LV: The Games - Day Twelve, Midday.
Ravi Fusain, 17
Tribute of District Twelve
There's only so long you can be still when you know there's no safety in it.
Despite himself, Ravi's instincts in self-preservation are still rising to the forefront, even if he occasionally wishes they wouldn't.
It's hard to shove them away when the crypts around him are rattling, when even in his seated position the earth beneath him jerks hard enough to send him rocking into the wall, his skull holding onto a fierce ache from how many times it's been sent backwards, side to side, sometimes even forward and nearly into the stone in front of him.
He can't imagine it's any better above-ground, but the thing is, logic tells him that above-ground means at least somewhere to run. To tell the truth, Ravi is surprised he's even managed to be down here this long. The angles are sharper, the stone unfamiliar, but the damp stench of earth and rot seeps through. It's not Twelve's arena, but it certainly feels close enough for Ravi's skin to crawl.
If the arena wasn't threatening to split apart Ravi thinks there's still a chance he could succumb to sleep; he's never felt so deeply tired before, as if the exhaustion had burrowed deep in his bones.
Even exhaustion can't win out over the fear of being trapped down here, crushed or suffocating, lost to the dark forever. Even the thought of it is enough to make panic crawl up his throat and nearly choke him.
Ravi stands, legs quaking beneath him. When he swallows, trying to find a normal rate of breath, the gouges in his cheek pull stiffly—they've begun to crust over, making the memory of receiving them all the more prevalent. He can't say he didn't deserve it. Zoya should've done that to him a dozen times over and then worse.
He lets his eyes adjust to the distant darkness, searching for movement amidst the shadows. "Vadric?" he asks. There's no telling if they're even still down here, or if they left long ago. Ravi hasn't heard anything except the castle giving away above him for some time now. If they hadn't any sense they'd be long gone, but considering he found them down here in the first place…
They're more than likely in similar positions.
There's no response, but Ravi has no idea how large the catacombs are, how far they stretch. Dimly, the idea rises in his head that he wishes he was armed, and his stomach rolls. Armed for what purpose? To kill them? They haven't done anything wrong.
Neither did Kai or Zoya.
He can't think about that, though. Any lingering on it will force him back to the ground—he'll curl up there and press his hands over his ears and wait to die.
And Ravi still doesn't know if he wants to.
He opens his mouth to call for them yet again, stopped short by a flicker in the space beneath a distant archway. As it grows closer, he begins to panic yet again, hearing footsteps that could, frankly, belong to anyone. If it's not Vadric, there's a significant chance he's done for.
That fear is the thing that makes him realize. Zoya was right all along. He'll fight back. He'll be scared to die.
Because as much as he tries to tip-toe around it, he doesn't want to.
"Ravi?" the voice asks, the weight vanishing from his shoulders at the sound of Vadric's familiar, quiet utterance. "What are you doing?"
He looks around—a long, hard stare at every nook and cranny possible to be found in this place, all the way to the pinpoint of light at the far end of the cavern that hides the stairs. It gives him more than enough time to back out of what he has to say, but once the words are there he has trouble letting them sit untouched.
When Dulia told him to expose his mother to the world, Ravi hesitated. But the second the words had started taking shape in his head, he knew they had to be spoken.
He always knows.
"We need to get out of here," he tells them. "You can go first, if you'd like. I don't want to follow you, intentionally or otherwise, and I'm not sure there's any other quick way out of here."
Vadric shifts on their feet. "Why?"
"A few reasons. Namely the idea of the ceiling collapsing on my head being a less than preferential option."
They smile. "That almost sounded like a joke. What are the others?'
Ravi swallows. As much as he's been thinking it, as much as it rings true, he still feels sick to think it. It feels wrong when he knows all of the monstrous things that have occurred to get him this far. He doesn't deserve to go any further, nor a life beyond this. But he regrets. He mourns and he struggles and he hates as much as anyone.
He is not his mother, as much as it would be easier to be.
