LI: The Games - Day Ten, Midday.

Tova Revelis, 18
Tribute of District One

She feels horrifyingly, worryingly free.

And she knows there's something deeply wrong with her for that.

It may have come as the hours passed, hours in which Tova did not—refused, really, to rest. To not eat or sleep or breathe, even, because doing any of those things meant allowing her brain an appropriate amount of time to wrap around what had happened. To truly see it.

Of course she saw it, but not in the way anyone else would. It was a butchered corpse, rendered raw by her work. No one she knew, no one who had ever made her feel anything. That would be, frankly, absurd. Tova didn't feel things like that. Tova cared about Aviya and her father and Ives and—

That was it, really. There couldn't be anything more.

The face on her watch was still—Tova had no idea how long it had been that way, only that it enabled her to be truly blind to just how much time had passed. Her feet ached. Her body cried for a break. It was her mentor's fault she was moving, his doing is all. They could blame him if she eventually dropped from exhaustion.

The note had arrived when she was still hovering over the corpse, examining the shards of cracked rib that poked out and broke through the skin. All it had said was START MOVING. Tova had. After that, the why had become obvious. The sound of crumbling rock and walls had eventually reached her, though it hadn't sounded as momentous as the tower crashing to the ground. Whatever it was, it was too risky to stay around.

She likes to imagine the corpse is buried beneath all the rubble, now, away from prying eyes. It was for her to see—her and only her.

Most things seemed to turn out that way.

Tova can't help but dwell on Ives in a time like this, the both of them hellbent on caring for their little siblings and unsure of where life would take them otherwise. Tova was meant to do this, but him? She should have just convinced him to stay home. At least that way one of them would have some matter of certainty. But in thinking that way, isn't it just giving up? She's going to survive this hellhole. All of this will have been worth it.

There are so few of them left. It has to be.

Her one struggle seems to lie there. Tova can go over the numbers all she likes, but they're not what she was meant for. She remembers well the faces in the sky the night before—her beautiful little corpse. Seven. Both of the Fives. She remembers laughing, too, when she had seen them, the noise echoing too-harsh off the stone walls. One of them, at least, would have done the same for her had their positions been reversed.

It's a good thing it's her, then. Only right.

That still leaves her with no clear direction, no idea what she's meant to do other than kill whoever crosses her path. It would all be so easy if only someone would. Tova's beginning to wonder if this is all some sort of practical joke, if she's the only one left in there whilst the audience watches, garnering some amount of sick joy from watching her trail in circles. What if Aranza was the final test? What if that was it?

No. She can't think like that, and she especially can't think about Aranza. Not her. Not either of them. They're just corpses, people she broke and ruined even if they might felt something different for her. She's not meant for love. God, she's so fucking unlovable it almost hurts.

It's not worth thinking about them. There are other names, more important ones. Those are the ones she has to focus on.

If only she could straighten them all out in her mind. So many of them were so irrelevant to her from the very beginning, hardly real people at all… they were going to die. No use in memorizing them for any sort of bigger purpose. She finds no recollection of District Six in her head—Weston, at least, would make sense, but the other one? There's no way. Frankly most of these people are somewhere in the same boat.

What she can do is count the cannons, letting herself pore over the days. There's nine of them left. Nine only, and she can't be certain of any of the names. It's pathetic, isn't it? Tova should be better than this. Is better than this. It's everything she trained for, spent years on, was prepared to die for. Now all she's looking forward to is living.

Eight more people. That's practically nothing after what she's faced.

She can't be sure how long it takes her to realize, how silly she must look when her feet stutter to an uneven halt and she finds her hand braced against the wall, eyes narrowed towards the ground as if somehow the stones have given her the revelation. Tova's suffering did not start only days ago, no—it started with Ives, of course, and only worsened after the fact. It became as such because of one person, a single entity that never should have had the power. Everything went wrong because of him. To think she spent so long locked away in the Capitol when she should have been helping her sister get ready for school, and it was him.

She fucking hates him, and even then it's not a strong enough word. Tova has never quite felt an urge the way her very being pulsated when she had seen him on the plate next to her and realized there was nothing she could do. Their rules were unfair. It's as if they thought Tova deserved to be punished.

But there are no rules anymore. He's out there somewhere drawing breath, stealing air that should rightfully be hers. He has no claim to it. If he wanted to die so many months ago, she can't imagine why he still bothers to live.

Not that it matters. Amani still being out there only means one very important thing.

Tova is going to kill him.

Casia Braddock, 13
Tribute of District Nine

Casia never thought it was possible to feel so futile for existing.

Sloane is alive, and she knows objectively that it means something. But being alive is not synonymous with flourishing, something she is learning first-hand. The sight of it is unpleasant, to say the least.

