CHAPTER XXIX: BLOODBATH
Delano Astarte • District Eight Male
Palazzo Ballroom / July 8th, 12:00 AM
Frantically, Yuly bellows, "Behind me!"
But he can't — Delano can't move, he can't do anything. He's frozen in place by the blazing eyes of the District Four Male, whose snarling visage seemed to have materialized straight from the shadows. Four looks more beast than man as he lunges straight toward Delano, his blade like a grotesque claw in the faint and feeble light.
It's like Delano's fourteen all over again — paralyzed in the middle of the road, cast alight by the headlights of a reckless car. Behind his eyelids, his brain conjures graphic images of his mangled body, flesh caught between turning gears and blood buried in the grooves of rubber wheels. It's the same feeling: knowing what's about to happen, and unable to do anything but brace his soft body for the impact.
But a large form dives in front of Delano, eclipsing the path. His arm jerks suddenly as something clicks and flares past his fingers, like the eager pull of a trigger. A deafening wet shhnnk is the only thing Delano can hear as two blades rip through his former ally's body.
There's just enough light to illuminate the grisly scene: one blade puncturing through Yuly's torso from the shadowy, snarling figure on the other side — the other, protruding straight into Yuly's back from Delano's own prosthetic arm.
He — did he just—
Terror seizes Delano by the lungs. He screams. He screams and he can't stop — it pours out of him, incomprehensible, mindless, tearing the walls of his throat ragged.
Delano always thought he was better than those annoying horror movie protagonists, but thrust in the same situation, he realizes he's as much of a little bitch as the rest of them. He can't fucking process what's happening. This can't be fucking real, he's losing his fucking mind—
His prosthetic blade slinks back into the machine with a gushing sound, painting the inside of the contraption with the blood of a boy he once considered a friend — a boy that was now bleeding out on the bathroom tiles. With Delano's blade retracted, Yuly slumps against the floor gracelessly. He makes soft, disoriented sounds, taking feathery gasps. Yuly can't control the breaths that slip past his lips or the blood that spills out his body. It pools underneath his two wounds, coating the tiles and the bottoms of Delano's white dress shoes in rich crimson.
The Eleven boy stares up at Delano with bloodshot eyes. He coughs, splattering red rain against Delano's dress pants — an attempt at a message.
But Yuly doesn't need to say anything at all; it's loud and clear.
Run.
Before Delano can will his legs to bolt, Four drops to the ground and wraps his hands around the hilt he left buried in Yuly's stomach. With tremendous effort, Delano stitches his lips shut as he watches the man lift the blade and strike down, again and again and again. Yuly writhes underneath the dagger, but it's not long before his eyes turn to glass. His body goes completely and utterly still, the only movement caused by the reckless abandon Four continues to mutilate him with. Four's shadowy figure is completely drenched in Yuly's blood.
With poorly repressed panic, Delano wills his legs to push him toward the exit door, thrown ajar and off its hinges by Four's entrance. His clumsy legs dart across the tiles in a mad dash. He nearly whimpers, seeing the tantalizing light that emanates from the corridor. He's right there — just a little farther—
A tight hand grips the back of his collar and forcefully wrenches him backwards. Wind whips past Delano's ears like he's in a hurricane. He's thrown against the ground, his shoulder blades and tailbone screeching in agony as they collide against the hard floor. The impact sends Delano skidding across the tiles until his head slams into the corner of a bathroom stall.
Thunder erupts against the back of his skull, the crackle reverberating in his eardrums. Dully, Delano registers that something warm is trickling out from somewhere on his head, but in his pain-induced delirium he can't tell what or where. The only thing he can be sure of is the impossibly vulnerable position he's found himself in.
A strangled sound rips out of Delano as the shadow approaches, looming overhead. Delano's vision whirls uncontrollably; he can't make out anything except a face caked in gore — and Four's wicked blade, silver steel still drenched in Yuly's blood.
This is it, Delano realizes with a sinking feeling. It's so over — he's going to die here, in a fucking bathroom of all fucking places. The roar of thunder thrashes raucously in his ears, like the heavy footfalls of the ferryman coming to collect.
With a maniacal sneer, the man brings down the dagger — Delano flinches one final time.
But the blow never comes. Delano doesn't feel the pierce of the knife driving through his skin — he doesn't feel his flesh giving way to intrusive metal. Instead, Four is abruptly slammed into the stall by another force entirely, the impact rattling the shaky dividers.
Delano blindly drags himself out under in the nick of time, narrowly avoiding having Four's frame collapse on him. Two bodies topple to the ground, right where Delano had been just seconds before.
