XLIV: The Games - Day Six, Evening.
Sloane Laurier, 17
Tribute of District Three
She is not supposed to care.
At least, that's what Sloane keeps telling herself.
It's not her fault that these two lunatics called her allies couldn't just get over… whatever was going on with them, and behave semi-normally. A lot to ask from a half-feral child who stalked people through fields and a nearly-grown ass man with rocks rattling around in his empty skull.
Sloane was supposed to be the stupid one, alright? She's not mature enough for this. And she doesn't want to care.
This is why being high was always preferable. Everything—the world's problems, quarrels and trauma, it all faded away and left on the breeze. You could sit in the most uncomfortable place surrounded by the District's most awful people and still enjoy yourself, staring up into the sky as it swirled around you into a thousand colors.
It was all the same sort of gray here, unimpressive, the disconcerting cracks beginning to spread into the ceiling. Sloane had made a fun game of it—how long can she lose herself whilst staring at them until they all blur into one? How long until it crumbles altogether and crashes in on them? If she had all the time in the world, that's exactly what Sloane thinks she would do: find out.
Besides, Casia's little movements are just enough to distract her, fingers pulling at the boards they've placed against the door to hold it shut. Robbie is already asleep; now that Sloane thinks about it, she's not sure she's seen him really do such a thing, at least not in this manner. He's facing them, stiff as a board as if in imitation of a corpse. His hand, even in sleep, remains locked around his belt, the pads of his fingers just barely brushing against the dagger.
Sloane taps her foot against the floor a few times, trying to prompt a reaction. She stretches her leg out, inching closer to his face. There's not very much room in here. If he's awake, he's doing a damn good job of hiding it.
She retracts her leg under Casia's watchful gaze, pulling her knee back to her chest. "What're you doing?" the other girl murmurs.
"Checking to see if he's asleep. Certainly doesn't look it."
Robbie looks as if he's fighting it, so uncomfortable that he can't allow himself to truly rest. It's telling of the position they've found themselves in—far too many sharp objects between them all, and not a single ounce of trust. Recipe for disaster, and all that.
Casia is still fidgeting, restless. Her fingers pull at the edges of her sleeves, which she's drawn over her hands to keep warm. It's funny how such a simple action can make her seem so small. And she is, don't get Sloane wrong or anything, but it's not the way she acts. If Sloane didn't know any better, she'd suspect there was some eldritch abomination inhabiting Casia's body, making each of her movements and thoughts seem so grand it's impossible to ignore them.
But she's small. Practically a fucking baby in Sloane's eyes.
Talos had a thirteen year old brother, too. Sweet kid. Didn't yet know the world was going to chew him up and spit him out, even though it did the same thing to his brother.
It's a relief Casia isn't like that. She can't deal with another one of him.
Even with Talos, though, she should have been better. She knows that now. "Hey," Sloane whispers, crooking her finger in Casia's direction until she gets the message, stepping forward to crouch at Sloane's side. "What did he say to you, earlier?"
When she had returned from her brief scout, the air had felt charged. Robbie's eyes had said it all, but Sloane couldn't quite nail down just what he was so furious about. If he was going to walk around and act like Casia had killed his non-existent dog, he better have a damn good reason for it. Sloane wasn't going to be dragged into it otherwise.
Except… she sort of was. By asking Casia, she was readily inserting herself into it.
For fuck's sake.
"Just tell me," Sloane insists, noting Casia's silence. She's withdrawing into herself, hell-bent on not making a scene. Sloane reaches out and nudges her so hard she nearly rocks backward. "Spill."
"It doesn't matter."
"Says who?"
Casia blinks. It's as if it just occurred to her that no one has said it doesn't matter, like she's so used to believing it, being unheard, that it doesn't.
"He doesn't trust me," she admits, finally, staring at him the whole while. "Or… or like me, I guess. Both. I don't know why. But he thinks I'm planning something."
"Are you?"
"No."
"So…"
"So, I don't know." Casia shrugs. There's that little girl again, unsure of herself. "But I think.."
