VIII: August: District Eight.
Some victories are merely defeats wearing the wrong clothing.
They're smart, the two of them.
They know better.
That still doesn't mean Milan doesn't doubt their decision to run.
It's pathetically easy, is the thing. Dorian had only been three spots away from him when the pedestals rose—smack-dab between them was another boy their age, Jax, and a girl even younger. Neither had any inclinations to get into a fight. It had been as simple as the two of them linking up and taking off.
The arena does a certain amount of wonders to soften his worries. It's not like the malls back home, each section looking like a rundown piece of warehouse cobbled together into something larger. This place is straight out of the Capitol, all ivory and sparkling, several stories high. Real trees tower above them in a nearby atrium, flowers blooming in bright flower beds.
Food and water will be no obstacle here. With this much space, too, they'll have ample room to tuck themselves away.
Milan's hands still itch to hold onto something—a bag, a weapon, a single granola bar. Anything at all.
Running into the bloodbath could have been suicide, but they'll never know. The two of them are in quick agreement about which direction to head, but no matter how fast they run they still hear the screaming far behind them, echoing down the halls and far up into the roof. It's not much, not like the sickening cacophony that One and Four had produced, but it still makes his skin crawl.
Being far away from that is good. Even if it would have gained the Capitol's favor, even if they would have taken notice of him for it…
It's too late for that, now.
At least he has his score to hold onto. An eight for him, a seven for Dorian. For two unassuming schoolboys working late shifts on one of the many production lines down in the Factory Quarter, they had come out swinging. He was smart. Dorian was smarter, even though he would never admit such a thing aloud; if he didn't want to showcase it, he would have to take the seven and roll with it.
"Where do you think we should start first?" Dorian asks, an even pant to his voice. They're maintaining a good pace, but they can't run forever.
Milan looks up again as they enter into another atrium, half a dozen escalators leading all the way up to the very top floor. Some fifty yards down the hall an elevator rises to equal heights, glass all the way through. Trying to count the stores proves futile—there's so many that he can't help but lose count trying to memorize them all.
"We should come back here," he suggests. "There's things to set up. But first—"
"Food?" Dorian assumes. He's already halfway to one of the many directories they've seen positioned in the middle of the halls, letting his finger glide across the screen. It's almost frightening how quick they're both thinking, turning only to instinct when they have nothing else to their name.
"That way, I think," Dorian continues. Milan listens while he keeps his eyes back the way they came; so far, so good. They were the first ones out, at least headed over here. It doesn't appear anyone else was so keen to follow.
"I'm right behind you," he tells him, letting Dorian take an easier lead as he turns down a series of halls. He can smell the food long before he can see it, but he never doubted Dorian's directions in the first place. There's a reason the two of them are together.
They were never close, funnily enough. They grew up in the same neighborhood, shared many of the same classes. Milan hadn't even realized Dorian was reaped alongside him until they had gotten on the train; while he was on the stage, he had been focused solely on keeping a composed facade, not letting himself shiver or blink away tears.
It had made sense. They worked the same job, appreciated the same things. Some of the older boys were already linking up, rowdy and arrogant. The girls were doing the same.
Only two of them were getting out of here—it might as well be him and someone he likes.
Milan comes to a slow halt by Dorian's side as he catches sight of the food-court, his senses immediately overwhelmed by garish neon and a dozen different scents wafting on the non-existent breeze.
"We'll collect as much as we can," Milan instructs. "Water, and food that will last the longest."
Dorian is already clambering over the nearest countertop, nodding with each word. "Getting back there will be good—the escalators, y'know? I've got a good idea."
Strangely enough, so does he. Maybe he doesn't have the most nimble fingers. Maybe he doesn't have the brain of a genius. But he knows more than enough to pull this off. His mother's ingenious brain, his father's practicalities… they had taught him everything to do this, whether they knew it or not. Certainly they never thought their son would be using such things here.
His mother writing her books. His father, at the factory, teaching him how to pull a machine apart to fix it and then put it back together even quicker.
Perhaps Milan had been annoyed, once upon a time, that there was no simple and efficient way to see this through. Dorian's adamant refusal to enter into the bloodbath has sparked irritation in him at first. No matter how little he wanted to yield in the first place, it had all worked out. Their decision, clearly, had been the right one.
Milan had all the tools needed to get to the end. He knew he was good enough. He wouldn't even let the Capitol perhaps overlooking him lodge under his skin—not yet, at least. They had scarcely been in the arena for twenty minutes.
There was time. Given a bit more, the Capitol wouldn't be able to look away.
How could they, with the show he was about to put on?
An uncomfortable itch still lingered in her brain from how easily everything had imploded.
It was her plan. Her rules, her instructions. Aranza was the one in charge, and until just a short time ago, it had seemed as if everyone was easily on board with it.
She's not sure what insane desire what driven Tamora further into the bloodbath, because surely a single sword that she could barely even heft up was worth it. They all could have died for that single, risky move—Georgia nearly had trying to get their reckless ally out, though of course everything had worked out in turn.
The boy she had stabbed, the one that had tried to attack them, wouldn't last the night. Surely it was a good thing for one of her allies to have a kill, even if it had gone so intrinsically against the plan that all Aranza wanted to do was scream. A part of her still wanted to slap Tamora across the face for having the audacity to risk all of their lives.
If Aranza wanted to ruin the image she had carefully crafted, that would do. But to these girls she was the nice one, the glue holding them all together. Even now she's at the very back of the group as they descend further into one of the large department stores, as if offering up some sort of protection to the four girls she's brought together.
She couldn't lose it. That would just be a breeding ground for more chaos, and she wouldn't have that.
If that time was coming, Aranza needed ample warning.
"I can't believe they put us in these," Ruana says quietly; the younger girls nearly trips over the low-heeled shoes they've forced her in, legs unable to stretch out. At least Aranza has breathing room in her dress of choice—Ruana, on the other hand, as well as Venecia, have been more tightly sewn in.
"We should have known," she replies, offering the younger girl her arm as she hops about, struggling to unstrap the heels from her feet. Ruana huffs as she finally removes them, evidently resisting the urge to chuck them into the nearest clothing rack. It does seem a tad unfair that so many of them have been slapped into dresses or flowing pantsuits, but that seems like nothing if not Eight's nature. The stylists had a field day during the chariots; it only makes sense that they carried the outfits over.
Besides, Aranza isn't exactly upset. This ivory, silken dress has been the object of her desires since the second she put it on that first day, how it wraps around her body and clings to her upper arms. It may not be the most practical thing to wear in the middle of a death match, but she finally feels like the person she was meant to be. Beautiful. Immaculate. Spotless.
This would be one of many, when she got out of this place. Her plans for life had been thrown awry, but like hell if she wouldn't take advantage of everything this victory would give her.
