Night 2: The Ruminative and The Reluctant.
Rhodos McNamara. District 4.
Rhodos doesn't know how to feel about the dead.
He'd approached the corpse of both Fives, after the pack had relished in their victory and drifted away from the dead. And their mark stared back at him, and his breaths shuttered in his lungs because—
It was so clear. It was plain as day. A mark, a black one, the half-crescent shape that decorated Nine girl's wrist not even twenty-four hours ago, was upon the Fives's skins, too. And their hands rotted, their bodies smelt of death, and he'd choked on the thick-set bile pruning his throat and tried not to think.
(Because he can't think. Not right now, at least—he's not ready to think still. But his thoughts run rampant, because he'd seen the same mark on Nine, and then now on the Fives, and it's so familiar and yet he can't place it, not really—what could it mean?)
It nags at him. So, instead, he refocuses. Not now. Right now…
Rhodos spares a small look to his District Partner. Even if… he doesn't need to look at his District Partner to know that she isn't okay.
(She hasn't been. Not since the first day. And he'd tried to comfort her, there, but she'd… pushed him away. Guilt still gnaws at him: because he shouldn't've approached her then, he should've been more aware.)
… she's still not okay, now. And Rhodos knows why.
It's the kills. He'd seen how she'd looked after she'd come back from the Bloodbath: too constricted, too weary, too cold. Althea Ivory is many things: frigidity is one of them. But even he knows… excessive frigidity is not. That's only when she wants to hide. He knows, because that was what she was to him, in their first meetings in the Victor parties of the 51st and 52nd Games, in their first few days in the trains, in their days in training. So cold; unforthcoming; focused.
(Till that face of her had eroded. And even if things were so fleeting - like the crest of the waves and the breeze of the forests - he still learnt about her.)
Althea is cool, now - but not collected. She is cold. And Rhodos wants to comfort her - he wants to tell her that it's okay.
(Because he knows this: Althea Ivory is so fixated upon appearing strong. Every time he'd complimented her strength, or her ability, there had always been a flicker of something in her eyes - of affirmation, of gladness, despite how much she'd tried to hide.)
And Althea Ivory was strong; there was no lie about that. He'd seen how she fights.
(But sometimes, he thinks that she doesn't see what he sees.)
They're leaving back to camp. Dusk settles in the horizon. But the golden forests and the golden boughs make an ardent fire alive upon the lands—blazing conflagration-amber, so destructive, so beautiful...
And he's lingering in the back of the pack, as Dior leads, and Chrys staggers behind, and Kiernan looks at him, and Hera spares a few worrying glances at the child, and he falls in line next to Althea Ivory—and he notices the way her fingers shake, notices the way she grips them again, too-tight.
(And he knows that she would've despised him seeing that.)
Rhodos inhales a quiet breath. And he knows that she doesn't want him to speak, that she'd rather keep herself secluded, would rather keep all her secrets and her world and her anxieties to herself—but he also knows when she's shaking, and he also knows when she's not okay, and he sees how she needs to speak, even if she wouldn't let herself.
And so he keeps his voice steady; keeps his voice easy. Even though rejection lingers in his mind (and he winces still, because it hurts in his chest, rejection is the last thing he wants) - Rhodos forces his worries away, and murmurs, "Althea?"
"What is it?"
And her tone is clipped— but it is not cold. Rhodos exhales a breath.
"I just… " he bites his lip. He doesn't know what to say, not really - because if he mentions the Fives then she'll see him point out her weaknesses, if he mentions that he's just trying to check on her she'll be even more wary.
Rhodos McNamara does not know what to say. And so— he goes with the truth.
"I didn't actually kill... Nine girl," he says. And his words are halting, pausing, and Rhodos almost cringes while saying it too, and he averts his eyes to her reaction. Because surely she'll look down on him, surely—
"... what?"
Nothing but surprise tinges her voice. And Rhodos hesitates, but swallows.
