Tremor Atilius, 18, District Two Male

The thirst hits him like an unexpected blow; nothing one second, and then a terrible burst of pain, immediate on impact.

He should've seen this coming. He always sees things coming, thinks them through to the tiniest detail and degree. When Naya had said they were running out of water yesterday, he hadn't thought much about the matter. Surely, there would still be enough to last them for a few days. The water can't just... run out.

And it hasn't yet, to be fair. Perhaps that's even worse: to know that there are dregs still clinging to their bottles, a shallow stream of water that could at least slake Tremor's thirst, and yet still being unable to even take a sip, for fear of running out more quickly. They have to ration. There are four people in this building, and only so much water left.

When Tremor thinks of thirst, he imagines long days on the job, training beneath the sun, periods of time when there was no relief, no time for breaks. But he'd always had a good rest after his full day's work, and with the fuel of the Capitol pumping through his veins and the resolve to do what was right at all costs, the thirst had been nothing.

Now, it overtakes every corner of his mind, impossible to ignore. It's a dryness that clings to his throat, parches the roof of his mouth, chaps his lips. A maddening sensation, on its own. But on top of that, Tremor feels himself winding tighter and tighter—he knows it's only a matter of time before he snaps.

Alessio does not want to engage with him, is almost entirely aloof to his presence. No, not aloof. The boy is outright hostile, and Tremor cannot understand, doesn't know what he's ever done wrong to provoke such coldness. When Alessio was pinned beneath the gargoyle's claws, Tremor had distracted it so the boy could get free. And yet, he acts as if Tremor had all but abandoned him.

Why is that he continues to do good things, yet still remains unnoticed? Where is his reward for all that he's done for the Capitol, for his allies?

He supposes he'd never cared about them anyway, the way Alessio and Blade seem to grow closer every day—who knows where Alessio goes most nights, with Blade quick to follow? The way Naya is so beloved by all she meets, so calm and collected and elegant in her every action. The jealousy burns white-hot inside Tremor, an inferno to combat the numbing darkness inside him. His mind is a raging storm, light and dark and hot and cold. He feels the thirst hollowing him out so that all the rage and the bitterness can pour through the cracks.

What has he ever done to deserve this? There has to be some way to prove himself...

Perhaps... perhaps there is a way. One that he's kept slowly simmering at the back of his mind, occasionally stoking the coals of his hatred so that it will stay potent. He's been biding his time, waiting for the exact right moment.

But he'd hoped... he'd hoped to bring Alessio to his side before then. Because he knows that Blade and Naya will never agree—and it will be somewhat easier, to have somebody by his side. He'd begun to entertain the idea of a friend, a right-hand man. It would be easier that way, to have an even split—for he does intend to leave Naya and Blade behind as if he'd never even known them.

He glances once at Alessio, having just woken. Alessio sees him looking and pointedly glances away. Tremor could feel his signal from half a mile away. Alessio is closed-off, his walls securely in place.

Perhaps Tremor can empathize with that. He's certainly not the kind of person to reveal his secrets. Still... Tremor had hoped—had been absolutely sure—that his aura would bring Alessio to his side.

Maybe he just needs to put more effort into his ploy. All Blade had to do was save Alessio once, and Tremor's done that now, despite Alessio's firm belief toward the contrary.

He just doesn't understand.

And he's so tired of being confused, of not comprehending the world around him, that has always made so much sense—before the Games got in the way, before he was chosen to fight in them.

If he could just go back...

But he knows he cannot. Wishing for a different fate is futile. Besides, how could Tremor ask for anything else? He was born to fight, to kill without mercy, in the name of justice. He used to fight for the Capitol, but now they've practically forsaken him. What is he to do now, without a cause to stand for?

He's tried everything... to earn the Capitol's favor, Marquis's friendship, and Alessio's trust. Where can he turn next?

Perhaps there is nowhere left to go. Tremor feels himself backed into an impossible corner, unable to escape. If there is no other path, no way to go...

But maybe there is an alternate route.

Maybe he's been a fool.

Tremor stands, hands balled at his sides. Blade and Naya are still asleep. Tremor grabs his weapons and considers taking the rest of the water.

