Luz Alejandra Contreras does not know how this happened. She remembers the cannons, the numbers slowly thinning, but after Asa—after his death, the world had blurred and turned upside down and Luz... Luz hadn't been paying attention to the cannons and the nightly poetry. She should have.
Perhaps it's the knowledge that she's killed someone, however indirectly. Maybe that's what's scrambling her logic, her carefully planned lists. She should have been prepared for this.
But how does one prepare to be one of three kids left in a Games nobody even knew about before they were happening, sudden and jarring and real? How does somebody plan for a thing like that?
She's certainly not in a blurr now. No, she's as clear-headed as she can ever hope to be, despite the misery carving ragged edges into her rationality. She understands that she's here, but she also knows that the boys from Two and Six are here with her.
(And Asa is not there. And Cal is not there. And neither is Naya Illumina of Four, thanks to her. Thanks to a mistake.)
Asa would've held her and told her that everyone makes mistakes. That Luz is beautiful and kind deep inside, all the way to her core, and that she's perfect just the way she is.
She hasn't been held by him in so long. Days... what feels like years, since Reaping Day, when he clung to her like there was nothing else he could do. Like she was the only thing left to hold onto.
Little did she know that there could be something worse than that train, that last goodbye. She should have been grateful to have Asa, even if they were both fracturing. At least they were still together, still alive. Despite the fact that the world was cold and dark, they were still in each other's orbit, and there was endless light inside that space; light that could grow and spread far beyond.
Now, Luz's world is the manufactured image of an abandoned city, and two boys somewhere across a stretch of pavestones. Now her world is her and two Careers.
What is she supposed to do now?
It was supposed to be her and Asa, Asa and Luz and their family...
But it's not. It can never be.
She is somewhere in a vast, abandoned city and the sky is so distant and Luz can see no possibility in which she is spreading her light, in which she is holding and being held, in which the world is beautiful again.
Surely, this can't be right. She can't be here... not all alone. Not after all that's happened.
She's obsessed over the many versions of Asa, until every beautiful corner is creased like the well-read pages of a beloved book. She's seen Asa radiant and smiling, Asa bruised and scarred and marked with plague, Asa sad and angry and dizzyingly in love.
But what of herself? Does she, too, have pages and creases and parts of herself that can be loved?
(Does she even know herself at all?)
...
In a strange sort of trance, at a distance from himself and all that surrounds him, Blade sees himself as the little boy he was, before everything changed. Little Benvolio Cassidy, forsaken and afraid. He does not remember normalcy, only the moments after and the terrible feeling of being without it, of knowing something vital was missing, something he'd never get back.
When Blade had changed his name and begun to train with weapons, he'd felt that sadness corrode and slowly become something else. But there had still been remnants of that scared boy, the forsaken child longing for something that was taken from him.
Everything he'd missed. So many things he'd never know.
When he'd begun to grow closer with Alessio, Blade felt as if there was a window opening inside him, letting in the dim illumination of a life long forgotten. And when Alessio died... it was as if the last of that light had burned away everything that Blade once was, until there was only rage and hopelessness left behind.
The world is now a haze of red mist, of shadows reaching toward him through the darkness. There's no way that Blade can explain it, except to say that everything has fallen away. Everything but him and Tremor and everything hanging between them.
Something in him knows that this was always meant to happen. If Blade wants to win, he will need to kill Tremor. It's not so much the idea of killing Tremor that haunts Blade Cassidy now; it's the idea of winning. Of emerging from this place where things seem to be misshapen and drawn-out and inescapable. He cannot imagine leaving here, coming back to the ordinary grandeur of the Capitol and the long-ago wish that had sent him to Volunteering in the first place.
Killing the President... It feels so far away and yet so tantalizingly close.
But there's one problem now. Blade's made another promise, one that requires him to be alive. And if he kills the President—that is, if he even manages to come out of this place and still be the person he was—he will most certainly die.
But he can't think about that now. The only thing on his mind is Tremor, with his mad eyes and the infuriating coolness that rolls off of him in waves.
He needs to die. Not just because of the way he'd so callously murdered Alessio, but because he cannot be allowed to escape back into the world. If Blade doesn't make it out alive, he wants to take Tremor Atilius down with him.
But he has to make it out. He has to.
He just can't think about all the flaws in the plan, everything that's stacked against him. Instead he imagines he is alone in Six, in his midnight-black garb, in the dead of night instead of underneath the glaring sunshine with all of Panem watching. He remembers all that Tremor has done to deserve this, and he tries not to think of all the ways that Blade himself does not deserve to win.
He's not worthy of anything. He shouldn't be doing this, causing death and destruction... he's becoming more of a monster every day. And he can't even think about the girl from Nine and how she, too, will eventually need to die if he wants to win.
(Does he even want to anymore?)
Too many questions. He narrows his focus until it is only Blade and Tremor again, chaos in the midst of an otherwise calm Arena. And Blade with a scimitar in his hand.
The way it should be.
...
This is it. Tremor's final trial. Everything he's striven to do for the past few weeks has come to a head, and now it's his time to prove to the Capitol that he, above all, deserves to—
Wait. No. He's not with the Capitol anymore. The Capitol has abandoned him, and so he has cast them aside in turn. He can't trust them anymore. He can't trust anyone.
Which means that his actions are all his own. That there is no honor attached to those actions, no greater cause.
But there has to be. Surely there's something in this world worth fighting for, somebody for Tremor to adhere to. He can't be all on his own.
But here he is, facing off Blade Cassidy, and everything around him is desolation and vast solitude.
