XXXIII: The Games - Day One, Afternoon.
Maderia Elvario, 18
Tribute of District One
In all her life, Maderia Elvario cannot recall a time where she was well and truly alone.
Until now.
If it was not her mother, her brother was toddling along after her from the time he was old enough to walk on unsteady feet. She collected friends aplenty at school, sparring partners and welcomed onlookers at the Academy. Maderia was met with thunderous applause upon her volunteering, delighted smiles during her interview, a warm set of arms with a girl's soft smile to hold her tight in the arena.
She never thought she would be wholly grateful for Tova's presence—there would always be something between them, a note of discomfort. A reminder of death.
But, Maderia realized, she missed her. Was that because Tova was a person worth missing, or because she had no one?
And, of course, which realization was scarier.
The grace period seems to be a blessing in disguise. A Career, all alone without allies to defend them, is as good as dead. All it took was a few intelligent outliers, their striking fists and kicking feet. Maderia was not superwoman, no matter who believed otherwise.
Twelve had taken off in one direction, one of the Nine's not far behind—no doubt she had been less concerned about him rather than anyone else, or else she would have chosen another direction. Sloane had spent much of the countdown whistling a lazy song to anyone who could hear it, only a brief pause in the even melody when the voice had boomed over the arena. She had gone the other way at a nearly comical stroll, like she had all day to find her destination.
Though, really, she sort of did.
Maderia hadn't waited for anyone else to move. The path opened up before her and she took it without thinking, focused only on what laid ahead. Finding them seemed like her only mission, because she was a creature of habit, not impending loneliness. Allies, by all intentions, were good things. That was what she had been raised to believe, the very idea of compatriots to watch your back instilled within her during every lesson. Keep them close, of course, but don't trust them. Never trust them.
She trusted them and all of their hellish qualities more than she trusted being out here alone, with only a few gargoyle-like statues and cameras to keep an eye on her.
She wonders if any of them have a better clue who's following her, keeping close enough so that they don't lose her but far enough away that they have room to spare. Maderia knows who was left when she began running, and who the options are, but that hasn't stopped her from feeling sick. Even the absence of confrontation has done nothing to settle her frayed nerves.
Maderia is being stalked, treated like she's prey, and she's not—she's better than that.
The thought had crossed her mind, upon first seeing him, to offer up some sort of an alliance, at least for the time being. Sander was, by all accounts, good. He was the type of person that she would have readily allied with the first time, had his breakdown not been so acutely displayed that she was warned away from him before ever considering it.
But she had, for that second. Maderia had even opened her mouth to call out to him before she had come back to her senses. She's almost certain that he would have agreed, but then what? He had Amani, and she had Tova and Aranza, and when they inevitably all collided, at the whims of someone watching over them, the mess would be too big to clean up.
It could be him. He was larger than her by a fair bit, could very easily cleave her head from her shoulders if he had a weapon, but she was safe for now. Sander, if he tried anything later on, would be obvious about it.
Milan scared her more.
She does not remember a terrible amount from the summer, swathed in grief and wandering the halls of the apartment in the dark, trying to come to terms with being a girl of no home and no family. But she remembers those three people in that elevator, that little girl who closed her eyes and slipped away as if she was sleeping. Most of all she remembers Milan watching them, taking longer shifts than his ally, eyes always fixated on their rapidly stilling forms.
Everyone is capable of awful things, of course. Maderia is a monster in her own right for the atrocities she committed. He was a different sort of being, though, the kind that laid carefully crafted plans and would lie in wait alongside them for hours, days even, if it meant seeing his plan through. She would strike and kill when she had to, but Maderia really was better that… wasn't she?
She took solace in the fact that if it was Milan, his brain would accomplish no rapid work against her until midnight, at the earliest. Anyone following her had no time to collect supplies or plan for the future—they were just following. Nothing more.
If only it didn't feel so sinister.
Maderia knew that anyone else, Tova, a braver and bolder Career, would stop in their tracks and call out to whoever dare stalk them and put an end to it. All she could do was keep moving and pray that her pace was enough for the time being—when these hours ended, she had no idea if what she was would be enough.
She had no weapon but her own body. If things came down to it, she was going to have to rely on her voice to get her through it.
