Callisto "Cal" Novella, 17, District Five Male
Cal feels death looming. It's a prickle on his neck that he can't shake, an ominous cast over the world that he knows can't be lifted. Because he's in a place full of death, where death lingers in every corner. He cannot escape it, and yet he longs to.
What exactly tells him that death is near? He supposes it's the fact that he shouldn't even be here. He should've died earlier in the Games, before his sister put herself in danger and the Careers killed her and then told him to run. Why kill her and have mercy on him? It doesn't make sense.
Nothing does. Why should Luz be left behind; why should Asa, the boy she cared about most, be taken away from her? She's never done anything wrong.
He's in a similar situation. Perhaps he could grant himself the same grace?
But... no. He's different. Not good enough to deserve any kind of love or space in the world. Living in a household where telling the truth and being kind would get you punished, Callisto has always felt helpless. Less, in general. And he's always needed to understand. To know why it was him that was mercilessly ridiculed and shunned, and why his sister blossomed beneath a flood of treachery and blackmail. She was destined to rule an empire built on lies, money piling up around her and the company flourishing beneath her hand.
Maybe that's how the world truly is. Treachery, deceit and ruthlessness carry you to the top, while sensitivity and soft-heartedness only get you killed. There is no reward for the good, no retribution for the wicked. The world is a place that does not make sense.
And for so very long, Cal has yearned to make sense of it. What else could he do? When every conversation felt like a minefield and every interaction like slogging through cement, when Cal tortured himself wondering what in Panem's name could be wrong with him... philosophy was his only balm and solace.
But now the end is nearing. And Cal still doesn't have the answer. In fact, he's farther from it than he'd been when this whole mess had began. He was supposed to die—the self-sacrificing twin whose sole purpose was to extend the life of his more useful counterpart. And Luz and Asa were supposed to make it, to live out their lives together. They deserved it, so very much, as much as anyone he'd ever known.
But maybe the Games weren't supposed to happen in the first place—their horrors were never meant to permeate Cal's life, never destined to cut Colby's life short. Even if, in a perfect world like Moore's Utopia, none of these things would have occurred. But they have.
And now... it feels blasphemous even to think this. Cal shakes his head where he's sitting by the door, mapping the stars in an attempt to map the world. Keeping watch over a sleeping Luz and trying to dissipate his thoughts into the air because if he just ignores them...
But that wouldn't be right, wouldn't be moral. Even if Cal has never been the paragon of nobility or honor, even if he feels like a lost soul stumbling along an impossible road, he's still trying. Still desperately hoping to find the answers.
His thoughts circle back again. He has to face things, if he ever wants to solve them.
He's almost free now, in a sense. Without Colby's taunts, her apparent hatred for him. And of course, he could never resent her—one doesn't resent a sun for rising, or a bird from flying. It's simply in their nature. But... he doesn't have to lie for her anymore, isn't forced to witness her vain rampages and callous bloodshed. He has a friend, the closest to one he's ever found, and he wants to keep her safe. That feels like his purpose, now.
Callisto allows just one more forbidden thought. Perhaps because the morning is new and his time is short and death is so very near. Perhaps he truly was destined to be the hero of this story. Not Colby, or anyone else. Maybe he has the goodness inside him, the capability. Maybe he should stop living his life for everyone else and start living it for himself.
But what kind of life would it be? How would he even begin?
He turns back to Luz, sleeping fitfully. She hadn't wanted to fall asleep, but he'd stayed by her and told her about the constellations he'd long memorized, until her eyes fluttered shut. Now she's still and her face is not creased with grief or empty with detachment. She looks content.
Maybe the small kindnesses he'd given Luz and Asa were hardly consequential in the end... but he hopes they meant something. He hopes, if Death does come to meet him sooner rather than later, that he'll be remembered for these things—the small kindnesses. He lets himself fantasize for a moment, sees himself painted as a hero in the stories. He'd have hope enough to persevere, intelligence that solved every dilemma, and—most importantly—goodness and truth.
His parents might have taken everything away from him, but they have not yet taken this. And nobody is going to.
