XLI: The Games - Day Five, Midday.
Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Tribute of District Six
They're on the move, now, and Vadric can't decide how they feel about that.
She knows just what will happen if they stumble upon someone, and it won't be pretty. No doubt they'll watch as their three allies, inaptly named or not, slaughter someone in a matter of seconds. Maybe it will last longer if there happen to be a few still kicking, but even then they're not sure.
In a way, Vadric finds a level of gratitude within them, knowing the unlikeliness of having to watch someone else die so close. Sander was enough, at least for a while, and he wasn't even an ally. They don't want to watch anyone die so close anymore, even if it will become inevitable.
What they're doing is hunting—even if Weston charges forward while Levi trails behind, even if they're not finding anyone, that's exactly what happens.
So what the hell is Vadric playing at?
They're no hunter. He knew all too well what they were looking for, them and Levi, but now that they've found it staying makes even less sense. Levi was easy to join, less threatening in the presence of panic, but surrounded by the three of them they're the black sheep once again. The outsider.
Staying with them means dying with them. Running means dying alone.
Vadric has no idea which option is worse.
A finger taps suddenly against his temple—they blink, unable to help rearing back until their eyes come to focus on Levi, walking alongside them. "Sorry," he says. "What's going on in that noggin' of yours? Nothing?"
It has something to do with the casualty in which he says it, somehow making it easier for Vadric to admit the truth. "The opposite."
"Understandable."
He's the same. Vadric has yet to grasp how he can look and act so blase while filled with heaps upon heaps of turmoil. Levi doesn't look upset, now. Sleep deprived, maybe, but it's not as if they have any room to judge in that department. It's a far cry from how terribly he had sobbed not long ago—the noise echoes around her head and refuses to leave.
"I'm sorry," they offer. "For what it's worth."
"For what?"
It feels odd to have to give him such a look. The incredulous kind, a rather daring look for someone they still don't truly know. He turns away, focusing intently on Weston's back in front of them as if he's studying something.
Levi swallows. "It's alright."
"Is it?"
"It was going to happen eventually. One of us had to go."
Avanti was a year ago, give or take a few days, and it still lingers with Vadric. The look in her eyes, the betrayal. There's a reason Levi waited until Sander's back was turned.
That doesn't mean it will haunt him any less.
"I'm sorry," they reiterate. "That it was you that had to do it."
Levi nods—much too sharp, eyes fixing forward once again. This time he's given a reprieve, joining Weston at a set of heavy oaken doors. No matter how many times they pull at the handles, it refuses to budge.
"Must be something important," Weston says.
"Nah, really? Thanks, Captain Obvious."
"You know what, Two—"
"Don't know much of anything to be honest," Levi admits, digging an elbow into Weston's side. It's plainly obvious that they're messing around, but the mere hint of anything resembling an argument is enough to shy away. They nearly bump into Jordyn as they side-step to the left. There's a clear shot down the hall, lots of room to run.
Where the hell would they go?
"Thanks for talking to him," Jordyn says, and she blinks. Jordyn's talking to them.
Why?
"I… what?"
"Levi. He's quieter, most of the time. Not hard to see why. It's good to get him talking, even only for a minute or two… so thanks."
Jordyn is thanking them, actually looking at them like they're something more than a scuff of dirt on the ground. That's what Vadric truly feels they resemble, being here, but in the face of Jordyn it only magnifies. She's the person you want to emulate—pretty face, good life, enough charm to work through anything but not so much that they call you an airhead.
"You're welcome?" Vadric tries. "He talks to you, though."
When Jordyn pushes, of course, when there's nowhere for Levi to escape to. Vadric has never had someone go out of their way to make casual conversation with them—hell, his own brother doesn't even like talking to them. They can see how uncomfortable he is just spending time in the house.
It should not have taken this place for someone to take Vadric as company. They've got it all backwards.
"Still," Jordyn says finally. Or maybe she's just been talking all this time; it wouldn't be the first occasion that Vadric has been too lost in their own head to hear what people say to them. "I appreciate it. Keep it up, if you don't mind."
They nod—do they really have a choice in this? If they don't keep up with Jordyn's wishes, she'll feel like an utter failure. There's been enough of that going around.
Besides, talking isn't so bad. Not always. It's the quiet that always takes them to the worst places.
"Hey, dumb and dumber," Jordyn snaps. "Doors aren't opening. Let's go."