"I… yeah," he says. "I didn't kill Nine. She… killed herself."
It stews between them.
"And… what am I supposed to make of that?"
Pain sinks in his heart. Discomfort conquers him entirely. He can feel her antagonism seeping from her figure, but…
Instead of recoiling, Rhodos consciously decides to meet her eyes.
What he doesn't expect to see is for them to not meet his. Althea has her arms crossed, like she's cold, and she's pressing her lips together, and she looks so different, so much like she's trying not to be vulnerable.
Something unusual twinges his heart.
"I don't know," Rhodos says, quietly. "What do you want to make of it?"
It is almost forever until Althea clears her throat. Until she lets out a pensive sigh.
"If this is about the Fives, Rhodos… don't bother."
"Why?"
He doesn't really expect an answer, not really. But Althea's eyes flick to Rhodos's. There's a twinge of a bitter smile on her lips.
"I know I'm weak," she says, and there's so much coldness in her voice, so much bitterness that overwhelms it all.
"And now the whole world knows it, too. You don't have to remind me."
Her words are jagged, they're so sharp, and Rhodos feels something jump in his chest.
"I'm not," he says. "I don't think you're weak. I brought up the Nines, because… I wanted you to know. That… I might not be feeling what you're feeling, but… I saw her die. I didn't kill her… and I don't think I could've, really. If it came down to it."
That admission hangs between them.
Rhodos exhales. "... and I felt so helpless. I think—I think my fingers were shaking. And when I close my eyes I see her, dead...even though I didn't do a single thing."
It's curiosity that ignites Althea's eyes, now.
Rhodos closes his eyes. He takes the leap. "... so I might not understand how you feel. But I can… relate, maybe. And I just wanted to say. It isn't weakness. Not really. It isn't weakness to be affected. It isn't weakness to feel things. And it doesn't matter if the world sees it, not really. It shouldn't."
Althea doesn't say anything. And he wants to wither, because he's made a mistake, hasn't he? He's pointed out her weakness and that's it, they're done. They won't be friends anymore—were they ever really friends at all?
"Thank you." Althea says, quietly.
Rhodos's eyes snap up towards her. And gratification balloons his heart.
(They trudge back to the camp together, in quietude. But Rhodos — Rhodos hasn't felt better about himself.)
Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.
"I'm sorry about... that," Chrys grits out, beside Kiernan, as he tightens his tourniquet. After they're in the Cornucopia again and painted in darkness once more.
It doesn't take a brain to know what Chrys is referring to. To Dior — to her outburst.
Kiernan's breath constricts.
Because Chrys Gerhart is sympathetic. Despite all. Despite his bleeding out (... which he seems to be taking remarkably well…) and despite Dior and dying and the rest…
And Kiernan's wary, of course... who wouldn't be? They're in a death game. They're here to die and fight and for only one survivor to emerge amid it all.
But there's something about Chrys that means Kiernan can… maybe not quite trust, but believe in, at least.
(… because it's so much like her. When she would take a few flitting looks at him, and a smile would spread across her lips, as smooth as butter over bread and with the strength of the sun entwined within. An arm slung over his shoulders, an easy pull folding him into her chest, a small grin that told him of how she lov— cherished him.)
It had been… long, 'course, since then. Kiernan doesn't even remember when that memory had been. All he remembers is Maeve's distance; her late-night door slams, the fleeting sound of her hazy, stumbling footsteps, the way she'd drop back in bed in the midnight-darkness, only to be gone when he'd woken up again.
And the way Chrys looks at him makes fear in his chest. But an odd warmth sticks to his heart. Even as he tries to squash that feeling down. Even as he tries to pretend that it isn't there.
A cry of pain draws Kiernan away from his reverie. Chrys is grimacing, as blood trickles down what's left of his arm, and his eyes are distant.
"Are—are you okay? Is there something I can… do?"