It's hardly new to Tremor. He was born into such turmoil. He will win against it as well.
He needs to win. Once he's won, this will all make sense, and every difficult choice he's made, every effort he's made in an attempt at progress, will be worth it.
The alternative is unacceptable. Because if Tremor Atilius loses, he will have to face every life he's ended in the name of a cause he no longer believes in. If he fails, he will feel the weight of responsibility, and he will have to realize that everything he's done has been...
No. No, all of these thoughts are lies. Lies that the rebels have tried to plant inside his head, but he won't listen anymore. The entire world is against Tremor, but he refuses to be quelled. He will not be convinced that his actions are anything but justified.
When Blade Cassidy lunges at him, Tremor meets him almost gleefully. While Blade is all darkness and swirling stormclouds, all solemnity and agility, Tremor is brutal and bloodthirsty. He revels in the challenge. He basks in the idea that everything he's done has finally meant something. Here is his last adversary.
He will make quick work of Blade, and then Nine. Their deaths will join the throng that he's already formed, and he will not regret it, and he will not listen to the voices of reason that are slowly growing quieter in the back of his mind, which is now a storm of hate and fury instead of a regiment of order and resolve. He is no longer a Peacekeeper.
He is something else entirely. He is an entity, the likes of which Panem has never seen and will never see again.
He refuses to die here, not now that everything is so close. Not when things feel... almost... right. Not when he can just barely convince himself that this is perfect, that he is blameless.
He with his machete and Blade with his scimitar... and it feels like there is an energy building in Tremor's chest, urging him on.
He has earned this victory. And he will drink it in, for everything that it's worth. He will relish in this defeat of his final obstacle.
...
Luz can see no possible way out of this. She can't approach the boys on the street, with their flashing blades, all of it a whirl of death and destruction and violence. She refuses to kill again. She'd rather die than take another life.
But... what other choice does she have? Surely, she can't just stand here in the street like one of the Arena's statues, waiting for this to end. But what else awaits her?
If she wins, she will never escape the regret, the pain. She will never be the same; her world is irreparably damaged, split into a distorted reality that even Luz cannot mend. If she makes it back to the Capitol, there will forever be something missing inside her. And... and she will be the Capitol's plaything, to be twisted and bent to their own designs.
She can't stand the thought of it.
But she can't die either. She can envision the endearing, cramped scribble of Asa's pleading letter now, telling her to let him go. To live.
Is there enough left of her to live?
Luz is wandering the streets, her mind somewhere remote and closed-off and every part of her body tingling with the surreal feeling of disconnect. There is the marketplace where Asa was tricked by the Capitol; there is the stage where the guillotine takes center spotlight; there is the fountain with its poisoned stream. Thirst claws at Luz's throat and she turns away from the tainted water and the stagnant memories.
Luz shakes her head, as if doing so could dispel the thirst. She can't afford to be distant and disjointed now; she has to focus. She needs to make a decision, and living in the past isn't an option.
But to be in the present hurts so very much.
From a very young age, Luz was taught that if someone needed help, she needed to do everything in her power to help them. The teaching is engraved into the very fabric of her soul, a principle that she lives by.
But... but what does she do when she's the one who needs help?
For a moment, she's tempted to try and talk sense into the Careers killing each other only a few corners away. No, Luz doesn't intend to play the Capitol's game anymore... but there could still be a chance to escape, to live. There are still two other teenagers, kids just like her, worth saving.
The thought dissolves before it's even fully formed. Luz has a feeling that she'd be stabbed if she got within shouting distance of the boys—she's had experience with upset patients before, but none so violent as these two. Even if she can manage to be calm and reasonable, there's no way that Two and Six will listen to her. They're too absorbed in doing exactly what the Capitol wants them to do.
So Luz has to be the one to take action. She needs to fix this, all by herself.
A tiny, niggling voice pipes up in the back of her head. She's tried this before, with the fountain and her wild plan to put the Tributes to sleep, and she ended up killing someone. But now... well, Luz's mind feels blissfully clear, and she's got even less to lose.
Asa would want her to do something other than stand and grieve until her life has wound down.
So she begins wandering the Arena in earnest, wracking her brain for some way to make everything better.
...
Blade almost apologizes to Tremor. He can feel the shame of his actions. He knows that taking someone else's life is wrong. But all of those thoughts are distant, as if they're in someone else's mind. Blade feels himself being slowly overtaken by the all-consuming fog of rage.
He's killed Peacekeepers before. He can do so again.
But as much as he wants to believe it, he knows that he's not the same boy who stalked the streets at night, believing himself to be irredeemable. He's not the aimless child, and he's no longer the vengeful teenager, starved by sadness.
What is he now, then? What has he become?
He doesn't know. All he knows is that it feels good, to be back in the routine of a real fight. And he hates himself immediately for that feeling. He should take no pleasure in killing Tremor. It's just another necessary evil.
But there's something unraveling inside Blade, something being unchained and unleashed. As he stabs and slashes in a style all his own, he becomes fluid and free and untamed, not unlike his rampages in Six. But this is different, somehow. Instead of being lost in the rage, Blade almost feels guided by it.
He leaps forward and Tremor dances back. He jabs at Tremor's side and the boy blocks him with his machete. His eyes are placid, but there's a kind of crazed smile on his face that Blade has never seen before.
Tremor is saying something. But Blade is far beyond caring.
He slips between Tremor's defences, stabbing at the weak spot beneath his raised arm. Tremor whirls away and throws a quick, vicious punch to Blade's face. He manages to dart away—but not fast enough. The boy's brass knuckles leave a glancing gash over Blade's right cheek.
