XXX: Day Eight, Middle of the Night.

Emmi Langlois, 17
Applicant #13

It was odd to watch someone die, almost.

Arwen closes her eyes and she knows, despite not wanting to admit it, what's going to happen. She goes still but not all the way, nothing but the very faint rise and fall of her chest and the fleeting warmth of her cheek under Emmi's hand.

But she doesn't get colder, doesn't stop breathing. Not until Emmi slides a knife across her throat.

Percy jerks when she does it, makes an alarmed noise and takes half a step back away from the two of them. There, finally, is the cooling. The blood is immediate and overwhelming - she pulls her hand back to avoid the worst of it. The ugly rasp of Arwen's breathing finally faded off after that, into nothing. Into another time and place that was hopefully easier for her to navigate.

That was hours ago, though, and she's still sitting here. She doesn't know if Arwen's death is on her or the Sentinel that apparently shot her, the one that's dead in the other room.

And Percy is still here, too, sitting a few feet down the hall with his chin on his knees, watching. The stump of his arm is wrapped awkwardly around his legs and he makes a little noise of pain every so often, not loud enough to truly be a nuisance. That's weird, coming from him.

She doesn't truly know how long it's been since it happened when she finally stands up, slowly, all of her joints creaking. Her stomach and side pull a bit but not enough to tear open; she focuses on bending down once more to tuck the gun away back into her belt and then gently pats at Arwen's pockets.

"Keys are in the other room," Percy says slowly, unmoving. "On the floor."

She looks at him. "Are you planning on getting up?"

He shrugs, vaguely, wincing. "Haven't decided yet."

She nods, understanding at the foreground in her brain as it has been the past few days. As much as she loathes getting the awful actions of others, she gets them all. Clearly she's done some of them herself.

Jahaira's body behind them has not been mourned and won't be. Percy didn't know her and Emmi hardly did either. Anyone could have picked up the details Emmi knew about her - she liked photography, was close with Myra, hated all of this as much as the rest of them.

Emmi still murdered her in cold blood, the first kill that's really meant anything. Even that was quickly replaced by Arwen's own death, something Emmi is sure will always be her fault, both directly and indirectly.

Percy is still staring at the floor when she starts ambling her way down the hall towards where they all came from in the first place. She finds the keys quickly, abandoned underneath the archway that leads into the main room. The body that must be cold by now is nearly in the center, ruined face and all. It takes a lot of nerve just to look at it.

"Where are you gonna go?" Percy asks from the entryway.

"Around, probably."

"Makes sense."

"I'm not coming with you."

"I wasn't about to ask," she says, which causes a smile to tug at his lips, even if it fails at her own. "Where are you gonna go, then?"

"Away from people, hopefully. I haven't been doing so well with them lately."

"Looks like it," she observes. "There's only seven of us left, apparently. Maybe I'll see you again."

"Hope not."

She does too, if she's being honest with herself. Just because she didn't have the energy or drive to kill him now doesn't mean she won't in the future, and she isn't sure she wants to. He helped, in an odd way. He doesn't deserve death as a thank-you.

She departs in silence because she isn't sure there's anything else to say, makes her way outside and around the side of the building towards where she saw the truck parked. It was what had made her venture inside in the first place; chances are if the car hadn't been out here she would have avoided it altogether. Even the thought of Arwen being alive had pulled her inside, though, like a tether.

And it was snapped now.

She wants to cry and isn't sure why she isn't. Maybe after everything it's just harder to feel, more difficult to shed tears over something you were so sure you had lost anyway.

It was worse to have had Arwen for the time she just did than to never see her again, is the truth. It just made it hurt more, which makes it even more frustrating that she can't cry right now.

The truck's interior is filled with a deathly silence with just her left inside it. She remembers the start of this all, with six of them piled inside talking and arguing and acting like teenagers for the last time. They hadn't realized it then, but those were the best moments they really got.

Her hand is shaking when she turns the key over in the ignition and begins to pull back to the front of the building. She never really learned how to drive beyond the basics - teachers got frustrated with her, her dad tried but always seemed too nervous...

It would have been helpful now.

Something has her stopping in front of the courtyard, as if she's waiting for Percy to come striding outside shouting that was a joke, I'm coming with you! When he doesn't, several long minutes of staring later, she pulls three bottles of water out of the still mostly-full case in the backseat and hops back out. There are probably supplies in that Sentinel's backpack, things that Percy will use to survive on his own, but this makes her feel better.

