XXXII: The Games.
I used to like to walk the straight and narrow line.
I used to think that everything was fine.
Sometimes I'd sit and gaze for days through sleepless dreams.
All alone and trapped in time.
I wonder what tomorrow has in mind for me,
Or am I even in its mind at all?
Perhaps I'll get a chance to look ahead and see.
Soon as I find myself a crystal ball.
Well tell me, tell me, where I'm going.
I don't know where I've been.
Tell me tell me, won't you tell me, and then tell me again.
My heart is breaking, my body's aching, and I don't know where to go.
So tell me, tell me, won't you tell me?
I just gotta know.
Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four
Amani doesn't dare let himself believe that anything picturesque is real.
A cerulean blue sky, dotted with perfectly rounded clouds. Each blade of grass seems more impossibly green than the last, manicured so that no foot had ever trodden through it. Each crop of stone, unchipped statue, flowering trellis or neat pathway—none of it is a reality in the world that Amani has forged in his head.
The world—the real one, at least, is what lies beyond it. The grandiose monolith silhouetted against the sky, each pointed tower and keep along its walls. Amani eyes each angle of the rampart, how high it all seems to carry above the gardens far below.
This stronghold is not for the likes of humans, at least the ones that exist now. They are not fit for castles or citadels, nor anything that is held within them.
He is supposed to be in a coffin, not a throne-room.
The trees behind him look no less welcome. Thin and reedy, skeletal in their bareness, they hold no safety or hiding places, if they hold anything at all. As far as the eye can see the ground is nothing more than barren. No matter how hard he strains, Amani can't even hear the tell-tale call of a bird, the scuffle of a squirrel. There's nothing out there.
Worse, still, there's nothing here either. No golden horn. Not even a sign of a weapon. He knows without glancing down the line, too, that not everyone is here. The gardens stretch out so uniformly that he can only imagine an equal amount of tributes are gathered around each side; six of them, all wrenched apart before they could even chance it themselves.
With so much laid out before him, Amani isn't sure what compels him to look down—it's as if the ticking is audible. The watch fastened around his fast displays not only the lone, frozen hour anymore. Twenty seven seconds have been added, rapidly changing over to twenty-eight, twenty-nine…
"Attention, tributes!"
Though he's hardly moved, Amani still finds himself freezing at the words that boom out over the arena's sky, an unfamiliar voice demanding his attention.
If it's meant to be a distraction, it's worked.
"As we all know, this has been a rather special year," the voice says, so well-rehearsed it's almost eerie. "In order to properly honor your many sacrifices and victories these past twelve months, your first twelve hours in this arena will be a period of safety."
There's a muffled question to his right, a muttered curse to his left. Amani knows who stands in both places; he doesn't dare look.
"Listen well, for any act of killing will result in the immediate execution of the perpetrator by the Capitol," they continue. "Use this twelve hour period wisely, for once it has expired, the Game is truly on. Good luck, tributes. And may the odds be ever in your favor."
"Oh, you've got to me fucking kidding me."
There she is. At his left, hands clenched, white-knuckled, Tova Revelis turns her furious eyes first on him, and then to her other side. Zoya Ossof lets out a nearly deranged cackle as the realization hits—not for the fact that he's alone, pulled apart from his allies, but for the fact that she cannot hurt him. No one can.
And she can't hurt Amani, either. Even bare-handed she would have dared; Aranza is at his other side, her eyes equally narrowed. It's as if she hopes to smite him where he stands, or will him into tripping off his plate. It's not as if he hasn't thought of such an action, envisioned in his head a hundred times. The easy way out is the most tempting one. It's a wish fulfilled, his light snuffed out the way he had so desired.
How easy it would be. One step forward, another off, into oblivion. No one for the Capitol to harm if he takes care of himself. Perhaps Tova would laugh, even—Aranza too.
Or perhaps he'd be giving them exactly what they want.
He looks past them, too. To Zoya, who seems unphased. To the girls beyond them, Alia and Farasha, fortunate enough to be kept together in their fear. Though, he supposes, such a thing must have lessened now that they're in no danger.
