CHAPTER XXX: AFTERMATH

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STAGE ONE: CATALYST
an event that precipitates great change.

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Kieran Locke • District One Male

The Palazzo at the Venetian / July 8th, 12:05 AM

Just as Kieran's about to bring the column on the outer-District girl one more time, someone slams into him, knocking him askew with the strength of a rocket.

Panic flares in his chest, until he catches a glimpse of striking blonde hair. Then, the feeling turns darker, more bitter. Reverie. Of course it's fucking Reverie!

"What the fuck?!" Kieran curses, trying to recover from stumbling. He roughly shoves Reverie off and levels his column at her, readying to strike. "What the fuck is your problem?!"

Honestly, there's probably more than he can count! Kieran didn't think she'd be so bold as to attack him out the gate, while they were surrounded by both allies and enemies alike. But Reverie's certainly done more reckless things than that before — he really should've seen something like this coming.

Reverie doesn't answer. Her eyes are dark and alert, but she's not looking at his weapon at all. She's staring up at him, rapidly scanning his face. There's something behind her eyes, something Kieran is deeply afraid to name.

Since the day they met, Kieran's always wished he could read Reverie better. He thinks right now, he can read her too well. What he's seeing would make more sense if he could blame it on a drunk, wistful misinterpretation, but he's sober as a judge. The look behind her eyes isn't triumph, isn't fury, isn't contempt. It's something else, something more vulnerable than that, something that makes his breath catch in his throat.

Fear doesn't make sense knowing who Reverie is. Worry doesn't make sense after everything she's done to hurt him. Kieran can't forget what happened, but seeing her frightened brown eyes, memory fails him.

The moment shatters when Reverie breaks eye contact, her irises flashing between him and something beyond view. Kieran whirls, catching sight of two outer-District boys starting to run off with the little girl he nearly did in. The instant he looks back, he sees Reverie attempting to bolt. Kieran abruptly sidesteps, blocking her path toward the other tributes. Of course, of course — this is the only explanation that makes sense.

Rev tries to dart past him again. Kieran discards his column, his hands shooting out to grab her arms. He only manages to get ahold of one — with the other, Reverie winds up and socks him in the jaw. Pain blooms bright and furious where her knuckles kiss his skin. He snarls but doesn't let go, using his free hand to lock down her other wrist.

"God, I don't have time for this!" Reverie seethes, livid. Her struggling goes slack, but Kieran knows that she's just gathering energy for her next attempt at escape. "He's getting away!"

"I don't give a shit," Kieran sneers. "Why would I let you get your kill after you stopped me from getting mine?"

The tip of Reverie's heel makes impact with his fucking shin. Kieran barely stifles a groan. "I have bigger fucking things to worry about than this!" she bites out, now trying to free herself with doubled, tripled effort.

Kieran doesn't buckle, even through the pain. He tightens his vice grip on her arm, her wrist, wrenching her toward him. "You didn't want me to get my kill — you wanted to make me look useless in front of the others so they'd get rid of me for you, right?!"

A strained laugh tears itself from Reverie's throat. It's a painful sound, harsh on the vocal cords. Kieran swears she might even sound hurt, if he still believed that was something she was capable of feeling. "Yeah, that's exactly what it was, Kieran. Something as fucking stupid as that!"

"What else would it be?!" he hisses through his teeth.

With a shocking amount of force, Reverie suddenly manages to wrench herself free from Kieran's grasp, but the effort throws her off balance. She stumbles and Kieran is right there, making sure she trips. But she manages to grab ahold of Kieran's blazer, roughly yanking him down with her.

Kieran doesn't even get a chance to react before he thuds against the ground. He tries to pick himself up but Reverie, lithe as ever, throws herself on top of him, effectively caging him in. Her weight is solid and warm against his body, and her knees are firmly planted in the carpet on either side of his torso. He's paralyzed, hot all over.

"You didn't see him, did you? Seven, barreling right up behind you?" she jeers, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his arms. Kieran bites back a sound. Her dark eyes are alight with that frustration that's become so familiar to him, so much easier to understand than anything else. The lights cast her skin in lethal scarlet. "You hesitated too long, standing over that girl. If you had just put her out, I wouldn't have had to do that!"

Kieran steels himself before he can start trembling. The outer-District girl looked so small and frail on the ground, little more than a shadowed smear. It shook him, knowing exactly what he was about to do. But he forces himself to stop dwelling on it, instead letting anger take over the emotions he can't admit aloud.

Kieran lifts his head as much as he can manage, staring hard into Reverie's eyes. He can nearly hear Reverie's heartbeat through her skin, or maybe it's his — the proximity feels so wrong, so right. "So what?" Kieran scoffs. "I didn't do it fast enough, which meant I didn't deserve the kill?!"

"God, for once, use your fucking brain!" Reverie exclaims, the distance between their faces intoxicatingly shallow. "It's not about the fucking kill—"

She's abruptly cut off by the ear-splitting sound of a jackpot. The fog suddenly vanishes, leaving in its wake a painfully sharpened focus of his surroundings. Heat floods Kieran's face; he can see the same feeling mirrored on Reverie's as she practically flinches off of him, just as affected.

Kieran swallows hard, fixedly ignoring Reverie as he hauls himself to his feet. He turns his gaze toward the slot machine — he can't see much behind it, but he can discern the silhouettes of the other Careers gathered over there.

Reverie's already on the move. He wills his feet to do the same, rushing to get ahead of the girl. "We're not done with this," Kieran spits out, adjusting his collar.

"With what? There's nothing else to fucking talk about." Her voice, laced with venom, suddenly turns grave. "Oh, fuck."

Kieran sees it at the same time Reverie does. Fioynder, standing over Kai's prone body with a bloody shard in his hand.

Their former ally is… dead as fuck. He looks like a practice dummy after training, one good unravel away from being reduced to ribbons. There are countless wounds and bruises littered throughout his body, too many to have all been dealt by Fioynder. The District Five boy idles right there, a huge grin on his face.

"I thought all the blood on TV was edited," he says seemingly to himself, his voice tinged with awe. The saturated carpet squelches underneath his sneakers. "There's just so much…"

Past Fioynder and Kai's body, Jupiter is slumped against the machine, her body completely slack. "Fuck," Kieran hisses, immediately rushing over and dropping down beside her. Jupiter's dress suit is ruined, nearly torn to shreds. A large, wet stain in her side glistens underneath the neon lights. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

In Kieran's peripheral, he can see Cassia clumsily stumbling over like it's taking all of her coordination to stay on her feet. Her dark lipstick has almost rubbed off completely, and she looks garishly pale.

"Cassia, over here," he tells her, gesturing toward Jupiter's largest injury. "Put your hands here. Don't stop applying pressure. I'll check if she's still breathing."

She gives him a weak nod. Cassia places her hands on where the wound is, keeping them as firm as she can manage. Tears stream down her face in a steady flow. Blood gushes in a series of cascades with every slight movement, seeping through the cracks of her fingers.

Kieran wipes his hands across his clothes before bringing his finger against Jupiter's nose. A couple of beats pass without anything — then, with a start, Kieran realizes she's moving.

Jupiter winces weakly, turning away. "The fuck you doin', man?" she rasps.

"Jupiter!" Cassia cries out.

"Hey, Cass," Jupiter murmurs through pale lips. She grimaces, but her eyes seem to become more lucid when they settle on Kai's corpse. "I fucked that son of a bitch up good, didn't I?"

