Day 3, Part 2:
"You think they found anyone?"
Nevaeh looked up from the vest in her hands. With nothing to do all day except sit around, she'd resorted to touching up her Arena uniform. Though practical, it seriously had a ways to go before she'd consider it presentable.
"I dunno," she said. "No cannons."
Ilithyia shrugged. "They're not supposed to kill them yet anyway."
"Dale."
She'd almost forgotten that Ilithyia was so keen on doing trials; the entire concept still made no sense in her head. What would they charge the captured tributes with? Simply existing? In that case, it didn't matter who they tried—the verdict should always come up guilty. If anyone asked her, she'd prefer to do the killing quickly and get it over wit. In all her years of helping her father with "business," she'd threatened and stabbed her fair share of people, usually a worthless mal bicho that'd gone over the deep end. But never once had she committed an actual murder herself, and judging by the reactions of those who had done so back home, she wasn't eager to make things complicated for herself.
Too late for that now, but it wasn't worth raising a fuss. Either way, the other tributes would have to end up dead, trial or no trial. She'd have to kill someone, whether now or in the finale.
"Oh!" Ilithyia said, digging around in her bag. She came up with the leather pouch of marbles. Even now, the little bag brought a smile to Nevaeh's face. "What if we use these to choose the judge?"
"Oh?"
The girl gently poured half of the marbles into her hand. "There are like… six colors. One of each of us. We'll randomly pick one out to decide who's judge. You know, so it's as fair as possible."
"Fair" wasn't the word that came to mind, but Nevaeh shrugged. "No me importa—I'm fine either way."
"What color do you want?" Ilithyia held the marbles up to her; they rolled around in the girl's hand, shimmering in the sunlight. "I already claimed purple."
Nevaeh chuckled. "Ooh… The orange one is really pretty. But Sos gets the red one."
Ilithyia grinned as she rolled the marbles back into the bag. "Perfect."
Nevaeh returned to her vest, adeptly running her knife under an unsightly flap of fabric until she'd fully severed it from the main body. She rubbed the scrap between her fingers; it had a circular logo. Must've been some Capitol company that paid for the advertising. But that was why she never wore clothing with logos or sold that bull in her stylish boutique. She didn't belong to anyone else but herself.
A victorious shout came from outside. This early? This had to mean success. Ilithyia leapt up and ran to the front door, waving.
Nevaeh joined her after carefully resting her work-in-progress to the side. First there was Adair, waving back at Ili. Then Sos, his face wrought with a distraught frown. Eros rounded out the back, guiding a handcuffed girl before him. The smaller height, the dark skin, the curly brown hair, tied back in two—this was none other than the little District Eleven girl.
No wonder Sos was so distraught. She figured he'd be this way no matter whom they caught. But in spite of herself, Nevaeh felt her own heart sinking too. This emotion was so unnecessary; killing in the Games was just business, nothing personal—justifiable self-defense, 'cause who didn't want to live?
But it hadn't been too long since the last time she saw a different pobrecita, similar in stature to this one, standing on Reaping stage back in District Ten. That other girl had also had dark hair and innocent eyes, shoulders slumped over as she looked towards the representatives of the Capitol. But that girl hadn't had any cause for worry, because she'd barely reached the stage when Nevaeh volunteered for her. That girl had the protection of her district, safeguarding her from the horrors of the Hunger Games.
This little one wouldn't be so fortunate.
Nevaeh bit her lip. It was one thing to fight her peers. It was a different thing to fight a child. Not once in all her years of gang-affiliated business, had she ever hurt a child. It'd been a policy of her papá to never commit violence in front of the niños.
Once the procession arrived, Sos immediately stormed to the back of the building, ignored by Ilithyia and the rest of them as they chatted in excitement, completely surrounding the pobrecita as they escorted her to the small prison cell in the corner of the room. Nevaeh gave her a single glance before following him; he was the only one she could talk to now.
"Sos!" she called.
He didn't respond, shuffling further down the dim hall.
"Dios mio," she mumbled, running to catch up to him. "Compa, we need to talk."
"Nothing to talk about." His voice was choked; he refused to face her, his expression obscured by shadow. "These are the Hunger Games. People need to die. I get it, okay?"
She grabbed his shoulder. "Mírame."
Though his head remained bowed, he complied and tilted his face up to her, staring at her with narrowed eyes, shimmering with tears.
"Yo también lo odio," she said, voice low. She didn't need the entire Capitol recognizing the extent of her own reluctance; it wouldn't be good for her popularity and future sponsorships. "Not just you."
"If Ili does… does that to her…" He winced. "I'm done. I ain't puttin' up with any of this bull anymore."
"Then we'll make sure she doesn't do that."
He let out a deep sigh. He sounded defeated. "Pero no podemos hacer nada."
"There's always something to do," she shot back. "Look, Ili's going to choose a judge by picking a random marble out of the bag."
"Great." He sighed. "So there's nothing—"
"Lemme finish." She lowered her voice again. "We just don't want Ili judging, right? All we have to do is remove her marble. Problem solved."
He bit his lip, now in thought. "But it'll be obvious if there's just five marbles in there instead of six."
"Then we'll replace it with an extra. Maybe… Adair?"
Sos frowned. "Ven."
"He's too close with Ili," she said. "They've been buddy-buddy all day. And District Seven's usually less bloodthirsty than One."
"Fine. Adair." She could feel him tremble as he glanced back down the hall. He wrung his hands, over and over. "I still don't like this. It's cheating."
"So you want Ili to chop up little Eleven alive?" She patted him on the back. "Trust me. I'll do it; everything will be fine."
"But if anything goes wrong, it's on you. I take no responsibility."
"¡Claro que sí!" She let out a wheeze. "Of course I ain't gonna let you take credit for my idea. Just act natural, okay?"
He slowly nodded. "Dale."
With every step forward, Ellis half expected to hear a second set of footsteps behind him. There wasn't one, of course. The silence pressed down on his shoulders till he was sure he'd collapse, a burden augmented by the weight of her little backpack slung over one shoulder.
She was gone.
Everything would've been fine if he hadn't led her into the mansion. It'd been his call, his decision. She'd followed him in like a sheep to the slaughter, blindly listening to him till the very end. Her trust hadn't wavered, even when the door came up locked. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd thrown a tantrum at him—it was his fault! But she'd hugged him instead; she'd thanked him though he hadn't done her a lick of good.
