Hey guys! You can finally stop holding your breaths over the last chapter, so I hope you enjoy the thrilling conclusion to our wild owl adventure!
37 - Night 2, Day 3
Nikostratos Croix Farrington, 18, C-District 3
Night 2
One…
Her hands leave his body, shaking harshly enough for even him to notice.
Two…
Adrianne scrambles off of him. He lets himself float, still holding his breath and feigning death.
Three…
She wades around beside him, desperate to find her war scythe. Croix listens as she talks to herself out loud, encouraging herself and reaffirming her original plan. It's pointless, he tells himself.
Four…
Once he's done playing dead, he'll strike. Once she stops thinking about him, he'll strike. Once she lets down her guard, he'll strike. Once he knows for certain he'll win, he'll strike.
Five…
Adrianne heaves out a sob once she finds the war scythe. Croix carefully pushes himself to the edge of the stomach, allowing himself to drift like the corpse he's pretending to be. She doesn't need to figure out he's faked his death just yet. He just needs to get the upper hand and grab the spear he'd been swallowed with. He opens his eyes.
Ever so slowly he adjusts to the darkness. Adrianne's got the flashlight in her mouth still, training it on a section of stomach lining in front of her. Her war scythe is in her hands, but she won't need it for long. Not if Croix has anything to do with it.
He should count himself lucky that she doesn't look back once, that she doesn't think to grab his discarded spear for herself. He should. But Croix knows he won't—he's spent days studying the other tributes with Gossamer. If he can't pick up their little faults when push comes to shove, then what good is he to even himself? He's not lucky she ignores both his "corpse" and his weapon; he's correct.
Croix sinks his feet further into the acid, his torso rising and righting itself. His spear is just by his legs, poking out of the acid by a few inches; did it pierce the stomach during his struggle? All the more opportunity for Croix, if it drains some of this God awful liquid. He hooks a foot around it and pulls it in his direction. Grabbing the handle without Adrianne noticing is easy.
The hard part is keeping her unaware.
Croix wades through the acid with his eyes glued to Adrianne's back. She's smaller than him, but definitely stronger and able her hold her breath longer. He's only got so many options at his disposal, and with the spear there's only one shot to make this work. He pulls it out of the liquid slowly, sure to keep from making any splashes that get her attention. He looks her up and down, recognising her form as his eyes adjust to the sparse light in front of her.
If he picks the right spot on her back, he thinks, he can bypass the shoulder blade and ribs and pierce her heart. If he's forceful enough, he might be able to puncture the stomach of the owl and make it throw them up.
He inhales deeply. Alright, he supposes that's his plan now. Much less messy than cutting his way out from the inside and risking free falling from its gut.
Adrianne is mere feet away from him, within range of his spear. Croix sizes her up. He recalls every biology class he's attended at school, every detail he'd memorised in his goal to become a Gamemaker—perhaps even the Head Gamemaker one day. If he angles the spear diagonally between the cervical and thoracic vertebrae, pushes downward into the rib cage… More to the left side, he reminds himself as he positions his spear behind an unaware Adrianne. Piercing the superior vena cava won't kill her as quickly as the aorta, and Croix simply cannot afford Adrianne being able to fight in her dying moments.
She moves to ready her war scythe, finally settling on a spot to pierce the stomach. Croix sneers at her, adjusting his arm. Damn girl, making him dance to her tune when he's trying to kill her.
Once Adrianne is still again, taking the opportunity to psych herself up to strike, Croix drives the spear with both hands into her back. Adrianne lets out a strangled scream, the pain catching her off guard and forcing her to drop the war scythe. The blade slices at the stomach lining, reducing the inches between Croix and freedom.
She twitches, tries to turn and face him. The flashlight falls from her mouth and into the acid. Darkness washes over them. Darkness Croix is more familiar with than she is.
He holds himself steady, grunting with the effort it takes to wait for her to pass out. He knows that an item obstructing the severed aorta can keep someone alive for longer, but he doesn't want to risk Adrianne attacking the minute he pulls the spear out. Not unless he makes certain to strike a second time, setting her fate into stone.
Lung. He can puncture a lung. The rib cage becomes wider further down, and he only needs to poke a hole in a small, almost insignificant piece of the organ. It's too dark to make a surefire plan, but based on where he's holding the spear he can at least guesstimate.