"Which one am I in that scenario?" Levi asks, tone dripping with innocence even as Jordyn reaches forward to cuff him over the back of the head, shoving him in Vadric's direction. He has something like a goofy smile on his face, but it's his eyes that give it away.
Vadric always thought these types of people were invincible. They were supposed to be, anyway.
They're no different than her, though.
Jordyn is after him immediately—it's Weston, of all people, left to linger, staring at the set of doors as if they contain some sort of great mystery.
"Come on," Vadric urges quietly. They're in no position to be issuing orders, but it's not as if leaving him behind is an option. They've crossed that bridge.
He raps his knuckles against the wood one last time before he turns after the others, shaking his head. Vadric has seen him determined dozens of times; the only difference this time is that what he wanted didn't give way before him. Who knows what could lie beyond those doors. Whatever it is must be important.
Vadric darts forward even as Weston departs—it's exactly as they expect. The doors don't budge. They were never going to open for Vadric, of all people.
He can't help but wonder who they are going to open for. Someone important. Someone capable of handling whatever lies on the other side.
That person is clearly not them. Vadric wishes whoever it is well.
Robbie Creston, 17
Tribute of District Ten
He's not surprised when Sloane barrels on ahead.
Casia is not so eager, but follows all the same. She is much more cautious in her movements, always checking over her shoulder—she often finds herself looking back at him, he knows.
Robbie has no choice but to watch her. Looking away, even for a moment, risks a catastrophe, and his life is on the other end of it. He has no doubt Casia would be quite content if were gone, but the feeling is mutual. Robbie didn't sign up for this.
In a way it feels as if he's back in Ten all over again, the ghost of a little girl hot on his heels. Just like the arena before, living in the only past he's ever known. At least if he was back home—if you could call it that, Pierre would be around. There would be someone worth trusting without a shadow of a doubt, unlike the two he follows now.
That was what these relationships were built on. Not a semblance of trust, but the very idea that there would never be one.
It wasn't exactly a comfortable life.
At least Sloane seems content in risking hers—Robbie knew without speaking that she had her eyes on the doors at the very end of the hall the moment they turned the corner, and she doesn't slow in her approach. She begins to haul the left one open, the creak emitting from it so loud that he winces, unable to stop himself from turning in a circle just to watch their surroundings.
There's nothing but the sunlight streaming through the windows. It feels like a long time since Robbie has seen the sun.
There's a low, impressed whistle—it echoes down the hall as Sloane disappears inside the room, sheathing her machete. He can only take that as a good sign.
Robbie will take however many of those they can manage to get.
He smells it all before he steps inside, the scents overwhelming but much more preferred over the tomatoes with their broken skin still squished in his pocket. The table takes up their entire room, at least twenty ornate chairs leading down each side. His eyes can't help but linger over the baskets of fruit, roasted vegetables and carved meats piled high. The reflection of himself in the golden plates is an unwelcome one.
At the opposite end of the table Sloane scoops up a goblet, taking an experimental sniff of it before she downs half of it in one go, smearing it across her lips.
"What if that was poisonous?" he asks flatly. Sloane slams the empty goblet back into its place, picking up the next with a smile.
She raises it to him, grin so wide he can see it even around the brim of the cup. "Then a toast to my death, Ten. Try not to miss me too much."
Robbie scoffs—her smile doesn't fade as she snatches a slice of roasted beef with her fingertips alone, striding around the table to examine the rest of the offerings. He's hungry, too. Not quite starving—Robbie has been truly hungry, before, and he's not there yet. He knows he can hold out for much longer than this. Hell, if he gave in so easily he could practically hear all the voices back home. Pierre would be on him for caving so easily.
Hawke, known or not, would be doing the same.
He was meant to kill him; Robbie knows this for a fact. Whether it was one of them for the other, one was always going to fall at the other's hand. Robbie is grateful to be rid of him, to not think about his coldness or the constant sneering. It's snapped things into perspective, is all. If he was meant to finish off Hawke, then what the hell was supposed to happen with Sloane and Alia?
Robbie is a walking goddamn hypocrisy, if nothing else. He said they had to kill anyone else they came across, and it wasn't a lie. Sloane was just doing what he had ordered not long before.
It's different, somehow. Hawke, who made his life a living hell, and Alia. She was probably nice. Robbie doesn't know. He never will.
He hates that it's different.
"Would you cut it out?" Sloane snaps finally. "Kick your feet up, have a drink. Do something other than stand there."
