Hey everyone, Paradigm of Writing here with a brand new chapter of Liberty, Chapter #34: Wrath of the Scorned, focusing on Day 9 in our Liberty arena with the top eight... they being Catalus Drachma (D1M), Magnus Winterthorn (D2M), Jasper Overheart (D3M), Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F), Diana Kratovska (D4F), Porscha Watanabe (D6F), Poem Cavalli (D8F), and Camilla Rodriguez (D9F). Things will be moving rather fast with the last five chapters of the Liberty arena to go, with only one more chapter without any deaths left in the lineup, though I won't tell you when that is. Last chapter, #33, focused on doing the Final 8 interviews, but instead of making it with the families of the tributes, killing was outlawed in the arena for the rest of the night, and Richmond interviewed the tributes themselves for a lot of fun, which I really enjoyed. Ya'lls fervent support has meant so much to me, and it is crazy to know that with this update, Liberty will officially have crossed into 400k territory, and there's still more to go, so just buckle yourselves in for the ride! Hope you guys enjoy Chapter #34: Wrath of the Scorned!
"We are the protagonists of our stories, not the spectators," ~ Matt Walsh
Catalus Drachma: District 1 Male P.O.V (18)
Catalus Drachma's ninth day in the arena starts with the rising of the sun through the trees, he shielding his eyes with the back of his hand as his dreams are disrupted in bursts of halcyon light through the mesh of memories and happiness slowed down by slumber. He groans, rubbing at the back of his head as he sits upright, feeling the stretch lengthen in his limbs. A yawn brings him back to the human world, as the sight of Harmony, who is always smiling, vanishes into the ether, the pool stick in her hands being the last glimpse of where he came from.
Checking the arena clock, it shows that he's up at an even earlier time than he normally is, that being around 7:30 or so… from his time with Magnus and Diana, he's used to being up whenever the birds start cawing, which is somewhere closer to around 9:00. The sound of a backpack being zipped up draws his attention away from the dome and over in the direction of the brooklet, Poem already up and at em. If she were to be the early bird, then he must be the worm. She is putting her canteen into her bag, knife strapped to her side.
"Good morning," she greets him, as cordially as she can, as cordially as he expects her to. Catalus looks over at her, at the girl whose dreams led her like the blind leading the blind, and he no longer sees that girl. When he looks at himself in the picturesque pool, blue water turning his dark hair silver if he stares at his reflection long enough, Catalus forgets who he is, no longer recognizing the haggardness that draws his flawless skin down. "You're up earlier than I thought."
"Couldn't sleep," he stretches again, lifting his head up to the sky. This is the longest he's ever gone without some form of technology in his hands, the luxuries of his groomed life back in One sitting like a plant stuck in some closet, left to be despondent and die. Such are the days of where alarm clocks and his mother's cooking rouse him from his sleep, instead of Poem's dark mutterings and the circles that ensnare her face too. "What are you doing up?"
"Used to this," Poem shrugs, she finished tightening the cap on her canteen. "Morning hours were when I'd feel the most inspiration for new designs and whatnot," she shakes her head, and Catalus is amazed how her curls don't move with the motion. "I wonder how many hours I've wasted making designs that'll never come to fruition now that I'm here," Poem's voice is depressing, Catalus feeling the melancholy spike right through his heels, travel up the veins in his legs, and ensnare his heart. Does he even feel the same way about the potentials he used to have? His ally looks up around the canopy they're nestled under… they never returned to their cabin. "All a waste…"
"Hey…" Catalus whines, blushing at the very desperate noise that slips out of his mouth, Poem stopping in her tracks to look at him, the very glance causing his heart to skip a beat. He never thought about any sort of romance back home, though the blood would certainly rise, and Poem is- "Don't talk or think like that, Poem," he says, interrupting the jarring spike of thought, noting how hard his heart is beating in his chest. "You may still get out of here. I-" he licks his lips. "You haven't wasted anything."
Poem smiles at him half-heartedly, Catalus returning the gesture. After his failure with the caught Peacekeeper, the informant that would eventually ruin the well-laid plans of the Drachma Conglomerate and their involvement in the rebellion, he has a similar mindset to that of what Poem just expressed to him. His father sits him down in a chair, his mother a looming shadow in the background, and all of the rage and resentment caught up in the Drachma patriarch is given to him in a spit filled diatribe. Khristos is behind Catalus's mother, and while he is sure his brother felt a bit upset for him, he could sense some sort of glee in seeing the golden child be dipped in bronzer, lowering his status.
Catalus knows that he put a stopwatch on his life and where he could go once he shot his hand up and volunteered, at the expense that his life would be over regardless if he didn't. But if he makes it home, it doesn't mean his opportunities would stop anymore, either.
"You're not the one who volunteered herself for this thinking it'd be a fashion contest," Poem mutters, locking a loop of hair behind her ears. She is unable to make eye-contact with him. "You're not the one whose parents are fashion icons in Panem, and you're only seen as a would-be-star…" her voice is bitter, and Poem sits back down, getting her pants soaked with the running water of the brooklet, but she doesn't even move.
Catalus frowns, tugging at his ears, which feel strange given that they're devoid of some sort of adorning earring on the ends. He is unsure whether or not to be humbled by the fact that Poem is admitting this to him, and he's unsure how to venture forward, lest he go into a territory he doesn't know how to navigate. A terrain that is rocky, hilly, jagged… one false misstep and it'd all be over. He misses Magnus. He misses Diana.
They didn't make him feel sad, like Poem does, and when he asks to be allies with her, given it's been less than forty-eight hours in her company, he does not expect this.
"I am a disappointment too, Poem," he whispers, crouching down next to her, gently moving her so she isn't sitting in the water anymore. The water is still the liquidous crystal color that it should be, the run-off of Nokomis's blood vanishing hours and hours ago, though Catalus is unsure if he'll ever be able to actually drink from it again. His ally looks up at him, frowning, a few tears forming in her eyes, though she doesn't say anything. "In my own way," he adds, shrugging.
"You know how to keep the feelings down?" Poem asks, and her hands encircle around the grip of her blade.
Catalus flicks his gaze to the weapon first, and then back at Poem. He's expressed himself last night in that stupid, stupid interview that accomplishes nothing of value, about how he feels seeing his ally do what she did. He can't be angry with her, he can't even be disappointed, not after what he did to Sylvan. Diana is right, which angers him to a point he can't articulate properly, about how he could've refused spearing the fourteen-year-old from Seven in the side if he really wanted to, but he does it anyways.
Poem has her reasons.
Her demons, too, and she'll fight them on her own since it isn't Catalus's battle to get involved with.
"Adrenaline, mostly," Catalus says, running a hand through his hair. Poem frowns once more, locking eyes with him. "I was forced to volunteer by a situation I had at home," he admits, though he hopes to every holy creator that there is she won't ask him to divulge, for Catalus doesn't have the heart. "For a good second, despite being upset about having to be here, I felt my heart actually beat," his eyes widen, sparkling a vivacious emerald. "I could feel the rhythm in me, I could feel my soul want to embrace the challenge, actually be in something with stakes!" he says the next sentence a little louder than he means to, Poem's eyes darting around their surroundings with fear reflected at the edges. "It made me realize I could redeem myself from my mistakes, from what makes me a disappointment."
Poem returns the smile, though she hardly holds his gaze. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger, he seeing the rising and falling of her shoulders, absorbing every one of her movements under the canopy of silence. Her beauty is starting to be highlighted across every curve, as Catalus watches his ally close her eyes, exhaling once more. Her entire body is a sprung coil of tension, waiting for the snapping moment that'll cause her to ricochet around the trees.
