Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Liberty, Chapter #32: Blood Soaked Soil. We're in the Final 10, ladies and gents! Can you believe it? I certainly can't, but here we are. Last chapter was a huge doozy and probably the proudest I have ever been of anything I've ever written before, where alliances shattered and people straight up did not have a great time in the arena. All trio alliances have dwindled down to duos, a new duo formed in Catalus and Poem, and the day ended with Ramses Boskov and Portia Beninblade departing from this world. This chapter focuses entirely on Day 8, with five tribute povs. There are only six arena chapters left, two deathless chapters left, and we'll soon be at the finale, and I cannot wait to get there. After this chapter is posted, there'll be a poll on my profile about the two tributes you wish to be possible victor choices; curious about that. Enjoy Chapter #32: Blood Soaked Soil.
"Be wise enough not to be reckless, but brave enough to take great risks," ~ Frank Warren
Nokomis Yanaba: District 10 Female P.O.V (16)
Nokomis recalls when her world used to be drowned out in a greyscale color. It feels like such a long time ago that it tastes like a succulent dream on her tongue whenever she closes her eyes and goes to sleep. The sky did not shine a luxurious golden color like it does when the sun is out on the rise and set, but rather a morose color, like rubber being sloshed back and forth in a pan. The skin of an apple feels bitter under her teeth, then, chomping down on it between her molars where the backsplash washes against her throat. Her voice is unlike what Nokomis knows it to sound like, a dog's bark and a dog's bite mixed together whenever she greets someone.
She only knows how to describe it as 'the graying,' but her parents claimed it's depression. Or, well, her parents never used the word depression, that Nokomis can remember. "You're just blue, dear. You just don't know what you want to do in life," is her mother's response to whenever Nokomis is found curled up in her bedroom, knees pressing into her chest.
Sure, just blue, Nokomis snorts at the very thought. It is not as if outside her door, District Ten was not being ravaged by savages in white, bombs detonating where farmers would have their cattle till the soil, or where Nokomis would find rocks to go into her pet rock collection. It is not as if the sky is a forever dancing band of sulfur red and smoky gray, and the screams of the deceased are so loud that they combat with the chirping of the birds. No, Nokomis Yanaba is just blue.
The anxiety didn't help either, Nokomis's stomach churning at the thought of ever having to speak in front of a crowd. Her parents weren't much help with that either, her father gone and fighting by the time she ever has a name for the feeling that makes Nokomis puke in whichever trash cans she can find. A Yanaba didn't suffer from depression, a Yanaba didn't suffer from anxiety; her ancestors from before, the same faces watching her from above – and maybe even below, but Nokomis never brings up that concept lest she wish for her knuckles to be slapped by a ruler – are only people filled with pride and bravado.
"If they were so perfect and amazing," Nokomis asks her mother once, while they are in their backyard tending to poinsettias, her hands down into the earth, soil up to her elbows, "Then how come they died?"
Her mother's withering glare causes Nokomis to stop asking questions after dinner time for a month straight.
Nokomis wonders from time to time if she is invincible, if she were to be immortal like she used to think her ancestors once were, grandparents and aunts and uncles and generations from so long ago that she's never met, but alas, she's discovered all too well that her body is certainly mortal, and if her body is mortal, her time in Panem could come to an end as well.
Her entire body aches, the cuts and stab wounds and bruising from the last four days of fighting in the arena starting to take its toll. She hardly gets a half hour of sleep at a time, constantly awoken by rustling above them in the trees, or a stone breaking free from the rock wall and crashing down into the pool below. They've run out of bandages too, and there's one nasty gash on her ankle that'll just have to be, it'll just have to exist until a sponsor decides to bless them again.
There is hope, however, even as Nokomis takes inventory of her injuries, the one on her shoulder hurting the worse despite Camilla patching it up the best she can.
"Portia is gone," Nokomis says, aloud, stretching her legs the best she can without causing pain to ride up her side. Camilla is ahead of her by a bit, tending to her own wounds that have scarlet mixing in with her dark hair. Her ally looks back and frowns.
"What, Nokomis?" Camilla raises an eyebrow, a concerned expression on her face. "We know that." They saw her face shine late last night in the sky, the girl's grim resolve disappearing in one last flicker of electric hologram blue, blonde hair, and a pale face and one bitchy smirk of hatred and self-loathing being the last reminder Nokomis will ever have of the loyalist from District Two.
"I know," Nokomis smiles, sitting back down on her sleeping bag. She cannot even think about how gross it is to be sleeping in the same cot that she's had for a whole week now, it hitting her then that she's been in this hellish landscape, killing children and fighting for survival… for a whole week. She shudders at the reality of sleeping in her own blood, keeping the bile at bay from rising out of her throat. "I just… I like noting that reality."
Camilla smiles abashedly, a bit of color rising on her cheeks. "Yeah…" she admits, a bit of longing in her voice, though at what Nokomis cannot decipher it. "It almost feels dream-like." There's a pause, as Camilla tightens a tourniquet around her left thigh. She's still holding onto the hunting knife she retrieves from Portia's bag, and while Nokomis has her own blade, plus the sword that ends Zachary's life, it is an almost comical sight that the duo only shares three weapons. "How are you feeling?" she asks Nokomis.
"Like shit," the girl laughs back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
The depression manifests itself into Nokomis's writing, she discovers, when sharing one of her poems to a teacher who asks why she always had her head bent down over a journal whenever Nokomis had a free moment of peace amidst her schedule. The gray skies turn into the restless graveyards, there being one of them just a bit over from the ranch where her father used to have a job before he went and became a soldier. "Before he died…" Nokomis thinks bitterly, scowling for a moment. The graveyards morph into animals suffering from nightmares under the sunlit sky, on the good days where the water is not foul when it rushes out of rusty spigots. The anxiety weaves its way through the pages and along the stretches of lead that look like Nokomis is pressing the pencil hard onto the page.
Nokomis never expected herself to be able to have an ally in something called the Hunger Games, and she certainly did not expect herself to be alive.
"Perhaps we Yanaba folk are tougher than we thought," Nokomis cracks a joke to herself, slowly getting to her feet. She is hit with a woozy spell, having to support herself up against a tree resting on the outskirts of the veranda over the waterfall.
"That's expected," Camilla giggles back, getting to her feet likewise. She starts to roll up her sleeping bag, knife sheathed at her side.
It has been a nice and lovely visit to this section of the arena, this waterfall paradise, but Nokomis doesn't want to stay put any longer. Time and time again the two ladies – Portia as well, but Nokomis is already starting to forget about the bitch with two b's in her last name – are reminded over and over again by their escorts to show off for the camera, to be entertaining, and if the entertainment were to run out, so would their pulse shortly after it. Movement has to happen, especially in the top ten.
However, with all of what has happened, Nokomis is exhausted. She is exhausted from fighting, and it's been straight conflict for the last four or so days straight. Seeing Poem and Niklaus at the cornucopia a few days ago is startling, but she gets over it and the aversion to conflict. Fighting with Diana and her two lackeys terrifies her, even as Nokomis will unwrap the bandages around her hand and look at where the arrow goes straight through her palm, causing her grip to completely come undone. By the time the three of them came across Porscha and Kai'sa, just two days ago, dancing together atop the rocky veranda, Nokomis wishes to sink to her knees and scream.
Yet, however, she plays the part of the entertainer. She draws her sword and rushes in, and though she swears she'll put the blade away, it only takes less than twenty-four hours for Portia Beninblade to screw all of that up too.
Movement is expected, but Nokomis can sense it building in the back of her skull that this movement between she and Camilla, to wherever they wish to go… it'll be their last. Perhaps it'll be their last as a duo, or the Games will end then, or… well, all Nokomis knows is that she can sense finality starting to bud down along her spine and twist into her ribcage.
