XLVII: The Games - Day Seven, Evening.

Weston Katsouris, 18
Tribute of District Six

Of everything, Weston did not expect to be alone.

There were those few hours after Shelby, adrenaline-fueled and lengthy, but beyond that Weston cannot confidently say he has ever been alone in his entire life. He's not the type for it, not meant for it.

Perhaps that's why, when he encountered Vadric cowering beneath that desk, he hadn't been overcome by the urge to end their life. Human companionship was something, he knew, he needed like he needed air. He hadn't expected Levi to walk out, nor for Vadric to follow. Weston, in his dumbfounded stupor, had walked into the wall after them far too late to make a difference. By the time he looked, they were long gone.

Even if he had seen them, it doesn't feel like it would have made a difference. This was a betrayal too big for them to understand, and it was fucking ridiculous if you asked him. What did Levi think, that they would all get to the end together and hold hands the entire time, singing songs like a merry band of travelers? It was a necessity. The time in which he chose to do it was insignificant.

He doesn't stay for long. Weston knows they're not going to come for Jordyn after a few minutes have passed—that much is obvious. Even in death there's something beautiful about her, something enticing, but he's always been among the select few that isn't immediately repulsed by the sight of a corpse. You spend enough time around them, you get used to it.

Wes had grown accustomed to asking the opinions of the others, even if he didn't really care what they had to say. All decisions were ultimately group ones. Now he has no one to ask, no one who can tell him where to place his feet or what to do next.

So Weston knows immediately where he's going to go, if only he can find it again. There's no one to tell him not to, and he's certain they all would. Eager enough to get out of there in the first place, there's no way any of them would dare return on their own terms.

He knows who would go down there with him, though—Freddie. Reckless and curious and all-around just the type of person who would agree with anything, sane or not. He'd get a kick out of all of this. He'd probably find a way to laugh about it.

Too bad Freddie's not here. Been gone for a long time, that one, even if Weston wishes he weren't. That really was the beginning of the end, wasn't it? For so long he had his parents and his siblings and every type of friend in the world, and in a matter of months he was holed up in Freddie's parents corner of the world making up bodies.

Alone is a state of mind Weston should have gotten used to long ago, but something in him will never be able to come to terms with it.

It takes him longer than expected to find a way down once again. The first staircase he finds leads into the winding labyrinth of tunnels they had descended into in the first place, and the second emerges only into a large cellar, and there isn't even anything good hiding within it. Finally, he finds a third—not the same one that had led them down into the crypts in the first place, but an alternate entrance. Weston no longer has any inkling about which direction is which, where he's come from. It's as good as any.

He welcomes the chill of the air that whistles up the stairs, making the torches and their flames shimmer in place. It's not far off from the feelings of the cold rooms back home, though the look couldn't be any different. Weston far preferred the clinical, sleek lines of the mortuary, each self and cooler bright, polished silver. Everything here was too archaic, and it felt like it was rubbing off on him. He could feel the decay creeping into his bones, the damp stone leaving slime against his hand as he was forced to follow the wall in the increasing darkness. He hates it. It makes his fucking skin crawl.

Finally, though, he emerges into the first antechamber, passing beneath the archway into the greater room with a sigh of relief. It amuses him to remember the reactions of the others, how off-kilter each of them had seemed down here in such stark comparison to his own reaction. Levi had looked as if he was going to lose his breakfast, and Vadric had been shaking so hard you could see it from feet away. Only Jordyn had clung to some semblance of composure, but her discomfort was still palpable.

Weston needed nothing more than to stop reminiscing about them, no matter how morbid it was. They were gone, all of them, in one way or another. He didn't care if he came across them ever again. They were as dead to him as everyone else had to be.

But they would help him find it, faster. Someone would know where to go, or at least make the time pass by in a way that wasn't achingly painful. Vadric had a good sense of direction, at least from what he remembered. If he got Levi to loosen up enough, eventually he would start cracking jokes about some of the mindless names that marked each of the stone coffins.

For fuck's sake, he needs to stop thinking.

