XXXV: The Games - Day One, Night.
Jordyn Palladino, 17
Tribute of District Four
She's never felt more useless than right now.
Jordyn's felt useless a lot, alright? It's not something she'd ever admit outloud, but after having spent so many years in the Academy watching people naturally succeed while she struggled to catch up, it's second nature. If it took her so long to even settle on a weapon that she felt comfortable with, how was she meant to be so perfect at everything else?
People saw her as she wanted them to—perfectly made up, not a hair out of place. No matter what was ahead of her that day, if she was doomed to fail or not, Jordyn would always do so with a smile on her face.
It was different now, just sitting around. Jordyn knew it was in the face of the greater good, but it was hard to feel that way in such a state of immobility. They had hardly moved the entire day, guarding the place where the drawbridge should eventually fall like two posted sentries. Though there was nothing they could do about it, she kept wishing for someone to appear—Levi, or anyone else. Levi would bring entertainment and anyone else… well, at least she could chase them off.
But no. They're stuck here waiting for the hour to change, eyes fixated helplessly on her watch as the minutes ticked closer to midnight.
And what if nothing happened? What if they were stuck sitting here all night?
Whatever the case, she was certain Weston was just as sick of it as she was. For once he had lapsed into silence, body thrown back into the grass, hands laced behind his head. Occasionally he would whistle out a random tune, just long enough for Jordyn to catch up with the rhythm, and then stop. They weren't even talking. Since when did the two of them not talk?
They were tired, but neither of them would close their eyes—at least, they wouldn't be the first to. Jordyn didn't think she could in a space as open as this one, where any second something could come crawling out of the moat and drag her beneath the still water.
Weston sits up without warning, though his eyes are still just as unfocused. "Twenty questions?"
"You're bothersome."
"Truth or dare."
"No."
"... strip poker?"
"Considering we have neither cards nor chips, I think that would just be called strip."
He grins. If she were closer to him, Jordyn would kick him square in the leg. But she's not, and moving seems like more effort than it's worth. She settles for a roll of the eyes, wrapping her arms tighter around herself. The last thing she wants to do now is bare her body to the vague chill of the night-time air.
Boredom is dangerous, though. She's beginning to wish for anything to happen, no matter how dangerous it may be. She'd rather the drawbridge come down and risk being squashed beneath it.
"Jords."
"I said no."
"No—look."
She freezes, eyes tracing his finger all the way into the distance. No matter how hard she stares into the dark, nothing appears. Jordyn scrambles to his side, watching until finally she spots a sliver of movement, all the way down the long, sloping hill into the gardens.
It feels like the both of them are scarcely breathing. This is the first sign of any people they've seen since the gong went off, and no matter how quickly the sighting manages to disappear they always come back, enough for her to know it's real.
"Two of them," she murmurs. "They don't look very big."
"Younger ones," Weston assumes. To her ears, in his voice, it sounds more like easy prey.
They're a ways off if you didn't happen to be targeting their intended spot, but with the right pathing and a mind to find them, it wouldn't take long at all. That's what they would be doing in a real pack, with a sizable handful of hunters and a certainty that death would appear at the end of their weapons. Weapons they don't currently have, and an alliance that never properly existed.
They can't kill until midnight, either. There's still almost an hour left until they get there.
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Weston asks.
"What are you thinking?"
"It'll take us a while to catch up to them—"
"Not an hour's worth," she insists. "They'll be out of sight, soon, and if we get too close before they'll hear us. You're not exactly subtle."
"Ouch?" he fires back. "We don't know the consequences of attacking before midnight."
"Right."
"If there are consequences."
If someone were to die, well… that was spelled out easily enough. But an injury, something that would drag things out, they never said that was against the rules. It would take planning, enough foresight and self-control to not finish the job instantly, but Jordyn knows it's within her capabilities. They have the advantage.
She gets to her feet, stretching out her sore legs and twisting about, feeling vitaly return to her relaxed body. "It certainly seems like you're ready to go," Weston observes.
"We'll catch up. At least one of them won't be able to get away with the two of us chasing them. We may not be able to do our worst, but—"
"But close enough to it is better," Weston finishes. "And then we let them go."
It's a cruel fate, most certainly, to be injured so that you can still get away, but terribly enough that your own death will catch up quickly enough. She was taught the various ways to hurt someone just like everyone else. Jordyn already knows what she has to do.