At least, less danger.
Amani has felt at risk since the moment he stepped foot into that first arena, and even more-so after. He's been walking a tightrope since they set him free. What use is there in tipping off now when he could do something, when he could go out there and find Sander, do something right for once. Tiernan and Kona would not want him, yet. They do not want him for decades.
There is harm in trying. Unimaginable suffering and a sure loss to follow. He'll watch people die. If things go wrong, he'll be the cause.
Being human in this world is such a complicated thing. Amani still isn't quite sure that he even wants to live, nor if he deserves it. He is not the vision anyone wanted, and has no desire to be. If he returns, the sea will try its best to swallow him whole if his father's scathing disappointment doesn't bury him first. He could die right now, just like that, knowing he failed everything he was supposed to be.
Or he could live, even just for a short while. In the time he has, Amani can find something good. Something worth living for.
Besides, his time is up. The choice has been made for him.
Levi Alcandre, 18
Tribute of District Two
There is no hesitation within his body when he leaps off the plate.
A great amount of it overcomes him, however, after a mere three seconds of moving.
For once in his life, Levi's brain comes to the realization first; he is utterly and completely alone. Not alone-alone, of course, but he had five other people alongside him in that starting line and not one of them had been Weston or Jordyn. And, y'know, considering they're his allies, that might just be a bit problematic.
It's not the worst thing. Levi could be dead, for one, and there's nothing to suggest that he can't just run out there and find them. A little bit of alone time isn't a bad thing now and again, right?
For most people. Levi's not the biggest fan of being alone.
So he'll just… keep moving. Running, his feet thumping along the twisting pathway that dips throughout the garden. It's not quite a maze, but sometimes the hedges and stone walls are so high that he can't see beyond, only the very tip-top of the castle visible in the sky beyond. That's where he needs to head—that's where they'll go, if he knows them at all. All or nothing. Right for the big guns.
But he can hear someone. He's heard someone for a while.
Levi rounds the next corner and nearly runs into them—Vadric, that is, who backpedals with a halfway concealed shout, hands clutched over their chest.
He smiles. "Oh! You again!."
He hadn't thought anything when his plate locked into place and he had found Vadric to his right, directly beside him. Even before the grace period had been announced, he wouldn't have harmed them. Levi said they had a truce, alright? He's not so much an asshole to break it a literal minute in.
Vadric does nothing more than stare at him, wide-eyed. Levi thinks nothing of striding around them when he catches sight of a slight glimmer beneath a nearby stone bench, something fastened to the underside. His hands close around a hilt, heart hammering as he pulls the weapon free. A blade the length of his forearm catches the sight, curved into a neat point. They have a name, these machetes… he's been told a hundred times. Levi knows he has.
"Do you remember what this is?" he asks them, or the open air, half-turned. "I really want to say a kebab but I know that's not it, so…"
There's a muffled squeak, and when Levi looks at them he finds not much at all, only the blur of their retreating form as they tear away from it. "You know I couldn't hurt you even if I wanted to, right?" he shouts after them, uncaring over who else can hear. Again, it's not like he's in any true danger. He sighs as he stuffs the weapon beneath his belt, walking leisurely to the fork they disappeared down—as soon as he's certain they're gone, he turns the opposite direction.
So there's supplies hidden in here. Good to know. He better start paying attention, less he pass up something truly valuable. A bag would be nice. Jordyn and Weston would be even nicer.
There's no telling where they are. For all Levi knows they could both be on the opposite fucking side, and that looks miles away. It's deceptive, this place, so massive that both the land and structure seem to stretch on forever when he knows it can't be true.
The Gamemakers knew they were allied, were aware of their closeness, and they chose to pull Levi away anyway. Some sick bastards, they are. Nothing can ever be that easy.
Including getting away from someone, he finds. Though it's just as quiet as the first time, Levi hears it again—footsteps. Light, feathery, not enough weight behind them to make any sort of thunderous sound. Levi makes sure to slow this time, weapon safely tucked away. The last thing he wants is to scary the living daylights out of them, even if he suspects he already has.
