Tremor Atilius, 18, District Two Male
Tremor wishes it hadn't come to this. He truly doesn't want to do this.
But he will. He'll do anything he has to do; he'll do whatever it takes to get out of here.
That's why they selected him to be a Peacekeeper; that's why he was the youngest to ever graduate—because at seventeen, he had the drive, the will to do anything for the Capitol.
Now he is eighteen. Older, wiser, stronger.
He understands now that no bonds of honor hold him. He is now an unbridled force of hate. He hates the world, for taking his parents, for leaving him irrevocably alone. He hates the Capitol for treating him like a common District degenerate. He hates the Careers for making him question.
He does not question anymore. He simply knows that he deserves to win. He deserves to get out of here, no matter the cost.
(There's still a pesky flaw in the plan, though, one that Tremor can't ignore. If he doesn't have somebody to impress, if he's not trying to prove himself to an outside force... what is he good for? What is the purpose of anything he does?)
He walks through the square, past the fountain with its tempting water—Naya Illumina's corpse beside it is warning enough. Tremor is too wise to succumb to an obviously poisoned water source.
Thirst is nothing. He will overcome it all—the thirst, the questions, the sadness, until there is only hate and jealousy left.
And resolve. The single most important thing.
He ignores the heavy boulder hanging somewhere between his sternum and his stomach, seeming to grow larger by the second. With each step he takes, the weight gets heavier.
This will be hard to accomplish. He will have to be strong.
But Tremor has accomplished harder things before. Killed criminals and children alike—he has no limits, no restrictions to the people he kills. In a way, he is unbiased.
But no... Tremor is incredibly biased, in the way that he sees everyone as targets now. Everyone outside of himself is in the wrong. There is nobody left who loves Tremor; why should he love anyone now?
Why should he hold back?
The door to the printing building is slightly ajar. Tremor pauses outside of it, glancing back at the sprawled village which seems to come alive with the rising sun.
He doesn't want to go back, to the stifling heat and the building tension and the powerless feeling of never being good enough. He will never return to this place as an ally.
No. He's back, but he's an enemy now.
He is careful as he eases open the door, coaxing the hinges to silence.
He wishes he didn't have to do this. It shouldn't have come to this.
(But... does he really have to? Surely, he could prevent this somehow...)
But no. It's not worth it. He's gone too far now; there is no going back.
And besides... it won't stop here. There's always the mattter of the girl from Nine, who has somehow managed to last this long. There are many obstacles in his way.
But Tremor believes his actions are for a good cause. That it will all be worth it, in the end.
He has to believe that.
He edges between the slice of space between door and wall, blinking to adjust to the half-dimness.
Both Alessio and Blade are sprawled and asleep, not close enough to be touching—there's a margin of space between them, large enough for Tremor to utilize perfectly.
But their closeness indicates trust. And that sends jealousy flaring up all over again.
No... he cannot be envious. He is past that now. That was his old self, pleading and scheming for attention. He is different now.
He doesn't need anyone.
He makes his way past ink and bulking printer, deeper into the room. Everything about it is grotesquely familiar to him. He wants to leave here—this place that is a testament to his weakness.
But he is weak no longer.
Still... his wounds from Jacqueline Baylor twinge. That idiot girl left her mark before she finally died. Of course, Tremor was never worried, never afraid. He was destined to win that fight.
But pain is not something he can simply ignore, as much as he wants to. Luckily, his body has enough strength, enough resistance, to treat that pain as if it were nothing.
He eases himself into kneeling beside Alessio. He is shocked, momentarily, that they haven't woken yet. He notices the pallor of Blade's skin—likely, he is still being affected by his wound. And Alessio's lashes flutter beneath his lids—he is dreaming, in the deepest sleep.
He was always a light sleeper. Not that it matters.
But it does make Tremor seethe. Because it almost seems like Alessio sleeps easier now that Tremor is gone. And that can't be right.
He extends his small knife—sharp and lethal, perfect for this job. Once, Tremor had tried to befriend Alessio.
But he'd failed. And Tremor Atilius hates failure.
He acts quickly. The blade is at the tender skin of Alessio's neck within seconds, and Tremor is gently guiding the knife's edge...
He ought to slit his throat. A quick death. He might not even wake up.
Perhaps Alessio deserves this mercy. Blade's death, he will draw out like the most lovely sunset. But Alessio deserves a merciful end.
Tremor knows that he is noble, even honorable. And he is also kind enough to let Alessio have this almost-painless death. Then again... why should he care what kind of death Alessio has, as long as he is gone? Out of the way?
