Day One - A One Sided Mirror
Liberty Cavalli - District Three
Liberty had never been on the other side of a one-way mirror. It was truly an intriguing experience; watching the life of somebody who had no idea you were viewing them from only a few feet away. She had never taken note of how truly eerie it was; she felt like an intruder watching in, yet at the same time an elevated feeling of control bubbled uncontrollably from within.
The room on the other side of the thick glass was an interrogation room; and a primitive one at that. It was kind hidden in the depths of the capitol; where they usually took children who were uncooperative. They didn't like physically punishing kids who wouldn't answer questions; but that didn't stop them. Liberty knew that just as well as anybody else.
Liberty stood silently in wait; as still as a statue as she waited for somebody to pass. As she waited for a sign. There was no hatch in this side of the room; only a concealed door that she had merely chanced upon. Three hatches sat implanted in the remaining walls of the room that were not taken up by the thick glass; Liberty had named them all. The one on the right was for those of pure intentions; the ones who Liberty was to help would emerge through that gateway. The one directly opposite of the window was neutral; those who have not yet been touched by the pure light but have also evaded the flames that flicker in the depths of the dark. Anybody who emerged from that hatch would be left to their own devices, Liberty would pay them no mind.
The final hatch, the one on the left, was for those of darkness. The ones who thrive on darkness; those who are to be sacrificed at Liberty's hand of total control. It appeared to take hours; she was unsure on how long it would take for somebody to reach her. She had found this room almost right away; a path she could not see but feel with every fibre of her body guiding her to the very place she needed to be. The other twenty three souls in the arena, twenty one now, were not as blessed as she.
A single dot of dried blood stood out against the creamy white background of her dress, sitting in the very centre of her stomach. It was the only droplet of Varick Lamarre's blood to come near her; she was sure it was a sign that she was to flee. Flee or succumb to the same fate of the unworthy. And now here she was, only a small rucksack of supplies and a beaded necklace accompanying her. The necklace was a curious artefact; Liberty had only just snatched it up before gravity shifted in the centre room earlier. Small nubs with sharp tips stuck out on the circumference of each bead; the perfect weapon disguised as a simple piece of jewellery.
She did not know how long she stood there, time was nothing but a swirl of nothingness that existed only outside of the interrogation room. Liberty would have waited for days if she had to. Not eating. Not sleeping. Not moving. Only waiting. Waiting for the job she must carry out.
She did not move as the hatch swung open, despite the burst of excitement, she maintained a neutral state as two girls tumbled into the small room, the larger of the two narrowly avoiding banging her head on the metal table. The smaller of the two, a young girl who looked no older than thirteen, tumbled as limply as a ragdoll from the elder's embrace, falling flat on her back with arms spread wide beneath the low hanging table; splayed out in the dead centre of the room. Coincidence?
The taller girl remained where she had fallen on her own back, curled up in a ball and shivering with her eyes clamped shut. Sound did not penetrate the glass of the one sided mirror; but Liberty was almost certain that the girl was crying. Large red welts peppered her body, looking like overly large, painful freckles. The smaller girl had them as well; although Liberty could only sight her exposed, lumpy legs. Liberty knew what she had to do; while the smaller was unclear, the larger girl had been gifted to Liberty with a clear message. Not to kill. To protect.
She moved almost robotically, arms flat at her sides and head held high above her head as she pushed open the concealed door and stepped into the room. The girl did not react to Liberty's presence; it was likely that she had not heard her enter. Liberty was not surprised; she had learnt to walk as quietly as a cat. The moment she had stepped from her plate in the hall of photographs; she had shed her white dress shoes. All they did was make it harder to sneak.
Liberty paused when she was standing directly over the girl; and almost right away her eyes flashed open. A name passed through Liberty's mind; she was not sure how she knew, but she was almost sure the gift had been granted to her by the holy one.
"Candace," Liberty spoke. Her voice was elegant, royal. Candace appeared to pick up on it, her eyes widening at the very mention of her name. Shrugging off the green rucksack and dipping a pale hand inside; Liberty pulled a tube of ointment from inside. This was how she knew this was fate; what was intended. The cream was for stings; stings like the ones that covered the body of Candace Systic, "I am Liberty, and I have been sent to help,"
Felecia Coin - District Twelve
Felecia was yet to leave her plate. She was not crying. She was not begging for freedom. She was not laughing. But she was smiling.