"Tell me."
"You think it could have something to do with that girl he allied with in his Games?"
Sloane leans her head back against the wall, squinting as she rummages around for the memory. So she hadn't been high in November, but it's not like she had been paying the most attention. That's not a crime. There had been a little girl, though—not identical to Casia, but perhaps similar enough in the right light. She hadn't lasted very long.
"She saved his life," Sloane recalls. "Real messy shit."
"And when he could have repaid the favor, he let her die. Didn't move a muscle."
But that girl didn't do anything to him; neither has Casia. So what the hell could he be so worked up about that he's hurling accusations without proof and getting so worked up he can't even sleep properly? Sloane rubs at her temples, resisting the urge to let out a deep sigh. She's not made for this level of dramatics—she wasn't before she got into this mess, and she still isn't.
"You shouldn't worry," Sloane decides. "I'm sure we'll figure it out."
And optimism, of all things? Where the hell has that come from?
"I'm not," Casia replies. Sloane actually believes her. She hasn't been truly ruffled by this, not enough to unsettle her. She's just thinking.
A thinking Casia is a dangerous one. A paranoid Robbie, she thinks, could be even worse.
Sloane, of course, just has to be trapped right in the middle.
Sanne Levesay, 16
Tribute of District Seven
"You think they should be out by now?" Ilan whispers.
Sanne chances a glance out the window, only allowing herself to look away from the darkening halls for a split second. "It's hard to tell. Have they been showing up earlier?"
"Earlier," Amani agrees. "But not by much."
So they won't know, really, until the mutts converge on them. They really ought to better at this whole hunkering down thing by now, but Amani is insistent that they need to find somewhere closer to the outer edge, a place easy to escape. It's too cold to make the night outside; their best option is finding a room close by and hoping.
Sanne knows he's right. If this place goes down—and it really does look like it's going to—an easy out is all they can hope for.
But she thinks they're lost. Truly and hopelessly lost. For all she knows they've been going in circles. The halls look the same, the torches, the open rooms and narrower ones. They have to be making some amount of progress, but the type is beyond her. She thinks they might just be stuck out here all night. The thought is terrifying, but not so much as it used to be. As much as she despises Amani's instinct to shield them from the worst of it, to take the brunt, she knows it's something to treasure too.
A person like him, someone truly good, shouldn't have to suffer so much. Whatever went on to have him end up here, like this, was wrong in every way possible.
That's why she can't let him do anything alone. He shouldn't be alone again, not like her out in those woods, her and Ilan both.
That's why, Sanne thinks, she just barely resists the urge to reach out and grab for him when a noise echoes down the hallway, impossible to determine. Amani's not some toddler whose hand she needs to hold. Frankly, neither is Ilan, but their hands meet in the middle, fingers squeezing so tight it nearly hurts.
She can't even tell what direction it came from. Amani peers back the way they came, and then right. Was it a footstep? An intake of breath? The damn wind? There's no telling, and there's no seeing either. Said wind blew out almost every torch in the hall, leaving them in a golden spot of sunlight that doesn't stretch beyond a few feet until it turns to utter darkness.
"Where?" Ilan breathes, the question they're all wondering. She's wondering what? in the same second, but she doesn't dare voice that aloud.
It's too loaded of a question.
Ilan jerks away from her with a suddenness that makes her seize up—his fingers loosen from hers and she sees him fall with a muffled noise, a choked-off sound of pain. In his place there's the shadow of a person, the light only illuminating their outline. Not enough to tell. Not enough to know. Just enough to see that they're raising their arm again, but Sanne can't see what they're holding.
She throws her arms up. It's her only line of defense. Something strikes where her hands are joined, so hard in the wrist that she shrieks. But it's not her face. Just as quickly as the pain is bolting down her arm, all the way to the shoulder, something strikes her in the gut, hard. She goes flailing back, tripping over the rough stone. Sanne is ashamed to think about how easy she goes down, her wrist screaming in further pain as she practically lands on it for good measure.