This time, Vadric outright jumps. If they were listening rather than panicking they no doubt would have heard his approach, but that seems far from their mind. "Fancy seeing you here again," Levi says with a grin.
Two bright spots of red exertion flare up harder in the midst of their otherwise ghastly visage. "It's not… it's not funny," they manage, shifting uneasily.
"Never said it was."
"You're acting that way."
"Am I?" Levi says, faking a gasp. "Gee, I hadn't realized. Do you think I can work on that?"
"Please," Vadric says quickly. "I just… I want to get out of here. That's it."
Somehow, Levi has glossed over their predicament—rather, their positioning. Just behind Vadric, a stone wall rises at least ten feet above their heads. A scramble he could manage, perhaps, but not an easy feat for just anyone. Vadric was turning around to come back, and he's pinned them in the corner without realizing. No wonder they look so terrified.
It's worse than terror. They're trembling, knuckles white, eyes halfway glazed over in some sort of unknown fear.
Though the past few days he's managed to sleep, he knows what it looks like, thanks to the last few months, to be halfway down the drain into madness. He knows fear, the dread that comes with looking away or closing your eyes.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he reiterates.
"I know."
"So what are you scared of, now?"
"I just want to go," they whisper.
He steps forward. There's nowhere for them to go, really, except the few inches directly into the wall, and there they go. He waits until they settle there, back against the stones, each quiver more obvious than the last. Whatever fear they're harboring is not for his eyes, nor for his ears. There's no getting rid of that.
There's only distraction.
Levi straightens. "Hey," he says firmly, and then tosses his hand out, an olive branch. "Do you want to come unbreak his heart?"
Vadric blinks. "W-What?"
"Weston. Your District partner. Remember that conversation we just had, y'know, like an hour ago…"
"I remember. What do you mean?"
Levi gives his hand a gentle shake. "I'm going to go find him. Jordyn too. You want to come with?"
They stare at his hand, perfectly aghast. No doubt this is the last thing they could have imagined upon being stuck in a corner alone with a Career, but it seems like an obvious choice. With no violence available, and no reason to be cruel, why shouldn't he offer this? Vadric cares just like he does. Vadric is scared to be alone, just like he is, even if they don't realize it.
"You can't be serious," they murmur.
"Oh, I'm deadly serious," he replies. "I think it'll be fun, me and you. I would say so long as you don't get annoyed by my talking, but you did live with Weston for half a year, so."
"I'm used to it."
He smiles. "I bet you are."
They still look terrified, but their shaking has lessened. He's winning this battle, no matter how foolhardy it may be. Levi can hear Rohana screaming at him, each squawky sound bouncing about between his ears. You're stupid this and what are you doing that. All sorts of things that he couldn't care less about. He will not live and die by someone else's wishes, not in here.
"What do you say, Six?" he questions. "Up for an adventure?"
They do not know him, do not trust him, but there's something in there, paranoia and fear striking so deeply that they've been left with no other choice. Like so many before them, Vadric thought they could make it alone.
At least for a bit.
Levi slides the blade from his belt with his other hand and offers it forward. Stupid move after stupid move, and he couldn't be more thrilled by it all. "You can have it," he offers, watching as Vadric reaches forward inch by painful inch, ignoring his outstretched hand. Their fingers glance off one anothers as they take the weapon, and they jolt.
"You shouldn't give me this," they say very softly. "You're more useful with it."
Levi's won.
"How about this?" he asks. "If we hit midnight and haven't found anything else, you can give it back. Sounds fair?"
Vadric nods. Stubborn as a mule, Levi keeps his hand up, almost demanding. They stare at each other for what feels like an eternity despite the agreement, his palm greeted only by the cool breeze. Neither of them can wait forever.
Slowly, Vadric reaches forward. Their hand, clammy and jittery, lands in his own.
He smiles. "Let's get out of here, Six."
Kai Melchior, 15
Tribute of District Five
Nothing this easy is ever fixed in reality.
There's no possible way, not in Kai's life, that he's been handed something. A nearly certain death in the Hunger Games, of course, but an easy beginning to it?
