XXXVIII: The Games - Day Three, Early Morning.
Lilou Holbrook, 15
Tribute of District Nine
Lilou thought she couldn't feel any more on edge than previously.
She can still pinpoint where she was standing, the time of day, the storm outside. Stuck in that hellish, run-down house, her quarantined to the first floor while Erina shuffled about somewhere above her. She couldn't sleep. Could hardly eat. And worst of all, of course, was what lurked outside, a reminder of home turned into a nightmare as it creeped ever-closer.
It had been the beginning of the end. Erina's warm body at her feet, cruel as it sounds, had propelled her to the end.
There was nothing of the sort to do that now.
There was no point in thinking about the end, either. It didn't seem plausible that only one person had died, that she was stuck listening to the mutts scuttling around in the hallways instead of any true commotion. Lilou kept waiting for screams and clashing blades to the point where the noises seemed to echo in her brain, phantom.
The end was not in sight, but shit did she want it to be. If Lilou had her way, they'd plop her right into the finale with two people who wouldn't cause her much grief, and then they'd send her home.
It's too bad they've never listened to what their tributes want.
Right now her number one priority is rest, and even that seems far-fetched. Once the sun rises, maybe… even then, is it worth the risk?
When she finds Casia, then she can reliably close her eyes, certain they'll open once again. Until then, Lilou refuses to trust it.
She most certainly can't trust whoever's up the stairs.
Lilou can't quite tell who it is—the only thing that reaches her is a pair of soft voices, occasionally floating back and forth. There's no way Casia's holed up there with someone, waiting out the night, which means that whoever's in there may very well kill her if they get the chance.
Anyone else would leave. She's defenseless if they choose to attack, outnumbered even if she's lucky enough for them to be unarmed. At the end of the day, Lilou Holbrook is nothing impressive. She was never meant to win fights in the way some of the others did. What she was meant for, much as she loathes the idea, was subtleties.
She's spent months cultivating the attitude of someone skipping through life, reckless action after reckless action at the tip of her fingers simply because she could. There's a reason Cajus despises her—no doubt he wishes Lilou would go back to the girl he first saw in the Games, frightened and desperate to survive, nothing else lingering in her mind. How odd it is that he doesn't want her to fight.
He doesn't want her to be who she so desires.
Lilou is incapable of throwing that away now, though. Even if she knows what she has to do, she won't cower anymore.
She's through with being so frightened.
It's quite easy to creep the rest of the way up the stairs, stopping outside the large wooden door. Lilou waits for the confirmation of voices before she begins to descend to the next door down. Every second she spends inching it open feels like it climbs to the length of an hour until she has just enough room to squeeze inside, welcoming the darkness beyond with open arms. Only one lone torch wavers against the opposite wall next to the window, brighter still than the vaguest hint of dawn emerging from the horizon.
Of course, they've cleared the place out. There's a little cot, an empty storage chest, a few cracked open crates lying askew below the windowsill. It's one of them she sits on instead of the uncomfortable looking cot, finding a safe angle to watch the outside world move by at a snail's pace. The flit of mutts in empty gardens, narrow trees swaying in the breeze. It seems to stretch on forever, but Lilou knows how easily it is for them to formulate a lie. Nothing goes on forever. Scarecrows don't move anymore than statues do. Everything is a fabrication in their world.
Her longing for Nine is… strange, to say the least. There's nothing special about it; her house is the same as the rest, square and cramped and too hot in the summer, never offering the comfort a house should. That's why she always preferred to be out walking with Sadie no matter how tired she was.
Lilou always felt safer outside, more like herself. Being tucked in this room makes no sense. She wants to scream and beat the walls down. She wants someone to hear her.
Is there any use in replaying a strategy? She'll certainly find out.
