XX. Eleven O'Clock Number
Where's my head on the podium?
Gas me up, no petroleum
I'm so sick, but I can't find a remedy
I'm still tryna find my identity
Asherah Uzeram. 18.
District Seven Female.
The sun wakes from its slumber far sooner than she thought it would.
It seems like just seconds ago that Asherah had found Lorian curled up in a ball and asked him if he wanted to talk to her and Edric. Even though the boys' voices had filled her ears non-stop, time seemed to be moving exceptionally slowly. Asherah assumed only an hour or two had passed before she caught her first glimpse of the sun peeking over the horizon.
"Well, I guess I'll leave you two then," Lorian says, also noticing the explosion of color splattered against the sky. "It was nice to get to know you."
Asherah nods. "It was nice to get to know you too." She isn't sure how much of what the Two boy said these past few hours is actually true, but if she had to make a bet on it, she'd say very little. She can't blame him for lying, either; she and Edric are going to be his enemies later today whether they like it or not. Besides, it's not like Asherah spoke much truth either. Lorian asked a lot of questions, and while Asherah may be naive, she's not stupid. She knows better than to expose her deepest darkest secrets to somebody she just met, much less a Career.
Still, their time together was nice. Career or not, Lorian's still human, and when Asherah saw him on the ground all miserable and afraid, she couldn't find it in her heart to not approach him. She didn't fear him attacking her – the guards would've put a quick end to that – and the worst thing he could've said was "no," But Lorian didn't, and now Asherah can say that she spent what could've been her last night alive with a smile on her face and joy in her heart.
Not that she wants it to be her last night, of course. In fact, Asherah'd do anything to keep living, even if only for a few days more.
(Or at least, in theory she'd do anything. In practice, she's not so sure.)
(Well, she is sure. She's sure that there's a lot that she won't do.
It wouldn't surprise Asherah if at least two-thirds of everybody in this room is well-prepared to kill anybody, kill her without hesitation. Is it a bad thing that she wouldn't do the same?)
(If she wants to survive, yes. But at the same time, if she's going to die, she'd rather not die a bad person. Everybody in Seven is going to remember her as the girl who screwed over the mayor's daughter, even if that isn't true. The least Asherah can do is prove to them here that she's a good person. That they made a mistake by sending her to die. And maybe then, people will trust her mother more, and Asherah won't have to breathe her last breath knowing she unintentionally brought her family down with her.)
"You don't have to leave just yet," Asherah tells Lorian. "I mean… you can if you want to. But don't feel like you're obligated to leave us just because it's daytime."
"I should really leave, actually. The Two boy shakes his head. "Belacaine's probably going to wake up soon, and I don't think she'll react well if she sees me with y'all."
"Not surprising," she replies.
A lot of what Lorian said about his District partner wasn't particularly kind. He said that she hated him but felt the need to keep him tightly bound to her on a leash. He said that he felt trapped by her, but that at the same time, he knows she'd never let him leave. But, at the same time, he isn't sure if he'd leave if he has the chance. Even though District Two sent them both to the slaughter, from what Lorian said, they're still expected to have some form of loyalty to one another. He didn't reveal why Two sent either of them here, but it seems to be less of a punishment and more of a test to prove whether or not they actually belong.
It's almost baffling to Asherah how people in Two are supposed to be loyal to one another, even in this Quell. Even though Asherah had her fair share of clients and family friends in Seven, she never felt any obligation to the District itself. That seemed to be the general sentiment too. Even the people who protested in front of her house and condemned her over and over did so as the mayor's friends; when he painted a smear campaign against her, it was for himself and not the District. Asherah's sure that if there was a worse girl out there, somebody more like Olathe, they'd pick them over her any day.
But there wasn't, so they didn't. Mourning that possibility won't do Asherah any favors now. All she can do is chuckle at the absurdity that is Lorian's unwavering loyalty to the place that, without dispute, sent him to die.
"Good luck in there," he says, preparing to get up and walk away. "You guys are decent people, I think. Try to look out for each other the best you can."
"Will do." Asherah gives Lorian a polite wave — or rather, the most polite wave she can give him from her handcuffs. "Best of luck to you too!"
"Why'd you say that?" Edric whispers. "He's more than capable of killing us the second the gong rings."
"I'm also capable of making my own decisions," Lorian chimes in. "Maybe I don't want to immediately kill the people who entertained my melodramatic nonsense."
"Thank you?" Asherah raises an eyebrow. "Wait! Genuinely, thank you." She lets her expression soften, then continues to talk. "Again, I know that we're not your allies, but I appreciate your mercy."
"That's one word for it." Lorian smiles. Before she or Edric can get in another word, he turns around - and then he's gone.
"You don't need to keep sucking up to him," Edric says once he's out of earshot. "I was nice to him too, but that doesn't mean I'm expecting him to do anything for us in there. If we're lucky, he won't kill us immediately, sure. But he was never going to be a valuable asset for us."
"What do you mean, an asset?" Asherah asks, already preparing herself to not like whatever his answer is.
Edric shrugs. "Something that we can use to our advantage in the Games."
"Something?" she gasps. "Edric, Lorian isn't a thing — he's a person. And a person that doesn't want us dead at that."
"Doesn't want us dead yet."
"Or he could never want us dead ever."
"Well, he clearly wants to win, so… he's going to have to kill us eventually whether he wants to or not."
Asherah shakes her head in disgruntlement. She noticed Edric's newfound hunger for success over the past day and a half, but she hadn't had the chance to consider what that might mean for him in the Games until now. They talked about sticking together for as long as possible, but held off on discussing what would happen after. Would he really…
—He won't. Asherah swears it to herself. Even if the Edric she's currently speaking to seems rather different from the petrified boy she met a few days ago, he wouldn't do that to her, right?
"I didn't mean to upset you," Edric says once he notices Asherah's nervous expression. "I just… Lorian's a Career, y'know? He wasn't built to like people like us; he was built to kill people like us. I don't think our conversation with him last night is going to hurt either of us, but we shouldn't depend on him being kind or merciful to us once the gong rings."