Camilla ties her hair into a ponytail, looking back at her ally. Nokomis smiles at her, before bending down to roll up her sleeping bag. She has to move slowly, for even though the wound to her ankle has stopped bleeding, she does not want to reopen it. "Where do you think we should go, Nokomis? Staying here would be nice, but…" she trails off, not needing to finish the statement.
Nokomis closes her eyes, pressing her fingers down against her head and massaging across her temples. Pain radiates in the back of her skull, a slow drum beat sound reverberating and pulsating across her eyes whenever she closes them. There are places in the arena they haven't gone yet, they mainly sticking to the decaying forest for Portia swears on her life that it'd hold some sort of haven, and Nokomis doesn't believe the waterfall paradise is the haven Portia has in mind.
"I don't think we should stay in the fishing village," she shakes her head. "Every alliance in the Games could be staying in there."
Camilla nods, digging a finger into her cheek. "Well, if things haven't changed, with their district partners dead, Orion, Porscha, and Poem are all in the arena and we can't place them," the girl from Nine swishes her tongue from side to side in her mouth. "Jasper and Vesuvia could be anywhere, and I think Diana and the other guys would still be in the village too."
"What about the torched landscape?" That is the one place Nokomis does not want to venture into. It looks like home, sure, with the dark sand and the steam rising off of the landscape, but something about the array of ground that stretches one fifth of the arena sends shivers down her spine.
"No," Camilla shakes her head. "That place seems dangerous. Then again…" she pauses, playing with her ponytail. "If it's the most lethal area of the Games, then there might not be anyone camping there."
Nokomis finishes rolling up her sleeping bag, hooking it to the backpack that she slowly hoists over her shoulder. Her sword is lying flat next to where she slept, Nokomis swiping her weapon up off of the ground. It is an action that is starting to become second nature to her, immediate and normal. "I don't want to stay there. I'd prefer not to roast alive."
A flash of annoyance shines in Camilla's eyes, her hands restless, as the girl's fingers now dance along the ridge of the handle to the knife pocketed by her side. The corner of her mouth twitches. "You pick where we go," she shakes her head back and forth. "All I know is that we can't stay here…"
Nokomis shudders, nodding her head in agreement. She looks down at the bloodstains that mar the rock, and if she were to lean down into them, she figures she could probably smell the copper reeking off of the wet stone. Perhaps the liquid holds memory, a pocketed cup of Portia for her to uncap and listen to, just to hear that tyrant scream and bleed.
If the decision were truly up to her, Nokomis would bury herself the deepest hole she could and weather out the storm.
She shrugs her shoulders. "Anywhere but here," she agrees again, and turns on her heel.
She's met her enemy, faced them head on, and no matter where her feet may take her, no matter where Camilla might accompany her to, even if it is into the lion's outstretched jaw, fangs ready to take a bite out of her, Nokomis knows that there'll still be enemies out there on the horizon to fight.
Nokomis can hardly be mustered to cry at the idea that she'll be facing enemies till the day she dies.
Vesuvia Vocanova: District 3 Female P.O.V (18)
"Ow!" Jasper yelps at the top of his lungs, Vesuvia shooting him a glare the moment the noise leaves his lips. A nearby crow flies off of a tree branch from the burnt to cinders cedar just a few feet away from them, Vesuvia's hand paused in mid motion above Jasper's chest. A creeping blush of heat rises to her face as she looks at his exposed skin, over the sturdy abs and taut muscle that she'd like to run her fingers over, but she stops herself from making a scene; the cameras have seen enough of them tussling in the weeds.
The cawing crow flies away from their camp spot, and Jasper's yell dissipates into the air. She turns back around to face her ally, her glare still kept across her face. "You mind not alerting every single tribute left in the arena to where we are, Jasper?"
He sticks his tongue back at her, hissing immediately after it for Vesuvia gives him no time to recover before she's dabbing the burn cream across Jasper's left pectoral muscle, just underneath his collarbone. The cut is not that deep, from where Surt's flaming sword slices into her ally's skin, but the area around it has started to darken and turn a smoldering black, like left over charcoal bits from one of her uncle's many barbecues in the roasting sun of District Three. All Vesuvia recalls from those barbecues is her uncle wearing a 'Kiss the Chef' aprons, and that her electronics always melted underneath the rays.
"Well, Vesuvia, why don't you try it if you think I shouldn't be yelling," he retorts. "It's painful," Jasper juts his head at her. "Besides, you're still injured and need some burn cream too."
Vesuvia hasn't forgotten. She cannot believe it, that she drops her guard and showed the Panemian audience and the Gamemakers that there are chinks in her armor, exposing her entire self for the nation to see and make fun of. Surt's cut into her shoulder stings, but she ignores it, gritting her teeth and soldering on. Prison time teaches her that while pain relief is something one can indulge in, there is always another obstacle ahead of them that could create an even worse feeling that'd ripple across her entire body. The cut will sit under its bandage, and she'll let it heal.
She figures that the burn cream, another sponsor gift, is expensive in the first place to get to them, and she doesn't want to waste it all.
"I don't need it," she lies, twisting the corners of her mouth into a smile. She digs her hands into the container, scooping up a glob of the cream – it is a pasty white gel that reminds her of the filling in crepes or eclairs – and slowly glides a finger over Jasper's skin. He doesn't keep her eyes off of her hand, his chest rising and falling with each of her movements.
Getting back to camp after the fight with the arena god is difficult to say the least, in the top five hardest things Vesuvia has ever had to do in her entire life. The moment Jasper collides into the tree, part of his body physically on fire – it is peculiar and oddly terrifying to Vesuvia, that even though Jasper is engulfed in flames from the knockback strike, those flames and burns are nowhere on his body – and he doesn't get up, Vesuvia knows something is wrong.
She holds onto her blade as tightly as she can, ignoring and forcing herself through the pain that is a blossoming scarlet tide of agony down her left side, and rushes at Surt. The god turns to her, grunting deeply, she narrowly avoiding a low thrust made by the behemoth's blade. Vesuvia gets another good slice in the thigh, but momentum causes her to fall forward, her weapon left in Surt's body. She rolls over, facing the mutt, its body blocking out the sun. Surt raises its sword again, and Vesuvia doesn't cover her face with her hands, nor does she close her eyes and await the pain. She stares at the creature dead on, waiting, waiting for the drop, but the beast never does it.
Surt gets one look at Vesuvia and walks away, her heart beating in her chest the entire time, as footprints with floating embers leave their marks in the sand. The god is gone, and so is her weapon, but the thing didn't kill her.
All Vesuvia can do is bust out into raucous laughter, just for a moment, head tilted back as she cackles and cackles. She laughs for a good few minutes, hands clutching her stomach, until her gaze passes back over to Jasper, whose smoldering body still hasn't moved. There hasn't been a cannon, but it still gets Vesuvia to rush over to him. He's breathing when she presses an ear to his nose, listening for the telltale whistle, as Jasper Overheart whistles through his nose when he sleeps, but still unconscious.
It is her bragging right, to claim, as it is true, that she drags his weightless body all the way back to camp, only getting one back cramp in her exertion. Jasper lays asleep the entire evening, and into the early hours of the morning, unable to move his body from the pain.
"He didn't kill you?" Jasper's voice rises in incredulousness. "Even after you called him a pissant?"
Vesuvia whittles down the sticks she's using for the fire with her knife, looking over at Jasper who has most of clothes off to expose his burnt skin to the cool air. "Pretty sure Surt is classified as an it," Vesuvia points out, tilting her head to the side. "Did you see any genitalia?" As Jasper chokes on his sip of water, she laughs. "I did say I am a god after all, and perhaps the thing finally knew who it was dealing with," she smirks, but it only causes Jasper to scoff.
Alive, and somewhat well, and Vesuvia supposes she could be happy about all that, but she's only enraged. She failed. Jasper failed, but most importantly, she failed. She sets out a goal, says she will reach it, by bringing the fire demon down to its knees and spilling its ichor out onto the onyx colored sand.
