XXX: The Night Before.
Casia Braddock, 13
Victor of District Nine
Casia didn't really plan on sleeping tonight.
She's sure, like most others trapped within this building, that the night hours will be spent sleepless, gazing at things unseen instead of getting much needed rest.
Unlike the others, though, Casia isn't awake out of any sort of fear. She isn't tossing and turning in the sheets, though she has found refuge in bed, overtop the covers. Casia doesn't find herself bothered by the concept of dying anymore than she did the first time… if anything, these hours are a safe haven, the time to enjoy the little bit of freedom she has left.
Not that this is truly freedom, but it's better than the alternative of already having spent more than six months in a coffin.
She doesn't move when there's a knock at the door—Lilou has managed to go to sleep, as far as she knows, which means there's only one other option. "Come in," she invites softly, unsure if Hari hears her until he steps in and lets the door click shut behind him.
"Hey, kid," he begins. "Mind if I sit?"
"'Y'know, you call me that an awful lot for someone who is still a teenager," she reminds him.
He jabs a finger into his own chest. "Legal adult here."
"Sure," she drawls, feeling no urge to sit up and face him as he takes a seat at the end of the bed. Casia can't remember a time when she felt comfortable enough with someone so quickly as to let them in without worrying. Hari hauls a spare pillow into his lap, leaning forward so that his chin is braced in his palm, a small sigh escaping his lips.
But they're quiet. He's not boisterous, either, never annoys Casia to the degree that Cajus has. Then again, who really has, at least as of late?
"How are you doing?" he asks finally.
She shrugs. "Fine, I think."
"That's good."
"Is it?"
"Don't get too deep on me, now," he warns. "You feel the same as last time?"
"Pretty much."
"Then it's good. Right now you're more calm than most people, and that includes all of the ones that are a lot older than you. You're not being unrealistic, but you're also not allowing yourself to panic."
Why should she, really? Casia knows what she's capable of, as does a great portion of the entire world. Granted they don't know the full truth of what she's gotten up, but that's a secret she'll have to take with her if she's going to get anywhere.
Not even Hari can be trusted with something like that.
"Have you ever mentored someone like me?" she questions.
"I don't think anyone has ever mentored someone like you."
She stretches forward to jab her toes into his leg, earning a smile. "It's only been two years before you, though," he explains. "Ceres… she was fine. I think it was strange because she was older than me, and she never wanted to talk. Teff was better. Fifteen. Scared out of his goddamn mind, but he never let you feel bad for him."
And Casia can't remember what happened to either of them, not in the slightest, but it clearly wasn't good. Whether it was twenty-fourth or second, the ending matters little when the outcome was death regardless.
Watching Sam die felt like a relief. Watching herself get closer to victory was not painful. But for Hari, even after only a few years of watching kid after kid meet their untimely demise, it must be excruciating to see it happen.
Like she said—she knows what she's capable of. But to get out a second time, Casia will have to be even more, and that's enough to daunt her for the first time in her life.
She doesn't know how to do that. Casia is small in ever sense of the world, hidden and unseen and that's how she likes it. She doesn't know how to be a victor.
"I'm sorry if this is all stressing you out," Hari says.
"It's fine," she murmurs. "I'm fine."
"I know you are," Hari agrees. "That's why I want you to know how proud I am."
Casia can only blink, owl-eyed, at the ceiling. Even looking his way feels like too much. She swallows away the lump in her throat, the words that feel as if they're meant for someone else. "Why?"
"Because you're here, and it may be hell, but you're taking it like a fuckin' champ. You're just a kid and you're smaller than everyone here, but you know what? You could do it. I know you could. If you walk out of there alive, I won't be surprised in the slightest."
"You'd be the only one."
Hari huffs out a laugh. "Nah. You've got a fan-club somewhere out there, believe me."
The people who sent her that knife, long forgotten. The ones who looked at her with bright, shining eyes when they realized she got a seven, and the ones who clapped like they were looking at a star. To be proud of Casia is to not truly know her, but she has no heart in her to correct them. Whatever was left of it was crushed to a pulp sometime last year, watching her knife sink into that boy's flesh.
Lilou had looked so horrified to see it, too. Like she was looking at an animal.
A monster, even.
"I think I can do it, too," she whispers. Why should she be scared of reality?
"Then there's no need for a goodbye," Hari says. Not now, not tomorrow before she boards the hovercraft. If Casia says she can do it, then she must. She has something to care about, finally, to work towards.
Holding onto that can be all she thinks of now.
Tova Revelis, 18
Victor of District One
There is nothing sensible in the world about going upstairs to see Aranza.
