Typical TW for mentions of plague in the first POV, and mentions of blood and violence throughout the other POVs. Don't hesitate to PM me if you need a summary.
Luz Contreras, 15, District Nine Female
She wakes after noon, a nasty jolt. Her eyes flutter open quickly, guiltily. Exhaustion had simply drawn its veil over her eyes, her traitorous body sinking below the surface before she could so much as protest. Now, a sliver of light peeks through the crack in the door. Callisto of Five, young and serious, sits against the wall, reading quietly. His eyes slowly rise as she sits up, but she hardly takes him in, instead focusing on Asa. He is sprawled and still, fast asleep. His face is so peaceful, but the discolored spots blooming across his skin offset the effect of serenity. His breaths are shallow. His lids flutter in sleep.
He is alive. Luz lets out a painful breath. Almost out of habit, she checks her collarbone for spots. None. No fever.
The antidote must've been legitimate after all. Although, she supposes that's something of a hasty conclusion. And Callisto is in no way protected. But she dares to hope that the Gamemakers have had their fun. Probably a foolish wish.
She looks at Cal, whose expression is perfectly neutral.
"Did anything happen while I was asleep?" she says.
He glances nervously at Asa, and Luz notices the extra jacket draped over his body. "He woke up a few hours ago, but... he told me not to wake you."
Luz lets out a breath. "He must have been terrified."
Cal nods awkwardly. He opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out.
She smiles gratefully. "It looks like you handled it, though." If she's looking for proof that Callisto is a friend, this is the closest she'll get. He could've killed them while they were vulnerable, but instead he helped them.
Cal hesitates. "He's very sick."
Luz nods, unsure where he's going.
"How long has it been?"
"A few days." More than a few days. "Why?"
Cal stares into his book. "It's just... he just seems to be suffering, and..." He shakes his head. "Never mind."
"He could still live," she says, her voice even but her heart aching. "It's not hopeless."
But Luz is not an optimist. She is a realist. And she knows that Asa is only living on borrowed time.
Cal nods quickly. "I know—"
"He could still live," she says again, convincing the both of them. "He—"
"Luz?"
Luz turns slowly, her anger—or sadness, or whatever she was feeling—subsiding as quickly as it rose. Asa's voice is raw and ragged from sleep, or perhaps from the plague, but he cracks a tired smile. His eyes sparkle. "Hi."
"Hi," Luz whispers back, blinking away tears. Any hope of composure is scattered to the winds, which frustrates Luz. Shouldn't she be able to have courage for Asa? Be strong for him?
He notes her tired eyes. "What's wrong?"
She shakes her head, changing the subject. "You need water."
She takes a canteen from their dwindling supply and offers it to Asa. He takes it and reluctantly drinks. She scoots closer to him so that they're on the same mat.
"I need to take your temperature. All good?"
He nods. She brushes gentle fingers over his forehead. His fever has gone up. There's no getting around it: he looks worse. He is worse.
Asa winces. "Is it that bad?"
She regards him carefully. "Your fever's gone up, but a little rest and some water could bring it down."
He nods, and she sees sadness crowding in around the edges of his gaze. His smile is completely gone.
But he rolls closer to her, his arms open. "I'm so cold," he murmurs. "Could you..."
She nods her understanding, laying down beside him so she can put her arm around him. He rests his head on her chest. She plays with his curls.
Their chests rise and fall in tandem, their breaths like ocean waves. She breathes him in, just for this moment, lets him hold her tight. In each other's arms, they are both calmer. He watches her intently, tenderly. He does not ask anything of her, doesn't look away. He just holds her close, like she is indescribably precious. It makes her feel like herself. It almost drives away her anxiety.
"When did you fall in love with me?" she whispers. For him, it's easy to talk about these things—his small offerings of kindness are endless.
He grins, snuggling deeper into her embrace. "The first time I saw you." He says this simply, perfectly sincere.
Her heart melts. "No. Really?"
She never wants that grin to go away. It makes him look younger, reminds her of times she misses. In this moment, he looks impish and angelic—a strange paradox, but it seems only fitting for him.
His smile softens into something intimate. "Of course, really. You... You're perfect. I've never been more happy than I am with you."
He says this with such conviction, begging her to believe it. There's an edge of desperation to his voice, a tinge of misery in his hazel eyes. She understands. She knows.
"It took me longer," she says, half-smiling. "But I think it was the grin that got me." That, and everything else about Asa. The way he looks at her, how he always stays... Except when he is running. But even then, he always finds his way back.
