It took a while, but we're back with day 4! Hopefully the next chapter won't take as long?
QQ at the bottom of the chapter like usual!
39 - Day 4
Luxor Aricunai, 17, C-District 8
He's never been as distressed as he is now. The haze of sleep had kept him calm for only a few moments before reality came crashing down, and now Luxor is tearing apart the already trashed mansion for any sign of either Calico or their supplies.
Finn runs his hands through his hair every so often. He'll look helplessly to Luxor in between, then train a lost stare to the floor as their situation becomes more and more clear to him.
"It's all gone," Luxor hears Finn mutter. The limping boy is struggling down the stairs to the ground floor, where Luxor sits cross-legged and holds his head in his hands. "The medicine… The food… All we have are…"
Luxor nods. "The spare bow. At least the arrows were left behind, but we don't have a replacement if this one breaks."
Despair reeks through the air. Despite all the previous hardships he's suffered, this is the one that brings Luxor to a halt. He's legitimately lost, uncertain if his next step will keep both him and Finn alive or not. More than that, he's scared—scared for Calico, scared of what's happening beyond the suburbia, scared over how defenseless they all are. Luxor has no idea why his alliance had fallen apart over the course of a night, but he sure as hell wants to salvage what's left of it with all of his power.
But he doesn't know just what kind of power he has to manage that.
"We need to get our stuff back," he says, "and we need to make sure C—" He scrunches up his nose. He knows Calico is trying to hide his identity, that he should logically say Chambray's name out loud, but it feels so off now that he knows the truth behind it all.
"We need to make sure our friend is okay," he says instead.
"What if we can't?" Finn asks. "We were asleep all night and we have no idea when Cham left."
Luxor frowns. He doesn't want to consider the possibility that he'll never find Calico or their supplies. He wants to ignore such a bleak scenario, but it's so difficult when it's the most likely one of them all. Finding Calico would be a stroke of luck—finding him alive will be a straight up miracle. It's been made clear many times, after all, that Calico is the most physically weak of the tributes. Calico himself has little hope for his overall strength.
Maybe he should focus on what's in front of him, rather than what's out of his reach.
Luxor looks up at Finn, who's now at the bottom of the stairs. He's rubbing his leg with a pained expression, and he doesn't even notice that Luxor rises to his feet and walks over to join him. Luxor puts a hand on his shoulder, surprising Finn, and takes in a deep breath.
"We have to make do with what's around us," he decides. Finn blinks, confused. Luxor doesn't stop. There's all sorts of things he's known about making materials last and getting creative with what's around you; he may not have had to use the knowledge, but Capitol kids learned a whole lot of useless things thanks to the Hunger Games and history lessons about pre-modern Panem.
Luxor closes his eyes and thinks back to all the lessons he'd learned without realising. What's the most important thing tributes in past Games did first?
Finn hisses, leans against the railing to put weight off of his leg. Luxor zeroes in on the limb and snaps the fingers of his other hand.
"Stay right here," he tells Finn, and then he's climbing the stairs two at a time for the nearest bedroom. He comes to a small guest bedroom, where a double bed mattress sits unused in the corner atop a broken frame. It's big enough for Finn, maybe Luxor if he feels tired, and it's just the right weight to move around without hurting himself.
Luxor tips it onto one of its sides and hauls it out of the room with audible effort. He can feel his nails snag on the material every so often, one even folding backwards and making him yelp, but Luxor makes it to the railing above the lobby. Finn stares up at him in bewilderment, and it isn't until Luxor upends the mattress over the railing that the plan clicks.
Huffing and panting, Luxor calls down to Finn, "Test it."
The mattress supports him perfectly, and Finn doesn't even have trouble getting back up afterwards. Just the right amount of thickness to keep from straining his leg. Finn throws him a thumbs up and smiles weakly, and Luxor returns it as he collapses against the railing.
Okay, reducing the strain on Finn's leg is taken care of. What else can he handle while he's up here? The pack had blankets and masks, so maybe look for a closet? He murmurs a soft agreement to himself. Yeah, that's a good second step.