If she hadn't offered, Tova wouldn't be moving in that direction. She'd be with Maderia, more than likely, tangled up with Maderia, but even that might be too complicated for their last night here.
Not that going upstairs is going to be any different.
To her credit, she resists the urge for some time. She paces the living room floor. Makes herself a midnight snack and forces herself to eat it despite the uneasiness that has found an uncomfortable home in her stomach. She's not even sure why it's there—that in itself is so unfamiliar that Tova wishes nothing more than to be rid of it.
Perhaps that's why she ultimately makes the decision to trek upstairs, shifting from foot to foot as the elevator floats between floors and then finally decides to descend.
Hopefully Aranza is still awake; Tova has left her waiting long enough.
The sight that greets her upon the elevator doors sliding open is somehow not surprising—if anything, it feels like the world's way of offering Tova something at long last. Penance, for Ives dying alone in that shop and for the past months spent rotting in the Capitol.
Amani Layne would rather be anywhere else in the world than staring her in the face, no doubt even back in that arena, lifeless on a rooftop. He has no chance at evading the situation; even if he had, Tova would have jumped forward to halt him in his tracks. She takes her time, instead, preparing herself with a breath large enough for all the words she's had stored up.
"So," she says slowly, stepping carefully into the opposite side of the elevator. "You're the reason this thing is taking so damn long, aren't you?"
He doesn't respond, leveling her with a blank stare. There are no buttons selected. He is taking it at random, letting whim carry him to random floors and places in the name of, Tova suspects, a distraction.
She doesn't press the floor for eight—instead, as soon as the elevator begins to move once again, she slams her closed fist down on the emergency stop. Regardless of how long this truly takes, Tova won't be interrupted. It would be more gratifying, however, if Amani looked the slightest bit nervous. Granted it may have something to do with the fact that he's a full head taller than her, but that's never stopped Tova before in any of her quests for vengeance.
"I don't think the Capitol would appreciate you murdering me in the elevator," he tells her plainly, crossing his arms over his chest.
Short-sleeved shirt, scars on his arms. Tova smiles.
"I don't know about that." She shrugs. "Considering the twelve, I'd say the Capitol is pretty keen on you being dead."
"They wouldn't be the first."
Himself. Her. If she had a knife, Tova may just be tempted to try it.
"Really, why do you hate me so much?" he asks. "I've done nothing to you."
"I've been stuck here because of you—"
"You're stuck here because of the Capitol. It would have taken them little time to do a bit of risk assessment, keep the most dangerous ones here. Instead they took the easy way out. That's why you're here. If you still wish I was dead, that's fine, but I won't let you scapegoat me for it."
Well, doesn't that just sound like a neat little piece of logic that she's not going to fall for? The Capitol would never have done anything without his action. She's been reduced to speaking to Aviya through the phone, listening to her father cooking dinner in the background. Her last phone call with them Maelle was there, too, wishing her luck. I'm sure he's rooting for you, wherever he is.
Tova had bitten her tongue not to say the words he's in a fucking cemetery, because the last thing Ives' sister needed was facts she already knew.
"Actually," Tova says finally. "I don't wish you were dead. Quite the opposite, in fact. Frankly I'm delighted you're still alive."
"You have a funny way of showing it."
"I'm delighted," she continues, drawing each syllable out. "That you failed. I'm glad that you're so fucking incapable that you couldn't even off yourself correctly, 'cause now I get you instead. And believe me, when that happens, you're going to wish you had succeeded."
She wishes he would do something other than stand there—widen his eyes, flinch, even so much as move to strike her. Instead, all Tova gets is the shift of his feet as the elevator jerks back to life, the fake emergency called off at last.
"Are you going to bed?" he questions. "Or should I pick another floor for you?"
Tova slams down on the next button in the list—three—and leaves him to stew in the eerie silence that follows. There's no telling if he's exiting on the next floor or not, and she refuses to ride all the way up with him. Her anger will be too obvious, and if Aranza really is waiting, it will open up a line she's unwilling to travel down.
At least with anyone else.
It feels too much as if she's running when she exits onto the dark, empty void that is the third floor, but her eyes find the exit to the staircase quickly enough. "I'll see you tomorrow, Four," she calls over her shoulder.
He's not fucking worth it. All he's good for is fighting, killing.
"So I assume," he says, the last second muffled as the doors seal shut, separating them.
But not for good. Tova will see to that soon enough.
Levi Alcandre, 18
Victor of District Two
Though he can't say there was much of anything productive done, at least his last night here wasn't spent in misery.