"Erm, I did, actually," Fioynder corrects.

Reverie's voice is sharp as the edge of a razor blade. "Shut your ass up before I make you eat glass."

Probably wouldn't be the first time, Kieran thinks to himself, rolling his eyes. But in an incredible show of self-restraint, he keeps his inside thoughts inside. Instead, he asks Jupiter, "You all right?"

"Do I—" Jupiter sucks in a breath, "—look all right?" She tries to crack a smile, but the pain flickering across her features wrecks the illusion.

Kieran has to be honest. "You look like shit."

"Kieran," Cassia protests, her voice wobbling. Jupiter makes a sharp sound like the start of a laugh, before she abruptly bursts into a fit of wet coughs.

The sound is quickly drowned out by furious footsteps thudding against the carpet, like a one-man army. Kieran turns, catching sight of Sergeant. His clothes are all wet, fabric clinging to the surface of his torso. His chest is heaving up and down like he just got back from running, and his face is flushed with exertion. Kieran averts his eyes.

Thankfully, Sergeant's not looking at him, anyway. He's not looking at any of them at all, for that matter — his steely eyes zero in on Reverie, beelining straight toward her.

"Did you lose your fuckin' mind out there, Rev?!" he exclaims, livid. Reverie immediately stiffens, jutting her chin. "You let our guy get away!"

"Seven was running up on Kieran," Reverie retorts, glaring at Sergeant. "If I didn't shove him aside, he would've—"

"Oh, 'Kier' can't take care of himself or something?" Sergeant scoffs.

"I didn't think—"

"Clearly!"

Reverie's nose flares. "Sarge, let me fucking finish—"

"No, you listen to me," Sergeant seethes, jamming his finger at her. "I just spent the last few minutes trying to chase him down to clean this shit up, but it's over. He's gone, thanks to you. Maybe if you didn't get fucking plastered then you would've done what you were supposed to!"

Kieran's eyes narrow as he stares up at Reverie and Sergeant, watching them argue about… something. Supposed to? Supposed to what? Kieran looks to Cassia to see if she has any idea what's going on, but she looks just as confused, and ten times more distraught.

Something furious flashes behind Reverie's eyes. "I didn't get 'fucking plastered,'" she sneers. "I had two goddamn drinks. Two."

"And look what happened!"

"Are you actually implying this is all somehow my fault?!" Reverie's eye twitches. "What the fuck were you doing this whole time? Bulldozing some guy into the Cornucopia?"

"I was busy taking out one of the biggest threats," Sergeant spits. "But you couldn't even be assed to do that much. Now Seven's gone, Jupiter's fucking bleeding out, and—"

"Orion's dead," Fioynder chimes in, way too happily. Cassia makes a pained sound, her tears spilling harder.

"How about," Reverie grits out, "instead of blindly flinging out accusations like a Neanderthal, you calm the fuck down so we can actually have a civilized conversation?"

"Don't tell me to fucking calm down!" Sergeant hollers, his veins nearly bulging out of his skin. "A civilized conversation? Fucking fresh from you, considering you and Kieran been actin' the opposite of grown since the get-go. And I'm supposed to believe you were worried about his safety?"

Sergeant is echoing Kieran's same thoughts from earlier, but for some reason, it still doesn't sound right spoken aloud. Reverie opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Kieran has no idea what to think — he can only count on one hand the number of times she's ever been at a loss for words.

"You think I didn't see you stop Kieran from killing Seven's little ally?" He sneers — rage twists his features into something unrecognizable. "You do know that part never mattered, right?! You never should've taken it that far! That wasn't the pl—"

He cuts himself off mid-sentence, tripping into silence harshly and gracelessly. Kieran doesn't know how it's possible, but the tension in the ballroom somehow feels even more fraught. It's like something will break if someone breathes too loudly.

Reverie's the one to crack the silence, because of course she is.

"Say it," she says, her voice deceptively light. She cocks her head to the side. "That wasn't the what?"

"Reverie," Sergeant grits out, near murderous.

"What the fuck is happening right now?" Kieran demands, getting to his feet. He glares at both Reverie and Sergeant. "What are you both even talking about?!"

Neither of them even spare him a passing glimpse. They're locked in some sort of stalemate, deathly still.

"You really want to fucking do this, Sarge?" Reverie whispers, unblinking. "'Cause we can do this. We can do this in front of everyone."

A second passes. Two. Five. Sergeant glowers at Reverie, eyes searing with enough rage to burn holes through her skull.

But he says nothing.

A sniff, like she's disappointed but unsurprised. "That's what I thought," Reverie says, spitting on the ground. "Fucking pussy."

She starts off in the direction of one of the exits. Sergeant tightens his fists and lunges, but in a flash Kieran hooks his fingers in the collar of Sergeant's shirt, yanking him back. Threads snap underneath his grip, but he holds fast.

"Walk it off," he tells Sergeant, watching Reverie's form retreat into the hallway.

(Kieran doesn't quite understand. His hands shot out on their own accord — not to hurt her, but to hold him back.

…but that makes sense, right? Wouldn't it be a waste if after all this time, it was Sergeant who got to do her in?)

Sergeant snarls and shoves him back, frighteningly strong. "Lay off, Locke," he growls. "You don't—"

"Sergeant," Cassia pleads, voice cracking.

Her voice seems to reach through, rooting Sergeant back to his surroundings. It's like watching an inferno abruptly sputter out. Sergeant blinks, jaw trembling. His hands go slack and he visibly shrinks into himself, mere ashes of his angrier self.

"…sorry, Cass," Sergeant mumbles. He curses under his breath. "I just… I've gotta get outside. Fuck."

The boy from Two stalks off, kicking a barstool on his way out. Kieran's gaze lingers for a beat too long before he reminds himself to look away. He kneels beside Jupiter again, where Cassia's got her hand underneath Jupiter's scalp.

Jupiter coughs weakly. "Some — allies we got, huh."

"You don't even know the half of it," Kieran mutters.

"We should probably go somewhere else," Cassia suggests, eyes still rimmed with red. "Kieran, help me carry Jupi?"

"Hold on — I can walk, maybe—"

"Don't even try it," Kieran says, hooking his arms underneath Jupiter's knees. "Put your arms around me and Cassia. Let's go."

He and Cassia haul Jupiter up, a deceptively difficult task. The girl's built like a tank and weighs like one too, even after losing buckets of blood. Jupiter resists at first before she realizes it's costing her the last shreds of her energy. She stops fighting back, uncharacteristically despondent. Her blood drenches the side of Kieran's silver blazer.

Carrying another person, Kieran's suddenly hit with an uncontrollable wave of exhaustion. The weight of it nearly threatens to crush him, but he adjusts his grip on Jupiter's legs, ignores it like he always does. He's already come so far. In the grand scheme of things, another night isn't so significant.

He's not sure how long he can keep this up, though.

"Guys, wait, somethings happening on the screen!" Fioynder exclaims. "I think the death toll announcement's about to start! Guys!"

Fioynder Itamor-Nilth • District Five Male

The Palazzo at the Venetian / July 8th, 12:15 AM

"Fioynder," Kieran says simply, "shut the fuck up."

Fioynder gives the District One Male a fierce salute that he doesn't even see. "Okie dokie!"

