I: January: District Six.
A goal is never a 'terminus.' Rather, it is a 'terminal' within which the next train is already pulling up.
Weston has never seen so many terrified eyes gathered in one place.
Well, scratch that. Maybe he had. That commuter train in Tunnel 13—should've known because of the stupid fucking name, right?—the halt on the rails, the smoke billowing through the darkness. The realization that they were all going to die trapped beneath the ground in a tomb of Six's own making, unable to breathe and unable to escape…
The last thing he needed to be doing right now was thinking about Freddie, especially when it was so much easier to focus on everything else.
It made sense for the terror to be so widespread. There was no precedent for this, no telling what was going to happen when the gong went off. Six had little warning when they had been called upon for the first Games, and Weston certainly hadn't had any damn warning when his name had been pulled from the bowl.
The past was the past. From years ago, to when Weston stepped foot onto that stage. He wasn't scared, unable to tell if his allies were acting the same or if his fearlessness had simply inspired them. Lathai was laser-focused, eyes fixated on the horn. Monty was stretching, arms raised over his head like this was another day on the grind. When he looked Shelby's way, she had enough nerve to wink at him, ignoring the incredulous looks of those surrounding her.
When the gong finally rang, he saw hesitation. Stumbling feet. Panicked stares, downturned mouths.
And he was the first one running.
Weston may not have been the fastest one there, but it didn't stop him from getting to the Cornucopia first. How hard could it be, really, when half the field runs? You'd think the absence of Careers would motivate those to try their luck, but it appears as if no such thing has happened.
His left hand grabs hold of a bag, just in case, and the other fumbles for the long handle of a weapon, the shadows concealing what it even properly is. It's not like Weston cares.
"Wes—"
The voice does not belong to one of his allies. It's grating, makes his skin crawl. It's right behind him and clearly getting closer.
Weston turns, bringing the weapon with him, and Reis' skull shatters beneath the head of the warhammer. Someone screams at the ensuing gush of blood and brain, his cranium turned into nothing more than a mere pulp. This kid tried talking to him two days ago, seemed invested in getting close. Weston decided he wasn't worth it less than thirty seconds in.
Clearly, he was right.
"That's fucking nasty!" he hears Shelby shout. It's not too bad, really. He's seen cadavers in far worse shape, if you can believe that, all tucked away in Mr. Berodach's basement.
Freddie hadn't looked like that. He'd just looked like he was sleeping.
His best friend would find it downright hilarious that Weston was here now, no doubt. In the Games of all places, in an arena that looked like an even more downtrodden version of Six's grimiest station. Buildings spread out in great numbers down the platform as far as Weston's eyes could see, windows smashed in and billboards cracked. The trains lining the yard behind him looked abandoned a hundred years over, the rails broken and misaligned. Weeds sprouted up along the building's edges, beneath the train's wheels, between the cracks of the concrete at his feet.
As if Six wasn't bad enough.
Weston properly shoulders the backpack and instead commits to searching it later. He nudges Reis' body out of the way, stepping back into the light with the comfort of a warhammer held between his hands. There's already almost no one in sight, everyone so committed to fleeing the scene that they couldn't even put on a show. An older girl's body lies not far away, face down on the cement, a much smaller boy crumpled not far from there on the pavement. As he watches, Monty puts a sword in the back of an unrecognizable girl, hesitating only a second before he plants a boot against her shoulders to pull the blade free.
They're the Careers here. If Weston gave a single damn what his father thought these days, it would be nice to ponder on how proud his father would be for making a name for himself.
Weston was proud enough all on his own.
Shelby's sudden scream makes him jolt, as loathe as he is to admit it. Monty's head snaps up, zeroing in on a location just to his right and out of view, around the left side of the Cornucopia. He's moving quickly, ignoring the overwhelming weight of the hammer as the handle nudges against his torso.
It's not hard to find them, being the only ones left. She's on the ground and wiggling like a little worm, trapped there by none other than Lathai. In the dim afternoon sunlight Weston can only see the flash of a knife trapped between them and Lathai's white-knuckled grip as he attempts to level it with her throat.
For fuck's sake. Wasn't Weston supposed to be the one doing the backstabbing here?
And wasn't it supposed to happen at a time other than the first five minutes?
Shelby sees him coming in the moment before he gets there, squeezing her eyes shut just in time for him to bring the hammer down between Lathai's shoulder blades. His ally folds, body crumpling like a ball of wet paper—it's easy enough after that for Shelby to kick him off with a yell.
It would be kind of him to let Shelby finish Lathai off, but the thought doesn't so much cross his mind until the hammer is halfway down again. The sickening crack of Lathai's sternum as it breaks is halfway satisfying as his ally seizes one last time, body curling around the weapon before he goes still.
"What the fuck was that?" Shelby gasps, scrambling to her feet. "I didn't do anything—"
"Besides exist," Monty comments, nudging his foot forward as he arrives to land a half-hearted kick at Lathai's shoulder.
"Maybe he didn't like you?" Weston tries. "I know I don't."
He smiles when he says it, and it still earns him a rather lackluster punch in the arm. Monty even has the audacity to laugh as if the three of them aren't standing over the corpse of someone they all trusted up until a minute ago.
There's no telling what went wrong, or even what Lathai was thinking. He's dead now. Doesn't matter anyway. The spoils are theirs for the taking, and if three is better than four, then so be it. The number was never anything important to Weston.
Shelby sighs, scrubbing a hand over her face. She's shaken, tucking her hair back behind her ears in an effort to calm herself. He saw her do it in training at least half a dozen times, no matter her bravado. "Thanks, Wes," she mutters finally, nudging her elbow into his side as she passes. He makes sure to give her arm a squeeze, satisfied with the smile she gives him in return.
For all he knows, Lathai was his biggest threat. Smiling in the wake of it cannot possibly be wrong. To have someone like that be dead so quickly should be cause for celebration.
Inappropriate, he knows, but that's nothing if not Weston's middle name.
If Avanti wasn't holding on so tight to their hand, Vadric knows they would have stopped already.
Their legs burn with exertion, lungs aching every time they inhale a desperate breath in. Running has never been a strong suit of theirs; not much has.
When Avanti finally grinds to a halt hidden away behind one of the many abandoned locomotives Vadric can only bend over, hands on knees, heaving for air that doesn't seem to exist. If they had managed to eat this morning it surely would have come back up by now—who ever knew that eating less could occasionally prove to be a good thing?
"I think we're far enough away," Avanti pants, scanning the horizon. Vadric certainly hopes so. Still, the words alone have them glancing up, heart hammering in their chest, to take in their surroundings. Of course there's no one in sight. Not on the platform nor the rails, not flitting among the skeletal trees that line them. Still, it doesn't stop them from wondering, unable to look away even for a second—
"Hey, we're okay," Avanti reiterates. The younger girl clutches the small bag she managed to scoop up against her chest, holding it tight. Of course she knows some things—only a blind man could fail to see how tired Vadric always looked, drooping with exhaustion even on their best days.
Sleeplessness, the willing kind, would do that to anyone. Avanti only knows that. The uglier details are kept under lock and key. She doesn't know that Vadric hasn't been to school proper in three months, hasn't talked to someone they used to call a friend in even longer.
