrant orange, the skies once more begin to sing. Boom! goes the dreaded dream-cannon, offset by the sound of rampant giggles that distort into cries – into curses – into agonized screaming with no obvious purpose. Glass shards fly past Maevyn's face, glittering like stars ripped from the night, and she thinks they hurt when they hit her clothes – dashed against her body and peppered along the ground as the windows burst burst BURST wide open and free — !
Atlanshi.
The smile slips from Maevyn's face as a blur rushes out of the cabin, covered head-to-toe in a layer of charcoal. One figure seems nearly painted with the slew of fire-ash, clutching their partner and their own red-an'-purple arm, while the other hobbles along broken, their face an' side distorted by patches of gore that Vyn can hardly make sense of. She pushes herself up from the ground, using her elbows to prop up her body, her brows caught in a line, tight and furrowed. The figures from before dart into the brush, slipping away from her sight one after the other, but still there's no sign of the one she came for – her friend, her partner, the only one of 'em who matters.
She rolls over. Pushes her fists into the dirt and forces her body up, everything an achy mess from her downward tumble. It's like walkin' through sludge when she tries to start forward, her leg pitchin' weird and slipping in just a l'il too far, eyes all wonky-weird with patches of red filtered through a haze of tears… but she manages to reach the cabin anyway. Her knees come down on the bottom step, hard enough to scuff 'em raw, and she can hear Velezen snapping at her back – Maevyn, what are you doing? Maevyn, it isn't safe – but she can't be bothered to try and listen.
She needs to get him out of there. Her Shishi. He's the last thing of home – the last real, good, real bit of home she's got here, an' – an' she needs to know he's okay. She didn't come here to watch him die, didn't come to lose him, and she can't lose him like this, not when she was so… so close, fuck, it's Mads, it's Mads all over again, he can't –
Her legs carry her up the steps, past the door and into the burning threshold of collapsed walls and ceiling-beams, hanging down low enough to grab. Maevyn's lungs ache as the smoke starts to fill them, so thick and toxic she can't even hear her thoughts, but she's not pulling back, not 'til she knows, and she's so close, so close to understanding she can taste it, it's on the tip of her tongue like… the sweet tang of a mango, or the touch of Madora's lips, that last night they spent on the beach…
(Is this how the world is s'posed to end? In fire, with chaos and panic and pain the likes of which she's never dreamt?)
Energy drains like sap away from her muscles as she makes one move, then another – tries to keep her head steady, tries to focus on the hand clawing at her shoulder, Cordy, Cordy, must be Cordy – then comes to a sudden halt in the ruins of Atlanshi's haven, her own voice pitching out into a wail.
"NO!"
She's on her knees.
Hands and knees, no different than when she'd found Madora, tried t'yank her on out of the riverbed, out of the depths where she was never meant to go. The body in the room is charred and black, oozin' pus and burn-sick from every open pore, and as much as Vyn knows who it's gotta be, she doesn't wanna admit it. Her nails claw at the burnished floorboards, yankin' up splinters as she pulls herself forward. Soot stains her palms, oily and thick along her pallid skin, and strangely enough it soothes her. Black like night and thick like water, the inferno holds her unabashed, blazing bright out of control… Maevyn giggles and she feels at home.
It's not so hard t'let go, she muses, eyelids slippin' down to cover her tears. That's somethin' I already know. Madora and Mom, they left me so easy… floated away down the river, just like Shishi and everybody else… if I put my head down, 'slike I can hear 'em, still, right there… right in here, beneath the dirt…
I killed her.
I killed her when I didn't mean to, I just wanted us to be happy, I just wanted it to be different, I got so tired of people leavin'... Mom, Dad, everyone I called a friend back before the fall… Mads, I just wanted there to be a place for us. I loved you, don'tcha know that? You were mine an' I was yours, your sun, your heart, your everything. I'd've followed you into the sea if he'd have just let me… you and me, and our little Myra… we could've lived together forever, why'd you have to go, Madora? Why did you leave me? Why did you run?
Her arms wrap around Atlanshi, trying to tug him back out of the flames, but he's too gone to give her help. A dark cloud rises out of the ash, drifting up past the rafters and away into oblivion, soaring higherhigherhigher 'til it fades back out of sight. Vyn's jaw sets around another cry, her arms clutchin' tight to the mangled husk held by her chest, but she can tell he isn't in there – isn't anywhere that she can see, maybe not anywhere at all, and it's not fair, it's not, not fair, but it's the way things are, the way they've always been, she should've known she couldn't have this, Shishi or Zenzen or Argie or Cordy, people are constructs not meant to last, vessels made to be unmade, isn't that the true-truth, Shi, isn't that just fact?
A smile touches her lips. Behind the wall of her heaving chest, another section of her heart fractures off, crumblin' away into dismal ash. She thought it would be easier this time. She thought it would be…
"Atlanshi Bleumoon has been eliminated."
… different.
Tears spill fast and heavy down her cheeks, drying quick against the heat of inferno, yet Vyn can scarcely feel a thing. Her body crumples in on itself, sorrow takin' the fight from her singing blood. Under her skin, her heartbeat's circlin', ticking steady like a clock, or one of the sea-bombs in the wharf yard before it's about to blow, and when Maevyn listens, she can't hear anything but death.
Madora's gone, and now…
Now Shishi is too.
Everything she had to remind her of home, everything that existed to make her Maevyn instead of a mistake, too crazy for her mother, too crazy for her trainers, so crazy even her girlfriend didn't want nothin' to do with her, nothin' at all, push hit shove and she just ran, jus' like Mom and Dad an' everybody else — has been taken from her. Once again, she's alone in the world of her madness's makin', nothing to guide her but the sand rushin' through her fingers.
There's nothing in Four to go back to.
There's nothing in this Game for her to win.
Cordura's hand curls around her bicep, and without thinking, Maevyn flings it off, hunching down over her dead Districtmate as she tries to make sense of the faces flashing through her vision. There's movement from across the cabin as a pair of shadows begin talking in hushed whispers, their dulcet conversation carried with words too low for her to fathom. At her side, somebody crouched, fingers wrapping tight to her own to try and coax her free of Atlanshi, but she doesn't want to let go, she's so tired of losing, lose lose all she does is LOSE, it's not right to let him go, not right what I did back home, to Mads, to Dad, even to the rest of them –
Maevyn Voydanoi has always been a fool. It just took 'til now to see what all her fantasies have cost her.
"Let me stay," Maevyn urges, turning her head to look at the others. Her gaze roves over Cordy, then Velezen, then Argenta, who looks so serious for twelve – eyes of a killer, why didn't she see them so well before? Shishi's head slips free of her arms as she stretches one out, reaching for the Five girl who seems so steady – the only one who would do what needs to be done, if Vyn asked her for it – and she smiles, insane and content in it. "Let me go."
But – no, there's a shift in all that darkness, something burning in her jet eyes. Argenta's mouth sets in a line, the conflict in her almost imperceptible. She shakes her head – and turns to Maevyn's goddess.
"We need to go."
"No," Maevyn's mouth moves of its own accord, irrational fury bubblin' up inside of her. "We gotta stay. They're all waitin' for me! At the river, I need t'go to the river. You can't keep doing this to me!"
"Maevyn."
A palm turns her head, tucking her hair back behind her ear. Maevyn's eyes go wide as she's met with a pair of turning moons, one green and the other brown, lookin' like emerald and topaz when shimmered by firelight. Cordura's fingers grip her chin, keeping her face steady despite her tremblin' lips, and a thumb brushes along the dripping waterfall that's stuck to her left cheek, grief and hurt she doesn't know how to bear, after so many years of keepin' it all in. I killed her. I killed her. I killed Madora.
Cordura's speech is steady. She feels like an anchor. Maevyn needs an anchor.
"We are not leaving you. Understood?"
The Eight girl gazes deep into her, Vyn's flesh tingly from her touch. She thinks – of the night they spent together, just a day and a half ago, all the games she's played with the lot of them, right at home in their too-big lodge, a happy family of practical strangers who never shoulda gotten so close as they did – and it makes her shudder, to know that they might not be here in– a week, a day, even an hour…
"I can't do this anymore, Cordy," she whispers, still cryin' something fierce. "I c-can't… I can't lose you."
Flinging her arms around the other girl, Maevyn pushes her face into Cordura's chest, falling to pieces amidst the apocalypse. Her lungs are full to bursting from the building ash, and she can't breathe, but she doesn't know how to move. It's good enough just to stay here, dead inside the skeleton of another dead thing, holding close the memories she wouldn't be human without, the arms of her lover a welcome reprieve from the embrace of her own guilty conscience.
"Cordura," Velezen says from behind her. Maevyn feels a hand settle in her hair as her partner swallows, nodding just above her head.
"Yeah, I know."
Before Vyn has a chance to process what's happening, she's being hauled upward, off her feet and away from the ground. Her body folds in two as she's swung over a broad shoulder, facing the floor while an arm brackets her rear, holding her up with the strength of a titan. Slowly, Cordura begins to walk, Maevyn's arms clutching at her back as the cabin comes tumbling down around them, leaving in its wake nothing but a plume of corruption.
The last thing she sees is a cloth doll, sitting in a ring of rot upon the broken floor.
You should've known bеtter than to cause
this shit I can't forgive –
There isn't a point in pretending any more.
With the first bounty filled and utterly out of her grasp, Elysia can't help but feel as if she's digging her own grave. No kills under her belt. No favor from the Capitol. Even Ambrosia hadn't been keen to help her win over sponsors, after what she'd pulled during the night of the interviews. Yes, she has an alliance, but her allies are divided; the foundations on which their arrangement were build have been comprised of nothing but lies and power plays, and yet she was mad enough to think it could succeed.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Safety in numbers is only good so long as the numbers are reliable.