It's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard.
Two leaps off his plate and disappears into the gardens like a lightning bolt, there one second and gone the next. Six chooses an adjacent path, casting a few glances back like they're worried about someone following, even though Kai is still just standing there like some sort of idiot.
In the next five seconds, bickering erupts. Obscenities are shouted over his head as the Ten's start up at one another, evidently so concerned with their rivalry that they're more concerned about hurting one another with their words than prepping for the physical violence of the future. Kai watches them for a moment before he turns around, facing the glare of the sun to catch sight of Ravi, two plates down.
Ravi stares back. Shrugs helplessly.
Alright then.
Kai doesn't even have to run to him. It's more of a leisurely jog than anything else, and Ravi simply steps off his own plate, almost gingerly, and keeps close to Kai's back as he picks a direction. If he knows anything at all, and he likes to think so, Ravi is only doing so to let Kai set the pace. A courtesy that doesn't go unnoticed—it's the sort of simple, quiet thing that he's learned to appreciate about Ravi, the helpful moments that aren't shouted for all to hear.
"That seemed too easy," Ravi says plainly, just shy of a minute later. They can't hear the Ten's any longer, and there's been no sight of anyone since they started moving.
Far too easy indeed.
"It was," he agrees, but that doesn't make Kai stop. He was prepared—so prepared, in fact, that he had envisioned a bloodbath all over again. A weapon in his hand and an ally that needed help and perhaps even a body at his feet. To be thrown so off-kilter is not something he has ever enjoyed; though his life has been a hellish tale of hospital wards and experimental drugs, at least it was consistent in its atrocity.
This is nothing he was prepared for.
Kai slows, finally, wiping a thin layer of sweat from his brow. The castle still looms heavy and dark across the sky, but it seems no closer. They've just been moving, turning in haphazard directions with no idea where they're going.
"Should we find the right path and head there?" Kai questions.
"If you think so."
"I'm asking you," he clarifies. "Good idea? Bad?"
Ravi is helping him. Ravi will also bend over backwards to be the opposite of an inconvenience to the rest of Kai's general life. He could snap and tell him to speak up, something Kai is sure he would do if he was back home, but there's no use in it now. He can't very well chase away the only relatively good thing that's currently happening to him.
"Both," Ravi settles on finally. "More supplies, I would guess. Also more people."
He's right, of course. In less than twelve hours those people will be dangerous again, and Kai has nothing to fight back against them. He will never roll over and die, but he's keenly aware of what so many of these people could do to him—a butcher's job, hacking him to pieces and carving the meat from his bones without blinking.
What does he need more? Supplies, or his life?
Perhaps he can have both.
The shapeless gray mass just past Ravi's left shoulder blends seamlessly into the stone, at first, but the longer he stares the more it becomes something real, just just an intangible bundle. Kai strides past him, reaching forward with the expectation that his hands will simply pass right through it. When his hands wrap around the strap of the satchel, the fabric all too real against his hands, it's almost as if his heart stops.
He pulls it open, unable to help himself from marveling at its contents. A load of fabric, either a sleeping bag or extra clothing, an ample first-aid kit tucked against the side along with a bulging water skin. He can see rolls of dried food, canisters of trail mix.
All right in the middle of nowhere.
Ravi, hovering over him, lets out a quiet noise. Kai can see only his silhouette as he leans over him, fingers prying apart the greenery lingering around a trellis' edge. He can't believe his eyes at what Ravi's hand comes away with, the blade lengthening with each passing second.
Ravi himself looks down at the machete with dumbfounded shock, down at Kai, and then back at the weapon as if he can't believe it either. Worse is the hesitancy in which he grips the hilt, a war waging within his eyes.
He seals the bag closed, and holds it up. "Switch?" he suggests. It's an easy trade. Ravi will fight to take the bag anyway, just so that Kai is not burdened with the extra weight. The machete is thrust down scarcely an inch from his nose without preamble, the look in Ravi's eyes suggesting that he wants nothing more than to be rid of it.
But Kai will fight if he has to. There will be no hesitation in him.