For a long time, Weston convinces himself that he's walking in circles. You could get stuck down here, he knows, and eventually something would come crawling out for him. Eventually he comes to recognize the long row of pillars he had followed in the first place, what appears to be the main walkway leading past each chamber. Though he's now following it the opposite way, Weston sees exactly what he's looking for immediately. It's grander than the rest, made for someone far more important.

The lid that he had so painstakingly shoved part of the way off is moved, though. Just a few inches, enough to be obvious perhaps only to him. His hands drift absentmindedly to the hatchet hanging at his belt, and he's not even sure why. What the fuck could possibly be in there now that's so detrimental to him. Is he going to let a corpse steal his life?

The closer he creeps, though, forcing himself to be near-silent, the truth becomes obvious. The damn thing is empty. The corpse that had been there previously, resting for God knows how long, is missing.

He becomes acutely aware, all at once, of every dark corner around him, each shadow moving in the torchlight. Weston turns, but there's nothing there. Nothing anywhere. The lid to the coffin across the walkway is as sealed as it was the first time, and each one down the row looks just as untouched.

Why would anything else be different? This was all him. He just had to open it. He had to, even with everyone pleading otherwise.

And now he's let something out.

Sloane Laurier, 17
Tribute of District Three

If she's forced to rummage through even one more empty chest, Sloane just might go insane.

If she isn't already, that is. Some days she wonders.

At least she's not the worst one here. She's reserving that lovely title for Robbie, who had grumbled so thoroughly about Casia the entire time she was climbing earlier that Sloane may have just heard every rude word in the dictionary escape his mouth. How he had let a thirteen year old burrow so thoroughly under his skin Sloane wasn't sure, but it was amusing to watch.

Said thirteen year old girl was just behind her, wiggling a near-identical looking chest out from beneath the four-poster bed, struggling all the while. Yet another reminder of just how small she was. It's no wonder she made her way through those fields like such a little terror. Sloane could sometimes be in the same room as her and forget she was there.

Sloane abandons her fruitless search to grab the other side of the trunk if only because watching Casia struggle is borderline painful. They free it then without much struggle, and Casia finds a seat on the floor to rummage through it.

Sloane takes a seat on the edge of the bed—it's so damn soft she wants to cry. Like hell if she of all people doesn't deserve a nap at this point. It's been a long fucking year. Oh, to flop back and pretend like nothing was wrong and her allies weren't at least partially stupid. What a life that would be.

But one of her stupid allies was still just down the hall, stubborn in his refusal to do any more searching just before nightfall. Her less stupid, far more tolerable ally was the one that had agreed to come with her without any fuss, the one who was still searching while Sloane considered taking a nap.

She flops back, finally giving into the urge, and sinks so deeply into it feels like she could drown. Sloane doesn't think she'd mind.

God, she forgot how nice simple peace and quiet was.

She doesn't hear Casia stand up, but she feels it, the girl's eyes watching her intently even as her own eyes remain closed. "'Sup?" she mutters. Her own vulnerability in this moment doesn't seem to matter over her exhaustion. Casia could very cleanly slit her throat from this angle, almost without a struggle.

But she wouldn't. Sloane isn't sure when they came to that, when they crossed the bridge into mutual trust, but they have.

Speaking doesn't seem to have gotten them anywhere though, at least not quickly. Casia's silence can be strange at times, but it's no longer as off-putting as it once again. Sloane cracks open her eyes, finding a bundle of fabric so large in Casia's arms that it nearly consumes her face.

"It's all too big for me, I think," Casia says. "Some of it should be good for you though."

"Well don't mind if I do then," she mutters, patting the space beside her. Casia deposits the clothing, beginning to spread it out with a careful hand, but Sloane doesn't give it any of the same decency. The second she spots something that resembles a thick, woolen overcoat, it's over for the entire pile. She's sick and tired of the cold from each of these walls leaching into her and stealing warmth like it's their right. There's a pair of supple leather gloves, too—just this side of too tight, but she'll make do. Much of the rest is too thin to do much good.