Jasper is content with being alive and is starting to come back to his normal self, but the loss sits with Vesuvia. It sits down in her chest, bubbling up inside like pustules of rage that pop and explode at the slightest hint of warmth and memory of two days ago. When Portia Beninblade and Ramses Boskov's faces shine in the sky, all she feels is displeasure at the idea that one of them could have died taking down the giant, that it won't fall to her name.
She knows they cannot try again, and if things were to go wrong and Vesuvia finds herself in the same predicament, she does not expect the Gamemakers to channel some sort of tune in Surt's head to let her live. She'd be able to join everyone else in her family in the ground, or maybe they'd dump her body into the closest body of water she can find, like what she does to Uncle Kenny, seeing the garbage bag with his body securely trapped inside, sink beneath the darkening surface.
Killing another tribute is one thing, as Vesuvia knows she can do it just like how she twists and breaks Dill's neck with the thread of rope that she's found no other use for, it still sitting there in its bundle in her backpack in one of the zipper pouches on the side. Killing a god… it elevates her to a status that no other crowning would ever be able to achieve, and that chance has been taken from her.
"Vesuvia?" Jasper's voice drawls nearby, breaking her out of her stupor. She blinks away the black spots in her vision, rubbing a hand down her lips. "You're stewing again."
"Well aren't you the little mind reader?" Vesuvia scowls, getting up and dusting off her hands.
"You muttered 'son of a bitch' under your breath," Jasper retorts, grabbing a strip of his cut up shirt, the parts of the uniform that were unusable from his burning body, and smears some of the burn ointment off of his body.
"Okay, and?" Vesuvia goes to the perimeter of their camp, working a loop through one of the thread wires. It is the same cord that Jasper trips into that nearly cuts off his leg before she frees him from the trap. It is disheartening to say the least that their alarm system hasn't done much, no chances for it to go off. All the excitement is elsewhere in the arena, out there in the unknown, yet with Jasper injured, she is not up to leaving him by himself and going on her own. She would not be able to win a two to one fight, no matter what the prison system taught her once upon a time.
Jasper sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Just making sure you're okay. We still have a Games to win, you know," he says.
"You say that as if I've forgotten," Vesuvia spits at him, turning on a heel. "It's all I think about. What it means to be in here, and what it means if we don't win." Winning is death, and it is not that Vesuvia is scared of death – well, that is not entirely being true to herself; death by another person's hands is a fear of hers, and if she is to be seeing the pearly gates before it is her time, it'll be by her hand and no one else's – but what it means when her body has sunk into the soil.
There'll be no more video games for her to design. No more guinea pigs to pluck out of the masses, young boys and adult men who see a pair of freckles and ginger hair and forget how to speak, idiotic guys with their belts half done before Vesuvia has even introduced herself.
He's proven his usefulness – Jasper, that is – but Vesuvia wonders if his usefulness is starting to run dry, like the toilet bowl from where she gets her water from when she's locked in her cell, since Vesuvia doesn't trust the water that the Peacekeepers hand her during their measly time together for lunch. The man with his shattered wrists and elbows and gouged out eyes… it is an example of what happens when someone's usefulness runs out in the land of a Vocanova.
Her right hand goes to her pocket, feeling the flask that contains the sleep aid. Cole's sponsor gift, where she'll pull it out of her pocket at night when her lips are no longer pressed against Jasper's or when her hands needing something lighter to grip onto than- a blush creeps on her face, as she slips her fingers into her pocket.
It is her fail safe. She doesn't have any of her gadgets here in the arena, all of them most likely torn to bits back home in her warehouse in her uncle's basement. All of that knowledge, all of that brilliance just tossed aside. It causes her foam at the mouth, the very thought of some mortal touching the intelligence that comes from Vesuvia Vocanova.
"It's not time for any of that yet," Vesuvia tells herself, slipping her right hand out of her pocket. She looks over at Jasper, who has started to roll back down onto his back and look up at the sky. A calm and peaceful day, and lunch will be soon, but first… "Well?" she says, cutting through the peaceful blanket that has settled over them. Jasper lifts his head up to look at her. "You going to make yourself useful?"
"By doing what, Vesuvia?" Jasper raises an eyebrow. She notes that he uses her full name more than her nickname now, even in the tumbleweeds of passion and cloth and limbs.
"I'll take some of that burn cream," Vesuvia shucks off the covering over her shoulder, tugging her uniform down to around midlevel to her elbow. "Unless you want your savior who dragged you back to safety to potentially burn to death."
Jasper rolls his eyes, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. His movement is slow, and Vesuvia has to factor that in, as he reaches over and grabs the can of cream.
He has his uses. Everyone has their uses, Vesuvia notes.
She is still uncertain whether or not she can take any advantages over his uses anymore, however.
And if there is one thing Vesuvia Vocanova can count in her life, it is that she is never, ever uncertain.
Magnus Winterthorn: District 2 Male P.O.V (18)
He has run out of things to say. Magnus Winterthorn cannot remember the last time he has ever run out of something to say, but the words are simply not there in his throat when he opens his mouth. It's odd, puzzling him that what he is witnessing, seeing people die in front of him, and getting blood on his hands… it's nothing he hasn't seen before. War in the districts had been terrible, a horrible experience that Magnus doesn't wish on anyone to ever experience, yet it's why he's here, isn't it? He loves it, the screams and the sweat, the tension riding the air, the thickness that sticks to his skin. He left the battle, but the battle could not be taken out of him, Magnus suspects.
His body is perfect for it, muscled and toned, where even though Diana mentions all the time that her sexuality is only geared to those of the female persuasion, he senses her eyes combing over him, and it only makes him smirk. It causes him to lean over the campfire more or tighten his grip on the bowstring just a bit harder as he notches a shot, but it only makes Diana roll her eyes more and more. She appreciates his company though, he can tell, when he sees the slight curvature of her mouth towards the sky versus the dirt. There's also a signature, "Screw off, Magnus!" or a strongly delivered, "Gross!" as it means he's usually spat at something and watched the spit bubble in the sand, but it only makes him grin back at her.
Magnus has enjoyed her company, yes, but he cannot get the nagging thought out of his head that deep down he has screwed up in an irrevocable way. Watching Catalus leave yesterday morning, with where Diana poises her spear directly into their ally – well, ex-ally's – back, Magnus feels the water in his mouth dry up instantly. Soldiers did not turn on their unit, even when one is doing something less than appealing on the eyes. He sees the pleading in the other boy's eyes, their conversation passing between them about how there is a betrayal coming. Magnus believes it to be a load of horse piss, at how something in this fabricated manmade land of torture and misery can somehow predict the future. Can the Gamemakers read their thoughts? He doubts that.
Catalus's decision is out of fear, Magnus decides, when he sees the tension build up on the guy's back and radiate down into his lower spine as Catalus twists and turns. Afraid of what will happen to him when the flock is whittled down to the point that everyone turns against one another, and the idea that Catalus Drachma is scared of being targeted first only makes Magnus snort. It is the same in the platoons fighting against Capitol Peacekeepers in the ponderosa forests on the outskirts of Seven, or down in the trenches, eating stale oranges from Eleven, where Magnus witnesses those who are terrified of war and its damages have dark stains blooming across the front of their trousers.
"You want to die afraid and terrified?" Magnus screams at the recruit, some guy named Wheezer in the far outskirts of Eleven. He's some kid who is so scrawny that the helmet on his head clacks around like an empty water canteen, and Magnus grabbing him by the shoulders isn't helping much for the rattle. The kid looks back at him (he's just a kid, Magnus is just a kid, all these soldiers are just kids) with wide eyes, wide brown eyes filled of vinegar and terror. Wheezer has six siblings to feed with a despondent dad, and a drunkard mom, but all Magnus sees in front of him is incompetence.
The rebel alliance did not allow incompetence in their ranks. You fought for the sanctity of Panem; incompetence and idiocy and dreamers and all of those pansies were left back at base to shiver in the rain.