And there's his grin, right on cue, full-force. She laughs, for practically no reason, and he laughs with her. But his laugh turns into a cough. A glint of panic flicks to life in his gaze and he turns away from her, coughing into his elbow. His breath rattles like coins. It's a long time before he resurfaces. Tears glisten on his lashes; she isn't sure if they're from the force of his coughing, or because of enough sadness. It might be a mix of both.
Luz blinks back tears of her own. She is an apothecary, after all—she knows a dangerous cough when she hears one.
Asa slumps back beside her, wrapping an arm around her.
"Asa?" she whispers.
He regards her sadly. He looks shaken.
"Are you okay?"
He doesn't answer. His gaze is distant.
Helplessness claws at Luz's chest. She tries to think of something, anything, to say. Something that could fix shall.
But there's nothing she can do.
"Can we get married?"
She gapes at Asa, checks his eyes for any sign of delirium.
"Asa, I—I wish we could..."
But his eyes are focused. Bright, yes, but clear.
He shakes his head insistently. His words are fast and breathless. "No—no, I mean right now. I wasn't gonna ask you until we grew up. But now I'm not going to be there when you win—"
"Asa..."
"—But I really want to get married, Luz. I know this is sudden and this whole mess is all my fault, so I would understand if you hate me. You could say no."
Luz is appalled. "Asa, look at me."
She cups his face in her hands. He regards her nervously.
"I forgive you," she whispers. Nothing could be more true.
He exhales, visibly relieved. "But... you don't have to. I know it's a lot, I just think, if I'm not gonna live much longer—" He blinks quickly, but tears still trail down his cheeks. "Maybe we could just do a little wedding? It wouldn't really count, but... I really want to."
This is all just too much. She cannot except that their wedding will not be in Nine, with her family surrounding them and Asa safe from his father's grasp. She will not let herself imagine that Asa's life is almost at a close.
She cannot find words. Asa waits patiently. Finally, she gets control of her thoughts. Managing a smile, she brushes her fingers lightly against his cheek. "Of course I will marry you."
She just never imagined it would be like this.
He beams, gently brushing a tear from her cheek. "Thank you," he whispers.
Luz shakes her head. "You don't have to thank me; it's not a favor."
Asa nods. "I know."
His eyes light up and he looks at Callisto pleadingly. "You could marry us, right?"
Callisto looks stricken. "Me?"
Asa nods. "It's easy; you just have to make up some vows."
Callisto's eyes are squeezed tightly shut, but he nods nervously. "Um... yes, I could perform the wedding."
Asa's eyes are bright. "Thank you." Then he looks back at Luz. "I think people usually stand, but we could probably sit."
"How do you know all this?" Luz says, smiling.
His eyes sparkle. "I've... sort of thought about this. Like, a lot."
Slowly, they shift so that they are sitting, Asa leaning on the wall, facing each other with hands clasped. Cal has set his book aside, his expression very serious. He speaks slowly and carefully, but without hesitation.
"Do you, Asa, take Luz to be your wife?"
He nods. "Yes."
"And do you, Luz, take Asa to be your husband?"
"Yes," she whispers, her heart fluttering. She gives herself permission to imagine a lifetime with Asa, where nothing can reach them. Where they are happy and young and foolish, where their love cannot be tainted with plague or death or grief.
"Do you promise to walk beside each other, through sun and rain, joy and sadness, whether rich or poor, in—" Cal's voice cracks. "—In sickness or in health? Do you promise to love each other, so long as the stars shine and the sun rises?"
Luz is crying, but the tears are tinged with joy this time. "Asa, I promise to walk beside you, through sun and rain, sadness and joy, in sickness or in health, so long as the stars shine and the sun rises." She adds her own line as well, in a moment of boldness. "I will love you forever. No matter what."
ASA's face, so gentle and loving, steals Luz's breath, fills her heart with sunshine.
"And I promise to walk beside you, Luz. No matter what. I will love you forever."
Callisto is sagely and serene, despite the sadness in his voice. "Then I pronounce you husband and wife."
"Now we kiss," Asa whispers.
Luz laughs—she cannot help it. Asa laughs with her, and they wrap their arms around each other, giddy, their lips colliding.
Their kiss is an eternity preserved in a moment. It is awkward and desperate and bittersweet and beautiful. It is careful and joyous—it is full of weight and unsaid things.
Then they separate, gasping for breath. Both of them are grinning like fools. And in that moment, it's all they are: two kids in love, sloppy and young and alive.
