L: The Games - Day Nine, Night.
Vadric Gaerwyn, 17
Tribute of District Six
Even while being admittedly terrible at it, Vadric believes they may have still made a friend.
But believing is difficult, isn't it? It wasn't something designed to be easy. If everyone could just have faith that everything was going to work out the way they wanted, there would be no strife in the world. No worries. Everyone would sleep easy at night—Vadric included.
Levi's silence over the past few hours makes it impossible to believe in anything. Their friendship, kindled though it may be, might as well be dead for all Vadric knows. Levi was always talking to Jordyn or Weston. Rarely did Vadric witness any true lapses of silence between them, not like this.
It would be easy to dismiss the quiet Levi is offering them as a shift in the foundations of who he is; after Sander, after Jordyn, of course he's different. But Vadric can't help but think it's about her, that they've done something wrong. The type of thing you don't come back from.
He probably hates them, right? Vadric wouldn't blame him. Most people do. They're written off as a freak, unable to pass as the stereotypical normal in every-day society. And that's when they can even force themself to leave the house—most days that becomes an impossible task. She would much rather remain holed up, a mother and her fucked-up, irreversible child, cowering from the outside world.
She hasn't thought about her mother much. All Vadric can hope is that Pharix is at least stopping by, checking in on her. His visits had been less and less over the last few months Vadric has been home, and if he doesn't still go by… well, their mother is dead. She'll die alone in that house, the same way Vadric is more than likely going to die in here. The only difference is it'll be less gruesome. Some time from now Pharix will go by and find her decomposing corpse still in bed and Vadric will be long, long gone and he'll be the only one of them left.
Which, really, is probably what he's hoped for this entire time. Two less burdens in his life. No one to explain. Vadric wonders if any of this would be worth telling Levi about, but it doesn't seem that way. He won't care. No one ever does.
Besides, that seems almost too deep. Vadric doesn't need him knowing just how bad home is, or why they haven't slept in days.
Levi hasn't been sleeping, either. They know the signs.
They track him across the room, the place that feels like an armory but decidedly isn't—that, or someone cleared it out long ago. The dust is thick, though, making their eyes water, and Vadric decides that it was never full to begin with. The Gamemakers weren't kind enough to provide them something like that so easily.
He runs his hand through the dust, letting it slide between their fingers. Across the room Levi does much the same, fingers catching against the grooves of a stone perched at the end of the table. There's a specific name for it, Vadric knows, but their brain doesn't allow them to conjure it—instead they watch Levi remove the kukri from his belt and slide it overtop the stone, sharpening the blade.
Is this the same fear, the same level of paranoia, that Weston felt? If so, Vadric isn't sure they can blame him for it. Of course they still don't think he was right—frankly, they never will. The way he went about it and the bridges he burned in the process was not worth it. But if Jordyn really was going to act and plant a knife in his back, was it so wrong of him to strike first?
What if Vadric has to do the same? Will it still be some evil incarnate, horrible plan then, or merely self-preservation?
"You can go to sleep," Levi offers. "I'll wake you up halfway through the night."
Right. This is exactly what a pair is supposed to do. Work together, trade off when appropriate. Vadric remains stuck on the sound of the blade working over the stone, though, the noise making their spine shudder and roll.
They don't sleep—don't, can't, won't, what damn difference does it make. Vadric nods weakly, seeing no way out but to agree. They can fake it for a few hours, no harm there. Vadric draws out the time it takes them to choose a spot, making it seem like a difficult choice. They know where they're going to go, but it can't be obvious. Eventually, after nearly a full lap around the room, they nestle into the small alcove ducked into the wall, all the way over in the opposite corner. If Levi makes note of the location, he does not show it—Vadric watches him continue to sharpen the blade, gaze fixed downward.
Of course he doesn't think anything of it. He's not a bad person, even if some of his actions would suggest otherwise. Killer or not, that doesn't mean he's a devil.
For some time Vadric listens to the blade sliding over stone, hoping the sound will lull them into something resembling sleep, enough that they don't have to focus too much. Levi's footsteps end up catching their attention instead, and Vadric curls tighter into themself, fingers pressed so tightly into their ribs that her skin begins to ache.
