CHAPTER XXXI: DAY ONE
Dottie Dressel • District Eight Female
Flamingo / July 8th, 6:03 AM
"Dottie?" Ginseng's voice calls.
Dottie looks up at the other girl, who's several feet ahead of her. Behind Ginseng, the sky is a pastel haze, painting everything in a faded wash of morning light. Sunshine speckles against the khaki of the Seven girl's cargo shorts. She looks far more comfortable in those than she did in her pink tulle skirt, now long discarded in a frumpy heap on the side of the street.
Ginseng gives Dottie a questioning glance. Instead of answering, Dottie returns to her scavenger hunt. There are small cards littered all over the sidewalk, plentiful as fallen autumn foliage. In her hands, she holds a small fan of a few she's picked up. Each of the cards feature different pictures of women, all wearing shockingly sparse slips of fabric — nude-colored nightgowns, leopard-print lingerie, bright red bikinis.
The words 'adult entertainment' are written on the cards. She doesn't really know what makes entertainment adult, but okay. All she knows is that each of the women are strikingly beautiful — powerful, in a way. They gaze intently through the paper as if they can see her. There's something dark and confident in their expressions, like they know they have something that people want.
Most importantly, the designs of all the cards are overwhelmingly purple. This whole sidewalk gives her at least five hundred points in her game with… with…
(…with someone. Dottie squints. Who was it, again?)
"Dottie, what are you doing?" Ginseng's voice calls out again.
"I'm collecting," Dottie replies breezily, picking another card off the ground.
She hears Ginseng's footsteps trailing back to her. "Collecting what?"
"These cards." Dottie holds them up for her friend to see. "I've got two Moxies, one Saccharine, and one Chiffon. I saw a Lavish too, but it was torn in half, so—"
"Jeez, why are you looking at that stuff?!" Ginseng squeaks.
"It says call 1-800-XXX-SEXY for a night you'll never forget," Dottie continues, unperturbed. "Sounds pretty neat, should we call?"
Ginseng smacks the cards out of her hand with a violent gesture, the tips of her ears ruby-red. Dottie watches impassively as they flit to the ground.
"Littering."
"It's not littering if they were already there," Ginseng retorts, trying to look anywhere but the sidewalk. "Gosh. This place is so weird."
Besides the interesting collectible cards, Dottie doesn't think this is much different than Eight. The urban abundance and cement wasteland is the same. But she has to remember that Ginseng's from Seven, where everything is probably trees and grass and treehouses and grasshouses.
Ginseng jerks her head toward the road ahead, pulling Dottie onto her feet. She complies, letting Ginseng drag her away from the cards.
"C'mon. I saw a pink building up the street I think we should check out," Ginseng tells her. Dottie nods and follows the other girl's lead, leaving Moxie and the other girls in the dust.
It's no time at all before Dottie catches sight of the pink building in question. She actually hears it first; there are birds running amok, squawking to their heart's content. Several are perched on the glittering, fuchsia lotus sign before the entrance of the building. Above the sign, Flamingo is spelled out in elegant, crème cursive.
There are, in fact, flamingoes. Several make a beeline toward her and Ginseng, an army of curious, salmon-pink creatures. A couple of brave ones even start pecking at their hands and clothes. It startles a giggle out of Ginseng, a sound Dottie realizes she hasn't heard since last night — nearly a lifetime ago.
"These are nice birds," Ginseng says fondly, petting the silky feathers of a flamingo. It preens underneath her fingers, cooing softly.
"Pink," Dottie says, poking the bird beside her. It honks indignantly. "Not very good for camouflage."
When the birds realize the newcomers don't come bearing any food, they start to saunter away. Dottie and Ginseng follow them back to their crude waterfall, obscured in the vegetation at the side of the building. Dozens of birds of all sorts wade in the water, shaking droplets off their feathers.
Watching the murky water cascade off the rocks, Dottie realizes how thirsty she is. She cups her palms into the pool, attempting to slurp the water.
"Dottie, stop," Ginseng protests, yanking her hands out. Dottie watches the water fall to the ground in a sad, quiet splash. "That's probably filled with bird pee. We can find real water to drink."
The dryness in her mouth protests, but Dottie relents, staring sullenly at their reflections in the water. The ripples distort their silhouettes and peter out toward the edge of the pool, until the water is sedately still again.
Ginseng is looking at the water too, but not really. Her eyes are hard and far away. Dottie wants to ask what she's thinking about, but she doesn't know if she should.
It's quiet, save for the ambient chatter of the birds. But a few minutes later, it's Ginseng who breaks the silence.
"Dottie?"
"Root girl?"
Ginseng pauses for a long time, before she asks in a quiet voice, "Why did you do that last night?"
Dottie's slight smile slips off her face. "…do what?"
Ginseng stares at her. "Do you not remember?"
Dottie tries to concentrate. Last night — flashing lights, glimmering gold, reverberating music. A breakneck flash of movement, staggering dizziness, bone-chilling black. But before Dottie can grab ahold of the memory, it dissipates like smoke behind her eyes.
"Kind of… maybe?"
"The bloodbath? Artan? Does any of that ring a bell to you?"
"I…" Dottie squints. Her skull starts to throb. "I can't remember."
"What about Paisley?"
There's a faint glimmer of recognition there, amidst the painful pulsing. She repeats it quietly to herself. "Paisley…"
"You said that name after…" Ginseng hesitates. "After you killed Artan."
"Oh," Dottie says in a small voice. Sights and sounds start to return in a slow, sparing trickle; drip, drip, drip.
Soft blankets, soft as a baby bird. Ginseng's breath warm against her cheek. A glowing nightlight in the corner of the suite.
Glass shattering against dense bone. Fever in her hands, her skin, her brain. Neon red light catching against the broken rim of the glass, while blood as black as night spills down her palms.
In both memories, Dottie remembers drifting, falling asleep. Strangely, that swallowing slumber is the most vivid part. Nothingness — black and blissful.
"I thought someone was going to crush you," Dottie mumbles, her throat tightening. "Like you said. Like you told me."
Ginseng makes a choked sound. "When did I tell you that?"
"The sleepover," Dottie says. "You said—"
"God, Dottie, no," Ginseng whispers. "That's not what I meant."
"Oh," Dottie whispers again.
"Do you know how scared I was last night?" Ginseng's voice cracks. "I thought — I thought you were gone, or something happened, and then…"
"I'm sorry," Dottie murmurs, and she really is. Even if she can't remember fully why, or how, or what. Ginseng's upset because of what she did, and everything feels wrong. "Are you mad at me?"
"No. Well, I — I don't think so." Ginseng pauses. "I don't know."
The sounds of the birds in the enclosure drone odiously in Dottie's ears. She and Ginseng sit side by side, but Dottie has never felt further apart. She can't look at Ginseng. She can't even look at her own hands, because now she's starting to notice the dried flecks of blood still buried underneath her fingernails.
(Remember. Why can't she remember?)
"I… I've done something like that before," Ginseng confesses. When Dottie finally turns to look at her, the Seven girl's arms are tightly wrapped around her knees.
"Back home, my family has a bird sanctuary. When trees get cut down, sometimes those trees have birds and nests and eggs and stuff, and they fall and get hurt. My family takes them in, takes care of them until they're ready to fly back out into the world again.
