XL: The Games - Day Four, Midday

Sanne Levesay, 16
Tribute of District Seven

It's impossible to pinpoint just how much can change within a single night.

The quiet has become a companion of hers, something reliable in the past year. A friend when they all seemed so far away. It welcomed her when she closed the door to her room and held her close thereafter.

Of course, she had Ilan now. Someone else, too.

Maybe that's why she didn't expect the quiet.

Ever since the initial moments in which Amani had barricaded himself inside the room, and them by association, they had spoken perhaps a dozen words between them. Sanne only thought there would be more to talk about. She thought, before he got up in the morning to leave, that he would say something. Do something.

But he hadn't left. They hadn't so much as moved, and her body was paying the price for it. The pair of them hadn't slept a wink all night with a Career in the same room, pleasant as he appeared to be. Now Ilan was dozing off, his head resting against her thigh, and the chill of the stone beneath her was producing an ache she wasn't sure would easily disappear.

And Amani was still here.

Something had shifted since he had seen Sander's face in the sky—it was somewhat of a relief to know that he felt like the rest of them, that he had a reaction to it no matter how minimal. Not once had he met their eyes as he stared at his ally's face far above them, and Sanne had found that she wasn't sure she wanted him to anyway. Grief, no matter the amount, was hard to look in the eyes.

She had enough trouble looking in the mirror these days.

Sanne wasn't sure where he was meant to be looking now—his eyes remained unfocused, directed at a point in the stone just to the left of her. They can't sit here forever, but in order for anything to get going someone had to make the first move. She wasn't used to that person having to be her.

It wasn't going to happen any other way.

"Hey," she murmurs, voice scarcely above a whisper. "Lift your head up for a second."

Ilan mumbles something but obeys the command after a moment's hesitation, lifting his head to allow Sanne enough room to slip her legs free. Before she slides their pack into their place she pulls a few things free, bundling them into her arms. Amani is watching her now, but that doesn't mean she moves any less carefully as she eases across the small room to his side.

She sets the water bottle and the small collection of food down. "I know it's no seven course meal, but…"

Amani smiles—at her, or the food, she can't quite tell. "It's better."

"You don't have to lie."

"Not much of a lie when you've had as little to eat as I have."

Judging by the state of him it doesn't come as much of a surprise. He looks hollowed, scraped and bruised from one too many nights stuck in the gardens, eyes bloodshot. Her heart wants her to empty the entire contents of their bag at his feet, but it's not as if her heart has ever gotten her very far. All it does is destroy.

Even when she doesn't want it to.

"Thank-you," he says quietly, finally. "I'll make it last."

Sanne knows now would be the time to move away, to put distance between them before she can be given the time to regret further action. Amani is almost methodical in the way he begins to open the sealed plastic, eyes downcast.

Ilan is watching them now. She can feel it, or maybe she just knows him well enough to tell. If he's in any sort of disagreement, she hopes he'll speak up.

Otherwise she just might regret this.

"You don't have to," she tells him. "There's more where that came from."

"I'm not expecting you to empty your pockets for a stranger."

"I don't think you're a stranger to us anymore."

He helped them, once upon a time, as minimal as it was. Amani offered kindness when Sanne wasn't sure there was much left of it in the world. And now, when he could have taken both of their lives with nothing more than his empty hands, he has chosen another way. Even if that way was him leaving, alone and abandoned.

If he wanted to die, Sanne thinks he would have by now. Some part of him is still fighting to live, looking for something more beyond the desolate wasteland they've been left with after the past year.

She knows all too well what that feels like.

"It's up to you, at the end of the day," she offers. "But you could stay with us, if you'd like. We don't exactly offer much beyond food, but we're not terrible company. I don't think."

"We're slightly terrible company," Ilan says. It rings like agreement in her ears.

"I'm not sure I offer much either," Amani says, but there's an almost-smile on his face, a flicker of something that nearly overtakes the worry in his eyes.

"Then I guess we're meant to be."

Behind them, Ilan huffs out something meant to be a laugh. He's looked so miserable since what happened on the stairs, almost lost… relief floods over her at the hint of anything but, a sign of him returning to her.

"What do you say?" she asks. Sanne isn't sure what she'll do if he shuts her down so suddenly and refuses. She hasn't prepared for that option.

They'll just go back to the way things were if Amani leaves, but that doesn't seem as clear-cut as it once was.

Amani sighs. "I say we get out of here, even if it's just to find another place to hunker down for the night. We can't stay here forever. 'Makers already hate me… wouldn't put it past them to drop the roof on my head if I don't move soon."

