XXXIX: The Games - Day Three, Night.
Ravi Fusain, 17
Tribute of District Twelve
Something like four hours ago, she opened her eyes.
It's not something Ravi finds any comfort in. Even looking at her makes his stomach turn, thinking of her name… so far, in his own head, he has referred to her as nothing more than Eleven despite knowing the truth.
Ravi isn't sure she's all quite there. She hasn't spoken, nor moved. Her eyes gaze sightlessly into the dark side above, each breath rattling louder than the last, as if every bone in her chest has become displaced. He hasn't just heard the stories, of course—Ravi has seen firsthand, time and time again, how so many people wake before they die as if longing for one last glimpse of the world.
She's survived longer than he would have thought. It's maddening, being stuck here, but it's not as if Ravi could bring himself to leave.
Besides, Kai needs the rest. He's been sleeping a lot—more than anyone else normally would.
The herbs he's managed to find tucked away in the gardens may ease his pains, but they'll do nothing in the long run to cure him. A few stalks of feverfew, perhaps, for his headaches. The echinacea flowers are useless for him, but Zoya allowed him just a few hours ago to pack a thick salve down over his wounds, hoping to stifle any infection.
There are others, of course. Things Ravi doesn't know the names of, things that are perhaps made up to begin with. Dulia would know the difference. She was always so good at that, arranging flowers of stalks and leaves for bouquets, labeling the extras in glass jars and metal tins so that he had them to use at a later date. She was unfailing in her knowledge where he was not, and yet wishing her to be here now would only be a disservice.
He couldn't protect her before; he wouldn't be able to again. She would tell him the names of the plants, warn him away from the water hemlock he's collected, hidden, into his pocket, and she would die all the same.
Ravi would let her down again.
It's not something he's certain he could survive a second time.
"Ravi."
He blinks into the dark, listening to the scrape of stone against stone in the distance. Behind him Kai remains asleep, curled near to the wall at Ravi's feet. It's Zoya who sits awake, owlish, knees drawn to up his chest. No matter how often he's been told that staring at Farasha won't help any of their causes, it doesn't seem to have deterred him.
Until now, that is. He looks at Ravi, mouth twisted into a frown, and then back down at her.
"I think she's…"
He doesn't need to hear anything else. Ravi crouches down silently beside them, unsure of what to be concerned about more. Farasha has been dead since the moment they saw her—that he knows to be true. It's Zoya that's worrying, both in his sudden upset and what almost sounds like genuine worry seeping through in his tone.
But Zoya's not evil, of course. He's as human as the rest of them, and he's watching someone die.
He hasn't had the practice at it that Ravi has.
Farasha's eyes are open, still, glassy. Her lashes stir in the breeze. Ravi curls his fingers overtop of hers where they rest against the cobblestone, the iciness of her skin an unfortunate expectation. They twitch against his own, though, the faintest movement that to some would be missed entirely.
"She's not," he murmurs. Not yet.
Zoya sighs, chin resting against his knees. Ravi can see his jaw working, no doubt turning the inside of his cheek into a sorry, bloody mess as he gnaws away at it. If it's making him feel better, though, Ravi feels powerless to stop it. All he can do now is sit with his hand in hers and be grateful, at least, that the mutts have kept away. They're offering her a death in some amount of solitude, no matter the pain she's in.
It must be only minutes later when Farasha's eyes finally close once again—Ravi is already sore from his positioning and the refusal within himself to move.
"Is it true that they can hear you?" Zoya asks.
"Hm?"
"I've heard that people in comas can hear things going on around them. Voices. Noises. I don't know. Maybe they can't."
For the first time since properly meeting him, Ravi hears hesitation in the other boy's voice. An uncertainty that comes from something worse. Fear, perhaps, but it's not as if Zoya would ever admit it. It's enough to see it, though—the brazen, borderline obnoxious boy that parades around day and night is not here any longer.
"In some cases," Ravi agrees. "I suppose you can never really know, unless they wake up."