Three lots of duvets and sheets are tipped over the railing, landing on the mattress and carefully set aside by Finn. Luxor grabs a fourth sheet, ready to throw this one over as well, but stops short when he glances in the direction of the kitchen. He bundles the sheet under his arm and descends the stairs. There's some use for it yet.
"What next?" Finn asks. Luxor points towards the door leading to the dining room, where the kitchen resides on the other side.
"In the Capitol," he wheezes, still struggling to get his breath. He's moving non-stop, afraid he'll forget something or get exhausted quicker if he stops for even a moment. "We… We make sure to store our food extra carefully… Some days the Districts can't grow as much to support us and themselves…"
"You think there's food that we can still eat?"
"If not food," Luxor gasps, "then maybe supplements."
Finn follows him to the kitchen and makes himself busy moving the chairs and long table in the dining room to one side of the room. Luxor makes a mental note to come back to the furniture, certain it will have its uses in the future. He lays the sheet out flat on the kitchen floor and bends down to open his lungs, get some air back in them; as soon as the wheezing in his throat subsides, Luxor moves for the pantry and pulls away the warped, water-damaged door barely held up by its hinges. That's something else that can some in handy, and he props it up against the nearest wall before raiding the pantry.
The first thing he sees is the plastic packet of powdered milk, and Luxor lets out a weak cheer. He places it on the sheet, and soon more items join: Uncooked pasta, cans of corn, rice, maple syrup. It's a treasure trove of foods that would be useless on their own normally, but right now it's everything that will keep them alive one day longer. Whoever lived in this house probably had problems with food spoiling too quickly, and Luxor thanks every force known to man that it was their mansion they'd set up shop in.
More than that, if he can find a pot and start a fire then he can introduce Finn to the simple joy of popcorn.
Luxor does just that, moving on to the cupboards around him and climbing into them for any sign of useable cooking ware. Some of the pots and pans are cracked and missing handles, but he finds a few warped gems among them. Luxor stacks them on the sheet as well, mindful of the food, and moves on to the next cupboard. The bowls and plates are in a similar state, majority of them too damaged to use, but there are some still good enough to use. He pulls out a plate missing a large chunk of its side, still able to hold food, and then places a thick bowl on top of it. There's plastic bowls, significantly smaller but still better than nothing. He adds them to the pile and moves on.
By the time Luxor makes it to the fridge, Finn hovering behind him as though waiting for direction, he's found enough things to live off of without a worry—if only they had water, that is.
"Big fridge," Finn tries, hoping to end the silence. Luxor nods. "Think something good will be in there?"
Luxor shrugs. "Bottled water? Maybe?"
Finn nods. He brushes past Luxor, hand resting on the handle of the fridge. When the boys make eye contact, Finn sucks in a deep breath and yanks open the door.
A single bottle—one litre, unopened—drops out and onto the floor. Luxor can feel himself smile as he sees the clear liquid inside, probably room temperature but still a good sign nonetheless. He drops to the floor, grabs it with both hands, and brings it up to his face.
Mineral water, the label says. Luxor's smile falls.
"We can't…" Luxor sets the bottle down and hangs his head. "Can we even boil this?"
"It's water."
"It's mineral water. Is it safe to boil? What if it messes something up and we make ourselves sick?"
Finn snorts and leans down to pick up the water. He unscrews the cap, grabs a plastic cup from the collection on the sheet, and pours the water into it. He hands the cup to Luxor, and with an innocent smile says, "Go ahead."
It tastes like regular mineral water, and Luxor isn't sure how this is supposed to make him feel more confident.
"So we have these cafes in Six, right? And they get stuff imported from all over Panem because they make a lot of money and the victors like to eat out sometimes." Finn shrugs and sets the bottle on the sheet carefully. "One day my sister asked how mineral water was different from regular water, and the cashier told us it's just purified. Less bacteria in it or something."