Throwing caution to the wind, Croix yanks the spear out from Adrianne's torso and ploughs it back in, lower this time and with much more force. He hears her choke loudly, struggle to breathe, and then finally she grows weaker. Croix drops her in the acid and pulls his spear out. He makes quick work of locating her flashlight—the sight of her staring at him as she floats in the acid, both resigned to her death and anguished over it, sends a chill down his spine. Adrianne remains conscious for a few minutes more, too weak to do much more than stare, and then her eyes shut as she continues to bleed out.
Through the stomach lining he can hear a rumbling clap: A cannon signalling Adrianne's death. Croix flicks his hands free of acid and smirks to himself.
There's no way they'll leave a body to be fully digested in here, and he's banking on that fact alone for his escape. Come the end of the day—still plenty of time to spare, given how long it'll take for the acid to seep through his skin—the owl will throw the duo up and leave Croix to live another day.
The event comes sooner than planned, though. The stomach churns and sways, the acid bubbling and building up. Croix looks down in alarm at the steadily rising liquid. He points the flashlight up at the entrance. God he hopes he fits. Going back up may not be as easy as coming down.
It all happens in an instant. Croix is overwhelmed by the acid for a fleeting second, his grip on his spear lost and the flashlight just barely remaining in his grasp. One second he's holding his breath, the next he's slammed against the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. There's still acid in his eyes and he's writhing on the ground as the owl trills weakly.
He's met with blissful moonlight when he can finally see again. Croix gulps down fresh air—beautiful, untainted air—and slowly feels his pride bubble in his chest. The owl hovers over him shamefully, avoiding his gaze. He's done it. He's conquered the owl and killed Adrianne!
The corpse in question is just a few feet away from him, splayed out awkwardly on the ground and colour draining from her face. There's still some blood pouring from her wounds, no doubt coming mostly from her severed aorta. If there's anything Croix can be proud of in the Games thus far, it's this.
The pride turns to enjoyment. As the clouds part and the hovercraft coming for the corpse descends, it slowly turns to jubilation. Croix gasps for air as his shoulders shake and his stomach rumbles. He can't get enough oxygen, can't stop the ache in his cheeks as he watches Adrianne be lifted into the hovercraft.
I outlived you, he wants to boast at the top of his lungs. All he can manage is laughter. I killed you.
His howling cackles echo through the night sky even after the hovercraft returns to Panem. The owl has long since left him behind, now uninterested in trying to eat him a second time; Croix is all by himself, left with the sounds of his laughter and footsteps approaching from afar.
He rolls onto his side and aims the flashlight towards the distance. Where did the owl even throw him up? This sure as hell isn't the lake he and Gossamer had arrived at today. He flicks the light left and right, illuminating broken windows of houses around him. Which street, he wonders? How far from his original place?
The light reflects off of a piece of metal on the ground. Croix is still wheezing, laughter dying down, but his smile is far from fading. He heaves himself to his feet. He hobbles to the piece of metal on the pavement. He struggles to keep from having another laughing fit when he reads the busted sign: Dougherty Street.
From above he hears a parachute deploy. Croix flicks the flashlight upwards, searching the sky with renewed excitement. All of that, and he still gets a sponsorship? Oh, this is too brilliant! The beam of light catches the metal packaging of his gift, and Croix watches with a wide, painful grin as it descends to his feet. He pops open the lid, fingers tracing the engraved III-M on its top, and shines the light inside.
A mask, much like the one he and Gossamer had to share, and three spare filters are inside. Croix giggles at the sight. He sticks his hand inside and yanks out the mask. He clips one of the filters in place and sticks the mask over his mouth and nose. No more risk of inhaling aspetine. No more risk of damaging his lungs.
With the gift is a message—one Croix supposes is sound advice for the time being: Don't lose your life for him.
He sucks in a deep breath. He turns back to where he'd heard the footsteps, somewhere along Dougherty Street. Don't lose his life for Gossamer… How much more obvious, he thinks, could a piece of paper be? He never intended to lose his life for Gossamer. No, much like Croix had been used by Gossamer, Gossamer had been used by Croix. He'd never have survived the bloodbath without someone with fighting experience. Likewise, Gossamer would never have been able to cause enough chaos on his own pre-Games to escape unharmed.
Even without Gossamer around now, on his own for the first time since day one, he's confident he can see the plan to find Cetronia through. After all, Capitolites are valuable now.