"And she isn't," Zoya says quietly. A statement.
A true one.
"She isn't," he echoes. Zoya, for once, has no response. There isn't really a proper one for this type of situation, though Ravi wishes someone would invent one.
There are a lot of things Ravi could wish for.
Another, of course; he longs for a way to tell when someone is about to slip away, so that he could more aptly prepare himself for the sudden emptiness, the cold that washes over the space they've left behind. Her hand is still beneath his, the rise and fall of her chest imperceptible. No longer does she make any sort of noise indicating that she's fighting to hang on.
He wishes he had it in him to say something, too, but that has always been a strong suit of everyone but his own. Dulia, Aldon… hell, even his mother. They always knew what to say.
Ravi is silent, though, when the cannon fires. Beside him Zoya jerks, equally unprepared, and his answering swallow is loud enough that neither of them need to speak. The only ugly thought lurking in the back of his mind is how proud his mother would be of his emotionless reaction; he moves his hand away from Farasha's without struggle, leaning back from her to breathe in untainted air.
"Should we go?" Zoya wonders. He has yet to regain his true senses, refusing to barrel on ahead without permission.
Ravi looks at Kai, sound asleep if not for the occasional shiver that wracks his weakening body. He eyes the sky, terrifyingly empty of everything except the darkness—not even the distant silver flash of a hovercraft can be seen speeding towards them.
"Just a little while longer," he says. He's kept enough company with corpses before; another added to the list won't send him to the grave any quicker. "And then we will.
Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four
Somehow, he thought making it safely inside meant that some of the horrors would end.
Yes, he's very much aware of just how asinine the thought was to begin with, but that hadn't stopped him from thinking it. A hopeful illusion, for most people, was enough to keep them going.
The shattering of it all was the troublesome part.
He had thought, too, that perhaps the mutts would be lesser inside. That at least seemed to be right, but he hadn't managed to avoid them entirely. Amani could hear them just down the next hall, and he didn't trust the distant noises that he could hear behind him. He was stuck here, it seemed, unless he dared to venture out in a random direction. Then again, what wasn't random anymore? He had lost orientation, unsure of where he was or which way to go.
Like any Career, he would feel leagues better if he had a proper weapon. He may have found himself gathering more differences from the stereotypical than anyone would have liked, but Amani couldn't escape that.
He knew how to fight, how to kill. And, evidently, how to avoid dying.
He shuffles down the wall, finally, advancing forward even as instinct tells him not to. He can't stand here all night. Torches flicker against the wall round the corner, and he peers into the shadows, yanking himself back quicker than he would like.
Just quickly enough, it seems. The mutts, half a dozen of them, don't seem to notice his presence. That or they're too grossly fixated on the prize they've found, a limp body at the base of the stairs, circling around it as if they're a pack of vultures. Amani is forced to listen to their guttural, inhuman sounds in the moments before everything goes silent—and then the bloodshed begins.
Flesh tears. Blood splatters against the stones. Their low snarls turn into that of frenzy, excitement.
Behind him, the hunters that have been following along are getting ever closer.
They're not going to stop—Amani knows this. Either the mutts will kill him, or someone else. He has long since accepted that the Gamemakers are not letting him out of here outside of a coffin. That girl, though, lying there… is he doomed to that fate? To let mutts rip into him, to ruin his corpse so badly that he's unrecognizable.
Some would say he already is.
Amani's choice is a simple one, though. Either confront what's behind him, or once again try to avoid it. For once, avoiding death can be an intentional action.
He moves forward.
Amani doesn't allow himself to look at any of his other surroundings—not the mutts crowded around the body, nor the blood beneath his shoes. He has eyes only for the stairs, and what has to be solace somewhere up them. If there isn't, he's dead. The mutts will come after him until there's nothing left, all the way until the dawn.