If her time was to come, she would not cry or beg or scream. Maderia would face it like the warrior her mother raised her to be—head held high, eyes shining but proud of what she had accomplished. She would die again a second time, but this time an honorable one.
No one would be disappointed. No one would forget her name.
But first, of course, she was going to find them. Maderia had been given a task, indirect as it was, and she planned to see it through.
She would find them. She would do more.
Even if it killed her.
Sander Elek, 18
Tribute of District Two
Any advice that has ever been given to him has been thrown out the window.
Namely Aurelius' of course, as he had been the number one source of advice in Sander's life since he hit the tender age of twelve. He listened to his trainers, too, his mother and father and sister and Matthias, when it came down to it.
Even Beau, who was by all accounts not the best advice-giver in the universe, could be trusted for a nugget of wisdom or two once in a while.
But who, of any of them, could give him thoughtful words now?
He only has one comfort, reveling in the fact that wherever Amani is, at least he's not dead. Committing violence against yourself would be one way to navigate the Gamemaker's plans, but his fear in hearing a cannon never manifests. Knowing he's out there, someone to rely on and someone he can support, drives Sander forward even when his legs shake dangerously.
There's something pathetic to that, he knows, the deep-seated terror within him. Without a weapon in his hand he feels lost, almost incapable despite his advantages. Sander doesn't allow himself to look to the sky, hoping for a miracle—no one has such feelings for him anymore. They won't put a mace in his hand just because he looks.
Sander feels on the verge of crisis, too, and thinking about that only further sends him into a tailspin. If he stops moving, he will almost certainly crouch down in a corner somewhere and tip off the edge into hyperventilation until someone inevitably stumbles upon him. They would laugh. They would sneer. They would most definitely not help him.
That's why he keeps moving, even as his chest continues to tighten, body warming to the point of uncomfortableness. There is no option when the other presented means giving in.
His first relief comes in the glimmer of a blade striking against the sun, crammed in the narrow place where two stone walls meet. Knives were never really his thing, too small to do much good, but Beau had a knack for them, hitting every bullseye he aimed at, doing party tricks, hiding them in places you would never suspect.
He knows how to throw a knife, where to slice and stab to cut through a crucial artery, but it's nice to pretend that he can hear Beau's voice instructing him anyway, each step laid out simply.
There's more, too. It's little things here and there—a coil of rope looped around the base of a pot, an empty bottle around the edge of a flowering bush. He'd do better with something to carry them all, but there's no chance he'll be ungrateful for a few gifts.
Besides, he's getting closer now. Sander knows there will be more inside.
The issue, as he quickly discovers, is the stretch of water, the picturesque turquoise blue. There's no way in that he can spot—the walls, solid all the way to their pointed tops, fill his entire vision. The tower closest to him, stretching over the water by a narrow bridge, is at least a hundred feet in the air.
They never mention how Two's are just as good of climbers as Seven's. Better, even, because it's drilled into them. They scale the mountains and scramble up rock walls whenever they train outside until finding each handhold is easier than breathing. Just like knives, Sander never thought that climbing was his forte—he has too much weight to hold. It was always the nimbler ones that made it up first, all lithe muscle and speedy legs, hardly a sweat broken.
Someone like Levi, really. He had watched him do it before, both hands holding onto a jutting out ledge while his legs dangled carelessly below him, as if falling was the last thing on his mind.
It was the first on Sander's.
He could climb it. Though exhausted, Sander had done that and worse, no doubt, in the name of securing one of Two's spots. The risk of falling lurked heavily, pressing insistently at his skull as if marking the beginnings of a headache. The sun blazed in his eyes as he looked up, fingers twisting anxiously around the rope.
At least thinking was getting his mind off of the obvious—that he was fucked, perhaps, or didn't know what else to do. Maybe climbing was just the best option.
Maybe it was the only one.
His father would look on worriedly, but he would allow it. His mother and sister would fret and bounce from foot to foot as if he was a small child, unable to hold his own weight. Beau would encourage him, say something like bet I'll beat you to the top and see it through, too.
But what would Aurelius say? The voice of reason, the one who taught Sander how to breathe. His voice in Sander's head is calming as much as it is damning. You know your limits. Don't push them. Stick to what you know. If it works, why change it? If it doesn't, we'll talk. We'll work something out.