Luz touches her forehead to Asa's. "I love you," she whispers.
"I love you," he answers. "I love you, I love you."
She notices that he's shaking. The effort of keeping upright is probably sapping his strength. It takes them a moment to untangle their limbs, but soon Luz is sitting beside him, Asa's head on her shoulder. He smiles up at the ceiling. She hasn't seen him this happy in a long time.
"You should sleep," she whispers, breaking the spell.
He shakes his head. "I don't want this to end."
"I know."
"What if it was all a dream?"
She shifts, careful not to jostle him too much. She takes his hand gently in hers and presses it to her heart, her other hand finding the pulse at his wrist.
"See? We both have heartbeats. We're real."
He just nods. And they stay like that, reminding each other that they are alive, for a long time, before Asa's eyes grow too heavy for him to even blink, and he slowly begins to drift into sleep.
"Goodnight, my love," he whispers. He has never called her that before.
"Goodnight, love," she echoes. She likes the way it sounds.
"Luz Alejandra Contreras, I love you." It's his third or fourth time saying it, but somehow it never feels like too much.
She watches him fall asleep, stroking his hair and hoping that this won't be the last time she hears him say those words.
...
Wren Camphor, 15, District Seven Female
Cady is gone. Wren does not know if she is dead, or lost, or if she has simply left them behind for her own goals... and if so, Wren would feel a sharp stab of betrayal; a knife would cleave clean through her heart. Yet, she refuses to accept that as the answer.
Why would Cady be there when Wren fell asleep, and gone when she woke up? She left no trace behind, no trail—she did not steal any supplies. She simply vanished, as if she was never there at all.
And that's certainly how Jack and Dria act. They didn't know Cady for the quiet, wise and wonderful soul that she was—is... that part is still uncertain. But Wren does—she knows her well. Cady was there, like a perfect puzzle piece, and now she's gone, leaving an obvious gaping absence. An uneasy wrongness.
A cannon did fire earlier... but Wren doesn't think about that. It could've been anyone. Not Cady, not strong, steady Cady...
But if it was... why would she put herself in danger like that? Why would she leave Wren?
The questions are a whirlpool in Wren's mind. She paces mad circles around the chapel, waiting for her allies to collect their weapons.
She appreciates them, of course—they are wonderful, skilled. But they are not as wonderful as Cady. Especially not right now.
"Could you two hurry?" Wren practically shrieks. "We need to find Cady, and we need to kill the Careers, hopefully both at the same time—it's getting darker, we can't waste all day!"
Jack puts a calming hand on Wren's shoulder, which she doesn't necessarily appreciate. It does not bring Cady back.
"We've been trying to form a strategy. But we're just grabbing weapons, and then we'll be ready."
She speaks to Wren with an almost maternal tone, as if she's some child who doesn't understand the finer points of battle strategy. Who really needs that, anyway? Especially when your best friend could be dead or dying.
Still, she can't control everything and everyone, despite how badly she wants to. So she waits. Impatiently.
It seems like several more centuries pass before the other two finish strapping weapons to their bodies and make their way to the door. Wren races up ahead. She will scour this Arena for her friend, and she isn't afraid to destroy anyone that gets in her way.
Well... preferably the Careers. She doesn't really have any battles to pick with the other kids. But sometimes a girl needs to be a little dramatic.
The city feels abandoned, as always. She hears distant sounds—voices, footsteps. But they are too far away to be of any use.
She begins with the marketplace. Best she can figure, Cady might've just gone out on a little stroll. She could've... fallen asleep by a stall, curled tight where nobody could find her, not even the keen eyes of the vicious Careers on their hunt.
This is an easy story to tell herself. A comforting one. She yearns for it to be true. Yet there's a cold tingle at the base of Wren's neck, an obnoxious little voice nagging at the back of her brain, that warns of danger.
But Wren is ready for danger. She is a warrior. She will not quail before the jaws of fear.
So she marches forward, through the marketplace, searching between every stall—
Someone lets out a hiss. Jack. She stands to the side, between two stalls. Wren's feet drag, her body simply unwilling to find out what that sound meant. But Wren pushes forward, marching over to Jack, peeking between the stalls, to find...
A body. Sprawled. Blood. Blonde hair. Thin, short stature. A serene look in her dead eyes. Fitting.
Wren screams. The sound is sharp, shrill, horrible, like the cry of a wounded beast or a diving falcon. Angry. Agonized. Incensed.