"I'm not sure what living looks like anymore," he admits quietly. "I'm not even sure if dying is the right answer anymore either after all of this. But at least if I get out of here before everything comes down I might get to figure it out."
Vadric nods. Ravi can't be certain they truly understand where he's coming from, but the agreement is appreciated nonetheless.
"You can go," Vadric offers. "I think I know where I'm headed."
"Really?"
Once again, they nod. "We found a place a while back, somewhere we couldn't get to. At the time I thought there was no way someone like me was meant to get there, but now, with so few of us left… maybe."
"Maybe," he echoes. "Good luck out there."
Their smile is hardly there—a ghost of it, and nothing more. They're silent as Ravi turns, leaving only the rumble of the ceiling to be his companion as he begins to move. With each step he takes the alarm only grows; he's really leaving. He's making this choice, terrifying as it may be, all to see what lies outside this endless death.
Because maybe there's something more.
"Ravi."
He pauses. Doesn't allow himself to turn around, only peer back over his shoulder at Vadric's smaller form, casted half in shadow. If he makes any move back, he might not ascend those stairs at all.
"I hope you do," they say. "Figure it out."
More fitting would be a goodbye. A thank-you, even. All he can muster is once again picking up his feet to move for the stairs. Ravi isn't sure he has the breath for conversation any longer; all that's left inside him must be saved for whatever's coming.
Because something is. And he's choosing to face it.
Casia Braddock, 13
Tribute of District Nine
Casia could tell you exactly how many times she's envisioned giving up before, and that's because the number is zero.
She's lost track of the hours, the footsteps. It's been an eternity—the only way to explain why it feels like she could collapse. It doesn't matter if she runs or walks, changes floors, makes an impossible number of turns. It's still following her.
There's no outrunning it.
She's not Sloane; that much is obvious. She can't turn around and wait for the damn thing, shout at the top of her lungs and taunt it. A part of her wishes she could. Casia would feel stronger that way, more prepared.
More like herself.
Even though she's refused to run for some time now, Casia can't hear it. The castle rumbling around her deafens everything else—the scrape of its sword over stone, its heavy footfalls. As she circles, Casia realizes she's coming up with less and less places to turn to. Once she leaves a section of the castle behind, there's no returning to it. Everything is crumbling into dust in their wake.
She finds a staircase, what may very well be the only one remaining, and returns to the ground floor for what she's certain is the last time. The hallway sprawls out far into the distance, the ceiling run through with cracks, but Casia only has the energy to wander halfway down before she picks her spot. A simple one, a window over her head as she settles beneath the intricacy of the stained glass, watching the sun shimmer on the opposite wall.
The sun hasn't been out in so long.
Casia closes her eyes, so much adrenaline pumping through her veins that she's unable to truly relax, hyper-aware of every noise that reaches her ears. She pulls the knife free from her belt, and then the two-pronged fork she removed from the dining table, laying both across her lap. Better to be safe than sorry. Otherwise, she tries to let herself rest. There won't be much time for it now, if there's any at all.
For the first time in her life, Casia wishes she wasn't alone. She almost got used to having someone around to watch her back, remind her that she's still here, human as ever. Sloane was the last person Casia ever could have expected to attach herself to, but at least something about it has stuck. Be bolder. More unabashedly brave. Look death in the face and smile.
Except she is not ready to die. There is a life out there waiting for her, if only she's able to grab a hold of it.
For herself, but for Sloane too.
Casia blinks. The sound of steel singing, scraping, reaches her ears. Slowly she begins to haul herself once again, fingers curled around the window's cracked ledge.
It finds the bottom of the stairs and continues at her without a moment's pause. Casia has never gotten a good look at it before; even in the dark last night it was impossible to see the details, especially when she was hyper-fixated on the blood coating her knife, the same stuff clinging to her fingertips.
Sloane was right, of course—it's hideous. Waxy, blackened skin about to slide off its cheeks, face sunken in, the blade of her dagger buried deep in its eye socket.