The way things have been looking, she isn't so sure the numbers are as solid as she wants to believe. Elysia believes she has been the one trying to hold this alliance together the entire time… but has she always been the catalyst for its downfall?
(If this group falls apart, it'll be because of her. Not Kellen, not Patron. Not even Tati. She has nobody to blame for her failures but herself. Isn't that a bitter irony?)
The campaign she'd started to preserve her image has been splitting apart at its seams since the very beginning. Not after she came to the arena, where Five had all but eviscerated her district partner thirty seconds before the Games had officially began, but after she ascended the stage at the Reapings, her name put forth on a thousand paper slips for reasons she would not admit.
Abuser. Roughneck. Thug. Disgrace.
She could have tried to fight her anger, but she didn't. She's a failure. Weakness wearing human skin. Vile, repugnant, hideous and wicked, because she knew what she was doing, yet she didn't stop, she didn't, she could have stopped, but…
She kept pushing.
She pushed and pushed and pushed through Ankara, until eventually the fragile strings holding them together broke for good and left her to crumble into dust. What she's done she can't take back, no matter how much she might wish she'd done different. The past is history – its consequences are her only present.
Whatever hatred Casimir Lamotte has for her is justified.
(It shouldn't have shaken her as much as it did. Him, at the Reaping, watching her with that hateful stare… no matter how stoic she tried to appear, Elysia's been left struggling for safety (for control) since the moment she turned her back on him.)
(Elysia knows that she deserves it, and a thousand times worse, for the atrocities that have stained her soul. The bruises, dark black and blue and purple, the whimpers ever-so-present on her beautiful Anka's beaten lips, her entire being consumed with fear at the monstrosity her girlfriend had become — yes. Elysia knows.)
(Regardless of whether she lives or dies, the knowledge sits in the back of her head, heavy at the base of her skull. Any victory given to her is one that will be short-lived. Her District will see her not as a success story, but as a mistake: one of their undesirables, come back to haunt them for another eighteen years, and ruin them just as she's ruined herself. If she survives, she'll be reviled.)
(She knows she will always be despised.)
(She knows that she's not going home.)
Her teeth sink deeper into her tongue, as if she's trying to wring as much ache out of it as she can before the flesh becomes swollen. Though conflict rages behind her eyes, Elysia knows that she cannot appear rattled — her position is already fragile enough as it is. With their continual lack of progress, and the aftermath of her dealings with District Nine, her allies' tension is at an all-time high. It is impossible to know the minds of Ailith and Kellen, despite her best efforts. Ailith carries a reticence about her that Elysia suspects is either avoidance or mistrust, and Kellen…
Elysia frowns. Some days she feels like she doesn't know who Kellen really is, but they have a deal. There isn't room for anything sinister until they've made good on that, no matter what kind of paranoia Nine has tried to put in her head.
And… speaking of Nine…
Her teeth clench together, grinding in harsh circles as Elysia tears her gaze from Patron, his venomous expression burned upon the backs of her eyelids. He and Six are problems, have been since the very beginning; she knows it, Kellen knows it, and honestly, Venice probably did too. Why else would he have invited them in, taken them into the fold with those fake smiles and their hedonism, if it weren't a deliberate attempt to rile her? If he hadn't gotten himself blown up, perhaps they could have posed a danger to her, but like this…
With a smile tugging at her lips, Elysia shakes her head, thoroughly bemused by her own imaginings. Oh, Six and Nine could prove to be nuisances at the best of times, but Tati's far more bark than bite, and she's seen well enough what Patron can do. Even if he wanted to attack her, he'd be outmatched.
(The pair of them may have been more useful than she'd anticipated, but their use will only extend so far. With how Patron's been starting to splinter…)
(Keeping them around is going to be more trouble than it's worth.)
Her head pounds as she leads the march to the lodge, trying to stay focused on the objective. Five and Eight. They're the only thing that matters now; a set of strong, outer-district tributes who have proved their worth as competition… and to whom Elysia owes a vendetta. Fighting them will set her head straight; fix the regret circling about her head and remind her of the lessons that her trainers had drilled into her for years. Stay focused. Keep a clear mind. There isn't any room for weakness, for reflection — spare the rest of us from your self-pity!
… self-pity?!
Patron's words echo in the hollowness of her skull, words she's been turning over since they left his mouth, scalding and hostile and full of hate. Had it been that easy for him to see how bitter Elysia feels inside? Has it always been so easy to look at her in her entirety and see the fragility behind her rage?
(How could she be a fool enough to believe in her own success, when it seemed everyone around her was so keen to despise it? How could she think, even for just a second, that any of this mattered? That victory could fill the chasm inside her heart? That she could be fixed?)
… she's so tired of feeling broken.
With her family, with Anka… with her peers at the Academy back home, and now with her allies here. It doesn't matter who she's with or where she goes, her reputation will always precede her, just like her rage, her obstinance, her melancholy…
Her guilt.
For the entirety of her life, Elysia's been striving to attain things she cannot have. Wealth, power, success in her own right… recognition for her abilities, validation of her worth, so many things she'd yearned for through her childhood that her parents and trainers were never quite willing to give. Love, like what she'd wished to have with Anka… and gods, she had loved her, hadn't she, in her own way? It wouldn't have hurt so much if it wasn't real, if she wasn't –
(She is capable of loving. She's capable of care. She's not the monster they've all made her out to be, not really, because if she was, she wouldn't feel like she —)
This isn't the time.
Elysia bites her lip, shoving down the feeling of hurt, of bitterness, pain-and-hate-and-caustic-rage, her hands are shaking and she can't stop biting her lip, there's so much want within her that she cannot satiate, grief-guilt-misery-doubt this-wasn't-the-right-path-Elysia you're-killing-yourself (!) and stuffing it back into the compartment at the back of her mind where it belongs, locked away and ignored just like the rest of her fucking awful emotions. The emptiness that she feels without them is better, somehow.
She sighs, pushing aside some foliage with an arm that feels far too leaden. The branches rustle as she forces them aside, needles scratching rough against her skin, but she can't bring herself to mind, when the sparks of pain only serve to ground her back in the present.
Her eyes take in the sight of the lodge, resting before them just through the cover of the treeline. Finally.
"It's just up ahead," Elysia murmurs, nodding at the structure. She turns to look at her companions, gaze roving over Patron, who watches her with a glare so icy it could likely kill, to the pair from District Two, each of whom holds themselves with their shoulders high and their backs straight. Kellen gives her a nod as their eyes meet, while Ailith seems to shy from her, laying all her weight upon the bones of her good leg, her posture as guarded as it is acknowledging.
"How are you holding up?" She questions the Two girl, and though the intent behind the words is meant to be considerate, her stress leaves her sounding snappish, words coarse as an overwrought river.
Ailith's brow draws together, her mouth turning down in a near-imperceptible frown. "I'm fine," she says plainly, her own tone a clear signal not to argue.
So Elysia doesn't.
"Good," she responds with a short nod, turning around to look up at their target, arms slipping into a fixed position at her back. "You and Kellen can take the back. I'll head around front with Nine and Six. Any objections?"
Ailith gives a swift shake of her head. Elysia, in turn, responds with a nod; that answer's good enough for her. Drawing her saber from its post at her belt, she motions for Patron and Tati to follow behind her, sideways onto the stretch of field before the cornucopia.
"Windows," she hisses, just seconds before the Twos split from their party to head off the other entrance, making their way toward the back of the lodge as their fellows creep toward the porch.
Only once they've nearly reached the step does Elysia raise her arm up, signalling for the lesser half of the group to halt. Waving one finger around, she flicks it towards Tati and points to a broken pane on the building's side, signalling for her to approach it. Patron she keeps close behind her, within good reach on the off chance he poses more problems than she's anticipating.
(The display obviously isn't lost on him.)
"Let me guess," he snaps, tone pitched low enough to sound inaudible even for all the vitriol it contains. "Keep your enemies closer?"
"You're sharp for a dancer," Elysia retorts, but leaves the conversation at that, edging her way over the railing and onto the lodge's porch.
She creeps forward with the grace of a ghost, her footfalls silent and steeped in caution. It takes only a few seconds to traverse the length of the vestibule, its blood-stained doors shut tight to keep its secrets hidden. Her lips curl into a scowl as she tries her fingers on the door, gripping the handle and sliding it outward, as slowly as physically possible. Can't have the hinges creaking too soon, can we?
… oh, fuck it.
The One girl throws the doors wide, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom that hangs heavy within the lodge, shafts of sunlight piercing through the dusty windows that sit within its frame. Her heart flutters in her chest as she steps through the opening of the lodge, gaze lingering on the shape of the tables, open doors and scattered supplies left upon the floor.
Once she's fully in, she releases a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding.
Empty.
It's empty — as if the world can't even give her the fucking satisfaction of something going right. Elysia bites back the frustration that builds hot in her chest, burning in her throat, taking a moment to steady herself. The door near the back of the lodge swings shut as her other allies make their way into the recreation space, Kellen's sword out and ready to be swung, much like the one that trembles in her own hand, her knuckles white with the forceful grip.
"Fan out," she orders, giving a nod to the pair from Two, then turning to face the set of outliers standing behind her. "Just because they aren't here now doesn't mean they won't be coming back. We need to prepare."
The others remain blessedly silent as she resheathes her sword, neither acknowledging her words or attempting to dispute the request. Elysia can't be sure if it's acquiescence or fear that keeps them holding their tongues, but she's hardly one to dispute a moment of reprieve, particularly when faced with a situation beyond her control.
(The targets of her vendetta may have evaded her this time, but they can't keep it up forever. Five and Eight will be back, and once they are, Elysia won't hesitate in arranging their demise. She's done trying to play by the rules – her allies, her District's, the Capitol's. What reason does she have to bow and scrape for their meaningless approval?)
(If this is a game she's meant to lose, there's no reason to keep inhibiting herself.)
You should've known better than to call,
with nothing left to give –
Argenta Brandt has never felt like more of an idiot than she does in this moment.