It doesn't seem fair to do it again, though, to bring doom down on whoever's hiding away upstairs, but isn't that the point? None of this is fucking fair. She knows, sometime in the past few months, that Casia has said almost those exact words, echoed too by their mentors. They all know the truth—that they shouldn't be here, that suffering twice over is the epitome of unfairness.
If they escaped death once, they should have gotten to run far, far away from it. That's just not how it works.
So sue her for wishing she was back home, alright? Lilou wants nothing more than to be at the front step of her home, Sadie's wriggling body tucked into the crook of her arm before she releases her onto the dirt road, frayed yellow leash dragging in the dust.
She wants nothing more than to be free, to live as if death isn't just around the corner.
It seems so far away, a figment of a dream. People like her, fresh out of District Nine, they don't have dreams. They live and they die under the golden sun and waste away in the dark earth afterwards, quickly forgotten and erased in history.
Lilou can think of nothing worse than being the same.
Robbie Creston, 17
Tribute of District Ten
He wants to scream, to allow elation free from his lungs in its purest forms.
It's the last thing he can do with Hawke so nearby.
He's seen him, nothing more than a flicker. To anyone else, it could be passed off as imagination. Robbie hears footsteps, though—heavy, uneven ones, and the exertion of breath that is so unlike the cocksure attitude he's come to expect of his District partner.
Something's up, and Robbie plans out on finding exactly what.
Of course that means ending it, too, an outcome that would terrify so many but only stokes a secret thrill hidden somewhere inside him. It hasn't been long at all, but that doesn't mean Robbie hasn't been eagerly awaiting this day, imagining how it would play out. It seems to him like he's already been given some type of advantage, and Robbie doesn't plan on letting that go to waste.
He's slow, of course—it's pathetically easy to rush past him on an adjacent pathway and find a way around. Robbie isn't certain how he can tell, but he just knows that Hawke is about to move around the corner and come face-to-face with him.
He's not so delusional as to think it will be an easy fight no matter what his advantages may be, but Robbie still relishes in it.
The look on Hawke's face is oh so sweet.
At first it's disbelieving. Robbie has never seen shock on his partner's face before—it doesn't fit him, that's for sure. It melts away quickly enough into that of barely disguised fury. Robbie still isn't sure what he did to inspire such rage. Apparently existing is enough.
He comes to a halt on unsteady feet, shifting his weight towards his left leg. The right appears drenched in blood, and the way his body lists towards the opposite side only confirms Robbie's suspicions. He's hurt—badly. If their situations were reversed, Hawke would certainly have something to say about that; he certainly wouldn't show Robbie and mercy.
He's not going to pretend he will, either.
"You don't look so hot," Robbie informs him. "You were once upon a time, sort of, but…"
That's really all he has to say. Robbie could have gone off on an entire tangent—he would have brought up Pierre, even, who has always had a far more appealing face to stare at, but he's not going to have the time for that. Hawke lurches forward, empty-handed, as if he could care less what his situation is. All he cares about is watching Robbie die.
Well, the feeling is mutual.
"What, no lead-up? No build?" he questions. "Should've known you weren't a foreplay type of guy."
He knew that would do it.
Robbie isn't surprised by the force at which Hawke's singular good leg spurs him forward. It would be foolish even now to underestimate him. Hawke pushes him back, and he can feel him trying to yank them both to the ground, clearly searching for some sort of positioning where he's able to do some damage. It's a relief to feel the strength in his own arms, to grapple back and know that he can't be broken so easily. Robbie's elbow catches him in the chest, sending him stumbling back, and when he lands down hard on his bad leg it crumples, giving him the in he was hoping for. As Hawke sinks halfway to the ground he kicks out, driving towards his other leg, and watching it connect is blissful.
There's something undeniably off-putting about seeing him on the ground like this, someone not used to touching it. Hawke's face is twisted in a pained grimace, but his eyes are still burning. Wrapped around his shoulder, clutched in one of his hands, is a length of rusted chain. It's the only thing he has.
