Luz Contreras, 15, District Nine Female
Luz goes into a kind of shock that she's not sure she can ever return from. She knows what it is, knows the symptoms from her time in the apothecary, sees them in a list, hears them in a voice that might be hers. It is gentle, clinical. Calm.
Hallucinations. Disassociation. Dizziness. Fatigue and rapid breathing and coldness... She knows them all. But her mind is a hundred disjointed pieces that float too far away for her to make sense of. She cannot find anchor. She cannot find control.
She dreams of Asa, draped in sunlight. His eyes sparkle and his arms are thrown wide and he is smiling, his fingers laced through hers, and all is warmth and safety and sense.
But then... the portrait fractures. Spots creep over his arms, his face. But Luz finds an antidote. And Asa drinks and his spots fade, and he is scarred but he is also there. Beside her. His eyes meet hers and he leans close, wraps an arm around her and whispers something into her hair.
But she can't hear him. She can't reach him.
And when she wakes up, the world is hazy. It's frustrating, to not be able to understand. To not know where she is, what she's doing, this broken puzzle of her world too scattered for her to comprehend. She's never felt this way before, never truly known the feeling of being outside of herself.
But Luz knows that something is wrong, feels the dread like iron in her throat. She knows she needs to come back. Wake up.
And wake, she does. Blinks into the too-heavy and too-thick present, tries to bring herself back to awareness. She knows what is happening to her, knows the cause, but can't figure out how to fix it. What was the cure for shock? She can't remember.
There is a boy beside her. Not Asa. A boy with patient eyes and careful movements, who turns to her when he sees her sitting up. His expression tells her something is wrong. Something bad has happened and she's the one left behind. Asa...
He looks pale. Callisto, with his tired eyes and drooping mouth. She should help him.
"Have you eaten anything?" she says, and her voice doesn't sound like it should.
His voice is soft and gentle and he speaks gingerly like he might break something if he talks too loudly. "I'm fine," he says. "You should rest."
But she can't rest, never has been able to when somebody needed her. And so she feels new energy course through her limbs as she quickly stands and cobbles together a meal from what remains of their rations. They're running out of water. How will they last any longer? She does quick calculations. To feed and hydrate three people with their remaining rations... they won't last much longer than a few days.
No. Not three. Two... Luz and Callisto. No Asa.
That can't be right. She shakes her head, frustration piercing the fogginess of her mind. Why can't she think clearly?
Shock. Right. Asa would smile at her and tell her not to worry. Not to think so much. He'd tell a joke and she'd laugh and be happy that he could be so spontaneous, so happy-go-lucky, when she was serious and meticulous.
Right. Food for Callisto.
She hands him dried fruit and nuts and jerky, a meager serving, but enough to tide him over until she can find more food, until she can figure everything out...
"It's not much," she says apologetically. "But we'll find more soon..."
He nods and he is careful, so careful. Awkward and hesitant as he takes the food, looks at it like he's never seen it before, like he's not sure if it's for him.
"Don''t you need to eat?" he says gently, and for some reason, his words send a stabbing pain into Luz's chest. Why does everything hurt?
"I..." She shakes her head. Surely there is more to do, something she's missing. She usually doesn't stutter like this, her words little more than fragments.
Asa. He is unavoidable, a void in her mind. Yes, now she understands where that word came from. Why is she thinking about this, when she should be thinking about grieving him?
And he is gone. Maybe that's the cure for shock. Thinking about the thing your body has shut down in the vainest attempt to ignore. But she can't ignore the absence where he used to be. She can't ignore the fact that it is not temporary, that he is not coming back.
A terrible image surfaces in her mind. Asa, his body... alone out there. Unburied.
She looks at what he left behind. His mask. The blanket he'd used. Carefully, she lifts the mask by its strings, examining it. It's meant to be a matching set, one of two.
"We should have... a funeral." She nearly chokes on the word.
Callisto looks almost uncomfortable, his eyes flitting everywhere but toward her. He is grieving, too, in his own way. His sister, whom he couldn't save. Luz supposes they are alike, in that way, her and Cal. They've both lost people they tried so hard to protect. But no matter how much you wish and work and want for something, sometimes it doesn't make a difference. Sometimes life takes what it will, and there's no way to stop it.