There's a horrific noise as she does, the odd grating of bone. She can't stop to think about what that means. She focuses on scrabbling away instead, gaining distance instead of being hit again. When she looks back, the girl—that's who it is, another girl, but Sanne still can't tell who, is grappling with Ilan. He's back on his feet, now, blood running freely from his temple. But he's alive.
"It wasn't supposed to be you!" the girl screams. Still on the ground, she feels more than see Amani go sailing over her. What she does see is the three of them colliding, the force so tremendous they go sailing back into the darkness, beyond her field of vision. Suddenly it's not about getting away, anymore—Sanne turns, elbows catching against the stone as she throws herself forward after them. A whimper catches in her throat as her wrist gives away, fingers spasming.
The girl is still screaming, furious. Sanne can't make sense of the words. Moments later there's an awful screech, and the sword comes flying to the floor just in front of her, bloodied at the edges. It hurts—it hurts so bad she can hardly concentrate on anything else, but Sanne forces herself to grab it, teetering up to her feet in the same breath.
Someone stumbles into her, out of the darkness. She throws her good hand out, but the second she feels him she knows it's Ilan.
There's a thud. Sanne blinks the spots out of her eyes, clutching onto Ilan for dear life. Just before them the girl, Eleven, Clementine, it all comes to light in one horrifying second, crumples to the floor. Her throat runs red, a thin slash running it down into the collar of her shirt.
"It wasn't—wasn't supposed to—"
The same words. Sanne doesn't know what they mean. She's still speaking, trying to find words around the blood filling her throat. It's just not happening fast enough.
Amani is at her side, then. His fingers are gentle, beyond it, when he pries her fingers from around the sword's hilt.
It's different to watching it on a television screen, but she thinks that may have something to do with the fact that Amani's just different now altogether. There's nothing quick about it. He looms above Clementine, two hands around the sword, and seems to take a long moment to steady himself before he plunges it into her chest. After her body jerks around it, when she finally slumps lifeless to the floor despite her still-twitching fingers, he's still. He seems to be looking through her rather than at her.
"Amani," she whispers. He blinks at her, still only halfway there, and his motions are robotic as he reaches down for Clementine, hands going for her pockets. He kicks one rock away. Finds another, slightly smaller, and tosses that one too. A scroll of paper unfurls from her pocket, and Amani observes it for a second before he rolls it back up, shoving it into his waistband.
"What the hell?" Ilan asks, though it's at nothing in particular. Amani looks at them, finally, properly. His fingers hesitate an inch away from coming into contact with the gash on Ilan's temple.
"You need stitches," he says. All matter-of-fact.
"We don't have a first-aid kit," she says weakly. Amani sighs, lengthy, coming back down to earth. It's relieving, in a sense, to see him step towards them, his hands outstretched.
She knows what he's asking. Sanne offers her own forward, tears springing to her eyes at the pain that shoots through her arm once again. Amani says nothing as he examines her wrist, turning it just enough that she has to bite down on her tongue to keep from screaming.
"We have to find somewhere now," he continues. "Doesn't matter where."
He lets go. Sanne cradles her wrist even more tightly, watching him turn. He's going cold. Retreating somewhere they won't be able to find him.
"I'm sorry for yelling at you yesterday," she says after him. "Thank-you."
They have each-other, now; that much is still true. Sanne can't take back what she said in her upset and fear. But where would they be if Amani hadn't been standing there with them just minutes ago? Dead, perhaps. At least one of them.
She's lucky. Sanne never thought she would be again.
The cannon finally booms, but Amani eyes seem to soften somewhat as he regards them. "It's okay," he says. "C'mon."
He holds his arm out, beckoning them in front of him. He's not going to let them trail behind again, at least not like this. Ilan grabs a hold of her arm, but Sanne doesn't know if it's for his sake or her own as he stumbles, their shoulders bumping into one another.
She has no idea how much longer they will have each-other for. She wishes it could be forever.
But nothing this good lasts like that.
Weston Katsouris, 18
Tribute of District Six
He thinks he might be the only person in this hellhole truly grateful for the sound of a cannon.