She nods. "I just you're right, I just wish that—"
(You wish what? That people would be good in this world? Asherah, the whole reason you're here is because people aren't. Hadassah was your friend and she screwed you over in the end; why would you expect people in here of all places to be any better? Being sheltered doesn't give you an excuse to be a moron. Y'know, if I were you, the last thing I'd want to do is prove to Seven that you—)
(But I didn't!)
(Then prove it.)
"I wish we weren't here either," Edric finishes Asherah's sentence before she can say what's really on her mind. "But, we can either accept it and die, or we can make ourselves competitive and hope that we have some fraction of a chance at actually making it out."
"That makes sense."
But the thing is, it doesn't. The past few years of her life have been spent making sure people have the most pleasant first moments of life possible. The thought of bringing about anybody's last few moments makes Asherah sick to her stomach.
"Rise and shine, Tributes!" The sound of a Peacekeeper's megaphone ends their conversation for them.
Anybody else still asleep around her and Edric jolt awake, most of them opening their eyes with disoriented expressions. She assumes it's because waking up here is without a doubt, frightening. Nobody here expected they'd be waking up in the Capitol a week ago. Waking up in a place meant for animals is even more of a surprise.
"We're going to start preparing you for launch now," the officer continues. "Whether you like it or not, the Games begin in less than three hours."
Somebody from across the room gasps.
"I know, they usually start at noon and it's barely seven now, but people aren't too happy about this delay, even if it was necessary. So we're starting them at ten this year."
Honestly, there was never a way for Asherah to know what time it was anyway. She also doesn't have it in her to particularly care. If the next however many days are going to go against everything she's ever believed in, there's no point in pushing them back any longer.
"Line up in the same order you were in when you got here," the Peacekeeper instructs. "Quickly, please, we don't have much time to waste."
Asherah rises to her feet, Edric doing the same as they both meander toward the zoo's gates. Before they reach their stopping point, he leans over and whispers into Asherah's ear, "We're still on for what our original plans were, right?"
That's a big question for Asherah to answer. As much as she'd like to believe Edric would never hurt her in the future, she now knows that she can never know for certain. Yet, at the same time, somebody like Dasani or Moxie wouldn't hesitate the way Edric would. Not to mention that if Asherah's going to die anyway, she'd rather it be from the hand of somebody she somewhat considers a friend than from a freak such as—
"How'd you sleep?" her District partner asks as soon as she steps in front of him in line.
"I didn't," Asherah says with a twitch. "Why are you asking me?"
"Because I was curious…" Olathe's voice trails off. "Don't act like I'm some kind of monster, Asherah. I know we have our differences, but I'd at least think you'd be polite."
The whole reason you're here is sort of because you're a monster, but sure. She straightens her posture, trying to seem strong when tho the man behind her is completely frightening. "How did you sleep, then?"
"Like a baby, thanks for asking."
She doesn't dare to say anything more to him, partially out of fear and partially because of the odd realization that begins to stir inside her mind:
Both Olathe and Edric have made it clear that they'll do whatever it takes if it means their survival. Is Olathe really the only monster just because he's wearing less of a disguise?
Gremory Rossmani. 18.
District One Male.
It shouldn't come as much of a surprise that he's absolutely abhorred the past twenty-four hours. Ever since he was selected for these Games, the one thing Gremory's hated more than anything is how he's been treated like an animal. At least up until yesterday, that was only a metaphor; he wasn't actually seen as some feral beast that needed to be restrained. The same can't be said now - and it makes his stomach churn.
He remembers watching the re-runs of the Games in his childhood, disgusted by the zoo and how the Capitol turned Tributes into vermin waiting to be preyed upon. The one thing that comforted Gremory was the knowledge it'd been abandoned, meaning that if he wound up in the Games himself — heavens forbid — he wouldn't be stuck in a cage.
Or at least, that's what he'd assumed.
He told Charon to kill Clarion discreetly for a reason. If it was painted as a suicide, there'd be less of a chance that Gremory somehow ended up spending what seemed like infinity in a prison cell. It seemed to work too — nobody suspected foul play in the Three boy's demise. Yet, despite how careful Gremory was with every word and every action, things went wrong, and for reasons he couldn't control. Just because it's unreasonable for him to be in control of everything doesn't mean he can't dream of a world in which he is.
(If only the Viper's Nest was that world. Then Gremory wouldn't even be here.
Instead, he'd be sitting on his countertop, his feet dangling in the air as people tell him again and again, "you've set me free.")
(But because of Glasya, Gremory's the one who's been trapped by the binds of humanity's misery and suffering. He's the one who's drowning with no way back to shore, desperately wishing there was something that could save him.)
Though he walks with his head held high and a smirk on his face as he's led out of the zoo, Gremory's entire soul might as well be disheveled. Seeing Sapphira ahead of him with a pep in her step certainly does not do him any favors either. If it weren't for the muzzle they put over his mouth before he left the zoo, chances are he'd be screaming at her.
He's always known that there's something wrong with Sapphira, but whatever it is, it's worse than Gremory previously thought. Perhaps Charon's zaniness has gotten to her, though he'd prefer if nothing about that clown was ever present in her. The last thing Gremory needs is another enemy to worry about, especially now that he hardly feels he can be a threat himself.
I will be, though, he swears to himself. Even if by doing so, I prove to Glasya that I'm just as awful as she thinks I am, I will come out on top.
He simply won't allow it any other way.
When a Peacekeeper removes the muzzle from his mouth and begins to unhook his handcuffs, Gremory can hardly find it in him to be grateful, or close to it. Why should he be, anyway? He never should have had to wear them in the first place. Yet, he's not yet in a place where he can treat the people around him like the scum that they are, so he gives the officer an understanding nod.
And then he's free, yet still without any choice. If he made a run for it, he'd be dead before he even got twenty feet away. Still, at least Gremory knows that by retreating to his mentors, he's bringing himself one step closer to freedom.
"How was your time, Mr. Rossmani?" his mentor, Sterling Pierce asks, which is just ridiculous of him. Gremory's not even sure he wants to answer, especially not to a man who's as superficial and inhumane as everybody else here. After all, Sterling's the bastard who had the "genius" idea to train kids from One to volunteer for the Games. Why should Gremory care about anybody who's openly said they wish to romanticize child-on-child warfare?
He sighs. "How do you think it was?"
"Judging by the look on your face, not great?" Sterling suggests.