Luxor… never knew this prior. He always thought mineral water was water with extra minerals in it—like the name implies. It tastes so different to regular water, too. How could he not think it's been added to? Luxor lets out a small huff, which soon turns into a light chuckle.
At least they both know enough to get by.
"Alright," Luxor says, breathing out a sigh of relief. He stands back up and joins Finn by the door of the fridge, ready to dole out one more piece of knowledge before they return to the mattress. "If I ever have to leave and you need somewhere to hide, these fridges were designed to fit a grown adult inside. Just open the door and curl up inside, and when you need to close it—" He taps the tray on the door that would normally hold bottles of water and the like. "—just pull on this."
Finn nods. He even practices in front of Luxor, pulling out the trays and settling himself inside. He shuts the door, sits there for a while, and then opens it to give Luxor a thumbs up. "Perfect fit," he says. It's enough good news to raise Luxor's hopes.
With their makeshift fort and defenses in place, Luxor prepares his bow and arrows and sets off in search of a nearby tribute they can steal from.
Epsilon Church, 17, C-District 9
With every hour that passes, the pains in his stomach become greater and greater. He's never gone this long without even a crumb, and even Bel has begun to notice the toll it's taken on his body. Church is sluggish, lethargic, and despite all the electrolytes in his system he's still lacking. It's the weakest he's felt in a long time, and he's not sure how much longer he can take it.
Between dying of thirst and dying of starvation, both as agonisingly slow as the other, he thinks he prefers starvation. His throat isn't quite as dry, his breathing not quite as laboured—but it still aches, worse than any dehydration could ever inflict, and it's still too slow for him to handle.
The worst part of it all is that Bel is closer to death than he is. For all the smiles and cheer she shows him, a brave face to make him worry less, her stomach growls non-stop at all hours of the day. She's used to the starvation, but she's still weaker and quicker to perish to it. It horrifies Church, the thought of coming back to her passed out from hunger. He's already had a few blackouts in the house, away from Bel, and he can only imagine how often she suffers whenever he goes out in search of food.
Church stumbles drunkenly down the street with his hatchet loosely held in his hand. He can't afford to go back empty-handed today. For even just Bel's sake, he has to bring something back. Medical rations won't keep this alive for much longer.
He's been patrolling the area daily, unwilling to get too close to the town hall, but no one else seems to be coming near. This entire corner of the arena is abandoned, everyone else unwilling to make that trek past the lake and the wall that is Cetronia. It'd been reassuring at first, their safety confirmed after they'd lost Cetronia. Now it's going to be their undoing. If Church doesn't find food today, he'll have no choice but to move them closer to the other tributes. Closer to the danger.
His toes hook behind his ankle, and Church barely keeps from tripping over entirely by throwing his weight at a broken fence. Three days ago he could cover twice as much ground before losing his footing. He's barely even reached the end of Quanta Street today.
Church buries his face in his arm. How pathetic. This is why his mother's dead. This is why his sister isn't recovering. He's so pathetic and useless, bringing despair to others no matter where he goes. They all give him kindness, and he repays it with misfortune.
What a blight to the existence of others you are, Epsilon Church.
He pushes himself away from the fence. He stumbles, but he keeps himself upright. He'll finish Quanta Street today, and then he'll get Bel to come to a different house with him. Maybe it'll have food that isn't expired or ruined by the elements, and they can just force it to last as long as possible. Church's stomach gurgles loudly. Yes, maybe changing their home base will be for the better.
There's a sound in the distance, soft and almost prone to being dismissed as just the wind; Church would've dismissed it any other day, too, but now he pauses. He strains his ears. He begs it to ring out again.
The crinkling of plastic. A small whimper of self-restraint.
His legs move on their own. His grip tightens on the hatchet. Someone's in the street, his mind chants over and over. Someone has food. He licks chapped lips and lets his feet drag along the pavement, steering him in the direction of the sounds. The hatchet no longer feels as heavy in his hand. He knows what he has to do now, especially with such a tempting lifeline dangling in front of him.