"Maybe we don't have to head in just yet," Ravi surmises, glancing around. Little did they know that they're in the midst of a treasure trove, the things they need to survive hidden all around them. They won't be the only ones to know, soon enough, but while they're out here and focused, while they have the time…
"You're right," he agrees. Ravi looks quietly proud—relieved, almost, but neither of them would dare mention it aloud.
In a way, though, Kai is relieved too. He can trust this without harboring a shadow of a doubt in his mind, and now they have a plan to work with.
He can prove them all wrong. He can survive this.
Alia Maduro, 15
Tribute of District Three
No matter her apparent safety, Alia feels just as sick to her stomach as she did last time.
At least it's easier to hide. Her stomach can lurch and roll, but nobody will ever know just how close she is to losing it. Not even Asha.
She gathers the remaining strength within herself and launches forward to grab Farasha's hand, tugging her off the plate. Alia couldn't tell you what makes her turn about-face, staring down the woods instead of the direction everyone else is headed; there's no reason to fear the gardens anymore than the rest of this place.
"You think we should?" Farasha asks. Their hands, still clasped together, are sticky with perspiration. Nerves, no doubt.
Behind them, the last set of eyes that had still been watching abruptly vanishes. Tova and Aranza were long gone, Amani in the opposite direction. But Zoya stared, stared like he was trying to figure out what the hell they were really doing.
If Alia knew, she would have told him. But he's gone now, and she still doesn't know.
Still, she swallows, bundling up her confidence once again. "If there's something out there, no one else is looking for it."
"We'll be the first to find it," Farasha finishes. "Shall we, then?"
Though she is undoubtedly nervous, it feels odd to also have a sense of calmness. They don't have to run or risk a knife in the back. There is no chance she will have to watch an ally die, not like Aphelion, Vahla bundling them all away like her life had depended on keeping them together.
Now it's just the two of them, only one person she can rely on to stay by her side. She knows that clutching onto Asha's hand like this is silly, the action of a child, but the other girl is still holding on too, their fingers intertwined. It makes her heart settle into a neater rhythm as they step into the trees despite the eerieness that settles over them. Almost immediately, any trace of a breeze vanishes, though each tree seems to creak despite it.
There is something undoubtedly unnerving about their uniformity, each trunk stretching the exact distance into the sky, every single one bleached bone white and smooth to the touch. Even the grass seems paler than the place they've just come from—it's as if every detail is warning them away, telling them that there is no use in staying.
And Alia is beginning to suspect there isn't. What could be hiding out here besides death itself? A massive set of supplies isn't hiding behind any of these thin trees, ripe for the taking. There's nothing.
"You know," Farasha says quietly. "Typically when there's no signs of life—no birds, no insects…"
"It's not a good place," she finishes. "We can go back."
"Just a bit further. No harm, no foul."
But further turns out to mean nothing. A scant ten seconds later Farasha's grip on her hand tightens to the point of pain, but she can hardly utter a complaint before she's jerked back, nearly tripping over her own two feet before she crashes back to Farasha's side.
"Look," she says. "It's—"
The second she does, though, Alia doesn't need to be told. The trees really are the same, but this time a mirror image reflected back at them. For just a moment the shield seems to shimmer in the space between the trees before the movement was never there at all. Another two or three feet, and she would have been fried.
She gives Asha's hand a squeeze. "Thanks."
They've hardly made it fifty yards. There really is nothing out here but this barren copse of trees and nearly-dead grass. It seemed like such a good idea, too, but in reality she's just dragged them out here for nothing whilst everyone else has been diving headfirst into the real thing.
It looks like it goes on for miles, like they could walk and walk and never see anyone again. Wouldn't that be a dream?
Better than an illusion, anyway.
"I guess we better go back." Alia sighs, watching Farasha's equally defeated nod. It's tough to be wrong, to think something could almost be good for once only to have it ripped out from right beneath your feet. What were they playing at, thinking something was really out here? They're just two girls in way over their heads, trying to think bigger than they are and acting more intelligent than their capabilities stretch.