With long, dark legs hanging over the edge of her plate, Felecia shifted through an enormous stack of photos she had scooped up from the floor. She didn't know most of the people depicted; in fact she knew only one of the numerous people that made an appearance in the pictures. Brody Lewis; the boy whom she had been dating for the last several years. He was the subject of the picture she was staring at right now; looking handsome and smart, dressed in a dark blue suit and tie. A large grin was plastered on his face; and while the viewer could not see what he was looking at, Felecia knew that he was watching her. The photo had been taken on the day of her sister's wedding; her great aunt had taken the picture of Brody as she and her brother-in-law's best man strode down the aisle. It was one of the few photos in the pile that had been taken with consent.
One photo in particular had shaken Felecia up, even if she refused to show it. The picture was of she and Brody sitting on the edge of a cliff that towered over the boundaries of district twelve; her head was resting lightly on his shoulder and his arm snaked around her waist as they watched the sun set. It was a beautiful memory; one she had almost forgotten. But what made the photograph so eerie was that nobody else had been with them at the time. Nobody else knew of their secret place on the clifftop. Who had taken the picture? It had been shot from behind; and as she shifted through the pile, she noticed more and more pictures taken in a similar fashion. How long had this person been watching them?
But Brody and Felecia were not the only subjects; many of the photo's depicted other children of all ages. A boy grinning widely as he embraced a beautiful girl with startling blonde hair. A redheaded girl smiling softly as she was escorted away by a peacekeeper while an elderly man sobbing in the background.
Some of the pictures had names scrawled across them; the picture of the boy grinning while hugging a girl had Osborne Seatone written in black ink across the back. A picture of a girl laying upside down on a couch with a wide grin on her face and an instrument that looked almost identical to a primitive bong held in her hand had Kelani Richards written in blue pen across the top.
The pictures scared Felecia; they terrified her. Her brain was screaming at her; telling her to run and hide and wait for rescue. But Felecia ignored it and forced a smile onto her face; showing fear was weakness. That was what her father always said.
She merely raised her head when the hatch to her left swung open; giving way to a small asian girl that fell ungracefully from the other side. Her hands trembled slightly as she placed the current photograph she was holding neatly on the stack beside her, and splaying them out behind her just in case she needed to quickly rise for an escape.
The girl appeared to be just as shocked to find a wide-eyed Felecia watching her from the metal plate; neither girl uttering a word as they took in each other's appearance. The girl was on the chubbier side of the weight spectrum; a waterfall of deep black hair complete with streaks of purple spanning the length of her back, and startling golden eyes flicking about as the girl assessed the room she had literally fallen into.
An unstylish fanny pack was strapped to the girls thick waist; but what really caught Felicia's attention was the crossbow held in flabby, trembling hands. A crossbow that was pointed directly at Felecia's chest.
Suggesting that it was difficult to remain calm upon being held at bow-point was an understatement. Terror sunk it's claws deep into Felecia's back, whispering paranoid theories in her ear and urging her legs to leap up and bound towards that single open hatch in the hopes of finding freedom. But the more sensible side of Felecia knew that if she moved; she ran the risk of that crossbow skewering her with a single bolt.
"Never let your target know that you are scared," Her father would say, "You must remember that they are your prey. Not the other way around,"
Somehow, that advice felt useless when placed on a fourteen-year old girl who appeared scared out of her wits. A vast number of questions had wormed their way into Felecia's mind since she awoke on the chilled metal of the plate on which she currently sat. Where was she? How did she get here? Was this another of her dad's tests?
But now only two thoughts flowed through the gushing river in her mind; she needed to calm this girl down, and where did she find a crossbow?
"If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already," Felecia finally said, surprised at how calm her voice felt; contrasting drastically to the utter terror she felt within, "Unless you're some sick freak who likes to play with their food before they eat it,"
The girl did not lower the crossbow, but her hands ceased their persistent trembling. Her eyes grew hard and calculating; and despite her newfound calmness, the girl did not fire, "If there was to be a sick freak here, it would be the girl happily looking at photographs and cracking jokes while a crossbow is pointed at her chest,"
"What good would freaking out do?" Felecia said, leaning back slightly in a movement that seemed almost casual, "I might as well try and stay calm until I figure out what's going on,"
"Y-you don't know where you are?" The girl said, the point of the crossbow dipping just a bit. As a soft look of curiosity slayed the wavering front of confidence on the girl's face, Felecia was reminded of one of the pictures in her stack of photos; one of a small asian girl peering over a fence and watching on as two rabid dogs engaged in a fight. Watching with not fear, or disgust, but curiosity.