He watches as Kieran and Cassia relocate Jupiter's almost-corpse to a slightly less bloodstained place in the ballroom. That was a crazy bloodbath; probably one of the bloodbaths of all time. And those fights afterward? Drama! He really thought he was about to watch either Kieran and Reverie or Reverie and Sergeant kill each other. It's obvious all three of those people are hiding major secrets from the rest of the Careers; Fioynder wonders how long it'll take before the group collapses in on itself.

With everyone busy, this probably means Fioynder will be watching the announcement by himself, which is fine. He's used to watching things by himself, anyway! He turns back to the screen of the slot machine with studious intent. It's so interesting that they're projecting the announcements on here and not in the sky, but he supposes that makes sense for an urban arena. This also probably means that screens and speakers are in huge abundance all throughout the arena, so that all of the tributes will never miss a broadcast, whether they like it or not!

That familiar tune coming from the machine starts to grow louder and louder. Fioynder would recognize this melody anywhere: it's the Panem anthem! But not the classic version; it's the swing remix, with its swanky brass, ritzy instrumental, and that iconic push-and pull-tempo, all characteristic of the genre. (He's heard this remix before — in fact, he knows all of the anthem remixes by heart. His favorite is the dubstep version, but that's probably irrelevant to the plot right now…)

Twenty-four faces whirl on the broken screen in a blur, like the opening graphics of a lighthearted family game show. Fioynder tries to improve the visibility by wiping the screen with his sleeve, but the blood and other bits are stubbornly stuck in between the grooves of the glass.

He gives up after a few seconds, taking this short time to survey the leftover carnage of the bloodbath. Man, there are bodies on bodies scattered throughout the ruined ballroom — there's a pretty decent amount, but not more than ten. Better than recent years where only three or four kids died in the bloodbath, so Fioynder definitely thinks that's an exciting improvement!

Finally, the graphics on the screen switch to the good stuff: the screen turns into three spinning reels, all of which show an eight-pointed star. The lever on the side of the slot machine cranks on its own accord. One by one, each reel spins like a tornado until they all inevitably land on the face of the Eleven Male, Yuly Montreal.

Oh, that's a terrible bounce. But Fioynder could've seen that coming from a mile away! The guy was willingly leading a group of younger teenagers into the Games, after all. A well-intentioned but ultimately stupid decision. A bleeding heart's the opposite of an asset in a battle royale, and it only makes sense that Yuly Montreal would go out trying to sacrifice himself for one of the others. That's what Fioynder assumes ended up happening, anyway. Sad!

The machine's lever cranks again. The next deceased tribute is the District Twelve Male, Artan Steffins. Oof, one of Yuly's; it's pretty unfortunate to see the group of kids he tried to protect start to die off immediately, despite his sacrifice. Now there's, what, three left in Yuly Montreal's alliance? Fioynder doesn't want to speak too soon, but it'd be pretty iconic if a whole alliance was obliterated in the bloodbath. He'll keep his fingers crossed.

Juno Rovensteine, the District Six Female, is the next three-in-a-row. Honestly, Fioynder doesn't have much to say about her. During training, he made a game out of finding and identifying all the tributes like he was on birdwatching expedition, and yet, he can hardly remember seeing Juno at all. …Yeah, he really can't think of anything noteworthy about her. Being killed by Reverie was probably the coolest thing that ever happened to her. RIP.

Crossland Vectra follows right after his District partner. Fioynder's briefly caught off guard by this, before he remembers that Sergeant had gone after him. That makes perfect sense, then — Crossland didn't stand a chance!

With a start, Fioynder realizes the District Six Male is right down here, actually, next to his foot. Whoa. That would explain the glass cracks, bloodstains, and flecks of flesh smeared into the screen. Fioynder looks at the machine, and then back at Crossland's gored and rearranged features. Bits of glass are buried in every available surface of his face; he looks more meat than man.

He must've made Sergeant really mad. Something threatens to crawl up Fioynder's throat. It must be excitement!

When each of the three reels flicker to Orion Amsel's face, it takes everything in Fioynder not to smile. Actually, why is he even fighting it? He lets a huge grin overtake his face, feeling the way it stretches from cheek to cheek. This seriously calls for some kind of celebration. Fioynder has to go find Orion's body later to teabag it.

He's pretty sure this is what divine retribution feels like. Honestly, it was a miracle that Fioynder ducked when he did — he saw the way that Orion was gearing up to throw hands, so Fioynder wanted to do the neat, cool leg-swing-trip-thing that Sergeant did on Kieran on the second day of training. And then suddenly, there was a whoosh of air above his head, and he watched in awe as someone's fist collided with Orion's cheek. Such an amazingly cool angle — if he was a producer, he'd totally slow-mo that part down for that extra-cinematic experience.

Fioynder really could've died right there if that insanely convenient coincidence didn't occur! After running away, he observed from a safe distance what he'll affectionately dub the Lucifer/Jillion/Kieran/Reverie fiasco. It looked super messy; seemed like Kieran was about to bash Jillion's brains in until Reverie swooped in and knocked him aside before Lucifer could throw himself at Kieran. (Wow, that's one hell of a run-on sentence.)

Anyway, he can't really explain why Reverie went so far to slam Kieran out of the way. Afterward, she didn't even seem like she wanted to engage with him, but he kept reeling her back in and through all that, they let the outlier threat escape soundly with his allies. Fioynder shakes his head; Career history really gets in the way of doing what needs to be done, huh…

The next death is Mavis Marigold, the District Twelve Female. She makes the third person down in Yuly's alliance. From what he can tell, it seemed like Mavis spent her time in the Capitol being an annoying leech to allies that barely tolerated her. Fioynder can't relate; he's over here making money moves!

Last but certainly not least, Kai Thana is the last face shown before the anthem fades out, and the reels reset themselves to their original positions. Fioynder snorts triumphantly. Surely no one was surprised by this? Fioynder figured it out during the whole hour it took to get to the banquet venue. That's a suspiciously long time to get to a party — naturally, the Capitol would do something equally as suspicious, like cage the disgraced District Four Male up somewhere to use as the catalyst for chaos, pandemonium!

And, well, Kai sure panicked the disco! Jupiter is living proof of this; probably not living for long, though. She's messed up, losing crazy amounts of blood. She totally would've kicked the bucket if Fioynder hadn't saved the day by killing Kai, heh. It had been fun — exhilarating, even, feeling the District Four Male writhe around his blade of glass as Fioynder plunged it over and over again into his back. His arms were kind of sore afterward with the effort — who knew killing would be such hard work?

No one's really acknowledged or thanked him for his super brave and noble deed, though. Maybe he'll tell Sergeant about it later, if the District Two Male is in a better mood. Maybe. He really doesn't want to get the Crossland special…

Anyway, back to Jupiter! If the others can somehow get the bleeding to stop, she might be able to last a few days before sepsis rots away her insides. But unless these Games end in a violent flash, Fioynder is seriously doubtful about her chances of making it until the end.

Not that anyone asked, but Fioynder thinks the District Four Female is dead weight now. A decade of training, flushed down the toilet after five minutes — in her condition, it's impossible for her to fight anyone or anything. In his expert opinion, they should just take her out of her misery, but it's whatever if the other Careers want to keep her alive. He supposes there could be a slight utility in having an extra body — maybe a classic meat shield moment?

