Mystic Hannemann sank to the ground, her body aching as she buried her head in her hands. Plan after plan had gone astray, and now Mystic didn't even know where to begin putting pieces back together.

How had everything gone so wrong? Was it even worth trying now that things were so imperfect? Had any of this ever been worth it?

No. It never had.

She didn't have to train, didn't have to come here. There were a hundred other paths she could've taken. Mystic could've never left One, could've lived a comfortable, perfect life taking over her parent's business, but she'd chosen this instead.

Mystic had chosen to be here, and there was no changing that. No matter how hard she wished she hadn't done it, no matter what she did next, this was her decision. And she would have to live with it for the rest of her life, whether her life ended in the next few days or years from now.

In her search for perfection, Mystic had let every piece of herself shatter until nothing remained.

Mystic tore the gloves off her hands, tossing them to the ground. She couldn't be anything she'd worked so hard to be- not the perfect friend, not the perfect daughter, not the perfect Career. Panem had already watched her fail time and time again; why hide her scars anymore?

As she ran her fingers over the blemishes and imperfections on her hands, Mystic realized- perhaps things hadn't ever been perfect. Maybe she'd spent her whole life working towards an unobtainable goal, and she'd always been destined to fail.

"Fucking hell," Mystic muttered. These weren't the kind of thoughts she could afford right now. She pushed herself to her feet, the small movement reinvigorating her ever so slightly. Mystic stepped out from the small outcropping of rock she'd been sitting beneath, the rain falling around her. It had provided her with decent protection at first, but as the water grew higher and higher, Mystic knew she needed to move.

If only she knew where to go. If only she had a sense of what to do or a direction to follow.

Mystic Hannemann was as aimless as the wind that blew around her. The only objective left was to win, or to die fighting- to die trying.

Trying was the only option Mystic had left.


Morrigan Meadowlark didn't want to fight anymore.

Any time she got anywhere close to escaping the life of violence that had chosen her, it dragged her back in kicking and screaming. Mor didn't want to bear that burden anymore. She didn't want to fight to survive, to singlehandedly provide for a family that didn't care for her, only cared to use her. She just wanted something to herself for once in her life. She wanted to rest for once in her life without feeling selfish.

Was that really so much to fucking ask for?

Mor shook her head as she carefully navigated the rubble. She'd stopped running to conserve her energy a little bit, but she never stopped moving. There was nowhere to go, though; any semblance of a landmark was gone. All that was left was grey upon grey- grey skies, concrete and metal, and a thick fog. Mor felt like she was running in circles, never truly getting anywhere.

Rounding another corner, After a few moments of wandering, Mor realized that the grey fog had dissipated somewhat. As she rounded another corner, Mor quickly figured out why: a figure, clad in gold, stood in the middle of the clearing. It was the same Career she'd fought earlier. Her eyes widened as she reached for her sword. Mor wearily pulled her fists up, readying herself for a fight.

The girl lunged at Mor, who ducked just in time; the sword cut through the air precisely where Mor's head had been just seconds before. Jabbing her elbow into the Career's side, she dodged another strike from the girl's sword. Mor maneuvered around her, sending a kick into the Career's knee. The girl stumbled but managed to stay on her feet with a pained hiss, swinging her sword at Mor once again.

Why was she doing this? Why was Mor even fighting anymore? She didn't have to do this- she didn't have to do any of this.

But if she didn't, what would Mor be?

Gritting her teeth, Mor lunged for the Career. Though she ducked, Mor still managed to grab ahold of a single braid in her hair. With a grunt, Mor clasped her other hand around her second braid and yanked her back. The girl yelped, her nails digging into Mor's hand in desperation.

But it was too late. Mor hadn't come this far to give up now.

She wrapped her arms around the Career's throat, the girl fighting hard to twist out of her grasp. But Mor just tightened and tightened her grip until the girl went limp. As she did, Mor shifted her hold on the Career, twisting her neck for what was practically an eternity. Mor wasn't so sure it'd even work…

Until a sickening crack rang out through the air.

Mor released her, letting the Career's body slump to the ground. Her cannon fired seconds later.

Mor was glad for one thing: that Jasper had passed on when he did. Jasper could rest now; he didn't have to see any of what'd come next, any of what had happened to Mor.

At least, in the end, the only one who had to see what Morrigan Meadowlark had become was herself.


Verity Blanche was used to noise. She'd lived every day consumed by it, every sound she'd ever heard settling in her brain and never leaving. It was a wonder that her thoughts managed to break through the barrier they created every day.

But now her mind was nothing but barren silence.

