First night chapter! Lemme know what y'all think, and do keep in mind I finished this at like 5am dfkgnksdfnds
35 - Night 1
Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10
"Annoyed" feels like too kind a word to apply to how Gossamer feels right now. So does "angry", perhaps even "frustrated". They don't do the fire within him justice, nor do they convey just how much displeasure the injury to the back of his thigh brings him.
No. The word Gossamer wants is livid. He's livid that someone had dared strike him. He's livid that it wasn't even a career who'd done it. He's livid that it was the ditzy bitch from the modelling industry who took the privilege of injuring Gossamer. He's livid.
"I'm going to kill him," Gossamer seethes. Croix doesn't even bat an eyelid at the statement. Why would he? Gossamer's said it countless times over the last few hours. It's not new information at this point.
Croix wipes off moss from the table Gossamer's seated at. The government building is surprisingly well furnished, all damage considered. Most of the chairs don't immediately snap when weight is put on them, and the dining room has a surprisingly minimal amount of water damage. It's like the building was best prepared for a tsunami compared to the rest of Elysium. Gossamer can understand why—politicians would be more important to ensure the safety of, and sensitive documents might be preserved if proper safeguards are in place.
Speaking of important documents, he thinks. Gossamer shifts on his chair—winces as the wound behind his thigh rubs against the bandages—and fishes the map from his pocket. Sponsorship on the first day had been a surprise, especially after all the drama that's going on with everyone else, but he and Croix still couldn't help the devious smiles they'd broken into when Gossamer's package—Gossamer's—was opened. He unfolds it, lays it down on the now clear table, and lets out a contemplative hum.
Whoever sponsored him knew he'd want revenge against Luxor for striking him. Gossamer won't go so far as to say he's thankful, but he definitely knows an opportunity when he sees one. Croix takes a seat next to him and sets their backpack down on the table. He sifts through it, pulling their flare gun out, and casually loads it with one of their two flares.
Gossamer is talking more to himself than to Croix as he scours the map, fingers drumming softly against the surface of the table.
"We started off in the town hall, judging by the placement of the lake," he mutters. He taps the small square indicating the town hall, finger slowly tracing along the street they'd emerged onto. "We come out via Augustus Street, enter the west side of the building…"
Croix rises all of a sudden, flare gun loaded and delicately placed on the table. Gossamer pays him no mind as he heads towards one of the messy offices.
"Avita left through the south of the town hall—passed the lake? Unless another cannon goes before the end of the night it's safe to assume she left before Adrianne occupied it. Ugh…" Gossamer rubs his brow. "That's a loose end we'll have to tie up sooner or later. I know the pair from Nine followed Augustus Street opposite to us…"
A small lead pencil comes into view. Gossamer startles, looking up to Croix with wide eyes, and goes to argue as Croix begins doodling on the map with it. But Croix anticipates this, telling him, "Your pal Octavia went to the plaza. I could hear them arguing while we climbed the stairs. Considering her little outburst over Quatra's interview and her family tree, it's obvious they've been followed, too." With careful handwriting he marks the vague areas with OH and Q. He quickly follows up with the rest of the alliances Gossamer mentioned, and by the end of it there's a semi-decent map of where everyone is assumed to be.
Gossamer lets out a soft snort. So maybe he forgot that Croix actually has a working brain. Gossamer can't be blamed when he's so used to working with brain dead sheep.
"So," Croix goes on. He leans back into his chair, which groans under his weight like a threat. "The question is where we go from here."
"We kill that ditzy bitch," Gossamer growls immediately. He's been saying it all day—how has Croix forgotten that already? Or does he just not care? Oh, Gossamer will riot if it's the latter. There's plenty of room to be petty with his shit list now that he's in the arena, and his ally is no exception.
Croix huffs. "Perhaps I should clarify," he drawls. He shoves a hand into the backpack and retrieves their one breathing mask, filter connected already. "I meant with regards to the arena. No only do we have an unseen threat in the air, but we also have the owl girl's pet avenging her by the cornucopia. And unless you've a literal rapier wit, I doubt we'll fare long against the bird."