No one knows, really. When they're hidden away from the outside world, Vadric and their mother both, it's hard for anyone to tell.
It's easier to avoid, still.
Avanti somehow has been living proof that their reclusive lifestyle is not always sensible. A shy girl in her own right, she was the one that came to Vadric on that last day in training. Until that point, they had been content in their own solitude. It was both a familiarity and a comfort—sticking to the corners. Sitting alone. Refusing to look up or around, at least not too much, because then people would've started calling them a freak, being so paranoid already.
They're together because of circumstance, two lonely people in an otherwise bustling world, but that doesn't mean that Vadric hasn't managed to somehow trust Avanti, even just the slightest bit. They had been paralyzed with fear, rendered immobile not unlike how they often wake from their worst nightmares, until Avanti had grabbed onto them and forced them to run. They didn't have to talk. They could just be.
"We have a knife, at least, so that's good," Avanti comments, peering through the narrow gap she's revealed in the bag. "A few food packets. Some water. We should be good. Do you think we should take a look around, find a good place to settle later?"
"Sounds good," Vadric agrees, nodding along almost like a child would. They know what's going to happen later as if it's been spelled out for them. Whether or not Avanti offers, it will be expected that one of them will stay awake while the other sleeps. Vadric's exhausted. They slept even less in the Capitol than they did back home, surrounded by unfamiliar walls and heavy breathing and the knowledge that there was no true safety anywhere to be found.
If Avanti tells them to rest, and Vadric dares to close their eyes, they will fall asleep. No person's body can last forever as theirs currently is.
With sleep comes the nightmares. A match made in heaven, so fated that they never leave one another's side, no matter what Vadric tries. Vadric can't even blame their mother for that particular trait.
Everything else—the seclusion, the separation from society, that was the two of them. The nightmares had come from somewhere worse, a place still yet undiscovered by Vadric.
They would wake up screaming, sobbing, unable to move. Terrified and panicked and ready to lash out at the first person they set their eyes on. If they did that to Avanti, who knew what was due to happen next.
If Vadric was lucky, Avanti would react like Pharix always did. Veiled concern, annoyance at the antics they couldn't control. She would stay, even if the better option was to put as much distance between them as humanly possible.
But Avanti was not their brother, and Vadric was not a lucky person.
"You ready to go?" Avanti asks, offering them a gentle smile. Again, they nod. The motion is almost robotic, the only thing they really trust themselves to do.
At the last second, Avanti offers them the knife, so slim that it fits neatly between their fingers. It feels alien in their grasp, sharp enough to cut through their skin without any pressure at all.
They shouldn't have it, but there's no going back now. Looking around only proves that the clouds are gathering, the sky darkening. The faint burn of orange beyond the trees is already sinking like a stone, bringing the night along with it.
It's coming. There's nothing Vadric can do to avoid it now.
The Cornucopia being well-stocked would simply be unchallenging.
Weston does like a good challenge. Occasionally. Usually when it involves a favorable outcome for himself. One of those has never included starving before—he's never starved a day in his life.
There's enough food for a few days. He'll go to sleep hungry, so what? Nobody can live off daddy's money forever. In fact, the past while staying with the Berodachs was the most peace Weston thinks he's had in his entire life. There was still money there to be found too, of course, but this was his own sort of enterprising. This time, it was his contributions.
Food or no food, he could do it. There was no doubt about that.
Shelby has already complained numerous times about it, often very loudly. She tends to do it with either one arm wrapped around him or one wrapped around Monty, like she can't quite make up her mind about who's better. Weston isn't under any illusion that he's never annoyed someone in life, but fuck is she annoying.
And she keeps asking, too, so pitifully: what the hell was Lathai doing? Why me?
She's alive. She should start being grateful for else, else she's not going to be for much longer.
It does make Weston wonder though what Lathai was really up to. Maybe he should have asked him before he broke his back. Did they have bad blood, somewhere deep down? Did he know something about Shelby that put them all at risk? There wasn't any use in wondering now, but the nagging thought made him more alert than ever.
At least he was armed. The hammer was with him, still, and a knife nearly the length of his forearm tucked away in his belt. Even though the bag he claimed as his own didn't have much besides a first-aid kit and some lackluster food, it was better than being empty-handed.
You could always make something out of nothing. His father had, using his star-powered voice to be heard throughout all of the train stations in Six. Mr. Berodach had as well. The wealthy socialites were trapped under his thumb, too caught up in being pretty when they died to really care how much it would cost them.
Now that he'd spent some time moving amongst them, he had them in his pocket too. Years from now, even when he had such money that he wouldn't need to, they would still be coming to him. Widowers and parentless, middle-aged business-people, ensuring some ninety-five year old woman or other would look nice enough in a coffin that they could keep it open to display in the aftermath.
He was good at it. Almost too good, if you asked some people, but Weston could always be more.
He knew that.
"Whatcha thinking about?" Monty interrupts, passing a knife from hand to hand. He's been wandering in circles just long enough for it to get on Weston's nerves, making paces around their pile of supplies like there's some sort of hidden purpose to it. "Two kills under your belt, and all that jazz? How's it feel?"
"I'd ask you the same thing, but you only got one." Weston tuts, ignoring Monty's answering eye-roll.
Monty didn't know the name of the girl he killed. None of them did. Weston couldn't tell you how old she was, or how many allies she may have had. All he knew is that she was dead and he most certainly wouldn't be the one to bury her.
The Capitol would do the same little it always did in sending corpses back in distasteful wooden boxes, but some of the richer folks might go to the Berodachs in the wake of the Games, looking for something more. No doubt it was going to be awkward if they showed up only for Weston to answer the door.
Will it be odd to bury Monty? Shelby? Lathai?
Weston doesn't have the faintest clue.
Monty is still going on and on, too, like being next to someone with two kills is the experience he's been dying for all his life. They'd seen each other in passing a few times, almost always at the free-for-all parties held in Six's underground, but Weston never expected him to be such a chatterbox.
"What do you think happened with Lathai?" Weston questions. Even if Monty's stance is the most useless thing in the world, what's the harm in knowing?
"I still think he hated Shelbs."
"Don't blame the guy."
"I know."
"Says the one who slept with her," Weston reminds him.
"Hey, let's not pretend like you wouldn't have done the same thing if you were on the same floor as her," Monty says, shrugging it off with a laugh. "Wasn't bad. Don't be jealous that you were stuck with a twelve year old girl."
Oh, Weston's not jealous. Far from it, in fact. Would he, had he been presented with the opportunity? Of course. He'd be a damn fool not to.
There will be time for that after. That and more. Weston's got Shelby wrapped tight around his finger and he didn't even have to sleep with her. Right now, he's focused on the prize, and that prize most certainly is not her.
Winning is far better than anything she could give him.
It's always the same one.
Vadric couldn't tell you what the worst part was, if you asked them during waking hours. When all of it was the worst part, the breaks in-between started blurring. It was all one long, torturous event, no escape in sight.
Perhaps the worst thing was that they could never see the thing that attacked them. They could see everything around them—trees ten feet off both sides of the road, the road itself stretching north and south as far as the eye could see, but never what it was. It was shapeless, the kind of monster that wasn't meant to be viewed by the naked eye.