When he glances back, just a second before he would lose sight of them for good, Amani sees only two that have let their attention slip away from their previous quarry. The larger of the two leaps over what's left of her and begins to race for the stairs. That's the last he sees of them, bounding up the twisting set of stairs even as a cannon finally makes the entire tower shake.
On and on it goes, revealing only rooms with flimsy, already-broken open doors. His legs burn with exertion despite himself, throat aching as he fights to outpace them.
Finally, the top. A closed door, far more imposing and larger than anything he's seen thus far. Amani doesn't slow his pace any, throwing his entire weight and shoulder into the wooden planks so hard he nearly knocks the entire door off its hinges. He goes sprawling onto the floor on the other side, met with a shriek and a blur of silhouettes that he has no time to pay attention to in his quest to shut the door once again.
His feet slip numerous times as he scrambles to his feet, hands outstretched. Finally he sends the door flying shut, pressing himself tight against it as the mutts reach the other side. The door quivers beneath their blows, but holds.
"Oh God," a voice whispers behind him.
Finally, he's able to confront this new reality he's so readily thrown himself into—Amani turns, letting out a breath when he finally sees them. Of all people, the Seven's. They cling to one another with desperate, white-knuckled fingers, the sword in Ilan's hand shaking just enough to tell Amani that he can't be in any real danger.
They warned him some time ago when they didn't have to—from all the way up here, he's realized. A twist of fate, it seems. Maybe even a lucky one.
The door is once again driven into his back, and he winces. "You brought them up here," Ilan says. Accusatory, but with no malice.
"Didn't have much of a choice."
"I'm surprised you made it," Sanne says quietly.
He almost says the words; they were fairly distracted, but the words don't quite make it. Amani looks at them. Really looks. The two of them, who by all rights and associations are not inherently bad, but who remain at the top of this tower, a body broken at the bottom of the stairs. Something done in a moment of panic perhaps. Hardly a murder at all.
"You saw her down there," Ilan whispers. "You saw—"
"She was dead already," Amani lies. The truth will help no one in this instance.
Besides, it's not as if Amani is in any position to be instigating a flurry of negative emotions. It's not exactly the recommended course of action when you're on the opposite end of a sword.
"You're in no danger from me," he continues. It might be rich, coming from him—allyless, not a weapon to his name, but they both still look so terrified that it's all he can think to say. "I'll leave as soon as it's safe."
Slowly, foolishly, he lowers himself to the floor. His body is grateful for the break. Sanne and Ilan share a long glance; though the danger of the blade is still an obvious one, they finally release one another. Sanne shuffles back to the opposite wall and sits, too.
"When it's safe," Sanne accepts. She pats the space beside her, urging a cautious Ilan to finally take rest once again.
Even the words, though, are an attempt at Amani shielding them and himself both from the much harsher reality—there is nothing safe out there. They won't find any miracles the next time they open that door, no matter the time of day. The energy to admit such a thing aloud is far too much for someone as exhausted as he is.
Alia Maduro, 15
Tribute of District Three
It has to be coming soon—she cannot sleep until after the anthem sounds.
It woke her, last night, but then was when Alia hadn't even meant to be asleep. When she was supposed to be looking for Farasha, everything else mattered little.
And, of course, what had mattered then was that Farasha's face hadn't been in the sky. It had shocked her over anything else. Alia had resigned herself to seeing it, prepared herself for the oddly placed flood of emotions that was sure to follow. Maybe they hardly knew one another, but to survive such brutality the first time only to be slaughtered so quickly… it wasn't fair.
When had anything ever been, at least for her? She knew the inevitable was coming for them all, her most of all.
All Alia wanted was a little more time.
She makes sure to tuck herself away long before nightfall, knees pulled close to her chest, trying to find some ounce of warmth in the chill that seems to have taken the air. She isn't certain she ever properly loved anything about Three, but at least the nights were reliably warm most of the year. It was only getting colder in this place. Before long she would have no choice but to make headway to the castle and hope to find a spot there.