Sander knew calm and kindness—since he was old enough to understand his words, that was how she had raised him. If Sander was still wholeheartedly the child she had raised, he would no doubt turn his back on the tower and never look up at it again. He would never step into such risk, not knowing what fate could find him.
That was him two years ago, before he had bled and been betrayed and watched the light fade from the eyes of someone he once considered a friend, nearly extinguished for good.
The Sander of before had not worked. If he wanted to live, something had to change.
Despite it all, that was what he wanted. To live, to forge a type of life where one day he could forget all of this happened. Sander wanted to be happy without reservation, to wake without a hammering heart. He wanted to be free.
And perhaps freedom started with climbing.
If not, it at least started with a bit of risk.
Casia Braddock, 13
Tribute of District Nine
There's something fitting in all of this.
Though it couldn't be further from what Casia is used to, she feels oddly at home. The gardens are elaborate, something innocent to their easy pathways and quaint little places to find refuge. It's the outside looking in, something to offer a false sense of security when there should in fact be none at all.
The castle itself is menacing, the heart of darkness at the center of it all, and Casia cannot even begin to think about what types of horrors lie within it. Not because they frighten her, but because she just can't be bothered.
It feels like her. Deceptively innocent in appearance, a black stain at its center. No one wants to dig into the core, but if they don't, it's presented to them anyway.
Casia doesn't think Lilou will head there, though, not unless she's forced. A house was her biggest enemy, and it took her enough courage to enter that—she'll be out here, more than likely, looking for Casia like she's looking for Lilou. Figures, of course, that she finally allies with someone by choice and is conveniently split up from them without ever having a chance to see if it could work. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell her that alone is better, alone is what she should be.
Well, she's still going to look. Casia is not the type of person who has ever been capable of harboring much guilt, but she'll feel at least a little bad if she doesn't try. Lilou was willing to fight for her; she has to do the same.
Of course, that doesn't mean she'll be able to. Casia can only skulk around these gardens for so long before night falls, before someone tries to kill her. When it gets down to it, if she hasn't found Lilou by then, the search may have to be abandoned in lieu of more… important things. Weapons. Ways to survive.
She can survive on her own, all without Lilou.
For now she's unwound a long length of thorny vines from one of the many available bushes and tied it around the end of the branch, making what could be one of the most crude and ineffective maces that has ever existed in one hundred years of games. She has a bounty of stinging little cuts all over her palms to show for it, but she feels better being prepared, even if she doesn't know what for.
She ducks beneath a stone archway, pressing close to the wall as she looks left, then right, then right again. It might as well be a damn maze. If Casia was smart she wouldn't have come in here at all, taken the perimeter all the way around the arena until she found something more convincing. The issue being now she's not sure she could get back out, and the stupid 'makers probably don't want her to anyway.
It's just like those never-ending fields, really. Casia is trapped until the very end.
"Christ alive, what the hell are you so creepy for, you little freak."
Casia is deeply ashamed to admit to the height she jumps, whirling in ever direction in order to find the culprit of who has dared scare her. She clutches tighter to her weapon until she finds the face peeking over the next wall over—Sloane's eyes are narrowed, looking down at her crouched low to the ground, wielding, of all things, a stick.
She has no idea she looks more than slightly creepy, but that's no one else's business.
Her knuckles go white around the branch. "Careful, kiddo," Sloane warns. "They'll off you, remember?"
"Like you care."
"I mean, not really." She shrugs. "But I wasn't exactly in the market to watch a thirteen year old get fuckin' zapped, y'know?"
No. Casia does not know. She would gladly watch anyone else in here get zapped if that meant there was one less person for her to deal with down the line. Lilou could be the exception of course… if Lilou was here.
Neither of them have moved. Now that she's sighted her, she watches Sloane's relaxed posture, leaning casually against the wall, elbow braced against the top as they watch each-other. Nothing in her is bothered at this exchange, nor their proximity. Casia knows she could withstand to lighten up a little, but it doesn't feel right. Her body won't allow it.
"Where's Ten?" she asks finally. Judging by the silence, and no appearance of his own head peeking over-top the wall, he's nowhere to be found.