Smartass.
"Some Games allow for tributes to have midpoint items from the get-go," Gossamer says matter-of-factly. It's hard to forget the twist from the final twelve in the Eighty-Ninth Games; the outlier from the career pack that year had stolen a bag from the cornucopia, and the climbing gear within had saved his life when the ground had split in two. "There may be something happening once we reach the final twelve. I would bet a demolition or something from the lake—anything that pollutes the air and can kill us from the inside out."
"Fair." Croix looks up a the ceiling with a contemplative face. "This stuff was built prior to the second Snow's rise to power. Could've been built with the aspetine alloys everyone had to have removed from their homes."
"That'd explain how all the buildings maintained their shape after an earthquake," Gossamer agrees.
"Could also be toxic as we speak," Croix adds. "The Capitol had to undergo that whole health check before any houses could be opened up. If the mask is just for the mid game twist, then we'd be hoping for a fast Quell for our own sakes."
Gossamer doesn't want to admit it, but he's right. Aspetine alloys sent the Capitol into a scare and it's only just now been deemed illegal to construct a building from. If this colony predates Celestia Snow's presidency, then what use is there delaying the end? Aspetine takes a while to actually wear down a healthy person's lungs, but once it starts it's a long, long process just to recover. Not to mention all the tests to make sure it doesn't develop into lung cancer…
He picks up the pencil and chews his lip. "The career alliance was crippled bad, but we know Cetronia won that fight," he says. He draws a line through the streets, leading from the government building to the town hall. "I'm betting they have plenty more masks in the cornucopia, and Cetronia owes us for the alliance we gave her. More than that, we're Capitolites—she won't kill us on sight unless we try to kill her."
"But the owl will."
And then Gossamer points to the flare gun. "I don't know shit about owls, but if we shoot the flare right at its face then we'll have a small opening to sneak into the town hall. How long do flares take to light up, anyway?"
"Roughly a second or two." Croix leans forward and raises his brows. "This might actually work, holy shit."
"Alright. We blind it and run in. Easy as pie."
Except there's every chance it might not be. Gossamer doesn't know anything about owls other than that they're pretty decent night hunters, even during the day. He doesn't even know how big this one truly is, how much the flare will have an effect on it. He glances at Croix, certain that the other teen thinks the same thing—how can he not? He's not dumb like Sol, and he's not driven by his emotions like Octavia. Croix's analytical like Gossamer, and he'd be a fool to not cast the same doubts on their plan.
He even sees it in his eyes as the map is folded back up and placed in the backpack. Croix doesn't really want to go through with the plan, but the only alternative is hunting for tributes themselves. And with what, Gossamer thinks? Neither knows what to do with a spear, and he really doubts just shooting someone with the other flare is going to do much good.
"All we have to do in the meantime is avoid being eaten," Croix says softly. Gossamer hums. There's any number of simple agreements he could make, any number of plans he could throw out there to brainstorm avoiding such a fate.
But Gossamer is the one in charge here. The one in charge always has to be the most confident.
"You'd have to be a fool to let yourself be eaten by a mutt like that," he snorts.
Avita Clements-McMillan, 15, C-District 11
Her stomach gurgles and groans. By this point she can't figure out if it means she's hungry or if she's going to throw up again. She isn't sure she wants to know, either.
Gossamer had lied to her. He'd said Wystan would just be sent home, back to his family so he could continue training to become a Peacekeeper, and she believed him. She killed for him. If he hadn't convinced Avita to use her hair clip on someone else—if he hadn't talked her into helping someone else—she would've been the one to simply hop off the podium.
Avita looks down at her bloodied hands. They shake and shake, her stomach gurgling all over again. It'd be her blood on someone else's hands, then. No body to send back to her mothers, not even a few organs to donate to the needy. She'd be a pile of mush that inconvenienced the people next to her and clung like a bad smell until they could find something to bathe in.