Felecia shook her head, "Nope. I thought the open hatch was a trap, so I didn't check it out,"
"You don't know," The girl whispered, the crossbow falling to her side completely and eyes lighting up brightly, "I'm Jadira Littler! Oh this is perfect! We can work together! You seem strong, have you ever used a sword before? Shot a bow?"
"A sword?" Felecia echoed, hoping that her fear hadn't seeped into the words, is this girl insane, "I can't say I have. I'm guessing you have shot one of those before?"
She gestured to the crossbow, and Jadira shook her head with a giggle, "Not once in my life. Picked it about a few minutes ago. Are you sure you really don't know where you are?"
"I-" Her voice faltered. Yes, she had had her suspicions. She had been sitting cross legged on her plate for almost two hours; theories were bound to pop in and out of her head; and the very plate she had awoken on felt all too familiar, "I don't,"
"The games!" Jadira said, the bubbly edge to her voice vanishing and re-awakening a serious version of the girl, "The Hunger Games,"
"The Hunger Games," Felecia whispered. All of the fear she had accumulated earlier paling in comparison to the terror she felt now; trapped in an arena with twenty-four children, most of which were doomed to die at the hands of another. No warning. No goodbye. Nothing. But now Felecia knew that she had had the right idea locking her emotions away; breaking down in the arena was a terrible no idea. No matter how scary it was. No matter how much she believed she deserved to be here. Staying strong will keep her alive, "Now, I wasn't expecting that,"
Jadria's eyes flickered at Felecia's unnatural calm tone, brows furrowing further as Felecia let out a short laugh, "Really puts things into perspective, doesn't it?"
"How are you so calm about this?" Jadira said, taking a step back. Felecia saw her crossbow wielding arm give a jerk, "Aren't you scared?"
"Depends on what you define as scared," Felecia said with a grin, one that made Jadria's lip tremble. Felecia did pity the girl; she saw herself in the chubby asian girl. The real her, the real girl trapped inside the fake, calm shell. On the inside, Felecia was an emotional wreck, and she was the only one who knew it.
"You should be scared," Jadira said meekly. The crossbow arm didn't move, but her left arm did, slipping through an open pocket of the fanny pack, "We should all be scared,"
The girl advanced, and that was when Felecia let her disguise crumble. Putting pressure on her hands, Felecia kicked her legs forwards and leapt into the air, landing upright on the floor right as Jadira pulled something small and sharp from the open pocket. In a moment of panic, Felecia swung her arm out and slapped Jadria across the face. Hard.
The girl's head snapped to the side, entire body twisting as it rebounded from an attack Felecia did not even think possible of herself. He eyes dropped to the object Jadria was holding, and indeed it was a knife. But Jadria's hand had been wrapped gently around the sharp blade, now clenched with dribbles of blood seeping through her fingers, and in a rush of regret Felecia realised the girl had been offering her a method of defence. A method she had just lost.
Jadria turned back to Felecia with tears in her eyes, but beyond those crystal clear droplets was a blank gaze. Felecia felt as if she were staring through a hollow tree stump; there was no emotion on the other side of that gaze. And then she lunged.
Felecia screamed as the full force of the chubby asian slammed into her chest, bowling her over and sending the teenager sprawling, fall cushioned only by the thin blanket of photographs that lined the floor. With her chest heaving, hands trembling, and shoulder blade throbbing, Felecia stared up into those cold eyes that had held so much hope moments ago. Maybe it had been a front; Felecia had been a fool to believe she was the only one pretending. Those gold eyes bore into her; Felecia felt as if Jadria was peering into her very soul, unblinking, unmoving. And then she raised her knee.
Felecia cried out in pain as the shorter girl stomped down on her hand with tremendous force, crushing her fingers beneath the sole of a combat boot. She scrunched her eyes up in pain, and spat out a childish whimper.
Never let them know you're afraid
Felecia forced her eyes open, teeth clenched so tightly that she felt they were going to crack. Jadira was still staring down in an almost animatronic stare, and Felecia cried out again as Jadria twisted her foot, forcing more and more pressure down onto her poor fingers. There was a crack. Tears were leaking from Felecia's eyes, and a blundering yet swift movement, Jadira was pressing a knee into her chest and holding a knife at her throat.