She knew, of course, what the pattering of rain, the swishing of leaves on the trees, and her footsteps sounded like, and yet all of those things felt so far away. It was as if they'd departed her mind, leaving Verity with nothing but her stark, silent thoughts. The entire world could've died around her, and Verity would've had no clue.

The silence inside her mind was just as unnerving as the silence outside of it. She was completely and utterly alone, in a wasteland void of life, and she could hardly do a thing about it.

Verity had been alone throughout her life, more times than she could count. But after losing Diesel it was lonelier. So much lonelier. At least she'd put Diesel's lessons to good use, setting traps around the minuscule cave in the rubble she'd found to try to keep herself safe. Still, Verity could only do so much on her own.

At least she was alive and mostly well. She'd just have to hope for the best.

But oh, how Verity missed Diesel. He'd only been gone a few hours, but even that had left a massive, aching gap in her heart. Nothing could ever fill it. Nothing could ever be enough to fill that gap. She would've given her hearing a hundred times over if she could walk out of that alcove and see him standing there, but that wasn't reality.

Reality was that Diesel was gone. He was never coming back, but he'd left her with the most precious thing of all:

With a life she refused to waste.

Verity Blanche couldn't give up so easily. Not when Diesel had given everything up for her.

Sighing deeply, Verity reached into her pocket, pulling out the small music box. She wound up the little crank, letting it rest in her hand as she stared at it. There was no way to tell if it was still working- after all, it wasn't like she could hear it. But it was a comfort; if she lost it, Verity wasn't sure what she'd do with herself. If it was broken, it wouldn't be so easily fixed now, since Diesel was gone. Verity had to be careful with it.

If Verity hoped hard enough, perhaps she could hear a single, sweet note of what had been real not so long ago.

But it wouldn't come. Nothing came through but the same blank silence she had endured for hours now. Verity sighed, tucking the box away in her pocket once again, patting it to ensure its safety.

As she tucked the box away, the ground beneath her rumbled quietly. Verity leaned forward, poking her head out of the cave to see what was happening. She quickly spotted the seal of Panem in the sky; realizing what it was, Verity leaned forward, watching with intent.

First up was the blonde girl from One, followed by the boy from Two, then the pair from Three, and the boy from Five. Verity could feel tears streaming down her face at this point as she sniffled- so much death and ruin. Every one of those kids had a family, loved ones hoping they'd come home, and they wouldn't return. They'd never get to live, to see the world, to love or be loved. Verity just hoped their short years in the world were filled with happiness.

Verity knew what was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. Seeing Diesel Malstrom's face in the sky sent a jolt through her heart. He was dead and gone, and this may very well be the last time she'd see him. Verity lingered for a moment, committing every one of his features to memory - every curve and sharp edge, the bits of metal decorating his face, his jagged, unkempt hair and the exact shade of green of his eyes - until he was gone again.

At least Verity knew she'd see him again eventually. She could come to terms with reality, but that didn't make it hurt any less. Nothing ever would. But Verity would still be strong. She could do this- she would do this.

Verity had been given this chance, paid for by the blood of somebody she loved, and she would not waste it.


Dean Karafanda had never felt pain like this in his life.

Everything hurt. Every movement, whether small or big, sent sharp pains through his whole body. And Dean wasn't sure what to do. Was he supposed to just give up and die? Give up on everything he'd worked so long for? He couldn't just give up, even if things looked grim. But no matter how many times Chiffon told him that it would be okay, that his injury didn't look so bad, he couldn't bring himself to believe the other boy. There was a gaping hole in his leg now - how okay could Dean be?

Deep down, no matter what Chiffon told him, Dean knew what the truth was. He didn't have much time left. He was going to die, no matter what Chiffon did.

"Are you ready to move?" Chiffon asked, offering him a hand.

"If you let me keep sitting here, we're never gonna get anywhere. So I think so," Dean replied, clasping Chiffon's arm in his hand. "Let's get to it."

Chiffon hauled Dean to his feet, but as he stood, his leg buckled beneath him. The only thing keeping him up was Chiffon's hands on his back, grasping his jacket, Dean's face pressed into his friends shoulder. "Chiffon?" Dean whispered, steadying himself against a chunk of metal. "I don't think I can do this."

"Sure you can. Why wouldn't you be able to?"

"I can barely stand," Dean replied through gritted teeth. "And walking will probably be worse."

"Well, we need to move. The water is getting higher, and I'm not particularly keen on swimming." The water was indeed rising; the rain still hadn't stopped even after two,… maybe three days now? Dean wasn't sure. Overnight it had crept up to the small clearing they'd camped in, and it'd only get higher the longer they stayed.