Church arrives at the alleyway before he even realises it. A crunch of dry food rings out, followed by the sound of the plastic bag being folded. Whoever's there is rationing as best they can, and they've decided a handful of food is enough for now. Church hovers at the edge of the alleyway. He listens to the movements, the chanting of, "My own pace," they let out every so often. Church breathes silently through his nose.
Just one more dose of misfortune, he tells himself, and then he can turn everything around. Just one more, he thinks as he raises the hatchet.
Church steps into the opening. He casts a long shadow down the alley, and he gets the tribute's attention immediately. He sees Simoleon Serif, cringes, and takes a step forward.
Simoleon fumbles. They grab for the crossbow by their bag, aim it at Church. It's unarmed, and Church continues to advance as Simoleon tugs a bolt in place. They fire accidentally, the bolt whizzing past Church's leg. Fabric tears, as does skin, but the pain in his thigh is nothing compared to the pain in his stomach. All he feels is the blood from the chunk in his leg spill over his pants.
"Stop," Simoleon begs, tears in their eyes. "Please."
Church lifts the hatchet higher, just a foot away from the other tribute.
"My—" Simoleon chokes on their words. They sob and hiccup, the inevitability of death dawning on them. "My—"
Church swings down the hatchet. Simoleon tries to move out of the way, avoiding the killing blow, and the blade is buried in their calf. Simoleon screams and sobs harder. They look over their shoulder at Church, horror on their face. Church closes his eyes and yanks the hatchet out of their leg, and they scream even louder at the open air touching their exposed muscle.
"Please!" they splutter. Church swings down again. This time he hits their shoulder, burying deep into the skin and exposing bone. Simoleon screeches as loud as even the owl, and they shake uncontrollably when Church pulls out the hatchet again. "S—Stop…"
There's no way this'll be over quickly. Church can't risk being followed or even having Simoleon get a surprise attack in, so he has no choice but to put the teen out of their misery. This will be the first mercy to come from his misfortune, and he'll make sure it'll never be the last.
Two, three more times he strikes Simoleon, the blows landing higher and higher until they're choking on blood on the ground. They're not dead yet, but they're close. The tears are drying up, the flailing and begging halting.
Simoleon's last words to Church are a heartfelt, sorrowful, "I'm so sorry."
He tucks the food back into Simoleon's bag and pulls out a roll of bandages. He uses half of it to clean his wound, the other half to wrap it, and then Church is slinging the bag over his shoulder and leaving the alleyway. A hovership passes him by to collect Simoleon, and Church watches the body be taken away to be returned to their family.
But the hovership doesn't leave. It stays above the alleyway, still in sight of Church, and he pauses to ponder why it hasn't left yet. One minute passes. He tugs at his shirt, his neck heating up. He feels flushed, and he has to wonder if it's the blood loss and hunger. He has to wonder if his vitals are so dire that they expect him to drop dead right here. He wonders if the pilot has any intention of leaving now that they have their next body.
The heat in his neck spreads and intensifies. Down his arms, to his torso, and ever so slowly it begins to burn. Church is panting now, and he drops the bag to the ground as he kneels down. Is this the exhaustion of killing Simoleon? Is he overheating? Church searches for a canteen, praying for even one drop of water. His eyes are watering, and the taste of metal fills his mouth.
It feels like a big pop—like his skin just burst, a blister suddenly unable to handle the pressure it had built up. He can't pinpoint just where the pop comes from, but he sure as hell feels it in his veins. It's like his own body is being put under too much pressure, bursting at the seams. His throat is bone dry, his hands covered in a thick sheen of sweat. Something warm travels down his cheeks, and Church can only stare at his knuckles when he sees blood drip onto them.
The blood leaks from his eyes first. Church tries to remain calm, to think of a rational way out of whatever's afflicting him. The blood starts to drip from his nose. He hyperventilates and tugs at his shirt again. Why is he so hot? What the hell is happening to him?
It comes out of his ears at a snail's pace, and then Church is doubling over and vomiting all over the pavement. One hand props him up while the other clutches at his chest. He can hardly breathe between every episode, and with each heave he throws up twice as much blood. Church can't tell if he's crying, the blood affecting his vision, but he definitely feels like crying. He imagined countless ways of dying in the arena, resigned to any one of them if someone better came along.