It doesn't surprise Magnus that Wheezer gets a bullet to the brain, a direct hit through one ear and out the other that covers him in offal and blood, blood dripping down his face, mixing with the tartness of the moldy oranges from earlier, coating his skin in a rainy crimson tide. Magnus lets the kid slump down dead under him, but he doesn't mourn the soldier.
Incompetence has no place in Magnus's life.
He is happy to see Catalus go for that very reason. Back in the Capitol, getting off of the trains to head to the Remake Center with Portia – he is pleased that she is gone, her death sends droplets of sunshine onto the top of his head – he wants nothing more but to speak to the gilded and illustrious Catalus Drachma, for the richness that bleeds out of his veins, and through the confidence that permeates off the stage… it speaks to Magnus. He wants someone with that confidence, but now, as he thinks about it… it's all a mask. Fakery, for Catalus is shaking in his boots, terrified, volunteering because he is forced to.
That's the betrayal he feels like has happened, that Catalus has-
"Hey, Magnus?" Diana's voice interrupts his train of thought. He blinks away the glimpses of orange juice and blood that sizzle under the torrential cover of rain. She waves a hand in front of his face, a somewhat concerned expression on hers. "You okay?" she asks again, frowning.
"Yeah," Magnus clears his throat. "I'm… I'm fine, I swear. Just…" he pauses, scratching the back of his head. He tried time and time again to become part of the Panemian Rebel Alliance, but time and time again he is shot down because he's either too short, or too weak, or too young. Excuses, all of them, for all Magnus feels in his veins is competence. "Thinking about something else from back home," he waves off the concern with a hand.
Diana is unimpressed, she raising an eyebrow. There's a coil of rope wrapped around her left arm, an anchor clenched between her fingers on her palm. "Well, I'd rather you not space out and then have me fall to my death." Magnus hopes he isn't mistaken, but it seems like to him that there's a hint of mirth in her voice. "We got to see about getting down there and getting away from all of this…" she motions above her head.
After Magnus watches Diana spear Ramses to the point where it hasn't been brought up again, he simply looking at her with a dead stare in his eyes. He isn't even shocked, for he can sense that the anger Diana feels over Catalus abandoning them, and then sparing him from the consequences of having his back turned, it is going to spill out and over anything in its path. While Magnus doesn't expect it to be towards poor Ramses, when he sees the guy's face shine in the sky, there's nothing that is dredged up from his soul. He's dead, and Magnus is just happy he didn't have to kill someone else for the numbers to progress.
For all the talk Diana gives him, and for what she gave Catalus too, about Orion volunteering and not understanding that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, he expects it. If someone else were to steal her prize, then the tempest would throw out all of her tidal waves in hopes of dragging that poor, unfortunate naysayer down to the depths to drown. Magnus would stand off of the shores, high up on the cliffs, to watch the chaos, and if someone were to be dragged under, whether they deserved it or not, he'd simply watch.
He has spent so much time of his life watching people die right in front of him with no way to save them that Magnus feels, with there only being ten people left in the arena, the other nine being viewed as competitors who have their rifles trained on him, he has no more time for sympathy. There's only whatever directives his leader shall give him. If Diana wants violence, he'll deliver.
Magnus can admit that seeing Portia's face in the sky last night draws up a yell from the core of his chest. Her being dead is amazing, and it makes him happy now that the anger has passed, but he understands where Diana's rage comes from at the very thought that Orion would have passed on without her chance to exact vengeance, or whatever word it is she uses. Portia is his – was, he corrects himself bitterly – but now that chance has been stolen from him, and the person to do doesn't deserve the honor of killing a loyalist.
As far as he is aware, there are no other loyalists left in the arena, and Portia had been the only one to be open about her love for the Capitol, let alone any admittances of the atrocities she completed back at home. He clenches his own anchor tightly in his hand. It is yet again another sponsor gift from the sky late last night, some Capitolite completely taken over by the fact that Diana puts on such a show for the audiences back home and they must be rewarded.
Attached to the sponsor gift is a note from his escort, Merida. The last few gifts they had received were either directly given to Diana or Catalus with their escorts attached to those cards, respectively. He doesn't like the woman, but the sponsor gift, it being the anchors and the bundle of climbing gear, comes as a command.
There is a cave that has been remotely unexplored in the heart of the arena. The only information that Merida can give them on the card is that there is something down there, at the end of it, that they'll want. Diana, ever the purveyor of playing the Game, and succeeding at it, is ready to make their move at first light.
Diana slams her anchor down into the dirt, wedging it between two rocks. Dirt flies up in the air, Magnus brushing some of it off of his shoe. She hasn't spoken all that much either, since yesterday, but the remnants of yesterday are still there in how blood coats the tip of her spear, or how her ponytail comes undone, and she hasn't bothered putting it back up.
Magnus swings the bow over his shoulder, holding the quiver of arrows close to his chest. Diana finishes her preparations, as Magnus does likewise for his anchor and bundle of rope. He'll let her down first, and then he'll follow after that.
"What do you think we will find down there?" she asks him, her back turned to the cave entrance. It looks to be around a forty or fifty foot drop, and there's nothing stopping Magnus from pushing her in, but he hasn't seen any signs of incompetence rise up in her yet. He hears it, however, on her voice. It is a timidness entirely unlike her.
"Not sure," Magnus shrugs his shoulders. "Could be gold. Could be a kill switch on every other tribute left except for the one who flicks it," he rubs a thumb over his other palm. "Something important enough for my escort to demand that we go and get it." Diana bites down on her lip, looking back into the gap. She is to go first, spear hooked to her belt, only because of the fact that Magnus's weapon of choice is more cumbersome to get out and draw if it came down to it, should something threatening be waiting for them. "What's wrong? You look nervous."
"Well, to be honest, I am," Diana admits, rubbing her hands down her arms. "First time we entered a random cave we almost died to a rabid wolf, and well, the last time we went in we found Sylvan…" she looks up at him, balling her tongue on one side of her mouth. "What if this time we find something we simply can't beat?"
Magnus doesn't answer her, which only causes his fearless leader to roll her eyes, starting her climb down. Magnus holds onto her rope as tight as he can, so the anchor doesn't rip free, as Diana begins her descension. It is going to take them about a day or so to find the object, as per what Merida says, far underground at the heart of the arena.
After a while, with Magnus clenching onto the rope still, it grows taut, and he can barely make out Diana's voice. "I'm at the bottom! Come on now!"
He dusts his hands off, getting into a crouched position to make his own descent. Done at an angle where Diana is to get a perfect shot of his rear-end as he repels down into the depths of hell.
Before he goes down, the sun beating down on his head, droplets of sweat streaming down his forehead, Magnus swears he sees something in the distance. A shiny, translucent figure, sitting on a rock. The figure waves at him, disappearing as if Magnus hadn't seen anything in the first place.
What did Catalus tell him?
He blinks hard, rubbing at his brow. A drum. A shiny, translucent ghost, betrayal, something about a drum. Betrayal. Drum. Betrayal. Drum.
Magnus opens his eyes, a grin widening on his face.
All this time Catalus Drachma has been scared straight over a betrayal that could be heading his way, propositioned by a drum.
Who is to say Magnus can't do a betrayal of his own?
Jasper Overheart: District 3 Male P.O.V (18)
For being a girl who looks like she has no experience around cooking materials in her life, Jasper Overheart is amazed at how Vesuvia is able to turn any piece of randomness taste like the dinners that the two of them dined on in the Capitol.
He holds back a burp, setting one of his sticks aside – no utensils in the arena, unlike the Capitol with their cloth lined tables and fancy China – while Vesuvia scrunches her nose at his lack of manners. "Vesuvia, where did you even learn how to make charred lizard?" he asks, the words not sounding right as they come out of his mouth. "Not to mention that it tasted like chicken…" she opens her mouth to respond, Jasper jutting a finger in her direction. "And don't say prison either, or I'll clock you."