It must make her cruel, then, to realize that the thought of doing so doesn't even bother her. Her own humanity is not an easily navigated slope, and she finds herself slipping more on a day to day basis.
When Weston stands beside her, though, his eyes are shining with an eagerness that she knows must be reflected back in her own. Perhaps the drawbridge will come down, perhaps not. At least they'll have a way to kill the time it may possibly take, a distraction that both of them have been silently wishing for.
"Levi will be sad he missed out," Weston comments. They're both aware of the odd-shaped hole he's left in their dynamic—Levi never would have allowed them to be silent for so long.
But he's out there, somewhere. Eliminating the others may somehow bring them back closer to one another.
Jordyn will do anything to see that happen.
Sloane Laurier, 17
Tribute of District Three
And she thought she felt stupid in Three's arena.
At least sleeping all the time had a purpose, y'know? What's the damn purpose behind all this walking? It certainly hasn't gotten rid of her headache any, though she's certain that's more the dehydration kicking in full-force rather than anything else.
For once she has a perfectly normal headache instead of one brought on from withdrawal—who knew such a thing was even possible?
She has to give Casia credit where credit is due. For her age, her size, the perceptions you would place upon looking at her, she has done wonders to shatter them all with her little fists. It was one thing to see it on the television and wonder if she was really that capable, but now Sloane was seeing it in real-time. She just never stopped. Sloane knew she was just looking for the other, less frightening Nine, but to be so determined towards someone that didn't really matter? That was something.
There's only so much longer she can go on like this, and frankly Sloane thinks her time is just about up. She begins to walk slower, allowing distance to grow between them—she's not going to let Casia out of sight, but their energy is clearly not something that can be matched. Sloane has accepted that.
Casia breezes right past a quaint little sitting area, two stone benches that face one another in a little alcove surrounded by rose bushes. Sloane hurries her feet towards it instead of after the other girl, throwing herself over the bench with little care. "I'm stopping!" she announces to Casia, but mostly to the world. What does it matter who hears her? "Have fun!"
It's not a comfortable position to be in, but Sloane closes her eyes anyway. She doesn't even hear Casia return, but she can sense her presence, hovering just over Sloane's left shoulder. She cracks an eye open, greeted with Casia's undeniably vexed face. "'Sup," she says flatly. "I'm tired."
"I can tell."
"I think I'm just going to… get a little bit of shut eye. Few hours, nothing crazy."
"It's nearing midnight."
"Excellent observation, kid," she drawls, closing her eyes once again. "Unless the sky falls when the clock strikes, don't wake me up."
"We should keep looking."
"Realistically, your ally is probably hunkered down somewhere waiting out the night, if she has half a brain, and for all I know Robertson is wandering around in a circle talking to himself. He doesn't have the entire plot, if you get my drift."
It doesn't look like Casia gets her drift—that, or she just doesn't care. Probably the latter. What she does care about is searching, and either she's going to do the rest of that all by her lonesome, or she's going to sit the hell down. Whatever she decides, Sloane doesn't really care either. She's not moving unless someone shoves her onto the ground, and mighty though she may be Casia would likely still struggle to achieve such a thing.
When she opens her eyes again, Casia is sitting on the opposite bench, staring down the path as if she wishes to continue. "You don't have to stay," Sloane points out. "We can forget this ever happened."
She's not surprised to receive no response. Some people are just of little words. It's funny, sort of—usually the smaller the kid, the more they talk. Sloane remembers a whole lot of them never shutting up whenever she would pass by them on the street. And God, even Talos, though he was hardly any younger than her, never preferred to be quiet either.
His family had been quieter, though, or perhaps the household had just been silent in his absence. Zentha spoke little. Caeda liked to read, for hours, all without speaking a word.
But there was a moment, when Sloane was coming out of the worst of the haze, where Caeda had been reading a few of the passes aloud, all just to distract her. Sloane can't remember a single fucking thing that had come out of her mouth, the dryness of her mouth and the ache in her back too present to be ignored.
They'll do the same thing if she gets back to Three all over again. They'll scrape her off the pavement and begin the process again until Sloane can stand on her own and talk like she's a half-functioning human being.
She's realizing that she does not like silence. Drugs had filled her heads with all sorts of things—melodic voices and neat little harmonies, all pleasant things that shielded her from the real world.
Silence is fucking terrible.
She can't help but look at Casia again, her legs now drawn up onto the bench, eye focused. It's like she's waiting for something.
Whatever it is, Sloane has approximately zero desire to find out.
