Day 4: The Cogent and The Inchoate.

Kiernan Alcraiz. District 2.

Safe to say that things are... awkward after that.

(He doesn't really wanna talk, think, he doesn't wanna consider… whatever that was. They'd call it a breakdown on national television, of course, broadcast across the Capitol—how funny, look at the child falling apart, we've all been waiting for it! Savour it, look, it's retribution for the trashfire mess that was the last Games—)

Kiernan's breath tightens.

And now… Hera Dalenka's his ally.

(Ally is a word he tentatively uses. He's been allies with Chrys Gerhart; acquaintances, really, (maybe friends), and didn't that just end so well.)

Hera… Hera's his ally, he supposes, now. After what'd happened… before. But he isn't too sure, because ally's too close, too personal, it's just one step away from friends, and he can't have that for her. He can't lose any more.

So. Hera's his… District partner. That works.

They move through the Arena. Kiernan isn't sure where they're going, and he doesn't think that Hera knows either. But they're both moving, both restless, and for the better—he doesn't wanna think about that place.

(That cruel fucking joke of a place. Did they leave it there for him to discover?)

He squeezes his eyes shut. No. Don't think, don't think, don't think…

(... why can't he think?)

It's obvious. So the Capitol'll be reminded of his breakdown?

(... because the scene of the death's place brought him all back. Back to her death. And it's brought anger, rage, ferocity… morph into agony, into pain, into memory.)

Into memory.

(Of her, waltzing up the stage, stars recrudescent on her lips, eyes gleaming at the world at her fingertips. Of her, upon the chariots, brazen and proud against the Capitol and the government and the people that bowed before her. Of her, in the Games, flirting with One girl, shanking her District partner, saving the Sixes about to die, kissing One girl, grinning all the while, starring in the Arena like she was the only one that mattered, flaunting a fuck you to the world by being the least of what a Career should be... )

(She eludes him. But really... does Maeve matter anymore?)

And, for the first time in forever, clarity sets into the mist of a mess that's always pounded in Kiernan's head.

He will die.

(He will die. And rage had stoked in his stomach before, rage had lighted his skin and burned him through, so much rage, too much rage—and it surges through him now, teases him, taunts him, come on, give in, succumb to your anger your pain your madness, give in, sink in, relish it, and Kiernan shuts his eyes and wills, wills the moment to pass.)

He's going to die.

It's not because he's weak. It isn't because he's useless or because he's incompetent. It isn't his fault.

(And he'd have scoffed, the moment here—cursed her, his sister, his fucking sister's why he's here… but neither is it Maeve's fault. Not really. Sure, she'd volunteered on a fucking whim, victim to the parasites of her mind, and she'd done shit that would've made even the stupidest Career groan, and she'd fucked-up to the seven heavens, she'd died and become a denizen of hell for the hellof it, but… wasn't it the Capitol, who'd planted him here?)

And… as much as he'd like to blame her (because it'd be just so much easier to blame her; her sister that thought she was the sky and volunteered to make the heavens her reckoning) - he can't.

(Because no matter how hard he tries to pretend, how much he tries to resent her, no matter how much he scoffs, how much he curses her and claims that he hates her and how he's oh so happy she died— he loves her. He loves her cause she was his sister and… then she'd gone off and got high in the skies obscured by the clouds did you think that her grinning face wouldn't emblazon the night and… she'd volunteered, and he doesn't know what she's thinking, not then, his mom says she's volunteered for them, all he sees is she's volunteered away from the chaos and pain and pain at home, and—)

Maybe Kiernan's here, and maybe it's completely her fucking fault that he's here. But after her death he'd let pieces and bits of her dissipate one and away from his brain. Till she's a scapegoat, a caricature in his mind, a figure that he could blame. And because she was never there at home. And because she was a ghost. And because she was not even there, not even in her death. He could.

(... aren't they so happy? That he's cursing his sister rather than them?)

Kiernan feels something prod by his lips; a scoff. Fucking—fucking hell. That's why you don't think.

But his breath's so heavy, and so are his steps, and so he doesn't say anything at all.

He doesn't think he can.