"I really like birds. I like all of them, except for one kind. Crows — they'll eat anything, even other birds." She swallows. "When I was little, I saw one fly into the sanctuary and attack one of the babies. It tore a huge gash in its throat. Its wing was hanging off by a feather."
Dottie says nothing as Ginseng lets out a shuddering sigh. "Next thing I knew, I blinked, and there were black, crumpled feathers everywhere. My hands were all red. And the crow was dead."
"Ah," Dottie whispers.
Ginseng's fists clench involuntarily. "Sometimes, I just get so overwhelmed that I don't know what I'm doing. And it happens every time I see one of those birds. I just — I just forget everything. So I think I understand what happened there with Artan." Her words waver. "I don't think it makes it right, but… I understand."
Dottie starts to blink fast. "I just didn't want anything to happen to you."
Something in Ginseng's voice teeters, impossibly close to breaking. "I don't want anything to happen to you, either."
Dottie turns back to the water, the lump in her throat feeling too big for her body. More ripples bloom across the surface of the water in small, silent pitters.
It feels like something is changing for good. Maybe it already has.
Dottie doesn't know how to fix this.
"I'm sorry," Dottie whispers again.
Ginseng breathes a shaky sigh, leaning her head against Dottie's shoulder. "Me, too."
Falo Tarandrus • District Ten Female
Treasure Island / July 8th, 10:22 AM
Falo's feeling well-rested, all things considered.
She and Asahel both managed a few hours of sleep apiece. Falo, more so — Asahel had insisted she get as much rest as she could. Her leg ceased bleeding at some point in the night, and when the morning came, the farmhand helped rinse and rebandage it for her. With nothing but the clothes on their backs and a briefcase to their name, they set out in search of more substantial supplies.
They leave the Mirage and head toward the next building over, a hotel by the name of Treasure Island. Outside the stately building is a gargantuan pirate ship, permanently anchored to its manmade shore. The nautical theme is no less prevalent on the inside — from the ceiling to the floor, the lobby is decorated with emblems of anchors, tridents, compasses, and similar things of that nature. The ceiling is low and the windows are long and rectangular, giving the impression of being on the lower deck of a ship.
Falo has no doubt that if Wisteria was here, the other girl would probably have something lovely to say about this place — she'd construct a ridiculous daydream about being the esteemed guest of a luxurious yacht party held in her honor, or something like that. She'd tell Falo to look at the tinted blue light streaming through the windows, the swirling, ocean-like refractions dancing on the walls.
Beside her, Asahel points at the plain sign in front of them. It indicates the direction of the pool, the suite rooms, the chapel, and the casino.
"I'm willing to bet that the chips in here," Asahel lifts the briefcase, "are s'posed to be used in the casino."
Falo smiles wryly. "Willing to bet, you say?"
That startles a chuckle out of Asahel. "I — yeah, actually."
They follow the path from the lobby to the casino. Falo smells the place before she sees it. The slight bitterness in the air grows harsher the closer they get, and when they reach their destination, it's become a full assault of the senses. The sour smoke crawls along the walls, seeps into the fibers of the carpet, burns the inside of her nose.
Strangely, the thick air simultaneously feels crisper and sharper somehow, like how she'd imagine air at the top of a mountain. Despite the sting — or perhaps because of it? — the oxygen cuts straight through her brain. She's wide awake, unusually alert.
Asahel wrinkles his nose as they reluctantly make their way inside. His eyes fall on the decorated bar on the other side of the room. "My sister would like this place, probably."
Falo glances at him. "I didn't know you had a sister."
"Ah — I guess I've never said, huh?" He rubs the back of his neck, a faraway look crossing over his face. "Her name's Ainara. She's older than me. I've got a brother, too, Rezo. He's younger, though — twelve."
Falo quietly takes in the new information. She never considered that Asahel had siblings. From time to time, he'd offhandedly mention family, but never delved into the specifics. And Falo had never asked, either. With some guilt, she's forced to admit to herself it's because she just never gave his life before this much thought.
It makes sense, though. Perhaps it's easy to say that in retrospect, but she's noticed Asahel's tendency to consider himself last, to think of himself as unremarkable. Not the oldest, not the youngest, but just… there.
"So you're the middle child," Falo comments. "That… explains quite a lot."
Asahel laughs, something a little self-conscious about the sound. "Does it?"
They find their way to the cage area of the casino, where robotic figures stand inside glass cylinders, operating cash registers. Disappointedly, Falo realizes they're the same eerie mannequin servants from the banquet. She and Asahel quickly figure out that the poker chips in their briefcase are meant to be exchanged for goods — exorbitantly expensive ones at that, to which Asahel reacts with stupefied disbelief.
"Water is how much?" Asahel balks.
"𝕋𝕖𝕟 𝕕𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕤 — 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕡𝕤," the mannequin teller monotones.
Aggrieved, Asahel attempts to haggle with the unsentient teller. Unfortunately, the machine is not equipped with the programming to negotiate down. They leave without purchasing anything, Asahel declaring with a disproportionate sense of passion that this was a "robbery in broad daylight," that they could get a "much better deal somewhere else." But as they power toward the exit, another whirring figure springs up behind a gambling table, nearly causing Falo's bones to shoot out of her skin with fright.
Another mannequin gestures at them with its arms outstretched, before bringing their hands together in a clapping motion — a choreographed imitation of jovial enthusiasm. It makes no effort to leap at them from behind the table, content to remain at its post.
Hurriedly, Falo tries to steady her heart hammering behind her ribs. With a start, she realizes that Asahel's hand instinctively shot out to shield her from the unexpected scare. She clears her throat and steps back subtly, attempting to process the scene before her now that it doesn't seem like an immediate threat.
"𝔾𝕠𝕠𝕕 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖! 𝔽𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕦𝕔𝕜𝕪?" the mannequin dealer calls out. Sound erupts from an invisible voicebox, augmented with an artificial fervor. The featureless face doesn't move, but blue light pulses out from within the mechanical joints with each word. "𝕄𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕀 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕘𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕓𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕛𝕒𝕔𝕜?"
Asahel and Falo look at each other. "Um…" Asahel starts.
The mannequin shuffles and bridges a deck of cards with an uncanny, robotic grace. The cards fly between its fingers, swift as the wings of a hummingbird. "𝕀 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕚𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕓𝕠𝕥𝕙 𝕟𝕖𝕨𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕤, 𝕙𝕞? ℕ𝕠𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕪. 𝕀'𝕞 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕖𝕩𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕣𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕓𝕚𝕣𝕕𝕤."
"H-hold on," Asahel sputters, "we, we're—"
Falo raises a poised finger to Asahel's lips, abruptly shushing him. The mannequin proceeds in its explanation.
"𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕒 𝕟𝕦𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕦𝕖," it begins. From the top of their shuffled deck, they place a five of spades card on the green velvet surface of the table. "𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕒 𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕦𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕧𝕖 — 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕟𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙 𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕤𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕓𝕖 𝕠𝕓𝕧𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝕖𝕟𝕠𝕦𝕘𝕙. 𝕎𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕚𝕥 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕪'𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕨𝕠𝕣𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕖𝕟." It flips over a jack, a queen, and a king in rapid succession. "𝕋𝕖𝕟, 𝕥𝕖𝕟 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕖𝕟. 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕖𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕦𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕠𝕣 𝕖𝕝𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 — 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕙𝕖𝕝𝕡𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖. ℂ𝕒𝕡𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕖?"