Seriously! It's laughable to think of how far she's fallen - how soft she's starting to get, after all the time she'd spent wreaking destruction back in her sorry District. What would Bruin think of her now? Godsdamned fuckin' pathetic. He'd probably be sick, and honestly? Argenta wouldn't blame him.
A heat burns in her cheeks that isn't simply due to the fire. She's supposed to be a hitman, built and forged beneath waves of blood. Bruin trained her to be the deadliest piece on the board, and she's done well to take his lessons to heart. Death has always been the name of the game; be it back home, at the Capitol or in the arena, that's the one thing that's never changed.
Competition is wrought by blood, and her survival's meant to be part of a trial by fire. To make her father proud, everybody here has to die. And yet…
When she had a real opportunity, she was too much of a wuss to actually take it.
(She's a fucking moron, she is – a real idiot, for not jumping on Maevyn while she had the chance. Grieving or not, it was obvious what the Four girl was after, and the smartest thing would've been to give it to her while she was asking. That way, it would've hurt less for everyone. Not to mention, they'd be down another tribute - another competitor, 'cuz that's what Maevyn is, competition, all of 'em are competition - and in turn, one step closer to getting home. Maybe it would've been hard to actually follow through, but if she'd just done it, she could've gotten it over, gotten it over before it got worse and her attachment grew out of control, not just with Zen, but with the girls too.)
(Maybe in a different life they'd have a future – be together, kill together, fight at each other's backs and die for a kinship made in blood. Maybe in a different life they'd be real, a real family with hopes and dreams that didn't seem so far out, living in their own world on their own terms. Fuck if Argenta knows, but it's a nice thought… her, Maevyn, Cordura and Velezen.
They're like the siblings she'd always wanted… the support that she'd never really gotten to have.)
(Why? Argenta wonders, something icky pricking at her still-intact tear ducts. Why should I have to kill them? Why the fuck do they have to die, when they're everything I fucking wanted? Why, Bruin? Why do I have to –)
Argenta sighs. Whatever. Doesn't matter what he thinks now.
Vyn's safe. Zen's safe. Cordy's safe. They're all safe – or at least alive – for the time being, and really, that's what matters. Not the whys or the hows or the what-fucking-ifs, simply what is, and what it implies for her present position. She still has an alliance, they're in good shape, and Argenta…
She's happy. Really fuckin' happy.
(Maybe that's why her heart's stopped racing, the raging emotions she couldn't put a name to drying up before they even had a chance to bloom. It's stupid that she even cares about them, when all they really are is standing competition, and yet she can't deny that getting to know her three companionsis one of the best things that's ever happened to her. Sure, she may be in the Hunger Games, and sure, what she's got with her alliance was always going to be temporary, but for the first time since she met Bruin, Argenta's started to feel comfortable. She's not ready to give that up.)
(She doesn't want to give it up.)
As Cordura makes her way out of the cabin, walking around the remnants of shattered windows and… ruined logs turned half to dust, the Five girl hears a break sound, deep inside her body. Her head raises, unshed tears evaporating along the corner of her good eye, and her gaze shifts over to Velezen, standing cool at her own side even as he remains attentive to their every step.
(It's weird for him to act so worried. Weirder still for him to get flustered, his cheeks burning beneath the streaks of fire-filth, half-formed crystals hidden in his dark lashes. Is it because of Maevyn? What she said, what she did… how she ran away, jumped straight into that burning shack with absolutely no fucks given, so reckless that it almost made Argenta smile before she'd gotten to thinking about what exactly burning cabins liked to do to people. Maybe the thought of her death scared him - just like it scared her, even if Argenta'll never say it. Maybe he cares more than he lets on.)
(Maybe they're all just trying to find a place for themselves, here in a world that wants them dead. Or maybe…
Maybe it doesn't matter at all.)
"Maevyn," Cordura's saying when the three of them finally reach the yard, open and clear at the steps of the blazing cabin. At her back, Argenta can hear the wood splintering – can hear the crack and subsequent crash! when the roof decides to completely give, sagging inward and collapsing down, burying whatever's left inside beneath layers of scorched rubble. Her head turns slightly, casting a glance back over her shoulder to see the blaze fan out against the forest grass, eating away at the base of a tree, clinging to life even though it's set to die.
Like a warning, a drop of wetness falls down on her forehead, then a few more on her ruined clothes. A few more, and it starts to rain, rivulets becoming torrents, becoming streams set to carry them away, wash out the night's sins and paint them black like the rest of the world.
Velezen's hand comes to rest on her shoulder, but when he speaks, he speaks to Cordy.
"Is she alright?"
"Does it look like she's alright?" The Eight girl snaps, whirling on him with a snarl. "She almost died! All of us could've died, and for what, some – stupid, failed rescue mission ran on behalf of a boy none of us even knew! We shouldn't have come out here, Velezen! I knew this was a mistake, from the second you showed me that note, even before this – fucking bounty business. By now we've probably lost our camp – supplies, too, not to mention Atlanshi. We're lucky we didn't lose ourselves!"
"Don't yell at me like this is my fault," Velezen responds, stepping in front of Argenta, his hand finally removed. "You wanted to come here. For Maevyn – all of us agreed to search for her, even knowing the odds weren't in our favor. So stop playing pity party and focus on where we're at! Is she okay?"
"You – !" Cordura starts to hiss, venom seeping from her every feature as she draws one arm back, seemingly ready to throw a punch. But before she ever manages to loose her hand, her snarls starts to fade, replaced by a frown and a pinched brow, tears spilling freely down her cheeks. Her arm falls back to her side as her shoulders untense, eyes flitting between Velezen and Argenta… then wandering toward Maevyn, lying still over the earth. "You're right, Five. This is on all of us."
Argenta watches as she withdraws, leaning over Maevyn to push back her hair, checking her pulse and breathing one more time.
"Eight –" Zen speaks, softer than usual, but Cordura just shakes her head.
"She's fine," the Eight girl says, slipping arms under Vyn's back and the back of her knees, lifting her from the ground once more. "Let's just get out of here. Okay?"
She rises, one leg at a time, until she's gotten her feet back underneath her. Argenta raises an eyebrow, eye roving over Cordy's tall frame, and her ally gives her a nod that she slowly returns. No point making shit more awkward —
"Oh, how touching! You mortals are so quaint."
A branch cracks at the edge of the clearing, followed by the appearance of a boy, covered in a mess of cuts and bruises with black hair a mess around his filth-covered head. Argenta quickly draws one of her knives, whirling on him with bared teeth as the newcomer puts up a hand, almost as if mocking her attention.
"What do you want, Twelve?" Velezen asks, his words seeped in distaste.
The freak merely blinks before turning his eyes skyward. "Need I wish something to call on you? 'Tis it not fit for me to merely banter and approach with offer for a tete-a-tete, given our perilous circumstances?"
"... no," Zen deadpans, crossing his arms. Twelve sighs, running a hand back through his hair as he tuts his pouty lips.
"Impertinent, but you leave me no choice." He begins to turn back toward the trees, arms slipping into his pockets, down and in as his fingers curl to –
"I WANT YOUR BLOOD!"
Argenta leaps at him.
Before Twelve so much as has a chance to withdraw his blade, she's halfway on his back, arms thrown around his neck and pulled tight enough to choke. Twelve begins to thrash, swinging his arms back and forth as he smacks at her, trying everything in his power to force himself free – none of it to any avail. Argenta's dagger thrusts downward, piercing deep into his shoulder… sinking in, past all his squishy flesh, and she can feel the skin splitting as she drags it down through his arm, it's always so pretty when it just gushes . . . and the freak lets out a squeal, batting at her like a little bird as she cackles.
"What if I want your blood? Is that on offer, deadhead bitch?"
"How dare you –"
"How dare I? Cry me a fuckin' river, dipshit!"
Argenta pulls the knife up without hesitation, hearing the wound just squelch as she readies for another hit… but before her hand can make the stab, something's locked around her waist, throwing her back and dragging her off, 'til she's on the ground, kicking and flailing underneath the watch of a white mask that barely obscures a heaving breath.
"You don't touch what's mine," the masked figure growls, his burned hand plunging down toward her face and – fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, not gonna happen! Argenta forces her leg up into his groin, as hard as she possibly can, before she rolls to the side and swings herself over onto his back, hand clawing at his short hair with her nails makin' scratches all over his scalp.
"I can do whatever I want!" She snaps back, just before the other boy rolls them over, throwing his own body down on the dirt and crushing her beneath the ground and his back. Argenta lets out an oof! as his elbow jams into her gut, forcing the wind out of her lungs, and when she scrambles to draw up her knife, she finds that it's nowhere to be found. Her eye goes wide as the boy pulls back, enough for her to start scrambling away, but before she has a chance to run, he's back on top of her, pulling her into a headlock so tight that she can't move – she can't move, she can't move, she can't breathe – !
And then he's gone.
He's gone, and she can breathe again – deep, desperate gulps of air, drawn into her throat as she blinks away tears, using one arm to keep herself held up from the ground as she turns, staring up at Velezen.
"Don't you two have any shame?" Her Districtmate asks as he hefts up the rock he's grabbed, stained red from where it knocked into her assailant's skull. "Picking on twelve year olds? That's just not it."
With surprising force, he hurls the rock at the boy's chest, then spins around to grab for Argenta.
"You good, kid?"
"Was fine until you showed me up," she replies, grabbing hold of his outstretched arm and getting back onto her feet. "Where's Cordy and Vyn?"
"Sent 'em on ahead," Velezen says, shrugging. "But we should really go."
"LETHE!" The Twelve boy shouts from behind them, still clutching at his ruined arm. "Mark me, Five, I shall gut you for this – you, girl – no, both of you, you will rue the day that you chose to debase me, you loathsome, foul hedonists –"
"Can't we at least kill the annoying one?" Argenta asks, but the masked boy – Lethe, if Twelve is to be trusted – is already getting back to his feet, a metal glinting in his fist as he drags himself up.