But this is not the natural cycle of life. Nothing about this is fair. The plague and the Arena and the way they'd been ripped from their families... all of it is manufactured. Carefully constructed so that the audiences could be entertained. But most of all, so that a group of teenagers could suffer and languish for a sin they didn't commit.
When other people lose their loved ones, they can say, "At least it was for a good cause. Or, "At least they died peacefully."
But there is nothing for Luz to say that would atone for this.
"Can you start a fire? Outside?" Luz asks Callisto, feeling cool, practical numbness settle over her like a curtain being drawn.
Callisto looks startled, but finally nods.
"We need to burn his mask," she decides, a terrible rift yawning open inside her. "I don't want it to... to get anyone else sick. And also, it's all that he has left. It could be like... like a kind of honor. Or memorial."
She's not sure if her words make sense. She knows little of traditional funeral ceremonies. But something about burning Asa's last possession is equal parts catharsis and anger at the Capitol. A way to honor his memory, and a way to defy the very thing that tainted it.
Funny. Luz had never much cared about the Capitol before, never thought of them as good or bad. They were so distant, and it had always been just her and her family, her and the ones she loved. Why would the Capitol ever matter to her?
But now she feels the keenest, sharpest hatred for them, more hatred than she's ever felt for anyone.
She walks outside with the mask, terrified at what she might see. But Asa's body is gone. She hopes... her throat closes off and her eyes fill with tears. She hopes he will have a proper burial.
Is this all he gets? A few words in an Arena that's far from private? A fire that couldn't possibly blaze long enough and bright enough to make up for the beauty of his life, and what it could have been?
It's not right. It's not fair. But it's all Luz can do. And that opens all of the floodgates inside her. She sobs as Callisto starts the fire, as she cradles the mask close to her chest, and when the fire is lit, Luz takes a breath. She has to be strong, if only for this moment. If only for Asa.
She looks up at the sky, blossoming with the faintest beginnings of night. She imagines a star, looking back at her. Imagines that Asa can see her, despite the fact that she is a realist and knows that even thinking about this is foolish. But she still tries to find the star Asa pointed out, whether he'd turned into a constellation or merely found one to watch her from.
But the sky is a void too. And it's not even the real sky.
"Asa..." she says softly. "I love you and I cherished every moment we spent together. I hope... I hope that you know I always appreciated you, and I will never forget you. And wherever you go, I hope that you can let go of all the sorrow and fear you once held, and keep the beautiful moments. I... I promise to live the rest of my life with the same joy and love that you showed me. You showed me that I deserve to be listened to, that I am allowed to relax sometimes. I will always miss your smile. I know this isn't much, and I know you can't hear me, but... I wanted to say it anyway."
Her hand hovers, with the mask clutched tight between her fingers. The only thing left of Asa she has. But also something that the Capitol gave him, as part of their game.
So when she lets it go, she is sending goodness and love to wherever Asa is. But she is also showing the Capitol that she won't play by their rules. No matter what.
And even if she cries while the mask shrivels and turns to ashes, it is a release. The mask meant plague, and Arena, and fear. But somehow, in burning it, she feels more connected to Asa. And she hopes that he would approve.
...
Alessio Spades, 18, District Twelve Male
Shadows are lengthening in the Arena, promising a long night. And Alessio knows it will be—not just outside, but here in this building where hostility and mistrust run rampant. It reminds him of watching a pot of water simmer and simmer, before finally boiling over. The helplessness of being stuck is getting to all of them, but most of all Alessio. He feels trapped, paralyzed, in the middle of it all.
It turns out, being wounded is not good for a boy who's used to being free—or, at least, in some manner of speaking. Despite his days in the mine being some of the darkest in his entire life, he'd take the solitude it brought him over this any day.
Well... almost.
If he can just convince the loneliness slowly filling his heart, he'd be able to say, without a doubt, that he'd rather spend the rest of his days underground, away from the chaos of life. But he can't say that for certain, because he does miss things. His mother. His sister, always. And— if he lets himself admit it, he misses Caldwell. The playful quirk to his lips when he smiles. His laugh, so full of sunshine. The confidence that rolls off of him in waves.