It's then when he stops. At a divide. There's… the quivering earthquake that stands on the other side. And it's not strong, not at all, but it's still an undercurrent under the grounds like it's been electrified. Then there's him, and Hera, still within the safe zone that marks… the vicinity of her death.

"That's..." he swallows.

"I think we should turn back," Hera says.

"Yeah," he says, quietly. And another scoff almost upturns his lips, cause of course, the Capitol would want him to stay there.

(But it is less resentful than it is saddened. And Kiernan should not think, and yet...)

Dior Marini. District 1.

She's killed Chrys Gerhart.

She's killed Chrys Gerhart.

Her District partner. Her biggest competitor. Her rival since day one; her enemy, her so-called companion, her deserter, her challenger, her would-be-murderer, had she not—

And she's lucid — yes, yes she's lucid - and she's laughing, hard, she's exhaling and she's choking on her breaths—

Not because it's funny. Well; perhaps, to an extent. It isn't funny. She's laughing because there's dust in her lungs and there's joy that cracks at her heart just as there is stress and she's feeling…

There is mist in her head, and she feels so bleary, and her movements are sluggish, even though there's a smile that twists upon her lips. And she's stumbling, she's groggy like she'd just woken up on another plane, and there's something that cakes her mouth, like a mouthful of cocaine and there's mist that crests her through, and she's feeling…

(... something. If she can think through the fog in her head, maybe it's the slashes that Chrys got on her legs, that seep down her skin, that spiral in red stars upon the gold-tipped grass, maybe it's that which makes her feel. Perhaps it is that which affects her; perhaps it is that which presses grogginess into her head, a discomfort into her chest, a shrill in her blood, a laugh in her lungs.)

Dior is overwhelmed, but she's relishing in it all. Feeling tides over her skin; it fulfils her, it satiates her, it imbues her in life as much as it does in a blear, and it's so nice (not really not really not really, but it'd be a lie if she didn't admit that she liked feeling...)

Nine more dead and then she'll triumph; nine more dead and then she'll be sitting on the Victor's throne, with a crown looping her head. A little bit more, a few deaths more, and it's a stepping stone further; some more, some more...

(And then she's back to the end, where Chrys Gerhart was suffocating, dying in a death she'd knighted, and then the words he'd spluttered out of his lips stays on her too, you'll never understand why I volunteered, you won't—)

It's for family.

It's ironic, perhaps, that her District partner's done it for his family, but his family isn't dead. His family isn't buried six-feet-under the ground; his family's grieving, but his family's alive. Mattie's dead and that's all she'll be—her parents are shells of themselves, manufactured in coldness, prove yourself to us, redeem our name, and…

Her entire mission in the Games is for Mattie—that's all Dior Marini is. A vessel for revenge; a vessel for justice; a vessel for… for her sister, for retribution, for Mattie's life, to show that her sacrifice wasn't in vain. She's the older sister, she's supposed to avenge her, because she isn't supposed to be the cowardly one, she isn't supposed to hide, she isn't supposed to back down, she isn't supposed to let Mattie Marini stroll her way to her death with a grin, Dior, don't worry, I'll volunteer, you can stay here, don't worry I'm gonna survive for you, I'm gonna live for you, I'm gonna come back home okay, you don't need to worry about anything anymore…

Something chokes her throat. Something she can't feel.

(Because Dior Marini needs to be in control; she needs to be authoritative, she needs to be strong. She can't let anyone be swallowed by the tempo of the Games; she has to be the one in control. She has to be in control of her thoughts. Because if she lets herself think, if she lets herself think about Mattie, about anything more than revenge or living and fighting, if she lets herself dwell on what had happened two years ago, if she lets herself think, then she'll think about the day Mattie rose to the podium, the day she raised a hand and...)

(She'll think about the smile on her lips; of hope, of desire, of innocence; the world her oyster, the world anointed hers. And Dior'll be watching her Games, breath held, heart tight, wishing for the best… but there had always been some feeling else that'd sunk into the depths of her stomach.)

(... and then she'll think about Kiernan Alcraiz, and how she'd felt the same feeling wrench her stomach when she'd seen him volunteer, turning in feelings else; resentment, madness, stewing in… removed pity. Dior hadn't let herself dwell on it—how could she, she couldn't, why would she… and she'd scorned him, she'd spurned him, she'd said so many things—but for what cause?)