Half-caught in the throes of the early morning, the hazy curtain of sleep still draped over the world, Cal lets his mind wander. He hears a voice in the back of his head that sounds kind and loving and warm, filled with compassion that he cannot extend to himself. It almost sounds like Luz, the only soul that had shown him kindness in such a long time—as a result of a choice he'd made, he reminds himself. He can't decide if he regrets that choice or not. Would it have made any difference in Asa and Luz's lives, if he'd not been there? Surely, he has never impacted anything for good in his life, as much as he's tried, reached vainly for the prospect of morality and honor.
The voice gets louder, and soon Cal cannot ignore it. Maybe... maybe it's not his fault. His sister's death, the way his parents treated him, even Luz and Asa's terrible misfortune. Surely, he's done everything he can—no matter what obstacles remained his his path, he's continued to study and struggle against the bounds of his parents and the way he could never quite act on the knowledge he'd built up. Cal has always been plagued by a kind of sadness, a desperation that never truly went away. And he's not good with people, never has been, and—maybe—never will be. He can never be his sister. Nor has he wanted to be.
He is not the figure of the story, the one chosen to move the Earth itself and save the world from its own demise. But he is trying. And maybe, this once, he can let that be enough. Just to sit in this tiny shack and know that there's someone on his side, and understand that he's done everything. Tried so hard. Surely he deserves a break?
He stares out, one more time, into the burgeoning dawn. The sky is gray and the clouds hang heavy against their backdrop. Everything is still too quiet, too pristine.
Cal allows himself one last thought, before he wakes Luz and the day begins. In this perilous slot between passivity and action, he lingers for just one moment.
Maybe there isn't a single answer to the definition of morality and how to achieve absolute good. And if there is, maybe he doesn't need to find it.
Because he is trying. His careful actions have effects, no matter how small. And he knows he'll drive himself insane if he questions things anymore, because every un-truth and dead-end will continue to tug at the slowly unraveling thread of Cal's foundation.
Everyone has different ideas of morality, but the trick is to sort through those ideas and find the ones that resonate. That make sense.
A thump sounds from outside. Cal glances up, startled and guilty.
It's a parachute. He stares at it in confusion for one extended moment before cautiously edging forward. Inside the parachute is a simple leather-bound journal and a gleaming pen, complete with a plume. He stares down at it, wondering if this is some bit of humor for the Capitol. He's always wanted to write stories, to find somewhere that was far away from every bad thing he couldn't escape. And now, as his world is coming apart, here's the very thing that he's never been able to do, right in front of him.
He smiles, a rare expression for him—and rarer still is that wryness that lurks behind that smile. Nobody will read this, surely. And Cal has things to say. Always has, always will.
So he picks up his pen and begins to write. About beliefs and half-truths and the impossible things beyond. He compiles quotes from the countless sources he's scoured, while also adding in choice pieces of discovery that he himself has found. He writes of choices, and how life is full of them. Mistakes, too. He writes of small moments, and how those are sometimes the most important.
His fingers begin to ache. It feels as if he loses eons in his writing, every increment of passing time all but meaningless to him. But, all told, he writes for only an hour. And as he writes, he discovers. He learns.
There is no right answer, no perfect solution, no foolproof way to put morality into practice. And this almost breaks him, crushes his soul into fine powder, because it can't be. His life—short as it may be—has been dedicated to this... and to find that there is almost no solace here is all but obliterating.
But Cal is a master at finding good in situations. And he finds pearls of truth in this one too. It's almost freeing, knowing that he's not to blame for his parents' scorn, for his sister's pride. There's a sort of liberation in taking responsibility into his own hands. He understands, now. A life only belongs to the person who lives it, and no amount of instructions and guidelines can truly show them every step on their journey. Life changes too quickly for that. The only thing one can do is keep learning, keep trying, despite everything stacked against them. There is an answer to the meaning of morality, and the answer changes day by day, depending on who you are and what you're faced with.
He closes his journal for the time being, fingers shaking. He goes back inside to wake Luz, and he still struggles to meet her eyes and reckon with the grief there that he knows he cannot take away or comfort. But he does know that he can do all in his power to help. And that means something. Yes, Death is coming—will come for him, eventually, no matter what.
But for the first time in a long time, Cal feels some semblance of peace.
...
Wren Camphor, 15, District Seven Female
Wren wakes up with new energy coursing through her limbs, a kind of light that feels almost as if it could shoot from her fingertips. And it's not necessarily the light she used to possess, nor is it the light of joy. Wren feels as if she's lost whatever part of herself that could fully, truly experience that. But Wren feels everything in lurid colors, vivid bursts of sound and motion and fury. Anger, sadness, joy, anticipation... all are glaring and great in their ferocity.