Vesuvia giggles, holding a hand to her mouth. "Well, I suppose I'll have to be the bearer of disappointment and say prison." She stands up and begins stamping out the fire, cinders and smolders rising into the air. Jasper scoots back from the rising flames, lifting his hands out of the way from falling ash. "There wasn't a lot of leisure time in the penitentiary, and between all the lessons on the art of the shiv and rowdy nightly games of kickball, a girl got curious and creative." She winks at him, the fire put out, and this time Jasper is unable to help the belch that comes out of his mouth.
His ally rolls her eyes, muttering an insult under his breath, but Jasper can only smile back at her. Dinner for the two of them is charred lizard, as is their lunch, after Jasper finishes dotting Vesuvia's arm up and down in the burn cream. It takes most of the cream for her wounds, especially around her lower wrist, which Vesuvia has covered up by a long strip of cloth that she drags out of their backpacks. He likes the look of her injuries, it adding another element of badassery to her already badass form, but he supposes that she doesn't need him to tell her that.
Jasper scoots back to lean up against a turned over boulder, the cawing of nearby crows filling the stilled silence or the occasional crunch of dirt underneath his boots. He places his hands behind his head, elbows winged out on either side of him. "You know, Vess," he says, causing her to look over at him, "If you do make it back to District Three, you should try and pick up cooking. Like, professionally. I imagine people in the Capitol would love to teach you."
A blush settles on her face, matching her hair color, Vesuvia waving away the compliment. "I'm good…" she laughs, elbows rising with the noise. "I'll stick to the digital world if you don't mind."
Vesuvia pauses, the words sinking out of her, her voice dragging out into the empty space. Jasper knows he broke a rule, though it has been an unsaid rule between the two of them. Talking about the future, talking about what could happen ahead of them when they are out of the arena. It is a fool's hope, to believe that both he and Vesuvia could make it out alive, for there has been an expressed interest over and over that there'll only be one winner, and eventually their happy duo of sex and charred lizards and burn cream will have to come to a stop.
Jasper has no idea what he'd do if he were to escape, if he were to live. Living means Vesuvia doesn't, but there could still be a chance that both of them could… it's only a passing thought, but Jasper cannot say it hasn't crossed his mind at least once, the concept of both of them living to the end.
"What do you want to do?" Vesuvia asks him, after the pause has settled over them. Jasper rolls his shoulders, biting down on his tongue to stomach through the pain that spreads across his upper chest. "When you get out of here?"
He has not given it any thought. Admitting he is from Thirteen back on the interview stage is the nail in his coffin on never returning from the arena, Jasper figures, but he can only feel the lies slipping through his teeth and choking him into suffocation by each one he utters. Telling the truth is what he's always known, where if the people in his life won't keep secrets from him, then why should he?
"I don't know," he shrugs his shoulders. "I have my siblings to take care of, and I- I don't even know what they're doing right now with me not being there to provide for them." Jasper shakes his head, making a clucking noise with his tongue. "Nothing too extravagant, I guess." Vesuvia tilts her head back and laughs, an airy noise, one that rushes life back into his veins through the burns, but this time, he doesn't feel a fluttering warmth in his heart. It's a cold lance of ice straight through his chest. "What's so funny, Vess?" he asks.
Vesuvia takes a moment to catch her breath, even going so far as to wipe tears from her eyes. "I am so far of the opposite from you. Extravagance will become my middle name," she says, spreading her hands far apart. "Like, there are so many things I could do with my mind!" Vesuvia exclaims, sitting on the haunches of her heels. Jasper notes that the crows and their incessant cawing has started to slow down, but the sun hasn't started to sink beneath the sky. "Like, my mind… in the Capitol?" The excitement in Vesuvia's voice is impossible to not notice. "Can you imagine what sort of sick shit I could come up with here in these arenas with me on the Gamemaker teams?"
What?
Jasper recoils from her, hitting his head somewhat on the base of the tree. "What?" he says, a record scratch happening somewhere off in a secluded spot in his head. She'd… Vesuvia would willingly join the…?
Jasper's eyes widen. The crows have stopped cawing without warning.
Past Vesuvia, over her shoulder and on the overturn of two boulders, both laying side by side with a small gap between them… there, he sees it. Eyes. Blue eyes.
His sword is lying next to his sleeping bag, hilt shining in the sun. Jasper's entire body tenses as he starts to rise, ever so slowly. "Vess…" he whispers, his voice so low that it is as if he isn't speaking at all. Vesuvia cuts off in yet again another laugh, her mouth paused in an 'o' shape.
"What?" she asks, annoyed.
"Don't. Move," Jasper enunciates, his body now in a hunchback position as he goes to reach for his sword. Vesuvia's eyes widen as well, but she doesn't turn around. Her body is hunched over the dwindling fire. "Just… just stay still…" Jasper hisses.
His hands just barely manage to snag themselves around the hilt of his sword when the anguished scream breaks through the distilled quiet. Jasper wrenches his blade up and close to him, motion rushing into the fray from behind the overturned boulders. There's a mad dash of dark fabric and blonde hair, Jasper's eyes settling onto the sight of Orion Maythorpe rushing towards their campsite.
The boy from Four has an axe in his hand, the blade glowing a sheen and deadly silver in the setting sun. Orion's scream causes Vesuvia to turn, the other male descending down onto them from up high. Orion lifts his axe and swings it, Vesuvia rolling out of the way. She rights herself, Jasper rooted in place, trying to stand up straight like his ally is doing, but he can only watch as Orion twists in her direction and smashes his fist into her skull.
Vesuvia doesn't even get to cry out in pain as she drops into the ground, her face colliding with the leftover remnants of the fire.
"Vess!" Jasper screams her name, but she doesn't get up, her body laying there unmoving. He locks eyes with Orion, the boy snarling at Vesuvia in triumph. "What the fuck, Orion?"
Orion's gaze snaps to Jasper's, a chill coming over the boy from Three. It is a look of pure hate, a look of pure malice that severs his spinal cord and leaves his limbs lax. A hatred unlike nothing he's ever seen, where Jasper's own glares at the TV screens seeing Nathaniel Coin's live execution or the announcement of the Hunger Games paling in comparison.
"You!" Orion bellows at Jasper, the boy flinching in place. The blonde curves the axe in his grip. "You… you murderer, you sick bastard!"
"I- what are you talking about?" Jasper chokes on the surprise welling up in his throat.
"Ramses!" Orion yells back. "You killed him, didn't you? I know it, I know in my heart that you…" the boy is unable to get the words out of his mouth, simply unleashing another bellow of rage. He lunges for Jasper, Jasper ducking and sidestepping away from the strike. Even in Orion' movements, he can see the bandages wrapped around the boy's body, all of them stained a deep and putrid crimson. How- how is he moving like…
Jasper is unable to finish the thought as he parries a strike from Orion's axe, his sword catching the blade in the dead center. A harsh ring slaps across their campsite, rebounding along the tree trunks. Jasper grits his teeth, parrying another rushed swing that has Orion lumber forward and lose his footing.
The boy from Three can hardly look back at Vesuvia, more concerned with the raging monster snarling at his feet. "Orion, I don't know what you're talking about! I- I don't want to hurt you!" Jasper pleads. "Besides, Vess and I haven't even-"
Orion's face of contorted anger twists into a sneer as the boy slices across the back of Jasper's leg with the axe. Jasper howls in pain, dropping down onto his side, nearly impaling himself with his own weapon. Orion is back onto his feet nearly instantly, swinging the axe down again.
Jasper scrambles for his weapon, holding his sword out, the axe striking perfectly where the tip of Jasper's weapon slides into one of the holes through the axe's surface. His eyes widen as Orion thrusts his arms upward, the blade flying out of Jasper's hands as Orion swings upward. The blade falls back onto the ground, but Jasper has to roll out of the way from another downward swing by Orion.