"Hey, kid," she says, waving her hand until she gains Casia's attention. "If midnight hits and you plan on killing me, can you at least wake me up first? Give me some last words, time to prepare… anything, really."
"You'd rather see it coming?"
"I'd rather not die in my sleep."
Isn't that the preferable option for so many people? If you make it to a ripe old age and pass away in your bed, that's considered a blessing. Sloane, frankly, can think of nothing worse. She's been so close to it too many times before, to ending up like another body curled up in one of Three's back-alleys, gnawed on by rats and dogs and never claimed.
She wants to die on her feet. She wants to die fighting.
She wants to die at least knowing she tried.
"I can do that," Casia murmurs, at long last. Sloane chuckles, turning onto her side. The stone digs uncomfortably into her shoulder, presses at her hip, but facing her is the better option. To Sloane, that almost sounded something like a joke. She doesn't think Nine is going to kill her—not so soon, at least, and she's not afraid to face someone head-on. That much is clear.
Everyone else out there in the world is no doubt crying out about how foolish this is, the two of them sitting right where anyone could find them, but Sloane isn't scared. She doesn't think she's felt fear, not even an iota of it, for some time now.
There was something similar in her when Talos stopped breathing, but that was dread. The fear of silence overcoming her.
But maybe, now, silence doesn't have to be so bad.
Tova Revelis, 18
Tribute of District One
Now, of all times, she's stuck on thinking about what Ives would be doing.
He was the one with the sensible head, screwed on tight to his shoulders, unfailingly smart even if he sometimes said the silliest things just to rile her up. When she overworked herself during training, Ives would make her break for water and a rest. When she insisted on moving into the night during the Games, he was the one that told her to settle.
He's not here now to tell her those things, and that's why they're still moving. Aranza hasn't uttered a complaint, though, even though Tova's seen enough of it written on her face to get the clue. The downward curl of her mouth, the narrowed eyes, all of that coupled with how she's carefully picking her way down the path as if she's about to lose them, and Tova gets the message loud and clear.
She's a princess and there's a castle but there is nothing fairytale about this place—Aranza knows that, though, and there's no point in telling her.
There's no use in stopping, either, but she knows Aranza will begin to resent her if they don't. It's Ives' steadfast voice telling her to take it easy, that there will be tomorrow, that she has time.
Even if she doesn't know for what, exactly.
What she does know is that Maderia is out there somewhere, and isn't the dark the very thing that connected them in the first place? Not the fear of it, but the fact that it was so much easier to look at one another when they couldn't really see. The dark made them braver, bolder, capable of doing things that would never be brought to light.
In the dark she could show concern for the fact that Maderia was alone, because no one would see it. At least, no one who mattered.
Tova swallows down all of the critical and mocking words she has in her arsenal, slowing to a halt. "Do you want to find somewhere to hunker down for the night?"
Aranza pauses, but she still hears the relief in her voice. "I think that's a lovely idea. I can look around this corner, here, and you can look to the right. How does that sound?"
It sounds fake, too nice, but they're both invested in being that right now by the looks of it. Tova nods her agreement, watching Aranza's newfound speed as she begins searching for the perfect spot. She won't accept anything less, and she'll muster through a few more minutes of pain to find it. Tova is much more leisurely in her pace, not really looking at what's before her in favor of the distance, as if something more meaningful is going to appear.
She knows exactly what she's looking for, what she's hoping to see. Her heart knows it as much as her brain won't allow the truth of it.
It doesn't make an ounce of sense, and Tova doesn't plan on encouraging it. She'd rather be rid of it. Caring is not something she can harbor in a place like this—it will eat at her from the inside out until she finds her own death.
If they never found Maderia, if her face appeared in the sky before Tova had the chance to, she would be better for it.
"Tova!"
She jolts, unused to hearing Aranza's voice at such a loud volume, let alone so desperately requesting her attention. Tova is surprised at the speed in which she moves back in the other girl's direction—if there was something wrong, the alarm raised would have been more… disconcerting. Even Aranza, for all the grace she paraded around with, would not hesitate to scream for help if she knew it would come.
They nearly crash into one another, though she is by far the worst perpetrator of the two. Aranza has a smile on her face—something like peace has settled over her as she gazes down at the large package she has resting between her hands.
So caught up in her own musings, Tova didn't even hear what is undeniably a parachute, nor the sound of it hitting the ground.
