XLV: The Games - Day Six, Night.

Zoya Ossof, 16
Tribute of District Five

He can only lie here and stare at the ceiling for so much longer.

Zoya isn't sure how Ravi does it—this whole brooding and finding a place to look at for several hours, without moving or seemingly even blinking. It's a wonder he hasn't morphed into one of the many statues that passed by in the hall.

There hadn't been any for quite some time. At least, Zoya hadn't heard them. At the first sign of scuffling outside the door he had dragged Kai back to bed. The last thing he was going to do was hold onto his decrepit ass and try to find the creatures off the door at the same time. Kai had been none too happy about being dropped back onto the cot like a sack of potatoes, but Zoya doesn't think he would have been complaining if it had saved his life.

Luckily, it hadn't come to that. Although they had gone silent, refusing to do so much as even move, Zoya had still expected them to break down the door. Even now, halfway relaxed, he was still anticipating it. Something was going to come bounding back down the hall and enter without preamble, and Zoya would be the first one in its path.

Well, there were worse endings, right? Like getting caught in the cloud and ensuing blast of a nuclear explosion. Not like he would know, or anything.

Still, he's not stupid enough to think it would be pleasant. The jagged holes in his wrist told the truth of the matter, no matter how much Ravi doted over them.

Secretly he's glad—glad and pleased, that Ravi has been asleep for so long. He's not some heartless creature, and it was too easy to see that if Ravi didn't sleep and soon, that he would drop from exhaustion. Whilst it's annoying to have the equivalent of a mother hen poking after him, he can't deny its uses. And Ravi isn't so bad, really.

"Zoya…"

But there's someone who is, evidently.

"You're still fucking awake?" he hisses, hell-bent on keeping his voice low. "What is this, your last wind or something?"

"Maybe," Kai mumbles. Zoya can tell he's fighting sleep without even having to set up to check on him—why he's fighting it is beyond Zoya. Sleep is good, last time he checked. He's not happy that he's not doing it himself, but if he can't do this one simple task he agreed to, then what's the damn point?

"I think it might be my birthday today," Kai continues, sounding almost wistful. "Or maybe it was yesterday. Or it's the day after today. I'm not sure anymore."

"... what?"

"The days are all merging into one, I mean—"

"No, I get that, moron," he snaps back. "You just announce that now? Are you proud of yourself?"

"Not really. I didn't ask to be born."

Finally, something they can agree on without reservation. That whole I brought you into this world, I can take you out sort of thing is sounding extremely appealing right now. His back is sore from the stone and his wrist is throbbing again, for no true reason, and Zoya hates how hard his heart is racing despite his present stillness, worrying too much about what could possibly happen.

The other shoe has to drop. It always does.

"Well, happy birthday, maybe," Zoya tries. It doesn't dispel any of the anxiety as he had hoped, but it was worth the effort. "I'd say congratulations on being one year closer to death, but y'know…"

"Yeah. I know."

He had sounded so ready to give up, earlier, and be done with all of this—what was that, but a few hours ago? And now Kai is stubbornly refusing to go to sleep, as if he misses the waking world too much to even consider it. Or maybe he's well and truly afraid that the next time he closes his eyes, that's it. His last glimpse of the world is the shitty, cracked ceiling, and possibly Zoya's face. What a way to go.

Zoya flinches and thumps his shoulder into the wall in his haste to sit up at the sound of the anthem, even though it sounds miles away. It's better to blame it on that, rather than the noise terrifying him so thoroughly he was about ready to jump out the window to escape it. He braces his hand against the stone rather than grip at his chest, willing his heart to stay where it is.

The first is the girl from One; Zoya would say it was the one he liked more, but he didn't really like either of them. That's just sort of how it is. The pause in-between hers and the next seems to last a lifetime, and somehow he remains perfectly still at the sight of Clementine's face, her annoyed expression, the slight scrunch to her noise as if she wanted to punch whoever was behind the camera.

She probably did. She gave Zoya that look often enough for him to know.