"Liar!" Orion's face is the color of Vesuvia's hair, spit dripping out of the corners of his mouth. "You people are all fucking liars!" Jasper gets to his feet, ducking his head and barreling himself straight into Orion. The boy from Four howls in another burst of rage, both guys colliding into one of the trees.
This is nothing new, Jasper thinking back to what it took to cross from District Thirteen's border into Three's with his younger siblings in tow. Peacekeeper fights in District Five, taking a boat out onto one of District Four's many inlets under the cover of rebel fire… fistfights with vagrants out in the woods who only knew how to hurt…
Jasper steadies his fists, clocking Orion straight in the jaw. The other boy growls in pain, holding up his arms to take another steady round of blows. Jasper grits his teeth, kneeing Orion in the stomach, and when the boy lowers his arms to clutch the area, Jasper gets a good strike at the boy's nose. There's an audible crack, a spray of copper everywhere, and all he can hear is Orion screaming bloody murder.
Orion doesn't raise his hands to cover his bloodied nose, but instead kicks out with his feet, catching Jasper in the shin. Jasper yelps, his legs giving out as he sinks to his knees. Orion tosses him aside, the boy from Four rushing to grab his axe in the dirt. Jasper sees his sword over by Vesuvia's head, the hilt brushing just close enough to her ears.
Jasper makes a mad dive for his weapon, picking it up again as Orion turns around and rushes for him.
"I- Orion, stop!" Jasper screams at the top of his lungs.
Orion screeches an inhumane noise that Jasper can only amount to a pain that is unimaginable, and the strike that the boy delivers is at a good angle, with enough force behind it. Jasper sees how the swing would end up connecting with his shoulder, so he does all he can do, and that is parry the strike and counter with his own.
Jasper swings, and the blade slices through Orion's left arm. The entire limb goes the rest of the way of the attack, Jasper screaming in horror as a gush of blood lands directly on his face. The dismembered arm flails in the air before landing directly on top of the fire. Orion downs to one knee, the axe falling out of his grip as the boy only in a stunned fashion looks at where his arm used to be.
"Please!" Jasper begs, tears starting to prickle at the corner of his eyes. This isn't a Peacekeeper going after his brother and sister, or even the president of Panem threatening to eradicate District Thirteen off the face of Panem – he succeeds, and Jasper can only wail in the night – but another tormented soul, and he just cut his arm off… "Orion, stop it! I don't want to hurt you! Please!"
His words fall onto deaf ears, Orion snarling another inhumane noise, his right hand encircling around the hilt of the axe, gripping it tight. Despite the torrent of blood that is gushing out of the hole where his arm used to be, Orion rushes at Jasper again.
Another slice, the blade sinking deep into Orion's side. It is not enough, even then, for Orion does not even audibly react to the strike. The boy from Four does another heel turn, even after Jasper is screaming his name again and again until his voice goes hoarse, tears flowing down his face at this point.
Jasper's next thrust finds Orion's heart.
All the movement between the pine trees and overturned rocks comes to a complete halt.
Jasper releases a low whimper from his throat as he removes the sword from Orion's body. The boy from Four croaks out something, it sounding like a name, Jasper unable to make heads or tails off what it is. The cannon fires before Orion's body faceplants onto the ground, right next to his severed arm.
Jasper drops his sword, bile threatening to rise from his throat.
The cannon fire causes Vesuvia to jolt out of her state by the campfire, she sitting upright, breaths coming out of her in a panicked speed.
"Vesuvia!" Jasper cries out, rushing to her side. She recoils away from him for a moment, gasping out in fright as he crosses over, before the tension in her body settles back down. "Are you okay?"
He is covered in blood, but that doesn't matter, as Jasper looks over at her. There is a growing red mark on the side of her face from where Orion's fist strikes her.
"What-" Vesuvia babbles, licking her lips. "Jasper, what-"
"I killed him, Vess…" Jasper gasps, squeezing his eyes shut, as tears stream down his face. "I begged Orion to stop, but he wouldn't, and I got him in the heart and-" he shakes his head back and forth.
He opens his eyes to see Vesuvia standing over Orion's body, she picking up his dismembered arm and… and holding the severed hand. Jasper nearly throws up.
He feels disgusted, stuck in shock, covered in his blood, as Vesuvia opens her mouth to speak.
The statement she says is something he never expects her to have uttered in a million years, least of all concerning this.
"I am so proud of you, Jasper," Vesuvia smiles at him, the smile widening with all of her pearly whites.
The echo of Orion's cannon is incapable of drowning out the roar of Jasper's heartbeat as he stares wildly back at his district partner, let alone able to drown out the terrifying scream he unleashes inside his own head.
Poem Cavalli: District 8 Female P.O.V (16)
There is an air of maturity that Poem appreciates in Catalus, one that she notices is wholly different from the sort of energy that Niklaus exudes – exuded, Poem dear, a voice that sounds strangely like her mother's, corrects her – and she catches it ebbing off of him whenever she looks at him. Poem also sees the way her designs could hug his filled out waist, or decorate and dance down his thighs, holes cut open in the sides to show off that delightfully golden skin color that Poem wishes she could get more chances to see.
He makes her laugh, as well, as the two of them parade around the cabin that has housed their newly found alliance for the last twenty-four hours. Poem appreciates people in her life that can make her laugh, she often lost away to the world of focusing on her passion projects, locked away in her studio for so long that she'll forget to eat, and even at times, breathe when sweat drips down her face, needle and thread clenched in her hands.
Niklaus made her laugh, but it is not the kind of joy Poem feels riding up her intestinal wall as Catalus mocks and mimics the voice of his escort, or the way he describes all of the foolish antics he did to make his old allies crack smiles in the darkness. She leans herself back against one of the wooden beams in the shack, setting the middle of her spine flush to a ridge that causes her body to jut out some, as Catalus digs into one of their backpacks for their water canteens.
"You're funny," Poem says, smiling and twisting a thread of her training uniform around her finger. She's starting to come around on the design, after being stuck with the horrid piece of clothing for so long, design choices she'd never actually be caught dead in. If she is able to keep it up and stay alive, then hopefully she won't be caught dead in- she cuts the thought off, keeping the grin on her face. "Back in District 8 I forgot to laugh and have fun, cause I was always busy with, well…" she pauses, scratching the back of her neck. "Myself."
Catalus pauses through his searching, rolling his shoulders back. "You're just saying that because you feel the need to be nice to me." Poem frowns at the response, raising an eyebrow. She notices that whenever she does give him a compliment, from which it is on how his hair is such a stunning shade of black, or how Catalus's debonair quality to him doesn't reek of bullshit and arrogance like people claim hers does, despite it coming from a genuine place, he doesn't accept the accolade. "And no, don't tell me that you're being sincere."
"I'm being sincere."
"Hmph," Catalus makes a gruff noise in his throat, digging the canteens out of one of the pouches. "Well, they're both empty," he says, continuing on, as he turns toward her. Poem wipes the last flecks of the skin of an apple off her mouth, that being a snack they just finished before Catalus started his antics. There's a stream just a bit away from their cabin, about a fifteen minute walk there and a fifteen minute walk back to make it a half hour round trip. "Think I should go and fill them up?"
"We can go and fill them up, yeah," Poem says, lifting her head. Catalus frowns, setting the canteens down on the ground.
She misses Niklaus a lot, mainly missing the way that he makes her feel seen with the backdrop of the setting sun on them, or how he caresses her face with even the slightest of touches, but if there is one thing she doesn't miss, no matter how sweet it is, is his protectiveness. It bled out of him, out of every pore, but Poem is unable to see the sweetness for what it was. Concern is nice, but she didn't need concern. She needed an ally.
"I really don't mind going by myself-" Catalus starts to offer, but she holds up a hand to silence him.