She'd like that knife back.
Casia watches it's awkward, staggering pace. It has nothing on her, Gamemaker creation or not. It's only a tool meant to scared, and she stopped being frightened of nightmares a very long time ago.
There's only one truly dangerous thing in this hallway.
She doesn't let it get to her. Casia moves forward, each hand filled with a weapon. Her pace is much faster, the stagnant one she's met with so unimpressive it's almost laughable. She does feel brave. The whole night spent running away was worth it, because it's given her this. She launches the fork out with its longer reach and catches the mutt in its arm as it begins to raise the decrepit sword, sending it plummeting back to the ground. It would be easy to pick up, but Casia ignores it. Too heavy for her.
The other knife descends, and she thinks of Sloane. Hit where it hurts, where it makes it impossible to move. Her blade sinks deep into its leg and it screams, nearly the same sound when she got it the first time.
"You really think you're going to kill me?" Casia questions, unsure of where the words are coming from. "You're not."
She rips the knife out. Drives her foot into the gaping wound she's left in its stead, and it crumbles like the castle ground it. Casia kicks it in the chest for good measure, and it lands with a dull thud on its deteriorating back, flopping helplessly on the ground.
How useless can one thing be? Why was she running at all?
Casia plants a foot against its chest for good measure and leans over, reaching for the hilt of her dagger, throwing all her weight back to wrench it out. The damn thing's face nearly splits in two, nose separating, cheek bursting open in a shower of black spots. And it's exactly what it deserves.
"She was right," Casia says outloud, feeling some amount of vindication. "You really are an ugly bastard."
Even though she doubts it's chances at getting up on its own, Casia doesn't ler up her weight, minimal as it may be. She drives the same knife down into its throat, ripping open the toughened skin until it gives way. In moments the blood on her knife—Sloane's blood—is gone, covered by something dark as ink and so putrid-smelling she almost wretches. That doesn't stop her from continuing to plunge the knife down, straight through and then sawing, cut after cut, vein after vein bursting.
Only when there are a few tendons remaining does Casia allow herself to stand, bending forward to grab what's left of the thing's wispy, tattered hair. With a fierce yank the last of it rips away, it's head coming free in her hands. Casia gives it a toss—it bounces almost comically, rolling across the floor and into the wall. Soon enough it will be buried beneath the rubble of the castle like everything else.
She can't say she feels any better for it, but Casia certainly doesn't feel any worse.
Beneath her, it's body still twitches. There would be something unnerving about that if she truly thought it was going to get up and come after her again.
But it's not.
She's won.
Sloane would be proud
Tova Revelis, 18
Tribute of District One
When you have nothing else left, sometimes the only thing to do is follow your instinct.
She's sure someone said that to her before. Her Dad, maybe. Or Ives. Someone wiser than her, smarter than her, more deserving than her.
Not that it matters. She's the one that's here, that's still moving only because there's nowhere else to go. Tova knows that she'll find what she's looking for; they wouldn't dare rob her of such an opportunity. They're practically crying out for it, she knows, begging for the tears and bloodshed that come along with it.
There are less and less walls around her the further she moves. The wind whips at her hair, sun kissing her cheeks, each footfall becoming more unsteady as she finds the beginning of rubble instead of polished floor.
In the distance she sees him, a mirage. A figure that could very well be born of hallucination, her desire to crush the life from him. In her life, things are not so kind to be delivered directly into her lap. Tova stares up the mountain of rock, willing her eyes to focus on the slack form resting in the stone. As she watches, a crow descends from the skeletal trees still ringing the garden and flaps towards him—after a delayed bit of hesitation, his hand shoots out and sends it flapping away with a squawk. It's not the only one, however. Time after time yet another one tries. A few make it, landing on the stone just in front of him.
They never last for long. Tova takes a step upwards, putting her axe where it belongs just this once so that she can grip at the rock to pull herself towards him.
This is all that matters. All she's been working towards. This.