She's stupid. It's no wonder her family thinks so little of her, the discarded last child who was never good for anyone or anything.
"Alia?" Farasha questions, pulling her from the barrage of hurt that has begun to swarm her brain. The audience no doubt has been watching her, Alia and her blank face, staring at a forcefield like it really meant something, all while she melted down on the inside.
She can't keep doing that. She's better—more, than that.
Alia releases her ally's hand, striding forward to the closest tree. The lowest hanging branch, thin and devoid of greenery, snaps easily beneath her hands from the rest of the trunk. She passes it back to Asha, quickly cracking off a slightly larger one for herself. Her nails, already chewed to nothingness, begin to peel away at the end as she chips away at the bark, a sharpened point coming to life in her head.
"This won't be enough," Asha says. She doesn't let such a thing phase her quest to form a weapon, crude as it may be. It's better than her fists. It's better than nothing.
"It's not," she agrees, turning once she's satisfied with her quick handiwork. "But for now, it has to be."
If, in twelve hours, this is all she has, then so be it. She will not cower and snivel at the edge of the woods, praying that no one will find her. She'll head in, with the rest of them.
She'll play along because she has no other choice.
Sanne Levesay, 16
Tribute of District Seven
She's still shouting.
She's been shouting since the moment the gong rang.
"Do you reckon she'll ever stop?" Ilan murmurs to her, sticking close as if Clementine is about to come tromping back, discover their rather nosy presence, and bludgeon them both.
To be fair, Sanne hadn't wanted to be this close to anyone, but she certainly wasn't following Weston and Jordyn, and that meant what? That she was doomed to stick close to the creepiest thirteen year old she had ever laid eyes on? Casia looked like she could be sweet, of course, but appearances were falsities more often than not—Sanne knew that better than anyone.
"Not until she finds him," Sanne supposes.
"Didn't she have two allies?"
"... pretty sure."
"Why's she only care about the one, then?"
She can't doubt that the matter is intriguing, but the curiosity and time Ilan is affording it doesn't seem worth it. If Clementine wants to find Pietro Dolokhov and shout it to the whole world, then that's on her. And, apparently, if they choose to toddle along in her general vicinity and hope nothing too bad occurs, well… that's Seven's problem, then.
Truthfully, it is just easier to focus on one person. She hadn't been able to in the bloodbath and look what had happened—Sylvan dead, Carya bleeding out, her blood in a bright wash down Brycen's forearms. With so many puzzle pieces laid out before you, a few were bound to get lost. That's just how things went.
It shouldn't have been that way for people, but Sanne had learned the truth of the matter the hard way. Ilan was reliable, at least to her. A constant presence in her life, ready and willing to listen to her woes and to offer a few back, if only to make Sanne feel less alone. They had slogged through the trenches together, every last step.
Clementine shouts again, clearer than ever, a perfect call of Twelve's name. If she happens to run into Zoya instead, Sanne can only guess how terribly awkward it will be.
"Maybe she's forgotten," Ilan decides.
"You think Five is forgettable?"
"Maybe she's… prioritizing?" Ilan tries, blinking confusedly. Sanne allows herself a smile.
He's good. Not perfect by any means, and certainly odd, but she's lucky to have him. It's the way he's keeping close to her, but always one pace ahead, as if he plans on putting himself between her and anything that comes their way without even realizing it. And she's allowed it, too—even though she's keeping pace with him.
"Ilan," she says softly. He looks back at her, doesn't stop. Sanne has to jump forward to catch up to him, looping her arms tight around him in order to bring them both to a halt. His back straightens beneath her hands, surprise carrying his body over into a brief stiffness before he hugs her back.
"What's this for?" he asks.
"Nothin'. Just glad you're here."
He sighs, but she thinks it's paired with a smile. "Me too."
"Well, if this isn't just fucking adorable," someone spits. "Outta the way, Seven's, some of us are actually trying to get shit done."
Ilan pulls the both of them back, releasing her as he bends down to scoop up, of all things, a large rock. Clementine breezes by them so fast that Sanne's hair is ruffled around her neck, the gait of a woman on a mission. She grabs a tight hold on Ilan's arm before he can release his makeshift weapon, though the move looked to be out of surprise more than anything else.