"I don't know if I am allowed to have that sort of redemption, Catalus," Poem whispers, and she curls her knees up to her chest, still soaking wet as a puddle is created beneath her legs, a light shiver wracking her body.
Catalus kneels down next to her, raising his brow. "And why not, Poem?" He is used to living in District 1, being a member of the Drachma Conglomerate where every individual around him is perfumed and dolled up to mirror the Capitolites they were supposed to overthrow. Promised fruit baskets that never arrive at doorsteps, or gossip over glossed silver sinks about which towel lady and which bus boy ended up sleeping with the golf course manager over which fortune locked away in platinum vaults… Catalus, and he cannot believe he is thinking it, is grateful for the moment to get away, despite the horror of where he is. He wouldn't have met Poem if he hadn't volunteered, either. His other bright side. "Poem, you're still sounding like when you were in your interview-"
She slaps his hand away, a sudden cross look flashing across her face. "Don't admonish me, Catalus, I-" her tirade is cut off short as Catalus approaches her, sitting down likewise, getting his shoes in the brooklet, the quiet stream acting as the only background besides their breathing.
"Just… just listen to yourself," Catalus says, as gently as he can, a warm smile tugging at his lips. She goes to interrupt him again, but he shakes his head with a decisive swipe. "My best friend, Harmony, is like you. Can't forgive herself for her mistakes, and I have a hard time forgiving myself for mine…" Poem squawks a noise of protest. "Poem, listen," and Catalus presses his hand up to her heartbeat.
It accelerates a few seconds after he places his hand there, on her chest, she locking eyes with him for a second. He matches the gaze, keeping the soft smile on his face that he returns. Poem comes from a gilded cage where the bars that keep her in are of precious metals and her perch is that of an old wishbone snapped in two, but unlike where the gilded cages in District 1 that Catalus sees act like prisons, hers are to be considered as aviaries themselves.
Neither of them speak, as Catalus feels her heartbeat under his hand, under her skin, proving that she is very much alive. Alive in a way that he has never experienced, foolishness and recklessness leading to where the two of them have ended up, in a valley of broken dreams and half-assed promises. Catalus wants to return home, but he wants Poem to return home… he does not want to ally with her because he believes she will be tackling Diana and Magnus into submission.
He almost commentates on how pretty her eyes are when Poem reaches out and presses her hand against his chest. He goes rigid, stiffening up, but he doesn't remove his hand either. She closes her eyes, squeezing them tight to where he can see the lines bridging across her forehead. Deep enough to plant a kiss, a promise he'd never abandon her, a decision that could very well shoot him in the foot.
He loves rolling the dice, loves seeing where they'll land… but he cannot make the toss, not yet.
"What do you feel?" he asks her, deciding to break the infinite silence. It is a silence that could last if he wishes it to, but he needs to see her eyes open, needs to hear her voice, even when he feels her. Every memory, every regret, every tear shed, every peal of laughter ever opened. Every time Poem uses scissors to cut through fabric, she'll feel every single swing of the nine iron in his grip.
"Luxury," Poem answers, and she opens her eyes. She nods down at her arm. "And mine?"
"Peace," Catalus smiles, lifting his hand off of her chest. He takes a mental note that Poem doesn't do it immediately, letting her palm linger for a moment before lifting her hand off. "I want you to think of that, Poem. I do."
"I-" Poem smiles, her gaze catching behind him. "Shit!" Poem snaps all of a sudden, getting to her feet in a flash, and without another second thought, the knife in her hand is already drawn.
So much for peace.
"What?" Catalus yelps in fright, hands unsure where to land.
"We've got company…" Poem hisses, and she does not lower the blade.
Catalus turns back around to see Porscha Watanabe standing over his sleeping bag, her hands outstretched in defenselessness, a look of desperation and tire marring her features.
"Hi…" Porscha greets, her voice feeble and slow. She doesn't lower her arms. "We- we need to talk…"
Camilla Rodriguez: District 9 Female P.O.V (17)
Clair, her escort, has sent her a sponsor gift. It is a new weapon, something that she has never heard of, when it lands in front of her lap in the middle of the night. Not to say Camilla isn't surprised by the sponsor gift, as she hasn't received one since the strawberry feast from days ago when the merry band of her and Nokomis as well as their plus one in blonde queen bitch Portia… it scares Camilla Rodriguez half out of her wits with a terrified scream in the middle of the night.
It's a knife.
"Another knife?" Camilla howls into the air, in the morning, when she sees it again for the second time. "Again? Are you kidding me?" she moans, throwing her hands up in the air, circling around her camping spot in exasperation.
She flips open the calling card that is given to her, Clair's usual fancy writing replaced by a typed out text. "It's a karambit, Camilla," and she can hear her escort's dripping suave tone measured full in acid. "I know you'd be upset by just another knife, so I made sure to make this one extra special. You've been through hell. Give everyone else hell instead."
Camilla supposes she's happy for the gift, she pocketing it alongside the typical blade that she's been stuck with the entire time since the Games began. She, however, does throw away the note, leaving it behind as she goes to find breakfast for the morning. She knows she's been through hell, and she has exhausted herself into slumber multiple times now by crying, a far call from the tough girl that used to box with her brother in their parents' living room.
"It's all for him," she tells herself, as she uses the karambit, which is indeed useful at slicing through things, treating the branches like wrapping paper – "Like flesh…" she thinks darkly, in no time at all, the raspberries falling into her outstretched hand. "This means nothing if I leave Millet alone…" Camilla runs a hand through her hair, taking the last bites of her breakfast.
She wonders what he thinks of her now, seeing her wander around the arena for eight – nine now, with the rising of the sun – days, doing what Camilla amounts to in her head to be nothing. Her only kill is in pure self-defense, terrified that Kai'sa is going to puncture her ally and the soul sister she never knew she needed to death, but it is all for nothing as she watches Nokomis fall down with Poem Cavalli's blade in her neck.
It all happens too fast.
It is getting the news that her mother is dead all over again, that her younger brother witnesses the atrocity in front of them, and the only thing, like then at getting the info, to see her ally's killer right in front of her, is rage.
Rage at who has put her in this despicable position… rage at the people who feel nothing seeing her fight for her life. Rage towards herself for ever thinking, just for a moment, that Portia Beninblade in an alliance is going to amount to any positive growth. She is furious with herself at thinking she and Nokomis could find a semblance of happiness together, especially in an area of the arena where life does not grow. As if friendships could foster when even a daffodil is incapable of rising out from under the ground.
Also included in the note is some well placed rage towards herself from Clair at her actions last night. It is one thing, apparently, to have fled the scene of Nokomis's death, but to then attack the camera that is in her face as tears stream down her cheeks is another crime. Camilla has half the mind to turn her head to the sky and ask for punishment, to directly get herself injured. She's spent too much time of her life now, week after week since she turns fifteen, being damaged as collateral, shrapnel from emotional battles done in the heart that do not care where someone is from or who they've been, nor does the shrapnel care who their victims will become after the deed is done.
What's the worst the Capitol could do? Kill her?
"That's not me," Camilla says, having to give herself a pep talk, as she stands in front of a tree, slicing at the bark with the karambit firmly gripped in her hands. She scored an eight, on the same levels as Kai'sa Shadow and Orion Maythorpe, and they're gone. She is not against digging her elbows down deep in the mud, as she remembers just from a few days ago when she plunges her knife into Diana Kratovska's thigh… that is her, the caged panther that comes out clawing and screeching when backed into a corner. "I am a fighter…" Camilla hisses through gritted teeth.
She hates it here in the arena. She hates not having Nokomis to make her laugh, she even incapable of going to reach out and grab the poem that her friend had thrown away. It didn't suck, no matter what Nokomis says – a tear slides down her cheek, and the tear lands in the soil beneath her feet, growing a ravenous, carnivorous plant that plans to bite her head off – but she'll never get to read it. It must've sunk into the earth by now or had been taken away by the stream.