… because Alcraiz and Mattie were both children that volunteered. And perhaps one was too-aware and the other too-impressionable; but the result was the same, wasn't it?

Because hadn't she always known that Mattie Marini never had a chance at the Games?

Dior laughs. But it is a sob stuck in her throat, and as quick as it comes as quickly it is gone.

No. Mattie Marini died with purpose. Mattie Marini died for a reason. Mattie Marini didn't just die because she was weak, incompetent, unable—no, she didn't, and she'll show them, she'll show the Eights, she'll show them all…

… where are the Eights?

Dior stops trudging. It is earth that resides beneath her feet, of course—the residue of an earthquake, the current still present, and Dior Marini thinks. Despite all of Eight girl's skill (that 8 in private sessions, at least), despite all her anti-Capitol rhetoric and her spite that could ignite a wildfire… despite how well she could've survived in the forests, despite how competent she is, despite how many supplies she'd stolen from the Cornucopia, despite how well she'd rationed…

…. she needed to eat, didn't she?

It hits her then.

She knows exactly where Eight girl is. She knows where she and her District partner are. She'd spent so long tromping the entirety of the Arena for them—it didn't occur to her where she didn't look.

Dior lifts her eyes up into the marigold-tinged skies, flowing with the taste of earth upon the air, and turns her sights back towards the Cornucopia.

(Nothing matters now. It doesn't matter that she's injured, that she's exhausted, that she has a dozen litters of cuts on her skin from a boy that tried to kill her and the earthquake that tried to subsume her. It doesn't matter that she's barely breathing, that she's haggard, that she's so tired, that she just wants rest. It doesn't matter that she hasn't slept for two days; it doesn't matter that she's been restless, that she's done nothing but move throughout the entirety that she'd been here.)

All that matters is that she gets them.

She needs to avenge Mattie.

She always needs to avenge Mattie.

(What more is there, to Dior Marini, if not for her sister? What more is to her, than revenge?)

(What more is her, really, than a shell - to imbue the cadaver of her sister with purpose, because, then… what else would she be?)

Rhodos McNamara. District 4.

He sits next to a stalagmite and stares at the Three pair beside him.

(They'd let him in, after a small exchange. He didn't say much - not really. But they presumed he was a part of the rebellion, and he was too anxious - and polite - to correct them.)

And so he sits, gazing at the duo. Daniel and Ryleigh's been engaged in their own… things, since he came in. Daniel's engaged in a… device. Something technological, because whirrs and beeps echo across the cavern. Something he somehow managed to find.

And Ryleigh's engaged in the art of intimidation. Rhodos hadn't thought that he would've been engaged in a staredown with a fourteen-year-old attempting to look scary in the Games… but reality defies expectations. Occasionally, she passes a few gazes at his spear, which he'd settled loosely by the cave wall next to him: as non-threatening as it could be.

But above all, anxiety permeates the room. Rhodos is tense. Because he's somewhere that he shouldn't be, he's here because of the earthquake, he doesn't even know what's happening. He doesn't know where he is, where Althea is (and worry gnaws at his heart, because… because even though her cannon didn't go off, even though he didn't see her face at night… she could still be injured, still be dying...)

Ryleigh clears her throat. And Rhodos's jarred out of his reverie, as the Three girl says, an octave too-loud: "You're not actually a part of the Vultures, are you?"

Rhodos swallows. Panic envelops his body, and he's too rigid to speak. Daniel's soft tapping stops. Ryleigh's stare, despite her age, is vehemently powerful.

"I'm not," he admits. "Not at all. Not really. But…" and he closes his eyes, forces the words out. "... I'm willing to learn."

A few excruciating moments pass the room. He's barely able to take a breath… till the tapping starts again.

Humour strikes up in Daniel's voice, as he continues on with the device. "A recruit. As good as we can get."

Rhodos attempts a weak smile. "A Career recruit," he says, tries to affirm, but it doesn't sit well with him - not his unease, not his beating heart. Despite how far his flattery may take him - it's uncomfortable, so alien in his mouth.