When she gets back into the main room Percy is still hovering in nearly the exact same spot; he jumps at her appearance even despite the gun that's still dangling from his hand.

They really could kill each other right now.

She drops the water bottles down on the table next to the door. "You sure?"

He smiles. "Yeah, I'm sure."

It's not thank-you but it sure sounds like it. She wouldn't ask him to say it anyway.

After that it's a lot easier to leave; heart heavy in her chest, emotion an odd thing to navigate in her brain.

Everything's been hard, though. She'd be more surprised if it wasn't.

This chapter is over, now.

It's up to her to start a new one.

Isperia Martorell, 16
Applicant #17

She doesn't make it very far before she collapses to the ground once again.

After that everything is just mechanical. She fumbles around for the syringes and bottles that Tarquin provided her with. It takes her a long few seconds to tear all the packaging off and then get the needle into the small jar. Her hand is shaking so bad by the time she fills the plunger she nearly drops both things into the sand. Finally she rolls her sleeve up to her elbow and wipes away the majority of the dirt there before she presses the needle in.

It hurts like she expected it to, worse than one of those standard shots you get when you're little at the local clinic. Maybe she should have put it in her leg but the flesh is so tender and swollen there she can't imagine the pain, let alone the effectiveness.

If it doesn't feel like it's working she can do it again. Tarquin got six jars.

And now he's gone. It's just her.

For the first time possibly ever in her life, she wants someone. Anyone, really, here with her right now to tell her that everything's going to be fine, to keep watch while she sleeps, to help her out just a little bit.

Halfway down a mountain, hidden behind a few rocks, no one's going to help her. Hell, no one's even going to be able to see her.

It's a good thing, though, because she swears she saw lights not long ago, far off in the distance, but lights all the same. There were lots of them - Sentinels, maybe, and anyone else might be good but not one of them.

She very slowly flattens herself to the ground, holding her arm out next to her. Tarquin said to lay low, stay hydrated. Obediently, like he's still here telling her, she pulls out one of the water bottles from his bag and takes a small sip, spilling some of it on the ground. Her hands are still shaking so badly she can't keep still no matter what.

But she's alive, at least for the near future. There's a lot riding on that simple fact - what she just injected into her body, for one, and if it's even the right stuff at all. Her vision is too wobbly to make out the label and all the other printed words on the cardboard boxes.

She just has to trust in Tarquin that he did the right thing for her.

He seemed so nice even back at the Institute. Nicer than she deserved for how little she cared to talk to him - he tried when almost no one else did, and not just because Noelani had wanted him to.

Noelani hadn't pulled her from that first day in the room anyway, but neither had he.

He had just saved her life now, so she couldn't really be fussed to care about what he hadn't done in the past. It didn't seem right to be upset with a dead person anyway. Tarquin and Noelani both had their reasons; she certainly can't ask them about them now.

That's the one thing she would wish for, if she had even a single one to use up. To just be able to ask someone something. To have a genuine, quiet conversation and know someone. She knew Noelani liked art. She knew Tarquin liked theater but couldn't remember the name of the play he told her he was set to do in July. In the end she just never knew enough.

Maybe that was her problem. Maybe she just didn't care enough to know, and that was what had driven her into such seclusion.

It seems fitting that she's alone now, when she doesn't really want to be.

Anyone would be good, really. Meliodas, Meris, Tarquin, Noelani. She can't help but wonder if Sabre is alive somewhere out there. He would be fine too; probably not the best for conversation, but she wouldn't protest that. If he is alive the chances of finding him are slim to none at this point, in her condition. There's really no point in wondering.

She could still be dying, for all she knows. She has no business wondering.

It's her imagination, certainly, but her head already feels slightly less foggy. It's the psychology behind medicine, not any real effect after such a short period of time, but it's doing wonders for her brain.

Maybe she'll be okay. Maybe...

She doesn't want to deal in weak maybes, but they're all she has.

She rolls over onto her side when her leg starts to throb again, pillows her head on her arm and stares at the bright needle-mark in the curve of her elbow. She drags the backpack closer, pulls out another syringe and bottle and tucks them just inside the open zipper, where she can reach them at a moment's notice.

There's something overwhelming in her chest - she can't tell if it's the despair, or the sadness. A mix of both.

Or maybe it's just the antivenom doing something odd to her.

Probably that.