"I will make people understand my pain," Camilla says, this time doing a stabbing motion with the karambit. It takes off a good sized chunk of tree, she grinning to herself. "Make them fear my pain…" Her father teaches her to swing low, especially since one is always primed to guard their face.
"But why?" her brother asks this question, not her, though Camilla is just as curious, tightening a strand of dark hair over her fingers. It is sound advice, and it is has saved Camilla out of a pickle or two beforehand.
"People apparently would much rather live with being stuck in a wheelchair," her father says, pouring himself a glass of water, since orange juice costs too much of their weekly salary to afford it, "Than having a bruised face that'll heal."
"You can't heal paralysis," Camilla whispers, sheathing the blade.
The words are intense, an intensity that Camilla has never felt before, down in her soul. She believes it to be the air, it poisoning her, making her choke on feelings that she has never known how to express before. She believes it to be in the water, soaked into the particles that wet her tongue. It is in the food that nourishes her soul, the sustenance that gives her the strength to fight another day.
She knows it is wrong, she still incapable of getting Kai'sa Shadow's face out of her head whenever Camilla closes her eyes, or picturing what Portia looks like in her last moments before her picture is shown in the sky awash in a blue glow. She detests the girl who has departed for the next life, if there is one, but the girl still died, and Camilla feels a hollowness vibrate in her arms that makes her nearly puke after she celebrates the notion.
It is one of the things about Nokomis that Camilla is bothered by, even though she doesn't admit it, her ally not understanding why Camilla feels a smidge upset about seeing Portia's portrait, but she doesn't press the issue on what turns out to be their last day that they'll ever spend together.
The day seems too perfect for Camilla, where they stop every few hours to tend their wounds and whatnot, Nokomis running through all these ideas for poems in her head. They're laughing, smiling, joking… Camilla forgets where she is, and it all ends with her ally dead.
And she fled.
"If I see them again," Camilla grits her teeth, debating whether or not to resume her training against the poor tree she's butchered, "I won't let Catalus decide what I do and not do…"
Even as she says it, however, her voice wavers. Camilla falters in her strike at the tree, her entire body as still as a statue. She can picture her father – and her mother for that matter, who by all accounts is no shirking violet – shaking their heads at her in disappointment, a disappointment that Camilla feels seeing Nokomis plunge her sword into Zachary Edison's chest in what feels like a lifetime ago.
Camilla sinks to her knees, karambit falling out of her grasp. Such a beautiful weapon, where she hardly knows anything in the realm of weaponry to admire it, and it'll be wasted doing such heinous acts of violence. "Is it worth it?" she asks herself, running a hand through her hair.
It is how she figures the costs and benefits of seeing Portia's face in the sky… what it is worth to have their ally dead. Just the day before, not even more than twenty-four hours earlier she is screaming her head off at seeing Kai'sa's head nearly fall off, blade wedged into her jugular. Yet she is willing, without hesitation or remorse to… Camilla shakes her head, frowning.
"It's me or them," she says, with grim resolve, getting back to her feet. She can worry about the consequences later… there are seven other people left in the arena besides her, all of them threats in way or another. She knows Jasper can fight, she saw it in training, Vesuvia's ferociousness practically bleeding off of the walls. Catalus didn't fight badly in their skirmish a few days ago, Camilla almost collapsing again at the realization that she's the only one on her side left alive from that, and the entire trio of attackers are living and breathing. Porscha… everyone saw it, at the cornucopia, and she saw it just a few days ago. A caged animal where the leash is released, and the tiger rushes forward to maim whatever is caught in its jaws. "Me or them."
Camilla gathers up her things, sleeping bag rolled into a completely taut package, she stuffing that in her backpack. She keeps the karambit hooked to her side, out of sight, and leaves her trusted knife in her grip. She has no idea where she needs to go, or what she should do, but it is as if movement has spurred into her action. Staying sedentary has not given her nightmares, but the action of her feet pressing into the Earth and pushing her forward…
She steps away from the foliage she camps out from under, cautiously stepping over the shards of the camera she destroys last night. Camilla looks down at the jagged pieces of glass that are sparkling from the sun hitting them directly. One false move, one very poorly thought out move, and her entire hand could go useless…
"A caged animal will do whatever it can to escape its confinements," her father tells her, as he places the poorly fit boxing glove over her hands. "Gnaw off its own leg, try and fight a battle that it knows it can't win…" he kneels down to look Camilla in the eyes. "Are you going to let yourself become a caged animal?"
She's much younger, where Millet looks out behind their mother's skirts… Camilla shyly tucks a piece of hair behind her ear with the hand that is not gloved up. "No. No, sir," she says, but her voice wavers intensely. A flickering look of disappointment flashes across her father's eyes.
"This is so you don't have to ever become that caged animal."
Camilla freezes in her movements, voices breaking her out of her stupor. She braces herself behind a tree, holding her knife in her hand. Voices that she does not notice as she gets her head stuck in a memory, a memory of where her father would be disappointed in her now, she turning herself into a caged animal. She is a lioness with a coat that has turned from sunshine gold into a moldy pear, skin gone green, fur that falls off in clumps as if she is poked with cancer cells out of the womb.
A guy and a girl's voice, too much happiness in the girl's.
There's a flash of red hair, and Camilla sees the pair from District Three, Jasper and Vesuvia, step around a tree line.
Camilla leaps into action, out of her hiding spot, but she only gets a few feet ahead when she screeches to a halt once more. Vesuvia and Jasper stop in their tracks, but there isn't even a look of hostility or upsetedness on either one of their faces. Bemusement, perhaps.
Camilla realizes that her knife isn't even drawn, her arms are still down by her side…
"Oh!" Vesuvia exclaims, but it isn't the terror that Camilla wants to exude. The caged animal is staring back at the pair from Three.
Camilla Rodriguez is stuck in her trap. She can gnaw off her own leg, try and fight a battle she knows she cannot win… not between Jasper's sword fighting skills and Vesuvia's…
She looks between them frantically, waiting for Nokomis to step forward, but she never does. Her friend never shows up.
The girl from Nine races off with her tail between her legs.
"Wait! Camilla!" Jasper calls out, though she's running so fast that it'd be impossible for them to ever catch up with her. "We could use you to take out Diana and Magnus!" but Camilla never stops running to listen to their terms, even when Vesuvia tries tirelessly to coax her back.
Camilla doesn't know where she is running to, but it doesn't matter. She knows deep down the truth; she is nothing to be afraid of anymore, no one will take her seriously. Most of all, she can't take herself seriously.
The fight has been ripped out of her, as Camilla flees to live another day.
Jasper Overheart: District 3 Male P.O.V (18)
"You see her anywhere?" Vesuvia calls out to him, and for a moment, Jasper stills, as shouting is a sin in the Hunger Games, until he realizes that there are only so many of them left. No one will ever be able to hear them, and at this point, with everyone off in singles or the other two pairs, from what he saw with the interviews last night, it'd be nigh impossible for someone to get snuck up on.
Jasper stops at the crest of a hill, looking down through the fishing village. "Nothing," he calls back, after he scans the scenery. Camilla has disappeared, and he has no idea why he even thinks it is a good idea to beg her to join them in their fight against Diana and Magnus, but it happens without even questioning it once the words leave his lips.
He can hear his ally behind him, her shoes digging hard into the dirt as she crests the hill with him. Most of their supplies are left back at the camp in the scorched section of the arena, just their weapons and healing kit, as well as some water, on them for the day. Jasper sees Vesuvia pocket something every once in a while, but he figures it to be her token, or the sponsor gift Cole gives them the time they ran into Orion and Ramses's alliance.
