sort of a vague overarching tw for child abuse but it's most prominent in theo's first pov here, 'the devil.' tread carefully my loves, and don't be afraid to lmk if you need something summarized.

the hanged man

When Guinevere was seven years old, she knew something was wrong with her.

Or… really, it's as if everyone else knew before her. The Community Home was always full of chatter that Gwen only ever experienced outside a set of doors. The instant she stepped foot inside, it was as if a vacuum swallowed up all noise in the room. The stares came next. Gwen was always accustomed to the stares.

Most days were the same. Gwen would get up, eat her breakfast, disappear for a few hours into whatever dark corner wasn't occupied by anyone else, and try to avoid running into any of the older girls. They were still mad at her for the incidents. Which, for the record, were not her fault.

They were just friends. Gwen liked having friends – she'd never had any before. Even though she's been in the Home all her life, she'd never been able to really connect with anyone. Not until Annika. They read together, they played together, they ate all of their meals together. Gwen can't even remember what they initially had in common. All she remembers is how happy they were.

And then Annika got adopted. Which was good, really! Gwen was happy for her, even if that meant she was losing her only friend. She'd still see the girl at school anyhow, so things couldn't be too different.

That was before she saw the bruises. And the arm in a sling. And as the months passed, as Annika got quieter and quieter, Gwen eventually stopped seeing her at all.

One would've been nothing. A fluke. But then it kept happening. Another girl that wanted to be her friend, an older one this time, and Gwen was all too eager to accept. Within a few months, she was reaped for the Games. Gwen watched the night wolves tore her apart, shearing skin from bone long after the cannon went off. Isra.

Then there was the girl whose imagination far surpassed Gwen's, and they would craft stories together while studying for english, all compiled in a journal with doodles of their characters. She ended up getting sick, real sick, and when she came back to the Home months later, the fingers in her hands didn't work quite right. Her mind was scattered, pieces lost to the wind. Lavender.

There were more over the years. It was like a lesson no one learned. Not even Gwen. The loneliness felt so overpowering that some days, Gwen thought it might kill her.

So despite the destruction left in her wake, Gwen knew she had to keep trying. To keep reaching out.

She hoped that someday, someone would reach back.

the devil

When Theo was twelve years old, he came to the conclusion that all of this was happening to him for a reason.

That had to be it. There was some sort of higher power watching him, twisting the actions of everyone around him into something sinister.

For a time, he had considered the possibility of the existence of some god that had it out for him personally, but that didn't make any sense. No god would be this interested in Theo of all people. Bottom of his class at the Academy, outcast among his peers, his father's failure of a son… even if some perverse god had a vendetta against him, why kick a boy when he's already down? Why force him into the training he's not good at, only to send him home and punish him for not being good at it?

No, Theo doesn't believe there's a god in this world. Every plea he's sent out into the void has gone unanswered.

Instead, during one of the nights where Theo's shocked so hard he slips into unconsciousness, he comes up with a new theory. None of this was real. His father – Pollux, Theo reminds himself – was just an actor pretending to be his father. Every cruel word and sharp slap was another reason for the audience to feel pity towards Theo, remind them that he was someone important, and all he needed was a chance to grow.

(It was easier this way. Theo didn't have to look in the eyes of his father and wonder why the man didn't love him. Pollux was under no obligation to. He was simply an actor meant to push Theo's arc forward, force him to change into the warrior he was always meant to be.

Years down the line, Theo would be able to look back at all this and laugh. He'll be a Victor, and the people who love him, truly love him, will shower him in adoration. They existed all along, they were just forced to wait in the wings until the time was right. His whole life is entertainment for the world, and his victory is the only way for his story to end.)

(... right?)

A sharp pinch makes Theo's eyes fly open, and he scrambles away from the stimuli. His head is hopelessly fuzzy, and no amount of blinking the stars out of his eyes will clear it. Theo's mouth feels dry. His limbs tingle. He tries to sit upright, but his body won't cooperate. He's stuck flat on his back, at least for the moment, trying desperately to remember how the hell he got here.

oh.