"Me neither," Dean muttered, shuddering at the thought.

"Well," Chiffon said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. "Let's give it a shot?"

"I'll do my best," Dean agreed.

Dean wrapped his arm around Chiffon's middle. He gingerly took a step, and then another, trying to keep his weight off of his bad leg. With every movement, his muscles throbbed, but he steeled himself and endured the pain- he had no other choice. If Chiffon was going to insist on helping him, then Dean would have to put effort into living.

He only hoped it wouldn't all be for nothing.

After a few minutes, they fell into a rhythm, and the pain dulled to a steady ache. Or maybe he was just convincing himself of that- Dean wasn't entirely sure at this point. His entire body felt so heavy. Not a single moment went by without his leg twinging, not a single movement without his shoulder stinging, and all Dean wanted was to rest.

Dean was so tired.

"Chiffon?" Dean asked after a few more minutes, when he knew he couldn't go on anymore. "Can we take a break?"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize how long we'd been going," Chiffon cooed. Dean couldn't help but wince, and not from the pain this time. He didn't want to let Chiffon treat him like this- didn't want to be treated like a child that couldn't do a thing for himself. "Let's just find a good spot."

Dean hummed his agreement as they crested the top of a hill. Stretched out before them was a complete view of all the devastation. Dean paused for a moment, taking in the full extent of the damage. Mostof the sky was a dull grey colour, as it had been since the explosion. But the massive gaping hole in the side of the Arena revealed the dark sky above; Dean thought he could pick out a few pinpricks of light.

"Wow," Chiffon sighed, gazing up at the sky. "That's something, huh?"

"It is," Dean agreed. "Let me sit?"

"As you wish," Chiffon said, gingerly easing Dean to rest on a large rock. There was significantly less water here; though the dirt had turned to mud, it was better than ankle-deep water in Dean's books. Dean buried his face in his hands, sighing deeply, as he mulled over the full, crushing weight of their- no, Chiffon's choices.

Why was Chiffon doing this?

They were in the end game now- only five of them were left, after all - and yet Chiffon was still dragging him along. But why? What could he possibly gain from this? Chiffon stood to lose everything he'd worked so hard for, and all for a dying boy. Dean didn't want to be dragged around like this. His timer was going to run out, sooner or later, and Chiffon couldn't seem to accept that.

Dean was nothing more than a burden.

"Chiffon, can I ask you a question?" Dean muttered.

"I don't see why not," Chiffon replied, sinking onto the block of concrete next to him. "What's up?"

"Why are you doing this?"

Silence.

"Why am I doing what?" Chiffon asked after a long pause.

"Why are you dragging me around like this?"

"Well… because you're my ally."

"And? There's only five of us left," Dean said. "I'm just slowing you down."

"No you aren't, Dean," Chiffon shot back, heated for a reason Dean couldn't figure out. "Where am I going? Everything's gone to shit. There's nowhere to go, nowhere to run, nothing to do. We're fine for now, until the Gamemakers get bored, right?"

Dean shook his head. That wasn't the answer he was looking for. No matter how vehemently Chiffon insisted, the boy from One wasn't dragging Dean around for Dean's own sake. Dean knew Chiffon, and that wasn't like him. No, more than anything, Chiffon was trying to convince himself that things would be fine.

Nothing was fine. Most likely, things never would be again.

(But maybe it never was to begin with.)

"You're lying," Dean said softly. "To yourself."

"About what?" Chiffon replied, his voice wavering.

"About things being fine. I'm dying, Chiffon. I can feel it. I probably won't make it another few hours, much less to the very end!" Dean exclaimed. "And what about you! Why are you doing this?"

"Dean, no," Chiffon replied, a tinge of desperation in his voice. "No I'm- I'm not-"

"You are, Chiffon. You're lying to yourself. It's not going to work. You aren't going to get anywhere if you keep doing this."

"It's fine," Chiffon growled. "It's fucking fine, okay. I'm not lying, I-"

"No," Dean insisted, talking over Chiffon, seizing the boy's face in his hands. "No, I can't let you do that. You need to stop and tell me why you won't just let me die."

And for once, Chiffon didn't say a word.


For once in his life, Chiffon Shivaan didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do or how to fix things - if this exchange could be salvaged at all.

As he was forced to look at Dean's pained, blood and dirt-streaked face it dawned on him just how bleak Dean's future looked. Chiffon knew, of course, but he'd managed to convince himself everything would be okay. Any time he felt that fear creeping in - the fear of what would happen to Dean - Chiffon pushed it down. His friend would get better, they'd be okay but deep down…

Deep down, Chiffon knew what would come next.