After a minute of watching Sloane, unchanged, even Casia has joined in. She's much more methodical about her choices, carefully plucking a few grapes from their stems and savoring each of them. Meanwhile there's a trickle of red so bright down Sloane's chin that he nearly starts—wine, quite possibly. It's not thick enough to be blood.
The color is standing her teeth, too, when she smiles and nudges a chair a few inches back from the table, clearly meant for him.
Maybe Hawke had it right after all. Alone seems easier. Only your own back to watch, no fear of someone betraying you while you slept. Everyone was an enemy.
Especially these two in the room with him.
Robbie examines the table—there's an entire, golden-cooked bird splayed in the middle of it, but that's not what he has eyes for in this moment. He reaches for the large carving knife laying at its side instead. They're both watching him, eyes lasered in as he removes it from the table and carries it with him. Sloane remains next to the chair she nudged out, unmoving as he throws himself back down into it.
Robbie lays the knife down across his lap. Looks up at her.
She shrugs. "More for me."
Sloane moves on, uncaring for his position or worryingly good at hiding it. Casia is more slow in her movements, removing something from the table with none of the urgency that Robbie had possessed. The two-pronged fork in her hand is as long as her forearm, made brighter under the light of the grand chandelier. Something to hold the bird down, maybe, as you sliced at it. Good for pinning, making sure nothing gets away from you.
It's easy to imagine being on the other end of it. Squirming and helpless, unable to stop it from happening. Looking death in the eyes, always in the form of some little girl.
Well, he sees it now. He knows it's in the room with him.
Robbie isn't as scared as he thought he would be.
Ilan Azar, 17
Tribute of District Seven
He wishes he could say there was some sort of improvement after getting some legitimate sleep.
Granted, there's something to be said about feeling clear-headed, but Ilan still isn't sure how they ended up here; not here in this long hall with its floor to ceiling windows, but following a Career with the sword that Ilan handed over to him.
Amani isn't a threat to them. He proved that when he spent the night in that tower alongside them and never even crossed the room. He knew that a single movement would feel like a threat.
Ilan can't recall the exact words Amani spoke to him this morning—he was half-asleep, still, rubbing it from his eyes and contemplating when it would be appropriate to wake Sanne as well. He didn't like waking her when she so badly needed it. When Amani had moved behind him a part of Ilan had flinched instinctively, unable to recognize an ally even when they were in the same room.
And what had he said? Something like I know it doesn't seem right to trust me or trusting me seems stupid, I know but he had finished it with a soft but you can.
The worst part was, Ilan had believed him, and there were already half a dozen reasons why. Namely that Sanne seemed to trust him, and he knew her judgment was better. He could follow her lead when he didn't trust himself to pick the proper direction. Ilan wasn't sure he had ever had a friend quite like that before.
But he also knew what Amani had done for him, inconsequential as it may have seemed to others. It had been a long, agonizing walk down those stairs, and just before they had rounded the last section Amani had forced them to stop. No words had been exchanged, but he had completed the journey down on his own with a new sense of urgency, and not moments later they both heard the sounds of something being dragged over the floor, the wet sound of blood not yet dried.
Sanne's death grip on his hand was not enough for Ilan to be unaware of what Amani was doing. He called for them to come down not long after, and all that was left for Ilan to stare at was a pool of blood left behind on the floor, splatters of it on the first two steps. It stuck to his boots when he stood at the edge of it. When he had tried, with some insane desire, to see where Amani had pulled her off to, he was gently steered away in what Ilan could only assume was the opposite direction.
He could only imagine what was left of Nine—not much, after the long nights. But thanks to Amani he only had to imagine it, rather than having the ugly image burned into his brain.
Even if Ilan believed he deserved to see what he had done, Amani didn't. That alone was worth trusting.
Ahead of them, Amani stops at the last window before the hall ends, and Ilan doesn't feel wrong in joining him, leaving just enough room for Sanne to squeeze in at his side. Outside it is cold and clear, the gardens unruffled far below. No matter how hard he searches, Ilan can't see the faintest sign of movement.
"You think everyone is in here by now?" Sanne asks, voice soft. It was easier being cooped up, not having to worry about how your voice travels.
"Anyone with sense," Amani replies. "If the temperature keeps dropping, it'll force any stragglers."
Everyone in one place—it's exactly what they want. The castle is more than large enough to safely contain them all, but they'll still be forced together eventually. Even in such a space Nine still ended up in the same place and ascended the stairs after them. Someone could be just around the corner, listening to their every word.