Robbie can't imagine what he plans on doing with it. He has his own handmade weapon, a comical pocketful of tomatoes. Surely Hawke Rabanus never planned on dying like this.
"Oh, Isa, you beautiful bastard!"
He whirls. He fucking knows that voice. The second he looks away is all that Hawke needs to push forward once again, rising to his knees to grapple at Robbie's legs, attempting to hook him to the ground. The moment he flails backwards, Hawke's arms tangled around his knees, a blur overcomes his peripherals. Another one, smaller, follows seconds later.
If only he wasn't prioritizing the person trying to clamber on top of him and kill him.
Hawke's fist slams into his nose. His vision whites out, blood flooding his mouth as it spills over his lips. "Hey!" that voice shouts again. "Only I can torment Robertson, dickhead."
He's never been so glad to hear that name in his life.
Sloane's hands lock tight in the back of Hawke's tunic—she gives a fierce yank, leaving Robbie enough space to wiggle back a few inches, freeing his face from any future torment. He drives his leg up into Hawke's gut. He's caught between Sloane's hands and the ferocity in which he doubles over, the breath driven from his lungs.
"You better fucking do it," Sloane snaps. "I swear to God, I'll—"
No. No, she's not taking this from him. Robbie grabs a hold of him, relieved when Sloane's hands drop away. He's responsible for holding Hawke up, now, driving a fist into his stomach three times over. He pushes him away—Hawke is hardly upright now, but Robbie gives him a final nudge, just enough for his head to crane up.
He lands a punch square on his jaw, so brutally that his head snaps around, blood and spittle flying from his mouth as he slumps to the side.
Robbie's not sure what he feels, then, standing over him. Hawke spits a bloody wad onto the ground, eyes still dazed, but Robbie sees his mouth open and decides enough is enough.
"You don't get the last word," Robbie growls. "Nice fucking try."
He feels elation on the first hit he sends down, glass shards sinking into Hawke's chest. Robbie can't pinpoint why that feeling fades when he does it again—and again, and again, and again. He's moved upwards without even realizing, Hawke's shoulder a bloodied pulp, the edge of his neck torn to smithereens. He's no longer moving.
"Think you got him, champ."
A hand lands on his shoulder. He jolts without meaning to, but Sloane is quick to back away. The surprise at her sudden appearance would be enough, but there's something over her shoulder, so small he could have missed it.
"Relax," Sloane drawls. "Nine's with me."
A few strands of hair have escaped the braid that runs down Casia's back, so that when they drift before her eyes she's forced to peer through them. It only makes it more difficult to pinpoint what her expression is in the lack of light. Maybe there's such a lack of it that it would be impossible to tell anyway.
She is not Sable anymore than she is Daisy, but Robbie thinks she might be more unnerving than both of them combined. He has chosen his ghosts carefully over time, holding them close when he knew it was safe to do so, but it's as if one has come alive before him. Robbie is not suited to running with things that walk and talk and breath.
He's still staring at her, but it's difficult to look away. Casia shifts on her feet, turning her own gaze onto Hawke's body.
That's what it is. A corpse.
It doesn't seem real.
"Hope that made you feel better, 'cause it's over now," Sloane says. "Can we move on now?"
There is no regard for his feelings; Sloane knows that he's not the least bit upset, or even perturbed, by what has just happened. Robbie isn't sure that he feels better, though… at least not in the way he expected to. All of the exhilaration is gone, and in exchange a hollow pit has been left in his stomach. There's nothing to fill it, now.
"How did you find me?" he asks, his voice usually empty. Sloane waves a slip of paper before his face—its movements are so quick that he can hardly make out the individual words, but it appears to be a set of simple directions, a name attached at the bottom. Isa.
A gift, to find him. Robbie realizes now that she's armed, too, a machete in her other hand. Casia has a smaller but no doubt just as lethal knife in her own, clutched deathly tight between her fingers.