On second thought…
"Nice meeting you, too!" Zen waves as the pair of them begin to run, back off in the direction of the clearing's edge, where she can see a path cut through the trees. Their feet carry them forward, pounding over dirt and twigs until they've broken past the barrier, underbrush dashed against their half-bare legs. Argenta's hand stays linked with Velezen's as they run… run… off to the abyss, never once glancing at what's behind them, not until their feet swell and their lungs once more begin to burn.
When they draw to a stop, she's not even sure where they are. Just away.
Maybe that's worth something.
Argenta braces her hands on her knees, leaning forward as she tries to catch her breath.
"Where are they? Where's Cordy and Vyn?"
Velezen rests his free arm against a tree, his face a bright shade of red. They must make a real pair now, sweaty, tired and heaving before the entire country. Argenta nearly laughs at the thought of people back home, cursing them out behind their little television screens.
"I- I don't know." Her brother swallows, and shakes his head. "I don't know, but at least we have each other."
At least if we're stuck here… we won't be alone.
Hold yourself up as a martyr,
standing high above the others.
Jade is ready for a change.
She's been turning Patron's musings over in her head ever since they were uttered, cut short by Tati's frenzied interruption. The thought of leaving is appealing. Being free from all of the drama, the festering rage and deceitful words, all the more damning when paired with a constant threat of attack… truth be told, it would be blissful. Her decisions thus far have grown heavy on her shoulders, and they only worsen with each day that passes. There's something about the tension that lingers between them, beset by fragments of enmity and rage…
She's scared. No different from Patron, and no different from Tati. After all she's experienced from Elysia and Kellen's growing distance, the camaraderie here is wearing thin… thinner than it was to begin with. Getting out now would do her a world of good, and yet –
Jade remains stagnant. As always…
(To leave means she would be truly on her own. For the first time since she took Ailith's place, she'd be left to navigate her own world of uncertainties and falsehoods without a single word to ground her. And the thought of that - of scarcity - is terrifying.)
(For as deliberate as Jade has been, there has never been a backup plan.)
There's no way to be certain of anything here, other than the damage of acting reckless. After all — for all Jade knows, the tension is just a rough patch. Nevermind that it feels different, somehow. To strike out on her own is senseless. There are too many variables she can't configure… too many questions for her personal liking. Besides, the devil you know is better than the devil you don't… right?
(Even if the devils she knows are giving her the silent treatment.)
She lets out a weary breath, turning her attention back to the others. Beside her, Kellen is hunched over, turning something silver in his calloused fingers. She has half a mind to ask what it is, but decides it might be better to leave the silence be. Her district partner has seemed moody all day, distant in a way that only he can get, and Jade isn't sure a halfhearted attempt at conversation is worth risking. Although…
"I'm going to find out what this is for," her partner says, as if he's read her mind. Jade chews on the inside of her lip, her own eyes raising to meet Kellen's, wary at the thought of what she might see in his gaze.
But whatever she was anticipating isn't there. It's just… him. The same rage-filled, impetuous boy that sheet on the train in Two, whom she'd almost be inclined to call a friend were it not for the Games and their limitations. Perhaps they're not especially close, but when compared to the others…
When compared to Elysia, you mean.
Jade blinks once. Then twice, considering the possibilities. With everything that's weighing on her ally's mind, it's hard not to imagine that she's close to snapping. Breaking, even.
(It may have been over a week, but her throat hasn't forgotten the feeling of Elysia's hands wrapped around it. Likely, it never will.)
"Mind if I come with?" Jade asks on a whim, keeping her voice neutral to hide any feelings she might have on the matter.
After a moment's pause, Kellen agrees with a jerk of his head, and the two of them rise. With Kellen in the lead and Jade just a step behind, they head down the back hallway toward the lodge's storerooms in search of a keyhole to match the key dangling from her district partner's fingers.
They walk in silence, just as they had sat. It isn't a comfortable silence, but Jade has known Kellen for long enough that it doesn't feel too different from the silences she and her friends back home might lapse into when together. It's… companionable, almost. Familiar.
(She misses familiar.)
And so it goes; he walks and she follows. The quiet fortitude of the lodge is broken solely by the shuffling of locks and handles, Kellen's efforts yielding little success as they near the back of the hall… and the final two doors it's kept hidden.
"Not that one either," Kellen mutters, clearly intending for her to make conversation with him, "don't suppose it'll work, do you?"
Jade shrugs. She's never been especially good at making small talk; idle chatter was always more of Ailith's thing than her own.
"Elysia mentioned the boathouse," she responds, shifting back out of the way as Kellen huffs, waving her away with a careless hand. He stalks across the hall toward yet another closed entrance, adjusting his grip around the bronze handle, and just as Jade begins to turn her head, she hears the sound that they've been searching for - a single, discordant click as a key turns in the lock, knob rotating sideways before the door itself is swung inward.
Oh…
Her posture slackens as Kellen pushes open the unknown door, hinges creaking loudly as the metal entrance swings inward.
"Not the most well-maintained set of stairs I've seen," she comments, peering over Kellen's shoulder as he steps through, onto a set of winding steps that lead to the bottom of a darkened pit.
"Sure," he agrees, looking back to her with a shit-eating grin as he rests his hand along the banister. "But what's life without a little risk?"
With that, her Districtmate takes a step forward, beginning his descent into the abyss.
And, despite her trepidation, Jade finds herself right on his heels.
She's lost.
Lost, because the person she'd always imagined herself to be feels so far from the person she is, here, in this moment.
Lost, because all the paradigms and ideologies that defined her have been rendered inert by her own decisions. Carelessness? Impulsivity? Those are not behaviors typical of Jade Echeverry, certainly not so much as Ailith, who she's tried to emulate the best she could on pain of peril or comeuppance –)
Kellen cackles as her foot touches down on the last step, and it's only when Jade registers the sight before her that she understands.
"Jackpot."
Her partner wastes no time in heading over toward the wall, hands raised in adulation. The abundance of weapons sitting before them is something, and it doesn't surprise her that Kellen would be keen to make use of them; from the sickles and scythes along the wall, to the assortment of daggers along the table, this armory would be a typical Two's dream – and likely a Career's, too.
(Is it wrong that the idea of Elysia seeing what treasures lay inside this chamber frightens her more than pleases her? Allies they may be, but a weapon in the hands of the volatile is never ideal. Especially after everything that's come to pass…)
"This is… quite the find," she murmurs softly, hoping that the potential for conversation will keep her from lingering on her missteps. Making her way to Kellen's side, she bends down to examine the arms along the table, each one perfectly crafted.
Her fingers trail across the cool metal of a sword, its blade long and wickedly curved. Imagine being stuck with that, a little voice muses inside her skull, forcing a shudder down the length of her spine. It certainly wouldn't be a quick death.
"Do you think the others knew this was down here?"
Kellen laughs, shaking his head in wry fashion. "If they did, do you really think we'd be here?"
"No," Jade answers, feeling a bit foolish for bothering to ask. "I suppose not."
She swallows, setting aside the shortsword she'd inspected, the weapon secondary to her conversation. Kellen simply watches as she readjusts her stance before the spread of steel, his arms propped back against the table. A sardonic smirk lingers on his face, and though Jade would typically be keen to ignore it, the longer his gaze remains on her, the more she starts to feel unsettled. Patron's words from the eve before ring loud within her ears, shooting a blaze through her every nerve.
He's right, she thinks, intuition riding her strong. As much as I'd like to believe otherwise, Kellen can't be trusted. Whatever is going on between him and Tati…
"Why her?"
"What?" Kellen asks offhandedly, his attention still focused upon their arsenal, each polished blade and spear tip gleaming in the dim basement light.
"You know what I'm asking, Kellen. Why Tati?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
The hand he'd chosen to rest on the edge of the table twitches. Instantly, Jade's brow lifts, and she steps back, giving her partner a once-over.
"You don't?"
"That's right," Kellen snaps back, dropping the sword he was inspecting back down on the table, steel clanging against flat aluminum. "I don't."
"Is there a reason you're getting flustered?"
"I don't know. Is there a reason your nose wants to be in my business?" He glares at her, crossing his arms over his chest. "I mean, fuck, Echeverry. Get any further up my rear and you might as well be eating my ass."
"I wasn't trying to –"
"If you were smart, you'd stop fucking around with Nine and start focusing on things that really matter. Your leg, for example. How long do you think a wound like that can go before it starts getting infected?"
"That isn't what I –"
Before she has a chance to respond, Kellen is shoving past her, his aura a storm of voracity and tumult. Caustic in his own grievance, he stomps past her in the direction of the exit, shoes pounding loud and heavy over a dull, cement floor. Jade watches as he goes, her voice muted by the stones in her throat, the weight of them stifling to her esophagus. All of the pressure makes her feel sick.
She doesn't want to do this again.
(A house divided will always fall. If Kellen's been plotting against them…)
"Kellen," she begins, all her thoughts fluttering about her head like an insect's wings. "You know you can't turn lies into the truth. All fallacy does is blind you… to honesty as much as injustice."
Her Districtmate stuffs his hands into his pocket, his feet stilling at the base of the stairs, halted somehow from stepping forward. He scoffs, shoulders drawn up defensively, back still turned even as his head shakes.
"Words sure do come easy for hypocrites, don't they, Jade?" He questions, and the Two girl finds herself frozen, stopped dead in her tracks by the sound of her real name.
"I – "
"Save it, Echeverry," Kellen's tone slips into something unfathomably bitter, making it obvious that she's struck a chord… and one that likely has been buried deep.
He raises his foot, the sole of his boot coming down hard against the creaky stair. Then, without a glance spared behind him, his other foot follows the motion, one after the other, after the other. Wordless, he makes his way back to the surface, then pauses once he's got his hand fixed tight around the doorknob.