He's so fixated on something that she can't see, shooing the birds away, that he doesn't turn at her approach. Maybe he doesn't care. Fitting, for someone that gave up so long ago, but wouldn't he have died already if he had truly thrown in the towel?
Tova stops, catching sight of what lies before him—the birds have been trying to pick at Seven's corpse, and it looks as if in some manner they've succeeded, bits of his skin peeled away. Not bleeding, though. He's been dead for some time.
She laughs. "Well, isn't this a pathetic fucking sight."
Amani doesn't even flinch. Maybe he was more clued into her than she realized. He turns, slowly, head craning back over his shoulder. There's nothing in his eyes but a vast emptiness, almost looking right through her. He doesn't look comfortable, but everything in his positioning suggests he's been here for quite some time. Almost waiting. He knew this was inevitable the same way she did.
"Figured you'd find me sooner," he says quietly. Didn't they both? "You might as well get it over with."
Tova sneers. "You really—you really think this is how it ends? Easily? Quickly? You don't deserve that, Four, and I—"
"I thought we were supposed to be honorable," Amani cuts in. "Some of us, at least."
She knows it's aimed at her; who else could he possibly be hinting at? The thing is, Tova doesn't care. Fuck honor. It's not going to get her anywhere, and it's not going to serve her purpose. Cutting off his head in one clean swoop isn't how this is meant to go.
"Maderia deserved better than you," Amani tells her. He's still looking the other way, caring more about Seven's dead body than her looming presence. "And should I even guess what happened to Eight, what you did? Don't tell me you didn't—"
Tova rips the axe free from her belt and lunges. Amani, in a surprising and sudden burst of speed, dives to the left. A blade comes free from the rubble, something so concealed that Tova hadn't even noticed it. Her strike misses by a mile, but his doesn't. The sword that comes arcing towards her slices through her shirtfront like paper, the tip of the blade cutting into the soft skin at her stomach. Not deep, but enough to drag all the way from right rib-cage to left.
Not enough to kill, unfortunately for him.
There are so little places for them to go—at least, without suddenly plummeting down the rubble pile and meeting an untimely demise at the bottom. Amani scrabbles away, forcing him around Seven's body and to the next edge as she springs after him.
There's something to be said about rage. Another quote from someone who's either in a grave or too far away to tell it to her again. It makes you blind. You forge on without caring what lies before you.
Instead of continuing onwards, Amani turns, arms outstretched. There really is nowhere to go. He slams into her, further pain bursting in her abdomen. She feels the moment her feet leave the ground, as his weight drives them over one of many edges.
Her back cracks into stone. Her spine screams with pain. On the next rotation she doesn't hit anything at all. Amani is beneath her, and then she's hitting the rubble again, agony stabbing through her as the rock rotates them over and over, hurtling downwards at a breakneck pace. Tova can't be sure how much time passes, only that when they finally stop she crashes to the ground with such force that the breath is removed from her lungs.
Amani is gone. Not gone, but no longer holding onto her. Somewhere in her peripherals something is twitching, Amani still breathing the same as her, struggling to find air again. She has no idea where the axe is.
Not that it matters.
Her fingers stretch out, coming away with a chunk of rubble the size of her fist. By the time she rights herself Amani is moving—no, crawling, hands desperately reaching for the sword that has landed at least ten feet away.
He was never going to just give in.
Tova knows he's stronger, but that doesn't stop her from grabbing a hold of his legs, using them more for purchase than anything as she drags herself towards him. Her whole body is alight with pain, blood still washing down her stomach.
None of it matters. He's dead, he's been dead for months.
This was already written a long time ago.
She brings the rubble down. It strikes him in the skull, but her hands are shaking too badly to make it truly matter. His fingers fumble around the sword, his body attempting to turn even as she clambers over him, raising the rock once again.
This time she gets to see the look in his eyes as it crashes down, bits of it splintering away as it collides with his temple. He lets go of the sword—for good, she suspects. His hands fumble towards her, sending glancing blows towards her ribs, her hips, knees driving into her legs.