But he knows that'll only last him a few hours, pitiful as it is. And if he's lucky, he might be able to steal more supplies from his next target.

So he walks through the cramped building, toward the sunlight and the open space, without looking back.

"Where are you going?" Alessio's voice holds a menacing edge that Tremor's never heard before.

But Tremor doesn't even spare the boy a glance. "Isn't it obvious? I'm leaving."

As he walks into the abandoned town, the early-morning glow providing a strange rosy haze to the lonely streets, Tremor lets himself be angry. His leaving had been an absolute moment of impulse, but now he allows his brain to catch up.

They'd never wanted him anyway. The Careers always acted as if they were better, Naya and Marquis with their training—as if being a Peacekeeper was somehow less than being a "true Career" when the Academies were hardly even that popular. And besides, being a Peacekeeper is so much more difficult, and so much more rewarding. The Capitol cares... cared... about him.

He stutters to a stop beside a stall, staring around the marketplace. Where is his target? Where could she be hiding?

(Alessio and Blade... well, Tremor doesn't care about Blade or his unfounded motives. Alessio—Alessio never liked him. Tremor was naive to try and befriend him.)

He realizes something then, with a cold trickle of ice down his back. Something he should've known for weeks and weeks, perhaps ever since his name was called at the cursed ceremony.

Nobody will ever like him. Not a single soul on this Earth will appreciate Tremor for what he is; amazing, powerful, confident. Noble.

But where is his cause, his devotion, if the Capitol hates him enough to send him here? If Alessio acts like he's nothing, never even worthy of a second glance...

Tremor yearns to be seen. He needs his every task approved, checked off the list. He needs somebody to tell him that he is doing everything right, that he is incredible.

Perhaps he hates himself for that; the almost insatiable craving for approval. But who could blame Tremor Atilius for longing to know that what he is doing is indeed justified? If Saladin hadn't told him stories when he was younger of the terrors that had befallen his parents due to the rebels... if the trainers hadn't drilled absolute brutality into him... what would he be?

There's nobody to steer him here. No list of tasks to do, no pat on the shoulder confirming his prowess... no chains to hold him down.

He is free. If nobody appreciates Tremor for who he is, than he will spare no mercy for anyone inside this Arena. No more careful targeting of rebels. Tremor is tired of confusion, tired of uncertainty, of restless hours pacing beneath the oppressive heat of the printing press, of being made to look ignorant and misguided by the audience.

He is finished with waiting, with questions and logic and everything that feels too painful to look at.

He should've left the Careers earlier—and yes, he is leaving them for good. He knows that now, sure as he knows his own name, as he knows the grip of the machete in his fingers. He shouldn't have stayed as long as he had, let himself grow comfortable with their odd little dynamic. Now he's free. Tremor Atilius is meant to work alone, and he is a force to be reckoned with.

He comes upon the church, lets himself stand in its shadow for a moment. This would be his cue to thank the Capitol, bend before them and acknowledge all they've done for him.

But the Capitol has taken his devotion, his trust and his very soul, and squandered it. He refuses to be crushed. He refuses to trust in anyone, to be anyone's slave.

It just makes him wonder and worry... because if he has nowhere to go, nobody to stand beside, no mission to complete—that means he is aimless, and that he alone is responsible for each action he performs.

He knows exactly what he will do with this newfound, thrilling agency. He pushes the ornate door open wide, and it gives a terrible shriek that echoes out over the spacious building—a call to warn of Tremor's approach, to herald in the revenge Tremor is about to enact.

The best way to hurt someone is to kill someone they love. The girl from Ten has lost everything. But before she dies, Tremor intends to teach her a lesson. She is a symbol of Tremor's journey over the past weeks, reminiscent of battles by the Careers' side.

He needs to kill her. It feels like less of a grudge, and more of a purpose. A requirement.

"I know you're in there," he calls into the building, and his voice rings true. It does not break. Tremor will never break.

A spear buries itself in the archway just above Tremor's head, trembling in a groove in the metal. He shrugs off the shock, striding through the entrance to the church and venturing out into the vaulting space.

Jacqueline Baylor is ready to meet him, her stance resolute and a shortsword brandished in her steady hand. It points directly at Tremor, unwavering.