There's another coat, not dissimilar to her own. Of course there's an obvious answer for what to do with it, but Sloane instead scoops it up and grabs a hold of Casia's arm, dragging the younger girl closer until she can pass it over her head and wrap it around her back. "Doesn't matter if it's too big for you, kiddo," she points out. "You want hypothermia?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"Take these, too," she suggests, balling up a pair of woolen socks. They bounce off of Casia's chest when Sloane tosses them at her. "Stuff them in your boots. You'll manage."

Again with the logical answers for these things, and Sloane doing anything but. Robbie would make good use out of any of this, and all she has to do is collect them and bring them back down the hall. Sure, we would express next to no gratitude for it, but that's what allies are supposed to do.

She would have done it for Talos. She's doing it for Casia.

Robbie is different. There are no true words to say why, other than the fact that she's known from the beginning there was never established trust. It was always going to end in an ugly fashion.

Sloane finishes gathering up the spare clothing while Casia wrestles with her booth, the coat that's been draped over her shoulders threatening to swallow her whole. By the time she finishes stuffing the extras beneath the mattress Casia has successfully rolled the sleeves up to her elbows so that she can easily fiddle with her knife, the pronged fork in her belt brushing against her fingertips.

Sloane pulls free her own machete—as expected, Casia doesn't move an inch, watching the blade with a carefully measured expression. Any other person may have taken the opportunity to be afraid, but not her. That's why the decision is working out the way it is.

If Robbie wants to know what's going to happen, Sloane thinks he can have his answer.

"You with me, kid?" she asks.

Casia nods. No hesitation, not a shred of doubt. "I am."

Aranza de León, 18
Tribute of District Eight

She's absolutely loathe to close the doors and draw the curtains.

Aranza has come to an understanding with herself—she's wrong, perhaps in every sense of the world, and she could not find any more enjoyment in the fact than she already does. It's what the Capitol wants. If it means success, that's what she's dying to be.

Closing those doors means losing her last connection to the atrocity they committed in the courtyard below; she does not expect any remnants of it to still be there come the morning.

She does allow herself to wait some time though, for the only glimpse that could satisfy her enough to get her through the night. The anthem arrives with a cacophony of sound, but when she turns to seek out her remaining companion, Tova is busying herself with creating some type of makeshift cot.

There's something up with her, and Aranza can't quite put her finger on it. She will, of course—it's only a matter of time before she's able to delve deep enough to know Tova's every thought, but for now she has not been able to furrow through any of the cracks. They're not visible enough. She needs to pry them open, make her walls drop even further. Aranza needs more.

For now, she is content only with the emptiness of the sky. Only on her terms. Only on her terms…

Aranza closes the door with a gentle click, shuttering them into a calming darkness. She wraps her arms around herself, missing the warmth of the fire that Tova has so unceremoniously extinguished.

"I'm not sure why you're doing that," Aranza points out, refusing to shiver even as Tova turns to hold her gaze.

"Doing what?"

"Making that up. There's a bed right there."

"I thought the princess would want to sleep in it." To anyone else, it would sound like an insult, but Aranza is quite pleased with the nickname. With no venom in Tova's voice whatsoever, why wouldn't she be?

"The princess," she states. "Would love nothing more than to get a good night's rest. She also thinks you should get over yourself and climb into bed."

"Do you always talk about yourself in third person?"

"Only when someone is being quarrelsome." Aranza smiles. That usually does the trick. Tova, ever impassive, still manages to look unimpressed.

The longer they stare at one another, though, Aranza knows this is her victory to let slip away. She pats the thick layer of blankets at the foot of the bed, an invitation if she's ever seen one.

Aranza can only smile wider as Tova finally gives in. Any other person would navigate around the other side, closer to the balcony, but Tova takes up position closer to the door, slipping beneath only the top blanket. She's such a little warrior, this one, always thinking ahead. Tova is thinking about being on the offense, even if someone were to break down their door. She's barricaded it so thoroughly Aranza doesn't know how anyone could, but that hasn't stopped her from moving accordingly.