Father's unsmiling face hovers above him, his disappointment clear. Instead of offering a helping hand, he stands and disappears out of Theo's eyesight.

"Again."

It's not much of a warning. Theo can't react fast enough – and even if he could, his body stays stubbornly still. He hears the crackle of electricity, sees a flash of light, and-

A choked cry spills out of Theo's mouth as sparks fly behind his eyes, the pain wracking his body nearly unbearable. But he forces himself to grit his teeth and endure, staring into the eyes of the man who pretends to be his father with years upon years of pure hatred building up in his bones.

(Never mind that there's an emptiness in Pollux's eyes when he looks at the boy that's supposed to be his son. He's always been so good at making Theo feel like a burden, an inconvenience. An irritating reminder of his deceased wife.

Theo wants Pollux dead, but Pollux wants Theo to grow the fuck up. The Games will chew up weaklings and spit them out. Theo, with his soft heart and gentle hands, will undoubtedly be one of the first to go.)

(How disappointing.)

judgment

When he was seventeen years old, Kodo discovered that he was nothing more than expendable.

Looking back on it, this whole thing is nothing short of embarrassing. Kodo should've known better. He's always known that Kosa is everything to their father, that she's perfect and can do no wrong. Kodo loves her for that just as much as he resents her. He doesn't want to strip her of everything she has and leave her with nothing, but… it hurts. Is there not a single crumb to spare for Kodo?

(... He's not used to feeling like this. That's not how he was raised.)

He always knew about the deal his father made with some girl. She was meaningless, someone poor and dumb enough to gamble their life away for spare change. Kodo didn't know who she was, and he didn't particularly care to find out.

What would've happened if he asked questions, anyway? What sort of uncomfortable answers would've been brought to light? Would his father have bothered to lie to him?

Maybe deep down, Kodo knew all along. There are two of them, and only one child is necessary to inherit the money, the home. Kosa's older, so it just makes sense.

(Still, a part of Kodo believes that even if he was born first, by minutes or years, he was always meant to be the leftover. An unnecessary spare.)

He wishes it didn't have to be this way. Kodo doesn't even particularly like his father, for god's sake, but he still wishes he could mean something to the man. Instead, he's going to die on national television, and his father will be able to write him off as a footnote in the grand scheme of things.

Kodo can pretend it doesn't bother him. He can pretend he doesn't look himself in the mirror and see a version of his father, the very man he blames for everything. He can pretend that there's a chance he'll make it out of this Arena alive, that he'll be able to go home and become some version of himself that's not attached to the Hotakim name.

After all, Kodo's always been very good at acting. It's the only thing he can say he's truly good at.

None of that changes the fact that the only person Kodo's never been able to fool is himself.

the tower

It's dark in the house when Kodo gets home.

Each step echoes against the walls, sending shivers down his spine. His own breaths feel too loud in the empty space. He recognizes every inch of this house, but something about it just isn't… right. He can't shake the sensation that danger looms around every corner, and all he has to do is turn his back for something to strike.

This memory has played out for Kodo before, so he knows how it's supposed to go. He wasn't alone when he stepped in the door – Dagan was with him. They were supposed to practice a scene together. Dagan's family was home, and Kodo's wasn't, and they didn't want to bother anyone else, so Kodo's house was perfect.

It was supposed to be perfect. His father was caught up in a meeting for work. He was always caught up in meetings. Those days, that's all he seemed to do. If Kodo tried to invite him to a performance, he was too busy. If Kosa tried to invite him to a performance, he would 'see what he could do.' There was no chance his father would clear his busy schedule for his only children, but at least with Kosa he went through the motions of caring.

But when Kodo saw his father kissing that unknown woman, he didn't know if any work meetings existed at all.

Kodo never said anything, but either him or Dagan made a noise. Teff turned, his face displaying a mix of surprise and anger, but Kodo was far more focused on the other woman.