That, of course, meant losing her chance at the sky, of seeing what—or who—had been lost every day. She would be searching for Asha blindly, no clue if the other girl was even truly out there or not.
So she has to see. The scuffling not so far in the distance stills as the anthem sounds over the arena, even the mutts attention drawn upwards as an image shimmers to life. The Nine girl, hair drawn like curtains around her face. The image is emotionless, eyes flat. Even if someone told her to brighten up, it didn't appear as if she considered it.
And then…
There's an almost smile on her face. Closed-lipped, corners of the mouth upticked as if someone, at long last, had told a good enough joke to witness her mild amusement as the shutter went off. Somehow, in this strangely lit form, Asha appears younger than fourteen. She was already so small, a childlike roundness to her face that she had yet to shake. All of these words, the ways in which Alia has chosen to describe her, are in the past.
The little girl who disappeared from her sight, never to return, is long gone.
Her heart longs to be able to force tears, enough to appear well and truly sad, but Alia can't manage it. She feels a coldness in her belly, an iron-clad grasp around her heart that refuses it. It's just typical, isn't it? Nothing good can last. The world takes every bit of happiness from a person and squeezes them dry before it kills them; that's just how it is.
Why had Alia bothered expecting anything different?
She lets out a breath—it shakes, uneven, before she manages to get it back under control. Asha wouldn't want her to cry, anyway. It's all just a waste of time, in the end, and it's not her.
She's going to do something else. Alia is going to get up, as soon as the numbness in her legs dissipates, and she's going to do anything other than sit here and wait for the inevitable to find her, too. Find Asha's killer. Make them admit to their atrocities. Kill them, if she even has a shot at such a thing. Alia will do anything other than sit here and cower before the weight of the world.
She shuffles to her knees, wincing at the cold that has seemed to leech into them. There's no choice but to be careful in the night, even if all she wants to do is run headlong away. It's all too easy to be hyper-aware of the noises surrounding her once again, the sky dimming back into darkness. They're out there waiting for her. They want a slip up.
Even if she won't give them one, the inevitable comes anyway.
Alia doesn't see it, but the scrape of stone at her back is enough—half-risen, she freezes, surely imagining the breath she feels wafting against the back of her neck. They're not alive, really. They don't breathe.
But they serve their purpose.
Her body still, Alia turns her head, a slow and careful rotation that almost seems sufficient. One of the gargoyles is perched on the wall she had sunk down against, at perfect eye-level. Its own are as unemotional as Nine's had been, run through with cracks as if the stone is moments from crumbling.
It's the gaping maw, though, the rows of colorless, pointed teeth, that makes her protected heart give way and fear once again. There's an unnatural curve to it, a tilt to its head… it almost looks as if it's smiling at her.
Nothing like Asha's smile. Not the innocence of it, nor the gentleness.
This is evil, and she has no time to move again before it comes for her.
Casia Braddock, 13
Tribute of District Nine
She gets the impression that Robbie doesn't like her very much.
If she were any other person in the world, Casia might just raise the energy to be offended by the mere thought.
It's a good thing she's not any other person.
She knows who she is, what she appears as. She knows that people don't like it. The unexpected is discomforting to people who have, for so long, expected the same types of things from girls like her. Meek little girls, scared little girls. Girls who go to die.
She is living proof that little girls can be terrifying in their own right.
Robbie gives her so many looks that she has grown tired of meeting them. Even now, cloaked in shadow, the three of them separated by just enough space that you could call it safety, she can feel them. Casia busies herself with… well, with not much, really. There's no scrap of comfort around to make something resembling a bed; the cold, hard ground greets her for yet another night.
At least she has the knife, now. Small and unassuming, easy to tuck away into her pocket. It wasn't the grandiose thing she had been sent the first time around, but it was something, and Casia knew that Hari had paid heftily for it. She hadn't expected to get anything—it was something she had to treasure. Especially if there was someone that didn't want her around.