"Really? Now why would you think that?" Gremory stares into the mentor's irises, refusing to break eye contact for even a millisecond. "I actually had a great time, might I add. Truly, it was wonderful to spend twenty-four hours locked into a cage with twenty-one people who want me dead to varying degrees. I can't think of a better way to pass the time, honestly. It was just a joy to procrastinate the prelude to my potential death by sitting around like an animal. I was not at all jealous of you mentors and everybody else who got to sleep in your nice warm beds while I rested in a pile of dirt. No, being treated like a pig who's about to be impaled and roasted over a fire was wonderful."
"You actually enjoyed it?"
"Why would anybody enjoy that?" Gremory blinks, tearing his focus away from the idiot. "The fact you believed me too, dear lord."
The fact this man is more thickskulled than Gremory thought is straight-up baffling. It just goes to show what the Capitol does to somebody if they aren't careful. Yes, despite all the glamor and shine, everybody here is just as awful as everybody else. Somehow, Sterling's even worse for giving in to it.
"I didn't give it much thought, to be honest," the mentor says. "I was just surprised to hear you sound almost chipper. I thought maybe you're on your way to becoming more like—"
"Sapphira," Gremory cuts Sterling off, his tone scathing and sharp. "You know, that's not the first time you've said that…"
"Said what?" The girl in question interrupts. "Oh, Gremgrem, were you talking about me behind my back?"
"I wasn't, no."
"Good," Sapphira says with a twirl. "I'm sure you especially know that it's not very polite to talk about somebody behind their back. Unless, of course, you're talking about how wonderful they are."
"I already told you, I wasn't talking about you." Gremory chastises her. "Sapphira, I know that you're nervous about today, but some things are better kept between just my mentor and me. Go and talk to Venus; I'm sure she has lots of valuable wisdom for you."
His partner's face softens. "Well, I did hear my name, so…"
"That's because I said it," Sterling says. "I was telling Gremory here that he could afford to be more optimistic like you."
"You think Gremory should be more like me?" Sapphira chuckles. "Oh, Mister Pierce, that's absurd!"
As the two continue blabbering, Gremory does his best not to show his exhaustion on his face. In fact, it isn't until he sits down in One's car on the subway leading to the arena that Gremory even hints at something being wrong.
"Sapphira," he says, gesturing for her to sit down next to him.
She takes a step closer to him and then stops. "Is everything okay?"
When it comes to Sapphira, Gremory can never tell if she's playing dumb or if she actually is as stupid as she acts. He nods his head and sighs. "Just, sit down next to me. I want to talk to you about something important."
"What's important?" Her eyes widen.
What isn't? Gremory fights the urge to let his eyes roll into the back of his head. She's off to her own death yet she doesn't think there's anything important?
"Later today," Gremory says flatly as Sapphira finally sits. "I probably shouldn't be saying this to you, but I'm a bit nervous."
"I understand why," comes her reply. "The Games are relatively soon and definitely something that can be nerve-wracking. I'd say you've done a good job preparing though."
He can tell that Sapphira's giddy at the chance to "comfort" him after it's been the opposite for the last year and a half. If only she knew what Gremory was actually thinking…
"Are you sure?" Gremory raises a brow. "I feel a bit lost, to put it simply. You're always with Charon and Talisa these days, and when push comes to shove, Belacaine and Lorian are going to protect one another instead of me."
(And Moxie gives even less of a fuck about him than everyone else.)
"Well, six is a pretty large group of people," Sapphira attempts to sympathize. "If it'd help you feel better, I could nudge Talisa to spend more time with you. I know what it's like to feel lonely."
Of course she suggests Talisa, the one person Gremory's certain is on his team when push comes to shove. He told her to go after Sapphira for a reason: it'd prevent her from getting too close to Charon. Gremory needs to be the one that Charon trusts most, not Sapphira. He needs to manipulate them into his attack dog, which shouldn't be hard after everything with Clarion.
"Are you sure?" Gremory asks. "Talisa's made it abundantly clear that she has a little crush on you. I'd hate to ruin that for you."
(The same way he "hated" to ruin Glasya's little crush on her. Well, it wasn't just a crush, but that's not important. What is important is that, when Glasya was by her side, Sapphira was quickly turning into less of a dim-witted nobody and more into somebody actually capable of doing things on her own. Her being with Glasya also meant she expected free drugs, and the Viper's Nest couldn't afford to keep up with her.
So Gremory didn't even think twice when he slipped liquid ecstasy into her drink. He already knew that by the time Sapphira fell unconscious, Glasya would run after him, high off her ass, and scream, "I forgot that I put something in her drink!"
She forgets a lot, doesn't she.)
"I'm positive." Sapphira shakes her head. "Talisa's nice and all, but Charon's my friend. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I've been trying to be less of a floozie as of late. With the Games coming up, I should be in my best element, right?"
Of course she's making this impossible. This can't possibly be the one time Sapphira finally grows a brain and challenges him. He can't blame her for any of this, but lord does it annoy him. It's not even like Gremory wanted to wage war on her in the first place, anyway. Sure, he wanted to take advantage of her and steal her money, but that was just business. It wasn't personal until she decided to run for the Hunger Games like a damn politician, robbing Gremory of his revenge against Glasya. If anything, Sapphira should be grateful that Gremory didn't leave her on the ground to get trampled on like Godfrey.
"Yes, that does make sense."
"Look, if you don't want to talk to Talisa, I understand," Sapphira says. "If you want, I can help you talk to Lorian and Belacaine. Maybe they have no idea that they're making you feel excluded."
"You don't need to," Gremory scoffs. "Just… it wouldn't hurt to include me in your conversations with Talisa and Charon, right? After all I've done for you, Sapphira, just please—"
A part of Gremory hates that he's begging her. He shouldn't have to do this for the sake of making her give in to him, but it's apparently what she needs. That's partially his fault, too. By pampering her with substances, Gremory allowed Sapphira to fully connect with her depraved emotions and soar until she was on top of the world. He never gave her a taste of what it feels like to be useful. Until now, he never thought that Sapphira would benefit from playing the knight instead of the damsel in distress, but she's benefitted so much, Gremory's almost been rendered obsolete. Emphasis on almost.