Tarquin died for her. Someone felt strongly enough about her, towards her, that they were willing to sacrifice themselves for it. She's really not the type of person that deserves that sort of loyalty after the kinds of things she's done, and maybe she'll never feel like she is.

But someone thought so. He thought so.

There is no option in her brain that includes letting him down, or anyone that's ever believed in her. Meliodas and Meris, her parents...

It's not an option.

Sabre Hennedige, 15
Applicant #6

"Hey, Sabre?"

He rolls over and nearly bumps his forehead into the wheel of the bike, glancing at Jay through the spokes. He's in much the same position as Sabre is, poking at the back tire of the bike with one finger.

His face is still showing the signs of long-dried blood, nose swollen and purpled along with the bags underneath his eyes.

"What?"

"Do you want to play a game?"

He considers that. "That sounds... a little creepy."

"Was that a joke?" Jay asks. "Solid, dude. I was just wondering if you think you could guess who's still alive besides the two of us, obviously."

"Isn't that a bit morbid?"

"I guess so. I was just wondering."

Sabre rolls over to his back again, still able to see Jay from the corner of his eye. It's something he's wondered himself, who could possibly be the other five people left alive. If he's being honest he wouldn't have expected to see himself this far along, and Jay probably thinks the same thing. Neither of them would have been pegged as contenders in the Capitol's eyes had this been a regular old Games nine or so years ago. They'd be two people with very mediocre scores, doomed to die early like most people.

It's a good thing this isn't a regular old Games, then. The furthest thing from it really.

He still hasn't responded, can't come up with a list that makes any sense. It's easier to figure out who's not on it, really. Faye and Meris. Caiman, most likely. Jay left Tarquin, so maybe him too, and he didn't see Noelani and Topher again either.

"Who would you not want to be alive?" he asks back. If they're going to be morbid here, he might as well hit a home room.

"Kidava," Jay responds instantly. "She'd probably fucking gut me, and not in a nice way."

"There's a nice way?"

"Not with Kidava there isn't," he says. "You're right, this is pretty morbid."

"Who would you rather see alive, then?"

"Everyone," Jay answers just as quick. Whatever Sabre thinks he could say fades away after that single word. Of course it was a stupid thing to ask - he lets the shame wash over him in silence as the magnitude of the question hits him in full.

Of course everyone should still be alive. This wasn't supposed to ever happen, not to them, not to anyone. All they've been taught in the past nine years was about how terrible the Games were, how wrong they had always been. The revolution was a good thing - more often than not, revolutions were good things. They brought about the end of the worst type of things you could imagine.

They had none of that now, no revolution to come and save them, to turn back the clock.

"You wanna play a different game?" Jay asks, voice slightly strained. It's clear they've both been thinking about exactly what a stupid question it was this whole time.

He really should just keep his mouth shut sometimes, but Jay is clearly trying to distract from that, to make him forget his error in the first place. He's not sure if anyone's ever cared enough to do that for him.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I Spy? That's easy."

"What's that?"

"You know, sometimes I think you're like, a ninety year old with memory problems disguised in a fifteen year old's body. Have you seriously never played that before?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, you just pick something - don't tell me what it is. Say: I spy with my little eye, something brown. And I have to guess what it is."

He takes a very long look around. "Pretty much everything is brown."

"It was an example, you clown. Pick something else."

Sabre takes another look around again, propping his elbow underneath himself to get a better look at his surroundings. They're in the middle of nowhere again, which is where they always end up. There's really not that much around, never has been.

"I spy with my little eye, something purple," he settles on. The sentence itself sounds a little childish coming out of his mouth, but Jay appears to be taking this very seriously. He sits up and does a full rotation, scoots around until he's done an entire circle. Once he's done that he leans in closer to inspect each individual groove of the bike, occasionally glancing at Sabre through the gaps in the middle. Finally he looks down at himself, patting at his shirt like he's certain something purple is going to appear.

He gives Sabre a suspicious look. "I don't like you screwing with me."

"Your nose."

"What?"

"Your nose is purple."

Jay's eyebrows furrow - he tries to glance down the bridge of his nose at the state of it, which only results in a several second long wince on his end. "Okay, now you're really a clown. You think the state of my nose is funny?"

"No. I just thought you wouldn't guess that."

"You thought it was funny," Jay accuses. "Like I said, clown."