Wren screams into the sky for a long, wavering moment, uncaring of who hears her, blind to the world around her. She feels her grief build in her throat, behind her eyes, in her chest, and she releases it into one channeled, wrenching sound. Her legs are cotton. Her mind is distant.
A hand clamps over her mouth. Wren's first instinct is to bite down on those fingers, hard, but she is too engrossed in her misery to even do that. Dria stands before her, a dead expression on their face.
"Quiet," they whisper, sounding annoyed. Of all things.
Jack stands silent, hands clasped, her angel's mask askew. Her eyes are deep, fathomless wells of grief. Her posture, slightly slumped. A single tear slithers down her cheek and disappears.
How dare she grieve for a girl she didn't know? Jack has no right.
Wren's scream breaks. She inhales deeply, trying to keep the sob from bubbling out. She tries desperately to transform her misery into cold, hard, easy anger. Anger, she can manage. She can work with.
She stares at Cady. Her throat was slit. Who would do this?
But Wren knows. It could only have been the Careers. But which? Whoever they are, she'll hang them by their ankles from the spires of the church until they are sorry for what they've done. She'll hurt them so much that her pain will seem only a phantom. She'll make them wish...
But these threats fizzle out beneath the cold flow of grief, this raging river that she cannot dam. And she's mad about that, too. She's angry at everything, everyone. She knows she's a mess, but she holds her chin high, spreads her feet wide in an avenging soldier's stance.
"They killed her," she says, her voice loud and bright-white hot. "They killed her!"
"Wren," Jack begins, "maybe we should—"
"No." Wren whirls on her, rage rolling off her like flames. "We strike now."
They already know, almost certainly, where their lair is located. The stage is vacant, its spotlight shining on nothing at all. The marketplace is too conspicuous, and the art gallery is too small. So it has to be the rather boring-looking building, with its blocky walls and robust structure. Cady... Cady actually helped Wren deduce that, while they were brainstorming.
But she can't think about that. She shoves her sadness away, into a corner where it can't be heard. Then she stands up straight, ready to face her adversaries.
She looks back one last time, at Cady's lonely corpse. She will hold a funeral later. But first... justice.
On second thought... why come to the Careers in their own domain? Why not bait them out on her own terms? Yes, that feels loads better.
She throws her arms wide, her face to the sky. "You! Careers! I know you're here! You killed my friend! Come out and face me, cowards!"
An arrow ricochets off a stall. It bounces on the cobblestones beside Dria's feet.
Her two allies try to silence her. They clamp their hands over her mouth, tell her to calm down, shut up, be smaller, say less. But she cannot, will not, let herself bow to anyone's will but her own.
She shakes off their doubt. She stands tall and brave and noble. She will make them pay for Cady's death, that irreplaceable piece inside her that she will never get back. She will see them burn.
And she doesn't care what anyone else thinks.
Because this is her life to lead.
Still, she cannot ignore the hairs standing up on her arms, the cold prickle of sweat on her forehead, the heat of fear that burns through her body, as they do exactly as she asked.
Four boys come out of the building, similarly decked in weapons. They look menacing. Big and strong, like they could crush Wren into the ground without breaking a sweat.
But Wren doesn't mind that. She figures she has passion enough to overthrow them. She is brave enough, strong enough, angry enough—
Another arrow narrowly misses her. Perplexed, her head whips around until she spots the girl. Tall, graceful. She aims from the highest point of the stage, gazing down at the marketplace like a queen from her throne. Wren remembers her from training—Naya Illumina, who'd rejected her from the Careers' alliance. To be fair, she'd done it politely. Still... that small detail doesn't matter to Wren. She'll show her and her friends that she is just as capable, just as powerful, as they are.
She wields her shortsword, the weapon she'd picked up on a whim. She'd much rather be throwing punches, but... while Wren is confident, she is not an idiot. If the Careers have weapons, so must she. Jack brandishes an umbrella, which she opens. A spear slips out, perfect for throwing. Dria readies a small knife.
And as one, the two forces collide.
Wren singles out the most burly and scary-looking guy. The boy from One. While his expression is mild and noncommittal, his build is bulky enough that he could prove a challenge. Plus, he carries a sword, like hers.
She rushes toward him, swinging her sword in a wide, clumsy arc. While he looks surprised and even a little dismayed, he brings up his sword to block without any trouble. He's probably just scared of her.
"Did you kill her?" Wren says, breathless, swinging her sword again.
He blocks. He has not yet made a move to attack.