"—okay, fine." Sapphira agrees. "I can't promise that Talisa and Charon will be as nice to you as I am, but I'll do my best to make sure you feel included."
Even though her eyes have the same sparkle Gremory's always known, there's something about them that's not the same as the Sapphira back at home. He trusts them less now.
But… Sapphira's loyalty could actually mean something now. It definitely means more than Belacaine and Lorian's, not that it doesn't hurt to have them for as long as possible. Besides, as close as they might seem, Gremory's the one who saw Lorian talking to Six and Seven, not Belacaine. If necessary, it won't be too hard for him to pit them against one another.
As the train comes to a halt, Gremory can't help but smile. The zoo may have been a setback, but things are finally falling into place. Sure, his plans are excessive, but when have they not been? Having these many people under his thumb won't hurt him if he doesn't let it. Though he's been told that less is more, Gremory's never been able to agree. After all, more people means more madness, means more money, means more secrets.
If Gremory Rossmani's going to leave this arena alive, he needs just about everything that he can get.
Aleister Darski. 18.
District Nine Male.
There are few scenarios he can imagine that would be more uncomfortable than a thirty-minute train ride with nobody but the mentor of a dead girl to entertain him, a matter somehow made worse since his own mentor is also dead. The fact that Aleister's part of the reason both are no longer here just adds even more insult to injury.
Thus, a wave of relief washes over him when Io Jasper stands up and announces, "We're here."
Io wasn't completely unbearable - nor was she unbearable at all, really. It's just that he can only hear "I'm sorry Androcles isn't here to help you" so many times before feeling the urge to roll over and cackle.
Even if Aleister hadn't been the one to lure Androcles onto the roof, slash a kitchen knife through his tongue, and adamantly encourage a thirteen-year-old boy to burn him alive, it's not like he'd be "helping" right now. The man thought that Aleister was nothing more than a monster, some sort of irredeemable creep that wasn't worth investing time into. In no lifetime would Androcles have a sudden change of heart and decide to actually do his job.
Besides, Aleister doesn't need Androcles' help - or anybody's, for that matter. Maybe he could benefit from being taught to carefully consider his decisions before making them, but that's not the sort of thing an elitist Capitol socialite could teach him, much less in only five days.
"Very well, then. Let's get going." Aleister stands up and wipes the dust from his pants. He gestures toward the cart's door with one hand, but refuses to officially disembark the vehicle until Io instructs him as such.
Once she does get off the train, Aleister quickly follows her out and onto a rocky, underground platform, with fluorescent lighting and signs above his head that point forward. He notices a group of Tributes walking towards them and determines that's what he should do next. However, before he can get too far, he feels somebody tugging on his arm from behind him.
"I wanted to tell you something before you run off too far!" Aleister turns around to see Io behind him. He does his best to mask the disgruntled expression on his face. Io's guise indicates that he failed. "Or actually, I can tell you as we're walking, since you seem to be in a hurry. Remember, though, you can't just sprint all the way to the lobby."
Aleister nods. "My bad."
There's a good chance Io told him this on the train and a better chance he wasn't listening in the first place. When he first got on, Aleister decided that nothing anybody said to him so close to the Games could possibly be all that crucial. He still thinks that he made the right assessment.
"First off," Io begins, prompting Aleister to continue moving forward, "I want you to know that if Androcles was still with us, he'd be incredibly proud of you. I know that he can be a bit harsh at times, but he really wanted the best for each and every Tribute he mentored."
Harsh? Is that really all that Io has to say about him? At the funeral, yesterday, legions of Capitolites had such profound, sentimental words for Androcles, enough so that Aleister found himself wondering whether or not they were actually talking about his "mentor."
(He had them all tricked, Aleister had to remind himself. Androcles wasn't actually the saint people think he is now.
No, Androcles Anderson was a patronizing snake. He'd go on and on, agreeing with Helen's beliefs, telling Aleister that he'd probably be better off if he too just changed. Aleister doesn't get how her beliefs could be considered "good" if they still led her here to the Games. Yes, Aleister's beliefs also brought him here, but at least he had fire and ashes to criminalize him instead of just words.
Androcles never stopped to see the difference for what it's worth. Instead, he stood proudly in Helen's corner, refusing to acknowledge her horrifying weaknesses and the fact that if she hadn't died yesterday, she'd be dead in less than an hour today.)
Io continues, "Even after you were falsely accused of murdering him, you stayed calm, cool, and collected until you were released to the zoo. You held true to your story and have continued to prove yourself an unshakable force around these parts."
Maybe her compliments would mean something to Aleister if they were at all sensible. "Calm" is just about the last word he'd use to describe his mental state over the past thirty-four hours. He was worse in the zoo, because overhearing everybody else complaining about Helen was just them indirectly complaining about him. If they knew that one of the core people behind their imprisonment was mere feet away from them, they'd make sure he was put on stage before Helen's body even got cold.
(And Aleister would accept it too. Despite Lucy being the one who actually set the fire, Aleister would put all the blame on himself. Because he's the one who told Lucy to turn Androcles into ashes. He's the one who told Lucy that Androcles' death could bring him one step closer to reuniting with his father, even though Aleister had no clue whether or not he was telling the truth.
If only the devil actually spoke to Aleister the way he tells Lucy he does. Then Aleister wouldn't be so helpless, so uncertain as to what to do because he's never once been pointed in the right direction. He's never once had any idea what he was doing.)
(Aleister didn't know what he was doing in Nine either. He ran away in hopes that he'd eventually create a better life for himself, Karolina, and Milos, only for the two of them to tremble in fear every time he passes them by. He wanted to find love, wanted to be seen for once as something besides the "good-for-nothing black sheep" of the Darski family, yet thinking he could fix things just left him even more hurt.
It makes him wonder, is there really a path for him other than walking around and ruining anything that comes close? Is he even more of a moron than people think he is because he still believes there's a chance he may be worth something?)
("Yes," a voice in Aleister's head says, one that sounds exactly like Olve. "You are a moron.")
"I appreciate your kindness." There isn't more that Aleister thinks he could actually say to Io. If he gets onto too much of a tangent, there's a chance he'll accidentally say something he regrets more than his own existence. Wrong moves will just put a big target on his back - which means an even bigger one on Lucy's.