His legs are trembling so violently that they nearly give out underneath him, but miraculously Delano manages to scramble to his feet. He can't tell what's louder: his breath ragged against his ears, or the vicious grunting of two people trying to overpower the other.
The other figure is one of the Career girls; her braids whip in an arc behind her head as she drags the thrashing shadow by the tufts of his hair. Four attempts to maul his way out, but she takes his head and viciously drives it into the edge of the toilet bowl. Skull cracks loudly against porcelain, followed quickly by the angry slice of skin, supple and spurting. This only seems to excite the furious growls thrown back and forth.
The edges of Delano's vision grow tighter, tunneling in. He dazedly whirls his head away from the scene, toward the exit. It swallows the entirety of his vision, becoming the only thing he can see; not the Career, not the shadow, not Yuly's corpse, gored open and painted blue. The neon light pours from the ballroom and spills slivers into the bathroom, beckoning Delano like a separate hell masquerading as salvation. He can't tell if what his mind hears is the sound of people screaming outside, or his body crying out in pain.
Delano doesn't trust what lies outside, but his terrified psyche begs him to seek refuge anywhere else — his body obeys, only propelled by pure animal fear that sets his cells into overdrive. His bruises and bones protest as he stumbles his way through the exit, letting the technicolor glow wash over his bloodied skin. Delano runs as far as both of his skinny legs will take him, never so grateful that God at least left those intact.
Ginseng Clarkson • District Seven Female
Palazzo Ballroom / July 8th, 12:01 AM
The ballroom has spiraled into madness.
Shrieking chaos surrounds Ginseng on all sides. There used to be so many people in the ballroom, tributes and Capitolites alike intermingling in a tapestry of opaque and transparent-blue bodies. But now the holograms have dissolved into air, and what remains is twenty four tributes held captive in this impossibly cavernous room.
It's haunting, watching the other tributes spurred into a terrified frenzy. All around her are faces of kids that look like they could feasibly go to her high school, blanched into expressions of fear. The older kids — the Careers — prowl all over the room, and Ginseng has no doubt that they'll pounce on her the second they spot her hiding in this little booth.
The ballroom is even louder than it was before, driving her on edge. The sound of shattering glass erupts from several different sources, causing her to flinch uncontrollably. She can hardly comprehend that this is happening, that this is happening right now; the abruptness makes her feel like she's been doused in ice cold water. It's like someone took a vacuum to her chest and sucked all the air out, leaving her wheezing and breathless.
Oh, Ginseng would do anything to have her parents come pick her up right now. But this is real life — realer than the concrete at carpool, realer than the grass in her grove, realer than sunlight on her skin. All of which she might never experience again.
In the center of the room, the lever alongside the gigantic, demented machine starts to crank on its own accord. The mechanism whirs furiously, launching heavy-sounding, black briefcases in a ten, fifteen foot radius. From behind the bar, Ginseng watches as a girl, stealthy as a shadow, whisks a case off the floor. She slips away unscathed, black braids slithering behind her. A girl with a shock of red hair follows right after her.
Where are her own allies — Yuly, Artan, Mavis? But most importantly, where is Dottie?
Ginseng can't leave without her.
Artan zips past the bar, wide-eyed in horror as a Career girl chases after another tribute. The auburn-haired boy stops in his tracks when his eyes come across Ginseng. He's pale as a ghost — Ginseng has no doubt she looks the exact same way. The flashing neon lights of the machine paint Artan in electric blues, radioactive greens, violent reds.
"Thank goodness I found you," he blurts out. "We need to go, Ginseng!"
Her fear briefly gives way to irritation — only briefly, before worry consumes her all over again. She whirls around, trying to find that familiar head of curls.
"Dottie?" she screams. "Dottie, where are you?"
A million distressingly vivid scenarios flash through her mind, pulsating in time with the flurry of lights that dance along the walls. Dottie's light-brown hair, staunched in sticky blood; glass-green eyes turned glassier. Ginseng bites back a sob.
"We need to escape," Artan insists, reaching out a hand. "Come with me, and leave this all behind — what matters is us, right now!"
Ginseng attempts to shove his hand away, but he grabs ahold of her wrist with shocking strength. A violent urge flares up inside of her — something angry and frightening and familiar. But it snuffs itself out as fast as a dampened match — as scared as she is, Artan isn't the cause of it. She's more preoccupied with the fear that Dottie is somewhere, unprotected and alone.
"The longer we stay here, the longer we risk death!" Artan insists, his eyes alight in urgency.
"And I'm not going anywhere without Dottie!" Ginseng shrieks, trying to pull out of Artan's grasp. But his grip tightens, more tenacious than Ginseng ever expected. It suddenly strikes her, this feeling of impossible fragility — she feels as breakable as bird bones.