Ilan shuffles about, scooping up their pack with a heaviness to him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I don't think they like Sanne much, either."

The sword is still on the ground at his feet. They're all watching it now, as if waiting for it to gain life and get up on its own. She looks to Ilan, and he looks back.

It's lucky for them that they have little use for speaking at this point. Sanne is careful to pluck the sword from the ground, its weight unexpected as she turns to offer it to Amani, held out like a gift. Not a preferable one, she's sure. "You'll do better with it than either of us."

Is she a fool for offering him a weapon, someone that could so easily kill her? Possibly. Sanne can't find an ounce of regret in her body when he stands, though, twirling it a few times to gauge its balance. She doesn't hesitate in taking his free hand when he offers it down to her, legs creaking in protest as she gets to her feet.

He's right—it's beyond time that they move. They have to face the stairs and the remnants, if they exist, of what lies at the bottom.

They have each-other, though, and that has to count for something. Sanne knows it does.

And that's what she's going to hold onto.

Kai Melchior, 15
Tribute of District Five

They wake him just before dawn, Farasha's cool body between them, but Kai doesn't feel as if he's slept in the slightest.

No matter how long he stares at her, his brain refuses to recognize what it is he's seeing. Kai feels more dead than she looks; he doesn't know how to reconcile his violent, ugly image of death with how she looks now, lost to a peaceful slumber. All he knows is irradiated bodies, charred skin and twisted limbs, eyes bulging from their skulls and mouths open in silent screams.

Kai stares at her for what feels like an eternity, managing miniscule sips of water that sit like acid in his stomach. Eventually Ravi pulls him to his unsteady feet and Zoya, rocking from foot to foot at the next corner, finally sees fit to take off.

"Where are we going?" he asks, still bleary, struggling to force his feet into moving. Ravi stares beyond him still, eyes fixed on Farasha's body until Kai gets properly moving.

"Not sure," Ravi answers. "I think he wants to head inside."

"Inside? Where everyone else surely is? That inside?"

"That inside," Ravi echoes. "I said the same thing, but he didn't seem to care."

"Fucking idiot."

Ravi hums—it almost sounds like agreement, which is the closest he'll come to admitting such an insult. Secretly, Kai is glad that they're at least doing something. He isn't sure Ravi would ever accept heading inside otherwise, and Kai knows he doesn't have the push to get them there himself. Blindly following said fucking idiot seems to be the only way.

He hates it just as much as he thought he would. The idea of a roof over their heads is appealing, but it doesn't outweigh the idea that they might get ambushed the moment they walk inside, attacked from all angles.

At least if Zoya is in the lead, he'll take the brunt of it. Kai is certain if anyone were to jump him right now he would fold like a ball of wet paper; putting one foot in front of the other is hard enough. Each time a foot hits the ground his temples throb, the edges of his vision seeming to sparkle with white dots. How is he going to get to the end when he can hardly walk?

A hand locks around his elbow, his feet stuttering to an unsteady halt. "Do you need to take a break?" Ravi questions.

"It's fine."

"That's not what I asked."

"How long have we been walking?" Kai wheezes. "Twenty minutes?"

Ravi glances at his watch. "Just over ten."

"Fuck's sake." He really isn't meant to be doing this. There's no way he's making it all the way there, and Zoya will sooner drag him face-down over the stone than let them stop already. Ravi releases his arm and he wobbles alarmingly, lost for a moment until his eyes refocus. He's staring at Ravi's back, now… Ravi's back which is significantly lower than it used to be. Is he hunched over? Looking at something on the ground?

"C'mon," Ravi beckons. "Up."

He's never heard him sound so insistent before. "Up…?"

"On my back." He sounds stilted, now, as if wondering if he should have offered in the first place.

"You—you can't—"

"Can't carry you? Why not?"

"I'm not a five year old."

"I never said you were."

They could stand here and argue all day, but Ravi will win in the end. Kai's too tired to argue. He would never admit aloud how appealing the idea of not walking is, but he wonders if it's visible in his eyes. He sighs heavily, steadying his hands on Ravi's shoulders as he clambers up, achingly slow. His legs are at relief almost instantly, his body crying out in thanks. It's not comfortable exactly, Ravi's hands braced under his knees, his chin bumping against Ravi's shoulder, but it's better.

He does not deserve this.

"The hell are you two—oh, isn't that adorable," Zoya drawls, reappearing from the next corner. "Wish I had a camera."