"Whilst I would love to believe that I've been gifted something as spectacular as this, I know a mismatch when I see one," Aranza says, holding her hands forward so that Tova has no choice but to take the weighted package from her. Even before she pulls the parachute away Tova recognizes the familiar feeling of it, the comfortable handle and the sweeping curve of the blade.
She feels like herself again when the parachute falls away, leaving her the picture of the girl who tore through One's arena. Tova Revelis, an axe in her hand once again, ready to rain blood down over the cobblestone.
"Someone out there likes you quite a bit," Aranza states, looking her up and down. "Though I can see why."
Never in her life has Tova felt as if she was someone to be admired. She is not the type of person to be looked up to. She was Orellan's target, the one no one ever wanted around. In Aranza's eyes it's as if she's been made into a gilded statue, the type they install outside of Academies and in the town square; to think anyone in the Capitol could feel the same way is unimaginable.
Is this not evidence of it, though? She has done nothing to warrant it, and she has been chosen for a reward regardless.
"Seems to me like they don't want us to sleep." Aranza hums.
She'd bet not. They want blood on this blade come midnight. Tova would not be herself though if she obliged without making them wait. Parading around, following orders… that's never been her style. Gift or not, she will not fall to her knees for whoever has sent it her way.
For now, although she'll struggle for it, they can rest. Come the morning, if anyone happens to get in her way, they'll be dead before they can do anything else.
That's how she's always played the game.
Farasha Oriani, 14
Tribute of District Eleven
There are fireflies, little specks of light in the darkness.
Farasha likes to believe they're leading them to the castle, even though she knows they're moving in haphazard patterns, bumbling into walls and narrowly avoiding one another as they float through the air.
They are getting closer to the castle, though, so whatever Farasha is pretending to follow, it seems to be working. Alia seems hell-bent on the idea that there will be safety somewhere within its walls, a place where they don't have to constantly look over their shoulders, but Asha doesn't know if she agrees. She's never been keen on being trapped—she enjoys being able to look up into the sky, breathe fresh air, know that she can run as fast and as far as she wants to and nothing will be able to stop her.
You can't say the same about a castle. Asha knows she should speak up before it's too late, but she can't bring herself to utter the words. She's trying to be better, less argumentative. Alia hasn't done anything to deserve an interruption of the fragile peace they've created in holding onto one another.
She doesn't want to go in there, nor does she want to move any closer, but it appears Farasha is out of options.
She's the more paranoid of the two. For every time Alia glances around, she's done so at least a half dozen times already. How can she convince herself that she's not really hearing things when there's no evidence to the contrary?
Asha swears she can hear something, and every time she picks it up it sounds closer than the last. She releases Alia's hand with painstaking slowness, turning around, and finds no sort of ghost chasing them.
"Everything okay?" Alia murmurs. She wants to tell her to shut up, but that's too harsh.
Again, not something she can make herself say, especially when Alia seems so oblivious to everything going on around them. Perhaps Farasha should just get over it, but she's not sure she's capable.
"Yeah," she replies, though it sits heavy on her tongue, a blatant lie. She does hear something.
She turns back to Alia, finding nothing but a carefully placed calm in the other girl's eyes, her reassuring presence unfailing as per usual. She's so much better than this place—she deserves better than to die in it like the rest of them. If something is coming, they're out of time to figure out a plan, and if nothing is wrong at all she'll feel like a fool for making Alia worry.
She can protect her whilst also ensuring that nothing is truly wrong. Farasha smiles, strained. "I think we might be wandering a bit in circles."
"Really?"
Farasha points down an adjacent path. "I'll go this way, and you the opposite. We'll meet back here in five minutes and see who made more progress."
"Are you sure?" Alia asks. She glances down at her watch, teeth gnawing at her lower lip. They're so close to midnight that anything is a risk, even separating for just a few minutes.
She has to do this, though. For her own sanity, and for Alia's safety.
"I'm sure." Farasha begins to back down the pathway, hoping that her own movement will encourage Alia to do the same. She doesn't look away until her ally has begun to shuffle away too, casting nervous glances her way as if she's begun to worry too. Alia hasn't heard anything, though—if she had, she no doubt would have said something too.
But she hasn't. That's the reason why Farasha is moving towards what she's certain is something out there. She doesn't know what's worse—imagining it as a person, or imagining it as a thing. This is no rumbling nest of tracker jackers. Whatever she's about to discover, if it truly exists, has to be worse if it's lurking in the dark like this?