There's another thing that makes this battle different than most Blade has been in. He has never felt so evenly matched before, and he has never let a fight become so drawn-out.
The sun is in its same position, but to Blade it feels as though hours have gone by.
Tremor sends a kick to Blade's right knee, and his leg buckles. He pivots his weight to the other foot, heedless of the pain, and finally lands a hit to Tremor's side. Not a deep wound, but it draws blood nonetheless.
Tremor pauses, and his gaze is shocked. He stares down at the blood like he's never seen it before.
And as much as he hates doing it, Blade takes advantage of that moment of weakness.
...
Blade Cassidy drew first blood, and Tremor Atilius is appalled. He's not sure why, but the sight of his own blood on Blade's scimitar, gleaming off the metal and seeping through Tremor's clothing, is deeply unsettling. Blade should not have been able to leave such a mark. Tremor can't be that weak.
Blade darts forward to sweep his scimitar across Tremor's stomach, but Tremor manages to dodge just in time. He hisses through gritted teeth, ignoring the sting in his side as he watches Blade. Tremor had hoped the momentum would set Blade off balance, but instead the boy uses it to aim for his chest.
The tip of the scimitar cuts a path across Tremor's clothing, but only grazes his skin. Tremor takes a shuddering breath.
This isn't right. This can't be happening. Tremor is never on the offence. He is always the most ruthless, relentless in his attempts to get the job done.
He's never faced someone so difficult an opponent. And he hates the clammy feeling of failure, the sheen of sweat over his brow, the hitch in his breath and the blood still trickling over his skin.
But he doesn't care. If anything, the fear and the uncertainty only motivate him further.
And as Tremor grows angrier, he can feel his careful calm fraying, and all of the logic and reasoning along with it. He hates the Capitol, hates Blade, hates Two—no, he has to have something to love, something to fight for...
But all of the sudden, that rule feels pointless. Arbitrary.
He loses himself in the emotion, in the jealousy and the indignation and the self-pity.
And he forgets everything else. He forgets who he is. He feels every boundary crumble.
He throws himself at Blade, knocking him backward and pinning him to the stones. His breaths are coming in ragged gasps, but Blade still seems unconcerned; he even seems to be smiling, a little mischievously, as if he has a secret Tremor will never know.
Tremor presses his hands into Blade's shoulders, his knees against the other boy's abdomen. He reaches for his knife.
But Blade throws him off as if he were a ragdoll.
Tremor skids across the ground, skinning his elbow over the unforgiving surface. Momentarily dazed, he blinks up at the sunlight.
This shouldn't be happening. Tremor is supposed to be winning.
He looks back at Blade, who's already back on his feet, moving toward him like he's got all the time in the world.
Tremor hates him. He hates everything. Hates the way the sunlight gleams off the rooftops and everything is so serene when the world should be burning because Tremor is unraveling and nothing makes sense anymore...
Tremor does something he's never done before, something his old self wouldn't have dreamed of doing.
He scrambles to his feet and runs away. He doesn't need Blade. He doesn't need anyone. He will figure out some other way to win.
(He can't even admit to himself that it's the losing, the failing, that he can't face. Tremor would never admit to failure.
No, he'll spin this another way. He's doing good, removing himself from this battle. Every hero needs time to recuperate.
That feels much better. Much easier.)
...
Luz stares at the hollow buildings and their empty windows, wondering what kind of people once lived here. If things were different, this could be a nice place. It could be full of beauty.
But it's not even real. Nothing about this is.
Except for the fact that Luz is alone and becoming more desperate by the minute.
She hurries past the borders of neat and organized buildings, out into the scraggly, unkempt wilderness. The shacks are still there, slumped as if they cannot even carry their own weight. Luz passes them, trying not to remember the smell of plague and Asa's limp hand in hers.
She has to be better than this.
But it's so, so hard.
She tells herself what she might've once told Asa. She takes deep breaths and finds a point of focus... but there is nobody and nothing to focus on. No reprieve from the grief pounding at her eyelids.
Is there anything beyond this village and these few yards of wilderness, or does the illusion just... end, gutter out like an old record or a dead lamp?
And if there is an end... can Luz find it?
A bright blossom of hope unfurls in her chest. It feels foolish, but Luz has even less to lose now. She has no time for logic anymore.
She almost laughs at herself. Luz Contreras, not having time for logic? The thought is ridiculous.
But it's true. She needs to save herself and the two remaining Tributes still alive, and in order to do that, she needs to get out of here.
But she won't do that by winning.
She'll find her own escape.
She keeps walking, past the place where the Capitol wants her to stop. And as she walks, something reignites inside her.
Luz wants. She wants to help these poor lost souls who are slowly turning into monsters. She wants to make the Capitol pay for what they've done.
And, most surprisingly, she wants to live.
It almost makes her smile. Luz Contreras wants to live. She can see something beyond this Arena. Maybe if she got out, if she vanquished the Capitol and freed their prisoners, she could return to Nine and run the apothecary, just like Asa wanted. She could have the opportunity to be kind again, to smile.
She could live in Asa's memory.
It's what he would've wanted. It's what he pleaded for her to do in his letter, the very last words he will ever say to her.
And now that Luz knows there's a chance—now that she knows there could be time to grieve and heal and grow—it only makes her want to escape more. She wants to outwit the Capitol themselves.
If only that didn't feel so out of reach.
...
Blade stares after Tremor's retreating figure.
How stupid can someone be?
He remembers Tremor's eyes, wild and wide as he stumbled away from Blade. He'd looked scared. Disbelieving, even.