He trudged through the house, stopping short of the front door, where the sun shot its rays hot against his skin. His dry throat ached for water; the little bit of saliva left was barely enough to keep his mouth wet.
Maybe there was still water in the bag. He knew there wasn't; he'd searched it thoroughly, turning it inside and out. But he checked anyway. As before, all that remained was a small first-aid kit, a rubber ducky, and a canister of candies. He pulled out a candy and rolled it between his fingers. It left a sticky residue on his hand and a sick feeling in his gut. Even if it was all he had left, he didn't think he could stomach it.
He glanced once more at the fierce sun outside. His head started to feel dizzy; he'd probably collapse before he made it across the street to the general store and hotel on the other side. So he leaned against the wall and slid down until he sat on the floor. He stared out the doorway, waiting for someone to pass by and kill him too.
It was his fault that Iggy was gone. He could've saved her if he really tried. He could've told her to hide and then distracted the Careers, leading them away from her. Sure, he'd probably be dead, but she'd be well-equipped and alive. Now they were sure to kill her soon, and he was sure to die from thirst.
As he waited with his head leaned back against the wall, sounds came from outside. Some indistinct murmuring, somewhere across the street. If he cared at all about living, he'd scurry away right now before the strangers had a chance to catch him.
But this was it. The end of the line. Nowhere left for him to go. Nothing left for him to do. Even if the unknown tributes never found him, he'd still waste away, dessicated over time from the heat and dry wind.
Might as well accelerate the process.
He staggered to his feet. Just his own weight was too much; he mustered all his strength to carry the bag with him. He stepped into the sun; his head felt light. One laborious step at a time, he crossed the desert road, following the footsteps and shuffling, which seemed to come from the old hotel, whose ceiling had partially caved in.
He peeked in through the window. The Four Male stood by the front door. A backpack rested on a nearby chair; in either side pocket sat a water bottle. Water. Life, or at least a chance at life.
He knew what he had to do.
Four turned around. Ellis ducked down; he pressed himself against the wall, inching ever closer to the open back door. He'd never considered himself a thief before, but the only other thoughts in his mind were the two water bottles, glistening in the sun, promising life.
Footsteps grew closer, and then further again. He peeked in through the window; Four paced from wall to wall, from the far to the near one. All he needed was for Four to step out the front door. It didn't even have to be for long—just long enough for him to swoop in and escape through the back before Four had a chance to catch him. Sure, Four was tall and undoubtedly fast, but Ellis had the element of surprise.
Four turned back around; Ellis shunk back. His heart pounded—this was his last chance. Four's thuds waxed and waned, waxed and waned, each repetition cycling Ellis's stress levels into a new high.
Then the footsteps waned. And waned. And the thuds became crunches. Sure enough, Four had stepped out the front, his hands in his pockets, looking about the other street.
Ellis burst in like a wound up spring, suddenly released. He scrambled across the room, eyes fixed on the prize, the one thing that would save his life. His hand hooked the backpack's strap.
"Hey!"—a shout, a loud one, a fierce one, followed by a string of curses, some in an unfamiliar language. Four's steps thundered in.
Ellis grit his teeth; he commanded his body to move. He strove for the exit. His boots pounded against the floor as his heart pounded in his ears, sprinting faster than he'd ever sprinted before. He had to live; he needed to live; this was all he required to live—just to escape at this crucial moment.
Sudden force struck his side. His foot slipped; his balance flipped. The very next moment, his shoulder slammed against the floor. Sudden weight pinned his legs down, and a fist socked his jaw.
Pain. All over. His shoulder, his cheek, his legs. With a gutteral shout, he shoved blindly; he thrashed beneath the stronger boy, trying to escape. Four's next fist hit the ground, right before his eyes—the wood cracked on impact.
Four wasn't playing around. This was to the death.
Ellis tried to roll to the side; he deflected another punch. But then strong hands gripped his shoulders and slammed him against the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. He couldn't catch his breath; Four brought him down again, ramming him into the ground, over and over until Ellis' vision blurred and he choked on every breath.
The weight lifted from his legs. The grip on his shoulders released. But Ellis' bruised body hurt too much to move. He stared up as Four briefly disappeared from sight, only to return with a knife.
This was it. He'd received his original request, for someone to end him before the thirst did. He closed his pained eyes; tears still streamed from their corners. He couldn't bear to watch the knife come down. He would die before Iggy did. He would let her down one final time.
A sudden shout burst in from outside.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Navarro whirled around, hand still tightly gripping the knife. He mumbled a curse. Azolla stood in the doorway—and then she wasn't, for she now ran towards him. If he stabbed quickly, she wouldn't have a chance. But he didn't. He knew he wouldn't, because she'd get mad at him. And he hated it.
He jabbed his knife in the thief's direction. "He was trying to steal our supplies."
"Give me the knife." She extended her hand. "Now."
"You can't be serious—"
"I'm not playing with you."
He bristled. "He's a thief. Just let me kill him. You don't have to watch."
She marched over and plucked the knife from his hand. He couldn't bring himself to fight her for it, even though he'd easily beat her without a doubt. It was like his bones had turned to ice. All he could do was watch as she slid the knife into her belt and knelt beside the intruder.
"You've got to be kidding," he mumbled.
She shot him a glare and turned back to the boy. First she slipped the backpack—their backpack—off of the boy's arms; she checked his pulse and listened to his labored breathing before placing her hand against his forehead.
"He's just dehydrated," she said, reaching for a water bottle. "I'll just give him a little."
"How about none?"
She glared at him and turned her back. Without hesitation, she took the nearly empty bottle of water and poured a few drops between the Eight boy's parched lips; she helped him to his feet and placed the bottle in his hands before gently nudging him towards the door. As the boy inched towards the exit, his eyes didn't meet Navarro's burning glare—Navarro wished his glare could kill.
The door closed. Navarro grit his teeth; every hair on his arm bristled. How in the world had he just allowed that to happen? He was Navarro de Leon; he didn't answer to nobody. Yet all Azolla had to do was show up and he became as useless as a statue—what new level of pathetic-ness was this?
He cursed. "What was that?"
"What were you doing?"
"What we're supposed to be doing." His face burned. "Do you want both of us to die?"
She crossed her arms. "Of course not. I just— I can't deal with it right now. I can't."
A sudden rush of fury bubbled up his throat; he swallowed it back down. "You idiot," he spat, hands shaking. "If I hadn't stopped him, we would've had nothing. And now you're giving it all away. This isn't how you're supposed to play the game."