He's always known Aana wasn't his biological mother, but she slotted into the role so perfectly that it was always easy to pretend. Kodo and Kosa have never known another mother. They've never seen her before.

Kodo knew in that moment that his mother was right in front of him.

It was like looking at a version of his own face in the mirror. Older and more feminine, sure, but Kodo recognized those dark, hooded eyes and the curve of her cheek. And all the while, she stared back at him. Not with any interest in seeing one of the children she abandoned years ago, but… strangely confused. Like she didn't recognize him at all.

Instead of Dagan taking his hand and leading him away though, Kodo is frozen by himself. He stares at the face that looks so much like his, and all he can do is hate this woman he barely knows.

And then she smiles at him, lips stretched thin. Her teeth are crooked and jagged, her dark eyes leering at him like a predator. Kodo steps back swiftly, hand searching for Dagan's, but he's all alone.

"You're even more disappointing than I imagined," the woman croons, a hand reaching out to stroke his face. Kodo can't move away in time. "It's a miracle Aana hasn't left yet. It's no wonder your father only paid to save one of you."

Kodo lurches away from her icy fingers, seeking out his father, but he's gone. In his place is Kosa, her cheeks painted with tears from their goodbyes. Kodo blinks and then opens his mouth, wondering if he should comfort her, but disembodied laughter rings in his ears. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he tries to find the woman again, but she's also disappeared. There's only Kodo and Kosa, two halves of the same whole.

"I'm sorry," Kodo whispers. He's not sure what he's apologizing for.

In return, Kosa smiles at him prettily, then leans in and kisses his cheek. Kodo's face burns like he's been branded.

"I'll try not to forget you," she whispers.

And then pain slices through Kodo's chest, and he looks down to see a bloody massacre – his ribcage split open, gore dripping from his fingers, his still-beating heart in the hands of his sister. Then she begins to laugh, long and loud, and squeezes until all Kodo feels is pain, until all he can do is-

Kodo wakes with a scream caught in his throat.

He's trembling as he gets out of bed, trying not to alert Bourbon to his distress. He nearly trips trying to clamber over her body, and it's a miracle he doesn't hit the floor with a louder thud. He's pretty sure Bourbon is stirring despite his best efforts, but Kodo's already at the door before he can even think to say something to her. No excuse would be good enough, not when Bourbon is so… so…

The house they're in now has a large, wraparound porch that Kodo soon finds himself standing on. He doesn't let himself go any farther – rain has been pouring relentlessly for hours now, and miniature streams flow down the street and collect in the gutters. Kodo didn't grab his rain jacket before coming outside, and even a second of standing out in the open would leave him drenched. The fresh air alone – as humid and disgusting as it is – will have to do.

The impending storm has ushered in cooler winds, and Kodo shivers on the deck despite the heat of the summer. He wraps his arms around himself, staring at the flooded streets and the tall buildings that loom ever closer, their lights emitting a muted glow through the clouds.

Strangely, he finds himself missing home. Not the home that he dreamed of, but the home where the sun always shines and fields of grain gleam golden as far as the eye can see. Kodo's always lived more in the city, but sometimes Aana would take him and Kosa on one of her business trips, and they'd get to see a little more of the world. In the city, it's easier for Kodo to pretend he's someone important. In the country, he's an insignificant bug.

Kodo doesn't know how much time passes before the door behind him creaks open. His shoulders tense. He wants to tell Bourbon to go away, insistent that no one should see him like this, but… wouldn't that just give him away?

(Doesn't she see right through him, anyway?)

"I didn't peg you as an early riser," Bourbon teases, voice purposefully lighthearted. She moves beside him, several inches of distance cautiously left between them.

"Wasn't sleeping well."

"This bed isn't up to your standards, my liege? I could kill a few geese for you and stuff their feathers in the mattress if that would help. That's the sort of shit rich people do, right?"