How twisted is that?
Weston must be living in some sort of alternate reality where that doesn't matter at all. Jordyn hadn't moved a muscle. Vadric had flinched, but remained otherwise blink. For only a matter of seconds Levi's head had swiveled around as if expecting some sort of physical manifestation of the sound, but he had relaxed soon after. As much as he could pretend to, anyway.
How far they are from the people he knew merely a week ago. He thought they would be laughing about it, making bets amongst themselves.
Even if he despises this, though, it's this over being left alone. His life feels split in two distinct parts: before Freddie, and after. Post-Freddie he spent more time alone than he would have liked too, even if his parents had taken Weston under their wing. A normal day in his life, filled with raucous laughter and obnoxiously loud, long hours was quiet.
Much as he despises this singular weakness, Weston knows he's not meant to be on his own. He needs voices. Pieces to move. Things to navigate.
And he was doing just that.
He paces back and forth along the crest of the stairs, still glancing back at his allies sitting in the room adjacent, waiting to slam the door shut come nightfall. Weston isn't wholly convinced they should—a night out here will prove that they're still in it, that they're not to be forgotten about. Jordyn and Levi, though, look settled in, and Vadric… well, Vadric sitting at the top of the stairs next to where he paces, for a reason he hasn't been able to determine, but they jump at every noise. The cannon was far from the first. They're ready to spring into hiding the moment it's demanded.
He wants to go back down there into the crypts. So what if he has to go alone? Call it morbid fascination, something he has far too much of for his own good, but at least it feels familiar down there. Where anyone else found themselves unnerved, it was a place where Weston knew he could thrive.
A few steps down, he feels more than one set of eyes on him. He knows without looking that one of them is Vadric, the proximity much too close to be anyone else. The other would be a toss-up, at best, but he's not that dense. Even if Jordyn believes he is.
Seriously, does she believe he's that fucking stupid?
Everything she does is incremental, movements and words so unnoticeable that maybe, just maybe, a lesser person would gloss over them. But Weston hasn't. He sees it every-time they're alone in a room together—Jordyn leaning into Levi's side, her murmuring something in his ear. Weston has felt the distance since they all reunited, a chasm that seems to lose footholds with every passing hour.
He turns, finally. Weston never truly had any intention of heading down there, at least not now. Vadric releases a breath when he begins to ascend the stairs. Jordyn is still watching him, but it's not until he fixes his eyes on her that she looks away, as if ashamed.
She was supposed to be something special, but turns out she's just a fucking fluke after all. Weston knows every little thought going through her head, every move she's planning. She's so many steps behind it's truly pathetic. Levi seems blissfully unaware, eyes closed as he rests his head back against the stone wall, but his lips move faintly, responding to whatever Jordyn's said last. Every conversation they have without him only makes Weston more sure.
It can be right again—he's sure of it. Without certain obstacles, anything can be.
"Whatever you're thinking of doing," Vadric says quietly, so much so he almost doubts it altogether. "Don't."
He sits down beside them, elbows braced on his knees, but they don't shrink into the wall like they once would have. "What am I thinking of doing?"
They're silent. If anyone in the world was going to have an accurate guess at what was going through his head, it would be Vadric. Strange to admit, but Freddie's gone. He hasn't seen his siblings in over half a year, nor Freddie's parents.
They know him better than anyone at this point.
Of course, it's not like that will stop him. If Vadric knows, that's for them to deal with, not him. Weston has enough problems to deal with.
At least his biggest one isn't going to see this coming.
Kai Melchior, 15
Tribute of District Five
For a long time, he becomes accustomed to blindness.
It could be seconds or minutes or even hours—all Kai knows is that he's certain his eyes are open, but he can see nothing. Finally, at one random blink, no rhyme or reason to it, he can see shadows. Things moving in what might be the direction the door is, but he can't be certain. Shapes move along the wall, stretching longer as they move towards the floor.
There's one, only slightly more solid, at the foot of whatever he's lying on. Somehow he knows it's Ravi without having to focus for more than a second or two, sleeping. That's good. Beyond him there's something else he can't quite make out, it's form eclipsed by the blue-black light spilling in from the window.
