XXVII. Liminal Spaces
With the same colour which, through sun adverse,
Painteth the clouds at evening or at morn,
Beheld I then the whole of heaven suffused.
If there was a trophy for being in the worst possible mood while also not being dead or in the process of killing someone, Lethia's shelves would be covered in gold.
Unfortunately, there is no such award, and she is therefore stuck lying down on a leather couch in what is perhaps the most excruciating pain in her entire eighteen and a half years of existence. And all because of that abhorrently dreadful rat bastard from Seven.
Really, Lethia's the fool in this situation. She should've seen this coming when she got into a sparring match with a white man who proclaimed he was "the only ten in a country of threes" during his interview. Though maybe the reason she was so eager to cut him down was because he bore a striking resemblance to Icarus. Which really is hilarious; he'd always go off on tangents about how he's "utterly irreplaceable," yet a boy from an Outer District did the same damage he did.
Then again, Icarus' weapons have always been more verbal than physical, hence the reason his sole physical strike at her hurt more than she was able to comprehend. And yes, Lethia is still so utterly embarrassed that she somehow allowed Icarus of all people to take advantage of her the way she did, somebody too fuckin' cowardly to even step foot in the bloodbath. Probably didn't want to get his fancy white clothing dirty, Lethia muses. Which is ironic considering the fact his entire soul is already stained black with sin.
But none of that could matter now, 'cause she's got her right hand in bandages and there's a damn good chance she wouldn't be able to kill him at this point. And that's something she hates admitting, even just to herself. She's embarrassed at the fact Icarus was able to use her like a steroid, but she's even more embarrassed that she may not even be able to crush him with the vengeance that's consumed her soul for months.
Even if the fact she's currently crippled wasn't Icarus' doing, Lethia chooses to blame him anyway. If he hadn't delivered the first blow to her hand, it wouldn't have shattered so easily today.
(She chooses to blame herself. If she hadn't trusted Satan in the form of a pale shrimp, her hand wouldn't have been brittle and frail. She wouldn't even be here… and maybe that would've been… alright?)
(Who's she kidding? Lethia has to be here for her father. She has to be the one to save him, since mother clearly couldn't. Icarus aside, she needs these Games.)
Of course that's how he lured her to do his bidding too. "Don't you want a better chance at being able to pay for your father's treatment, Lethia? Don't you want to be the perfect daughter when Neira couldn't be, Lethia? You really think an assistant jewelers salary is enough to pay for a man's cancer?"
She shouldn't have been so desperate, especially not around him.
At times she wonders if anyone ever truly thought that she was capable of winning. The trainers at Valhalla seemed already regretful when they told her she'd volunteer, and all Vicente and Neira could say to her was that it would be "extremely helpful" if she was able to bring back the crown and its accompanying fortune.
Oddly, the only person who ever believed she possibly had a shot must've been Icarus, 'cause otherwise he wouldn't have injured her like this. It's a strange compliment, the only thing standing between him and his throne, and of course the way it was delivered was even stranger.
Lethia misses when she was a simple girl who's only flaw was that she'd get upset if she couldn't make everyone happy. Icarus killed that girl the moment he spoke to her for the first time, and now she's permanently six feet under with no way of getting unstuck. Now she's doomed to fight to the death for other people, for Icarus' downfall and her father's ascension… yet it isn't fucking working.
So at least her foul attitude is justified.
"Do you need anything?" Beowulf asks for the thirtieth time that hour. He's standing over her with a disposable ice-pack yet to be activated and a roll of paper towels. "I'm sorry that you're hurting Lethia, I really am."
"Well, I'm sorry too." Keeping her right hand extended, she turns on her side. "I'm not sure you realize, but this is absolutely awful."
He sits on the ground, legs crossed and his chin resting on Lethia's couch. "No, believe me, I know that getting injured is the absolute worst."
For all the time Lethia's spent with him, and Vancouver too for that matter, she really doesn't know much about them. That's probably her own fault though; she doesn't have a particularly strong desire to get close to anybody after what happened the last time. They're just her allies, and it'll remain that way until the end. They're just assets to her, the same way she's assets to them, or at least she's supposed to be. Then again, thinking of them that way just brings her closer to being Icarus' clone.