"Fuck if I know," Sloane answers. "Where's the other Nine?"
Casia sighs. "Fuck if I know," she sighs, put further on edge by Sloane's unhelpful, responding cackle. Like this is amusing.
Just because she's capable doesn't mean she wants this, alright? She doesn't really care about home, either, doesn't miss anyone but her mom and dad, but she's still just a kid. Once upon a time she had a future, lackluster as it may have been. Casia could have been something more than a corpse.
She turns, making her way back the way she came. Somehow, when she hears footsteps meander after her, she can't find it in her to be surprised.
"Where you going, kid?"
"Don't call me that."
"Don't call you what you are?"
What has Casia done in life to deserve this, besides the painfully obvious? Surely murder doesn't warrant being badgered like this.
"Well, if you're looking for other-Nine, mind if I tag along?" Sloane asks. "Might find my Ten in the process and I can't lie, I was sort of looking forward to not having to do all the work around here."
Casia can't believe such a thing is even happening, especially to her, but when she turns, the look on Sloane's face is deadly serious. Her smile is sort of lopsided, distracting in its own right, like she's trying to lure Casia in by being all innocent in her own right when it couldn't be more wrong. Sloane was ruthless, unforgiving. No smile can change that.
"What happens when we find our allies?" Casia questions, playing into the picturesque idea that they actually will. She's never said something so far-fetched in her entire life.
"We go our own ways, I guess."
"And what happens if it hits midnight, first?"
Sloane gives her a pointed look. "You're the one with the bludgeon. So I die, probably."
This is too casual. It took her months to talk to Lilou properly, to learn about the dog she loved so much back home and the little things she enjoyed in life. To let someone so close to her after mere minutes feels like a horror-show. She is not meant for this. Casia doesn't think she's meant for anything more than surviving.
Wasn't Lilou right, though? No one will be fooled by a quiet rustle in the dark, the appearance of an otherwise cherubic little girl. They know she's a monster, too; they'll have no trouble putting her down.
And yet, Sloane is a bigger monster. Casia knows which one she would kill first, of the two of them, which one she would make a move on.
It isn't herself.
"What d'ya say, pipsqueak?" Sloane asks, hands in her pockets, hip cocked out to the side. Like she couldn't care less about Casia's answer.
But she does, or else she wouldn't have asked in the first place.
Casia nods. "Deal."
Zoya Ossof, 16
Tribute of District Five
This is certainly a predicament, isn't it?
Zoya can't say he exactly misses Clementine's voice, if he's being honest with himself. Pietro was good company, never got too close to being anything annoying, but being alone was oddly relieving. It was pleasant to have time to breathe.
And actual, clean air… at least that he know of? Strange. He had no idea what it was like to be free of a smog-filled, industrial hell, arena or not.
He felt like an alien, as if someone had dropped him somewhere he most definitely did not belong. A fish out of water. A tiny, innocent child surrounded by a pack of Careers.
Too bad he wasn't any of this. His life would be much simpler to explain in any of those cases.
Zoya can't help but be comfortable in at least one aspect. Of course there are walls, large hedges that mimic them, stunted trees and lines of flowers, but he feels exposed. One wrong move and he's going to be flayed open because there's no true spot of safety. Where are you to hide when the pathways never truly end, when any moment someone else could stumble upon you sitting in a corner, waiting for it to end.
You'd think, given the circumstances, that he would be feeling safe at least for the next handful of hours, but even that was proving difficult. He wanted a desk to hide under, one point of access only. He'd rather a control room directly next to a nuke.
That must be why he's moving so slowly, making zero effort in searching for his allies—it's a needle in a haystack type of chore, anyway, and it seems quite labor-intensive for something he isn't even sure he wants. Zoya had agreed because it was easy, because it made sense, but now that he was alone he wasn't so sure anymore.
They'd find him if they wanted. Until then he wasn't going out of his way to make any sort of huge splash.
The last thing he needed was a repeat of last time.
At least it was good for something, though—with every step he took Zoya kept his arm halfway extended, prosthetic fingers curled and at the ready. If someone walked right into him, they'd get their face cut open with a bunch of metal and crude plastic. Serves them right, if you ask him. It's about time something finally went his way.
