XLIII: The Games - Day Six, Afternoon

Ravi Fusain, 17
Tribute of District Twelve

It's been some time since he felt this level of weariness.

He had almost forgotten it—key word being almost. Once the body grew used to such exhaustion it was an impossible thing to be rid of. There was no permanence, no true rest. He had enjoyed, though, the time in not feeling it, those few months where it had all been in his head.

But then, can it truly be gone if it's still worming into one place, taking over his brain like a parasite.

Ravi tries not to wince at the scrape of a chair over the floor as Zoya wedges it underneath the doorknob, giving it an experimental kick to see if it will hold. He's too busy trying to settle Kai down, who keeps half-heartedly waving him off despite his half-closed eyes and the awkward angle of his legs, bony knees all jutted out.

At least he's finally found a cot to lay him down on, even if said cot is wobbling under his meager weight, packed with straw and not much else.

Kai bats at his arm again. "M'fine," he insists. "Quit it."

He finishes dragging his legs into a semi-comfortable position, but resists the urge to take the threadbare, scratchy blanket and drape it over him. Ravi can take care of him all he likes, but what he can't do is treat him like a newborn, helpless and unaware of the world. He can't be some doting mother; it's not like he knows what that truly is, anyway.

Besides, he doesn't want Kai to snap at him again—not like earlier, and not because Ravi can't handle it. There's no point in making Kai explain things that are perfectly normal.

He shouldn't have offered, maybe. At least not so quickly. But they had left their first room, earlier, and it had been all of two minutes when Kai's shoe caught the edge of a risen stone and he had nearly careened to the floor. Ravi hadn't left him, of course, but before he could help himself the words were already slipping out of his mouth. Maybe you should just let me—

And Kai's voice was sharp. More alive that it had been in days. You are not fucking carrying me the whole time, not like yesterday. He had felt the sting of his arm ripped out of Ravi's grasp long after the occurrence. Thus began the awkward back and forth—Ravi staring at him, watching his lagging feet as an hour passed, and then another. Zoya's dramatically exaggerated sighs every time they slowed down, which was often.

Finally, rounding a corner, an almost-meek hand had prodded at his arm. Kai had managed to get out a mumbled sorry before Ravi had hoisted him up onto his back again, wordless. There was no apology needed, really. How was he meant to be angry at someone that was furious at dying?

He had every right to be. His body was failing him, and they all knew it. This time, he had dropped off into sleep against Ravi's back within minutes, utter dead weight, and hadn't woken for some time.

For a moment he wondered if he would know the difference between carrying Kai, living and breathing, and carrying his corpse. He's not sure he would.

But Kai was still alive now, for whatever that counted for.

"Hey, how many days do you think he's got left?"

Ravi nearly trips over his own feet when he turns around—apparently Kai isn't the only one that needs to get off his feet. "I—what?"

"Him," Zoya repeats, nodding to Kai's thankfully slumbering form as if it's not totally obvious. "Theoretical here. Let's say you can get him to the end. Do you think he has it in him to last that long?"

He can't deny that he hasn't thought about it himself, and he can't deny the lurching sickness that turns his stomach every-time he does. There were days when Ravi really did believe it. Moments where he could see the vitality in his eyes, how hard he was clinging on. But there was no denying now that Kai was fading away right before their eyes and there was nothing Ravi could do to stop it.

There are answers for everything, but they're nothing Ravi wants to admit aloud. His mother would take one look at Kai, a scathing look, and say dead already. He wasn't even worth wasting poison over when he would die eventually anyway, no matter how slow and painful it was.

Days, he was sure. Days that were already occurring. His body giving up, piece by piece, from the inside out.

Maybe he would get his wish. Die in his sleep, easy and quiet.

Ravi wasn't sure life was so forgiving.

He leans back against the wall, letting himself slide to the floor without care for where his legs land, the backpack digging into his spine. "Was that a fucked up thing to ask?" Zoya wonders. "I can never tell. Usually people yell at me, but you never do."

"I'm not sure I can tell either," he admits. He's heard worse. Seen it all.