They've been given gifts for some reason that he is not privy to. Robbie, after this, has nothing.
"Don't make me ask again," Sloane warns. He's ignored the question for nearly a minute, now—in her terms, that's far too long. She's backed him up in killing the one person he wanted to see fall; of course she's expecting to move in a new direction.
He thinks even if they do he'll be frozen in this moment for some time. Robbie nods, movements robotic. Casia is the first one to begin walking, and after a few more seconds of a painfully awkward standstill, Sloane nudges him forward after her.
Robbie can't help but glance back, though. No one will miss Hawke. Robbie certainly won't.
But where the hell does he go from here?
Aranza de León, 18
Tribute of District Eight
She can't in good conscience say she's ever spent this much time in a kitchen in her life.
In the Capitol she had every sort of staff at her hands. Finally she was living the sort of life where she could be waited on hand and foot, never having to lift a finger to support herself.
It hadn't been the same back home.
Aranza didn't miss it at all—the cramped bedroom she called her own, the rickety stairs that led to it. The main floor was a mish-mash of things that didn't go together, everything crowded together in such a way that it was nearly impossible to walk. In the worst winters, the pipes would freeze and render them waterless. At best they would be scrounging together meager meals of bread a day away from molding, scraping the bottom of a jar of jam.
She wasn't going back to that. Not ever. She deserved so much better than the squalor, the lack of anything meaningful.
It was sad that even this kitchen was more impressive. It was a labyrinth of rooms connected to one another, and there was no end in sight to the things she didn't truly understand—ancient looking metal ovens and hearths with empty, swinging pots hanging over them. Wandering like this was a pointless activity at its finest, but it was warm. Warmer, at least, than the frigid castle halls and the rest of what they had discovered.
It was practically nothing anyway.
Aranza makes sure to at least look the part of someone who is searching. Tova is still making quite the ruckus a few rooms over as she continues to dig for supplies. Last Aranza checked, she was organizing food, separating things into piles. There was something to be said about Careers and their rapid attempts at holding everything together; they certainly tried.
Before she deigns to wander back, Aranza unhooks a metal pan resting against the wall, surprised at its tremendous weight as she hefts it into her arms. It's not ideal, but she knows better than to be picky in times of need.
Tova may have been given that axe, but Aranza isn't so foolish to think it will save them both.
"What the hell do you plan on doing with that?" Tova asks, sparing her a brief glance as she re-enters the room. Aranza drops the metal pan with a clang next to the stockpile that is building on the counters with a smile.
"Hitting someone."
"Well if I wouldn't pay to see that…"
"I was wishing for a knife of some sort," Aranza confesses, boosting herself onto the counter. "Couldn't get so lucky."
"Too easy," Tova agrees.
She hums in acknowledgement, finding it easy to rest back against the wall and leave the pan resting by her legs. There's no danger; they've barricaded every entrance they could find while they sort through anything that could be of use, and Aranza doesn't believe anyone is actively searching out a fight—not against the two of them, at least.
The definition of sitting pretty is quite applicable now, isn't it?
Tova lets out an amused huff under her breath—not a moment later she drops something straight into Aranza's lap, a small tin with an ornately designed lid. She raises an eyebrow at the other girl but Tova only waves her on, clearly spurring her into cracking it open.
She does so. Cautiously, of course, inch by inch as she peers inside. When she can finally see the contents, Aranza can't help the little gasp that escapes her mouth. In any other time she might feel embarrassed, but Tova's answering laugh is enough to cover it.
"You're fuckin' ridiculous," Tova says. "I don't know how you handle all that sugar."
"I'll have you know," Aranza says, carefully unwrapping one of the sticky candies within the box. "That I am quite capable of handling anything."
"So I've discovered."
"You don't want one?" she wonders, waggling one of the bundles in front of Tova's face. Sweet strawberry flavor explodes over her tongue. It's only been three days since she's had something that was worth enjoying, but it was three days too long.