The worst part could be the mere idea that seeing it would be worse than being torn apart by it. Would Vadric turn to dust and float away, scattered on the wind, if they ever laid eyes on it?
The pain is like fire as it gouges wounds upon their skin, tearing bloody caverns into them. Claws hook around their ribs and pull until they splinter, the weight so heavy that their limbs turn to gelatin as their blood rains down on the burning pavement.
And it's like falling asleep all over again when they wake up—not properly, because that would be far too kind. There are staples pinching their torn skin back together, lines of thread pulled through their arms and legs and torso, pins left carelessly behind where the seamstress in question refused to care so much.
There's no escape. They know this, and they move anyway, dragging themselves along the pavement that burns as it rips down their chest. No matter how far they go, the road will never end. The trees always look the same.
Of course there's that delusion, that someone will come to save them. That a house will appear on a bend in the road, somewhere safe to lay their head. Somewhere safe to wake up.
But it just hurts, worse and worse and worse. It hurts until they wake up for real.
Except this time, they don't.
Something is behind them. Agonizing pain keeps Vadric from craning their head back; they're left to feel only its presence, that shapeless, humanoid creature that keeps coming back to tear them apart. It's never come back before. It's never tried a second time to finish what it started.
It's never come back. It shouldn't. But it's reaching for them yet again and they can feel the hands curling over their shoulders, dragging them back. They know, for once, that this abnormality has extended to something else. A weapon. A way to fight back.
And Vadric is paralyzed.
And Vadric is awake, but the hands are still there, grabbing them.
It takes a long, horrifying moment for the paralysis to release it's ugly hold on their limbs, and their hands move without permission, flying to the hilt that they know lies just in front of them. The knife, tiny as can be, and their body flailing out wildly as the grip on their shoulders only tightens further.
"Vadric—"
The knife finally makes contact with something soft, only the faintest amount of pressure before it gives away and sinks in. Wetness splashes against Vadric's fingers, running down to their palms.
Avanti's hands fall from their shoulders. Finally, the girl's face comes into view—her wide, pale eyes, mouth agape as if about to speak.
Nothing emerges except for a river of blood, fountaining out and over her shirt-front.
There's no other cause for it except for the knife that Vadric has planted in her throat.
"Avanti," they breathe. The girl topples forward, narrowly missing Vadric's legs as she crashes into the tiled floor, letting out a sickening gurgle. Her hands spasm and curl, the same one that had been holding onto Vadric so tightly only a minute before.
Not the monster. Just Avanti.
Vadric pushes themselves back along the tiles until their back hits the wall of the station they've hidden in, eyes helplessly fixated on where Avanti has now gone still. Avanti didn't know. She didn't know that Vadric might scream, or twitch, or act like something was wrong. Nothing should ever be that wrong in sleep.
But something always was.
Avanti had been trying to wake them, and now she was dead.
This was the worst part—Vadric has dreamt many times about being hidden away from the world, deadbolting the door and shuttering the windows to avoid the mobs collecting outside. They screamed for their head, for the firing squad, for them to be hung in the square on display for all of Six to see.
It was always the same accusation. They said Vadric had killed someone, murdered them in cold blood, and Vadric knew that they hadn't, would never do such a thing, but now…
Now it was the truth.
The dream was reality.
It feels like they've been talking for hours.
It's the furthest thing from the truth—Weston hasn't been laid down for more than a half-hour, at the very most. Still, their incessant and seemingly never-ending jabbering is enough to fill the empty space ten times over.
It's enough to keep him awake, too. They hadn't even given him two minutes before they had started.
Last time Weston checked, Monty was supposed to be asleep too. Not gossiping like some air-headed schoolgirl with nothing better to do, wasting the night away like the hours were something unlimited.
Weston has half a mind to tell them both to shut up, and even more of one to tell Monty to go to sleep while he still can. That is until he hears his own name slip from Shelby's mouth, quiet but not enough. It's as if she's forgotten just how close he is, sleep or not. How can she be so confident that he's out?
He keeps his eyes closed, but his hand slips down to the hilt of the knife lying at his belt, just in case. Having his back to them has never been such a wise decision.
"If Weston hadn't—"
"I know, I know. You're lucky he did."
"I know," Shelby echoes. Talking about Lathai then, surely, the hottest topic of conversations these days. It's as if betrayal was something so far from their minds that they had tried willing it out of existence—they were aware that only two of them could get out, even in an alliance of four.
Weren't they?
"You don't think…"
"Think what?"
"What if Weston was in on it? What if him and Lathai had some sort of plan?"
"Why the fuck would he kill him, then?" Monty asks wildly, verging on too loud for the entire area. "You hear yourself, right?"
"I just can't shake the feeling." He can practically see Shelby's attempt at an innocent shrug, pathetic as it must be. "Maybe he just wanted to look good. Be the hero, y'know? He does love a good image."
Ah, and that's where she's dead fucking wrong. Weston may love being looked at, but he's never cared a dare in his life what people think of him. He wears each bit of negativity and accusation like a badge, lets people call him vain and self-obsessed and licentious all they want. Weston never cared to look like a hero. His father may have chased after the idea of a perfect image, but not him.
He'll never stoop that low.
"Do you think we should go?" Shelby whispers. He almost misses it. Weston narrowly avoids letting his back go ramrod straight, brought to attention.
"Who?" Monty asks.
"Me and you. Before he wakes up."
"You're that worried?"
"You have to listen to me, Mon. If he killed Lathai that easy, you think he wouldn't do the same to us?"
Well. Now he's going to.
They'll leave him nothing but the weapons so close to his person that they wouldn't dare approach. They'll take the bags and the food and the water and they wouldn't feel bad for even a second. Perhaps if the situation was reversed and it was Weston in their position he wouldn't either, but that's not the situation they're in. Everything seems like an easy enough decision when you don't allow yourself to linger on it.
He pulls the knife free in minimal increments, hardly allowing his arms to move. The hammer is resting by his legs, and far too sizable to reach for without being noticed. It'll give them too much time to prepare.
Weston has no idea how much of this is Shelby's own attempt at manipulation, or if she's really that dense to think that he would willingly toss aside two of his allies an approximate two minutes into the Games. Why waste time getting them all on-side if he was just going to butcher them anyway?
It feels a bit like a waste, still. It's nothing personal, though—if they plan on abandoning him, he'll show them something else first.
They're less than ten feet behind his back. With a few quick movements, he can be over there before either of them will even be able to turn around. Weston is under no delusion that this is going to be a quiet affair.
It never really is.
He steadies the knife in his hand, and rolls over.
The night sky is a blur, such minimal stars and no concept of a moon to be found. Their black silhouettes remain still for a heartbeat before he sees Monty shift, perhaps ready to face the noise behind him—
Before he can, Weston digs his free hand into the concrete and launches himself forward, those same fingers stretching forward until they tangle tightly around the end of Shelby's braid. She lets out a wild shriek as he drags her back, yanking until she's sprawled out on the ground, staring up at him.
Good. He wants her to see him.
"It's a shame, honestly," Weston tells her. "You were really fucking hot."
