41 - Day 5 (I)

Morganite Gardierre, 14, C-District 6

The dust is starting to clear, only a thin sheet obscuring their visions for the moment. The chaos of yesterday is calming, the frantic need to survive dying down to a simple effort to keep the filters clean.

Morganite sits with Cyber as he struggles to breathe, his synthetic skin heating up more than normal. Despite clogging his arm with as much fabric as possible, coolant still leaks from it by the cupful every hour. Cyber himself had said that the coolant couldn't be replaced like blood, needing to be poured in through a tube unlike its organic counterpart. Every so often his glowing eyes dim, and she thinks, This is it, this is his time.

But Cyber comes back to his senses a moment later, every time, and he lets out a shuddering breath that can only be his attempts at suppressing his sobs. He's dying, and he knows it, but he doesn't want to die.

Morganite holds his hand as the time passes. She's got a backpack on her lap, filled with enough supplies to do one surveillance check of the area. Despite how quickly the dust is fading from the air, sinking to the ground like dirty snow, it's not going to fall fast enough for them to take off their masks safely. She's gone through countless boxes that survived the demolition and the mines under the floorboards, and between them all they'll barely survive two more days relying on just the filters.

This needs to end sooner, she thinks. But Croix is delaying Cetronia, convincing her to let the others without filters die on their own.

Cyber grips her hand a little tighter, and she looks down at him with a hum. His eyes are dimming again, but not as much as usual.

"Can you," he wheezes, only to pause and take in laboured breaths. "Can you put me… out under the sky?"

"The sky?"

He nods. "Getting… system alerts… Everything but my brain is going to shut down soon…" Cyber sucks in another deep breath. One of his eyes goes out completely, proving his point. "'S to keep my… organs from boiling…"

Morganite glances further into the cornucopia, where Cetronia sleeps atop her blanket pile. Croix and Valentina sit closer to her than to Cyber and Morganite, occupied by their own problems. She looks back at him and chews her lip.

"Can—" She almost can't say it. "Can you be brought back if your brain still works?"

He nods once, but doesn't sound hopeful. "Within… half an hour…"

That's hardly enough time for Croix's plan to wait everyone else out. If they don't end this soon, Cyber will die—all because they'd locked him in that stupid storage room and had to hack off his arm to get him out. Morganite sniffs and tosses the bag to the ground. She grabs Cyber's hand with both of hers and nods.

He may not be like them, not wholly organic anymore, but he's still a kid. He got a second chance at life from his father, who loved him so much that he made new technology just to save him, and now it's being thrown away because of this shitshow of a Hunger Games.

"Okay," she says, forcing herself to keep her voice even. "I'll put you under the sky, buddy."

Cyber smiles at her, but half of it falls flat. Even his face isn't working properly. Her heart just breaks even more at the sight.

Dragging him out isn't easy. He's still heavy, and neither Val nor Croix make moves to help. Valentina has been unnerved by Cyber more than ever now that his arm is gone, and he doesn't even bleed like they do. Croix just doesn't care, probably delighted that he doesn't have to share his eventual victory with a child. Morganite just grunts and heaves, dragging the boy by his shirt and mumbling apologies every time she has to stop. She pulls him out a good few metres away from the cornucopia, shrugs off her vest and uses a knife to cut off his own, and then she folds them into a neat pile.

She sits it under his head, and Cyber smiles at her with one dim eye.

"My caretaker," he tells her, pausing to keep himself looking at the sky, "she wanted me to look into stuff like this. Wanted to go see the tree from… Barley's Games?"

Morganite chews her lip so hard that she can feel the skin break. His caretaker had probably wanted to take him to see it after the reapings.

"Never did say thank you to her," he goes on. He takes on a somber tone, almost regretting the missed opportunity. "Never thought to."

She inhales deeply and says, "I'm sure she's watching right now. Maybe she knew all along."

He hums. "I hope so," he says. "She's all I have now."

Morganite can't take much more of this. She rises to her feet, Cyber now in place under the sun, and she takes a few steps back to the cornucopia.

Distantly, she hears him call after her, "Thank you for treating me like a person."

She's violent when she snatches her bag from the cornucopia and packs an extra knife. Now Val and Croix pay attention to her. Now they care what she's doing. Croix looks like he's about to smugly ask what Morganite plans to do, and Morganite just sneers at him.

"I need to patrol," she growls at him. "Or else."