Somehow she managed to get them away—of course, that means Casia doesn't have the faintest clue where they are now. She was only focused on getting them away from that thing, oddly human-like. She can still see it writhing in place on the ground, her dagger poking free from its skull. Casia liked that knife. She wishes she hadn't had to leave it behind.

Until yesterday, she never could have seen herself prioritizing another human being over her own life. But she hadn't thought twice about grabbing Sloane even if it meant that it would slow her down, didn't think about what it would mean if that thing caught up to them again. And it hadn't mattered. Casia had done the right thing, and they were both alive for it.

There was no way to tell if Sloane was grateful for that.

She had been sleeping for some time now, face twisted in pain, body tight with tension. Though Casia had managed to break the hilt free from the rest of the blade, she hadn't removed it. There hadn't been a discussion about it—they both knew if that sword came free, Sloane was a goner. Of course that meant it was still cutting all the way through her thigh, scraping against the line of her lip, and there was nothing either of them could do except pack their extra belongings around it and leave it be.

There wasn't even any room for hope. They weren't delusional enough for it. An injury like that almost certainly spelled eventual death for whoever tried to live with it.

Casia a year ago would have already dispatched of Sloane without thinking about it, but Casia now…

Casia now just watches her. Fitful in sleep, skin alight with the faint sheen of sweat. If the wound itself doesn't kill her, the ensuing infection will. That's exactly why she hasn't been keen on watching her in the first place, though there's not much room to get away. As soon as Casia could no longer hear anything from the creature in the distant halls, she had locked them away. The room was more like a closet, and Sloane's sprawled form took up much of it.

The hall felt dangerous—it was, of course, but that didn't stop the thought from lingering. Going out there wouldn't mean freedom. Casia was open plains and endless miles of fields swaying in the breeze; these halls, in response, offered nothing but cold and entrapment.

And death, of course. There was never any forgetting that.

She turns away from the door, nearly nose-to-nose with the wooden slats, at the sound of Sloane coughing. It's only a few weak, raspy noises before she quiets again, eyes remaining closed all the while. Her face remains screwed up even as Casia crouches down by her side, laying a hand on her shoulder for all the good it's going to do.

This is not the situation she expected to find herself in, nor one that she has any experience handling. When someone got sick back home the easiest thing to do was get out and let someone else deal with it—better they minimize how many of them caught it, in her eyes. A month before they called her name at the reaping Luther had been clambering all over her, chattering incessantly while she tried to shake him off. Normal five year old things, the kind that irritated her to no end. The most he had started sniffling she had grabbed him beneath the arms and deposited him before their mother in the kitchen before slipping soundlessly out the back door. Just because he followed her everywhere and asked her every question did not mean it was her job to be his caretaker.

But this… this wasn't a choice. There was no one else to hand Sloane off to, and even if someone else was around, Casia knows the route they would go down. They'd put her out of her misery. If Casia was worth anything, that's what she would have already done.

But somehow, this fleeting companionship means everything. Sloane is the first person to truly see her. Her parents didn't know. Lilou saw it, but she pretended it didn't exist. The audience chooses their names and stories and they stick with them. She's a monster. An abomination trapped in a little girl's body.

She's only ever been trying to survive an inhospitable world.

"You don't have to stare at me the entire night." Sloane's voice is hardly a whisper. "I don't think I'm going to die."

Casia doesn't have it in her to announce that it isn't night—at least, it wasn't the last time she checked. Sloane doesn't care about the passing hours anyway. "You don't think?"

"No."

She doesn't think so either. Sloane's a fighter, same as everyone else left. She won't let this be the end of her no matter how badly it hurts.

Casia does find herself continuing to stare, at least for a few minutes longer. When she's certain Sloane is asleep once again she lowers herself to the floor at a painfully slow pace until she can feel the chill of the stone against her back even through her coat. There's hardly room for it. Her left shoulder brushes against the door, her right against Sloane's. It's not as awful as she imagined it to be. If they're going to survive, she needs to rest.

Of course, they both won't last forever. She knows Sloane won't. But Casia is going to ensure that they make it at least a little bit longer. Do they not deserve that?

She doesn't care what anyone says—they do.

Ilan Azar, 17
Tribute of District Seven

In his dreams, everything was right.

In his dreams, nothing bad had ever happened to him.

Ilan knows he's thought this exact thing before—said it aloud, perhaps, but not to anyone that was listening. He only kept thinking it because it was the stark truth. In a world where so many people were haunted by never-ending nightmares, his sleeping hours were peaceful. That, or they were just nothing. And that was better than reality.

