TW: mentions of plague in the first POV. If you don't feel comfortable with this topic, I'll always be happy to summarize. Please take care of yourselves.
Asa Trevino, 15, District Nine Male
Asa wakes up to the feeling of knowing something's wrong. Sleep clings to his consciousness for an extra moment as he battles his way to the surface of wakefulness, the remnants of a nightmare still clinging to his eyelids. He searches for Luz, because if she is there, then everything's a little better. For a terrifying moment, he imagines she was stolen away from him in his sleep, her life snuffed out while he was powerless to stop it. To anyone else, the feeling might be irrational, but to Asa it's all too real.
But then his eyes find hers, Luz Alejandra Contreras, all in one piece. She is in the doorway, but has turned slightly so they can look at each other. Her eyes are calm and kind, her face cast in the gentle light of dawn.
Asa exhales. He should be feeling better by now, his worry assuaged for the moment, yet his heart is still beating so much that he can feel it in his head. He tries to sit up, but is overtaken by a vicious bout of nausea. Something isn't right.
"Good morning," says Luz. Is it just him, or does her voice sound like the string on a guitar pulled too tight?
He still manages a smile, because he's happy to see her, glad she's here beside him. Even if he wishes her back with her family, tending to customers in the apothecary where she's safe and happy, some secret part of him is happy that they're together, because he might have unraveled if she wasn't there to hold him together. And if he wasn't here with her, then who'd be there to make sure she got back safe and sound?
"Morning," he says, smiling despite the uneasy fatigue he can't seem to shake.
A pause. "How are you feeling?"
She sounds casual enough. Asa meets her eyes, unsure how to phrase it, how to put this feeling into words.
But Asa doesn't lie. Why would he, to the girl who always nursed him back to health when he was hurting? The girl who he sees and loves and admires more than anyone else?
"Sort of strange, actually," he says, trying to sound unconcerned. "Just... light-headed, I guess. Tired."
Luz takes a hesitant step forward. Her eyes are serious and keen as she takes him in. And he cannot put the tremor in her voice to his own imagination as she says, "I see. Is there anything else?"
Luz is worried. Meaning he should be worried.
His chest is itchy, almost unbearably so now that he notices. Maybe it's nothing, but... He folds back his collar, unbuttons his top button, and gasps, horror flooding him like a river of ice.
His chest is covered in spots, starting at his collarbone and spreading downward. On his neck is a swollen boil, relatively large. The boil is red, and it hurts when he prods at it like some foreign entity. All he can do is stare and stare, willing it all to disappear. But Asa knows life's hardships well enough to understand that things don't just go away. All he's ever done is messed things up, and then ran away. But this isn't something he can run from.
"Asa..." Luz's gentle voice, calm and low, comes from far away.
Her cool palm presses against his forehead and he flinches, unable !o control the fear that constricts his lungs. "Don't touch me," he whispers. Whatever this is, he doesn't want Luz anywhere near it. Simply imagining the discolor on her skin, the infection spreading over her body, is enough to make him panic.
"I'm sorry," she says, and he hears real pain in her voice. "Asa, we'll figure this out."
"What is it?" he whispers. "Do I have a fever?"
Her expression turns grim and she nods. "You didn't last night..."
Asa can only gape. "You knew about this?"
She throws her hands into the air, equal parts placation and resignation. "I thought... I hoped that you—"
If Luz is at a loss for words, then something really is amiss.
"Luz, what is it?" His voice is quiet and shaky with terror, yet he manages to keep it level. He would never, never raise his voice at Luz, no matter what.
"I can't be sure, but I think..." She shivers. "They called it the Black Death. It was a plague, from a long time ago."
Asa's blood runs cold. His brain is ticking too fast, unable to process everything normally. He feels disconnected, far away and yet all too aware.
"A plague? That's... what that guy said yesterday. About that girl who died?"
"Yes, but—"
He only has two questions.
"Can it kill you?"
She blows out a breath and nods.
"Is it contagious?"
A long pause. "I think so."