And Croix is one of the most powerful Capitolites left in the arena.
Finnegan Styx, 16, District 6
"Do you have any idea how worried we've been?!"
Calico coughs into his sleeve for the umpteenth time. He won't look at Finn or Luxor, keeping his focus on the new supplies he'd pundered.
"Ca—" Luxor cuts himself off and wipes a hand down his face. It's getting hard to keep up the Chambray facade with all the stress in the air. Even Finn is scared to say something in case he messes up again. "Listen," he tries again, "you never said anything about fighting anyone—what was I supposed to think when we heard the cannons go off today?"
That gets a reaction from Calico, at least. The blond glances over his shoulder and regards Luxor dryly, no remorse in his gaze as he deadpans, "Think of how to move on."
Hurt flashes across Luxor's features. Finn watches anxiously as the model cleans his expression, as Luxor puts on a professional, stony mask of equal indifference to Calico's.
"Then I'm sorry for what I'm about to do," he chokes out.
Alarm bells go off in Finn's head. He panics, tries to stand and speak up. Every attempt leaves him frozen in place, Barb's assault flashing through his mind, and everything he could say dies on his tongue.
Luxor advances on Calico, arms thrown open. Calico turns, expecting a fight as well. Finn can only watch in horror as the gap is closed, slowly but surely, and Luxor's arms encompasse Calico's form.
It takes a moment for both Finn and Calico to realise what the Capitol boy is doing. It's not until Luxor tucks Calico's head against his shoulder and sinks to the floor with him that there is no malice in his actions—only concern, only reassurance. Calico begins to fight back, but to no avail. It's been made abundantly clear already that Calico doesn't have the strength to fight even Finn without some kind of trick. Grey eyes convey insurmountable distress, even as Luxor hushes him and tries to hold him still against his chest.
Finn almost misses it. He almost misses Luxor's next sentence, the hurt laced in every word: "How am I gonna face her knowing I couldn't bring you home again?"
The embrace only lasts a few seconds thanks to Calico's struggling, but those seconds look to have done the trick with getting Luxor's message across. Calico shuffles away, clutching his new bag close to his chest, and he hides his face from the other boys. Silence falls over the trio. Luxor backs away, dismayed, while Finn sinks back down onto the bed he'd been situated on.
This mansion in the suburb is still so beautiful even after all the damage the elements had left behind. When Finn sees the shattered stained glass windows strewn along the floor, he sees amazing pattern casting red, blue, green glows against the carpet. When he looks at the chandelier torn apart and rusted on the lobby floor, he sees an entryway so grand that it'd take his breath away every time he saw it.
And now, looking in this large bedroom with its overturned furniture and damp, felt headboard beside him, he sees supreme comfort and luxury. Finn lets out a heavy breath and flops back down against the sheets. He's not sure how much more stress he can handle in the coming days. There's been so many scares in just two days already.
"Are we gonna be okay?" he asks out loud. He doesn't mean to, but they may as well face the music before it's totally out of their control.
Luxor looks back at Calico, who's still on the floor and around his bag like an inverted turtle, and then flops down next to Finn.
"I don't know," he says softly. "I really don't know. I thought we could just hide and be okay as long as we all stayed alive, but in practice…"
Finn can't help chewing his lips. He throws his arm over his eyes and groans.
A few more coughs come from Calico before Luxor finally sits up again to check on him. Blond hair whips about as Calico glares over at the duo. Finn watches as he tucks his sleeve under his chin and adds a pout to his expression.
"Don't fuss," he snaps. "Got bad lungs before the Games."
"I'm not—"
"You are!"
Calico unzips the bag tucked against him and rummages through it quickly. Finn can hear plastic crinkling and rustling, before finally Calico rears back his arm and flings a hastily-sealed bag of trail mix over at the bed.
"Stop fussing over me and just eat something, for crying out loud," Calico says with a final huff.
Once again they're back to silence. Finn can't stand looking in the room much longer, witnessing the argument that he honestly feels like he's third-wheeling on. He turns to face the window and stares out at the starry night sky. He wonders how everyone back home is feeling. He wonders if they're seeing the same sky, or if it's just something computer generated.
Luxor doesn't make a move to eat, let alone pick up the bag. He remains absolutely still, a statue stuck between the two District tributes. Even as a chime rings out in the sky and a flash flickers through the room, illuminating even the farthest corners, Luxor remains frozen.