Felecia's whimpering faltered, the cold metal of the blade having a sobering effect as much as it had a terrifying one. If she had thought a broken finger was painful, how bad would a slit throat be?
Those golden eyes were closer than ever, although somehow they were different. Still unblinking, still unmoving. But there was a flicker of something else in there. Felecia could only hope for humanity.
As the seconds ticked by, the girls remained in that position; Felecia on the ground with a knife pressing into her throat and Jadria holding her down with a single knee. Felecia didn't dare attempt to escape or attack, fearing another outburst would set the girl off again, leaving her to come away with nothing but a slashed neck.
Felecia realised the girl's hand was trembling, the knife wavering lightly. The knee against her ribs pressed harder, and Felecia saw her only opening. With as much emotion as she could muster; forming her words around the utter terror and despair and anxiety and anger she had bottled up for years, she whimpered out a single, desperate word, "Please,"
The flicker she had seen before grew, until a blazing inferno of humanity flared through those golden eyes of Jadria Littler. The knife fell slack against her throat, and then clattered to the floor. The pressure on her chest lifted; Jadira did not stand to her feet, but Felecia was free to move.
"Thankyo-" She had tried to thank the girl. Tried to thank her for sparing her; despite how silly it sounded. But she didn't get a chance; Jadira grabbed a fistfull of Felecia's hair in one hand and clenched her other into a fist, throwing it into Felecia's face in a punch so hard that her nose broke under the force.
Her head snapped back, smashing into the tiled floor; photographs giving no protection. She let out a sound that was an embarrassing combination of a groan and a wail. She lay there with her injured hand holding her nose that was now gushing with thick blood, fresh tears mixing in with the sticky substance. Her other hand remained at her side, fingers clenching around the handle of the knife Jadira had dropped. This was going to be her only shot.
Her eyes flew open, and she sat up. Her head roared with pain, black spots danced in her vision; but she ignored them, slashing her knife in a wide arc that should have tore through the skin of Jadria's throat. It would have if she'd been there. The room was empty; the only sign that the asian girl had ever been there held tightly in Felecia's hand. Once again, it was only Felecia and her photographs.
Ethan Marks - District Eleven
It was difficult to navigate through the dark and deserted streets of District Eleven in the depths of the night; the pouring rain that heavily pelted the road and crackling sound of distant thunder did not make travel any easier.
The young boy was shivering, thin and expensive pyjamas that provided little warmth were now drenched and ruined, shirt hanging off in tatters after being snagged on a stray wire of the garden fence. His voice is barely audible as he calls out for the girl who travels alone in the distance, barely visible through the thick layer of mist that accompanied the storm that had crashed over the district.
Young Ethan Marks was not sure when he had started crying, but his voice was soon racked with sobs as he called out weakly to the girl. She didn't turn back; she showed no sign of hearing him. It was doubtful she even knew he was there. She stopped a short ways away from the end of the street, ducking down the alley that sat between the Peridot Dentist and the abandoned building that had once been Fredrick Macura's fruit shop.
Ethan did not deeter. He continued to stumble after the girl, no longer calling her name but determined to catch up to her. To stop her. His small foot sunk into a pothole obscured by murky rainwater, and with a sudden lurch Ethan dropped to his knees with a gasp of pain.
"Ow," He moaned, body racked with shivers. He rolled back into a sitting position with one knee raised; blue cloth torn to reveal a painful looking graze that dribbled blood. He moaned again and placed a hand over the graze; scrunching his eyes tight for a moment before shakily climbing to his feet and pressing forwards.
Shouting broke through the ear-splitting sound of rain pounding metal roofs as Ethan drew closer to the alley; only drowned out by a distant rumble of thunder.
Her back was to Ethan as he stumbled around the corner into the alley; and she was by no means alone. Two men and a woman dressed in black stood facing her; all wearing varying looks of anger. The larger of the three, a burly man with a snake tattoo running the length of his face, was bellowing loudly at the girl; words that Ethan could not decipher until he was crouched behind a set of metallic trash cans.
"-Too late now! You are putting the entire job in jeopardy. It's too late to back out now," He yelled.
"I have to keep my family safe," The girl screamed; Ethan could only just make out her pale face from where he crouched. It was paler than a sheet of paper, thick strands of brown hair splattered across her forehead, "If anybody finds out that I'm involved. . ."