It doesn't make sense for her to move so quickly, but she does. The further she gets, the more convinced Farasha is that she's losing sight of where she is—she'll never get back, at this rate, even if she doesn't find anything at all.
And maybe she doesn't want to. There have been enough twists and turns, openings where someone could have slipped through and exits she could have taken. There's someone here.
That someone is right behind her.
She leaps into a sprint; there's no shout behind her, but she hears footsteps give chase. Whoever it is can't kill her just yet. If she runs, she'll get them away from Alia and maybe she can lose them, too. Wishful thinking is dangerous, but it's all she has.
Without warning, the footsteps slow. Farasha glances backwards, only to find a girl looking so unconcerned about the whole situation that she can hardly fathom it. How can she be so calm? Why is she stopping?
And then Farasha slams directly into something—someone.
The force knocks the wind from her as she spins head over heels onto the pathway, crashing into it so hard she practically ricochets of it. Pain spikes through her shoulder, her body working on autopilot as she rolls onto her back, trying to make sense of what looms over her. A pair of eyes staring down, a large branch extended over her prone form as if it's about to come down and strike her.
Farasha squeezes her eyes shut without thinking, but the hit never comes.
"Maybe we can wait until midnight, J," comes the voice above her. "Only one to watch."
The girl's voice is quieter as she approaches Farasha's feet. "Where'd your ally go?"
She's not going to answer. She knows who they are, and the last thing she's going to do is sell Alia out to Four and Six. She wasn't lying when she said she didn't know the true way back, or even how far she'd gone. Maybe that's for the best.
They're going to kill her, and Farasha has no say in the matter. There's no getting away from this. She's pinned.
How fitting is it that she's become one of the specimens she treasured so much before.
Farasha does not want to die. She never has. But if she does, at least she can go knowing that she's saved the only friend she ever truly had. To do something good before she closes her eyes forever… that has to be worth it. Right?
A sudden creak has her squinting upwards, finding only the too-dark sky. Both of her assailants are still there, but fixated on other matters—she can't see what they've turned their attention to from her position on the ground, but the creaking grows louder in volume. She swears she can hear the rush of chains, the groan of wood as if being stepped on by a crowd of thousands.
The ground shakes beneath her as a thunderous boom ripples over them. Farasha doesn't even flinch.
"Of course," the girl mutters. "Right when we move away."
"Better now than never. We did what we set out to do."
"We don't have time to sit around and wait—"
"So we stick to the original plan," Six says. He's looking at her again—Farasha can feel it. "We'll leave her."
They'll leave her? That's not possible. They won't let someone get away like this, not when she's sitting here practically waiting for it. She dares to open her eyes, finally, but they're still there lingering over her, as if she's nothing more than an ant waiting to be squashed.
"Sorry about this, kid," Six says. She sees the branch hefted over his shoulder. She sees it moving. Farasha doesn't have time to close her eyes again before the pain hits.
And still, somehow, the worst part of it is that he didn't sound sorry at all.
Ravi Fusain, 17
Tribute of District Twelve
He's already seen the worst of the world, and the dark is not it.
Ravi knows, however, of the things that be contained within it and just how horrific they can be. There's a reason so many children are afraid of the dark—they have good reason to be.
He never thought he would be lumped in with them. Scared isn't the right word, per say. More like dread. Every time Ravi begins to imagine being stuck in the dark again for any extended period of time his chest tightens, lungs constricting until it's nearly impossible to breathe. At least in Twelve the sun was always guaranteed to rise—he was given no such promise here.
By the time the sun sets, however, he's spent hours preparing himself. It's easier given the fact that he's not wandering alone. He's always been just fine operating on his own, no issue to be found in it, but he knows he made the right decision in this. Judging by the narrow squint he's regained in the eyes, he's sure Kai has earned himself a headache after all the day's troubles, but he's still holding onto that machete like his life depends on it.
He feels… alright. Relatively speaking. There's nothing alright about any of this.
He's prepared for everything but the screaming.
It erupts over the gardens like the call of a wounded animal, shrill, rising and falling in volume, no explainable pattern to the noises. He doesn't think twice before he lunges forward and grabs Kai around the arm, yanking him back behind the nearest wall and down to the ground.
To his credit, Kai looks surprised for all of half a second before he allows it, crouching down at Ravi's side. The screaming still hasn't stopped.
"It's not that close," Kai murmurs.