All of their conversations have been pragmatic, focusing on the Games and ignoring the semantics of their personal lives. Lethia prefers it that way, even if all the down time they're sure to have together will inevitably be boring. Even when they arrived at their current destination, a mausoleum of sorts with a large field, there wasn't any side commentary on the place's physical appearance or anything trivial. At least she was able to crack a joke or two with Icarus, even if he was never truly her friend.
But she figures she'll give Beowulf a chance to reveal part of himself to her. It's better than sitting in pain and silence. "So you've also been injured then? Tell me about it, if you want, that is."
"A stress fracture," he says, pointing at his ankle. "Kind of embarrassing don't you think? I was so drowned in work at my Academy that I literally got a fracture."
"That's pretty bad," Lethia admits. Kids at Valhalla would get injuries of that sort all the time, and usually it meant that they were done for. Then again, people with broken hands were also usually done for. Perhaps her and Beowulf have a similar fighting spirit, though she doubts his is fueled by embitterment like hers is. "How'd you get though it?"
He scratches the back of his head, almost like he's embarrassed. "Well, I didn't really have much of a choice, to tell you the truth. My mother said if I didn't recover, then I was just as useful as a dead man."
That sounds… heavy. At times, Lethia's glad that her mother abandoned the rest of the family before she could get too abusive. She was definitely on a downwards spiral, claiming that Vicente was faking his illness when he was slowly becoming a ghost. She has enough negativity in her life already, and not having a monster in her own home is a good thing.
(It wasn't always like that. Memories of the night she left still haunt her. Crying on the floor, passed out from the stress, her mother's departure initially hurt more than any fight at Valhalla.)
But that's not anything she needs to get into here, especially not with Beowulf, who could be faking his inferiority complex for the sake of getting her to open up, for all she knows. It's unlikely, but Lethia's learned the hard way that she can't trust anybody, especially now that death's involved.
It's not something she should speak about with Vancouver either. She's out front, guarding the mausoleum in case they're attacked, and though she did do a good job nursing Lethia to health earlier in the day, she's still growing suspicious of her.
Mainly it's the fact she killed two people without hesitation, even if she did look sick after the fact. Even Lethia had an ounce of dread in her as she swung her staff to the girl from Seven's throat. She felt the same way in her fight with the boy. Cruelty is a necessity here, but Vancouver seemed to legitimately enjoy it, even if it was just for a few moments.
But it's not exactly something she can just go up and approach her about. Lethia can't exactly say to her "Hey! I noticed you were really chill about causing the death of two people; is that something I should be worried for?"
Because if she was willing to take the girl from Eleven and the boy from Three out like they were cobwebs on a wall, who's to say she won't do the same to Lethia. Especially now that she's injured and would only possibly stand a chance if she could kick her to the ground. And that would be hard considering Vancouver's almost as tall as Beowulf and Lethia very much isn't, not that 5'8 is a height to be ridiculously embarrassed of.
"Did I say something wrong?" It's not until Beowulf speaks that Lethia realizes how long she's gone without answering him.
"Not at all," she says in quick reassurance. "I'm just thinking."
Mainly it's about the fact she doesn't deserve to lose the Games to a nervous wreck riddled by his mother and a princess from Twelve who's done a shit job hiding her true colors. Lethia doesn't deserve to lose to anybody here, 'cause her entire life's led up to this. Worse, every ounce of pain she's ever felt has led to these Games. Her sister ignoring her, her mother leaving, her father getting sick and Icarus killing the spirit inside her. If she doesn't win, she's basically telling her demons that they successfully defeated her.
If there's one thing Lethia loves most in the world, it's winning. If there's one thing she hates more than Icarus, it's losing.
So really, it's simple. She still has her left hand, her fate isn't completely sealed. She still has a chance, and she'll be damned if she throws it away.