It's that weakness inside him. The uncertainty, that ruins things.
His hand shakes, just slightly, and the blade's angle fractures. He slices an artery, one that will kill Alessio soon enough. But it is not an easy death, and Tremor knows he cannot slip out as easily as he slipped in, because Alessio's eyes snap open.
To his credit, he does not cry out. His face is hard angles and lines, his eyes fierce. His arms flail momentarily, his body trying to make sense of the fact that it is bleeding, dying. His eyes focus on Tremor.
Standing over him with the bloody knife.
"Hello, Alessio," Tremor says, and even he can feel the soothing pulse in his own voice.
But the words have the opposite effect.
Alessio blinks, once and then again. Betrayal crosses his face, a vulnerable emotion that pierces the thin shell of strength. Poor Alessio, pretending at bravery.
Tremor is stronger. It's simply the way of things.
"Why?" Alessio whispers. A trickle of blood runs from the corner of his mouth.
"I did what I had to, Alessio. It is a lesson you would one day learn. Alas, you were in the way."
His battle was never truly with Alessio. Perhaps he should hate him, but even that emotion is ∵arting to shrivel and harden, losing all of its heat and brightness. What Tremor feels now is apathy.
There's one kill off the list. Two more to go.
But Alessio is still alive. His eyes are slowly wading through myriad emotions, swirling through hatred, disbelief, betrayal, hatred...
Even now, Alessio hates him. It breaks something inside Tremor. He shouldn't let that get to him so. Especially now that Alessio is out of the picture.
He starts to retreat. Starts suppressing the weak tendril of emotion that is threatening to tear down his foundation.
But before he can leave, Blade bolts upright.
...
Alessio Spades, 18, District Twelve Male
He didn't expect the pain to be this sharp and all-consuming. He didn't expect to be stabbed in his sleep.
He should've seen it coming. Why didn't he see it coming?
Of course Tremor would come back for them, finish them off. Alessio's seen him use this method before—he should've known.
'You knew this would happen,' the Fates whisper, their voices high and tinny. 'You let yourself trust someone, and you got hurt for it. What else did you expect? Foolish, foolish Alessio...'
He can't die now. Surely, he's strong enough to come back from this. He isn't finished yet.
He hates Tremor, with a sudden ferocity, perhaps even more than he hates his father. But Alessio also hates himself, for allowing this to happen.
Perhaps it was supposed to be like this. Alessio's goal was always doomed. He shouldn't have let himself hope that someday, he'd see his sister beside him. He shouldn't have trusted Blade—when their friendship was kindling, he should have stomped it out, destroyed it. That's all he seems to know how to do anyway.
But... but it isn't all over. Because Blade is standing, brave and full of righteous rage, between Tremor and Alessio. Tremor, still standing like a wraith in the doorway, bears the brunt of Blade's stare.
And Alessio's never seen such fury in the boy's eyes before. His fists are clenched tight in fists by his sides, his eyes molten and burning above his mask.
Alessio wishes he could stand up and kill Tremor Atilius himself. He would do it without hesitation, without remorse.
But there's a very high possibility Blade might just do that for him.
And that's reassuring, in its own strange way.
Perhaps this wasn't all for naught. Because Alessio hadn't trusted Tremor, not really. But Blade... Blade hasn't betrayed him, and Alessio has a feeling he never will.
Still, maybe he would have been better off, to stay in that limbo deep in the mines, somewhere between hopelessness and possibility. Maybe he should never have ventured out into the sunlight. Perhaps he might have lived longer.
But Alessio finds that he wouldn't want to go back to those mines, that darkness, given the choice.
Because he's discovered that there's a strange duality to trust. Yes, it must always end... but there is impossible beauty in its duration, no matter how fleeting.
And Alessio would choose this—befriending Caldwell, accepting his love for him, and opening up to Blade—over a desolate mine and the never-ceasing deluge of the Fates. He would choose this, time and again.
Perhaps it's all foolishness, a delusion that Alessio should dismiss.
But he can't entirely push the reasoning away, because it makes so much sense.
To have trust that ends in tragedy, over nothing at all... at least that means Alessio has left something behind. A promise...
New strength pulses through Alessio and he gasps, pushing himself into a sitting position. He ignores the rattling of his lungs, the blood spreading and spreading, the horrible dizziness. Blade is currently advancing on Tremor with all the careful, coiled ferocity of a killer. Tremor's face is too calm, too perfect. He seems unconcerned with the fact that Blade has murder scrawled in the depth of his eyes.
But Alessio knows Tremor should have reason to fear.