Kai swings his legs onto the floor, pushing himself up so quickly that the entire world around him disappears as he sways to his feet. They feel like lead beneath him, almost refusing to step over Ravi's prone form as he reaches, half-blind, for the window. He wants to know where they are, to see it. For some reason that seems important.
There's a muffled swear as he stumbles. Even the most mundane task seems impossible, the window moving away from him with every step he takes. Something jabs hard into his ribs, a hand curling around his opposite side, and Kai's knuckles slam blissfully into the area of stone beneath the window. It feels like ice. The wind, not even a bit warmer, finally seems to illuminate some of the fog that lingers around him.
"What the fuck are you doing?" Zoya manages through gritted teeth. "Just because I said I'd keep watch doesn't mean I want to babysit your crippled ass."
Zoya's arm, locked around his middle, is certainly the only thing keeping Kai from slouching pathetically against the wall, clinging onto the windowsill for dear life. Kai closes his eyes, ignoring Zoya's words and even more-so, the fact that Zoya is holding onto him at all. He pushes it as far as he can out of his mind. The wind stings against his face, stinging against his cracked lips. The taste of blood in his mouth is sharp, bright. More prominent than ever.
"If you're dying in my arms, don't," Zoya deadpans.
"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction," he manages. His voice is hoarse, rough with disuse—he can't remember the last time he held any sort of worthwhile conversation with anyone. Kai misses those days with an intensity he didn't expect. The normal ones were the ones that seemed furthest away. Walking home from school with Axon, even if it meant being watched like a hawk. Going to his sister's house to see the girls, ruffling their curly hair and letting them clamber all over them even though it hurt. Dinner with his parents. Going to sleep with the cat curled up behind his knees.
He misses five years ago. It would be too easy to go back to a time when he wasn't sick; if anything, Kai just wishes he could hear another one of his grandfather's lengthy, embellished stories again, even if it meant being stuck in a hospital bed.
"You're going back to bed." Zoya sighs, and Kai feels him tense, as if he's about to scoop Kai up and make him. And God, he probably could, couldn't he? He's going to have to start digging holes in this belt if he loses anymore weight.
Kai throws his full weight against the wall, so that his upper half is nearly out the window. "Just leave it."
"God, you're fucking stubborn—"
"Have you looked in a mirror lately?"
"Let you know when I find one," Zoya retorts, but he keeps still, finally. Kai closes his eyes again, relieved. Everything aches from being so immobile—his back has an ache to it he suspects is permanent, and the air feels nice on his face. He wishes he could stay here, but standing so long isn't feasible.
Especially not with Zoya holding him. He's doing just that, though, and he's silent now above it all, withholding further comment. Kai can only assume he's resenting every second of it, allowing it nonetheless. Appeasing a dying human.
He leans forward, head resting against the wall. He feels dizzy again. "I don't want to die," he admits.
"Shame you've got cancer, then," Zoya fires back, but he's much quieter now.
It really is a shame. He could do so much. Live for so long. He wants to see his nieces again. The cat.
He wants a lot of things.
"What happened to going out with a bang?" Zoya asks. "That's what you told Sarain, isn't it?"
"You try doing that when you can barely walk without assistance."
"Fair enough."
Deep down, Kai still wants that. Another part of him wants exactly what he told Ravi, to go to sleep and never open his eyes again. He's been fighting for years. Nearly half his life. It's about time he got a fucking break. When he closes his eyes, at least his dreams, cloudy though they may be, are pain-free. That's the best place to be.
Stubbornness has him clinging to whatever scraps of his life still remain. Each individual pain within him tells him to give up the act and die with some dignity, while he still has the time.
There's no easy choice.
"I'm sorry," Zoya says, out of the blue, and he manages a weak laugh.
"No you're not," he says. "If anything this is karma, right? For tying that noose? For pushing you off the edge?"