"Keep 'em."
Well, you don't have to tell her twice. Aranza will make sure to savor every single one as if they're a treasure. A little bit of sugar every-day might just be enough to give her the boost she needs that will spur her onto the end.
Of course, thoughtfulness helps as well. She never vocalized her love of anything sweet, but Aranza knows she's not the best at hiding it. An extra sugar cookie after lunch, a few chocolate covered fruits on her plate. That means that, of all the options, Tova noticed. It's a minute detail, of course, but Aranza knows that not everyone is so keen to care. She knows that very well.
"You should take a break," Aranza insists, patting the empty counter beside her. "A few minutes won't kill you."
Tova straightens with a weary sigh, wincing as her back uncurls. She's been at this non-stop, in every form, since the gong first rang. Though much of her initial fire has fizzled out, she's been unable to sit still, eyes constantly wondering.
Aranza needs her, and she needs her in working order.
After a moment's contemplation Tova hops up next to her, legs pressed together, warmth spreading through her all the way down to her ankles. Aranza pops another candy into her mouth, only daring to move once she's certain Tova has settled into a comfortable spot. This could result in any type of reaction—even a volatile one.
She keeps it brief, just in case. Aranza leans closer to her, resting her head against Tova's shoulder. She feels her go stiff, unmoving, scarcely breathing as she counts to ten in her head, slow as possible. "Thank-you," she murmurs, sitting back upright.
"For what?" Tova says slowly.
Aranza turns to her with a grin. The easy answer: for the candy. But why not let her wonder?
A smile is enough for now.
Ilan Azar, 17
Tribute of District Seven
"'Sun's almost up," Sanne murmurs.
Ilan hasn't managed to get more than a few rare moments of sleep the entire night, and he isn't sure Sanne has found any more solace than him. They hadn't spoken of keeping watching, not with the door barricaded as such, but it hadn't mattered.
All night long they had sat in the same spot—Ilan couldn't feel much of his lower half against the cold stone, but Sanne's head resting against his leg kept him from moving. It was the longest she had been still in the past six hours, even if her head was now turned towards the window, awaiting the encroaching dawn. He wasn't about to move.
It helps that there's been a lull in the happenings outside the door. The mutts hadn't let up all night. Not once had they actually tried to break in, but hearing their scuffling was enough. He could easily imagine a stairwell full of them, just waiting for the right moment.
That clearly wasn't going to come. They had left.
So why could Ilan still hear something?
He was sure Sanne could hear it, too—her eyes kept flitting to the door, brow furrowing as if she was wondering to be imagining it. No matter how many times she looked away, though, her gaze always returned there. He could moment by moment as she tensed, any sense of relaxation she had been holding onto fading away.
How could they tell what they were hearing, though? It was quieter than the mutts, easy to miss if the room wasn't otherwise silent. If something was moving out there, it had to be human… but was Ilan ready to confront that?
Did he have a choice?
Sanne's head cranes back, their eyes finally meeting. Ilan presses a finger to his lips, holding his breath as she finally removes her weight from his legs, giving him room to inch away. The sword still lies abandoned by his side.
What's the point in having it if he's not going to protect himself—not going to protect her? That's the right thing to do. It's what Ilan has to do.
It feels like an eternity before he fully rises from the floor, careful not to let the sword scrape over stone. Sanne is careful on his heels as she moves to the door, hand moving for the slab of wood that holds it closed. There's no going back if he does this, no telling what he's going to face. But if it's coming to get them, there really isn't a choice. Ilan is rapidly discovering his lack of them, and how little it seems to affect him now.
His hand closes around the barricade, and Sanne releases him. It's just one action. If Ilan wants any hope of holding onto whatever shred of honor he still has, it's necessary.
He takes a deep breath, and pulls it free.
