Night 4: The Slaughtered and The Genesis.

Dior Marini. District 1.

She finds Eight girl and her District partner sifting through their Cornucopia supplies.

Dior doesn't care to conceal her footsteps. The Arena had been too far too loud, anyway. The Games had been engulfed in an earthquake, and shook the horizons with all the sound it needed to. So what if her legs had made a rustle, so what if her footsteps were just a little loud, so what if she favoured her left side 'cause she's still bleeding from Gerhart's-made wounds, so what if she was not a wolf, a slinking beast to devour its prey?

It's nearly the end. What more does she need to care about?

(No, what's more is that she's near absolution. Ahead of her are the Eights: and if she closes her eyes and grits her teeth and if she forces the shrieks of the forests back in her head, she'd be in the 53rd Games, she'll be raising her chin and fixing her eyes upon the two children that thought they'd be able to take on a Career, she'd cock her head half-way and she'd sneer, oh, children, who do you think you are? And she'd laugh, she'd laugh too hard as she sends steel plummeting in both their chests, and then they'll both be skin and bags of flesh, and Dior'll wreathe the Victor's crown, oh so heavy on her head around, and she'll return home and she'll be greeted by her sister, too ecstatic, and her family, too proud, and they'll be alive, Mattie will be alive, and no one would've died, nobody, nobody…)

The Cornucopia had long been disrupted by the earthquake. And disrupted it is, still, for there are infiltrators present.

Spilling out of her lips, unbidden, is a scoff.

And Eight girl's eyes meet hers.

Her lips quirk by the edges. Dior watches Eight girl at the mouth of the Cornucopia, glinting in a shaft of moonlight. And her heart is like the deep-sea depths for she knows.

This is how everything will end.

"Hello," Eight girl says amicably, but sardonicism twists inside her vocal chords, searches for escape. Two long knives sway on Eight's hands. "You've been looking for me?"

"How nice of you to realise."

Eight girl grins, and her teeth glints in the light; and it is so animalistic, it is so fervorous, and memories break out from their fetters in her brain - animals dancing through the forests dancing with laughter dancing a death dance —

"Yeah, yeah, couldn't have not. So fucking obsessed with me," Sadie says, laughs; caustic, too caustic. "You gay or something?"

"Don't try this with me." Dior snarls.

"Try what? Try what you've tried with me all-Games-long? Trying," and Sadie grinds the t on her lips, "to hunt me down." Her teeth gleams with a grin. "Trying to get me 'cause I'm a bitch and a half and you wanna be the reigning queen bitch here, 'cause I'm too rebellious for your tastes, 'cause I remind you of somebody, hell, all of the above?"

Dior can't stop the ripple of rage that streaks across her face. Then she already knows she's made a mistake, because Sadie's eyes raise slightly at her reaction, and then she reverts back to amusement again.

"Oh," she says, cocks her head, half a something fluttering across her lips. "Didn't think I'd get that one right."

Dior grips her blade tighter. "Fuck you," she grits, and Sadie's eyes light up at the words, yet within her eyes rests a blaze, seething, scathing, vitriolic.

"Fuck you, really?" she says. "Cause I'm scum, cause I'm fuckin' evil, but when you're killin' kids like it's sport, oh, let's see, who's the real shit of the earth here?"

Dangerous visions flash in her head—dangerous for the illegal feelings it shrills in her veins. Fuck you, she wants to spit, shut up, fucking shut up, you're an animal, I didn't ask you to speak, fuck youfuckyoufuckyou, just let me kill you—

She strikes first. She knows it will not kill, oh, no, Dior does not want a clean kill, she wants a fight, wants Eight with a crisscrossed chest carved out with an x, wants her down, dead, down—

A slice down Eight girl's chest. Not enough, and she feels a yell on her lips, for it was just a graze, and then she parries back with her blade, one of the many they've left in the Cornucopia (till their world erupted in earthquakes)—

But Eight girl has two long knives, and it's no easy fight, for they parry and their blades meet, and every one more she gets red slick all over Eight girl. Cut after cut after cut; and it'll take a thousand ones, but it isn't enough, isn't enough. Dior wanted a fight, she wanted an animal, she wanted the slash of claws and jaws and the shriek of wildness in her visage; she wanted the ferality, wanted justice, wanted revenge, and this wasn't what she asked for; where was the madness—

(Couldn't they fucking be just like the Eights of the 53rd Games? Couldn't they let her imagine?)