Key emphasis on the were.
The beginning of a scream escapes her mouth just as he draws the knife over her throat, one that quickly erupts into a bubbling, ugly mess. In those few seconds Monty has done nothing more than flail back, hands braced behind him as he shakes and gapes not unlike a fish.
"W-what—w-what the f-fuck did you do," he stammers, eyes fixated helplessly on the gruesome smile he's cut into Shelby's throat. She's just another body, a cannon to add to the other two they heard earlier in the day. It's almost like Monty had been getting attached or something.
Weston leans back on his heels. "You know what I've always liked about you, Monty? That you're a fast runner."
His not-quite ally only stares at him. Maybe he's too thick in the head to get it. Aren't they always, in the end?
Weston smiles. "I suggest you start now."
And then he gets it. Monty launches himself to his feet with a half-hearted stammer, tripping over his feet twice over before his shoes find a proper grip on the ground. He turns and sprints from Weston like there's an entire pack of hellhounds on his back, ignoring the fact that Weston is still poised on the ground, refusing to even give chase.
Monty can have a few more days, if he wants them. Something else will get him if Weston doesn't. He didn't even grab his sword before he went, let alone anything to keep him fed and watered.
Apparently all he's capable of killing is a defenseless girl half his size. Shocker.
Weston settles back for another minute, at least. Clearly he won't be sleeping tonight. Staying in the open like this is asking for trouble without anyone to watch his back, especially surrounded by enough supplies to take care of everyone still left in here.
Better to find somewhere else. Somewhere he can be on his own.
Somewhere, really, where he can wash Shelby's blood out of his shirt.
There's no possible way to make themselves any smaller.
It's something Vadric has always excelled at, exacerbated by their willing isolation from those around them. When they did leave the house, it was with the utmost caution—head down, shoulders hunched, indistinguishable from the gutter rats that lurked around every corner.
Vadric can only wish now that there was a way to disappear entirely. To melt into this floor or to curl up so small that they couldn't be seen by the naked eye.
Of course, there's no seeing much of them anyway. The only thing they've managed to accomplish in these last twenty-fours is crawling across the station on all fours, legs shaking so badly that standing wasn't an option. Far across the main station was a series of back hallways and cubicle-like clerical offices, each one outfitted with a desk that had just enough space to squeeze under. It was there that Vadric resided, nothing to their name but the tiny knife that had come from Avanti's throat.
They don't remember pulling it free, or taking it with them. If her body's properly gone, then so are their supplies. No food, no water…
Vadric deserves to die anyway.
Even sleeping isn't an option anymore. It doesn't matter that they're alone, no risk of hurting anyone but themselves. They'll stay awake until it kills them.
Or until something else does. Vadric is increasingly convinced that the footsteps they keep hearing outside are going to come and see the job finished eventually.
It hasn't been very long, but whoever it is has made no attempt at leaving. Vadric can hear them in the station, in the halls. Everywhere at once. The noise seems to echo across the high ceilings, amplified directly to where they're sitting. Vadric can't tear their eyes from the narrowly cracked door. Watching and waiting for your own death certainly isn't the way they would prefer to die, but what could be? Not getting torn apart by an unseen figure on a dreamscape road, that's for sure.
That's not counting the other way it's happened—the more abominable ones.
Vadric presses their chin to their knees as the footsteps approach, louder than they have any right to be. Like thunder. Every human instinct in them begs for the knife, but they leave it on the scratchy carpet at their feet.
The door opens so suddenly that they startle, flinching back into the desk so hard that the drawers rattle. The boy standing before them now certainly fits the footsteps—tall, broad-shouldered, brandishing a shimmering warhammer that's half the length of Vadric's entire body.
It doesn't seem like the best way to die.
He's not doing anything though. Vadric resists the urge to snap at him to get on with it, using the little energy they have left to stare him in the eyes.
They can't help but be perplexed at the sigh that escapes his parted lips before they flatten into a thin, unimpressed line. "Right," he deadpans. "Okay then."
He backtracks out, only one foot, before he peers back in at them. "How fucking long have you been under there?"
Too long. Vadric's lack of response clearly stems into something of the same, for the boy finally backs out with a shake of his head and leaves. Leaves. Just like that.
The second Vadric is sure he's really moving they scramble out from beneath the desk, tucking the slim knife into their back pocket as they dart across the carpet, still on their hands and knees. A quick look into the hall shows them that the boy is at one far end of it, nearly emerging back into the station.
There's nowhere for Vadric to go when he turns around, narrowing his eyes at them. "Christ, you look like a fucking gremlin," he announces, as if wishing for the whole world to hear it. "Did your mother never teach you how to walk?"
No, their mother is good… wrong in so many ways, that's what public opinion would say, but they love their mother more than anything else in this world. They're the same, flesh and blood and so many other intricacies.
"Is all that blood out there your doing?" he asks, leaning a shoulder into the wall. Vadric thinks of the puddle of it that had begun forming under Avanti's body, slick against the tile. It must look like nothing more than some rusted red stain now, not unlike the ones that coat the abandoned train cars outside.
Fessing up to that will only mean ruination, for themselves and for everyone else.
Vadric pulls themselves up by the doorframe, half-shielded behind it. "Why aren't you killing me?"
The boy snorts. "If you're so damn insistent on it, I'll do it in the morning. Let me get my beauty sleep first."
He pushes open the door back to the main room with such force that it slams against the opposite wall. Vadric's fingers tense around the door-frame, watching his back until it disappears. Surely he can't be serious. For all he knows Vadric is unarmed but has something hidden up their sleeve…
They almost wish they did. Even if they walked out there and found him sleeping, they wouldn't be able to do it. He looked tired in the way that Vadric always is, that same bone-deep weariness that has trouble leaving. By the morning he'll be fine once again, no doubt, and perhaps his words will be true. Maybe he'll come back here to kill them.
But maybe not, too.
It appears they'll have to wait until the morning to find out.
Things couldn't be going any better, really.
Sure, two of his allies are dead. Both of them are his fault. Monty is God only knows where by now, probably sniveling in some corner all woe is me.
But Weston? Weston's great.
He slept soundly despite the gremlin lurking in the back halls, unconvinced that someone as thin as a rake and about as threatening as one was going to get the jump on him. Even if they killed whoever was here before, Weston doesn't doubt that it was more an accident than anything else.
He woke to a package dropping from the ceiling, it's heaviness clanking along the floor enough to properly startle him for the first time. Inside was a thermos full of hot tea and a container of stew bigger than his head—a fitting breakfast to chase away the chill of the overcast morning. There was extra food, too, dried fruits and meats to last him a few days so long as he didn't gorge on it.
Someone out there didn't want to see him starve. Not that Weston could blame them. He wouldn't look like this if he was starving, now would he?
He's scraping out the very bottom of his container when there's a crash from somewhere, items falling to the ground one after the other before they finally grind to a halt, replaced quickly by pounding footsteps. Weston glances around, spoon hanging from his mouth as he waits for something to happen. Just as quickly a door bursts open, the same one that he had exited from last night. The gremlin in question comes flying out as if shot from a cannon, tripping over themselves in their haste. They dive past Weston so quickly they don't even notice him sitting there until they're far past, sending a panicked glance back. At him? At the halls?