And to top it all off, like a little cherry nestled neatly on the spire of whipped cream, she's taken refuge in Abernathy Lane. The street named after the worst victor, from the worst District, in the worst Quell. All of the puke she'd decorated one doorstep with probably made it nicer, she thinks bitterly. She should've counted herself lucky she represents District Eleven. She's their only hope for a victor now, considering Twelve was eliminated in the bloodbath.
(Partially because of your gullibleness.)
She tries not to think about the fact that, just the night before, Cole had been adopted. She tries not to think about the fact that she took two kids away from their parents, one of whom didn't even get the chance to use his new name. She tries so hard, desperate to keep the thoughts from consuming her.
Her stomach gurgles again. Her physical state may be the only thing helping to keep reality at bay.
Avita sucks in a deep breath and squeezes her eyes shut. She grinds the palms of her hands against her eyelids until she sees stars, and she holds their position for a while. Soon she's almost blinded by the flashing and the lights, and it's only when half of her sight returns that she moves from her spot. She stumbles and shuffles out of the front yard of the house on Abernathy Lane, back onto the footpath and in search of a more stable building to hide in.
It's as she turns for a house with a worn down picket fence that Avita's full vision returns—almost to the end of the street entirely, right on the cusp of entering Foster Court. As much as she hates her situation, with all its downward spirals and betrayals and tricks, something about it feels like home. Being in Elysium, an island that was built for Capitol use and housing, reminds her of the streets she'd walk with her brother on their way home from school. The structuring of the houses and the faded, yet still dream-like look to them is so close to her own home, she half expects to see her mothers open the front door and welcome her inside.
Avita hiccups. She's sure she'd cried herself dry before the sun went down, but here she is with just a little bit left to streak her face again. Maybe it's because it looks like home—like somewhere she knows is safe—or maybe it's instinct, a hunch, but Avita pushes open the water-damaged picket fence and wanders onto the property.
The front door even has the same design her own home has: Thick wood the colour of sap, a large semicircle window just above the peephole. This door is hanging by its lower hinges, half blocking the entrance, and the glass from the window litters the doorstep like a welcome mat. Unable to help herself, Avita wipes the bloodied soles of her boots on the glass. They crunch and flick about, but it helps bring some normalcy back to her frantic state. Once she's satisfied, Avita climbs over the door and shuffles in through the lobby.
She wipes at her face with her sleeve as she wanders through the house. It must've been for a small family, she thinks, which is exactly what kind of family she comes from. She can pick which room would belong to who, where she'd see Florentina taking care of some show poodles. When Avita peeks into what could be a study, desk thrown against the far wall and mouldy paper lining the floor, she can imagine Varinia working on an article she's excited to submit.
Avita misses her mothers. She misses them so much. She wipes at her face even more, rubbing the skin raw, and snivels pitifully.
"Wanna go home," she whimpers to the empty study. She doesn't get a response, the rest of the arena indifferent to her wants. It only makes her whimper more. "Miss my moms…"
Another gurgle sounds out, and this time a pain in her stomach follows. Avita crumples to the floor and wraps her arms around herself within an instant. That isn't nausea, she thinks. That's definitely hunger. Avita chews her lip and reaches down for her pants, where her little knife sits in her pocket. She hasn't had to use it yet, so certain that someone would come after her when she ran to the bathroom in the town hall, but now she wonders if she may have to.
She crawls out of the room, back into the hallway, and slowly makes her way to the kitchen area. Most of the stuff in this house has been overturned, but maybe… Maybe an inbuilt pantry survived. Maybe cans of beans survived, or pet food or anything! At this point she'd take anything…
The cramps have only escalated by the time she reaches the kitchen doorway, and all of a sudden Avita has a whole new world of respect for outer District tributes. They'd go for days like this, undisturbed, all because of how little they'd been fed back in their homes. Pudgy, Capitol-born Avita could never go as long as they could if she tried to fast through the Games. Jareth could've lasted so much longer than she is right now.