"Dottie's left you," Artan spits out, vitriolic. "I told you — you can't pour faith into something as flimsy as friendship. When push comes to shove, friends abandon you. She's abandoned you!"
"She wouldn't do that," Ginseng sobs.
"Forget her," Artan exclaims, wrenching Ginseng from the cover of the bar. "She's gone, so we need to save oursel—"
The boy doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence before he suddenly crumples to the ground. Behind him stands Dottie, with a wild, fervorous look in her eyes and a now-shattered glass in her hand. It's the cylindrical glass Ginseng had given to her — once filled with apple juice, now smeared with blood.
Dottie's breathing hard, and she's bleeding profusely; rivulets of scarlet gushes from open wounds on her palm, dripping deep into the carpet. Dottie stares at her hands with blank eyes, as if they belong to someone else.
Artan lies unmoving on the ground. Blood trickles out in a steady flow from the side of his skull, turning his auburn locks black. His face is almost completely turned into the floor, but Ginseng can still see a flicker of movement in his eyes, stricken in betrayal.
"You," he rasps out, "why…"
Ginseng clamps a hand over her mouth, stifling a horrified sound. She didn't — she didn't want this, this isn't — she can't think! A torrent of emotions floods through Ginseng, chemically bonding with the rush of adrenaline that surges through her limbs like a shock of electricity. Her mind bombards her with a flurry of questions, all spiked with panic, fear, anguish. Where is Mavis, Yuly? Is Dottie okay? Why would she do that?
She feels overwhelmed by the urge to do something, throw up, maybe, weep — but none of these are options when there's danger all around her and Dottie. Ginseng just wants to get out of here. She's frightened by the broken, bloodied glass in Dottie's hands, but there's no stopping or undoing what's already happened — the only thing she'll let herself think about right now is finding a safe place for them to hide.
Dottie stumbles in front of her; Ginseng's arms fly out to steady the Eight girl before she topples over. Dottie's eyes are locked on Artan's, which have become dull and grey . She absorbs the sight unblinkingly, like she's seen this before. She doesn't even seem to notice Ginseng attempting to drag her away.
"We have to get out of here," Ginseng says, trying to keep her voice from wavering for Dottie's sake. But she can't even tell if Dottie hears her through the girl's shallow breathing. Ginseng can feel the Eight girl's hummingbird heartbeat through her veins; it's too fast, even faster and flightier than Ginseng's own pulse.
"Paisley?" Dottie slurs through trembling lips, her voice frighteningly faint.
Before Ginseng can say anything, the Eight girl's eyes are rolling back, and she goes slack in Ginseng's arms.
Ginseng's knees shake, buckling under the fresh weight. Frantically, she presses an ear to Dottie's chest — it's quiet, but she's still breathing.
Right there, Ginseng makes up her mind; it's not even a choice. She's going to get them out of here — neither her parents, Min, Bo, or Yuly are here to help her, so Ginseng has to be strong for the both of them. She pretends her legs are made of iron as she guides the Eight girl onto her back, with the same tenderness and care as Ginseng's parents had tucking her into bed when she was a little girl.
Slowly, she wills her knees to bend straight, her hooked arms successfully supporting the Eight girl against her lithe frame. Every step is so much harder, takes so much more effort — Ginseng can't run as fast as she knows will take her far away from here, but there's no world where she leaves Dottie behind.
She presses on toward the nearest exit corridor, trying to be as adult and responsible and strong as she possibly can be. Images of her composed sister and her loyal brother flit behind her eyes. These are the memories that comfort Ginseng as she takes Dottie to a place far away from chandeliers, metal machines, and carpets steeped with an auburn-haired boy's blood.
Crossland Vectra • District Six Male
Palazzo Ballroom / July 8th, 12:02 AM
To be honest, Crossland had really been looking forward to sleeping in that luxurious suite bed tonight. Now, he can't help but feel pissed that yet another thing is being robbed from him: one last night of peace and quiet.
Mad as he is, Crossland can't say he's interested in sulking in the middle of a battlefield. He whips his head back and forth, looking for something to arm himself with. But the only objects he can see in the room are breathing bodies, the large slot machine spewing black briefcases and — the bars.
The closest one is several feet away, on his left. He sprints towards it as best as he can, the plush carpet nearly swallowing each of his footfalls. Crossland throws the bar stools out of the way, hopping over the counter to procure a bottle of brandy. Quite versatile — he's got an idea of how to use this.
A short distance away, a chandelier suddenly unhooks itself from the ceiling. It comes careening down to the ground with an ear-splitting crash, nearly collapsing on who Crossland recognizes as the District Ten pair. That country boy pulls the girl's leg out from the glittering shrapnel, delicate streams of blood jetting down her calf.