"Did you?" she repeats.
He shakes his head quickly. He isn't even out of breath. "No—I wouldn't do that."
"Really? Last I checked, you were in the Careers! You seem like the perfect culprit!"
She jabs—tactlessly, as usual. He sidesteps. Still not attacking.
"I didn't kill her," he says quietly, calmly. This only infuriates her more.
"But you were apart of it. So I hate you."
She says this with an utterly scathing tone, her anger unexpected but easy. Not so painful as her grief.
Jab. Block. She is tiring of the pattern. Why won't he fight her?
His face is sad. She looks away. "I don't want to hurt you," he says, voice still soft.
"I didn't ask what you wanted! My friend is dead."
He steps back. Out of her reach. He is so aggravating—and she's not even sure why.
"I'm sorry," he says. He sounds... sincere.
She doesn't care.
She steps closer, into his space. He slips his blade under hers and twists, a disarming tactic, but Wren somehow holds on.
"Listen." His voice is desperate, but not afraid. Why does he not rise to her challenge? "I didn't mean to be involved in this. I didn't ask to be here—I didn't want to kill anyone, and I haven't—"
"Well, I'm sure Cady didn't want to be killed either!"
Her scream catches him momentarily off guard. His expression, still filled with sadness. Pity.
Well, she doesn't want his pity either. So she lunges forward and stabs him in the chest.
He falls. Blood... blood on her blade, on his shirt... He lets out an awful, wrenching gasp of pain. Stares up at her, aghast. A tear slides down his cheek.
Everyone is moving at once. Wren, stepping back. Naya, running forward to kneel by his side. She registers this in pieces, distant sounds and snippets.
The boy from Two lets out a cry of rage. His wolf's mask is Ghoulish and garish as he turns his angry eyes not at her, but toward Dria. He moves lightning-quick.
Nobody is ready.
His machete enters their back. They fall. Wren screams.
Jack, being quickly approached by the boy from Twelve, throws her spear. It lodges in his arm, and he stumbles. The boy from Six moves toward him.
Too much, too much, too much...
Horror wells up inside Wren. She stares at the dying, bleeding boy. The girl beside him, murmuring words of reassurance, her hand massaging circles on his back. Dria... Dria...
They look young, vulnerable, all sprawled out on the ground. And also... bitter, regretful. Perhaps even angry. They cast Wren a terrible look that she couldn't even begin to decipher.
Never mind... Never mind...
Wren does not want vengeance. She does not want blood. The boy's cannon leaves her ears ringing. Dria's, callous, is quick to follow. Insult to injury.
This isn't fair. She's not supposed to lose her friends! She's not supposed to feel this wicked, this tainted, like... like a monster. She needs to go.
Her heart shatters. She can almost feel Cady's disappointment seeping into her skin. Something tells her that her friend would not like the way she honored her memory.
But all she can do is grab Jack's arm and run. The two girls, shell-shocked, hold each other up as the full realization of what just happened settles over them. Somehow, this wasn't how Wren had envisioned their master plan.
And she doesn't feel better. In fact, she feels a hundred times worse.
...
Blade Cassidy, 18, District Six Male
It's quiet now, after the violence. Eerily calm. Everyone is dispersing. Naya, tearful but resolute, takes one last look at Marquis before retrieving her bow and walking back toward the printing building. Tremor, arrogant and unaffected as always, follows in her wake. The girls still left standing ran away a long time ago. So it's just him, Blade, among the dead. The feeling is familiar to him, has been since he was a child, discovering his parents' dead bodies. more recently, he's been the one to do all the killing, the corpses at his feet no one's doing but his own. Never has he felt so guilty for killing someone than he did Cady. Never has he hated someone as he does Tremor.
(But isn't he just as bad? What kind of monster kills a child?)
It seemed the only reasonable option. Tremor was just looking at him in that infuriating way, urging him to move, and the girl was a traitor. But he should've just walked away, laughed in Tremor's face.
He supposes killing is simply second nature for him now. And he hates himself for that.
Yet it doesn't dim the urge to kill Tremor in the night, when nobody can save him.
A flicker of movement catches his eye. He'd almost forgotten Alessio. When he glances over, he's more than a little surprised.
The boy is slumped on the ground, eyes unfocused. He is covered in blood, a spear in his arm, shaking ever-so-slightly. Blade had assumed that the boy simply brushed off the pain and walked right back to the printing building with everyone else, or at least that someone else would help him. But evidently, nobody else cares, and the wound is far more serious than Blade first realized.
