XXIII: Training, Day Two (II).
Levi Alcandre, 18
Victor of District Two
She has yet to let go of his arm, and Levi finds he doesn't even care.
For the first time in a long while, he's not thinking of the past or of anything that could follow him around when the hours get darkest. His mind has been taken elsewhere, a place only suitable for those that don't mind traveling down the riskiest of paths.
Levi knows what this means, and as frightening as the prospect may be, moving on has never sounded so appealing.
That's why, when Jordyn ends up sticking by his side, there's no thought in his mind of running. Every single person here has their cards out on the table, by choice or not. Levi can't and won't fear alliance or friendship because of what happened, and especially not because it could be lethal. If he's going to die, what's the use in lying low and meeting his fate as an utterly miserable human?
"I've got someone for you," Jordyn announces—Levi can't tell if she's speaking to him or Weston as they stop at the table's edge.
"You do realize we talked all day, don't you?" Weston drawls. She makes a face at him, dragging Levi down to side at her side.
"That doesn't mean we all need to eat lunch together."
"I feel like that's what it means."
"What are you, the luncheon police?" Jordyn asks. She jabs her tongue at him. "You're on my side, right?"
Her shoulder taps into his; Levi can't quite figure out if there's even a correct side to pick, too swept up in the sheer notion that this feels normal. He's a teenager again, acting the way he always should have. There's nothing anchored around his ankles to drag him down.
Levi shrugs. "You both sound ridiculous, honestly."
"You're the one sitting here with us," Weston points out. Touche.
When Jordyn had approached him earlier in the morning dragging Weston along behind her, Levi had hesitated. Rohana had quite the distaste for people she considered conniving little foxes, an old hang-up from the One girl during her own games, and Levi didn't doubt that Jordyn and Weston fit the bill perfectly. When he told her about this, she wasn't going to be happy.
It was his happiness that was the priority, though—like he said, he wasn't going to die downtrodden and dejected.
"Here I thought you guys just wanted me for my skill," Levi says. "Turns out you just want someone to look like the biggest fool."
"To be fair, I killed more people than you."
"I killed someone before the Games—"
"Boys, boys," Jordyn interrupts, laughing. "You're both equally ridiculous. Levi got shoved onto the Killing Floor, Wes puts make-up onto corpses… you know."
"And what about you?"
Jordyn shrugs. "I'm just here to look pretty."
That she is—it's not as if Levi can deny it. The way the two of them have been parading around suggests they like the attention. Crave it, even. Levi doesn't think he's quite at that level, but still. Anything that's not him thinking about Sander or Two or what all went wrong is a win in his book.
"I guess you sort of have to." Levi scoots away from her before he says it, fully prepared for the backlash. "Being reaped, and all. Don't have much else going for you."
She socks him hard in the arm; harder than he expected, anyway. "God, why on earth have I chosen to associate with the two of you?"
"You love us," Weston says.
"Hardly."
"We're cute, at least."
"Just cute?"
"Oh, don't get cocky now," she says.
"Cocky's my middle name—"
And Levi is smiling. Smiling so big his cheeks are beginning to ache, his jaw clenching in the oddest of ways. When was the last time he felt such easy joy without even having to try? If they hadn't come up to him earlier, Levi doesn't doubt that he'd be having lunch the same way as yesterday—alone, fitting himself into a corner, utterly silent. So unlike himself that if he happened to pass a mirror it would certainly shatter for the stranger that peered back.
He's coming back. He can feel it.
They're quiet now, the two of them. Levi realizes they're both staring at him. It takes a moment for him to wipe the tremendous grin on his face, eventually settling for burying it in his palm as he brings his elbow up to rest at the table's edge.
It's still not enough to disguise it.
"It's a good look on you," Jordyn points out. Anything would be, when compared to misery. Thankfully by the time Levi drops his hand he's managed to wipe away the smile, settling for shoving a bite of food into his mouth before it can return.
It's utterly silly that just a few short hours can change everything. A part of him wants to speak up and thank them, as humiliating as the thought is. They didn't have to choose him. They didn't have to bother.
He's just lucky that he did.
"Would you look at that," Weston deadpans. "She's already found a new favorite."
"Aw, I still like you too, Wessie."
She leans into his side, just for a moment, hair tickling at his shoulder. The kick Weston surely aims at her beneath the table connects with his ankle, instead, but instead of choosing a different trajectory Weston nudges him again, so casually. So easy. It all feels like the most blatant form of reassurance Levi has ever had the privilege to see.
He's meant to be here. He's meant for this.
Things will not end for him alone.
Clementine Alinsky, 17
Victor of District Eleven
The more she watches Pietro wheel a sword around, the more concerned Clem becomes.