"Are you good?" Ruana asks her—it seems as if it may not have been the first time. She gestures down to Aranza's equally nonsensical shoes.
She can only smile. "Fine. Thank-you for asking. Just make sure you keep those, alright? Never know when you might need them."
Ruana's care and adoration for her seems to stretch to the moon, a truly alarming length for someone she met less than a week ago. Aranza knew the others held loyalty towards her, but not like Ruana did. Venecia was mouthy, Georgia imposing, Tamora reckless beyond belief.
She knew the easiest place to start; perhaps it said something about her that Aranza didn't feel the least bit bad about it.
She reached forward, laying a gentle hand on Ruana's arm before the younger girl could continue after the others. "We need to watch out for Tamora. She put us all in danger today, and it worries me."
"You don't think… you don't think she'd do it again, would she?" Ruana questions, gnawing at her lower lip. "Not intentionally."
"No easy way to tell, Ru." She releases the girl's arm, letting her fingers drift carefully over the rack of clothing to her left, fingertips gliding over soft cotton and luxurious silks. "But we have each-other, right?"
"Right," Ruana agrees, so easily it's as if she was born to do nothing else. Her smile is bright, a wholly innocent quality underlying even the way she holds herself, the way she leans into Aranza's space. It's as if she thinks of Aranza as an elder sister, someone to trust and confide in without hesitation. If only she knew.
They did have each-other; for now, at least.
Only she knew that it would eventually come crashing down.
He's woken by Dorian's hand on his shoulder and a single finger pressed over his mouth, the only indication Milan has for silence.
He still doesn't feel as if he's slept enough; after having spent the entire first day and the majority of the second setting up shop, then switching watches throughout the night, Milan's eyes are still heavy, each blinking threatening to close them once again.
Dorian, however, points upwards, holding up two fingers with the opposite hand. After a moment of straining, struggling to force his body to pay attention, he hears a pair of voices, bouncing off one another. Quiet enough that they're not being obtrusive, but loud enough without the escalators running.
They have no true idea if this will work, but it's clearly time to find out. They spent so long dismantling parts beneath the escalator, pulling apart panels and moving wires, switching things about. It seems sure enough, but optimism can be fatal in moments like these. Even tucking themselves into the very bottom curve below the escalator at all was a risk. The two of them could almost certainly lay here and let the girls above them pass on, if they really wanted.
Above them, though, he hears the telltale clunk of a foot hitting the escalator stairs. Careful. A little bit too slow.
Milan nods. Dorian, silent, crawls around him and towards the inner workings of the machinery they've left exposed, layers of gears and turning parts that only need a moment to be switched back on.
He doesn't feel fear. Perhaps he would, if that hadn't found two butcher's knives in the food court that first day, but even then… well, Milan's not so sure.
They're not idiots. They know what they're doing.
Dorian flicks the switch back on, hand steady, and the escalator above them roars to life.
There's a startled yelp. Surprise, is all, and his heart falls. Sending someone stumbling off-balance is enough; they need more. The roar only grows, though, as the escalator races on faster. He hears panicked footsteps, a frantic, high-pitched voice, and then a wild shriek.
Milan leaps out from their hiding spot just in time for one of the girls, slight and blonde, to come tumbling down the last of the moving stairs, launching herself to her feet with an alarmed cry as she catches sight of him. He'll give her credit where it's due—she's fast, and she doesn't look back, even as Dorian leaps out beside him and takes off as well.
It's only one, though.
They've got the other.
An older girl lays helplessly at the escalator's bottom platform—it appears her long, garishly pink sleeves are caught in-between the stairs, fabric ripping and churning away in great bursts. She continues to wriggle about even as she makes eye contact with him, feet kicking against the railings as if she has any hope of freeing herself. If anything she's just asking to be dragged in further.
She got lucky. It could have been her arm, in actuality, or one of her legs, pulled all the way in torn and pressed to paste like a meat grinder.
He's still not scared—not in the least bit.
"What did you do?" she asks wildly. Stalling, by the sounds of it, but she's stuck, and her ally isn't coming back. Even if Dorian doesn't catch her, he's seen to that.
"Just a simple little trick," he tells her. What she doesn't know is that it wasn't simple at all, but the Capitol will appreciate it's bravado. "I'm glad to see it come to fruition."
"Please—don't," she begs. "I'll do anyth—"
Milan leans forward. Her arms strike out, frantically, connecting with his shoulders and chest. He plants one foot at the crook of her elbow, pushing her back into the still-churning stairs, and buries the knife in her throat.
It's not natural, to feel as little as he does then, but Milan knew this was coming. They had spent two days working on it. He had imagined it. All he can feel is vindication that his hard-work paid off. If this one little thing has paid off, there's no telling what the others will do. All Milan knows is that there's more success ahead.
"Milan!"
Her cannon finally fires, after what feels like a painfully long minute. He wipes the knife against his pant leg, turning to face the returning Dorian. He's not even that close, just yet—to raise such an alarm in a volume like that is pure idiocy and they're not stupid. They know better.
Dorian is pointing up again, though, arms stretching frantically. For a moment he sees nothing as he glances up into the atrium, squinting against the far-above sun. There's no one looking over the railings, no one walking the upper halls.
There is movement, though, as the glass-walled elevator begins to descend at a snail's pace. Still, it's got a head-start.
As do the three people inside of it.
There's no telling what their intent was in moving down here. To take advantage of him being alone, maybe, to try and take him out when they assumed it would be easy. Whatever the reason was, it's a fool's errand. They're not going to get down here at all.
Milan is running before his legs have made the conscious decision to do so. He's not at all fixated on the elevator or the people it holds—he has eyes only for the panel at the bottom landing, two buttons to its name. One to go up. One to force a stop.
The escalators weren't the only things they spent two days deconstructing.
His fist slams down into the emergency stop button with three feet to spare, the doors nearly about to lock into place. The containment grinds to a stop, all three people inside teetering wildly before regaining their balance. One of the boys reaches for their own panel of buttons—Milan can't see what he hits, but it's what he knows that matters. No matter what the boy tries, the elevator doesn't budge.
"It worked," Dorian says behind him, panting heavily as his feet slide to a halt. "We actually did it."
This isn't one person on an escalator, falling victim to her stylist's grandiose decisions. This is three, all trapped in a glass box like specimens in a lab, and they have no way to get out. The youngest one's face pales as the realization strikes her, eyes going wide as she flattens her palm against the glass, staring down at him.
Their fate has been sealed, and Milan isn't about to start saving people now.
Georgia looks every inch like a Career, and it's impossible not to admire.
They don't know much about each-other, but Aranza doesn't have to ask the questions to see who she is. Georgia is well-fed and unblemished, the pinnacle of someone who has lived life having what they desire.