Lethia Aphelion has come much too far to suddenly give up. To hell with anybody else, she won't throw in the towel until it's painted red with her vengeance. If there's a time and place for everything, then now and here's the time for her to put herself first.
For once in her life, Lethia isn't going to let her heart stop her from getting what she wants, what she deserves. For once, she won't let the world cave in on her, she'll be the reason it caves.
A broken hand can always heal, but a broken neck? That's enough to send a backstabber straight to the grave.
The sole benefit to this entire mess is that Judas has discovered he still looks incredibly attractive when he's covered in bruises. That's not really a lesson he was particularly planning to learn, but it's definitely something that's good to know. It's also much easier to look good when there's wounds on your abdomen and back instead of scars on your face and teeth spat out onto the ground.
And of course, of course, Judas does enjoy the attention that removing his shirt has brought forth on him. Per Mozi's "stunning" medical advice, Judas unbuttoned and then stripped himself of his shirt a few hours ago, and he's been laying on the ground ever since to "air out the wounds." It's warm enough in the arena that he doesn't particularly mind being exposed, and it seems Malin doesn't mind either,
"What do you want?" Judas turns his head to see his ally tapping him on the cheek for the third time that hour.
They let out an airless chuckle, then roll their eyes. "I was just thinking about how your stomach radiates like an atomic bomb," they mouth. Malin runs a hand through their bleach-damaged hair and smirks. "I haven't seen an atomic bomb, but I bet your abs would look similar to one."
Judas blinks wordlessly. It really is incredible that despite not having a tongue, Malin Mardari has still rendered themself unable to shut the fuck up. It's clear that they're flirting with him, which is— I mean who wouldn't flirt with me–– but he can't tell if it's genuine or a mere product of boredom. It doesn't matter since he'd never reciprocate feelings towards a snake that doesn't even have the means to hiss, and at the end of the day attention is attention.
Hence the incident back home with father. Sure, it was a negative reaction that Judas' father had when his son threatened to burn down the entire forrest, but it was the most he'd ever said to him besides the occasional "shut up" or "stop that," in years, so he considers it a win.
Getting with Wesley's childhood best friend didn't get a very positive reaction out of him either, but it did give Judas attention from the man he wanted the entire world from.
Malin's flirting, or rather their coquettish way of speaking is just more fuel to Judas ego, and everybody knows what happens when he's finally ablaze.
Err… actually some people don't know, because well… they're dead. But anyone who witnessed Judas setting that fire ablaze who lived to tell the tale now knows that he's a ticking timebomb people shouldn't work to detonate.
Finally, he responds to Malin. "Thank you for such kind words; you also resemble weapons of mass destruction."
"Good lord, you guys are fucking weird." From a slight distance, Mozi lifts her head from her lap to chime in. "I get that you're rational and don't think Mal's the sex god they claim to be, but can you at least act normal about it."
They run towards Mozi and slap her in the face for that comment with eyes that scream "I totally am a sex god," and Judas is given no choice but to laugh at the entire altercation.
He does have to admit that things seem a bit off between the Sixes ever since their little rumble with the Careers, and that's an accomplishment Judas has chosen to attribute towards himself. They were all buddy buddy, fun and games back in the Capitol, but as things continue to grow more and more serious, Judas can't wait to watch them fall apart.
While they apologized immediately afterwards, they had already began to bicker earlier in the day. Nonsense about how perhaps settling in a field of flowers wasn't the best idea but, "Judas needs flat ground to recover and we might not find more," and he did in fact love being the center of attention, even if it didn't last as long as it should've. At least Judas knows that he deserves it all.
"Anyway!" Mozi says, ignoring Malin which at this point is fair of her, "We can't stay here forever." She walks over to Judas and glares at him eyes of discernment. "Can you walk?"
He gulps. "I haven't really tried in a few hours."
Malin extends their hand and mouths, "Well then you best try now!" Judas grabs ahold of it and places his other hand on the ground, trying to push himself upwards.