Or at the person chasing them.
If the gremlin isn't a threat, this person might be. There's a youthful vigor to her face but she's stocky, armed with a long knife nearly identical to the one he has, and if they're giving chase…
Well, they were. Until they saw Weston, anyway. Their shoes squeak along the tile as they struggle to halt themselves, arms flapping about like a bird. It's a shame that they're too late, though, that Weston is just so damn close. He leaps up just as the girl begins a successful backpedal—what the hell is she thinking, even? How quickly can a thrilling chase turn to such disaster.
She makes it back through the door and no further. Weston lunges through the gap after her; it's almost unfair how far the hammer can stretch, and he feels rejuvenated now, like he could take on the world.
It's not a far cry from normal.
It's different from Reis in the sense that she has time, somehow, to scream, like she can sense the hammer mere inches from her head before it collides with her skull. The girl drops like her knees have been cut from beneath her, tumbling and quickly staining the dingy carpet with the mess her caved-in head makes. Straining too hard brings him the sight of what's inside, blood still pulsating as if it has a heart to move towards.
Weston sees nasty shit on the daily whilst he's pulling bodies from the cold lockers, but he's never the cause of it. Dead bodies don't tend to do much other than lie there and let you make them look pretty.
She's doing a lot more than just that.
Despite the shuffle behind him, Weston doesn't turn with the hammer. Unless the gremlin plans on scaling his back with that little knife, they're not going to be doing much of anything. When he finally peers back at them their eyes are blown wide, horror coating every inch of their visage. To them, Weston must be something of a monster.
"You still want me to kill you?" he asks, brushing past them to return to the main room. They flinch back, pressing themselves tight to the wall to allow him enough room.
"I—I'm—"
"Any day now, please. Busy man, you see. Places to be."
"Why…"
"We're in the Hunger Games. You know, annual death-match, names pulled from those giant fish bowls—"
"Why her and not me?" they manage finally. It's enough to bring Weston to a halt. Finally, a real sentence. He had half-convinced himself that the gremlin also happened to be an avox—an odd combination, but not impossible. Not in this world.
As much as he wishes for one, though, Weston does not have an answer.
Why her and not me?
A question asked hours ago, still lingering on Vadric's mind. A question left unanswered.
Why had he not answered them?
Maybe he doesn't know. He had shrugged and returned to scraping out his container of food like nothing at all had happened, ignoring the cannon and the odd shiver-shake of the floor as something took the girl's body away. If he doesn't know, that's terrifying in it's own right, but… but he hasn't killed them yet.
That must mean something, even if that something boils down to him thinking Vadric will be an easy kill later on.
Vadric knows what they look like to him—a sniveling, pathetic scrap of a human, first hiding under a desk and then fleeing from a girl like she was the reaper itself, unable or unwilling to fight back. There had been no expectations upon their quick dash into the station. Truthfully, Vadric hadn't even expected him to still be there.
But he had, a savior in the oddest of forms. And he was terrifying.
It was difficult to tell what the correct option was—to return to their original hiding spot and slip back beneath the desk, or stay out here with him. Granted, they were still across the station from one another, at least fifty or so yards between them, but no amount of distance would allow Vadric to truly get comfortable. If they went back into the offices, it would mean preparing themselves for the inevitability that someone would come crawling through the window again like that girl had, painfully unaware of what she was about to stumble into.
Vadric hadn't even done anything, but the girl had taken the opportunity as it was thrown at her. Tried to, anyway. If someone hadn't been around to kill her, Vadric more than likely would have been caught eventually.
Killed, eventually.
They had no idea what their chances were if they left this place, but they couldn't be any worse than staying.
Vadric creeps to the front set of window once night falls, carefully watching the sky. They haven't paid any sort of attention to the faces thus far, but what else is there to do but confront it five days in? These deaths aren't going to disappear because of willful ignorance. No matter what Vadric does, the weight of Avanti no longer being here will rest on their shoulders until the day they die.
At least this time they're settled enough that Vadric doesn't jump when they hear the anthem, watching the sky crackle to life before their eyes. It's the girl first, her smile so energetic and juvenile it catches Vadric off guard. That girl in the picture is nothing like the one that was chasing them. She's followed quickly by another boy that Vadric doesn't recognize.
They aren't going to recognize any of them.
Across the station, their newfound neighbor barks out an incredulous laugh, slapping the tiled floor with his bare palms so loud that it cracks like lightning. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he bursts out between amused huffs. "Couldn't even last two days—"
"Why are you laughing?" they interrupt, regretting the words almost as soon as they escape. It takes everything in them not to shrink against the wall as he turns in their direction, righting himself from the pillar he's been leaning against to approach them. Well… it looks like death is coming, finally. Evidently Vadric had good reason to be so afraid of him.
"Cause it's funny," he tells them. Thankfully, he stops some ten feet away, cocking his head. He knows he's stronger than them, could do anything in the blink of an eye. He's relishing in it. "What? You don't think so?"
"I didn't know him, but—"
"Right, you didn't know him. But I did. Believe me, Monty deserved it as much as any of the rest of them."
Their stomach flip-flops anxiously, the eager desire to continue questioning it extinguishing as quickly as it flickered to life. It's not right to laugh, even if someone deserved it. And who's to say whether Monty really did?
"Don't think too hard on it, gremlin," the boy says. "Might hurt yourself."
"My name's Vadric," they respond. He waves back in acknowledgement, halfway to returning to his spot. At least he's given them enough room to breathe again, an exhale finally escaping their parted lips. "What's yours?"
He stops. Turns, eyebrows furrowed, something unbelieving in his eyes as if it's impossible for someone not to know his name. The only reason Vadric even forced themselves to spit the words out in the first place was because the word gremlin only continues the trend that makes them feel like some sort of anomaly, an abnormality that doesn't quite belong in this world.
"Weston Katsouris," he answers finally, plastering something of a grin on his face. "Nice to make your acquaintance, gremlin."
But is it, really?
"There's someone out there."
The voice comes at a deathly whisper, but somehow it's still enough to rouse Weston from his half-sleep, lifting his head from his backpack slash pillow.
Previously far, far away, Vadric is now visible in the murky gloom, crouched low to the ground and balanced like the creature he had been calling them, less than five feet away. If Weston didn't know any better, he'd reach over and boot them in the face.
He's not convinced the gremlin sleeps. Judging by the look of them, he's probably right. At least they're a good sentry—waking him up, whether by true desire or not, clearly to see the job through. It's not like they're going to be the ones doing it.
Weston stays low to the floor himself as he inches to the window, dragging along his knife and Monty's sword. The hammer's too big and bulky for such a mission, only going to give him away. He peers out the window to find another girl skulking about, clutching tight to a sword that's smaller than his own but no less threatening. It's hard to tell, but he remembers her from training. He thinks he knows enough.
He can work with this.
He waves a hand back at Vadric, who begins to splutter, as he stands to his full height and beelines for the door. The girl outside stops dead at the sight of him, but she doesn't bolt. He can definitely work with this.