(And that matters why?)
He follows Io across the platform, the horde of people in front of them getting smaller and smaller. Two glass doors slide open in front of him, and he enters a stark-gray room, people rushing in and out of various adjacent hallways.
"You'll be going to my left," Io explains, gesturing behind her. "That entrance is for all the Tributes from odd-numbered Districts, while those from even-numbered Districts go to the right. From there, you'll meet with your stylists and prepare to launch."
"That makes enough sense to me," Aleister remarks. "See you on the other side."
"See you indeed!"
The two exchange mirroring looks; clearly, neither of them expects to see the other ever again.
There's no use biding his time. The sooner Aleister reaches the end of this rudimentary process, the closer he'll be to entering the arena. And surely once he's in the arena, he'll be less bogged down by the weight of his own existence and be able to better protect Lucy.
(And he will protect Lucy. As much as he wishes he could've protected Karolina and Milos, Lucy is Aleister's next best bet. By keeping the young boy out of harm's way, he'll prove to the Devil that he's not the failure people think he is. He'll make sure that when he does die, somebody is actually proud of him.
Even if that somebody was made up inside Aleister's head and will never actually be able to say how he truly feels.)
He turns to the left and travels down the hallway to a round room that has twelve doors on the walls — one for each Tribute that was supposed to launch into the arena from here. From a quick scan of the room, Aleister sees the girl from Five nervously talking to the Seven girl before they decide to part ways, and the Five boy and Eleven girl standing close together against a wall. He also sees Olathe, who briskly walks toward him.
"At least that was relaxing," the Seven boy says, presumably referring to the train ride. Even though the Games are just one door away, he seems just as collected as he's always been. "Don't you think? Peace and quiet after this past week."
"Speak for yourself," Aleister replies. "My mentor decided it was the perfect time to talk my ear off and say that Androcles would be so proud of me if he were here."
"Why wouldn't he be?" Olathe winks. "I can't think of any reason for him not to."
Much to his dismay, Aleister feels his cheeks get warm. He squeezes his hands into fists, hoping it'll calm him down to some extent. "I'm sure he'd be proud of you too, even though he wasn't your mentor."
"And he'd be most proud of Lucy."
"Exactly."
Just as Olathe's about to turn away, probably toward his launch room, Aleister shouts, "Speaking of Lucy—"
The Seven boy turns. "Yes, you do speak of him lots. Why?"
"I wanted to ask you something."
There's no right way to casually bring this up with Olathe, but ever since Lucy told Aleister, it's been weighing on his mind more than it should.
(He adores Lucy, clearly, but it doesn't make sense for the kid to suddenly decide that Olathe is the Devil himself. It's just basic human biology, for one thing, and more importantly, it shows a complete lack of cognizance on Lucy's part. He claims to be the Devil's son, yet doesn't know the basic principle of his father's immortality. Never in a million years would the Devil that LaVey taught Aleister about transform into a mortal demon for the sake of human enjoyment. After all, the Games are for the Devil's enjoyment.)
(Aleister understands that people act differently in times of stress, but believing that somebody less than six years older than you is your biological parent is just absurd. Maybe he's the one who's overreacting and overanalyzing, but this just doesn't feel correct.)
Olathe tilts his head. "Ask away…"
"Have you spoken to Lucy lately — just the two of you?"
"Not really, why?"
"I just…" Aleister's voice trails. "I'm a bit worried about him, that's all."
"Oh?"
He isn't sure if he should tell Olathe why. In fact, his heart tells him that he shouldn't. But, if Olathe is going to support both Aleister and Lucy in the arena like he claims to, he deserves to know as much of the truth as possible.
"Let me know if he gets, um… clingy with you."
"You're jealous, aren't you." Olathe grits his teeth. "You're genuinely upset that a thirteen-year-old doesn't like you? Really?"
"It's not that!" Aleister swears. "It's just that Lucy—"
Olathe puts his hand in front of him. "Let's table this for later." And then, before Aleister can say anything further, the Seven boy turns around and leaves.
And that leaves Aleister Darski once again alone, the same way he was when Olve found him panicking and offered to take him in. He knows how things are bound to play out, knows that he'll inevitably end up dead with Lucy unaccounted for, and knows that he'll be made into a bloody fool once more.
All he asks is that this time, it doesn't feel so empty once it's over.
Melchior Kolmogorov. 18.
District Five Tribute.
The ancient proverb that says, "There is never a bad place to have a staring contest," is a fucking lie. Or, it would be a lie if there was actually a proverb like that, which there isn't — probably because it's literally not true. In fact, Melchior can think of many, many places that would be inopportune for staring contests. What they can't think of is whether or not they're currently in one of them.
"You blinked."
Thana flinches. "W-what?"
"Did you not know we were having a staring contest?" Melchior questions her.
Tentatively, the Eleven girl shakes her head. "Are we? You never said that…"
"I didn't think I needed to," they clarify. "You were just sort of staring at something, so I took it as you were staring at me, and then I decided to stare back because that'd only be polite."
"So I was just supposed to read your mind and figure that out?"
Melchior smirks. "Yeah, pretty much."
If only Thana could actually read their mind — like, not in a metaphorical way. Because if Thana had legitimate mind-reading powers, that'd mean that she exists in some sort of alternate universe, which would mean Melchior also lives in that same alternate universe. And, because that alternate universe sure as hell wouldn't be Panem, it'd mean that neither of them would be standing here, the Hunger Games just a few doors away.
Not that the Games are actually an issue to Melchior. Or at least, they really shouldn't be, because whatever's in there can't be more deadly than electrostatic discharge crashing down from the sky. Considering Melchior took being struck by that like a champ, whatever man-made tortures that could potentially await them don't mean shit. Because, scientifically speaking, Melchior should be dead, and the fact they aren't is proof that nothing can destroy them now.
(Also, scientifically speaking, people aren't invincible. In the however many years of this planet's history, one thing's been consistent across every iteration of every species: life ends eventually, no matter how hard you try to deny it.)
Thana, on the other hand, well… As much as she loves fire, Melchior's seen no concrete proof that she's resistant to it, nor have they seen proof that she's resistant to the cataclysms of life in general. They get it, not everybody can be immortal like they are, but that doesn't mean they don't wish things were different.