Crossland watches as the two escape the ballroom with only slight injuries. The girl's movement is limited, having to carry her heavy skirts; the boy stays half a step behind her, holding his black briefcase up to shield her as they disappear into the corridor.
Crossland sneers. Guess chivalry isn't dead, but that boy might be soon. It's beyond ridiculous that the Tens are trying to hold on to their silly romance when the world is falling to pieces all around them.
But he isn't going to preoccupy himself with the stupid decisions of other people. Crossland's decided those briefcases surrounding the slot machine are the priority. He has no idea what Las Vegas is, but if the rest of the arena is anything like this ballroom, he can't expect this land of luxury to provide anything of real sustenance. Whatever's in those briefcases must be crucial to surviving in this place.
There's no time to waste. He throws himself back over the bar booth, bolting to the nearest briefcase he can see. On the other side of the room, he can see Juno darting to a briefcase of her own; it seems that his District partner had the same idea. It's so sad to watch her get so close, completely unaware of the girl from One that follows hot on her heels.
One wields the tiara in her hand like a dagger. She pounces on Juno, using the sharp point to tear open her throat. The skin rips, serrated and messy — blood crests out the wound like a fountain. Juno doesn't even scream or make a sound at all, just mute and wide-eyed as she lurches to the ground. Died as she lived: quiet.
It's far from a pleasant scene, and Crossland finds himself glad he's not in the spray zone. An unfortunate fate for his District partner, but it's not as if he had hope for her to begin with.
Crossland slides to the ground, bending down to grab the briefcase. But as soon as his fingers close around the handle, a deep voice right behind him makes his blood freeze over.
"Put it down," the boy from Two says, "and I'll let you walk away."
Crossland weighs his options — no, there's no time for that. He only has one choice.
He bolts, briefcase and bottle in tow. He barely registers their weight; it's nothing compared to things he's had to carry before. A featherlight burden to shrug as he cuts through the ballroom like a knife, the crisp air aiding his escape. Crossland just makes it past the center of the room when he hears a jagged, cruel laugh impossibly close to his ear.
"I was just kidding, anyway."
Crossland hardly has time to react before he feels his legs get swept out underneath him. He plants into the ground. His side takes the brunt of the impact, breath whooshing straight from his lungs like a popped balloon. The briefcase cracks open, scattering the contents all over the ground: an assortment of red, blue, and black checkered chips. Miraculously, the bottle he's holding hasn't broken, and Crossland doesn't hesitate to hurl it at the figure that looms over him.
Glass shatters with a deafening shriek against Two's body. It's like an odor bomb, punchy and potent — the scent of liquor immediately swarms Crossland's senses, burning the inside of his nose and the back of his throat.
The Career's face transforms, turning ugly. His lips twist into a snarl as he hooks his fists into the collar of Crossland's shirt, hauling him up to his feet. Crossland makes a surprised, strangled noise as the fabric chafes roughly against the back of his neck, held taut by the Career's slick knuckles. He hisses, trying to gain any sort of vantage by driving the broken neck of the bottle into the Career's back — he makes impact through Two's blazer, sinking the wicked shards into muscled flesh.
But the Career doesn't cry out or relinquish his hold. Instead, Two's grimace contorts itself into an animal grin. He lets out an unrestrained laugh, somehow sounding both furious and delighted.
"Oh, you're gonna wish you hadn't done that," he bites out.
The Career hooks his knee straight into Crossland's abdomen, nearly folding him in half. Crossland nearly heaves up everything in his body, feeling as if he's about to cough his lungs out onto the ground. Saliva gets caught in his throat, blocking his ability to breathe. The knot of pain in his back flares up again, causing him to seize and fall back like a limp doll.
Two wraps his hands around Crossland's ankles, and he feels himself being dragged roughly across the floor. Crossland is too weak to do anything but claw his fingernails into the carpet for purchase, an attempt at resistance. The texture of the carpet feels revolting, fibers mixed with splinters of glass and fizzing liquid. He can't seem to find any grip, anything to latch onto — it's with a sinking feeling that he starts to realize this may be a losing game.
After an indiscernible distance, Crossland's ankles are abruptly dropped to the ground. Then the Career is in his face again, grabbing ahold of his arm.
"Get the fuck up," Two sneers. "Don't tell me you're tapped out already?"
Crossland's vision veers violently as the Career yanks him back up to his feet, nearly pulling his arm out of its socket. A hand snaking up into his curls is a cruel grounding of his surroundings — it feels like a burning steel stovetop, branding the back of his skull. The Career holds a tight fistful of his hair, nearly ripping it out in patches from his scalp — so tightly it might even take skin with it.