Aranza wants to hate her for it, but Georgia isn't even arrogant enough to hate—she's not arrogant at all. She's steadfast and loyal and she makes Aranza feel just a touch safer when she walks by her side, just the two of them.
And that's precisely why she needs to die.
There's no chance she beats her in a clean, one on one fight. Getting her away from the others had been easy enough in their quest for food, but Aranza had other goals in mind. Though she was lean enough, losing a few pounds wouldn't kill her. If anything, it would make her victory dress look all the more magnificent.
She only has one idea, and leaving it up to chance doesn't sit right with her. If she had any other way to do it, she would.
Georgia has their knife, though. Why wouldn't she? When there's the option of your most powerful ally to have a weapon in hand, you take it.
Aranza thinks she's right, though. She always is.
She can't afford to be wrong, anyway.
She stops nearly all the way towards the back of the department store, letting Georgia drift to a halt by her side. It's unnervingly quiet save for a tinny, cheerful music playing through the speakers overhead. Such noise would have stopped anyone from hearing what went on last night, but that didn't stop her from seeing. The flickers in the shadows, the mannequins now facing the opposite way on their podiums.
Aranza eyes a long, uniform line of them, matched on the opposite side. They create an aisle-way all to a set of dressing rooms, a single light buzzing overhead.
They're plastic. Half of them are dressed in hideous patterns. There shouldn't be anything wrong with them at all.
"Wonder if there's something hidden in there," Aranza says, gesturing towards the fitting rooms. "They always hide the good stuff."
Georgia hums in acknowledgement, but her eyes are still drifting about their surroundings. She doesn't seem to be considering the idea as much as she needs to. "I'll watch the door, if you want," she offers, giving the girl a gentle nudge. "Just so you can see if anything's inside."
Georgia shrugs. "If you want," she agrees, knife still tight in hand. If she's right, there's almost a one hundred percent chance it will be lost, after this.
It'll be worth it.
She begins her walk down the aisle of mannequins, footsteps still hitting the ground as gingerly as before. Georgia doesn't look worried about anything—a girl with a weapon, a kill to her name… why would she be, when there appears to be nothing wrong at all? Aranza stops five feet away from them, head cocked to the side.
Nothing's happening. Her heart hammers in her chest so furiously it's a wonder that Georgia can't see it. Still, she smiles sweetly as Georgia turns around just once to check her positioning before she forges on.
She's not wrong. She can't be.
"Please," Aranza whispers, a plea to whatever Gods will listen to a girl like her, and the mannequins come to life.
It's nothing short of a horror show.
Georgia screams, more in surprise than pain, as the two at the end of the aisle launch themselves at her. Three more fall on her from behind. Within seconds she's buried beneath a pile of writing, disjointed limbs. Every sickening thud against the floor sounds somehow like plastic and flesh at the same time. Her screaming is a symphony to Aranza's ears as bones crack and blood splatters into the air. She steps close enough only to allow some of it to rain down on her, crimson droplets spraying across the bodice of her silken dress.
The sight of it makes her cringe, but she doesn't bother trying to wipe it away. Aranza steps away, fingers tugging at her left sleeve until the soft, capped fabric tears with a grating rip. She'll have another just like it, when she gets out of here. She'll have a hundred.
Aranza turns away as Georgia's screams finally fade into nothingness. She doesn't even bother running. She may have lost the pristineness of her dress, a weapon that could have done her some good, but she's gained so much more.
It will be far too late by the time anyone realizes it.
"Your turn," Dorian informs him, leaving him enough space in front of the elevator to sit before he settles down.
It's all they've been doing for the past day. Rotating in and out, one of them watching their three captives inside their glass box while the other eats or drinks or sleeps. Truthfully, there's nothing more they can do. To re-start the elevator will mean those inside will have a chance to rush out and kill them, and that's not a risk they can take.
Milan didn't truly think over what would happen to them, once the elevator stopped. He knows an hour ago they emptied their last water bottle, and that they weren't carrying any food. Minimal hydration, no way out… they'll die, eventually.
But he has to sit here and watch them deteriorate first.
Milan sits, crossing his legs in front of him as he lays his knife on the too-shiny floor. From killing that girl yesterday, to this little display now, it all feels like a means to an end. Nothing's bugged them. No mutts have appeared. They're as safe as they can possibly be in the middle of this arena.
The same can't be said for the three people before him.
Dorian has only been able to recall two of their names—Orsino, one of the older boys, who appears to be dozing in an effort to ignore his situation, and Marcie. She's young, thirteen or fourteen at most, owl-eyed as she stares down at him. The other boy only gives him a sparing glance before he turns away, tapping once again at the glass that they spent hours trying to break yesterday.
If nothing intervenes to free them from their prison, dehydration will kill them. Not one of them looks as if they've accepted it yet.
Or perhaps they just haven't realized.
Marcie, however, slides closer, pressing herself to the glass directly in front of him so that she's impossible to ignore. Her mouth forms the word please—he's been able to hear them just fine, before now. She's not even trying.
"I'm sorry," he says. A lie, right now, is the kindest thing he can offer her during this time.
What he doesn't tell her, even if it's merciful in its own right, is that at least she won't feel any pain. If they're lucky, they'll simply slip over the edge once they fall unconscious, blissfully unaware of their own fate. It's a kinder death than the one he gave the girl yesterday—Milan himself would rather die quietly than at the end of a knife any day of the week.
The other boy's snort is louder than her voice. "You're not sorry," he spits, eyes still fixed the other way.
"We're trying to survive. Same as you."
"This isn't survival. This is a deranged plan concocted by two kids who think they have a shot just because they've gotten a few victories."
The only weapon they have, a curved machete, is drenched in blood. Far too much. At least one person, possibly more. The hypocrisy of it all makes him want to open the elevator doors if only to shut him up, to prove him wrong. This isn't the only victory he's going to get.
He's already planned for more.
The way this boy talks, he's pegged him as some sort of evil, irredeemable monster. Milan knows that isn't the truth.
It doesn't matter what his plans make him think of himself when he closes his eyes.
"Just let us out," Marcie says, slouched down so small that she looks hardly old enough to be here at all. "Please."
It's as if a conversation will be enough to convince him. What Marcie doesn't know is that she has no chance; Milan has spent the past three days before this one filling the audience's head with little things, bits and pieces of his life that were interesting enough to toss out into the universe.
This is just another part of the story. The bigger one, yet to be written.
"Have you ever heard of Scarlett Crusoe?" he asks her, waiting for Marcie to shake her head. Of course she doesn't. His mother fell from obscurity years ago, her fame splintered as if it was made of glass much more fragile than the kind before him.
These were the things Milan didn't tell anyone. Not anymore. Nobody wanted to hear about a son who resented his mother just as much as he loved her, a woman once so vibrant now overcome by delusions, not unlike a descending fog.