"You knew the risks you were taking," The woman shouted over a clap of thunder, "And you already know what happens to those who back out,"
"Do it then!" The girl screamed, "I'm not afraid! I'm not scared!"
There was a flash of silver as the tattooed man lunged; he was faster than he looked; the girl had no time to evade the attack. She screamed a desperate scream as the knife plunged into her stomach, dropping to her knees with a gut-wrenching cry as the man wrenched the knife back. Ethan was aware that another person was screaming as the man and his lackeys fled; only realising it was him by the time he was at her side.
"Marcella!" Ethan sobbed, taking her large hand in his small ones, "Marcella!"
"Ethan?" The girl cried; her voice croaking slightly, "Ethan! What are you doing here? You have to go! You have to-"
She stopped and clamped her eyes shut, groaning in pain and squeezing Ethan's hands tightly before whispering, "My bag! The cloth. . ."
Ethan fumbled for the bag that had fallen from Marcella's shoulder when she had, pulling out a dirty first aid kit and rummaging through it until he found a thin blue cloth, "What do I do?"
"Hold it down," Marcella said weakly, the grip on his hands weakening, "Hold it as hard as you can,"
Ethan's hands were as cold as ice as he pressed the cloth against the wound that was gushing blood, hands trembling violently as the blue fabric was stained red, "Hold it,"
"I can't!" Ethan sobbed, "Marcella! I'm trying but I can't!"
"You can," Marcella mumbled, "You can do anything, Ethan,"
Her hand fell slack in his, slipping to the ground as her eyes rolled back into her head.
"Marcella?" Ethan said meekly, prodding her head with a finger, "Marcella! Please wake up! Marcella, you have to wake up!"
He pressed harder against the wound with the cloth; tears falling heavier than the downpour of rain. But he knew it was useless. Somewhere deep down, he knew there was no saving her. Marcella Marks was dead.
****
Ethan winced as he wrapped the tan bandage around the gaping wound in the back of his shin; the immense pain that wracked the limb was nothing compared to the utter shame he felt at this very moment. He had spent hours dragging himself to safety; like a weak child. Manoeuvring through the hatches was the hardest obstacle to overcome, although the room with plants that tried to strangle him was pretty difficult too.
He leant back against the wall and breathed a sigh of relief upon tying off the bandage. He never thought that he would need to put his first aid skills to use on himself; frankly, he could not even imagine himself getting injured. The only scar that tainted his perfect body was a faint scrape; all that remained of a deep graze sustained in the middle of a storm years ago.
Ethan had been the best in his first aid training; which was no surprise, he strived to be better than the rest at everything. He still felt fuzzy at the praise he received from his teacher.
While his wound had been treated and bandaged, he still could not walk on it. Hopefully, he would stumble across a room with either some metal or wooden beams that he could transform into a crutch. As of now, he was sitting in a large room that looked like the interior of a large, abandoned warehouse. Dozens of large, wooden crates were spread out across the floor, creating dusty aisles that were thick with cobwebs.
So far, the crates were impossible to open. He had only tried a few before giving up; his injured leg was sapping all of his energy. There were four exits from the room; one on each wall; so Ethan had found a tight corner surrounded by boxes to hide in. He needed rest; and so far this was his best option.
His pack had come with a pillow, but now quilt, so he lay with only a thick parker for warmth on the cold floor. He must have dozed off for a while, because he was soon jolted awake by the sound of a hatch creaking open.
He jerked up violently, and gasped in pain upon putting pressure on his injured leg. Tears threatened to fall from his eyes from the pain; the painkillers he had taken before must have worn off. He didn't want to risk popping another now; just in case whoever was in the room heard the crinkling of plastic.
"Is this a good enough place to rest?" A voice said. A girl's voice. Ethan peered over the lid of the crate separating his corner from the aisle to see a tall, thin girl with blonde hair that had been streaked with blue impatiently tapping her foot as a short, chubby boy clambered through the nearest hatch.
"No," The boy grunted, his voice was high-pitched and shaky, "No we have to keep moving,"
"Darcy, we can't walk forever," The girl pleaded, placing a hand on the boys shoulder. He jumped at the contact and leapt backwards, and with a jolt Ethan realised that he recognised the boy. He had been all over TV a few years ago. Darcy Retorre, the infamous survivor of the District Nine kidnappings. The only survivor of the District Nine kidnappings.