It's really not funny, because he doesn't want to imagine how bad it hurts even to take a breath, but he smiles and lays back down in the dirt, staring up at the sky. That is kind of purple as well - more blue-black, but sort of purple. Jay probably wouldn't appreciate him pointing that out.

"I spy with my little eye, something yellow."

"Your nose, again?" he guesses. It's starting to yellow at the edges, though he may not be able to tell.

Jay groans and flops down in the dirt. "We're never playing this again."

Icarus Devereux, 17
Applicant #10

Soran's breathing is a little off.

Not that he's watching or listening like a hawk or anything, it's just hard not to notice. He's wide awake in the middle of the night, in the silence, nothing else to do but listen to it.

It just sounds a little too labored, pained. Justifiable, of course, after what happened to him, but it doesn't make Icarus feel any better.

Finally mostly sorting himself out emotionally won't do any good if one of them dies now.

That would be rather frustrating, despite how inevitable it seems now. There's only seven of them left and the fact that the two of them have made it this far, especially together, is ridiculous in and of itself. Soran nearly killed him on the first day. He threatened to do the same on the second. If anyone could have predicted this and told him about it, he'd have hit them.

The same way he hit Soran, but maybe a little harder. He was too shell-shocked to hit him properly, is his justification. Not his lack of technique.

His instinct now in the dead of night is to wake Soran up just to have someone to talk to, something to do other than stare at him, but he's been asleep since he put the last of the stitches in himself and that's probably for the best. It wasn't pretty to watch - he threaded a needle, dragged it repeatedly through the hole in his side that Icarus hadn't even known existed but certainly explained all the blood. By the time he had finished he was trembling too hard to hold the needle properly and Icarus had to pry it from his cold fingers, setting it away where it wouldn't touch either of them.

He had been the one that had bandaged it, gross as it was. He was the one who had to ignore all the skin dangling from the soft underside of his arms, folding it back into something resembling normalcy, and then bandage those as well. He had taped his fingers together, anchored them against another with Soran's weak instructions to guide him.

None of it seemed right. Not fragile Soran, not him dealing with wound care like he didn't want to scream and cringe and run approximately fifty miles in the opposite fucking direction.

It was what they had, though. And although he still blames Soran for what happened, a part of him knows that if he had just gotten over it and never left that this wouldn't have happened. Why couldn't he have just thrown his tantrum in another room like a normal person instead of storming away for half the day like a petulant, runaway child?

He doesn't think Soran blames him, really. Which is weird, because he thought Soran just liked to blame him for everything.

Oh how far they've come.

Soran shifts, finally, after what feels like hours of absolutely not staring at him. His breathing sounds a little bit better when he's awake, even halfway. He can't tell if that's for his own benefit or not, if Soran's faking it.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like I've been run over by one of those stupid trucks with the giant roller on the front," he answers without opening his eyes.

"The ones they use to pave?"

"Yeah, those."

"Got it."

Icarus understands it, much as it doesn't really apply to him. His face has seen better days, much better days, but he's relatively intact besides that. Soran's been riddled like a pincushion and had to close the holes himself.

"We should probably move tomorrow," Soran says.

"Alright."

"I'd appreciate a bit of a fight. You suddenly being agreeable and nice is very jarring."

"Deal with it," he mutters. "You said you didn't want to fight with me."

Soran rolls over, slow and awkwardly, easing the weight off of his injured side. It means he's facing Icarus now, and although he has yet to open his eyes their noses are just about touching. He doesn't feel compelled to move.

"Besides," he continues. "You're the one that needs the rest. If you're good to go, I'll go. They'll probably kill us if we stay here any longer anyway."

"Learned that lesson the hard way," Soran mutters and he feels bad again, for no reason at all. He really should have been there. What an ironic part of his life that would have been, to have to come back to another person that died when he chose to leave. It seems like a reoccurring theme.

It was different with Estella, though. He knew every time he left that something could happen - when he left Soran he hadn't realized he'd care if something did until he saw him nearly dead up against the wall, completely limp with two hands around his throat.

He can still see it so clearly. Wishes desperately that he couldn't.

"You sure you're fine?" he asks.

"Peachy."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Positive?"

"Absolutely one hundred and fifty percent positive," Soran mumbles. "Go the fuck to sleep, Icarus."

Soran certainly seems like he's about to follow his own advice, centimeters away from Icarus' own face. His odd breathing is louder, now, closer up. Maybe it's something to do with his ribs. His side was all black and blue snaking up away from the stab wound, but he's no doctor. He wouldn't know right from wrong there.