"Hey," he says casually as he cracks the door opening, looking the picture of nonchalant. "It's Kira, right?"
Her expression never changes. "Kyva."
Ah, well. In his defense, she does look a lot like Shelby, and he was busy at the time prioritizing one over the other. "Kyva," he corrects himself. "Got the essence of it, at least. Your allies all gone too?"
Kyva nods. He has no idea where the hell she's gotten that sword from if she didn't scoop it up from the bloodbath, but there's no use in questioning it when she's going to be dead soon.
Weston holds the door open a little wider. "You want to come in? I was sent some food not long ago—more than enough to go around."
She's hungry. He can tell. Her knees are a second away from knocking together, shaking so bad that she's clearly in the thralls of a painfully empty stomach, running on empty. Kyva hesitates when she steps forward, eyeing him warily, but he expected as much. She keeps as far away from him as possible as she inches through the door, which isn't very far at all. Good thing, too, because it would be hard to plant the knife in her back if she was any further.
Weston has only just pulled the knife out when Kyva whirls on him. She looks so disinterested it's almost terrifying. "Nice fucking try," she hisses, and then rears back, and kicks him square in the stomach.
Alright. She's not that hungry.
Weston stumbles back with a wheeze, but it's not near enough to knock him down. By the time he frees the sword, though, Kyva's own is descending on him—his only choice is to throw his arms up, unless he wants her to cut his damn face open. The blade cuts his jacket to ribbons and does worse to the skin beneath it, slicing through his flesh and into the muscle beneath.
It hurts, but it only gives him more motivation to lunge forward at her. So she's not dumb as a rock, apparently, and she's willing to fight, but that hasn't eliminated the fact that he's a full head taller than her.
And there's nothing she can do about that, now is there?
Kyva's sword gets stuck between them as he tackles her to the ground, crushing her to the pavement. She shrieks, so focused on her own weapon that she doesn't even seem to care about the knife Weston has, the clear descent it's making towards her chest. He feels the resistance as it cuts in until it finally gives way, plunging in until it hits the hilt and will go no further.
Pain blisters out along his side during the last of her frantic flails, and all he can think to do is pull away, distance himself. It's not quick enough. With the last of her strength, moments before she falls still for good, Kyva rips the knife from between his ribs. A river of blood washes down his side as he tumbles off her, so much of it that Weston swears his head spins almost immediately. It's like he can taste the copper tang in the back of his mouth.
Apparently she had a knife too. Who would've thought?
Weston clamps his hand over the wound in his side, blood pumping out from between his fingers. Getting stabbed hurts a lot less than he thought it would. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe he only learned the true definition of pain when he went to identify his best friend's body at the morgue so his own father wouldn't have to.
Footsteps scrape over the concrete, but Weston doesn't bother sitting up, or even lifting his head. "Thanks for the help," he manages. "Care to go fetch my bag, gremlin?"
"Oh God, Weston…"
"I'd prefer sooner rather than later."
Luckily for him, their footsteps scuttle away. If Weston had to go get the bag himself it would involve one hell of an undignified crawl, and he's not really about that life. Look at him, being so grateful for the presence of someone decidedly lesser. It's almost as if he's evolving.
It could be the gaping hole in his side, too.
Weston's not entirely sure on that front just yet.
There's nothing stranger than feeling so compelled to watch out for someone who you hardly know.
Considering Vadric may very well be the pinnacle of stranger, it's a worrisome thing to think about.
It's not that they feel pressure to look after Weston. He's done a good enough job of it himself. Once Vadric dropped him the first-aid kit the night before all they did thereafter was stand there to watch him pack gauze against the still-seeping wound. There was nothing extensive for him to do in the healing apartment, but at least after some time it had finally stopped bleeding.
Now he was asleep. That, or unconscious. Vadric's desire to find out was not a very prominent one. Doing so would mean getting close enough to him to touch, and that didn't seem like it would end well. Granted they were close enough now to watch him, to check that he was still breathing, but that was about where their aid ended.
He wasn't dead, at least. There had been two cannons since Kyva's—one just before dawn, and another an hour or two later. Vadric hadn't been keeping anything close to a count, but they had met a week of time being trapped in here, and nothing seemed to have slowed. If things kept at this pace, they were close.
Who knew if Weston was. Though he was resting, he was wounded now, and clearly suffering through a world of pain. There hadn't been a single damn pill in that kit, nothing to ward it off, and every time he so much as shifted in his sleep it was evident that it hit him like a truck, body seizing up and face contorting in agony.
Vadric thinks he had been more upset at all the blood staining his clothes than possibly dying from his wounds, but that was twelve or so hours ago. They didn't doubt that it was worse now.
Sleep was better—in this situation, at least. Vadric couldn't deny the fact that most people would prefer to be saved by their dreams rather than confront head-on the tortuous pain of the real world.
They just weren't most people. If they were, perhaps they would have done something about the person they've seen outside more than once, now.
It feels like Kyva all over again, except this girl is much more cautious. She's been a ways away, for the most part, skulking along the tracks and peeking into the abandoned cars. Vadric's only blessing is that she more than likely can't see into the station due to the sun's glare—if she looked this way otherwise, she would know quite quickly that she was in danger.
Except was she, really? Weston was down for the count—that left only Vadric to actually do something if it came to that, and could they?
The truth was, as the minutes went by, the girl was getting closer. There was no telling if she had any plans to come in here, but if she did…
It really is just like last night. Vadric crawls over to the windows, this time with a knife in their hand, and pokes their head up to watch. The girl is like a specter, only appearing for the briefest of moments before she's gone again. The best Vadric can do is keep an eye on her.
"What the hell're you doing?"
Of course he couldn't just stay asleep.
"Shut up," Vadric hisses, such boldness brought on by the rapid churning in their stomach. Weston shuts up, alright, but a moment later she hears something scraping over the floor, something heavy, and then he's next to them, a grimace painted on his face as he holds tight to the hammer at his side.
He doesn't look the least bit surprised when he finally catches sight of the girl, watching her disappear again without blinking. "Dare I ask what the hell you were planning on doing about that? Killing her? By yourself?"
"What else could I do?"
He rolls his eyes, hauling himself to his feet with agonizing slowness. "You seemed so keen on helping before. What's changed?"
Nothing, really. Is Vadric trying to make up for what happened to Avanti by not letting someone else follow, even if it's someone who's given them no reason to care? Whether or not any of it has been intentional, Weston has saved their life more than once now.
"She'll kill you," Vadric says. "You're not fast enough."
"First of all, no one gets to kill me but me," he emphasizes. "Second… I'll go out there and draw her attention. You go out the side door and sneak around the rails. If she comes at me, you can either jump in or leave me to die. If she runs, you'll be able to cut her off."
Vadric hates how small they feel still crouched on the ground, practically cowering in his shadow. "So what? We're allies now?"
Unsurprisingly, Weston has the audacity to grin. "If you want. It's not like anyone actually possesses the desire to stay away from me."
They wish they could hit him without feeling bad about it. They wish they could do anything other than be here right now. Vadric is not a predator, not meant for sneaking around and stopping people from running. They're the one that runs.