But Eight girl isn't as strong as what Dior thought she'd be, and it's pathetic, honestly, and she slams her foot against Eight's chest, and she jars to the ground, body and face up and arms supporting her body up underneath, and wholly at Dior's mercy—

And that's when Dior notices him.

Eight boy. Hunched over, staggering away, running from the Cornucopia. So far, almost too far away…

And Dior feels a snarl on her lips. It hits her then, suddenly, that's why Eight was barely attacking, she was holding back, trying to deviate, trying to prevent, trying to stop her from realising what was happening…

Oh, no, no. Dior won't.

Eight boy may try to shy away, but he is so pathetic, he is so unprotected; he is, oh-so-dead…

She reaches to her side and she flings her dagger at him, a trick which she'd been taught, none too long ago. And then red crowns the back of District Eight male's throat, and he gags, and then Dior watches as he splutters, as he dies—

(—wearing a red-ruby necklace, recrudescent, glittering with stringed-pulsing rubies, so bright, that contrast of red against pale-porcelain, a boy's flesh, a girl's flesh, a child's flesh—)

—and Dior's heart stops beating.

No. No. No. A gulf of panic surges up her chest. No. No, no, no— it's not Mattie's death she gazes upon, Dior, calm yourself, control yourself, you're in the Games, don't panic, the last thing you can do's fucking panic, calm, calm, calm, breathe, don't fucking speak—

She feels a strike against her chest, and Dior thumps to the ground, and fuck you Sadie's screaming, and dimly, Dior realises, nearly a laugh, oh, that must be why Sadie didn't attack, not as hard as Dior thought she would, cause she was trying to get Eight boy away, trying to save him from her, but now—now no longer.

Metal knocks her head sideways, spit's forced out of her mouth. Her head pounds and she turns to meet Eight girl, Eight girl who's unleashing guttural rage from her throat, glaring, screaming, slamming her blade down into her flesh, again and again and again, and Dior wants to laugh, she does, really, but holy fuck—

Founts of feelings (blood) bubble up from her chest, and she's between laughing and screaming, she wants to rip Eight girl's skin down and she wants to render her red, she wants her to die (a ruby necklace round her throat), no, yes, no—

Dior feels the downwards force of the long knives before she sees it, and she twists her head aside from the blade. It thumps into the ground. Her own instincts kick into motion, and she's grabbing the blade from her hands, blood foaming from her palms, and she tugs the blade out from under the ground, and Sadie falls down with a thump to the ground, and Dior reaches her sword, come on, comeoncomeoncomeON decapitate that bitch take your revenge for her do it for her—

But Eight girl rolls away from the descent from her blade, and Eight girl hollers with pain and laughter, and it makes her madder, so much so much so fucking madder—

"I hate you," Dior spits, heaves her blade again, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you—"

"You hate me? I despise you. You fucking murderers—" and then she pauses, and then she laughs—

"And you have the audacity to hate me? To blame me for, what? Existing?" Another half-laugh rattles in Eight girl's throat, a wretched laugh, a ridiculous laugh, a laugh that should not be a laugh. "Don't kid. You wanted this. D'you think I wanted this? You kill them all, you killed my District partner, I swear to the hells, I'm gonna kill you, I've wanted this from the beginning, fucking hell—"

Eight girl's underneath her, she's on the ground, and she just has to reach out and kill her, she could, she has to, it'll be so—it'll be so easy, and all she needs to do is slice her sword over her throat, slice a red red red fucking red line over—

A swipe under her legs and Dior thumps to the ground. She's on the ground and Sadie towers over her, sweat tangling her black hair and breathing so hard, blood tangling her face and breathing so hard, and something's lodged in Dior's heart, and she doesn't know if it's a laugh, but it's so suffocating…

(Is Eight girl—no, no, is Sadie Rendevez any different from her and Mattie, really? Dior volunteered for her sister. Chrys had volunteered for his family. All Rendevez's ever wanted to do was protect her District partner. How did… how did she become the villain of this narrative?)

