XLII: The Games - Day Five, Evening.

Zoya Ossof, 16
Tribute of District Five

There is something truly fucking pathetic about how all of this is going down.

Yeah, he's one to talk, right? The only reason Five's arena went to shit in just three short days is because of him and him only. He hit that button. He blew everything to the high heavens and had no way to turn back the clock.

Not that he would have. There's something to be said about accepting what you've done. At least he thinks so.

To be frank, Zoya's not even certain how many people have died in the past five days. All he knows is that the number is the definition of woeful and it doesn't appear to be getting any better. He doesn't want to be stuck in here for any longer than strictly necessary—does anyone? Better someone hurry it all up and either kill him or let him out, whichever one happens first.

Getting out doesn't necessary seem favorable—it's their common ground in this room. Kai won't make it out no matter how hard he tries, and he isn't sure Ravi really wants to, not watching him dote like this. He's settled Kai down for the night in the store room they have made their own. There is nowhere comfortable to rest, but Kai is asleep all the same. The rise and fall of his chest, while shallow, matches each of his uneven, wheezing breaths.

Zoya wants to get up and leave, wishes he could do it. He isn't sure why he can't. There's no use in holing up for another night—prolonging the inevitable when they're all dead anyway.

God, when did he become such a miserable son of a bitch? Was it before or after those damned mutts chased him around the courtyard and tried to tear him to bits?

Was it always like that?

At least that was doing something, though. The thrill in his blood, the feeling of being alive. For all Zoya knows, time is frozen in here. They may never get out.

He only blinks back into focus when he notices Ravi shifting towards him, but he makes no effort to look at him. It becomes increasingly difficult the closer he gets, going so far as to crouch down by Zoya's side. He can see Ravi's hands twitching, but he says nothing.

"What?" he draws out.

"Can I check your wrist?"

"Why?"

"To make sure it's healing right."

Zoya says. "Not what I fuckin' meant."

He jabs his wrist out in Ravi's direction regardless, wincing at the bolts of pain that shoot all the way up to his elbow. It's gotten more tolerable with care, but that doesn't mean it's something he prefers to be dealing with. Ravi doesn't react as he begins to unwind the bandages, fingers skimming gently over the otherwise ruined mess that is his hand.

He settles, the first-aid kit between them, clutching Zoya's wrist between his hands. "What did you mean?"

"You really want to know?"

"Of course."

Yeah. Of course. Why wouldn't Ravi, so genuine and steadfast, want to know just how Zoya's brain works? He's an idiot for even trying.

"Why are you doing all of this," Zoya clarifies. "Making sure a wound is healing right on anyone other than yourself. Carrying around a literal burden way past his time when you should just be letting him go. Why all of it?"

He can see Ravi's jaw working, the underlying tense current to his body that lingers even as he works. Zoya doesn't dare spend too much time watching him poke away at the wounds—he doesn't have the best track record with staring unabashedly at his wounds. He much prefers only looking at the one covered in a metal prosthesis and pretending that's all it is, nothing more sinister lying underneath.

"Do you remember what I said during my interview the first time around?" Ravi questions, each word carefully chosen. It's as if he, too, is trying to distance himself from the memory of it.

From the details that Zoya remembers of it, he doesn't really blame him.

"Sure," he replies—lessening the gravity of it can't hurt any. A bit of nonchalant attitude about something so weighty

Unfortunately he's quite good at it.

"What she did was awful," Ravi says quietly. "She was awful. That's not something up for debate. I don't want to end up like her, I… I can't."

The admission is far too much for a person like Zoya. His feet are tired, he'd much rather be asleep, and his hand is fucking throbbing with Ravi poking at his skin the way he is. "But you've killed people, too," he points out. "Does it matter what the reason is? Selfish reasons or stupidity, almost always."

"Or both."

"That feels like a dig."

"You said it."

Fair enough. Zoya sighs in relief as Ravi begins wrapping a new set of bandages around his wrist. "The right thing is usually the more difficult one," Ravi continues. "But it's the better option. That's the one I have to choose."

"What if you can't?" Zoya asks. There will always come a time when there's no option left but to do the horrifically wrong thing—he would know.