At just shy of three in the morning he begins the trek downstairs, each step seeming further away than the last. He likes sleep just as much as the next person, but Levi is perfectly capable of running on just a few hours—those few hours he really ought to be getting now that he's torn himself away.
Hopefully Jordyn and Weston are doing the same. They had all agreed it was the sensible thing to do just a few short minutes ago, but were any of them really that sensible?
Definitely not.
Levi isn't sure what his brain attributes the blue glow filling the main room to; he's halfway to the hall before he makes the conscious decision to pause, recognizing the pale illumination of the television as well as the silhouette facing it in the center of the couch. For a moment he thinks he's gone unrecognized, his footsteps light enough that he won't be confronted, until Sander turns and looks right at him.
But that should be it. Would be, if the look in Sander's eyes wasn't different for once. "What you're doing with them isn't smart," he states, as if it's the most simple fact in the world.
"Excuse me?" he blurts out.
"I don't think I have to spell it out. They're not… reliable. You know that."
Levi barks out a laugh. "So we go together, right?"
"That's not what I—"
"You were probably thinking it, let's not lie. Anyway, where the hell do you get off telling me about how wrong my allies are when you're allied with someone that's suicidal?"
"You don't know him."
"And you don't know them," he points out. Sander sighs, sagging in further against the back of the couch as if the beginnings of a simple fight have already drained him. He used to put up more of one before Levi turned this all to shit.
Instincts tell him to leave—removing himself from this situation is the smartest thing Levi can do for both of them. But this is his heart they're talking about here, the one thing Levi cannot just toss aside. He's made his decisions, chosen the people that are actually good for him. Up until this very moment he's felt light, airy… like the horrors of the past never happened at all.
He's always cruelly reminded of his own atrocities when he least expects it.
"Are you sure you've thought this through?" Sander questions. If Levi focuses, he almost sounds genuinely concerned, as if Levi's well-being and who he spends his time with is high on the priority list.
He can't keep rolling over and taking it. Levi has been sleepless for months, walking on fucking eggshells in order to make this right, and nothing has changed. Nothing is going to change. You make one mistake, no matter how terrible, and that's it—branded for life a traitor, not good enough for someone who used to call you a friend.
Even if that isn't what Sander intended, it's the way he acts.
"You know what, no," Levi says. "I'm not sure I've thought this through. But at least I'm not fucking miserable which is all I've ever been with you. I apologized, alright? I've apologized a dozen fucking times and it seems to go in one ear and out the other. It's not enough."
Sander sighs again. It's longer this time, heavier. "I wanted it to be enough."
"Clearly." He shakes his head. "The sooner both of us move on, the better. I'll stop hating every second I'm within sight of you and you can stop pretending you care. How's that sound?"
"Levi—"
"I'm done," he says firmly. He can't let this go on any longer. "We're done."
A part of him almost wants to make the walk back upstairs just to rub it in Sander's face. He forces himself, instead, down the hall, Sander's eyes burning holes into his back the whole while. Someone will surely be woken by how hard he slams the door to his room, the noise echoing down the hall like an alarm.
He's practically buzzing, blood burning and alive with fervor, but as he leans up against the door Levi is startled to find that the weight seeming to exist permanently on his chest has lifted, carried away on invisible wings. Everything—the anger, the betrayal, the lingering feeling of death that has plagued him for months now—it's gone.
Levi could almost cry, but he knows the relief isn't the only reason. Of course a part of him will always care. They were confidantes, training partners, friends. They trusted each-other without question. To let that go feels as if a void opens up inside of him, a strange emptiness fitted beneath his ribs. His last part of home, the only that truly meant something, gone.
But it's for the best. Now that he's said the words, they really are done.
Some ten minutes later, when he's still standing there, he hears Sander pad down the hall. No longer does he tense, waiting for confrontation that never comes. Finally Levi has been freed from the burden of lying on the forest floor, half-strangled, tears streaming from his eyes.
Freedom has never tasted so sweet. Only a bitter aftertaste remains at the back of his throat, shreds of caring that will never quite go away. Levi is no robot—he cannot simply erase years of his life, nor the feelings associated with it. He's sure, if he were ever going to ask, that Sander would admit to feeling the same way.
Levi has others to care about, now. People that make him smile and laugh and feel human again. He has a home to go back to, one that Sander will not exist in.
It will always hurt, but hasn't he always been told that pain is temporary?
His freedom will reign forever.
Ilan Azar, 17
Victor of District Seven
Ilan leaves the curtains loose so that when dawn breaks over the horizon, he's one of the first to see it.