So instead, he changes the topic. Rhodos gestures towards the… devices which Daniel's using.

"How did you get… that?"

Daniel shrugs. "Cornucopia," he says, blunt, fast, despite Ryleigh's exasperated stare.

"C'mon, Dan! You're just gonna tell him everything?"

Endearment and exasperation flick over Daniel's expression. He turns to Ryleigh. "C'mon, Ry. Once the jig's up, the jig's up. We're going to be rescued anyway. There's no use pretending. And not pretending's more of a courtesy than anything… he wants to learn, after all."

Ryleigh huffs. "Still."

Rhodos feels distinctly like he's third-wheeling. He coughs, and Daniel's eyes flick up to him. "So… what's this about?"

"Communication," Daniel says, without missing a beat, despite Ryleigh's continuous huffs. "It's for… our people to contact us. And before you ask where we got them—"

Rhodos clamps his mouth shut.

"—we got em from the Cornucopia because… well… they'd ensured that it was put there for us."

The Cornucopia. And Rhodos thinks back to the tributes there, all too confident, poised to run…

That's why everyone ran.

And then - the implications hit Rhodos immediately. To put resources which the rebels needed in the Games had meant that they had friends in high places. Not just high places—but someone in the Gamemakers' circle themselves.

Just… how many rebels were in the Gamemaker team?

Something like the ghost of a smile illuminates Daniel's lips. "Yeah. A few are… with us."

"How long has it been?"

Ryleigh pouts. "C'mon, Dan. Are you really gonna spill the beans on absolutely everything?"

Daniel looks at Ryleigh with amusement. "Do you wanna give Rhodos the history brief?"

Immediately, Ryleigh's expression transforms. Something like a sparkle lights up her irises, as she coughs and clears her throat just at the word history. But then, uncertainty plagues her eyes once she takes him in once more.

Rhodos raises his hand, lets a slight smile rest on his lips. "I don't bite. Promise."

Uncertainty's subsumed in desire, and Rhodos can practically see the moment when the Three girl's love of history overtakes her hesitation. She giggles, despite herself, and shoves the back of her palm to her teeth to stifle it. "Okay. Fine."

Ryleigh's eyes meet his, and her eyes shift into a sort of sincerity which hasn't really been there on the half-hostile, half-reluctant kid's features before. "Are you ready?"

"... as ready as I can be."

Ryleigh lets out a long breath and squeezes her eyes shut. "Okay. So… it started in the very beginning. Like. Not the 55th Games beginning. But the very beginning. You know District 13, right? Bombed and everything and all. But not. Not actually. They just kinda went into hiding. And they're preparing to rise up against the Capitol and everything. To stop their tyranny, to make a new Panem, and liberate us from the Games. And to do that… they need us. We're the heroes!" she says, grins, pumps her fist, as Daniel rolls his eyes. "And we're here to help them save us, and then we're gonna overthrow Panem, and then everyone'll be happy again!"

Rhodos stares.

"I… wow."

Ryleigh nods eagerly. She opens her mouth to speak, and Rhodos braces himself for another verbal barrage—

"Sorry," Daniel interrupts. "She gets excited about this stuff. But… yeah. Basically what Ry said. We're here… well, we were installed in here. Inside agents. Operatives. To study the Arena. To relay information back at them. So… they can know how to bring it down."

Bring it down.

He barely believes he hears it.

"So this..." he says, and falters. "So... this is more than a suicide mission."

(He thinks about Nine girl. Nine girl and her split-open skin. Of blood, pouring down by the mouth opened in her neck, upon her body. And then he thinks of the blood's echo, at the final two, of the Games before.)

Daniel's lips quirk. "That may have been Madison Saros's. And Brynn Sanchez's. But no. Suicide isn't our mission. I'm gonna live. And so's Ry... even if she's annoying."

"Hey!"

Despite himself, Rhodos feels something quirk by the corner of his lips. But dread seeps underneath him. Because they're speaking so freely, like there aren't monitors or eyes-all-over everywhere staring. Because they're acting like the Capitol isn't there. Because they're still in the Games.

Daniel seems to have read his mind because he shakes his head.