"Did you really think," she manages. She brings it down again, watching the bone beneath his temple give way, an odd concave dip that fills with blood as she brings it down again. "Did you really fucking think—"
His hands rip at her stomach. Tova feels the wound open further, but the pain is so far away it may as well not exist.
"You really fucking thought I'd let you win?" she screams. "You took everything, you ruined it all!"
Amani's hands stop moving. His eyelids are fluttering, blinking rapidly. She doesn't have any idea how he's still holding on when she can see his fucking skull, his eyes bulging from the shattered bone. She could pop them from his damn skull, crush them in her hands. But no, she wants him to see, to suffer for as long as he's willing to hold on.
Tova kneels back, her wobbling legs begging to stand. Amani's hand catches, pulling at her skin, digging in—
She rises. Something twists, curls in her gut.
Amani's hand rips free from her abdomen, from inside her. It flops to the ground, fingers twitching haphazardly around a coil of her intestines. There's an entire length of it connecting them, all the way from where she stands to his prone form on the ground, chest still heaving unevenly.
"You really thought," he manages, voice an awful gurgle. "You really thought… I'd let… you win?"
Tova screams. Tries to yank herself away. Amani holds on, stubbornly steadfast, and the cavity of her abdomen is exposed to the open air, burning, lengths of her entrails purpled and pulsating in the stinging wind. Her throat is raw. The sickening taste of copper is in her mouth. She stumbles back, trips, falls—
Something rips, separating them. A shower of blood patters over the ground.
She's dying.
"No," she chokes, hysteria rising in her voice. "No, no, no—"
She allows herself to lay back. What would Ives say? Remain calm. Apply pressure. Apply pressure on what? He's ripped a cavernous hole in her, his fingers carving away at her insides. His hand, even as it further slackens, still has a loop twisted around his fingers.
Her own hands find nothing worth holding onto. There's so much fucking blood her fingers are slipping in it, burning as they try to find purchase.
There's a cannon. She knows who it belongs to. She did it, she knew she would, after so fucking long all that matters is she did it.
Except she's still—
No. Don't think it. She's fine. Of course she is. He was her last obstacle, and everything else after this is easy. She's going home. She's going to see her dad and Aviya again.
Someone can still save her. Tova's eyes find the sky, waiting, but already it's getting hard to focus. Black swims at the edge of her vision, threatening to overtake what little pinpoints of life she still has.
"Please," she begs. "Don't let me—don't let me die."
But nothing comes, and Tova realizes, dimly, that she should have known. Everyone else did, didn't they? Maderia, Aranza. Even Amani. She's an abomination, something not worth fighting for, and a part of her can't help but wonder if Ives knew it too. She thought she would see him, but he's not there.
He would save her if she was worth it. Someone would.
When she closes her eyes, she knows that she's alone—no one's coming, and nothing is arriving to save her. Nothing can save a monster in the end.
And that's exactly what she is. What she always was.
Not so comforting to die with that thought in your head, now is it?
Weston Katsouris, 18
Tribute of District Six
Two cannons are music to his ears.
It's the not knowing that's getting to him, making his skin crawl. He wants to know who. Where. Why now, after they've survived for so long, are they finally going down?
At the end of the day, Weston has to continue reminding himself that it matters little—in fact, it doesn't seem to matter at all. It's one less person to contend against him, one step closer to everything he's meant for. How can he be denied of that with only three people left to face? They may as well already be dead.
It's a shame, however, that more of his plans couldn't come to fruition. He's sure the mutt is long gone by—it's unlikely to have escaped the catastrophic collapses the way a living, breathing human could. Weston would have liked to see it rip something apart, do some of the work for him.
He's had enough time to be lax, now. The real work begins. A true fucking future awaits him, the most glorious thing imaginable. He'll be untouchable, an idol installed on a pedestal for everyone to see. And isn't that the way it should have been for years now?