"It's not that far, either," he protests—if he's going to help Kai out, and he plans on it, both of them need to be alive for it to happen. An abundance of caution hasn't killed him just yet.
The noise stops so abruptly Ravi is stuck waiting for a cannon, one that doesn't come. He glances down at his watch—just under ten minutes left until midnight.
"Is it wrong of me to hope that whoever it is dies so that whoever did it gets blown to smithereens?" Kai asks. He doesn't meet Ravi's eyes when he says it. They both know it's wrong, and yet Ravi can't bring himself to fault Kai for thinking it. Twenty-three of them are going to die, and he so desperately wants to live. He's been thinking of this for some time now.
"Could've been a mutt," he adds.
"I don't want to know whatever sort of mutt could make someone scream like that."
No, he doesn't either. Human or not, he hopes he never sees whatever caused it. He'd rather deal with the shaking in the ground all over again—Kai believes it to have come from the direction of the castle, which would be the most obvious answer, and Ravi is too wound-up to question him.
Despite the lengthening silence, neither of them have moved. Kai's hand folds over his where it's still wrapped around his arm, gently prying Ravi's hand loose. "We're good," his ally says quietly. "Thanks."
There's no imprint of his grip on Kai's arm. He doesn't think he could have stomached if there was, even if all he was doing was pulling him to safety. In the process of trying to help him out in what could possibly be his last days, Ravi refuses to do any further damage to him, no matter how minimal.
He waits for Kai to straighten back up, comfortable with following like he has been all day, but Kai is almost abnormally still. The moment he goes to meet his eyes Kai's hand locks lightning-fast around his shoulders, nails digging into the area around his clavicle with a surprising amount of force. "Ravi," he says, his voice oozing with barely controlled terror. "Don't fucking move."
And he doesn't. Of course he doesn't. Ravi has a good enough sense of when to listen and when to rebel, even if he has very rarely gone through with the latter. Something about the layer of fear over Kai's voice immobilizes him—he doesn't think he could move even if he tried.
From the corner of his eye, something shifts. Morbid curiosity begs him to turn, but Ravi refuses the call. The ugly scrape of stone against stone sends a chill rippling down his spine. There is no shape to it with so little vision, no sense behind it—all he knows is that something detaches itself from the wall, a gray-black shape that lowers itself carefully to the ground before it begins to move off.
Ravi no longer even has to move to see it. It scuttles past them and down the very path they had been taking on all-fours, a demonesque stone creature come to life.
Kai lets out a small, barely perceptible breath. "Fuck."
That's putting it lightly. Ravi finally allows himself to breathe, too, head turning to find the stone pedestal that had lurked behind them empty, the base where the statue had been sitting devoid and empty. They've passed dozens of them throughout the day, and Ravi has not thought twice about any of them. How could he, when there were so much more pressing matters?
Of course, now that he's let it all slip his mind it's barged its way right into the forefront, undeniable and refusing to be ignored. He's not even sure he can protect himself from that, let alone Kai—what is he supposed to do when something tries?
He'll have to do all he can, even if it's not good enough. His mother went through with her evil; good, for him, seems like less of an option and more of a fate brought on by desperation.
He has to do something good to make up for her. He has to be good.
Otherwise he's just going to be another body out there, screaming into the dark.
Pietro Dolokhov, 16
Tribute of District Twelve
It doesn't seem feasible that they can escape this night unscathed.
The gardens are alive with things that shouldn't be, and Pietro doesn't think a place exists out here where they'll be safe from them. No proper hiding places, no things tall enough to escape being sighted. They're sitting ducks out here.
He doesn't exactly feel capable of fighting off rocks with another rock, but it's the only thing each of them have. He can only grip it tight in his palm and hope that if the time comes, he can put enough force behind a blow to crack something into a few dozen pieces.
Clementine seems more eager to try their luck—she's not being nearly as quiet as he'd like her to be. Pietro doesn't like the silence either, is what she doesn't seem to get, but it's better than being torn to shreds by literal statues. He wants to keep moving, wants to find Zoya, but that might not be an option anymore.
That doesn't mean it's going to stop him from trying.
"If we keep quiet and move slow, we should be able to avoid them," he says slowly. They seem to be almost blind, which makes more sense than he'd like to admit—just because they've come to life doesn't mean their eyes suddenly work. They can avoid detection if they just try harder than usual to be something they're not.
"Why don't we just stay here?" Clem hisses. They've taken shelter in a little corner, and the low wall at their backs would be easy enough to scramble over if they had to run.