Besides, what use is there in shouting at Zoya when they're both wondering the same thing? He's coming to a point where he can no longer bear to look in Kai's direction for too long.

Zoya's boot nudges against his soon. He hears something, dimly, but it's too soft for him to make out. Anything soft is so distinctly un-Zoya-like that he looks up at him anyway, blinking.

"I said," Zoya repeats, and his voice is quiet. For once. "Go to sleep."

"Why?"

"'Cause that's a thing people do." Zoya makes a face. "Christ, between the two of you I'm going to climb up there and throw myself out that fucking window."

"Please don't," he replies. Gone is that softness. He hadn't imagined it, though.

"Joking," Zoya insists. "Go to sleep. I'm serious. I'll… keep watch, or whatever the fuck it is you do at night besides dissociate. Maybe I'll try it."

He's serious, then. Normally Zoya falls asleep as if he can't imagine a single care in the world, curling up in the corner like a disgruntled cat as far as he can from the two of them. Now he sits next to the door, instead, tattered fingernail scratching at the edge of the fresh bandages Ravi just recently placed there. He wants to tell him to stop, but the energy isn't there.

He frees the backpack, crushed as it is, and makes a pillow for himself. The floor is unforgiving, practically frigid, but he hardly feels it.

Ravi already doesn't remember the last time he properly slept.

It can't hurt to let someone else look out, for once.

Casia Braddock, 13
Tribute of District Nine

She's not quite sure how Sloane is barreling on ahead in her current state.

Then again, wouldn't you rather be forced to face a daunting walk with a full stomach as opposed to, say, a gaping stab wound in the side? Casia thinks most people would. This is the first time in her life she's really had to contemplate the difference.

She's never gone hungry, per say, but with so many mouths to feed it became a balancing act. Something in her was never quite satiated. Maybe that's why she always ended up wandering. There was something out there to fill the void, not anything that her parents could place at the table ready to be torn apart by too many sets of hands.

But wandering hadn't solved her problems then—given more time, a few more years… well, it's a pipe dream. It's a waste of time to imagine.

Besides, it's not helping her here much either.

Sloane is dead-set on making sure the way ahead is clear, uncaring for the fact that Casia is better-suited to creeping ahead. Maybe she's better at it than Casia thought, though. They haven't heard anything for quite some time. Unless something has dispatched Sloane in a silent matter, she's making her way without issue.

Casia can't say the same for standing here.

She's never liked being stared at. Even the eyes of a simple teacher lingering on her for too long had her wanting to crawl under her desk. Anything to escape the looks. It was easy to hide in a field, but here she's exposed. There's nowhere to go in this open hall, nothing to do but wait. She'd like to believe she's growing bold enough to say something about being left behind, Sloane's growing influence on her and all, but she's not.

So she stayed quiet and let Sloane do it. No issue with it, really.

Except the issue was staring at the back of her head. He hadn't stopped.

Whatever Robbie's problem was with her, it was incessant. Casia had enough of a thought to guess what it was, but she would never know the whole truth. She had watched the Games, same as everyone else. But unlike those whose casual viewership didn't allow for the little details, she remembered the look in his eyes when he had realized his savior was a little wisp of a girl, whatever her name had been. He had looked horrified, like she was a monster escaped from the recesses of his brain, something meant to never see the light of day.

Funny thing is, she wasn't even that bad. Whatever type of demon Casia was, she was far, far worse, and now she was haunting him once again. That was the tricky thing about ghosts—they lingered.

She doesn't tell him she's going to look, doesn't see the point. Sloane hasn't been gone too long by anyone's account, but she's tired of standing here waiting. Casia only makes it a step before fingers are locking around her forearm, nails digging into her bare skin where she's rolled her sleeves up. He's being none too gentle about it.

Casia doesn't have it in her to snap at him. She never has. Raising your voice means drawing attention, and the shadows are always safer. But what is she to do, then, except accept it?

She draws on Sloane, instead, aiming for something on the other side of her usual timidness. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Going after Sloane."

That's not what he meant. It was more pointed than that, and the withering look he gives her says it all. The only issue is his nose is still slightly off-centered, the bruising underneath his eyes so mismatched to the rest of his pallor that it's hard to look at him for too long without finding it comical.