Fioynder reviews the list of the remaining tributes in his head. He didn't see the District Eight Male on the death toll announcement, which means he's alive. Which is so unfair, because now Delano Astarte gets to reap the benefits of his prosthetic arm, if he hasn't already! It also looks like the two younger girls from Yuly's alliance managed to avoid the fate of their three other allies — a bummer, because a total wipeout would've made for some great television.

And apparently, Shaffa and Keesha managed to survive the bloodbath. Fioynder's surprised, but not impressed. So maybe they escaped this time, but their hours must be seriously ticking down at this point. It's only a matter of time before they're humbled; they have to be stupid if they think the arena's just gonna be a grand ol' time for them!

Fioynder shakes his head, pushing thoughts of his ridiculous District partner and her ally out of his mind. There's no point on dwelling on their inevitable demise. Tonight, he gets to bask in the glory of eliminating his competition — he grins from ear-to-ear just thinking about Orion's ruptured neck, his veins humming with righteousness.

Let the real Games begin!

Emilio Carver • District Nine Male

Resorts World / July 8th, 12:31 AM

This doesn't feel like a place that should exist.

Emilio and Lucifer find themselves in some kind of endless chamber. Tiny pinpricks of light decorate the low ceiling, and the floor is carpeted in murky, nonsensical patterns. An eerie chartreuse glow emanates from small lights on the floor, but it doesn't do much to properly illuminate any of the corridors. Every component strung together makes for an eerie illusion of open space, but one that doesn't work on Emilio. There's something distressingly claustrophobic about this place, something oppressive lurking in the low light that makes him paranoid that the walls will move in and crush him between them at any second.

Clouds swim through Emilio's head as they dart around, but it doesn't feel as foggy as it did earlier. The worst of his high is fading away. He was worried that it never would, but slowly but surely, he's coming back to his senses.

His heart still races every time his eyes graze past the moving shadows; it makes Emilio anxious that the Career is still hot on their trail, even though the footsteps behind them ceased fifteen, twenty minutes ago. But the shadows grow less and less alive with every second that passes. The suffocating emptiness of this place almost smothers his paranoia. He feels beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing is alive in this building.

Besides him, Lucifer, and Jillion, of course. However long that condition might last. Emilio's heart creeps into his throat as he looks at his young ally. The side of Jillion's head is blacker than black, matted with blood.

He and Lucifer slow to a stop along the wall, barely blanketed by the cover of dark. The green floorlights cast the lower planes of Jillion's face in a sickly glow. Her eyelashes look like spindly spider legs at the harsh angle, sewn shut.

"J-Jillion?" Emilio whispers.

She doesn't respond.

Emilio desperately tries to fight the panic that threatens to rise. "Oh, G-God, L-Lucifer, is she—"

"Alive," Lucifer says. "Unconscious, but alive. Heart's still beating." Lucifer gestures to her throat, where her pulse rests against his shoulder. Then he places his palm a short distance from her nose. "And she's breathing."

Emilio's body sags with relief. Jillion's alive. She's still alive.

But he doesn't know when she'll be waking up — as far as he can tell, she won't be anytime soon. Jillion doesn't even stir as Lucifer reorients her position. Her body looks so unbearably small in his arms; there's no trace of the alert and forward girl that approached them on the second day of training. Her stoicism made her seem older, but now that Emilio's observing her like this, he's forced to remember that she's barely a teenager.

So painfully young. She shouldn't be here. None of them should be here, but Emilio knows that's not how the world works. His chest shakes as he takes in a deep breath. Emilio wishes there was something, anything he could do to change this.

But for now, he can only pick up the pieces, like he's always done. All three of them are still breathing, which means there's hope — and as long as there's hope, then there's something worth living for. It's something that his grandfather always used to say.

(Emilio doesn't want to think about how they'll both soon be taking matching sentiments to their graves.)

He raises his head and looks down the corridors. "W-we should f-f-find—"

"Room," Lucifer finishes, nodding. And that's all that needs to be said. They untangle themselves from the darkness and make their way toward the hallway, the sound of their footsteps dampened by the carpet.

They reach a skinny hallway just as poorly lit as where they were, but it has dozens of doorways and looks like a much easier place to get lost. Emilio isn't sure if that's a good thing, but for right now, he'll take anywhere that isn't out in the open. This suffices.

But as he meanders down the hallway, Emilio realizes he might've spoken too soon. He can see straight into the first suite, the second, the fifth. Not a single one of these rooms have a door on their hinges. This realization makes his skin crawl, like there are bugs dancing on his flesh.

After a few minutes of traversing, Lucifer settles on one of the doorless rooms. "Far enough," he says, jerking his head toward the inside. "Good enough."

Emilio doesn't think any of these rooms are truly safe, but Lucifer sounds sure of himself and that's enough for Emilio right now. He quickly scurries inside. Lucifer follows right behind with Jillion.

It's a small room with two beds, but no windows. Lucifer places Jillion on top of one of the beds. Her head smears scarlet against the picture-perfect pillowcases. She looks like a wounded animal submerged in a blinding white sea of linen.

Emilio turns his head away from her, a sticky feeling cloying in his chest. He starts going through drawers in the bathroom, the desk, the nightstand, in search for supplies or a first aid kit or something, anything at all. But his search yields very little; nothing is usable, not even the pungent liquid that runs through the taps.

But there's one thing that Emilio manages to find. A cabinet in the television stand reveals a sizable black box that expels chilled air when Emilio opens it. Several bottles of drinking water are placed behind a dangerous-looking red laser barrier that Emilio doesn't feel very eager to test. A small digital screen inside the box reads, Please insert $10. Underneath that, in smaller letters, At this time, CASINO CHIPS are the only currency that will be accepted. We are sorry for the inconvenience.

A memory flashes behind Emilio's eyes: a broken briefcase, and chips scattered all over the carpet floor. Jillion's small hand outstretched toward the cargo as the shadow over her looms larger and larger.

"Lu," Emilio says with a sinking feeling in his chest, "w-we didn't g-g-get the c-case, did we?"

"Jillion tried," Lucifer says. "And then..."

Lucifer trails off. He doesn't need to finish the thought.

Something inside Emilio feels like it might splinter. His allies were actively putting themselves in harm's way, and Emilio was just off to the side, barely keeping it together. He couldn't even muster the strength to help a little, and now they have no chips, no supplies, nothing. They can't even get decent water to clean Jillion's wound. Their plan — it was all in vain.

It takes everything in Emilio to keep himself from collapsing to the ground. He's just so tired, so lost. The tightly-coiled tension in his skull won't let up, and the corners of his eyes start to prick with telltale heat.

"Emilio," Lucifer murmurs. Emilio tries to collect himself as best as he can, before turning to the other boy. His ally's eyebrows are furrowed, and his gaze is fixed on the ground. "Need to tell you something."

"W-what?" Emilio mumbles.

"Remember in my suite?" Lucifer says. "The knock?"

Emilio nods. "Was the girl from One," Lucifer tells him. "She… she wanted to make a deal."

The girl from One. Emilio can only assume that was the girl that threw the Career boy out of the way before he could land the killing blow on Jillion. He couldn't comprehend why that happened. And he didn't know that she and Lucifer had something to do with each other.

Emilio's voice wavers. "W-why d-didn't you tell m-me?"