Thinking Orion's name causes a harsh shiver to slide down his spine. The moment is fresh in his mind, the spray of scarlet that coats his face and lower body when his sword slices through the boy from Four's arm… and the moment when Vesuvia picks it up in her hands to examine it, as if it is some sort of trophy. He still vomits over his shoes, sheepishly begging the sky for some more, but the gift never comes.
Help never comes for those who stick their necks out in the sand, for those who offer all they have on the line.
"Well, we know she won't help us, then," Vesuvia says bitterly, sheathing her knife back to her hilt. "Just means Porscha left, and we know she was somewhere around here from her interview last night."
It is her idea, as Jasper is still shaken up from seeing Orion die right in front of him, as well as having a camera rudely shoved in front of his face asking about his deeds and worst fears, to go on the prowl. Diana and Magnus are underground, or in a cave at the very least, from what Vesuvia deduces by their interviews. However, since there are as many caves in the fishing village as there are thoughts in his head, Vesuvia decides that the best way to go after them, the duo who are the ones to be beat, is to simply wait it out. The duo cannot stay underground forever.
Jasper knows, as it is his idea to link themselves with other tributes, that Catalus and Poem would not be someone they want on their sides.
"Why not?" Vesuvia frowns at the statement, last night, after they've settled in for the evening, her head pressed against his chest, he running his hands through her hair. Locks of embers snug between his flesh, warming him up, lighting his heart with desire, giving him a reason to wake up in the morning. His purpose is her purpose, to win. "We are going to need all the help we can get. The two of them are excellent shots."
It's a nagging feeling that Jasper has in the back of his mind, when looking at Catalus and Poem. Even when Catalus had been with the two archers back in training, the rumor is that they choose him for his money and what it'd mean to bring someone rich to the table in terms of likability… there is nothing to support any sort of skill in the field, unlike what Jasper has gone through trudging across Panem, trying to find semblances of safety.
And Poem… he is just as surprised as Vesuvia is to know that she's still alive. It would have to be because she's riding the coattails of those who are superior to her, but even then, when he had been alive, Niklaus Peverell did not look like the exception to the rule.
"Not them. They wouldn't want to join us," he says, disagreeing with her. "They're snobbish, and probably wouldn't want to be with us."
"I'm rich like them," Vesuvia points out, lifting her head up off of his chest.
"But you have personality and money," Jasper smirks, kissing her. "That's what makes you so attractive."
"And my butt. Don't forget that."
As he kisses her, Jasper running a finger across his lips, another shiver slides down his spine. He knows of her viciousness, of her intensity, of her history in prison that makes even the hardest of men occasionally want to break down and cry… that is no secret. However, he has to say he is surprised that she would ever dream, if she is the one to get out of the arena alive, of being a part of the Gamemaker team.
It is highly pretentious of her to suggest such a thing, that they'd even offer their support in having her join the team. He's never played her video games, a luxury he is too poor to even afford as it'd mean no breakfast on the table for his brother and sister, but the time to dwell on the moment is stolen from him since Orion swings his sword down at them in a rage that they've done something wrong.
"The only person who has done something wrong is her," Jasper thinks to himself, regarding the back of Vesuvia's head as she turns down the hill to return to the main path of the village. He follows her a few moments after, letting his gaze linger on the brush. If he followed, decided to go in the direction that Camilla went in… would she even follow? Or would Vesuvia continue on in her path that causes her to be solely focused on herself?
He should not be doubting himself… Jasper is surefire in that he knows who he is, and who he follows, but now, with every rising of the sun and setting of the moon… he doesn't know anymore.
"You know what I found weird?" Vesuvia starts, disrupting the silence that passes between them as they resume their search for Porscha, her voice inquisitive. Jasper glances at her, raising an eyebrow, prompting her to continue. "Camilla leapt out at us, like she was going to attack us, y'know?" It is a weird moment by all accounts, but even as Jasper saw the black of her hair reveal itself from behind the tree, the alarm bells do not go off in his head. "She didn't have her arms raised. She… it was like she was revealing herself so we'd…" Vesuvia shakes her head, frowning. "That's not the Camilla I recall from training, the girl who pummeled a dummy into submission," A furtive glance is speared in his direction, Jasper's heart fluttering with a pang. Another look of Vocanova disappointment. "She even scored higher than you, turned to that…" There is disgust evident on Vesuvia's words.
Jasper frowns, but not at the memory… Vesuvia. Always so sharp, so quick-witted, but even then… she is scathing, never one to allow for mistakes. She almost got him killed, for going after the arena-god Surt, but he stays by her side even then since she gloats that it is because of her that they're still alive… what if he is to be scathing back at her?
What would she do? Kill him? He hasn't even entertained the notion.
"We don't know what her journey has been to make her look or feel like that," Jasper says, trying to keep his voice level. Judgment is only needed to be passed on the righteous who act as if all of their actions will be granted impunity. "And I don't think we can judge, Vess."
"If I ended up in a sorry state like that," Vesuvia shakes her head, scoffing, as Jasper cuts away a branch in their way, "I'd probably spear myself in the heart before I decided to run away from a fight."
"Like how you ran away from Surt?" Jasper cannot help himself, sparing his ally a look.
A scowl flashes across her face, and she almost opens her mouth into a snarl, as he can see her facial muscles twitching for the opportunity. Jasper shrugs his shoulders haplessly, ducking out of the way from one of her punches that would most likely leave him paralyzed if he let one of them connect.
He laughs airily as Vesuvia yells at him to get right back, he pushing aside some more branches. Jasper doesn't look where he's going and trips over an upturned boulder, a yelp of surprise causing him to crash hard onto the ground. His hands hit moss, and he seems to bounce on the turf when he lands.
Vesuvia breaks into the space right behind him, her face beet red, and she has knife withdrawn, a bead of sweat rippling down Jasper's head at the sight. It's a harmless joke and she's going to stab him?
"It was just a joke…" he murmurs, dusting himself off. Nothing is broken or twisted from the fall, which is good news.
His ally rolls her eyes, sheathing her weapon. "I just…" Vesuvia twitches in place, her eyes closed, arms crossed over her chest. "I usually don't have people be that bold to me in my face, is all," When her eyes open again, the angry look is gone. "You must've been holding onto that one for a long time, Jasper," She makes her way to him, snagging a twig out of his hair. "And besides, like I said, Surt left us. So really, it ran off."
Jasper swings the scabbard holding his sword to around his back, over his shoulder. "Whatever you say, Vess," he teases. The boy from Three turns around, looking down at the ground around him. The moss, turfy feel is much different than that of the hard grass that they had just been stomping on.
The path leads up to a wooden hut in the center, a small little river running through. From the first time the two of them had stepped into the fishing village section of the arena, they never saw anything like this. There were huts, sure, with fish on spits that Vesuvia would steal from for dinner, and a lot of cliffs and outcroppings, but nothing this large.
Vesuvia matches Jasper's movements by glancing around at their surroundings. "Should we go in?"
The sun is beating down on both of them, Jasper realizing out of the blue with just how much sweat has pooled down the front of his face, soaking up the front of his uniform. It is as if he's trudged through District 11's low lying lands, carrying both of his younger siblings on his back. That leg of the journey had been the hardest, looking for someone, anyone who could save them from the heat or the Peacekeeper legion following groups of District Thirteen survivors for the last week, but there's zero help to their plight.
"I could use a drink," Jasper says, grabbing his canteen, downing the rest of it.
"We could rest here for the day, and go find Porscha at night," Vesuvia suggests, shrugging. "Unless something else happens…" she trails off, and he sees that she presses her hand to her right side of her cargo shorts, palming at the cylindrical object he's seen her touch time and time again.