It didn't seem to be the only thing. His mouth had been dry for some time, now, but he had begun to hear the gentle trickling of water, bright bubbling over stone. It grows louder as the path widens, the air seemingly growing brighter as the gardens open up into a small courtyard. The last thing Zoya wants is anything more open than what he's already experienced, but his gaze is quickly caught by the mountain in the middle, clear water spilling from the top.
He can focus on that in just a minute, though—it's not going anywhere.
Then again, neither are the things he's surrounded by.
There are a dozen of them, all in close proximity, spaced around the fountain as if they're guarding it. Zoya paces between two of them, expecting some sort of alarm to be triggered as he steps past, laying a hand on the fountain, but nothing happens. He peers back at the gargoyles, twins in their likeness, each of them perched on a pedestal higher than he is tall.
He's fairly certain statues are supposed to be things of beauty, but these are almost more grotesque than what the clean-up crews ended up dragging out of Five's arena. Large, pointed wings that end in spiked talons, horns protruding from their heads in a mock crown. He eyes their claws, locked around the side of the pedestal. Something in their bulging, massive eyes is almost lifelike, a glimmer where there shouldn't be one.
They're horrifying. They're wrong. But, most of all, they're a distraction.
At least to him.
This place may be open, but he could easily crouch behind the greenery at the edge and go unnoticed by anyone else who happened to discover this place. Why would anyone see him with so much else to focus on?
It's eerie, but nothing could be more so than what he's already been through. It's as good of a hiding place as any.
Perhaps even better than a desk.
Zoya knows that something more productive should be at the forefront of his mind—he's a proven killer, after all, with more blood on his ledger than he'd care to admit. He's smart enough to cultivate whatever plan would spring into his mind, if he let his brain actually work.
Something akin to fear is shutting him down, and he despises it. Fear of watching another Enna, of pressing the wrong button. Of hanging there and swinging and choking, fading away, dying.
He'd rather hide, at least for now.
He reaches up to pat the gargoyle's side. "You just stay right there, buddy," he orders it, as if it's about to crawl off the pedestal and come strolling after him like a dog. Now that would be an idea, if only he had the magic to make them come to life—a monster for a friend, something to do his bidding.
That would be the dream, really, if only dreams were anything worth having in Zoya's life.
Clementine Alinsky, 17
Tribute of District Eleven
Ever since she lost the Seven's, Clem has been wondering if it was the right choice after all.
As touchy-feely as they may be, offering her more affection than her own father had ever presented her with, at least they were people. Living, breathing humans in a sea of nothingness, which is what she had come to discover thus far.
She keeps reminding herself that they're not good people to have around. Ilan's an idiot, far as she can tell, and Sanne has about as much willpower as a flower dying in the sun's harsh light, which is to say none at all. She's withering away before all of their gazes, hardly able to put up a fight. If Clementine had managed to kill nine people, she'd be wearing it like a badge of honor.
Some people just didn't understand good things when they had them—nine kills could be used as a lure, something to draw people in. No one would be dropping packages into Clem's lap after the little but she had done.
No one would be dropping them into Sanne's if she kept looking so pathetic, either.
They ought to give her at least a little something; a nudge in the right direction, a confident voice telling her which branch in the fork to pick. If she should head back. If she should have gone to the entirely opposite side. If they've spread out all twenty-four tributes around the arena, surely someone has to be close by now; that's what she keeps telling herself, anyway. One foot in front of the other.
She hauls herself over the edge of yet another low wall rather than find the pathing that would take her to the next section, and in the brief second that she remains crouched at the top Clem can see the pedestals in the distance, empty. Six more people, six more possibilities.
"Uh, Clem?"
She lets out an embarrassing squawk, fingers tightening around the stone to the point of pain to keep herself from teetering off—a hand lands against her back, steadying her as she peers back, trying to find the source of it.
Pietro looks up at her, dark hair falling into his eyes. "What're you doing up there?"
"Looking for you, jackass!" she snaps, shoving his arm hard until he releases her. Her feet sting as she hits the ground in front of him, and even though she's just let go Clementine feels compelled to throw her arms around him, relief flooding over her in waves. Even though anyone else couldn't technically hurt her, a familiar face offers more reassurance than anything else.