"You don't need to worry, Rhodos," he says. "This place's about as foolproof as we get. It's on a feedback loop, and what the Capitol'll be getting is static."

Static. Feedback loop. And Rhodos stares, gobsmacked, eyes wide. How was this even… possible? But another question, more pertinent, prods at him—

"But… what are you two doing here? You said you were… installed in, right? But don't you have people in the Gamemakers' team?" Disbelief inches down his heart. "I—I almost killed you guys. Aren't you afraid of the Careers? What—what are you..."

"That's classified information!"

Daniel rolls his eyes. He nudges Ryleigh slightly. "Beats me," he exhales to Rhodos. "They don't really tell us anything. But I can tell you my job - I'm here to transmit data of the force-field to them. We're in the caves 'cause that's the closest thing to the fields… without getting too openly up-close and personal."

Rhodos works his jaw. "And you need the force-field… because?"

Daniel's grin widens. "I wasn't kidding when we said that we're taking down the Arena."

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

They sit around the… place.

(There is something peculiar about the place, Hera knows. It's a place where the earthquakes won't reach. And she knows that, and so does Kiernan, because that's why they're turning back, why they're staying here. She also knows that there is something more to the place than that. She's not too sure if she wants to know.)

Hera makes the fire. Kiernan just watches, weary. Typically, fire is always a bad idea in the Games: but there isn't a sound except for the soft chirps of crickets that surround them. There are no tributes near, except for the District 2 pair here.

The Games are... exhausting. There is nothing more than Hera wants than to not be here. And she's here for a reason (to make glory, to make a life for herself, to show the world her perfect victory)...

(Those reasons don't matter to her anymore. They're not her—she's denounced them all. All she has here, really, is an empty place. She's to be an empty corpse, a cadaver of the Arena. Her vial of morphling clinks in her pocket, and a voice nags in the back of her head. You're dead anyway. What was it that Thyia said to you before you volunteered for the Games? Just get fuckin' high, Hera, one last time. If you die, better go delirious, better go euphoric, better go happy...)

And her fingers are twitching, and she wants to tear off the cap, she wants to down the entire thing, and then she'll exhale in bliss. And then she'll exhale in bliss and there'll be a grin on her face and oh wouldn't Hera Dalenka be so damn happy? She'll collapse atop of the Arena meadows and she'll let a woozy grin meander over her face and she'll let the ground crack underneath her and she'll be oblivion in bliss.

But…

Kiernan Alcraiz is here.

He's here, and he's staring at her, and she finds herself feeling oddly guilty.

She moves her hand away from the vial. She moves her hand away from the vial and something possesses her, maybe, because her hand moves onto Kiernan's shoulder.

He flinches at her touch. And at first, she thinks he's gonna scoff, recoil, let the barbs spike out of him like a snarling hedgehog, a warning, but what exits his lips is different from what she expects.

"... please don't."

"I'm sorry," she says and lets her hand fall back to her lap. "Are you okay?"

"Why does everyone want me to say it so badly?" Kiernan lets out a breath, and a type of humour coaxes out of his throat.

It's quiet, the next few moments. She looks at Kiernan, at his twitching fingers and his glimmering eyes and his taut mouth, and she waits until he is ready.

"No. No, I'm not okay," he says, and it's sardonic, so excessive, so raw and aching and in pain. "First I need to volunteer, cause the Capitol'll murder me an' Mom if I don't anyway. Then I get into the Games, and they don't even have the fucking decency to kill me on the first day," and it's so sarcastic, it's seeping into his voice, seeping everywhere there, and his eyes aren't even on hers, it's scouring around her, looking for cameras, she realises.

"And the earth eats me, but it can't even finish the job, and out of all places the Gamemakers decide to spit me out here. And you look—" he catches himself.

When Kiernan speaks again, a halting chuckle lets out of his mouth. "... you're like her."

And Hera might've been nothing but drug-addled for the past few months, but it doesn't take much to know what he's referring to.

"I'm sorry," she says, quietly, because what else can she say, really? And Kiernan laughs, and it's harsh, but it's also softer, too.

"... no," he says, and his throat's clearer, this time, less sick with bile and pain. "... don't. It's—Maeve's my problem. I'll deal with her," and he swallows again, "eventually."