She's acutely aware of the stiffness residing throughout Tova's body the moment she climbs into the bed alongside her, hardly allowing the mattress to dip beneath her weight, wound tight. Aranza knows just how to play this.

For several long minutes, perhaps the most agonizing of her life, she remains still on her own side of the bed, as far to the left edge as she can get. The process of inching closer is a slow one, but Aranza knows it will be worth it.

Tova, to her credit, never once glances sideways to check on Aranza's progress. Her eyes remain steadfastly fixed on the canopy above them, almost unblinking.

"Relax," Aranza murmurs, her mouth now hardly an inch away from brushing against Tova's shoulder.

"You say that a lot."

"You need to hear it a lot."

"Remember where we are," Tova says plainly.

"I know quite well where we are, love, but no one's getting in here. It's just the two of us."

"As I am so acutely reminded," Tova says—Aranza ignores the bitterness lying thick in her voice in favor of closing the last of the dance. She lets her hand fold around Tova's waist, head brushing against her shoulder. It's not all that far off from their little moment in the kitchens, but so much has happened in-between that they can't dare pretend otherwise.

She lets her thumb brush absentmindedly over Tova's side. Still she refuses to slacken. Never in her life has Aranza been so consistently in the presence of someone like this, who changes faster than Aranza can make sense of.

Tova is a mystery of a girl—Aranza should be the one given the gift to figure her out, if only Tova would let her.

She presses her lips to Tova's shoulder where the collar of her shirt has exposed just enough skin to touch, and then lifts her head to find Tova's mouth, lips meeting at the corners. "Goodnight," she murmurs. For a moment, Tova's eyes close. She thinks she's won.

"Aranza."

"Hm?"

"I think you should go back to the other side of the bed."

She blinks. Tova opens her eyes, a mere two or three inches away, and the look in them is something indescribable.

For the first time in a long time, Aranza feels something like fear.

It's fire—outrage, confusion, anguish. Each flame twisting around one another, burning so hot Aranza cannot make herself look away for several long moments. How can she be captivated by something so terrifying? Slowly, agonizingly, she unwinds her arm from the warmth it's found across Tova's middle, watching her all the while.

She can't even tell if it's directed at her. She can't make sense of any of it.

The instant Tova is free she jerks around, turning her back to Aranza. Tova curls tighter around herself for a second, as if experiencing some amount of physical anguish, before she returns to the same position as before. Unyielding and unbending.

Aranza goes back to the other side of the bed in silence.

Kai Melchior, 16
Tribute of District Five

There's something to be said about knowing you're dying.

Whatever that something is, though, Kai isn't certain. It requires more energy and brainpower than he currently possesses. It has taken everything in him to remain conscious this entire while, clinging to Ravi's back like an infant with no other option.

They'll be safer here, towards the center of the castle. As long as they get him there, Kai knows that much. The sun is rapidly going down, however, and time is running out to find a place. Judging by Zoya's reckless abandon, the kind of which has him opening doors without so much as the slightest hesitation, shows Kai that he knows it too.

Ravi is moving with more haste than normal as well, though he still tries valiantly not to jostle Kai even in the slightest. Kai wishes that Ravi would just put him down, that they had that ability between the two of them.

Being carried, he thinks, is better than being dragged. That's his alternative.

He watches Zoya throw open another door with a quiet sigh—Ravi glances at him from the corner of his eye, but says nothing.

"He's a disaster," Kai offers.

"A disaster trying to find us a place for the night."

"I know."

"You don't think he's that bad."

"I know," Kai says begrudgingly. "Doesn't make him any less of a disaster."

Ravi lets out a quiet, amused huff. He chooses not to comment on the next few, hardly even sparing a glance into the almost entirely empty rooms. Kai gets the sense they're looking for a proper place for him to rest, and the energy going into such a mission is being wasted, but won't he just be told to shut up if he speaks up?

"You don't have to carry me forever," he says instead. "Literally or figuratively. But I appreciate it."

"You know I do."