"Wonder how that happened," Kai murmurs. Zoya doesn't really have to do the same. More than likely she got herself killed, and she got Pietro killed too judging by how quickly it happened. If Zoya had been with them since the beginning, he can only imagine his fate would be the same.

Instead he's been taken in, almost. Definitely cared for. It's not like Kai ever hated him, though, and Ravi didn't have the capacity for it. He was the one refusing it, always messing things up and never feeling too bad about it in the aftermath.

Somehow, this was better than Five. Everyone here knew what a mess he was—they didn't expect brilliance or competence or even kindness. They knew him as he was and took him anyway, for all his faults and arguments.

If that's not sad, Zoya doesn't know what is. He can't think of anyone else in the world who would prefer dying to a life full of vague disappointment and heartache. At least here he's not the family's hope for the future. He's not really anyone.

But they don't think that, right? Zoya wouldn't still be in this room if they did. He's worth something to them, miniscule as it may be. In turn, he's beginning to realize this annoyance, these thorns in his side, have burrowed in deeper than expected. He fucking hates it.

Zoya flops back down to the floor with a sigh as the anthem ends. "Go the fuck to sleep," he insists, tossing an arm over his eyes. He doesn't want to think about it anymore, and the best way to ensure that is to make sure Kai shuts up.

And Kai, for once, does. Zoya can't tell if he's asleep or simply listening for once, but whatever it is, he's grateful for it.

He's grateful to be here, too. He'd never say such a thing aloud, but he is.

Robbie Creston, 17
Tribute of District Ten

He's tired of being prey.

That still doesn't mean there's any good reason for him to have kept them out there, unless he wants to have a corpse on his hands before the night is over. And maybe he does. Getting rid of one of them would make things easier; he's not so delusional to think that the Gamemakers would take both and leave him be.

If there was any sort of realism left to cling to, Robbie should have let them all hunker down for the night, waited until they went to sleep, and then left. That's what any sane person would have done.

His parents would not be proud of the way he was turning out, and the thought makes his stomach turn. Any good thing he's attempted to do in their name, to keep it alive, has been erased. If he was better, he would take the blame for himself, but he's not.

Enough blame can lie on the shoulders of the two people lurking around him.

There's something even more unnerving about Casia in the dark, the way she seems to meld into it as if they're able to become one, seamless. She keeps disappearing between blinks, and Robbie knows if they ran into a mutt that she would be gone without so much as a warning, lost to the night no matter what set of eyes tried to search her out.

It feels better to have distance from her, but it means Sloane is closer, and she's been doing nothing but watching.

Robbie anticipates the feeling of a knife between his shoulders at any moment—he can feel it there already, stuck deep in the muscle.

"If you keep making that face, it's going to freeze that way," Sloane says under her breath. This is the only time she seems truly content to keep quiet, but even then can't dispel the urge to mess with him. Until then he hadn't felt the rigidness to his jaw, the uncomfortable ache that comes from grinding your teeth together over and over. No matter how hard he wills himself to relax, there's no seeing it through. Sloane pointing it out almost makes it worse.

"You seem a little uncomfortable." Her stage-whisper makes him grimace. "The mutts getting under your skin?"

"It would be pretty pathetic if I wasn't used to them after six nights."

"So…"

"So, what?"

"Why do you have such a stick up your ass? Like, even more-so than usual?"

God, sometimes he wishes he could smash her head in. Not the most gentle thought he's ever had, but fuck if it wouldn't make him feel better. This entire alliance was supposed to be mutually beneficial, a partnership to get Robbie to a certain point and no further. Now he feels trapped, no way out, and he has every right to be terrified about it.

He was overdue for an explosion.

"We're in the middle of the fucking Games, if you hadn't noticed," he hisses. "And as an added bonus, there's a little fucked up nightmare wandering around with us that you adopted without consulting me—"

"You weren't around, in my defense."

"I'm not done. It was supposed to be us. No baggage, remember? Now you're playing the middle and I can see that look on your face, you think I'm stupid for being upset about it when I don't even know whose side you're on."

There's almost something like a little smirk on her face; Robbie almost turns around and walks away. If it was the middle of the day, he would have without hesitation. Now there's too much risk, and he can't give Sloane the satisfaction of wandering off only to get torn into pieces ten paces down the hall. It's not worth it.