Blade can almost find a shred of pity for the boy. He just... he never thought Tremor would be such a coward.
But maybe Blade can't pass judgment. After all, he's a monster himself.
There can be no pity attached to this battle. Blade knows that the worst thing someone can do in this world is kill without consequence or reason; but if one is a cowardly killer, that's even worse.
Blade follows Tremor, easily able to track the boy by the trail he's left—pavestones uprooted, dust disturbed. Blade is a master of stealth; it's even better if the person he's tracking has no regard for it.
He figures out where Tremor is going fairly easily. The stage looms in the sunlight, an almost expectant air about it—and when Blade pulls up short before the stage's steps, he sees Tremor hurrying up the sloped surface.
He approaches carefully, knowing that his steps will be silent. He is a shadow in the night, a master of the darkness... except, it's high noon. And as soon as Blade reaches center stage, just a few paces behind Tremor, spotlights flip on, bathing them both in a gaudy glow.
Tremor turns. His wolfish mask is picked out in garish shades, made eerier by the spotlight.
For a moment, Blade shrinks back beneath the light. He's unaccustomed to being seen, so exposed by the too-bright gleam that has now made him a beacon.
But Tremor only steps forward and tilts his face skyward, as if bathing in the glow, drinking in the attention.
It makes Blade hate him more.
Something else is glistening beneath the light's revealing cast. The guillotine, impossible to ignore. Its blade is sharpened to precision—the tip glimmers in the light, as if it's just waiting to be used.
Blade could do it. Grab Tremor, haul him forward, swing the blade. It would be so quick, so easy—
And for a moment, Blade does consider it. Perhaps even a villain deserves some mercy.
But Blade is a monster, too. Maybe that's what keeps him from doing it.
This pompous Peacekeeper doesn't deserve mercy. If he dies, it will be after a long battle. Blade's revenge is going to be much sweeter than a quick death.
If his revenge can ever truly be satisfied, that is.
...
Beneath the lights of the stage, Tremor almost feels like himself again. The boy who fought so hard to be the strongest, the bravest, the most efficient. The boy who never reached that goal.
That boy is gone now, destroyed a long time ago.
Tremor lunges, pressing his fist into the weak spot where the gargoyle had once marked Blade's bicep. The wound reopens, and Blade's expression shows a flicker of pain. He pulls back and Tremor lifts his bloody knuckles, glorifying in the fact that the blood isn't his anymore. That they're on even ground now.
He still wants to run away. Perhaps the Capitol will finally see sense, destroy the other two Tributes remaining, and let him out. Perhaps there will be someone on the other side to keep him safe.
But there is nobody. Only Saladin, his grandfather, whom Tremor can't even think about because he's the reason Tremor started training in the first place. And the places he's been, the versions of himself, keep creating and destroying themselves until Tremor's not sure where one begins and the other ends.
If he wants to get out of here... no. When he gets out of here, he will be awash in the glory of battle. He will finally destroy the last remnants of this horrible place, and afterward...
Well, he doesn't know what comes after. But right now, he doesn't care. Because he knows he'd return to the Capitol, but only if they were begging for him on bended knee.
They'll see their mistake. Tremor Atilius will prove himself in killing Blade and the girl from Nine. And he will take pleasure in it.
Blade lunges, swiping his scimitar toward Tremor's shoulder, but the slash is made sloppy by the wound still bleeding down Blade's forearm. Tremor reaches forward and tries to disarm Blade with his own machete, but the boy only flips his knife to the other hand.
Of course, he would be just as efficient with both hands. Tremor hates him. No, he's jealous of him. Or maybe it's a mix of both.
Blade signs something, and Tremor doesn't need to know what he's signing to tell that it's taunting.
He takes the bait and swings again, irrational and wild and unruly, while Blade continues to block him with practiced precision.
No matter. Tremor is willing to fight a long battle, as long as he comes out on top in the end.
It will all be worth it.
They'll see.
...
She walks past the shacks and the weeds and the remnants of death, taking in the fog of despair that seems to hang over this tiny camp. All around is the sense of destitute hopelessness. Luz tries to shake off the feeling. But it's difficult not to absorb.
All of this is happening because of her. If she'd made Asa drink the antidote, if she'd fought off the gargoyle that killed Cal, if she hadn't mixed up her tinctures... maybe three more people would have lived to see another day. There's a part of Luz that knows this train of thought is illogical, but there's another that knows to take responsibility is to be in control. At least she can do something about it, if it's all on her shoulders.
And she needs to do something to stop her other two companions from destroying themselves. Maybe if she can finally save someone, it will make up for all the death she's caused. Maybe it will make everything lighter, easier to hold.
Her legs ache. Her body yearns for water. She feels a step away from collapsing.
But, for the sake of those counting on her, she doesn't. She can still help. She needs to do something to help.
Asa... she misses him so much. She would give anything for his smile, the glint in his eyes, his cheek pressed against hers.
The grief, the impossible longing, is killing her just as surely as the thirst is.
But she forges on, managing to run on her last bit of momentum. She has to see this through. If she somehow gets out of here without the boys from Two and Six, the weight of knowing she could still have done something to save them would be far too much.
Past remnants of shrubbery and dirt-streaked huts, there is a stretch of unmarked soil. Beyond that, the world seems to end.
There's a shimmer in the air; nearly imperceptible, but Luz catches it. But beyond that... the ground falls away, and there's only an expanse of air that seems to be endless.
Luz steps back. Maybe if she turns around, skirts the Arena, there will be a flaw in the Gamemakers' plan.
But maybe this is the glitch, the flaw that Luz can use to get free.