When Finn checks for the source of the light, he finds a small opening in the ceiling shining a beam of light down against the floor. Finn blinks, recalling the kind of screen from somewhere—like he'd seen it before, but not before going into the Games. It plays the fanfare of the Hunger Games, a spinning symbol of the Games flashing on the slowly forming screen. A crackled voice sounds out, once again familiar—but this time from before the Games.
It must be Lola, he thinks. The voice, though grainy and difficult to decipher, sounds chirpy and excitable during the broadcast.
"End of the day," Luxor mutters. Finn sits up again, this time paying proper attention to the screen. How many people died today? Who?
How much danger is he still in?
The screen fades to blue and soon the typical profile of a tribute is put on display. Finn sucks in a deep breath to keep himself calm. It's the girl with Tourettes who'd been nothing but kind to other tributes, had been so shy but so interesting to watch fiddle with tools in training. He didn't know Daphne Petharaph well, if at all, but seeing her make those stone tentacle things—what were they called? Made from a powder she ignited with the smallest of flames?—brought a whole new variety of wonder to Finn's world. District Four is beautiful and surrounded by water, but Daphne showed how creative District Three can be with what they have.
After Daphne flashes the face of someone FInn wishes so much that he'd had more time and courage to speak to. Adrianne Evans, the girl from Four, is the second face among the dead. He never spoke to her much either, but God, there were so many things he could've asked about her home. He'd missed her reaping, had heard how out of it she'd looked, but he never once tried to say hello. Finn squeezes his wrist as tightly as he can, the knuckles on both his hands slowly turning white.
As soon as Adrianne's vanishes, next flashes the face of a younger girl, expression calm and reserved—Quatra X, the spy. He never knew much about her, but seeing her face right after Adrianne's brings a pit of despair to form in his gut.
The final face is the owner of an afro anywhere, the pudgy cheeks and innocent gaze. Avita Clements-McMillan has died on the second day of the Games, and he can't help feeling guilty for her. She may have committed an atrocity at the bloodbath and killed Wystan before the countdown ended, but she's still just a regular kid like Finn. He looks warily down at Calico, who faces away from the screen with that same stubborn pout, and then back at the memorials. The first two cannons, Avita and Quatra's cannons, had gone off not long after Calico had left to do a perimeter check. He didn't… No, he couldn't have…
Luxor lets out a heavy breath and hangs his head. He's clearly as disappointed as Finn right now, seeing these girls on the screen.
It's selfish of him, but he wishes they all had survived another day so he wouldn't have to mourn them now. Not when he's so unprepared to, not when his heart isn't fully in the reality of the Games yet.
Lola's grainy voice comes back and the fanfare begins to fade. The beam projecting the screen flickers off, plunging the room in complete darkness. Finn's eyes take longer than before to adjust. He can only hear the conversation that follows, rather than see the body language that might shed more light on things.
"You killed the last two," Luxor says softly. It's not a question. Far from it, Finn thinks. It's a soft accusation, the kind that tells just how cautious Luxor is being right now.
Calico doesn't answer for a long time. He keeps mum about what he's done, refusing to even move and give away his position in the darkness.
And then Luxor adds, "Was it painless?"
This gets an answer. Not an answer they like, but confirmation at the very least.
"You knew cyanide was a merciless killer when you chose it," Calico says evenly. "You already know whether or not they suffered."
Simoleon Serif, 17, C-District 4
Day 3
It's the shuttle all over again.
It's waking up early in the morning and having breakfast with his parents. It's leaving for school with his brother on the tram, shortly before the stop that transfers to the shuttles. It's hearing the school PA system call him to the front office. It's Rori, out of breath and looking at Sim in a way a nineteen-year-old should never have to regard their sibling.
It's the denial all over again.
It's Sim insisting to Rori that there's been a mistake. It's the naive wishes of an eleven-year-old taking over reality. It's the refusal to go to hospital, to identify the bodies, lest the truth smacks him harshly back into his new life. It's all the nights he waited in their bedroom, flicking through old photos and home videos while he wanted for them to come home.
It's the funeral all over again.
It's the uncontrollable muteness that overcame him no matter how much he wanted to scream. It's the tightness around his neck as his tie clings to him like a noose. It's the whiteness of his knuckles as he held Rori's hand no matter what, unwilling to let another loved one out of his sight or reach until he knew they were safe. It's the sickness that comes with looking in the casket his parents shared, the lifelessness that the corpses reeked of despite his attempts to ignore them.