No one wanted to hear about how she had made him hate stories.
"She's my mother," he continues. "An author. A Capitol darling, when I was young. Her stories are the best of the best—they were then, and they still are now. But like everything else, she faded. After a while, nobody wanted her anymore. They forgot about her."
It's clear that Marcie doesn't understand where he's going. At first, Milan didn't either. This, almost, feels like a story in itself.
It's as if he's rediscovering a path he lost in the woods, years ago.
"I'm not going to let people do the same to me," he tells her. "I'm writing the story, now. I decide the ending."
And that's why he can't let them out—Milan has had their endings decided from the moment he began the rough draft. It's for his father, working such long hours he hardly sees him. For his mother holed up in her study, feverishly drafting works that will go nowhere and get nothing.
He's chosen their fates, too. His own, above all else.
For them, the last page is already written.
It's amazing what a bit of blood, a torn dress, and some crocodile tears can do.
She falls into Tamora's arms with fake, hysterical sobs when she returns to the others, babbling out an explanation that only the truly terrified could manage. There were just so many of them, Aranza says, and they appeared from nowhere. There was nothing she could have done.
Tamora hugs her. Ruana rubs a soothing hand up and down her back. Only Venecia lets her eyes linger, then and into the night and all throughout the next day.
It would be quite impossible for everyone to fall for such a farce, but if she doesn't believe it, Venecia has kept her mouth shut. What would she do, anyway, when Aranza has the other girls wrapped around her finger? If she has to be the next one to go, then so be it—that wasn't Aranza's plan, but she'll have to settle with some certainty soon.
The girls wouldn't even let her keep watch last night—she had been too hysterical to do so, finally falling into a seemingly fitful sleep occasionally broken by trembling cries. Truth be told, Aranza had slept better than she had in a while, even if she still mourned the loss of her dresses dignity.
She felt like she was in control, and there was nothing to suggest otherwise. After having so little of it back home, she had ascended onto something higher than cloud nine and run away with it.
She convinces Ruana without much trouble to let her keep a long watch the second night, offering placating smiles and thanks for taking on so much of the burden beforehand.
Having a few hours to herself is a comforting familiarity. It's like she's back at home, preparing meals for herself and finishing homework without assistance while her parents were working themselves to death to keep a roof over their heads. That time alone has taught her how to get things done.
It's easy, then, to slip two protein bars from Tamora's pack—she eats one, for good measure, and tucks the other into her bodice for a rainy day. She drains more water than she ought to, if they're supposed to be rationing, and puts it back right where she found it.
In three hours time, she'll have to wake up Ruana. She has three hours to prepare exactly what she's going to say to the younger girl.
I wandered a little ways down the hall—I know, I know, I shouldn't have risked it, but I just wanted to make sure we were alright. When I came back, Venecia was sneaking food and water out of Tam's pack. Did it so quick she clearly assumed I wasn't going to be back in time. She didn't even look for me, do you know that? I could've been dead and she didn't care at all.
Aranza smiles to herself, cushioning their second found bag beneath her head as she lounges back. She knows Ruana will question it, that her fear and worry will magnify to catastrophic levels. It's not long, now, until they're going to implode. The fighting will make her want to explode, too, just like her parents bickering always did, but Aranza will manage.
Georgia was simply a number. The three of them still here have to die, too, and she knows she can't do it all with her own hand. One of them could win with her, of course, but that's a truly appalling idea that ranks up there with the worst of them. Not one of these girls will ever trust her again, if they have the chance to watch this all back on television. They'll be enemies; Aranza will sooner end up with a knife in the back than a loyal friend, together until the bitter end.
Someone else can win. She doesn't care. A few months from now they'll die, too, and it'll be like they were never here at all. It will only be Aranza's name in flashing lights, the life she's dreamed up for herself whilst locked away in her room finally a reality.
She's beyond ready for that—she's been ready for it her entire life.
It's halfway through the night when the cannon wakes him up.
Dorian had been halfway there, too, about to tell him the same information the blast provided. All three of them still trapped inside the elevator were still, lethargic, but only one had the unmoving characteristics of a corpse.
Marcie dies silently, without fanfare, as her body finally gives up from the inside out. The still-unnamed boy is the only one to address it, his own eyes glazed as he stares at her body, unwilling to feel anything more.
It was only a matter of time. When the six day passed without death, the seventh too… something had to give.
It's not that Milan expected more when the drought finally ended, but the simplistic silence behind her death doesn't seem like enough. For the Capitol not to have chased them off this path sooner, they must have had unfailing faith that this would work. The Capitol was on his side with this.
He urges Dorian back to sleep an hour later—the boys are still clinging on, and staring at them won't change it.
Not that it stops Milan from putting forth such an effort.
The length of time that he does is inappropriate. It stretches into hours in which he should have woken Dorian up to take over, but that he can't tear his eyes away from. Far over head, though it's as far as the real thing as can be, the sky begins to lighten.
As the first streaks of pale pink begin to shoot through the clouds, Orsino dies.
Truth be told, he's looked dead for some time. Slumped over, chest hardly moving. Nothing at all changes, but Milan knows it's not anyone else out there. He just watched someone die in their sleep.
They're just waiting on one more, now. All this boy has to do is give in and then Milan can leave this place. They have more traps planned elsewhere, further objectives. If Milan has to sit here in this atrium longer he may just go totally insane. At least when the boy still had the energy to snap back at him there was something to keep his attention. It felt then like what he was doing wasn't wrong.
Milan knows there's nothing worse than this. He's playing God, and that in itself is evil.
It's all he can do to not think of four deaths on his hands. Three, so far, but the last is imminent.
When the boy's head twitches he sits straighter, shaking off his weariness as two slitted-eyes flicker to him, seeing much more than what can possibly be there. It would be a wonder if he could really see Milan after all, if he was still lucid enough to understand the situation he's in.
The sun rises. The glare reflecting off the glass is impossibly bright, but it still doesn't give him the freedom to look away.
The last boy is still looking at him, practically through him, when he dies. Eyes still open.
Milan doesn't move for a long while; Dorian's wrapped his jacket over his ears, and it must have muffled enough of the cannon's blast for him to have slept through it. There's no sense of urgency demanding that he stand up, or even that he move at all. When he does it's robotic, reaching back to shake at Dorian's shoulder until his ally stirs.
"They're gone," he tells him. "Let's get out of here."
It's easy not to look in their direction as together they pack up their handful of supplies. They already know where they're going next. The plans have been set since that very first day.
Only when they turn to go does Milan move with any sense of real purpose; as Dorian sets off, he reaches over to re-start the elevator. It slides down to the ground level at a snail's pace, but he doesn't stick around to see the doors open.
Someone can get them out, this way. They're free.
It's just too little, too late for them.