Wren can't quite put a name to what she's feeling today. Perhaps it's the fervency of a new purpose, the knowledge that she's going to protect Jack, that nothing will ever hurt her because Wren will keep her safe. Maybe it's the fact that she can almost hear Cady's and Dria's voices in the back of her head, cheering her on. Maybe it's just that the morning feels so electric, like the way the world feels right before a lightning storm. As if nature itself is holding its breath.
Wren leaps up from where she's sprawled herself across a pew as a makeshift bed, leaving the chapel and half-ignoring the mosaics and reliefs around her, the casual yet breathtaking beauty that surrounds her. Despite the church's obvious grandeur, Wren has no time to stop and admire it, no matter how much she's always enjoyed beauty. No, she feels something dawning outside, and it's bigger than the sunrise. Something is coming.
Perhaps she should be afraid. Maybe dread should collect at the base of her spine and drag her down until she is bowed-backed before the world. But Wren has never been one to be defeated, nor has she succumbed to the negative taint of the world. And if she ever does feel something negative... well, it's the same way she feels joy. Alive and electric and messy.
Outside, the sky is a murky gray, the first time it hasn't been asparkle with clarity, the sun like a beacon shining down upon the glimmering streets. Today, all is gloomy. And Wren is sad, too, if she lets herself think about it. She feels a plethora of things in a multitude of colors: worry, grief, hopefulness, exhaustion. All of them result in a kind of catalyst. Something that brings Wren over the edge of passivity. No; it's time to act.
(Although... last time she acted, she got her friends killed, and killed someone herself, and it had felt like something severed inside her that day.)
But this time is different. Because she's not fighting out of vengeance or spite. She's acting to save a friend.
She pauses at the window, suddenly remembering something. They're running low on supplies. Yes; that's what they can do. They can forage for food, water, maybe even clothes. She walks back to where their goods are stored and winces at the sorry display before her.
No, this won't do. She'll have to brave the outside, the city in all its glory. But Wren is not afraid.
She's also not alone. She's not going to let Jack out of her sight.
Jack herself has just woken up, probably due to the clamor Wren's making as she mumbles to herself, reorganizing cans of food; her every small motion sends a riot of sound through the echoing chapel, especially because this Arena has always been quiet and haunted. This vexes Wren, because she's always thought a city like this would be bustling, wild with light and excitement. She longs to fill all these empty, shucked streets with noise and fun and brightness. But... maybe she doesn't. Because she doesn't quite feel like clamoring so much as of late. No, something inside Wren has been muted, perhaps dwindling by the hour.
She can't let herself think about that. Too terrifying. Instead, she throws her smile like a beam of light at Jack, whose eyes are heavy with weariness. She manages a smile back, however, her chocolate-brown eyes filled with warmth.
"Jack, Jack!" says Wren, trying to be brave for her friend and summon enough eagerness to bolster the both of them. "It's time to go shopping! Or... scavenging, if you want to be boring. But I don't wanna go without you and we're in need of new supplies so I thought we could just go together! You could just come with me! How's that sound?"
She's missed the way her words torrent out of her like this—for the past couple of days, sound and movement have felt like lifting impossible weights, a labor just to speak, just to exist. But now she almost feels... free.
Jack gives her a fond look. "Sure. I'll be out in a second. Bring your weapon with you, just in case."
Wren goes to grab her shortsword, but then her eyes fall on the bow and arrow, the gift from whoever was watching her. Somebody took the time to send it. Surely... surely she could at least try it out. Besides, she isn't afraid of the dark, or monsters.
(Or... maybe she is a little bit. Maybe she's afraid that monsters and darkness could be creeping around just out of sight, even inside herself. But she shakes that thought with all the scorn it deserves.)
She marches outside, bow wielded, into the murky daylight. And freezes. One gargoyle is on the steps. The other... it's gone. She can't see it anywhere.
She pauses to stare at the statue, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine. It's slate-gray, made of some kind of stone... granite, maybe? Wren's not an expert. Its eyes are bright emerald green, and as she watches it, unnerved, the thing's head swivels and trains those very eyes on her.