"I'm sorry, Sims," Rori says in his ear, hugging him tight. "It's just us now."
"I know," Sim whispers back. But Rori isn't there. He isn't holding him in a comforting embrace.
Sim's alone, hiding in the alleyway with the remnants of his alliance next to him.
Alone.
What a familiar word, yet so unfamiliar after the events of the Games so far. Not once has he been entirely alone. Not once has anyone ignored him, for better or worse. But now look at him—he's cowering in an alleyway with his tail between his legs, hiding behind an overturned dumpster like it's his only shield against the outside world. The cruel, unforgiving outside world.
He's safe here. Just like his room is a safe place. No one gets in, Sim never gets out…
"You have to come out sometime."
No, I don't.
"Can't you try?"
He leans his head back against the dumpster. Always those two questions. Always the pleading.
I'm not feeling up to it.
Always the sigh.
"Okay. We can try again tomorrow."
Always the disappointed silence.
Sim sits up a little higher and turns his head to peek over the dumpster. Some part of him expects to see Rori retreating down the alleyway like he would their hallway, back to the study. But this isn't home, Sim reminds himself with bitter dismay; this is Elysium, the farthest from home he can get. Rori isn't here to passively lure Sim out of his room. No one is.
He hadn't cried as hard as when his parents died. He didn't know Adrianne and Daphne for long, and he's lucky to have clicked enough with Adrianne to call her a friend. He doesn't think he has the capacity to cry like that anymore, not when his breakdowns have always left him dried up for days. Tired. But he still cried with enough emotion to leave him drained, hopeless to fight back against the life he knows best.
Sim can't even bring himself to feel disgusted by the dumpster he leans against. He just remains draped over it, watching the sun light up the street outside at a snail's pace. What time even is it? It can't be late into the morning yet.
"There's a show coming to model this season's new fashion. I know it's a lot of money, but I can save enough if you want to go one day?"
Sim stares dimly out at the mouth of the alley. This is how they'd talk if Sim wasn't at his worst. When he'd wander around the house and Rori would let him do as he pleased. He lets out a tired sigh and practically melts atop the dumpster.
I'll think about it.
"You will? Really?"
Always so hopeful.
Probably…
Always so patient—at first.
He reaches down for the backpack he'd pulled from Daphne's corpse as the hovercraft descended upon them. Adrianne had only been carrying a flashlight and her scythe, but Daphne had volunteered to take everything else. Everything but the heavy shield, Sim thinks grimly. He'd dropped it back in the streets, too busy trying to forget Daphne's pained howls at the time to care.
A lot of work had been put into getting the shield in the first place. He should go pick it up.
He slides off of the dumpster and lands on the ground with weak, jelly legs. Sim groans softly at the sheer amount of effort it takes just to stay upright. He hasn't felt this weak in… Well, a while. His body and mind are so in sync for once, so agreeable towards each other for once, that even his limbs are becoming slack and limp as his mind repeats over and over, like a broken record: It should've been me, not them.
He's never been suicidal. Far from it, and even his therapist has acknowledged that taking his own life isn't an immediate danger for the Serif family right now. But his inherent fear of others, his natural desire to withdraw from it all—it's done a number on his self esteem, no matter how much he tries to deny it. With no one, not even himself, around to argue that he deserves to survive the Hunger Games, just walking over to pick up a shield feels like an uphill battle.
Somehow he stumbles to the alley's entrance. The light of a new day beckons him, but Sim just stands there and feels the pit in his stomach begin to form. He peeks around the corner in search of the shield. His heart sinks when he sees it in the middle of the street, too far for him to fathom moving from his safe space right now.
"You're so close! You can do it!"
Always the pain in his chest. Always the panic attack.
I can't…
Sim reaches up and clutches weakly at his shirt. Breathing becomes difficult, a feat only someone stronger than him can manage.
"I promise, only the first step will be the scariest—that's it!"
Rori, I can't…
His eyes sting as tears prick at him. Sim squeezes them shut and fights to stay upright, lest he hurt himself by collapsing to the ground. His mind may as well be ejecting from his body, the feeling of existing no longer available to Sim as seconds tick by.
He's so scared. He's so scared that a building will fall on him, or that the owl will snatch him away, or that one of the other tributes will find him, or—
"Take your time, Sim."