His head is jerked toward a dark, imposing object. His body is braced against some sort of large console. His eyes almost can't comprehend the sight before him. The screen of the slot machine, mere inches from his face.. The graphics roll tauntingly: TRY YOUR LUCK ! in beaming, glowing letters. There's no warning before his face is smashed into the screen.
The first impact leaves the front of his skull battered and bruising. With the second, blood starts streaming from where shards of glass pierce into his skin. By the third, his nose breaks with a sickening crunch. He feels his teeth shatter in his mouth.
In between slams Crossland catches hazardous glimpses of the screen's spiderwebbed shards. Light seeps through the cracks of what seems like infinite fault lines and his face feels like a perfect mirror, a machine barely holding itself together—
Crossland tries to brace himself against the slot machine but the boy forcing him down is much stronger Ruthless and unforgiving. His sinuses feel like catacombs collapsed Blood travels up his nose leaking into his throat , and there's no more depth on his face Just a plateau of broken skin and bone
Glass embedded in his eyes. Trying to blink it out but he can feel it cutting up the inside of his eyelids swollen with microscopic lacerations. Vision is shattered nothing looks right Everything seems like its been put through a kaleidoscopic in Unreal ultraviolet ,
—tryingTrying but he can't muster the strength to tear himself from the Career's grip There's no way to go but forward Over and overAndOVERR;;RRR*%#*RR :":;;;
In the bright searing fluorescents Memories flash
His mother succumbing to addiction Wasting away , her Corpse mottled molding
He attempts to spit out teeth in between slams so that he doesnt choke
His father's expression grieving horrified Unrecognizing
When he coughs Blood splatters black on the screen
All the morphling in Zhausts closet, milky liquid seeping into mildewy floorboards
The hollow of his eye socket Gives crushes caves in
The remnants of Zhaust's body in the square like a rotting piece of Meat ,
His face is Peeling off raw open No longer feels like his flesh is his
and All those hours in dim factory light spent Working Saving
For what?
ALL OF THIS
WHAT WAS ALL OF THIS FOR
His eyes feel wet Crossland can't tell if it's blood or something else
But It's both it;s both he knows its both
God he thinks just end it make it stop
The hand that forces him to gravity nearly feels like a mercy Neon vertigo radiance soars past his eyes as hes slammed into the screen one last time
And then the lights go out for good
Jillion Morgan • District Eleven Female
Palazzo Ballroom / July 8th, 12:03 AM
What the fuck kind of Cornucopia is this?
Jillion has no idea what she's looking at — if she had to describe, it's an impossibly large, black metal box with a wrench on the side and a screen. She thought the Cornucopia was supposed to be a giant horn. This is decidedly not that.
There's no hope of getting inside for the good stuff like she initially planned, but she'll settle for one of the larger briefcases by the machine. She glances over her shoulder, catching sight of two familiar forms.
Lucifer and Emilio — er, Seven and Nine blink haphazardly, as if they've just woken up. Their expressions are unreadable; Nine in particular is starting to look anxious again, and Jillion thinks it's deeply concerning that it's taken him this long to notice they're waist-deep in shit.
They still remember the plan, right? It's so simple that she thinks even a goldfish could keep track of it: watch her back while she ransacks what she can. And then they get the hell out of here. That's it.
She throws a hard look at Seven. He meets her gaze, blinking once before giving her a firm nod. He adjusts his position, ready to spring out as soon as she does. If Seven remembers, then that's good enough. He seems more capable than Nine in this department, anyway.
Honestly, this whole situation seems horribly precarious. She feels vulnerable in a way that scares her badly. There's no way Jillion can fully prepare for what might happen, but at the very least, she hopes she hasn't made a mistake in trusting Seven and Nine.
Jillion's eyes latch onto a large briefcase, about five or so feet from the machine. She does a rapid-fire inspection of the surrounding area. She sees one Career on this side of the room, but she's busy with an unlucky outer-District girl. The only unpreoccupied person she sees is an empty-handed girl in a lilac dress, who quick ly disappears through an exit corridor.
This is the best opportunity Jillion's going to get. She rushes forward, as fast as her legs will take her. Right as she's within five feet of the briefcase, the machine suddenly rattles with violent force.
A Career holds another older boy by the back of his head, and he slams him down into the machine like a toy. Ice shoots down Jillion's spine — seeing that, she's never been so aware of just how small she is, just how weak. Getting caught here is not an option.