Wren stumbles back. "Jack!" she cries out. "Jack, don't move! Stay inside where it's safe—"
The statue moves so fast that Wren can't even track its movements. She cuts off midsentence as stone talons slice into her arms and lift her into the air. She can't tell if the creature is alive, or simply animated by some unknown force... but it's a terrible sight to see. Its hideous face, misshapen and wrong... the razor-sharp talons lethal enough to slice her to ribbons... and of course, its powerful set of wings, which beat with a sound like clashing cymbals as it soars toward the church steeple, Wren clutched in its grip.
She struggles and squirms, putting up as much fight as she can. She is a whirlwind of a girl, her terror and rage and sadness compacted into one massive struggle as she fights to free herself from the gargoyle's viselike grip.
Wren can't explain what happens next. Maybe the gargoyle banked in such a way, or maybe her vicious twist was timed perfectly right, or maybe the gargoyle had planned to do this all along. The gargoyle's claws loosen around her and she flings herself free, landing with a jarring, teeth-rattling impact on the gabled roof of the church. She lies there, stunned, for a moment, watching the sky spin above her and the world come undone.
But then Wren gets back up. She slips, momentarily, in her fancy heeled shoes, but then she regains balance, eyeing the sloping surface of the roof with no small amount of fear.
She's... she's alive. She's okay. The gargoyle...
It doesn't take long for her keen eyes to find the creature. Its wings flap, and at the same time, the sky splits open and the wind stirs to life. Wren sways on the roof. The monster is making its way toward Jack, its intention unmistakeable.
She has a fleeting moment where it feels as if the world has gone quiet and she's trapped within the walls of her own mind. Why is this happening to her? Was it not enough for her to lose her friends, the desperation of the loss leading her to take another life? Was it not enough for Wren to be irrevocably changed, wondering if her soul is forever sullied?
Evidently not. She knows that this Arena will just keep taking and taking from her until there's nothing left to give.
But she won't let it take Jack.
"Hey!" she screams after the gargoyle, flailing her arms in a frantic pinwheel, uncaring if the whole Arena hears her. "You useless hunk of rock! That's right, I'm talking to you! You're ugly! So ugly your other statue friend had to leave, because it couldn't bear your presence. That's right! Come and get me; I'd like to see you try!"
The gargoyle was standing inches away from Jack, still paralyzed in the doorway of the church. But at the sound of Wren's voice, the unnatural creature whirls in a motion too fluid, too fast. She can almost imagine that she feels the weight of its gray-green gaze upon her.
But she's not afraid. Her voice is powerful, and so is her resolve. She will not allow another loss, will not accept it. She will crush this gargoyle into smithereens if she has to, and all without batting an eye, because Wren Camphor knows she's always been too much. But she's never cared if her voice was too loud, her temper too quick.
It's finally coming to use. And everyone who doubted her will soon have cause to reconsider.
Wren knocks an arrow on her bowstring, fingers clumsy and inexperienced. She almost fumbles the arrow, but finally manages to get it fixed to the string. And when she pulls back, aiming at her target, she knows her heart is aiming true.
The gargoyle dodges the arrow easily, still seeming unruffled by Wren's attempts to incense it. She pulls off her bothersome heels, feeling the freedom of her bare toes gripping the roof's tiles, and hurls them point-first at the gargoyle. One ricochets off its stone hide and the other clatters to the cobblestones.
This finally causes the gargoyle to let out a shriek. It swerves sharply and lands not inches away on the roof, its talons making an awful scraping sound against the surface. Wren does not back away. She wields her bow, but her hands are getting clammy.
Wren is optimistic. She is also scrappy. But she's not stupid. And she knows that she's picked the wrong weapon.
Wren does close-range, preferring to get right in the enemy's face. This weapon will do little more than annoy the creature in front of her, whose stone exterior is doubtless impenetrable. Wren feels the first true pang of uncertainty as she takes in the creature and its lithe grace, how it paces across the roof before her. It is watching her, calculating the perfect moment to lunge.
It prowls closer, and Wren dances back, sending a wild kick at the gargoyle's legs. Her foot gives a sharp twinge of pain, and the gargoyle barely flinches.
This is a hopeless fight. But Wren has never quailed in the face of hopelessness before. She has never tasted defeat, and she won't be starting anytime soon. She has to keep this thing away from Jack.