"I may be a liar…" her partner whispers, each syllable firm and even, "... but at least I'm not deceiving myself."
He pulls the door open and steps back out into the light, leaving Jade to stand alone, shrouded in darkness.
With nobody left to anchor her, she crumbles.
(Kellen was right. She is a hypocrite.
Perhaps not by intent; truthfully, there are few things that Jade loathes more than egotism masquerading as goodness. Her volunteering was never to consign Ailith to misery – that she was made to lose her own identity was a misfortune Jade never intended.
All she'd ever wanted was to protect the person she loved most. It wasn't wrong of her. But…
She hadn't given Ailith a choice.)
Jade's brow creases as a memory flits through the front of her mind, there and gone like a needle in the summer wind. Her and Ailith, together in the back of the justice building on that final day – their last day, for all intents and purposes. If only she'd understood then what she does now.
(Sovereignty.
Sisterhood.
Self-destruction.)
(Survival, without the price of silence.)
(I could be more. I always could have been…)
Her reticence has been her undoing. Even here, she can't seem to break free of it. Her desire for caution, her want to believe that avoidance will relieve her the pains of violence and volatility… all the crutches she'd chosen to lean on, back when she was home in Two. What have they given her but grievance?
Passivity doesn't do her any good, especially when she's wearing Ailith's skin.
She knows that, now. Maybe, in a sense, she always has.
"Both sides are keen to vilify the neutral, sister mine."
Ailith smiled sadly, her fingers curled tight about Jade's even as the Peacekeepers stood watch behind them, cold, imposing and silent as the stone. Warmth seeped from her as she raised her head, diamonds glittering in the glass of her eyes, and as Jade's gaze met her own, each of them began to fall, ebbing away her light until the only thing left behind was a husk, resigned in a guilt not unlike her sister's.
"You know that. Is that what you want?"
(The grief of a survivor is never simple - but if either of them were fit to carry it, Ailith was likely to bear it better. She knows what it means to turn pain into power; such is the gift of those who call themselves 'rebel,' and deign to live without constraints. Regardless of what troubles her past has led her to, Jade will always trust her completely.)
(She only hopes that Ailith will allow her the same benefit.)
"No," Jade remembers saying, her mind awash with desperate desires that refused to bloom even as she tried to nurture their sentiment on her lips. "What I want is for you to be safe."
(What I want, Ailith, is for you to live.)
(For me... and for our brothers.)
(You were right. You were always right.)
(So long as we live in a world that's set on ruling through means of destruction and oppression, remaining silent won't get us anywhere. Maybe I don't have a role in the rebellion you've instigated, but I, like you, can play a part when it's asked of me. I can die, in your place, for your cause. I can save you from the Games, if it helps you finish what you've started. You have always been the revolutionary – just as I have always been your voice of reason. If I can't do this for you, then what purpose does life leave me? What purpose should I have in a world without you, my braveness, my boldness, my better half? Two will fare just fine without Jade Echeverry…
But I wouldn't be able to live without you.)
Jade's hands tremble as she slips her hand into her pocket, her fingers brushing along the cool metal of a well-worn bracelet… and the familiar ring that adorns it. Ailith, she thinks again as she breathes in, closing her eyes.
Take care of Kenna and Stelios, if I don't make it home. And… maybe you can tell Mom and Dad…
"I'm sorry," she whispers,
words trapped inside her exhale
as her breath dies on the wind.
"But the choice was mine to make."
Pushing off and away from the wall, Jade makes her way back to the staircase, following Kellen's path back to the surface. Perhaps it's wrong for her to care so little about the repercussions of her decision, but she's never felt more certain of things than she does now.
Jade Echeverry will be silent no longer. Everything that she's done, everything that she feels… she'd always thought herself dissimilar to Ailith, but she's not, she never has been. Her want for justice, her passion and her empathy… she may not choose to voice her concerns with the world, but she's not complacent in the world's oppression, and nor does she wish to simply accept its injustice.
She has always wanted better.
(It's just a shame that it took her so long to see it.)
As she slips out through the unlocked exit, closing the door at her back, Jade allows her shoulders to square, a newfound confidence riding her strong.
If Kellen should choose to expose her secret, she'll deal with the fallout accordingly. A rock may not be as valuable as a diamond, but it will always be a barrier against the onslaught of floods and storms. Perhaps its exterior is far from flashy, but flashiness is not a tell of tenacity or strength. Jade Echeverry is a shield, and she will endure.
The future's in good hands with her sister.
(No matter what, she has to believe that.)
In this light we see your virtue:
pretty words if only half true…
Tatiana Terranova is getting sick of running.
Not too surprising, really – it's about the only thing she knows how to do these days. She's made a career out of running away from her problems, and backed it up with the lure of morph, blowcaine and stardust and whatever else she could get her hands on, because when you keep the masses looking up, they rarely have the sense to realize all the shit going on around them. And ignorance is fucking bliss, right? What people don't know won't hurt them, and if it does, at least they don't have to live in dread of it.
Anxiety's always been more trouble than it's worth.
Especially for people like her, that grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, never sure when they were next gonna eat, or sleep, or make a friggin' check. There's a reason people call Six the "fast track to nowhere," after all, and it's the same reason a business like hers managed to become so successful. When people know their only way out entails becoming a bloated corpse in a bodybag, there's no reason not to indulge in what few vices might be available. Drinks, drugs, needles in the arm… it's not so much a crime as a fact of life, and one that proved very lucrative.
(Maybe Tati should feel bad about that –the knowledge that she's made a profit off others' suffering, with little care for the consequences of her own transactions – but she doesn't. So what if addiction is a blight? People in Panem die every day, and there are tons practically losing themselves on the hour. At least if they take her way out, they stand a chance of spending their last moments happy.)
… what she would do to get a fix right now. X, dust, even some cotton if it'd just take the edge off. A dozen pills topped off by a glass of brandy, and all that's wrong with the world would be right, fixed up enough for her to have a party, her head free of concerns about Kellen, or Patron, or motherfucking Elysia… gods. She hasn't been this sober in two-plus years, and it would've been nice if she could keep it that way. Fucking Taji and his idiot tricks.
(When you grow up in a place like Six, the concept of accountability is more of a synonym for self-destruction than it is righteousness and justice. Any respectable person knows that it's better to lose your sense of honor than it is to kowtow to it – even if doing so earns you a rough rap. Everything's relative when it comes to morals; selfishness is as much a rule as it is an expectation. The only transgression she's ever made was allowing her feet to get swept out from under her; allowing herself to believe in something beyond the drugs, and the celebrity, and the money.)
(Humanity will always wind up being fallible. That's why Taji won.)
Tati puckers her lips, then pops them accordingly, her restlessness building with each moment she's left to sit. Karma's finally starting to catch up to her, and without a stiff drink to drown it out, she's finally facing the brunt of her own misdoings: withdrawal.
(She's sober, and it fucking burns.)
There's too many emotions in her, too many screams filling up her swollen head, each of them clamoring for acknowledgment in all of its many, bitter forms. The biting vengeance of a lover scorned, precluded only by the curses of an estranged family… one voice, three, and then a hundred, her own anger blighted by the rippling misery of addiction… bile curdles in her windpipe, her saliva thick enough to make her choke, and though she feels parched, she can't seem to drink enough to force back her fever. Too soon, the heat becomes sweltering, and her breathing starts to feel labored, her chest compressed under the force of a spectre's prying hands, so reminiscent of the times when Tamara would wrestle her down, black her out and drag her a mile down the block to Six's trashbin, where goody-two-shoes nurses smiled at her and shoved pills down her throat so far she practically choked, every single medication weighing on her like a stone when she just wanted to float, float, float away free –
Sitting up from the wooden bench, Tati presses her head back against the wall, her lungs heaving short and shallow as she forces a smile to her lips. Not too far away, she can make out the shape of Patron, waiting beside the door with his arms crossed over his chest, too stiff to be moved unless given a reason.
She's got one for him, naturally. He might be the one Elysia chose to suss out two days back, but that doesn't mean he's the only one with a head to lose; Tati's in just as much danger if she stays here, and Patron knows it. If they're going to make a move to split, they need to do it now; there's no such thing as a fucking third chance.
Two strikes is more than enough to make her nervous. It might be different if she felt that she could actually trust Kellen, but… no.
She only has one ally here. If Patron leaves her, she'll have nothing.
(Nothing doesn't win the Games.)
(Nothing won't get her life back.)
(The Careers' odds aren't in her favor – but it's possible that his will be. Not to mention… she owes him one.)
"Yo, Nine," Tati calls out, her tongue dry as dirt inside her mouth, cheeks feeling stretched out and hollow all at the same time. "You got a minute?"
"Possibly," Patron answers, as wonderful and infuriating as ever. "Though my time will depend on what you want. If you're just looking for another argument…"
"I'm serious," Tati responds, blinking the bloodshot out of her eyes as she tries to give him her full attention. Amidst the whirring of the lodge's fans and the whistle of the outdoor breeze, she can hear Patron try to muffle a laugh, her choice of words more bemusing than they likely had much right to be.
"You, serious? That's a good one, Six."
"Your face is a good one," Tati rebuttals on instinct, though the retort is without its usual sharpness. Her throat burns when she tries to take a breath in, nerves leaving a sickly-sweet aftertaste in her mouth. Already, she's starting to get cold feet.
"You do realize that's not much of an insult, right?" The Nine boy raises an eyebrow at her, a half-smile dancing across his lips.
She wishes she could find it comforting.
"Come on, Six," he taunts, after the silence has dragged on for a moment too long. "Don't tell me you're losing your nerve."
Once more, she's overcome by a desire to cry, all the friction of games played without reason and hearts broken for sin edging her toward insanity. Her eyes match with a set of piercing, dark orbs, and as her brow tightens, she snaps, her denial reforged into liquid metal, made solid with the flame of her temper.