"Shit." He fails and falls onto the ground. He can tell Mozi's annoyed by him, which is unfair since he knows that if she was the injured one, she'd be bitching and whining far more than he has been. Really, being injured is kind of awful. The pain's one thing, but more importantly the girl from One wounded Judas' pride, and that's inexcusable. He hates feeling weak, feeling vulnerable, useless. It just proves his father's berating to be true. "Could you help me too?"
Mozi grabs onto his other hand, Judas tightening his core to help him stand. By the time his two feet are the only thing supporting him, his head is spinning and there's a growing nausea spinning in his stomach. One didn't even hit him in the head, but all of his collapsing as Malin and Mozi tried to walk him over to the flowers must've done some damage. Not that he can fault them; the only thing Judas can fault is his shitty impulse control. Still, he thought he could actually take one of them out, and knowing that One's probably in just as much pain as he is, is reassuring.
He does his best not to cross his eyes or lock his knees as he takes his first step, every tendon in abdomen aching and screaming for him to stop. The sad thing is, Judas can't. If he continues to act like a weakling (which he isn't), he wouldn't be shocked if his allies just dropped him. The only thing worse than being injured with others is being injured and all alone. He has to get through this.
"Which way are we going?" He scans the field, noting a bridge in the distance that could possibly lead somewhere. "You think there's anything that way?"
Malin excitedly waves their arms in that direction, moving their lips to say "Let's get going buddy-os!"
"You sure you're good to go this way?" Mozi stands behind Judas, seemingly to prevent him from falling again. He can't tell if she's doing it because she actually cares about him and his well-being, or if it's because she just doesn't want him as an enemy. Either way, he's appreciative.
He wobbles with his next step. "If you could spot me, that would be much appreciated."
She puts one hand on his shoulder and squeezes firmly. "Don't worry about it."
Mozi's kindness is concerning. He knew she was vicious but saw just how savage she could be during the bloodbath. She killed two people, one of which a literal child like they were nothing. Whatever thoughts are running through her head right now, Judas is afraid of them.
He tightens his shirt around his waist and continues walking towards the bridge. There's a few instances where he's sure that he's going to fall backwards, but Mozi stops him each and every time. "Slow and steady," she consistently reminds him. A shame Judas NHazario has never been anything near steady.
His family always told him he was uncontrollable. Julius always said he was sick in the head, that he was a maniac destined to fall. He prided himself in being the "stable" twin compared to Judas' delusions of grandeur, that he was the most special kid in Panem. He'd always tell father, "At least I'm not him," eyes pointing his finger at his twin as an excuse for all his flaws. Believe it or not, Julius had his flaws too. At least Judas wasn't cowardly enough to hide his.
He finds himself hunched over at the bridge's railing, squinting his eyes narrow so he can make out what's on the other side. "Mountains?" The idea of having to climb something sends shivers down his spine. Damnit! I should've insisted we stay in the flowers.
"Those aren't just mountains." Mozi points to a roof and windows at the base of the steep hills. "I think there's a city in there."
That's relieving. Judas can't do heights now.
"It's not just a city," Malin mouths. "It's our city."
Ah… rich of them to say such a thing. It may be the three of them's city for now… but soon Judas will be the only one in charge. Their rein of terror will soon come to an end, and when they're nothing but ashes, he'll rise anew. He'll rise a savior. The Raven Club's own, District Seven's designated tyrant.
Yes, Judas Nazario is more than skilled with playing with fire. It's only a matter of time before he engulfs more with his flames.
His back is cold from the glacial cave he lies at the entrance of as the sun sets. Even though he's not frozen, Bud might as well be, considering he hasn't moved in literal hours. All he has is the knife in his hand and a bag of beef jerky in his pocket. All Bud has is a weapon, food, and a headache from all the memories that run though his mind.
"I've heard his name before." He remembers what Fennella said about Mr. Avion. "They said he's not a good person, and he likes to hurt people."
Her words have turned his brain to mush, like a village drowning in a tsunami of thought. She hadn't even said too much about Mr. Avion, Oriole Avion— he now remembers his name. Fennella hardly got to say anything before—
"Run!"