(There's so much that Melchior wishes were different. They wish they met Thana back in Five where they were guaranteed infinity; they wish they could say with conviction that everything would be okay in the end. They wish they didn't have to talk out of their ass just to make sure Thana felt vaguely secure, because they'd exist in a world where she actually was.
Life's greatest tragedy is that Melchior can't fix any of those things.)
Even as the Tributes around them file into their individual rooms, Melchior sure as hell isn't going to move unless Thana does first. That's a dilemma, because there's no way Thana's going to move now, because if there's one thing Melchior's learned about her, it's that she hates goodbyes. A goodbye where there's no guaranteed hello in the future is all the worse.
They consider asking her, "Are you nervous?" but Melchior already knows the answer. And truth be told, they're nervous too. They could never say that to Thana, though. Clearly, she sees them as some sort of a light, some beacon of hope that someday the world won't be like this. The last thing Melchior wants to do is disappoint her. Lord knows they've done enough disappointing for their never-ending lifespan.
Melchior doesn't get the chance to ask her if she's nervous anyway. Instead, she says to them flatly, "You're nervous."
"No, I'm not," they instantly deny her. "I'm just standing around because I can."
("Five, Eleven, hurry it up," a Peacekeeper shouts from behind them.)
"Your hands are shaking."
"Don't they always shake?" Melchior looks down and notes that their hands are more jittery than normal. "Okay, you're right. They are shaking significantly more than usual."
Honestly, Melchior's shocked they haven't been shaking more these past few days. It's not like they've been consistently telling their hands to stop shaking, but considering his circumstances, his hands really should be at their most shakiest.
"Yes," Thana agrees. "That's why I know that you're nervous. Or at least, I'm guessing you're nervous, and based on your panicked response, my guess is correct."
Melchior raises a brow. "But what would I even be nervous about? I understand your hypothesis, but you're going to need a lot more evidence to back it up, dude."
"Dude?" she whispers to herself.
"Dude." Melchior nods. "It's like… an endearing word for friend."
"I know. I just didn't think I'd be considered somebody's dude."
("Don't make me ask you again," the officer again yells, his voice significantly louder this time.)
"You're a dude to me," Melchior says. "Or, if you don't want to be a dude, that's fine too."
"I don't mind the nickname," Thana affirms. "What I do mind is that you claimed there's nothing for you to worry about."
"Do you think there's something I should be nervous about?" They wiggle their eyebrows, hoping that'll somehow lighten the mood.
"Considering we're about to go into the Hunger Games, yes."
Thana's expression is void of emotion. Yeah, that's typical for her, but it's different now; there's something about her that seems nearly empty. It's like she's the ghost of the person Melchior was when they were standing on the orphanage rooftop, lightning rod in hand and uncertainty ahead of them.
"There are plenty of things to worry about, such as fleeting morality, the fact we will be in the same contained area as people and creatures that are hard set on killing us… other worrying things that you can probably think of."
"You make a fair point," Melchior admits. "However, you're forgetting that bullshit I said about how we're fire and lightning and nothing's going to ever bring us apart."
"It wasn't bullshit," Thana corrects them. "I thought it was poetic."
"Why, thank you!"
(The Peacekeeper loudly sighs. "Panem's sake, I guess we're going to have to handle this.")
"It's okay to be nervous," the Eleven girl continues. "But, I am trying to be slightly optimistic, at least for a few minutes, so I think that our paths will likely cross again in the near future."
Melchior just stands still. This whole conversation feels wrong because usually, they're the one that comforts Thana, but they're also not mad that things have changed. Well, they'd be mad if a lot of other, different things changed — this is fine though.
"Would you like…" Thana pauses, then takes a step toward Melchior. "A hug?"
"Would I?" they enthuse. They were perfectly fine with Thana's fear of physical contact and whatnot and had already accepted it in their head that high fives were all that'd happen between them. However, Melchior'd be even more of an idiot than they usually are to deny this. "If you want to give me a hug, I'd be honored."
"I do."
Thana takes another step closer and stretches her arms wide. Following her movements, Melchior does the same. They nod, the smile on their face more electric than ever as Thana reaches toward them and—
"Did you not hear me?"
A different set of arms grabs Melchior instead.
As they're crashing toward the ground, they look up at Thana, just as another Peacekeer wraps his arms around her and starts to pull her away.
"Hear what?" Melchior stammers, turning their head to see that a cop's seizing them too.
"It's time for the two of you to go," he yells. "I've been shouting at you for three minutes now. You need to get over to your stylists' chambers so that you can prepare for launch!"
Was he? Melchior swears to whatever that they didn't hear this guy. Otherwise, they wouldn't have continued talking to Thana and they'd just get over their stupid nervousness and they'd—
Melchior can't stop themself from shaking as the Peacekeeper behind Thana drags her away. The last thing Melchior ever wanted was for her to be upset, or for something bad to happen to her in any capacity, but now she has this look on her face like she's become one with death. Her eyes are so wide and she's refusing to blink 'cause she'd probably cry if she did, and oh how Melchior'd hate themself if they saw Thana cry and they knew that they could've put an end to it.
Hell, even though Thana's not crying, Melchior still hates themself for unintentionally putting her in this state, where she's so afraid and distraught and just— she doesn't look like herself. She looks even more distressed than when Melchior first met her and the Nine boy was talking to her. She doesn't look like their Thana and they're sure he doesn't look like her Melchior either.
Now, they're being pulled apart like magnets and they're just watching each other as they get dragged further and further away. And Melchior's ankles keep hitting the ground and even though it doesn't hurt them, Thana's ankles are doing the same and it could be hurting.
For fuck's sake, that's the last thing Melchior ever wanted to do. They just wanted to talk to her because she's their friend — no, she's their best friend — and they thought that maybe things would be okay if they talked to her. So they did, and then they felt okay for a while but now they feel twenty times worse because they let her down and it's like—
("M-Melchior," Kelvin stammers, hardly able to move his lips. "Things are going to be f-fine, right?"
For the first time, Melchior's not sure they have an answer. Their trusted assistant is laying in their arms as they run through the streets, hoping that something else doesn't hit him.