The swirling thoughts torment Luz. She takes a shuddering breath, trying not to be frustrated with herself. If she'd only known anything about the Games before, seen the fifteen previous years, she might be able to draw from that foundation.
But she's never seen another Games, and she doesn't know how the Arena works.
And she's grateful she hasn't. She doesn't need fifteen more Games' worth of horrors, on top of the ones she already carries. And she doesn't want to let the Capitol win.
She stares at the place beyond the dirt, where the Arena cuts off abruptly. The image seems to waver, playing tricks with her vision. She thinks she might see faces in that shimmering mirage, hands reaching toward her...
She blinks. She can't afford to see things, not now.
"I refuse to play your game," Luz says, reminding herself of the truth.
She can't turn back. She cannot be afraid.
If it's really that easy, and stepping beyond this point can somehow enable her to overpower the Arena, then she'll be able to take control of the Games and save Blade and Tremor. If she falls off the edge of the Earth and floats in that endless space forever... well. At least she will have tried. She'll not be in the Capitol's grip anymore. She will not be a plaything.
A tear slips down her cheek. What can she do? There's really no choice.
She's sure that the audience delights in her powerlessness. This is the kind of entertainment Capitolites must live for.
The thought turns her stomach. She won't give them the pleasure of watching her squirm.
She takes a moment to gaze up at the sky. If there's truly someone beyond this world watching over here, a spirit or a constellation or a higher power, she hopes they will guide her safely away from this place. She hopes she's done something good, in spite of the darkness that surrounds her.
With her heart folding in on itself, melting and reforging, Luz squares her shoulders and steps closer.
If she dies, she dies unafraid of what the Capitol will do to her.
She still bears the burden of her guilt and grief, but along with them are the tender memories of a time she's left behind. Yes, her loved ones have left her; but maybe they're still with her, in some form.
"Let it be known, Gamemakers, that I will never stop defying you. If I am given the opportunity of helping those that need it, I will always take it."
A foolish action is better than none at all.
She leaps forward, and as the world bursts into light and she is thrown backward, Luz knows that she has failed. In that horrible moment of stillness and pain, Luz Contreras feels an impossible sadness.
But then she thinks of Asa. She can almost see him, with his arms outspread, full of all the warmth and love that Luz could never show herself.
She imagines that he is telling her to rest.
It's time for her to let go. To say goodbye.
She's failed. But she has to believe that she's begun something, something that will someday be continued by another.
All of that feels far away, though. She sets down her burdens with the strange, gentle feeling that someone else can carry them, for once.
And as Luz Contreras' world bursts apart, as the pain of electricity overpowers her senses, she rests in an overpowering sense of love—the kind that stays, even when she fails.
And Luz lets herself be still.
Until her thoughts, too, are burst and scattered to the winds.
...
Blade feels the vibrations through his feet, the stage shaking with the force. Tremor flinches, giving Blade an opening to cut a long slash across his jaw.
Unless the world is about to collapse, Blade knows it can only be an explosion, or maybe a cannon.
Or, perhaps, both. Melded together. A kind of terrible, doubled destruction.
He knows what it means. He feels the weight in a terrible, wonderful duality.
It's just him and Tremor now.
Nine must be gone.
He lunges forward, aiming for Tremor's ribs. The other boy parries. There's a new, steely kind of madness that glints behind his eyes. As if the death brings him delight.
Blade shouldn't feel anything. But his thoughts are a maelstrom, a swirl of hate and disgust and a strange, humming anticipation.
He pushes his blade beneath Tremor's own, twisting savagely. The other boy pushes back, but to no avail. Soon his prized machete is skittering across the stage.
Tremor doesn't seem to notice. He brandishes his brass knuckles.
Blade inhales. Exhales.
This is all muscle memory to him, a kind of style that has been honed and perfected over many years. To fight like this... it's a lethal dance. It's almost an art form.
Blade curses himself. It shouldn't feel like this, should it? He should be feeling ashamed.
But Tremor is evil. That evil has to be eradicated.
Tremor's mouth is moving but Blade ignores him, crouching and swinging low, hoping to send Tremor sprawling.
He can feel something dawning on the horizon, something so much bigger than a cannon and an explosion combined.
Tremor stumbles. A chink in his rapidly thinning armor.
Blade blinks at the vulnerability, not wanting to see it. It's hard enough, killing Tremor and battling with his own inner turmoil. He doesn't need to see the boy's own humanity, on top of all that.
They skirt around each other, waiting to see who makes the next move. A perilous Chess game.
No. No, this isn't a game. It's not just a show put on for the Capitol's amusement. It's more than frivolity and fanfare.
It's death, real and true. Simple.
Except... not.
Tremor makes a desperate punch toward Blade's abdomen. He manages to catch the Two boy's wrist, twisting it as easily as he had the machete. He winces at the feel of the bone breaking.
Tremor's face contorts and Blade looks away.
Tremor swings savagely at Blade's face, and this time he makes a direct hit. Blade winces at the iron taste in the back of his throat, blood spilling from his nose and streaming down his face. He spits the blood from his mouth, watching it splatter on the stage.
Tremor's calm composure is slowly chipping away like marble. Soon, it will shatter.
To stave off the sympathy, Blade reminds himself that this is the boy that goaded him into killing the Three girl. The boy that killed Alessio without remorse. The Capitol's lapdog.
It helps, a little. Makes the pain turn to anger, which turns toward Tremor again. A never-ending cycle.
Blade wishes he could break free.
But he can't.
So he channels his confusion and stabs Tremor in the stomach, right where the Two boy had tried to hurt Blade.