He places a hand to his chest and raises his brows. At the very least, Valentina tells her to be careful. Morganite barely even waves to them as she leaves the cornucopia, and she can't bring herself to say goodbye to Cyber for good. She just strides past him, fists clenched tightly by her sides, and does everything in her power to just delay the breakdown.

This needs to end now. Screw the waiting game and screw letting everyone else pick each other off. She wants to go home and she wants to end this nightmare once and for all. She doesn't want to be like Barb, she doesn't want to be like Vera—she wants to be Morganite, despite everything going on.

Morganite, who'd sneak out at night to go to parties. Morganite, who'd be scolded by one parent and supported by the other. Her vision blurs. Morganite, who never wanted any part of this outside of escorting. No more shields, she thinks as she storms out of the careers' views. No more using people. It's not what Morganite wants to do.

She steers herself towards the government building. If she wants this to end, she needs to form a new alliance. She needs to revive Knight's plan to take down Cetronia, and she needs numbers. As far as she knows Octavia is still alive, and there's no doubt that she still holds a dislike for Cetronia. Of the other remaining tributes, her best bets would be Luxor and Gossamer—Gossamer's a Peacekeeper child, and Luxor has proven he has a decent enough aim with a bow.

The original plan had been five—herself, Val, Wystan, Florence and Knight. Maybe she can get away with four, she thinks. Maybe they can manage it now that they're more prepared for the carnage to come.

She walks and walks, the rubble of the government building becoming more pronounced. She can hear movement, a few whispers and pained grunts. Morganite sniffs and relaxes her hands. She may only have one chance at this.

As soon as she can see their outlines, she calls to the duo, "I'm coming over!"

The fact that Octavia doesn't immediately threaten Morganite's life is as good a sign as any that she's on the right track.

Calico Hemingway, 17, District 8

Ever since the empty canteen had landed, Calico's felt on edge. He hadn't had the strength to hide the note from Gossamer, to pretend like nothing was there along with the sponsorship gift. But when Gossamer had tried to have a drink, shaking the water as though testing its amount, the rattle of paper inside was unmistakable.

Darios Aricunai is determined to make Calico feel as terrible as possible. You should've drank the water, the note admonishes him, and underneath is a signature that even Gossamer recognises. With the knowledge that even the Gamemakers want him dead, Gossamer is much more disgruntled over Calico not using his mask sooner.

"Unbelievable," Gossamer grumbles. Calico watches dimly as the blond scrubs at his mask, desperate to clean the blood from view. He keeps his vest over his nose and mouth and can't bring himself to move from his spot on the grass. "You really wanted to prove me wrong when I called you a threat, huh?"

He doesn't respond. Calico coughs weakly against the material, feeling no blood pooling around his lips. At least his fit from the night before has subsided.

After the angry explanation Gossamer had given him during the night, Calico feels like even more of a fool—and perhaps even a little guilty. He'd thought the masks were for show, to scare the tributes or perhaps be used for something much more unorthodox. Calico didn't even know what aspestine was until now, and everything happening to his lungs makes so much more sense now. They're weak, certainly, but regular dust in the air wouldn't cause them to start failing at a snail's pace. But this aspestine Gossamer described? It definitely makes sense now.

Calico's lungs are dying, and he has no earthly clue how long he has left, even with the masks and filters. More so, he's left Luxor and Finn for dead as well—stealing the masks they had, thinking them useless and thus unnecessary to leave like the bow and arrows, and leaving them exposed to the thin sheen of dust now littering the air.

"Ugh."

Gossamer chucks the bloodied rag over his shoulder and inspects the plastic. Most of the blood is gone, though there is an outline of where it had splattered.

"Put this back on," he tells Calico, and Calico weakly complies. There isn't much point in arguing, not when Gossamer is so intent on preserving his life. Gossamer's convinced that Chambray is worth helping—and he's not wrong, technically—but Calico knows it's only a matter of time before the Gamemakers pick him off.

Maybe he'll get lucky and someone will kill Gossamer, then Calico. Or maybe Calico and then Gossamer. He's not fussed about the order, really.

Gossamer leans against the tree they'd stopped at, right at the centre of the park. It's a big maple tree, the leaves reddening and close to falling off. He lets out a heavy sigh and turns his gaze to Calico, and there's annoyance in those eyes.