He's right next to them now. Vadric prepares to die. Hopefully it will be quick—he knows what to do, at least. He was trained to.
Something flutters gently over them. Vadric immediately recognizes the fabric as the scratchy, threadbare blanket Levi had collected earlier and shoved into his bag, settling over their shoulders. They force their fingers away from their ribs, finding the edge of it to hold onto instead.
Breathe. You're alive. There's no reason to be scared, not of him—
"Thanks," they force out, eyes still closed. Vadric prays that single word comes out well enough, that they don't sound terrified out of their mind. Levi's hand squeezing their shoulder for half a second doesn't give them confirmation either way. They just know he walks away, leaves them be the way he was always going to.
If there's something wrong with Weston, and there is, there's something just as wrong with Vadric too. They can't let that go—they wish they could.
Instead they just have to live with it.
Sloane Laurier, 17
Tribute of District Three
It would be wrong to call it freedom.
Robbie wasn't that heavy, you know? Thinking he weighed on her that much would be giving him too much credit.
Anyone calling this freedom would be viewed as deranged, and that's not exactly something Sloane can afford right now. Sure she's walking around with this terrifying little thirteen year old, an old ally's blood on her machete, but it's not like that's illegal. Just because it feels somewhat good doesn't mean it is either.
But it is good. The best she's felt since Sloane allowed herself to relax around Talos.
And isn't that a terrifying thought?
Even more terrifying is the series of questions she feels compelled to ask, truly curious for what is possibly the first time in years. What's Nine like? Bleak and uninspiring, apparently, which Sloane could have guessed for herself. Still, the confirmation isn't so bad to have. She asks about siblings and Casia goes… quiet. Or rather she always was. She gives Sloane a pointed look, but it's impossible to tell what that means either. Whatever it is, it's clear that family is a topic not yet to be breached. It's not like Sloane's any better, right? She ain't got nothing to go back to. No one she loves, no one important.
Of course there's the option to create something, but Sloane isn't sure that's an option. There's always the opportunity to see, but what if it fails? Sloane knows where she'll end up; the place where she was always meant to be. The streets will reclaim her. That's where she'll die. And then, really, shouldn't she have just let some other poor sucker out of this arena instead of her, lay down and die like a good little martyr?
A part of her still wants that something more, but the fight, the risk… she can't tell if it outweighs what could be the benefits.
"Hey, Sloane?"
"What's up?"
"Nothing, I guess. I just feel like you want someone to talk to."
And she's not exactly the pinnacle of company. Well, she's better than Robbie, at least. Not quite so quick to dive headfirst off a cliff. "You're fine."
"Really?"
"Really. Don't need'ta be talking anyway, right? Probably should be—"
Casia stretches up and slaps a hand over her mouth. Sloane is more than ashamed to realize she probably slobbers all over her fingers, but well, that's what she gets.
She blinks down at her, but Casia has no eyes save for the empty, vast hallway spread before them. Sloane stares down it, too, but there's nothing there. Just before Casia grabs her arm and pulls her to the side, hard, she almost thinks she hears something. It's not until Casia has sent them both into the safety of a window's alcove, the long velvet curtains fluttering around them, that Sloane truly hears it.
They really should be listening, huh? At least she was right about something, even if she didn't get the chance to say it.
It's subtle, at first, not loud enough to raise any alarm. But it's something. As the volume increases, Sloane can only try to pinpoint it—something scraping over the stone, harsh and grating. Metal, maybe. Like a suit of armor toppling over to the stone and clattering about, except this is more consistent. Something—someone—moving.
They stare at one another as it grows closer. Sloane wants nothing more than to yank the curtains open and get a look for herself, but that would be stupid, right? Don't risk it if they're not going to be seen. No point.
Besides, the truth becomes obvious. Whatever's out there isn't another tribute. It's far too loud to be one. It's too slow, too lumbering, to be one of the mutts. Besides, they haven't seen any in this area of the castle yet—they wouldn't have been wandering around otherwise?
So that only begs one question: what the fuck is it, then?