"That little bit won't make a difference," she said, voice surprisingly level. "Since when did you care about what people want you to do?"
"Since my life was on the line."
His heavy breaths still came out shaky; he swore everything still had a red tinge to it. But he couldn't explode. He wouldn't explode.
Because then she'd be gone.
"Your life too," he added. "You'll have to face it sooner or later."
"You don't understand."
He frowned. "Don't just dismiss me like that."
"But you just don't understand," she said, folding her arms. "I've tried to explain it, but all you ever think about is killing everything and everyone you see."
"You're being delusional," he said, with a low growl. "All you do is act like nothing's wrong. Wake up! You can't live life here like you do back home."
"So you'd rather give up your humanity?"
He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "You don't have a survival instinct."
"I survived the slums, didn't I? What do you know about survival?"
Ouch. He pressed his lips together; oh, the things he wanted to call her! He'd fought many a man over less. But he couldn't. He couldn't do it to her. He couldn't do that to himself.
Her expression softened once more. "On the streets, you could choose to fight everyone for supplies. But that's just asking for a whole lotta future trouble." She gave him a weak smile. "Sometimes, you need mercy to survive."
He blinked. He opened his mouth; nothing he wanted to say made sense. So he shut it again.
"I'll go back to finding cacti," she said, turning back towards the door. "We'll be okay. Trust me."
He didn't believe for a moment that they'd be okay, as long as she kept up this oh-so-kind front. She could delude herself all she wanted—in the end, only one tribute could be left standing. Yet somehow, he wanted to believe her, that she knew what she was talking about. And he hated it.
He trusted her anyway.
The jail cell was cloaked in shadow, even though it had to be late in the afternoon by now. A small rectangular cutout near the ceiling permitted in a window of diffused light, laminated across Iggy's cheek, a reassuring touch from the sun, however faint it might've been.
She rose from the dirt ground, where she'd been sitting with legs crossed. A hesitant hand closed around one of the solid metal bars and found it oddly cool, guarded from the heat by the dimness of the unlit hallway.
When the Two Male had first locked her in this cell, she'd circled the room, pressing against the walls, shaking the bars—anything that had a remote chance of helping her escape! Now she knew better. If there were a way out of here, it would be using the cutout, but she couldn't even reach it if she stood on her tippity-toes.
No way out. This was the end, wasn't it?
She drew her tear-stained face close to the metal. Though the open door at the near end of the hallway, she could occasionally see the Careers pass by, usually talking to someone and laughing as if all was right with the world. The chatter was a faint rumble here in the cell, almost reminiscent of lunch during training.
The Two Female stopped in the doorway, back facing the hall. Her voice rose above the rest.
"I think it's time to pick a judge."
Iggy pulled her arms in and backed away from the bars, as if they'd protect her from the pack of wolves. Last time Iggy had seen her, the Career girl lodged a fearsome axe into Mati's chest. He'd fallen, just like that, with nothing but a sudden scream cut short by his instant death, leaving nothing but the drops of dark blood that'd dripped from the Career's axe.
Would that be her own fate too? To die in this desert, far, far away from home or anyone that could comfort her, cut down by a brutal girl and her two bloody axes?
She wanted to go home. Even if it was just temporarily, so she could say Goodbye to everyone. Everything had happened too quickly; in the Justice Building, as the Tree Branch mothers surrounded her, blessing her with the essence of the Tree Herself—she hadn't realized it was Goodbye. The final one.
"Drumroll…"
Rapid thudding of boots against floorboards rumbled down the hall, an earthquake to her soul.
"It's a green one, so our judge is… Adair!"
Clapping, with an occasional cheer. Their merriness further pushed her head underwater until she physically felt unable to breathe.
Iggy knew that death wasn't the end. Once her physical breath disappeared, her life force would return to Nature, eternally reunited with the universal spirit of the Mother Tree. No longer would she suffer, instead forever existing in bliss.
But what about caring for Mother Tree? The rest of the days that'd been promised to her, where she'd grow up and become the chosen representative of her family's Branch? Her dreams of growing old around the tree and someday having a family of her own? All her life, she'd been trained for these moments, these purposes; her life had a destiny and that destiny wasn't to die in the Hunger Games.
She wasn't ready to go. Not now. Not here.
She wiped her eyes. She'd thought she'd run out of tears. She gulped for air; not a breath seemed to reach her lungs. A shiver ran from her head to her toe and back to her head, over and over, as a stifled cry rose in her throat—she didn't want to die!
Firm footsteps approached.
She swallowed, trying to control the tears streaming down her face. It was the Ten Male. His muscular figure blocked out most of the doorway; he held a can in his hand and handcuffs dangled from his belt. As he loomed ever closer, she scrambled back into the corner, where she pulled her legs up in a ball and tucked her head closer to her body, barely daring to take her eyes off the ground.
Then Ten sat down. On the floor. On the opposite side of the bars. He reached in through the bars, extending the can to her.
"Here," he said, voice much gentler than she'd anticipated. "You must be hungry. It's not much, but it's what I got."
Iggy wasn't sure if she was hungry, but she shakily accepted the can, which contained a bit of canned beans. "Th-thank you."
He smiled back. A sad smile, hanging below his gentle eyes. "I'm Sostonio, but call me Sos. And you are…"
She sucked in a breath and dared to reply. "Yggdrasil. B-But everyone calls me Iggy." Her voice picked up a little. She knew he was a Career. A big and scary Career. But she wasn't terrified of him. Somehow, his presence nearby made her feel safer.
"Alright, Iggy," he said, wringing his hands. "I'm here to tell you what's gonna happen."
"O-Okay." She sighed. No need to make this hard for him too, though she wondered why he looked so stressed too.
He cleared his throat and continued. "They're gonna put you on trial. Ilithyia—District Two—will be the prosecutor, and I'll defend you."
Trial. Prosecutor. The words felt vaguely familiar, yet she couldn't remember the last time she ever heard them. She scrunched her forehead. "Trial?"
"Sí. Ilithyia will give a speech explaining why we should kill you, and I'll try to convince them that we should let you go."
"Then…"
"District Seven will decide." He pressed his lips together into a grim line. "Does that make sense?"
She nodded slowly. She'd never heard of a process like this before. Maybe the loyal districts had adopted this weird custom from the Capitol.
"Bien. I wish I could do more for you, but there ain't nothin' else I can do."
"Oh, no," she said. "You've already done so much." With everything in her, she gave him a weak smile. "Thank you."
