XLVIII: The Games - Day Eight, Midday.

Levi Alcandre, 18
Tribute of District Two

Something is wrong with him.

Levi hasn't yet managed to put his finger on what that something may be, though half the time it feels like a mission for another day anyway. He feels like he's drifting. Moving without feeling it. Seeing nothing at all.

But sometimes he sees Jordyn's face. Hears her laugh. Thinks she's still here—

She's not. That much is abundantly clear.

It's been… well, that's the unfortunate thing. Levi doesn't know how long it's been since she died, but it somehow feels like minutes and weeks all at the same time. If his head's anywhere close to right, she's definitely back in the Capitol by home, getting all made up and pretty before they send her home. The kind of shit Wes would love.

He needs to stop thinking about Wes.

For so long after, Levi had been checking over his shoulder for one Weston Katsouris, expecting him there. A part of him is grateful he never saw hide nor hair of him—he's not sure what he would have done had Wes put enough effort in to crawl after him. It's not like Wes would beg, no… he'd probably just kill Levi, too. He was going to eventually.

Sander was right about all of this. He was always going to be. Something in him was always too good to subscribe to the idea that bad people got anywhere in life. Wes was bad. Levi was worse. Not one of them deserves to go home.

God, does he want to, though. He wants to see his family again. He wants to sleep in his bed.

He wants to forget he was ever here.

The shadows on the wall flicker ominously as the floor shifts beneath his feet, almost imperceptible. Levi keeps waiting for the stone to simply open up and swallow him whole—at this point, it would be a kindness. A long, quiet fall into darkness. It wouldn't be so bad, would it?

In his peripherals, the shadows continue to extend and morph. It's been days since he saw a real, living person, but not so long since he last heard one. Always so quiet, the kind of noises anyone without a trained ear would let wash over them. But Levi knows—or, at least, he knows enough. He would say he's surprised at their tenacity, but Levi isn't sure any other person in the world would still be at least half-sane after spending the last year lurking in Weston's impossible shadow.

Levi finally stops in the center of the hall. The pain in his legs reaches his brain all at once, his feet aching so terribly it's a wonder he's standing at all. Perhaps he hasn't sat down since he left. Levi doesn't remember.

"You don't have to hide on me, V," he calls into the darkness. "Just come out."

There's a lengthy pause, very much a hesitant one, before movement in a doorway twenty yards down catches Levi's attention. Vadric pokes their head out to meet his eyes, gripping onto the stone with nervous hands.

"I'm not going to bite," he informs them. Honestly, in the first few hours after, he might have. Vadric was wise to keep their distance.

Now it just feels silly, though. There's no use in them acting like this for the foreseeable future.

As Vadric creeps out into the open, they look around. "I didn't think you knew," they admit sheepishly. "I thought I was doing an alright job."

"You were." Levi taps his temple. "All-knowing. Can't get nothing past me."

He smiles weakly. Vadric's answering one doesn't reach their eyes, but Levi has no doubt his is the same.

"I'm sorry," Vadric offers.

"For what? Following me?"

"For everything."

It's not their fault—far from it. If anything Vadric is the only reason Levi's at all here right now. Knowing he's been trailed this entire time has given him a purpose to keep moving, to keep alert.

Levi shrugs, still, casting his eyes away. "Doesn't matter."

"You cared about her, so it does."

Fuck, he did. This is the exact thing Levi has been trying to avoid thinking about, but it's stuck in his head. He wishes he had met Jordyn back home, that they could have existed together somewhere much safer than this hell-hole. Maybe even Wes could have been there, in a world without all of the violence. They could have been happy.

Right?

"Thank-you," he responds quietly, voice suddenly thick. Vadric looks away—it's more for his benefit than their own, eyes finding the end of the hall.

"Did you have a destination in mind?"

"No."

"Okay. I can leave if you—"

"No. You're staying," he says firmly. Whether or not Vadric is pleased by this Levi can't quite tell, but they begin moving when he gives them a gentle nudge without fuss, and it doesn't feel wrong to match their pace, side-by-side. Levi needs this. A companion might be the last thing some people want, but not him. And to think Wes just let them go—though he's learning he never knew Weston at all, his final action in letting Vadric leave that room alive is the only thing that doesn't surprise him.