The noise abruptly stops. Sloane wishes she had that same ability—to quiet her breathing into nothing, to stop her heart from pounding. What the hell is she scared of, anyway? She's seen terrible things. Done worse. No use being frightened now, when she's already in the thick of it. If Sloane wanted to avoid being scared, she should have just let herself die a long time ago.
Apparently there's a lot of reasons that Sloane should just be dead.
There is no resuming of the noise, but something else. A rush of wind. A wheezing intake of breath. The curtains in front of them disappear—no, not disappear, but fall to pieces, sheared apart by a blade and rippling to the ground. Neither of them scream; Sloane thinks a lot of people would, but not them.
It doesn't take long, though. She doesn't even see it coming. Not in the darkness, not in the panic. All Sloane registers is the pain—it hits her so suddenly in the leg, right along her hip, that if not for the force of the blow she surely would have fallen straight away. Instead she's driven back, first into the edge of the wall and then the window, which shatters beneath her weight. Sloane waits for that moment of empty air, the weightless feeling of falling.
Something yanks her back. She crashes into the stone. The pain that radiates from her leg makes her vision blacken, and her fingers fumble out blindly for it. There's something stuck there, sharp—no shit, genius, but God does it hurt.
Getting it out, though, somehow doesn't seem like a priority. She's on the ground, so she crawls. Anything to get away. Whatever the thing is, she's navigating around its legs, dragging herself forward. Above her, the air is split with an inhuman roar so deep and thunderous she swears the floor shakes and she has no idea what to make of that sound, doesn't even want to know. But the legs she had been avoiding are suddenly giving away, and Sloane throws herself forward to avoid the thing landing on top of her.
Only moments later something is grabbing at her hands—Sloane doesn't know how she can tell it's Casia, half-blind, but she does. Casia is still here. She clutches onto her, relieved when Casia yanks her up despite the pain willing her to get back onto the floor. It's so much easier down there.
But Casia refuses. "C'mon, c'mon," she urges, one arm wrapped around Sloane's waist. She's not a bad kid at all, is she? She's pretty good, in fact.
Against her own whims, Sloane tries to glance back. She doesn't get a good enough look at it to tell what it is, but it's writhing on the floor, oddly human-like. The hilt of Casia's knife glimmers, left behind in the dark, the blade buried deep in its eye socket.
"You know," she manages, panting. "I think I like you, kid."
"Okay."
"What's wrong with my leg?"
"Nothing. Keep moving."
Well, that's a lie if she's ever heard one. Sloane glances down. There's another hilt—larger, more ominous, visible at the height of her thigh. The half an inch of blade she can see sticking out of her muscle is flecked with rust, chipped at the edges. Ancient, by the looks of it, and nearly jutting all the way through her.
That can't be good. Her stomach rolls at the sight of it, and Sloane still has yet to properly see. But Casia's grip on her remains firm, steadfast and stubborn in the way she forces Sloane's feet to move.
It feels odd to… rely on someone. Have someone at all. Sloane could have gotten used to it had she been allowed to stay in Three with Talos' family, but the world wasn't so kind. She had gotten used to the idea that it never would be.
Maybe now this is her kindness, the only type she's allowed to receive. Safety when she should otherwise be dead.
It's the kind she'll have to accept.
Amani Layne, 18
Tribute of District Four
He thinks he's lost Ilan.
No, not in the physical sense. That would be, frankly, too easy.
If they were never going to find Sanne that's what should have happened, too. She just vanishes. They never see her again, at least not until her death is confirmed. Ilan is still devastated, but at least Amani has the chance to pick up the pieces.
There's no fixing what he's been given instead. This virtual catatonia, Ilan's unseeing eyes and slumped over form. At some point, dragging him through the halls, Ilan had stopped fighting him. It had become less dragging him away, trying to force his eyes away from what they had discovered, and Amani had found himself half-carrying him. There was no choice but to—Ilan's feet refused to move, dangling uselessly, and the last thing Amani could do was leave him behind.
He had already done that to Sanne, and look what had happened? It didn't matter that it was the only thing to do. Maybe Amani could have better explained things to her. Found her sooner. Directed her somewhere else.