"I... don't know. I just didn't think about it," Lucifer says, guilt dripping from his words. "She wanted me to take someone out. For you and Jillion's protection. Thought it was fair. Thought I could do it."

Something about this feels off. "W-what a-about yours?" he frowns. "Y-your pro-protection?"

"Matters less," Lucifer says simply. "I'm not that easy. But you both..."

Emilio can use his imagination. If a Career went after Emilio, he would've been snapped like a twig. Jillion would've been crushed like a bug. She's already halfway there.

"It's my fault," Lucifer whispers. "I didn't hold up my end."

"W-what do you m-m-mean?"

"I — I hit the wrong guy. The one I was supposed to kill, he got away." He pauses. "And then they hurt Jillion for it."

This raises more questions than answers, but something is starting to simmer underneath Emilio's skin, something that sears the corners of his vision with blinding white. The Career boy was either tackled so that Lucifer couldn't get him, or so that the girl from One could steal his glory. Emilio remembers how the girl from One wanted to rush back into the fray, her teeth bared like she wanted to finish the job on Jillion or attack Lucifer or both. The Careers were like two barbaric children fighting over the swings — awful animals.

And striking a deal with Lucifer, of all people? To get them to do their dirty work — killing someone any of the Careers were capable of killing on their own? It didn't make sense. The only logical conclusion, the only one that makes sense to Emilio, is…

"Th-they t-t-tricked you." Emilio draws in a shuddering breath, clenching his fists. "The d-d-deal was f-fake. They w-were going to k-kill — kill you."

Lucifer swallows, looking like an admonished child. Rage, dark and bitter, starts to cluster in Emilio's chest.

But not for Lucifer. For the Careers. For Corvus. If there's one thing that Emilio knows in his heart, it's that bad people pick on the weakest, frailest to strike fear and assert power. It's as if they feel entitled to hurt people for merely being alive. For existing in their presence.

Emilio spent so much of his sixteen years of life wishing someone would stand up for him. He spent so long hoping that he forgot he had his own breath, his own voice, his own hands and his own teeth. The resentment that's been eating away at him for years now feels choking, all-consuming, ravenous — he can hardly think straight over the sound of static in his ears, the heart that jackhammers in his chest like a machine gun.

It's too late to make Corvus feel the way he felt, hurt the way he hurt. But the Careers that tricked Lucifer and attacked Jillion are still alive, and they're here. They don't even care who they're hurting.

Emilio needs to make them care.

"Lucifer," Emilio chokes out. He digs his nails into his palms, so deeply it breaks skin. "They c-c-can't get away with th-this."

Asahel Cervantes • District Ten Male

The Mirage / July 8th, 12:53 AM

"Do you need to stop, Miss?" Asahel asks Falo.

"We can keep going," she says.

"I think we should stop," he reiterates, "n' check out that leg of yours."

"…okay," Falo says. She's quiet as Asahel leads her to an outcrop of couches, gathered in the lobby of the building.

This building, the Mirage, is some kind of hotel; it's a peculiar place, unlike anywhere Asahel's ever been. Not that he has the opportunity to go many places, but still. The lobby is decorated with a tropical flair; every surface is colored in golds, vibrant oranges, warm ambers and lush greens. It's a gilded island paradise; a far departure from the flat grazing plains of Ten.

The warm amber lighting drenches everything in a perpetual indoor golden hour. It makes Asahel feel homesick for the sunsets back in Ten, the rare nights he could spend watching the sun dip under the fields. The breathtaking sight of crops outlined by sunlight bright as flame, ablaze for a fleeting minute before the summer sky yielded to night.

Falo limps slightly toward one of the couches, gingerly perching herself on the cushions. She braces herself against the couch with her gloved hands.

Asahel thinks about how just an hour ago, those hands had been in his. He and Falo — they were dancing, she smiled at him, and the sight made Asahel so dizzy it nearly felt like he was dreaming. But the announcement of the bloodbath violently rooted him back to reality, shattering the evening he stupidly thought he could keep sacred. The world couldn't let Asahel catch a break — that would be too kind, right?

Images of the blood, the broken chandelier, and the bodies stain the insides of his eyelids. He can still remember the Master of Ceremonies's words, the demonic way her voice sounded. She told them the name of this place, the arena: Las Vegas. The words were vaguely familiar to Asahel: the meadows, if he translated correctly. But after seeing more bits and pieces of the arena, he's not sure how this urban strip is meant to embody that; it's nothing like any meadow Asahel's seen before.

He approaches Falo on the couch, keeping a fair amount of distance. "Does your leg hurt?"

"Er, a little," Falo answers. "I don't think it's serious, however. I can stand and walk fairly well."

"Mind if I take a look?"

Falo lifts the hem of her dress, pulling the skirt right past her knee. Asahel sucks in a breath. He thinks Falo might've understated the pain she's in; the injury looks like it hurts more than a little. His eyes immediately fall on the biggest wound; a nasty drag of red across the back of her calf. It's not threateningly deep, but Asahel's concerned that it still seems to be bleeding. Several smaller cuts are scattered down the rest of her leg.

At the very least, he's grateful that the falling chandelier had only clipped Falo by a shallow margin. If they'd been a second too late, he's not sure they ever would've left the ballroom. Asahel watches Falo silently brush off small pieces of glass still buried in her flesh, staining the fingertips of her white gloves red.

There's a small bar kiosk a short distance from the couches. Asahel makes his way over there, fingers crossed that he might find some supplies. But it's just a bar, so there's just liquor, liquor, and more liquor.

Frowning, Asahel runs the faucet. The smell hits his nose like a freight train; the liquid that streams out is deceptively clear, but it's unmistakable what it actually is. It's the same smell that clings stubbornly to Ainara's clothes after a night out, but completely undiluted — liquor, high-proof.

Asahel hesitates. Alcohol — a good disinfectant as any, right? Water would probably be better, but he can't find any and he doesn't want to waste any more time as is. The sooner they clean Falo's wound off, the better, he thinks.

Asahel returns with a cup of the tap water — er, tap alcohol? "Good news and bad news, miss," he prefaces. "Good news — I found something to clean your wound."

"Okay," Falo says slowly. "What's the bad news?"

"The bad news is that it's alcohol, so this is going to sting." Asahel pauses. "A lot."

"That's fine," Falo murmurs. "You can pour it."

Asahel obliges, kneeling to the ground. The liquid trickles down her calf, leaving trails of diluted blood until the downpour runs clear. Pain flickers across Falo's smooth features, but she doesn't make a sound.

"Sorry, miss," Asahel says with an apologetic smile. "But it's over now."

The wounds left behind are now pink instead of angry red, free of blood streaks. It still looks a little raw, though. It would do some good to bandage it up somehow.

Asahel takes another look around the room. He can't really find any sort of curtain or drapery to wrap Falo's leg with, besides maybe a big decorative leaf, but he's not really keen on that option. How hard could it be to find relatively clean fabric?

Asahel blinks. Fabric. Clothes. He shrugs off his blazer, before he realizes the material is too thick, too dense. But the fine white cotton of his dress shirt could do pretty nicely.

He unbuttons the cuff of his sleeve. Asahel gives the fabric a good yank, tearing apart a few seams on the shoulder.

"Asahel," Falo sputters, incredibly puzzled. "What are you doing...?"

Asahel pauses mid-motion, half his sleeve hanging off. "We need something to wrap your leg with," he explains.