"What-" Jasper starts, but Vesuvia ambles inside the hut, and the sound of her throwing her backpack aside can be heard by the puh on the wooden floorboards. He shakes his head, flattening his lips into a straight line, pressing them together so hard he can feel his teeth grinding into one another.
There's always another time to ask her, he supposes. It must be nothing, especially if she hasn't even brought it up once.
He goes by the steady stream, dipping his canteen in. He takes a long sip, splashing some of the water on his face, rubbing the bleariness out of his eyes. Jasper hardly gets any sleep, curled in his nook and cranny, listening to Vesuvia's sputters and rising and falling of her chest, going over her words, over the decision. He couldn't ever betray his country like that.
"Hey, Vesuvia?" Jasper calls out to her, he closing the lid on his canteen. Heavy enough, he supposes he could smash it into the side of her head if he needed to. He cannot believe himself; this girl, who he so desperately loves to be around, and he is thinking of crushing her skull to pieces-
"Yeah?" Vesuvia asks, mild concern in her voice, as she rounds the opposite side of the hut, her bag left inside, and he notices that there aren't any weapons on her.
"I wanted to-" Jasper starts, but he doesn't get to continue.
A loud, and very close sounding, as if it were beneath his feet, boom of a cannon cuts his words right off.
Porscha Watanabe: District 6 Female P.O.V (16)
"Left, Porscha!" Poem screams at the top of her lungs, Porscha looking up at the gigantic flaming sword that swings down for her position. The girl braces her body into a leap, somersaulting over an overturned boulder, rolling some in the grass as she collides into a tree. Porscha grunts in pain, grimacing as she places a hand on the most likely bruised spot. Surt roars at her, its bellow cascading through the trees, turning the leaves and branches on the closet trees nearby into ashes. Part of the forest is on fire, but there's nowhere else for them to run to.
She finds them, Catalus and Poem, her dreams still troubling her from two nights before, on seeing her mother get swallowed by the sands in her visions, and the command that she must find the girl with the needle in the scorched earth. It seems, however, that the scorched earth has found them first.
Both of them are hostile to her being there, Catalus demanding that Porscha stay back, his sword drawn, his steely gaze locked on her own, though the girl from Six has remained entirely at ease in her approaching of the duo. Poem is more guarded, her body kept wound up, knife in hand, but Porscha simply lets it all spill out. She has a mission, though she has no idea its deign or purpose, that she must be with them. If it is as allies or even as enemies, Porscha is not sure, but there's no other way to find out besides being in their presence.
They only get to speak for a little under five minutes when the ground beneath them begins to shake, Poem's face going white as a sheet, and then to her horror, as well as the others… Porscha sees this giant, standing over eight feet tall at least races over the top of the hill, a flaming sword trailing behind it.
An arena god, a mutt… and it is in the wrong location, from what Poem screams in terror, but by then at that point, the beast is upon them, and the trio scatters to the four winds.
Catalus manages to expose the beast naked by the gripping claw that snatches onto Surt's loincloth round its front, Porscha terrified at the notion of seeing genitalia of some kind, but instead, there is nothing there. The skin is burnt black, scorching red paint smeared through in broad strokes across the thighs, cinders rising off of the skin, and Porscha smells ash.
Surt lifts a hand, and the entire forest begins to burn around them.
Porscha is currently hiding behind a rock, Poem is trying to hide all of the supplies, and Catalus is hollering at the beast, sword drawn. They know they cannot run, that they must fight… and Porscha has never thought of being stuck in a fight like this.
"Of course it'd be fire," she grumbles to herself, the girl from Six blowing strands of hair out of her eyes, readying her cudgel. It won't do much, she bets, but smashing in the creature's knee will pull out some advantage. "Napalm and hovercrafts, and I have to battle a beast with flames scorching out of its ass…" Why couldn't it be a marionette that she could outdance?
"Hey!" Catalus yells at Surt, he pounding his chest with his hands. "I figure you're here cause of me, right?" he hollers, and the mutt turns, Porscha's heart swelling in her throat at the very size of the beast's foot… it could squash her into a bug, and then after that, burn her remains alive. "Well, come and get some!"
The boy from One races forward, slicing Surt directly in the knee, he then having to dive immediately out of the way since black blood spills out of the incision. The wounded noise that Surt makes causes all of the hair on Porscha's arm to stand straight up, like when her father bursts into her study once for missing a vocabulary term on one of her dancer exams, and the tuition costs were going to go up…
In the face of evil, Porscha Watanabe does not balk, but instead charges in head on.
She tightens her grip on her cudgel, racing out from her hiding spot to slam the cudgel into the back of Surt's back. When she strikes the mutt, her entire arm vibrates with the length of the strike, and the mutt doesn't even notice, it continuing its warpath to Catalus, who has now circled back around to the top of the hill.
When Porscha goes to swing again, this time clubbing for the creature's arm, she must hit it directly on some sort of technological comparison to a funny bone, for she can sense Surt's entire body vibrating, she getting a direct hit in the face with a wave of warmth, it singing off a few centimeters of her eyebrows.
Surt turns around and roars, the gaping pit that is its mouth emptying out embers in her direction. She screams again when one of the embers lands on her wooden cudgel, and the weapon turns into ash in her grip. Porscha drops it instantly, as it dissolves into nothingness in front of her very eyes, and Surt is still moving on.
"Hey, pick on someone your own size!" comes Catalus's voice from behind the mutt, as Porscha falls back onto her hands and knees, scooting away as fast as she can from Surt. There's a flash of silver as Catalus dives in between the mutt's legs, and he strikes directly upwards. The noise of pain that rips from the creature causes Porscha to slam her hands over her ears.
Catalus goes to make another strike, but Surt moves one of its legs up, a large shadow falling on the boy from One. He swears at the top of his lungs, rolling away as Surt brings its foot back down. The ground beneath their feet trembles once more, Porscha having to skyrocket to her feet when the ground cracks in front of her, a cascade of fire shooting straight in the air along the crevice, the tree she had been resting up against shattering into a million pieces.
She shrieks in pain when shards of wood embed into her back, causing her to fall flat on her face into the dirt. As she is about to crawl up, she hears Surt lift its foot again, most likely to slam it onto the ground once more.
"Didn't you hear Catalus the first time, you idiot?" Poem's own terrified, yet strong voice sunders through the roaring cackle of the fire, and the girl from Eight dives in the way of her and Porscha. Porscha gasps as Poem just barely in time manages to step aside from Surt's outstretched hand, the skin glowing the color of Venus, which would've certainly killed Poem in a matter of nanoseconds.
Poem brandishes her blade, slicing and stabbing as quick as she could into Surt's hand, black blood spilling everywhere in a haphazard spray. As Porscha tries crawling away towards her non-wooden weapon, a hammer that is stuffed in her backpack, a droplet of Surt's blood lands directly on her scalp, Porscha lifting her head up in a scream.
Some of it must get on Poem's hands, as the girl screams similarly in pain, her hands blistering and turning the color of freshly painted brick, and the wound is still spurting blood.
"Scatter!" Catalus screams at them, for the mutt starts moving the arm that is bleeding around in a helicopter motion, a cascade of black blood and tiny jets of fire spiraling into the air. Porscha manages to tug herself to her feet through the pain, teeth gritted, hissing and breathing through her nose, she making it to her backpack in time when a blood splatter the size of a decent hailstone crashes into a plant right beside her, and the eating away at the wood is near instantaneous.
Poem is rushing towards the stream, perhaps the only thing not on fire around them, Porscha hacking and coughing as smoke starts to fill her lungs. They can't keep doing this… they'll die from asphyxiation, and she is not… "I cannot let them win," she tells herself, as she grabs the hammer. "If they win, then the things my father did for them will have a permanent place in history."