"Fuck off," Kai mutters. They're passing him, now. Ravi's moving at a decent enough pace—Kai probably weighs about as much as the backpack he was previously carrying, not much of a burden at all.

"Have you considered killing yourself?" Zoya asks.

"Cancer's doing it for me."

"Good riddance." Zoya bounces ahead of them once again. Maybe that's why Kai can't walk—Zoya's sucking all the remaining energy out of him.

"I hope he falls in the moat," Kai decides.

"I'd have to fish him out."

"I wouldn't let you."

Bold words coming from someone who's relying on Ravi to carry him around, he's aware, but he would muster up every bit of vitality left in his body to stop such a thing from happening. Let him have that little bit of joy, at least. Watching Zoya flounder about, doomed or not, would definitely perk up his spirits a bit.

He's not sure much else could do the job at this point.

Kai lowers his chin properly onto Ravi's shoulder, trying not to let the gloom pull him back in. Every passing moment brings him closer.

And Ravi knows, of course. "You can close your eyes. I don't mind."

"I know you don't."

"So…"

"So I'd be a pretty shit ally if I fell asleep and made you carry me around for the foreseeable future. The least I can do is keep my eyes open."

Easier, of course, if his vision was reliable… easier said than done.

Ravi signed up for this. He knew what he was getting into in choosing to stick by Kai's side, and he chose it anyway. For the first time in a while the guilt is overwhelming—he's ruining him. If Kai was a good person, he'd make Ravi fuck off and choose to live for himself.

But he's not good. He closes his eyes, instead, and the darkness is as welcoming as ever. "Y'know," he says quietly. "If I have to die, I hope it's like her. In my sleep. Unaware. Just… quietly."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? It's true. Better than being brutally murdered."

Ravi's voice is equally quiet, now. "I won't let that happen."

And Kai believes it, too. He's not sure how, when everything else in the world has gone to such shit, but he believes it. It may possibly be the one thing worth believing in at all.

That's why he can't chase Ravi off, why Zoya is still around, as grating as he is. Having something to focus on can do wonders in keeping you alive.

Kai needs all the help he can get in that department.

Weston Katsouris, 18
Tribute of District Six

Weston would have more success talking to a brick wall.

Really, that's what it feels like, for all the acknowledgement he's getting.

You know, he's not totally heartless, either. It's just what is the fucking point of sitting around and wallowing in your self-misery when it's not going to make anything better? He's never even considered such a thing.

They're all here for a reason. Much as he resents the stupid amount of care he can feel gnawing at his ribcage, the two of them are Careers. Levi volunteered for this, knew exactly what he was getting himself into, and the last thing he expected to hear down in those tunnels was the horrendous, aching sobs that spilled from his lips, the same ones that had continued all the way up the stairs until Weston had insisted they be quiet, and—

And maybe he felt bad about that. Maybe he didn't. He still wasn't sure. Weston is just relieved that it's done, now.

Levi is moving, now, methodically placing things into his bag for the second time as he works up the nerve to properly move. It's going to happen soon—even Jordyn is starting to look anxious, for all her fierce words last night. She really does hate this as much as him.

That only leaves Vadric, still in the furthest corner from the rest of them that they can manage to be. Weston drops himself down in front of them in unceremonious fashion, unconvinced that the jolt he gets in response is really all that frightened. Jumpy as always.

"We haven't talked," he says, a pointless bit of information. They're every much as aware of it as he is.

"About what?"

"Really?" he asks. "You refused when I offered, but you show up with Levi anyway. How does that happen?"

They don't like being put on the spot, a fact Weston has learned all too quickly of his own volition, and yet something he has continued to exploit as if borne from secondhand nature. He watches them fidget, their eyes darting about, the way their hands flex over their knees. He thought Vadric had gotten over their nervousness in the face of him.

"I panicked," they say finally. "He offered. I didn't know what else to do, and he's… he didn't seem that bad."

"He's not."

"I know."

"Even though he killed his friend right in front of you."

"You've killed someone, too," Vadric says quietly.

"How do you know?" he wonders.

Because he's not the type to waste an opportunity. Because he acts quick and without hesitation and Vadric knows it.

Because, realistically speaking, Vadric knows him better than anyone here at this point.

"Just go easy on him," Vadric says. "I know you don't want to, but you're capable of it."

"You sure?"

"You've been that way with me."

A part of him wonders why he really wanted Vadric around, if all they're going to do the entire time is remind him that he's been exposed in so many ways. "Don't ruin my reputation," he insists.