"Shut up," she hisses, flipping him the bird. Her head lays back against the cool wood, cheek turning in against it as she closes her eyes again, wanting, as usual, to be anywhere but here.
(He's more right than he knows.)
Tati's lashes grow wet, her cheeks stinging with the texture of liquid salt. Goddammit, this is just what she needs right now…
"You know what, Patron? Maybe you're right," she decides, finally finding the energy she needs to speak. With gritted teeth, she forces her eyes back open and swings her legs down off the bench, unable to look him in the face. "I'm losing it. Fuck knows I was never cut out for this shit, anyway."
Her hands are shaking violently when she moves to rest them on the wood, pushing herself up and back onto her feet. Reaching down for her supply bag, her sight lingers on the ruined skin of her palm, gravel-cuts still prominent upon its surface. The noise of the arena fades around her as she stills, overwhelmed by the shock of her own admission – and everything that's been left unsaid.
She still hasn't thanked him for what he did on the trail, and most likely, she never will. Words of gratitude are not a part of Tati's vocabulary. Actions, however…
"We need to talk about tonight," she says plainly, not so much as trying to mince her words.
"Tonight?" Patron's brow lifts, feigning confusion. Tati just rolls her eyes, shaking his head as she loops her bag's strap back over her shoulder, keeping it stable at her side.
"Cut the shit, Patricia. I know you're leaving." She presses, spinning around to look at him directly, forcing a fake smirk back over her lips. Patron's stare remains implacable, but there's a twitch that shows along his cheek, his jaw clenched tight as she continues to look at him, waiting to hear an admission. When it doesn't come, she huffs, chest heaving as she drops her shoulders, an exasperated expression on her face. "Really, Nine? You're not getting rid of me that easy."
"... do you really think I'm going to say yes, after everything I've heard about you and Kellen–"
"I'm not asking for permission, Nine –"
"– all you've ever done for me is fuck things up, so why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth –"
" –because like it or not, you saved my life! That means you're fucking stuck with me, asshole –"
" – explains why that Taji guy voted you in, then! Even the peacekeepers weren't enough to get rid of you –"
Taji.
Her brain short circuits.
"…what did you say?"
His gaze shifts downwards, to where her hand's gripping the leg of her pants, fingers flexing as she claws against the fabric, desperately trying to feel something - anything - beyond devastation.
"... Six, I didn't mean –"
"How the fuck do you know about Taji, you vain, psychopomp-bloated sack of shit?!"
Tears spring to her eyes as she pulls back from Patron, stumbling over her own legs as she tries - and fails - to escape their conversation. There's a strange sort of panic rising inside her, threatening to choke her beneath tides of anger. How dare he?
"Tati…"
"Fuck you."
She swallows, her lips stinging while her mouth tastes of blood. Blinking away her tears, she braces one arm against the wall, her entire being a mess of conflict and enmity. How did he even know about… ?!
"You don't know anything about me," she whispers, in a paper-thin voice as cracked as her lips. At least he has the decency to look contrite. "Let alone who I was before this shitshow. So you can stuff your fucking words right up your –"
"Six," Patron interrupts, reaching out towards her as she shakes her head, desperately wiping at the moisture pooling beneath her lashes. "I shouldn't have said that. Okay? It wasn't my place."
"You're damn right it wasn't!"
Tati lets out a hollow laugh, both palms shoved hard against her leaking eyes to try and force her hurt back in. She's angry, she's frustrated—she wants to lash out and scream until her lungs collapse from the strain. But she doesn't. She can't…
She can't.
Patron's silent for a long time.
Eventually, he lowers both arms, letting his hands fall loosely at his sides to hang near his empty pockets. "I'm sorry," he mutters quietly. Tati shakes her head.
"Don't be," she responds, shaking off the concern. "It's not like you said anything I didn't already know."
Slumping back down on her now-vacant bench, Tati slouches, both arms resting on her legs as she bends forward, gaze latched onto the bloodstained wood of the floor. There's a creak as Patron moves closer, then sits down right next to her, regarding her cautiously when she lets out a snort, amused despite her frustration.
"You sure you want to sit there?"
"Just don't aim for the face when you punch me, and it'll be fine."
Her hand moves of its own volition, resting against his bruised wrist, and to her surprise, Patron doesn't shake it off. His brow knits together in a troubled expression as Tati's hand smooths over his, the chipped yellow of her nails an odd contrast to the hue of his injuries. Nonetheless, he remains quiet.
Tati's hand moves, returning to her lap. "Do you hate me?"
"A bit," Patron answers, his honesty soothing. "Though honestly, it might be better that way."
Tati nods. She's been thinking the same thing.
"We don't need to be friends to be partners," Patron continues, pitching his tone lower by an octave. "But we do need to establish at least a modicum of trust. So I need to know… your arrangement with Kell–"
"Am I interrupting?"
Both of them jump, jerking apart from each other as if stung. Tati raises her head to examine the newcomer, and the sight that greets her makes her mouth run dry, any words she might have said dying slowly on her lips. Shit, Tati thinks, her spine going rigid with a sudden, involuntary tension. How much did she hear?
"Ailith."
The relief in Patron's voice is evident when he rises to his feet, addressing the Two girl plainly and without pause. Tati shoots him a confused look, her brow furrowed as he continues to speak, glossing right over her expression without bothering to address it.
"No interruptions – Tati and I were just having a friendly chat." He pauses, seeming uncertain of himself. "What can we do for you?"
Ailith's eyes shift over to Tati, traces of suspicion heavy within their gaze. She takes a breath in, biting down on her lip. Then, she turns back to Patron, swallowing once before she speaks.
"I need to know if it still stands. Your… proposition."
Patron quirks his head just so, staring her in the face. "It might. I'd say it depends on why you're asking."
Her rebuttal this time is swift – even merciless, with no room for pause or question. "I'm asking because I want to survive. Isn't that reason enough?"
"It's Kellen, isn't it?" Tati asks, taking in the Two girl's unnatural pallor, her creased brow and frowning mouth, every bit of her expression a tell of the worry bubbling under her skin.
Ailith doesn't respond, but her silence says more than any answer could.
Patron shifts, taking a step forward only for Tati's hand to latch in place around his wrist, halting him mid-step. "If we're doing this, we need to do it soon," she whispers, the words as much a plea as they are a nods, but remains quiet, his attention still focused solely on Ailith, who stands before them in utter disarray.
"If I said the offer's open…" He begins, only for the Two girl to cut him off.
"I'm going with you," she says, without a second of hesitation.
Her words linger in the air like stones on a wall, as cool and firm as her unbroken gaze. If she's afraid, she hides it well – hides everything well, under that reserved and withdrawn surface, so obsolete that her facade thus far has been near-impenetrable.
(Tati always knew Ailith was a rock, but it seems she has more layers to her than anyone would have guessed.)
"Tonight," Patron says, and Ailith nods solemnly in agreement.
"Tonight," she agrees readily, shifting onto the balls of her feet as Tati lets out a sigh.
"Guess it's a date."
The Six girl smiles, looking between her two unlikely allies, with a renewed verve, doing all that she can to avoid addressing the storm brewing in the evening air.
When nothing is certain, anything is possible.
(She just needs to make sure she comes out on top.)
… and I fell off the train again…
(Yes, I fell off the train…)
The best light has always come from the flames of a burning bridge.
Kellen's known that since he started making plans to split from Vaclav, his mentor's arrogance having grown enough to make him inert. Sure, they'd been close once – close enough that Kellen would consider them brothers, given all the time he'd spent in the older boy's shadow, mimicking his directives and mirroring his steps – but camaraderie can only salvage so much in a world like theirs.
Especially in situations like these.
Kellen's gaze flits around the basement room, drinking in the silhouettes of his (supposedly) sleeping allies. Somehow, for an alliance full of opposite personalities, the closer they've come to ruination, the less verbal everyone has been about it. It's almost like all five of them have unwittingly acknowledged the calm before the storm, in that where there had been endless bickering, there is now a deep-seated tension that plagues what remains of their sextet. Elysia's become more withdrawn, Six and Nine have begun biting their tongues… and Ailith…
Ailith.
Kellen frowns, resisting the urge to scoff in turn with his Districtmate's name. He isn't sure what he expected from her, after their conversation earlier – but shacking up with Six and Nine was just fucking insulting. He knows he shouldn't be taking it personally (what does he care about Ailith or her falsities?) yet it's nearly impossible not to do so – she's the reason his plans are failing, the reason why so many of his contingencies have begun to fall through.
(... wrong. All she'll be is another bump in the road, once everything's been said and done. Elysia's the real gem of this alliance – and in regards to the others, I've got an ace up my sleeve. The only thing left is to decide when I play it…)
When do I want to kill her?
Planning ahead is something Kellen learnt on the streets; not from words, but from all of Vaclav's subtleties and the way he never seemed perturbed even when the best-laid plans went to shit, unflinching in the fortitude of his certainty.
There had always been a safety net when Vaclav's schemes unraveled, a little forward thinking to ensure that the gang survived another day. That much, Kellen had understood. As violent and disruptive as the crime scene in Two had been, it had also been cold and calculated — more than anyone outside of it was willing to give them credit for.
He may have many unfortunate qualities, but willful ignorance is not one of them. There's no question that his control over the pack is waning; whatever contingency plans he tried to set in place are obsolete in the face of Ailith's turn. And with Tatiana's loyalties now made clear, there's little room left for Kellen to retake all of the ground Nine's candor has lost him.
(I told you that you weren't cut out to play puppetmaster, Vaclav whispers from the empty space at his back, his condescension only serving to agitate Kellen further. Face it, Kell, you're not cut out for leadership. The weak aren't meant to take command so much as follow at their leader's heels, barking when they're told to bark and snarling for intimidation. Anger doesn't make you strong, just useful – why else would I have spent so much time trying to stoke the rage in you?)