He reaches out and grips Blade's wrist, the effort almost too much. It's all he can do to hold himself aloft.
His fingers are sticky with blood. The world is fragmenting and floating, and it feels as if Alessio is suddenly very far away from it all.
But no. He's not ready. Not yet.
Blade turns, and for a moment all Alessio can see is that endless void of hate and rage... but then Blade's face softens and he looks broken, defeated. Alessio cannot decide which is worse.
Alessio lets go of Blade's wrist, satisfied that he has his attention, and watches him sign.
"I thought... Alessio, I thought you were dead already. If I'd known you were still alive..."
He stares at the incriminating wound on Alessio's neck, seeming to grow worse by the second. The hope that had flickered in his eyes for a perilous moment has now guttered out entirely.
"My sister..." Alessio's hands are shaking too much, and he can't focus, but he hopes Blade understands. "My sister, Melinda Spades. Do you remember? I told you about her."
Blade stares at him, hollow-eyed.
"She's back in the Capitol. They cut out her tongue. You have to promise me..."
Drifting... floating...
No. He has to focus.
He squeezes his eyes shut, his body slumping against Blade. He is dimly aware of his blood and how it's staining Blade's shirt. He tries to move, but his body is far away.
Focus.
His hands clench and unclench, before he continues signing. "Promise me that you'll find her. That you'll help her. She doesn't have anyone left."
"I..." Blade's face is blurry now, growing more distant by the second. "I can't—"
"Promise me." Alessio takes a stubborn breath, heedless of the pain. He refuses to let Death take him until he's had his say.
"I promise."
Promises can be broken. Alessio knows that better than anyone. But he sees the conviction in Blade's eyes, even through the veil of pain. And he hopes that Melinda will forgive him, that she will somehow know Alessio braved the darkness and the light to find her.
Through the murky darkness, an image swims into focus. Gauzy and immaterial, a half-remembered scrap of memory.
Eurydice Spades. He can see little of his mother's face, but there's a gentle warmth glowing in her eyes that unearths a deep ache within Alessio.
He hasn't known that kind of love, that kind of safety, in so long...
But no. He found it. Or at least, a semblance of it; in Caldwell, in Blade. In himself.
His mother moves ever-closer, her arms outspread and welcoming. "You're early," she says, and her voice is so fond, a note of playful chastisement peeking through, like grass through snow.
Alessio clings onto consciousness for one last moment. But then he is somewhere in-between, and the pull becomes too strong for even Alessio Spades to withstand.
So he lets himself smile, bittersweet and disbelieving. "I missed you."
And he falls into his mother's arms.
...
Blade Cassidy, 18, District Six Male
Alessio's head on Blade's shoulder turns to one side. His eyes fall closed and, for once, he looks entirely peaceful.
That doesn't make it any better.
Blade gently sets Alessio on the ground, resisting the tears that build behind his eyes. All the sharp, crystalized fragments of feeling that keep building and building... The horrible helplessness of knowing that Alessio's death is unfair, but that there's nothing Blade can do about it; the almost-comforting weight of a dying promise, one Blade fully intends to keep; hate, pure and unaltered, at Tremor—for causing pain simply because he can...
And bitter, stagnant regret, the kind that clings to the back of Blade's throat and clouds his vision.
All of it feels like too much to carry. Even for a boy who's so used to carrying hate and hurt.
It's his fault Tremor killed Alessio. If he'd only woken earlier...
Under normal circumstances, Tremor's approach would have alerted Blade in an instant. He could have risen and killed Tremor in the night, as he has to so many others before. Alessio could still be alive, could have made it back to his sister.
Blade thinks he might have slipped into some kind of deep, feverish sleep—undoubtedly as a result of his Capitol-induced wound, which has now grown infected. Blade could blame this on the Capitol.
That would make it easier.
But he ultimately takes the weight onto his own shoulders, because at least then he can do something about it. He can enact revenge.
He's not sure what woke him in the first place. If it was the sharp, all-too-familiar tang of blood on the air—the blood that still lingers on him, from when Alessio gripped his wrist and collapsed against his shoulder—or perhaps it was simply the weight of Tremor's eyes on him that caused him to bolt upright.
Either way, it doesn't matter.
He was too late.
He lets out a shuddering breath, the only grief he will be allowed to have. He cannot allow himself to wallow for long, to sit in vigil beside Alessio's side, because Tremor is still lurking like the little worm he is, his eyes smooth and smug as he shifts from foot to foot in the doorway. He seems to be taunting Blade, waiting for his next move.
Blade isn't exactly sure what it was that Tremor hoped to accomplish in the first place.