Aranza knew the time for their reckoning was coming.
It's something to do with a shift in the energy, the quietness spreading over them. The three cannons yesterday, indicating eleven of them left.
And, of course, the peculiar look in Ruana's eyes when she wakes just before the dawn, finding her younger ally staring into space.
Not space, exactly—Tamora.
"Hey," Aranza whispers, reaching over to nudge at her leg. Ruana manages a smile, but with none of her usual cheeriness. It's all beginning to get to her, too. That childlike innocent that she had managed to hold onto is fading quicker than the stability of their alliance, either.
"What's wrong?" she asks, shimmying closer to keep their conversation low.
"I'm scared," Ruana admits.
"Of what?"
"Us."
As she should be. Aranza plays along, allowing confusion to fill her eyes. Just because she's been stoking the fire doesn't mean she can't play the innocent card. "What's wrong with us?"
"Not us," she replies. "Tam and Venecia. I just keep thinking something's going to blow… and we'll be caught in the middle of it."
Something's going to blow, alright, but Aranza isn't getting caught in any blast. With a dose of good luck, she'll be the one setting off the detonator, with more than enough time to avoid the wreckage. Still, she lays a reassuring hand on the girl's leg—unless they plan to go at each-other with their fists, there isn't much to do.
"It's okay, Ru," she tells her. "We'll be fine."
"I have a knife," Ruana says without warning, immediately letting her hand dig up and under her long sleeve, fingers wiggling about. She pulls free a small, folded pocket-knife, hardly as big as her palm. "I got it at the bloodbath, I just… I thought it would be good to keep it a secret."
No one's trustworthy. Not even Ruana. Every bit of Aranza wants to rip the knife from her hand and scream directly in her face, but she forces that desire away. "What do you want to do?" she wonders. The answer is right in front of them.
Ruana's eyes flicker to Tamora's sleeping form, mere feet away. "Maybe.. I mean, we could…"
"I'm not sure I can," Aranza murmurs plaintively, letting her lip wobble for added effect. "Ru, I can't—"
And the younger girl nods. Steels herself. Her swallow is thick, audible to Aranza's ears. She smiles down at her as if she's the one in control, the pinnacle of a savior. A young girl, about to commit murder. It's all just so tragic, isn't it?
Ruana leans onto her knees. Shuffles carefully over until she's bent over Tamora's prone form. The quiet snick of the knife as she flips it open makes her blink, wondering, but there's no time to focus on it. Even though her hand trembles around the hilt, eyes nearly watering, she brings the knife down—and slits Tamora's throat.
The effect is immediate. Tamora chokes as blood flows into her throat, her mouth, down into her lungs. It bubbles and splashes onto the tile floor below. The noise in itself is gruesome, but not horrific enough that Ruana couldn't get away with it. Venecia is a heavy sleeper—always has been.
But no one can sleep all the way through a cannon.
It shakes the floor beneath them. Venecia jolts as she awakens, coming face to face with the sight of Ruana, bloody knife in hand. She has yet to even move away from Tamora's still twitching body.
"What the fuck?" Venecia shrieks, but Aranza is way ahead of her.
Hasn't she always been?
She dives forward, tackling Ruana around the waist until she hits the floor. "What are you doing?" she cries frantically, able to wrench the knife from her pliant fingers without any sort of a struggle as she pins the girl to the ground. Her younger ally's eyes are wide as they gaze up at her.
She's confused. Of course she is. Didn't Aranza just encourage this?
It's not as if she can let her say that aloud.
She drives the knife into Ruana's chest. It's so small it doesn't seem to do much of anything, not until she stabs the blade down at least a half dozen times. At first, Ruana tries to buck her off, legs thrashing, arms punching at her sides. It doesn't last long, as blood begins to flow freely over her chest. More of it, too, is drenching the front of Aranza's dress.
This fucking dress. It'll never be the same again.
Finally, Aranza allows herself to slip sideways off of Ruana, forcing a shake to her hand as she grips tighter at the knife. "I—I don't know why she—"
Venecia is silent. Her lips are white, pressed into a thin line as she sits frozen on the ground, seemingly unable to comprehend the corpses of two of her allies, so close to one another.
"Why did she do that?" Aranza asks, letting out a weak cry. "I'm sorry, but I had to, you saw what she did."
"You had to," Venecia echoes dully. It sounds like agreement, almost, until it doesn't. "Just like you had to get rid of Georgia, right?"
She had been about ready to slump to the ground and force a few tears, but Venecia's words send ice-cold adrenaline flooding into her veins. Until just a moment ago, everything was going perfectly according to plan. This was Aranza's world, organized as can be. Why did someone always have to do their best to ruin it?
"I didn't," she tries. "Why would I hurt Georgia?"
"You tell me."
"I didn't!" she shouts.
"Save the lies for someone who believes them, Ranzie," Venecia says. She gets to her feet in one easy second, so gracefully it's as if she wasn't asleep just a few short minutes ago. "Georgia was the first. God only knows how you did it without a weapon, but that's not the point. Ru takes out Tamora for you, easy-peasy. And then why, why oh why, would your closest little friend ever think you would turn your back on her and kill her?"
There's no back-tracking with this, is there? No convincing her otherwise. Evidently she should have pointed Ruana in Venecia's direction, instead.
Aranza stands, too. "So what are you going to do? It's not like you—"
She's prepared, wholly, for Venecia to step closer to her. What she's not prepared for is the arm that lashes out, the fist. It slams into the side of her face without the power of a trained fighter, but that doesn't stop it from hurting. Aranza stumbles to the side, clutching at her already reddened skin.
So much for order. She lashes out with the knife, but her eyes are watering so badly she can hardly see. When Venecia hits her again she trips, heels finally getting the best of her, and crashes to the ground.
Aranza doesn't think of living or dying, of what is supposed to happen to her. She stabs out, half-blind. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the small blade connects with flesh. Venecia lets out a cry as she wrenches it free, blood falling hot into her eyes, and she doesn't even try to see where the wound has landed.
Aranza moves, and she does what she has never done in her life before—what she had sworn to never do.
She runs.
"They went this way."
"I swear, I saw them—"
"In there, you think?"
Milan dare doesn't breathe. He feels like they're hunkered down below the escalator all over again, just waiting for the inevitable. He flattens himself closer to the floor as the chatter of the two boys grows closer.
Of course, they had been trying to lure someone this way, into this particular store. He just didn't think they'd be so fast, or so close. Dorian is still exactly how he threw himself to the floor on the opposite side of the doorway, awkwardly tangled with a display rack. His hand, though, remains tightened around the loosened chain that holds the security gate in place, far above their heads.
All of this comes down to timing, and he has the better view. So long as the boys don't spot him and rush in this direction, Dorian should be able to get at least one of them.
Human error is a hell of a thing, and it scares him more than he thought possible.