Asahel and Falo, both interpreting this as a rhetorical question, say nothing. But the machine doesn't move, staying frozen in place like it won't proceed without an indicator.
Falo looks at Asahel. Asahel, very unsurely, goes "…capiche?"
"𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥!" the mannequin says with engineered cheer. "𝔼𝕒𝕤𝕪, 𝕣𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥? 𝕀𝕥 𝕘𝕖𝕥𝕤 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕖𝕒𝕤𝕚𝕖𝕣. 𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕖 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕨𝕙𝕠𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣'𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕧𝕒𝕝𝕦𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝟚𝟙, 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕥 𝕖𝕩𝕔𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕟𝕦𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣. 𝕎𝕖 𝕓𝕠𝕥𝕙 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕠𝕗𝕗 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕥𝕨𝕠 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤. 𝕀𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕝𝕦𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕠 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕠 𝟚𝟙, 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 ℍ𝕀𝕋, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕘𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕. 𝕀𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕤𝕗𝕚𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕕𝕣𝕒𝕨, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕖𝕝𝕝 𝕞𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕒𝕟𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕊𝕋𝔸ℕ𝔻, 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕀'𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕪 𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟.
"𝕀𝕗 𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕒𝕕𝕕 𝕦𝕡 𝕥𝕠 𝟙𝟞 𝕠𝕣 𝕝𝕖𝕤𝕤, 𝕀 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕚𝕥. 𝕀𝕗 𝕞𝕪 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕𝕤 𝕒𝕕𝕕 𝕦𝕡 𝕥𝕠 𝟙𝟟 𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕖, 𝕀 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕. 𝕐𝕠𝕦, 𝕙𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣, 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕟𝕠𝕥 𝕓𝕖𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕤𝕖 𝕣𝕦𝕝𝕖𝕤. 𝕀𝕗 𝕀 𝔹𝕌𝕊𝕋 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕘𝕠 𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝟚𝟙, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕨𝕚𝕟 𝕒𝕦𝕥𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕪. 𝕊𝕒𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕪𝕠𝕦 — 𝕚𝕗 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕘𝕠 𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝟚𝟙, 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕟 𝕀 𝕨𝕚𝕟." The dealer rapidly cleans up the cards they placed on the table, shuffling the stack faster than Falo's eyes can keep track of.
She hums, deep in thought. She's never played blackjack, but the machine's explanation sounds intuitive enough. And less chancy than Falo initially thought. Gambling has the reputation of being the vice of foolish, over-indulged and reckless men, driven to fruitless efforts over motives as insubstantial as impulse. But despite that, this game seems to have a heavier strategical element to it, outcomes determined by more math than pure chance. Perhaps the illusion of control is merely that — an illusion. Nonetheless, Falo can't deny that she's intrigued.
"ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪? 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕤 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕒𝕥 𝕒 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕞𝕦𝕞 𝕠𝕗 𝕗𝕚𝕗𝕥𝕪 𝕕𝕠𝕝𝕝𝕒𝕣𝕤."
"At minimum?" Asahel repeats, eyes nearly bugging out of his head.
"𝔻𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘!"
"We have enough to spare," Falo says, fishing two green chips engraved with $25.
Asahel hesitates. "Yeah, but…"
Falo purses her lips, recalling her father's unprompted lectures on business. "The more you put in, the more you stand to gain," she says, lowering her voice. "It's the first principle of investment."
"But there's also the risk of losing," Asahel asserts. "And then we're out fifty bucks for no reason."
Her District partner takes on a more pragmatic, conservative approach to finances. It's not much of a surprise, considering his background. Falo won't pretend she's necessarily comfortable with the idea of putting their precious, limited resources on the line either, but she has to keep in mind that money serves a largely different utility in the arena than it does in real life. It's immediate, it's impulsive, and it determines life or death. The chaotic nature of the Games means there's no guarantee they'll have anything they have today, tomorrow. Smart saving and security are not what the audience is looking for — the Gamemakers, high in their ivory towers, will punish that stinginess.
"The risk will always exist, no matter what. But the way I see it, we have two options: we can spend all of our chips on supplies right now, but effectively cut out our only known strategy of acquiring more chips. Or we can spend a portion of our currency on these games, where we can risk some for the possibility of more." Falo crosses her arms. "Even if we lose, we're still not in a bad position. If we win, then more power to us. I think that we should stay ahead of the curve while it's not beyond unaffordable."
Asahel laughs nervously. "You don't think it is already? I mean, ten dollars for a bottle of water? Fifty to play a game?"
"I reckon the price will only go up from here, with mounting stakes and all," Falo says. "There's the risk that if we sit on these chips, they'll lose value. We shouldn't wait for that to happen."
Asahel stares at her for a long time, his expression difficult to decipher. Falo is not left unaffected by his gaze — with a strange feeling, she realizes this very well might be the most she's ever said to Asahel in one conversation.
"You're gonna make a really good boss one day," Asahel tells her at last.
"Perhaps," is all Falo says, not wanting to squander his optimism.
"Okay," the farmhand relents. "Let's do this, then."
They both take a seat at the table. Asahel clambers in the chair directly across the mannequin dealer, telling it that he and Falo will be making one bet, at the declared minimum. With some effort, he relinquishes two of their green chips to the table.
The mannequin nods and starts to deal with its controlled, hyper-mobile fingers. First, it distributes two cards to itself; a ten of spades and a face-down card. It then places two cards before Asahel: a five of clubs and a three of hearts.
"8," Asahel murmurs. "That's pretty far from 21."
Falo points to the face-down card. "Why didn't you turn that one over?" she asks the mannequin.
"𝕋𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕖 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕. 𝔸𝕝𝕝 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕞𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕀 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕒𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕔𝕒𝕣𝕕 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕞𝕪 𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕟."
"We should hit, right?" Asahel asks.
Falo nods. Nothing the dealer can give them will put them over 21. Asahel calls for another card — the dealer gives them a nine of hearts.
"Whoa," he says, blinking. "We're up to 17 now?"
"ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕥," the dealer answers. It finally takes its own turn, flipping over its face-down card: a jack of clubs. "𝕀 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕."
Falo raises a hand to her mouth before she can say something improper. The dealer's 20 to their 17 — how very unlucky.
"What should we do, miss?" Asahel whispers, his eyes darting between Falo and the dealer.
It's an infuriating dilemma. If they hit and procure any card above the value of 4, they'll bust and lose. And if it's less than 4, it's not enough to win. Unless they manage to procure an exact 4 on their next hit by some magnificent stroke of luck, then winning this game is impossible.
But it's not an option to stand, either. With their numbers as is, it'd be an automatic concession. Even merely considering it leaves a bad taste in Falo's mouth. How she sees it, a cowardly defeat is even more humiliating than a fair loss. To be given the option to rise above circumstance, and not take it; to have nothing, and still be scared to lose it — foolish, is what it is.
"Hit," Falo decides.
Asahel obeys without hesitation.
Falo's heart pounds in her chest. She and Asahel share stifled breath as the dealer drags its hand across the top of the deck. It's only a fifty dollar bet, she reminds herself — a negligible amount in the grand scheme of things. Not much changes if they lose.
(And yet, she finds herself overwhelmingly invested in the outcome — more so than is reasonable.)
At last, the dealer places the card alongside their three cards. Her heart surges when she sees the four of diamonds, its scarlet corners posturing pointedly and proudly. 17 and 4 — a perfect 21. A reckless smile fights its way onto Falo's face. Something in her chest thrills at the victory, a ravenous, electric rush that nearly frightens her.
"ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕝𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟𝕤!" the dealer announces.
Asahel turns to her, beaming widely. "My good luck charm," he says.
Falo returns his smile, but says nothing. It could be good luck. It could be strategy. An even more ridiculous part of her is tempted to say that it's fate.
Regardless, she won't correct Asahel. For now, it's much easier to let him believe what it is he believes.
Jupiter Fairhope • District Four Female
The Venetian - Suite Room / July 8th, 2:17 PM
Miraculously, Jupiter wakes up the next morning.
It's probably more accurate to say the next afternoon — outside the window, the sun hangs high and lazy in the cerulean blue sky. Either way, it's still too early to be alive. Jupiter's head is pounding like a motherfucker, and the blinding sunlight that pours into the suite room doesn't help one bit.
Cassia, sitting in a chair next to the bed, lights up once she sees that Jupiter's up. "You're awake!"
"Hhunhh," comes Jupiter's dignified response. She tries to reach for a pillow to cover her face from the brightness, but her body is too sore to move. That, and there are like, five bath towels wrapped around her waist. "Whhuffuck…?"
"Had to stop the bleeding," Cassia explains, pointing to the dense stack. "It took a while, but I think it's mostly stopped. How are you feeling?"
The memories of last night rush through her head like a whirlwind. She faintly recalls the feeling of skin breaking underneath her knuckles, the familiar aching bloom of bruises. She remembers Kai lashing out with his knife, scratching her arms, sinking the blade into her side — the dreadful feeling of cold metal severing muscle. She must've lost consciousness, because the next thing she recalls is Cassia and Kieran by her side, and people, yelling, screaming, and — actually, fuck this train of thought.
She doesn't want to linger on this bullshit anymore. At least that motherfucker Kai is dead. She's also looking forward to giving Maritza and Sion some middle fingers for this whole mess, too.
Jupiter winces, trying to clear the exhaustion from the crooks of her eyes. "I feel like I got hit by a fuckin' bus," she finally answers.
Cassia gently ushers her into a sitting position. Jupiter complies with a weird helpless feeling bubbling in her chest. The only real sensation she feels is hurt. The slashes on her arms whistle in pain, and her abdomen screams in agony as she moves. One of her ankles feels shattered. The sheets underneath her are uncomfortably damp, and her hands and feet are far colder than they should be. She doesn't even want to think about how fucked up her face looks right now.
"You should eat some food," Cassia says, trying to sound upbeat. "And drink some water. It's the good kind, with a bunch of electrolytes and stuff."
The Two girl all but thrusts a plastic water bottle into Jupiter's embarrassingly shaky hands. Thankfully, the bottlecap is already opened. Cassia starts to open more, placing them on the nightstand beside the bed. There's also a toasted sandwich waiting there for Jupiter, loaded with deli meat, provolone, tomato, and lettuce, and a fancy stick through the whole shebang.
Jupiter brings the water bottle to her lips with far more difficulty than she expected. As soon as the water hits her tongue, though, her frustration is overpowered by sweet, cool relief. It quenches. That's really all that needs to be said.
When she's drank her fill, Jupiter moves onto the sandwich. Despite the emptiness in her stomach, it takes a substantial amount of effort to take more than two bites. She's done at the fourth, feeling like if she swallows one more time, she'll throw up.
It's weird. She's not used to not having an appetite. In fact, she's not used to feeling so drowsy at all. It feels like the basic acts of waking up, drinking, and eating sapped her of all her energy. There's nothing Jupiter wants more right now than to fall back asleep.
She puts the plate down with one hand and rubs her eyes with the other, forcing the exhaustion at bay. Now that Jupiter can observe her surroundings with some coherency, she notices that the suite's pretty swanky, with this riverside villa vibe to it. The room extends past the bed to a fancy-ish sitting area, blocked off by a decorative balcony trim. The bed itself is lush as hell, soft as the down of a goose. It's a damn shame — she's definitely ruined it by spilling breadcrumbs everywhere. And also, yanno, drenching the whole mattress in her sweat and blood.
"Where are we, exactly?" Jupiter asks Cassia. "Where're the others?"
"We're still in the same building as the banquet room, but we're on the hotel level now," Cassia answers. "Sergeant and Fio are in the lobby. Kieran's sleeping, last I heard. Reverie disappeared for a while last night, but she came back with a bunch of water, sandwiches, and a med kit. It cost her a briefcase of chips, but we've got a lot more in reserve."
"Nice of her," Jupiter murmurs. She notices Orion missing from the list of names, which can only really mean one thing.
She sneaks a glance at Cassia, who's fallen silent. She's staring far away, and Jupiter has a sneaking suspicion she's thinking about their fallen ally's absence as well.
Jupiter didn't really talk to Orion much, but she thought he'd been all right. She didn't want to get close to the outer-District kid, though, for this exact reason. Cassia was much braver than she was.
Jupiter wonders what happened to him. She hopes it was at least quick.
Jupiter sighs, sinking deeper into the mattress. She decides against bringing up Orion — she's sure Cassia doesn't need the reminder. Instead, she asks, "You feelin' okay, Cass?"
The girl blinks. "Um… yes?"
Jupiter looks at her skeptically, observing the bluish tint underneath her eyes. "…are you sure? Did you sleep?"
"I definitely slept," Cassia says quickly. "For… an amount of time."
"Cassia." A guilty feeling festers inside Jupiter. Was Cassia watching over her the entire night?
"Don't worry about me," Cassia assures, more emphatically this time. "I drank lots of water and ate lots of food, so I'm… fine. I just want you to focus on getting better, okay?"
"Okay," Jupiter whispers, but she's not really reassured. Not at all, actually. She's not supposed to give other people a reason to worry about her. With her parents, she always made sure to never put them in a position where they'd have to pretend to give a fuck about her. It feels unfair to put Cassia in this situation now — the hell happened to taking care of yourself, Jupiter?
"Also…" Cassia hesitates slightly. "To get better, we'll have to… you know. Take care of your wound."
"Suspected as much," Jupiter sighs. "Well, what's the verdict, doc?"
It takes a moment for her to answer. "Sergeant and I were talking, and you're going to need stitches."
Jupiter stares. " …fuck."
"Fuck," Cassia agrees, with an overly solemn expression.
Despite everything, Jupiter laughs. Well, it's more of a gross little chuckle, but it's the best she can manage without bursting into a fit of bloody coughs. "God. You're doing it, I guess?"
Cassia nods. "Back when my mom was sick, I took a medical training class as an elective. I was kind of thinking if the cadet thing didn't work out, I could… I dunno. Be a doctor, or something. Someone that helps people."
Jupiter closes her eyes, imagining Cassia in a white coat and a stethoscope around her neck. A brilliant, perfect smile, and star-themed stickers in her pockets for the kids at the hospital. "I could see it."
"Don't speak too soon. I didn't do that well in that class. The instructor always said I did things too roughly. And I could never find the vein on the first try. But, um, yeah. Safe to say, the doctor plans went down the drain."
"Reassuring," Jupiter jokes.
"I'm sorry you're stuck with me." Cassia laughs, a little sadly. "I'm not very good, but the others don't know how, and Fio's… well, Fio."
Jupiter tries to muster more confidence than she feels, suppressing a pained wince as she reaches over to squeeze Cassia's hand. Cassia squeezes back, self-conscious but grateful.