Despite all that, there are people here in this room that Alessio... doesn't mind. Naya is loud, yes, but she's a half-decent leader. He doesn't worry about her. It's Blade and Tremor that make him doubt, that cause conflict within him.
On the one hand, they are so often at odds, their every interaction akin to swords clashing. But on the other... Alessio respects them both, to some degree. Tremor, because of his professionalism, and his closeness to the Capitol. And Blade... Blade, because he, like Alessio, has many secrets, and is all alone. Because he found Alessio when he was half-conscious in the wake of a battle, and because he did not turn away when Alessio bared his soul.
Was that a thing Alessio should have done? He still doesn't know. But he does know that Blade saw him, in that moment. And he knows that Blade makes him feel... if not safe, then almost at peace.
But surely he should be focusing on his sister. He has to focus on her. It's the only thing keeping him from collapse. And surely she's still alive, and his winning will be her last chance at freedom. He can't fail her.
(She's not dead, is she? Alessio knows she's not, because he hasn't seen her ghost. But then, neither has he seen the ghost of his mother, so that doesn't prove anything... and he's spiraling again.)
This place, these thoughts, are unraveling Alessio's careful resolve. He feels as if he's drifting and can't find ground. That's all he's ever done. He never belonged anywhere, only at the Capitol, and he has to go back... but going back will mean losing Blade, losing Tremor.
It's too much. Why does he care about these people when he knows it's dangerous?
'They'll only hurt you,' the Fates whisper. 'You have to leave them.'
But leaving will mean being alone. And surely he could win, he could fight by himself—Panem knows he's done it his whole life. But he almost doesn't want to.
At present, Tremor is alternating between glaring at Naya and Blade, though he occasionally darts a glance over to Alessio, as if he will come to Tremor's defense. His three other allies are currently locked into a heated battle. Alessio cannot find the energy to participate, nor does he really know what side he's on, and so he pretends to be half-distracted and only concerned with interpreting for Blade, but listens intently to their conversation in case he can use it later.
"Naya, I don't care that you killed someone. I care that you didn't inform us before you left. You acted thoughtlessly." Tremor's voice and face are calm, but there's the slightest clench to his fists.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Naya says, voice dripping with condescension. "I didn't realize I needed permission to do my job!"
"Who did you kill?" Blade's signs are blunt, punctuated.
"The girl from Eight. I—I didn't realize I would encounter her. It was... I saw an opportunity and I took it. Surely you can't fault me for that. And besides, now there's only eight of us left! We should be celebrating."
"You killed her without getting any information from her," says Tremor testily, and Alessio gets the fleeting impression that he's now just pulling strings, seeing how far Naya's indignation will take her. "We could've used her, and you just ended her that quickly."
Naya laughs cruelly. "Oh, you're one to talk. Just how many people did you kill in the Districts? In cold blood and without much cause?"
"How dare you?" Tremor's smooth veneer is cracking, just slightly. He steps toward Naya.
Blade glances over at Alessio, and they share a look.
He can't stay here anymore. He's suddenly very tired. So he carefully steals away, hurrying to the door while Naya and Tremor are occupied. He needs some fresh air.
(He's certainly not going outside because he knows it's nighttime and that there could be a chance Caldwell's ghost will come to see him. That would be ridiculous.)
He tries to quell his relief when he gets a good distance from the doors, closed tightly behind him, and Caldwell's ghost materializes.
Alessio steps back, simultaneously wishing Caldwell would leave and hoping he'll come closer. He's strung thin, every worry a burden weighing him down, and he's tired of being around the conflict, tired of every aspect that's out of his control. He just wants to be alone.
(But he is lonely. Has been for a long time.)
Caldwell smiles at him, his most disarming grin. Full-force. "Alessio. You came back. Again."
There it is. The grin and his name, spoken like it means something, and it sends every one of Alessio's nerves humming. And suddenly he's tongue-tied again, all scrambled and shaky. Who does he think he's fooling? He can't stop looking at Caldwell.
"I needed some fresh air." But Alessio doesn't deny it.
"I would too, were I in your position. I can't possibly fathom how horrible it must be to reside with the Careers. Naya, especially."