"I don't trust you," Robbie hisses, leaning down. He's still not anywhere close to her level, but it's easier to shrug him off in his odd, hunched-over positioning. "She doesn't either. I hope that's clear."

"Crystal."

"Whatever you're planning—"

"What am I planning?" she cuts in, all too aware of the proudness that blooms in her chest, just for a moment. Her defenses have always been physical. She runs, she hides, she strikes out. Casia doesn't speak. There's never been a point with no one capable of listening.

She can't let it linger for too long, however. There's no point in bravado. Casia won't let herself slip like that.

Not like him. He's harboring paranoia, a sensitivity too strong to overcome. Someone's demons are getting the best of him.

Lucky for her she doesn't have any.

"I'm not planning anything," Casia continues, but her fingers itch towards that pronged fork she grabbed from the banquet table, imagining how easily it would be to strike upwards with him leaning over her like this and bury it in his jugular. He'd be dead before Sloane got back, but the only point in worrying over that would be if Casia thought Sloane would try to save him.

She wouldn't.

"Am I interrupting something?" Sloane's voice calls suddenly, getting louder with every passing second. Casia glances backward—she's just rounded the corner to return to them, but her pace has slowed. "A bonding session? A good ole stare-down?"

Neither of them react. Robbie's grip on her arm tightens. Her hand is starting to go numb.

"Jesus Christ, Ten, let go of her," Sloane snaps, and his fingers unfurl from her arm with surprising quickness. "Pretty sure that's considered child abuse in at least fifty percent of the Districts."

She doesn't wait for permission either way to move, to start on past Sloane and down the hall. She came back unscathed; that means it's fine. And even if it wasn't, Casia can handle whatever's on the other side. Mutts are easier—they want you dead, hurt, want to fuck with you until you can't tell which way's up. People are by far the more complicated entity, and she's not sticking close enough to Robbie to find out the depths of it.

Casia should have left the moment she found out Lilou was gone. The last thing she wanted was this… whatever this even is. Sloane staring after her before following. Robbie's open hesitation. She feels it all.

It was easier being able to feel nothing.

Jordyn Palladino, 17
Tribute of District Four

The path to pretending Jordyn knows what she's doing is becoming an easier one.

If anything, the expectation was to experience something more rocky, uneven terrain that became impossible to traverse at more than one point, meant only for those with the utmost knowledge on how to conquer it.

She was not one of those people. Jordyn knew it. More alarming was how many other people did. She still remembers the painful climb up onto the stage, the way everyone was looking at her. A poor, reaped little girl who refused to settle on anything more than a knife.

She thought she found her footing until she watched Benthos get dragged underwater, but that mask was ripped away easily enough. Jordyn had still been clinging to that same spot of the roof's overhang when the hovercraft appeared overhead, and even then she had been tempted to fish around the water with nothing more than her bare hand, just in case.

But that fracture felt healed, now. She knew what she was doing—rather, what she had to do.

The question was how.

By no real intent of her own, she had cut Benthos loose halfway. It was for the best, in the end. Weston was a different case. He wasn't just some blood-thirsty half-wit with no sense for what came next. Unfortunately for Jordyn, he retained some modicum of intelligence that made him even scarier. He never slept with his back to her, always positioning himself in such a way that it would be troublesome to get there without something else happening first.

Jordyn had to get him first; that was the easy way to say it. Rip the bandage off before the wound started to fester.

It was fun while it lasted. More than fun, even.

This was no longer about having fun. This was about winning, whatever it would take.

To kill Weston she would need more than just her own two hands. Jordyn was realizing she had a troublesome thing for men who could easily break her in half without so much as breaking a sweat. If this was a fair fight, she would lose.

Playing fair was boring, anyhow.

She's not sure what Vadric would do when the other shoe dropped. Run, more than likely. They would be easy enough to dispatch then, or later on if they moved too quickly for Jordyn to follow. She really was thinking like a Career, now—no one back home could call her anything less when she got there.

If this was going to work, she needed Levi. Frankly, everyone did.