"I trust you, Cass," Jupiter whispers, and that's honest, at least. "Glad it's you."
They start by taking off the towels wrapped around Jupiter's waist. Each layer gradates more intensely into blood-soaked scarlet, and they have to peel the last towel off, stubbornly sticking against Jupiter's wound.
Jupiter sucks in a breath when she sees what's underneath. It's a raw mess, a feverish scribble of furious red. The blood has coagulated in places, still glossy in others. It looks like her insides are trying to eject themselves out of the wound. She looks at herself with a detached horror, unable to process that this is all her own flesh, her own blood.
Cassia squirts some sort of soap into a bottle of water and shakes it. She pours the mixture onto a washcloth before wiping at the edges of the wound with incredible care. Tiny suds slip between Cassia's fingers, the cloth, and the sensitive skin of Jupiter's stomach.
The cloth is shockingly cool against her side. Her wound feels like it's smoldering in comparison, burning to the touch, swelling red. But not in an infection way yet, Jupiter thinks. Or hopes. Fuck. She really should've paid more attention to this shit at the Academy.
Over the course of several arduous minutes, the bulk of the blood is finally wiped away, revealing a surprisingly clean-cut incision. It's not as horrific as Jupiter first thought — granted, it's still fucking awful because it's a goddamn stab wound, but it looks more or less like a straightforward heal. It's also in a place that seems flat enough to thread without too much trouble.
Cassia readies the stitching supplies, looping the suture thread through the eye of the needle. The tip of the device winks wickedly as Cassia sterilizes it in a bottle of vodka.
Jupiter tries to laugh, but it comes out strangled. "Some of that would be great right about now."
Cassia gives her a look.
"…never mind," Jupiter says.
Cassia scoots closer to the bed, gingerly holding the clean needle between her thick fingers. Jupiter's heart threatens to beat straight through her chest when Cassia places her hands on her stomach, leveling the needle right above her wound. Her body buzzes with sputtering sparks of adrenaline, pathetic residuals of yesterday's onslaught.
"Okay," Cassia whispers. "Are you ready?"
"Mhm," Jupiter manages, squeezing her eyes shut.
"Breathe in."
Jupiter breathes in.
"And now, breathe out."
As soon as Jupiter releases the air in her lungs, Cassia drives the delicate instrument through her flesh. The sudden intrusion is alien, excruciating. It's as if all the nerves immediately gather to collect at that one point, right where the tip of the needle pierces into her. Jupiter gasps helplessly as it comes out the other side, the slide of cool metal through the upper layer of her skin making her feel nauseous.
She lets out a shuddering breath, colder than ever before. It's like her body's trying to turn into pure sweat to escape the cage of sensation. Her back is pressed flush against the sheets. She's gripping onto the duvet so tightly she might claw it apart.
Fuck. How many times do they have to repeat this? She can hold out, right?
Jupiter manages to keep silent and still with the second go. But her composure cracks at the third. Her pain tolerance is supposed to be high — this is something she always believed, between the spicy food, the piercings, and more training injuries than she could count. But getting stitched up while awake is so much worse, cusping on unbearable. A whimper tears out of Jupiter's throat as Cassia makes the fourth suture — a broken sound, like a kicked wolf.
Cassia's hands still immediately, her brows pinching in concern. "Does it hurt too much?"
"Keep going," Jupiter grits out, so forcefully she starts to get lightheaded from the effort. "'m fine, just keep— God, fuck—"
She clenches her jaw tighter, her teeth shuddering in her mouth. It feels as if she'll grind them to dust. Blindly flinging out her hand, she manages to grab a hold of a pillow to bite down on. It muffles the sounds, but does nothing to assuage the pain.
Puncture after puncture after puncture — Jupiter's losing track, but she can't bring herself to open her eyes. The sixth? Eighth? There's a second heartbeat in her abdomen now, angry and vengeful. It takes every drop of self-control to keep her body from jerking against the bed as the threads slither through the top layer of her flesh. She can't think of anything but the fibers scraping through her tissues, strings barely holding her together. Jupiter feels so hysterical that she might just fucking pass out, right here, right now.
Memories pulse behind her eyes in tune with the feverish beating of her wound. Dana's crooked smile. The lantern-lit walkway of his family's home. The sun blazing into the ocean. All the brilliant stars in the sky, winking at her from above. All of these bright, beautiful things that make life worth fighting for.
She can't let it go. She can't forget it.
But every sensation she's experienced since these Games have started have been so frighteningly, hauntingly real. The searing pain from Kai's knife, trying to kill her. Kieran's arms, bringing her away from the carnage. Cassia's needle, stitching her back together again. And Cassia's eyes, so full of concern that it cuts even deeper than a flesh wound.
She's crushed by the weight of it all. She never thought it'd be so… much. The anger, the happiness, the hurt, the fear. Everything here is so real, as real as anything she's ever known. She doesn't know what she expected — that she was invincible? That she'd leave unscathed?
Why would she leave Four and Dana behind? How could she be so fucking stupid?
"It's done," Cassia whispers shakily, lifting her hands off Jupiter's stomach. "It's over, Jupi."
Jupiter trembles, suddenly so empty. Her stitches shudder in unison. Her body feels so cold without the warmth, without the pain. Something gnaws achingly underneath her ribs. She opens her eyes, and they leak like they're broken. She can barely make out Cassia's form through the bleariness clouding her vision.
With an overwhelming feeling of defeat, she realizes she's crying — something she hasn't done since she was a little girl, small feet in the surf. Jupiter clenches her eyes shut, as if that'll block the dam. She can't meet Cassia's gaze, can't stand to see her expression.
Don't look at me. Go. Please. It's what she wants to say, but she knows as soon as she utters a single word, her voice will betray too much.
Arms wrap around her shoulders, gentle and careful. Jupiter flinches at first, hard, before she can't fight it anymore. Everything she tried so hard to keep inside her comes unraveled, falling apart.
Jupiter sobs, unable to stop it from happening. She's never felt so helpless in her life. She buries her face into the space between Cassia's neck and shoulder, like if she goes far enough, she'll disappear for good.
Cassia holds her tight, not saying a word. Jupiter's thankful for it. She doesn't know what she'd say to herself, either.
Shaffa Zorp • District Three Female
Delano / July 8th, 6:59 PM
Shaffa can't even count how many machines she and Keesha have broken into at this point.
Or technically, just Keesha. But Shaffa's been offering emotional support, a really critical role in the art of lockpicking. They've been tearing up casinos left and right, leaving a mess in their wake. The two of them have enough poker chips to fill up two huge ass duffel bags to the brims, and they have no intent on stopping their grand heist anytime soon.
It's fucking delightful. Shaffa loves cheating — how could she not, when it gets her more bottles of water than she can carry, fuzzy dice to hang on the rearview mirror of a car she doesn't have, and a shot glass with titties on it?!
Yeah, they're in the Games, but Shaffa thinks their first day could've gone a lot worse. The arena is glitzy and glamorous, jam-packed with things to explore. It's done well to take Shaffa's mind off her dad, distracting her from the hole in her heart. Keesha's excellent company, as well — there's never a dull moment with the effortlessly cool girl from Five.