Robbie does stop, though, if only to put a few feet between them. "Whose side are you on?" he asks plainly, already expecting no answer. Sloane is too busy looking away from him, a thoughtful look in her eyes. If only she was cooking up a proper answer in that peanut-sized brain of hers—it's not very likely.

"You won't make it on your own," she tells him. "You didn't last time."

"This isn't last time. And that's not what I asked."

He watches her freeze instead of responding, head tilting to the side as if examining something. Only there's nothing there in front of them, not a mutt or even Casia. Robbie hears it a moment after she does, a slight rumble, as if something is awakening in the earth below them. The floor begins to shake. Robbie reaches out for the wall to steady himself as the entire chamber seems to jerk in place—candle-holders clanking, flames extinguished. Beyond his vision, a picture slams into the floor and echoes down the hall.

Casia comes tearing back around the corner, hardly sliding to a stop in time before them. The noise itself is far, far enough that he doesn't feel the need to run. Robbie can only brace himself as the floor continues to tremble and the sound of breaking stone reaches his ears, the walls creaking and groaning somewhere lost to him as they finally give way. He's never seen it happen directly, but now a crack running along the wall lengthens, pieces chipping away to land at his feet. Half a foot from his hand, it stops.

"Something collapsed," Casia says quietly, hardly audible over the ringing. Dust wafts down the hall towards them. "One of the outer walls, or a tower."

They knew it was going to happen—there was nothing aesthete about the gradual and yet consistent ruination of the castle itself. Robbie knows for certain now that he's stuck, and any chance he had at slipping away is almost non-existent.

The floor finally stops shaking, but Robbie swears he can still hear it. Destruction isn't an easy thing to miss.

He knows, now, that he has every right to be scared. He's smarter for it. Sloane wouldn't answer him. Casia, despite how hastily she returned to them, only did so because the other option wasn't a viable one.

He can't trust either of them, not anymore than he can trust this place. It's all too fragile, due to crumble.

Robbie can't be in the middle of it when it does.

Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four

Somehow, beyond his comprehension, neither of them wake.

Amani believes it must be something to do with the meds—they had no first aid-kit, that much was true, but there was a half-full pill bottle rattling around in the bottom of Ilan's discovered backpack that seems to have done the job in removing the brunt of their pain.

There wasn't much, but it would last for the time being. Amani had managed to scrounge up enough spare fabric to create a makeshift bandage for Ilan's head. In the low light he couldn't tell if it had soaked all the way through or not, but there were no longer droplets of it landing on the floor. He considered that a success.

He regretted having to take Sanne's extra shirt to fashion a sling out of it—she was shivering, now, but at least her arm was stable and elevated. It all felt so halfway finished. He couldn't complete the training he had been given without all of the necessary supplies; he could only stare on and hope that any amount would suffice. It still wasn't good enough, but nothing with Amani ever was.

"Amani?" comes Sanne's soft query, her eyes half-lidded as she turns her head in his direction. He scoots closer, avoiding Ilan's sprawled out legs, to come to her side.

"Everything okay?" he asks.

"Think so… was I dreaming?"

"Don't think so. The castle was shaking."

"Are we okay?"

Amani nods. He's not sure how true that can be, but there's no use in worrying her. "Nothing to worry about. Go back to sleep."

She casts a glance Ilan's way, watching him in silence for a moment before she closes her eyes once again. "Thank you again. For everything. I'm still sorry for—"

"There's nothing to be sorry about," he interrupts. "You were right, anyway. It was stupid."

Sanne smiles gently. She still has some of it left when she drifts off once again, leaving her in a more peaceful state than he knows she truly is. He can turn his face to the sky and beg all he wants, but he's no fool; whatever someone could send him will be stopped before it can get there. Even if Avonlea wanted to help his allies, and he can't convince himself she would, he won't get it. Not a splint or a sling, no needle to close up Ilan's wound.

He killed, but only to save their lives. Amani knows he won't get anything else out of it. It's been nearly a year since he felt his blade sink into someone else's flesh, and it's not a feeling he missed.