Suddenly, Asa's looking Luz up and down, searching for any sign that he might have given her this sickness. She shakes her head.
"I don't have it." Yet. "Asa, just listen to me. I know what you're thinking..."
There's familiarity in this feeling of utter terror, his greatest fears realized. If Luz got this sickness because of him, he'd never forgive himself. Asa's never had anyone like Luz, yet he's willing to let go if it will keep her alive.
He struggles to his feet despite the dizziness, unable to meet Luz's gaze. He feels detached, as though he is watching himself move from somewhere far away. "I have to go," he says, and his voice is strangled by sorrow and fear and regret. What else could he possibly do? Luz has healed him and loved him so many times and for so long; isn't this the least he can do to repay her?
"Asa, wait—"
"You can't get sick," he says. "Please, just... let me go."
Luz is trying to call him back, and in that moment, he wants nothing more than to fall into her arms. He longs for the solace of her presence, for wildflowers and soccer fields, for Contreras family dinners where he felt loved and held and known.
But that's selfish of him. There's poison spreading through his body, and he cannot let it reach Luz, not if his life depends on it.
So he runs, the world a haze around him through the tears that have started falling. He runs until Luz's voice fades away and his heart is hollowed-out.
He knows this feeling. It's a ball through a window, a spike of adrenaline and a monster at his heels. It's good intentions turned disastrous, and it's running, always running. But this time, he's not running to Luz; he's running away from her.
For the second time, he hides in the marketplace to catch his breath, crouches between stalls and curls into a ball and cries. He hopes the world will simply fade away, that somehow someone (Luz) will find him and gather him up and take him someplace beautiful. But that doesn't happen. He's all alone in this open, silent space, trying to quiet his hitching breath and his stuttering heartbeat. He is sick and nobody is coming to find him, because maybe this is what he deserves. Still, the only thing that can comfort him as he trembles in that tiny space is the fact that for now, Luz is safe. Maybe their dreams will never be fully realized, but at least this won't be all for nothing. That's the only thing that's keeping him afloat.
...
Columbia "Colby" Novella, 17, District Five Female
"Come on; we're leaving."
It's mid-morning, and the restlessness inside Colby has done nothing but build, like something that's fighting to break free, making her skin crawl with its ferocity. Its imperfection—the fact that she's even unsettled in the slightest—is driving her mad. And that, in itself, is unacceptable. So they have to ⠇⠂⠧⠑⠲
Cal trails behind her—she knows where their relationship stands right now. He would follow her anywhere, do anything to protect her, and she can take full advantage of that without ever getting hurt in the process. For all she knows, he will continue to be good and kind and naive for the rest of his life, while she uses her training to use him as a piece within her narrative. She knows he'll save her life in a heartbeat... and she wouldn't do the same for him. She just wouldn't.
It truly is a perfectly unhealthy balance, but Colby can't deny that her plan would be severely altered without him. He might be the only person in the world who knows her, sees her. Her friends at school worship her, her parents associate her with getting rich, but Cal... he's different. Not to say that she likes having him around, the precise rhythm of his steps or the way he keeps glancing around for potential enemies, but it would be a shame to lose the benefits he provides.
Anyway, this Arena really is beautiful. They pass through the main town proper, past a marketplace (too exposed and labyrinthine) and a church (too grand and imposing,) and a strange building with no ornamentation at all (too boring.) They round a corner and come face to face with a small building, a sign hanging over the door.
"An art gallery," says Cal. He sounds intrigued. Colby leans forward. All those curtains and tall paintings... there's bound to be someone hiding in there.
And she does hope to find someone. To steal their supplies, find an alliance or simply pick off another Tribute—while gaining some reward herself, of course. It doesn't really matter which. She supposes that just depends on what kind of Tribute they meet.
Whoever hides in art galleries, she supposes. Sounds like Cal's type of person. He always wanted to be a writer when he was younger. They would've made a nice team, with Colby's gift for storytelling and Cal's insightful, articulate manner. She quickly brushes the ridiculous thought away... hardly something to dwell on now, when she's planning to use him in order to stay on top.