She can feel Robbie watching her once again, but Sloane's voice cuts through the noise. A noise that, up until this point, she had been blissfully tuning out. It was something Casia was good at.
"Casia."
There's something about the sharpness against the sound of her name, a knife cutting through the air, that makes her turn so suddenly. The sky is lit with artificial blue, casting odd reflections back against Sloane's face—that's the first thing she sees.
And then Lilou, up in the sky. Only a fraction of her before her image fades and is replaced by another, but it's all Casia is able to focus on.
It becomes clear where the urgency in Sloane's voice had come from. Casia could have missed it. Would she have believed it, if Sloane had told her, or would she have continued searching? Regardless, now, the truth has stared back at her—nothing more than a blip of it, hardly even enough to recognize the person that Casia was beginning to call a friend.
Sloane eases up to her side, for once quiet. A hand lays over her shoulder. Casia shrugs it off. She almost considers busying herself once again, tidying up the little corner she had planned on calling home for the night, but it feels awful to look away even once the anthem has ended. She hadn't even considered that Lilou would appear there. She may not have been the flashiest, nor the most capable, but she had proved everyone wrong once.
What had gone so wrong this time?
"You can stay with us if you want," Sloane says.
"Do I not get a say in that?" Robbie fires back.
"Did I ask you?"
"No."
"Then no," Sloane quips. "Hawke may very well have beaten your face in—which I think would have been an improvement, mind you—if we hadn't shown up. Therefore I get the opinion. Shut up and eat your fucking tomatoes."
He pelts one at her, Sloane's arms flailing as she sends it sailing back. She turns, fully, so that the next one Robbie throws hits her square in the back as she turns to face Casia fully. "I'm serious," Sloane says. "About you staying."
"And what if I don't want to."
"Then… go?" Sloane says obviously. "I won't stab you in the back, or nothing. Pissy-pants over there might. Not sure what his deal is."
Casia isn't either. Frankly, she's not sure she's interested in sticking around to find out. But going means being alone out there, and as much as the solitude doesn't frighten her, she knows she can't win every battle. Not like this time. Maybe Casia would get lucky, but it would run out eventually. It always does.
"Well, you're not running in the opposite direction, so…"
"I'll stay," she decides, turning away, head ducked. "Thanks."
Her voice is so quiet she's not even sure Sloane hears it, until she responds. "No problem, kid. Sorry it went down like this."
Yeah. Yeah, Casia is too. But if she ruminates on that now, if she even dares to think about Lilou and the what-ifs for too long, she might just verge into the territory of upset. It's a place Casia hasn't been for a very long time—frankly, she's not even sure what it looks like. It feels fictitious, a place only other people go. Not her. Never her.
She doesn't want to end up there now.
Jordyn Palladino, 17
Tribute of District Four
Jordyn is no longer certain that mess is a strong enough word to describe them.
It had been comical, at first. Kaleya would sit her down and say something like you're getting into a mess with those two, the little bastards and while they were not in fact little Jordyn could not argue the fact that Weston and Levi were bastards.
So it made sense, of course, that Weston was choosing now to act like one, and it was made worse to see it alongside Levi, the furthest thing from one he could possibly be right now.
Weston was pacing. Stomping. Glowering. Levi had drawn himself up against the wall, eyes open and unseeing, stoic in a way that was terribly unlike him. And Vadric, well… Jordyn wasn't going to question what Vadric was doing. She was surprised they were even here. They were so unobtrusive in an otherwise chaotic situation that Jordyn couldn't be less bothered by their presence.
Other things were taking precedent.
"I can't fucking do this," Weston mutters—he's not speaking to her, not asking for a response, but as he breezes by her yet again Jordyn feels compelled to offer him one. She steps into his path on the next go-around, forcing him to stop before they collide.
"I get it," she hisses. "This sucks. But the way you're acting isn't helping."
"The way I'm acting?" he throws back. "We've been sitting here all fucking day, and at the rate we're going we'll be sitting here all night too. You think that's what I want?"