They both stumble away from each other. Tremor's eyes blow wide.
He wobbles and sways, his eyes casting about wildly as if someone will come to save him.
But there's nobody else in this Arena now. Nobody but Blade and Tremor on this stage.
Tremor spreads his feet wide and somehow, miraculously, stands his ground.
Blade lets out a sigh.
Tremor is surprisingly difficult to kill.
Maybe that's for the best.
...
The world is a riot of red and pain and hate and light and darkness, and there's no place for Tremor in any of it. He's not sure who he is anymore, not sure where he started and why he's even here, but that doesn't matter because nobody cares about Tremor Atilius now, not even himself. Everything has become a scatter of stars and scars and dark and light and Tremor somewhere in-between.
There's a dizziness threatening to push him over. A pain pummeling at his insides. But Tremor pays them no heed, because he's faced work before. He's faced adversity and conflict and come out on the other side.
He just can't remember why any of it matters anymore. He doesn't know where he fits in the swirl of color and hate and vastness, and he's not sure if he ever did.
He finds himself lunging for someone. Someone with sadness etched into his eyes. Someone who Tremor hates.
He thinks. But he can't really feel much anymore. It's all one terrible flood, too thick and black and deep for Tremor to wade through.
He is on top of the boy, knees digging into his gut, and there's a strange sense of déjà vu hanging in the air, as if this has happened before, and this is how it's meant to be. There is blood, slick and red, everywhere, and Tremor knows somehow that it's his.
He doesn't know much else. He's succumbed to the current of rage and now there's no rhyme or reason to be found.
He only knows that this boy is an enemy, always has been.
One of Tremor's fists comes down on the boy's wrist. The boy—Blade... that's right—hisses, and his hand goes lips. His scimitar falls to the wooden floor, and Tremor kicks it, watching it bounce away...
The boy is moving beneath him. Tremor feels as if time is moving too fast and too slow at once. He's lost something and he can't find it.
His parents. That's right. He lost them to the war. To the rebels. The Capitol tried so hard to save them... they fought so valiantly. And now it's Tremor's duty to fight with them, too. What kind of awful son would he be if he let his parents die in vain?
But he doesn't really know what that means anymore. Fighting for the Capitol. Dying in vain. It's all meaningless to him.
Why is he so confused? He was always the smartest, the strongest, in his class. That has to mean something...
He leans close to Blade. There are a hundred ways he could kill the Six boy—the rebel.
Why does he hate this boy again? Was he the one that killed his parents?
No... no, that doesn't make sense.
(Nothing does anymore.)
Tremor is lost in a tide of red and rage and aimless regret, and he knows he's lost something, something else that's not his parents. Something important.
The blood is running out of him faster. Like a river. He's going to die soon...
No, that can't be right. He's going to win.
Tremor Atilius does not know what's true anymore. He feels like he's being slowly pulled apart.
He looks up at the sky, where somebody resides, watching him.
(There has to be somebody there.)
"Help me," he cries.
But nobody is coming to help him. And Tremor knows he doesn't have time to make sense of the world.
Something in him breaks, and he can't tell if it's something in his stomach, or a part of his very soul.
Whatever it is, it hurts. So, so much.
He wants to find shore.
But he's lost, so lost.
And Tremor hates no one anymore. Not the Capitol, not the boy who's still pinned to the ground, not the kids he's killed—what were their names again?
No. Tremor just wants this all to end. He wants to find himself again. He wants to be warm and safe. He tries to find a memory where he felt loved, where he felt anchored.
But there's none.
And the world is so dark and so cold and so much.
...
Blade sees Tremor shatter.
He sees the struggle in his eyes, the hairline fractures slowly spreading. He sees something snap within Tremor. The boy is so close to Blade, pinning him to the ground. His eyes are molten and fragmented, almost too much to look at.
And then suddenly, Tremor is no longer above Blade. The Two boy collapses on top of Blade, blood pooling around them. Tremor's chest moves rapid and shallow, struggling for breath. Blade feels himself becoming distant as he reaches up and wraps his hand around Tremor's neck, squeezing and squeezing.
The pain is almost too much. He can feel darkness encroaching on his vision, and the slow build of pity for Tremor that he doesn't want to feel. It hurts so much more, to kill Tremor when he's weak and exposed like this.
But he knows he has to do it, despite the pain and the hate. He has to live. He has to take the next step.
The boy's face is slowly draining of color, but Blade can see the desolation in his eyes, the hopelessness. Blade truly can't tell if Tremor collapsed from the blood loss, or if he has finally given up.
(Tremor doesn't even struggle as Blade deprives him of air, sapping his life force little by little. There's a dimness in his eyes that haunts Blade.)
For a moment, Blade's grip slackens. Does he really want to do this?
Can he do this?
He looks at Tremor—cold, heartless, deceptive, delusional Tremor. The boy who once looked at Blade as if he were the scum of the Earth. The boy who killed the one person Blade cared most about.
The boy who's broken on the floor of the stage, the light slowly draining from his eyes.
Why doesn't the Capitol intervene? Why don't they come and save their precious jewel?
Unless...
Blade's hands start to shake.
Tremor has been forsaken by the Capitol, too. He's always been just another soldier to be disposed of.
And Blade doesn't know what to do with that knowledge. It almost makes Tremor seem... human. He looks so small and vulnerable and lost as his eyes finally close and he loses consciousness.
Blade lets go, staring into nothing.
If Tremor is human, that means that others like him might be, too. The crime lords that killed Blade's parents. The President and the countless criminals of Six.
Blade himself.