Ilan thinks he would fear that more if it was still only the two of them, if it was Sanne's life on the line and him holding that sword with hardly a clue how to use it. That wouldn't stop him from trying. He feels infinitely better, somehow, about standing next to an armed Career who he senses will protect them much better.
It doesn't make any sense for Amani to do so. He's still alive for a reason, has clung to it despite himself. He can't truly want to die for either of them.
But Ilan wonders, too, if that's just his paranoia talking. That deeply hidden urge to look for something wrong because something always is. Humans are inherently bad, filled with ulterior motives… the only person he's ever met that has proved him otherwise is Vitali, and even he's gone.
Is he watching this now, from so far away? Ilan can't be sure. He had no place to call his own. Maybe he's sitting in the town square with a handful of others, seeing it all magnified.
Or maybe he's still up in their treehouse, unbeknownst to Ilan's parents, lying there in the quiet and waiting for Ilan to come back. Everything was so much simpler up there. He could paint murals on the walls and ignore the world below and love and be loved in return.
Reality is always so much more complicated.
Milan Crusoe, 16
Tribute of District Eight
Milan would like to believe he got his sense of perception from his mother.
Call it author's intuition, or whatever suits your fancy. Maybe they just know what to look out for and when to pay attention. The devil is in the details, as they say.
He's not sure what he heard. A whisper, back and forth. It could've been the steady wind for all he knows. The creak of a door. The scuff of a shoe over the stone floor. Maybe nothing at all.
Or, maybe, the voice he's so convinced that belongs to his beloved District partner.
Maderia is not far behind him, just closing up a door behind her as she finishes scavenging the room. He holds up a hand, ensuring she's spotted the signal before he allows himself to back up towards her. She looks less than impressed at the mere insinuation of being told what to do—even her attempts at hiding it are growing more poor by the day.
She does not like being insubordinate.
"They're in there," he whispers, pointing a finger at the door. "I heard them."
"You heard them?" she asks, a touch too loud for his liking. "Funny. I didn't hear a thing."
"Is it too much just to trust me?"
"Quite literally, yes," Maderia answers. "If you're so convinced it's them, why didn't you go up and check?"
Milan wants nothing more than to find some joy at their discovery, but all he has inside him is irritation. He grabs Maderia round the arm and back to the door she just so delicately shut, closing them inside the small chamber. When she wrenches her arm from his grip, he braces himself for the slap he is surely about to receive.
It doesn't come. She's not Aranza, not Tova. If he was truly an enemy perhaps she would have, but Maderia knows the truth.
Milan is all she has.
"You can't know for sure it's them," she insists. "It could be another alliance. More people than us. We're not exactly armed, if you hadn't noticed."
"One of us is."
Their staring match is long and nearly even. He has the edge on her. She's startled, just enough for her eyes to flicker away, down… towards the pockets that he knows contain just enough for her to have a last line of defense. He feels pathetic like this, empty-handed and nearly starving, scrounging about this castle like one of the rats that live in its walls.
Maderia removes the paperweight from her pocket with a scowl and slams it against his chest, forcing him to take it. "If you want to see who it is so badly, be my guest. I'm sure they'll have fun stepping over your corpse on the way out."
"You're trained," he reminds her. "I know what I'm doing. Even if it wasn't them, we could take whoever it is."
"You think much too highly of yourself."
"Myself and One's seem to have that in common."
She's hesitating, and her anger at him is fading in the face of it. He can see it in her eyes. Surely she could take most of the people in here, or at least have a decent shot at being the one to emerge victorious, regardless of what weapons she has.
There's always something else. Those are the things he notices, too.
"You're scared, aren't you?"
"I'm not—"
"You're scared," he reiterates, refusing to allow her argument to continue. "That it is them. There's uncertainty with it. There's history. But we stick to what we discussed. I'll let you do the talking for as long as we see fit. As long as you buy me the time to figure it out, there won't be any problems."
"Delusion is often mistaken for confidence," she says quietly. "I'm not sure which you are."
"We can do this," he insists. Milan tightens his hand around the paperweight, but finally deposits it into his pocket. "I'll give this back to you after."
Maderia sighs heavily. "No, you won't. Go."
"Go?"
"Show me the door again. Before I…"
Before she loses her nerve. It's surprisingly easy to keep his footsteps quiet as he emerges into the hall once again, quickly making his way two doors down. His other hand tightens around the strap of his bag, as if somehow holding the collection of text he's scribbled down thus far will make things go that much more smoothly.