But Jareth isn't here now, she reminds herself. Avita's in this alone, and until someone takes pity and sponsors her something, she has to handle this on her own. Avita crawls over the cold tile and searches lazily through the immediate area. There's an overturned fridge, the door sealed off against the floor, and some of the cooking utensils are scattered over the floor haphazardly. Avita heaves a sigh at the sight. There's a pantry on the far side of the room, doors wide open and spoiled food scattered all over the shelves.
Her heart sinks at the sight. All of that food, unable to be eaten. Some of them have little mould cities growing on them. Her stomach gurgles and gurgles some more, almost tempting her to give it a try anyway. Food may be spoiled, but it could still be edible, right? A little stomach ache is nothing compared to dying of hunger, right?
Avita smacks herself on the arm. No, it's not better! What if the mould kills her? Worse, what if it kills her slowly? She doesn't want that kind of suffering, not if it'll be worse than a few hunger pangs.
She turns to the fridge and blinks at it. They're heavy appliances, but if she can just push it onto its side and open the door…
Avita drags herself along the floor with a newfound determination. She will push over this fridge, and she will make an effort to eat. If she doesn't find food here, then she'll tough it out for another day. Drink water from the toilet or something—anything to stay hydrated so she doesn't die of thirst. But she has to put in an effort first.
She wedges her fingers under the fridge and steadies her breathing. On three, she thinks as she positions her feet beneath her. One, two…
The moment she pushes, hoping to lift the bulky side of the fridge, her feet slip out from under her. Avita squawks as her entire body slides to the floor at rapid speeds, and she doesn't even have time to pull her hands back and shield her face. Her nose slams against the tile with a loud crack, and all of a sudden warmth begins to coat her face at a startling speed. Avita screams, the sound so nasally and pained that even she thinks it comes from some kind of bird at first, but soon the blood dripping down her chin and the ache covering her face make it abundantly clear that, yes, it is Avita making this ungodly sound.
Wiping at her face with her sleeves doesn't help much. If anything it makes the pain worse, the blood more difficult to keep from spreading all over her face. The skin around her eyes and the bridge of her nose aches, but she isn't going to stop now. Avita spits blood from her mouth and glares at the fridge.
"Not yet," she tries to say, but it sounds so different from what she means. Broken noses really make talking difficult. "Not yet."
She rushes at the fridge and throws her weight against it. More blood pours from her nostrils, but she ignores it and hooks her fingers under the door again. Her head feels light, her face so hot and numb, but she's not giving up. She will see if there's something she can eat in this fridge tonight, even if it causes her to hurt herself more.
Finally the seal gives, and Avita hears a rush of air coming out of the fridge as the bulky side slowly, ever so slowly, lifts off of the door. Glass jars, shattered and with condiments spilled everywhere, topple out around her feet, but they're not what Avita zeroes in on as the body of the fridge falls to its side. No, her eyes are on something much better—something with much more hope than she'd ever thought possible.
Never has a can of coconut water looked so beautiful. Unbroken, still in good condition thanks to the cardboard box it'd been packed into with a dozen others. Avita snatches at a can, undaunted by how lukewarm it feels. It's something to drink. She won't cast it aside for simply being too warm.
She pulls the knife from her pocket and jams the tip into the thin seal beneath the tab. It hisses, settles, and Avita gives it a solid three seconds before she lifts it to her face and drinks as best she can.
It tastes so amazing. Despite all the blood dripping onto the can and mixing with the coconut water, it tastes so beautiful. She takes a moment to breathe, attempts to wipe at her nose again, and finishes off the rest of the can.
She may have lost all chances at allies, believed everything Gossamer had told her, lost all sponsorships, broken her nose—but at least she's alive for another day. At least she isn't going to perish just yet.
Quatra X, 14, C-District 5
The loud shout in the distance startles her away from her backpack. It doesn't last for long, fading after a few seconds, but it leaves her cautious nonetheless. She's not sure what kind of mutts have been released since the owl's appearance, and she's not too excited to find out for herself. She has more important things to worry about. More important things to do.