Kai'sa didn't die so the Hunger Games could continue existing, and Porscha Watanabe did not live to die by something concocted in a lab.
"Don't let it divide us!" she shouts, Porscha leaping over the same boulder. Surt, who has its focus on Poem, does not see Catalus, who's recovered from his own black blood downpour sent in his direction, send his sword through the back of the beast's knee and out the other side, goring it open completely.
Surt roars, another stream of sulfur rising out of its cavernous mouth. Porscha screams out a battle cry and brings her hammer down on the injured knee again and again, trying to keep the vomit back as she caves into the flesh, it peeling away and bleeding the same hideous midnight black color as the other wounds. The mutt keeps roaring, but the pain causes it to be incapable of lifting the sword for it to hit any of them.
Catalus does the same strike to the other knee, Porscha switching over immediately, their efforts rewarded with another waterfall of onyx into the burning soil, the grass beneath them starting to smell like vinegar. Porscha switches hands with the hammer, about to start smacking the mutt's hands, when instead of Surt trying to grab the lift of its massive sword next to it, it turns its hand into a fist.
She catches a glimpse of it a second too late, her warn slipping out of the mouth in vain as the strike, Surt's massive open palm, hitting Catalus directly in the chest. The boy goes flying, he yelling in agony, but he's not… Porscha notices that the sword, which used to be on fire, is no longer, and Catalus is yelling in pain but…
He collides into the ground, moaning, part of his uniform burning away, and Porscha can see his tanned skin turning crimson… burned. A chill slides down her spine, but it does not compare to the look of murder in Poem's eyes, the girl from Eight still gasping at the burns dotting her clavicle.
"You hurt him!" Poem screeches at the top of her lungs, she gripping onto her knife. "You fucking piece of shit! You Capitol machine!"
Porscha watches her, the visionary, the mad-woman, the fool, the idiot, the savant… she sees Poem leech off of the tree, her burnt shoulder and hands exposed, knife in hand. Surt is growling noises that Porscha cannot decipher, but they all fall silent as Poem slices her knife across the creature's neck. To both of their surprises, there isn't even a spray of blood that would've melted off Poem's corneas.
The girl is still yelling even as she impales the knife all the way into the mutt's forehead, Porscha coughing again as her eyes start to water, and her throat begins to burn, feeling as if she's swallowed glass.
Catalus slowly stirs, he gasping in pain, Poem's shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath, but Porscha doesn't notice them. She notices what is happening to Surt. Any time the god raised its hand, the markings on the mutt's back would glow a similar sulfurous orange to what spewed out of its hands… the tattoos and drawings and markings have all gone gray.
The thing is dead. Elation floods into Porscha's veins, and the tears return, happy tears for once in her life.
All of the flames in the vicinity are completely extinguished in a matter of seconds, in the blink of an eye for Porscha, as she looks around. The smoke that floods the sky vanishes as well, but what does remain behind are the scorch marks, or the tree that is completely splintered in half.
Porscha leans down and coughs, and before their very eyes, the body of Surt, the Norse god of fire, crystallizes, reflecting in the peal of sunlight, before shattering into a thousand pieces. All that remains behind, when the three tributes look back at the sight before them after covering their eyes, is what looks like, to her, to be an opal gemstone.
Catalus hobbles back over to them, hissing in pain, and Porscha realizes just how much of her is hurt when she feels the blood soaking into the back of her shirt. "You…" his face is a look of amazement, he staring at Poem with his lips parted, eyes wide open, "You did that for me?" he whispers, which makes Porscha crack a smile, despite the whiplash of the situation.
"It…" Poem gasps, clutching her stomach, black bloodstained blade clenched tightly in her hands, her voice coming out raspy. "I couldn't let them just hurt you," she says, she reaching out and hugging him. Catalus winces in pain, it flickering across his face, to the pure relief awash on Poem's.
It doesn't take a genius to figure out who 'they' are, but Porscha still looks around wildly. The two of them, Catalus and Poem that is, had been shouting at Surt about there being a reason why they would be targeted by a mutt not in its normal zone, but she does not beg the question.
While the warm hug fest is nice and all to see, Porscha scratches at her arm nervously. "There's something else left behind guys," she says, pointing. "Besides the gemstone…"
Catalus breaks the hug with Poem first, going over and milling through the few crystal shards left, knocking the stone out of the way. At first Porscha cannot see what it is in his hands, but when he rights himself up, she frowns.
"I know that the rule was kill an arena god and get a reward…" he laughs, and then gestures to the claw hooked to his side, "Since that is where this came from because of me killing the wolf, Fenrir, but this is…" he laughs again, Poem joining in with the humor, Porscha raising an eyebrow in disbelief. "But this is something special…"
"Glasses?" Porscha says incredulously.
Sure enough, in the grasp of Catalus's soot covered fingers, with black rims and frames that glistened like prisms stacked on top of prisms, were a pair of glasses. From what Porscha can recall about any of the tributes, living or dead… none of them would need to wear glasses.
"Surely they wouldn't…" Poem frowns, scratching her head.
Catalus puts them on, turning around and looking up at the sky, before staring directly at one of the trees that had still been standing. "Oh!" he exclaims, before taking them off and putting them back on a few times. "They're X-Ray glasses!" Happiness floods in the syllables. "I can see through that tree," and he points again. "Or that rock. Or-"
"We know what X-Ray glasses are, Catalus," Poem admonishes, laughing.
Porscha scratches at her arm again. This isn't where she belongs. She has no idea what told her to go and see them, to find Catalus and Poem, let alone to battle Surt, but she doesn't belong. The two of them, even if they haven't been together for a very long time… there's something there, and she is the one who dons pointe shoes and spins in circles where no one will give her a second glance.
Her father only wants her to be the younger version of the wife she steals from her.
Her mother only wishes for her to be dead too, to join her in the ground.
And Porscha doesn't know what she desires for herself, besides to stay living and breathing, if it is that simple enough.
"You keep them," Poem says, nodding, pushing the glasses into Catalus's grip once he takes them off.
Catalus shakes his head, frowning. "You're really the one who killed Surt. It's yours, Poem."
There's a tenderness in his voice that Porscha has never heard before, not even when she and Kai'sa kissed under the waterfall did her voice soften in the way Catalus's has.
This is not where she needs to be, and she knows when she will only add strife and confusion.
In the booming thaw of a cannon, which she knows cannot be for any of them who are still living and breathing and celebrating, Porscha departs back to the land of the lost and the found.
She'll remain there, and wish to stay lost forever, until the stars will call her home, and when her pointe shoes break… when the music stops to play, she'll then decide to leave the stage.
Diana Kratovska: District 4 Female P.O.V (17)
"So you're telling me that you aren't tired of caves yet?" Diana asks Magnus, she holding his hand out to help hoist him up over a ledge. She struggles a bit, having to dig her heels in, while her ally's head of dark hair reveals itself over the top.
"Not yet," Magnus replies, all chipper and sounding way too happy for her liking. She knows that if she were to question him, she'd be wandering in circles and get nowhere; Magnus would find a creative way to duck and dodge around whatever sorts of answers she'd try to pry from him. Military training or some bullshit excuse. Diana calls it laziness; his mind must be too dim-witted to think of quick responses. "Why?"
"I dunno. I just… I want to get out of this stupid cave and never enter one again," Diana pulls back, getting him finally to the top, her arm screaming in protest. "There aren't many caves in District Two right?" she asks, to which her answer – Oh, he'll answer that one, a cold and humorous voice snarks in her head – is the shake of a head. "Good. Cause when I win and eventually see District Two, don't expect me to go into caves in your honor."