"You're going to take someone's eye out with that thing," she informs him, leaning back so far that she nearly tilts off the back edge of the table. It would be worth it if it meant avoiding his next swing.
"Yours?" he questions.
"Preferably not."
Blunted as it is, Clementine doubts it could do any serious damage, but she's not keen on finding out. The prep team would not be happy with her in the least if she showed up with a black eye or a bloody nose.
She should be doing something productive too, she knows—or at least pretend to, which is more along the lines of what Pietro is doing. For the most part, since lunch ended, Clementine hasn't been all that successful at moving. Even if confronting the reason is slightly nauseating, she's not being left with much choice.
Although they've spent almost every minute together since the start of this thing, neither here nor Pietro have officially said this is it. Then again, Amias hadn't done that with her either; Clementine can't tell what's different this time. You'd think with all this time, though, that things would be more clear-cut. Clem couldn't have to second guess or hover like Pietro was going to cut his losses and run the moment she looked away.
"Hey, P?" she wonders, successfully halting his still wild motions. "We're allies, right?"
"Why do you ask?"
"I'm just… asking, I guess. I don't know."
She hates sounding so uncertain, nothing more than a fragile literal girl reduced to wondering if she would end up friendless once again.
Pietro only blinks, though. "Do you not want to be?"
"No!" she insists. "No, no, I do, sorry, that was sort of confusing, I guess… I do. Want to be allies."
He looks bemused. Clementine sort of wants to smack him, but she resists the urge. "So we are. Don't worry about it."
She's worrying about it. "Alright."
There's that doubt creeping in again, though, filling up the little hollow space located just behind her heart. Why couldn't he have just agreed instead of tugging her along, even if it only lasted a few seconds? For all the games they have to play, this doesn't have to be one of them. Especially if they're allies.
Clementine scrubs her hands up and down her arms, trying to rid her skin of the unusual prickle that has overcome it. "Should we be doing more, do ya think?"
A change of topic is good. This will get him thinking, hopefully, and they won't have to discuss any lingering awkwardness from her question, nor will Clem have to sit here and stew in it. Pietro continues to hack away at a dummy, though she sees his brow raise, no doubt a million thoughts running through his mind all at once as he begins to ponder her question.
Thankfully, he doesn't seem annoyed by how many of them she asks. Then again, he asks just as many, doesn't he?
"Did you have something in mind?" he asks.
"More allies."
"You do recall what happened the last time both of us had a group of allies, right?"
She'd rather not be reminded of it, truthfully. She also knows what happened when it was just her and Amias, her and Farasha… that didn't end well either. Some numbers just seem to be cursed.
"Not four then, or two," she decides. "Three."
Three seems like an ample number. Enough to be of use, not small enough to be inconspicuous. There's no truly big groups this year—no Career pack to deal with, no truly formidable or overwhelming threats. Her and Pietro came together easily enough so early on, but Clem finds herself begrudging just how smoothly it still seems to be happening for others.
"Three is a number I can get behind," Pietro decides. He turns back to face her, wiping a line of sweat from his brow. She has no idea why he's sweating so much when he's hardly done anything. "Is there anyone you had in mind?"
Clementine swivels on the table-top, too, letting her eyes roam over the rest of the room. Of course the people who have already made their choices are off-limits, but there's enough pickings to sift through.
"The Ten's will slaughter us both," Pietro guesses. "Sloane too, I'm guessing."
"Kai's out of the question."
"No shit," he mutters. As bad as Clementine's conscience wants to feel, she can't quite acquire pity for someone who sentenced themselves to die. "Eight?"
Aranza is most definitely preoccupied. As for Milan, Clementine finds herself with the suspicious feeling that he'd scoff if she even got close to him. She'd rather not be embarrassed, thank you very much. She can only shake her head in response, listening to Pietro's answering hum.
It was definitely easier last time. She had the confidence to march straight up to someone no matter their circumstance and take ownership of the situation without asking for it. Being the one to steer was the job she was meant for. Now, with everyone flitting around her, Clementine feels as if she's lost control entirely.
No matter who her eyes find, they keep returning to the same place. It could truly be their only option. Everything else is too extreme one way or the other—too weak or too wrong. Too frightening or too feeble.
This, though… this could work.
"Let me handle this." Clementine jumps from the table, leaving Pietro behind as she begins to stride forward. She hears a snort erupt from behind her, though she wouldn't be surprised to see him follow soon enough. They've done everything together.
That doesn't mean it has to stay that way, solely. Three really could work.
Clementine knows what she has to do.