They had something special. More special, at least, than whatever Levi thought they all did. As much as it hurts to leave it behind, it's oddly freeing.

"Just like day one, huh?" he reminds them. "Maybe it would have been better if we had never gone looking for them in the first place."

Then Levi would never know the truth. He wouldn't mind remaining blind.

"I think we should make a pact," Vadric says. Though their words are still carefully chosen, already they seem a bit more at ease. He's noticed it, but it was always so easy to attribute to Weston's presence rather than his own. It's good to know that he's still capable of that.

"Shoot."

"No more talking about… everything else. From now on we only talk about today and the future. How does that sound?"

"Great," he admits.

Vadric nods, ducking their head. "I'll apologize in advance."

Levi smiles for real this time. "Stop apologizing, I'm telling you."

"No, not for—not for any of that stuff. I'm not great at this. Casual conversation. Every-day stuff, you know? I haven't exactly had the most experience in… making friends. Or knowing how to."

He keeps forgetting that he doesn't really know them. Not Wes, and hardly Jordyn either. The only person he understood deeper than the others he put down what seems like forever ago, and any other chance at it since then has been cut short. It seems like now they might just have the opportunity for it.

They've got nothing else better to do whilst they're walking in circles. Maybe it will build trust. Friendship seems… almost far-fetched, now, but the dream is there. Levi wants that more than anything. The old him would claw for it, never release it, not stop until he had it.

The him now—the future him, the one that Vadric wants to see, knows it's more than likely impossible.

That doesn't mean it will stop them from trying.

Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four

His life continues to come down to crucial decisions.

And, somehow, Amani keeps choosing the road that leads him to the worst.

They should not be down here; he knows that almost immediately. Saying it aloud would mean admitting fault, and fault would scare the two of them so thoroughly they may never trust another word that comes out of his mouth.

He wants to get them there. He's going to get them there.

Turning back was never an option.

According to the map it's a shortcut—that, and staying underground while the arena continues to fall apart around them, the intact bits still lingering with killers, seemed like the logical move. It still could be, for all he knows. Still, it's less than ideal. The darkness seems to press down on their shoulders, and it didn't take long wandering through the tunnels to find a section where all of the torches had gone out. The remaining light came from the one Amani kept a tight grip on, refusing to let them be rendered blind for even a moment.

The three of them are pressed so tightly together it's a miracle he hasn't caught someone's hair on fire—Ilan is hardly a pace in front of him, Sanne inches from his back. It's best to keep the light in the middle, and Amani is convinced that he would have enough time to grab either of them if something were to happen, no matter what direction the threat came from.

They pass another long row of iron-barred cells, each one three inches thick. Most of the doors are ajar. Chains litter the floor, broken padlocks crushed underfoot. Amani knows it's all for effect, but the thought of being trapped down here is still a very real one. It's not one that comforts him either.

"How much further?" Sanne murmurs. They've come to a silent agreement not to speak in anything louder than a whisper, but Amani isn't sure when that happened.

They're all feeling the same way.

He unfurls the map, nudging against Ilan's back. "Stay here for a second," he suggests. Ilan presses tight to the wall as Amani shimmies past, coming quickly to the next intersection of tunnels. He squints down at the map in the flickering light, tracing his finger along the path he marked out; it shouldn't be much further now until they can go back up.

"I think—"

"Something's down here with us."

Amani freezes at the sound of Ilan's voice, so quiet, so deathly and uniquely frightened. He turns, but nothing's there—nothing's anywhere. Each tunnel ends in a yawning pit of nothing.

The sound of the torch hisses in his ear, but that's not the only thing that catches Amani's attention. There's something else, deeper, almost scratchy.

Is that… breathing?

"Come here," he orders, suddenly uncaring for how loud he is. If something's down here, it already knows exactly where they are. Ilan steps forward towards him, eyes flickering about. Above them, there's the ominous clank of metal, steel sliding against steel. Somehow, Amani knows what's going to happen before he does, but there's nothing he can do.

One of the gated mechanisms above them shifts. He hears the harsh plunge of one coming down, the grating screech as it falls.