Another impact, and another. This close to the machine, Jillion can practically feel her teeth shake in her mouth. Nausea rises in her stomach. It's so fucked to say, but she's really glad the Career's busy with the boy and not her. Clumsily, she hooks her arm into the handle of the briefcase and darts backward, making sure the Career hasn't noticed her. And if he does, she's praying to any deity, God or the devil himself that Seven will keep his word and cover her.
As soon as Jillion thinks she's good to start sprinting, shouts start sounding off right in front of her. Panic flares in her chest, cold and dreadful. She forces herself to halt in her tracks, just barely avoiding collision by the skin of her teeth.
Two boys she doesn't know blindly barrel right in front of her path, locked in a scuffle. She instantly recognizes one of them — the unsettling blue-eyed boy who smiled and waved at her on the second day of training. He's ferociously antagonizing the other boy who wears a suit printed with constellations and galaxies. They both seemed too wrapped in each other to notice Jillion.
Or Seven, steadily rushing toward them.
"C'mon! Let's settle this once and for all!" The blue-eyed boy roars. "What are you waiting for, Orion?!"
He shoves the boy named Orion, hard. Orion stumbles back but reorients himself quickly; when he looks back up at the other boy, Orion's cool eyes have turned furious. He bares his teeth, tightens his fists, and—
From behind, Seven takes a swing at the blue-eyed boy's head. But the blue-eyed boy somehow ducks, dropping low and swift and Seven's fist makes an impact against Orion's cheek instead. It sends Orion crashing to the ground. The boy falls badly and lands with a sickening crack, neck bent at an ungodly angle.
The sound is so awful that Jillion knows it's hopeless for the boy. His mouth is half-open in an expression of mild surprise, but his eyes are empty. He's never waking up.
Just like Pa, a voice in the back of her mind whispers.
Unwillingly, Jillion's shoulders start to tremor. She can't tear her eyes away from the dead boy. Seven also looks taken aback — he stumbles, trying to recover from his overshoot.
Looking at Orion's body, the blue-eyed boy's face breaks into a dementedly gleeful smile. His mouth drops into a low "wow," before booking it in the opposite direction from Jillion and Seven.
Jillion forces herself to do the same — turn and run. Her small feet start up again. She doesn't dare check if Seven or Nine are following behind her; if they're smart, they will be.
Her blue skirts whip against her legs as she leaps across the carpeted floor, briefcase in hand. She's covered in goosebumps; the air feels too brisk around her skin, she feels too naked. When a large figure darts into her periphery, she realizes what it is too late.
A dense, rod-like object comes into contact with the side of her head. Bright, piercing pain blooms from the impact, sending Jillion's ears ringing. She feels her brain jackhammering inside the walls of her skull, as if begging to break open.
The briefcase goes flying out of her hand. Jillion's thrown to the ground, the carpet too dense to offer any support for the crush of her chest. She can physically feel a crack inside of her — her heart squeezes painfully into the space between her broken ribs. Jillion hacks up something wet, watching helplessly as her case lands on its corner and blows open. Plastic chips come clattering out — deliriously, she thinks of the sound of jacks spilling onto the floorboards of her childhood home.
Someone's shadow leers over Jillion's small frame, blocking out all the light: a Career in shimmering silver. He's so tall and he's terrifying; he grips a broken column from a chandelier, the point of which glints cruelly in the neon blue of the ballroom.
The tar-black feeling of regret floods through her, threatening to choke — all of this was a horrible mistake. God, Jillion knew she never should've tried, but she had no other choice.
(One way or another, Jillion was never meant to see her father again, was she?)
She can't make sense of the strange, conflicted expression on the Career boy's face. Regardless, Jillion flinches hard as he raises his arms — her legs thrash weakly, her body on overdrive to prepare for the brunt of the blow.
But before he can swing down, a girl in a bloody dress of ice dives in like an archangel. She shoves the silver boy out of the way right as Lucifer bulldozes through, and the both of them soar out of his reach.
Furious sounds emerge from the direction of the two Careers. The silver boy's eyes are blazing as he pulls himself off of the ice girl. When she tries to disengage, he snarls and brandishes his weapon against her, the same one he was going to use to skewer through Jillion.
Rough arms sweep jillion off the ground. lucifer throws her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing, and he starts to run. she can feel it when emilio catches up to them, his warm presence like a fleeting strip of sunlight.
her breathing is getting shallower and more labored with every intake. lucifer and emilio take her into a dark corridor away from the ballroom where neon lights and killers can't touch them. but her head's still damp and dribbling and jillion's convinced she's leaking a trail of blood that hounds will follow to eat her alive.
she's starting to feel cold. and it's getting dark now. too dark. she's not sure how lucifer can still see but his steps continue, sure and steady. every shred of rationale left in her screams in protest as she clings to him but she can't bring herself to do anything else — there's the sweet comforting smell of ash that lingers in the threads of lucifer's clothes, like a hearth.
smells like pa, she blearily thinks to herself, before everything slips into oblivion.