What Hera sees is this. A kid, not even thirteen yet, struggling with his sister's death. Tossed into the Arena, a plaything of the Gamemakers, here to show a message to the rest of the world. Of what happens if you rebel. Barely coping, barely surviving, and…

Hera does what she couldn't, on the train. She speaks.

"You don't have to do it alone."

Kiernan doesn't speak. But she's sure there's a sob that lets itself out in the back of his throat. Stifled, and quiet, but… present.

They sit by the crackle of the fire. Hera does not speak.

(There is no purpose for her, here, at the Games. Not anymore. But she looks at Kiernan Alcraiz, and she sees something that she can change. One of the many repairs she can make. For the boy, a child, really, that's not even a teen. For the person that she can help.)

Perhaps.

Althea Ivory. District 4.

Althea Ivory treks through the wrecked Arena, and she doesn't have a clue what to do.

Of course: everything had happened, as normal. Anthem had blared; faces were projected. Aside from the earthquake, everything was normal.

The problem was… her plans were thrown out of the window. She'd wanted to stick with the pack, and obviously that option had gone nuclear after Dior. All Althea's now is she's seething and she's mad and she's so done with the Games and the Capitol and her District for all their eyes that've tried to beat her down, to judge her, to tell her that she wasn't enough.

… which is fine, yes, but it doesn't translate well in terms of winning the Games. And above all, Althea needs to win the Games. She can denounce their judgement and she can denounce their words, but Kani Fairchild is still waiting for her at home, and she can't just say fuck all and damn the world itself. She has to play by the rules. And for that, she needs to make a plan.

Althea isn't too sure where, exactly, she is, in the Games. All of the golden forests look the same to her, especially with how they all blur together: and now, streaked by an earthquake, it's so much autumnal-red which flows through the place.

But most of all, she does want to find Rhodos. She was glad when his face wasn't projected up on the skies. Because that at least meant that he was okay. And yet… she still can't keep her heart from worrying about what might've happened with him. Just because his face isn't in the sky now doesn't mean that he won't be in the next. They don't show how much a person is injured.

(Really, she shouldn't care that much about her District partner. But… Althea Ivory lets herself.)

… she shouldn't care, though, especially now that they're in the final ten. Chrys Gerhart is dead. All she has left is the Eights. That's all but taken care of by Dior Marini. Then it's the Threes, and then, the remaining Careers, and then it's…

Endgame. Huh.

The crown is near.

There aren't really too many competitors left. It's just Dior Marini, if she's being truthful. And Dior would not be well off. There's no chance in the world that Dior wouldn't be hunting Eight girl down now especially with the dissolution of the pack. And Eight girl can put up one hell of a fight, especially with her training score of 8, not to mention her District partner which she's surefire on defending. So even if Dior Marini survives murdering her obsession, she won't be in any good shape.

Kiernan Alcraiz is a… straightforward one. Hera… she shouldn't be any more difficult.

(Althea forces the queasiness threatening to surface down.)

And Rhodos…

… Althea doesn't really want to think about Rhodos McNamara in the finale.

(But it's all necessary. That's what she has to do, if she wants to make it back, back to Kani. And hell, she might've said fuck you to the Capitol, but that doesn't change that she's still bound to their game. For now. And she can simmer and fester all she wants, but she has to… finish this. The best she can hope is for something else to take out the rest of the tributes, and then… and then she'll be left standing, the Victor of it all, as the world erupts into cheers for she's proven herself, as she scorns the world for making her think that she had to in the first place.)

The Games. Everything is for the Games. So Althea Ivory gazes ahead, into the autumnal dusk, thinks about strategy. And so, perhaps, that is why it does not register at first, when the quiver of earth shakes her feet.

Fucking hell.

A/N. Day four, anyone? We're rapidly approaching the endgame… this is wild. Any thoughts about the rebellion? About what might happen with Hera and Kiernan? Of Althea? Of Rhodos and the Threes?

I appreciated all of your reviews and your thoughts so much - Joseph, Haiden, Linds, Slytherin, Bradi, you guys are the absolute best.

Thank you all for reading, and I can't wait to see you all in the next chapter!