Lilou Braddock, 15
Victor of District Nine
Lilou sees her coming from such a way off that it's borderline terrifying.
All of her effort is devoted into keeping her head down, fingers still tampering away with the bits of metal and rope splayed out before her on the table in the hopes that it will turn out to be something more.
She's sort of over being pleasant and chatty, honestly. Across the table from her, Zoya is silent except for the curse word that seems to slip out of his mouth every thirty seconds or so—despite that, he actually seems to be succeeding where Lilou isn't. If that doesn't spell out doom, she isn't sure what will. Someone with that many fingers less than her can do it, but she can't?
It's a good thing she always knew in her heart of hearts that traps weren't her specialty.
Granted, what is, though? Certainly not talking. Lilou keeps her eyes fixed down as Clementine marches right up and stops at the table's edge, a wide smile fixed across her face. In her peripherals, she sees Zoya's head angle up, the suspicious narrowing of his eyes.
"Hello!" she says brightly. "May I sit?"
"Free country," he responds. Her lips press together hard as she avoids barking out a laugh—it's really not worth the attention it would draw. Clementine sits down so hard beside him that the entire table rattles, and Lilou's hand shoots out to catch what little trap progress she's made from clattering apart.
For a minute, she's left in relative peace. She chooses not to focus too intently on what the two of them are saying; it sounds like nothing beyond pleasantries, and even then Zoya somehow says it all in a voice that sounds irritated.
But then Clementine's hand jabs across the table, nearly knocking over her progress again. "It's Lilou, right? I'm Clementine."
"That's my name," she confirms, staring at Clementine's hand until she eventually retracts it. Somehow, that doesn't seem to deter her. If anything she only barrels forward at an even more breakneck pace, more determined than ever.
"Well, it's good to meet you both. Me and my ally were thinking—"
"You and Twelve, right?" Zoya clarifies.
"The backstabbers," Lilou says sagely, sounding even more mocking than she intended. Zoya huffs out a laugh under his breath as Clementine's mouth turns down into something resembling a frown. Finally, the overconfidence has been blown away.
She's not much better, really, and neither is Zoya. They both have blood on their hands of people who may not have expected to see it there.
At least Lilou wasn't so blatant about it.
"Call it what you wish," Clementine says. "You may not like our strategies, but I didn't expect anyone to."
"That was a strategy?" Lilou mutters under her breath. She can tell even without looking now that Clementine is rapidly moving down the path towards outright fuming, all because Lilou said a grand total of nine words. Back in Nine, that would be considered a talent, but here… well, it seems like there's more than enough bad attitude to go around.
"Hey, Lils."
A hand lands on her arm, but she starts more at the sound of the nickname than anything else, Casia's wide blue eyes staring back at her when she peers over her shoulder. "Everything okay?" Lilou asks.
"Uh, yeah," Casia says. Her eyes flit between the three of them as her jaw works. "I was just wondering if you uh, wanted to help me… run the gauntlet?"
"Do I ever," Lilou announces, pushing aside the absurdity of the request as she pushes back from the table, waving farewell to the two she leaves sitting there. "Have fun!"
Only when they walk away, side-by-side, does Casia let her hand fall away. "Help you run the gauntlet?" Lilou hisses.
"I didn't know what else to say, alright? It worked, didn't it?"
Oh. Oh, Casia was saving her, no matter the awkwardness she forced onto them in her quest. More than that is the fact that Casia just ultimately claimed her, dragging her away from people that may have tried to take her. Of course she wouldn't have, but the fact alone that she's wanted is enough. Lilou is good at being alone. Most of the time it's even the preferable option.
She just can't deny that it's nice to have someone. Even if she does feel quite useless as she eventually follows Casia to the gauntlet, shifting from foot to foot as her younger ally ascends the ladder to the first platform.
Casia lingers, though, hand held over her brow as she looks out over the gymnasium, the tallest she's ever been. "You don't think he'll go for it, do you?"
Lilou has the unfortunate gut feeling in her stomach even before she turns around, finding the table she had once left. Clementine is still there, shoulder pressed nearly into Zoya's as they chat. It seems much more mutual now, a back and forth conversation that seems to flow without Lilou's presence there to interrupt it.
It feels like she watches for so long before Clementine eventually leaves him be, but if anything it looks like an amicable parting. Definitely not a firm no on the alliance front if that's indeed what Clementine was searching for.
Even the best known traitors have to be able to find someone. Someone could say the same about Lilou, if Casia hadn't taken some amount of pity on her.
Erena may not seem as significant to anyone else but her death still sits like a stone in Lilou's gut, heavier than anything.
"Better him than me," Lilou says finally.