There's hardly any time for the living, breathing person on the other side to react as he wrenches open the door, revealing them in full. Ilan doesn't even get a good look at them, though. He doesn't take in any details about their face, who they are, not even what could be in their hands—they were right up against the door. They were listening, and at any moment could have taken advantage of who they knew was outside.
Thinking about the action is not necessary. Ilan steps forward and shoves her, square in the chest.
She shrieks as her feet slip off the landing and over the lip of the top stair. He watches her teeter backwards, arms windmilling comically as she attempts to fight gravity itself. Her hands stretch nearly to each wall, scrabbling for a grip, but not quite close enough. She tips backward, head cracking back against the stairs, and begins to tumble, down and down and down…
Ilan is still standing there, for some reason, even now that she's gone so far that he's lost sight of her. He heard every sickening thud of her body against the stone, even the awful noise that her head had made as it first hit.
He waits for a cannon that does not come.
"Ilan," Sanne whispers. "Get back in here."
His fingers flex uselessly around the hilt of the sword. "She's not… there wasn't a cannon."
Her hand stretches forward to curl around his wrist, a grounding point. "She might be. There are still mutts out there. Just come back in with me."
Ilan takes a step back, relieved to find that his legs are steady. She yanks him the rest of the way in, fitting the slab of wood back in as if knowing that Ilan won't, incapable.
Deep down he knows that Sanne is right, of course. Dead or not, she's certainly injured to the point where she won't be going anywhere fast—she's a prime target for mutts, for anyone else nearby. Perhaps this won't be his burden to bear. He was just protecting Sanne, after all, trying to take care of himself… no one can fault him for that.
Right?
Milan Crusoe, 16
Tribute of District Eight
Time to ponder can be a dangerous thing.
Against what he suspects were the instincts of them both, they spent the night wandering—looking in every nook and cranny, easing themselves through the darkened halls. Milan knew what they were looking for, but found himself dreading the idea that around any corner both Tova and Aranza would be there staring at him.
He would much prefer the light of day, a chance to truly see their faces. Milan needed more if this was going to succeed.
For now, though, it was the last thing he had to worry about. They had hunkered down far into the castle, down so many halls and through so many staircases that Milan feared never being able to find his way out, if it came to that. Maderia had told him to go to sleep—it wasn't so much a suggestion as it was an order, and he wasn't about to disagree with her.
He was tired, too. Bone-deep tired, the kind that stayed with you and lingered long after. He would never say it to her, but getting off his feet and resting his head down had been a kindness.
His sleep was not the same. It was fitful, marred by bouts of waking that he was certain came from paranoia, wondering if Maderia would finally take the easy opportunity to drive whatever she was concealing from him in-between his shoulder blades. All in all he wasn't even sure it totalled to more than a measly few hours, and then she was shaking him awake.
Even Careers needed their sleep, apparently, though hers appears to be even more restless than Milan's own. She's unable to stay still, eyelids fluttering, a tenseness to the line of her body that suggests true discomfort. Even if he'd like to, there's no chance Milan can even dare to try and figure out what she's hiding from him. Not unless he wants to die.
So that means sitting. Sitting and waiting and stewing in near-total silence.
If they weren't in a library, Milan thinks he may have fallen prey to madness by now.
It helps to wake his exhausted brain, poring through the shelves and rifling through the stacks. Half the books are in languages he doesn't even recognize, long forgotten about outside of this place. The others don't appear to be of much use; some about finances and land deeds, fewer with histories attached to names that Milan would never recognize. This is the type of place, though, that he can appreciate—even if wandering through it all by torchlight isn't the most productive method.
This is exactly the kind of place that Milan wishes he could have seen before this very day. Though it may be ancient, filled with information he can't use, it's also something that has existed only in his head. Libraries of any sort don't fit in amongst the smokestacks and slate-gray landscape of Eight. Books aren't meant to be something you have time for unless it turns a profit.
There's a reason his mother took off in the Capitol, and only there. They had the leisure time to appreciate it, the money to fund it.