You can never be too sure, with either of them. Sanne knows that much.
She wants to call after the other girl, to ask what is yelling accomplishing?, but she swallows the words down. "Must be a dead end," Ilan says slowly. "That's why she turned around."
"Don't follow me!" Clementine shouts over her shoulder. "You lot are way too inconsequential for me to be dealing with right now."
"Ouch," Ilan mutters.
"As if we want to be dealing with her," Sanne says, nearly without thinking. Ilan snorts, watching her retreating back until it is visible no longer. Still, she's the safest bet, unless they plan on scrambling over whatever obstacle that blocked her path in the first place.
They are Seven's, though. Climbers if nothing else. There could be something that way that needs to be found, for their eyes only.
"You want to try it?" she asks. "It's better than—"
"Listening to her all day? You read my mind."
They're on the same wavelength. Sanne doesn't have to worry about keeping track of him because he's always right there, where he's meant to be. Even back home she didn't have someone so reliable, someone who actually cared so much. Brycen may have been the first, but Ilan is the truest sense of friendship, the longest lasting.
She really is grateful, no matter the circumstance. Love, no matter the form, is hard to come by.
At least Sanne has been lucky enough to find it.
Weston Katsouris, 18
Tribute of District Six
Sad as it would sound to the masses, most certainly, all Weston wishes is that he had killed someone by now.
What's the fuckin' point of waiting? Better to get this show on the road, get his hands dirty. The quicker he does it the quicker he can wash them clean again. Besides, you can't tell him the Capitol isn't salivating at the idea of them finally ripping each other to shreds, and who is Weston to deny them of what they crave?
If only he could give those damn Gamemakers a piece of his mind.
"You're falling behind again!" Jordyn calls back at him, and he quickens his pace. He'll give her one thing—she's damn fast, has hardly broken a sweat despite the speedy jog they've maintained since the very start. Weston's no weakling himself, but whoever designed this hellish mass of green and all its twists and turns deserves to be shot. Where's his straight line to where he wants to be?
There hadn't even been much of a discussion. A shared look, once they had realized they were right next to one another, both nodding in the same direction. These gardens meant nothing. At night the lesser would cower out here and hope nothing came to get them, while they would be reaping the spoils.
"You think he's headed there too?" Jordyn asks, voice clear, no exhaustion present. Weston curses eternally at the thought of being showed up, even if it is by her.
"If he's smart."
Jordyn hums. Weston lets that turn over in his brain for a moment before he decides that no, Levi isn't always all that smart. That's sort of why he's so infuriatingly endearing, though. Sort of like Freddie, in a way, except in the very least he has confirmation that Levi's still alive.
It would be best if the three of them were all back together by midnight, but Weston is no eternal optimist; no matter how good he may be, the Capitol will allow nothing to fall into his lap.
Perhaps only his death, if they grow sick of him.
"Almost there," Jordyn urges. He relishes the chance to be inside, away from this burning sun. Six was never like this, nor the arena he found himself in. Weston was used to stagnant, slate, straight lines and angular boxes. Anything beyond that was unnatural. Up ahead, the greenery is rapidly giving way, revealing the side of the castle in all its glory, so stark against the bright sky. Weston can crane his neck back all the way he likes, but the top seems almost lost in the clouds.
The garden ends. The grass gives way to pale, sparse dirt, and then dark earth. A long swath of water cuts between them and the castle walls, abnormally still, an unusual blue-green that can only be artificial.
"Of course there's a fucking moat," he pants. "Can't just let us in, huh?"
He's relieved to see Jordyn sucking in large breaths as well, though her voice is still surprisingly even as she points up, high. Weston shields his eyes against the glare, following the tip of her finger. Hardly visible is a series of lines appearing almost carved in the otherwise haphazard stonework—two parallel, one horizontally across. If it was smaller, within reach, it looks as if you could guide your fingers into it and pry something loose.
"A drawbridge, I think," Jordyn guesses.