Whether it was intentional or not.

"I'll keep trying."

"You're setting yourself up for failure," Zoya tells him. "Tried, tested and proven."

He thinks he almost sees the signs of a smile, but Ravi is so fixated on wrapping the bandages properly it doesn't last long. He truly has no idea what to make of the guy even at the best of moments—a do-gooder to his core, hanging onto every scrap of his humanity, and yet a murderer all the same. He's no different from the rest of them at his core.

"If someone attacked us right here, right now, went after us or even just you," Zoya says, waving a hand around the room as if someone is going to appear in a puff of smoke. "You can't tell me you wouldn't fight back. You don't want to die. If that was the case, you would have done it in April."

"Maybe."

Denial at its finest. Zoya sighs. "Yeah," he says lowly. "Maybe. But sooner or later you won't have a choice."

Because sooner or later, they won't be alone. These five days truly have been pathetic, but just as much of a gift. It's a respite before the real hell begins.

Before there's no going back.

Tova Revelis, 18
Tribute of District One

Her blood thrums. Her veins sing with the sweetness of oncoming death.

"I knew it," Aranza hisses, all the venom of a snake dripping from her voice. The knock at the door ends, polite but somehow so ominous at the same time, and Tova feels not an ounce of fear. It's possible she's never been less scared in her entire life.

She knows what fear is like. They passed acquaintances and became intimate friends long ago. Fear is Ives falling to the ground, their hands ripped apart, the look in his eyes begging her to run.

This isn't horror. This is excitement.

She stands, axe quickly in hand—it's almost comical to see Aranza standing there, clutching onto that damn frying pan as if she's about to bash someone's brains in. Tova doesn't doubt she would, but it's unlikely she'll get the chance before Tova gets there.

The knock again. She expects a cheerful voice, a comical housekeeping! but nothing comes. Fuck politeness. Better yet, fuck the mere notion of her feigning it.

Tova throws open the door.

They're standing there together—that's what strikes her, at first, the sheer normalcy of the pair, as if they were visiting a neighbor and just waiting for permission to enter. There's some sort of small tool in Maderia's hand. Milan's closed fist is buried in his pocket.

"Gross," Aranza says flatly.

They really thought they would try this, huh? With her? It's fucking hilarious, really. She can sense already the intent behind Milan's posture, the thoughtful look on his face as he regards them. He was raised wrong, convinced he was smart when it was clearly the opposite. Someone inflated his ego, told him he was the best, and he has yet to be proven wrong.

He hasn't properly met her yet.

"Why the fuck are you here?" Aranza asks, eyes flashing with a dare. Give us the wrong answer, she demands. Give us an excuse. If only Tova needed one. Milan opens his mouth, the beginning of a spiel she isn't equipped to go through. Tova doesn't want to fucking hear it. Maderia glances between them, a quick dart of her eyes, and in that second she gathers every bit of intel she needs to know.

They all know what's going to happen—everyone except Milan, that is.

Tova doesn't hear the first few words that escape his mouth; she's lunging forward, the blade raised, each movement making it flash orange and yellow from the fire. Milan has just enough time to let his eyes widen as he realizes he's not going to get the words out in time. The axe cracks into his chest, splitting his sternum down the middle—he falls like he's been thrown to the floor, the force making his back give in against the stone floor.

Maderia's mouth is open, wordless. Aranza is grinning. Tova leans down over him, leveraging her weight against the axe, pressing it in deeper. "I'm not sure why he's here," she hisses. "But I think he knows enough to regret it now."

The blade is wedged in so deep against the bone that there's not even that much blood, really. But he's gasping, stammering, as if trying to get words out can somehow still save him.

He's lucky he's even still alive from a blow like that.

"You got anything interesting on you, Eight?" Tova questions. She bends forward, still holding tight to the axe. There's the sickening squelch of it sinking in deeper, but Tova cares only for what lies in his pockets. She tears his weakened, shaking hand away from the paperweight it was once wrapped around, tossing it back to Aranza. His other hand is stronger still, fingers clamped around a rolled bundle of paper. Some of it rips as she tears it from his fingers.

"Still writing your little stories?" Aranza sneers. "That's cute."