They enter the building, weaving through paintings and sculptures, which are all admittedly beautiful. Colby stops at a painting that looks out of place... it looks like—
Colby laughs lightly. "Is that Caldwell Kingsen?"
He does have a handsome face, though the likeness isn't nearly as good as the masterpieces that surround it.
Then a voice pipes up from behind the painting, a figure emerging from the shadows. "In the flesh. As for the painting, it was only a bit of experimentation—don't ask me to do yours, I'm not accepting requests as of late."
Caldwell's smiling, though his eyes gleam with a bit of manic light. His shoulders are thrown back in the posture of relaxed confidence; he is practically radiating arrogance.
So, not Cal's type of person, then. Shame.
Columbia's eyes narrow as she looks him up and down. His mask, and the crown perched atop his dark hair, gives him a regal appearance—there isn't a speck of sand on him, contrary to the way he'd looked during the Reapings. He does not look afraid, but there is a hint of wariness behind his flippant façade.
Cal looks uneasy, so Colby gives him a smile. "Relax, darling. We are all friends here—right, Mr. Kingsen?"
He leans casually against an empty easel—the picture of nonchalance. "Most certainly," he drawls.
She can play this game—puzzle out his motivations and make a decision once she's mapped him out. Besides, she can't say she isn't curious about who this boy is and what she might gain from allying with him.
"I'm quite surprised you and Miss Illumina haven't killed each other yet," she says lightly, waiting for his reaction.
But his expression remains smooth and undisturbed. "I am obviously focused on more pressing matters than pursuing her. And besides, I would be an imbecile to take on the entire Career pack alone."
He seems to be studying her, too; his eyes are constantly moving, dancing across the paintings, studying her face, flicking over her shoulder to Callisto—who stands awkward and uncertain a few feet behind her.
She sighs. "That must be difficult, facing this all by yourself."
He grins, as if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. "Loneliness is the least of my dilemmas."
He speaks with more words than he necessarily needs, and more grandiose words, too. Something about that reminds her of her own speech patterns, which she carefully copied from the Capitol's distinctive style.
"You're familiar with solitude, then?" she says carefully.
His eyes narrow, and she senses that he's done talking. Oh well.
"As riveting as this is, I have things to do," he says coolly. "What is your intention?"
Colby conjures her most winning smile, her most placating voice. "Caldwell, Caldwell... I think you and I have a lot in common."
He chuckles. "Oh don't be ridiculous. You know nothing about me."
She notices his voice speeding up. She shakes her head—obviously this flood of words is more of a stream of consciousness than anything deliberate. Still, she wants him to believe they're friends.
"You're... an artist, yes?" she says, still trying to tease as much information as possible out of him.
He stands up straighter, seeming to glow with pride. "A visionary, a God, a creator of the highest degree... I go by many names."
He likes to boast, then. Cal glances at her questioningly, and she can see the confusion in his eyes. What is she doing?
She doesn't know. Maybe she just wants to feel confident, be reassured in her own prowess. Maybe she's trying to prove something.
"So you strive for perfection, then?"
He smiles. "I don't just strive for it. I... achieve perfection."
She catches the slight hitch of uncertainty in his voice. "You're tired, aren't you?" she says sympathetically. "You try so hard to impress those around you—your parents, perhaps?—and you feel like your reserve is being drained, but you still have to keep going, because what are you without approval? Who are you?" Colby's voice goes quiet at the end. She didn't realize just how true those words struck, and she doesn't like the way something stirs inside her as she says them. Something like sorrow.
Any pretenses of ease are tossed to the wind as Caldwell stiffens. His voice is soft, and low, and cold. "Stop talking."
The fewest words she's heard him say so far.
Still, Colby smiles. "I was right! Perhaps we're even more similar than we first thought. My parents want me to achieve greatness as well. They depend on me for money."
Caldwell's hands are slightly curled into claws, as if he's built so many sandcastles that he doesn't know how to do anything else. He is very still, very rigid.