"Better him than you," Casia agrees. No matter how different the two of them may be, at least they can remain in agreement about that.
They have each-other—right now, there isn't much else needed.
Sander Elek, 18
Victor of District Two
Sander never thought he would feel like an alien in a place like this.
No matter his troubles on the inside, he had always known that this was the type of environment he belonged in. A place where he wasn't weak or fragile. All of it had been worth the risk to know that he wasn't entirely a lost cause.
For so long he had felt like he found his purpose, but now it was all fading. Even standing here before the weapon's rack, hands inches away from grasping something he knew so well, Sander couldn't make himself do it.
So many images filled his head. Taurean's bloody hand grasping for his own. The ruined crater that he had made of Khalon's face. What Levi had looked like mere moments from death, Sander's hands around his throat. The weapon shouldn't have such an effect on him, and yet he couldn't shake it.
It was more than that, of course. He could hear Levi laughing—it was good to know that he wasn't alone, something Sander would never wish on him, but the mere sound made him on-edge. There was someone watching him, too, and he had watched Ten's Games enough times over to know that Hawke Rabanus wasn't a friendly person to spend your time around. He wasn't watching out of pleasant curiosity.
Frankly, Sander didn't want to know what he was watching for.
Going chasing after Amani felt pathetic, a level he wasn't quite ready to stoop to. He didn't need an ally, a friend, to save him from Hawke's watching eyes. Amani had enough to deal with; it wasn't fair that he would be shouldered with Sander's bullshit on top of it.
If only he had the courage to say something, tell him to fuck off or something else unkind that would chase off most good people.
If there were any of them in here left.
Sander finally finds it in him to pick up a mace, navigating to the dummies. No one's been over here today, leaving him with a minefield of choice, lines of gray bodies ready to be torn to pieces. He could take them all out in seconds.
Perhaps it will be good for him, too.
"Wouldn't come any closer if I were you, Three. Doesn't feel like it's very safe for you over here."
Even though the sentence clearly isn't directed at him, Sander can't stop himself from turning around. Alia is at least ten feet off from the station itself, watching on in her own right. When Hawke's words ring out over them she goes stiff, managing to hold steady in a way that's truly impressive, but Sander sees the worry in her eyes.
It's like watching an ant about to be stepped on by a human.
"Just leave it, Ten," Sander suggests. How easy it is to find a voice when he's not the one in danger. "She's not doing anything wrong."
"Didn't ask you, Two."
"You didn't ask her, either. She's watching, same as you. Leave it."
Arguing is never worth it, but he finds himself relieved when Alia's eyes flit to him, the worry in her eyes grown to something that looks more thankful. He doesn't have to be cruel. No matter the trials he's been put through, tearing someone down is the last thing on his mind.
Even though he had. Even though he wanted to.
He's lucky that Hawke isn't someone to speak up often. By the time Alia skitters off, though his eyes look rightfully angered, he's picked up a weapon of his own and has turned off to his own set of dummies. Anybody else would have been armed with things to say; Sander certainly gave them enough to work with in such a short span of time. He cried, for fuck's sake, sobbed his heart out on the ground and was fully prepared to die because there wasn't much use in living.
Even… even Amani hadn't cried, not once. Not after losing two friends and being so lost in his own head that he couldn't take it anymore. He had just shut down.
It's not something Sander is capable of.
Luckily, when he turns back to swing the mace at the very first of the dummies, the spikes connect so hard that it tears through the fabric at the thing's neck, spills its innards out. The entire head flies off in one clean motion, tumbling across the floor until it rolls past Hawke and beyond, all the way to—
He shouldn't have looked.
Levi is watching him, now. By the time Sander looks up there's not enough of it for him to look away in turn. There's enough of a distraction there in his apparent allies that he could switch back easy enough, but he's just staring.
If there was anything malicious in it, it would be much easier to explain. That's his thinking face, the one he makes when he's actually trying to come up with something before it spills out of his mouth anyway. It's almost like he wants to ask Sander the golden question.
Are you okay?
It's intrinsic to them both, a thing asked and answered at least a dozen times by various people over the past few months. A question Sander has asked him, a question Levi had asked him back. It feels like such a long time ago. It's as if he's aged an impossible amount, to a time in his life where he can no longer recall what normalcy feels like. He's not okay.
A part of him doubts that Levi is, too, even if he looks it. Even if he turns back to Weston and Jordyn and laughs, so carefree, like he has every right in the world to. Sander wishes he could do that, too. He wishes he could be okay.
That just doesn't seem like much of a possibility anymore.
I forgot I'm supposed to do this thing called writing author's notes.
So hi. Alliances updated once again. See y'all next week.
Until next time.