"I am, actually. I am." He sounds so insistent that Kai opens his eyes, though he can't actually turn to look at him. He keeps his gaze out the window and the garden far below, where more shadows roam the pathways. Kai is unsure if they're real or not, and he's too afraid to ask.
"I'm sorry," Zoya says again. Kai has heard those exact words so many times that he thinks he should know when it's genuine, but he's being robbed even of that. There isn't a great deal that makes sense anymore, and now even this? What premature hell has he been dropped into, and why does Zoya have a heart in it?
He wishes he had never opened his eyes. Not now, and not to get out of his makeshift bed. Like he said—things are easier, in that blackened dreamscape. Nothing bad ever truly happens, nothing changes. That's where he's safe.
Kai thinks that maybe, just maybe, Zoya is sorry. He's dying without a choice. At least everyone else gets to fight back, gets to claw and bite and scream even if it means nothing in the end.
He's just succumbing.
And he thinks, finally, he might be ready to.
Aranza de León, 18
Tribute of District Eight
The sky's prettier than she's ever seen it.
Proof that Eight ruins even the simplest of things.
This little place of peace they've found seems almost too good to be true—Aranza knows it is, in fact, because there are far too many ways in which it could be ruined. One of those ways has been staring them in the face since they walked out here.
"She's not even doing anything," Tova mutters. "I just…"
"I know," Aranza agrees. It's most of what she's been doing the last little while, placating Tova's simmering rage whilst wondering exactly why she's doing it. That very same rage is something that inspires Aranza even in their quieter moments.
There have been far too many hours in which she's been agreeing, sitting here, and doing nothing about it.
"There's no reason to trust her now," Tova continues. Aranza knows where her eyes are. Maderia is halfway across the garden, peering into every nook and cranny as if expecting to find the key to the universe in one of them. If Aranza isn't mistaken, and she rarely is, Maderia has crossed every inch of this garden already—it's not as if there's an easy escape.
She's done watching her walk around in circles in order to avoid them tiptoeing around the issue at hand.
"So why is she still here?" Aranza asks. Tova pauses—Aranza sees, in the strangest sort of way, as all the processes firing in her brain grind to a sudden stop. Aranza rises to her feet before Tova can say anything, though she sees her mouth begin to form words, as if she's about to call out after her.
As if she's about to stop her.
There's no way in hell.
She makes her way over to Maderia carefully, not so much slowly as she is calculated, trying not to startle her. Twenty feet out, Maderia looks up at her, and she slows, propping an elbow up on one of the nearby walls. The thorns in the bushes below dig into her thigh, but Aranza hardly feels them.
"No statues, no mutts," Maderia says slowly, glancing around. "You don't think that's a bit odd?"
"I think it's a little safe haven," Aranza tries instead. Maderia eyes drift over her shoulder, and it's not difficult to guess where she's looking. If it's not at Tova, who is still standing right where Aranza left her, it's the middle of the courtyard.
"I don't think anything can be called a safe haven with that staring you in the face," Maderia says. She may have a point, to be fair, but Aranza is frankly thrilled at its presence. It's just so fitting—shouldn't everyone think so?
After all, what's a royal court without a guillotine?
Maderia turns her head, taking a few steps away, and Aranza is dutiful in following her, slow all the while. It's only when something grabs the other girl's attention, her frame bending forward to examine a newfound crack in the wall, that she lunges forward. Her fingers find that awkward, cumbersome handle that's been jabbing into her back for the last several hours, grateful she chose to take it along in the first place. Not everyone would see the use.
Maderia doesn't even see it coming, is the sad thing. Aranza's arms burn briefly with the effort to heft the pan beyond her shoulder, bringing it down so hard that the crack that echoes through the garden as it connects with the back of Maderia's head sounds like music to her ears. The other girl crumples to the ground without a sound, so stunned that nothing could escape. And so motionless…
She could end her right here, but that would be so messy. Blood under her nails, blood all over her shirt. Aranza rests the pan on a nearby bench with a hum and reaches down for one of Maderia's awkwardly fallen arms, giving her body a great heave.