"Anyone else would have dropped my ass outside and let a mutt eat me."

"Do you think you deserve that?"

No. Of course he doesn't. Kai would rather not be eaten alive, thank you very much. But this level of compassion is outstanding, the likes of which, until now, he's only encountered in hospital wards. And who knows if that's even real. People can fake anything when they're being paid to do so.

But Ravi is real, and he's good. He ought to know.

Kai knows the truth of the matter—no matter how many more days he needs to make it, it's too much time. His entire body feels like a foreign entity; he's a stranger in his own skin, a soul holding onto the barest findings of a shell. Soon there will be nothing left at all.

"If I can't win," he starts, the proper words echoing in his head. Because I can't win. "It should be you. You know that, right?"

"There's no reason it should be me."

"You're better than anyone else in here."

"Which isn't a benchmark for winning. Besides, what about Zoya?"

"What about Zoya? Alright, he's not so bad, you've got me there, but what do you think he'd do if he got back to Five? The entire District would be burnt to the ground by the time winter's up, and it might not even be intentional—"

"Kai," Ravi interrupts. He doesn't sound irritated, or even cross. Frankly, Kai's not sure he's capable of such emotions, especially. "You know that doesn't mean anything."

He quiets. It's obvious Ravi would rather not talk about it, and Kai can't find fault in that. Winning is just as terrifying as dying, for most people—he's the outlier here. Winning would be a renewed chance at life, the future he thought he could never have.

It would be delightful to think about if he thought even for a second that it was possible to have.

"Just listen to me for one second," Kai says quietly. "When I'm gone—"

"If."

"If," he corrects. Kai thinks Ravi let out a wince at the mere suggestion. "If I'm gone, you only have yourself to worry about."

"What about Zoya?"

He's too damn selfless for his own good—Kai has been selfish his entire life. Granted, it's difficult not to be, when you're living with an expiry date attached to your name, but it's enviable nonetheless.

"The only person Zoya needs protecting from is himself, and trying to stop that would be suicide. I'm telling you, worry about yourself. Protect yourself. That's all that matters."

Ravi is alarmingly silent, but Kai didn't expect to get any agreement out of him. Ahead of them, Zoya throws open another door, a brief sound of triumph escaping his lips. The room he's discovered is hardly any different than the rest of them, but this one has a couch pushed up beneath the shuttered window. Zoya really was looking for a place to rest all along—isn't that disturbing?

"In, before I lock you pathetic fuckers out," Zoya demands, shooing them inside. Kai tries to prepare himself for the moment Ravi begins to lower him down, but nothing quite does it. He had tried his best, hours ago, not to show the agony coursing through his body when Ravi had scooped him up in the first place, but he knew he had failed.

Somehow, it's worse this time. He didn't know it could be any worse. There's no way to tell where the pain radiates from, only that it feels as if his body has been doused in gasoline and set ablaze. When he inhales, trying to regain his breath, something like an off-kilter rattle reaches his ears. Someone's said something like that to him before. Warned him about it. That's his lungs, isn't it?

He's dying, and he still has no words.

The plush cushions that he eventually finds himself resting on do nothing to ward off the pain. Even Ravi's hand, resting gently against his shoulder, feels like a knife carving into his skin.

He can't make him move. Doesn't have the words. He's so tired.

"You're safe, now," Ravi says. "Just go to sleep."

There are so many things he wants to say. So many things he wishes he could do. Most of all, Kai wishes he could live, a pipe dream so far-fetched he feels the exact moment it slips away and fades into nothing.

He sleeps.

An update a week? What the hell? Yeah don't get used to it, cause I'm sure not.

I will be heading off tomorrow for a week off, hence the early update, so obviously there will not be a new chapter for you next time. After that I'll be going back to work, so I can't say with any certainty just how consistent I'll be once I'm back to my regularly scheduled programming, but I'll still be trying my best.

Do consider this your last official 'break' series of chapters, so to speak. That doesn't mean there will be no more no-death chapters, necessarily, but this is definitely the last true calm. Make of that what you will.

Until next time.