He just has to trust that Soran really is fine, that he's not lying to him.

For once he's really not worried about any lies. At least not ones that Soran could tell him.

No, what he's worried about is the one he's begun to tell himself, the one that says you'll be fine, you'll both be fine over and over again, like a mantra. It's all he can hear other than Soran's breathing.

And it's not true, is the worst part.

Carnelia Trevall, 38
Leader of Sentinel Squad Invictus

She's seen a lot of messes in her life.

She had been born into one, really, if it was all meant to lead up to this. Two parents who couldn't save her, a brother who she lost long before the flames came for him too, a squad buried outside of Two's boundaries in unmarked, unmourned graves.

These kids had no reason to complain about what they were losing, not to her. Not when she had lost her entire life.

It had seemed like things were going well for so many years after, after she had found Khia and the others. Khia who was one hand down now and not too pleased by it, Nephele and Max and Flora who were dead.

She had known the risks. They all had.

She was dying anyway.

Flora had told her that a dozen times over, but now she was dead too. In truth, she really hadn't meant to bring them all down with her, but it seemed fitting. She was the only survivor of the Titans, could only imagine how Lucien raged from hell about how infuriated he was that he hadn't outlived her.

Nobody here would act that way, but that didn't mean she wanted any of them surviving if she didn't.

The truth was, they'd detonate. They had no way to exist on their own, hadn't before Carnelia had found them all. God only knew what horrors they would get up to had they been left to their own devices for the past nine years. They certainly wouldn't have made it this far, not without her.

Sharmyn especially, who appears to be picking up handfuls of the dirt from the collapsed mine tunnel and pitching them at Cassian's back when he so much as looks in the opposite direction.

It what she's come to expect from this lot. They don't have the discipline.

For a while, it was kind of a nice change. Now with three of them dead the differences are glaringly obvious.

"How many now?" she asks Oren as he approaches the car. His hands are covered in grime.

"Seven."

"And how many were there?"

"By our estimates, maybe a dozen. Do you want us to keep looking?"

"I want to know they're all dead," she answers, which was a kinder way of saying yes. Seven bodies wasn't twelve, and for all they knew there were more buried underneath the rubble that was now the mine's entrance into the side of the mountain.

The kid had certainly done a number with the bomb. They had seen the explosion from the plateau at the bottom.

"Got another one!" Tully yells from across the way, and Carnelia watches her pull a body from the mounds of dirt by the arm, letting it roll limply down the pile until it hits solid ground.

"Eight," Oren says.

"But not him."

"No. There's no way to tell where he was when the tunnel collapsed. Chances are the majority of them were somewhere in the middle, which is why we're finding them easier. He could be anywhere. And it's still burning further in."

So he won't go in any further, is what he means. Sharmyn and Cassian really aren't doing anything, and Tully's still outside. She doesn't even know where Ezio is and probably doesn't want to.

Khia's asleep in the back of the truck, good arm pillowed underneath her head.

"How is she?" Oren asks.

"How would you be if you lost a hand?"

"She shouldn't have fucked with him, then." He shrugs. "Flora fucked with Emmi, look what happened."

"And what about Max and Nephele?"

"Bad luck."

Even bad luck shouldn't have been enough in those cases. Outnumbered or not it shouldn't have happened. She thought she taught them better than that.

Maybe she was never meant to be a teacher. That was the more likely explanation.

"Are we going to die?" Oren asks, still lurking by her side. He's not usually this vocal, this willing to participate in active conversation. That's Cassian's job - they're the silent and the violent, those two.

"I am. I'm not so sure about the rest of you."

"I said we, not you," he clarifies. "So what? Are we?"

A leader in most circumstances does their damnedest to keep everyone alive. Like Luca would. To her knowledge all of Prometheus is still out there alive somewhere - Luca and Meritt and Seren and all of the other people that put the final nail in her coffin.

Once upon a time she could have been with them. Could have loved them.

That option no longer exists for her.

"I don't know," she says, and it feels like the first time she's ever said those words. "I haven't decided yet."

Sorry for the delay - I'm home now! And still a walking plane delay curse but what can you do?

A shorter, slightly more chill chapter for you all, if chill is an appropriate word. Maybe not but I'm not sure how else to describe it.

We're in the home stretch. There's a new poll on my profile, so get your final guesses in before we get there! Not long now.

Until next time.