"I am nothing like you," he says softly. "And you don't know a thing about me."
"Our work is never done, is it?"
Perhaps she's gone too far.
"If you're only here to insult me, I suggest you leave soon."
Cal is saying something quietly, probably her name. A warning.
But Colby feels powerful in this moment. She feels alive.
"Unlike you," she says slowly, "my work is actually important. I am an heiress to a very lucrative business, and I've been trained to lie and connive my way to the top, while you sit around all day and build your pathetic little sandcastles that don't last—"
(Perhaps Colby envies Caldwell Kingsen. Perhaps he looks vibrant, and happy with his work, and so sure of himself. Perhaps he knows who he is while she does not. And perhaps that strikes a nerve.)
Either way, it only takes a few seconds for Caldwell's spear to be pressed against her chest. Cal gasps.
"You don't understand, Five," he says. His voice is still soft. "My art is of the purest form, while you sit on a throne of your own falsities. You cannot build a legacy on unstable foundation. The only person to be remembered in lights will be me."
Colby lets her lip quiver, lets the rage inside her turn to meek remorse. "I'm sorry—I'm sorry, just please—let me go..."
Caldwell stares at her for a long time. The moment his spear moves an inch, she's scrambling to grab her javelin, ready to fight this upstart artist. She is not a fighter, she's a schemer, but at this moment she doesn't care.
Two can play at this game.
...
Caldwell Kingsen, 17, District Four Male
They're standing a few feet apart, their weapons leveled at each other's chests. Spear and javelin—in a way, it's a match made in heaven.
This girl's gotten under his skin. Not in the way that Naya can—no, nobody can vex him quite as much as she—but she still doubts his purpose, his prestige. She calls his masterpieces useless. And he can't handle that. He can't just stand by while she takes apart his pride, piece by piece.
He won his first sandcastle contest—and he was the youngest to enter. And he earned money for it. That simply cannot be a sham.
Rage burns hot behind his sternum as he jabs his spear experimentally toward Five's chest. She dances back. Someone gasps behind her; Caldwell glances at her twin, standing immobile a few feet away, but the boy doesn't move to intercede.
She swings her javelin, the move sloppy and reckless. She smiles confidently, standing on tiptoe, as if bursting with energy. Her eyes are wild.
It's rare that he meets someone just as vain and prideful as him—but this girl is giving him a run for his money. This only aggravates him more—he refuses to be matched in anything.
He dodges easily, dancing back and forth on the balls of his feet. He, too, is full of energy—though that's nothing new. His brain is a spinning wheel, a machine in overtime. He pats his pocket, where his gift from the Capitol waits. He has the advantage in this fight.
"I thought kids from Four were supposed to be good," Colby says innocently.
Even Four has its broken families, its normal kids who are just try to live past eighteen.
But he's not one of them—he can't be one of them.
"I never needed foolish Career training to be great," he says nonchalantly, but the barb sounds flat, even to his own ears.
He really has been thrown off balance. Maybe it was just a building storm, starting from that day he met Alessio Spades. Or the day he Volunteered for Naya Illumina. Or, perhaps it started long before that...
The sharp point of Columbia's javelin pierces Caldwell's arm, and the pain is sharp and hot and all-consuming. The girl cackles, gleeful in her beautiful gown.
Caldwell makes a mad jab at her chest—if she backs up any farther, they'll be closer to her brother. She wouldn't want to put him in danger. She steps back anyway, and her brother stumbles away, looking shell-shocked. He doesn't speak.
Caldwell has more important things to worry about—his arm is bleeding. He's... he's wounded.
He tries another tactic—backs away from Columbia, with her crazed smile, and throws his spear at her chest. She ducks and it sails into a painting, piercing its canvas.
"Destroying art?" she croons. "What have you become?"
He tries to block her words out, to focus on combat, but he can't do it. Just as he can never block Naya's words, or the sharp critiques of his parents that made him nauseated and full of doubt.