She laughs. And they are laughs that ache against her lungs, laughs that scorch her throat, laughs that are scathing and sour and acrid and she's breaking, piece-by-piece and shard-by-shard, for Dior Marini is dying...

A jerk of metal across her neck.

Dior Marini wears a necklace.

(And as the cannon reverberates through the night, as Dior Marini fades away, what is she other than her sister's wannabe saviour, a girl that tried to make purpose out of what was purposeless, a leader who got too much in her head, a girl that went on her senseless revenge-quest, a girl still too cowardly to confront her own feelings, a girl lying down dying, dying, dead...)

Metal and flesh; nothing more and nothing less.

(A cadaver, like her sister: so absolutely purposeless.)

Rhodos McNamara. District 4.

It's hard for him to wrap his head around all that's happened.

It's hard for him to imagine the extent of rebellion. That rebels had been installed in the Games, and if he goes off the symbols - talons, a vulture's talon - then…

Threes. Sixes. Nines. And the Eights, too, probably, given their rebellious history.

All of them, who'd essentially volunteered. Not in practice, but in spirit. All to help the rebels outside, all to help District 13 find a way in. All of them… and his head's spinning, he's vertiginous, and that's discounting the intrigue that must've gone behind the scenes. How many Capitolians… how many Gamemakers…

… how many tributes?

Rhodos watches as Daniel and Ryleigh pack up camp. It's near-surreal, the scene, for that was evidence of rebellion itself, yet he still doesn't quite believe it. It's near transient before his eyes, and if he reaches out and touches either one of them, then he'll disrupt the mirage and he'll be left in the Arena, so alone…

"We'll have to be ready," Daniel says, as he shoves his machinery in his backpack. "They're coming soon."

Yet it's not. Sense smacks back into him, despite how nonsensical the rebellion had nearly felt in the first place.

"What's coming?" Rhodos asks, not quite daring to let his thoughts out aloud.

Amusement resides by the corner of Daniel's lips. "Who else?"

Rhodos feels his heart tighten.

The hovercraft. The rebels.

(They'd talked about it last night. They sat round a lamp, and Daniel was whispering tales of rebellion, as wispy as the bare glow, despite the shushes which Ryleigh would direct his way. It's still incomprehensible to Rhodos. He's never really imagined that anything like this would happen. Half of him doesn't believe it; it's an impossibility, it's just not real. But another part of him...)

"Where?"

"Collection site!" Ryleigh says. She's beaming with excitement, with more energy than Rhodos had seen from her from the past day or so that he'd known her. Which was saying something, because Ryleigh has a boundless amount of it.

He mulls the words over in his mind. Collection site. And his eyebrow almost raises, because it almost felt like Ryleigh had just voluntarily given up information. Yet she doesn't seem to notice.

"You know how long I've been waiting for?" she continues, excitedly on. "I've been waiting. A hella long time for this."

Daniel rolls his eyes. "I know."

Rhodos looks between Ryleigh (who seems to have just figured out that she'd just freely given up information to the 'stranger-danger-Career', as she'd called him in the beginning, though he'd like to think that she doesn't think of him like that anymore), and looks to Daniel.

"And where's… that?"

Daniel's lips tighten. "You'll know it when you see it. It's a familiar site."

At that, Ryleigh raises her eyebrows. "Really, Dan? Kinda unlike you to be vague. Just saying!"

Daniel laughs, but then he locks eyes with Rhodos. "Well," he says, and his lips curl. "It's somewhere where the earthquakes don't dare disrupt. That's all I'll say for now."

Rhodos nods. He doesn't understand, not at all, because that's still so vague, but he'll… trust them, for now.

(Earthquakes. It still unsettles him whenever he thinks about how the earthquakes are controlled by the rebels. Course, the Gamemakers would've killed anyone anyways… but there's something about the fact that his fate's in some unknown rebel's hands that scares him.)

(Because… they could do absolutely anything, and everything. At least there's method to the Capitol's madness… they need viewers, need entertainment. But with the earthquakes in the rebel's hands… they can do anything. And to say he's worried would be saying the… least.)