(Though, Shaffa can't help but feel like she said something wrong this morning when she asked about Keesha's dad. She's scared she overstepped, somehow. Shaffa's resolved to avoid the topic with a wide berth from now on — she wouldn't know what to do if Keesha left her, too.)
Now, she and Keesha find themselves in the Delano. (Kind of funny because there's a Delano, which makes Shaffa wonder if they'll see buildings named the Shaffa or the Keesha. She really hopes so!) They've been practically sightseeing all day, exploring a bunch of the themed hotels the arena has to offer. Shaffa's not super sure what the theming of the Delano is, though. It's sleek, black, and brassy. Moody light fixtures hang from the ceiling and off the wall like fireflies permanently suspended in mid-air. It gives Shaffa the vibe of a ridiculously upscale café, which is cool if you're boring and hate fun, she supposes.
"Shaffa," Keesha whispers sharply, yanking her from the doorway into a concealed corridor. Shaffa stares at her, startled. The copper lightbulbs twinkle behind her ally's back. "There's a dude at five o'clock."
The hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Your five o'clock or my five o'clock?"
"We're right next to each other. Our five o'clock is the same exact thing."
"Oh." Shaffa slowly looks around, before she pauses. "Actually, I don't know how to read an analog clock."
Keesha massages the bridge of her nose. "Okay, how about this. There's a guy on that big rock over there, in that room."
"Why didn't you just say that?"
"I wanted to be discreet!"
"Why is there a huge rock in the middle of a hotel, anyway?"
"Not a goddamn clue, girl."
Shaffa sneaks a quick peek through the doorway, where it opens up to a large, almost cavernous room. It's well-lit but very uncanny — dogshit aura. There are literally just huge rocks in the room, each of them looking like they weigh a metric fuckton. And lo and behold, Shaffa catches sight of the guy Keesha was talking about.
The guy. The guy! It's Delano, in the Delano! And he's standing up on the boulder like he thinks he's king of the mountain, or something.
The boy from Eight's blouse is stained with a thick spray of blood. His hair is all mussed up, and he looks even rougher than he did when Shaffa saw him spill his drink all over himself. He shifts into an apprehensive stance as he stares right in their direction, looking about as intimidating as roadkill. He must've heard the sound of them nearly waltzing in. Or the sound of their egregiously loud and loaded money bags.
"Who's there?!" the boy shrieks.
"Shit," Shaffa says to Keesha. "He saw us."
Keesha looks unbothered. "We tried, I guess. Does it look like he has any weapons on him?"
"Uh…" Shaffa squints. "He doesn't have anything with him, no."
"We could probably take him, then."
"What?!" Shaffa sputters. "Are you serious?!"
"I'm kiiidding." The other girl pauses. "But, I am curious…"
With no warning, Keesha just saunters out of their hiding spot, totally undaunted. Alarmed, Shaffa scrambles to follow her, scared Keesha might do something brash.
"Hey, don't come any closer!" The boy from Eight exclaims as they approach, wielding his prosthetic arm like a weapon. He backs up unsteadily on the rock. "I've killed someone, I think!"
"You think?" Keesha says, staring up at him with her arms crossed. "That feels like something you should know."
"…it was dark, okay?" His voice wavers — it sounds like he's still really shaken up by whatever it is he's referring to. But he immediately follows it up with a joke(?), giving Shaffa whiplash. "And I also might have brain damage."
Keesha makes an unimpressed sound. "Is that why you're slumming it up on top of a rock instead of, I don't know. A bed, or somewhere actually comfortable?"
Shaffa chokes back a laugh. What the hell is Keesha's plan right now? To bully this guy to death?
"It's a cool rock," the boy says defensively. "Did you know this is apparently the only source of, uhhh, meta-quartzite deposits that exist in the entire world?"
"Sounds like you just read that off a plaque somewhere."
"So what if I did?"
"You're Delano, right?" Shaffa chimes in.
Delano makes an aggrieved sound. "God, why do people just know who I am?!"
Shaffa hums. "Don't you think it's kind of egotistical, to camp out at the hotel named after you?"
Delano dodges the inquiry. "I'm actually being totally shitted on right now," he blathers. "This is so uncool."
Shaffa sighs dramatically. "You're so oppressed. God's little sacrificial guinea pig."
That startles a laugh out of Delano. His shoulders seem to relax, his initial uneasiness melting from his body language. "I really am," he says. "You guys seem kind of chill, honestly. Who the hell even are you people?"
"I'm Shaffa," she beams, pointing to herself.
Keesha gives a smooth nod, which is unsurprising because she's always smooth. "Keesha."
"Cool, cool." Delano's eyes narrow as he points to their duffels. "What's in the bags…?"
"Guns," Keesha says, right at the same time Shaffa says, "Body parts."
"Oh, nice. Guns and body parts. Those are both really normal."
Shaffa laughs, delighted by Delano's deadpan delivery. She turns to Keesha with a hopeful grin, widening her eyes as she repeatedly tilts her head toward Delano's direction. I like him! Can we keep him?
Keesha just cocks an eyebrow at her, as if to say, Are you sure?
Shaffa nods vigorously, clasping her hands together.
Keesha purses her lips together, not seeming too sold. Hm. We'll see.
Delano watches the display with no small amount of bewilderment. "Are you guys, like, telecommunicating, or…?"
"You mean telepathy?" Keesha says.
"Yeah, that, telepathizing."
"We have twin ESP powers," Shaffa tells him. "We use it when we don't want people to hear us talking shit about them."
"Oh."
"You look thirsty as hell," Keesha says, no-filter. "Take this."
With a swift movement, she unzips one of the bags and launches a plastic water bottle up at Delano. Delano only narrowly catches it with his good arm, almost losing his footing on the rock.
"Hey, the fuck is your— wait, actually, bless," Delano blinks. "Thanks."
"There's a lot more where that came from~!" Shaffa singsongs as Delano takes several large gulps from the water bottle.
He wipes the corner of his mouth with his shoulder in a shrugging motion. "Is this your way of trying to lure me down so you can kill me?"
"What do you think?" is Keesha's needlessly cryptic response.
"She means if you're not gonna try to kill us, we're not gonna try to kill you," Shaffa clarifies peppily. "And if we can agree on that, then maybe we can, like, hang out or something."
Keesha tucks her hands in her pockets. "We're gonna grab a bite at this place called Hell's Kitchen or whatever. You coming or what?"
Delano visibly hesitates. "Oh, um, I don't know. I'm not that hungry."
Right on cue, the boy's stomach emits a loud growl. "Fuckin' narc," Delano swears under his breath.
Shaffa bats her lashes, very demure, very mindful, very cutesy. "C'mon. You know you wanna."
Delano snorts despite himself, shaking his head. "How do I know you guys aren't psychopaths, cannibals, or child predators?" he asks. "Or all three?"
"Guess there's only one way to find out," Keesha shrugs. She slings her bag over her shoulder, and without another word, strolls off in the direction they came from.
Shaffa glances between Delano on the rock and Keesha's retreating form. She shoots Delano a hopeful, inviting smile before padding off after her ally.
After a few moments, Shaffa hears the sound of someone hitting the ground, and footsteps hurriedly following behind them. It's like music to her ears.
Sergeant Andronicus • District Two Male
The Venetian - Elevator Lobby / July 8th, 9:20 PM
Sergeant's running on fumes.