Maybe there's nobody to blame for all that's been done to Blade. He certainly can't fault Tremor, not when he's curled like a child beneath the glaring sun. Blade might be a monster, but he's not entirely cold-blooded.
And maybe that means he's not a monster. Maybe that means nobody is.
(Or is it everybody?)
Tremor's body jerks, his bloodshot eyes flying open. Still alive, somehow. He looks at Blade with a terrible intensity. There's so much pain and sadness in his expression. Tremor Atilius looks desperate and lost. His mask is askew, and there are tears gathering in his eyes.
Blade goes to retrieve his scimitar, watching Tremor all the time in case this is all a trick. A ploy for sympathy.
Blade can't bring himself to strangle Tremor. But it feels easier, more merciful, with a knife in his hand.
Tremor's eyes fix on the knife, and he shrinks back further into himself.
But then a deeper shade of sadness surfaces in his gaze. His eyes return to Tremor and he nods, a determined set to his jaw, a shudder going through his whole body.
Blade exhales shakily. The world blurs for a moment.
He can't do this. He can't reckon with the fact that Tremor isn't entirely irredeemable.
Blade has been chasing vengeance for so long, but now that it's finally drawing close, he finds that he doesn't like the feeling.
But Tremor is coughing blood onto the stage, and despite Blade's earlier convictions, he finds he wants to end Tremor's misery.
He presses the blade to Tremor's chest, right below the sternum.
(Tremor; the boy who has his own monsters to battle. The boy who's entirely alone.)
"I'm sorry," Blade signs.
And then he plunges the knife into Tremor's chest.
He can't bear to look at the boy's face as he kills him.
There's so much blood. So much death.
Blade has been acquainted with this feeling for so long. Ever since finding his parents' broken bodies at five, Blade and death have walked hand in hand.
But it still hurts, to kill Tremor. As if there's a mirror-knife digging between Blade's own ribs.
In his peripheral, Blade catches a glimpse of the guillotine. It gleams, bright as the day Blade first saw it.
The guillotine is bloodless and unmarked. But Blade feels like his own soul is forever stained.
What has he done?
He can't stop staring at the blood, spreading across the stage. Only after a moment of sightless staring does Blade realize what this means.
He scrambles across the stage, skirting around the guillotine. Its bulk gives him cover. Maybe the cameras won't see him if he's in its shadow.
But Blade knows that's nothing but a false hope. Just as everything seems to be.
He searches for a moment before he finds it—a dagger, thin and deadly. His fingers lock around the cold metal, moving numbly. He feels like something else is in his body. A different version of him. But no matter what shape he's in, Blade knows what he'll have to do. And he's prepared, despite everything.
This is all he has left.
He slips the knife into his boot, hiding it from sight.
There is so much blood, and Blade can't handle the sight of it.
He finds that almost surreal. Blood has never bothered him before.
A tear slips down Blade's cheek.
What has he become?
He emerges just in time to see the last glimmer leave Tremor's eyes.
He sees a cascade of images behind his eyes. His parents' death. The Capitols' indifference. His false friends back home, waving goodbye.
Alessio, pleading. Blade, promising.
Tremor. Shattering.
And Blade. The only one left.
A hovercraft is flying down through the sky. Blade cringes away, not wanting to look at it.
He doesn't want to go back to the Capitol. Not anymore.
But he has to. He has to if he wants to keep his promise, if he wants to complete the plan he's spent so long concocting.
This is truly happening.
But Blade can't bring himself to accept it.
He stares at Tremor's dead body. Imagines everyone he's killed.
He doesn't understand the difference between monsters and men anymore. He doesn't know if there ever was a line between him and Tremor. In his last moments, the Two boy reminded Blade of himself, so long ago.
The world feels too nonsensical, too terrible for Blade to fully comprehend. Surely, this can't be real.
But it is.
They have to drag him into the hovercrafts. He hardly feels the Capitol officials' hands as they force him into a seat. He hardly feels himself lifting away.
But when he looks out the window, he sees himself leaving it all behind. Alessio and his ghosts, Marquis and his smile, Naya and her bravery, even the girl from Nine, who somehow managed to live almost as long as him.
And, of course... Tremor, and all the horrible revelations that came with him.
He feels a kind of tug deep in his chest. One that says he doesn't deserve to be the only one left. He's not allowed to come out while they stay behind.
Before Blade knew about the Games and what they would become, he made a plan. To kill the President. To heal the wound inside him.
Now, that wound feels different. Blade feels different.
But he finds that he still wants to do it.
Perhaps even more than before.
The Capitol has wronged countless people, from the lowliest in Six to the grandest in Two.
And Blade longs to see them pay.
Because otherwise, all of this will be for nothing. And Blade can't let that happen.
He feels like he left something behind in that Arena. As if the nine days stuck inside that village was enough to carve and mold Blade into something new.
He hates the Capitol for that. For taking something vital inside him and crushing it.
He feels almost soulless now.
But at the same time, Blade Cassidy can still most certainly feel. Perhaps even deeply than before. And now, he feels lost.
If Blade can find sympathy for Tremor—if there truly was goodness inside him—that must mean that he's wrong about other things, too.
Like the President.
It's impossible to fathom.
Blade squeezes his eyes shut and imagines Alessio, his slowly softening gaze, and everything that tormented him.
He doesn't deserve to be here.
He wants to break through the windows of this hovercraft and make them pay.
But who else is there to blame for all this, but Blade? How can he hate anyone else besides himself?
No, he doesn't belong here. His chest feels like it's been hollowed out, and his mind is floating somewhere away from his body.
But he's still alive. Somehow.
And that has to mean something.