He shook his head and reached for the padlock, a key in his hand. "Please don't thank me. I'm… I'm very sorry." The key released the lock; he swung the door open. He took the handcuffs from his belt. "I really don't want to, but I'm gonna have to put these cuffs on your hands. Behind your back."
She didn't like the handcuffs. The unnatural metal had rubbed harshly against her skin when they'd captured her, leaving sore rings around her wrist. But she put her hands together behind her back anyway and turned them towards him. He was doing his best. She didn't want to make his job worse.
"Thanks. Sorry," he said, snapping the cuffs shut. The metal pressed cold against her wrists. "And please don't try to run. The District Two guy will be ready with a spear."
His gentle hand guided her forward. The sounds from the other Careers intensified with every step, first out of the jail cell, then towards the courtroom. Her ears picked up Two girl's—no, Ilithyia's—voice above the rest; it was a cold wave over her heart. Only with Sos' support did she pick up her foot and place it down in front of the other, over and over again.
Then she entered the room. An elevated desk at one end looked down on the rest of the room, especially two tables in the middle of the room, behind one of which Ilithyia stood, excitement dancing in her eyes. As Sos guided her to the other table, she glanced at the benches in the back, where the other Careers were. Big mistake. The District One boy was stoic, without a hint of visible emotion. District Two boy twirled a spear in hand with an easy-going smile; she recoiled. District Seven—Adair—took a brief sip of water before heading for the elevated desk. Only the Ten girl gave her a sympathetic look before quickly looking away.
She decided that she liked Sos and his district partner, even though she didn't know the other girl's name. And at the same time, she decided she didn't like the other four hanging around the room, all watching her. Especially not the Two boy with his spear or Ilithyia with her grin.
She didn't want to die. She wasn't ready to die.
A rush of terror shot through her; her muscles stiffened and she found herself pressing close to Sos. His hand rested on her shoulder; he gave her an encouraging pat.
Adair sat down behind the elevated desk at the end of the room. He glanced around; he quickly stepped back down and returned with a hammer from the supply pile. With the hammer raised, he gave everyone a cheeky grin, one that Iggy would've shriveled under had it not been for Sos' secure presence beside her—before bringing it down three times.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"We now commence the trial of Yggdrasil Kane, District Eleven Female. Ilithyia, you may begin."
As he sat behind the defendant's bench, Sostonio felt as if he might explode at any moment, even as he kept a reassuring hand on Iggy's shoulder to keep her calm, a silent promise that she would be okay, that she would make it out alive.
He knew there was a good chance the promise would be a lie.
Ilithyia had told them that the trials would be simple, that the prosecution and defense would each speak once before the judge decided on a verdict. But he'd never seen a trial before—what if he botched the whole deal and got Iggy killed? For heaven's sake, he could do his absolute best and completely nail it and there'd still be a good chance she might die.
Perhaps he could've done something earlier when his allies were all still here in this room, when he'd first gone to talk to Iggy. He could've let her go; he could've claimed she escaped. But every soul under the sun knew that Sostonio Caspiano was a darn terrible liar, and he wasn't about to push his luck more than he already had with letting the Eight boy go free. If he could bear the consequences alone, he'd have no qualms about "betraying" his team to save Iggy, but the moment he slipped up, Nevaeh would come under fire too—and there ain't no way he was fixin' to betray his beloved district like that.
He took a deep breath. Family always came first. And Nevaeh was family. Same for Snot, and Nini, and everyone else waiting back home. As much as he wanted to protect this little girl who'd already come to see him as her protector, there was only so much he could do before he lost the war along with the battle.
"We now commence the trial of the District Eleven Female. Ilithyia, you may begin."
He watched with bated breath as Ili stood to her feet, a grin on her face. She twirled around to look at everyone before brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face.
"Thank you, Your Honor," she said, trying to hold in a laugh. "Woah, this is so formal."
Adair raised an eyebrow. He straightened his back and pressed his lips together in exaggerated stiffness. "As it should be, Ms. Aella," he said. "Now, if you'll proceed…"
"Of course, Your Honor." She rolled her eyes at him and then paused with her eyes playfully locked on him, as if daring him to do something about it.
With every passing moment, Sos felt his blood pressure rising, as if his veins had become the tubing of a pressure washer. The two seemed to be role-playing some game instead of deciding a person's fate—couldn't they hold off their jokes for now?
"Fine then," Ilithyia said, after Adair did nothing but shrug. "Here we go." She cleared her throat. "It is my honor to be the prosecutor for the first trial of the first ever Hunger Games court, and I firmly believe that we should kill the captured tribute."
The words lingered in the air like a foul taste in Sos' mouth. He should've said something earlier against this "trial" concept; he hadn't realized they were serious until it'd been too late to uproot the idea from Ilithyia's head. Now he realized he never had a chance. She seemed to be having the time of her life.
She continued. "Why, you ask? After all, she's just a child, right? The youngest tribute in the Arena this year. But if you really think about it, it really doesn't matter at all.
"See, no matter what district you're from, we're all really here for the same reason. We volunteered because there's nothing as prestigious as the title of 'Victor.' Because there's no thrill like the thrill of the most glorious competition in the entire country. We're here to win.
"So it doesn't matter if the competition is big or small. This is what we came to do. We're going to kill every last one of them. That's why I wanted to do these trials in the first place, since we might as well have some fun and spice things up. No matter which one of us wins, we'll be remembered for one of the most iconic Star Alliances in Hunger Games history."
Sos bristled. He reminded himself she wasn't a bad person. Very few people were. She'd just been brought up in a whole different world, one where human life seemed to lose all value once taken by the Capitol, where the Hunger Games were treated as an event to be celebrated, not an external threat to be guarded against.
He knew he shouldn't be angry with her. But he still found his hands balled into fists beneath the table. Iggy's life was more than just a disposable pawn for anyone's entertainment.
"Well, only if we kill her. We won't be as iconic if we don't kill anyone. That's why the Capitol loves us, right?" With a contented smile, she looked around at the room. "I trust Your Honor to choose the right option. I rest my case."
As soon as she sat down, Eros applauded. He gave her a slap on the back, all smiles as well. Sostonio bit his lip, cracking down on the anger rumbling in his gut; he had to be self-controlled, no matter how he felt. So he turned his eyes away from the Twos. He knew he'd lose it otherwise.
"Now, for the defense," Adair said. "Sostonio, when you're ready."