And Levi needed to be all there.

That was a feat Jordyn wasn't hopeful to accomplish. Sander had fried his brain, and whatever pieces were left to bounce around his skull weren't functioning together the right way. Functioning at all, really. He was frightened, now. Nervous. She had to be careful in approaching him, like he was a wounded animal she had all the intent in the world to save.

She didn't need him perfect. Just enough that he could be helpful to her when the time came.

"That's a nice one," Jordyn says softly. If she's any louder, he'll get jumpy on her, and then she'll feel bad. No, really. An uncomfortable feeling has taken hold of her chest seeing him like this, so lifeless and cold. She does like Levi, more than she has any right to. They'd have fun if they could be back in Four together, the kind that you thought about when you couldn't sleep and for months on end.

There was no reason she couldn't like him and get use out of him at the same time.

"Is it?" Levi asks. There's something like a spark in his eyes, at least, for now. He's been staring at this particular painting for a worrying amount of time, or maybe he hasn't really been seeing it at all. Now that he's focused, his eyebrows draw together.

"I mean, I guess if you like a bunch of naked people with odd proportions, yeah."

He smiles. A small one, but enough to make her heart feel better.

The rest of the paintings in this bedroom aren't much better by any stretch of the imagination. In the next room she can hear the Sixes talking—well, she can hear Wes talking, and can only assume that Vadric is responding if he's still going on the way he is.

"God, these really are the worst," Levi announces. He's looking over her head, now, and Jordyn turns as well. "What's with all the naked flying babies?"

"I think they're cherubs."

"The fuck's a cherub?"

"Not any of us, let me tell you." Jordyn twines her arm through his. "Find one you like."

"They're all terrible," he insists, and she laughs.

He's exactly the type of person she'll miss dearly when they're through with all of this. He's been ruined, in some sort of subtle way none of them can see, but he's good. She has not forgotten how he sobbed hysterically into her shoulder, clinging onto her as if he was drowning at sea, trying to pull himself up for one last gulp of air.

"I don't mind that one," she says quietly, nodding towards a slightly faded portrait of an older woman, dressed to the nines, every feature in stark detail.

Levi had forgotten for a moment, she can tell. It wasn't so hard to bring him back to earth if only for a few seconds. Some of that hollowness is back in his eyes, now, but he nods his agreement.

"Hey," Jordyn says. "Promise me you'll stay with me, huh? As far as we can go."

He looks down at her, and there's no sense of what is to come in his features, no true understanding. Jordyn can't really tell him, as much as she longs to. To be fully truthful with someone… it would be nice, for once.

"Of course," he agrees. "Don't go anywhere on me, either."

"Never."

She has to leave him behind at some point. Whenever that time comes, Jordyn is convinced she'll be ready. She is prepared now, whether anyone likes it or not. They're not going to like it when she finally takes her rightful place. Just because Jordyn is awaiting the moment doesn't mean anyone else will be.

But that's all that winning boils down to; she didn't do it quite right the first time. You have to rip it right out from the people around you. There's no reaching out. No crying over what was lost.

There's just the victory.

Jordyn knows she's ready for it now.

Maderia Elvario, 18
Tribute of District One

It's no short of a miracle that Maderia is still alive.

The first one came when she woke up on that table in the Capitol, ice cold metal beneath her back, the feeling of her heart beating in her chest a sickening thump, so loud in her ears it was like a drumbeat. A nurse had been shining a flashlight into her pupils, watching them expand and contract.

There's been plenty since. She's not oblivious to the fact that things could have, somehow, been so much worse than the odd reality that's been placed for her.

It may just be that she's run out of them, now. The final one came in the form of Tova standing before her, the axe raised.

And she had not done it.

Maderia rubs the phantom spot on her chest where she knows the scar is, the lumpy tissue that marks her first death. It would not have been beyond Tova to have done it a second time; her eyes blazed with a thousand fires, and her silence was everything Maderia needed to know. Her silence was terrifying.

Only Aranza's snicker had broken it as the last of the flames had died out, nothing left to cling to. "Well isn't this fun," she stated, a rapturous grin plastered on her face. "What's next, ladies?"