"We don't have too," Darcy said, "But anybody could be hiding here, couldn't they? I mean, we could just be sleeping, or resting, or just walking and talking, and then somebody leaps out from behind a box and then we're dead,"
"You're overthinking things!" The girl sighed.
"You're welcome to stay here if you want, Quinn!" The boy huffed.
"Alright then, I will," Quinn said, folding her arms with a firm expression. The answer was obviously not the one Darcy had been expecting, because he froze with a petrified expression on his chubby face.
They stood in silence for a moment, one that stretched into a minute, before Darcy spoke again in a much softer voice, "Please don't leave me. Just a few more rooms, I promise. I just really don't feel safe in here,"
Quinn's firm expression crumbled, and with a soft sigh she said, "Alright. But first, we should try and open some of these crates. They could have supplies in them,"
Ethan waited in silence as the pair attempted to open a small number of crates, before realising that they were all sealed and giving up. When at last, one of the hatches on the other side of the room swung shut, Ethan sighed in relief.
His hand snakes through the open zipper of the front pocket of his bag and snags the already crumpled packet of painkillers. Popping out two of the pills, he shoves them into his mouth and swallows them dry; no use wasting water if he isn't thirsty.
He waits for the flaring pain in his leg to dull before moving, using the heavy crate in front of him to haul himself up, ensuring that his injured leg is a few inches away from the floor. A mere two boxes enclose his corner away from the closest aisle; and another two rows over is the closest hatch. An idea sprang to Ethan's mind as he gazed at the tip of the metal hatch that peeked over the large crates; the boxes remained lonesome on this side of the room; whereas they were stacked to the ceiling high above in other places.
Slowly, and carefully, Ethan shimmied over the crate enclosing his corner and collapsed in the aisle on the other side. He landed roughly on his leg, and remained on the floor for a few minutes; gasping for pain and waiting for the black spots to quit dancing in his eyes.
He then used the same box he had fallen from to stand up; and proceeded to awkwardly move across the room in a peculiar mix of a hop and a hobble. As he had discovered upon first entering the warehouse room, the aisle created a single path and a single path only. Meaning that after you proceeded from one aisle to the next; you would have to walk the length of the entire aisle in order to proceed further.
Thankfully, this aisle he was currently in had an opening at the end he was currently situated; and as for the next row, well, he did not intend to walk all the way around in order to reach the hatch. His hand found a niche in the wall right beside the single box that separated Ethan and the hatch.
The crate was tall enough to block over three quarters of the hatch, and it appeared heavy enough so that it could not be opened from the other side. Ethan's plan was to seal himself inside of the room and wait for his leg to heal, but his one issue was that the crates might be a bit more than he could handle.
Holding onto the niche to keep himself steady, Ethan pressed a hip against the side of the crate and pushed. The crate itself did not move; it might as well have been bolted to the floor, but just as the boy was about to give up, the side of the box moved. He was so astonished that he lost his grip on the wall and fell onto his butt; watching with wide eyes as the side of the large crate swung open like a door to reveal a dark and empty space inside.
He sat for a moment, just staring at the open box in wonder. But then, after manoeuvring around so that he was resting on two knees, Ethan crawled forwards lightly and stuck his head inside of the box.
There was little light inside, but there was enough for him to see that there was a long, dark passage inside; one that stretched an unknown distance to his right.
This must be why the boxes wouldn't open, Ethan thought. The boy spent a few minutes moving back to his corner and packing up his little set up, pulled a small flashlight from the depths of his bag, and then crawled back to the open box.
He knew the crawl would be long and painful, even with light touches, his injured leg throbbed violently with pain. Once his entire body was inside the crate, he flicked on the torch and closed the door. He shone the flashlight down the passage, and unfortunately could not see much more than darkness.
Sticking the flashlight between his teeth and securing his bag on his pack, Ethan Marks crawled into the unknown.
Ryland Hackman - District Six
"Time for a break, kid," Osborne said casually as a hand clamped down on Ryland's shoulder. The younger boy scowled at the mere mention of the nickname, not even bothering to turn and find that irritatingly bright smile and energetic eyes; instead opting to shrug off the boy's hand and continue walking.
"Stop speaking to me like I'm a child," Ryland huffed. The elder boy, by only two years to Rylands utmost annoyance, had not left the youngers side since saving him on the bridge. Aside from being the most insufferable person Ryland had ever met, he continually insisted on treating Ryland as if he were a small child, "And I'm not tired,"
"You sound like a child to me," Osborne said with a chuckle. Ryland ignored him and worked on the next hatch with difficulty. To make matters worse, Osborne reached out and helped him pull the door open.