The boy from One and the girl from Four were behind the two of them, large glass shards in their hands. Bud couldn't hunch over and cry the same way he did as Claude died; a trigger in his mind went off and his feet carried himself out of the cathedral even faster than they did when…
"He's dead for sure." Mr. Avion stares at Bud's bloodied body, noose around his neck as he hangs from a tree. "Bury him before the others notice." He pulls out a giant pair of sheers and cuts the rope suspending Bud, his already fragile figure collapsing to the ground.
Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes. His mind races as he plays the role of a dead boy. He hides his breaths and doesn't flinch as Mr. Avion and one of his buddies shovel dirt over him, creating the hole that would eventually be his grave. Bud lets his body go numb as they grab him by the limbs and throw him into the pit. The taste of the dirt that covers his mouth is bitter, but he doesn't let his face sour.
He's still as the walls cave into him, struggling to make pockets of air so he can breathe. He's still until the sun sets and the abysmal darkness of the sky matches the dirt prison he's stuck in. In the dead of night, he's able to make his getaway.
Plowing through dirt with his hands, Bud crawls outside. Born again, back from the dead… back from the not even really dead. He fills the pit once more and looks down at his limbs. His skin's taut against his bones and a mixture of dirt and the blood of those chickens makes him nearly unrecognizable. Winds stir in the sky, but Bud knows he has to run far far away.
I'm coming home. I'm coming home. I'm coming home.
Fennella's cannon sounded quicker than Bud had anticipated. They must've done her in quickly, either that or she gave up. He doesn't understand why she'd sacrifice herself for him. He hardly knew her, and he was a smidge rude to her at first. He doesn't understand why anybody would sacrifice themself for him.
Claude? Fennella? What does Bud have that they don't? What sort of future are they anticipating for him and why doesn't he know what it is?
I need a future. Bud thinks, one hand clenching the throat of a chicken. This is the only way. This is the only way I can survive.
He carelessly slathers his skin with the chicken's blood. This is the only way.
Faking his own death and possible being buried alive. It sounds extreme. It's necessary.
Bud glances up at the tallest tree on Mr. Avion's plantation. He swings his rope over one of the branches and begins fastening it around his neck. I hope this doesn't kill me… I'm not supposed to die…
He exhales, then raises himself off the ground and closes his eyes. He's unsure how long it'll be until he can open them again, but he hopes the next time he does, he'll be on his way home. I want to go home. I want to. I want to.
I need to.
He isn't even sure how he got the knife he's holding. He knows it's Fennella's, but thats just about all Bud knows. What's he supposed to do with it?
She gave it to him so that he could survive. She told him that eventually he'd need to save himself. She didn't know he'd already done so. She didn't know about the blood and the dirt and the noose around his neck. She didn't know about the zombie of a boy rising from the dirt and into his father's arms.
Fennella may have known that things were bad, but she didn't know how bad they were the way Bud does now.
"Wheeler!" He screams for his friend as Mr. Avion carries him away. "Please. Please don't take him away. Please!"
Mr. Avion scoffs at him, says "Why the hell would I listen to a bootlicker like you?"
Bud doesn't understand a word he's saying. He doesn't know why or how his father's job in Nine's mayor's office has lead to this mess. He doesn't understand what he or what anyone did to deserve this.
He doesn't understand why Wheeler's refusal to burry the body's Mr. Avion made so carelessly lead to…
The flames grow higher until Bud's only friend is completely engulfed. He watches in horror as Wheeler's pale skin turns yellow, bubbling and popping until it falls off his bones and into the fire. He tries to look away but Mr. Avion turns his head. He's forced to see Wheeler slowly disintegrates until he's nothing but dust and ashes.
He was younger than Bud. He was only eleven and yet––
Mr. Avion looks him dead in the eyes. "Act up and you'll be dead just like him."
With a knife, Bud's now expected to kill. He's expected to slaughter the same way Mr. Avion slaughtered loyalists and Peacekeepers alike. He's expected to kill, expected to be as ruthless as the man with a shaved head that took away his innocence.