When he'd initially agreed to defend the little girl, Neveah had warned him against being too honest about how he felt. "They ain't like us," she had said. "You gotta sell it to them on their terms. In a way that they can understand." He'd done his best too, to come up with a rationale the others could understand, even if it meant playing devil's advocate.
Now he'd see if it'd work. Or maybe everything had been for naught and he'd just been fighting the wind.
Sostonio rose to his feet. He glanced down at Iggy, shaking in her seat. She couldn't speak; she had no voice here. He looked back at Nevaeh, who'd pressed her lips together, face colder than stone. She wouldn't speak up, too jaded by her life under her druglord father's influence. The responsibility fell to him. It weighed on his shoulders, a visceral burden pressing down on him invisibly with all the force of a tractor.
He cleared his throat; he folded his hands to keep them from shaking. He swallowed the disgust that rose from his stomach and forced a neutral smile on his features. No matter how angry he was, antagonizing the rest of 'em wouldn't do him any good.
"Thank you, Your Honor."
His own voice sounded a lot shakier than he'd hoped to be. He found himself watching the others' reactions, almost expecting one of them to leap up at any moment and call him out for violating courtroom etiquette—'cause he was about as lost as a cactus in the Arctic. Not a single frown, to his relief.
"It's my honor to defend the District Eleven Female, Yggdrasil Kane."
He paused on her name. If they were about to sentence her to death, she at least deserved the dignity of being more than a district and gender.
"The prosecution made an excellent point regarding our purpose here. But I want to take us back to her last statement—that this is why the Capitol loves us. It's true; we're their stars. But not just because we can kill."
The words felt foreign in his mouth. They stumbled out unnaturally; no matter how he tried, he couldn't present them as his when their very premise disgusted him. But this was his audience, and if he wanted any hope of saving her, he needed to speak to their perspective.
"Anyone can kill. I'm sure you'd discover that for yourself if you ran into the Fours or the Twelves by yourself without bringing a weapon with you. No, we're the stars of the Hunger Games because we know how to put on a show.
"This trial, a brilliant idea by our own Ilithyia Aella, is a clear example," he said, gesturing towards her. "It takes something as common as hunting and transforms it into something new and exciting, something with clearer stakes and higher intensity."
He felt his muscles going rigid, his face starting to burn. His soul wilted further with every successive sentence, but he gritted his teeth. Too late to turn back now.
"But in order to have stakes, you have to have risk. In order to have intensity, you have to have obstacles. And Yggdrasil Kane is neither of them.
"The Capitol wants a show, and we're going to give them a show. So instead of killing the defenseless girl now, we should let her go. Give her a chance to become a threat. I'm sure the Capitol will appreciate it."
No more. He wouldn't let himself go further down this ridiculous line of reasoning; it was utter foolishness and he knew it. When he glanced back, he found Nevaeh nodding—he'd done well, as she'd recommended. Yet he found himself with his mouth open awkwardly, unwilling to proceed but also hesitant to leave it like this.
Because then Adair would make his decision, and then Iggy could die.
"Thank you," the Seven boy said.
The world had moved on while Sos froze in indecision, yet every last drop of indignation remained trapped in his stomach, restrained from explosion by the constraints of playing devil's advocate.
"Now that both parties have given their positions—"
"Wait," Sostonio said. He ignored Nevaeh's raised eyebrow. "Could I add one more thing?"
Adair looked to Ilithyia and then the rest of the room. "Why not? Have at it."
Sos took a deep breath. His hands shook uncontrollably; his heartbeat rang in his ears. Perhaps he was stupid for attempting this, but he'd rather be stupid than betray his own convictions.
He couldn't swoop in and save the girl, even if Adair decided to kill. It'd jeopardize Nevaeh. But if they were about to kill Iggy, he couldn't just stand by and let them do it devil-may-care, laughing and cracking jokes. He'd make them understand the gravity of what they were doing.
"Ladies and gents," he said, turning in a slow circle until he'd seen every single one of his allies. "How do y'all feel today? Look at her. She's helpless. She's scared. She's stuck. What goes through your head? Do you feel an urge to kill her?
"Human beings were created with a protective instinct," he said, strength building in his voice. "When we see someone in trouble, we naturally want to help them. That's why 'good parents' are the ones that care for and sacrifice for their children, and your best friend is someone that won't reject you when you need their help.
"Think about your best friend. Now imagine that someone's picking on them. I'm sure all y'all wouldn't hesitate to support them."
Sos could feel Nevaeh's disapproval through the air, no matter how hard he tried to avoid looking at her. But right now, he didn't care. He was beyond worrying about her approval. And with the hot air rushing up his throat, her disapproval was about to get worse.
He raised his voice even more. "So how can you look at this girl and only think about killing her? Does she deserve death just because you've never met her before?"
"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel sympathy for her. I dare you!" His face felt hotter than the sun; his hands re-formed the fists he'd tried so hard to unmake. "Look at me. Can you do it?"
Ilithyia averted her gaze, along with a few of the others.
The bonfire in his gut subsided into smoking coals. He tingled all over from the sudden rush; he breathed deeply, as if he'd spewed it all in a single breath and not a bit of oxygen remained in his lungs.
"I hope you can't do it," he said, voice softer now. "Because if you can, I don't know how human you still are. If you want to sell your humanity to the devil for five minutes of fame, be my guest. But I refuse."
Deathly silence stifled the room. All he could hear was the sound of his own labored breathing. With nothing else to say, he rested his hands on the desk.
"I rest my case."
He hadn't fully sat down before a wave of emotion crashed over him. Unsteadiness crept into his breath; he covered his eyes as he blinked back tears.
A hand rubbed his shoulder. "I swear, you're such an idiot," Nevaeh whispered in his ear. "But you said what had to be said."
He nodded. No regrets. But now he'd done all he could do, and the rest was out of his hands.
He hoped it'd been enough.
Adair twiddled his thumbs behind the podium. Finally, the Ten boy had finished. He glanced between the Tens and the Twos, each district pair gathered behind a different table. Ever since Sos began his impassioned rant, a heaviness had fallen over the room. A valiant effort, it truly was. But a hopeless one as well. It didn't take much thinking to imagine how Sos' speech would be received in the Capitol.
"Thank you," he said. He couldn't help but smirk when the Eleven girl immediately tensed at the sound of his voice. "I reckon it's time for the verdict."
He noticed Sos wiping his eyes. Pathetic. First the boy let a tribute get away; now he'd devolved into a mess over a tribute that'd been doomed from the start. Clearly, the Tens were the weak link of the alliance this year, even if Nevaeh's bravado tried to enforce an image of being on equal footing with the historically dominant Twos. Who'd been the one to acquiesce after the acid rain incident? Not Ilithyia.