"I can do things for myself, you know!" Ryland growled, attempting to shove the boy aside and instead merely making the boy laugh as Ryland's hands meekly bounced off his muscular chest. Flushed with embarrassment, Ryland turned his back on the boy and clambered through the open hatch.
"People usually say thank you when somebody offers them a service," Osborne teased. Ryland once again opted for ignoring the boy rather than retaliating. Slipping through the opening and landing feet first in what appeared to be an old fashioned classroom. Nothing like the ones of the present day; this class lacked the digital textbooks and holographic board at the front. Instead, twenty-four singular desks sat in a four neat little rows, each supporting an open workbook of a different colour. A dirty blackboard made up a large portion of the front wall, colourful chalk drawings of ponies and rainbows littered the board. A set laminated sheets of paper sat in a line above the blackboard; each displaying a number between one and twenty-four. Everything in the room looked neat and fresh, aside from two of those numbers. The number three was lacking the bright colours that the other pieces of paper had, while the number one was torn through the middle so that only half of the number was visible.
Ryland must have been staring at the room for too long, because he suddenly felt a lurch as heavy shoes slammed into his back and sent him sprawling to the floor. Ryland took out a chair as he fell, pulling the plastic seat down on top of him.
"Wow, you really need to be more careful, kid," Osborne said chirpily from somewhere out of sight. Just as Ryland was pulling himself up, a firm hand grasped his bicep and hauled him up as if he weighed nothing more than the small chair that had fallen on him.
"Stop calling me that!" Ryland shouted, fuming as he whipped around to face the boy, "I have a name!"
"But it's so much more entertaining to call you 'kid'," Osborne laughed. Ryland scowled and turned his back on the boy, eyes landing on some very unstylish green sofas lining the left side of the room.
"Fine. We can rest here," Ryland said. He didn't have any belongings himself; he had not rushed into the centre like some of the others, but Osborne flung his large backpack across the room so that it hit the wall with a bang; knocking a number of children's paintings from the wall before falling limply to the couch. He did not detach the bloody axe from his belt.
"Why are you so careless?" Ryland sighed, stalking across the room in order to clean up the mess Osborne had made. He was desperate to get away from that axe; despite Osborne's reassurance that the blood was only that of a mutt, the weapon still made him uneasy. Shoving the pack aside so that he could pick up some of the papers that had fallen on the couch, Ryland froze at the site of them.
Each were poorly created paintings; incorrect colours and disproportionate figures made the fact that they were drawn by children more than apparent. But what really caught his eye was a drawing of two boys, or what looked like two boys, they also looked like flowers with arms, standing together on a bridge. One was tall and blonde, while the other was much shorter with dark brown hair. It did not take a genius to realise that the drawing was of he and Osborne.
Placing the painting aside, he found a more gruesome drawing underneath. Two figures were drawn high above the ground, one with a large smile plastered on his face while the other had two large x's for eyes. But what was truly disturbing about the painting was the that latter of the two was lying flat in the middle of the page, with a large spiked stick jutting through his chest. Flecks of red paint surrounded the boy who was quite clearly dead.
Ryland dropped the painting with shaky hands. The depiction of he and Osborne had been something that had actually happened; somehow this picture of a boy who had probably died at the hands of a grinning kid wielding a spear made everything feel a lot more real.
He was going to call out for Osborne to take a look when he caught sight of a third painting that had fallen; this one only just sticking out from behind the head of the couch. Ryland felt a pang of both longing and fear as he pulled the drawing out into the open.
The picture was of a family of four; a mother, a father, and two young boys. The drawing surpassed the others in quality by far, and Ryland exactly who had created it. Him. Scrawled across the bottom in sloppy hand writing was - Ryland Hackman, Age 8. At the top, the words My Family was written poorly in black paint.
"How?" He squeaked. It was the only word that came to his mind, how could the game-makers have acquired this drawing? He lost it years ago, "Impossible,"
"Woah, this is insane," Osborne said from the other side of the room. Ryland tore his gaze from the old painting to see the taller boy bent over one of the desks, staring down at a sheet of paper with a milky white expression, "I-I don't understand,"
Not letting go of the drawing, Ryland crossed the room and peered down at the paper Osborne was so shaken by. It looked like a mathematics test, one taken years ago if the yellowed paper indicated anything. At the top of the page, the name Osborne Seatone was scribbled in wonky writing, alongside Age: 7.