Quatra resumes looking through her backpack once she deems it safe to turn her attention away from the street. There's not a lot to use offensively, if she's honest, but there's plenty of things she can use to her strengths. She counts the flash grenades for the umpteenth time, making sure all four of them are safely tucked in the backpack. She shoves aside the packet of dried oats, which would be perfect to have if only she'd been given water. She repositions the metal pot just barely pushing against the bag's limits—out of everything, it makes the most sensible improvised weapon. Finally the empty water canteen, which almost serves to taunt her more than anything. It's not the ideal bag, in Quatra's opinion, but it's the bag she's been left with regardless.
She removes one of the flash grenades, moves to zip up her bag; Quatra pauses when she glances at the pot one more time. She pulls it out as well and sits the flash grenade inside it, then wastes no time shouldering her bag and making sure it's secure. There's a reason she's in the Quell. She can't afford to take any chances, no matter what.
Staying as far from Octavia as the street outside Flanagan Plaza was a good idea, especially since Quatra had to focus on making sure she knew her whereabouts if someone didn't kill the teen in the bloodbath. Her mind flickers back to that morning, to the carnage that had unfolded before her. The people she had to watch die. The ally she just abandoned.
Guilt is not something Quatra is familiar with. Spies don't feel guilt. Perhaps they doubt, or even feel concern, but they don't experience guilt. Guilt would turn the spy into a rebel. Guilt would render them useless to the Capitol, and thus on the same level as a regular person from the Districts. But while Quatra doesn't feel guilt, she does feel regret. She regrets getting close enough to Tooru to let him trust her. She regrets promising to stay by his side and ally with him. She regrets pretending like she wasn't reaped through some ulterior motive. Most of all, she regrets not yelling at him to just drop the bag and run. She'd been right there, picking up her own bag, but fourteen years of training and following a mission just took over in that instant. Quatra wasn't able to be the ally she'd promised to be. No, Quatra was just the spy the Capitol employed to make sure a rebel's spawn didn't win the Quarter Quell.
And God, she regrets being that Quatra so much.
Her duties take her so many places, let her see so many sights—District Four had been so beautiful, so blue, when she'd lived there—and now it feels like it's all come to a halt. Quatra doesn't get to be the aliases she'd assumed, like calm and responsible Camelia Caballo. No, she's back to being another member of the X family, ready to serve no matter what.
She wishes Tooru had gotten to know Camelia. She doesn't know if he'd like Camelia more than Quatra, but she knows it'd be easier to accept his death that way. Much like she doesn't entirely miss Goldie and her brother Bo while she's Quatra, maybe she wouldn't regret leaving Tooru behind as Quatra. It'd be Camelia's friend gone, not her's.
But that's not how things have turned out. She just has to accept that.
Quatra turns for the sponsorship package that had landed a mere hour earlier. She's one of the few to receive something once the sun began to set, and it's close enough to Octavia's position that most paying attention would assume it was for the girl from Ten, not someone else. She pops open the lid and pulls the mask out, already aware of what the note says. She'd read it when before most of the sun's light had vanished, her mission reinforced by her superiors. Quatra puts on the mask and makes sure the filter is on securely. She tucks the spare filters into the front-most pocket of her bag, kicks the package into a barely living shrub outside the home she'd stopped at.
Now or never, she thinks. Quatra pulls the flash grenade from the pot and puts it in her pocket, careful to make sure her improvised weapon doesn't make any sounds. She takes one step, two, in the direction of Flanagan Plaza. Her eyes are glued to the clothing store Octavia and Ham are holed up in. Glued to the window she'd seen Octavia reach out of for their packages.
Should be an easy plan. Throw the flash grenade in, wait for it to go off. While Octavia panics and runs downstairs to prevent someone from coming up, Quatra climbs the wall and comes in through the window. She's not sure how badly Ham's injuries are, but she'd heard the complaints and pained sounds even from the distance she'd kept from the duo. One-on-one fight, with maybe a chance to take out half a competitor.