"Shit, Sanne!"

There's nothing he can do.

The gate crashes into the floor, segmenting the hallway into two. On one side, him at the junction and Ilan feet away—or, at least, Ilan was feet away. Now he's lunging backward towards the immovable gate, and Sanne trapped on the other side. His fingers pull at it, but it doesn't so much as budge despite his frantic movements.

Something could be said about Sanne's silence—her mouth slightly parted, eyes blown wide. Just because she's not screaming doesn't mean she isn't terrified. Her own hands lock around the bars, and Ilan grabs onto them, as if contact with her means he'll eventually be able to drag her through. The fact of the matter is there's not nearly enough room for her to squeeze through, and there's no way to move the gate.

They're split.

"What do we do?" Ilan asks frantically. "Amani, what—"

He knows what they have to do. That doesn't mean he doesn't despise it.

He crosses back to the gate, handing the map through to Sanne's shaking hands. "Listen to me," he presses. "You see that path I traced? You'll follow it backwards. It'll take you exactly back to the staircase we came down, you hear me? If you hurry, you'll make it back before the sun sets. Get up there and barricade the nearest room you find—you don't leave, okay? We'll circle around back to you."

"We can't just leave her," Ilan insists, voice edging into hysteria. "There has to be another way."

He pulls at the bars again. As expected, they're stuck in place. Amani's plan is the only plan, much as they don't want to admit it.

Sanne stares down at the map tucked into the crook of her arm, balanced precariously on her makeshift sling. She's smart. She'll get back. Amani knows that.

"Sanne," Amani says. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," she echoes. "Okay… okay."

"We're not leaving—"

"You don't have a choice, Ilan!" she insists. Sanne reaches back through the bars, gripping at his wrist. "Just go with him, alright? He'll get you both out of here and you can come find me. I'll see you soon."

"Sanne—"

"I'll see you soon," she says firmly. She gives Ilan a shove until he stumbles a few paces back, trembling. In turn Amani presses himself as tight up against the bars as the space will allow, unsheathing the sword.

"Take this," he insists, passing it through even as Sanne tries to dutifully ignore it.

"I don't know how…"

"You know how."

Amani forces the sword against her chest. "Take it."

He would never say this, but she needs it more. Whatever's down here with them could be on either side of the gate, and at least over here it's two versus one. There's no telling what Sanne's facing over there, or what she'll encounter in the journey back. Amani has to give her the best possible chance to save herself. There's no losing this—not now, when they've come so far.

Sanne tucks the sword away too, just as awkwardly as the map, and grips tightly at the end of the sleeve. "Take care of him," she begs. "Please."

"Until you get back," he promises. She gives him a wobbly smile before releasing him, stepping back until all Amani can see is her shadow. And then she's running no matter the pain it must be causing her, leaving them behind because it's the only choice she's been given. He reaches out, blindly, pulling Ilan back to the intersection against the stubbornness of his stumbling feet.

Before they turn the corner, Amani stops. Straight ahead something's there, but he can't make out enough detail to tell what it is. Tall. Vaguely human.

The breathing is louder than before.

"Let's go," he demands, shoving Ilan before him, forcing them forward. When he looks over his shoulder Amani expects to see it there, following them, but the corridor is blissfully empty. They're leaving it behind.

That's not all they're leaving behind.

Robbie Creston, 17
Tribute of District Ten

He's made up his mind.

Robbie is going to leave.

Once, he thought there was even the slightest possibility of another path, but that all turned to shambles right before his eyes. If it was still just him and Sloane, their pact remaining, Robbie believes everything would be different.

Everything boils down to Nine. He didn't fucking sleep last night. Do you know how deeply you have to distrust someone to not be able to sleep in their presence?

He does.

There's a reason he let Sable die. There's a reason why he still loathes Daisy with every fiber of his being—it's her fault that their parents died. Robbie would have had a life, a proper one, if not for her robbing him of it. Instead two people went to early graves and Robbie went to a home that didn't belong to him.

And now he was here. Destiny kept bringing him to the worst places.

Casia is gone when he finally stops feigning sleep, and he can't pinpoint what's more concerning; her disappearance, or the fact that he was none the wiser to it. It's been hours now since they've seen her. While it would be simple and easy to write it off as her searching the nearby halls, Robbie can't quite convince himself of that.