They're hesitant, now, approaching the storefront with cautious gazes, weapons drawn. The one in the lead has a sword, the other a hatchet. If they do this wrong, they're both dead. No chance in hell they survive against that.
One is nearly there, though. Just a second longer…
"Now!" he shouts. Dorian releases the chain, practically throwing it for good measure, and the security gate comes thundering down from the ceiling. The one in the lead only has time to glance around frantically before it crashes into him, coming down hard on his shoulders. He falls to the ground in near-silence—it's only when he hits the floor and the gate slams down overtop his back, pinning him in place, that he screams.
Milan does his best to ignore the crack he heard, something broken beyond repair.
The other boy is already trying to pull him free, gripping tight at both ankles. There's no chance, though, not with how heavy the gate is. The trapped boy continues to scream as each harsh movement jars his injuries. He can see Dorian about to move, about to see it through, but Milan makes sure to beat him there.
He has to do it himself.
He scrabbles across the floor towards the boy, unable to even writhe for how thoroughly he's stuck. The one on the other side of the gate rears back in surprise at his sudden appearance, eyes fixated on the butcher's knife clutched in his grip.
"Shit—Blaise!"
He tries to pull his ally free. It's the last chance he gets before Milan plunges the knife into his throat and silences his agonized screaming.
There's still someone so close to them, but he feels worryingly calm. They can only stare at one another through the gate, the boy's pale eyes flickering with anger. One of his hands grips, white-knuckled, at the gate; the other remains loosely locked around his ally's ankle, as if he hasn't convinced himself to let go.
"Good job," Dorian says. Milan doesn't even have time to formulate a response before the gate begins to rise.
He whirls around frantically, searching for the chain, but Dorian's no longer holding onto it. Nothing is. Without someone to hoist it back up, there shouldn't be a way for it to open.
There's only one way, and it's not happening in this arena.
"Guess the 'makers aren't totally on your side," the boy on the other side of the gate hisses. There's nearly enough room for him to shimmy under, but he's not going to bother. No, he's going to wait until there's enough room to charge, an axe in one hand and his fallen ally's sword in the other.
There's no way.
He reaches for Dorian, steadily pulling him back to the store's front counter and beyond, searching for the exit door. "Food court?" Dorian asks. Code for our last laid plan?
It's all they have. Milan isn't even sure it's going to work.
"Food court," he agrees. "You're better long distance—take the long way around, and meet me. I'll lead him there."
Milan wants to live, more than anything. At least if something goes wrong one of them will survive this, so he wants to believe. This is their riskiest plan, the one that might not even work, but if it does…
It's going to hurt like hell. Hopefully the right person.
Dorian shoulders open the back door and takes off. Milan lingers, watching the boy as he finally ducks under the gate only long enough to make sure he can see him, that he'll follow, and does the same.
Every step he takes he can hear the other boy giving chase, their feet slamming into the floor off-rhythm. Milan continues to gain distance on him, the hulking beast and his heavy weapons, and he forces himself faster anyway. He needs the time, if this is going to work. He needs every second he can get.
He weaves between the plastic tables and chairs, the stall coming closer with every breath. Milan practically throws himself over the counter, vaulting onto the floor below. He keeps low, yanking himself around the corner into the kitchen area, and only pops up once he's reached the stove, fingers searching for every button he can find. He ratchets the temperature all the way up, each repeated beep somehow more comforting than the last. This can work. It has to.
He still remembers Dorian poking away at the stove's glass front the first day, head cocked to the side. D'ya think…?
He's still thinking.
Once he's done everything he can, Milan tucks back to the floor and opens the nearest cupboard, shoving himself inside alongside bags of flours and spices. He takes a few last, deep inhales and then presses his hand over his mouth, letting a hush fall over his gloomy containment.
The boy's thundering footsteps are nearby, but not close enough. "I'm in here!" Milan shouts, popping open the cupboard door for only a second before he tucks back in.
It still takes him a few minutes—truthfully, Milan expected it to. He's even more cautious than before, now, knowing what Milan and Dorian already did to his ally. Every step, every movement, is carefully thought out. He's not going to make another wrong move.
Finally, though, he hears him ease over the counter, feet thudding heavily onto the tile. "I'm going to kill you, y'know that?" the boy questions. Milan can picture him too easily, brandishing weapons in both hands, coming closer and closer to the heat that he can feel radiating into the back room even hidden away.
If Milan strains his ears, he thinks he even hears a slight crack.
This way, he begs. Come this way.
He can't pop out again. If that thing blows with him directly in the line of fire, worst case scenario he's dead. Best case, he's blind, or so badly impaired that Dorian will find him and put him down, just to be a good friend.
The boy is right there, though, mere feet away. His breathing is heavy. Milan hears him stop, almost as if he's glancing curiously at the oven. No doubt wondering why it's on, what the point of all of this is. To anyone watching, it must look nothing short of lunacy.
He hears it this time, though—the crack. Louder than before.
And then he can hear absolutely nothing, because the oven gives way and explodes.
Glass embeds itself into the cupboard door and nearly shears all the way through, each one landing like a hailstorm. Pieces of metal and shrapnel continue to ping around the room just outside, a quiet sizzle pervading underneath it all. Milan curls tighter into himself, burying his face in-between his knees just in case. He stays just that way until all he can hear is the quiet hiss of smoke, and then waits an extra minute just in case.
Milan pops the cupboard door open, hot to the touch. Pauses. Just before him is a smoking gray mass, unrecognizable as the oven door that just exploded outward because of a few well-placed cracks. The whole room has been shrouded in soot, the white walls and neat floors stained with it.
On the floor, half a foot away, the boy lies nearly unrecognizable. Shards of glass poke free from every visible inch of his exposed skin. One is lodged directly into the pupil of his left eye, another embedded in the soft skin just underneath. They pepper all the way down his jaw, his throat, raining down his chest. Milan doesn't know what's worse—the bloody streaks running down his skin, the burns that have blistered from where the glass has gotten stuck, or the smell.
He throws himself out of the cupboard and over the body, ears ringing. If he thinks about the smell, he won't last. He only has to stay here long enough for Dorian to get here, and then he's getting far, far away. There's no reason to come back.
Dorian should be here by now, though. Shouldn't he? Milan stumbles to the counter, peering down to each end of the food court, but there's no sign of him.
He's fine, though. There's no reason for him to be otherwise. Dorian's clever, always knows what to do.
It would be so much easier to believe if he couldn't hear shouting, so faint and faraway.
Laying low has never been Aranza's number one priority.
In the time since she ran, Venecia hasn't come looking for her—or it's quite possible she has, and just isn't the best at figuring out where to look.