Caldwell stares off into the distance, his eyes half-dreamy and unfocused, and Alessio steals a glance at him while he's distracted. Caldwell really is beautiful. And terrifying. And wholly unfamiliar, yet also... strangely approachable. He's as serious as Alessio has ever seen him, his face solemn and troubled. In that moment, Alessio wants to reach out, to say something that would make Caldwell understand all of the complicated feelings he's managed to get himself entangled in.
Of course, the Fates choose that moment to pipe up. He listens to the familiar cadence of their voices as he always has.
'What are you doing? You really think he'd like you back? You're selfish, Alessio. You shouldn't be here. You're destined to be alone, no matter what you do.'
The voices are heavy on his shoulders, and he looks away from Caldwell before he's caught. Before he lets himself wander too far down that path.
It's foolish of him, to even think it, but... well, Caldwell's just a ghost, and these are just moments in the stolen night air where everything is ethereal and indistinct and Alessio feels like he could soar, up and away from the tension and the heavy cloak of sadness he's long been made to wear.
But... he's not free. And he's not flying. And Caldwell... Caldwell is dead. A ghost. And surely their time is limited.
But maybe that's the beauty of it. Because ghosts have never hurt Alessio.
"Alessio?" Caldwell's voice is singsong, almost playful, as he calls Alessio back to the moment.
"Why are you here?" Alessio asks suddenly, sure he's asked it a thousand times before—in his mind or out loud, it doesn't matter which. "You say I keep coming back. Well, why do you keep visiting me, talking to me?"
Caldwell smiles. "What kind of question is that? You're the only thing from the world of the living that's worth coming back for."
A shiver runs up and down Alessio's arms. He steps back, unused to the feeling Caldwell's words give him.
But they don't mean anything. They're just facts. Right?
"What about your parents?" Alessio says hesitantly.
"That's different." Caldwell shakes his head. "They're... they're dead."
Something about that sends an uneasy prickle over his skin, an instinct he can't put a name to. Caldwell's words feel... wrong. Almost scripted.
He shakes off the thought. Ghosts wouldn't lie to him.
Caldwell is watching him intently, as if Alessio has all the answers, the ending to a story half-written. "You want to tell me something." It's not a question. Alessio feels heat creep up his cheeks at the bluntness of Caldwell's statement... and also the truth of it.
"I..." He stares up at the sky, listening to the discordant hum of the Fates in the back of his head, urging him to stop, lest he get hurt.
But he's already been hurt. So many times. And Caldwell is just a ghost. And Alessio feels a peculiar rightness about this feeling, like a weight that he needs to set down, or a light that needs to be shone. A truth, revealed. Out in the open.
He's not sure what moves him to action. It certainly isn't logic, and not impulse either. Perhaps something in between. Something so powerful that it overrides every fear and doubt, all the shame and guilt that he's been carrying.
"I have feelings for you," Alessio whispers, and his voice is raw and vulnerable and trembling. Everything that Alessio usually hates. Everything he's vowed to never be.
But his words seem to flip a switch in Caldwell. His smile softens and his eyes are bright and far too captivating. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" His voice is half-gentle, half-joking, and it makes Alessio's heart race.
"What... what do you mean?"
"I like you, Alessio," Caldwell says. Four simple words. An easy smile and a ghostly night and years of loneliness... these are what drive Alessio to action. They reach for each other, a perfectly spontaneous, yet undeniably orchestrated moment.
And Alessio doesn't know what he planned to do. Perhaps intertwine his fingers with Caldwell's. Just to know he's real, that this is real, that the freeing lightness he feels isn't illusionary. In this moment, he is simply enchanted, enamored, an unexpected longing inside him—the longing to know this feeling, to reach out the touch the boy who he can't help but be entranced with.
But his fingers don't find warmth, or anything tangible. They pass right through Caldwell's hand, which turns to mist at Alessio's touch.
And Alessio is so cold.
He pulls his hand back, suddenly so, so sad to lose something he didn't even know he had.
Just another one of the Fates' cruel jokes. Even if Caldwell likes him back, and even if they are both in the exact right place at the most perfect time, and even if Alessio has broken himself open and let the faintest rays of hope shine through his shield... he's still alone in the end.
But not quite. Because Caldwell is still there, his smile bittersweet.
"Ah," he says softly. And for once, Caldwell is completely sincere, wholly genuine. "I'm sorry. I didn't know... I should have realized."