This will be difficult—Tremor knows that. But he is not afraid. He almost feels joyful, knowing he no longer has to worry about the consequences of his actions, never being bogged down by the nagging questions: does anybody like him? Does his mission mean anything at all?

He's smarter now. Stronger.

He launches emf into battle, ignoring the twinge of confusion that still lingers, ever-present, in the back of his mind.

...

Jacqueline "Jack" Baylor, 17, District Ten Female

Not so long ago, Jack had resolved herself to revenge, let the thought harden and calcify inside her mind like a shield to ward away the grief. Yet to see it come to fruition so soon... it's almost surreal. Jack moves forward as if in a dream, her gaze fixed on Tremor. Alone, standing in the midst of the grandiose church, with his angelic face, he looks as if he could be a saint carved in stone. Too beautiful, too perfect and unaffected, to be real.

Yet Jack knows he is real, because she's almost positive that saints do not kill. And she sees the reflections of her dead friends in his unblinking stare.

But there's a kind of gravity to the situation, a weight to the way Jack moves and lifts her spear. She feels as though she's in some kind of strategy game, every action carefully orchestrated.

She feels like she's meant to be doing this. Where Tremor is all cold, uncaring stone, Jack is passion and light and hate.

Hate. Such a bitter taste in her mouth... but it's all she has left.

She swings.

Jack knows this is not the kind of fight made of words, witty banter bounced between foes, almost as harmless as a ball to be kept in the air. No, this is a wordless, deadly battle. And Jack... she's never fought like this before, but it all somehow feels right.

Her blow glances off Tremor's own machete, its wicked blade glinting in the light of a candle Jack had been using. It pierces the layer of darkness that suffocates the church, now that its doors have closed off the outside world.

Tremor is all fluid grace, and his eyes are so eerily calm, just like they'd been when he'd killed Jack's friends. Britta and Dria... Jack feels the hot flame of hate rise up anew within her, and she swings harder this time, determined to get past his defenses.

It's all coming back to her now—the Career training she'd long kept hidden. But Jack feels like an imposter, so small against the might that Tremor so easily wields. He's technically not trained... but he's had real experience. And suddenly, Jack feels powerless.

But no, she can't be powerless anymore. Because she's not only fighting for herself, but in honor of her friends' memories. Those can keep her strong when her resolve fails.

Her spear scrapes over Tremor's arm, leaving a shallow cut. He hisses and makes his first move to attack, his machete swinging in a terrible arc.

"You'll regret this," he grits out as Jack just barely dodges.

"No. I won't."

She lunges again, but Tremor twists her blade with the flat of his own, sending it flying. Jack ducks, but just barely, as Tremor's knife threatens to meet her skin.

She's not afraid of this boy who so resembles the shape her father left in her confidence. Jack jumps to her feet and kicks Tremor, her foot connecting right below the knee. The boy stumbles, just for a moment, and this gives Jack the opening to dart forward and retrieve her fallen blade, her eyes on Tremor as he slowly recovers.

He might be strength and calm and grace. But Jack is fierce and fast and angry.

On the other hand... Jack stares at the eerily beautiful boy regaining his balance in front of her. She doesn't want to kill anyone.

Does she?

Could she?

She lunges forward, refusing to let herself think about it. And her spear, the very same one that wounded a Career in the past, sinks into Tremor's thigh.

Jack gasps. But then she hardens herself against the pain that has filled Tremor's eyes, instead focusing on his ghastly wolf's mask, askew on his face. She can see the shadow and curve of chin and brow beyond the mask, and in that moment, Jack sees something snap in Tremor Atilius.

He stumbles forward and slams his fist into Jack's face. She hears something crack in her jaw, and notices dimly that Tremor has brass knuckles fitted over the cruel curl of his hands. She falls, head slamming into the church's unforgiving floor.

Tremor is on top of her, seemingly unaffected by the spear still in his wound and the blood pouring out. His eyes... they're wild and bright and uncontrolled. And Jack finds that she does not mind.

Because she is strong. And she is graceful. And right now, pinned against the floor, Jack is inexplicably calm.

"You're a monster," Jack whispers, clipping each word like a punch. "And there's not a soul in this Arena who doesn't know that."