Perhaps it's arrogant of her to assume that the injury she gave her was significant enough to halt her progress, but that's all Aranza can hope. As a precaution, in the opposite case, she's been keeping to herself. This, really, is the first time she's moved about properly since. The cannons have piqued her interest, two in rather quick succession.
She ducks out of the store she's called home for some time, now, and almost immediately is run over.
Luckily, or not, it's a person just about the same size she is—Aranza isn't sure how well she'd be doing otherwise. They crash into her side, and both of them tumble to the ground in a flurry of limbs and shrieks. As if her face didn't already hurt enough, it slams into the ground for good measure.
The boy gives her a quick glance and tries to scrabble up and away, but like hell she's allowing that. Aranza dives forward, ignoring the intense throbbing in her cheek as she wraps her arms around his knees and brings him back down again. She never wanted to get into a brawl, but what's the point of letting him go now, with so few of them left? For all she knows she'll never get a chance like this again.
His knife is much more sizable than her own, catching the light in a way that makes her want to rear back and avoid getting close to it. She drives her knife down into his arm, the blade slicing across flesh, but it seems to only make him hold onto the weapon tighter.
Just a moment ago, she had been grateful that they were almost the same size. It quickly becomes apparent that even though they're of similar heights, a growing boy is evidently much stronger than he is. The kid looks like he's been on fucking holiday; not a speck of blood dotting his clothes, his skin shining and healthy. Where was her invite to such a spectacular picnic?
He knees her in the gut, brings his feet into her shins. The pain that lights up along her lower body is ignored as the manages to graze him again, this time at the shoulder. It's a relief to see him bleed, to know that he's as human as the rest of them.
This won't be painless like Georgia, easy like Ru. This is where she proves herself.
It's clear he notices the bruises across her face, though—the elbow he drives into it speaks clearly enough on that subject. Colorful stars dance across her vision as he forces her back, kicking her away once again.
He's still focused on running. Maybe he just doesn't want to kill her, or he has help somewhere far away. Whatever it is, Aranza isn't just going to lie here and wait to find out.
She barely manages to grab a hold of him again as he lunges up. Her fingers find a handful of his perfectly pressed slacks, but she doesn't have the strength to pull him down outright—Aranza rolls, instead, until the floor is at her back and the boy twists down on top of her.
She isn't sure where the knife hits, but she angles it up regardless, and he falls down on top of her and the knife both with a heavy thud. A choked breath slips past his lips, eyes widening as his fingers reach between them, coming away bloody as he pulls them free.
Aranza shoves him to the side, uncaring for the weak cry of pain he lets out when he hits the floor. The knife is lodged at an angle just below his chest, pointing towards his heart. Blood paints over his lips as he grasps at the hilt, trying to pull it free but unable to get a good angle on it.
Aranza tears the larger knife from his weakened grasp as she gets to her feet, taking a step back. "Sorry," she apologizes, though she's never felt the emotion less. "I guess the better woman won."
He gasps out one last feeble breath, fingers twitching towards her. Not her, though. Not exactly. His hand stretches away just past her, as if reaching for something…
Aranza turns, coming face to face with another boy, mere feet behind her.
He's unmoving save for his rapidly falling chest. There's something pristine about him too, almost as much as the dying boy at her feet. Dead, now. Save for a streak of blood across the thigh of his pants, he looks as if he's been walking about the streets of Eight, whistling a tune to himself.
Well, not entirely. He looks infuriated. The way the boy had tried to run, the direction he was headed in, it all points to the same thing.
These two were allies.
A true apology would be the route any other person tried to forget when facing someone down. Frankly, Aranza isn't sure she's going to win another fight. Her body aches. Her head spins. When she stares this level of anger in the face, Aranza isn't sure she could beat it even if she was in tip-top shape.
Not that she would ever admit that aloud.
Aranza slips the knife into her belt—the boy's knife, and it doesn't go unnoticed. Still, she raises both of her hands, palms flat, the only placating gesture she can think to brandish. "Hate me if you want," she offers. "But I have a proposition for you."
Every single part of him still wants to kill her.
The feeling hasn't lessened any—Milan had believed that spending a handful of hours in her presence would have him growing more comfortable with the idea, but it's done the opposite.
Her eyes are cold. She's never entirely looking away from him. The knife—Dorian's knife—is always within reach.
He's not even sure if he can really trust that her name is Aranza.
What is he to do, though, beyond get into a fight that will no doubt make everything harder from here on out? Milan knows he could kill her—that's the worst part. He feels like he should be avenging Dorian's name, stealing all the air from her lungs. Instead, he had heard her out.
She wanted Venecia Roulier dead. Milan didn't have the faintest idea who that was, but the mere mention of her had Aranza bristling. Perhaps the reason beyond the dark bruising on her cheeks, if he had to hazard a guess.
She's one of them, too. They saw Dorian's face last night, along with the two boys their last traps took out. Up until just an hour ago, there had been five of them left. The cannon hadn't let them deviate any—Aranza was still just as determined to come up with some conniving way to take out her worst enemy.
Or, at least, she was determined for him to come up with something.
He hadn't told her the things he had done, the number of people who have died at his hands. It's as if she just knows. She doesn't trust him, and he doesn't trust her, but they're the best the other has got.
"Does pacing help your brain work?" Aranza asks suddenly. She's scraping dried blood out from beneath her fingernails with a look of distaste, glancing up at him with a raised brow.
"Stop talking."
"It was a question."
"One too many," he fires back. He can't even hate her, is the thing. It wasn't personal. Anyone else in here would have done it, the same way he's had some responsibility for the deaths of six other people. She didn't even know Dorian's name—she still doesn't either. She hasn't bothered to ask.
Maybe that's what's riling him up. She shouldn't be here, not over him. Milan can't quite swallow his pride on that fact.
Not that he ever could.
He just needs one last, solid idea. Truthfully, he didn't think he would need this many. Aranza leans back against the fountain in the main atrium, tilting her eyes skyward, before she turns her attention back to her nails.
That might just be it.
"Come on," he orders, striding away without bothering to wait for her. Milan is rewarded with the sound of her undignified scramble up as she races to follow—predictably, she's right by his side, heels and hall, as if following along behind him is one of the worst ideas imaginable.
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere."
"You're a delight," she tells him. "Couldn't be just a tad more forthcoming with me, after I spared your life?"
Milan can only grumble under his breath, tuning out the rest of her questions as best he can. He spared her life. He's writing the story, remember? That's the way that chapter would have gone.
It takes them some time exploring, poking around in the less glamorous inner workings of the mall, but eventually Milan finds exactly what he was hoping to. A small, dull maintenance room with a staircase leading up a few levels. At the top, a ladder crawls all the way up, nearly as far as the eye can see. That can only mean one thing.
"How do you feel about heights?" he asks, taking some time to revel in Aranza's answering scowl.
"Why?"