Magnus sticks his tongue out, but his face is well-appeased. They've been walking for the latter half of the morning, their breakfast being a rabbit that must've gotten lost, Magnus having to bash the poor creature's head into a rock to finally get its corpse to stop twitching. Nine days of rabbit and Diana is starting to get sick of them. Not that her food back home had been any sort of lavish extravagance, since she wouldn't even dream of tasting caviar on a good day, it certainly isn't rabbit.
She can see that the exhaustion is starting to take over Magnus, to where his smiles, which are happening a much higher frequency than when traitor Catalus is around – he looks still as scared shitless as he did when she invites him into the alliance in what feels like a lifetime ago – which confuses her, since she thought the two were like peas in a pod, and she'd end up being the ugly stepsister with no one to play with. The exhaustion shows in other ways, where now, when the sun goes down and an anthem is to go up, Magnus doesn't wish to do as many shooting exercises, he prefers to lie down and snore.
Of course he snores, he's an oaf.
An oaf that Diana never expects to appreciate the company of, but it is the truth, as she watches him dust his knees off and reshoulder his bow back into a snug position. Getting reaped, as she means every word she spews at the camera last night in that stupid interview is the truth, she goes into the experience not expecting to have anyone like her. It is sort of hard to root for her on a moral note, she realizes, when she hasn't been sent a sponsor gift in a good while, because brutally beating someone to death with a shield is not good for her image.
Nor is shooting Cecelia Blackstone in the back of the head without giving the girl a chance to defend herself, but the girl had been racing for Catalus's head while he is unaware, and Diana sees an opportunity and takes it.
She wonders, though with Magnus as her company, it being hard to think a single complete sentence in the end, what would've happened if she had let Cecelia sink her knife into Catalus's skull. There'd be no walking away from a strike like that, so the golden boy from One whose underwear are probably dried on clothes racks decorated in platinum wire, would be dead. Without Catalus, they could've all been completely toast in the cave when Fenrir races after them, but Diana pushes the thought as far as she could from her mind.
Focusing on her potential demises never sits well in her stomach, her intestines curdling up, and the taste of sour milk backsplashes in her throat.
She grimaces, tugging at her ponytail so hard it pulls her skull back, and she only stops when Magnus whacks her in the arm with the back side of an arrow that he retrieves from his quiver.
"What?" she hisses, darting him a glare. Diana knows, as a matter of fact, that he's gotten much too comfortable in her presence, that being the oaf of course, is that her glares no longer shut him down. A glance his way, as cold as she could muster it in the stare, and he withers… but once Catalus says sayonara and vanishes into the morning light, Magnus's chest puffs out a bit farther, his voice boldens, and Diana feels the tips of power being shucked off her fingers, ebbing down into a puddle in front of her. She is forced to stare at the puddle, forced to look into the fate of where her essence will go.
"I think we've reached the end…" Magnus whispers, and he loads the arrow into the bow.
Diana brings her attention ahead of them. The cave is starting to widen, and there is a massive pillar of light spewing in, and unlike beforehand, when the light is to come above them through some miniature peephole, this is coming from the side. An entrance one can walk out of.
A grin rises to her face.
"Finally," she says. "Now we can see what the hell was worth all this time." Diana only goes spelunking because Magnus insists it, and getting a message from the sky, from the lifeline to the outside world is a good enough connection. She knows it is dangerous, and it could end up being a complete waste of time, but from what they know of, yet the possibility of other tributes being after the same 'prize' has not left her mind.
She's been itching to plunge her spear into something, and she yet may find the time before the end. Diana knows she will, when she is bred for battle, and it is what she lives and breathes for. Conflict, an adverse word, yet the word carries strength unlike what she's ever felt. She thrives in conflict, to make others hostile, just so she has an excuse to reach out and grab their wrist, to twist and hear someone yell in pain.
The girl from Four wonders when she'll get the chance to twist Magnus's wrist, and what sort of noise he'll make. If he keeps smiling at her, he'll never see it coming.
He grabs her by the hand, hurriedly walking towards the spillage of light. Diana tries tugging her hand out of his, because he is a boy and gross and sweaty, goodness is he sweaty, but his grip is like iron. She can tell that he is excited as his body is practically buzzing, energy flowing off of him intensely. Her friends back home used to be excited like this, over anti-war matters and principals, such as spreading love and kindness and warmth. Diana soaks one of her friends' anti-war messages in whiskey, then tosses a lit match on top of it.
Her father ships himself off to war a few days prior to that, and her mother goes just shortly after, and Diana knows that they won't come back, and people begging for the violence to stop were idiots… idiots who deserved to burn in whiskey and cigarette smoke.
Diana almost trips over a few rocks as Magnus bumbles his way towards the entrance, it having been a few hundred yards away from when he first spots it. "Watch where you're going, Magnus! You want me to break an ankle?"
"Exactly what I am hoping for!" he yells back at her, and there's a stupid grin on his face. "My master plan."
"You're such an idiot," Diana mutters, she wrenching her arm free. There is an indention on her wrist from Magnus's meaty hands, she rubbing and soothing out the tension spots along the bone line, grimacing at the residue. The two of them are filthy, covered in coal dust and invisible ticks, and he wishes to hold her hand.
Closest he's probably ever gotten to being with a girl, and the thought makes Diana howl inside her head.
There is something that can barely be seen just at the entrance of the cave, where the pillar of sunlight ends. As they approach it, which causes Diana to no longer need to squint, it comes clearly into view. The two of them stop it, a frown immediately replacing the smile that is plastered on his face.
"This is it?" he asks, and he scratches at his head.
"If we came all this way for a fucking drum, Magnus, so help me…" Diana exhales out through her nose, closing her eyes to let the temporary rage find its correct place back under the blue of her bloodstream. The last wish her father expresses before his untimely demise, it being in a letter with the most beautiful calligraphy Diana has ever seen, is to take anger management courses… speak to someone who'd help her sort out the anger and hurt she is consumed with. "I live in Panem," is the response she writes down, but she never sends it to her father. "What else am I supposed to feel? Glitter and rainbows?"
She is not Poem Cavalli; she will never feel like that, even in Magnus's presence, no mater how many jokes he makes.
The item in front of them is a drum, a massive drum that stretches out from end to end at the first section of shadowed rock not covered in the pillar of sunlight. A white tarp is stretched over the surface of the drum, and although Diana is not well versed in instruments, it looks like to her to be that of a snare drum. The tarp covers more surface area than it needs to, it draping down onto the ground, pooling there at their feet like a sheet.
That is something her father never does, throwing a sheet over his head and pretending he's a ghost. Diana wants nothing more than that, now, as she feels zero warmth over her body, supplicated by Magnus's disappointment on his face.
The tarp is tied at the sides to two wooden posts, and the wooden posts reach a zenith point, some sort of plaque, and some sort of tray stretched above the drum. Magnus reaches out and grabs what is on the tray, it being a mallet, one end wooden, the other a rounded out, painted silver, striking side.
"We were given a note by your escort to bang on a drum?" Diana looks over at her ally, twirling the spear in her grip. She could do it, looking at him, at this wild goose chase that he's put her through. "Bang a drum and alert everyone to where we are?"
Magnus rubs his chin, his left leg rocking back and forth. "I swear that my escort said that we were finding something called the Earth Hammer…" and as he looks at Diana, holding the mallet in his hands, "And what else do drums do besides act as something to bang?"
Ignoring the dirtiness behind that heavily loaded statement, which has Diana stick her tongue out at him, her thought process jumps back to thinking about Catalus. If she lets Cecelia stab her ally in the back of the head, and if they were to survive – she and Magnus, facing the rest of the world – Fenrir, and the run in with Portia's gang of outlier district girls, Diana knows what she'd be spared from.