Cassia Cosmos • District Two Female
Palazzo Ballroom / July 8th, 12:04 AM
This all feels like a bad dream.
Cassia's desperately trying to blink the swaying out of her system, but nothing changes. She can only process the world in afterimages, like individual frames on a film reel.
Blink. People scattered throughout the ballroom, screaming in terror.
Blink. Bodies falling to the floor, never to rise.
Blink. Her friends, her allies, the aggressors, spearheading the pandemonium.
As soon as the announcement ended, Jupiter disappeared into the recesses of the hallway, where the first scream erupted. Reverie swiftly took down an outer-District, a girl who looked timid but kind. Sergeant bashed a boy's skull into that demonic machine in the center of the room. The rattling screech of coins inside is like grating laughter that just never seems to end.
An hour ago, Cassia was on cloud nine, riding the stratosphere. In the span of moments, she was roughly rooted back down to earth, forced to remember everything that was always going to happen, everything that Cassia foolishly hoped might never come. She had everything tonight — now, it's all shattering right before her eyes, and she knows nothing will ever put it back together again.
Cassia's body feels unbelievably feverish as she braces herself against the wall. It's like some sort of broken fuse inside of her is leaking molten lead between her muscles, skin, and bone. The sting of alcohol is pungent and bitter in her mouth, on her tongue. Everything she drank threatens to claw its way back up her throat. Her legs wobble underneath her as she peels herself off the wall, attempting to feel like a normal person and do something — do the thing she came here to do.
She knew what she signed up for. District Two chose her to be one of their glorymakers this year, and she'd been so eager to rise to the occasion. Why does the thought of doing so make her feel so nauseous now?
Cassia feels as if she's in a trance, but she knows the broken bodies around her are real. The Games are real and they're happening and she has to do something to snap out of this. Something. Anything.
Someone, please wake her up.
A piercing shriek assaults her ears as another chandelier detaches from the ceiling and shatters against the floor. Glass debris flies toward her — Cassia raises her arms to shield herself just in time. Small shards flick against her skin but one large piece slices Cassia's forearm. She stifles a sound, all of the fever in her body centralizing around this point. Blood starts to pour from the gash.
But the wound is the last thing on her mind; from under the chandelier, she hears garbled cries. Cassia rushes to the wreckage in horror — a child is buried underneath, her blonde streaks turning rusty with the blood that trickles through countless incisions. Her limbs are pinned down by various points of the chandelier like a sloppy crucifix. She tries in vain to move her arms and legs, kicking and screaming and wasting energy. The girl makes frightened sounds as Cassia approaches and places her hands on the arms of the chandelier, trying to get as good of a grasp as she can.
Quickly. Swiftly. Mercifully. That's how Cassia always told herself she was going to do it when push came to shove, when the moment she'd have to kill somebody arrived. But all of her justifications, all of the Academy tenets she forced herself to repeat in the mirror are slipping out of reach as the chaos around her mounts. Cassia can't get a grip — she can't even bring herself to do this one simple thing for the District that gave her life and the clothes on her back.
District Two chose the wrong cadet.
Whimpers spill from the young girl's mouth. Her chest is wrought with countless punctures from the glass. She won't stop talking these gasping breaths; air leaks through lungs littered with holes.
"Don't, don't," she begs, her blue eyes wide in fright.
"I won't," Cassia promises, but she has no idea what she's promising. "Let me— I'm trying—"
Cassia knows she's ruining her calloused hands, even beyond the blood that she can see. She can feel microscopic crystals cutting between the folds of her fingers and the lines of her palms. Her arms strain as she lifts the chandelier, and just as she thinks she's getting some leverage—
Her vision staggers violently, and she stumbles — the chandelier slips from her bloody grasp, piercing new holes into the girl's body. She lurches like a wounded animal when a sharp point enters the hollow of her throat. Her cries become shrill, all the tenor taken out of her.
"Father, stop," the girl croaks, wheezes, "it hurts, it hurts—"
"I'm sorry," Cassia sobs, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
She apologizes over and over and over again, clenching her fingers around the chandelier arms once more. Her eyes screw tightly as she wrenches the chandelier off the girl with every shred of might in her body. It lands with a sickly crunch a few feet away.
Her eyes flutter open to land upon blind blue ones. Cassia's remorse has fallen on deaf ears — the young girl can't hear Cassia, or see her, or do anything at all. There's a gored opening at the base of her throat. The girl is equal parts flesh and glass, indistinguishable from one another. Crystals buried inside a geode, drenched in crimson. Blood unceremoniously leaks out underneath her frail body. Cassia can hear it trickle out of her, so loudly that the sound drowns out everything else.