This is her mission, she reminds herself as she pulls the pin from the grenade. Quatra rears her arm back and keeps her fingers clamped tight around the clip. She lines up her shot.
If she can't stop rebellion from winning, can't keep them from rising to power, then what's the point? What's the point of all her training? All her second lives? All her siblings' attitudes towards her? Most of all, what's the point of Tooru dying?
Quatra throws the flash grenade with all her strength. It flies to the window, lands inside without even clipping any glass left along the panes. If she can kill Octavia tonight, stop her from winning, then at least Tooru won't have died for nothing.
She turns away just in time to hear the grenade go off, light flashing from inside the room and two very confused, pained shouts ringing out. Quatra sprints for the building's cracked and exposed brick wall and she climbs. No matter how much her nails peel and her feet slip against the weak surface, Quatra climbs. She pulls herself higher and higher, listening as Ham screams for Octavia to be careful—that she can't see—and she reaches for the window pane without a shred of hesitation.
Glass digs into her palms as she pulls herself up, and a piece is still lodged inside one of her hands as she throws herself into the room. Her feet land on the floor, her good hand reaching for her pot.
"Oct!" Ham yells. "Window!"
She knows they can't see her just yet, but Quatra doesn't take the risk of staying in one spot for too long. She moves along the creaky floor with her pot ready to strike, eyes flickering out and about for Octavia's presence.
Quatra doesn't anticipate the chair that comes flying at her from across the room. She ducks, listening to the wood snap and shatter against the wall. "Ham, stay down!" Octavia yells.
When Quatra spots her, she sees unfocused eyes and staggering, uneven footfalls. Octavia is very obviously suffering from the effects of the flash grenade, her ears ringing and her eyes cloudy, but she's still kicking despite it all. Quatra lifts the pot and breaks into a sprint in Octavia's direction. If she can strike her head, steal her knife, maybe she can end this quickly. End this before Ham regains her sight and pursues.
But Octavia also remembers she has a knife, and she pulls it from her pocket wildly. The blade is flung left and right, Octavia moving forward at a steady pace as she slashes at everything and anything in front of her.
"When I can see even a little," Octavia snarls at empty air, "you're dead!"
Quatra doesn't doubt her. She keeps her distance, carefully backs away from any lethal slashes, until finally she finds herself back near the window. She kicks at some of the wood that had broken off of the chair, making certain she won't trip over it—and then something else comes flying at her, just barely missing her head as she ducks at the last minute.
The package that had held one of the girls' sponsorships sails out the window and lands in the courtyard outside with a loud bang. Quatra looks over at Ham, stunned to see the girl already recovering and looking blearily at Quatra. And then hands land on her shoulders, shoving her hard in the direction of the window.
Octavia still can't quite see right, but she's got Quatra cornered at the window with very little chance to jump out of the way. She considers just tackling the girl despite their difference in strength, maybe lashing out with her pot, but when push comes to shove Quatra is given no time to decide. One rubber boot sole lands hard on her stomach, and her feet fly out from under her. Quatra feels herself falling back, hears the glass get caught on her vest. One second there's a dark room with two enemies, the next there is only the night sky.
Quatra's fall isn't clean or fatal in any sense. She gets caught on the flagpole outside, her body flipping from headfirst to her side as she tries to soften her fall. She hears rather than feels the pop of her shoulder when she lands directly on it first, but she definitely feels the crack of her skull against the pavement just at the store's doorstep. Blood rushes to the wound on her head, a small pool already forming around her.
As consciousness fades and failure sets in, Quatra hears Octavia yell down to her, "It pays to be observant, Camelia!"
Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9
This may be all you're getting—use it wisely.
He stares at the note with growing anxiety. It's such a simple note, a simple warning, but it feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. This is all someone can spare for Bel. He doesn't even know if someone's attempted to use his sabotage to help Sarah.