It was different, doing it to yourself. Easier somehow. No one else was at risk that way.

Amani lifts his head back to the ceiling anyway and digs his fingertips into the warped skin of his wrists beneath his shirt, the uneven topography all too easy to identify. Just something. He would take anything. It didn't matter what, who it was from, what it did. They deserved better than him, someone who would offer them nothing. He didn't save Sander. Not Kona or Tiernan or Takoda. How the hell was he going to save them?

There was only one thing he did have—the paper scroll had been untouched in his waistband since he had first put it there, too focused on settling down the Seven's for the night. The brief glimpse he had caught of it was enough to convince him that it could wait, at least for a little while.

What else was he going to do if not look at it now, when he was sure he had at least a few hours to memorize its details? Amani pulls the map free and lets it unfurl across his lap. It may not be very large, but some of the details are so miniscule that he has to squint in the low light to make them out.

He's not expecting any miracles; no fully stocked infirmary, a modern-day hospital tucked away into the corner of a medieval castle. But while they're resting, at least, he has the time to check. If they're not going to send anything his way to make things better, Amani will just have to do it on his own.

He can't lay down and wait for the end to come around like last time. Sure, it would be easier. Maybe even preferable. But he has people relying on him, now, tripping over themselves to thank him, and Amani can't let them down.

Would he survive a second round of it? Everyone dying around him, ripped out of his arms like they were never there at all? He's not sure.

Amani doesn't plan on finding out.

Levi Alcandre, 18
Tribute of District Two

To put it nicely, it took him ages to relax again after all the rumbling.

All of them were on edge afterwards, but Levi knows he was the worst. Even Vadric, who everyone would expect to have the most visceral reaction, had simply tucked themselves even tighter into the corner as if they were waiting for the ceiling to fall on their head.

Jordyn was the first. She made him lie back down so she could rest her head against his arm, and was out not long after. Weston quickly followed suit. Levi still wasn't sure if Vadric was asleep or not, their chin pillowed on their raised knees, but they hadn't moved in some time. If they were asleep, they were going to pay for their fixed position come morning.

And Levi was going to pay for not sleeping. Or, rather, dozing in a fitful state, not quite deep enough for anything to pull him into the throes of a nightmare. He was no stranger to them, never had been, but the dread of them was stronger.

Sander was never in them, was the thing. Nobody was. Even when Levi lifted his dream-hands—or, at least, what he thought was his hands, there was nothing there. He was a bodiless entity, a shadowy outline doomed to wander the labyrinth of tunnels, waiting. And he never knew for what. Like he said, Sander wasn't there.

He wished he was. Levi wanted to be screamed at, to feel himself torn open anew. It was better than the all-consuming dread that attempted to drag him down in its place.

He can feel himself going there again, though. The anticipation makes his chest ache. No matter how much he tries to yank himself out of it, Levi's body refuses to move. Just like in the dreams, it doesn't exist anymore.

Jordyn keeps telling him that it's normal, that he has nothing to feel bad about. Her words feel like they're meant to placate a child, but Levi doesn't have the strength to let those words wash away. He did an awful thing and now he's paying for it—that is normal, right?

He doesn't know how he exists like this, half-awake and half-asleep. He exists both in the tunnels and up here in the room with the others. Someone back home would have an answer to this, he's sure. Yvette most likely. Your big sisters know everything and anything, especially when you need it. Or maybe his grandma, except she'd thump him over the head first and make him swear up and down that he wasn't on anything, because apparently that was the aura he gave off. Apparently.

God, he misses them. It's been two months and it feels like it's been years. It doesn't matter how chaotic the house is because he belongs in it—thrives in it, even. He wants his sisters and his dads and even his grandma's god-awful tea, the one she makes him drink because she insists it's good for his health.

He just wants to be with them again. Out of the tunnels. Out of this room.

Levi doesn't know how much longer he can stand it.

But finally, down in those tunnels, something moves. A noise, so distant he could almost be imagining it, reaches his ears. Except he's not down in the tunnels, right? He's in the room with the others.