Maderia leans against the wall opposite him, eyes narrowed. There's nothing to hear now save for the gentle pattering of rain growing above them, getting stronger.
They could have walked right past it at the wrong moment. This was exactly how it was meant to go, and Milan knows it. Everything according to plan.
They don't fall apart just like that. Not in his world.
Aranza de León, 18
Tribute of District Eight
For a split second, she feels like she's back in Eight.
Isn't that the travesty of the century?
The overcast, ugly skies and the downpour opening up over the gardens below, turning everything into a filthy, unnavigable mess. She's lucky to be inside, of course—her hair is already enough of a travesty, thank you very much, but this feels too small. Too much like nothing.
It really does remind her of her own room, that barren little shoebox and the groaning pipes in the walls and the smears of dirt in the hall from when her parents would get home after pulling doubles, never to be cleaned up. This room now is nearly as barren. A few crates, most of them empty or filled with straw as if they once contained something precious. There's a cot in the corner—nothing like the grand four-posters they've found in some of the nicer rooms with their feather-pillows and luxurious duvets.
She wishes she was back in the fucking Capitol. That's where she belongs, where she's going back to, and where she's going to stay for the rest of her picture-perfect little life. It's certainly what she deserves after being put through so much.
Warmth blazes to life briefly against her legs and she turns, lifting her arms from the rough windowsill to see Tova crouched on the floor, lip between her teeth as she arranges straw and broken slabs of wood into something resembling a pile. The beginnings of a fire crackle at the bottom of it, hoping and praying to catch onto something larger.
She had thought Tova was just messing around, tearing things apart out of sheer boredom, but it appears to be more than that.
It always ends up that way with her.
"It's going to get hazy in here awful fast," Aranza comments. Even with the hole in the wall considered a window, the room isn't exactly built for a fire.
"And you're shivering." Tova says, yanking her fingers back with a hiss from the approach of the flame. "A little smoke inhalation won't kill you."
Well, she's certainly inhaled enough of it in Eight already to prove that theory correct. She is cold, too thin to retain any sort of height and not well-dressed enough to ward it off. She crouches down against Tova's side as close as she can get to the growing blaze, warming her hands against it.
"My hero," Aranza says sweetly, unsurprised to get an eye-roll in response. "You could just cuddle up with me here, you know. That would certainly help."
"It sure would," Tova drawls, but she scoots away, better stoking the other side, before Aranza can grab ahold of her. "I know what you're doing."
"What am I doing?" she asks.
The innocence dripping from her tone does not disguise the twinkle in her eyes as Tova looks at her over the top of the fire. She pats the space beside her just like the night before, an invitation.
Tova doesn't want to do this. Not because of what it is, but where they are. Anything revolving around this is soft, a vulnerability she only shows beyond closed doors. She's certain Maderia has seen it, but Aranza hasn't yet been so lucky.
But she'll be damned if she doesn't win out eventually. She knows what she wants. What she's going to get.
The only question is when.
She smiles as Tova shuffles back over, trying not to shiver at just how warm she is once they're pressed side to side, thigh against thigh. It's unfair, really, and pathetically embarrassing to boot. Aranza can't go on shivering like this before.
Tova wiggles an arm free, curling it around her waist. Aranza allows herself to rest her head against the crook of Tova's neck when she's sure the other girl isn't going to move, sighing.
"This isn't so bad, is it?" she murmurs.
"No."
Winning really is sweet.
The added warmth isn't so bad, either, now that the fire has grown to an appropriate height, so close and so loud that it nearly consumes all other senses. It's not quite loud enough, though, to obscure something… so quiet, so barely there, that Aranza is certain she imagines it.
She raises her head. Tova blinks, clearly surprised that Aranza is the first of them to move away, but she shakes her head. Watches the door.
She hears it again. What, she doesn't know.
But it's enough.
Someone's outside, she mouths. Tova's head turns to stare, too, joining her in their newfound wonder at who could be out there. Her fingers inch away from Aranza's waist, itching for the handle of her axe. She longs for the feeling to return almost as much as she wishes to know who's interrupting it.
Again. A shuffle. An intake of breath, almost deathly quiet.
And then, a knock on the door.
On this nice, quirky trend where I write nothing for 2-3 weeks and then write half the chapter the night before I update. Fun times.
Also, I've decided cliffhangers are good now. Am I going to update next week for you to find out what happens? A month from now? Who knows! Certainly not me!
Until next time.