"That's wholly unnecessary," Falo ushers out, red. "We can just… tear off the bottom of my dress. It'll probably save the trouble of it getting in my way later."

"Oh," Asahel murmurs, feeling embarrassed. He really should've thought of that. Now the boss's daughter probably thinks he's some kind of compulsively stripping maniac. "Right."

He silently berates himself in his head as Falo takes off her gloves. She pierces her nails into the hem of her dress, making the initial incision. The gown's real gorgeous; it feels like such a shame to ruin it, but it's the option that makes the most logical sense. Her skirt has an abundance of fabric, or at least much more of it to spare than his shirt.

Asahel's head is turned at an unsubtle but polite angle, away from Falo as she carefully tears through the fabric. It's not like this is anything, but he feels awkward staring. He already feels awkward like this, hearing every broken stitch one-by-one. He can feel his skin growing uncomfortably warm as his mind dredges up unwanted flashbacks of the dressing room incident.

His cheeks sting with shame. Falo tearing off the bottom of her dress isn't anything like walking in on her changing, but he still feels so guilty just being in her vicinity. It feels intimate in a way he's not allowed. She must think of him as strange — she'd have even more motive now that she knows how Asahel feels, even if hours have passed and they haven't addressed it.

He's sure she knows. She has to know. Otherwise, he doesn't know how to explain the kiss she pressed to his cheek before his interview. Otherwise, he doesn't know how to explain the smile, the dance. And a stupid but daring part of himself thinks that maybe, just maybe…

He swallows, shaking his head slightly. His imagination's going crazy. He's too old to be acting like this.

Thankfully, Falo finishes her task before he can work himself up more. She holds the long strip of fabric in her hand, hesitating.

Asahel perks up, eager to stop idling and be useful again. "I can finish that up for you," he offers hurriedly, clearing his throat. "If you need me to."

Falo gives him an embarrassed nod. "I'd be much obliged."

Asahel nods in return, heat stubbornly clinging to his face. He takes the fabric from her, careful to not graze the tips of her ungloved fingers. He gingerly presses one end of the strip against the warm skin of her calf, like it'll burn if he lingers for too long.

Falo doesn't say anything while Asahel works. She's staring at her leg, but her eyes are far away. This happens a lot, he's noticed — the missus often goes quiet, getting lost in thought. He really wonders what it is she's always thinking about.

After a short stretch of silence, Asahel decides to speak. "When I was little, I was pretty clumsy," he tells Falo. "Got lots of cuts, bruises, scrapes n' things."

Falo's eyes flicker to his face. "Did you now?"

"Yeah. My mama would yell at me a lot for it, but she'd always patch me up. Kinda like this. And she'd hum this little tune under her breath: sana, sana, colita de rana." His voice comes out a little off-key, but it's a close enough imitation to his mother's melody. "Heal, heal, little frog's tail."

Falo lips crack into a smile. It feels different from her other ones — less restrained, somehow. "What does a frog's tail have to do with it?"

"I don't know," Asahel admits. "It's just what she said. I never questioned it."

"Seems that happens a lot," Falo says. "We're taught things when we're little, and we don't question them until we're much, much older. If even then."

"Yeah," Asahel whispers. "I know I sure didn't."

Falo hums in response, and Asahel lets the exchange end there. The rest of the time passes in silence.

Soon enough, Asahel finishes wrapping Falo's leg in a sage ribbon cast. He allows himself a couple of seconds to admire his handiwork. All of the wounds are covered now, shielded from the elements; the only sign of any injury at all is a very small patch of stained fabric, where the biggest wound is still blossoming bits of red. But the bleeding seems slower than before, and Asahel is hopeful that it'll stop soon.

Asahel dusts himself off and gets back to his feet. "All done," he says. "How're you feeling now?"

"As well as I can be," Falo answers. She pauses, her eyes meeting his. "Thank you, Asahel."

Warmth floods Asahel's chest. A stupid grin stretches across his face, unable to fight it off. "Pleasure's all mine, m'lady," he says, trying to keep it cool. "Good to go?"

Falo gives him a nod. They trek on, with Asahel leading the way. His heart hums, despite everything.

Wisteria Rose Peak • District Nine Female

Wynn / July 8th, 1:02 AM

The effects of what she drank at the banquet have worn off by now, burned off by the sheer adrenaline of the bloodbath. Everything had changed for the worse in an instant. How quickly such a lovely place warped into the site of nightmares. It was a beautiful, horrible portrayal of the thin line between opulence and violence, between glamor and greed. It reminded Wisteria of just how fragile the illusion of safety was — is. Nothing lasts forever.

It'd do well for her to remember that as she floats through the entrance of Wynn, a luxurious hotel surrounded by a glowing park. Inside, the lobby is draped to the heavens in flowery excess. Weeping willow trees reach for one another with their drowsy branches, creating sweeping, low overhangs across a pebbled path. Moonlight leaks in through the glass ceiling, painting the flowers, grasses, and leaves in a phantasmal glow. It's impossibly dreamy, like a mystical, fae-spun hollow. The only thing Wisteria can think about is the cruel irony of it all, that such a wondrous place will serve as a mass grave for all but one.

Wandering through the indoor grove, she reminisces on the events of the night. Earlier, she had been dancing amidst gorgeous splendor, cherishing what she thought was her final guaranteed night. Now, Wisteria doesn't think she'll ever be able to remove the stench of death from her dress, her skin, her dreams.

While escaping the ballroom, Wisteria caught a brief glimpse of the girl from the second day of training. The one with the gaunt cheeks and the dark eyes, who she asked to keep watch over her journal. Wisteria watched the beautiful girl from One slit her throat. Later, she watched the confirmation of her death in a casino she passed to get here. Wisteria will only remember her now by her grotesque, red necklace and the lifeless look in her eyes.

Watching the death toll broke her heart. There were seven faces — seven people that would never go back home, never see their families again. The haunted girl from training, who she briefly spoke to. The young red-haired boy, who she saw write in a journal like hers. The boy from Three, whose face Wisteria had drawn in her pages. And four more she didn't know — gone, all gone.

But Wisteria didn't see Emilio's or Falo's faces in the announcement, and at the very least, that's a small comfort. She doesn't think she saw any of Emilio's allies either — she can only hope that they all got away safely. It warms her heart to think that her District partner has people to take care of, who will take care of him in return.

And Falo... that District partner of hers seems just as loyal and lovesick as Wisteria assumed. He looked at Falo like she was brighter than all the lights in the ballroom combined.

It's wrong of her, but Wisteria wishes she didn't feel disappointed by this. She isn't really sure what it is — envy, maybe. For who? She can't tell. She wishes she had someone who would follow her to the ends of the earth, like Falo. She wishes she could be relied on, trusted, like Asahel.

And she's well-aware this wistfulness is silly and contradictory, considering her lack of faith in love. After all, it didn't work out for her parents. But why does it seem to work so easily for other people? What did her parents do wrong? Why wasn't their love enough?

Wisteria sighs, turning her gaze towards the flowers that litter the soil of the indoor grove. They're beautiful, but they're not real. In fact, none of the greenery in this lobby is alive. She knows this because the little stream of water running through the garden soil isn't water at all — it's liquor.

When she presses her nose to the saturated dirt, it's all she can smell. Bitter warmth crawls into her sinuses and stings resentfully, so potent it feels like it's making a new home on her tongue. Wisteria feels dehydrated from just the proximity. The liquid is undrinkable, unless she gets desperate. Which is something she really doesn't want to have to think about.