Wren feints to the left, toes gripping the edge of the roof, but then dances back again. The gargoyle does not fall for her trick, simply watching her with its terrible, unshakeable eyes. She knows that it is simply biding its time.
"You don't scare me," she says, even though she knows it can't hear her. Or... she hopes it can't. "I'm not afraid of you!"
But she is afraid of losing her friends. If she can just keep it distracted long enough, keep it angry at her... then maybe Jack will be safe.
This creature is obviously automated, a thing made of stone instead of sentient, human drive. That must mean there's some way to dismantle it.
But Wren has no experience with machines. She is accustomed to trees and soil and sunlight.
That doesn't stop her from flinging herself onto the thing's back, madly clawing at its surface as she scrabbles to find something... a release switch, maybe a lever?
Wren breaks her nails against the gargoyle's stone flesh. Blood drips down her fingers and she gasps in frustration. This isn't fair.
The gargoyle shakes her off like she's a mildly annoying, but ultimately harmless, fly. She skitters across the roof and only barely manages to roll to her feet before she's sent totally over the edge. Her legs tremble.
But she faces the monster, resolute, and she takes a breath. She is well aware of how steeply the odds are stacked against her. But she does not flinch as the gargoyle advances. She lets out a battle cry as it pounces, its terrible talons coming inches from her.
But Wren can't win everything. And some natural instinct takes over, in that moment, an instinct that even she can't control.
She scrambles back, away from the gargoyle's cold, unfeeling grasp.
But there is no surface beneath her. For a surreal moment, she manages to stay balanced, hooked to the very edge of the roof. But then the wind changes and Wren is falling, falling backwards...
But she is not afraid. She does not look at the ground, in that splitting second between sky and earth. Instead, she watches the gargoyle as it slowly lifts from the roof and soars away over the village, likely seeking some other prey.
But that's not the important part, not for Wren. It's the fact that the gargoyle is no longer seeking Jack. Maybe it's satisfied with its one kill, the fact that it drove Wren off the roof. And something in Wren is satisfied too, at peace, as she finally lands and something breaks inside her. Something she knows will not mend, something even she will not recover from.
She watches Jack run to her. Distantly, she registers the girl's tears, but all Wren can do is sigh. "You're safe," Wren whispers. "I... I made a promise. Did I keep it?"
She's suddenly desperate. She doesn't want to break her word.
But Jack's hand is gentle when it brushes over hers. "You saved me," she whispers. "Rest now. You could still live..."
But Wren knows that's not true. It doesn't matter. She's done all she can, spent the light inside her and banked the flames until they glowed. She's seen things she wish she could forget, and known people she'll cherish forever.
But the most important thing? Wren never lost hope. Not even at that very last moment.
...
Blade Cassidy, 18, District Six Male
He should've left them by now, or they should've split. From the moment Blade entered that training room what feels like months ago, he'd had a plan. Join the Careers to keep up pretenses, and then leave when things got tight. And things are certainly strenuous between them all, tension strung taut all around their ink-stained building, the walls practically closing in around them. When Marquis was still with them, there had at least been a ray of light to break up the solemnity and the agitation that each seem to carry on their shoulders. He'd been the binding that held them together, kept them aloft.
But now that he's gone, Blade can't quite say what's keeping them united. Momentum? Pure fear of change?
Blade should leave. They've reached a delicate balance, and his abandoning them could upset that, one way or another. He knows something has to give soon; it's only a matter of time. He's always worked alone, and the extraneous strain of allies was never a part of his plan. One cannot have friends when the stakes are so high, when the streets are so dark and full of crime at every turn.
So why is he still here?
He's not in Six anymore—that much is true. But he still burns with a rage that he can't quell, still worries about a knife in the night that could end his mission before it truly began. Here he is now, with seven Tributes left to victory—six, since that cannon a few hours ago—and it feels as if he's no closer to that goal. As if maybe a part of him has been changed by this Arena, bent into a new shape.
He doesn't like to think about that. Changing. In a way, that means the Capitol has won.
And they can't win. Not in a million years.
Blade turns, feeling eyes on him, and finds the building still cramped with his other allies. Naya is bent over the supplies, murmuring unhappily. Both Tremor and Alessio are watching Blade—Alessio, like Blade is a riddle he can't quite figure out; and Tremor, with a blazing hatred emanating from him that Blade has never quite seen before.