And he didn't want that. God, how he didn't want that. Chiffon didn't want to see Dean in pain, didn't want to see Dean die, but nothing Chiffon did right now could prevent that. Death was coming for one of them, and Chiffon did not give up everything to get here just to die. He'd come here to survive, to win, to thrive. And now he risked giving all of that up - and for what? For his own selfish reasons? Just to drag his friend's life out a bit longer?

Chiffon was doing nothing but delaying the inevitable.

There was no way for Chiffon to win. Dean would die, and Chiffon would be alone, and then what? He'd keep fighting? Keep pushing onwards, refusing to release the past?

Maybe there would never be a good time to let go. Maybe things could've been different, but it was too late for Chiffon to try again.

Maybe Chiffon was nothing but a selfish fool, hanging onto the last threads of a dying man.

"Chiffon," Dean whispered, shaking Chiffon's face between his hands gently. "It's okay. It's okay, just talk to me."

"I'm being selfish," Chiffon admitted, "I'm fucking selfish, is that what you wanted to hear? Is that what you wanted me to say, is that a good enough answer for you, Dean?"

Dean didn't reply, a sorrowful look settling into his eyes as his hands dropped from Chiffon's face. Chiffon lingered for a moment, letting himself take in his friend. Dean looked paler than ever as if in just a few minutes all life had been sapped from him. But perhaps that was just Chiffon seeing him in a different light now.

Chiffon knew he had to make a choice. The longer Chiffon took to choose, the longer Dean was going to keep floundering in horrific pain that he didn't deserve.

"I- I just need to think," Chiffon muttered, pushing himself to his feet.

"Wait-" Dean grasped for him, but Chiffon was already gone. His breath was coming out raggedly now as he paced around the small clearing, threading his hands through his hair. Dean let out a deep sigh, curling up on the ground as if he were wilting before Chiffon's very eyes.

He would only get worse. Dean would only wither up and die, and if Chiffon didn't make a decision, he'd have to watch it happen.

Make your choice.

"No," Chiffon mumbled, holding a hand to his head, squeezing his eyes shut- no, no he didn't want to decide. The last thing Chiffon wanted was to make this decision- maybe if he held on just a little longer-

It won't last. It can't last.

Chiffon's gaze landed on Dean just a few feet in front of him- within reach, and yet so far. Chiffon couldn't help but stare. Was he supposed to leave Dean here to die? Go on to fight another day- fight for the victory he so wanted? Chiffon had worked so hard for this; he couldn't give it all up for a dying man. But at the same time, he couldn't just leave Dean to die scared and alone.

Decide.

His hands fell away from his head. As they came to rest on the sword on his hip, Chiffon knew what he had to do.

At least he could be quick about it. At least Dean wouldn't suffer any longer.

Letting out a shaky breath, Chiffon paused for one more moment. God, he didn't want to do this, but he had no other choice. He couldn't have everything; there was no other way but this. If there was another path Chiffon could've taken, he must have missed it by a mile.

Slowly, he pulled his sword from its sheath at his side and crept up to Dean as quietly as he could manage. The boy was still hunched over; Chiffon could've sworn he heard quiet sniffling as he stopped ever so close to Dean. But perhaps that was just the rain, or the falling of rocks, or anything other than what Chiffon knew it was.

At least he could pretend, just a little bit longer.

There wasn't any hesitation as Chiffon plunged his sword through Dean's back.

"Chiffon?"

The words fell faintly from Dean's lips, a shudder making his voice tremble.

"I'm sorry."

That was all Chiffon could manage as he swiftly pulled his sword out of Dean's back. Dean slumped forward to the ground, but Chiffon didn't linger. He scooped up his waterlogged bag, swung it over his shoulder, and quickly turned to run. His sword remained clenched in his hand, dripping a crimson red trail behind him, blood mixing with rain.

Chiffon had chosen victory above all else. Now he had to make good on that decision. Dean's death would mean nothing if he couldn't go through with it.

You did this. You did this to yourself.

A single cannon rang out, like thunder in the sky. Chiffon flinched. But not once did he look over his shoulder, not once did he stop. He couldn't take it back.

Oh, how the skies wept for Dean Karafanda when Chiffon couldn't even shed a tear.


6th: Mystic Hannemann, District One. Neck snapped by Morrigan Meadowlark
5th: Dean Karafanda, District Four. Backstabbed by Chiffon Shivaan

Diesel Malstrom: V

Reign Legatus: V

Chiffon Shivaan: III

Dean Karafanda: I

Morrigan Meadowlark: II

Arena: IIII