No matter how much he tried back home it was rare to catch a glimpse of it when he often stayed up with Vitali in the treehouse, long into the night. Even on the mornings when he could rouse himself so much of it was hidden beyond the trees that all Ilan could truly see was the glow of the sky, soft pinks and burnt orange.
A mural could never live up to that, even if Ilan painted a million of them. Still, he had the images, and he wanted one more to go along with it.
Here each ray glints off the buildings and reflects into a thousand more, tiny little rainbows darting out across the glass and over the streets. Despite the inherent sharpness and grayscale of the landscape below him, it looks just as beautiful in the sky as it always has.
He can see it well enough from the safety of his room, but Ilan wants to breathe it in, really feel it. He can hear Aeson stirring in his respective room, no doubt ready for the day and eager to herd them off, but no one is present before his eyes to stop him from heading to the roof, so that's exactly what Ilan does. There won't be such freedom of choice soon enough.
Gentle voices float towards him on the wind the second he opens the door to the roof access, a stronger gust ruffling the unbrushed curls at his temples. Ilan only spares them a cursory glance before he ducks his head, turning to the edge of the roof in the opposite direction. Whoever they are, they're just sitting there, only the two of them. Nothing to worry about.
So he hopes.
They don't seem to be watching him anymore than he is them, though. Ilan inches as close to the edge as he's willing to travel, the glimmer of the forcefield alarmingly bright under each individual sunbeam. The sun is warm against his face, the wind cool enough that all he can feel is peace.
It's a falsity, the entire illusion, but one that Ilan is more than happy to cradle just for a few minutes. He's back home. He woke up early enough, for once, and Vitali is with him. They're watching the sun.
"You're stressing me the hell out standing that close," one of the voices says behind him. Ilan blinks, failing to realize they're addressing him until the silence. Only then does he turn, squinting against the spots in his vision.
Even in his still sleep-fogged brain he recognizes Cress Cassidy; he watched her Games just a few years ago. Ilan remembers watching his mother shed real tears when she won, murmuring something about how nice it was that Twelve would finally see something good this year. That was the kind of person she was—kind-hearted and appreciative, even after watching both of Seven's kids get cut down in the bloodbath like the trees they came from.
Cress is staring at him, almost suspiciously. At her side, so is Ravi. He has no reason to fear the Twelve's that he knows of, especially when they're so unobtrusive.
Until now.
"Uh," Ilan says awkwardly, flapping his hand at the forcefield. "I mean, you know…"
"I know," Cress echoes. "It would stop you from splattering all over the sidewalk, but it would also fry you like an egg. So preferably don't. Or at least wait until we leave, first."
"I wasn't going to," he tells her.
She gives him a quick thumbs-up. Looks away. Ilan is relieved to turn back to the edge, daunting as the height may be. Perhaps there's something inherently and stupidly Seven about it, but it doesn't bother him. He's climbed ladders and tree trunks and height is so simple, not scary at all.
Not compared to most other things in life.
Even when he hears the scuff of feet behind him Ilan can't bring himself to turn. The sun climbs higher still—the blue is beginning to encroach, now, the same old one that exists back in Seven and here and everywhere in-between.
It's not so special like that, is the thing. Not worth looking at.
"You should get back downstairs, Seven," Cress says. "Don't want the 'keepers to come looking for you."
That he does not. "Was just about to," he murmurs under his breath, uncaring for the fact that they can't really hear him. Ilan backtracks for as long as he possibly can, eyes fixated on the remnants of color left in the sky, all the way until he realizes that the door is still being held open. Cress is waiting all the way at the bottom of the stairs, Ravi's hand still braced to allow him through.
He hurries through, then, but not without one last glance. That may be his last one; who knows if the arena will give him such a sight. Who knows if the arena will even have a sky.
"Are you scared?" Ilan asks, halfway down the stairs. There's no point to asking, no use in words when they don't know one another.
He's not sure why he feels obligated to ask.
"Of what?" Ravi settles on finally. The metal clangs beneath his feet.
"Dying."
"I wish I was."
Ilan pauses—not enough for it to be truly noticeable, just a small hesitation in his step. "What do you mean?"
"We all should be scared. I still feel half-asleep."
And so does Ilan. Like he could crawl right back beneath the covers and close his eyes. The thing is, he is scared to die. Terrified, even. To think about all the things he's left unsaid, the people he needs to see again, the life he needs to live… he can't die now.
He needs to wake up. This is their reality, his reality, approaching at the pace of a speeding train.
It's about time he accepted it.
A bit of last minute contention before the Games begin... or not. You decide what it is.
Until next time.