"Do you think that's what I want?"
"Great. So we're on the same page."
"Clearly not," she says. "Sitting is the best thing we can do right now, even if it drives us insane. Levi needs—"
"To get off his ass and stop thinking about it," Weston insists, an interruption so harsh she's almost tempted to smack him. "You think sitting here for another twelve hours is going to help him? Newsflash, Jords, it's not."
She can't imagine a world in which they drag Levi up off that floor and make him move. It was hard enough the first time, when he was sobbing so hysterically Jordyn wasn't even certain he knew what was going on. He hadn't fought them while they had pulled him away, somewhere further, somewhere less gory. It was the opposite. Levi was so pliant it was as if he was numb, unable to do anything else but be dragged along.
It was a state of catatonia Jordyn had avoided seeing until now, hardly a half dozen words leaving his mouth the entire day. A mumbled thanks when she had given him some food. A soft okay when they had deposited him here in the first place and told him they would scope out the other rooms. Nothing more.
It would drive her mad to sit here for another twelve hours, but beneath it Jordyn still had a semblance of a fucking heart.
She was not going to make him move on.
"If you want to fight this battle, you're doing it on your own."
"So you've made clear."
"Eleven's dead," she continues. "We've done enough. They're not going to come after us now, and it's safer here besides. Not with those things out there."
"You really think they could hurt us?"
"I think they could do a lot worse in this state." She sighs. Weston's eyes still flash with a bright irritance, the urge to walk away from this conversation a winner, but it's been a long day and Jordyn is tired.
Perhaps if she sleeps the morning will come faster.
"If you're going to pace, have fun on watch," she tells him. Vadric watches her the whole while as she passes by, refusing to relax once again until Jordyn is seated—it's an easy spot to choose, crossing her legs as she claims the floor in front of Levi, watching as he registers her presence.
She doesn't expect much of anything at all. Jordyn can only blink in surprise as he offers a heavy sigh. "What were you two arguing about?"
So he's not as checked out as he would appear. "Nothing."
"I'm not going to shatter into a thousand pieces if you tell me. I'm not an idiot."
"Are you sure?" she questions, if only to lighten the mood some. "He doesn't want to stay here for the rest of the night."
"What do you want to do?"
Jordyn can't get away with saying nothing again, nor can she insist that she's perfectly fine staying here. She may be a damn good liar, but it feels wrong to even try it with Levi right now, especially when she isn't getting anything out of it.
"If you two want to go out for a while…"
"We just found you," she points out. "No chance."
Levi would offer a smile any other time—the best she gets this time is his chin resting on his knees, his eyes actually meeting hers for a split second before he looks away once again. "I'm glad you did."
"Me too."
"I'm not… I'm not sure what would have happened, if you hadn't," he admits. "I might still be down there, with…"
"But you don't have to think about that," she interrupts. "Because we did find you, and you're not down there anymore. You hear me?"
"Loud and clear."
"Good. Now, if you don't mind, I need to catch up on some beauty sleep."
Jordyn is beyond relieved to see that such a statement eyes her an eye-roll, even if it lacks its usual dramatic punch. "Not like you need it."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Two."
"Flattery has already gotten me everywhere," he points out. "Have a good sleep."
There's no getting comfortable on the stone floor, but Jordyn tries her best. Seeing him now is much more difficult, but it gives her a better look at the splatter of blood that lines the side of his jaw, running down his neck. She had gotten the worst of it off his face, but there was no saving everything else. His shirt. His hands, the blood caked deep into the grooves of his palms.
He won't sleep. There's no point in wishing him the same. All Jordyn can do now is close her eyes and hope things look better when the sun comes up.
For now, anyway.
Tova Revelis, 18
Tribute of District One
"You'll wear a hole in that floor."
Of course she will. In fact, Tova's relegated herself to that exact job, no matter how long it takes or who tries to tell her otherwise. Given that Aranza is the only one present, it won't be too bothersome.