Alessio is half-conscious, staring into the distance. Some kind of shock, maybe, or simply blood loss. Blade is a killer, not a surgeon. Still, he steps closer.
Alessio almost always has his guard up. He is cold, hardly one for conversation, and almost devoid of passion or feeling most of the time. Blade has never seen Alessio still stripped of composure. He looks so small and vulnerable, curled into himself on the cobblestones, his gaze haunted, his hair falling onto his forehead. Blade stops beside him, contemplating.
"Alessio," he signs.
The boy makes no movement. He doesn't seem to even know of Blade's presence, almost dead to the world.
Blade snaps his fingers in front of the boy's face. He doesn't blink, his gaze remaining vacant.
Well, what else can he do? He could simply leave Alessio out here to come out of his shock and make his way back alone. Perhaps that would be kinder. Surely Alessio wouldn't want anyone to see him in this state.
But maybe Blade's been alone just enough to know how it feels. And maybe he doesn't want to leave Alessio behind.
He throws his arm around the boy's shoulder, knowing that he's probably aggravating the wound but not really sure what else to do. He is lighter than Blade thought he would be; he lifts him into standing without much effort, but the boy is still limp and half-comprehending. He leans into Blade, his head lolling, and they stumble their slow way up to the building, where Blade maneuvers awkwardly so that he can get the door open.
Marquis's loss feels much more immense than Blade was expecting. His absence leaves a jarring gap, bringing their original five down to four. Naya and Tremor sit against the wall, Tremor looking totally at peace and Naya morose. When she sees Blade and Alessio, she jumps up to support the Twelve boy's weight. Blade doesn't necessarily need her help, but he finds he doesn't mind it. He's never had anything against Naya. He almost finds himself respecting her.
They make their way slowly over to the wall. He almost asks Naya for their first-aid supplies before realizing she won't be able to understand. Once they have Alessio settled against the wall, still limp and unresponsive, Naya moves without his needing to ask, bringing over disinfectant and fabric for wrapping. They don't have much to work with, so they'll just have to improvise with what they have.
Naya eyes him questioningly, but he waves her away. He can handle this. Reluctantly, she returns to the far wall, wringing her hands.
Blade eyes the spear stuck in Alessio's arm. He'll have to pull it out. If anything will bring Alessio out of his shock, it'll be this.
"I'm sorry," he signs hastily, before bracing Alessio's arm and pulling the spear out.
The boy flinches hard, his mouth opening in a gasp. He recoils from Blade's grip, swinging his fist, which Blade catches without trouble. He's practically glaring at him. But the spear's out. And the wound looks manageable, considering. Or at least... Blade thinks so. It probably won't be fatal, as long as they can get the blood to stop.
"What are you doing?" signs Alessio, his frowning mask and accusatory eyes somehow not surprising to Blade.
Blade holds up his hands, allowing a wry smile to play at his lips, though Alessio won't see it. "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you rather I left you outside to bleed out?"
Alessio still looks affronted. His brow is puckered. He doesn't answer.
"I couldn't get you to respond. You were in some kind of shock. You're losing a lot of blood. Can I help as, or do you want to do it all alone and injure yourself more?"
Blade is surprised at how easy the banter feels. Most people are surprised at his dry humor, and Blade usually doesn't show it, but... well, Alessio just looks so angry, as if he'd killed him rather than saved him.
The boy considers Blade warily. "Why?"
"Why what? Why do I want to help you?"
Alessio nods slowly, reluctantly. Almost coldly. Blade wonders what Alessio's secrets are. What happened to him that caused him to be so suspicious. Because he sees a distorted mirror of himself in Alessio's eyes.
He holds up his hands in surrender, before signing. "Why not? Nobody else was coming for you. And we've already lost someone today. Besides, what possible motives could I have here? If I wanted to betray you, I'd have left you."
Alessio considers this. He still looks uncomfortable. But he relaxes slightly. His eyes go from frigid to cool.
Blade takes this as a sign of permission. He examines the wound, feeling a small twinge of worry. He has no idea what he's doing. Of course, he's gotten his fair share of scrapes in his time. But he always recovered. Still, it's not as if he can leave the wound, open and prone to infection.
So he grabs a small square of fabric, dabs it with disinfectant and sets about cleaning the wound as best he can. As soon as the cool cloth touches his arm, Alessio's jaw clenches. It might not be fatal, but it certainly looks painful.