Bud's no longer expected to be a boy. He's supposed to be a man.
Just because his childhood is long over doesn't mean he wants to grow up. He never wanted to grow up in the first place, and now it's happening far too fast. Everything is happening too fast, spinning out of control, his head dizzy and unable to stop it.
Claude and Fennella were his friends. Wheeler was his friend. Why should he cause the same harm they unfairly received?
"We'll get out of this place together." Wheeler swears, extending his hand for Bud to shake it. "I don't know how, but I know we will!"
Optimism is no longer in his vocabulary. He's only been here a few weeks, but Bud already knows. He can feel the world ending. He can feel his world ending.
(He doesn't know it'll be nearly six months before his world truly begins.)
Bud tries not to sound too downcast. "I'll trust you, then."
He wants to trust Wheeler, his only friend in this place, but he knows this won't end well. He has a feeling of dread in his stomach. This won't end well. He needs to trust his guts yet at the same time, he doesn't want to upset his friend. He misses his friends from school… they would just draw and put on skits with him. They weren't concerned with escaping certain death. Bud doubt's he'll see them again.
"Why'd Mr. Avion take you?" Wheeler asks, darting his eyes around their cabin to make sure nobody's around. "Personally, my father's a Peacekeeper. He tried to arrest Mr. Avion for doing… oh who knows? He got away, but in the dead of night, I saw him in my room and now I've been here a few months. He told me that maybe the Peacekeepers would stop being so cruel if he could replicate the same things they do, apparently."
The Peacekeepers have always kept Bud safe. They've stood guard by his house when riots got bad so neither him nor his father would get hurt. He knows they've done a few bad things… but aren't they only supposed to punish people who deserve it?
"My father works for the mayor." Bud answers, tucking his head into his crossed arms.
"Oh…" Wheeler shakes for a bit. "Well, I'm sorry for whatever happens to you here, then."
He's Mr. Avion's property now. He's his hostage and his laborer, doomed to clean the messes from the sins he's splattered all over Nine. Things aren't looking up for Bud Bancroft…
I just want to get away.
Nothing makes sense to him anymore. His memories are surfacing, no longer slowly but all at once, and his headache is just worsening as a result. Why did he survive everything if he's just going to fail here? What was the point of escaping Mr. Avion if he's just trapped in a cage once more?
Maybe there's something about Bud Bancroft that he doesn't know about himself and that's why he keeps being torn away from normalcy and pathetic attempts at normalcy. Why's the government that his father works for, the one that's supposed to protect him, only hurting him instead.
Why couldn't they find Mr. Avion and lock him up. Why did they have to say, "Some cases are just too complicated," when his father begged for action to be taken. He's just a kid; he never deserved to suffer.
How is Mr. Avion taking children any better than the Games that've taken him?
Is that why they refuse to help? Are they just hypocrites?
He's walking home from school when an unfamiliar man taps him on the shoulder. He blinks twice, then asks, "Who are you?"
"Oriole." The man grabs ahold of Bud's hand, even though he doesn't want him to. "You can just call me Mr. Avion."
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." Bud tries to run but Mr. Avion's grip is too firm against his hand. He's shaking, and tears are beginning to well in his eyes.
"Let go of me!" But then man doesn't.
Instead, he leans down and whispers into Bud's ear, "District Nine will burn for the crimes they've committed against my friends and I. It'll go up in flames because of people like your father who refused to help us when we were in need."
Bud tries to scream but Mr. Avion puts his hand over his mouth. "Maybe if you suddenly disappear so you can help me, things will change around here. Not that I'd be sure of it…"
He shuts his eyes. He stopped remembering after that.
The bright blue sky illuminates with portraits of the lost. Claude… Five boy… Seven girl… Eight boy… Fennella… Ten girl… Eleven boy… Eleven girl… Noel…
They're all dead and gone and for some reason Bud Bancroft's still here. Maybe there's a reason. There has to be a reason.
He brushes against his knees and stands up, hands to the sky in a salute to the dead.