He didn't imagine something as slow as this. Something slower than even starvation.
His blood turns to acid in his veins. Church topples over, falling face-first in the puddle of blood he's thrown up. He looks to the sky, to the hovership still waiting just above the alley. Through the haze of death and the horror of burning from the inside out, Church realises what Simoleon had meant when they'd begged for their life—when they'd apologised.
This is their sabotage. Whoever killed Simoleon would die soon after, and Church is the one who triggered that sabotage.
The hovership inches closer. Church closes his eyes and whimpers. He tries so hard to think of Sarah in his final moments, of how excited she'd been to meet him for the first time and how content Church had felt knowing his sister loved him like their mother did. But with every thought of Sarah, comatose and on borrowed time, comes the reminder of Bel. Bel, who waits for Church back at the house and will never known until nightfall that he's died. Bel, who will soon starve herself and be carted away by a hovership.
Church dies with the expression of a man who's lost everything. To those who know his story, he may as well be.
Cyber Tronovsky, 12, C-District 7
The trembling of the earth wakes him suddenly from his sleep. Cyber looks around in alarm, unaware for a moment of where he is and what's going on; it's not until he feels the scrape along his arm and hears the warping of wood that the night's events come back to him. Cyber jumps to his feet and pounds on the storage room door. He hopes someone hears him, because there's no doubt that this building will collapse on top of them if the tremors continue.
Even through the wall he can hear them—the loud claps like thunder in the distance, followed by the rumbling and the unmistakable warping of steel. Something's collapsing, and it's not collapsing due to wear and tear like most would.
"Cetronia!" he yells. His damaged arm aches with very slam of his fist against the door. He doesn't hear a response from her. He should consider himself lucky he doesn't hear the mines scattered along the floor going off yet, all things considered.
Another clap rings out through the air, and then something lights up in the storage room. Cyber whirls around and backs up against the door as far as he can. The screen projected into the room is the same as the usual eulogy presentation, but those only happen at night. Cyber swallows a lump in his throat as he watches the screen, occasionally glitching from the tremors, displays the symbol of Panem before fading to Lola Amos's cheery face.
"Hello tributes!" she greets with too much enthusiasm. "If you've been keeping track of the cannonfire, you'll notice that twelve tributes have now been eliminated!"
He watches her pull a hard hat out from under her desk, and she set it haphazardly on her head.
"This means we've arrived at our mid-Games twist. Isn't that exciting? And since this is a Quell that requires one of our own to win for a clean victory, we've decided to make an announcement for all our lovely C-District tributes to see!"
"This could kill us all!" Cyber yells at the screen. Naturally, Lola doesn't hear him. It's not a two-way feed, after all.
She reaches under her desk again and pulls yet another item out—a breathing apparatus, identical to the ones in the cornucopia. "Some of you have received these over the past few days, and I'm here to tell you now that you'll want to put it on and make good use of those filters! Elysium was constructed with heavy amounts of aspestine, and inhaling the dust from it would be very bad for your poor lungs!"
Lola puts on the mask and makes a mock heavy breathing sound. "May the odds be ever in your favour, final twelve," she finishes with a deep, exaggerated tone.
The screen flickers off. Cyber presses himself impossibly closer to the door. Think, he tells himself—what would they be doing that requires the masks? That makes the buildings go down so destructively? Demolition can have that effect, but Cyber hasn't seen any explosives in the building. Not even when he was laying the mines. Not unless… Unless they plan to let the mines go off themselves?
Cyber squeezes his eyes shut and lets out a small whine. There's a very good chance that the blast will rip him apart, if that's the case. Another tremor shakes the town hall, and Cyber well and truly feels fear for the first time since regaining his emotions. He feels the fear of dying young, of having no control over what will kill him. Much like he'd been trapped in a dying body, he's now confined to the small storage room like a personal tomb.