"I never was good at math," Osborne said with a nervous chuckle. Ryland ignored the attempt at humour, and proceeded to peer at the pages on each of the desks until he came across one with his own name printed on the top. It was an old spelling test, one branded with a large, red C- on the top. The sheet of paper brought a shameful tear to his eye, and he let out a small sob as he read the incorrect spelling of the word sneaker.
"Hey, kid!" Osborne called, rushing over from his own desk, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine!" Ryland snapped. He wasn't sure why he was crying; but this entire situation was creepy. Something about this arena feels different to the others. Why had these select twenty-four been chosen? Was it by random selection, or did they all share a common desired trait, "It's all just a little-"
He stopped talking a small squeak of a sound caught his attention. Osborne must not have heard it, continuing to peer at Ryland with raised eyebrows, waiting for the boy to continue. When he realised he wasn't going to, Osborne opened his mouth only to be shushed by Ryland.
Holding a finger up towards Rylands mouth, he made a gesture with his hands that meant 'keep it down' and he pointed in the direction of the teachers desk where the sound had come from. Osborne got the message and nodded, and rounded the desk in a silent manner Ryland did not know possible of the taller boy. He shoved his way in front of Ryland and drew his axe, Ryland was once again annoyed with the insinuation that he could not protect himself, but now he was not able to voice his protest.
The floorboards made no sound as Osborne crept closer to the desk, Ryland deciding to wait by his desk. The sound of ragged breaths met Ryland's ears as Osborne passed the front row of tables, how had he not heard it before?
Osborne raised the heavy axe above his shoulder, ready to swing should somebody or something spring out from behind the heavy desk. The weapon looked so natural in his hands, was he really prepared to just kill somebody without hesitation? Why had he saved Ryland if that were the case?
A loud squeal from behind the desk pierced the eerie silence; Osborne took a surprised step backwards a thin, dark skinned girl leapt up from the other side of the desk, brandishing a metal staff and swinging it wildly, the tip of it only just missing Osborne's chest by inches. The girl looked terrified; eyes clenched shut and tears pouring down her face as she swung the weapon helplessly. Ryland's eyes flickered to Osborne, who still held the axe raised. Was he really going to kill this girl?
But then he dropped the weapon; actually dropped it. The axe dropped to the floor, hitting the floor harmlessly as Osborne rushed around the table. He said something to the girl in a low voice that Ryland could not make out, and grabbed her arm and lowered it gently.
"My weapon is on the floor over there," He said, a little louder now so that Ryland could here, "I promise I won't hurt you. We both promise,"
Her caramel eyes flicked up to look at Ryland at the same moment Osborne shot him a pointed look. Ryland slowly nodded with the help of a watery smile, gaze flickering between the two behind the desk.
"My name is Osborne," The blonde said in a loud and slow voice, as if the girl did not speak English, "And this is Ryland,"
The mention of his name sent a tingle down his spine; it was the first time Osborne had used it since they met, "What's your name?"
"Y-Yvette," The girl stuttered, gaze falling down to where her fingers drummed against the handle of her staff, "Yvette Macura,"
"Nice to meet you Yvette," Osborne said cheerily; cautious demeanour vanishing and his usual cool and collected self returning, "You're welcome to stay with us if you want. I've already taken one kid under my wing,"
"I am not a kid!" Ryland huffed once again. Osborne smiled but did not turn away from Yvette, who let out a puff of air akin to a laugh.
"Yes," Yvette said softly, "Yes, I would like that,"
"Great!" Osborne said, taking a seat on the large wooden desk and swinging his legs across it so he was now facing the classroom, "We were just going to take a break, so relax and have a snack,"
He pulled something from his pocket that was sealed in a white package, possibly a muesli bar, and chucked it to Yvette. As the girl thanked him and bit into the muesli bar with an adorable smile, Ryland found himself thinking a disturbing thought. They weren't always going to be this lucky. Sooner or later, they were going to run into somebody who they would have to fight; maybe even kill.
Ryland looked as Osborne as he picked up his discarded axe, flexing his bicep unintentionally beneath his sleeve. He was very muscular, and he must know his way around a weapon if he has already killed with that axe. For the first time since meeting him, Ryland was thankful to have Osborne around.