Reality was opening his eyes and realizing that Sanne was well and truly gone, no matter what delusions he fashioned up in his head. Ilan was good at imagining whatever he wanted, making it real. This was simply something he couldn't fight his way through. No matter how hard he tried, Sanne was never beside him.

Sometimes Ilan would open his eyes and find himself alone, but he knows that's nothing more than a lie. Amani is still here, even if Ilan imagines otherwise. It's just easier to imagine that he's left or died while Ilan's been asleep, gone in the most unobtrusive way possible. No body. No horror to feast his eyes upon. Just…. gone.

The more Amani pays attention to him, the more difficult it becomes to pretend that he's been left to his own devices. He doesn't know what Amani is waiting for. Maybe he wants to leave, do something other than stew in silence in this little room. Since Amani's attempt at comforting him, it seems like he's found nothing better to do than stare. Even during his fitful attempts at sleeping Ilan could feel himself being watched. He felt like he was ticking away, a time-bomb in the making, and that was a matter he couldn't be certain of. Was it the truth or not?

"Ilan?"

He blinks. Amani is—oh, Amani is right there, slowly crouching down before him. "Yeah?"

"Do you want to…"

Does he want to move, to do anything? The answer, frankly, is no. The only thing he wants to do is go back to a time where everything was right, but… but that was years ago, wasn't it? It was all going wrong even before he lost Sanne. It's been that way for a very long time.

"I know you'd… you'd rather talk to her, but I'm here. If you want to talk."

"Okay."

Even though he agrees, Amani still stares. He looks worried. Ilan blinks a few more times, wondering if the look will dissipate.

It doesn't.

"What?" he questions.

"You've just been, uh." Amani pauses, and Ilan sees the turn of gears in his head, trying to form the proper words. "Talking. A little bit."

"Talking."

"Yeah."

"What have I been saying?"

"You've been quiet, mostly, so I didn't understand a lot. And I was trying not to listen for the most part. In case you didn't want me to hear, you know? Just… some stuff about your family, I think. A few names. Not much—"

"What names?" Ilan interrupts. He already knows what Amani is going to say, dreads it all the same. His stomach is aching fiercely without warning, his insides turning on each-other in a frenzy. He didn't want this. Not any of it.

He knows he must look worse for wear, because Amani lowers a hand to his knee and lets it rest there. "Mostly Hudson. Vitali, a little bit. Are they—"

"Stop," he begs. "Please just stop, please, I don't want to talk—"

"Okay, okay," Amani insists—there's something in his voice that's trying to soothe, or at least attempt to, but Ilan can hardly hear it. There's a roar in his ears but he doesn't even bother covering them with his hands because he knows nothing will change. He'll hear it anyway.

Not Vitali. Not Hudson, never fucking Hudson, it can't be Hudson. Hudson's the reason for all of this. He blocked it out for a reason, left it in the past. No one is meant to remember those things and simply live with them. Once someone does that to you, takes so much with no repercussions…

There's no going back.

He thought he could forget about it. Hoped, anyway. Now that Sanne is gone it feels as if the barrier is gone once again, some secret thing that was holding him together. What's left to do except let the seams unravel?

"I'm sorry," Ilan manages. This, at least, he hears. He knows he's saying it, but not why. Not to whom. Amani wouldn't ask for an apology, nor expect one, and there's no one else around.

He's sorry to himself, sometimes, even though none of it was his fault. But maybe if he hadn't fallen that day…

If you don't fall, you don't break any bones. If you don't break any bones you never end up in the hospital, never get sent to Hudson's office for therapy. If you never get sent to Hudson's office—

If he never goes to Hudson's office he never gets Vitali. Maybe. Possibly. He doesn't fucking know anymore, none of it seems real—

"Ilan," Amani says gently. "We don't have to talk. But I do want to get out of here, head down to the lowest level. I'm starting not to trust any of these walls."

And Ilan is starting not to trust himself.

"Okay," he manages, voice scarcely a whisper. Amani's hand is still there on his knee, except now it's squeezing so tightly he can feel it in his bones, the pressure something to focus on. So he does. If that's all he has left in the world, then it's what he must cling to.

He wants more. His parents. For everything to be normal again. He wants the treehouse covered in his murals and Vitali's head resting against his.

And he's not going to get any of it.

Levi Alcandre, 18
Tribute of District Two

He can't help but follow the cracks that lead through the wall, all the way to the next junction.

A problem like this is something you can only ignore for so long before it hits you dead on. If Levi knew how to get the hell out of here, he would already be far, far away. As far as he could get at least.

He doesn't have a clue, though, and Vadric appears to have even less of one. For all Levi knows, the exits have been sealed up—it's that, or he's so ass-backwards in this entire thing that he can't tell one direction from the other. He's choosing to believe the Gamemakers have trapped them in here permanently rather than accept that he's fully gone off his rocker.