"I don't think it was that stellar to begin with."

Just like that, it feels almost like the two of them were back to before. That strange, downright odd friendship cultivated over the course of a year between two people who never would have done so otherwise. Vadric offers a half-smile when he rolls his eyes, quickly getting to his feet before they can think up anything else to say. They may be scared of their own shadow some days, but they have enough words stored away to be frightening.

"You didn't ask me if I'm staying." Vadric peers up at them, slightly unsure of themselves. As if misjudging their place in the midst of this.

Weston didn't offer in the first place as some sort of joke.

"If you were going to leave, you'd have done it by now." He scoffs. "I'm not stupid."

"Could've fooled me."

"Watch it," he threatens, jabbing a finger back at them. An empty threat, and they both know it. He tries to muster up something more serious as he approaches Levi's back, still hunched over his bag. There's only so many times he can re-sort the items inside, fingers brushing against the stained blade at his belt every time he moves.

"Hey, Levi," he says, crouching down by his side, curling a hand over his shoulder.

"Hey, Wes," he answers, without missing a beat. It would be just like old times if his voice still contained any of its old zeal, that upbeat spirit that could almost be grating if you didn't know the proper way to look at it.

Once again, he finishes organizing his bag. This time Weston lets him before he speaks.

"So, when are we heading out?" he questions. "Your call."

Never in his life has he wanted to hand the power to someone less than right now. Not to someone who's brain is still turned upside down, who looks at Jordyn instinctively as if she has an answer for him. He jostles Levi's shoulder until the other boy turns to look at him once again, keeping him focused.

"Your call," he reiterates. Jordyn doesn't need to dig any further into his side than she already has, and Vadric will get up and follow if that's the move.

All he needs is Levi.

"Um," he answers finally. "Now, I guess. If everyone's good with that."

"Ready when you are," Jordyn answers. Vadric offers a nod.

It's bliss to Weston's ears.

He stays crouched beside him a moment longer, something in him still holding on. "Thanks for bringing them with you."

Levi glances up. "They've been good company."

"Better than me?"

"Ten times better. But you're welcome."

He's up before Weston can retort, his own hand falling limp to his side. Levi stares down at him, though. There's a quality to his eyes now, something uniquely unnerving. If Weston had due cause to be frightened of him, that look alone might be enough to do it.

"I don't want the two of you to fight on account of me," Levi says. "Alright? Let that be the end of it."

He can't promise not to fight, but neither can Weston stay silent. "Alright," he agrees. If anything, it feels like a temporary truce, toying with the mere idea of a permanent peace that Weston knows they will never have. They're meant to fight and bleed and die. They'll have to, eventually.

Weston won't shy away from that time when it comes.

Maderia Elvario, 18
Tribute of District One

Maderia has come to terms with the fact that they're wandering in circles.

Perhaps, if they're lucky, they're chasing each-other in circles. To do all this searching and not find even a single hint of her previous allies… it doesn't seem natural. Almost like something is keeping them away.

She doesn't want to think about what the reason could be.

If nothing else, the time has gotten her used to Milan's presence—she can't say she finds herself trusting him to the degree she would like, but she's no longer checking over her shoulder every other second to watch where he is, how close he is, what he's doing.

Most of the time it revolves around the ridiculous tome he's begun to tote around, spinning a quill between his free fingers. She'd say it was a dictionary if she hadn't seen him scribbling in it.

"What are you doing with that, really?" she dares to ask finally. Maderia has only spent hours wondering it, thinking about when she would get up the nerve to ask. She's finally aimless enough to ask, it seems, with nothing better to do.

Her feet are sore, she's looked at this same hall ten times over, and she might as well.

"Why are you asking?" His eyes have narrowed, a genuine suspicion filling them. It doesn't seem he feels the same way about her.

She shrugs. "Genuine curiosity. You don't have to answer."

Maderia likes to know things about people. Little things. What they like, their routines, why they do the things they do. It was easier back home when people were familiar.

A lot of things were easier back home.

"You're never going to read it," Milan states. "So it doesn't matter."

Something personal, then, and a harsh shut-down to go along with it. It's a lot like how Tova spoke to her, at first.

Come to think of it, isn't this just a version of Tova, redux? They hardly spoke. When they did, it was stilted. Even being in the same room with her was unbearable, for a time, until Maderia found herself unable to stand the solitude of her own room at night and they started making progress with one another. That's like him, almost. Clearly not to the same degree—never to the same degree. But something like it.