As Sloane lingers in the doorway, fiddling with the edge of her new coat, Robbie begins tucking away his things. The small bag. Enough food to last, lifted from that dining table. The carving knife, of course, and even the shards of glass he's kept a hold of since the very beginning. You can never be too careful.

For possibly the first time in months, Robbie can say he actually feels prepared when he rises to his feet. There's still the question of Sloane—to get past her, he'll have to offer up some type of explanation. She's not the type to let him go so easily. But what does he care, really, of what she thinks? Robbie should just go. They don't owe each-other anything at this point save for a clean break.

Besides, she's not the reason he's leaving. Not the main one anyway. As the days have passed, Robbie is more and more convinced she'll become it if he allows her the time.

Sloane peers over her shoulder at him before Robbie can prepare the words. "Going somewhere I don't know about?"

"I'm leaving," he announces. A part of him wondered, at first, if he should offer a spot alongside him. They could leave Nine behind and go back to the way things were before she had to overcomplicate every second of it.

It's not worth it now. Robbie is done. There's no going back on that.

"Are you?" Sloane asks, somehow drawing it out into something so patronizing his blood begins to boil. As if he's incapable of walking out of this room.

She has no idea what he's capable of.

"You might as well just get out of the way," he tells her. "You can stay here and wait for Nine for the rest of your life. She could be halfway across the goddamn arena by now."

"She's not."

"And you just know that, right?"

"I do."

Robbie snorts. "Keep telling yourself that, Sloane. See how far it gets you."

She turns to face him. She's so lackadaisical, always has been. Robbie might as well just stride forward and bowl her over—what the hell would she do about it, besides let herself be shoved? He's beginning to suspect she was always just a fluke; that, or perhaps the rumors swirling around the Capitol last year were always correct. A waste of space. Gutter trash. Not going to amount to anything.

Sloane props her shoulder against the doorframe. "Further than you."

Behind him, the door creaks open. The other door, narrow and rickety. He had checked it before settling down for the night, but it had only opened to a much smaller room. Nothing more.

Now, Casia emerges from the crack she's made, face blank, and fear overcomes him. He's pathetic—well and truly pathetic. This little girl terrifies him unlike no one else, and she shouldn't. Not anymore, at least. He's leaving, and no longer can she hurt him.

"Were you there the whole time?" he accuses. "Lurking, listening? Well what are you waiting for now, Nine? You can't—"

Pain bursts outwards in a single burst from the center of his back. The wet taste of copper fills his mouth. Blood fills his mouth, thick and heavy, and it takes everything in him not to choke on it—

A trail of fire begins to move through his abdomen, eating away at the curl of his intestines and stomach.

Sloane presses close to his back, hand wrapped around the hilt of the machete she's nearly pushed all the way through the front of his stomach. "You wanted an answer, right?" she says against the shell of his ear. "Now you have one."

She's fucking killed him.

Robbie tries to stumble forward—he's not sure why. To get away from her, maybe, even if it means collapsing onto the floor in front of her. He finds out almost immediately that he can't move. The machete is stuck so deeply inside him he can't tear away from it without pulling his insides out with it. Or maybe he's just not strong enough. There's a chance he never was.

He can see the machete's pointed end pressing at the skin of his stomach from the inside, begging for an exit. Between that and the blood dripping from his mouth Robbie feels almost fascinated—he misses Casia's approach because of it, but not her hand extending nor the blade that comes with it. Suddenly he's staring at the hilt of it sticking out of his flesh, her too-small hand clutching it right.

He can feel the blades sliding against one another, back and forth, back and forth. Robbie thinks he might be sick if he could breathe whatsoever.

Time passes. Somehow Robbie is on the ground, face pressed to the stone, blood still sliding from his lips. Something plants against his back, hard, and the blade of the machete slides free. Compared to the pain of it cutting through him in the first place, this time Robbie hardly feels it.

In fact, he doesn't feel anything. He waits for the gentle hands of his mother to collect him, the reassuring embrace of his father's arm wrapping around his shoulder, guiding him forward. Nothing's there but the void.