A tsunami churns inside her stomach. A helpless sound sputters from her lips. All Cassia managed to do was make the girl suffer more.
Cassia retches, unable to hold herself back. Everything in her stomach comes pouring out. She vomits until there's nothing left inside, not a drop of drink, heart, or soul, leaving her feeling even more lightheaded and woozy than before.
Cassia forces herself to tear her eyes from the scene. The ballroom is nearly vacated at this point, the only inhabitants her allies and bleeding bodies that litter the once-pristine carpet. She jumps when two dark-clad figures burst from the corridor — she quickly recognizes Jupiter and Kai, locked in the throes of a cutthroat duel.
Between the two, Kai looks more injured. His face battered and bloody, swelling like overripe, expired fruit. His nose is twisted brutally and there's a large gash on his forehead. With every step he takes, blood gushes from his wounds. But he still keeps lashing out with full-force like a man undaunted, a man unafraid of death.
Comparatively, Jupiter's injuries appear minimal. There's a large bruise underneath her jaw and a few hairline scratches up and down her arms, like she was scraped by the tip of Kai's knife. But Cassia also notices the way the Four girl leg limps as she traverses into the ballroom.
Jupiter is running from Kai — not to escape, but rather to lead him out. She hops over fallen debris and lands on her good leg, bolting back up again. Kai hazardously crashes right through the mess, nearly tripping over the barstools that litter the path to the center of the room.
Despite the lead Jupiter managed to start out with, Kai gains on her quick. Right as they're about to pass the machine, his hand swings out and frisks Jupiter by the tail end of her braid, sharply pulling her backward. The world slows to amber as Kai slams the hilt of a viciously jagged blade into Jupiter's side.
Jupiter cries out through gritted teeth. Her lips and face have lost all color. Blood dribbles from the corner of her mouth. She can't even slump down because Kai grabs her again and slams her against the machine, shaking the whole thing from the base up. The blood that pools underneath them swirls together like a ghastly red ocean — it's just a matter of who bleeds out first.
Cassia feels seconds away from sobbing. She trembles on her wobbly two feet, too weak to do anything but watch. She's lost track of Sergeant and Fioynder, and the Ones are having a furious, physical altercation — they're completely wrapped up in each other, blind to what's happening to their ally. And god, oh god, she can't find Orion anywhere. No one else can save Jupiter.
She tries to run, making it only a step before careening to the side like a flooded boat. She blinks back miserable tears — her vision feels faulty like a scratched-up, worthless telescope, and she's never felt so weak and so pathetic in her life. She can't do anything, she can't help anyone, and she can't even stop bad things from happening to people she cares about. She doesn't even know why she's here, why such a cruel deity in the skies has allowed someone so useless to exist for so long. She wishes she never opened her eyes this morning.
Cassia can't do anything but blink as Kai sneers, rocking Jupiter back into the machine.
Blink. The bright, stormy blue of Jupiter's irises fizzling grey.
Blink. The glistening point of a glass shard, being driven up into—
Kai. Fioynder stands behind Kai, a frenzied look in his eyes as he scores fissure after fissure in the ragged skin of Kai's back. Kai howls as the boy gouges into his flesh, forced to his knees. It's like watching a building crumble — the ground nearly seems to shake underneath Cassia's feet as Kai seizes sharply, paralyzed for one second, two, before finally keeling to the ground.
No longer being held up by Kai, Jupiter slumps down against the machine, leaving a vivid streak of scarlet in her wake. Her head lolls to the side, unmoving.
Jackpot sounds blare out of the machine, jubilant and manic. Chips spew out of the prize slot like confetti. Fioynder whirls around, his chest heaving up and down, grinning triumphantly. He takes in the rest of the Career's solemn, sober expressions, basking in the clattering rain of checkered chips.
"Bingo, baby! I did it — I killed him!" the boy from Five cheers with a brilliant smile, his blue eyes wide in childlike delight. The rest of his face drips with grisly red splatter. "Am I officially one of you guys now, or what?"
a/n: happy october 2nd, aka international day of nonviolence as declared by the UN. aren't we having such a lovely nonviolent day chat?
thank you ama dyl & erik for looking over this chapter! erik is my sous chef rn. call us gordon ramsay cos this is hell's kitchen.
the death toll announcement will come in the next chapter, which covers the immediate aftermath of the bloodbath! sorry to keep y'all on your toes, but have fun speculating in the meantime!
today's title is from song god save our young blood by børns ft. lana del rey.
deuces,
brookakke