His body fucking hurts. That bottle from the bloodbath cut him up bad — every time he moves too sharply, he swears bits of glass dig deeper into his skin. Between arguing with Reverie, handling Fioynder, dealing with the Jupiter mess, and figuring out supplies (that Reverie acquired, apparently,) Sergeant hasn't even gotten the time to rest.
He can count the number of hours he's slept on one hand since night two. He was supposed to have Cassia look over his wounds earlier before switching off, but when he came up to the hotel room, she and Jupiter were dozing off on the bed. Sergeant sighed and placed a blanket over the both of them, making sure to carefully tuck the edge underneath Cassia's chin.
Several barely-lucid hours passed in a blur, and Sergeant picked up another watch shift. Currently, Sergeant's making his rounds up and down the hallway. They booby-trapped the shit out of both exit staircases so that no one could come through without triggering the alarm mechanism: a haphazard stack of metal railings that'll come crashing down with the slightest disturbance.
Even with the security measure in place, Sergeant refuses to let up his guard. Sleep follows at his heels like a starving dog, one he can't indulge — the safety of his allies rests on his shoulders. He paces back and forth like a soldier, knowing if he doesn't keep up the momentum, he'll crash out.
He repeats this for so long that the patterns on the glossy floor start to become incomprehensible, psychedelic. The sparkling arms of the chandeliers seem to make desperate grabs for him from the low ceiling. The ornate portraits on the walls morph before his eyes, faces smiling grotesquely.
Sergeant stops in his tracks, forcing himself to blink everything into focus again. His surroundings revert back to their undisturbed splendor. It's the same, regular old hallway, Sarge. Stop tweaking.
Kieran's keeping watch with him, sitting in the elevator lobby. He twirls a small corkscrew in one hand, something he found in a bar. There's a nasty bruise on his jaw, and Sergeant knows exactly who gave it to him.
Reverie. His own jaw tightens. She had the perfect opening to go after Seven, and she wasted it on throwing a bitchfit with Kieran.
Fucking exes, man.
Honestly, Sergeant doesn't give a fuck who started it. He just knows this whole mess could've been entirely avoided if Reverie stuck to what they agreed on in the first place. He trusted her to be someone who could get the job done. Instead, she endangered the whole pack by getting wasted and letting Seven escape, giving him the opportunity to strike back at any time. Sergeant's rightfully pissed — who wouldn't be, in his position?
He's trying not to get worked up all over again, but it's hard when Kieran's eyes flit to him every time Sergeant passes the lobby. The One boy's expression is unreadable. Sergeant can't tell what he's thinking about — Reverie? The bloodbath? The balcony, last night?
Sergeant's not the type to be easily embarrassed, but he might actually do something drastic to himself if he has to keep dealing with this weird ass energy. After a few more minutes of short-lived patrols, Sergeant finally confronts him.
"Just spit it out," Sergeant demands. "You look like you have somethin' you wanna say, so get it over with."
Kieran, of course, surprises him. "You should take a shower," is what he says.
Sergeant barks out a dry laugh. "You offering?"
The joke doesn't quite send. There's a reason he's been avoiding the bathrooms; whenever he turns on a faucet or a showerhead, the smell of liquor, brutal and bitter, drowns everything out faster than the water can.
"There's clothes in the gift shop downstairs," Kieran continues, ignoring him. "Probably better than the ones you got on."
Sergeant's black shirt is glued to his skin with blood — he's scared of confronting what's underneath, even if it's worse to let it linger. "Still thinking about appearances," Sergeant drawls, deflecting. "You Ones really are something, huh?"
Kieran frowns, but doesn't take the bait. "Seriously. Just go. No one's gonna die in the fifteen minutes it takes to get to the lobby and back."
"I don't need you to tell me that, Locke."
"Don't be stubborn. You look like a mess. It's pretty obvious that you haven't taken any sort of break for the last twenty-four hours. At the very least, get off your feet. We'll hear it if someone comes or goes."
Sergeant debates arguing, but he knows it'll cost more energy than he's willing to part with. With some displeasure, he carefully lowers himself to the ground a fair distance away from the other boy. He takes care to not inflame his wounds by taking it slow, groaning quietly with the effort.
"Why are you moving like that?" Kieran asks. "Did you get hit yesterday?"
Sergeant exhales through his nose. "Six slammed a bottle at me," he explains, keeping his voice casual. "Hurts like a bitch, but it's 'ight."
"You're usually supposed to clean wounds, you know."
"I know that," Sergeant grits.
Kieran shakes his head, hauling himself toward Sergeant's direction. Sergeant regards him warily, freezing when Kieran's hands reach to pull the hem of his shirt.
"What the hell are you doing?" Sergeant whispers, voice low.
"Don't get your hopes up," Kieran says, flashing an aggravating smile. "I'm just checking out your wounds."
Sergeant scoffs. "I can do it myself."
"But you haven't yet, and that's the problem." Kieran levels him an unimpressed look. "How do you think you're supposed to lead anyone if you're all fucked up yourself?"
Sergeant hisses as Kieran peels back his shirt, putting the hem underneath Sergeant's jaw. The fabric is tough with dried blood, chafing the underside of his chin.
Apprehension pitters into exhaustion. Sergeant's too tired to fight this. Deep down, he knows it's bad that he's put it off for so long, so he lets Kieran look. He wonders if this is actually happening right now, or if it's something his sleep-deprived subconscious is just making up.
Kieran's eyes graze his torso, cursing quietly but sharply. "You've just had glass in you the whole day?"
"…haven't had time," Sergeant mumbles under his breath.
The One boy grimaces. "Well, we're gonna have to take all of it out first. Can't clean it until we do."
Sergeant swallows as Kieran washes his hands with a bottle of water. Sergeant's capacity for pain has always been weaker than he'd like to admit. In the heat of the moment, in the throes of a battle, the adrenaline compensates for enough. But what he can't cope with is sitting there and taking it.
He's never dealt well with the inevitable. When he was a kid, he used to thrash and scream before shots at the clinic. When his friend pierced his ear, the countdown got so nerve-wracking that Sergeant couldn't convince himself to go through with the second. Every year at the Reaping, he nearly turns blue waiting for the Peacekeeper to prick his finger. There's nothing worse than the agonizing seconds preceding, the prey animal anticipation before the guillotine goes down.
He's used to having signs. The pop of a cork, a whiff of whiskey and he's bolting out the front door. Avoidable as long as he's not in the wrong time and place. But he can't exactly avoid this — Kieran's hands, not exactly gentle, but firm and diligent. Kieran's fingernails, digging slightly into his skin as he pulls bloody, microscopic pieces of glass out of his flesh. Kieran's breaths, air puffing through his lips against his exposed stomach. He knows death by a thousand glass cuts would be excruciatingly awful, but right now he's wondering whether this suffocating proximity will kill him first.
"This is weird," Sergeant blurts, almost deliriously.
"Don't make it weird," Kieran instantly fires back.
Sergeant winces as Kieran plucks out another piece of glass, burrowed slightly underneath his skin. His eyes land on a familiar strip of shining metal laid on Kieran's wrist.
"You've still got my watch," Sergeant murmurs, quiet.
"Right," Kieran says, glancing down at his wrist. "Sorry. Couldn't really give it back during the whole, uh, bloodbath thing."
Kieran's voice is heavy in his ears, grounding. Talk — talk is good. Talk distracts from whatever this is, Kieran's sharp face and calloused hands too close to his skin. From a slow death by discomfort.