Church scrunches up the note and throws it behind his shoulder. It's darker now, harder to see, but at the very least he and Bel know where the other is thanks to the younger teen's insistence she hold on to the corner of his vest. Bel follows without complaint, eyes focused more on her feet and making sure she doesn't trip over them in the dark. He's glad she's okay. He's glad she trusted him and kept her eyes shut in the bloodbath. That she trusted him to get to her side in one piece and get her away from it all.
He pulls her along the street, hatchet gripped tightly in his other hand. They've been on Augustus Street all day today, resting while the other alliances got their bearings, and now Church thinks it might be best for them to move on and find a decent hiding spot. There's plenty of homes with attics they can inhabit. There's even a whole park they can hide in and forage for food.
Bel is quiet behind him as he leads her to the end of the street. With any luck the careers will all be asleep and they can sneak off without anyone noticing. Perhaps they'll even try avoiding catching the owl's attention in case it turns on them—there's every chance, which Church childishly hopes happens somewhere down the line. It'd give the careers a taste of what it feels like to be helpless, to not know what to do as chaos unfolds in front of you.
It must be late into the night when the sky opens up and lets out a soft chime, tuned to the anthem of the Capitol. Church pauses. He knows the arena plays little picture based eulogies for fallen tributes, but he never paid attention to the first day deaths. He always assumed the bloodbaths were noted outside of the arena, never within, but here he stands as he watches the presentation unfold.
Bel lets go of his vest and reaches for his hand instead. Church clasps it softly, reassuring her, as they both look up at the light in the sky detailing the fallen tributes.
First flashes the face of Altan Knight, a shock for Church to see but a relief to know is gone. He'd made an enemy of Knight, he knows it, and Bel getting caught in the crossfire would kill him. After Knight is Wystan Warwick, another shock, and then it's Tooru Ikeda from Five. After Tooru is Jareth Vilna—so unnoticed, yet at the interviews he'd left the biggest impact on Church thanks to his act of exposing his caretaker. Church knows the satisfaction of such an act. He hopes Jareth felt proud before he'd died.
After Jareth is Florence Fontana, the kind owl girl who'd been so excited to meet Lola. Her smile looked so similar to Bel's, Church notes with a lurch of his stomach. Bel's hand tightens around his own, almost as though reading his mind. He doesn't have it in him to watch as Cole Aish's face lingers in the sky. As much as he's doing this for Sarah, for Bel, it's too much to stare at faces that didn't deserve to die.
But then, he'd killed one of them. And Tooru never deserved to die. He couldn't harm a fly, passing out due to a panic attack in training one day.
Bel tugs on his hand again, and this time she lets out a distressed, "Uh!"
Church looks down from the sky just in time to see what's wrong, the light of the final announcement illuminating the street for a few more seconds. He thinks he's seeing things as the shape in the street registers in his mind, but then he remembers that Bel had noticed it first. He's not hallucinating or falling prey to tricks of the light. The seconds tick by, both the Nine pair and the figure at a standstill. Church scans the form, watches the spiked weapon with apprehension.
He didn't recognise her at first. She's not in her full arena uniform, but now that he knows the weapon she wields, he knows it's her: Cetronia. Clad only in her thermal shirt and a black cotton blanket around her waist, she stands shoeless in the middle of Augustus Street. Her morning star is held casually in one hand while the other shields her eyes from the light in the sky.
Church holds his breath. Bel is frozen in place. Cetronia just watches them with the eyes of a predator.
His heart sinks when the light fades entirely. When Cetronia becomes invisible under the cover of darkness once more.
Church wastes no time grabbing Bel and sprinting around the corner into Odair Street. He can hear Bel hiccuping in his ear, terrified, and even Church can feel some of that fear right now. His heart is thrumming in his ears, his eyes adjusting to the darkness once more, but it's not enough. He needs to see more, needs to know where he's going. He needs to know where Cetronia is! He can't even hear her footfalls, her shoes gone and her bare feet too silent.
The morning star makes a harsh clash with a house at the end of Augustus Street, but it misses the duo by a good few paces. Church is thankful Bel can't hear the suspense, especially when being silent and hiding is so crucial right now. They can't run into any houses in case the floorboards and glass alerts Cetronia. Church looks up and down the street, at the multitude of houses spanning the back wall of Elysium.