Levi forces himself to blink, again and again and again. He's staring at the flat roof overhead, eyes refusing to immediately adjust to the darkness like he so wishes they would. The weight of Jordyn's cheek still rests heavy against his arm, but beyond her something is moving, a shadow so dark it could almost merge with the wall itself.

Is it even real? Levi can't tell. He's not exactly the most reliable when it comes to telling these days. It has to be, though, because it's still moving and it's growing larger and is it coming right for him?

There's the quiet, hardly there sound of metal, the slick slide of a blade. Levi tastes blood in the back of his throat.

He's surely losing his mind.

"What the fuck?" he manages.

Or maybe not.

The words are louder than he expected to be, because Jordyn's head jerks up from his arm with a lightning speed. Still in the corner, Vadric's body seizes as they come back to the waking world, arms flailing out against the wall. Before he can so much as reach out to her, Jordyn is being yanked away. A furious scream erupts from her throat, so loud Levi can't help but flinch away from it.

It's too dark. He can't fucking see, at least not anything that matters. Something's happening and he doesn't know what or who's there with them if it's not a shadow figure. Levi fumbles for his blade but it's not there, at least not in reach, and where the hell is it? More importantly, why the hell is he still on the fucking floor?

He tries to rise, but doesn't make it. Another flailing limb strikes out and hits him in the side. Jordyn screams again. There's a lower grunt in response, a sound of disgruntled annoyance more than anger.

Levi thinks he can almost see, for a moment, and then something splatters across his face. There's a release of breath, a wet gurgle. It comes flooding over him, the two shadows looming over him suddenly still.

There's blood in his hair, he realizes suddenly, more of it dripping down his face. It's in his mouth. He wretches, but the taste is still there.

It was always there.

There's a hollow thud as something hits the floor beside him. He hears several things in quick succession—Vadric's rapid breathing, his own heartbeat in his ears. The quiet snick of a lighter as it rotates around, the lighter that Weston had found just earlier today. Weston is here. At least he should be.

But he's gone, unless… unless Weston is the person standing over him. Unless whatever's lying next to him is…

The hiss of fire. The torch they had cobbled together blooms to life in Vadric's hands, illuminating the room in a ghoulish glow.

Everything is suddenly very real.

Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Tribute of District Six

The warmth of the flames licks dangerously towards their hands, but it's somehow the last thing on Vadric's mind.

The easiest thing to do in a situation like this would be to take herself somewhere else; hysterically, almost, the first thing Vadric veers towards imagining is that this is just another painting, the most macabre of designs. With everyone's frozen positioning, it's enough to commit every detail to memory.

Vadric wishes it wasn't going to be burned into their mind for however much longer their life lasts, but it will.

The way Jordyn is sprawled on the ground it appears as if she's become a broken sort of ragdoll, her body still feebly twitching. Vadric isn't sure how—her head is only a few strips of sinew and muscle from being separated clean from her neck, and the steady streams of blood rippling through the grooves in the stone threaten to reach each corner of the room.

Levi looks as if he's been dragged through it, showered in it. It would be easy to write him off as the killer. He remains still at Jordyn's side, braced on his hands and knees, staring at her in horror. As Vadric watches, his mouth opens and closes half a dozen times over, words refusing to make their ways out.

When his eyes finally flicker up, Vadric knows the truth. He always did, as much as they didn't want to admit it.

They told him not to, but they should have known Weston would never listen.

There are bloody gouges torn down his cheek and jaw, a few trailing his neck. Beneath Jordyn's fingernails there's the stain of blood, clumps of flesh. Even that wasn't enough to stop him, though—the axe in his hand dripping blood across the floor.

"No," Levi says, finally, and there's something terrible about how such a soft-spoken word can hit her like a punch to the gut. He gives his head a shake, as if expecting to see something other than Jordyn lying there after his next series of blinks. His fingers curl into fists against the floor at the sound of the cannon, knuckles digging in until the skin breaks.

"There's—why did you—"

"Did you know what she was thinking?" Wes questions. Vadric can't believe he's asking this question now of all times, Levi huddled at his feet like he's bowing to a malicious God, hoping to be scared.