The words on the paper mean nothing to Tova. They're all too grandiose, tales weaved that sound nothing like the truth. They certainly spell out nothing of the doom he's met in this room, nor the pain he's on the receiving end of.

She yanks the axe out. Milan gurgles something, blood filling his mouth. The paper is easily crumpled again in her fist as she deposits it in the spluttering fire behind them. His head turns, following it's movement as it floats and disintegrates almost immediately into ashes. Tova thinks she might see a tear clinging to his cheek. If he's crying over a goddamned story he really needs to learn how to prioritize. One would think he'd care more about the fact that he's dying.

"Fairytale endings aren't real," she informs him. Unkind words for the departed, but she couldn't care less. "But yours is.

She thinks she hears a noise escape Maderia's mouth, finally. A weak exhale. Her lips are pressed together, ghostly pale, as Tova buries the axe in his chest once again. His body heaves against it, but only for a moment longer. It's satisfying to watch him go still, to hear the crackle of the flames renewed as they gain new fuel.

It's been too long.

"Far overdue, I think," Aranza says. She couldn't agree more. Who knew she would be so grateful for such a knock on the door?

What she can't bring herself to enjoy is Maderia's presence, her free hand locked around the doorframe. She brought him here, journeyed with him, allowed him to sleep in the same vicinity, He was armed, no matter how pathetic it was. They were planning something, the two of them.

The cannon finally makes Maderia look up at her. Of the looks they've shared in the past, this is something familiar. Not quite the horror that Maderia had experienced seconds before her own death, but the certainty that went alongside it. Not knowing what's next. The weight of being in an unescapable position, something you can only blame yourself for.

They were beginning to come together. Tova felt like they could have had something—a part of her had almost allowed herself to want it, to wish for it. How do you do that when one person shatters the trust?

How do you do that when there's no fucking trust at all?

Levi Alcandre, 18
Tribute of District Two

Every intelligent instinct within him tells him not to do this.

Granted, Levi can't say he has an overabundance of them to begin with, but those that do exist are firmly against this move. Staring down into a yawning black abyss probably wouldn't be anyone's number one first move, but his? It's last on the list.

Of course it's where Weston wants to go. Of course it's Jordyn that's all for it.

He's the one standing there like some sort of chicken-shit, like he's scared of the dark or the fuckin' boogeyman. Whatever's down there.

Something's probably down there.

"Those aren't… those aren't the dungeons," Vadric says quietly, at long last. "It looks different."

It does, doesn't it? The stairs are in a completely different spot, for one, located far on the outskirts of the castle itself. The entire hall leading up to it was ornate and lavish, a place meant to be walked. Elaborate carvings line the walls all the way down into the darkness, kings and queens, crowns and scepters.

Of course Vadric is thinking it too. The dungeons are not a good place. The last time they went down there…

Well, he's really trying not to think about it.

Weston removes a torch from its cage on the wall and begins the descent down the stairs, becoming nothing more than a shadowed figure the further away he gets. It would be so easy to turn heel and walk in the opposite direction, pretend this place never even existed. It's here for a reason, but that reason doesn't mean he has to find out.

Jordyn casts a look over her shoulder at him as she gives way to follow Wes, jerking her head as if to say let's go, c'mon, follow me, no big deal.

It is very much a big deal.

Levi starts down after them with a sigh, grabbing his own torch. At least this way he can swing it at something—or someone—if anything happens to be down there, and gain enough time to free his weapon. He tries to focus on the wave of the torch below him; if he thinks about anything else the roiling of his stomach becomes all the more apparent, his heart thundering in his chest as if it plans on tearing its way free.

"Not much further!" Weston calls. Levi can't even see him anymore. Only his voice, echoing off the walls, calls Levi down further.

And the walls… they're a mess. Jordyn runs her hand down them, following the elaborate patterns and the cracks that seem to split all of them into ruin. He'd noticed them upstairs, dimly, as if from faraway, but the prevalence of them below is impossible to ignore. It's as if the place is going to crumble from the bottom, sinking into the earth.