"To—va," Aranza sings. Tova whirls on her, sure that her stare is hard as ice, but Aranza doesn't so much as flinch, unblinking.
"What?"
Aranza pats the floor beside her. "Sit."
"Why?"
"You ask a lot of questions," Aranza tells her. "The door's barricaded, silly. Anyone who tries to get in will make a hell of a ruckus, and don't tell me you won't be on them with that thing before they even get halfway through."
She makes a grand gesture to the weapon at her belt. Of course it's true—Tova would hack anyone to bits if they even considered stepping foot in here, let alone if they actually succeeded. She needs that opportunity, and soon. Going stir crazy waiting for something to happen is not a high solution on her list.
Tova leans back against the nearest table. "I'm sitting."
Aranza pats the floor again. "Here."
"This is all just a game to you, isn't it?" Tova asks, crossing her arms over her chest. That unnerving sparkle is back in Aranza's eye, the one that just barely misses mischievous and instead crosses over into dangerous territory. It's a look Tova's seen far too much. Some of the better trainees had it. Some of the ones in the arena, too.
It didn't end up serving them the best.
"Everything's a game, lovely," Aranza points out. "Is taking a break from it really such a bad thing?"
Yes, it is. Especially when she could be caught unaware. There's nothing to do but stare at one another though instead, a feat Tova manages for all of forty-five seconds. She hates looking people in the eyes. Too personal.
She sits down beside her, their shoulders pushed up against one another. "Are you happy now?"
"Delighted."
It's not so bad, this way. There are no heavy, weighted glances. No expectations. The axe clinks against the floor and she turns it, settling into a better position. She's not sure how long she can sit, really, but at least an attempt will keep things quiet for a few hours.
An arm curls gently around hers, settling into the crook of her elbow. Moments later stray strands of curly hair tickle at her jaw, the few that have escaped Aranza's still somehow fairly neat braids. She lets Aranza's head settle on her shoulder without comment, without movement. It can't possibly be comfortable; they're too close together. Aviya always said she had bony shoulders. They used to sit like this, when they were younger, before there was a chair to block the way. They always did.
It's just a game, she reminds herself. Nothing more.
"Beats a bed," Aranza murmurs.
Tova huffs. "You're full of shit. You can't tell me you'd not rather be sleeping in a bed right now, princess."
"My bed at home wasn't very comfortable."
"In the Capitol."
"Don't remind me," Aranza groans, clearly lamenting the fall from grace that they've suffered in only a few short days. The damp, cold air, the unforgiving floors and walls and ceilings and never-ending maze of halls. It looks grand, of course, but it's not all it's cracked up to be.
No wonder Aranza was so hell-bent on getting her over here. All she wanted was some comfort, to twist another web around in her little game.
Tova isn't quite sure which one is outweighing the other.
One thing is becoming more and more obvious—to her, at least. Tova wrote it off as her imagination, at first, her eyes playing tricks on her in the dark. With only the torches lighting away, it was easy to excuse the little things. Now, though, with only the moonlight pouring through a few windows, there was no mistaking it.
There were cracks in the walls.
It wasn't just that, though. The floors were wearing away. Sometimes the walls looked as if they were leaning just a bit too much to the stable. Each hour that passed Tova could see new things, developments in its deterioration.
This place was turning to ruin around them—she was sure of it. Eventually it was all going to come crashing down.
There was no telling how much time there would be before that happened.
21st. Farasha Oriani, District Eleven.
20th. Lilou Holbrook, District Nine.
No, Lilou did not die on impact per Ilan's push, unfortunately, though she eventually would have anyway. Unfortunate ends, am I right. Regardless I am sorry to have officially verged into the territory of 'didn't deserve it' types of death, and sorry as well to the submitters who get them.
Sorry about the break. Sorry about any future breaks. But hey, progress. We'll get there eventually. Thank you all for sticking alongside me.
Until next time.