It must be nice to have such a reliable life.
No matter his plans, the vengeances he wants to enact, that's all Milan wants in the long run. A study to relax in after a long day, books to inspire him and a place where he can write in solitude.
He can give that to his mother, too. A chance to rise again. She would be so joyous.
For now he's stuck here, though—it's dire, and a tad dreary, but it's enough to form the beginning of a vision in his head. He steps closer to a desk that lies beneath a large window, but there is not yet enough light outside for Milan to tell just how far up they are. That's probably for the best, if he's being honest with himself. Besides, there's more than enough to focus on within these four walls.
Milan allows himself to take a seat at the straight-backed, wooden chair, unphased by its unpleasantness. He could sit here all day irregardless. The books that lie along its edge are practical tomes, thousands of rough-edged pages spilling onto one another.
And before him, an equally large stack of that same yellowed paper. A quill waits above it in a glass pot, calling his name in such a sing-song voice that he almost feels enticed.
He shouldn't. Not in here, not when Maderia could wake up at any moment or when someone could barge in. Even more so, Milan doesn't want anyone reading unfinished, unpolished work—there's a camera watching him at every angle, one looming over his shoulder. His every word will be absorbed and magnified by the Capitol to everyone that cares to see.
Milan wouldn't, on his own, but it's his mother's voice that beckons to him. She would want him to. When presented with the opportunity to detail your own story, you should never pass it up.
It doesn't matter so much if Milan wants to live. If fate would find him dead instead, at least he will have something to leave behind. This story can rise out of the arena with his body and someone, surely, will think to take it. Lourdes. One of the doctors. Someone will do something with it because there isn't a choice otherwise.
Milan will live, one way or another. It's that though that has him reaching for the quill, the ink jet black over its sharpened point.
He may not have much time. He can't waste any more of it.
Levi Alcandre, 18
Tribute of District Two
There's someone close-by.
If he was with anyone else, Levi knows he would have announced it by now. Key word being if.
Vadric will panic, knife be damned. They're out of practice in this whole killing business, and springing such a surprise on them can only spell out doom. Of course, he's not sure what's going to be spelled out by not telling them—Levi gets the feeling he'll find out soon enough.
It's all he can do to walk around blade in all, nonchalant, as if this is just another walk in the park. It should be. There's nowhere for anyone to run that he can't follow, not in these cramped halls; the only reason he had suggested going down was because of the prospect of a dungeon. Weapons. If Jordyn and Weston have gone anywhere, it might be there.
It's one of his first clever ideas in a while, and Levi's quite proud of it. So long as he survives to actually see it, that is.
A shriek makes him stumble over his own two feet. Levi is still frozen when the sound of quickening footsteps reaches his ears, and Vadric comes tearing back around the corner. "What?" he demands, surprised by how quickly they stop once they're behind him. It's exactly that in their eyes, though—surprise. Not fear, like he had so suspected.
"What?" Levi asks again. By the looks of it, Vadric doesn't even want to meet his eyes. There's something more to this, a lack of understanding.
Surely whatever's around the corner is the answer.
It pretends itself, though, before Levi can scarcely take a step forward. The labored breathing he's been hearing echo through the halls is given a face, a name, and his mind goes worryingly blank. Vadric murmurs something behind him, but Levi doesn't quite hear it.
It's funny, too, because it's not like Sander says anything that he could focus on—he just stares. First at Levi, and then Vadric, and then at the darkness shrouding them. Looking for the others, no doubt.
"Where are they?" Sander questions. No hello, no pleasantries. Just right to the point.
"Same place as Amani, I reckon," Levi responds. Unlikely, but they're clearly in the same situation.
Almost the same, at least.
His leg is bent at a terribly awkward angle, almost curious to look at. What little of his foot Levi can see in the darkness is drenched in blood. On cue Sander shifts, no doubt trying to hide the obvious abnormality, but it's too late now. Behind him, Vadric swallows so loudly that, for a moment, it's all he hears.