And run they do, then. For once not away from the inevitability of what's coming, but for the side door—the second Weston starts moving they feel as if they don't have a choice. Vadric knows what they said is true; whether Weston believes it or not, that girl will kill him. Even through their budding nausea, that thought alone makes it easier to slip silently out the door and hop down onto the tracks, only a few stray pebbles announcing their arrival. They can hear Weston the entire time—the scrape of the hammer over the pavement, his heavy footsteps. Finally, his voice, that same sugary sweet pretense that he had used on Kyva. Buying time until the axe falls.
Vadric eases themselves as close as they can possible get, pressed tight to the back of a train car where they wait on the opposite side, less than twenty feet away.
They're shaking, and it's impossible to tell whether from the fear or the days of sleeplessness, their body reaching one of many breaking points. A migraine presses incessantly at their temples and ricochets through their skull. Vadric, oddly enough, has always felt the same belief as Weston, though perhaps not with such arrogance.
No one will be responsible for their death but them. One day they'll tip off the edge with no way to climb back up.
That means today is not the day they die.
Vadric has only a split second when they hear the running footsteps pick up, diving away from the train car to halt the girl in her tracks. She slides to a stop sandwiched between them, spraying rocks up into the air from beneath her feet. For whatever reason she was not willing to fight Weston no matter the state he's in—she must decide then, too, that Vadric is still worth chancing over anything else. Her attempt at sprinting past them is weak, though, a half-hearted dive to the side as they clearly hope to avoid them entirely. If Vadric doesn't do it, Weston will. There's no questioning that.
The knife, when she swipes it forward, only just manages to graze the girl's side. It's enough to send her tripping away, back slamming into the rusted train car. Vadric can feel Weston there now, just behind them, and it's him that drops the hammer entirely to grab the girl's arm as she tries to escape.
His face contorts in pain as he holds her there, a shrieking tornado of a girl struggling to escape his white-knuckled grip. Despite her thrashing, the weakness in Vadric's arms, and the invisible mob calling out for their head somewhere far, far away, that doesn't stop them from doing it.
Already the memory of Weston stabbing Kyva seems fuzzy. It's not as easy as that. It seems almost impossible to force the blade in. In the end it goes all the same, punctuated by Weston releasing the girl's arm so suddenly that she drops with a punched-out breath at Vadric's feet, a bloody rose blossom unfurling over her shirt.
"I think you may just be my favorite ally yet," Weston says, nothing but pure insolence towards the thought of the life they just ended. Vadric forces the urge to throw up down and away.
They've done it intentionally now. There's no going back.
They push themselves into a nod before they bend forward to wrench the knife from the girl's chest, the blood slick and uncomfortable against their fingertips. Vadric turns to go without allowing themselves to look for too long, only allowing a glance back when they've reached the platform, about ready to begin the struggle in dragging themselves back up.
Somehow, Weston has made it to the ground. It's all easy efficiency when he stretches forward, slipping the girl's eyelids shut with the most gentle brush of his fingers. By the time he once again hefts the warhammer back into his grasp, struggling into a standing position, it's almost as if it never happened at all.
It's human at its core. Everything in life would be so much simpler if they could be anything else.
For the first time in his life, Weston is wondering what everyone in his life back home actually thinks of all this.
He's never really cared before. Or maybe he has, and just continued doing whatever he damn well pleased anyway. Weston couldn't care less about the father, bastard as he is—the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, but he knows his father is far worse than he's ever been. His mother will learn to live with what returns to Six.
His siblings were never the issue. Sabrina will meet him at the station and call him a giant fucking idiot, punch him in the arm, and then hug him in the next breath. That is, if she can detach Tati from him—kid doesn't have a harsh, unforgiving bone in her body. She'll always love him.
Freddie would have eaten this shit up. God only knows what type of things Weston's notoriety could get the two of them into—the events, the parties, the bedrooms. Endless amounts of things, too much for them to handle at once.
Until, of course, he went off to possibly die again. Maybe then Freddie would be sad. His parents, too, because the Berodachs treated him more like a son than his own father ever did.
Freddie's already gone, though, so he can't exactly be sad.
Sick as it may be, Weston wouldn't have necessarily minded if his best friend was still with him, right here, right now. Stupid as he could be, Freddie always knew when the stupid went too far. He would've been there to catch Kyva's knife before she could fucking stab him with it, would have cleaved Shelby's head off the second he heard her talking like she had any worth.
He also would have stopped Weston from deciding to mess around with Judd fucking Nicoletti last summer. Weston doesn't think he'll ever stop regretting that one.
For some reason, he's halfway enjoying trifling with all of these impossibilities. Fantasies are always kind, and trying to wrap his head around what's actually going on is far more difficult. Weston thinks he's at least a little bit feverish at this point, something to do with the ugly trench in his side. Turns out no amount of charm would get some of his biggest fans to send him something to close the wound with—who knew?
And he's still got this creature with him, the one currently crouched down and balancing precariously on the balls of their feet, occasionally tapping their toes against the tile as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Weston keeps waiting for them to fall over, but it never happens.
They haven't slept. Their skin is practically translucent, eyes bloodshot. It almost feels as if when they close their eyes, the world will fall apart.
"Vadric," he says, propping himself up. "We getting the hell out of here, or what?"
It's nearing dawn. The two cannons after the one they caused yesterday, and the resounding silence since, only means one thing in Weston's eyes.
They turn to him slowly, blinking owlishly. "What?"
"Me and you. Out of here. Yes?"
They were sat together all night, no bickering or distrust involved. Yesterday, they killed someone. That, and Weston knows it, but Vadric's made it here by sheer luck. Anyone else out there still hiding about in the railyard isn't going to go down so easily.
Anyone else will be harder to kill—now, or in a year. To put a knife in Vadric's throat would be as easy as breathing.
It's not far off from his worries about Freddie, the only ones he had ever felt fit to share with his mom. Weston had used him for as long as they had been friends, using each unintentional boost Freddie gave him to climb up and up the ladder. Of course Freddie had used him too—he never would have been the person he was without Weston around.
Vadric used him, too. To fight, to keep them alive. To get here in the first place.
His mom said it was alright, in the end. No matter how many benefits you got out of a relationship, that didn't mean it couldn't be something real. It had been real with his best friend, and it was something resembling realness now.
If his life followed any sort of pattern, Vadric would die too. Everyone he used was evidently doomed by some sort of greater force.
The only difference was he might be the one to end it this time.
Weston finally gets to his feet at a snail's pace, gritting his teeth against the onslaught of pain that racks his torso with every inch he ascends. It's a blessing in disguise to be able to leave his belongings, the backpack forgotten about—the weapons are all he needs, now.
Vadric scrambles to their feet after him, something like fear blossoming in their eyes. Towards him, possibly, or at the thought of what's to come.
If Weston had to hazard a guess, it was more than likely both.
"That's the first time you've called me by my name, y'know," Vadric says quietly. "Just caught me off guard."
Ah, a gremlin no more. For now, at least. He needs more than a gremlin by his side if he's going to get out of here, and after yesterday he doesn't doubt that they can be capable of something bigger. Weston needs every advantage he can get.
At least his answering smile, like this last little bit, feels real. "So it is. Let's not make it the last then, hm?"