But his mind is too full of hate and blame and grief to dwell on it for long. Instead, he wheels on Tremor, molding his grief into a terrible, sharp, pain-forged blade.
Blade has not felt like this in so long.
He hates the feeling, of becoming a monster again.
But he knows, just as he always has, that the monster is sometimes necessary. And he knows there's nothing else he can possibly do.
He squares his shoulders and makes the second vow of the night. He doesn't care that Tremor will not understand nor care to know his words. But he wants it on the record, wants the Capitol to know that he will never be defeated by their twisted game.
"I am going to kill you," Blade signs.
He retrieves his scimitar, the same weapon he's used for years, and his knuckles whiten around the hilt.
He unleashes everything inside him, all that has built and morphed and hardened in his chest. He can almost feel Alessio urging him on.
There are so many reasons that he needs to fight Tremor and win. But there's one promise he's made that floats above the image: it comes in the form of Alessio's trembling hands, his desperate eyes.
Blade doesn't intend to break his oath, no matter what happens. He'll go down fighting to his very last breath, but until he's gone, Alessio's plea will never leave his mind.
He's never had a reason to live before, other than the fact that he'd already killed so many—why would he stop now? But he has something beyond that, something that could make him more than just a monster fighting the demons that everyone else was too scared to confront.
With Alessio, Blade could see past his own self-hatred.
And Tremor took that away. He's the reason Alessio won't be around to make Blade feel seen.
Blade sees Tremor through the blur of his rage. Peacekeeper-turned-Career, he's taken so many lives. Blade will not let him take another.
He lunges forward.
...
The lights are fading.
The curtains begin to close.
This city, once teeming with souls asparkle with potential now holds only three players. But it's not just a game anymore. It's not just a story.
The Capitol-engineered man, with his pomp and his artificial smile, takes the stage one last time.
"This is it, my friends. Now is the hour of our last act. It has been a long and hollow road, has it not? The path to enlightenment, the road to rebirth, is paved with regret and the ghosts of times long past.
"But not everyone can achieve the highest enlightenment. We must first acknowledge the lost souls that forged this path.
"Alessio, who had so long been alone/Who, at long last, found trust in some friends of his own.
"This could end in many ways, my friend. But no matter how our play comes to its close, I foresee that it with not be without its last tragedies. Which of our stained souls will emerge from this city of ghosts?
"Tremor, so sure that he's doing things right/Who kills rebels in hopes of finding the light.
"Or Blade, who reaps justice alone in the night/With a promise to keep and revenge in his sight.
"And Luz, who has lost all that she once possessed/Despite all the darkness, still trying her best.
"Theirs is a perilous path to walk. They have prevailed where others have failed, but there is only so long one can last in the darkness. Perhaps the question is only who can last the longest."
The guillotine waits, hungry for a verdict. And for a single, silent moment, the world hangs in balance.
But there can only be a moment of calm before the storm.
And there's nothing anyone can do when the rain starts to pour.
No way to go back, once the guillotine falls.
...
4th Place: Alessio Spades, killed by Tremor Atilius. Oh, Alessio... you were inspired by two of my very favorite things: Percy Jackson and Hadestown. And the way that your inspiration was implemented in the form was just incredibly clever and fun to write. But beyond that, I absolutely adored Alessio. He was so very alone for so long, and his journey to trust and acceptance was a long one, but it was so fulfilling to write. Alessio was incredibly traumatized, and he truly had such a sad life. But there was also moments of emotional vulnerability, moments of love and discovery, and I truly loved writing every facet of him. Alessio had a strength that influenced all around him, and despite his reclusive nature, he will not go unremembered by those he showed his truest self to. I don't even know how to pint into words how much I loved Alessio, and I'm so sad to end his journey, but his character challenged me so much as a writer in the best way. Thank you so much, QueenOfMorning, for giving me Alessio. I hope I have written him well. Here's to Alessio, our saddened seeker; I hope he finds love and acceptance, within and without.
Heyy there! It's been so long since I updated on a Monday! Horray! Um... yeah, so the finale is next chapter... that's wild. I can't believe we're finally here. I'm a little nervous and excited and sad, it's a whole mix of feelings! This chapter was really short, the shortest Games chapter if I'm not mistaken, but that's just... how it ended up I guess! But don't worry, we'll hear plenty from our final three next chapter. We've made it to the finale... I'm interested to see what your thoughts and predictions are! Other than that, I don't really have anything to say... I'm kinda speechless right now lol. I will see you very soon for the finale. Thank you so much for reading.
Miri