So different from the begging. So different from the pleading to just throw caution to the wind for once.
But still familiar.
"I'm right here with you. No need to rush."
Are you sure?
He remembers the disbelief he'd felt at the soft tone, at how utterly reassuring a stranger had been to him.
"Positive! Sometimes we just gotta put ourselves before the world, y'know?"
Such simple advice. Such easy advice.
"Plus, the ocean is gonna be ten times better to see in person when you're not about to break down."
Sim reaches for the bag on his shoulder and carefully lowers it to the ground. He bends his knees and slowly, slowly follows it down, until finally he's sitting in the alleyway opening and hugging the bag to his chest. His heartbeat slows back to a bearable pace, and the tears threatening to exhaust him further stop after a fraction of a second. Sim inhales deeply, holds it, and exhales against the material of the bag. He opens his eyes and watches the street with a blank stare.
"Okay," he mumbles into the bag. He can see Adrianne's playful smirk in his mind, the pride in her eyes for trying a method of taking care of himself. If he focuses hard enough, he can even imagine the warmth of Adrianne hugging him—just like the night of the interviews, when she'd refused to leave his side until he was okay.
He can imagine the praise. More than that, he can see the relief ease Melvin's shoulders, all the way back in the Capitol.
"My own pace," Sim agrees with Adrianne. "It's okay to go at my own pace."
Octavia Faye, 17, District 10
No amount of words in any language, dead or thriving, can describe just how much she feels like Christmas came early. It's all unfolding right here in front of her, and Octavia is living for how violently the tables have turned on the prick in front of her.
In the most babying voice possible, Octavia keeps her lamb splitter—gifted to her just this morning, no less!—right within striking range of Gossamer's face and coos, "What's wrong, Gossie? You lose your li'l sidekick?"
To his credit, he's keeping his expression rather pleasant through the whole ordeal. It pisses Octavia off, but she'll be damned if it isn't a talent of his.
Running into him had been far from their intention. After a disastrous night making sure Quatra wasn't following them, Octavia and Ham had just barely made it to the government building a block away from the mall. It's big, it's spacious, and on top of that it had beds. It was not only an office complex, but also a housing complex for bigwigs like Snow and her colleagues.
They got settled, and then all of a sudden, on the morning of day three in the arena, Gossamer Wormwood stumbles into the lobby with only a backpack and frustrated scowl to his name. It brings her back to now, where she has Gossamer on the floor under her boot and her cleaver in the air.
Gossamer's pleasant expression doesn't falter in his reply. "Sharp of you, Octavia," he compliments her.
"It's not the only thing that's sharp," she says sweetly, "so start talking. You're good at that, right?"
Gossamer raises a brow. She stops him before he can actually start.
"Throw your bag to Ham, while you're at it."
He rolls his eyes and wiggles under her boot, shimmying the bag out from under him, and slides it across the floor towards Ham. The smaller girl just sits down where the bag stops and unzips it, exhaustion from their stress over Quatra still evident in her expression. She yawns and pulls out the first of Gossamer's belongings, listing out loud, "Basic medical supplies."
"You don't want to kill me, Octavia," Gossamer tries, his voice just as sweet as her's. He still looks pleasant, like he's having a casual conversation about some school event or something. "I can assure you of that much."
Octavia blinks at him. Bold of him to assume she'll be rational right now.
"I can say with the utmost sincerity," Octavia argues, "that pummelling your face in with a knife meant to cleave lambs will bring me inexplicable amounts of joy."
"Rope," Ham adds.
Gossamer purses his lips. "Morbid. Won't comment. How would you like for me to beg for my life?"
"With enough shame to damage your planetary ego."
"Galactic, but go on."
"Flare gun, no flares," Ham goes on.
Octavia pushes her heel further down against his chest, and for once Gossamer actually flinches at the pressure. He still smiles, but the level of strain keeping it there is noticeable to even Octavia.
She sucks in a deep breath and says, "I want you to give me a very good reason why I shouldn't kill you for my own satisfaction, loot your corpse, and then go on my merry way."
A nonchalant shrug, the pleasant demeanour shining through again. "You and Ham can't leave together," he says. "You'll be targeted specifically for killing me in cold blood, not in self defense. I have a rough plan for almost every remaining tribute's demise based on what I know about them. Cetronia included," he adds with a painful level of casualness.