Another tremor. It feels closer than the last, and Cyber snaps his eyes open. Any second now the roof of the town hall will break, and a stray piece will set off the mines one by one.
Another tremor. He watches the ceiling intently. Closer and closer, sooner and sooner.
Another tremor—
A loud bang, succeeded by dozens others, from the other side of the door. Cyber doesn't even feel the heat of the blast, the door thick enough to shield him from that much, but he sure as hell feels everything else that comes afterward. He feels the weight of the wall that he's thrown into. He feels the ceiling topple over him, forcing him to the uneven ground with a grunt. He feels the debris pin him down, a large chunk digging into the exposed frame of his skeleton.
He feels something burst in his damaged arm. He hears the coolant that replaced his blood splatter against the floor as the town hall finally, finally finishes its collapse.
Cyber howls in pain. He howls and cries. He begs for someone, anyone, to find him and get the weight off of his arm. He wants the pain to stop.
He calls for his father.
A voice cries out among the rubble. Cyber yells back, desperate for anyone to help him. They'll find him, he thinks. He'll be free, and this near-death experience will end.
Shadows loom over him, voices he can't quite recognise. Muffled, probably from the masks Lola had just told everyone to put on. They call his name. They kneel down in front of him. They tell him he's sturdy.
Too sturdy.
Cyber isn't sure what they mean, and he almost wishes he could figure out what being too study has to do with anything. Being sturdy is good, right? Because then he's harder to kill, and Cetronia has the best Capitolite on her side to win? The figure stands to their full height, and they raise their arms high.
"Hold his side," they command—is it Cetronia? Is that her voice coming from the mask?
Two pairs of hands land on one side, brushing the lighter debris away and freeing half of him. They don't help him up. They don't try to move the heavier debris on his other side. Instead, one of them chants, "Oh my God," over and over again as they hold his arm and legs down.
Hands rise high above Cetronia's head. Something flashes in the light, a very clear indicator of metal. Cyber watches it in confusion, then realisation hits him. The axe is held in place for a few seconds more. Cetronia lines up the spot on his trapped arm.
"No—"
She swings down.
Gossamer Wormwood, 17, C-District 10
They all stare at the destruction with dropped jaws. They'd all heard the announcement and seen the first explosion, originating all the way near Lyme Street, but none of them can process it. Even Gossamer is lost for words as he watches the explosions balloon out into the air every few seconds. Closer and closer, swallowing even the unsuspecting owl in its wake. It reaches the town hall, where the careers have taken refuge, and the sight of the building collapsing in on itself is enough to force Gossamer to move.
"Masks!" he yells at Ham and Octavia. The taller snaps into action at the mere mention of the masks, and she dives for their bag and throws them to Ham and Gossamer. Ham helps Gossamer put on his mask while Octavia secures hers, and then the trio are running out of the lobby and into the exposed street.
"Where are there no buildings?" Ham yells through her mask. Octavia fumbles for the map, but Gossamer stops her before she can waste any more time. The houses to their right explode, and Gossamer has to dive to the ground to avoid being crushed by a large chunk of cement.
"Lake!" he screams. "The lake!"
Neither helps him to his feet—he's not surprised, but still disappointed—and Gossamer rolls around angrily as he watches the girls sprint for the lake in the centre of Elysium. More buildings are blown apart, and Gossamer is propelled forward by the force of the government building's own explosion once he gets to his feet. He stumbles after them, running as best he can with his arms held in place.
The government building sends a wave of dust after them as it collapses, and Gossamer is actually thankful that the lumberjane remembered to put his mask on too.
The explosions spread like an epidemic. From the government building, they move to the mall; from the mall, over to the residential area at the corner of Atticus and Thisbe-Wrenn Street. Around it goes, every house a domino, until finally nothing is left standing.
Gossamer stumbles to a stop just behind Octavia and Ham, still a good distance from the lake. There's so much dust and dirt in the air that almost nothing is visible but their outlines, and until it clears all they can do is wait. But the dust lingers, a fog to keep them lost and wandering, and Gossamer isn't sure how long he can sit around defenseless like this.