Chrys shakes his head. "It's fine. But... seriously, don't worry about… her. It's just Dior being... Dior."
"Being a fucking asshole?"
Despite his pain, Chrys raises his eyebrows at him. As if he hadn't heard Kiernan swear a dozen times before already. It's almost funny. Maybe. But Kiernan really isn't in the mood for laughing.
(Not really. Not after that. Weak, useless, so… impotent, like he didn't fucking know it already. Like Dior really needed to shove it all back into his face. Like he didn't know that he brought absolutely nothing to the pack, like he didn't know that he was brought along because of tradition and nothing else, like he didn't know he was gonna die anyway already, that his fate wasn't already determined when he raised his hand and volunteered, pressed down by the Capitol's eyes.)
Kiernan scoffs then. "It's whatever," he mumbles. Even though he knows it's the farthest thing from whatever. Cause his life's on the line, it's his life that they're talking about, like—
(Like his life ever really mattered, at all?)
"It's… " Chrys presses his lips together. "... it's not, whatever, Kiernan. Can kind of see it in your face."
His face burns. Embarrassment, frustration, feelings bubble within him. Kiernan is exposed. He gets up from his crate, despite Chrys's protests— lets out a breath, he needs to leave, he needs to go, somewhere, somewhere else—
"Wait!" — and Kiernan ignores Chrys's words, because it's so obvious, isn't it? Just how weak he is? Just how pathetic he is? Just how stupid he is, just how useless he is, just how quick he'll die? Cause everything's on his face, cause he knows, and oh, Kiernan doesn't know why they haven't thrown him out of the pack yet, why they haven't tossed him or called anarchy, cause he's nothing of value here—
(And it's so obvious by the way of Dior's eyes, and by the way in which she says tradition. He's not here for any fucking merit of his own. He's here because Two's always in the pack and because they know he'll be screwed otherwise, anyway, might as well let him ride this out—)
"Look, Kiernan—" and Chrys grabs him by the shoulder, with his intact hand, and Kiernan doesn't know why he doesn't wrestle Chrys off, right there and then— but then Chrys's eyes are on him and his eyes are steady and his hand's warm and Kiernan almost flinches because it's been so long since somebody's touched him and—
"Kiernan. I'm thinking of leaving."
Kiernan's eyes widen. W-what? almost spills from his lips, but then he controls himself, controls his surprise, controls his feelings. Chrys's hand drops away from Kiernan, finds his stump, grips it tighter.
"I need to," he says, and Kiernan doesn't need to ask why.
(He doesn't need to look at Chrys's… wound, and his grimace, and his fixed gaze… to know.)
"Why do you want me?" he says, cautiously. "I'll just drag you down."
"That's a lie," Chrys retorts, half a pained scoff colouring his language. "I've seen you in training. You're competent, Kiernan. And 'sides, I like your spunk. It'd be... nice to have you with me. It'll be less… lonely. If I'm being honest..." and there's a wistful sort of smile which teases by the corner of his lips. "You remind me of someone. I'd… like that."
Surprise—adrenaline—so many feelings run through his veins. And Kiernan can't quite sift through them, isn't sure how to sift through them.
"Think on it, will you?" Chrys tells him, and he gets up from his crate. Kiernan watches as Chrys staggers away, as a dozen more thoughts shoot through his mind, now.
Hera Dalenka. District 2.
Hera Dalenka is in the Games.
Hera Dalenka is in the pack.
But she's not there, in the Games, not really. Some part of her feels like she's at home, watching one of the Games ravage on-screen; she is herself, yes, but she's a spectator. Hera is in her body and she is not. She is not really… herself.
(She is out of her body because she can't be in her body. Because if she is, then she'll feel the cold too clearly. She'll feel the convulses of her skin and she'll feel the way ice drops into the pit of her stomach and she'll feel too much and Hera Dalenka cannot feel too much. She already feels enough.)