"Niklaus would forbid me from doing things all the time when we were in an alliance," Poem says, shaking her head. "While he wanted me to pull my weight when it came to if we were ever in a hairy situation or something, but besides that…" the pillar creaks somewhat as she shifts her weight. "If we were to eat something that involved cooking it, he'd make the fire and cook it. He wouldn't let me go first into a place we hadn't seen before…" she sighs. "I get that it was out of protectiveness, but it- it made me feel useless."
"I'm sorry…" Catalus drops his voice, holding out her canteen.
"I'm not a damsel, Catalus. I can handle myself," Poem tells him, taking the metallic can into her grasp. She shoulders her backpack off of one arm, picking up her knife and sheathing it to the scabbard by her left side.
"I know," he points out, before frowning again. "Why would you bring your pack?"
Poem gestures out to the darkening sky, the arena clock telling the both of them that it is starting to near around 8:30, and Poem knows from the time in the torched landscape section of the arena, when she couldn't sleep, that the fire giant would roam the land. Even though Catalus promises her that the mutt in their area, the fishing village tormented by the wolf with glowing blue eyes, she doesn't trust the outside after the sun sets.
"I'd rather not be caught off guard by something and we need something we don't have."
"Moot point," Catalus agrees, and he's already making his way for the door, sword in hand. Poem feels dismal and small in comparison, with her own knife by her side, and she notices the tremble that radiates down her wrist even as she tries to steady her hand and strike at one of the other pillars in the cabin. Catalus appoints himself to be her personal teacher, though Poem believes that even if he does hail from the illustrious Drachma Conglomerate, its lauded praises even reaching District 8's ears, he doesn't have any expertise in weaponry. Despite that, she listens, the notches in the wood enough of an adequate model for her talent.
Talent is a way to put it, Poem snorting at the idea of how making dresses could factor into killing children. Catalus admits that in his private session with the Gamemakers that he hesitated too long between each session, haphazard stabs with a sword, or throws with a wooden spear that miss the target by a wide breadth that gets him laughed at. Poem cringes at what she did, still lapsed up in her own delusions.
Sitting in the center of the room and doodling that the Head Gamemaker would look like in a wedding dress is not evoking any sort of feeling from Cain Passionia, as she shows her drawing to him and is awarded a point at the very least for doing something.
She needs to do more than that here if she wants to survive, especially with ten left, including her, still vying to have their hearts beat one day more.
She and Catalus walk for a few minutes in silence, he commentating on the softness of the ground beneath their feet, or the tastiness of the apple they ate for a snack, but besides that, they keep to themselves. As he helps hoist her over a ledge, to the point where Catalus's hands are gripped around her waist, a blush rising on her cheeks, a cannon fires resoundingly around the arena.
He nearly drops her, she slipping and catching onto the ground by a hand.
"Shit! Sorry!" he exclaims, Catalus tugging her up onto the flat surface.
Poem frazzles her curls with her hands, sitting on her knees in the dirt, the cannon echoing in her head. "Who- who do you think that was?"
"I'm not sure," Catalus says, biting his lip. Hope. Each firing of that cannon represents hope in her heart, a sign that maybe one day Poem can reach the end of the line, make Niklaus's death mean something… make her stupid decision to volunteer mean something too. "You want to turn back and just wait till morning to get water or-"
She shakes her head in dissent. Quitting is a habit she tries breaking multiple times in her life, back then when Capitolites throw her designs in her face because she's not Anya Cavalli with the weaving hands of Arachne, and Poem nearly gives up, but an inner voice tells her to continue on and never forget what she wants and aspires to be.
It is because of that, because of that stupid ideology that Poem believes it to be a good idea and volunteer into a death match.
"We're already almost there," Poem gets to her feet, continuing to move on with or without Catalus. He tries to hide the fear in his voice, but she picks up on it. The same tone in Niklaus's voice, fear staining his shirt white with terror at the thought of losing her. "Besides-"
She is cut off midsentence as Poem is thrown to the ground by Catalus again, she grunting in pain as her chin collides with the dirt. She looks at her ally, about to cuss him out, when he presses a finger to his lips, shushing her.
Poem freezes, squeezing her eyes shut and masking out the heartbeat. The cannon fire has dissipated, but there's something else. Something much clearer than a cannon from far away.
Voices.
The two of them hear the girls before they see them, Poem catching a glimpse of Camilla Rodriguez and Nokomis Yanaba by their stream and getting water of their own. Both girls look much worse for wear, but all Poem can focus on is their faces. The two girls are laughing at one another, something clenched in Nokomis's grip, though Poem cannot see what it is all that well.
"Poem, we're out in the open…" Catalus hisses to her, slowly scooting back.
"I know!" Poem snaps back, twisting her head quick enough to cause a pop in her neck. "We need the water though…"
"What are we going to do?" Catalus tugs her down with him onto the level beneath the top section of turf. "Just go up and politely ask to use the river?"
They're talking. Happy. That is all Poem can focus on when looking at the two girls. Portia is dead, obviously, with the face being shown in the sky last night, Poem rejoicing at her death in a way that even has Catalus looking at her like she's crazy in the dark of their cabin. If Poem is to place her hands around her jugular, to feel the thrum of her pulse under the skin, she can feel the pressure of the jagged blade that the girl from Two thrusts up against her.
The light in Niklaus's eyes when he rounds the corner to the mouth of the Cornucopia, his token in his hand, and how the light is snuffed out at the sight of Poem held in danger's very grasp.
"They…" Poem barely utters the words out, her lower lip quivering. "They were there…" she rasps out, clutching her chest.
"Who was?" Catalus frowns, raising an eyebrow.
"Camilla and Nokomis…" Poem spits out, anger flashing across her face. Happiness, the two girls, happy. Niklaus Peverell is dead and Poem Cavalli doesn't know how to be happy. "They were with Portia when we ran into them at the cornucopia. They didn't do anything when Portia had a knife pressed up against my neck…"
She knows she's lying, but it is the only way Poem is able to get through the memory without crying. It is only a few days ago, but in the thaw of time in the arena, it already feels like a lifetime ago. They did save her life in a way, but only after Poem makes up some bullshit excuse through her teeth, the panic evident in Niklaus's eyes even as he tries building upon the falsity.
Yes, the two of them coaxed Portia to release the hold on her throat, but… but… "It wasn't enough…" Poem whispers aloud, a croak of despair rising out of her throat.
Catalus's touch is comforting, but it is all too familiar, she shrugging him off. "What wasn't enough, Poem?"
"Nokomis and Camilla didn't do anything to Portia when they saw me…" Poem's hands dance around the hilt of her blade pocketed in the scabbard by her side. "I could see how much they hated that bitch, yet even after Portia let me go they didn't think of just backstabbing her then and letting Niklaus and I join with them." She sees a glimpse of hurt flicker in Catalus's eyes, but Poem doesn't care. She can only focus on the what ifs of the past. "Because of that, Niklaus and I fled to wherever we could, and we picked here," she gestures down to the fishing village, wide and expansive. An area of wild abandon. "And since we were so distraught, we camped for the night. If we didn't camp for the night, then Orion wouldn't have found us and…"
The words are like fire in her throat,
"If it weren't for Camilla and Nokomis standing as bystanders, Niklaus could still be alive," Poem snarls lowly in her throat. Their fault. It's their fault he's dead, their fault he's rotting away without her kisses to send him to sleep at night. "I loved him…" she cries out, biting into her hand.
She's moving without even realizing it.
"Poem!" Catalus cries out in shock, he reaching for her and tugging at her back, but Poem is on the move, vaulting herself as hard as she can over the same ledge and back onto the same elevation as the stream. "Poem, what are you doing? Poem, get back here!" Catalus calls out, and she can tell that he's moving over the ledge as well. "Poem!"
Poem sees them dead ahead, laughing and carrying on as if they've somehow forgotten where they are. As if they've forgotten what is at stake.
Her hands are already withdrawing the knife from her belt as she draws nearer, gaze completely smeared in a ledger drowning in scarlet. She can barely hear Nokomis's voice, and as Poem gets closer, she can finally see what it is a pencil and a notebook of some kind in the girl from Ten's hands.