Tremor's eyes go molten-hot... but it doesn't matter. Because Jack is driving her knee upward with as much force as she can channel, which is the force of a thousand painful moments and a thousand small, lovely acts of kindness given and received. It is the force of a girl tired of hiding.

Tremor falls off her, and Jack rises, her feet planted firmly beneath her.

"I feel sorry for you." Jack's next words are soft and bitter. "You can't have had much love in your years. But I did; I do, still. And you took that away from me. For that, I hate you."

She kneels over him; weaponless, but not powerless. Tremor, on the other hand, is defenseless and spiraling on the floor, his breaths ragged and desperate. He mutters nonsense beneath his breath—words that Jack does not want to know. His eyes are unfocused.

(But what Jack does not notice is that somehow, in all the melee, Tremor is still holding his wicked-sharp machete. She does not see it, until it plunges between her ribs.)

The pain is bright and hot and all-consuming, but it is nothing compared to the years of hurt. Jack finds that she can handle it, even as she slumps to the ground and her eyes begin to close.

She falls asleep to the voices of all who loved Jack, and everyone that Jack loves. She rests with the comforting knowledge that she never killed Tremor Atilius. And in a way, Jacqueline Baylor won this battle.

...

Alessio Spades, 18, District Twelve Male

Tremor still hasn't come back. Alessio is starting to think he might never return.

It's been hours since he left, casting a hateful look back at Alessio and leaving a kind of bitter afterimage in his wake. Alessio knows he should hope that Tremor is gone for good. His new absence should bring Alessio joy; but, as always, his feelings are far more complicated than they should be.

He doesn't understand why he can't keep a handle on his emotions. He wants to push them aside, organize them in a neat row so they can't hurt him. But Alessio feels like he has no control over how he feels, most of the time. And now is one such occasion.

Tremor had always possessed a kind of irresistible light, a light that cast everything nearby in shadow. In his presence, Alessio almost felt diminished... and also as if he wanted to prove himself, to become something more than he was and impress Tremor. It wasn't a feeling that Alessio was entirely fond of, especially after Tremor had pinned him with such an accusatory look earlier.

But now that he's gone, and potentially never coming back... Alessio feels a surprising amount of melancholy.

(Maybe if Alessio hadn't turned his back on Tremor, he'd still be here. But then, does Alessio even want that?)

Naya paces, a study of the restlessness that has persisted in this building over the entirety of the Games. "Maybe it's for the best, that... that Tremor is gone. I... I'll get more water soon, and then we'll be in a better position. We need to go hunting sooner rather than later as well."

There's an almost frantic quality to her movements and speech, as if she is watching the world slip between her fingers and yet is unable to stop it.

Alessio nods at Naya, the only response he can manage. He still can't grasp the fact that Tremor might be gone for good.

He should be glad for his absence. Now, at least some of the conflict inside Alessio has been put at rest.

That still leaves a good portion of unease, mostly stemming from the fact that Alessio has lost nearly everyone he's even been remotely close to. It's not the warmest feeling, to be so alone.

But he still has Tremor and Naya. And Caldwell's ghost. And... despite their haunting voices and unsettling pronouncements, he always has the Fates. Better than nothing.

Although, if he had no one, perhaps this would all be somewhat easier.

Naya lets out a breath. "I'm actually going to get some air. And then I'll go and find water. I'll be back by nightfall." She pauses, and her face breaks out into a sad smile. "I promise."

"Good luck," Blade signs.

Alessio nods to Naya again. He can't find the right words to say, not at the moment when he feels like everything is fracturing and rebuilding all at once.

Naya leaves and the building is thrown into quiet again. Too much quiet—usually, Alessio would revel in this kind of silence, but it's a lonely, endless emptiness, without even the Fates to keep rhythm in his mind. Alessio doesn't need their reminders—he knows he is failing in nearly every aspect.

He's so close to winning. He can almost picture his sister Melinda's face; he can conjure the warmth of her smile, the sound of her voice, the calming balm of her presence.

But all of that is out of reach. Because Alessio hasn't been strong enough to save her.