"Honestly, do you have a death wish?" he grumbles. Calico glares back up at him. The past day has exhausted him too much to even argue back with him verbally. "And whatever happened with your little alliance with Bitchxor?"

"His name is—"

"I know what his name is."

Calico purses his lips and squeezes his eyes shut. It's his turn to sigh, and it's just as heavy as Gossamer's. "I didn't… He just…"

Gossamer leans closer.

Finally, unable to vocalise it the way he knows is understandable, Calico says, "He knew I didn't like being touched."

He can see Gossamer's brows rise. "He practically carried you out of the party," he points out.

Calico nods. "We danced, too. I was too… too…"

"Furious?" Gossamer supplies. "Enraged? Hysterical?"

"Sure… One of those. I didn't notice and by the time I did, it was already over." He slides a hand under his head. Neither of them have taken the blanket to use, and Calico's neck is starting to ache from laying flat on the ground. "I didn't mind that time, though. It was nice, having someone to support me like…"

Like Cham.

God, he misses Cham so much.

Calico curls in on himself and suppresses a whimper as best he can. He should've volunteered. If he wins this, then it's all the more ironic that he just didn't volunteer. Going into the Games as Calico Hemingway wouldn't have impacted his chances. At least then Cham would be safer than she is now, and they'd see each other again when he went home. But instead he froze up and let the situation snowball, pushing it downhill with his own two hands.

"That's a shame," Gossamer tells him. Calico doesn't uncurl himself. He's not even sure why Gossamer is still carrying on with the topic. "Did anyone on your team respect that?"

Well, the stylists had to touch him and poke and prod, and Grieve just didn't care to associate with anyone other than Luxor. If anyone on his team knew and actively avoided crossing that boundary…

"Charlotte," he blurts out. "She doesn't like touching either. She doesn't like a lot of stuff I don't like."

Gossamer crosses his arms and says so uncharacteristically soft, "I see."

"What do you mean, you see?" Calico forces himself up, but his arms tremble under his weight once he can face Gossamer proper. "Are you psychoanalysing me?"

"Psychoanalysis deals with repressed emotions and experiences," Gossamer says matter-of-factly. "I'm just taking notes."

"Why?" Calico forces himself up into a sitting position. Gossamer moves over, giving him space the lean on the tree. The courtesy and its peculiarity don't go unnoticed. "Thought you only had your own self-interest in mind or whatever."

Gossamer shrugs. He opens the bag between them and starts digging through its contents. "I'm capable of respecting people. They just have to be worth respecting to me."

So Gossamer respects Chambray. He respects the idea of a threat posing as an emotionally fragile, isolated girl from Eight. He respects what, when it all comes down to the basics, Calico essentially is.

He lets himself smile a little. He's been called a lot of things—not a single one pleasant unless it comes from family—but he's never been deemed respectable. Granted, this respect comes from a bastard who's upended this entire Quell since day one, but it still touches his heart. Maybe this is what he's wanted to hear from people rather than interesting and unique. Rather than creepy and stunted.

He's respectable.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

Gossamer hums noncommittally. He turns his attention back to the back and pulls out the hatchet, no longer paying attention to Calico. Calico watches him, lips parting in an attempt to ask a question, but he doesn't get the chance. Gossamer rises to his feet and holds the hatchet in a battle stance, taking guard in front of Calico.

Through the thin layer of dust obscuring their vision, Calico can still see what's got Gossamer on guard all of a sudden. Three figures approach them, all of varying heights, and Calico tenses with each passing second. He doesn't know how well Gossamer can fight, but even three-on-one would be too much for him to handle.

Soon the figure leading them is more identifiable—it's hard for Calico to mistake the pink hair bouncing around her shoulders. Morganite, he thinks her name is. He hasn't seen her face in the sky yet, so it has to be her.

They get closer, until finally Morganite brings the other two to a stop just a few feet away from Gossamer and Calico. He can see the other two now—Ham, doubled over in pain and sweating visibly through her mask, and Octavia, glaring daggers into Gossamer as she grips her lamb cleaver so hard her knuckles turn white.

"Hear us out for a second," Morganite starts. Calico glances at Gossamer, unsure if he'll listen. "These two said you gave them a plan to take down Cetronia."

"And?" Gossamer says slowly.

"And I want to gather the numbers we need for it."

Morganite holds out a hand. Gossamer, ever so slowly, lowers the hatchet to the ground.

Finnegan Styx, 17, District 6

Boom!