He has to keep Alessio's promise. He has to stop the Games, kill the President, make the world pay for his parents' deaths...
But it's all too much. He can't do everything.
(He can't change anything.)
Blade Cassidy is all alone again, back at the start. Except, he's different now. The world is different.
He's alive. He's still here.
But there are so many people who aren't, shadows and wraiths from his past that still cling to him.
He has to finish what he started. Even if it feels like the world is caving in, Blade has to be stronger.
For Alessio, for Tremor, for the girl from Nine. Even for himself.
He deserves to have a chance at life as much as they do.
He'll live for all of them. For the lives he's taken and the people who've breached his walls and seen the boy beneath.
Among all the blood and darkness and confusion, that thought is beautiful enough to pierce the fog in Blade's mind. It's enough to give him hope.
And even if it's a false hope, even if there's nothing in this world for Blade... it still brings him comfort.
He lets the exhaustion catch up to him, and along with it regret. Hate. Sadness. Hope.
It always comes back to that.
He lets himself imagine what the world could be like, once he's done with it. He imagines what it might feel like when he keeps Alessio's promise and carries on his legacy. He pictures making real changes in the Districts, stopping the Games forever. He envisions his parents, their hazy silhouettes, smiling down at him. Still proud of him, no matter what he's become, no matter how bloodied and misshapen his soul is.
And Blade falls asleep, buoyed up by possibility. It's the only thing he can hold on to anymore. It's the only thing keeping him afloat.
He clings to it like a lifeboat as the world goes dark.
...
3rd Place: Luz Contreras, killed by the Gamemakers' forcefield. Luz was a beautiful soul; there's no other way to put it. She always strove to help others whenever they needed it and spread light in the darkest places, despite Panem's usually sad and unforgiving atmosphere. In the words of Asa, she was a lighthouse in a stormy sea, an anchor to all that she knew. Her generosity and empathy were so beautiful to write. She was a healing and protective presence, but she also had a great head on her shoulders and a fierce spirit that could never be dampened. She was unafraid to fight against the abuse and corruption of the world, and those who dared to hurt her loved ones. In short, Luz was full of light, and she never stopped fighting against the darkness. She was too young and wholesome to be in these Games, and she carried so much grief, yet her every action was guided by the need to do the most simple but powerful thing for her—to lift others up from the darkness around them. R-B, thank you so much for giving me Luz. I loved her so deeply, and despite all that she went through, I hope I wrote her well. Here's to Luz, our loving lighthouse; I hope she sees every beautiful facet within herself.
2nd Place: Tremor Atilius, killed by Blade Cassidy. Tremor was a complicated individual, and arguably a villain, but I enjoyed writing him so much. He challenged me so much as a writer, and I fully believe that he broadened my horizons. At his core, Tremor longed to be seen and approved of. He was always trying to do things for other people; to make them proud, or to see them pay. All of his anger and fiery vengeance ultimately stemmed from years of unprocessed grief and trauma. Beyond that, he was misguided by the Capitol and wrapped up in their illusions of glory... but he broke free from that, in his own way. Tremor was often driven by intense emotions, and these eventually became too much for him to handle—in the end, Tremor wanted to be free of everyone else's commands, while also longing for safety and love. Tremor was a truly tragic character, and though he was flawed, being jealous and often confused, I truly loved diving into his many layers. Thank you, Harley00, for giving me Tremor. I hope I have written him well, and I wish things could have turned out better for him. Here's to Tremor, our paranoid soldier; I hope he finds refuge from his own inner turmoil.
Victor: Blade Cassidy. Blade! I am so proud of this boy. Blade is, above all else, so brave and resilient. He saw so much darkness in the world, and took it upon himself to try and eradicate that darkness... but he felt himself becoming darker in the process. Yet he felt it was a necessary sacrifice, because somebody had to take on the responsibility of delivering justice, even if it was messy. Blade can be seen in many different ways, and his method is certainly arguable, but I've always seen him as a lost soul, trying his best to keep the shadows at bay. He's always struggled with a deep self-hatred, and that was always harrowing to write. But Blade was able to find a friend within the Arena, and to accept himself in some ways. Beyond that, Blade's dry humor always made me smile; and his disability enhanced his fighting technique, while still not being invisible or a sidenote. Jay, thank you so much for giving me Blade. I can't wait to continue his journey, and I'm so happy to give you a Victor. Despite the fact that Blade still carries so much sadness, he managed to emerge victorious, and he absolutely deserves that.
Hi everyone. I don't know what I can say after this chapter, other than that it brought me so much joy and pain in turn to write. I can't believe we're here, at the end. The feels bittersweet, to say goodbye to this cast that I've loved and been with for over a year, but I am also so excited to continue telling Blade's story, and the stories of countless others. I'll do my whole sappy, mushy-gushy thing in Epilogue Three, but for now I want to say thank you, thank you, thank you to all my readers, and all those that have supported me throughout this story. You all mean so much to me and you deserve all the love. I'm sorry for putting you all through so much angst; feel free to yell at me in my DMs, or really whatever it is you need to do to process all the feels; I'll be right there with you, lol. Another huge thank-you to Goldie and Linds for betaing. You are both so cool, and I admire you so much. Once again, thank you all for sticking with me. This story has been so fun to write, and I couldn't have done it without all of your kindness and support at every turn. Thanks for letting me make your kids as sad as possible. :)
Now, I think that's all I had to say. I'm still trying to reckon with the fact that I even wrote this! Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed. Or hated. Either is fine! I'll see you for Epilogue One, where we'll hear from Blade and Ava.
Miri