Blade keeps cleaning, figuring that moving quickly will be better than drawing it out, even if it's more painful. He's never done this before. Helped someone else, like this. He's not sure how to go about it.
Alessio is prickly, but so is Blade. So maybe they make a sort of pair.
Alessio's other hand is clenched so tight that his knuckles are white. Blade pauses for a moment, and then remembers the persona he wore in front of his friends. Conversation... he needs to fill the empty space with words. Maybe that will be distracting.
Yet all he can muster are questions. Perhaps that's fine. Alessio doesn't seem the type to enjoy small talk.
"Why do you know sign language?" he ventures.
The wrong question. Or perhaps anything he said could make Alessio stiffen like this, his expression bricking over, some kind of door inside him double-bolting.
Touchy subject?
But to his surprise, Alessio signs, awkwardly since he can't move his wounded arm much.
"My sister," he signs, his movements halting. "She... the Capitol took her. Cut out her tongue." Another long, excruciating pause. Alessio shakes his head, then keeps going. "I figure if I ever see her again, I have to be able to communicate with her."
Blade is shocked by this confession. It's far more than he expected. Alessio himself almost seems stunned, his hand falling slowly back into his lap.
Having finished with cleaning the wound as best he can, he moves on to binding the wound. He feels a quiet rage ignite within him.
"The Capitol did that to her?"
Alessio nods. "She was caught stealing." His eyes clearly say that he wants to move on. Blade should respect that. He shouldn't care.
But... he's not sure if he'll ever get a chance like this again, to really open this Pandora's box that is Alessio. He's not even sure why he's so curious; maybe because he almost feels similar to the boy, when he's felt isolated for so many years. And now, to learn that the Capitol wronged him too...
Besides, Alessio's entire body is still rigid with tension. Maybe their conversation isn't putting him at ease, but it is distracting him.
Blade decides to divulge some truth of his own. What can it hurt to tell Alessio? It's not as though the Capitol could punish him anymore than they already have. He pauses intermittently to sign.
"My parents were killed by crime lords when I was young. The Capitol did nothing about it. They simply brushed it under the rug like it didn't exist."
Alessio watches him with no small amount of interest. Better than indifference, he supposes. Once more, he moves as if to sign something, but then thinks better of it.
So Blade keeps talking.
"I killed them. The crime lords. But it still doesn't change the fact that the Capitol didn't care."
He swallows his grief, his rage. He's still unsure why he's even talking.
Alessio stares up at the ceiling. "They still have my sister. I Volunteered so that I could save her."
Small tidbits of information that Blade had deduced or been given by Alessio are slowly piecing themselves together. So, they both have agendas in the Capitol. Alessio had said he was looking for someone. That means that he's intent on winning so he can free his sister. But something still doesn't make sense.
"How did you know that your sister's tongue was cut out?" The fabric slips from Alessio's arm. There's still so much blood.
He pulls tighter, puts more pressure on the wound.
Alessio winces. "You wouldn't believe me."
He highly doubts that. He's patrolled the streets of Six at night and killed criminals in a mask with a stolen weapon. His parents were killed before his eyes. He's in a death match where twenty-three kids will die without consequence. Surely, he's seen everything.
"You don't have to tell me," he signs. He understands the need to hold your secrets close. Still... that doesn't mean he isn't curious.
He ties off the fabric. It stays. He moves on to a double layer.
"You'll think I'm crazy," Alessio insists.
Blade himself sometimes thinks he's crazy. Or, at least, a monster. He has felt blinding rage that has driven him to drastic measures. He doesn't remember his mother's embrace. But he doesn't tell Alessio this. He just waits.
"I see ghosts," he finally signs, his hands moving quickly.
Oh...
Alessio closes his eyes. Blade can feel his walls coming up.
"I see," he signs. The bleeding is slowing, at least.
"I see them all the time," he continues, to Blade's surprise. Perhaps it's the momentum. "They tell me what to do. Except..." He shakes his head, as if dispelling some terrible image.
"Except what?" Then, Blade comes to a startling realization. "Do you see ghosts of the dead Tributes?"
He nods glumly. His eyes are very sad, very uncertain. He looks scared. But Blade just keeps tending to his wound, putting pressure on his arm.
"I see one ghost in particular."
Blade pauses, carefully. Alessio's right—he doesn't entirely believe that he sees ghosts. He is cynical, above all things. But he does understand, slightly, what might have caused such a condition. Some people go through so much, and are so alone, that they don't know what to do with all the hate and hurt building in their chest.