"Need a handyman down here," he tries, but the mirth doesn't quite stretch as far as he would like. Jordyn smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

The stone chamber the stairs lead to is larger than he expected—the ceilings aren't all that high, but the archways that lead into each individual room somehow remain grand. He could do without the torches casting long shadows on the walls, and especially without the clusters of carefully placed skulls at the base of some pillars, but nothing's perfect.

Weston is nowhere in sight, but Levi can hear his footsteps further out, no fear to be found within him. "Of all the things, it's a fucking crypt," Jordyn says quietly. He follows her gaze to a cracked platform resting in the center of the next antechamber, a stone coffin built into the top of it. Levi has no doubt that there's something inside it.

There's the harsh scrape of stone from further within the crypt, and he nearly swears. "Wes?" Jordyn calls; they get no response, but there isn't any hurried shouting either, no frantic request for help. So there's that.

He moves to step away, to investigate further if he can manage some ounce of his former recklessness, and Vadric's fingers curl into his sleeve, holding tight as they wedge themselves into the cone of light from his torch, refusing to be left behind in the gloom. Levi wants to run, but he forces himself to slow for their sake, following the light in Weston's wake.

"Do you have to do that?" Jordyn asks, irritation thick in her voice. She's facing a much larger room, hands on her hips.

The scrape of stone again. "No," comes Weston's answer.

"So why are you—"

"I want to see who the hell's in here that warranted all this shit."

"You want to show off, more like."

Jewels adorn the wall, riches draped over every spare inch that could be fine. Trunks are shoved into the corner, draped with expensive pelts and rich fabrics in deep maroons and purples. And there's Weston in the center of it all, somehow looking less out of place than usual, hands braced against the coffin's lid as he inches it off.

Levi's heart stutters.

"I wouldn't do that," Vadric whispers. "I really wouldn't—"

A last shove heaves the lid over the halfway point—instead of pushing it to the ground, where it would most certainly crack, Weston shoves his torch closer to the gap he's created, peering down into the box. "Not a bad embalming job, honestly," he says. It's so casual that Levi wishes he had the ability to laugh.

"You're a freak," Jordyn informs him. "Leave the dead dude alone."

Levi only catches a split-second glimpse of the corpse as Weston passes in front of him, the skin yellow and leathered, almost all of it covered save for the face. Sunken-in eye sockets. Face wrinkled. A few wisps of hair peeking out from the alarming golden glimmer of an intact crown, still perched perfectly on the corpse's head.

He's surprised Weston didn't reach in and snatch it.

"Can we get out of here?" Vadric asks. He's inclined to agree, but Weston is off again. Reigning him in has become a near impossible task.

"We'll do a quick walk-around, then we'll go," Jordyn decides. "This place is making my skin crawl."

It's doing more than that to him. He feels sick. It feels like the corpse is watching him. Whatever's down here, it can't be more valuable than escaping that feeling. It's goodsense to search for supplies, valuable information, but it's not sense he clings to now. It's life, the fleeting feeling of it.

He's losing it down here. It feels like he's being buried alive.

Levi just wants to be able to breathe easy again.

Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four

Nothing good never lasts forever.

And in Amani's life, predictably, anything good has approximately no permanence at all.

He thought, with some grand sense of delusion, that the mutts were pulling back. The sun began to sink and nothing begin to scratch in the darkest recesses of the halls where they could not see. Some pedestals still stood tall with their gargoyle-esque forms on the top, unmoving.

It seemed like they had time. Doesn't it always?

"Where do we go?" Sanne asks—it feels like they're walking in circles, now, trying and failing to find somewhere they can barricade and shore up for the night. It feels as if they've passed this large, oaken table at least three times now. It's not like they can hide under it. Amani can only urge them onward, hand at the hilt of the sword, ready for any movement.

"There?" Ilan wonders, but Amani knows exactly what door he's pointing at without looking. They opened it about twenty minutes ago; it's nothing more than a cramped storage room, hardly enough room to move or breathe. There's no lock, nothing to hold the door shut. Anything that wants in will get there in mere seconds.

Something scuttles across the floor somewhere behind them—Amani doesn't even turn to look. He nods in agreement, though their eyes are fixed forward, quickly ushering them around the table and closer to the door. "That'll work."