Even if that might just be the more logical option, well… Levi really isn't that much into the more logical side of life. Never has been, and he's not about to start now.

He places his hand against the largest of cracks and hears the immediate crackle of shifting gravel, his hand covering in a fine layer of dust. Every instinct tells him to withdraw it, but again, that logic? It doesn't strike him the way it should.

"Hey, V?"

He hears the immediate scrape of feet just behind him, and when Levi glances over his shoulder Vadric has whirled around, hand locked around the hilt of their knife. He manages a smile—certainly it comes out like much more of a grimace, but it's the best he can offer to that reaction.

Vadric is scared. Of him, of their situation. He can't blame them for any of it, either.

Sometimes Levi is scared of himself.

Regardless, his attempt at a smile doesn't appear to have worked. Their hand stays where it is, even if their eyes decrease in size. How badly he wishes they weren't afraid of him. They're not in danger with him, not like they might imagine.

Then again, isn't that what Sander once thought? Sander, who he murdered in front of them? They know what he's capable of.

It's more than that, he's certain of it, but Levi is too drained to ask. He just wanted it to be easy.

He turns away from them, swallowing thickly. Removing his hand from the wall, he brushes the layer of dust against his shirtfront. It continues on even past the junction, and it appears the hall past it is only in worse condition. Shards of rock and broken glass litter the floor, making each move more dangerous than the last.

"Any idea on where we should head next?" he asks finally. Levi can't remember what he wanted to say anyway, if it was even important. He tries not to watch Vadric as they glance around, tries to give them space.

Just let this work out. Just let me be good.

Just let them be good.

"I don't know," Vadric murmurs, each word so quiet it might as well have drifted in on the wind. Is he really losing them? That's what it feels like, and Levi knows a hell of a lot about losing people at this point. The only difference is he's used to it being at the end of the blade, but this? It's different. Vadric is still here and breathing, and feels gone all the same.

He allows himself to lean against the wall for a minute, and in that space Vadric takes a few steps away from him. They're already small, but somehow they seem dwarfed the moment they step into the vastness of the junction, faced with four long halls that end in eventual darkness. If he could see their face, Levi knows he would find the same thing that has been plastered on his own—confusion, the acceptance of being lost, the possibility that a way out will never be found.

They're stuck in this until the very end.

Sometimes it's easy for Levi to forget that Vadric watched Jordyn die, too, that the fear of betrayal lingers so heavily in them it might be the only thing on their mind. Wes did it so easily, so quickly, that whose to say anyone else couldn't do the same?

Who's to say Levi couldn't do it to them? That's what it all boils down to. And that's what they're thinking, isn't it?

"Something's out there," they whisper. The comment itself is so flippant that the weight of it doesn't hit him all at once, not until he steps forward to their side, risking the proximity for a chance at looking. But no matter where Levi looks, what he strains to hear, there's nothing there.

"What do you see?"

"Nothing."

"Hear?"

They shake their head, but they remain fixated on one of the halls that lies before them. Levi waits for something to emerge from the shadows, for their words to mean something.

"Why do you think that?" Levi wonders, though he feels like an idiot for voicing it. There's always something out there. A mutt. Another person. Something worse than any of them has the capability to imagine.

Though he's beginning to suspect, judging by the deep haunting in Vadric's eyes, swimming amidst their bloodshot sclera, that they could come the closest.

They don't answer, or refuse to, leaving Levi with half a million more thoughts and no answers for any of the questions that accompany them. He backs away, unsure of just how long he stands there until Vadric shifts, life pouring into their limbs once again. The trance entrapping them releases, and they blink slowly, eyes coming to rest on Levi's face.

"I don't know where we should go either," he admits, but they show no signs of surprise. They're both astray, led only by themselves. Levi has no one to blame. He could try, try to file through all of the names and evils of the world, but it will always come back to him. It's not Erryn or Sander, Wes or Jordyn. It's him.

That's why Vadric's scared. Why, inevitability, this will splinter like everything else around him.

Something is going to give.

Levi just doesn't know what.

Lol, nice two month break, loser.

I didn't intend for that to happen, though I'm not surprised it did. I truly hope it doesn't happen again though I won't promise otherwise—not sure what it is, but the burnout? Lazy twat energy? Is simply real. Regardless we are in the home stretch, and sorry if I unintentionally duped anyone into thinking there were no more non-death chapters, but I'm the idiot for making so many of them.

There's a poll up on my profile that will effect nothing of the endgame in the long run, but I'm curious. If you feel so inclined to offer your opinions, please do. I would appreciate them endlessly.

Until next time.