They loved him before. They'll practically trip over themselves to do so much as get a look at him now, to brush up against him, to spread their love and adoration.
Only three people between him and that.
Weston doesn't allow himself to feel fear as he moves, eyes searching, both hands filled with a weapon that he knows will end anyone that even dares to come near him. There's so little space left it's only a matter of time before he's able to sink a blade into someone's flesh. It's been too long if you ask him, and there's no one left with a hope of escaping it.
He stops only to balance himself against the wall as the ground shakes beneath him. Rock patters down around him, sounding almost like the gentle fall of rain. Weston isn't so naive to think that this can't do a significant amount more damage. One wrong move, wrong positioning, and he's dead. Crushed.
But that's not his fate, is it?
Weston truly wouldn't mind taking a brief moment of respite; a far cry from his days of lounging after a night out, a warm bed and his body buzzing, mind truly at ease. Then again, he left behind that bed a long time ago. His bed at home, now, that was something, but the one he slept in at the Berodach's was older, more worn down. Weston hadn't minded. They were his family, a constant reminder of his best friend, long since buried, and the cruelty of his own father to push the issue of it to the back of the closet, never to be uncovered.
The Berodach's business—his business—will skyrocket upon his return. There will always be more dead to put in the ground.
It all comes down to so much death, doesn't it? Weston isn't resigned to it, however.
He's almost glad for it. Comforted. No matter how much death surrounds him, he always lives.
His brief moment at a standstill comes to an end almost without Weston realizing it. When he next looks up, shielding his eyes from the dust that continues to float down and settle on his shoulders, he sees those damn doors again.
They've haunted him since he first saw them and failed to pry them open, even when everyone else told him to move on. He's seen them numerous times since then in his wanderings, but has yet to make them budge. Weston Katsouris was not a fucking quitter, for your information, but he had almost accepted the idea of never knowing.
Now, the doors are open.
Open was a generous term. There was a mere sliver of space left exposed to the hall, so slight anyone else may have walked past without batting an eye. It occurs to him immediately that this would be the prime opportunity to draw him in, a trap in the truest sense of the word, but Weston doesn't care. Whatever's in there, it's meant for him.
He steps forward and throws the door open. What lies inside it is almost woefully underwhelming.
The room is simple. Almost small. The walls lined with chests and shelves of books, interspersed with suits of iron that seem to tower even over him. His feet fall silent as they come to rest on the ancient rug covering the stone floor in the center, his eyes already searching for more. Weston already knows where he is. There, on the far side of the room, lies a door. Unimpressive in its making save for the bar-lined window at its very top, exposing what lies beyond in a halo of sunlight.
His footsteps towards the next door are almost cautious. Not a word anyone would assign to him, most typically, but he feels it in the way he reaches out, fingers closing around the bars as he focuses on it.
There, up a set of neatly kept sets, resting perfectly in the middle of the dais, lies a throne. Immaculate, without a speck of dust.
This room was only an intermediate point. What Weston was looking for was right here all along, hidden behind such simplicity.
But he's found it now.
There's a sharp creak, and a resounding thud. Without meaning to, and for the first time in a while, Weston truly flinches. His hand, descending to open the door, freezes.
And he doesn't know why.
What he does know, without looking, is that the doors behind him have shut of their own volition, trapping him in place. He has no idea if this door will open, and he's almost too nervous to find out. That throne on the other side is his, always has been and always will be, and they have no right to keep it from him.
The issue at hand is not where he's going, though. It's where he is, and the shift in the air behind him, the gentle, hardly-there scuff of someone's foot over the roughly-laid stone.
Someone's in here with him.
6th. Amani Layne, District Four.
5th. Tova Revelis, District One.
Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.
Yeah. I'm sure this is gonna go over well. But regardless! I will see you next week or the week after for our official finale! As I'll be away on vacation for two weeks in February with minimal to no internet I plan on having that and at least the first of three epilogues out so that the torture can (mostly) end. Believe me when I say I want it to be over too.
Until next time.