They weren't scared—not of Sander, anyway. They were nervous. Nervous about this, and being stuck down here with the two of them, and of the outcome.
Even Levi doesn't know what it will be.
Sander looks pathetic, is the thing. Dragging his leg halfway behind him, hardly able to stand, temples dripping with sweat. He more than likely came down here in search of refuge, hoping to find a place so tucked away that no one else could possibly discover it. Levi has the sickening feeling that they were led here, puppetered around on a set of identical strings. How else could they both have ended up here?
He knows he should say something, but try as he may, nothing comes to mind.
Luckily, Sander does it for him. "I'll… I'll just leave. No use in trying."
"Trying for what?" he snaps back, before Sander can even turn. "You want help, is that it? You don't even have the courage to fucking ask."
"I know what the answer would be."
"No," he says quickly. "No, no, we're not doing that. You're not making me the villain again because I won't fucking help you. I'm sick of being the bad guy that ruined us."
Even if he is.
"So I'll go. You don't have to think about this anymore."
Except he will. This is all Levi can manage to think about, even on a good day. How it's all his fault, how he's too naive and stupid to know better, how he shouldn't fucking even be in this position at all. They left each-other behind for a reason; it wasn't supposed to come to this.
Levi's hand trembles so badly he's not even sure he can keep a grip on the knife, let alone use it. Sander is waiting for it, too, the inevitably of a moment doomed to pass.
But he can't make himself move.
Sander turns, inch by painful inch, until Levi can no longer spot a certain sheen in his eyes, a crushing upset that has lingered with them for months now. More important than anything is Levi's freedom from the betrayal. He saw it once before in Sander's eyes, made a pact with himself to never have to see it again.
This is the only way.
He lunges forward. Vadric's hand brushes against his jacket.
The knife sticks squarely between Sander's shoulder blades.
He stumbles forward, taking Levi with him—the knife is fucking stuck, caught on layers of sinew and muscle and he panics, tugging at it over and over until it finally rips free with a horrific squelch. Warmth splatters over his face. He brings the knife down again. It's easier, now that there's already one wound. No difficulty. Like there's nothing even there.
He does not recognize the act of Sander falling. Levi feels the stone beneath his knees and realizes he's gone down with him, and his arm is still bringing the knife down. It gets stuck again, all the way to the hilt, and no matter how hard he tugs it refuses to come out. Stuck on bone. Caught on the ridges of his spine.
Not that Levi can truly see it—his vision is half gone, shaded red around the edges and swimming no matter where he looks. Is he crying? Is it him making that horrendous fucking noise, choking on his own breath?
An arm locks around his middle. Before he knows it, Levi's feet are being placed beneath him again, his knees nearly knocking together. Warm hands frame his face, fingers swiping through the blood clinging to his cheeks.
"Hey, handsome," a voice says, soft and sweet. "Look at me."
He wants to. He so desperately wants to. Levi knows that voice and it's a good thing and he knows who pulled him up now and it all makes sense. They're here with him. He's found them.
At what fucking cost?
He manages to find the golden gleam of Jordyn's hair in the low light, unsure if he can truly focus on anything else. "Hey," she says again. She's smiling, but it's not true. Not like the ones she would give him before.
She looks upset.
"It's okay," she murmurs, and she's repeating it over and over and over, thumb stroking over his cheek, but he doesn't feel it, and he certainly doesn't believe it.
Nothing will ever be okay again.
23rd. Hawke Rabanus, District Ten.
22nd. Sander Elek, District Two.
I did make you wait practical eons for death and any sort of action, really, so at least stuff is happening now?
That being said, the stockpile is officially gone, so I guess we're winging it from here on out. If there are some weeks without updates I wouldn't necessarily be surprised, but I'm not going away permanently, so they'll always resume at some point.
Until next time.