Melchior can hardly feel their own body, electricity still running through their veins instead of blood. Rain pours down their face, but they can no longer be bothered to open their mouth for a little taste. The fires around them just keep getting bigger despite the clouds commanding them otherwise and any place where Melchior thinks there might be shelter just catches ablaze too.
They need to find somewhere soon, though, because Kelvin looks so hurt. His tiny body couldn't handle the shock the same way Melchior's could. And for fuck's sake— he's the one who saved them. Kelvin shoved Melchior away from the lightning, but then it struck him and it was all so sudden and just…
Melchior let him down. They never wanted anything bad to happen to Kelvin, but they let him down and now he's all limp and Melchior has no idea if he'll ever be able to walk again.
His heart may be beating, but Kelvin's become a ghost of himself and it's all Melchior's fault.)
Why did they ever even think they could be there for Thana? Melchior's so incredibly lucky that Kelvin's still alive, even if he can hardly move and he's confined to a chair — they should've known they'd never be this lucky again.
All their life, Melchior's chaotic and rash decisions have led to somebody else's downfall, whether it be the rats in Ms. Hadley's lab or the kid they considered family. Immortality is their consequence for ruining everything for the world around them. After all, death would be easier than bearing witness to the aftermath of their own atrocities. This may just be the worst one yet.
Melchior should've known that when you mix fire and lightning, the only thing you can expect is for everything to shatter.
Charon Tricolette. 18.
District Eight Tribute.
They're not even given a second to take in the prep room before their stylist tells them, "I know what you did to Clarion."
That's a loaded statement if Charon's ever heard one. Obviously, the first place their mind goes is, "I know that you couldn't process somebody being attached to you without knowing who you really are, so you killed them," but maybe that's not what the lady means. Murder aside, there's definitely a lot that Charon did to the Three boy. The real question is why their stylist would know any of it.
"Excuse me?" Charon makes sure the door is shut behind him, then backs up against a wall.
"You heard me," The lady says flatly. "You and Clarion, two nights ago."
Again, there's a lot that happened between them and Clarion that night. Sure, Charon killing him was sort of the main event, but they did have a lot of fun beforehand.
(Fun's one word for it, at least. Unfortunately, it's also an accurate one. Charon knows that they shouldn't have enjoyed it – the way Clarion writhed as he was forced to accept that he was completely under their control. But, there's no changing the fact they did. There's no changing the fact that if they had a chance to re-live that night, they'd kill the Three boy just the same.
They'd still enjoy it.)
"Excuse me, ma'am," Charon changes the topic, or at least they hope they do. "What was your name again? I know we've met a few times now, but my mind's been pretty occupied."
The funny thing is, Charon genuinely doesn't remember. He's met a gazillion people this past week and it'd be unfair to expect him to retain the name of each and every one of them. It got to a point where, as shitty as it sounds, they sort of had to pick and choose who they wanted to remember.
(And why didn't they remember the name of their stylist? Was it because there wasn't anything she could give to him? Were their interactions unimportant because there was nothing Charon could gain?)
(Yes.)
"Jingle," she tells him. "Is that really hard to remember?"
"Apparently." Charon nods.
There's a silence long enough for Charon to examine the room he's standing in. Like everything else in this launching hub, the walls are stark white. The lights are so bright, it's hard for them not to tear up. At least there's some irony in the fact that Charon's "big return" to the blinding lights they once called home is happening here of all places.
The most notable thing in the room is the circular platform concealed by a tall, clear tube. It's almost unsettling how close it is to Charon — less than ten feet away, for sure. Once the door slides open and they step inside, they'll be transported to a place that encourages them to be the person they've been told not to be their entire life. It almost seems too good to be true, like there's some sort of a catch.
(As if proving to District Eight that they were right when they decided he should die isn't enough of one.)
"Alright, Jingle, what are you dressing me up in?" Charon rubs their hands together and licks their lips, hoping their enthusiasm distracts her from the conversation she tried to start.
It doesn't. "Why did you kill him?"
Well, talk about cutting to the chase— dammit! If they knew that she'd be this forward about it, Charon would've stalled a bit longer to come up with some sort of an excuse.
(Because surely, she can talk herself out of this. Surely, it won't be like the last time somebody accused her of killing somebody when she didn't have to.)
("And then you killed them on top of that?" Dice screams, grabbing another plate from the kitchen cabinets and smashing it against the ground. "Look, cheating on me is one thing, and it's not a good thing either, but it sure is better than fuckin' killing people."
"You don't understand," Charon panics. They crouch onto the floor, scurrying to clean up the shattered material as if Dice isn't moments away from making even more.
The boy — his boyfriend — shakes his head. "Oh, I think I understand perfectly fine. You're a sick fuck, Charon. I just…. Why would you?"
"You think I know?" Charon shouts back. "This wasn't supposed to happen, trust me. But then there was the first guy, and I just felt so—"
"You felt what?" Dice sneers. "You felt happy? You fucking killed somebody after cheating on me, and it made you happy?"
"It made me feel free…"
Dice grabs a bowl this time and throws it at the floor. As it shatters, a shard flies up and slices Charon's cheek. The blood doesn't bother them, though. It hasn't for a long time.
"What the fuck, Char?" They look up and see tears in Dice's eyes, the same sort of tears Charon saw when they first met him. They swore that day that they'd never see Dice cry that way as long as they were together, and now...
"Was I not enough for you? Is that what it was?" He gets down to the ground and looks Charon in the eye. "You saved me, yet that wasn't fucking enough, was it?"
It wasn't enough. Charon can try to talk their way out of this as much as they want, but ultimately, Dice wasn't enough, nor would Dice ever be enough. That's not his fault, but it's the truth. The real mistake is Charon denying it for so long.
"I—"
"Just shut up," Dice cuts her off. He picks up one of the ceramic pieces and holds it to Charon's throat. She can't find it in her to move, because she knows that she deserves it. She knows that she deserves to die…
…but that doesn't mean that Charon wants to.
They push Dice away. "Oh, so you're going to kill me now? Is that what you're trying to do?"
"I don't know," he stammers.
"I knew it." Charon stands up and crosses their arms. "You were always just like me.")