Yes, it's evident that Tremor hates him, hates everyone here. But he's always gone about things with an aura of unshakeable calm that made him all the more infuriating, as if he conducted his every movement without a grain of passion. Emotion dictates everything Blade does. Sadness keeps him human, and rage keeps him sharp, and the wanting and wondering... he's not sure he has much use for that. But the unsteady questions and the desperate dreams have wormed their way into Blade's head, especially potent today.
"We're running out of water," Naya announces, and Alessio comes to sit beside Blade so he can interpret, his eyes bloodshot and darkened with exhaustion. "Has anyone seen a water source around here?"
"It was raining earlier," signs Blade. "Maybe we could collect water?"
Tremor moves to throw open the door, and sunlight spears through the gap, illuminating the hulking printing press and the group of four tired Tributes, cowering away from the glare. A few remaining clouds are flanking the sun, but they're fluffy and white. Blade quickly pushes past Tremor and notes that the sun has burned away the rain, along with the morning dew. The pavestones gleam as they always have, perfectly clean beneath the noonday sky.
"Well, it's obviously not raining anymore," says Tremor. "Why didn't you tell us?"
Blade spins back to face him, fists clenched. "I didn't know we were running out. If you cared so much, you'd have noticed."
"We all should have heard it," says Naya, raising her hands in an attempt at peace, but her eyes are desperate. "We'll just have to be very careful. We have enough to last us... a few days, if we ration. Nobody drink too much."
It feels like ages since they've all left the building together. The air is cool and clean, and Blade can feel something within him relax.
He could run now, if he wanted to. How could they stop him?
But then he sees Alessio, leaning against the wall, twisting his skull ring around his finger. His brow is creased and his jaw is clenched. Blade remembers the way he'd looked last night, drawn and shaking as his knees pressed into the cobblestones, how he'd looked at Blade with haunted eyes.
No. He can't leave, not yet.
Maybe the very thing that holds the fabric of their pack together is Alessio. It's odd to think about—the boy has always been unassuming, not saying or doing much in the way of opinions, always staring off somewhere as if he was looking for someone—his sister, Blade now knows.
But he doubts that even Tremor hates Alessio. And even if Blade asked Alessio to leave with him, he doubts he'd say yes. He needs the safety of the other Careers... and besides, it would be cruel of Blade to force such a decision on Alessio.
Besides... why would the boy even want to go with Blade? He's a monster, one who's practically friendless. He's killed so much that he can't even look at himself. Why would anyone else want to?
"What's that?" It's Naya who is speaking, pointing out into the sky.
It takes Blade a moment to register the unsettled tremble of Naya's finger as she gestures, the tight set of her shoulders, and then... the dark shape wheeling its way toward them.
Too large to be a bird, and the shape doesn't quite match up either. It's certainly not a hovercraft—doesn't move like one. Blade blinks, trying to make sense of the scene before him.
The... creature moves with unnatural speed, soaring over buildings and then ducking low to skim the rooftops. It moves with a cacophony of wind, and it gleams beneath the light as it soars into a beam of sunlight.
"What is that?" Naya says again, but now Blade understands that it's not just a question, but a simple proclamation of horror. And when the flying creature comes fully into the light, Blade understands Naya's fear.
The thing looks like it's made of stone. And stone shouldn't move, certainly not that fast. It shouldn't be allowed to be off the ground, not floating midair like some kind of ungainly, hideous bird.
Blade has seen many things in his life, and dealt with enemies of many kinds. Crime lords, thieves and murderers, he can deal with. Even other Tributes, he can kill if he has to.
But this? He's not even sure how to start.
"Gargoyle," Tremor says, and his body is deadly still. "It probably came from that church."
"I don't care where it came from," Naya says. "We need to kill it!"
The gargoyle touches down in front of them, eerily silent and still. Its eyes are a startling green. When Blade sees it this clearly, there's no mistaking that it's made of stone. Its grotesque face is forever shaped into a sneer. It stands immobile on the street, as if it were never alive.
Blade turns away, retrieving his scimitar. For a moment, the building is a flurry of motion. Naya grabs a bow, Tremor a machete, and Alessio his axe.
"Maybe if we stay in here, it won't attack us," says Alessio, but he looks doubtful.