I'll get out of here for all of you. He swears, with the same optimism Wheeler had and he scorned him for.
He looks down at his knife and adds. Whatever it takes.
Bud was lucky enough to escape death once. He's got no choice but to try and do it again. Not just for himself, but for everyone who's died when he should've.
The one thing Mr. Avion said that he actually believed is that a rebellion is soon to come. Now, Bud Bancroft is his own revolution. Soon he'll force the entire nation to hear him.
Whatever it takes.
She wasn't expecting Adrian's face in the sky to perturb her the way it did. Ascot never liked him, no she's always loathed him, but that doesn't mean she was directly praying for his downfall. She knew it would have to happen if she wanted to survive, but she wasn't expecting him to fall so soon. Then again, Ascot wasn't expecting herself to be alive nearly twelve hours into the Games.
Really, she's a fool for expecting Adrian to live longer, even if he's only twelve years old. She figured that his spite would propel him to live a bit longer, but she's learned the hard way herself that being sour has never been extremely helpful.
Ascot can't exactly mourn him, but it still feels wrong to celebrate the fact he's gone.
As the projection fades away, she finds herself unable to say much. She managed to escape the bloodbath to the roof of a frozen cave with Simeon, the plentiful glaciers that have proven to be soothing against her black eye, so that's good at least. It hurt far more earlier in the day, but it's now numbed enough that Ascot doesn't have to scream. Instead, she's free to sit down with her legs crossed, trapping herself in her thoughts.
"You alright?" Simeon asks her after noticing she's been silent for a while. "Usually you're a bit more… chatty?"
It's funny that he perceives Ascot as such considering back with the Tamarinds she was basically silent, but she supposes she has been rather warm and sociable towards her ally, especially in the past few days.
"It's just weird, you know?" She nods her head. "I know me and Adrian never got along, but he was from home, and seeing his face in the sky is probably the last time I'll see him."
Simeon takes a moment to process Ascot's words before adding his own. "I understand why it would be weird for sure. I mean, we first allied because I saw him being an ass to you and now we're together and he's… in the sky."
Never did Ascot think it would go like this. She was dreadfully content in being on her own for the Games, even if she had Simeon in training, yet for some reason he's still here. He's not the most competent Tribute still alive, but neither is she. Sure, seeing him get so angry earlier towards his District partner was a bit scary, but he was partially acting out in order to protect her. Ascot's never been protected before, and she thinks she likes it.
"Life is so weird," she laments. "Just a week ago, I was so full of optimism, and then it was taken away from me. But then it brought me to you, and admittedly I would rather we never met because that would mean that I wouldn't be in the Games, but you're just about the only good thing about this place. If you weren't here, I don't know that I would be so calm about losing him."
He grins, just a bit. It's the closest thing she's ever seen to Simeon actually smiling though. "You didn't deserve to have somebody as cruel as him in your life. You don't deserve to be here the way I do, either. So respectfully, I'll also say that I wish I never met you because you shouldn't be subjected to any of this."
The two fall into silence, but it isn't awkward anymore. Instead, Ascot looks at the sky and wonders why the sun hasn't set, since it's clearly night based on the projection from earlier. She knows that she's not actually outside, and therefore the Gamemakers can do whatever they so please to control the weather, but that doesn't change the fact it's unsettling. This whole arena's unsettling, so I guess that means it's doing it's job… her thoughts trail off.
"Hey, Ascot." Simeon trapping on her shoulder brings her back to reality. "Do you mind if I ask you something?"
Unsure what he could possibly be wondering, she nods, prompting him to continue. "When I hurt Ayala… you know, my District parter… how did you feel about that?
"Scared" is probably the answer that Simeon's expecting to hear, Ascot's cognizant of that. But also, she doesn't know if she was exactly afraid of him at that moment. Sure, he was vicious, but he didn't kill her the way a Career or the girl from Six would've, and that has to be worth something at least. Still, she needs to be honest to herself.
It was horrific. It reminded her of her foster fathers. She wanted to leave.
But surely she must have some faith in him if she stuck around anyway?