Octavia lowers the cleaver slightly. That's quite the statement, even from someone like Gossamer. He's never overstated his abilities—not that she's ever talked to him about them or even bothered to ask about them—but even this feels farfetched right now.
"How would you kill me? Right now, in this very situation?"
"Break your knee, wrestle you to the ground, trap you in a full Nelson until I can internally decapitate you. Or knock you unconscious, whichever is easier."
Smug prick. She still takes her boot off of his chest and steps closer to Ham. She doesn't want to take any chances.
Gossamer snorts and sits up, rubbing his chest with his hand. "I'm exaggerating," he sighs. "I just have a plan for the careers. A tentative one for that bitch Luxor, too."
"You're really bitter over him shooting you in the ass, huh?"
He bristles at her. "Upper thigh!"
Octavia stifles a laugh. Gossamer Wormwood? Snapping at her? Oh, how the mighty have fallen. There's no doubt that at this point she's gonna piss him off as often as she can, especially if he's going to lose his composure over being targeted and injured in the bloodbath.
"Holy shit," Ham wheezes. Gossamer and Octavia both look to her, and the boy's expression turns to one of alarm when he sees the folded sheet of paper in Ham's hands. "Is this a map?"
Oh, she really can afford to kill Gossamer with something like a map in his bag. She'd get more peace and quiet, too.
He looks warily back up at Octavia. She must be showing how smug she feels, because his pleasant expression drops entirely. No more fakeness. Just uncensored Gossamer Wormwood.
He sucks in a deep breath. He rises to his feet, slow enough to keep Octavia from attacking him. He looks at her with his jaw set and his eyes unblinking. Two arms gesture to the lobby, then flop to his sides with more disgust and bitterness than Octavia's ever seen from him.
"Alright," he hisses. "Okay. You've got me. I have nothing intangible to offer now that you've found my map. What're you gonna do, shit shoveller? Gonna bake me into a pie? Gonna be a basic bitch about it and just go for my throat?"
Octavia just smirks at him with pride.
"God forbid you be civilised about it all," he goes on, and his sarcasm is—to Octavia's surprise—refreshing to hear. "Yeah, I was covering my own ass with the whole targeting thing, but you just solidified how much of a complete dumbass you are by not even considering it. You want the Gamemakers to target you? You want them to manipulate your death to be the most humiliating thing ever? You're fucking delusional."
"Do go on," Octavia says with glee.
He laughs once, loudly and forcefully.
"No wonder your relationship back in Ten never lasted too," he sneers. Gossamer crosses his arms in front of his chest and nods to Ham accusingly. "Clearly your taste in significant others mirrors your own mess of a personality, and quite frankly I'm amazed you useless wuhluhwuhs haven't accidentally killed each other yet!"
"Wuh-what—"
"For fuck's sake, you're not even acting! You're legitimately attracted to walking disasters! What are you, the big disaster and little disaster? Instead of spooning you scream at deafening levels?"
Ham clears her throat loudly.
"What, you absolute midget?!"
Octavia is struggling not to laugh at this point. He's just losing his mind right in front of her, all because he's been shot in the upper thigh and had his map stolen, on top of losing his one true ally. She almost wishes they had more than honey to each, because then it would be dinner and a show.
Ham scrunches up her face and folds the map back up. "You literally just said you had a plan to take down the careers, dumbass."
"Pretty intangible reason to keep you alive, if I ever heard one," Octavia agrees. She doesn't even bother to hide the smugness in her tone.
If only she had a camera in this very moment. His face falls ever so slowly, all tension leaving him until finally only his eyes move, bulging to the size of saucers as they dart to the ground. He may as well have thrown his soul from his body and fled to scene, the shame of forgetting his own glorious plan weighing on him more than Octavia's boot ever could.
And she loves it.
After what feels like far too long since Gossamer, of all people, last spoke, he lets out a small, "Ah."
"Welcome to the useless club, sweetie," Octavia coos. She glances at Ham, making sure her ally is standing, and adds, "Hold him down for me."
Ham practically flies at the confused Gossamer. He screeches when the much smaller form tackles him to the ground, his face buried in the floor and his arms flailing about. Octavia only has a few seconds before he overpowers Ham, but the whole time she laughs her ass off. Even as she pulls the rope from the pile Ham left next to Gossamer's bag, Octavia cackles and feels her eyes water.