Not three feet later does she feel the other girl give a great jerk, life returning to her just as quickly as Aranza briefly took it. She grinds her teeth together and continues pulling. Maderia's legs kick out, her arm twisting frantically in Maderia's grip. She may not be very large, but she's solid muscle, and Aranza is quickly reminded of just how reedy her own arms are, not fit for such brutish work.
"If you don't help me, I'll still do it myself," Aranza calls, feeling sweat beginning to gather at her temples as Maderia heaves, yanking back against Aranza's pulls. "It'll just be a hell of a lot slower!"
She doesn't hear an answer, nor any approaching footsteps. Maderia is grunting out half-hearted words now, desperate noises as she tries to free herself.
A hand lands on her arm. Aranza freezes, Tova's eyes an inch from hers.
"Let's go," she prompts, and there's a moment where Maderia twists so hard she nearly loses hold of her, where Tova doesn't move—
And then she bends forward, fingers locking around Maderia's other arm. It's much easier now. Together they yank her struggling form into the center of the courtyard, and it's Tova that yanks her up, hands wedged beneath Maderia's shoulders, to prop her over the wooden base. Aranza doesn't waste a moment in slamming the adjoining piece of heavy wood down so that Maderia is trapped, head stuck so comically through the hole she finds herself wanting to laugh.
"Tova," Maderia says, frantic now. Her hands beat against the wooden trap, head knocking against each side. The scrape of her knees against the stone is making Aranza wince. "You don't have to do this, don't, please don't, we can find another way—"
There are repeated pleas of her name. Nothing for Aranza. Of course not. Why would she start to bother now?
Standing next to it like this, the guillotine feels massive. The blade is almost dull in appearance, now, no sunlight left to be reflected off it, but grand nonetheless. This is where she was meant to be, the type of things she was meant to do.
"Tova," Maderia says again. This time it almost sounds like a sob. "Tova—"
She jerks so hard Aranza imagines, for a moment, that the entire guillotine itself could topple over. Tova's hand is frozen over-top of the handle. Aranza lays her own over it with a smile as Maderia's feet thrash out, kicking at nothing.
"Together," Aranza murmurs, still allowing herself to smile. It's as if Maderia isn't even there. "One, two—"
She forces their hands down on three. The noise the blade makes as it comes singing down is unlike anything she's ever heard. It's so quick too—she blinks, and it's at the bottom. There's nothing obvious as it cuts through sinew and muscle and skin, no signal as to what's happened except for the hollow thud as Maderia's head hits the stone and rolls a few feet away.
Her eyes are still open, fingers to the headless corpse spasming periodically.
The smile that comes to her face feels unnatural, threatening to split her skin as the steady drip of blood reaches her ears, forming a steady pool that laps towards their feet. She expects Tova's face to reflect some of the same, but her eyes are so suddenly blank it's as if she's gone somewhere else. Aranza gives the other girl's hand a squeeze, relieved when she gets one back, but it's mechanical.
She can't lose her. Not yet.
"Tova," she says quietly, quick to ensure her smile is much more gentle. "Thank-you. You're amazing."
Watching life bleed back into Tova's eyes makes her heart soar. She blinks, almost doe-eyed, grounding herself once again as Aranza slides her hand up her arm, over the crest of her shoulder, all the way until Tova's frigid cheek is cupped in the palm of her hand.
They were always going to be here, so close in each other's space. This was meant to be, after all.
She knows how to bring her back, how to keep her here. Aranza leans in, and Tova doesn't move away. This is what she's waited so long for, surprising even herself with the amount of patience she has held so close.
But nothing could be as close as this.
She presses her lips against Tova's, feels the warmth flood back into them both. Tova's arm snakes around her waist, almost desperately, teeth scraping along Aranza's lower lip. They have to be like this. There's no other way.
They kiss, and it feels right. Blood laps against their shoes, and she knows it is.
There was no other way it could end up.
17th. Clementine Alinsky, District Eleven.
16th. Maderia Elvario, District One.
"Revenge proves its own executioner."
Happy Pride Month.
Until next time.