Rhodos is undeniably afraid of what's to come. Even as he slings his bag over his shoulder and grabs his spear, even as he follows the Threes into the trek down the golden woods and the golden earth. Even as the world oozes yolk: tangy, liquid, in the earth's disruption.

But anticipation ignites inside him too. He'd been so fearful of rebellion, he'd so dreaded it… because it challenged all the conventions there were. It was unorthodox, it was unbelievable, it was unreal. It'd gone straight out of his comfort zone and into the skies above… it wasn't something that he'd ever indulge in. It wasn't something he'd ever imagined that he'd even get close to.

But now…

… now he's in rebellion. No matter if he likes it or not.

(And the truth is… he's not so adverse to the idea. Not anymore. He'd always had the image of a Victor in his head: himself, standing behind glass, staring at the sea, his parents behind him, Mrs. Larimar beside him; all the world's pressure off his shoulders, his winnings satiating his parents' coffers, and he'll be able to turn to music, to his true passion, to do what he'd always wanted…)

But no matter how hard he tried… the image had always remained a fantasy. Rhodos would've liked to win the Games, but there wasn't really a world where he saw that made true. Truth to be told… he'd expected to die in the Games.

But this isn't a normal Games. And Rhodos wants a different fate. Not of death, but not of victory, either.

Change is in the air.

For once, Rhodos steels himself. He raises his eyes ahead. Towards their destination.

(Towards a new beginning.)

He doesn't have to submit. Not… not anymore.

But suddenly, he feels a sensation under his feet. A tremor rumbles the ground. Rhodos exchanges a look with Daniel and Ryleigh, and that's when he knows—it isn't just him that feels it.

"Come on," Daniel says, and his voice is a touch too urgent. "We have to go."

Rhodos doesn't wait for him to say it again.

Althea Ivory. District 4.

She runs.

There isn't much more she can do than to run: away from the ripples that stroke under her feet, away from the madness that's threatening to descend all around her. Of all that wants to envelop her, drown her, crush her…

She runs. She runs and she runs and she runs and Althea doesn't even know, doesn't even care for where she's going, as she bites a snarl under her breath and keeps going. Give it up to the Gamemakers, oh so wanting to fuck her over, raze, explode her apart…

And then she sees him.

Rhodos McNamara.

She almost stops. She blinks: to make sure she's seeing right, because it's almost too dark to tell, because it's like he's tagged with the Threes.

And they're struggling up through the forests, they're moving, quick-speed, and for a moment, Althea weighs the spear in her hand. She can just throw that, at the Threes, and then that'll be two more competitors down, and she'll be reunited with her District partner.

(But the stench of death is still so putrid in her mind, and she's still so unsettled from Eleven girl and Five boy's deaths. Sure, she said she'd raze gore of the Arena, she'd do it for herself, but... Althea doesn't think that she can take any more, if she'd tried.)

So… she doesn't.

Instead, she squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, forces the breath and the stupid quirk struggling up by her mouth away. I can't believe I'm doing this.

"Rhodos?"

Rhodos looks. And when he meets her eyes, happiness lights up his eyes.

"Althea!"

He jogs towards her. The Threes look between each other, wary, but Althea could care much less about them. She cocks her head towards Rhodos, and when he stops in front of her, she isn't so sure what to do.

"You're here," she says again, quietly. And Rhodos looks up at her, and a grin spreads over his lips. And she feels the barrage of arms and Althea stumbles back, slightly, but realises that it's Rhodos, Rhodos that's enveloping her in a hug, and despite herself, she feels something lift her lips.

She feels her hands return the gesture. She hugs him back.

Suddenly, Rhodos immediately extricates himself.

"Oh gosh, Althea, I'm sorry, I got—excited," he says, sheepishly. "I thought you might've gotten really injured, or—or something!"

Despite herself, she feels something like a smile work its way on her lips.

"I'm fine," she says, and the words come out softer than she'd expected. "I'm glad you're fine, too."

Rhodos nods. "Yeah, I am. But most of that's thanks to Daniel and Ryleigh."