She does. Ascot definitely does.
"It's okay…" Simeon says after noticing she hasn't answered him yet. "It was wrong of me to ask you that when you have every right—"
"Shh!" She shushes him to cut him off. "I did not like you snapping at your partner, even if I understand your reasoning. I don't want to lie to you and say that I wasn't. But the fact that I'm with you still now should say everything that needs to be said."
"That you trust me?" He asks, and again Ascot simply nods her head as a response. "Thank you. I kind of… really regret hurting her. She was going after me, but that still isn't a reason for me to let my anger get the best of me. And now that she's also dead, I can't help but feel guilty, knowing I played a part."
For somebody who's typically so nice, he sure has lead to a lot of death, Ascot muses, trying oh-so-hard not to laugh at the sheer irony of her own thoughts. He's valid, though. When she looks up at him, she noticed just how concerned the expression on his face is. She tells him, "Well I feel guilty for Adrian dying, so we're in the same boat."
She knows she's lying, and Simeon does too. "Not really. You didn't kill Adrian, but surely me breaking her arms had to have contributed something to her death."
"You've got me there!" Ascot admits. "But try not to beat yourself up over it Simeon. What's over is over and what's dead is dead. I already told you that I'm not mad at you, and yeah… I could surely see people in Ten losing their shit over you right now, but you're not there right now, so why worry?"
He turns his head towards the still bright sky. "I'm just… trying to be a better person, y'know? That's why I came here. And I couldn't even control myself in the fuckin' bloodbath. What does that say about the rest of the Games?" Simeon's eyes squint. "And holy fuck, why isn't the sun setting?"
"Probably because they want to drive us mad." Ascot chuckles, but then realizes, "Not that I think you're going mad or anything… I agree it is annoying,. I also think… that you are a good person just by being here. Sure, you may have contributed to someone being killed, but at the Reaping when you volunteered, you saved somebody else. So you're even."
Simeon nods. "It sounds better when you put it that way, I'll give you that. But lord, it's only day one and my mind is already in shambles." He hunches closer to her and whispers, "I never thought I'd say this, but I'm afraid."
Ascot's afraid too. She doesn't think she needs to say that to him though; it seems obvious. Instead, she does her best to reassure him again, even though the change in their dynamic is a bit odd. "You can't let your mind win Simeon. I know you're angry, and I understand why you're angry too, but you're stronger than your anger, I just know it. It's the same way you've told me I'm stronger than the feelings that I'll never be good enough."
"Thanks," he says in a solemn tone. "I promise, I appreciate you."
Silence occupies their space again, this time being cut by a large tube-shaped package falling from the sky, decorated with the number ten. Ascot holds it in her hands with a confused look on her face. "Already?"
Maybe now that the two of them's partners are dead, their mentors managed to pool together their money to buy them something? Though… they don't really need anything at this point. They have enough food to last at least two more days if they properly ration, and the ice on the cave can easily be melted into water. Simeon's got his knife too.
He grabs the package from her hands and peels off the attached note to read it. Immediately, all of the color leaves his face. It just takes a tiny peak at the tube's contents for Simeon to drop it to the ground. "Fuck."
"What's inside?" Ascot asks with mounting concern.
Visibly shaking, Simeon reads the note out loud. "Dear Mr. Coello. Let's see if you're really the changed man you say you are. There's only one bullet. I expect you to make the most of it." He lifts up the package from his feet and opens it to reveal a brand new hunting rifle.
Ascot's reaction is similar to his. She exhales. "Fuck."
She doesn't know what to do, and worse? She doesn't know if she can consider herself safe.
I am just a speed demon, look at me go! And nobody died too; isn't that swell? I hope you enjoyed this second chapter post-bloodbath, featuring the perspectives of our two most injured Tributes, a look at what the fuck happened to Bud, and an unusual twist to Ascot and Simeon's alliance.
There's not much else for me to say besides my routine thanking everybody, so yeah… thank you all so much for reading, and I'll see you soon with the beginning of the second day of the Games.
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds