Aldon Crowell - District Five
"I swear to god, if you climb any further, I am going to kick you off," Malcolm snarled from above as he twisted around to find his pursuer still slowly picking his way up the bedpost ladder.
"No. You won't," Aldon said simply, reaching out and clasping the cool metal of the next rung. They were nearing the top of the mattress now, only a few feet stood between Aldon and safety. One wrong step could send the boy plummeting and his life would be ended with a sickening splat. One misstep from Malcolm would result in two deaths in a matter of seconds.
Predictably, Malcolm did not follow through with his threat, and continued climbing up in a brooding silence. Aldon did not crack a smile at his mild victory; his face remained as blank as ever. The boy had been making similar threats over the course of the day. Upon recovering from whatever breakdown he had been having that dreaded hall of mirrors, the first thing he had done was punched Aldon and stalked away. Aldon had followed, persisting through the numerous threats and promises that he would suffer. He had seen what kind of violence Malcolm Edison was capable of, and if he were going to kill Aldon, he would have done it already.
Malcolm reached the top ahead of Aldon; the latter had been slowed by the weight of the spear hanging from his waist. Malcolm's mace hung dangerously from his bag, where it had been tied to the strap and now dangled directly above Aldon's exposed face. If he was going to fear anything, it would be that mace falling and crushing his face. He wondered how bad that outcome would truly be. Humiliating, yes, but at least he wouldn't be around to deal with it. His father, on the other hand, would have to endure the taunts and reminders from his drinking buddies every other day. If anything were going to break Aldon's face into a grin, it would be the fantasy of his father's life going to hell.
Malcolm soon vanished as he reached the top of the ladder; tipping onto the mattress and disappearing from sight. Aldon longed to join him; his muscles were groaning with each movement and his arms felt as if they were going to snap off. When he too finally reached the end of the ladder, his fall from rough metal to the soft fabric of the mattress was like dipping into a warm bath on the coldest of winter days. But the plug was pulled and the water drained away the moment he opened his eyes and found the spiky bulb of a mace inches from his nose.
"I told you to leave me alone," Malcolm snarled, his expression stormy and intimidating, and fortunately for Aldon, he has a lot of experience with threats. Both spoken and unspoken, "Why are you still following me?"
"Because you want me to," Aldon said, casually propping himself up on his elbows. It was difficult to ignore the fact that the very tips of his shoes were dangling over the edge of the enormous bed, but he couldn't allow himself to worry about that now.
"Want you to?" Malcolm scoffed, "I don't think there's anybody I want dead more than you,"
"I understand that," Aldon said, his voice deep and void of emotion, "But if you were going to kill me, you would have already done so,"
"There's nothing stopping me now," He growled, baring his teeth down at Aldon, who only stared blankly in return.
"Yes there is," Aldon said, "I saved your life,"
"You didn't save my life," Malcolm snapped, "I would have been fine if you hadn't shown up,"
"You don't believe that," Aldon said. He pulled his dangling shoes away from the edge of the bed and rose to a kneel, lightly tapping the mace away and watching as Malcolm allowed it to drop to his side.
"I should kill you," Malcolm said, his voice now lacking that aura of certainty that it had possessed a moment ago, "You're a murderer. I saw what you did,"
"We've all done bad things," Aldon said coldly, eyeing the dried and crusty blood stains on Malcolm's pants. Aldon held no fantasy's that he was innocent or some sort of victim. He did not pretend that what he had done had been an accident. Aldon had murdered an innocent boy, and now he had to live with the guilt forever, "But that doesn't mean we are bad people,"
"I didn't kill him myself," Malcolm said softly as he peered down at the stains on his pants, and then he scowled upon returning his gaze to Malcolm, "But he deserved what he got; and you deserve it too. You're a bad person, Aldon, and you know that better than anyone. Don't try to kid yourself,"
"I wasn't talking about me," Aldon said, "You certainly have a right to be mad. After all I've done to you, I wouldn't blame you for killing me. I have not been kind,"
"You have not been kind?" Malcolm spat, "You made my life a living hell! Do you know how many bruises and scars I have because of you and your friends? Do you know how many nights I went to sleep wishing I wouldn't wake up because of people like you? No, you haven't been kind Aldon. I hate you, I hate you more than anything,"
Aldon did not flinch at the words, yet he desperately wanted too. It was not easy to hear how badly you have affected somebody, and it's even worse knowing that, no matter how sorry you are, you cannot fix the unjustifiable damage you have caused. Aldon's eyes drifted to the small red scar that lingered beneath Malcolm's left ear. He could remember the day the boy received it so clearly; how could he not? It was Aldon who created it.
Aldon smiled as he saw Malcolm Edison push through the large doors of the hospital. He felt Derrick Hydrant smack his arm eagerly with one arm; the other snaking around the outstretched marble arm of the President Eiffel statue the boys had climbed onto. It gave them a perfect view of the square; they could see both Malcolm's reaction to the protest and the faces of angry oppositionists who were there to remind the boy that, whatever he was, it was not natural.
Castiel Orson, the boy who was crouched to Aldon's left, hooted loudly as the protesters raised their signs, his voice blending in perfectly with the sudden uproar of jeering men and women who all shouted incoherent insults at freak exiting the hospital. Aldon could see the colour drain from the little monsters face as he was met with such a large crowd; Malcolm quickly angled his head and drew a black hood over his head while quickening his pace.
Aldon couldn't help but laugh as a heavyset woman stepped into the boys path and screamed 'Abomination' in Malcolm's face, the noise rippling through the crowd as Malcolm stepped around the woman and continued down the path to where his parents car sat on the road. Carrie and Noel Edison looked anything but comfortable as they watched the torment their only child was receiving, yet they did nothing to stop it.
"Aldon!" Castiel snickered, pressing something cold and hard into his hand. Aldon peered down at his friend; face breaking into a grin when he saw the heavy stone in his hand. Wrapping his arm around President Eiffel's sturdy bicep, Aldon stood and balanced himself on the statue's pedestal. He felt powerful, standing so high off the crowd with an army of protesters at his feet. He could see the back of his father's head in the front ranks, fist punching the air as his face grew red with each word he shouted. He was going to make his dad proud.
Pulling back his arm, Aldon screamed a booming, "HEY FREAK!" and threw the stone with all his might. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but the last thing he had anticipated was Malcolm turning to look at him. Aldon felt his grin faltered as his eyes met Malcolm's puffy red ones, and it was as if he were truly seeing into his soul for the first time. A truly broken, tortured soul. And then the stone smashed into the side of his face.
Somehow, even after committing the ultimate act of murder, throwing that rock was still Aldon's biggest regret. He remembered the flurry of flying objects that followed; forcing the boy to break out into a run towards his parents car to avoid serious damage. There was no possible way for Aldon to make it up to Malcolm; but he could certainly try.
"You have every right to hate me," Aldon said slowly, eyes lingering on that red scar, "You wouldn't be the only one,"
"Are you trying to score some pity?" Malcolm sneered.
"No," Aldon said, "But I want you to believe me when I say that I'm sorry. I want you to believe me when I say I want to help you,"
"I don't need your help," Malcolm huffed.
"If you didn't need my help, I wouldn't be here," Aldon said. Malcolm scowled, stormy grey eyes flashing dangerously. Aldon glanced briefly at the deadly mace, for a split second fearing that the weapon would be bludgeoning him in a matter of seconds. But Malcolm merely allowed the mace to continue its useless swinging at his side; the shorter boy turning slightly that Aldon was now staring up at a narrow shoulder.
"Fine," He spat, nose wrinkling only slightly at the boy on his knees and lips parting just enough to flash some crooked and dangerously sharp teeth, "You can help me out. But don't expect me to return the favour,"
"I don't expect it," Aldon murmured as Malcolm turned his back to Aldon and awkwardly began to stumble his way across an ocean of crinkle blanket towards a towering pillar of black and white. The action in itself solidified Aldon's certainty that Malcolm knew he meant the boy no harm. Not any more.
Darcy Retorre - District Six
Three days after Darcy's tenth birthday, he had been robbed. Not of a physical possession, no simple thief could have shattered Darcy's entire world and changed his life forever just by snatching a few coins from his pocket. This person had stolen his youth; taken away his innocence and beaten it to a pulp, breaking it beyond repair. The day Darcy Retorre had been kidnapped was the day his childhood had disappeared forever.
The four months he was locked away in a cold and dingy basement had been the worst of his life; often he feared going to sleep at night for he would return to that prison in his dreams. Being locked in the arena was, surprisingly, an improvement. While still a terrifying situation with only a sliver of hope to cling onto, Darcy found himself presented with a freedom that he hadn't felt in years.
The ability to move was the biggest difference from his basement prison, where he had spent most of his time stuffed into a cage or handcuffed to a pipe. The food was also better, the cold chicken and fresh pears that Quinn had salvaged from Phelan's supplies was heavenly, and tasted a lot better than the dog food he had lived on for months. It was this sense of freedom, deciding which way he could go and what food he could eat, that was keeping him sane.
Which is why, he did not agree with Quinn's idea of keeping their captives tied up, even if they risked being attacked if they were to untie them. He could at least understand the restraints on Wolf, he was wild and unpredictable and could strike at any moment. Phelan was acting tepid, and Darcy doubted that he would do anything other than continue sewing in his corner should they cut the bounds on his ankles. Grant, on the other hand, was a different issue altogether. Darcy knew nothing about him, except for the fact that he had apparently tamed Wolf to act as his guard dog, and snored loudly while sleeping. But surely, he would not dare try anything against three armed tributes if they were to untie him; four, if they also freed Phelan.
But he did not voice these concerns to Quinn or Brody, because he knew they would not understand. They would say that it was for their safety, that they risked their lives if they untied their captives; but Darcy did not want to inflict what he had suffered on another living person. Ever.
"He's been out for a while," Brody commented as he bent his knee and pressed his shoulder up against the wall Darcy was pressed up against; nodding in Grant's direction.
"Yeah," Darcy said, squirming in his position and trying to release the tension in his muscles. He had been sitting in that position for over an hour, with Quinn's head resting in his lap. He wasn't sure how long the girl usually napped for, but he hoped she would wake soon, "Should we check up on him?"
"If you think I did any permanent damage, you're wrong," Phelan said from the other side of the room, not looking up and instead remaining bent over his piece of fabric, "He'll be fine,"
"Since when are you a doctor?" Brody smirked. His jab at Phelan was good natured; the one advantage of Quinn being asleep was that she was no longer making fun of and insulting Phelan at every opportunity. Not that he was any better than she was, if they were intending on keeping Phelan with them for much longer, he was going to go insane.
"Don't need to be," Phelan grunted, speaking around a needle that was placed carefully between his lips, "Only hit him hard enough to knock him out,"
"Shouldn't we check? Just to be sure?" Darcy squeaked. Phelan made him nervous, despite his recent lax nature. Those mentions of his kidnapping stung, and since then he was plagued by flashes of that dark basement and the echoes of sobbing and screams of the girl who had been with him.
"You can if you want," Phelan said, "But he's fine,"
"I'll do it," Brody said, and Darcy caught him shoot a stern look in Phelan's direction. The two had a brief stare-down before Phelan finally sighed and turned away, pulling the needle from his mouth and placing the cloth at his side. Brody broke out into a grin and moved over to inspect Grant, and Darcy shut his eyes with a groan and leant his head up against the wall.
His hands were even more uncomfortable than his legs, he longed to reposition them from where they lay flat on the floor. He had borrowed Brody's thick jumper to cover his exposed forearms so that he wouldn't electrocute the sleeping Quinn. He didn't quite understand what had happened upon pressing that button; it didn't quite make sense, and he was not about to risk testing it out. He wondered if that electricity was still there, coursing through his body and waiting for a chance to strike. Would it be inside of him forever? If he made it out of the arena, would he be left unable to touch anybody forever? Somehow, that cage felt more like a prison than that basement ever had.
"Mind if I sit?" A deep voice said. Darcy opened his eyes to find Phelan towering over him, awkwardly positioned with his ankles bound together. His wrists sat pressed together against his waist, as if his wrists were still tied with rope. Darcy swallowed and nodded, and failed miserably at concealing a smile as the boy comically hopped around until his back was pressed against the wall.
"That was not easy," Phelan grunted as he promptly slid into a sitting position, half-heartedly grinning at Darcy.
"Didn't look it," Darcy mumbled, glancing down at the resting Quinn in his lap. He hoped she would not wake just now, for he was not in the mood for another argument, "You should have just left your hands tied,"
"How can I sew with my hands tied?" Phelan chuckled.
"Why would you want to sew in the first place?" Darcy asked.
"Because it keeps me calm," Phelan said, looking away and staring at a space on the floor a few feet away, "Distracts me from the anger,"
Darcy peeked at the piece of fabric in the boy's lap, and was entirely shocked by what he saw. The cloth depicted what looked like a beach, with setting sun surrounded by a kaleidoscope of colours. It was, in all aspects, beautiful, and was unlike anything Darcy had ever thought would come from sewing.
"Where did you get all those colours?" Darcy blurted out suddenly, flushing red as Phelan shot him a scowl and folded his cloth over, "S-sorry, I didn't mean to look at it, but you've been working on it for hours and I just thought that I-"
"It's fine," Phelan sighed, and flattened the cloth across his knees, stretching it free of any creases, "The thread I have can change into whatever colour I want. It's really cool, actually. I would have loved to have one of these back home,"
"It's weird that they included sewing stuff in the arena," Darcy commented.
"I thought it was put in here so that people could mend their ripped clothes," Phelan said, peering down at his thread, "But it's weird that they would bother creating this one that can change colour at will. I don't know, I guess I'm just lucky,"
"Yeah," Darcy frowned. His eyes flickered between the beach depiction and Phelan's face, "But it does seem like a bit of a coincidence that you're the one that ended up with it. After all, it's not like many kids our age actually know how to sew,"
"I guess it is a bit weird," Phelan admitted, "But I'm just grateful I found it,"
Darcy nodded, and leant back against the wall again. Quinn groaned and squirmed in his lap, and for a moment he feared she was brush up against his exposed stomach as his shirt pulled back a little to expose his bare stomach while rolling over. Thankfully, she settled without touching him, and he released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. Phelan, who had been watching him from the corner of his eye, sighed and placed his cloth off to the side before twisting around so that his chest was facing Darcy.
He sucked in a deep breath and said, "Look, I want to apologize for what I said earlier. About your kidnapping. It was really out of line and I shouldn't have said anything, and well, I understand if you hate me. I would too, and I don't want to make excuses, but when I get angry, I really lose control and. . . I'm just sorry,"
"It's okay, really," Darcy said, forcing a watery smile, "I've been through worse, trust me. And you weren't the only one in the wrong. Quinn shouldn't have said what she said either,"
Phelan suddenly barked a laugh, "Look at us, apologizing for a few words in an arena where we should be fighting to the death,"
"It's not like any of us knew we were going to be thrown in here," Darcy said, "I don't think it's quite hit many of us yet,"
"I guess not," Phelan sighed, letting his head fall against his shoulder as a yawn tore across his face. The two sat in silence for a while. Darcy's gaze drifted over to Brody, who was sitting a few inches away from the sleeping Grant. The boy shot Darcy a grin and gave a double thumbs up, before he dropped his eyes back to the resting boy.
"There was never any touching, you know," Darcy said softly to Phelan, low enough so that Brody couldn't hear, "You mentioned something about an old man touching me before. Nothing like that ever happened, I never even saw my captor,"
"Really?" Phelan said, blowing a raspberry and raising his eyebrows, "Who the hell started that rumour then? What about the other stuff? The dog food and the cage?"
Darcy only nodded in response, suddenly taking deep breaths in a dodgy attempt at avoiding some form of flashback. Phelan must have noticed the shift, for he hastily asked another question, "Did you really never know who it was?"
"The one who took me?" Darcy shook his head, "No. The night it happened. . .they came at me from behind. When I woke up, I was in a basement. The people who came to feed me always wore masks, but sometimes I heard their voices. Sometimes it was a man, and sometimes a woman. But you know the weirdest thing? It was as if they hated doing what they did. I remember a few times when the man would whisper the word sorry to me, and other times the woman just cried,"
"But wait, I thought they caught the guy who took you?" Phelan frowned.
Darcy shook his head again, "It was only a cover, to keep people from panicking. Cornelius Wake wasn't a real person,"
"Cornelius Wake?" Phelan's eyes were wide now, "But. . . wasn't it Orson Smith?"
"Who?"
Phelan's eyes drifted off to the side, as if he were looking right at somebody who Darcy couldn't see. When he spoke next, his breath was shaky, "When I was nine years old, my parents were killed on their way home from a dinner. They had been with my grandma at the time, while I was at home with my grandpa. I don't actually know what happened on their way back, grandma never spoke much after that, but the one thing she did say was that she knew the man who had done it. Orson Smith. She wouldn't stop saying it, over and over. I was shunted off to a foster family, but I was still able to keep in contact with them. My grandpa became obsessed with this Orson Smith, and after a while, so did I. A few months before he died, he received word from one of his contacts that Orson Smith had been spotted smuggling something out of District Six,"
"And that something was?"
"You,' Phelan said, "Or at least my grandpa thought so, and he was quite sure of it too. And I believe him, because he also told me why Orson took you,"
"What?" Darcy said, his blood suddenly running cold. All at once, his body began to tingle and his head felt light, as if this could not possibly be real. It was too good to be real, was he finally going to get an answer to the question that had haunted him for so long, "Why did he kidnap me?"
Phelan opened his mouth to answer, but whatever answer he gave was drowned out by the explosion.
Tracey Smith - District Six
Tracey had not anticipated how difficult it would be to make it so long without turning to a substance that could numb her brain and free of her of doubt and worry. She longed for the taste of alcohol, for that burning taste that would wash away her pain. She had never thought of herself as an addict, she merely thought she was doing something to pass the time, such as reading a book or watching TV. But now that she lacked access, she felt as if she would do anything for a drink. Anything.
It was difficult to determine whether or not Ivy McKinnon was a help or a hindrance. On one hand, she provided a needed distraction that was able to capture Tracey's attention and snag her away from the fantasies of drinking herself stupid. On the other hand, Ivy was incredibly irritating. She was so upbeat and happy that it made Tracey feel sick, and it made her feel worse about herself. Why couldn't she put a good spin on anything like that? She'd give anything to be as happy as Ivy. Anything.
"These white rooms are exceptionally calming, don't you think?" Ivy said pleasantly as the two girls crossed the floor of another empty room, "It's truly relaxing. Given the chance, I would like to try meditating in a place like this,"
"Yeah, it's a riot," Tracey said absentmindedly. She was not really paying attention, Ivy often went off on long rants that Tracey could not be bothered keeping up with. Tracey found herself staring at Ivy's handbag as the girl spoke further, and pondered why she would choose such an item over a regular backpack. The sapphire ring on her slender finger really gave off a diva vibe when partnered with the bag.
"Tracey?" Ivy said loudly, nudging the shorter girl's arm. Tracey jumped and only narrowly prevented herself from slamming right into the wall beside the hatch. Ivy let out an elegant laugh, "You should really watch where you are walking,"
"You'd think so, wouldn't you," Tracey sighed as Ivy turned the wheel of the hatch and pulled it open, "What were you saying?"
"I asked whether you have considered mediation as a method of escape before?" Ivy said, stepping away from the hatch yet still ensuring she stood between Tracey and the opening, "Surely you have tried more than alcohol?"
"Of course I have," Tracey scoffed, "I've tried drugs as well, but I figured those would get me into more trouble than drinking would,"
"That's not very healthy," Ivy frowned, "I strongly recommend meditation. Really, it will help,"
"Yeah?" Tracey sighed, deciding that at this point, she had no better option, "I'll give it a go. Maybe it will keep me occupied for a few days until I die,"
"Yes, live large while you can," Ivy smiled, and clambered through the open hatch. Tracey couldn't help laugh at the insinuation that meditating was Ivy's idea of 'living large'. Really, Ivy was an interesting girl.
The following room was as empty as the rest, and Tracey couldn't decide whether that was a good or a bad thing. While the only unique room she had come across was the jail cell and peculiarly placed bed; Ivy had described a number of out of place rooms that Tracey was hoping they would stumble across. She was particularly interested in a room that was designed after an ice cream parlour. Tracey may be some dark and brooding girl who is a total rebel and lives a dangerous life, but ice cream has always held a special place in her heart.
Ivy began humming a familiar tune as she crossed the floor, a slightly botched version of Pop Goes the Weasel. She had been doing it all day, and when Tracey had inquired, Ivy had simply mentioned that it had been stuck in her head all day. The tune sounded wrong as it bounced effortlessly on the walls around them; such an innocent and childish song didn't belong in a place of such horror and death.
Then, the tune caught in her throat. Ivy's long red hair whipped Tracey in the mouth as she suddenly turned; Tracey spluttered as strands found themselves caught in her mouth.
"Can you not do that!" Tracey snarled as she spat the hair from her mouth. In response, she was given an almost animatronic growl. And it did not come from Ivy.
Now it was Tracey's turn to whip around, stifling a scream in her throat when she what had apparently appeared from thin air. The dog wasn't all that large, it was roughly the size of a greyhound. But where a greyhound baring its fangs may be intimidating, this dog was outright terrifying. It looked like robotic experiment gone wrong, patches of fur had been torn off in a number of places to reveal a thick sheet of metal underneath. A thick, translucent substance dribbled from the dog's open mouth; a set of metallic teeth peeking out of a mouth that had no lips. The dogs face had no fur at all, and the scariest part of all was the creature's eyes. The eyeballs were just as artificial as the rest of the animal, but looked as if they had been designed after a human's. Big, fat marble like objects sat in shallow eye sockets, blood red pupils passing over Tracey as the almost fully visible balls shifted from side to side, emitting whirring sounds as it did so.
"What the fuck is that thing?" Tracey said, her voice barely audible not because she was trying to whisper, but because she was too terrified to raise it any higher.
"It might be okay," Ivy whispered back, "It is not moving. Maybe it will not attack,"
Ivy's stiff shoulders and trembling hands betrayed her attempt at positivity, and at that moment, the robot barked a sound that was scrambled and far from what it should have sounded like. Instead, it sounded like an enormous fork being dragged across and even larger plate. And then the dog opened it's mouth wider, and Tracey screamed and dove for cover as a ball of red light began to form deep within it's throat. Unfortunately, there was no cover to be found. Instead, Tracey found herself pressed up against the left wall while the dog remained facing Ivy, who was still standing in the centre of the room.
"Ivy!" Tracey screamed, but her warning was too little too late. A bright red beam shot from the dog's mouth, burning so hot that Tracey could feel the heat crashing over her from where she sat. Time seemed to slow as the laser shot across the room in the direction of Ivy's frozen face, but to Tracey's astonishment, the beam never hit her. As the red light exploded from the dog's mouth, and even brighter blue light began to shine from Ivy's body, and suddenly the girl was encased in a transparent blue bubble that deflected the laser upon impact. The beam suddenly shot to the left, and Tracey screamed again as the hatch a few feet away exploded in a shower of red light and burning metal.
While the world had appeared to slow as that laser had shot towards Ivy, it now seemed to stop completely in the aftermath of the explosion. Tracey sat with her back pressed tightly against the wall, arms spread out on either side as if bracing for impact; chest heaving and heart thundering. Ivy stood petrified in the middle of the room, staring right into those bright red eyes of the robotic dog, which started back in a terrifying silence. And then the whirring sound came again.
"Ivy!" Tracey shouted; this time she stood and barreled across the room, snagging her companion's wrist and dragging her towards the fresh gaping hole in the wall as the dog fired another laser through the space where the redhead had previously been standing. Tracey was unsure where that blue protection bubble had come from, but they could not count on it saving them again.
Tracey was mildly shocked to find four wide-eyed faces staring back at her as she reached the hole, but there was no time to stop for chit-chat. While ensuring that neither of them would touch the burning hot frame of the hole, Tracey roughly shoved Ivy through and quickly followed, shouting a desperate, "Get down!"
The three nearest to Tracey dropped to the floor at the order; Ivy and Tracey doing the same as another red hot laser shot through the hole. The beam hit a pedestal in the centre of the room that supported a large red button, slicing the marble in half as if it were nothing and knocking the remains over. With hair hanging over her face and eyes looking wilder than ever, Tracey only had a second to take in the vast number of people in the room she had entered. Excluding Ivy and herself, six people already occupied the room. Three lay pressed against the floor nearby, staring at Tracey in horror. She could recognize two of them, Darcy Retorre, one of the most famous children in recent years, and Phelan Krouse, one of the pictures in her platform room had his name scrawled across the back.
On the left side of the room, a savage boy was restrained by a rope that had been wrapped around his neck, keeping him connected to the wheel behind him. Brody Lewis stood over a sleeping Grant Gino on the right side of the room; Tracey recognized both through the same method she knew Phelan through. She also noted that both Grant and Phelan were bound, and the unknown girl had a dark, purple bruise painting the skin of her throat.
Tracey took in all of this in the span of three seconds. And then all hell broke loose.
Darcy Retorre screamed and stood from his place on the floor as the robotic dog leapt through the gaping hole in the wall, opening it's mouth to reveal another growing ball of red light. At that same moment, Grant Gino, whom Tracey had thought was sleeping, suddenly jumped to his feet and promptly threw his elbow into Brody's face. Darcy only had a second to move as the laser blasted the floor where he had just been standing, charring the white tile black. Brody cried out in pain and stumbled backwards as blood trickled down his face, while Grant stood and charged across the room in a hunched run towards the restrained savage boy.
"Quinn, get out of the way!" Darcy cried to the unknown girl, who had stood directly in Grant's path. The running boy clamped his bound fists together and swung them into the girls head, smashing her in the side of the face and sending her stumbling. The dog made another screeching sound that made the savage boy howl, and fired another laser that Tracey only had a second to evade.
As Grant drew closer to the dog, he scooped up a long metal pole that lay amongst the remnants of a charred backpack and swung it at the dog's head. There was a loud crunch as the dogs head twisted to the side, yet it still remained functional and ignored Grant in favour of leaping towards Phelan Krouse, who had only just managed to stand despite his bound ankles.
"Darcy!" He cried, "Untie me!"
"I can't!" Darcy screamed, "I'll shock you!"
"Quinn?" Phelan pleaded, his voice desperate. Tracey, Ivy, and Brody were all too far away to do anything, and only watched as the girl who had only just been smashed in the forehead sat by from where she had fallen and watched Phelan with an icy glare, "Please!"
"Quinn!" Darcy cried. Quinn remained motionless, staring down at the pleading boy with no trace of mercy. The corners of her lips twitched slightly, as if ready to shoot upwards into a smug grin or fall into an unimpressed frown at any given moment.
"You can't do this!" Phelan screamed as the dog opened it's mouth, "I'm sorry I said anything! I didn't mean any of it! You have to untie me, please! You can't just do this! You can't-"
There was no orb of blue light to save Phelan Krouse. Ther laser tore through his chest as if it were no stronger than paper, leaving a gaping hole of charred insides in it's wake. Phelan stumbled backwards a few steps, as if he had only been lightly pushed. And then his knees buckled; both Darcy and Brody screamed as the boy hit the floor limply with his arms spread wide and his chest smoking. Tracey fought the urge to vomit and turned away as Darcy ran to the boys side; the girl only just caught side of Grant and the savage boy escaping through the gaping hole the dog had emerged through.
"Darcy!" Quinn cried, stumbling over to the boys side, "We have to leave!"
"Get off me!" Darcy screamed, shrugging off the hand she had placed on her shoulder as he turned to face her, "You let him die! You just stood there and let him die!"
"He tried to kill me!" Quinn cried.
"Guys!" Brody shouted, cupping his bleeding nose as he ran towards them, "In case you haven't noticed, we could all die at any second! Can you not argue later!"
"That sounds like a good idea!" Tracey snarled, watching the dog from the corner of her eye. The creature was standing stock still, as if it were enjoying the chaos that had emerged from the steaming hole that had been burned into Phelan's chest, "Do any of you have any weapons?"
"Well, I do have a bow," Ivy said thoughtfully. She had been laying on the floor until now, as she stood and removed the bow that had been attached to her back, "But I've never used it before,"
"It's worth a shot," Brody said, "Quinn, get Darcy out of here. We'll follow,"
Quinn reached out to touch Darcy, but he angrily shrugged off her shoulder and dashed past the dog towards the opening. Quinn's breath caught in her mouth, but she charged after him as Ivy struggled to notch an arrow.
Brody tried to stumble after them, but as he drew close to the hole, the dog leapt in his path and snapped at his flesh with its razor sharp teeth.
"Ivy!" Tracey screamed as Brody stumbled backwards; the red-head weakly pulled back the bowstring and fired the arrow. Unfortunately, Ivy's first shot was doomed to be a failure. The arrow twisted before it had even been released, the shaft smacked against Ivy's bare arm; the girl yelped and dropped the bow as the dog leapt at Brody.
Brody screamed in agony as the robot sunk it's teeth into his bicep, knocking him to the floor and tearing into his flesh. He trashed and screamed, but the dog had the boy's arm in an iron grip. Blood was splashing from beneath those metal teeth and into Brody's lap, his screams were so agonizing that Tracey could not just stand by and watched. In an act of desperation, she lunged forwards to where the marble pedestal with the button had fallen. It was a lot lighter than expected, and as she stumbled towards the dog and Brody, gave no resistance as she raised it over her head.
She let out a scream as she swung the pedestal with all her might, eyes lighting up as the marble smashed into the side of the dogs already twisted head. The swing created a huge dent in the side of it's face, and the left side of the robots head was torn from it's body. Multi-coloured wires flopped out from inside, sparking and crackling wildly as the dog's jaw released Brody's arm and fell to the side, the red light in it's human-like eyes dying as it did so.
"Thanks," Brody said weakly, before his own head hit the ground and he too went limp.
"Ivy!" Tracey cried, beckoning the taller girl over. The redhead was crouched beside Brody in an instant, pressing two fingers to his neck and performing a number of movements that Tracey did not understand, before she pulled back.
"He's alive, but we need to be quick," Ivy said, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a bright white first aid kit. She also scooped up a needle and thread that lay discarded on the floor just by Brody's limp body; Tracey would have wondered how it got there if she was not so worried about that gaping hole of torn flesh in Brody's arm, "You have to hold him down. If he wakes up. . ."
"Yeah, I get it," Tracey said, pressing her arms down against the boy's shoulders, "It's going to hurt,"
Jadira Littler - District Nine
The constant gravity shifting was making her queasy. At first, it had not been an issue. In fact, Jadira had quite liked the sensation of being lifted on the ground and floating through the air as if she weighed nothing at all.
But, as she found herself drifting away from her dinner for the third time that meal, there was no longer any joy in her system. Instead, she only felt the urge to vomit. She had positioned herself inside of the cornucopia so she would not float too high off the ground, but soon found herself regretting that decision as her head collided with the metal ceiling in a rather painful manner. Pressing her hands up against the flattest section she could find, Jadira shoved herself backwards and glided with a sickening lurch towards the floor; where she latched onto one of the numerous metal crates that had been nailed down.
She wondered how long she would have to remain there, clutching the corners of the box, swatting at stray baked beans that would hit her face with a splat. The duration of the gravity shifts varied in a seemingly unpredictable pattern. The longest she had experienced lasted close to forty minutes, while the shortest was a mere two seconds where she only felt the sensation that proceed lift off from the floor.
Jadira had quickly grown bored of the floating glory after that forty minute period; zipping around and doing somersaults mid-air lost it's novelty rather quickly, and there was not much else to do while floating aimlessly about. Thankfully, this shift was a short one. The gravity returned after only three minutes, and she fell roughly to her hands and knees with a stab of pain and a grunt. Her quiver of crossbow bolts spilled over her head as she hit the floor; arrows pouring over her head and clattering to the floor in a waterfall of silver.
Grunting with effort, she began collecting each of the bolts, until a familiar sound caused her to freeze up. The booming sound of the canon had almost been forgotten by Jadira Littler; the previous two had sounded amidst such chaos the day before, but this one was as clear as day, shattering the silence and leaving an ominous echo in it's wake. A third person had fallen, and while only a mere few had passed since the beginning, the number of tributes was already considerably slimmer. It would not be long before Jadira would have no choice but to commit an act of murder. It would not be long before Panem would know what a monster she truly was.
Resuming her pack up of the spilled puddle of crossbow bolts, Jadira made the decision to leave the centre room. Save for the constant and annoying gravity shifts that were making her feel ill, it was the most likely area for tributes to stumble into. She'd rather postpone spilling somebody's else's blood for a while longer.
Upon packing everything she could possibly need, food, sleeping gear, extra clothes, painkillers, soothing creams, extra arrows, a dagger, water, and more, Jadira set off in the direction of a random hatch with a bag so heavy that she might as well have been carrying around rocks on her back.
Surprisingly, this did not become as big a hindrance as she thought it would be. Many of the rooms she passed through were blank; while others were places that felt so wrong in the cubic arena, such as the misty cemetery or the clearing complete with a towering oak tree. By far, the most peculiar was a room that suspended her high above the clouds. The floor beneath her was transparent, giving her an extensive view of fields of green and yellow far below.
But for the most part, her journey was not interrupted by traps or mutts or fellow tributes. She was growing wearier with each passing room; her eyes drooped and her back ached with the enormous weight on her back. With each passing room, she continued to tell herself, just one more. She was not sure what he was looking for; maybe a room of comfort that would help her relax, or maybe a room that reminded her of home.
Eventually, she stumbled across a room that was more curious than the rest. Each and every surface was made up of enormous speakers; her only solace from the darkness was the silver hatches. Surprisingly, she found herself wondering how she could see in this room at all. In other rooms, she had assumed that the light came from the glowing white surfaces. But in this room, there was no surface emitting light, yet she could see as clear as day.
She was tempted to hunt for some source of light, when suddenly, Jadira was immersed in a sound so loud that it brought the girl to her knees. It paused only for a second, allowing Jadira to become aware of the intense ringing in her ears, before it returned. It was music, she knew that much, but it was so loud that she could not make out what the song or the genre. It came from every which direction, blasting so loudly that she could hardly form a coherent thought. With hands clamping over her ears, Jadira's screams sounded as if they were miles and miles away.
The explosion of music did not deter in volume; Jadira could not tell if her shaking body was due to the severe speaker vibrations or a mixture of her own fear and pain. She forced her eyes open and let out a gasp, inhaling a breath she had not known she had been holding. It was much like being underwater and drowning; the music was so loud that it dulled all her senses. A sticky substance dribbled down the side of her face as she fell forwards onto her palms; red dripping into crimson splotches on the black speakers as she began to crawl across the floor to the nearest hatch.
Her fingers felt slippery as she fumbled for the wheel of the hatch, flimsy wrists straining as they pulled on the metal. Wet tears carved trails through the hot blood dribbling down from her ears, she hardly noticed she was sobbing until she had fallen through the hatch and hit the floor on the other side.
Her ears were ringing almost as loud as the music had blasted, she could not hear herself sobbing nor could she hear her own screams of pain. Her ears felt as if they were being stabbed by hundreds of needles, and she only realized she was not alone in the room when a pair of shoes set foot in front of her.
With trembling knees, she stood to her feet and raised her arm that had the crossbow attached. There was already a bolt loaded; aimed directly in the face of a pretty blonde girl and her childish companion.
The little girl looked as if she were crying, while the older girl was mouthing something Jadira could neither hear nor understand. They were both standing with their backs pressed against the bars of a cell with their hands raised in a defensive manner against their chests. Beside Jadira was a big, luxurious looking bed, and right in the centre was a silver key.
"Don't try anything stupid," Jadira said in what she thought had been a soft tone, but must have been a shout if the girls wincing was anything to go by, "I don't want to hurt you,"
That was true, she did not want to hurt these girls. But not for their sake, for her own. Her head was buzzing with pain and her ears were ringing so loudly that she wanted to tear them off; she was not able to keep up that bubbly personality that keeps the real Jadira locked away. Was she ready to become that monster she knew she was?
The younger girl was now sobbing harder, while the other girl looked as if she were getting angry, "Just back yourselfs into the cell and let me think,"
The girl shouted something, and took a step forwards. Something flashed in her hand, a glittering knife. The younger girl tugged on the elders sleeve, and despite her tears and sobs, the corner of her lips were twitching upwards.
"Don't take another step!" Jadira yelled. The girl yelled something back, inaudible over the ringing in her ears. And then she took a step forwards.
Jadira fired the crossbow. The bolt shot through the air and tore into the girl's shoulder. She screamed, and stumbled backwards; losing her footing and crashing into the metal bars behind her. The little girl appeared shocked; as if she had been sure Jadira wouldn't shoot.
"Get in the cell, now!" Jadira ordered, leveling the crossbow with the younger girl's face, "Or the next shot will be deadly,"
Jadira's head was throbbing, she longed to just plonk herself down in the bed and fall asleep. She was angry. Angry at the girls for not obeying her command. Angry at that stupid music room. Angry at the gamemakers for dropping her in here. Angry at her parents for bringing her into the world. The girls were taking their time, clutching each other and crying and hobbling at a snail's pace towards the cell door. Jadira longed to scream and just let loose the crossbow bolt.
"Hurry up!" Jadira snarled angrily. When the girls eventually fell inside of the cell, Jadira picked up the key, lunged forwards and slammed the door shut, thrusting the key into the lock and sealing the girls inside. Both of them were shouting as Jadira turned her back on them and stumbled towards the bed. But their pleas of freedom fell on deaf ears as Jadira collapsed in the fluffy confides of the bed and closed her eyes.
Aldon Crowell - District Five
The projected faces of the fallen came shortly after Malcolm had fallen asleep. The room was dark, so dark that Aldon could only just see his hand in front of his face.
He had considered starting a fire, only to have Malcolm shoot him down by saying that the flames would just spread to the sheets and set the entire bed on fire. The two seldom spoke, in fact, the only indication Aldon had that Malcolm had fallen asleep was the subtle shift from short and quick breaths to prolonged and deeper inhales.
The bright depiction of Phelan Krouse shining on the ceiling of the room cast beams of blue and green light in all directions, one landing directly on Malcolm's sleeping form. The boy groaned at the sudden brightness and rolled over, wrapping his body amongst the ocean of quilt that surrounded him.
Aldon tilted his head upwards and stared at the now deceased face of Phelan Krouse; ocean blue eyes shining brightly as opposed to the twisted frown he wore below. His sandy hair was ruffled in a way that looked as if he had left it the way it had been when he had woken up, and light brown freckles dusted his nose.
He's dead, Aldon thought. Gone forever. Snatched from this world at an age so young. Just like Varick Lamarre, whose blood was literally on Aldon's hands. Aldon's nimble fingers wrapped around the stem of a flower that had long since died; a souvenir he had taken from a beautiful grassy hill that had been peppered with hundreds of colourful flowers. The plant had died almost instantly after it left the room. He had wanted to keep it, to nurture the plant to make up for the life he had taken. Instead, the flower withered up and died in his hands.
As Phelan's face faded; disappearing from the world forever, there came a sound so soft that it could have been mistaken for a trick of the imagination. Aldon would have passed the faint cough off as such, had he not known of the presence of the intruder for hours.
He had been waiting for Malcolm to drift off before confronting the hidden person; as much as he wanted to protect and assist the person he had wronged, he did not wish to kill somebody who did not pose a threat. He did not know if Malcolm would force him to do so.
The cough came again; a little louder this time. The mountainous bed pillows loomed over the two boys a little too close for comfort; if they fell, the two boys would be crushed beneath the feathery weight. If he were to guess, that was where the person was hiding.
"I know you're there," Aldon said in a low voice; loud enough for the person to hear yet not jolt Malcolm from his sleep, "I suggest you reveal yourself now,"
Aldon could not see the figure that emerged from somewhere close to the lump, but he could hear the soft scuffling on their shoes catching and dragging on the rolling quilt. Aldon's fingers gripped the handle of his spear; there was no telling if this person was dangerous or not.
"Drop your weapon," Aldon ordered as the person stopped somewhere nearby.
"I don't have one," A female voice replied in a breathy voice, "Please don't hurt me,"
"As long as you don't try anything," Aldon said, ensuring his tone shows no outward emotion. The biggest impact the arena has had on Aldon Crowell is the crushing realization that his entire personality has been molded by his father; twisted and transformed into a smaller version of the man himself. Aldon never did like his father, but having his dad tell his child that he was proud had been a dream of Aldon's. Not anymore.
"I'll leave in the morning, I promise," The girl pleaded, "It's too dark to leave now,"
"I hope you keep that promise," Aldon growled, "I can ensure you that I am a light sleeper; any funny business, and I will not hesitate to skewer you,"
The threat was empty, but the whimper given by the obscured girl showed that she bought it. With a silent thank you, she slipped back in silence towards her hiding place while Aldon repositioned himself so that he was laying right beside Malcolm.
The guilt he felt was overwhelming. The guilt he felt over making Malcolm's life a living hell. The guilt he felt over the racially and sexually diverse children at school. The guilt he felt over murdering Varick Lamarre. He could not make it up to those children at school, nor could he revive Varick Lamarre. But he could make it up to Malcolm, and while that would never be enough to redeem Aldon, it was a step in the right direction.
Osborne Seatone - District Four
The scratching of pencil on paper is the only thing keeping Osborne distracted from the discovery he had uncovered that morning. Rylands artistic skills were magnificent; the elder boy was blown away by how realistic and detailed his creations were. Ryland was currently positioned atop the teacher's desk with his legs folded over one another; jaw set firmly as he scribbled across a fresh page.
Yvette was knelt in the centre of a ring of tables; she and Osborne had cleared a space in the centre of the room so they would have room to create a fire. It had been Ryland's idea, to burn the files that contained secrets that could ruin lives. Secrets that could ruin Osborne's life.
He had wanted to read some of the other folders, to gain some insight on the competition, but both Ryland and Yvette had protested that it was an invasion of privacy. Together, they had concluded the best option was to burn the files.
Osborne was happy to watch his own secrets turn to ashes; he would do anything to protect that story from getting out. Osborne's eyes drifted to Yvette's hunched form; the girl was feverishly rubbing two sticks together in an attempt to spark a flame. Osborne had offered to help, but she had snapped and said she could do it herself. What interested Osborne about Yvette was that she had had almost as bad a reaction to the folders as he had. Sure, it could have been that she was terrified that somebody had been watching her every move. But then why had she been so eager to go along with Ryland's suggestion of burning them?
From his spot on the desk, Ryland gave a sudden cry and dropped his pad. The pencil hit the desktop and rolled onto the floor, vanishing beneath the neighbouring filing cabinet. The boy himself slid from the desk, backing up and narrowly avoiding bumping into Osborne's chest.
"What's wrong?" Osborne asked worriedly. He feared the gamemakers were growing bored with their lack of action; he was sure they would sometime soon send some mutts after the trio. But there was no mutated or horrifying creature perched on the desk, only an open pad with a rough sketch of a girl.
"Nothing," Ryland breathed. Osborne frowned as he peered at the pale boy; Ryland had a palm splayed out across his heaving chest and his small hands were trembling. Osborne's eyes drifted back to the girl. It was a really beautiful drawing; depicting a young girl who stood before a tsunami of her own hair. Her eyes were a dazzling blue, the only colour Ryland had added to the picture.
With little warning, Ryland lunged forwards and snatched the book from the table, slamming it shut and turning his back to Osborne. A frown wormed its way onto the elder boys face. The realization that he knew nothing of his two companions in the room hit him like a truck. They had shared happy memories and hysterical moments in the dark the night before: at the age of seven, Ryland won a prize for his artwork that was said to surpass the abilities of those years older than him. Yvette had recalled an embarrassing memory in which she passed gas while singing at a school assembly, a sound that had been amplified by the microphone before her.
But these short memories told nothing of their true personalities. Would they still tolerate Osborne if they knew what he had done? Would he still tolerate Yvette for whatever act had shaken her so?
"Kid, are you sure you're okay?" Osborne asked, stepping forwards and placing a comforting hand on Rylands shoulder. The younger shot him an irritated look, but appeared hesitant before shrugging off his hand.
"I'm fine," He breathed, turning around to face Osborne while concealing the drawing pad behind his back, "I just cut myself. That's all,"
Osborne frowned as Ryland gave a watery smile and turned away once more. Apparently, Ryland was hiding secrets of his own. The room lapsed into silence again as Yvette paused her attempts at sparking a flame, rolling back onto her haunches and glaring down at the kindling with a look of frustration. The wood had come from a neighbouring room; Osborne had ventured out in search of water and found a pine forest instead. Bunched up between the twigs and grass were the primary school tests that had been scattered across the tables. He was not going to miss the memory of his old maths tests.
"You'll get there," Osborne said reassuringly to Yvette, who shot him a thankful smile in return. Yvette was an oddity that Osborne did not quite understand. She often switched between a dominant and in control personality and a more submissive and unsure attitude. Osborne preferred the former, yet the latter gave him the desire to protect and preserve the girl.
"Hey, come and look at this," Ryland suddenly called from the other side of the teachers desk. Yvette shook her head and returned to her kindling, leaving Osborne to peer at Rylands discovery alone. The boy stood with the back of his thighs pressed against the teacher's desk, chin tilted upwards as he stared at the row of laminated numbers above the board.
"Wow, you can count? Good for you, kid," Osborne said with a comical grin. Ryland scowled in response and flung his arm out across Osborne's stomach, knocking the wind out of the older boy, who gasped, "Fair play," in response.
"I meant, look at number fifteen," Osborne followed Ryland's outstretched finger to the particular number, the fifteens colour was paled and faded in comparison to the posters surrounding it. The paint was chipped, and a layer of dirt had wormed its way beneath the laminated plastic.
"So, some kid doesn't have your artistic talent. What's your point?"
"It wasn't like that before," Ryland comments, "It looked fine a few hours ago. But now it looks like those ones,"
Now pointing further down the line, Osborne saw that the numbers one and three were in an even worse shape than fifteen was. A theory was already worming its way into Osborne's mind as Ryland spoke, "What do you think it means?"
"Well, take a closer look, kid," Osborne said, sitting down on the teacher's desk and extending his arms wide, "How many numbers are there?"
"Twenty-Four," Ryland answered sourly.
"Exactly. And how many tributes have died so far?"
"Three," Ryland said, his voice now heavy and grave, "Oh,"
The two boys were silent as their minds reeled with this discovery; Ryland's small hands began to tremble again as colour drained from his face. With a sigh escaping his lips, Osborne wrapped an arm around the younger boy's shoulder, and this time, the younger did not push it away.
They sat there like that for a while, Ryland heaved himself onto the desk beside Osborne and wrapped his own arms across his small waist. Osborne rubbed reassuring circles into the younger's back as he listened to Yvette's frantic rubbing of twigs. As Ryland shivered against his hand, Osborne began to doubt the theory he had created before. Osborne knew that he belonged here, this was his punishment for the crime he had committed. Maybe whatever secret Yvette was keeping landed her in the arena as well. But what crime could innocent, artistic Ryland have committed that was bad enough for him to be sent into a death game? Or was this innocent persona concealing a killer underneath it?
"I did it!" Yvette cried from the other side of the room. Osborne twisted around to find the girl dancing around the fire with a look of glee on her face, letting out whoops of joy every couple of seconds.
"Quickly, we can't let it spread!" Ryland said, his voice showing no traces of his previous bout of fear. Stumbling towards the stack of folders on the desk, the boy pulled a third of them into his arms and stumbled towards the flame. Yvette followed and grabbed a number for herself, and Osborne stood and took the few that remained.
"Are you sure this is what you want, kid?" Osborne said as he joined the younger teenagers by the fire.
"Yes," Ryland said, staring down into the flames, "It's the right thing to do,"
Placing his stack of folders on the table, he grabbed the one off the top, which happened to be his own. Without a second of hesitation, he dropped the folder into the flames. The inferno blazed brighter as the paper was engulfed' flames spiking higher for a moment before dropping to it's original size. Yvette went next, dropping her own folder on top of the charred remains of Ryland's. Osborne watched the girl from the corner of his eye, frowning as a smile of relief sprung to life on her dark face.
Osborne went last. He paused for a moment, peeling away the cover of his folder and peering at the photo that stared back at him. He had glimpsed the pictures pasted in the folders of his companions; both were shocking school photos that, under different circumstances, Osborne would have teased Ryland about for days. Osborne's own picture was nothing of the sort; he wished his picture was nothing but an embarrassing school picture. Instead, his picture was a mugshot.
Osborne scowled and tossed the folder into the flames, eyes lighting up alongside the dancing flames. For now, his secret was safe. The police may have arrested him that night, but they had no idea what he had really done.
They proceeded in a clockwise rotation, each person tossing a folder into the flames and waiting for them to die down before the next person tossed theirs. Osborne could not help but read the names of whose history he was turning to ash. Willow Drake. Darcy Retorre. Aldon Crowell. Felecia Coin. Kelani Richards. But it was the last folder that made Osborne's head spin and his stomach lurch. It was the last folder that made him pause and turn away as Ryland threw his last folder onto the fire.
It couldn't be her. It was just too coincidental. How could she have ended up in here with him? Osborne knew this opportunity was too perfect to pass up; if he ran into her, his secret may be said for all of Panem to hear. If Osborne wishes to protect his reputation, he needs to get some dirt on the one person who could destroy it.
As Yvette tossed her last folder into the fire, Osborne pulled the pages from the folder and stuffed them down the front of his pants, ensuring that there was no visible bulges before turning back. With the corners of his lips twitching up into a smirk, Osborne tossed the folder of Quinn Hyland into the flames.