He's lost his spear. He stares up at the sky, waiting for some divine inspiration, some ground-breaking idea that can get him out of this situation. How the scales can tip so quickly.
He pulls the grenade from his pocket. Closes his eyes. And throws it, pulling the pin as he lets it go. He spins around, catching a glimpse of the glaring flash, his saving grace.
Something sharp piercing his back. He crumbles to the ground, as easily collapsed as a castle of sand.
He reaches to touch his shirt, and finds it soaked with blood. The pain is so blinding, he can't focus on the entry point of Columbia's javelin; he only knows that something in him has broken.
He sees Colby standing over him, blinking tears from her eyes—probably caused by the light.
"Silly fool," she whispers. "You thought a spotlight would hurt me? No, I've lived in lights my whole life."
He manages to spot Callisto, in the corner, hands thrown up, looking temporarily dazed. Caldwell's last resort, the thing that was supposed to save his life, only affected the one who wasn't even a threat.
Why must life be so cruel to him? When has he ever done anything wrong, what has he done to deserve this?
All he wants is for his parents to look down at him and tell him they're proud. All he wants is to make some kind of difference, to be useful in the world.
His breath is coming desperate and ragged. His face is pressed to the ground. He'd considered dying in the Arena a hundred times, even accepted it, but he never thought it would turn out like this.
Perhaps if he falls asleep, he will wake up somewhere beautiful.
"Caldwell?"
The voice is hoarse, practically a whisper, but it's all too familiar.
Caldwell pushes himself up on his arms, peers over his shoulders. The Careers are here, somehow. All of them, shying away from the light. Naya, lording over him, as if what he'd been through wasn't enough.
But Alessio Spades is kneeling beside him. His eyes, instead of being cold and impenetrable, are riddled with shock—small hairline fractures in his composure.
Caldwell smiles, despite himself.
"Alessio?"
Alessio just stares at him. He looks truly shaken. "Are you..." But his voice trails away.
"Dying? I think so," says Caldwell, already feeling far away. The blood loss has made him dizzy.
"I thought I was invincible," he murmurs, unsure of why he's telling Alessio this. "I thought... I thought so many things."
A hand falls onto his shoulder, and Caldwell lets himself go slack, cheek pressed against the grain of the floor, looking at Alessio. The Twelve boy's uncertainty is comforting in this moment—he cannot handle any more vanity today.
This is it. There is no tomorrow, there is no adulthood, there is no fame waiting for him. And Naya Illumina is still alive.
Alessio's hand still rests on his shoulder, though the boy is looking at it like it's somehow betrayed him, like he doesn't know what he's doing.
"Did you paint that?" Alessio jerks his chin toward Caldwell's likeness.
Caldwell smiles sadly. "My last work. It's not even made of sand."
Somehow, that's comforting.
"You'll leave something behind, then."
Caldwell sighs. "At least someone appreciates my work."
He doesn't hear Alessio's response—he can't keep his eyes open anymore, and his focus fractures. He can't feel Alessio's hand on his shoulder anymore, and he can't remember anything but a deep sort of peace. And Caldwell Kingsen finally gives into his fatigue, as he closes his eyes and breathes his very last.
...
Naya Illumina, 17, District Five Female
Alessio stands quickly, his face almost emotionless as he turns away from Caldwell's dead body. Any sign of shock or grief is gone from his face, but Naya still catches the hollow, haunted cast to his eyes. The Careers had decided to go hunting that morning, as the day before had been fairly uneventful, when they'd heard the raised voices and the sounds of a scuffle. It was Naya's decision to hang back for a moment and watch as the girl from Five killed Caldwell Kingsen. Alessio had broken formation and is now staring off at some unseen point. Whatever their relationship was, it's gone now. Nobody moves.
Naya thought she'd feel satisfied, vindicated and viciously joyful, to see Caldwell Kingsen fall. And she is, she is... but there's something unsettling about watching the blood spread across his back, his body slack and facedown. The vestiges of his grenade—which is terrible for the environment, by the way—are gone, and Five's javelin is gleaming with blood. Her brother tugs on her sleeve, his eyes wide and desperate.