"A lot of use it is up there."
"They have to drop it down at some point. There's no use in having an entire castle here if we can't access it."
No, not really. The Gamemakers do love their aesthetics and all, but that seems like a colossal waste of money—Weston knows all about that, considering how much of it he's wasted in his lifetime. That was when he was living under his father's roof, though, squandering away whatever was put into his hands. The Berodach's money was like some precious thing, to be stored away and treasured.
They should just let him in, then. People always did. Weston could open any door with merely a look, but he knew this one wasn't going to respond.
"Or we could swim," he decides, striding forward and down the slight incline until his shoes are just about touching the water's edge. "How bad can it be, really?"
"Bad," Jordyn deadpans, but she grins. "Wanna be the guinea pig?"
He reaches back, giving her a light shove. "Why don't you do it, Four?"
She rolls her eyes, striding backwards towards the gardens until she's within arm's reach of the last flowering bush—she's cracks off one of it's branches, hefting it over her shoulder until she returns to his side and lobs it into the air, each spin seeming slower than the last until it finally lands with a lackluster splash nearly in the middle of the moat.
It doesn't so much as move, not even a centimeter, floating listlessly in the lack of current. "Good sign," he surmises, but something in him refuses to move. Perhaps it's the color, the way it doesn't matter how close he steps or leans over… he can't see anything. The visibility, or lack thereof, makes him wary to step foot into it, but it's not as if he can show that.
If he doesn't move, someone will know.
Jordyn's hand catches in his shirt when he steps forward, the water lapping over his shoes. All at once, the stillness comes to life, a hundred splashes firing into the air all at once. Weston can't see any of what it is—scales and long, needle-like teeth the length of his fingers, razor-sharp fins that catch on bodies. The water runs with thin trickles of red.
It's over within seconds. The creatures disappear, leaving the water rippling as if only a stone has been cast into it.
The branch is entirely gone.
"Well," Jordyn says slowly. "Guess we're not swimming."
A part of Weston is relieved. He is not keen on death traps, nor about the mere idea of having to swim across and find some little hole to crawl into, the walls pressing in around him until there's no air left to breathe. He can imagine nothing worse than dying, dying like Freddie, trapped with no way out. Suffocating. Knowing you're doomed but unable to stop it.
"They'll drop it at some point," Jordyn says again, though this time the words are uniquely comforting. "We'll stay close, take a look around. How's that sound?"
"Sounds like someone died and made you leader." Weston shakes his head, turning around to give her a gentle shove. "Who did that, huh?"
"Me," she says with a smile. "Though if you're so worried about listening to me, we can always let Levi decide when he shows up. Deal?"
Jordyn backs away from him, intent on leaving the water and its dangers behind. He follows, of course, but why wouldn't he? It's not out of any sort of obligation, not because he takes orders. Weston has never taken an order in his goddamn life.
He doesn't plan on starting now.
"Please," he says finally. "After last night, you think he'll choose anyone but me?"
She winks. He knows they're both red from exertion, but it's a fun little game to pretend otherwise. "Everyone would always choose you, Westie."
Weston stretches forward, fingers in her hair, right around the tip of her ponytail, to give it a tug. Not like Shelby. This isn't her. This is truly his time, the place where everyone will choose him, because Jordyn's right. Everyone always would. If they know what's best for them, they'll continue doing so.
And if the Capitol claims to have any sort of brains, they'll give him exactly what he wants.
That crown belongs to Weston, no matter who may try and steal it from him.
You really thought, huh? Fucking clowns.
If you're surprised, well... probably shouldn't have been. In a truly shocking twist I was too attached to let go of anyone just yet, but hopefully in most cases y'all were too. From here on out I'll be keeping things updated on the blog re: status and deaths, though obviously not the deaths... yet. The only question I have is this: would you prefer the alliances remain as they were pre-games, or should I update them to reflect the current Games chapter?
I don't know if I can really ask of predictions right now considering no one is actively dying, but y'know. Feel free if you have anything.
Thank-you for your support thus far. We've still got a long way to go.
Until next time.