"Okay?" Pietro questions, puzzled. He pats her on the back. "You alright, or?"
"Just fine, no thanks to you. You could have shoved me off!"
"And watched you fall roughly five feet. You can't handle a few scrapes and bruises?"
She jerks back, giving him a light shove. Her other hand flattens over her stomach, able to feel the knotted scar tissue that makes up half her abdomen easily through the thin cotton of her tunic.
"I'd still prefer not to," she informs him. Shame blossoms over her, then, at embracing him so readily and expecting something in return. They had their time, of course, laughs over lunch and endless conversations, but Clem can't expect anything more than that. They're together because they know the other is disposable, that inevitably the turn will come.
There can be nothing more.
"Don't scare me like that again," she warns him. "Or—or I'll—"
"Yeah, yeah, you'll kill me in my sleep, I got it." Pietro sighs, pushing his hair back. "Terrifying as ever, Clem. I sure did miss you."
"Wish I could say the same."
"The over-excited hug said otherwise…"
"Would you just shut up for a minute?" she asks. It seems an impossible task, at least for him, though it doesn't seem there's any harm in asking. He draws a finger over his lips, turning them as if rotating a key in a lock.
A minute is good. More than enough time. Clementine looks back over the wall, waiting to be ascended once again so that they can continue onto the other side. That must be where Pietro came from, if they were made to find each other so quickly.
"I don't suppose you saw Zoya?" she questions, heavily surprised by the silence that follows her question. Pietro taps his sealed lips, though she's unable to ignore the otherwise amused expression painted on his face, the raise of his eyebrows.
Clem yanks his hands away. "C'mon."
"You told me to shut up."
"Not when I ask you a question. You didn't see him?"
"You think I'd be alone if I had?" he fires back. He joins her at the wall, laying his arms overtop of it. "If each of us started on two of the four sides, and neither of us were with him, there's only two more. Unless he's gotten all the way across the arena by now which, y'know, doubtful, he's still over there. We'll find him."
She nods, but it's slow. Pietro sounds so confident, not worried in the slightest about the plight they've landed themselves in. He's as empty-handed as she is, and he wants to go chasing after an ally that could be more lost than the two of them. They got lucky running into one another like this—they won't be given such luck again.
He steps back from the wall—she expects another comment, a discussion about what they're doing, but he simply begins to walk. Clementine still hasn't moved, not even by the time he's reached the next corner.
Only then does he turn. If she was closer, Clem knows she'd see confusion in his eyes.
"You coming, or not?"
"Coming where?" she asks warily.
"To find Zoya?" he answers. As if he's saying duh, what else would we be doing? Like that's their only option.
She was the one that founded the alliance with the three of them, the person who suggested dragging Zoya in when they found no one else suitable, and now Pietro is the one eager to go after him, to see it through? It's all too suspicious for her liking. It's as if they've gotten close behind closed doors, shuttering her out without Clem even knowing.
Surely they didn't. She would know.
Wouldn't she?
"Come on!" he calls, striding away. Clementine only leaps forward after him because the thought of being stuck alone in this labyrinth yet again is more terrifying than the two of them conspiring against her. They won't find Zoya instantly; she has time to think about it. Time to prepare.
It's all too much for her, this speculation. A part of her almost hopes to find Zoya quickly, so that she may know the truth. At least if it's staring her in the face it will be obvious.
At least, then, Clem will know she has to do something about it.
Aranza de León, 18
Tribute of District Eight
Luck is in her blood, so it appears.
Clearly Aranza had gained someone's favor to be placed so close to Tova, though that's no big surprise. Despite her rather paltry score, Capitolities know when they've hit the jackpot, and let's be real—she's the very definition of it.
They knew that what they saw on that dance-floor, two girls intertwined, was worth seeing again. They knew that the way she spoke about Tova up on that stage wasn't just the whims of an innocent girl.
They know she's not innocent.
She stares at Tova's back, the strength visible in her shoulders despite the loose fabric draped over them. She looks strange without a weapon, fists clenched as if expecting to have to come to blows any moment now. Aranza knows better than to catch her off-guard, letting each of her footsteps fall gently so as not to startle her.
Tova would not hurt her, even if she is so on edge. She's too caught up in other things.
Aranza knows the biggest other thing is Maderia.