There is nobody being spared here.

"What are you talking about?"

"You don't need to play dumb anymore. The whispers, the looks. Do you think I didn't see it?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Levi asks, voice verging on hysteria. "I told you not to fight, I said—"

"I know what you said."

"I told you not to fucking fight!" Levi lurches to his voice, and he's screaming, right in Weston's face, and Vadric can't help but flinch back away from it. "So why the fuck didn't you listen? Was it that difficult? I didn't know anything, you don't know what you're talking about."

Weston is unimpressed by Levi's outburst, but Vadric didn't expect otherwise. If there's any expression at all on his face, it's satisfaction. He's proud of this, the work he's done. It's just another day on the job for Weston Katsouris.

Levi's hands grasp aimlessly at empty air. He wants to hit him, maybe, or bury that curved blade in his gut, but it's lying on the floor some feet away. When he looks down at Jordyn once again Vadric almost expects him to collapse, and he expects Levi would do just that—Weston wouldn't bother catching him. All this was, to end in such a charade.

Levi stumbles back, nearly careening to the ground in his haste to grab his weapon. His hands are shaking so violently he's hardly able to grasp the strap of his bag as he yanks it up from the ground. Vadric isn't sure how much he really sees anymore. His feet take him to the door.

"Levi," Weston starts, and he has the audacity to sound confused. He should know, right? He should have expected this.

He caused this.

Levi is gone, just like that. The door clatters shut behind him. Vadric finally gains the courage to move, but he feels stiff. They keep their eyes fixated on the ground as they reach for the small bag they had found just hours ago, reassured by the knife they know is tucked into one of the zippered pockets. They never thought they'd have to feel grateful for that knife.

"What are you doing?"

They can ignore him, right? They have to. It's for the best if they just keep their head down, don't answer, just leave the same as Levi did.

"Vadric."

She freezes, overcome with the feeling of being scolded, as if they're a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Their mother never told them off, though, and Pharix never bothered. Vadric may be a coward, but they're not about to lay down and take it. They've made a lot of mistakes in their life, but she won't let this be one of them.

Weston's eyes track them across the room as they shoulder the bag, remove the knife, and brace their hand against the door.

"There's something wrong with you," Vadric says. Their voice shakes, but they feel better for saying it. No use in pretending to be some meek little mouse when she disproved it long ago.

In response, Weston's lips quirk up. Of course he thinks it's amusing.

"Do you think I care?" he spits. "You must not realize where we are, what the hell we're supposed to be doing."

"I know you don't care," they reply. Stand tall, shoulders straight. They want to crumble, but that's giving in. "But you need to hear it. I know what it's like to have something irreparably wrong with you. I recognize it pretty damn well."

They step into the hall, eyes forward even though every instinct begs them to look around, to search out dangers, to see if they can tell where Levi's gone. All of that is erased in the face of her refusal to turn around and recognize the expression on Weston's face.

But they know it's betrayal; this, above everything, he did not expect. For everything he's ruined, he did not intend to face consequences.

It's about time he did.

"You're not going to make it out there," Weston says after them, venom dripping from his voice. Betrayal to rage, just like that. "I won't be there to save you again."

If his own righteousness doesn't kill him, something else surely will. Whatever this is that's going on, it's not meant to survive. It occurs to Vadric, all at once, that this will more than likely be the last time they ever see him. They hope it is; whatever the future looks like, he doesn't need to be in it.

They don't want him to be.

15th. Jordyn Palladino, District Four.

Women's rights? Women's rights to die.

Just kidding. There definitely comes a time with every story when you start to regret approximately everything you're doing—I know for sure that this is mine. It had to happen, because no matter how much rearranging I did in my head it didn't make sense otherwise, but that doesn't mean I'm happy about it. Fun times.

I don't predict that some of the upcoming chapters will be the longest. Not that this one is. But we're getting into mostly 4 POV chapters save for a few exceptions. Hopefully I'll be able to work on them at this same pace if not a bit faster so we don't have any mega-breaks again. But we'll see!

Until next time.