And then, of course, there's the matter of Caldwell with his sparkling eyes and his distant smile, the boy that Alessio can never reach. It's all too much, the tantalizing closeness of all that he's wanted that somehow still seems impossibly far away.

Alessio can feel Blade's stare, and he realizes suddenly that Blade's probably been trying to get his attention for at least a few minutes. He can't be distracted like this. It could be his undoing.

"What are you thinking?" Blade signs, and his expression is stoic and unreadable, as always—though Alessio thinks he catches a gleam of something behind his gaze.

"I'm sorry," Alessio signs, a little embarrassed.

"You've been distracted lately. Off in your own world. Almost like..." He pauses, his gaze solemn and calculating. "Is it...?"

Alessio has never known Blade to hesitate, but he knows exactly what he's referring to.

Once again, he regrets telling anyone about the ghosts he sees, but it's too late to turn back now. Blade has seen far too much, and it's not as if Alessio could bring himself to kill him.

"The ghosts are part of it, yes," Alessio finally responds, reluctant to even say that much.

"Your distance... it could be a danger, Alessio. To you and to others. What if somebody snuck up on you and you were caught off guard because you weren't paying attention?"

Alessio can't argue with Blade, not when his words make so much sense, and especially not the way he states them, his eyes devoid of any judgment.

"I don't know how to fix it."

"Then maybe we should... work through it. Talk about it."

Blade must see something in Alessio's face because he winces and turns toward their dwindling food stores, coming back with a withered apple. "I'm guessing you'd rather choke this down than say anything about it."

Alessio looks away.

And Blade waits, his dark eyes surprisingly sad. He turns the apple in his fingers.

And the same strange spell comes over Alessio. Maybe it has something to do with Blade's leveled gaze, or the fact that he's killed and failed just like Alessio. Maybe it's the fact that he's one of the only people who have stayed by Alessio's side.

"The one that visits me most... lately, at least... do you remember the boy from Four?"

"Kingsen?"

Alessio nods, afraid of even saying Caldwell's name. He doesn't want his voice to break.

"You two knew each other?" Blade prompts.

"Not really. We talked once in Training... and once right before he died. And now... well, I'm sure you've seen."

"I can't see ghosts, Alessio. But I have gathered some."

Alessio flushes and stares at the ground again, eyes fixed on a vague point.

But somehow, it's easier to say it the second time around.

"I like him. Caldwell. I have feelings for him."

Blade hardly gives a reaction. He just nods for Alessio to continue. His intense gaze makes things easier—something about him makes Alessio feel grounded.

"But... you know. He's dead, so..."

"So you have to let go eventually."

Alessio doesn't speak. Because he knows that Blade is right.

But he doesn't want to lose Caldwell. He can't lose Caldwell.

Blade looks away, for one moment, and Alessio sees the uncertainty in his eyes. He still doesn't believe that Alessio sees ghosts. But when he next signs, his movements are slow and gentle, and Alessio braces for pity.

"You've been through a lot. Seen and done a lot. So have I."

"I know," Alessio signs, feeling his patience wear thin. But at the same time... wanting to know what Blade will say. Appreciating this feeling of sharing and being seen.

"Sometimes... sometimes that does things to you. Makes some things harder to handle. And when you're alone for so long..." Blade shakes his head, abandoning his thought. "I'm not somebody you want to talk to about these kinds of things. I'm a monster. I don't understand emotions. But... I think you've done the first thing right. You've faced it, all of the fear and the regret, and you haven't flinched. You haven't run."

Alessio closes his eyes. "What do I do now?"

"You let go. Sometimes you want to hold something so tight because you don't want to face a world without that security. But there comes a time when you have to let all the terrible emotions out, and that almost always comes with losing good things, too. But sometimes that's necessary, Alessio."

His eyes are bright and passionate, molten and burning. Alessio stares at Blade and finds, of all things, compassion.

"I can't do that," he whispers. "I can't let go."

"Then you'll be stuck in the past forever." And suddenly all the light in Blade's eyes goes out, and he is sad and dark again.

Alessio goes outside, into the noonday light. He cares little that there is no darkness to clothe him, no shadows to outline Caldwell's ghostly glow. He needs to see Caldwell, even more now after his conversation with Blade, and he can't let the nagging in his head go ignored for much longer.