"Daniel and Ryleigh…?"

And then it hits her. The Threes.

They're approaching her now. The girl—she assumes she's Ryleigh—looks at Althea with distrust in her eyes. The same's shared by the boy, but to a slightly lesser degree.

Doesn't change the fact that they're still looking at her like she'll pike them through with her spear any minute.

Althea doesn't trust them either. First of all: they're far too on edge, as if they'll bolt at any given moment. And second of all: she's too aware of the tattooon their forearms.

"This is Althea Ivory," Rhodos says, carefully, and she knows he's all too aware of the tension, for Rhodos speaks like he's treading on broken glass. He looks at her, and gestures to the Threes. "And that is Daniel and Ryleigh."

Awkwardness pervades between them. Despite the shakes of the ground underneath.

"So?" Althea says, and she doesn't even attempt to hide the terseness in her tone. "What's this about?"

"... it's a long story."

Story. That's one way to put it.

So she raises an eyebrow. "Rebellion-related, am I correct?"

The Threes tense up. Rhodos looks between them. And Althea's stomach shrinks, because yes, she's seen the tattoos, but she'd also hoped that it wasn't that.

"... yes, essentially," Rhodos says, and the awkwardness is so evident in his tone. "... it's a long story, but yes, it's… rebellion."

Rebellion. Rebellion. It's almost ridiculous, to hear those letters colour the autumnal air once more. Especially after it was what they were told to curb, to destroy, to defeat…

… and now they're here.

"You don't need to explain it to me," Althea says, and the words on her tongue almost baffle her, as they choke her. "Look. I don't know what you're doing, and I don't want to know. I'm already... saying more than I should. To rebels," and she looks at the Threes, and the concept's almost ludicrous, almost as ludicrous as her District partner here…

She's pretty sure Ryleigh starts to glare at her. Even Daniel looks perturbed. And amid it all Althea can barely think, because it's rebellion, it's the rebellion she's seen at Four, on the streets, amid the chaos of the night and the choruses of the people. Our children deserve better, they deserve to live, to survive, right before blood-splatter splays the alleys, and she'd shut the screen and turn to Kani, in the Victor's village, and Kani would smile sadly, it isn't safe out there, rebellion doesn't go well with survival…

"... it's not like what you think it is," Rhodos's saying, and she doesn't understand, how could this not be what it is? The Threes and her District partner, Rhodos McNamara, getting together, for what?

"So what is it?" Althea says, exasperation leaking from her voice. "Rhodos… look, I've grown closer to you than… than I'd like to admit. And I'll admit that I won't want to see you die. But you're going— going on a suicide mission. Rebellion is suicide. What are you doing?"

For a moment, Rhodos almost seems helpless. All he can muster is a shake of his head.

"Althea, it's not like that. It goes—it goes deeper than that. It's not... hopeless, like last time."

Last time. Oh, what a perfect reminder about how rebellion with Careers went.

"... it's different. I… I can't really explain it here, but Althea, please, trust me..."

Trust me.

She does trust Rhodos McNamara. He's her District partner: she knows him, and so does he know her. She knows him enough to know that he won't betray her, won't backstab her, won't be anything but loyal to her. But that does not change the fact that all in all, she's only known him truly for about a week. Does she trust the Games with him; does she trust her life back home with him, Kani Fairchild with him, does she trust her future with him, does she trust him— that much?

"Rhodos," she says, quietly. "I'm not about to indulge in… whatever this is. I have people back at home that I have to make back to."

"So do I," Rhodos counters, "I have people I want to make back to, too. Please, Althea…"

And she's staring, and she doesn't know what to think, because he still doesn't understand.

Althea wants to win. She's been driven on this path since the beginning. Victory's her desire; victory meant life, victory meant survival, victory meant Kani, it meant…

It means everything for her.

(Will she let rebellion… ruin that all?)

Althea shakes her head. "I'm sorry. I'm not about to—I won't take this chance."

(Althea Ivory wants to survive. She wants victory, for herself. She desires it, needs it like life itself. She might not want to see the rest of the world die, but she is not about to let herself die, either, for a futile cause.)