It should have been him on the other side of that gate. Alive or dead, they would have been better off for it.
He looks down at Ilan still sitting beneath the window where Amani deposited him, legs sprawled out in the exact same position, eyes fixed blankly on the opposite wall. Amani has felt like a failure before numerous times—when they found Kona dead on the beach, when the water rushed around them and Tiernan was ripped from his arms, when Takoda twitched and bled on the rooftop.
When he woke up in the hospital after and his father's eyes weren't relieved or sad or grateful, just disappointed and you're not the son I wanted, not the person you need to be.
He hadn't said it aloud, but Amani had heard it all the same. He was a failure again, perhaps worse than ever before. He could never succeed in a way that was significant to anyone around him, but that doesn't mean he can just stop trying, does it? If Amani gives up now that means leaving Ilan all alone, frozen just like this, and he can't. He won't.
It's becoming more clear as the months pass that Amani is incapable of protecting anyone—even himself—but the futility in trying has not crushed him yet.
Somehow.
Amani sits down beside him, careful to let their shoulders brush just enough that Ilan knows he's there, not a threat. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, knowing the words aren't enough but feeling the need to say them all the same. Carrack had said that to him when he had gotten home, too, as if he hadn't lost two best friends as well.
The words are always useless, but at least they're comforting to the people daring to say them.
"I'm sorry," he says again, more insistent. "I failed you both. I should have… well, I don't know what I should have done. I guess I never will. But regardless, I'm sorry. You deserved better. Both of you."
Ilan is silent, as Amani could have predicted, but when he dares to glance away he notices tears slipping noiselessly down his cheeks, the first real sign that he's still somewhat there that Amani has gotten all day. Crushing though it may be, Amani now knows he isn't alone, that he's not stuck in a room with nothing more than an empty shell.
He reaches out to grip Ilan's shoulder, still gentle. "I'm sorry," he says again, and he knows he's a broken record, but what else is there to say.
Ilan nods, sending the tears spilling faster down his face. "I miss her," he croaks, voice breaking.
"I know," he assents. "I miss her too."
She was good. Too good, in fact, and nothing like the people in the Capitol wrote her off as after the first time around. Amani wishes he had more time to know her, to remember her…
"It wasn't your fault," Ilan whispers—had his voice been any louder, Amani thinks it may have broken again.
Of course it wasn't, not really. That won't stop Amani from shouldering the blame, because that's what he's best at. Ilan is hurting enough, and he can take the weight for now. Forever, if he has to.
Even if it kills him.
"I want you to try and get some sleep," he urges. "I know it might be hard, but…"
Ilan nods again, mutely. He lowers himself to the floor, Amani's hand still resting on his shoulder. Amani watches him curl up as tight as he can go, knees tucked against his chest, trembling arms wrapped around them. When he squeezes his eyes shut it looks painful, as if trying to ward off the horrors he's encountered is the most difficult thing he's ever attempted.
It may very well be. Amani knows too much about how much they persist and linger. No matter your trials, they don't just go away.
He keeps his hand fixed on Ilan's shoulder, willing the other boy to relax. Right now that's all he can do. Clearly he's not capable of protecting him, nor anyone else he cares about. But what he can do is sit here and pray that he at least gets a few hours of sleep.
Amani isn't delusional enough to believe sleep will fix anything, but he should allow himself to pretend. Not that he deserves it—he knows he doesn't. Just like Sanne didn't deserve to die, or how Ilan shouldn't have to live with the grief. But that's just what surviving is, right? The worst happening and the ability to come out of the other side.
Are they still capable of it? Is there another side for them, no matter how far away?
Right now, Amani doesn't have the ability to tell.
Ravi Fusain, 17
Tribute of District Twelve
The screaming in the hall from earlier still echoes heavily in his ears.
It's almost enough to disguise the taste of the lie on his tongue, ugly and bitter. He told Zoya before he succumbed to sleep that they had more time, that it wasn't the end. Not yet.
But they heard that screaming earlier, not long after Zoya had gone through with it. Someone discovering the body, he could only assume. An ally or someone else who had cared about her. He and Zoya had pressed themselves as far away from the door as they could, a mutual pact of silence lingering between them. Of course they had reacted.