"The fuck even was that, by the way?" Sergeant mumbles, switching gears. "With Reverie?"
Kieran hesitates. "At first, I thought she was trying to come after me, but…" A strange flicker dances across his expression. "…uh, she was probably just trying to steal my kill."
Sergeant doesn't say anything, doesn't correct him. That'd raise more questions than answers, ones that Sergeant really isn't tryna explain at all. Because then he'll have to talk about the plan they hid from the rest of the group: luring Seven with the promise of the safety of his allies. And using Orion as bait.
It was a strategic necessity, and it worked. Putting the hit on Orion got Seven to stick around in the bloodbath. Not that it ended up mattering, but still. He doesn't think the others would be bothered, but he's not worried about them as he is about Cassia. She and Orion had been friends, after all.
He shoves down the guilty feeling that tries to creep up on him. It's not like he lied to her. He told her Orion's odds were low to begin with during that second night, when she asked. The boy from Three was doomed from the start, really — Sergeant was just trying to make sure that Orion's death would further guarantee the rest of their survival. Cassia would understand that, right?
His mind forcibly flashes back to the aftermath of the bloodbath — how distraught she was when she found out Orion was dead. Her stifled sobs, the unstoppable flow of tears.
Sergeant swallows hard. No — he can't ever let Cassia find out. He'll rest easier if his and Reverie's failed plan just goes to the grave, right alongside the boy from Three.
"You and Rev got some real issues," he says to Kieran instead, dragging his eyes along the boy's purpled jaw.
Kieran snorts. "You don't think I know that?"
The other boy's nails dig a little too far into his skin, almost more than Sergeant can stand. He lets out a shuddering exhale as another thin, shimmering shard is pulled out of him.
"It's probably better that the watch was with you," Sergeant whispers after regaining his bearings. "If I was wearing it, I would've shattered the whole face."
"Like you shattered that guy's whole face?"
Sergeant chuckles slightly. "Yeah. Like that."
"Would've been a shame," the One boy says. "I meant what I said last night — it's a nice watch. Expensive. Elegant. Wouldn't have guessed it'd be your taste, though."
"It's my mom's."
"Oh? Didn't take you for a momma's boy."
Sergeant rolls his eyes before pointing to the gold hoop on his ear, trying to move as little as possible. "This is hers, too."
"One earring. Real classy. A red flag, if you ask me. Shows your inability to commit to both."
"Whatever, man," Sergeant laughs. "What's your token?"
"What makes you think I brought one?"
Kieran's evasive, but Sergeant remains undeterred. "You saw mine. Now let me see yours."
With an amused huff, Kieran relents, fishing something out of his pocket. Sergeant just sees a flash of gold before Kieran's hand stills before him, revealing some sort of small, triangular disc. After a beat, he hands it over. Sergeant inspects the object, turning it in his hands. Having something to hold is nice — it lets him concentrate on something besides the intermittent stings of pain.
"What is it?"
"My brother's guitar pick," Kieran says. "He was obsessed with that thing."
"Past tense?" Sergeant asks, but thinks he already knows the answer.
"Yeah, well. He's dead now, so he can't really be obsessed with it anymore." Kieran's voice is a strange mix of thinly-veiled bitterness and sorrow, fresh and aching.
Sergeant is quiet for a moment, his eyes tracing the cursive, beautifully engraved A. "You must've been close."
"It's… complicated," Kieran mutters, hands stilling. "I guess we were, in a way. We fi— fought all the time, but we pretty much did everything together. I don't remember what life was like before him. I can't even really describe what it's like now."
Sergeant doesn't really know what to say. He's never lost someone he cared about, not to this level; he doesn't think anything he can say would help at all. He could pull out some words for Cassia, when she was talking about her mom, but Cassia was someone that could be easily comforted. He doesn't think Kieran will be the same way.
"I had people helping me through it, though," Kieran continues after a long silence. "My best friend. My parents, I guess. And, uh, this other girl. She was… there for me."
Sergeant smirks. "There for you, huh?"
"Sort of. I mean, we fooled around at parties, stuff like that. It wasn't ever serious. Just a distraction."
That startles a laugh out of Sergeant. "That's cold, Locke. So, what, you were just leading her on?"
"No," Kieran says quickly. "I told her straight up it wasn't going to go anywhere. She knew that. She was fine with that."
Sergeant gives the other boy a knowing look. "Well, that's what they always say."
"We were just friends."
"Friends that hook up?"
"I'm… pretty sure we never took it that far."
Sergeant barks out a laugh. "You mean you don't know? It was that forgettable?"
A strange flicker passes over Kieran's face before it vanishes, leaving Sergeant wondering if he'd just imagined it. "I mean, we got drunk a couple times. Really drunk. But I just don't think — I mean, I feel like I would remember that kind of thing."
"You've never thought to ask her?"
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"… she's dead, too."
The visceral emptiness in Kieran's voice sends a sharp chill across Sergeant's skin. "Jesus, man. I don't even know what to say."
"It's fine," Kieran responds easily. "Just don't say shit like you're sorry. I'm pretty over that."
There's a forced casualness in his voice, but his rougher movements reveal the bitterness buried underneath his words. The One boy's palms accidentally drive a small bit of glass deeper into him.
"Fuck," Sergeant groans weakly, grabbing at Kieran's wrist.
Kieran's brown eyes snap to his. "You good there?"
"Man, I'm hurting," he rasps. "Be careful."
There's a light laugh from the other boy, but it rings hollow. "Sorry, sorry."
"Just keep talking to me," Sergeant whispers, wanting something, anything to focus on. "Keep talking."
[re: stats, BOLD indicates updates/changes/developments from the last chapter.]
Scoreboard:
Kai: I
Delano: I
Dottie: I
Reverie: I
Sergeant: I
Lucifer: I
Cassia: I
Jupiter: I
Fioynder: I
Injuries:
Cassia: One large cut on the right arm. [Addressed.]
Sergeant: Multiple contusions, abrasions, and lacerations across the torso with possible internal damage. [Addressed.]
Jupiter: Bruise along the jaw. Knife slashes on the arms. Broken ankle. Deep stab wound in the abdomen, stitched. [Addressed.]
Delano: Bruised tailbone and back. Contusion on the back of the head.
Falo: Varying puncture wounds on the right leg. [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. [Deteriorating.]
Alliances:
Careers: Reverie, Kieran, Cassia, Sergeant, Jupiter, Fioynder
Littles: Ginseng, Dottie
"Truce": Lucifer, Emilio, Jillion
Teen Slasher Trio: Shaffa, Keesha, Delano
Ten: Falo, Asahel
Loners: Wisteria
Locations:
Flamingo: Ginseng, Dottie
Treasure Island: Falo, Asahel
The Venetian: Reverie, Kieran, Cassia, Sergeant, Jupiter, Fioynder
Delano: Shaffa, Keesha, Delano
?: Lucifer, Emilio, Jillion
?: Wisteria
a/n: wound care can be something so absurdly erotic
as always, thank you to ama and erik for giving the chapter a look before i released it into the wild! everyone had lots and lots of fun haha. right guys? right?
i think i'm really clever for today's title [IN HIGH SPIRITS] ! it's just very punny and also tonally dissonant. i am nobody without my irony!
upcoming: day 2.
deuces,
booger