But their precarious position was an opening for him. Maybe he'd reconsider his decision.
"Y'know, I'd been dead set on the guilty verdict from the start," he said, fishing around in his pocket. He emerged with his token, a lucky silver denarius—'cause not once had Luck ever let him down. "But maybe, I'll give you a chance."
Sos' eyes widened. Adair winked at him, knowing that it wouldn't be long until he firmly had Ten in his hands.
Adair stepped down from the judge's bench. He extended the coin to the tribute on trial, displaying the engraving of Coriolanus Snow on one side and the Panemian seal on the other.
"Heads or tails?"
Eleven glanced up at him uncertainly; she shrunk further back into Sos' side. Poor little thing. This all wasn't preferable, but the whims of fate had spoken, and who was he to argue?
"Don't be shy; make your pick." He smirked. "It's just your life in the balance."
The little girl's breathing was irregular, as if she had to remind herself to breathe. Her eyes were so wide; she looked like a wax statue. "T-Tails."
"You sure?"
"Y-Yes," she choked out. "Sir."
"Alright," he said, as he returned to the judge's bench. "May Lady Luck shine on you."
He flicked the coin. It twirled up in the air with a pling, his favorite sound in the world. He marveled again at its million little flashes of light as it reached the crest of its flight, hovering for the slightest second before it barreled down towards his open palm, where he smoothly flipped it onto the back of his other hand.
"It's tails."
Ilithyia didn't understand the wave of relief that washed over her. Sos' speech had been like a chisel, repeatedly slammed her over the head until she couldn't even bring herself to lift her gaze, to look him in the eye. She herself knew better than anyone what it meant to defend a friend. In doing so, she'd put Athanasios Denzino in the hospital, clearing the way for Eros to volunteer.
So when Adair proclaimed his verdict, chosen by fate itself, it felt as though the weight had fallen off her shoulders, that she now had permission again to breathe, to smile.
Nevaeh burst into clapping; Ilithyia joined in, never one to pass up a chance for celebration of any kind. She watched as the Ten girl pulled Sos into a hug, as tears of relief poked from the corner of his eyes. Her heart burned with warmth at their warm smiles.
Wasn't she supposed to want Yggdrasil dead?
The ruling was completely contrary to the spirit of the Games. They were supposed to be all about fierce competition, about fighting with all her might to dominate and crush every obstacle that dared lift itself against her. Such were the ways of District Two, the dreams and aspirations of every child born in the Masonry District—the show of strength that wowed all of Panem.
She wasn't allowed to celebrate.
Heart torn, she stepped out of the chatter-filled room and into the hallway, where she stared at the jail cell where the Eleven girl had been held. Maybe the trials were a mistake. They dragged out the process, giving the competition more time to live and more chances to escape. They minimized the dramatic fights she knew the Capitol loved; the fierce combat that always ended in bloody, glorious death.
If they'd never done the trial, the Eleven girl would've been dead. And as confusing as it was, she was glad Eleven wasn't dead. She was glad to see Nevaeh celebrate, to see Sos relieved. So it'd been good that she'd insisted on the trials.
She could hear the rest of her friends talking, now even laughing. She wanted nothing more to join them, yet her feet held her still, reinforced by the whispers of her trainers back home, who'd drilled it into her head that to spare was to disappoint.
The floorboards creaked behind her; someone had come to join her. She assumed it was the person that'd supported her most in the past twenty-four hours.
"Eros?"
"Try again." Nevaeh's voice seemed to shimmer. "Are you doin' okay?"
Ilithyia's lips curled up in their familiar grin. "Of course!" she said. "Congratulations."
"That goes to Sos," Nevaeh said. "This entire thing was his idea. I didn't do nothin'."
"But you look happy about it."
Nevaeh raised an eyebrow. "So do you."
She sighed. "It's all so confusing."
"Felicidades, ain't we all." Nevaeh came up beside her. "Everything's random anyway. No rhyme or reason."
"I don't like it."
"But we all gotta deal with it." The Ten girl's smile had disappeared, now replaced by pensive solemnity. "Somehow."
Ilithyia hadn't forgotten her conversation with Eros, his reminder that the two of them were the power team, the original team, the one that would eventually steamroll the rest of 'em. But having Nevaeh at her side again set her heart at ease.
"Y'know," Ili said. "I'm glad we put last night in the past, hermana."
"Sí, sí. Me too, hermana."
It'd been about half an hour after the trail when Iggy was finally released.
She stood on the doorstep of the courtroom as the sun prepared to set. She tried not to look at the dark stains on the stone, surely the only remains of a previous tribute. That's how she might've ended up, had the coin landed with Snow's head facing up.
"Stay safe." Sos waited behind her in the doorway. His haggard eyes, soft yet exhausted, were fixed on her. But it wasn't happiness. Just relief.
"I will," she said. "Thanks so much. For everything." She knew his decision to help her would have consequences, that he'd already greatly complicated things for his mentors in the Capitol. And he'd done it for her. That, in itself, was worth her thanks.
He shook his head. "Please, don't. I'm sorry I can't do more. You'll need water and food and… I just can't do anything else for you."
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Just in the past hour, she'd grown accustomed to his secure presence, used to clinging to him when the other Careers scared her out of her wits. Not this would be the last time. "You've already done so much. Thank you."
"It was the only right thing to do." His voice was solemn.
Carefully watching her step, she stepped down onto the gravel road. She turned around, giving him a reluctant wave. "Bye bye."
"Adios," he said. "I hope… I hope we won't see each other again."
"Me too." She didn't like that. But it was true.
She took an uncertain step away from the courthouse towards the sunset. She glanced back; he still watched from the doorway, bathed in orange glow. She'd miss him, even though he came from District Ten. If they'd somehow met outside the Arena, he would've been her friend.
After a few paces, she looked back again, just in time to see him disappear back inside and shut the door. Just like that, she was back to square one. No, even further back than square one—she'd at least had a first aid kit when she'd escaped the Bloodbath, following Ramb's instructions. Now she had nothing. No supplies, no direction, no bearing of where she was.
No, not nothing.
She had her life, and life was a gift. She had her health; Sos had given her some food, and it would keep her going for another day or two.