Kai hadn't. Not so much as a twitch, a blink, a shudder. Functionally, he was dead to the world.
It was better than saying outright dead.
A part of Ravi had begged for him to wake up, to see him react in some way, but the truth was obvious. He knew Kai was never going to wake up with a certainty that terrified him.
Nothing was as terrifying, though, as what had formed in his head after Zoya's words earlier. He's suffering, right? There's nothing you can do to make it easier? The idea that hadn't left. Of course there was something Ravi could—there's something he could have done for a long while now, but there was never any reason to let it cross his mind. For some time, Kai was just fine. Fine for someone actively dying, anyway. But to think about him dying during that phase, at least, was a foreign concept, so to think of it in any more detail than that…
He should have stopped himself there, but it's become impossible. Each time he tries all he hears is Kai's breath instead, the rattle and gurgle. The fluid filling his lungs, the choking, the drowning—
It's as Zoya said. Suffering in its purest form.
And Ravi has the power to end it.
The herbs in his pocket may as well be as heavy as stones for how terribly they drag him down. In another universe, time would have passed as such that Ravi would have forgotten about them entirely. Now his focus is devoted on them—he's never seen them work, but he knows what they would do. His mother did as well. He found enough scraps of it inside people's stomach cavities when he finally dared to look.
But it would be easy. Quiet. In watching him suffering Ravi can feel it in himself too and that's selfish, so fucking selfish, but what else is he to think, there's nothing else to do—
The roughness of the dried leaves and stems feels familiar beneath his fingertips as he rolls them back and forth, dust sticking to his skin. He lays his other hand over Kai's sweat-dampened brow. "What do you want me to do?" he whispers. "Just… just wake up. Please. Tell me."
It would never be so easy. Ravi doesn't even deserve it. All he has is the words Kai spoke, though they feel like years ago now. He didn't want to be slaughtered. He wanted to go quietly, without pain.
Maybe… maybe that's the only thing Ravi can give him, now.
He reaches once again for one of their remaining water bottles—he's done so far what he thinks to be a good enough job at forcing water down Kai's throat, and he knows it's the only way to do things now. With everything so dried out, he could turn what's left of the hemlock into virtually a powder. Easy, like he said, and more than likely painless. Even in sleep he watches agony twist Kai's face, and it's too much. He doesn't deserve this. He should be with his family, safe and warm and tucked away.
His family wouldn't want to watch this either, such prolonged suffering. Ravi finds himself crumbling the herbs in his cupped palms without truly realizing it and funneling them carefully into the bottle. He watches the slightly off-colored liquid settle, the cloudiness rapidly dissipating. All of it that he has.
Ravi has to let him go. This delusion, this suffering, it's not fair. Not to anyone. At some point it has to end.
Even if he doesn't want it to be right now.
He brushes some of the limp curls away from Kai's forehead, allowing his hand to gentle cup and lift his head, the same way he has over the past several hours. "Easy," he murmurs, and it almost feels like he's talking to Kai, pretending that he can offer comfort. "It's okay now, everything's going to be alright…"
Ravi forces the bottle past his lips, tipping the water back into his mouth before he can talk himself out of it. It's okay. It's all okay. He needs somebody to look after him, always has, always will, Ravi can do that, right? It's what he's good for.
One of the only things he's good for.
Even when the bottle has been nearly drained Ravi keeps a tight grip on him, fingers soothing over his clammy skin. He has to know he's not alone. Kai has put up such a fight thus far there's no way he doesn't feel something, and even if all he has left now is a sliver Ravi will stay put right where he is.
His face twists again and Ravi wills it away, breath held tight in his chest. This is mercy, right? The purest form of it. He knows how to see it through.
Kai jerks within the entrapment of his arms so suddenly that he nearly tears himself free from Ravi's grip, sagging almost immediately back into the cot. He continues to twitch and shudder, body heaving in great rolls that nearly send him careening into the floor. Ravi's hands find his shoulders even though he knows that's the opposite of what he's meant to do. You let them seize. You don't hurt them worse.