They're back in the Cornucopia. Night shrouds the world around them. No longer is the golden glow of the Arena; no, it is only dark, and cold. Wind sheaves through her skin like cold metal jabs. Only a dark forest: and so empty. Her pack's at the mouth of the golden horn; and she's outside, watching, shivering.
(Hera isn't quite sure what to think about the Games - no, she does not want to know what she thinks about the Games. Because if she closes her eyes, and imagines herself seated at a couch, imagines a holographic screen and imagines her head riveted in place like a corkscrew. If she imagines. If she imagines the barbarity and the voracity of the Careers and the insatiability of bloodlust and if she imagines…)
Hera knows. She knows the Games tear her soul apart, and knows the Games roil her inside, and she knows the Games break her heart.
(But she must suppress, and suppress, and suppress— for Hera cannot think. To think would be an admission. To think would acknowledge her failings, to think would be looking up to her parents in their eyes and confess, I'm not your perfect daughter, I'm not your perfect Career, I don't—I don't want to win, I don't want to make you proud, I don't want to be anything more than a disappointment, a failure, an addict…)
To think would be an admission. And Hera cannot admit.
(Not her contrit. And she may try to be kind, she may try to be compassionate, she may choose to extend an olive branch to Kiernan Alcraiz and she may stand there rooted when the dead come upon their parades and pretend she is not complicit in Dior's crusades… but she still plays-act a charade, does she not? Nothing absolves her of her volunteering. Her choice from her own voice. Because they wanted the best in the world, and the best in the world meant champagne, meant money and fame…)
Dior does not like her. Hera knows that too well. Because she stood whilst the pack demolished the Fives. Because she was admonished whilst Althea was praised. Because she'd just watched as Dior and Althea took their kills by their gleaming blades and skinned their bodies alive. Because she'd just watched as Dior sneered and she remained voiceless in it all.
(And she is aware, too, of how Dior sees her. For Hera Dalenka is worthless, unimportant. She is disposable, she is useless. Like the rest of Two is. A girl wreathed in mist and a boy so pathetically incompetent. Echo of 55th, much?)
And she's plunged in despair. She should be. Plunged in pain. Plunged in self-hate.
But it is ephemeral. Barely a film round her body. She knows the things she should feel, and yet Hera Dalenka does not feel a thing.
And it is so much like— it is so much like—
(—like she is back at the party. A dozen legs pattering across, the pandemonium of people, overlaid by a haze of sound and clash and screams. Hera Dalenka is there and yet she is not. But the image is no longer made of snow.)
And it is this she remembers.
There were explosions at the party.
(There were insurgents. Padded feet, padded gear and padded armour. A galore of guns and knives. And they'd exploded stars of chaos across the world. Some ran, and Hera was swept among the masses of feet, but she'd remembered seeing them.)
And her feet were shaking, like an earthquake rumbled underneath. Hera Dalenka never liked earthquakes; never liked anything that was destabilising, vertiginous…
(... the drugs did enough already...)
There were explosions at the party.
But it wasn't to make a statement. Not really.
(Because then they wouldn't've let her run, they wouldn't've let her go, they would've rounded them up, stay, and they would've cocked their guns, cocked their heads, this is an uprising, this is our fight, this is for the forgotten ones, this is for the dead. And they would've pulled her hair, they would've dragged her out of the masses, they would've grinned ear-to-ear, for this was a Career, they were about to upend the Games, and they could've, she'd seen their guns and their getup and their blades, she knew what they could do.)
But they… didn't.
Hera isn't sure what it was for. But judging by the way people scattered, and judging by the way people screamed, and judging by the way people ran… and judging by the way they'd just dropped in, judging by the way they'd just intimidated, judging by the way they'd made explosions and earthquakes and disappeared…
… she could guess.
It was a warning. It was a precursor.
(Look at what we can do.)
(This isn't the end.)
(We're only getting started.)