Caldwell's sentences are choppy, half-finished. But Alessio understands. And there's so much space inside him, now that he's free of the shame and the pain and the fear. Of course, his sister is still out there somewhere and his father has still abandoned him and his mother is still dead. But... here is this one bright island in the storm, this eye of the hurricane. Here, a part of him that he didn't even realize was there feels seen. Here, Caldwell looks at him like he's worth seeing, and somehow the fact that they can't touch is almost okay, because Alessio knows, deep in his soul, that he doesn't have to be afraid of Caldwell anymore. That in this moment, he is accepted.
Still... that doesn't change the crushing knowledge that Caldwell is dead, and Alessio is stuck here, trapped within these awful walls. It doesn't make that knowledge any easier.
He sinks to his knees, unsure at which point his legs started shaking. It's quiet out here, and cold. But Caldwell is beside him, his eyes unimaginably soft and kind.
"You're... you're not going to leave, are you?" Alessio says, and he can't bring his voice above a whisper.
But Caldwell hears him. "I... I might not be with you all the time. But I'm here right now. And I'll always come back."
And then a hand falls on his shoulder. Alessio gasps and stands quickly, whirling to see who it is.
But it's just Blade, serious and still, a few paces behind him. And Caldwell is gone with a wink and a wave, vanished in the break between seconds, leaving behind a hollowness in Alessio's chest.
Blade watches him silently for a moment, his eyes deep and sad and somehow comforting. If it were Tremor or Naya that happened upon him in this state, Alessio would've been embarrassed. But it's Blade. And that's a margin better, somehow.
"I took your advice," Alessio signs numbly. Every part of him is shaking. "I faced the ghosts."
Blade's expression is almost unreadable, but Alessio catches the barest hints of empathy scrawled across his features.
Blade doesn't respond for a long time. Finally, he signs, "Do you want to talk about it?"
Alessio shakes his head quickly, a reflex. But he does eventually answer. He can't bear the silence, the emptiness. He's never felt this way before.
"I... I don't know if it was the best choice. Maybe it would've been better if I hadn't said anything." He pauses, unable to hide the other truth inside him. "But also... maybe you were right. Maybe I was meant to do it. To... face my feelings." He's trying his best to be vague, because the last thing he wants to do is talk to Blade about his potential relationship with someone who will always be out of his reach, a ghost that he can't even touch.
But at least it's all out in the open now. At least he can sit with the fact that him and Caldwell might've worked, in another reality where they weren't on such vastly different paths.
Alessio looks at Blade, expecting ridicule. Or, at the least, for him to walk away.
But Blade nods. And he stays beside Alessio in the cold and the vast emptiness of the never-ending night. Not signing. Not trying to help.
In the moment, it's exactly what Alessio needs.
...
Wren Camphor, 15, District Seven Female
Wren used to be carefree. She used to dance through the trees as if the world could never pin her down. She used to believe her biggest worry was getting caught in a petty prank, her biggest desire to escape the confines of her District. Well, she's escaped, alright.
But her heart feels like a tree split in two, creaking as its two halves separate, groaning beneath the weight.
She'd... she'd killed someone. A boy. A boy who probably had a family back home, whose eyes had been bright one moment and dull the next. She'd killed him because she'd been angry and afraid, and there was still plenty of that inside her, enough to fuel a hundred fires.
But there's also regret, and sadness, and hopelessness. There is a sense of not knowing what to do next.
Jack sleeps beside her, and Wren feels an unexpected appreciation toward the girl. Like somehow, all this grief had managed to carve out a space for more friendship to fit. At this moment, she stares at Jack and sees a girl overflowing with love, with compassion and hope and steadfastness. How many friends have they both lost? Yet, they're still here together, in this quiet corner of a sparkling village Wren had once thought beautiful.
Now she sees its monsters.
She creeps out past Jack's sleeping body, through the church doors. A pair of stone gargoyles leer at her from the steps. Had they been there before? She shrugs off the chill creeping down her spine and hurries past them.
The moon is penny-round and bright. The now-familiar man crosses the stage, a distant figure.