Tova had scuffed her feet through the ashes, each strike an imaginary stab slicing through Maderia's skin. Once she had finished taking her deep breaths—and there had been several of them—she had turned for the door. Her eyes had looked through Maderia, as if she hadn't been standing there at all, but when she had said it Maderia had known.

Let's go.

Her footsteps echoed in the hall. Aranza trotted after her, suddenly full of life.

Maderia had followed.

She couldn't say a significant amount had changed since—they were still moving, though Maderia felt that was more out of necessity to avoid a blow-up than anything else. If they had something else to focus on, the risk of others nearby, they couldn't scream until their throats were raw or come to blows.

Of course they had come back to that. Was she that naïve to think that maybe it could be different, or just upset that it was?

Every-day, it seemed, was another lesson. Maderia was never as untouchable as she thought.

Tova is closer, now, though, than she has been since they started moving in the first place. Aranza is only a few paces ahead, but it's enough space that Maderia finally feels it right to step forward, bringing herself to Tova's side. She waits, quietly. If Tova wants to move away from her, she will, and with no hesitation. There's been little of that with the two of them.

Minutes later they're still the same—shoulder to shoulder, walking in unison, close enough to touch if one of them would dare reach out.

Maderia sooner thinks she would get her arm ripped from her shoulder.

"If you're upset with me, I'd rather hash it out now," she offers. "Scream. Punch me. Whatever you have to do."

"Why on earth would I be upset with you?" Tova asks, voice tilting up into an artificial innocence she has never had a hope in possessing. "It's not like you rocked up with Eight in tow clearly attempting to hatch some sort of plan he could never have pulled off because he didn't realize who he was dealing with."

She sighs. "Tova—"

"Believe me, you'd rather me be fucking quiet. You really don't want the alternative."

No, she'd rather a semblance of before. Tova was capable of softness—she had seen it, experienced it, even been on the receiving end of it. But that was a girl meant to exist only behind closed doors, it seemed. The animal that existed out here was a protective shell.

"I don't want it to be like this," she tries.

"Would you rather be dead?" Tova asks. "I'm sure that can be arranged."

She would have done it already. Maderia wouldn't have left that room alive if Tova's true wish was to see her dead.

Aranza… well, she's a different case. There's something almost worst in the way the other girl has paused just ahead, her hands braced against a set of oaken wooden dolls. The unnerving head tilt, the glimmer in her eyes, all of it. If Tova wants to think about who's planning something, she should look no further than the very girl she's been wandering around with since day one.

"How about some fresh air?" Aranza asks. She's heard everything. Every bit of information is stored somewhere for later, Maderia is sure of it.

She stops even as Tova continues moving, as Aranza opens the doors. Cool light washes over them, the sight of the clouds blotting out the sky overhead a welcome change from the claustrophobia of the halls, the dampness and the rot. Maderia allows herself a moment to close her eyes and breathe it in as her allies, if she even dares to call them that, step forward out into the gardens.

It seems impossible that a true center to this place could even exist; every bit of it seemed like a labyrinth, virtually impenetrable and unknowable. This could be her sign that things will change.

She is not perfect. Maderia knows this, now. As much as it hurts her, she likes to think it will make her stronger. It's enough for hope to unfurl in her chest, to cover up the scar that haunts her so.

When she opens her eyes once again Tova has moved on, stepping slowly down the narrow path that twists through the overgrown rose bushes. Aranza remains silhouetted in the doorway, eyes faraway and gleaming so brightly Maderia could almost be captivated, if there wasn't something so much more pressing.

No matter how brilliant that gleam may be, it's not enough to overtake the glint of metal in the center of the courtyard, beautiful in its own right.

The most awful things always are.

Hey, happy 300k. Happy wow-I-really-need-to-stop-updating-only-every-2-months.

(I'll try to be better now, I promise. Also, sorry it's taking so long, but I'm trying. Big lol.)

Anyhow, not the longest one, but now that I'm done to 4-5 POVs a chapter that's sort of how I think it's going to be. Hopefully it is still enjoyable, because it's all officially downhill from here!

Until next time.