(Watch us.)
Hera Dalenka's breaths grow sharp.
She's sober. That is what she knows. And although she's shaking, although her teeth's chattering and although she's cold-turkey, she knows. The mist in her mind's dissolving, and…
There had been an explosion.
There had been rebels.
She remembers.
Hera stumbles back to them. To the Cornucopia's mouth.
"They're with us," she says, and the words are unbidden, they fall off her lips, too-loud in the dark.
The pack's eyes snap towards her. She sees Dior Marini's eyes, narrow; she sees Rhodos McNamara's, too wide; she sees Althea Ivory's, cautious; she sees Kiernan Alcraiz's, wary; she sees Chrys Gerhart's, shaking in pain, only a gaunt jaw betraying his thoughts.
"The rebels," Hera says. And the entire pack looks at her, and she expects them to glance at her like she's mad, but they... don't.
"They're here. They all are. They're with us."
Dior Marini raises her eyebrows. "Hera," she replies. "What… makes you say that?"
Hera lets out a quiet breath, and she looks between their eyes, because how does she begin to explain? How does she start, how does she tell them? And a part of her wonders if she should tell them (should she?) - but it's too late, now, because their eyes encroach her, and she feels far too small.
(Voiceless?)
And desperation seizes in her heart. "They were at the party, remember? And they're here now..."
Dior scoffs. "Nonsense. Rebels? Here? What have you made up in your head, Hera? It's not as if we were given a message—"
"We were given a message," Althea Ivory interrupts, and Dior stills. "Don't you remember? The Head Gamemaker had told us herself. We're to kill the troublesome first. The dissenting first. The chaotic first. We're to hunt. We're to keep the rebels down. We're to show them. We have to finish the job they've given us. Wasn't that what our Head Gamemaker said?"
Dior seems uncertain for a moment. Until she collects herself.
"Of course," she says, "That may be what the Head Gamemaker ordains. But that does not necessarily mean there is a fully-fledged, organised rebellion present. Certainly not any that can upend the Games. Unless… someone wants to confess."
And Dior's eyes pass across every individual. Till they land on Rhodos, who instinctively glances away. Dior's eyebrows raise.
"The marks," Rhodos finally says, even though the words quaver on his throat. "On their wrists… I'd seen it on Nine girl's. And on the Fives.I think that's their signal… I think that's what bands them together. If they have it… then they're part of the rebellion. I don't know if it means anything, but—"
Dior's lips twist. "Thank you, Rhodos."
And Hera's throat constricts, and her words seize, and she—she can't speak anymore.
But the truth, the gravityof it all settles around them.
There are rebels in the Games.
There is rebellion.
And Hera Dalenka is voiceless, and she feels so guilty for speaking at all.
Head Gamemaker Elkavich.
"Uh… Miss Elkavich... I think there's something you'd… want… to know."
Elkavich closes her eyes from the monitor of the Arena ahead of her. There's a swallow from behind. "We've found, that, uhm, there's… uh... interference."
She turns her eyes up to the withering girl. Her lip wrinkles. Of course it was Gamemaker Kathvarine. Was that her name? That girl that she'd doubted ever since she'd seen the new lineup of Gamemakers, for she was so… pathetic. Always so mousey, so nervous, like some anxiety pricked at her soul. Elkavich didn't know how she'd gotten the role. Strings pulled from the top of the Capitol did not mean competency.
Oh, the spirit of nepotism.
(And she'd resented that, really: Elkavich had come from the rock-bottom. She'd crawled her way to the top through work, through intrigue and stratagem. There were not many opportunities that an escort could take; but she rationed them, vociferous, till from her fingers sprawled connections and a monopoly of power. And this girl? Came from wealth and strength—from power that gave her the position. Never would she understand work or sacrifice. That pretty figure of hers, too: perfect face, perfect body, demure and complaisant and beautiful, must've helped some.)