"Look at this shit I wrote last night!" Nokomis exclaims. "It's awful. Man, my poems can really suck…" Camilla is consoling her about something, but Poem doesn't care. Nokomis rips the page out of the book, crumbling up the paper and tossing the ball down.
Camilla looks up, Poem making eye contact with her, and the girl is speaking, but Poem can only scream at the top of her lungs. Their fault for Niklaus being dead.
They deserve this.
Poem rushes straight for Nokomis, her knife out in her hand, and before the girl can react, Poem has dived the blade into the girl's neck. Nokomis makes a gurgled croak of pain, and Poem can hear Catalus screaming at the top of his lungs, but it barely rivals that of Camilla's own terrified yell.
Poem redraws the knife, a spurt of blood gushing out of the wound, before Poem stabs Nokomis higher up in the neck again, both girls falling into the water. Her ankles are wet with the stream, and blood is getting on her skin, but Poem just stabs and stabs into Nokomis's neck again and again.
There's a cannon, and Poem wrenches her bloodstained blade out of the girl's neck one last time after six stabs.
"You… you bitch!" Camilla screeches at the top of her lungs, and there's a burst of pain as the girl slams into Poem, knocking her over. There's another stab of pain as Camilla's knife finds Poem's collar, slicing upwards over the bone.
Poem doesn't even react to the motion, Catalus finally upon the pair of girls. He grabs Camilla by the waist, tugging her off of his ally, she kicking and screaming the entire time as he holds onto her.
"Stop it!" Catalus yells. "Camilla, let it go! Stop it!" He tosses her aside and onto the ground, her blade still stuck in Poem's collarbone. Poem fishes it out, another gush of warm blood falling down her neck.
Camilla tries rushing at her again, but Catalus holds her by the shoulders. "Camilla, it's not worth it! Please… please…" he begs her, digging his hands into her skin.
The girl from Nine bursts out into a wretched rack of sobs as she races away from the stream, Poem looking up at the night sky, rage flowing through her veins. Catalus is standing above her, a complete look of loss on his face.
She opens her mouth to respond to him, but before she can, there's a crackle of audio feedback over the arena sky. The voice of Head Gamemaker and Vice President Cain Passionia fills her ears.
"Attention tributes, attention!" the man's voice is triumphant. "Congratulations ladies and gentlemen, the eight of you still standing, Starting right now, until the remainder of the evening into the morning of the ninth day in the arena, killing is completely forbidden," There's a pause, but Poem is only focused on this strange coldness dripping down her face. Tears. Crying. Poem Cavalli is crying. "The final eight of you will be conducting some interviews with Richmond Anvil and the rest of the Panemian audience. Interviews will start in an hour, after the anthem is shown. Remember, killing is outlawed until another announcement is made. Do not break the rules."
Cain's announcement is gone, and Catalus is shaking his head, a look on his face that Poem cannot read. "You couldn't help yourself, could you?"
Poem knows what she's done could be considered right in some twisted way, even as she lays side by side next to Nokomis's corpse. Yet, even through all of that, should this act be considered some form of exacting revenge where Niklaus is honored and Poem has righted a wrong, she should feel right. She should be okay with what she's done.
Somehow, Poem is incapable of figuring an answer out to why she feels like shit.
The feeling in her stomach is not one of pleasure, but of decrepit disgust.
The Final Eight in the arena of the 1st Hunger Games has arrived. Catalus Drachma. Magnus Winterthorn. Jasper Overheart. Vesuvia Vocanova. Diana Kratovska. Porscha Watanabe. Poem Cavalli. Camilla Rodriguez.
Seven more cannons to fire… who shall fall, who shall live on?
10th: Orion Maythorpe, 18, District 4 Male. Killed by Jasper Overheart of District 3 via limb amputation and stab wound to the heart. Submitted by jimster920. If someone told me that one of my top three favorite tributes to write of all time would be Orion a year ago, I probably wouldn't believe them. Now, however? Orion, hands down, has been one of my favorite male tributes of all time to get to work with. There was something about this kid who was just electric, eclectic, and above all, special. I had a goldmine to work with, so many storylines, and it ends here in bitterness and sadness. Jim, thank you so much for an amazing kiddo.
9th: Nokomis Yanaba, 16, District 10 Female. Killed by Poem Cavalli of District 8 via knife to the neck. Submitted by Ripple237. Will, thank you so much for your darling child, I really appreciated her tenacity and strength that was not found in everyone else. I had planned this death the moment I was submitted Poem because of the fact she did poetry, the poetic moment of Nokomis throwing away a passion of hers, only for the physical manifestation of that to come and kill her. There was a steeliness to Nokomis I appreciated, a tenacity and a calming nature whenever I got to her perspective. Her presence will be missed. Thank you for the darling.
Tribute List (Boy - Girl)
District 1: Catalus Drachma [Submitted by Manny Siliezar]
District 2: Magnus Winterthorn [Submitted by Audmirable]
District 3: Jasper Overheart [Submitted by ParanoidSylph] / Vesuvia Vocanova [Submitted by Platrium]
District 4: Diana Kratovska [Submitted by Firedawn'd]
District 6: Porscha Watanabe [Submitted by thornehub]
District 8: Poem Cavalli [Submitted by LordShiro]
District 9: Camilla Rodriguez [Submitted by Reign of Winter]
…
ALLIANCE LIST
Privileged at Birth: Catalus Drachma (D1M), Poem Cavalli (D8F)
The Contenders: Magnus Winterthorn (D2M), Diana Kratovska (D4F)
Brutal Technology: Jasper Overheart (D3M), Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F)
Loners: Porscha Watanabe (D6F), Camilla Rodriguez (D9F)
…
Kill Leaderboard:
Catalus Drachma (D1M): I
Magnus Winterthorn (D2M): I
Portia Beninblade (D2F): I
Jasper Overheart (D3M): I
Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F): I
Orion Maythorpe (D4M): I
Diana Kratovska (D4F): II
Porscha Watanabe (D6F): II
Poem Cavalli (D8F): I
Gemini Lennox (D9M): I
Camilla Rodriguez (D9F): I
Nokomis Yanaba (D10F): I
Cassiopeia Grey (D11F): I
Arena/Mutts: I
*deep breath* Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was Chapter #32: Blood Soaked Soil of Liberty, focused on Day 8 of the arena experience. An important time, as it means we've also reached final eight territory. It has been a long time since I posted a chapter, but I am happy to have it out, and I am proud of what we've come to, as it is just one more step to the finale and a victor. Movement has been established, alliances have had tension, plans have been devised, and lives have been taken. Orion Maythorpe and Nokomis Yanaba were so close to the final eight, and it kills me to say goodbye to them, but this final eight has made their mark.
With Jasper and Poem getting a kill each, every tribute left alive has officially snagged a kill under their belt, and obviously that just means adding more tallies next to their name. Who do you think is going to be getting the next kill from our assortment? Are you pleased with the assembled top eight? Any names you are surprised to see here or expected to go way earlier? Now that this chapter is up, there is a poll on my profile where I'd like you to vote on which two out of our top eight you'd want to have as your victor choice / expect to be victor, and if you do vote on the poll and wish to tell me who you voted for and why, just let me know!
Now that we are here in the final eight, with so many words poured into this piece as we approach the 400k benchmark, if you're a submitter and have been actively reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts, especially as we bridge closer and closer onward, for the time in the arena is up in just six chapters. Next chapter, #33: Tugging at the Heartstrings, will focus on an event I have never written before so far in my SYOT journey, the final eight interviews, but also... done in a way where you wouldn't expect it. You'll see what I mean when it's ready.
A long update (not *quite* as long as last time), and I think this story is now officially my longest one ever with this update which is pure insanity. I love you all so much! I hope you have a wonderful day! Bye!
~ Paradigm