Of course, Naya hated Caldwell—despised him and wished for his demise so many times. But their arguments had always been harmless. Fierce, but harmless. They aggravated each other, but it had been unintentional at first. And now the crackle of life in his gaze is gone, and everybody's looking at her like they expect her to know what to do.
Naya wouldn't have it any other way—she wants to be doing, taking charge, seeing her dreams in her mind and putting them into action. But this dream to see Caldwell suffer isn't really a dream at all, but more of a faraway hope. And Naya doesn't know what to do with all of this conflict inside her.
The girl turns to her, a small smile playing at her lips. "Hello! My name is Columbia; and you must be Naya. I'm sorry that I didn't spare him for you, but... well, I saw my chance and I took it. Us girls have to stick together, yes?"
Her smile is layered with charm, her voice as slippery as an eel. She looks... calm. Unfazed.
Is this what Naya wanted? A boy on the ground, his life ebbing away in front of her eyes, with desperate words on his lips?
This girl from Five seems to think they're friends; that Naya should pat her on the back, send her on her way with a gift, or even let her into the alliance. And Naya isn't mad at her, per se—she can't really understand her feelings, tangled as they are.
She needs to be decisive. She is a woman of action.
(Caldwell's painting smiles back at her, as arrogant and taunting as if he'd been there in person. It seems that he intends to haunt her, even beyond the grave. She... she can't believe he's really dead, after all this.)
Marquis is hanging back, looking pale. Alessio is still somewhere far away; but Blade and Tremor pin her with their expectant gazes. Naya meets Columbia's gaze.
"If I were you, Columbia, I'd be leaving by now."
Colby smiles. "But why would I leave? Are you angry at me?" She looks so innocent, too innocent, as if what she did had been merely a whim. "I should think you'd thank me. You hated him, didn't you?"
Of that, there's no doubt. Yet, hating someone is so different from killing someone. No matter how hot and blazing your hate might be, it can still be jarring to see that your wish has finally come to fruition.
But this wasn't all that Naya wanted—really, it's a small, petty grudge in the grand scheme of her plan. If it came to it, Naya would've killed Caldwell in an instant, because the entire world would suffer if she fell. Who would be there to save the environment, if not for her?
So yes, she's happy that Caldwell is no longer in the picture. And Naya knows death—she's killed someone, and she's seen her mother die. But something pushes her to train her bow at Columbia.
"You should go," says Naya softly. "It was already reckless of you to kill someone, but you know you're no match for me."
Five chuckles, tosses her hair. "You underestimate me?"
She can understand how Caldwell attacked this girl—she really is infuriating. Her brother is tugging insistently at the sleeve of her gown, his eyes pleading, but Columbia barely spares him a glance.
"What do you want, Five?" says Naya tightly. She doesn't feel like dealing with this right now. She wishes she could talk to someone about this, but she's yet to get close to any of the Careers.
Columbia laughs. "What do I want? I want connections—I think we could benefit from an alliance, Miss Illumina."
Naya chuckles. "You're sweet, Five. But you must be blind if you think we'd let you join us, just because you killed Caldwell Kingsen."
Columbia strolls forward. There's a wild light in her eyes. "What did you hate so much about Caldwell Kingsen? Did he kill your little sea turtles or something?"
Naya's eyes narrow. "This is your last warning—"
Columbia stands up straighter. "I think both of you are delusional. While I'm making money and becoming a highly influential businesswoman, you're chasing dreams that nobody else cares about. How can you not see what a success I am? How can you not want me on your team?"
Why is she letting this girl get under her skin? She said the exact same thing to Caldwell—or something close to it. But when Naya looks at Columbia, she sees a girl who killed her enemy... but she also sees her father, using Naya like a tool, crushing her voice and her dreams beneath his heel.