A month ago, they had difficulty leaving the house.
Vadric remembers the mornings leading up to the reaping all too well. Their mother's soft eyes, on-edge as she stared at the windows, no doubt imagining the repercussions of staying here while the Peacekeepers came knocking, looking for the stragglers that didn't make it to the square in time. Pharix had made certain they showed up—he had practically dragged them both out of the house to make sure.
At least Vadric knows they had been together when their name had been called. In their own corner of the pen, a stranger to all of the girls around them. When their name had been read over the square, not a soul had looked their way. But in the distance, their mother's gasp, frightfully quiet.
And nothing more.
It doesn't feel anything akin to right to creep out of the place they've been calling a makeshift home, not out into the open. If they hadn't, though, Vadric doesn't doubt that Weston would have left them there to rot.
"That's a mistake," he says, right on cue. Vadric shakes their head.
"What is?"
"They're going to fight."
Vadric pulls their attention back to the pair of tributes they've zeroed in on, tucked behind one of the ticketing booths. Judging by their guarded stances, weapons drawn, they aren't allies. Considering it, but far from trust.
"You think so?" Vadric asks.
"She's favoring her right side. Probably her leg. Not going to be much help in a fight if it gets nasty. Veyron knows it too."
Weston's injured too, they remind themselves. If things get nasty it's not going to be easy for him either. Vadric's too busy focused on the rest of the sentence, then, trying not to let paranoia grab a stranglehold around their throat.
"You know him?"
"Vaguely." Weston shrugs, like it's not an issue. Maybe it's not. But he has no true loyalty to Vadric, no spared love… who's to say he won't turn on them if a better opportunity were to arise? Their paranoia has always been a threat, striking when they least expect it; it could be their end today, too.
"There they go," Weston says quickly, and his words are immediately followed by the clash of blades, steel ringing against steel as Veyron strikes, driving the girl back with a few hefty blows. Weston was right about her leg—the more Veyron targets that side, the more she falters, and when he finally lashes out with a brutal kick she crumples with a half-hearted cry, empty hand extended towards him as if in a plea.
He lets his sword cut halfway through her throat before it looks as if he's unable to force it any further; the cannon is immediate, and Vadric forces themselves still where they crouch. It was so fast. To make it so far and go out like that, with hardly a chance, isn't fair to anyone. If this was a game of fairness Vadric doesn't think they'd be alive, either.
"You really think he's it?" Vadric wonders quietly.
"Quite possibly. I'm willing to take my chances."
Without preamble, he slams the hammer's head against the ground, cracking the cement beneath and sending a ringing thud across the platform. Veyron is still panting heavily, quickly righting himself to turn in a wide circle, eyes frantic as he tries to find the source. This is exactly the type of tactic that would take down Vadric—fear, paranoia, stoking the non-existent fire.
"When he turns the other way, I'm moving closer," Weston says, giving them hardly two seconds before he follows through. The second Veyron's head swivels around Weston moves, still at a slow and awkward gait, until he's crouched behind the next set of turnstiles, using nothing more than a measly gate as cover.
No room for them. Not enough time, they suspect, to run somewhere closer. There's nowhere left to go, and hiding themselves away.
Vadric stands.
When Veyron turns once again, they're looking directly at one another. The distance doesn't matter—Vadric is shaking all over, hardly able to breathe. This is the type of thing it takes to be something, anything more than a terrified little recluse.
"How the hell are you still alive?" Veyron calls. He knows nothing about them, likely not even their name, but he has enough sense to know that they shouldn't be here.
Vadric knows he's right.
Their voice trembles, too, but they force it to be heard. "Why don't you come over here and find out?"
From the corner of their eye, they can see Weston's grin. He's enthralled by this, ready for the challenge. Evidently, so is Veyron—if he knew the truth of what was going on, he wouldn't be so quick to come over here. His pace is even, sword extended. In his eyes, Vadric is already dead.
He passes Weston, mere feet away. So focused.
When Weston rises, bringing the hammer down, it misses Veyron's head by a scant half an inch. That's when the shouting erupts, a panicked yell escaping Veyron's mouth before he can tame it as he scuttles away, diving out of the way of Weston's next swing. He's still too slow, though. If Veyron exploited that girl so easily to see her dead, he'll do the same to Weston without thinking.
Vadric has to trust, for once in their life. That's all they're thinking as they rush forward, legs almost unwilling. The sword and hammer meet, but the blade wobbles dangerously close to Weston's face, almost slipping forward—
Their knife sinks into the back of Veyron's shoulder, weight crashing into his back. They go down together, the two of them, in a messy tangle of limbs. It happens all at once—Vadric's head smashes into the concrete, blotting their vision with dark specks. Something harder connects with their cheek, his elbow or fist. Blood fills their mouth and ribbons from their nose.
For some reason, blood always seemed so much scarier in sleep. He's so heavy though, driven down on top of them as if he's going to cave their chest in.
There's a thunderous crack just as they try to force him off, and a shower of wetness cascades over their face. Vadric can hardly see, but the moment they get is bad enough—his skull a pulpy, red-white-pink mess, eyes bulging from his head in his last moment alive.
His weight crashes down over top of them, pinning him to the pavement.
The cannon almost sounds like music.
"You alive down there?" Weston asks, though they hardly hear him over their drumbeat heart, so loud and demanding it's found a home in the shells of their ears. They've never been so grateful for the existence of something as frightening as a warhammer in their entire life.
They can't find the energy to respond, though, resting their pounding head against the unforgiving ground. When the weight lifts, they can breathe again. Most potent of all in their surroundings turns out to be Weston's laughter, and when their gaze refocuses enough to find him, he looks properly happy. Not sly, not charading about. Just happy.
"You're deaf, aren't you?" he asks them, but he's still laughing. "God."
"What?"
"You missed it. We won, gremlin. We fucking did it."
It seems impossible. A figment in their imagination, a part of a dream not meant to be seen. Vadric doesn't have dreams. But the announcement has come and gone, just like that, and somehow Vadric has won.
They can't laugh. They feel a tear slip free from their eye instead, but it rolls over their cracked, smiling lips.
A dream. It's more idyllic than they ever could have expected.
THE VICTORS OF DISTRICT SIX… VADRIC GAERWYN (17) AND WESTON KATSOURIS (18).
thecentennialcelebration . tumblr . com
Thank you to Haiden and Maggie for Vadric and Weston. ❤
(And an extra thanks to Maggie and Goldie for helping me punk everyone with the 'Weston doesn't exist' debacle).
For a first clarification, there will be a legitimate blog down the line once these initial chapters are over. I just thought it cruel to at least keep you from seeing them in some capacity, though.
Secondly, apologies for the length of this chapter, but the initial Games chaps so far are all hovering around this length for I think obvious reasons. The format is just about the exact same as well throughout, with minor changes as I saw fit. A disclaimer, though: despite the length, this is still the first time we're meeting these characters, and therefore it's unlikely you're learning every single facet about them. If you have questions, that's a good thing.
Thank-you to everyone who reviewed, faved, followed, commented on Discord, etc. Means the world to me. I'm typically not the best at responding to such things because words are hard, but know I appreciate them all deeply.
Until next time.