She takes over Ham's spot on Gossamer's back and makes quick work grabbing one of his arms and folding it over his back, twisting it far enough that it rests against her with no hope of returning to his side unless she moves. She loops the rope around the wrist of the arm and begins the admittedly short process of restraining him. By the end of the struggle, Gossamer's arms are folded over his lower back, linked by the wrists, and there's no sign of the rope becoming loose under any strain he may put it through.
Octavia gets off of him and lets out a satisfied hum. "Much more trustworthy," she notes.
Gossamer's face is still buried against the floor, but his response is clear as day: "You're insufferable."
"Tough," Octavia says. "Now tell me about this career toppling plan before I leave you outside for the owl."
It was hard to follow up a fight in an owl's stomach, but I think I managed it! Let me know what you guys think, and for now I'll leave us with the QQ and eulogies!
QQ #32: How do you think the alliances are going to get along from here on out?
Eulogies:
18th Place: Avita Clements-McMillan, C-District 11, 15 - Sent by HogwartsDreamer113
Fed poisoned oats by Calico Hemingway
Avita was one of the characters in the cast I'd yell at myself for making suffer. She was a lovely kid, naive and raised on Capitol ideals but her heart was still in the right place, even back when she'd first been reaped. I really enjoyed writing her come to terms with the situation and have her develop an appreciation, if not admiration for outer District tributes who lived in hunger far longer than she had in the Games. I wanted to keep true to her personality despite the revelation she'd come to, and alas that meant she'd be naive enough to trust help when help was offered :( Thank you so much for sending her in, Dreamer. I know she didn't get a lot of attention in the pre-Games chapters due to her lack of alliance, but I hope the POVs in the arena stayed true to how you imagined her! She was a darling to write, and I was legitimately proud when she'd discovered the coconut water. Godspeed, you funky little poodle girl.
17th Place: Quatra X, C-District 5, 14 - Sent by goldie031
Killed via knife by Calico Hemingway
Writing Quatra has been an absolute joy! She helped a lot with the worldbuilding after I got through reapings, and the fact that she brought a shared plot with Octavia and some interesting Capitol scenes really solidified how important she was to the overall events of Ad Mortem. Her rivalry with Octavia and more quiet personality made her a joy to write, and her relationship with Tooru was one of the few wholesome ones I got to write - so thank you to both Goldie and Celtic for allowing that to happen, and definitely thank you to Goldie for sending a spy and adding in to the world of the Ad Verse in your own way! It was sad to see her go, especially since she could've survived the concussion, but at least now she can rest with Tooru :')
16th Place: Daphne Petharaph, District 3, 14 - Sent by Platrium
Killed via crossbow by Valentina Teagan
Okay, I'm not exaggerating when I say Daphne held the closest spot in my heart out of all the tributes. When Plat sent me a tribute with Tourette's, noticing I had the condition listed in my profile, I was really touched by the amount of detail and respect that went into her? Daphne was me back when the tics first started presenting, so writing her was not only easy, but really personal too! I'm super grateful that you let me choose her tics, Plat, since I never thought I'd see the day where I could write someone going through the same struggles as I once did while still doing their best. Daphne and the Quartet were absolutely precious, and while I hate how painfully I killed her, I'm still happy for the opportunity to write her. Again, thank you Plat!
15th Place: Adrianne Evans, District 4, 17 - Sent by ThatOtherAsian
Killed inside the owl by Nikostratos Farrington
Adrianne was, by far, one of the sweetest, most lighthearted members of the cast. Her whole relationship with Simi despite her dislike of Capitolites? Blessed. The fact that her whole alliance was full of kids who otherwise may have been bloodbaths? Incredibly blessed. The immense effect she had on her partner despite how little they knew each other? Peak blessing, when will your fave. Seeing her interactions with tributes was a breath of fresh air compared to all the drama going on, and writing her interactions with Sim and seeing her being a rock for him was, not gonna like, really therapeutic to write? I'm so used to depressing things and Adrianne just coming in and making things better kinda helped me through some of the POVs. Hell, Sim's POV in this chapter was going to have a much more grim, depressing ending, but the fact that Adrianne could help even in death gave his section a much more bittersweet note, and I love that she's left that kind of effect on both myself and Sim. Will, thank you so much for sending her in! She was one of the first few characters sent, and I'm super glad I accepted her for District Four!
Till next time!