"I'll tell you when we get up there," Milan says, nudging her none too gently up the stairs. It's better that she goes first, anyway. Her stride is confident all the way until she come face to face with the bottom of the ladder.
Making a jibe at her now, when they're both about to climb a ladder and one could easily shove the other down, is not the correct move. Milan files it away for later—if they have one, that is.
She shakes herself, finally, and grasps onto the first of the rungs. "If I catch you looking up my skirt, you're a dead man."
Milan rolls his eyes, urging her upwards. "Don't flatter yourself. Move."
He doesn't even have a hold on the ladder himself when a cannon fires—the whole thing shakes, and Aranza lets out a little, almost imperceptible squeak under her breath. Lucky for her, Milan doesn't point it out. He pulls himself up behind her and begins to climb, trying not to think too deeply about it. He's one of three. The second is making this ascent with them.
"We don't even know it's her," he reminds Aranza, focusing on her heels as she somehow manages to hoist herself up still with them strapped on.
What are the chances it's Venecia, really? Likely, because the Capitol wants a fight, or was she just another Dorian, doomed to die somewhere in those halls below like the rest of them?
Above him, Aranza lets out a heavy sigh. It's the most unimpressed he's heard her sound yet. "Don't worry," she says flatly, a festering bitterness lingering underneath the words. "It's her."
Of course it's her.
They had seen the faces clear as day from the roof, the last two people besides them and most definitely not Venecia.
It just made sense that it was going to be the person Aranza wanted dead.
The dark is unnerving up here—the sky is so black that it blends into the horizon-line, the flat concrete that surrounds the mall seeming to spread out for miles upon empty miles. Milan has been looking out into it for quite some time now as if searching for an answer to something greater. That, or he's just ignoring her.
Not that she's doing anything wrong. She never is.
Laying here is getting quite uncomfortable, though. The wind brings a chill that sends goosebumps flourishing over her skin, and no matter how efficiently she flattens herself to the roof nothing seems to help. They've been hearing things down below for quite some time now—the mannequins, if Aranza had to guess, herding Venecia towards them.
Finally, when she glances down the roof's access hatch, there's someone standing at the very bottom. Aranza waves down at her, trying to picture what must be a delightful scowl on Venecia's face before she grabs onto the ladder.
She's got a fucking sword now. Someone's been busy.
"Game time," she says quickly, shimmying back from the hatch. Milan starts, getting to his feet to confirm Venecia's ascent himself before he begins to back away. Aranza does the same, both of them opposite one another with the hatch directly in-between.
The sword emerges first, each heavy thump of her feet louder by the second. Neither of their knives have the reach to kill her outright—besides, Aranza sort of wants to see her face when she falls. At long last, Venecia pulls herself onto the roof, panting with exertion, eyes flickering between the two of them. Her surprise lasts for only a heartbeat at the sight of them both, Aranza opportunistic as always, before she picks a target.
And it's not who Aranza expected.
In one swift movement, Venecia turns after Milan.
This was not how it was meant to go.
How can she even be shocked, that Venecia wants Milan dead? Of course she wants to spend the next few months making sure that Aranza suffers, that she can never sleep comfortably at night. Her former ally takes off as her current one turns tail, beginning to take each carefully calculated step across the roof.
He's being careful—he has to. Venecia has no care for such a thing, sprinting after him with sword in hand. Aranza is too busy focusing on the pattern underfoot to gain any ground; left, right, two straight, right again.
Venecia got the easy draw here without even realizing.
She launches herself forward, crashing into Milan's back like a freight train. Both of them crash into the glass roof of the atrium far below. All Aranza can do is watch, each moment seeming longer than the last, as the glass gives way.
Just like it was supposed to.
One of them screams—it's so frightened that she can't even put a name to it as the glass shatters. Milan's arms come to wrap around the metal support that remains in place as Venecia teeters dangerously at the edge, gazing down into the vast emptiness below her with a look of horror.
As soon as she comes back down to earth, she's going to push Milan to his death.
Not if Aranza has any say in it, though.
She knows the pattern. She knows which panels they cracked, which ones won't support any amount of weight. Aranza stops fixating on the path there and looks ahead, just past them. The left is safe, the right isn't. The darkness does nothing to reveal the hidden cracks, but Aranza knows they're there. She helped him create them.
Venecia shakes herself. Her hands reach for Milan's, grasping frantically for purchase as his body dangles above open air. With each second that passes, she gets closer to prying his fingers loose.
She looks up just as Aranza gets there. How she didn't think this was going to happen is beyond anything Aranza can comprehend.
And she finds more joy in it than she has any right to.
Aranza grabs at her arm, loops her hand under Venecia's opposite shoulder. The girl begins to struggle, still trying to tear Milan's hands free as he hangs on for dear life. With this, Aranza is risking her own life for people she does not know, those that she has no loyalty to.
But she has to pick a side.
Milan will be fine—she has to do this.
It takes all of her strength to yank Venecia back. She throws them both to the roof, twisting at the last moment so that Venecia's shoulders slam into the glass first. Everything beneath them splinters and cracks, the roof shuddering beneath their combined weight.
She can't help but relish in the fear that swims in Venecia's eyes, as it finally gives way.
Aranza lets go of her, throwing her arms around one of the remaining supports just as Milan had done. Venecia's hands scrabble uselessly against her legs, failing to find a proper grip as she slips lower and lower.
And then she's falling, screaming spiralling away as she tumbles through the air.
There isn't even a noise as she hits the ground far below, a pool of blood spreading around her distorted body within seconds. She's done it. Venecia's dead.
"You couldn't have pulled me up first?" Milan yells at her. He's managed to swing one leg over the support, but he's still hanging quite precariously. Not nearly as bad as her, though—Aranza is just grateful that the sight of Venecia's body is more gratifying than the height is terrifying.
"You're fine!" she yells back, indignant. "Get over it!"
"You could have—"
Finally, her cannon blasts. The announcement follows instantaneously, silencing Milan as the weight of their final action finally hits him. Aranza can't help it as a gleeful laugh bubbles its way free from her throat, euphoria over-taking every inch of worry she had ever felt.
"May I present to you the Victors of District Eight - Milan Crusoe and Aranza de León!"
It's a shame, really, that she wasn't announced first.
One day, though.
One day.
THE VICTORS OF DISTRICT EIGHT… MILAN CRUSOE (16) AND ARANZA DE LEÓN. (18).
thecentennialcelebration . tumblr . com
Thank you to Dyl and Jane for Aranza and Milan. ❤
Happy 100k! Already. Kill me. :)
This is probably the least edited chapter thus far, and I'll be the first to admit that consistently trying to edit 12k-ers is just not a thing when you're busy. Hopefully I'll get back on track once the chapters are a more manageable size. Otherwise, I hope it's not too glaringly obvious.
Until next time.