"Our show is winding toward its final finish, my friends. Fear runs dark and cold through the streets, and tension is a tightrope stretched thin. Who are your friends, and who are your enemies? Treachery is as sharp as any knife, and I think all of us will learn that, in time.
"Felicia, our dear, tragic lover, who learned/T the road to acceptance was long, yet well-earned.
"Ah, my friends. You might think you are safe. You might assume you've found solace. But nothing can ever stay the same forever. Haven't I told you? Change is inevitable."
Wren stared into the vast, star-specked sky. Who... who are her friends?
She knows who her friends had been. Dria, Cady. They're dead, and Wren can't help but blame herself a little. How can she not? She's the one left behind.
It's just as easy to blame the Capitol, the boy from Two, the boy from Six. Perhaps even the world itself. But Wren has never went for the easy path, especially not at a time like this, when someone still needs her.
Her last friend, at least the only one here with her. Jacqueline Baylor, soft-hearted and strong, asleep in the gaping emptiness of the church. Wren looks back at the doors.
"I promise," she whispers into the air, knowing nobody can hear her, knowing she's talking to herself... or her distant audience. She doesn't care. "I promise to protect you, Jack. As long as I live and breathe, you'll be safe. And... and that might not be long. But I won't ever leave your side, and I won't do that thing I do... where I get angry and do something stupid. Or if I do, it'll be for you."
Not much of a promise. She scoffs, disappointed in herself.
But it's all she can do. She's so tired of friends dying. Maybe if she just loves Jack enough, protects her just so, it will do something. It's better than stewing and crying, which is basically what she's been doing for the past day.
Wren is not somebody who sits still. And she wants to put her spark to use. Not for pranking, or avenging, or winning. Just for protecting. Defending. Saving.
It's a familiar concept, but one Wren stands and ponders for a long time.
And she supposes the Capitol must appreciate her declaration, because at her feet falls a loaf of bread, a canteen, and... and a bow and arrow. Not something she's ever really used, or been fond of. When it comes to combat, she prefers close and quick, hand-to-hand. But who is she to deny a gift?
She winces all the same, as she lifts the bread and the canteen, hefting the bow over her shoulder. Surely if they cared enough to send a gift, they'd have at least known her weapon of choice.
The tiny, slightly-more-genius voice in her head whispers that maybe it's a sign. Maybe it's time for Wren to change, to look at things in a different light.
And that's so philosophical that she almost laughs. Jack might appreciate that. And maybe Cady would appreciate the irony of Wren getting a weapon she doesn't know how to use. Dria would get that crease between their brow and look at Wren like she was a mild annoyance, but really Dria liked Wren. She just knows it.
She carries these memories with her, back into the church, choosing to focus on the good. That's one thing she's good at that never hurt anybody. She slumps against a pew, setting the bread down next to the canteen, and laying the bow across the row in front of her. "Goodnight, Jack," she whispers, even though she knows Jack's fast asleep.
Tomorrow, she will tell Jack of the newfound peace she's found, in finally giving up her anger. In choosing to use her skills for others instead of herself. It's a small promise, really. Not much. But Wren has always been small; that doesn't make her any less fierce.
She smiles. In another life, Wren and Jack would get out of this together. But for the first time, Wren hopes it's Jack that wins, instead of her. And that freeing realization gives Wren an unexpected sliver of joy.
...
Hi! Woo, that was a chapter. It gave me a bit of trouble and I feel like my writing isn't at ms best necessarily, but I guess that everyone gets in slumps sometimes! Hopefully it's not too obvious lol. That said, I loved getting back into these kids' heads and writing these scenes. Despite there being no deaths and this being a relatively chill chapter, there was still sadness all around so I'm looking forward to hearing all your thoughts. This chapter once again made me very sad to write, but I'm guessing that will be a theme for... a good long while haha. I hope you are all having a wonderful December! I've got some time off from school so hopefully I'll be more consistent with schedule! Thanks for sticking around and reading, and I hope you have an awesome week!
Oh, real quick before I end, I wanted to mention just some quick things I forgot. It's currently day 6, part 3—this day needed three parts for me to get all the things done lol, sorry for the awkward split with the interlude. Also, the differing lengths in POVs are simply a reflection of what I need to get done at the time of that POV, with that specific character. Now I'm done for real. Until next time.
Miri