Again, Charon doesn't bother feigning innocence for too long. "So what if I did? Odds are, Clarion was going to die anyway."
"And you decided to accelerate that because?" Jingle presses.
They whisper, "I don't know why."
"That's not a very good answer."
"Were you expecting a good answer?" Charon scoffs. "I was sent here to die because I just couldn't stop killing people. What makes you think that I'd have a logical explanation for this."
"I don't know…" the stylist's voice trails off. "I just remember being with my girlfriend, Clarion's stylist, to pick up any clothes after the fire alarm stopped. And then we saw him hanging there, and his body made the room so cold. We were both so confused because it didn't look like he did that to himself. And then I saw a pair of boxers by the door, and they had your name on them. And I just…"
"Just what?" Charon puts his hands on his hips. "You know, you could've told somebody I did it, and then I'd be like Nine was yesterday."
Did they really make such a careless error? Did it happen because the universe wanted them to finally go down? If so, why haven't they?
Jingle sighs. "I just thought that maybe, despite what I've heard about you and why you're here, and despite what you did to Clarion, there's a part of you that's still human."
Charon winces. Me? Human?
(Yes. You.)
"Have you decided that I am?" they ponder out loud.
Before Jingle can deliver a verdict, Charon closes their eyes and sighs. There are so many instances in which he could've and should've died, but they instead just led him here. Does that mean that these Games are supposed to have any meaning besides the Arena likely being Charon's final stage? How are they supposed to perform when there's a part of them that feels so hollow?
(Because they always do. No matter the emptiness that swirls in their stomach, Charon Tricolette always puts on a show. They turn the world into their stage and make their consequences pure fiction, hoping and praying that the lights won't go down on her 'cause she doesn't know what she'd do if they did.
They were born to want more and more, to feed on humanity's sins in hopes they forget their own, and there's nothing they can do to change that. Perhaps Dice was right when he said that Charon was an irredeemable freak that'll never change. They know Eight was right for sending them here.
Charon's end is a matter of time at this point. They've worn many masks and played many roles, but they still have no idea which one they'll don in their grand finale.)
(Do they even need to decide now?)
"I'm not sure," Jingle admits. "Do you think you're human?"
Charon shudders. "I'm not sure."
There's only been one soul who's seen him as a person instead of a freak. She'd be wise to stay away from him, even though she won't. Charon doesn't understand why Sapphira won't, even though he's given her nothing to be suspicious of. He's tried to distance himself, but every time he tries, he sees his own delusions in her eyes. He knows that when they're together, there's a chance they'll be unstoppable.
He wonders if it's even fair to say that Sapphira sees the human in them when they've hardly gotten close, but she doesn't shudder when he walks by her or display panic on her face when he opens his mouth. It's like she sees something in them too.
Charon doesn't want to die before they figure out what that is.
Jingle's quiet for a minute, searching through a drawer until she finds what Charon assumes is their final costume. She holds it out in front of him: a beige dress shirt, a tan vest, and brown pants. The only thing that makes the outfit somewhat un-bland is the number 8 painted above the vest's white pocket, ut overall, the uniform in front of him is a blank slate.
It's a chance for Charon to paint over it with something new.
(They don't know if they want to. If they look at the vest too long, the tan turns to red and she can't stop herself from picturing it drenched in blood.
Before Charon's spiral, Dice did always say that they looked best in red.)
"Should I put it on?" they ask.
Jingle nods. "Probably a good idea."
Charon slides off his gray t-shirt, then reaches for the button-up Jingle's holding. It feels cool against their skin, enough so that it sends a shiver down their spine. The new pants feel the same way, as do the vest and the brown shoes Jingle gives to them.
When Charon looks into the mirror, they're not sure who they see.
(A blood-thirsty monster with pointed teeth and sharpened claws? Somebody who can't stop wanting more and more and doesn't care if they destroy everything in the process?)
(A young child shivering because their mother's at work late again and they're not sure if or when she'll be home? Somebody who plays pretend in the mirror, hoping it'll make the time pass quicker?)
(Somebody else?)
"Thank you, Jingle." Charon's not sure if he's talking about the outfit.
"Don't worry about it." The stylist smiles. "I'm just doing my job."
And then she points toward the tube and says, "You have thirty seconds to get inside."
A part of the glass spins, creating a hollow area big enough for Charon to step inside. They nod, then begin to walk toward it when they feel Jingle pulling at their arm.
"Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," she says. Jingle stands on her tiptoes, brushes aside a strand of Charon's hair, and whispers in their ear, "I think you can be human if you want to be."
They softly smile. "I'll try."
But they don't know if they're telling the truth. They've only survived eighteen years by feeding on lies over and over. Maybe a liar is all Charon can be.
He steps onto the platform and takes a deep breath as the tube seals around him. They close their eyes, knowing that once they open them, the scene will be set for their biggest show yet. Everybody's eyes will soon be set on him, the way he's always wanted. No matter how they meet their end, District Eight will cheer and Dice will turn their applause into a symphony.
Everything else is in Charon's control. When the curtain goes up, they'll be the ringleader of their own destruction. It's just a matter of deciding who he'll be when all is said and done.
(When the light shines down on them this time, they really do cry.)
Identity - grandson
And just like that, we're done with Pre-Games… for real this time. I wish I could say I regret my decision to make Pre-Games 30,000 words longer, but I don't, because I am insane. Goldie, thanks for helping me out of the weird rut I found myself in this chapter and then beta-ing – you are actually the best.
Going a month without updating on two separate occasions felt weird both times, but such is life in college. Hopefully, winter break means that I'll be a bit more consistent for a while.
But yeah, we're finally getting to the good stuff – not that everything else hasn't been good, but like y'all know what I mean. Hopefully you've enjoyed yourself as much as you can throughout all of this, and hopefully you continue to enjoy yourself later? I have planned basically everything, and I'm really hot because of it. I hope everybody is miserable and cries.
To those who read ACD: remember when I was pretentious and didn't leave A/Ns after arena chapters for the drama? Yeah, fuck that. I can't shut up, y'all know this by now.
Chapter Question: What do you think is gonna happen in the Games? Like… there's a lot of chapters, something's gotta happen.
Bonus Question: How do you think Xan is going to die next chapter?
Fuck this shit, I'm out,
Linds