Despite seeing so much of it, she still can't even begin to wrap her head around their complicated little relationship. The way they look at one another, expecting hatred but seeing something more gentle, as if a layer of understanding has surpassed the fear that once existed. She doesn't enjoy picturing their relationship before she came into the picture, what they spoke about and what they did. All of it is irrelevant now.
Especially so with Maderia absent.
Of course they're looking for her. If Aranza suggested otherwise, she's not so certain that Tova's gaze wouldn't turn her to dust where she stood. A part of her wonders if they'd be better off without her; she's an obstacle in Aranza's game and the plans she's laid forth. Getting rid of her will just be messy.
If someone else were to do it, well… Aranza wouldn't complain. They would see her face in the sky and she would give Tova a tight hug, hold onto her for as long as she dared.
And then they would move the fuck on.
Aranza isn't used to being anything other than the center of attention, the object of someone's desires. Tova likes her well enough, but it's not enough. She doesn't think it will ever be enough until Maderia is gone and buried.
If they find her, at least Aranza can speed the process along and do it herself. Having Tova with her in the long run is the preferable option—she's the weapon to be wielded, unfailing strength where so many people would crumble. She lost her best friend and continued cutting down others in her path as if they were meaningless. That's the sort of person Aranza needs around.
Not people like Maderia, who think that bad things only happen to bad people, who feels so unlike herself now that she knows she is capable of falling.
Aranza will never allow herself to falter like that.
She stoops low to the ground as Tova pauses at the next intersection, irritation visible in the furrow of her brow as she looks this way and that. Aranza has only seen flowers like these in shops in the Capitol, the perfect slope of them and their shiny green leaves. She snaps one off halfway down the stem and brings it to her ear, allowing the off-white petal to nestle in amongst her hair. It will do wonders to draw attention away from the horrendously drab outfit they've placed her in. It's as if they've forgotten that Aranza deserves better than peasant's clothes.
"Tova," she requests, pulling another stem free. This one is less frayed at the edges, almost preferable, but she steps forward to her ally's front and reaches forward, tucking a strand of curly hair back behind her ear. Tova is still, her eyes following the path of Aranza's hand as she places the flower in the same location. "I think you need this."
"Do I?" she asks drily, tilting her head as if she hopes to see it. "This is going to bug the hell out of me."
She does not hasten to remove it, though. She watches Aranza's face instead for signs of upset, and when she finally does pull it free she does not throw it to the ground to be trampled on. Instead she tucks the thin stem beneath the edge of her belt—the effect isn't the same, but it's still there, and it feels like enough of a victory.
"Should've taken you for a flower girl," Tova mutters.
"Why is that?"
"Expensive taste. Calla lilies, of all things."
"Calla lilies," she murmurs, more to herself than Tova. The name rolls nicely off her tongue. "What do they mean?"
"Do I look like a florist to you?" Tova wonders. Her bemusement, though it only exists for a moment, chases away the uncertainty that had previously been written over her face. It's a wonder to think that even just for this moment she's taken Tova's mind away from Maderia and everything that existed previously—if she can do it now, there's certainly no one who could tell her that it's not possible in the later game.
"You could be," she says eventually.
Tova snorts. "If you say so."
Before she can stride off, resuming her task if this exchange has never occurred, Aranza makes sure to loop her arm through Tova's, keeping them together as they pick up once again. As long as she sticks close, keeps interjecting enough to remind Tova that she's real and present and that she means something, there's nothing to worry about.
"We'll find her," Aranza assures her, even believing her own words. If she was lucky enough to be placed with Tova at the beginning, a stroke of bad luck is sure to find her when they find Maderia.
Even if everyone else is in the dark, the Gamemaker's know her true intentions. They've watched her for long enough to know that she isn't just going to let this play out while she sits idly on the sidelines.
Aranza is no bystander. She is the judge, jury and executioner all wrapped up into one eloquent little package. She is the one that decides their fates.
And decide she will.
I feel like some of this set up will be ridiculously long-winded and at times painful, but you did sort of sign up for a very lengthy Games, so. Can't help you there.
Thank you for all of your thoughts, especially now that we've reached the Games. I look forward to more of them in the future, whatever they may be.
Until next time.