So pardon her if she was a little irritable.
"Interference from what?" Elkavich snaps.
Kathvarine flinches, like someone's touched her.
"..."
"Speak."
Kathvarine's mouth opens—hangs, for a moment. And Elkavich's already rolling her eyes by the time the words get out of her lips.
"We're getting e-electromagnetic signals. From the inside. Not sure where it's from, but… it's happening. B-by that I mean, we're not sure where it's coming from… but thought that..." Another swallow.
By Panem, could this girl get on with it?
Elkavich scoffs. "Nonsense. Electromagnetic signals? You mean the force-field? We'd fixed the problems pertaining to the 55th Games. The Arena is impenetrable. There isn't anything wrong with the force-field.."
And it should be impenetrable. It is. The force-field had reduced Jordyn Moriau to char and dust. The force-field had rendered all who had touched it into oblivion. Of course, there were flaws: it flickered briefly, from time to time, perhaps its energy had weakened on occasion, but it wasn't… notable. Wasn't… enough, to warrant worry, really.
(It can't. It shouldn't. It isn't important.)
Because she isn't Guthrie. His mistakes doomed him… for his oversights. But she will not be doomed. Her Arena is… is flawless. It can't not be. Elkavich's skin will remain intact. It must. She will prosper. She will survive.
(Of course… three months was not enough to prepare a whole new Games in themselves. She had to recycle, she had to make-do, with old designs, but… what came out, came out fine.)
"We know that there are fluctuations in the force-field," she mutters, fixing a glare on the girl. "Don't tell me that's all you came to me to inform."
The way Gamemaker Kathvarine's eyes rise in panic is amusing, really. And her lips open, and Elkavich raises her eyebrows, and waits for her to stumble on her words.
"That's... not just the only signal w-we're getting," says Kathvarine. "There's one from the… outside. We—we think it's, er. Attacking our systems. S-something about a technological siege..."
Fucking hell.
Elkavich scowls. She levels her eyes at the girl. Her chest tightens, her rage stokes, and she grips her fists, don't feel don't feel don't yell—
(She quells the panic rising in her chest.)
"You couldn't've told me that first?" Elkavich snarls, and now the girl shrinks into herself like a withering rose. She slams her eyes shut, forces herself to regulate her breaths, it's fine, everything's fine, nothing's going wrong, you're fine, fine, you won't end up like Guthrie, you won't, that's different, you're different, you're fine…
No. No. She refuses to be like Guthrie. She refuses to be punished, to be dragged into a chamber, to be decapitated…
(Snow's eyes, too much like basilisks, rivet on her.)
No. No. She hasn't made a mistake. No. It isn't her fault. It won't be her fault.
Elkavich bristles. She turns to Gamemaker Katharvine. Finally, finally… this stupid girl can be of some use to her.
"You're in charge. Take care of this problem. And if you don't..."
She lets her glare say the rest.
Panic overwhelms the young Gamemaker. And good—she could prove herself. Live or die by her mistake. But in the meantime…
Elkavich turns her eyes back to her screen, to the tributes, and watches the Threes and the Sixes.
Those with vulture tattoos on their wrists.
And she flicks her screen to the Careers, congregated round the Cornucopia, and she gnashes her teeth together.
Don't let me down.
You won't want me to send the mutts out.
A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! And for bearing with me for this update, which took a hot minute… but I'm happy to announce that I've been doing Nanowrimo for this project, and I'm happy to say that we're making solid ground for this fic buffer-wise! So… hopefully updates should be more consistent after I wrap up this fic and then I can focus fully on the editing process.
What do you all think? Of the reveal? Now with rebels and rebellion in play… how will this switch things up? What questions do you have? Also - how about our newly introduced Gamemaker Kathvarine? Any particular thoughts? Any more death predictions? Let me know what you think!
As always, your reviews are so appreciated—they seriously bring such a smile to my face. Thank you again for reading!