And she had hope. She'd misjudged them, the Careers. Sure, they were all huge and strong, trained to kill at a moment's notice. But they weren't all bad. Even though Nature seemed to have abandoned her, there were still good people to help her, even amidst the most inhumane and evil game on the planet.
She could already imagine Ellis' joy when she reunited with him. She'd tell him the story of how she'd emerged alive from the wolves' den; she could almost hear his cheery chuckle.
All she had to do now was find him, and all would be well.
As the two explored the old building, Clarke stepped closely behind Zirconia, who held the flashlight. The floorboards creaked beneath their feet, the only sound in this deserted place. Creepy? For sure. But nothing like a little fear to get the blood pumping, right?
She'd be more at ease if she had a weapon of her own. Her crushed hand made it near impossible for her to fight with anything too cumbersome for a one-handed grip, ruling out most improvised weapons. It rendered her defenseless should a muttation attack, harmless should they have to fight another alliance, the first to go should her own group run out of water and need to prioritize.
It made her weak. And Clarke Brioche had no patience for her own weakness.
"Ugh, there's nothing here but dusty ol' antiques." Zirconia kicked at an old chair. One of its four leg snapped out of its socket; the whole thing crumpled pathetically on the floor. "Dusty ol' broken antiques."
Clarke picked up the leg with her good arm, glad for Zirconia's company. It made the voices in her head just a little less potent. "It could be a bat."
"But we still need a ball."
"That's what tribute heads are for." Clarke grinned. "Preferably the Star Alliance. You can do a surprising lot of damage with this thing."
Zirconia cocked her head. "How would you know?"
She winked. "I've got some experience. Whacking bastards, if you know what I mean."
The Twelve girl burst out laughing; Clarke couldn't help but laugh as well. Finding the Twelves had been the best possible thing that could've happened to her. And to discover that no, they hadn't abandoned her, they hadn't tried to hide from her—they were still the team they promised to be back in training!
Not that she and Virginia couldn't function as a team, but Clarke preferred lively vivacious Zirconia to frowny goody-two-shoes Virginia.
"Can you use it with one hand?" Zirconia asked.
Clarke extended it to her. "You take it then."
"I already have a knife."
"You're going to reject my present?"
Zirconia clutched her heart. "Oh my goodness, dear Clarke. How could I ever repay you for this generous gift? Of course I'll accept this… this bastard-whacking stick!"
Clarke poked her in the ribs with the chair leg. "Oh, please. Stick with your knife."
"Stick with your knife?"
She snorted. "Leg it go."
"Now look who's talking."
"You, obviously." Clarke rolled her eyes. "But really, I need some kind of weapon. Can't be relying on y'all to fight for me."
"I'm sure we'll find something…" The Twelve girl spun around, shining her flashlight into all the little corners of the room. "Worst case, you use my knife and I'll hit 'em over the head."
"You sure?"
"Four is more than three; I'm pretty sure."
"I don't know…" Clarke smirked. "Three's a pretty big number."
"Now you shut up." Zirconia laughed.
She shone the flashlight at an open doorway, but the darkness only continued. The downward sloping ceiling inside pointed towards a stairway down.
"I dare you to go down there."
Clarke stared into the blackness. Even she hadto admit that the idea of wandering into dark basements in the Arena was less than appealing.
"You're chicken."
"Then why did you dare me instead of going down yourself? Sounds like someone's scared."
"Aw nah," Zirconia said. "You ain't turning this on me. No way I'm going down first."
"Sure you are." Clarke peered in. It didn't actually go down too far; she could see the ground from here. "Fine. I'll start down. But you come with me."
"Of course!"
With the Twelve girl behind her, Clarke took a step, and then another, always checking to make sure Zirconia had kept up with her, smirking all the while. The two only had a few steps left to go when she grabbed Zirconia and pushed the girl in front of her.
"Hey!" Zirconia yelled. The girl's foot slipped; she lost her balance. But she grabbed Clarke too, and the two tumbled down together.
They thumped down onto the dirt floor below. Clarke grinned. "Told you you'd go down first. You're okay, right?"
"Oh, you f—"
"Perfect. No harm done." Clarke laughed. Zirconia scrambled to her feet and gave her a good kick in the shins, but Clarke didn't mind. It was a fair price. "Now what's down here?"
A quick look around with the flashlight revealed nothing but dirt walls and a few old burlap sacks. Turned out it was nothing but a slightly fancier cellar. Still no weapon for her. Just more weakness.
"Shucks," Clarke said. "Back up it is."
She sighed as she trudged up the stairs. Still no weapons, or supplies, or anything. The tiny voice in the back of her head reminded her that as fun as this all was, she had to find some way to contribute to the group. It'd only be so long before they'd all get tired of her and get rid of her—wasn't that the way life worked?
But what options did she have with a crushed hand?
They'd just stepped out from the basement when a light beeping came from outside. Beeping. Clarke sprinted for the door, expectation leaping in her heart. How much better could things get—first she found Zirconia and Zeph; now they'd received a gift? A District Nine tribute with sponsors was harder to find than a decent Peacekeeper.
She plucked the parachute out of the air before it had a chance to reach the ground; her heart leapt at the large number nine on the side of the box. With her useless arm, she held the box down as she tore off the tape with her other.
Inside laid two metal gloves, flickering under the flashlight. Gauntlets. Zirconia cheered, but it sounded distant in Clarke's ear. Not only had she received a gift—she'd received a weapon, and a fitting one at that! She blinked. She half expected it all to disappear, yet it was there before her eyes and there was no denying it.
With glee, she slipped one over her wounded hand. Never mind that some of her fingers didn't want to slip into the fingers of the metal glove—now her entire arm was a club.
Clarke Brioche wasn't useless anymore. Now she could fight. And fight she would.
Zeph stared at the last dying embers of the fire they'd set up in their temporary camp, a hidden corner in this maze of streets and alleyways. The air was oddly silent, now that Clarke and Zirconia had run off. The sun had set; light was dangerous now. But half of his heart couldn't help but enjoy the sentimental moment, to wait with the coals as they grew cold and the flames all disappeared. Not to mention how the temperature seemed to flip on its head the moment the sun disappeared. Now he was glad for the long sleeves and thick vest. The bandana that protected his neck from the sun during the day now insulated him from the chilly night wind.
Across from him, Virginia sat on a boulder, her shoulders squared, her posture straight as always, with her hands neatly folded in her lap. She stared at the coals, so still she could've been a wax figure.