… but it doesn't matter.
While the chips may have fallen red upon the table, Kellen's determined to play the odds back to his favor.
(The life of a pawn is not one that suits him, despite what Vaclav may believe. Sure, he's spent years dancing as the asshole's marionette, abiding by his directives and indulging his blackened moods, but it wasn't for lack of ambition. Had he a choice, he'd have usurped his mentor's position long before the reapings hit…
And Two would have been better for it.)
With a short exhale of air, Kellen rolls over onto his side, fully aware of the eyes upon his back. Tatiana. Patron.. What a pitiful sight they make, lying here beside him under the guise of sleep. Do they really expect him to fall for such a cheap trick?
Unbelievable.
A breath passes his lips in place of a laugh, Kellen's muscles clenched tight to hide his trembling laughter. For all of his schemes and meddlesome plots, he could never have predicted just how badly his alliance would implode. While he could claim that it's been a long-running effort, sown by the seeds of his own domineering disingenuity, the truth is that their destruction was always inevitable – and the question of a split was never an if so much as a when. When Elysia's inflexibility would make her lose her mind and her control… when Nine's obvious dissatisfaction would become too much for him to handle and when the Games would give Six a reality check from her delusion-laced desires.
The only factor he didn't anticipate was Jade.
She's the true wild card within their ranks – a rat disguised as a wolf, disguised as a sheep. There are few things more dangerous than a skilled liar, and though Kellen can't say Jade's adept enough to keep his respect, her facade has certainly piqued his interest. Just what other secrets does she have hiding beneath that fraudulent mask?
(What other lies is she capable of spinning?)
Kellen's teeth find the inside of his cheek and sink into it, pressing down insistently until he feels a touch of pain. No. That doesn't matter – after everything she said to him earlier, he should be glad to get rid of her. After all, why should a fraud like Jade Echeverry have the fucking audacity to confront him? Why should she be allowed to preach about lies and lecture him on his dishonesty when she's the one in denial, manufacturing mistruths to save her own skin?
(It's a shame that no one realizes the truth is whatever he wishes it to be, not the other way around. Jade is nothing but a hypocrite.)
His breath stutters as fabric begins to shift along the base of the wall, accompanied by the scuffing of cloth across smooth stone. Something rattles as the scuffing fades, fading into the dark only to be replaced by footsteps, quiet, wan and forcibly slow in their motion, edging back towards the table on which their weapons have been lain. Kellen's ears remain open as the first traitor fills their satchel, bogging it down with knives and wire, bits of metal scraping together as they swing inside the bag, secured only partially against the figure's hip.
From his back, a second noise begins to filter in, taking the shape of frantic whispers, spoken in a voice too light to identify.
"... few here….. go through the back…"
" — but what if I can't….. ?"
"... move lightly, floor isn't…"
"... need to worry…..…. be gone before she sees —"
The figure at the table tucks something large away in their sack, turning to the others at long last. Two shadows arc across the ceiling as their owners begin to stand, the dim light filtering through the cellar's rusted window doing little to illuminate their surroundings. Feet drag over tiles, catching on dips in the cement floor, and as one voice lets out a startled yelp, a laugh emits from the other, any concerns for caution or subtlety flying right out the door.
" — watch it —!"
"... see the look on your stupid face –"
" – isn't the time, Six… need to shut up….."
A foot steps around his head, the ankle slim and unsteady in its shoe. It pauses just beyond his head, movements halting as Kellen draws a breath in, holding it inside his gut as the seconds begin to pass.
One, two…
"Shit – !"
Tatiana shouts as his hand wraps around her shin, pulling it back and yanking her down to the floor, all in a matter of seconds. The figure by the tables drops their bag, supplies clattering across the ground, and suddenly, there's a pressure on his back, fingers across his neck and covering his eyes, trying to pull him back as Kellen slaps, kicks, shoves –
"Get out of here!" His District partner hisses, staggering back as Kellen bites her arm, teeth sinking deep enough to draw blood out of the cut. "Now!"
True to their selfish nature, Six and Nine don't bother to protest – they simply run.
Two sets of feet clamber over the stairs, thudding hard and loud across the brittle wood. The exit door flies outward as they reach the surface, smacking back into the wall with rattled hinges, and before Kellen can get another hit in, his Districtmate's falling back, diving to the side for her overstuffed satchel to try and make a break for it once more.
"What the fuck is this?!"
Elysia's outrage reveals itself in the form of a growl, her sword already drawn and extended in her hand. Jade's fingers slip away from the strap of her pack, her arm withdrawing in haste, and when the One girl steps forward, she pulls back as if burned.
"Elysia – " She starts, mouth opening and closing in succession. "I just –"
"Well, well! Look who finally woke up," Kellen interjects, pushing himself off of the floor, bits of dirt clinging to his overwarm skin. "In your much needed slumber, I'm afraid the rats managed to slip away. Or, at least two of them did – can't say anything about the third."
He cackles, half-mocking as his attention turns away from the door and back to Jade, so composed within her enemies' grip. She must realize now what's going to happen – the price of failure, especially in light of her attempted betrayal.
"Didn't even wait for you, did they? I can't say I'm shocked, but man, that's gotta sting. All that time and tension spent sneaking around with Nine, just for you to wind up here…" Kellen shakes his head. "There's no loyalty amongst traitors, Echeverry. Didn't your sister ever tell you that?"
"Sister?" Elysia's motions halt as her eyes narrow, piercing when they turn back on the girl who's caused so many problems, including some she doesn't realize. Her sword lowers, but remains drawn, ready to be swung in the case of a possible attack – or a potential threat, given the difficult circumstances. "What's he talking about?"
But hers isn't the question that Jade decides to address.
"You've got it wrong," the Two girl tries to rationalize, her even words a stark contrast to the harrow of her appearance. "I never planned to let them escape, but it was two against one. I'm not a fighter –"
"No," Kellen agrees, drawing his dagger out from his pocket. "You're a fraud."
Jade freezes, the gravity of his statement threatening. Knowledge, after all, is only beneficial when it's left in the right hands – and Kellen's hands are stained beyond belief.
He has no trouble selling her out of it means forcing a better outcome. Traitors get what traitors get, and with all other avenues lost to him, Jade is his best contingency plan.
Kill her, and it'll send a message.
(Kill her, and it'll leave an impression.)
"I don't know what it is that you believe you know," she starts again, just as fake as she was before, "but nothing I've told you is fabricated. I'm exactly what I say I am–"
"A convenient lie from a seasoned liar," Kellen rebuttals, dismissing her defenses outright. "Come on, Jade. Isn't the act getting a bit old?"
Elysia's brow pinches with obvious confusion as the Two girl goes silent, drawing in on herself like a wounded animal. In her silence, Kellen smirks, shaking his head with a tut.
"You know, she almost had me fooled," he comments offhandedly, knowing that the words will only enflame his ally's ire. "What a shame the dying have such loose lips."
"Loose lips?" Jade hisses, tears welling in her eyes. "Is that what you call it, then? Taking advantage of my weakness in order to blackmail me? You're a class act, Akos. A real fucking snake –"
"Tributes!"
A familiar voice booms from within the lodge's speakers, overwhelming the confines of the claustrophobic basement with little discretion in its volume. Jade's tears roll down her cheeks as she looks up to the ceiling, gripping her supply bag tighter with both her hands.
She knows what's coming.
They all do.
"In light of… recent circumstances… there has been a change of plans. Today's bounty will be Ailith – no, excuse me – Jade Echeverry of District Two."
Static crackles in place of a laugh. Though there's no way of seeing the Gamemaker's face, Kellen can practically feel his mirth, maniacal and destructive as he caps off the announcement, sounding far too pleased with the turn of events.
(He can't say the sentiment isn't shared.)
"Happy hunting."
The speakers click back off.
The seconds begin to tick.
Kellen looks to Elysia. Elysia looks to Kellen. Jade glances between them, disbelief still riding her strong. For several moments, nobody moves. The room is still, quiet as the dead, with each of its occupants statuesque as they contemplate the shift in the narrative – the wrench thrown into their plans, and the Games themselves.
Then, amidst the stillness, there's movement.
Jade's arm twitches, moving down toward her over-full bag to draw out a knife, gleaming bright and silver. As the others hesitate, she lunges, dropping her satchel to the floor and springing toward Elysia, her every intention set to injure. Kellen watches, silent, as her blade thrusts outward, attempting to find a home in the One girl's gut – but if Jade's quick, then Elysia's quicker.
With all the skill of a trained Career, her body contorts itself to avoid the strike, both arms fixing in place around Jade's dominant hand. Effortlessly, Elysia twists them, wrestling the knife away from her as she slams her elbow down, a resounding crack filling the air as the joint separates.
Without hesitation, she lets go of the limb, both hands pushing out into Jade's gut, force enough to send her flying backwards. As she cries out, pain blossoming from her dislocated arm, the One girl stalks forward to grab her by the chin, getting so close that their faces are practically touching.
"Did you really think that was going to work?" She asks, and the question seems sincere, despite the bitterness her voice carries. "What's wrong with you?"
"Elysia, I –
"You've endangered everything about our alliance. Everything, including yourself, and for what? What purpose?"
Her eyes search Jade's face for a hint of something – anything – that would speak to her conscience. Then, her brows crease in sympathy as she exhales, loosing the tension in her shoulders along with her breath.
"What a fucking disappointment."
Her head slams back against the wall, impacting the cement with a heavy thwack, just seconds before Elysia draws out her saber. Letting go of the Two girl, she levies it, then brings it down against her injured leg, tearing open the bandages and making the wound bloom anew. As Jade falls, a knee finds her face, then a foot, then a hand, hauling her back up until she's kneeling, her position one of utter defeat.