Wisteria slips underneath a large frond onto a shadowed patch of ground, untouched by moonlight. As her heavy eyes scan her surroundings, Wisteria is suddenly slammed with a violent yearning for Nine. She could only pretend to enjoy the artificial flora and fauna of the Capitol for so long. But in her loneliness, surrounded by such uncanny imitations of nature, she feels near delirious with homesickness.

What are her sisters, Lea and Chrys, doing right now? Are they thinking of her, are they watching her from home? What about her mother? Is she feeling any different than she does when Wisteria disappears for days, off in her own little world in the outskirts of Nine? Does she miss Wisteria at all, or is their relationship too ruptured for her to care anymore?

Desperately, Wisteria's mind latches onto memories of her lush meadow and the algae-green waters of her lake. The prismatic rocks that glittered on the surf, trilling like gaudy jewelry when the water rushed between their grooves. This false oasis feels vulgar compared to her meadow; it's something debauched and tainted.

But it's the closest thing to home she might ever get again.

Something wet wells in her eyes and slips into the dirt. Before the next tear can fall, Wisteria wipes her eye with her finger and places the droplet on her parched tongue. It doesn't offer much relief at all, but Wisteria's not hopeful she'll manage to find any natural bodies of water in this urban jungle. She suspects she might have to conserve everything, anything at all, no matter how small or insignificant.

Quietly, Wisteria curls up on the dirt amidst the lifeless flowers. She stares at the tropical frond that hangs over her body, hoping it'll shield her from the sharp silvers of the moon and the sharp silvers of a blade while she sleeps.

She digs her fingers into the ground and closes her eyes. In the darkness of slumber, Wisteria imagines herself burying her body in sweet earth, being enveloped in the embrace of the eternal mother.

Perhaps foolishly, Wisteria prays she'll get to open her eyes again in the morning. She doesn't really know whether living to see tomorrow would be lucky or unlucky.

Keesha Cathode • District Five Female

Las Vegas Strip / July 8th, 5:31 AM

Dawn is breaking over the horizon.

The pale sunlight already feels too warm against Keesha's skin as she and Shaffa traverse the streets, half-attempting to be stealthy. But nothing else seems to be awake this early in the city.

In Five, the downtown area would already be bustling with commuters and businessmen starting their seven-to-five schedules. But in the arena, everything is eerily still. The loud lights from twilight fight a losing game against the sun, and the neon signs have flickered out to nothingness. What's left are mere remnants of a night spent wasting away in delirium — Las Vegas is little more than a ghost town during the daytime.

Keesha's exhausted. At some point during the night, she and Shaffa stopped running and found a darkish corner to hunker down, keep out of sight. Keesha really has to hand it to the arena designers; whichever psychopath decided to remove every door in this place probably deserved a huge fucked-in-the-head bonus on their paycheck. She could just stare straight into each suite she passed, see everything inside. Without a single door, Keesha's shackles were perma-raised — she couldn't stifle the feeling of being out in the open, no matter where they went.

Keesha had volunteered to take first watch, thinking Shaffa needed it more than she did. She fixedly ignored the tears that took Shaffa to slumber, at a total loss for what she could possibly say to make their situation better. She wasn't going to tell her it'd all be okay. Keesha knew damn well that'd be a lie.

For the first couple of hours, she occupied herself with the briefcase, which was filled with chips of assorted colors. When she felt herself dozing off, she woke Shaffa up to switch. Keesha snuck in short bouts of sleep with Shaffa watching over her, but she couldn't stop twitching right as she was about to fall under, feeling paranoid there were more eyes she couldn't see. At some point, she gave up on getting rest.

And now, they're here. They're passing buildings, moving in a direction away from the original banquet venue. Keesha's seen maybe two posters plastered with the slogan What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas! Hilarious, considering every second in this place is being broadcasted on hundreds, thousands of television screens all throughout Panem. Keesha wishes she had the energy to laugh.

They eventually find themselves slowing to a stop in front of a long building. It's flashy and ornamented, with similar vibes as a carousel without the horses. There's a huge disco ball on the top of the structure, and letters spelling Harrah's with tacky rainbow stars over the whole shebang.

Shaffa turns to her, brown eyes wide in earnest. "Worth a look?"

"Honestly, I just want to get out of the sun," Keesha mutters.

The A/C feels delightfully frosty against Keesha's skin as she and Shaffa walk through the front entrance of Harrah's. They travel through a long, fluorescent hallway to escalators that feed them down to an underground level.

Downstairs is surprisingly spacious; Keesha immediately spots several bars and a decent-sized food court. But it's the other half of the room that really piques Keesha's interest — the casino.

Obviously, Keesha couldn't get a good look at the huge slot machine during the bloodbath, but now here's a whole bunch of smaller ones concentrated in this place, like a tightly-packed, sensory overload labyrinth. She and Shaffa approach the closest machine, watching the words dance on the screen. Insert a chip to play: $5.

Shaffa looks at Keesha. Keesha shrugs. They try it out, using one of the red chips in their briefcase. Keesha's never gambled before, but this is pretty simple. The three reels on the slot machine spin, then land on three different things; a black bird, a key, and a car. A dejected sound erupts from the machines speakers. They try again — this time, the slots give them two purple flowers in a row, but the third reel lands on a piano.

"This is boring," Shaffa says.

"As fuck," Keesha agrees.

"Should we check out something else?"

Keesha lowers herself to the ground, inspecting the exterior of the machine. Truthfully, she's not really interested in playing these stupid games until her eyes fall out of her head. She's cooking up a better idea. "I think there's something else I can do here, actually."

"What are you looking for?" Shaffa asks.

"Some sort of opening," Keesha tells her. "With these kinds of machines, there's always a slot to put your chips, cash, whatever inside." She points to the place they fed their red chips in twice. "There's also a slot where you get whatever you win. And the machine has to keep both of those things somewhere."

Sure enough, her fingers skim over a small groove; it's little more than a hairline fracture on the side of the machine, but unmistakable. "Think I found it."

She backs away from the machine, rolling her sleeves above her elbows. Keesha starts sifting through her braids with her hands, searching for a specific one. Shaffa watches her with a puzzled expression.

Keesha smirks when she feels her fingers close around one particularly stiff braid. She travels to the end of it, pinching her nails through the strands to make way for...

She fishes out a straight steel wire through the braid, ready to be molded into shape.

Shaffa's jaw drops. "Girl, what the fuck? You were hiding that in your hair?"

"Comes in handy," Keesha says breezily. "Never know when you might need to undo some bolts. Or pick a lock."

"That feels so plot-convenient."

"I'm actually just always prepared." Keesha fashions the wire into a more functional length. "Let's see what these suckers have inside."

She twists the wire against one of the nearly imperceptible screws on the side of the machine, removes it, and repeats this action three more times with the others. After opening that latch, she's wholly unsurprised to see another barrier guarding the machine's contents, this time with a hefty padlock. She inspects the keyhole, familiar in its mismatch of sharp corners and rounded edges. In a strange way, the sight is almost comforting.

Picking a lock can be a rather delicate and time-consuming process. Keesha usually doesn't have to bother with this, since her dad has copies of almost every key in the greater suburban area in Five. But sometimes, there are goodies in houses that are further protected, stowed away behind tantalizing safes, latched containers. Who would Keesha be if she let something like a lock stop her?