"Please," he says. Or at least he tries to. The word that comes out instead is garbled, hardly intelligible. It's no wonder his parents couldn't understand the plea.

Maybe that's why they don't come. That's the kinder thought. The one he clings to.

Robbie will see them soon.

Sanne Levesay, 16
Tribute of District Seven

Even with the map, Sanne struggles not to come to the realization that she's doomed.

It's been too long. Of course she doesn't know that, but she can feel it. By the time she emerges from down here, if she emerges at all, it will be too late.

That doesn't stop her from trying to avoid those nasty, intrusive thoughts. That wasn't the last time she saw them, certainly not Ilan. They have more to go through. One of them has to survive. In order for that to happen, they have to get as far as they possibly can, together. No matter how many times she gets turned around or takes the wrong path, Sanne clings to that very thought.

In the very least, whatever was down here with them does not appear to have followed her—that, or it's doing it's very best to stay concealed all whilst lulling her into a false sense of security. Sanne is already nervous enough, staring into the darkness for too long to be considered stable. Anything could be down here and she would be none the wiser.

Her feet keep moving. No matter how badly each step hurts, sending pain shooting through her arm, there is no option but to keep moving.

She's going to find a way out.

Sanne consults the map once more, allowing her feet to slow as she juggles both the sword and the scroll of paper. It's a difficult balance, especially when she doesn't allow her eyes to truly focus for even more than a second. She has to look everywhere at once. Sanne has become so accustomed to having someone at her side that being alone, just like she wound up the first time, seems like an alien concept.

She had been alone in much of life before this, too. Of course she had friends. Parents who cared, even if they were distant and largely uninterested. But Sanne had never felt wanted, at least not until Brycen and the Games. And then there was now. Why did it have to take so long? Why did she have to be facing death to find it?

And why was there no alternative but to lose it, whether it was her that was lost or the others?

Not yet, though. Not yet. It won't be now.

Sanne can't allow that.

The stairs shouldn't be far, now. If she's looking at this right, even if there's a chance she isn't, it's only a few more turns. She stops looking down the halls—there's no use in creating a problem that may not even be there to begin with. Newfound adrenaline spurns her feet on faster as she finally, blissfully, spots the stairs at the end of the narrow corridor. She's almost free.

Her legs burn and ache as she begins to throw herself up them, the torches alight once again. Moments before she crests the top, something in her stops. The decision is not a conscious one, but her brain demands it regardless. Sanne grips at the wall to steady herself, finally finding the reason why her feet demanded she give it a rest.

The windows lining the hall, almost out of sight, show nothing more than black, starless sky.

She's too late. The sun's already gone.

Almost immediately she hears answering signs to it as well—claws clicking against the stone, the low snuffling of slavering jaws. The nearest room is at least fifty yards away, if she remembers correctly, and Sanne is exhausted. What chance does she have at not only beating the mutts to it, but being able to barricade the door before they bust it down?

There isn't a chance at all.

She holds her breath as the noises grow louder, taking a careful step down the staircase. Another. Another. The last thing she wants to do is go back down, but Sanne has already run out of options. By arriving too late, she's trapped.

But that doesn't mean things are simply over. Sanne continues her careful descent, eyes fixed on the top of the stairs in case anything happens to spot her. Even when she finally hits the bottom she does not move for a very long movement, watching. Nothing's there. She can still hear them as she creeps away—not back the way she came, but around the next corner. There's an empty cell, the door slightly ajar. It'll do for now.

Sanne closes the gate behind her with as soft click and presses herself tight into the furthest corner, where even the torchlight can no longer reach her. If anyone were to walk by, anything, they might just miss her entirely.

That's the hope, anyway.

A part of her wants to cry out, beg even for just a momentary lapse in the mutt's movements so that she can get back up the stairs and to proper safety. Sanne forces herself to take a steadying breath instead, waiting until her heart begins to calm. All she has to do is spend the night down here—it's not so bad, really. Cold and quiet and unnerving, but things could always be worse.

In the morning she'll be able to move again. They'll find each-other.

This is not how they end.

14th. Robbie Creston, District Ten.

Break time's over, friends. Good luck.

Until next time.