He looks over at Ham, who's injured and will more than likely fall if she's kicked. She's armed, sure, but she can't chase him with her wound. He looks at Octavia. She has the bag, all of his things, and she has a knife that she can use. But she's more likely to help Ham than chase Gossamer if he flees, especially since she's got all he had to offer. A map? She has it. A plan to take down Cetronia? If she can cooperate with other tributes, she has that too.
Gossamer moves closer to Ham. He readies his stance, able to see the outline of her torso through the dust.
"Ham," he calls out. The smaller girl turns around, ready to snap at him, and Gossamer lifts his leg to kick out.
His foot lands right on her wound, and she topples over with a pained screech while Octavia scrambles to catch her. Gossamer uses this split-second window to run, and run he does.
For a moment he panics and thinks Octavia has followed him, that Ham's convinced her to chase him. But he only hears his own thundering footfalls, and he slows to a jog as the dust reveals yet another form in the distance.
There's coughing, frequent and deep, and even as Gossamer approaches it doesn't stop. It's just one person, if the outline is anything to go by, and they're too busy hacking up a lung to notice him. He might have a chance to get some supplies, especially if this shmuck is dying because of a lack of mask.
Gossamer slows to a stop. He wiggles his fingers and takes in a deep breath. He didn't want to resort to this, but without a knife or even a fire to burn off the ropes, he's got little choice. At least it'll be an easy fix, especially once this is all over and done with.
He makes it a point to clear his head when he positions his thumb in the proper place. He doesn't like thinking about how his bones are moving when he dislocates his thumb, and he sure as hell isn't going to start now. All he knows is that one moment he's standing with his arms strapped together behind his back, and the next the rope is being shimmied off of one wrist while his thumb screams out in pain.
Gossamer doesn't even look at it as he pops it back in place. He just shoves the hand in his pocket and moves again, adamant to snatch up any bags laying around by this person.
He scurries over, ready to start snatching anything laying around, and for all of a minute he thinks only of how far he's going to survive, how quickly everyone else will perish once he's supplied again. But then he sees the person's head, the blond hair that only one person alive outside of the careers would have.
Gossamer drops to his knees and finds the bag hidden behind her, and he's livid when he sees the mask in it. Chambray struggles weakly as Gossamer forces it on her face and straps it on, and she doesn't even hear him when he yells, "The whole point of these fucking things was to breathe through the filters!"
Chambray coughs into the mask, and blood splatters against the plastic over her mouth. Gossamer shrieks.
Staying where Octavia and Ham are headed is not a good idea. Gossamer doesn't want to just leave Chambray here, either—she's one of the few he knows so little about outside of interviews, and the fact that this weak girl scored a twelve at the same time as strong, stubborn Octavia says something. If anyone is the prime ally for him right now, it's Chambray.
She stops struggling when she sees him grab both her arm and her bag. In fact, she goes almost limp from the confusion and continues to cough, wrapping her blanket tighter around her. Gossamer speed walks, the bag slung over his shoulder, and he keeps a tight grip on Chambray's wrist with his good hand.
The only place that wouldn't have been hit with explosions is the park, and while he isn't entirely certain of where he's going, he knows the general direction. If Chambray hasn't suffered too much from aspestine poisoning, maybe they can last through the next few days. There's less places to hide, twelve tributes gone, and everyone else will be desperate to get out once they realise the masks only work for so long with each filter.
Chambray coughs louder. Gossamer grits his teeth and looks over his shoulder at her.
"You need a Capitolite to win," he yells, "and you're about the only asshole worth allying with here. If you even take off that mask once, don't expect happy times and rainbows. You understand?"
She nods weakly. It's as good a confirmation as he'll get, especially with the blood covering half of her mask. He'll have to figure out how to resolve that problem later, he decides.
Alright, we're down to half the tributes! And since we're at this point, I'll make the QQ something to do with placements!
QQ #34: Who do you think won't make it to the final 8? Why?
See you in the next chapter!