"Please, please, Althea, wait—Althea, the earthquakes! They aren't—"

Althea turns away. She heaves a breath, despite Rhodos's protests, and turns away.

She feels the rumble of the earth beneath her feet.

She turns and treks the other way.

Hera Dalenka. District 2.

The earth is alive.

Hera doesn't quite feel it, at first. But soon it vibrates against the soles of her feet. And she finds that she can't stop the words from flowing out from her lips.

"Is there another earthquake?"

Alarm flares in Kiernan's eyes. "Isn't this supposed to be the safe zone?" Kiernan says, and his voice's more laced with astonishment. "There can't… I thought..." and he falters.

His words are almost... too astonished. As if he were near-certain that this place wasn't going to be affected.

"I don't know," she says, and yet something else stirs in Hera's gut. Is it an earthquake? It could be. And yet…

It's different. It's not just underneath them. It feels like everything around them's shaking, everything's moving, everything's on the verge of collapse, and it hasn't quite felt so whole, so all-encompassing, so strong…

"I feel like it may be… different," she says, not daring to say anything else.

It's the beginning of the end.

Kiernan grips Hera's arm. Hera lets out a breath, grips her sword tighter, and she tries to look around, for rocks or trees or someplace that isn't affected by the quakes, but they're everywhere.

(Everywhere, everywhere, no, not everywhere. She can't do anything if they're everywhere, she can't protect Kiernan if they're everywhere, she can't… she can't…)

And suddenly, she's lifted off her feet.

She yells, torn away from Kiernan's grasp, and her sword falls to the wayside. Hera slams to the ground, as the world quivers all around her and there are new shakes, another layer upon the all-encompassing layer. But it's different. It comes from the ground. A dozen choruses and a dozen clops. A stampede so profound.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Her eyes jerk up and Hera stares at the sneer of a mutt.

It's a… thing. Hera knows that mutts are typically grotesque, yet it is not grotesque at all, for there is no flesh heaped onto its bones: no, all it is is bone and cartilage and ivory, curling around a ribcage and then drawing out into a spine and twisting in circles that resemble a neck and then forming into a bonehead that is supposed to be a skull. In the shape of a horse, and yet it's not, because there are so many things contorted on there, ligaments and tendons and jawlines that look distinctly… human.

No.

The screeches are too loud, so much like cackles in themselves, and there's a dozen of them, galloping furiously in the horizon muddled with amber-orange shafts bleeding into gore-red, and so many, too many, and she'll be facing an army, she and Kiernan, just the two of them, and she doesn't know why—

Oh, of course.

Mutts.

It's the finale.

Of course it is.

A noise of an explosion, a boom, so distinct yet so far away ricochets in Hera's head. All the world halts. Despite the mutt, she looks above: and realises that the barrier is no more.

And then chaos explodes.

Placements.

9th Place. Victor Vernina. D8M. [Killed by Dior Marini.]

8th Place. Dior Marini. D1F. [Killed by Sadie Rendevez.]

A/N. Hi folks! So... what a chapter.

So. Dior Marini. Aside from being the most powerful arc driving force, you were also always one hell of a character. Of course, you were cold and authoritative and powerful and prejudiced (in ways that I suppose the Eights would be too familiar of). You were generally not a nice person, but what manifested on the surface was because of your aching loss of your sister that ran undercurrent in you. Subconsciously, you've berated yourself as cowardly and weak; weak for allowing your sister to volunteer in your stead, and when she died, you never forgave yourself for your transgressions. And this manifested in aggression. You've never allowed yourself to confront your demons, and you never healed. You never opened yourself up; only alienated. In the end, you died on your revenge quest; and unfortunately, it was only its end that you could realise how so entirely inhibited you were: for your misdirected anger, and for your lack of adequate coping mechanisms with Mattie's death.

That aside... I hope you've enjoyed! Any thoughts about Dior's death? About what might happen with Althea and Rhodos? About the mutts? About Kiernan and Hera? And of course... about the rebellion?

It's crazy how nearing the end. The next chapter is the finale… insane right? I'm not quite believing it myself. But anyways— thank you for reading! I love you all, and I'll hopefully see (well, hear!) y'all in VC soon.

Love, Dawn.