But God, he's already done that, hasn't he? He's fucking done that. Kai jerks again, and Ravi feels his pulse racing, the odd skip and stop of it everywhere in his body. It's not supposed to be happening like this, it was supposed to be simple and better than the hell he was already living in and what the fuck did Ravi do?
"I'm sorry," he says desperately. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please—"
Please, what? The emptiness of the sentence hangs in the air.
Please just die.
But he doesn't. Stubborn in his refusal no matter the state of him, Kai continues to seize and the cot groans beneath the weight of even his feather-light, struggling body. It was a mistake, it's always a mistake, how is this mercy—
Kai drops beneath his hands, falling still with an abruptness that makes him hyper-aware of just how hard he's gripping at Kai's shoulders, his white-knuckled fingers, the shake in them. No sound emerges from between his parted lips, his head canted awkwardly to the side. If his eyes were open, he'd be staring Ravi right in the face.
Ravi flinches even before the cannon sounds, and when it finally does… God, when it does, he sags to his knees at the side of the cot, bowing his head to rest against the frame.
Not like that. It wasn't supposed to be that. He tries to breathe but it feels like each inhale gets stuck in his throat, pain cutting down the center of his chest so deeply Ravi feels that he may have been somehow stabbed in the midst of the chaos. When he looks down though there's nothing there save for his tattered shirt, a plateau of smooth skin beneath it.
It feels like the cannon should have been for him.
"What the hell?"
The words hardly reach him. Ravi is somewhere very far away, and it's not until a shadow passes over him that he realizes he's still right here, on this floor.
Kai is still dead beside him, and now Zoya is leaning over them both, rudely awoken by the sound splitting the night. His vision is blurred too badly for him to make out Zoya's expression, and he doesn't trust any words that might come out. Zoya's hand reaches out, though—he sees it press to Kai's lifeless, sprawled arm as if he needs physical confirmation of what his eyes already know. There's no mistaking contact with a corpse.
"What the fuck did you do?"
Zoya's voice is low, almost deadly. Ravi flinches again, but this time it's like he's been struck. "I—I didn't—"
"Are you going to tell me you didn't?" Zoya snaps. He bends down, right into Ravi's face, and there's nowhere else he can look. "You said he would survive the night, you said—"
"I know what I said!" he gets out frantically. "But—"
But it was a lie. Because lies are easier than accepting the truth, because sometimes they're kinder. He sees nothing like kindness in Zoya's face now, his expression twisted into something akin to rage.
"I said," he hisses slowly. "To make it fucking easier. Not murder him."
"That's not—"
"Cut the bullshit!" Zoya shouts. "Don't say that's not what you did, don't lie to me again. Just fucking say it. You think you can play God and decide who lives and who dies because it's in your blood, right? You know all about this."
"Don't."
"You were hoping to avoid it, well guess what? You really are just like your mother."
"Please," he begs. "Don't say—"
"The truth really fucking hurts, doesn't it?" Zoya snaps. He grabs a fistful of Ravi's shirt, and there's no getting away from it, is there? Not that he should. Why should Ravi get to turn tail and run from the truth, as Zoya said?
That doesn't mean he wants to hear it. It can't be the truth. If that's what reality is than Ravi is evil too, and maybe he should have been the one they strung up.
"You really had us all fooled," Zoya says quietly. "Maybe we're stupid for believing it, but at least we're not cowards. That's all on you."
"Stop!" he shouts, finally, and the force of his own voice is nearly enough to terrify him. He tears himself back from Zoya's grip, but only succeeds in knocking into the side of the cot and before Ravi has even turned to face it he can hear it rocking, see Kai's body sliding away from them. His hands shoot out but not quick enough, how was he ever going to be quick enough?
His body hits the ground with a sickening, hollow thud and Ravi feels frozen. Hands still outstretched, mouth slightly agape. He thinks Zoya might be motionless for once too—that's what he would hope for, anyway, if there was any hope to be found. The moment he turns around his vision is reduced to a mess of stars and black, endless black as something collides with his cheek so hard his head snaps to the side. Blood fills his mouth as he bites down his cheek. It rolls down his cheek in fat droplets as he comes to rest, half-held up on the floor.