It will, for what he needs to do.

He's hated training all his life, hated the expectation of what they wanted for him, but all Amani can do in this moment is thank all the heavens he had it—it's the only reason he manages to stay calm, to not let his hurried motions betray his panic. Not letting them know is for the best. Besides, they'll figure it out eventually. Or sooner rather than later.

Ilan pulls open the door. Amani can picture the puzzled expression written across his face. "Oh, this is—"

He's realized, but not quick enough. Amani leans forward, plants a hand between his shoulder blades, and shoves him so hard he hits the opposite wall. Sanne lets out a squawk as he does the same to her, only she really does go flying, sprawling to the floor at Ilan's feet. He'll apologize for that later, if he gets the chance. For now Amani hauls the door shut, reaching back for one of the chairs to shove beneath the knob. They won't be able to get out this way.

And that's for the best.

Almost immediately there's shouting from the other side, but the ruckus they've already created has drawn the mutts closer. Amani knows they were coming regardless, but he hardly has time to think before the first one is on him. He runs for the left of the table, vaulting on top of it just as it lunges at his heels; the entire table shakes as it hits the edge, but it has the desired effect. They can't all get to him at once.

They can jump, though stilted and awkward it may be. The first gargoyle rights itself and finally crests the edge, determined to meet him head on. Amani sends it back to the floor with a well-placed kick, and as it crashes back to the floor one of its stone legs cracks and splinters off. It's mouth opens, but no sound escapes. There's something eerie about it's normally frozen face trying to express pain, as if it somehow knows the definition of the word.

There's a line of them, maybe half a dozen, but it feels like he's going through the motions. Back to training again. Wait for one to attack him, push it back down. Within the minute there are stone limbs littering the floor, and they're struggling to get back up.

Something in him almost feels satisfied. Outside they could come from anywhere to ambush him—the Gamemakers would send streams of them after him as long as they could.

In here it all feels controlled. It's the first time Amani has felt any semblance of it in a long time.

Still, though, one of the two, if not both, are slamming their fists angrily on the other side of the door, pleading to be let out. Amani eases himself back down to the floor and finishes splintering the mutts apart, breaking heads from shoulders one after the other until nothing more is statically twitching.

He can see the door shaking as he approaches, and before Amani has even properly removed the chair it comes flying out at him, the edge catching him dead-on. He stumbles back, and the brief ache in his chest is replaced almost immediately by someone's fists hammering at him.

Well, not quite hammering. They're not strong enough for that.

"You're an idiot!" Sanne shouts, seeming to remember where she is a moment later as she claps one hand briefly over her mouth, and then hits him again. "You can't just do that!"

"I—"

"I mean… he handled it," Ilan says awkwardly, glancing at the broken mutts. "Thanks?"

"You can't," Sanne insists. "That's not fair, it's not… it's not okay, you hear me?"

He's never heard her sound so demanding. Amani didn't think she could. Something fierce is glowing in her eyes, like she's back in front of that raging fire once again, all too prepared to let it burn. Only this time she's doing it in defense of him.

Amani knows why he made his decision—all logic, easier to focus on enemies without having to watch anymore backs than his own. They're not armed, they don't have the experience. It was easier to dispatch them if he didn't have to worry about anything else. And he was right, of course. All the testament to that is lying ten feet behind them.

It doesn't matter, though. "I hear you," he agrees.

"We're allies. We help each-other. Or we at least try to. We're not—we're not you or a Career or anything, but that's what we're supposed to do. Help. Be there for each-other."

They're not Carrack, the only living friend left to his name in this world. They're not Tiernan or Kona, either. He doesn't have that lifelong bond, a treasured relationship he held dear. But it feels like for the first time in a while he has something worth caring about, and people who care about him in turn.

Amani nods. He can't do it again. Not just for him, but for them. They're his people now.

That's something worth living for.

Clementine Alinsky, 17
Tribute of District Eleven

It's fucking freezing outside.

For the first time in, well, forever, she almost wishes she was back in Eleven. Not quite, because Eleven sucks, and so does basically everyone in it. But almost.

At least back home it was warm.