Humiliation, complete and total humiliation. Catalus disrespects her, when he leaves, when he turns his back on the saving grace of the arena, and Diana is incensed. No one disrespects her, and she let him walk away unharmed, unscathed, and it is poor Ramses Boskov that is hit in the face with all of her pent-up frustration and rage… all his fault.
She looks over at Magnus's face, picking up words that make zero sense to her. "Drums… and a betrayal…" the boy whispers, but she only picks up on the word drum, her mind thinking back to the useless escort letter, since it has only led them to this useless contraption…
"Magnus," Diana says his name, completely unprompted. He looks over at her, jumping in place, startled. "I- I don't even know why I am saying this, let alone why I feel like now is the time to say this, but… thank you…"
He looks around the vicinity of the cave entrance, Diana's back laced up with chills. "Okay…" he makes a face, though she knows it isn't mocking her. "Thank you for what?"
Despite all of his hang-ups, and all of what Diana accuses him to be – dumb, oafish, slow, unintelligent, a one-trick-pony, ugly (well, she's never said that, and he is quite handsome) – there is one word she could use to pinpoint him like no other. Loyal. "For being loyal," Diana exhales, running a hand through her ponytail. "You could've abandoned me when Catalus left, as I know that wasn't easy for you, and I knew you and he were close…"
"You stick by your leader-" Magnus says, almost interjecting and cutting her off, but Diana places a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
"But you still could've left, and you didn't," Diana coughs on her words, balling her tongue up to one side of her mouth. Emotion, genuine emotion… a Kratovska is not just ice after all. "Or when you didn't argue the night before the Games on letting me get the bow first if there was going to be one," she looks down at her feet, whispering the next statement. "Or… well, even just when you didn't even question what I did to Ramses…" she tugs at her ear, shaking away any semblance of tears that Diana can feel prickling at the corner of her eyes. "You've been loyal, and you've been a good friend, and I… I just wanted you to know how much I appreciated it."
Magnus smiles, drawing her into a hug. Diana squeaks in protest, another insult bubbling under her tongue, but she lets the moment finish, keeping the hug and wrapping her arms around him for it.
When they break apart, he is still smiling.
"Thanks, Diana," he says, and then, his gaze cuts to the mallet. "But Catalus told me something a long time ago, and I hate to be a disappointment…" Magnus raises the mallet in the air. "We're at the Earth Hammer, and I plan on using my reward."
Diana frowns, furrowing her brow. "What-"
"You let me keep the bow… your lifeline," Magnus smiles, but the grin turns Diana's blood to ice, as if the current has grabbed her and dragged her under to be drowned by the waves. "And a good soldier follows orders, yes, like what I do, but up to a point," and he places a hand, the hand not holding the raised mallet, on her shoulder, she locking eyes with the limb. "I appreciate that you saw me as a friend, but I wish I could say the same. I volunteered to save someone's life, but I also volunteered to win," he presses the hand against the side of her cheek, his hand stark cold. "And you were just a means to an end…"
The next thing Diana feels is pain as the hand that is pressing into her cheek pushes, and Diana's head goes colliding with the rock wall.
She gasps in pain, dropping to the ground in shock. Shadows wash over Magnus's form, and in the dark cool light, with the guise of brightness behind him, the silver mallet glistening in the cave, he brings it down against the center of the drum, banging it as hard as he could, with all the force he could muster.
Diana goes to say something, another curse, but the moment Magnus's strike connects with the drum, the roof above them begins to shake. A cry of fright leaps from the girl's lips as a rock above crashes directly below, smashing to pieces above them. The Earth Hammer, to bring the Earth down with each strike.
"May the odds be in your favor, Diana," Magnus tells her, and then when he looks at her, the next strike with the mallet goes across her face.
Her face explodes in pain, a scream bursting from her lips as scarlet and teeth go flying, a few of them clattering onto the ground.
"What the fuck!" Diana barely manages to make out, but her cry is unheard, as Magnus holds onto the mallet and races in the direction of the cave entrance, his body getting smaller and smaller. "Winterthorn, you fucker! You traitorous son of a bitch!"
The cave ceiling is continuing to collapse, Diana's entire upper body in pain, but it is nothing like the shattering of her heart. She screams again when another boulder from above knocks on top of the drum, crushing the ovation into pieces.
The exit… it isn't far-
She manages to get to her feet, but her next step is halted by another boulder, this time one from behind, crashing down on the back of her right foot. Diana falls down hard, another guttural cry of agony ripping free as her right foot is completely pinned. Broken, without a doubt, and she doesn't want to even think about what it looks like.
"Kill me, you fucking coward!" Diana screams, screaming the same line over and over and over and over-
Her hands are free, she pushing the spear away from her, as it is useless, and she holds onto Sylvan's shield, trying to hold it above her head while the entire cave system above her head collapses around her.
A few moments later, another boulder gets her left hand, and Diana's throat has gone raw from screaming.
The rest of the cave system gives way, the shield flimsily protecting Diana from the elements cracking purely from the pressure.
Shortly after, her skull.
The tempest has been frozen solid, and her cannon fires.
Eight… down to seven.
8th: Diana Kratovska, 17, District 4 Female. Killed by the Arena, via being crushed to death by a cave-in caused proxy by Magnus Winterthorn. Submitted by Firedawn'd. Dawn, my god, where do I start with your ice darling and your rebel loyalist with such a vengeance that I feel her words to my core? I loved her so much, and she really was a character time and time again I loved to explore, and I know that nearly everyone found her to be such a fun presence to have in the story. I am really sorry about, as from what Linds told me, your fifth 8th place tribute, but I swear it was a pure accident/coincidence. There were so many amazing players left, and there's a few more plotlines with the others I wish to expand upon some more, so Diana's last shot happened here. I loved her like she was my own; thank you for submitting her.
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 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)
Brutal Technology: Jasper Overheart (D3M), Vesuvia Vocanova (D3F)
Loners: Magnus Winterthorn (D2M), 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: II
Yes, yes that just happened. So, ladies and gentlemen, that was Chapter #34: Wrath of the Scorned, focused on Arena Day 9, with our final eight now being reduced to a final seven. Catalus and Poem shared a tender moment, Camilla received an upgrade, Jasper and Vesuvia found a new stomping ground, Porscha realized she would never have a home, and the storm that is Diana has run out of force. I have to say... I am more than just proud of this chapter, especially this last Diana pov... I wish I had more words to express how proud I actually am.
With this update, Liberty officially crosses into 400k territory, which is batshit insane for me to think about, and it makes it without a doubt the largest story I have ever written, and there's still so much more to go even in this short burst left (six chapters... *six*) and I cannot be more grateful for those who have gotten me here, and I know you know who you are. The support, the reviews, the messaging, and the love... I don't do this just because I love to write, I do this to share my gift with you all.
With us officially crossing into final seven territory, the poll on my profile will be closed on who you wanted the victors in the cast to be. Smashing congratulations to Catalus Drachma and Poem Cavalli for getting four of nine votes each, Diana reaching three of nine, Jasper-Vesuvia-Camilla each getting two votes, Porscha having one vote, and unfortunately for poor Magnus, zero... and I know this stunt won't help his likability, haha.
Next chapter, #35: Gift of the Gods, will have just four povs: Poem, Magnus, and Vesuvia to give the final seven tributes an equal number before I kill even more of them, plus a Capitol check-in from Lydia where events start getting drawn together. I don't expect that chapter to break *too* far over 10k since it's just four povs. I am so happy to have this out to you guys, and I hope this chapter was well worth it. As always, I'd love your support and to know your thoughts, and once again, Dawn, I am so sorry for killing Diana here, but she was truly the tempest.
I'll see you all again sometime this weekend for the next update. I love you all so much! Have a great day! Bye!
~ Paradigm