The plastic and metal of Zoya's fingers is wet and red—he shakes it out, and blood splatters on the floor. The gouges ripped into his cheek continue to drip endlessly as Zoya steadies himself, looking down at Ravi. There's nothing but contempt in his gaze.
"You're going to fight back," he says flatly. "I know you will."
His fist comes swinging down again, and this time Ravi barely manages to avoid it—he feels the air rush by as he scrabbles away and he's going towards Kai's body, he wishes he could go any other way but there's no avoiding it. He just has to get away from Zoya. If he fights back then he knows what it means. One of them dies.
He doesn't want anyone else to die.
Clearly it doesn't matter what Ravi wants in that respect, at least, but Zoya is still trying to grab ahold of him, drag him back. Ravi is simply moving, unaware of where he's supposed to end up in this tiny little room. There's no escape from this, is there? There never was.
"I told you, you're a fucking coward!" Zoya shouts. "Just fight back, fucking fight back!"
Anything but this. Zoya's foot lashes out, and pain ricochets through his ribs. He grabs a hold of Ravi's shoulder and a fist connects with his jaw again, the harsh click-grate of bone shooting through his ears. Zoya will kill him if it comes to that—Zoya has already killed Seven, and he didn't hesitate then. Just because it's Ravi doesn't mean he will this time.
If Kai couldn't win, he wanted it to be Ravi. But it shouldn't be him, he doesn't want it to be him, he's filth and rot and everything wrong, just like his mother—
But Zoya's right, isn't he? He doesn't want to die.
And he's been moving towards the machete, abandoned on the ground where Zoya left it, without even realizing.
If Zoya's aware of this, it doesn't seem obvious. His entire focus is devoted to striking down at Ravi, reaching wherever he can hit, and his entire body is aching with the force of it, stretching out as far as he can. It feels as if his arm might give away when the tips of his fingers brush against the hilt of the machete.
It was not supposed to happen this way.
His palm locks around the hilt, damp grip refusing to hold it properly until he's able to turn over, his back landing hard against the stone. Zoya doesn't flail back, doesn't try to move. The weapon might as well not be a fear to him at all.
Or maybe he just doesn't care.
The blade swings out and arcs and it's all in slow motion. His mouth is still filling with blood, washing down his throat over and over.
He thinks, a second before the machete connects, before the blade sinks into his chest, that Zoya smiles.
He can't be…
Ravi lunges up. The moment the blade is stuck he releases it, and it wavers where it's left. Zoya looks down at it, watching the way it moves before it stills. That's all he has eyes for even as Ravi grabs a hold of him, noting the wobble to his legs, the way he's about to go crashing down.
And why is he bothering now, when he's the reason it's happened?
Zoya's fingers grasp feebly back at his arms as Ravi lowers him to the ground, blood bubbling free from his lips. Something like a wheeze escapes him, drawn out and lingering—
Ravi begins to realize it's an imitation of a laugh, building both in volume and mania until it's all he can hear, even above the roaring in his ears. "I told you," Zoya says, dazedly, but he's still laughing. "I told you, I knew you would…. I always knew you."
He's a monster, and a stranger saw it first. A friend, dying in his arms.
"Zoya," he breathes. "Zoya, I—"
"Don't…" he manages. "Not… not sorry. You're not."
And he's silent. His eyes roll. His body briefly convulses around the machete Ravi has left in his chest and he can't even begin to think of freeing it. Ravi struggles for words that aren't there, for air that refuses to fill his lungs.
The room has been robbed of it. A room holding nothing but him and the two corpses he's put there. It's almost the house he grew up in, the back room where his mother would put people to death and make Ravi bury them.
Except this is all him. He's the one people warn you about, the thing wrong with the world. The worst part is, she would be proud of him. The bloodline continued, the evil pushed forward. There's something wrong with him—he's not Morana Fusain, no casual monster, not the acting hand of God.
He's something much worse.
11th. Kai Melchior, District Five.
10th. Zoya Ossof, District Five.
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Until next time.