They both stare up at the sky in alarm. Seconds pass, silent and agonising. Then it happens again.

Boom!

"Are those…" Finn limps over to Luxor's side, half of their supplies wrapped in a sheet they'd salvaged between them. "Was that a cannon?"

"Two," Luxor confirms. Finn can see the concern in his eyes. He knows how badly Luxor wants to find Calico, to make sure their ally is safe, but with how few of them are left it's too dangerous to even leave the other behind. "Maybe we can wait out the rest of the deaths."

It's not a bad idea. Finn nods, making sure the fabric around his mouth and nose is secure enough for him to move around. They both take one end of the sheet and begin shimmying it out from the rubble, back onto solid ground so they can get a better hold on it. Luxor's movements are deliberately slow for Finn's sake, and he appreciates it to no end as he tries to navigate the chunks of concrete, brick and plaster around them.

Boom!

They stop again. Three now…

"Maybe we can hide somewhere near the park," Luxor says. He's tense, the extra cannonfire putting him into panic-mode. Any one of them could be Calico, Finn thinks. "No one else went that way, right?"

"I think so," Finn agrees.

"Think you can make the trip?"

He nods. He has to make the trip if they want to simply outlive the other fighting tributes. The way they are now, they won't be able to defend themselves.

As much as he wants to be brave, the quick succession of cannonfires has him just as concerned as Luxor. For all they know, it could be Cetronia's doing. She was a force to be reckoned with in the bloodbath, for sure, and it's hard to ignore how powerful she is compared to the other tributes. She could win this singlehandedly once she chooses a Capitolite to bring back with her.

How long will it take for her attention to turn to Finn and Luxor, who have even less experience than the careers who'd tried to take her out?

Finn looks up at Luxor nervously. He's wondering the same thing, if the concern drowning the sapphire hue of his eyes is anything to go by. The sooner they make it to the park, the better.

There could be a bright side to this, though. Finn wants to hope that one of the cannons was Cetronia's, the other two an unfortunate casualty in taking her down. Maybe another plan was concocted, maybe someone else took care of her. If they're lucky, maybe this will leave Finn the last District tribute and they can all go home safely. No more killing, no more breathing in this horrible air—they can just go home.

"How many of us left?" he asks Luxor. He's lost count already, but he knows Luxor has been paying extra attention due to nerves.

"I think… Eight?" Luxor drops his corner of the sheet in shock. Finn does the same. They both share incredulous looks as they realise what this means. "We're in the final eight."

"We're in the final eight," Finn echoes, disbelief littering his tone. When his leg had been broken during training and his mind had been fuzzy due to morphling, he couldn't imagine making it beyond even the bloodbath. But the final eight…

Boom!

Both of them jump. That's definitely another cannon.

"Seven?" Luxor whispers. He sounds so uncertain. "I don't— The Games never loses one of its final eight before interviews."

Finn limps over to his side. They're barely out of the gates of the ruined suburbia. "Maybe we should stay put? It could be more mutts doing this," he says. Luxor nods, wary.

"After everything with the owl, I wouldn't be surprised. Maybe we can sit further in the rubble and hide inside it."

Boom!

Neither boy makes a move to pick up the sheet. They just stare at each other, horror slowly dawning in their eyes.

Luxor stammers, "S—Six…"

Five cannonfires within the course of twenty minutes. It has to be mutts, Finn thinks. There's no possible way that this was all from one person plowing through tributes. He'll believe almost anything happening at this point, but not that. That's just too… too impossible!

Right now the two of them make of one third of the remaining tributes. Finn's hands start to shake. Is he scared? Excited? He honestly can't tell. All he knows is that everything from this point onwards could mean life or death.

He looks at the sheet and squeaks, attempting to say something and failing. Luxor reaches down for his corner and waits for Finn to do the same. As they shimmy the sheet back in the middle of the suburbia, where the rubble can conceal them, he finally brings himself to force the words out of his mouth.

"I need to defend myself," he says. Luxor doesn't say anything. "We only have so many arrows, a—and it's not fair on you if you're the only one fighting."

The model nods. Finn anxiously waits for him to say something more, but Luxor is just silent. Solemn.

Neither is ready for whatever hell awaits them in the final six.

:3c

I don't really have much of a QQ for today's chapter so let's make it a bit off-topic!

QQ #36: If you could live anywhere in Panem, where would it be?

I'll see you next chapter for Day 5 part 2!