Caldwell appears surprisingly quickly. He looks smaller in the revealing light.

"Alessio!" There he is. Sparkling smile and carefree walk and dancing eyes. "I didn't expect you to come at this hour." And the way he talks, like each word is a note in a melody.

"I wanted to see you." And he's somehow not afraid to admit that anymore, not even under the harsh sunlight.

He listens to the Fates for a moment, hears them out. Who is he and what is he doing here? He can't face the darkness and he can't survive the light. He is destined to be alone. He is a failure.

He shakes off the thoughts. He keeps talking, focuses on Caldwell and the sudden gentle look that has overtaken his features.

"What is it?" he says, and his voice, too, is soft.

Alessio squeezes his eyes shut. He can almost imagine the warmth of Caldwell's fingers brushing over Alessio's cheek, cupping his face. He can almost picture him bathed in the light of the beach, a boy alive and free and so beautiful.

But then the image flickers and fades, just like the sound of his mother's voice. He has lost too many things.

Caldwell reaches toward him and his eyes are so earnest. But his fingers turn to mist again. And Alessio feels the ache of it all like a slap, the sting and the shock.

"You're not... you're not going to stay here forever, are you?" Alessio whispers. "You'll have to leave sometime."

"I don't want to leave." Caldwell steps closer and his eyes are suddenly desperate. "Alessio, I don't understand. What do you mean?"

He's not sure, but it feels like he's standing on a hill and there are rocks sliding, sliding out from under him and he is alone in the great uncaring vastness of space.

"I mean that... you're going to have to move on, right? You shouldn't be stuck here in this Arena."

(He remembers the look in Blade's eyes, the careful placement of his earlier words. He remembers long, lonely nights in the mines. He recalls the way Caldwell hesitated earlier when talking about his parents, how he seems to know so much about Alessio and so little about himself. He wishes desperately that he could stop thinking, that everything will stop coming together and he can just live in this moment forever.)

But life keeps spinning on. And Alessio needs to save his sister.

Caldwell isn't talking. It is as if he is floating somewhere distant, lost in his own thoughts.

Alessio steps closer to him, and it's as if Caldwell isn't even there. He is neither warm and alive, nor cold and hazy. He is almost a mirage.

Alessio can feel his legs shaking, can feel the coldness of realization pouring over him. He doesn't know where to turn, doesn't know what to believe.

"Alessio?" Caldwell's eyes are still bright and desperate. "What is wrong?"

"You're... you're not real, are you?"

And as soon as the words come out of Alessio's mouth, something inside him shatters and he is on his knees, feeling the cold press of dirt digging into his skin. His entire body is trembling.

"What—Alessio, don't say that."

"You're... you're inside my head. You're not really here."

It all makes a cold, terrible kind of sense. Caldwell's eyes are very sad. He rushes over to Alessio and kneels in front of him, and his arms are open but Alessio can't reach him. Still, his eyes are so kind and so accepting, and Alessio has never been seen like this before. There is so much love in Caldwell's eyes, so much understanding.

"I think... I think we both know that's true," Caldwell says, and his voice is unbearably soft. "I'm sorry, Alessio. I would fix this if I could. If I hadn't died... if I could really stay here with you..."

He has to let go.

But he doesn't want to. He can't bear to.

He can't say goodbye.

He can't face the gravity, the implications. Can't accept the fact that... that Caldwell is going to be gone, eventually. Just like Melinda and Eurydice and Hades and Tremor...

But he still has someone. He has Blade.

And for once, that voice in his head is not the Fates. It's something gentler, something far more forgiving. A combination of Caldwell, his sister, and... and Alessio's own voice, the part of him that finally let himself feel.

He has to let go now.

He wants, so desperately, to keep talking to Caldwell, to keep imagining that someday he will be able to reach forward and bridge the gap. But Caldwell is dead. And this version of him is merely a figment of Alessio's mind. And Alessio knows he has to move on, no matter how much it hurts.

The Fates murmur in the back of his mind, but their voices do not carry so much weight anymore.