It's all a cycle, isn't it? She's doing the exact same thing that Caldwell did before her. And it shouldn't bother her so much, but something about seeing a human—not even eighteen—battered and broken on the floor, combined with Colby's ill-advised taunts, has driven Naya Illumina over the edge.
She is not angry—only Caldwell could fill her with such rage. No, she's calm and calculated as she knocks an arrow and pulls back the string.
Yes, Columbia used this same attempt to bait Caldwell. But unlike her predecessor, Naya won't miss.
The arrow hits Colby's chest. She falls. Naya tries not to wince, tries to keep the tears behind her eyes... this day has been too long, too much. How is it that Naya can strive for good every day and yet witness—and enact—such horrible things?
But at least Naya is acting. At least she's trying.
A canon sounds, and a sharp sob rents the air. The other twin from Five is standing between Naya and his sister, dead on the ground—but he moved too late. Nobody can beat an arrow.
The boy looks desperate and despondent at once, his face screwed into a terrible picture of grief. He stares, disbelieving, down at the corpse.
"No. No, this wasn't supposed to happen..."
Tremor and Blade both have their weapons aimed at the boy, but he's too focused on Columbia to notice—or perhaps he simply doesn't care.
Something tugs and wrenches in Naya's heart, and she manages to keep her voice gentle as she touches the boy's shoulder.
"You need to run," she says. "Right now. Go."
His breath hitches. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
"Run," Naya insists, her voice sharper.
The boy stumbles slowly to his feet and runs through the door, leaving a scattering of sorrow behind him.
"Let's go," says Naya, feeling numbness spread through her heart. As if she's been underwater too long.
Blade is standing beside her. He signs something, and it takes a long time for Alessio to notice and translate.
"Why did you let him live?"
Naya shakes her head. She's so tired. She's so uncertain. And she hates that. So she shoves down her feelings and tries to put on a smile.
"Maybe I'd had enough death for one day."
...
16th Place: Caldwell Kingsen, killed by Columbia Novella. Oh Caldwell, you were truly something special. Every time I sat down to write a POV from you, it was a truly wonderful experience. While your vanity and sandcastle art could sometimes be a point of humor, beneath that was so much depth. Your burnout and constant need of approval truly hit close to home for me, and you such a tragic character that deserved better. I loved exploring the way you saw the world, and your development throughout the Games, as well as your relationship with Alessio—small though it was. Para, thank you so much for giving me Caldwell; he was truly a beautiful, artistic soul. Here's to Caldwell, our sandcastle artist; I hope that he finds peace in his imperfection.
15th Place: Columbia Novella, killed by Naya Illumina. Oh Colby, you were so fun. I loved writing your melodramatic scenes, as well as your relationship with Cal and your storytelling. You truly did own the stage, my queen, and while I led you on a bit of a villain arc where you got a little too close to the sun, I truly loved exploring your many layers of depth. Your stories were so convincing that you even fooled yourself sometimes, and you had so many masks that you weren't sure who the real Colby was beneath it all. Wiki, I know you wanted Colby to outlive Cal, and I'm so sorry that I had to say goodbye to her so early, because writing her brought me such joy. Here's to Colby, our ingenuine ingenue; I hope she finds her real self, and that she always tells stories.
Gosh, hi guys. I am extremely sad right now. Like, on the vere of tears writing this. I personally am not okay after writing that; wow, that chapter was packed with emotional damage, and I'm deeply sorry for that. I can't believe I'm killing your kids right now; I'm not ready, but it's also very cool to be writing arcs. I truly am enjoying writing all of your children, and I'm so sad that I have to kill most of them off, but I have been planning Games for a while, so it's really cool to finally be writing them! Also, I'm starting school again this week. Not sure what it will do to my schedule; I did start IIDY during school, but this year will be a bit busier. I do have the next chapter halfway done already, so hopefully everything will be chill; but I figured I'd warn you anyway! Um, I guess I'm done talking now! While I won't say that I hope you enjoyed, I hope that this chapter made you as sad as it did me, because at least I'd be doing it right! Next chapter is day 3, part two. See you all then!
Much Love,
Miri a