"And maybe if we kill it, the Gamemakers will be pleased," says Tremor. "That's the important thing." Even among the mayhem and the fear, Blade can't help but notice how Tremor's eyes soften somewhat as he speaks to Alessio.
A scraping sound sets Blade's teeth on edge. He glances back, out through the still-open door, and sees the gargoyle raking its talons over the building's wall.
"No time to debate," Naya says. "It's definitely attacking us."
Blade recalls that first day in the Arena, when they'd all stood and stared at the printing press, then worked to discover its secrets, all in a kind of harmony. Blade had hoped that in a battle like this, they could reclaim that harmony. Maybe then, Blade would have a reason to stay—more of a reason, at least.
But they've lost a member, and they're not used to each other's fighting styles. So when they move, it is disjointed and scattered.
Tremor moves forward and slices his machete viciously into the gargoyle's wing. There is the terrible shriek of metal on stone, and the gargoyle shakes off the blow, flapping its wings rapidly. The only evidence of Tremor's mark is a slight scrape along the gargoyle's stone.
Alessio darts forward, and Blade follows him. Together, they stab at a point on the gargoyle's stony neck. The blades send chips of stone flying, but do little else. The gargoyle's talons lash out viciously, aiming at Alessio, but the Twelve boy is fast. He darts out of reach, causing the gargoyle to wobble momentarily.
Blade stares at the immensity of the creature beside him. In other circumstances, he'd have no cause to fear. The creature is not particularly huge, nor is it spewing poison or fire. But the mere fact that this creature is moving, fighting, is unnatural to him.
When he fights, Blade needs to have a reason, a cause. Every time he killed a crime lord back in Six, he was thinking of justice, and of one day killing the President—in whatever way made itself available. But with this stony, heartless creature, Blade has no footing and no strategy and certainly no passion.
Alessio moves in again for another attack, desperately stabbing between the gargoyle's eyes. When he pulls back, there's a small dent in the gargoyle's gray hide, and a larger one in Alessio's blade.
The gargoyle moves even quicker this time, but not at Alessio. Its claws send a hot slash of pain down Blade's bicep. He stares at the wound for a moment, a gouge in his right arm, before stumbling back.
He doesn't know what he's doing, isn't prepared for this. He can almost feel Tremor's blazing eyes on him.
He finds Naya, standing some distance away. She knocks an arrow and lets fly.
And arrow lands between the gargoyle's eyes, and shatters into kindling on impact. The gargoyle is pacing now, a deep rumble in its throat. If the thing has any feeling at all, it's probably growing tired of being prodded at.
"What places could possibly be vulnerable?" Blade signs, feeling hopelessness build inside him. This thing could kill Alessio, kill Naya, and then Blade would be all alone again, and it would be his fault, more blood on his hands. So much death...
"Maybe its mouth?" Alessio's eyes are stormy, troubled. "If it has one. Get it to open, and then..."
Blade nods quickly, a spark of hope igniting inside him. "That could work."
They begin their nigh-impossible efforts, Blade stabbing at the creature with his scimitar until tiny chips of stone are raining down on the pavement. Alessio jabs at the gargoyle's side, between its eyes again, at the column of its throat. Each time, the gargoyle tries to retaliate, but both Blade and Alessio are too fast.
They can't go on forever, though. Alessio drives his axe against the unforgiving granite of the gargoyle's foreleg, and the creature moves too quickly, tackling Alessio to the ground and pinning him by his sleeve to the stones. Alessio struggles, but the gargoyle's grip is firm.
Blade is on the other side of the creature, but he starts running to reach Alessio, an unfamiliar protectiveness filling him. He needs to save Alessio but doubts he'll get there fast enough, and he doesn't want to further enrage the gargoyle, lest it moves and crushes Alessio flat.
Alessio seems to figure this out just as Blade is coming to the conclusion, and he watches as Alessio tries to twist toward Tremor, his eyes desperate and afraid. He says something, and Blade doesn't need to be a genius to know what he's saying.
He's pleading for Tremor's help.
But Tremor ignores him, shaking his head as he walks to the mouth of the gargoyle and stabs his machete against the creature's maw.
The creature roars, lifting its wings and its back legs as it looms over Tremor. As soon as the thing releases Alessio, he's rolling and scrambling, and Blade can see his chest moving rapidly.
Blade's own pulse is pounding, his vision blurry. He's feeling a terrible mix of rage and panic and guilt. He should've been there sooner, faster, to save Alessio. He could've been killed.