He's not sure why his imagination has fabricated these voices, these faces to keep him company. Maybe it's like Blade said, that sometimes things become too much to handle, and his brain has found a way to cope with that. He knows there was a time where he needed Caldwell and Hermes, but now he understands that time has almost passed. He needs to move on.

But that doesn't make it any easier. It doesn't keep him from wanting to keep Caldwell's image forever, to keep feeling this free. And maybe he can still do that... just in a different way.

"You have to go now, Caldwell," Alessio whispers, and the words feel like they are wedged somewhere deep in his chest. There are tears on his cheeks. He's... crying. He doesn't remember the last time he cried.

"You are wonderful, Alessio Spades," he says, his voice achingly sincere. "I will miss you." Caldwell's edges are blurring. Now that Alessio understands—or, somewhat understands—that Caldwell is merely a trick of the light, a lovely illusion, his concrete lines are starting to fade and blur.

"I don't—I don't know what to do now, without you."

Caldwell's expression shifts, and there's acceptance in the poetry of his eyes. "I know. But it will be alright. It... it will be better this way."

Alessio looks at Caldwell one last time, sees the memories of him spinning past behind his eyes. In Caldwell, he sees acceptance and light and joy. He sees idealism and inspiration and a heart-breaking sadness.

He takes these memories and holds them close to his chest, and he lets the boy before him melt and dissolve and become interwoven with those memories.

"Goodbye, my thief who lived in a mine," Caldwell whispers as his figure fades. Alessio breathes in his smile and the now-familiar nickname one last time.

For a moment, every ghost that once visited Caldwell encircles him. Hermes, the old ghost from the mine. The group of dead miners and the haunted images of dead Tributes. He stares at them for a long time, capturing the memory of them to keep in his mind.

For a moment, he wants to call out. To beg for them to wait.

But instead he watches them disappear. And he stares out at the Arena for a long, long time, imagining everyone he's lost and the few people he has left, and those that still manage to live on in the gilded-edged paintings of his memories.

Somewhere in the depths of a man-made Arena, there is a boy alone, without even his ghosts to keep him company. But he knows that somewhere beyond the Arena is a girl, a sister, still alive. And in a room close by is Blade, waiting for him to return.

Alessio feels gutted and half-ghostly himself, but he lets himself be consoled by the fact that somehow, he is still not entirely on his own.

...

6th Place: Jacqueline Baylor, killed by Tremor Atilius. Jack was such a beautiful soul. She was such a strong girl, withstanding losing every single one of her friends, yet still managing to wield passion and kindness with effortless grace. She was able to shine her light wherever she went, spreading her gentle presence to those who needed it. Jack was just a very wholesome bean who worried about doing things wrong, and had gone through so much, but still had love, and she never lost that. I love Jack for her spirit, for her desire to do what's right and for her anger at those who have wronged her and her loved ones. She was not without her flaws, but that's what made her even more beautiful. In short, Jack was a truly remarkable soul who I will miss so dearly. Writing her was a true joy. Sakura, thank you for submitting her; I hope you are happy with the arc she underwent, and I'm so sorry for all the pain she had to go through to get there. Here's to Jack, our fierce caretaker: I hope she finds some time to take care of herself and finds peace from all the grief that plagued her.

Hi there! Welcome to Day 8, part 1! We are at top five! (What?! That's crazy to think about!) It is, once again... NOT a Monday! My schedule has completely deteriorated. Sorry about the random chapter. I hope it was still enjoyable nonetheless! Your girl is going through a bit of a writing drought, but we're gonna make it through! This is once again a very pivotal chapter which I've had in the works for a while! I do want to note that I try to do my research regarding all of the characters and their various conditions, as well as with the Arena, and I try to be mindful with my portrayals, but if anything is ever harmful or inaccurate, please let me know. That being said, I really enjoyed writing this chapter, despite how SAD it made me! I hope you all enjoyed as well! And I wanted to thank you once again for all the support and the encouragement and the thoughts! They always make me smile and I truly couldn't ask for a more incredible bunch of readers. Y'all are the best. :)

With that said, I'd like to hope my schedule will go back to normal soon, but I'll try to be better about keeping everyone updated on Discord/my profile. I hope you are all having a lovely Wednesday and stressing as little as possible!

Miri