Her clothes feel thin as paper, and she hasn't exactly been successful in finding a bounty of, well, anything else. She would say it's a miracle she hasn't yet starved to death, but finding food in the garden is about the only success she's had besides getting the jump on Pietro.

It feels like it's been years since she did it. Clem remembers the anthem, seeing his face in the sky, but she has no idea how many days it's been since then. She's combed through every inch of these gardens, circled the castle in every direction, and yet she hasn't seen a single soul since she left him. How long can one possibly go without seeing another human?

However long it is, they might be trying to prove it through her. Clementine knows the next logical step is to move inside, and perhaps that's why she hasn't seen anyone in days. No one is stupid enough to be out here anymore. The cold, the mutts, the absolute nothingness… it would get to anyone.

It's getting to her.

She just thought someone might want to reward her for pushing through. If not that, then what only she was bold enough to do. She killed at the precise moment she was finally able to, not anyone else, and for what? Why did she fucking bother, in the end, if no one was going to give her anything for it? For all she knows it would have been more beneficial to keep Pietro around.

"I fucking hate all of you," she mutters, uncertain as to who she's even directing the words at. Clementine knows she's talking to herself too much these days, but there's nothing else to do.

If she's talking, she's still breathing. Sometimes she's managed to convince herself otherwise, being so alone.

She slows to a halt on the next incline, her legs aching but her mind recognizing the place despite her exhaustion. They always collect here at night. In fact, Clem thinks this is the first time there hasn't been at least a handful of mutts lurking at the end of the path, just waiting. Usually it's easy enough to backtrack and work her way around, take the long way to the other side, but tonight she can't be bothered.

There's just one. A very large one, but one all the same. It's sitting, almost comically like a dog, twisted horns bowed as it peers down the opposite path. It's almost like it doesn't even want to bother with her; why would it? Clem's not worth anything. She's hardly considered a kill.

She raises her voice. "Fuck you too. I didn't want to deal with you anyway."

It turns. Cocks it's head at her. If it runs down the path at her, it'll be like facing a charging bull head-on. No one to throw in its path. Just her. Clem didn't imagine dying that way, not after everything else, but it's not exactly a pleasant thought in her already vivid imagination.

"If you're going to, just do it already," she spits. "Get it over with!"

It doesn't care. Why waste its energy?

Clem stomps up the path half a dozen steps before she loses the rest of her nerve. "You know what?" she asks, as if it's going to answer. "I don't even care. Ignore me, that's fine. I'm not worth it to you, huh? That's it, right? I get it, but—"

Something hits her in the head.

Gently, she might just add, but that doesn't stop the strangled yelp that tears from her throat as she wheels backward, a roll of paper and a parachute, a goddamned parachute, tickling at her face. Clementine flails her arms as she grasps onto it, quickly hugging it tight to her chest as the mutt stands, turning to face her.

"Um," she stammers. "Bye, sorry, have a nice night."

She doesn't check to see if it's following when she turns on her heel and forces her tired legs to run. Her throat is burning when she finally stops, lost amidst the edges, but her frantic fingers are already peeling at the wax seal holding the roll closed. It's larger than she expected, unfurling across her outstretched arms.

Clementine has to force herself to focus, through the tremors coursing through her body and the adrenaline making her twitch. Across the top, just before the carefully etched image, is a single line of text. KEEP BEING BOLD. No way to know who's telling her such things, or if she's being toyed with. It wouldn't be the first time tonight. A gift, finally, after all this time. It's like they waited until she was on the verge of snapping.

She can't bring herself to care, though, forcing herself to focus on the image that's been so graciously gifted to her. The straight lines and intricate details and labels. More importantly, the stark red x marked in one of the interior chambers. A map with every detail she could ever hope to have except for what that marker stands for.

It could be everything, but it's definitely something. Food. Shelter. People.

Something more than the wasteland she's staring down.

It's worth finding out.

18th. Milan Crusoe, District Eight.

My rights for D8 boys campaign has officially ended. Sorry, Milan.

Anyway, happy two month-aversary to me updating. Better late than never I guess. I hope it was worth it, or in the very least you enjoyed it. I am very sincerely hoping the next one will not take so long, but thank you for your patience with me regardless.

Until next time.