"We have to keep looking for Zoya."
"There's no reason for us to look for Zoya when we're in danger right now."
"There's no reason for you to be talking, either, but you keep on doing it," he fires back. Her glare is downright venomous, but it's not like Pietro really cares. This girl is just as much of a wildcard as he is, but at least Pietro understands his own internal workings. Clementine may as well be a puzzle box with no real solution.
Zoya is out there somewhere, more than likely alone, in the same situation but with no one to watch his back. Pietro isn't heartless. If they have the choice to find him or sit here the entire night, Pietro knows his choice.
It helps that they have no real proof that these things will ever return to their pedestals. This could be their life, now, forced to co-exist with things that will pulverize them if they get too close.
"We'll go slowly," he reiterates.
"If you're making me do this, it won't be slow."
"I'm not making you do anything," he insists. "You're the one that wanted to ally with him. If you regret it and you don't want to find him, just tell me outright. We'll save ourselves a lot of trouble."
Pietro doesn't know what he'd do if she actually dared to say it. It would be smarter to stay with her in the short-term, when he knows that she's reliably here, but instinct tells him that wherever Zoya is, he's better for Pietro's long-term gain. He's not so quarrelsome. Not so impossible to deal with.
He knows many people would say the same about him, but they're not his problem now.
"Clem," he presses. "Tell me now."
They're running out of time. Pietro can't stand here the entire night waiting for her answer. Clementine's lips are pressed so tightly together it's as if she's taken a vow of silence—wouldn't that be the fucking miracle of the century?
The watches around their wrist give a simultaneous, high-pitched beep. Pietro glances down to find the seconds ticking up, as they have been the entire day, but closer than ever before. Fifty-six seconds until midnight.
Fifty-six seconds until there's no going back, and he still can't get a response out of her.
Pietro turns back to the path. He's leaving as soon as it's clear, and whether or not she chooses to follow is entirely her business. If Clementine wants to run out with wild abandon and get herself killed, that's her call. If she wants to sit here and wait out the night, he doesn't think he can fault her. Regardless, Pietro is still doing things on his own terms, the only way he knows how to.
Finally, there's silence. As uncomfortable as it is, Pietro finally feels right in taking a step forward. Though he feels surprise when he senses Clementine shift after him, he chooses not to voice it.
For once, he knows now is not the time.
He's not prepared for the pain that suddenly erupts over his head, as if the crown of his skull has been cracked open. Pietro careens forward, arms flailing out as he attempts to catch himself on the cobblestone. He saves his nose from breaking against the ground by a scant half inch, fingers grasping for purchase as his vision is filled with dots of color.
Before he rolls onto his back, Pietro brings his trembling hand towards his skull. They come away wet, sticky trails seeping down his fingers.
He can't see enough to know, but the blood feels obvious enough.
What he can see if Clementine standing above him, the bloodied rock clutched in her right palm. No matter how hard he struggles for words, his tongue feels clumsy, lips almost numb. She just hit him. He's bleeding.
"I guess everyone else probably saw this coming," she mutters, more to herself than to him. She peers down at him. "Sorry."
"What—what are you—"
"You know what I'm doing," she interrupts, and he does. Fuck, he does. Pietro's hands flex uselessly, the rock having tumbled free when he fell. He doesn't even know where it is. His vision tilts as if the world is spinning on its axis and she's leaning over him and she's going to kill him.
How did everyone else see it coming if he didn't, somehow?
The watch around his wrist buzzes, the vibrations running up into his upper arm. Pietro knows what it means. He knows what he's being told.
He can die, now. And he's going to.
He tries to lunge up onto his knees, tries to do anything, but he's so dizzy his whole body sways in place. Something solid connects with his chest, shoving him back to the ground. Pain explodes over his temple a second later. Red washes over what's left of his meager vision. It takes him a moment to realize it's blood.
He feels her hit him again. A second time. A third.
The fourth time he hears the scrape of bone, feels something in him exposed to the open air.
He doesn't feel a fifth.
24th. Pietro Dolokhov, District Twelve.
Haha... oops.
Just to reiterate, now that we're officially at the point of Murder: mostly anything regarding death has been decided for upwards of six months - any and all decisions are my own and hopefully for the betterment of the story. If you take issue with it, you submitted to a SYOT, so uh cope I guess.
I do hope you can find some enjoyment in it, though. Try at least.
Until next time.