"How'd you learn how to do this?" Shaffa whispers.

She hesitates. "My old man taught me," Keesha says, and doesn't elaborate.

Shaffa's eyes widen. "What's your dad need to pick locks for?"

"He's a locksmith," Keesha says curtly. "He needed to sometimes, to replicate a key that wasn't in his database."

"That's pretty cool," Shaffa chirps, clearly trying hard to sound upbeat. "Are you guys close?"

Keesha flattens her lips. "Shaffs, give me some quiet so I can concentrate on getting this busted."

A sliver of hurt flashes across Shaffa's face. Keesha almost instantly feels bad, but she shoves it down just as quickly. It's not like she said it meanly. She just wants a little silence — that's perfectly okay to ask for.

It is a little bit dishonest, though. Because Keesha can easily hold a conversation and pick a lock at the same time. She's done it before with Blaine, exchanging hushed whispers in the midst of a slumbering household. But they were always talking about dumb shit, and not shit like Keesha's dad.

She'd felt so conflicted at the party, hearing about all the effort Shaffa's dad poured into being with her one last time. She doesn't know how to name the emotion that tightens her jaw and churns in her chest, and she doesn't really want to. Every possibility is too humiliating to consider, because she's not five anymore, and she doesn't need daddy. She's used to him being busy as hell, not having time to pay attention to her. Tough fucking luck. It doesn't bother her. At least, it's not supposed to anymore.

She steals a glance at Shaffa, who's fallen silent. A weird feeling tugs at her heartstrings. She'll say sorry to her later, maybe. It's not even that big of a deal. Not even serious.

Five, ten minutes pass, with the only sound being the faint rattling of the wire inside the lock. A bead of sweat drips down Keesha's forehead. She has to be close to breaking this shit open, but that last divot is annoyingly stubborn. And the shifting lights in the casino certainly don't help, either.

"Come on, baby, I know you can do it," Keesha mutters under her breath, knitting her eyebrows together.

Shaffa snickers quietly. "Are you talking to the lock?" she whispers.

"She just needs a little TLC," Keesha says, defending herself. She angles her wrist slightly to the right and feels something give, unlatching with a small click. "Yes — come to papa."

The padlock unhooks itself from its fastening. The opening swings out.

Beside her, Shaffa lets out a gasp. Buried inside the machine, there are stacks and stacks of poker chips, like a galaxy of whites, reds, blacks, greens, and blues. Keesha's eyes greedily swallow the sight — it's so much more than what's already in their case, so much more than they know what to do with.

"Fucking jackpot," Keesha grins.

24th: Yuly Montreal, killed by Delano Astarte and Kai Thana. [Stabbed through the torso by two different blades.]

"Behind me!"

The children at the orphanage wail. Mi-cha and Chung-cha comfort them with heavy hearts.

23rd: Artan Steffins, killed by Dottie Dressel. [Skull cracked by a Delmonico glass.]

"You… why…"

Artan's mothers embrace one another, weeping softly. Their son's favorite book lies unread on the coffee table.

22nd: Juno Rovensteine, killed by Reverie Berlusconi. [Throat slit by a tiara.]

…

Vesta, now the oldest, soothes Raisa and Arthur while they cry. Lars's eyes are bleary with tears as he stares at the television, the only light on in the house.

21st: Crossland Vectra, killed by Sergeant Andronicus. [Face bashed into the screen of a slot machine.]

…

A mournful silence falls over the factory.

20th: Orion Amsel, killed by Lucifer Bishop. [Neck snapped against the ground.]

…

Orion's parents stifle sobs, full of regret. His grandmother imagines her husband and grandson's reunion, bittersweet.

19th: Mavis Marigold, killed by Cassia Cosmos. [Throat and lungs pierced through by a chandelier.]

"Father, stop — it hurts, it hurts—"

Mavis's mother cries silently. She does not wake her husband from his drunken stupor.

18th: Kai Thana, killed by Jupiter Fairhope and Fioynder Itamor-Nilth. [Stabbed in the back by a glass shard. Severely wounded by fists and broken porcelain.]

…

District Four sighs in relief.

Scoreboard:

Kai: I
Delano: I
Dottie: I
Reverie: I
Sergeant: I
Lucifer: I
Cassia: I
Jupiter: I
Fioynder: I

*Italicized names are deceased.
*I include combined kills: when two or more people critically injure and kill the same person.

Injuries:

Cassia: Nausea. One large cut on the right arm. Mild bleeding.
Sergeant: Multiple contusions, abrasions, and lacerations across the torso with possible internal damage.
Jupiter: Bruise along the jaw. Knife slashes on the arms. Broken ankle. Deep stab wound in the abdomen. Significant external and internal bleeding. Immediate attention is required.
Dottie: Suffered an episode of lightheadedness and fainting, possibly indicating neurological issues.
Delano: Bruised tailbone and back. Contusion on the back of the head with mild swelling.
Falo: Varying puncture wounds on the right leg. Mild bleeding. [Addressed.]
Jillion: Multiple bruises across the body. Broken ribs. Localized hematoma on the side of the head. High likelihood of concussion. Immediate attention is required.

*Minor injuries (i.e. small cuts, scratches and bruises) will likely not be mentioned unless they accompany more severe conditions.

Alliances:

Careers: Reverie, Kieran, Cassia, Sergeant, Jupiter, Fioynder
Littles: Ginseng, Dottie
"Truce": Lucifer, Emilio, Jillion
Totally Spies: Shaffa, Keesha
Ten: Falo, Asahel
Loners: Delano, Wisteria

Locations:

The Palazzo at the Venetian: Reverie, Kieran, Cassia, Sergeant, Jupiter, Fioynder
Resorts World: Lucifer, Emilio, Jillion
The Mirage: Falo, Asahel
Wynn: Wisteria
Harrah's: Shaffa, Keesha

?: Ginseng, Dottie
?: Delano

*Pretty much every major location on the Las Vegas Strip is a mega-resort hotel and casino.
*When multiple tributes inhabit the same building, location indicators will become more specific (i.e. seventh floor, casino level, suite number, etc.)

a/n: i know the end of this chapter is a bit of a beefcake, but i'm a product of the 2014 syot community and i really enjoy my stats. worry not, they'll only be shown on the last chapter of each day!

happy november 8th, aka universal brooke's wifey day! happy birthday my beloved linds, you deserve everything in this gay world and more. i'm so blessed to be able to call you my friend and wife and other [REDACTED] things for almost NINE FUCKING YEARS. BITCH… let's get to sixty-nine is all i'm sayin :catsmirk:

big lovely thank you to cece for suggesting short glimpses of home for each deceased tribute. she has the mind of a mastermind! my endless gratitude to ama and erik for putting eyes on this chapter. i srsly love them so much they spoil me rotten with sm helpful feedback!

welcome to STAGE ONE: CATALYST. the chapters are as follows:

30. fool's paradise: aftermath.
31. in high spirits: day 1.
32. dealing with devils: day 2.
33. eyes in the sky: day 3.
34. ball and chain: night 3.

today's title is [FOOL'S PARADISE], meaning 'a state of illusory happiness.' funny because the las vegas strip isn't actually in las vegas — it's in paradise, nevada!

deuces,
chewbrooka