Apparently she was the sole reason Clarke was still alive, huh? Zeph couldn't say he was surprised in the slightest. Though he'd only spoken with her briefly in training, he remembered her hesitation in their short exchange, the deep creases in her head as they'd skirted around the cruel reality that survival meant killing someone else.
Now it all made sense, why he and ZIrconia had seen Clarke run off with Virginia during the bloodbath. Clarke hadn't worked out another deal under their noses; no, she'd been good as dead until Virginia mercifully saved her from the wreckage. He figured Six girl's death likely had a role in it too. Saving someone else was a surefire way to earn their loyalty, at least temporarily.
He gave her a wry grin. "How's it been? The past few days."
"It's been fine," she said. "Nothing extraordinary for the Hunger Games." She nodded politely, though her voice was about as warm as the frigid wind. "I'd forgotten that you and Clarke were allies."
"Aye," he said.
"How did you decide on allying?" she said, timbre reminiscent of rich-people tea parties. He'd never participated in one himself, but on many occasions, he and Zirconia had had the pleasure of taking advantage of the distraction for their own purposes.
He didn't blame her, though. A black cloud seemed to hover over her head at all times, an unpleasant addition to her regular, composed persona. It was probably the best she could do to carry on a polite conversation.
"It was Zirconia's idea, actually," he said. "She saw Clarke whacking up a training dummy and figured she'd be a fun ally."
"Huh." The Eight girl pressed her lips together. "I mean, that makes sense. Zirconia is a more intuitive person, from what I can tell."
He chuckled. "Sure is. Drives me off my rocker sometimes, but I return the favor and call it even."
"How have you been, for the past few days?"
"Fine, fine. Just stayin' away from people and everything's been fine. And y'all? Had any run-in's?"
She blinked. "Just… the Five boy."
He raised an eyebrow. "Didn't he die?"
"Yeah." She gulped. "We killed him." She sucked in a quick breath and slowly released it, her face now pale, her brow now furrowed. "I killed him." Her voice wasn't cold anymore. No, it was just numb. "B-But anyways—what was Clarke like in training?"
He knew better than to press her on it. Her entire angle in the Capitol had been the underdog, the delicate girl that now did her best to become a fighter, and she couldn't afford for her image to shatter.
Not that he and Zirconia didn't have images to keep up themselves. They'd just gotten used to keeping up images long before they volunteered.
"She was a whole lot of fun," he said, playing along. "For Zirconia, at least. I thought I had my work cut out for me just wrangling Zirconia—now there were two of 'em."
The tension across her face eased, just a bit. He was glad for that.
"You sure you good?"
"Of course," she said quickly, though he could see the conflict all over her face. "Thanks for asking."
"Don't worry about it." He gave her a warm smile. "You're not going insane, okay? It's normal and human to feel this way."
She brushed a stray hair out of her face; he caught her briefly wiping her eye along the way. A petite nod made up for her silence otherwise.
There really was a time for everything. A time to steal, a time to buy. A time to fight, a time to comply. A time would come for violence, he knew, though he and Zirconia had been fortunate to avoid the worst of it so far, but that time wasn't now.
This was the time for compassion.
On watch again, Eros paced outside the front door, kicking at pebbles as he went. He glanced up at the moon. How much longer until his shift was over? Now he understood why all the Hunger Games commentators came on late at night. There was nothing else interesting to show. Though he had to admit—part of him was glad that those commentators weren't getting any more sleep than he was. After a long day of hunting, waiting here in the dark was the last thing he wanted to do.
He wondered what they had to say about the day's dealings, from their hunt to the trial, culminating in the surprise coin toss that had landed in the Eleven girl's favor. Perhaps other events had happened as well, ones he'd have no way of knowing.
What he'd give to have that information! When he'd left in the morning with Sostonio and Adair, Ili and Nevaeh still hadn't been on speaking terms—yet they'd run out together to welcome the three of them back from the hunt, as if nothing had gone wrong between them.
Odd, it was. Unexpected. Almost mildly frustrating, if only because it had messed up his idea of how the Games would go. He hadn't been surprised when they started bickering; it'd been almost inevitable, with two strong personalities together in the room—he'd accounted for it in his game plan, hence why he bothered to chat with Ili in the night, just to ensure the survival of at least their own working relationship.
Though he couldn't deny he enjoyed her company too.
He gave the next pebble an exceptionally hard kick. He smiled as it flew up in a low arc before plunking to the ground, nearly out of sight in the darkness.
Footsteps came from around the corner; Sos must've ambled over. The man's tread was heavy enough to be heard in a mile radius. Eros wouldn't usually mind the guy. He seemed nice enough, if not a little out of place in this setting. But that in itself made the guy a threat here. Eros couldn't afford to take his eyes off the prize, couldn't let his guard down, no matter who else was here with him,
"Hey," Sostonio said, stepping into the firelight. He yawned. "Anything up here?"
"Nah. Nothing but me and the pebbles here." Eros kicked another one; this one landed in the fire; it gave off a small puff of smoke.
The Ten boy nodded with concern in his eyes. "You look tired," he said. "Is everything alright?"
"Nothing to worry about." Eros chuckled, a little unnerved. He didn't like how Ten seemed to always notice him at his lows. "Some things didn't go as planned; that's all."
"That's always rough. I'm sorry."
Eros stared, a little caught off guard. Then he snorted. If Ten had known that he'd been anticipating the fall of the Star Alliance, Eros was sure there'd be a lot less sympathy. Though he couldn't say he disliked the sentiment. No one else ever gave him this kind of attention, not genuinely.
Sostonio gave him a funny look. "What's so funny."
"Didn't expect that response," he said with an easy-going chuckle, hoping to set the guy at ease. "But I'm just tired."
Eros had to end this conversation as soon as possible, at least for now, while his body was tired and his mind wasn't as sharp, easy pickings for anyone trying to slip under his skin.
"Why don't we switch. You wait here with the fire; I'll go watch the back."
Sostonio didn't reply. Eros was grateful for it—grateful for it all, really. There was something heartwarming about the guy and the way he spoke. But enough was enough, and the Hunger Games were the Hunger Games.
He hurried into the darkness, around the perimeter of the courtroom, towards the back door of their base. As day passed after day, it only became more and more important that he stay alert, stay detached, stay prepared for anything or anyone.
No vulnerabilities allowed.
A/N Y'all can thank Goldie (goldie031), Iggy's submitter, for this update. I had to get it done before she left for the weekend. XD
So we have another deathless chapter! I wonder how long this streak will last.
I'd love to know y'all's thoughts!