The Tremor... he'd only been interested in killing the gargoyle, getting the glory. Alessio's freedom was mere coincidence.
The gargoyle is still standing over Tremor, who looks unafraid.
"Go on," Tremor says, eyes calm once more. "Kill me. One of your own. The one who served you all along."
And Blade realizes he's not talking to the gargoyle, but to the Capitol. The Gamemakers. Blade feels a wave of disgust. As if they'd ever care if Tremor dies. They didn't care when Blade's parents were killed, and there's no way Tremor will get the same grace. There can't be a way, otherwise nothing will make sense. Or... less sense than it already does.
The gargoyle rears back and lets out a terrible roar, its maw unhinging and gaping open. Naya is ready. She takes the shot and does not miss.
The arrow disappears down the gargoyle's wide, stony throat. For a moment, nothing happens. All is still.
But then, a jet of water explodes from the gargoyle's mouth, soaking everything in its path. And as water pours out, the gargoyle begins to crumble and melt. The water is a flood, and then a trickle. And when it dries, only a few shavings of stone are left behind on the street. The gargoyle has been washed away.
But as the stone disappears, so does the water, soaking into the stone and running over the ground. Blade forces himself into action, ignoring the sting of the shallow gash in his arm. He hurries inside to grab a container... but he's too late. There's no way to collect the little water remaining on the stones, and even if there was enough... he's not sure how he would get it in the container. Naya stands beside him, the hem of her dress soaked. Her shoulders sag and she closes her eyes.
Blade has said it before and he'll say it again. The Capitol has a sick sense of humor, and it seems they won't stop playing with him.
He should leave. Slip away right now. Alessio would understand... and perhaps he'd even be doing him a favor. One less body to drink the rapidly dwindling supply of water.
He knows he can't leave them. Not Alessio, not Naya. He'd seen the cold glow in Tremor's eyes, the fierce determination in the set of his jaw. Tremor wouldn't hesitate to kill Naya, and Alessio would be soon to follow.
Blade once thought that way. Thought he'd not hesitate to kill the other Careers, if it brought him closer to victory. But now he understands, sees the rage and hate of his own heart reflected in Tremor's eyes tenfold.
Blade knows what the Two boy is capable of. And he can't let him unleash that full power. Everyone would suffer for it.
If Blade left, he would be aimless, his only goal to win—and he might become just as mad and misguided as Tremor is. He can't let that happen. He only has a shred of humanity left, and he thinks that this—saving Alessio, stopping Tremor—might be one of the only things keeping him sane. It's something to do, a goal to reach for in the face of every other uncertainty. And to Blade, in this moment, it's the most valuable thing he could ask for.
...
8th Place: Wren Camphor, fell off the tower while fighting a gargoyle. Wren... my sweet, energetic and fiery girl. I admired and loved Wren so much, and I slipped into her bubbly and blunt manner the moment I started writing her. Wren was a ray of light in the otherwise dark and troubling landscape of the Games. She made me smile every time I wrote her, and I adored exploring her arc and helping her find her true purpose. Above all else, Wren was loyal to a fault, and the love for her friends guided each of her actions. She had her moments of sadness and anger, where her pride and impulsiveness caused her to make risky choices, but throughout it all she had her spirit, and I love her for that. Thank you so much to paperthorn for submitting her; it was a pleasure to write her. Here's to Wren, our firecracker; I hope she finds freedom and joy beyond measure.
Hi everyone! Here we are at 7k again, day seven part 1! I hope this chapter was worth the wait. It is... most definitely not Monday, but it is still 2022, and I wanted to get one last chapter in before the end of the year. I can't believe it is the last chapter of 2022; this year flew by so fast. It was the year that I started IIDY, and here we are in the final stages of the Games... I can't believe it. I feel like my style has changed somewhat over this year, and I hope that I have grown in my writing. Thank you all for sticking with me through an entire year. Here's to more sadness and fun in 2023. :)
As for the chapter... it exists! I really hope you enjoyed it! We are getting surprisingly close to the finale... oh boy! I hope you all have a very wonderful rest of the year, and that you are resting and preparing yourself for the new year in whatever way you feel like! I'll see you... hopefully on Monday. We'll see how fast I can write.
Happy New Year,
Miri