Odair Street must have alleys, right? Church feels the panic rise as he pushes himself to run faster, to outrun Cetronia—wherever she is—and get Bel to safety. Somewhere to hide. Anywhere! Please!
His eyes, like a miracle, adjust right in time for him to see a gap between two buildings. Small enough for Bel to wedge into, maybe for Church to follow. Church sets her down and hurries her over to the gap, and Bel immediately shimmies inside and clamps a hand over her mouth. Church goes to follow—and then pauses.
He doesn't have much time until Cetronia finds them, so he reaches into his bag for the first piece of medical supplies he can grab. Church cringes as he pulls out a small jar, probably one of their Capitol-made anti-bacterials, and his face pinches into a grimace when he throws it further down Odair Street and hears it shatter.
But it works. Before Church even has a chance to fully wedge himself into the gap, hatchet at the ready, he hears Cetronia's feet softly hit the ground as she runs past. He's holding his breath, eyes wide as he's left in the open and Cetronia continues down the street. If he doesn't move, doesn't breathe, she won't know he's there.
Church stands stock still for upwards of a minute before he hears Cetronia again, and in a panic he wedges himself fully into the gap. He takes Bel's free hand and holds his hatchet at the ready. If Cetronia sees them, hears them here, he'll do his best to fend her off and let Bel run with their pack. He doesn't want to die here. He refuses to just die here.
"Tread carefully, Nine," Cetronia half-yells into the street. Church squeezes Bel's hand tighter, and she hiccups once more. She silences herself again, this time smothering her face with her thermal shirt's neckline. "No one can hide forever in a Hunger Games."
Seconds pass. Minutes. Church stands there for what feels like an hour, Bel's shaking hand clasped in his own, and he refuses to move. Soon he finds the hand with the hatchet trembling. Soon he finds his breaths to be unsteady. Soon curiosity takes him and forces him to peek outside.
The street is as empty as it had been before they'd spotted Cetronia. He can't hear her movements, can't hear her attack in the hopes of striking them. He can't hear or see her anywhere. She's either mastered her camouflage, or she's gone. Moved on to another target. Church really hopes it's the latter. God, he so hopes it's the latter as he inches out and brings Bel with him. He prays that Cetronia has moved on, further into Odair Street and beyond, as he picks up the quivering Bel and backtracks to the break between Odair Street and Quanta Street. Loathe as he is to admit it, hiding close to the cornucopia now might not be the worst choice to make. The houses have attics. Cetronia will assume they've moved on to the park after tonight.
Bel is muffling her sobs into his shoulder as he hurries back to Quanta Street. Church takes his time picking just the right house, with a door out of the way and a bed calling their names. He finds one at the intersection of Quanta and Lyme Street, and he wastes no time jogging inside and searching for the stairs leading to the attic floor. He climbs them two at a time, trips once—Bel whimpers, almost as though scared he'd been struck by an unseen force, but Church reaches up and pats her head reassuringly.
The attic feels almost like a sanctuary when he reaches it. Church lets out a defeated, yet blissful sound. He shuffles inside, makes sure to set Bel down, and then Church's knees give out beneath him. He sinks to the floor next to Bel, accepts her hug without hesitation. One encounter with Cetronia and he feels like he discovered the true meaning of fear. Like he looked his worst nightmare in the eye against his better judgement.
Church and Bel lay down on the cold floor of the attic. They don't separate, relying on each other for warmth. They simply lay there as they shake and comfort each other. If this is the danger they face in the night, Church shudders to think what Cetronia has planned for the day.
There's our chapter! Our first whole day is done, and no one died after the bloodbath! Very interesting, eh? Here's our QQ since I gotta skedaddle to bed asap, but I still want to see what tickled y'all's fancies this chapter.
QQ #30: Whose POV stuck out to you the most in the chapter and why?
I'll see you all next time in Day 2 of Mortem's Games!