Blade only knows this because he's felt it. Not the seeing of ghosts, exactly. No, Blade is haunted by his own ghosts. His parents, sometimes those he's killed. Even if he can't bring himself to regret it.
"Maybe they're trying to tell you something," Blade signs slowly.
Alessio looks shocked. "You believe me?"
Blade pauses. "I believe you see something. Even if..." He pauses, unsure how to phrase his next words. Never has he been one to withhold the truth, but... well, this feels different.
Alessio watches him. "You're looking at me like—"
"I don't think you're crazy." Blade forces himself to be patient. "But if you see these ghosts, it's obviously for a reason. I think you should face them."
Though, Blade's not sure if he can take his own advice. He doesn't even know who he is—he hates himself. He refuses to face the fact that maybe, killing the President will not make everything better.
But he pushes that aside. Alessio is watching him carefully. Almost in awe. Like he was expecting some kind of rebuke.
His eyes are heavy. His head sinks slowly toward his chest.
"Sleep," Blade signs. "Your bleeding has almost stopped. You'll be fine, as long as you don't move your arm too much."
Alessio nods. Still reluctantly. "I probably shouldn't have told you that," he signs.
Blade shrugs. "I probably shouldn't have told you about my parents. But I did."
Alessio lets out a breath. He slumps against the wall, his eyes falling closed, and is asleep in seconds.
Blade watches him for a moment, feeling a strange sort of protectiveness toward the boy. Never has he had a true friend before. All of his relationships in Six, after his parents passed, were superficial. Yet... he now understands Alessio. He almost relates to him. It's a strange feeling. One he can't quite name.
The distant voice of the herald cuts through his thoughts.
"Death serves no master. Yet our young players thought to wield it as their own weapon. Beware, my friends, for though we struggle against Death's shackles, it takes us all in the end.
"Dear Cady, whose apathy drove her to sin/Yet whose loyalties never quite died deep within.
"Marquis, who so longed to be shameless, a saint/t he gave in to death's will without a complaint.
"And Dria, who thought themself strong and immune/Yet they died without fanfare, extinguished too soon.
Your time runs out, dear my friends. Some might think they know the language of Death, but we all fear it, in our own right."
Blade stares out into the distance. So much death... what is any of this for? When does it end?
...
12th Place: Marquis Kennedy, killed by Wren Camphor. Marquis, my bestie! You had such fun energy. You lightened up the heavy feeling that always came with the Career pack. You would be such a great best friend—you were carefree, funny, and didn't care what anyone thought of you. Your drag was so cool. Yet you also had that underlying struggle of morality, and struggling with this notion of the Games. You deserved the world. I loved that you had your little moments of rebellion, and your bright personality was just a blast to write. You died without killing anyone, and I think that's the biggest mercy I could give you. You will be so sorely missed; you are such a cool guy. Thank you, LCS, for Marquis. I wish I could've given him a happier ending, but I hope I did him justice nonetheless. Here's to Marquis, our teddy bear; I hope that you find a stage where you can shine.
11th Place: Dria Isatis, killed by Tremor Atilius. Dria... you were very unique. One of the only loners in the cast, you were incredibly self-sufficient and introverted. I admired your confidence, your intelligence. Even if you were a quieter voice in the cast, you were still very distinct and I loved exploring your arc with Jack. You stretched my writing boundaries—your youth and solitude were sometimes challenging to write, but in the best way. Ella, thank you for submitting Dria; I hope I did them justice. Here's to Dria, our solitary powerhouse; I hope they find a place of solitude.
Hi! Oh my goodness, we are at the top ten. Crazy crazy. Welcome to day Five, part two! This chapter is very chonky. I don't know what happened. I just got the writing bug, I guess! I was shocked when I saw the wordcount. I have no idea if it will be like this all the time, or maybe it's just because this chapter is one of my all-Time favorites and one I've so been looking forward to writing. I'm sorry for the break, but this one took me longer to write as I wanted to get it just right. I hope it was worth the wait. Also also! We have reached 100k, which is more than I've written on a single project before. This might not be a big deal for anyone else, but it totally is for me. I am so in love with this cast and story, and all your support makes my day. I'd love to hear your thoughts if you have them! Umm... I think that's about it? I hope you enjoyed. I miss all the kids I've had to kill... the urge to make an AU where everything ends happily is strong. Anyway, I hope that all is going well for everyone! I'm abandoning my signature because it's getting boring lol.
Have a lovely day!
Miri