With one hand clutching at her bloody nose, Jade lifts her head, bruises blooming over her skin as she matches eyes with the Career girl. Her skull is dented in from the beating, oozing pools of scarlet down the side of her neck, and as she tries to speak, the hilt of a sword comes down upon it, slamming into the wound to try and daze her, keep her liar's tongue from running a second longer..
The sympathy vanishes from Elysia's face as she flips her weapon around, nudging the saber's edge against Jade's chin. Stone cold anger overtakes her visage, burning dark inside her eyes.
"Tell me," she grits out, teeth clenched and grinding together, "why I shouldn't kill you now."
But Jade has nothing left to say.
"... I'm sorry."
The saber's edge curves along the hollow of Jade's throat, blade level against her skin. Only once it's poised to make the final cut does Kellen decide to speak.
"You know, Elysia… we could use her."
Elysia's hand pauses in its ministrations, stilling around her blade's cracked hilt as she shoots him a look, scornful even when she raises her brow in question. "Explain."
"Explain?" Pushing away from the frigid wall, Kellen struts toward the girl from One, sidling up to her with a familiarity brazen enough to be a taunt. "What's there to say? We need to give the audience a show. They want death, they want blood… we have skills that would allow us to meet their demands, so why the fuck shouldn't they have it?"
Kellen steps closer, bending enough to cast his breath over the shell of the One girl's ear, not a hint of decency remaining to burden his body. He smirks as her swordhand momentarily falters, the myriad of negativity that's bound her rushing through his own skin as he nods at Jade, conspiratorial.
"You know what we do to rats in District Two?" He questions, tone so soft it's practically non-existent. "We smoke them out."
Elysia's brow creases as she listens to him speak, her hold on Jade's collar growing slack. Swallowing stiffly, her eyes slide to the control panel above the metal contraption they'd been eying earlier – a contraption that's marked and branded in such a way that its purpose can be no secret. She turns her head, expression almost skeptical as she looks him in the eye, turning over his proposal with a stiff back and shoulders.
All it takes is a single, questioning raise of his eyebrow before the One girl relents.
"... fine," she says, shoving his partner's body back and letting her crumble gracelessly upon the floor, limbs a tangled and bloody mess little different from her leaking skull. "If we're pulling the bounty, you might as well just do what you want."
And so he does.
Throwing the metal door open, Kellen bends to heft Jade's body from the floor, apathetic to her curses and physical struggle. His flesh tears under the grip of her nails, sharp crescents that raze along his skin like blades against thin paper, a trail of fire left in their wake. She pushes at him – smacks with her palms and her arms and the whole of her fists – but her fighting isn't enough to deter him from his plotting.
He's got an audience to impress. Maybe he's taken things a bit far, but like hell he's going to back down now. They're all watching him. They all want to see…
Kellen's grip on Jade's hair tightens, his fingers digging into her scalp as he curls them tight, shoves her forward then yanks, threads of onyx flying free and imprinting themselves on the surface of his palm. Elysia doesn't watch as he forces her into the chamber, first by her head and then her kicking legs, her feet lashing out against the air, hitting-hitting-hitting his shoulders, heel smashed against his chin and toes catching against his nose as he brings his elbow down on her knee, forcing it in with a pop.
Jade tries to push herself up, her elbows seeking leverage amidst the remains of half-burnt trash, but her movements are too slow. Blood leaks steadily from the wounds in her face, trailing streams of viscous death across her eyes and cheeks, and when she looks at him her eyes are bloodshot, as dull and empty as the night around them.
She watches him, stolid, for the better half of a moment – until his gaze shifts, and his fingers begin to twitch, seeking out the lever that hangs low against the cellar wall.
Pulling the chain almost seems too easy.
"Kellen!"
A rain of kindling comes falling down the chute, twigs and leaves and scraps of fabric, left behind by the gamemakers likely for this very purpose. Amidst the refuse, his once-ally lurches forward, taking hold of the incinerator's bars and rattling the grate with her bloody hands, her swollen lips mouthing bitter pleas.
"Kellen, please. You don't have to do this – we can talk, we can – just… fucking listen to me, Kellen, I only wanted to help my sister, I only wanted her to live –"
Elysia's arms stay crossed over her chest, trying to maintain her stoic exterior even as her sternum pushes forward, her breaths so shallow they're heaving. Kellen lets his gaze turn from her to the incinerator, flitting over the buttons that protrude from the panel – air control, temperature…
Power seems straightforward enough.
"No." Jade says, as his hand moves from his side, inching upward towards the panel.
"No." She repeats, as he simply ignores her, too inured to pleading for her despair to perturb him.
No.
No.
" – not like this, please, not like this – !"
The match has already been set.
All that's left to do is let it blaze.
His finger touches down against the rusted button, the lights on the machine's exterior flaring to life with a sudden whoosh. The steel cage lights, sending a flare of spiralling orange to dance across the walls mere seconds before Jade begins to scream, kicking and thrashing against the vice that holds her, all of her righteousness boiling down to a perfect, primal fear.
The heat that emanates from the machine is so hot it's nearly stifling, but Kellen ignores the burn of it as he crouches, leaning forward until his face is level with the metal grate covering his partner's half-scorched face. Inside the flames, he can only just make her out – black hair melted and stuck along the side of her head, her eyes going white across their iris, blinded as her flesh grows too abraded to heal. Glossy patches layer the expanse of her pinking skin, blistering and oozing with pus as she rolls inside the flames, her hands fixed tight around the smelting bars, unable to feel the touch of the metal inside her growing agony.
"How's this for some fucking honesty?"
Hatred surges up through his chest, mingling with the salt that stains his impure lips. He spits at the bars, saliva thick as it passes his lips to splatter across the burning coffin, not at all mindful of Jade's curled fingers. With one final scoff, he returns to his feet, turning his back on the mess he's created – and all of the guilt that comes with it.
Kellen's no stranger to the monstrosity of rage, but in this moment, he feels it like never before.. The blood from her flesh stains his hands, a mess of black hair still held in his unclenched fist. Elysia speaks, but what she says is beyond him, drowned out by the noise of his own breath, vicious and unable to find peace at the end of his tribulation.
"Kellen –" his ally tries to speak, only to cut herself off as
ash begins to fill the room, choking the air with its rot.
(At once, he is gripped with an urge to turn – to watch in silence as Jade's body falls into the grip of flame,
rolling, rotting and dispelling to soot inside the incinerator's hateful grip.
What he's done is beyond morbid,
but the sting of longing grips him –
makes him feel once more like a child,
lost, alone and ever unsatisfied,
gazing out his window in the dead of night
and thinking that one day he will seize the world,
hold it bare in his filthy palms
without regret,
even if it burns.)
(What does Vaclav think of him now?)
(What of his parents? His brother and sister?)
(Should he be ashamed or proud of how far he's fallen –
reveling in his hate and violence,
eschewing the empathy he might still have possessed
if only because it is too much for him to handle,
he who has ruined,
has broken,
has killed,
with no regrets other than
his own
conflicted
conscience?)
He breathes, and all he can taste is smoke, his lungs permeated by the taste of char and broiled skin.
Is this what you wanted? A voice coos in his ear, as cruel as it is compassionate. Was killing her enough to satisfy your hunger? Is your appetite for violence finally sated, or will more blood wash over your hands before you put your anger to rest?
(Kellen, please. This isn't you. I know it isn't! You're not a killer –)
(– not a killer, you're my brother, and I want you home. With me and Kaden. We could start over – be a family like we were before you got tangled up in this… before you let yourself go in order to become —)
Villain.
(Please.)
(You don't have to do this. You don't have to – !)
Jade's screams echo through the walls, distorting the stifling air with their tenor. Even as he turns, feet scuffing on the red-stained floor, her torment rings inside his ears, pitching until it reaches crescendo and crashes down against barren earth.
Kellen's hand reaches out to grip the metal rail, his nails scratching the dulled surface as he ascends. Though the wailing continues, he doesn't acknowledge it, facing forward as he climbs from the abyss, leaving his doubt to die with his District partner – alone, in the dark of the sweltering basement.
He climbs the steps back to the surface, Elysia's steps a weighty mirror to the rapidity of his own feet. Only once they've both reached the lodge's hall does he stop to catch his breath, taking in the clean air with the desperation of a dying man… though in this case, he's anything but.
He's killed before, but none of the deaths he brought to Two made him feel half as vile as this. The mask he wears now is more chaotic than any he's kept before – a demon's guise made from fear and forged anew in the blood of betrayal.
It's not lost on him, when he turns to Elysia with a caustic, demented grin fixed in place above his mouth, that she can no longer meet his eyes.
You should've known better than all.
(You can't save yourself the fall.)
14: Jade Echeverry, District Two. Kill credited to Kellen Akos.
A/N: The Martyr by Smile Empty Soul.
Before I get into the eulogies and more morose author's comments, I'd like to give a huge shout out to my buddy Thorne, without whom this chapter likely would never have gotten finished this month. Your assistance and motivation have been a godsend as I work my way through this story, and I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for me. Love you bro! I'd also like to take a moment to thank my dear friend Dawn for all her support and encouragement, as I'm not sure how polished this story would be without your ever observant eyes looking over my messy ideas! Thank you for everything you've done to help me piece together this verse. You're a queen and I adore you so fucking much.
Now, on a more difficult note…
DD, your girl. I adored Jade, in all her reticent, cautious, multifaceted glory; she was one of the few in this cast whose actions always spoke louder than her words, and who retained her heart despite the losses she was made to experience, amidst a world that was intent on stifling her potential. While she may not have been the spitfire that Ailith was, her cool demeanor and quiet display of rebellion allowed me to explore a dissident's arc that I've yet to portray in this verse – and I am so thankful for that opportunity. While her story might be at its close, the mark she's left will not end here; Ailith will carry her name and use it well… and we'll be hearing from her again before this fic is brought to a close.
Thank you for submitting her to me – she will not be forgotten.