She's gotten used to him. Doesn't mind him. Every part of her would still prefer it to be Tova, but…

But she misses Tova, and that's not good. She misses her, the girl that ruined her perception of everything and put a scar down her chest to boot. Maderia thought she was golden, and Tova only proved that she was born to shatter the same as everyone else.

It's wrong to miss her. And how can she even think that she does, when somehow she's agreed to help Milan out with his little plan?

A plan that she's still in the dark on. Who knows what goes on in his head—Maderia isn't even sure she wants to know, after what she saw him do.

As if she's any better.

Whatever it is, anyway, they'll have to talk about it sooner rather than later. Sure, it's been four days, but they haven't stopped looking, and any minute could be the one they find the girls. What are they going to do if they run into them around the next corner? She can't just abandon the scene without a second thought when so much is on the line.

And would she really want to?

Maderia needs to make a decision. Either she's standing her ground with Milan and ridding herself of this crutch, this ugly version of caring, or she's a traitor who can't hold true to her word to help him. Either way, Maderia is nothing more than a fucking farce. She is not who her mother raised her to be, not who Ceziah looks up to. She's nothing like she thought she was.

There's not enough time in the world to come to terms with that.

"Watch it," Milan warns. Maderia jerks back, closer to the center of the hall; she's veered accidentally, lost in thought. Another second or two later and she'd have smacked her forehead off the nearest torch.

Another embarrassment to add to the list.

She doesn't say thank-you like she should. Maderia steels herself instead, shoulders poised like a Career should be. "Whatever your plans are, start solidifying them," she says. "We don't have forever."

"Yes, boss," he answers, but she hears the mockery in it. If she didn't think that she needed him, she might just put all that training to a good amount of use, finally, and shut him up.

Maderia really might need him, though. She might need a lot of things. A hope and a prayer, for one.

Unfortunately for her they're in short supply.

Sloane Laurier, 17
Tribute of District Three

Dare she say she's pissed Robbie off.

That, or he's got a stick up his ass, among other things. He doesn't normally glower so much—it doesn't suit his face.

His almost certainly broken nose doesn't, either.

"I almost wished it had lasted longer," Sloane laments. "You know? Really squeeze the entertainment juice out of it. But nah. Just two or three minutes, and bam. Over with."

"It wasn't meant to be fun," Robbie mutters.

"Ah, but I disagree. You hated the guy for what, two months? There was way more pent up than that."

She can't tell if Casia is amused like she is, or annoyed like Robbie. Frankly, she can't tell what Casia is thinking at all. She's been even more blank than usual since seeing other-Nine in the sky; Sloane is just trying to give her some space to think about it.

Harassing two people at once is a little bit much, is all. Casia wouldn't give her the same reaction anyway, judging by the vacancy in her eyes. That's sort of her whole shtick.

"So what's your plan now, Ten?" she asks. "Kinda got through the first one quicker than expected."

"Kill anyone else we see. No more allies."

"She can hear you, y'know," Sloane reminds him, pointing at Casia. "Besides, what's not to like?"

The quiet. The creepy-as-fuck look in her eyes. Plenty of things.

Sloane sort of likes all those things to be honest. Clearly Robbie doesn't feel the same way. He hasn't taken his eyes off of Casia since they began to exist in the same vicinity, as if she's going to climb up his back like a damn spider monkey and slit his throat. It's not as if he's any more trustworthy than she is; Sloane wasn't picking people because of that. She knows they'll do what's necessary when the time comes without holding her back.

"Seriously would have been nice to have a bit longer in hunting him down." Sloane sighs. "I mean—"

"Sloane."

"I get it, Ten, you want me to quit it, but—"

"Sloane."

It's Casia, this time. Quiet. Deadly serious. Sloane stops in her tracks, swiveling to face both her allies, only to find that neither of them are facing her at all. They're watching down an adjacent path, Casia's fingers drifting towards the knife in her belt before she begins to hesitate.

Sloane takes a step forward to see, too. To think she just walked right past it without noticing whatever they've taken interest in. Maybe twenty, thirty yards out a figure is limping away from them, practically dragging a leg behind them. Their dark hair is a knotted mess across their back, almost entirely pulled out of what had once been a neat braid. Her eyes trace over the blood-spotted clothing, the form that she has come to recognize.

Sloane blinks. "Alia?"

It doesn't feel nearly loud enough, but the figure does an awkward stutter-step, their dragging leg nearly buckling before they pick up the pace once again. It's her.

"Alia!" she shouts. Robbie lets out a curse as Sloane hurries after her. "Would you stop?"

"I can't," she hears as she gets closer. God, she's a mess. The back of her shirt is torn into strips, bloody gouges carved over her shoulder blades and down her spine. She discovers a similar one down the side of her face, nearly all the way down her neck. It just missed her jugular.

"What the hell happened?" Sloane questions, but she's got a good enough idea. No human leaves marks like that.

The mutts got to her.

"Doesn't… doesn't matter," Alia wheezes. "I have to find them."

"Find who?"

"Whoever killed her."

If not making sense was a person, Sloane has certainly found them. "I know I'm not the sharpest crayon in the box, but you need to slow down and explain this. Killed who? Who are you looking for?"

"Asha!" Alia cries finally, voice cracking in desperation. "They—they killed her, whoever they were, I lost her but I didn't mean to, I'm sorry…"

It's not just her physical appearance that appears to have been broken in some way. Alia has always been different, her eyes not quite filled with the typical innocence of a fifteen year old girl, but she's almost unrecognizable now. The tears that swim in them now look angry more than anything else—angry at herself, for letting Asha go in the first place.

But there's nothing she can do about that now.

"You don't even know who killed her?" Sloane asks. "So who the hell are you hunting for?"

"I'll know when I find them."

"You're not going to have some sort of spiritual fucking awakening when you find them. Whoever they are, they'll kill you too. Have you thought that part through?"

"It doesn't matter," Alia repeats. She's damn stubborn, continuing to limp forward even though every step looks as if it weighs a thousand pounds.

"Your life doesn't matter?" Sloane questions.

"Not anymore."

If she keeps going, she'll die. Sloane doesn't care who she finds—they won't take mercy on her, and they won't think twice about it. If they'll kill a fourteen year old girl in their opening days, her ally is just the next on the totem pole.

She's going to get herself slaughtered.

"Alia," she says firmly. "Stop."

"No."

"This isn't going to help."

No. It's not. Judging by Alia's silence, she knows it too. Maybe this is all she has left, this half-cocked idea of a revenge mission that she'll never be able to truly see through. She's still walking. Not getting very far. There's a massive chance whoever she's looking for will never be found anyway; the mutts will finish her off tonight, if she's still out here.

Either way, death is inevitable. Their once-upon-a-time truce doesn't feel worth anything anymore.

She can't bring herself to keep Alia around, to care for her. That's not what Sloane wants; her allies won't want it either. But she can't just let her walk away.

Sloane pulls the machete free from her belt. Someone sucks in a breath behind her, holding it in the in-between. "Alia," she says. It sounds infinitely more gentle than before, and maybe that's why her partner turns around for one last look. Like she thinks something is about to change.

It's just one second. A quick, easy shot.

It still hurts more than any one she's made before then, to slice the blade across Alia's neck. There's a moment of hurt in her eyes, of shock. Whatever she's feeling, Sloane feels it echo within herself ten times over. It shouldn't hurt. Why the hell does it hurt?

Because she deserved better than to slump over dead at Sloane's feet, blood still spurting from her throat. She deserved an ally and a mission that went the right way and maybe, even, she deserved to win.

Sloane's breath shakes on her next inhale. She curses internally.

"Let's go," she says firmly. Robbie blinks at her when she turns, brushing past his shoulder. "You said it first, Ten. Kill anyone we see."

"Sloane…"

"Shut up."

As if he feels bad. He fucking doesn't. He meant what he said.

Sloane did the right thing. Alia was doomed if she kept on going, fighting through a world of pain just to find more. She was never going to make it; just because she deserved to doesn't mean anything. Sloane is living proof that the wrong people will just keep on surviving if given even a second to try.

A similar presence makes way to her side. Casia's head scarcely reaches her shoulder, but her voice is still audible all the same. "I'm sorry."

An eerie echo of the same words Sloane said to her last night. They have each-other, but all three of them are alone now.

Sloane will eventually work to convince herself that it's for the best.

19th. Alia Maduro, District Three.

You know, these whole month long break things are completely unintentional, but they do seem to be a thing that's happening. I guess we'll all learn to cope?

This is not edited, just so everyone knows. Is anything I post, really? But for real this one is way less looked at than most other things, so just pretend you did not see it unless it's a horrifically glaring ignore that cannot be ignored.

Again, thank you all for sticking with me regardless. I am very much lucky to be surrounded by the type of people that will.

Until next time.