Honestly, Kodo isn't sure what to say to that. He's not sure anything could make this bed more comfortable for him, because it'll never be his. And he's not sure how much his comfort matters in a place like this. No amount of complaining will save Kodo from his fate.

He shrugs lamely. "Not sure how many birds you'll find out in this weather."

"I'll hunt 'em down for ya. Gotta treat you to somethin' nice, eh?"

She's joking, that much is clear. But still, Kodo digs his fingers into his arms like he's trying to hold himself together. "Why are you here?" he asks softly, vaguely. His question could mean a hundred different things. He's not as surprised as he should be when Bourbon understands what he's really trying to get at.

She elbows him in the ribs, a sly smirk playing across her lips, like she's trying to change the subject. "You've got a sister, don't you? Choir girl, major bitch?"

"Well- I have a sister, yes, but-"

"Older, younger?"

His mouth twitches down into a frown. "Older. She milks those three extra minutes of life for all they're worth."

Bourbon grins widely, her smile taking up her whole face. "Ha! As she goddamn should. My siblings are well aware I'm the oldest. Gotta put 'em in their place somehow."

He gives her a curious look. "You have multiple?"

"Yup. Bia and Scotch. Both little shits, and I give them hell every chance I get, but…" Something in her voice changes – if Kodo didn't know any better, he'd think it cracked, just slightly. "I love 'em, yanno?"

And Kodo does know. Kosa is the one person in the world that Kodo hates more than his own father, but he'd still make a fool of himself just to see her smile. She's the one person he's never known a life without. Even on the days where they hardly interact, Kodo can feel her steady presence like the beating of his own heart. It's strangely calming to know that he's not alone in the world, that he'll never be alone, not when Kosa is out there, holding a piece of him close to her chest.

(And no matter how many times he's proclaimed it in a fight, Kodo doesn't hate her, not really. They're the same in that sense: full of passion, without much room for middling emotions. Hate and love can exist in the same breath, the same heartbeat.

That's the only way they know.)

He's been quiet for too long. Kodo forces himself to uncross his arms, like he's finally about to relax. "Yeah. That's… how it is with Kosa."

"I'd do anything for them," Bourbon says wistfully. "Clothes off my own back and shit. That's just how it is."

Kodo's heart pulses in his chest, a strange emptiness threatening to drag him under. He pushes the sensation away harshly, refusing to give it any further thought.

Bourbon sighs heavily, stepping out from under the awning to let the rain soak into her hair. She spins once, tilting her face to the sky. Rain drips off the soft slope of her nose, and Kodo can't help but watch, transfixed.

(Kodo has the fleeting thought that she's actually rather pretty.)

(Underneath all the dirt and grime and poverty, that is.)

Then a hand grabs his wrist, and Kodo is unceremoniously yanked out into the pouring rain. He tries to protest, but then Bourbon's mouth is on his, and he feels hot and cold all at once. Thunder booms overhead. He interlocks his fingers with Bourbon's.

Kodo pulls back first, strangely breathless. He can't look away from Bourbon's dark, almond-shaped eyes. He doesn't know how much he loves or hates her anymore, how much is an act and how much is horrifically, terrifyingly real.

"Bonnie," he whispers. The other words are on the tip of his tongue, but he can't make himself say them aloud, can't make himself finish the thought. What are we…?

Something pained flickers across Bourbon's face as she shakes her head. That's enough for Kodo to remember himself, remember where they are. No matter how good Bourbon is at making Kodo feel like anything but himself, they're just pawns in the greater scheme of things.

And he has to be able to outplay her if he wants to stay alive.

The buzzing in Theo's ears is relentless.

He thinks he had a dream, one that slipped out of his grasp just before he woke up. And when Theo turned his face to the sky, searching for a sun behind the clouds, all he could think about was this overwhelming need to wash his hands, to cleanse himself of something.

But when he looks down to examine himself, Theo looks the same as always. Large, calloused hands, neatly trimmed nails, and dozens of small, translucent scars from training. The only blood on him has either flaked off throughout the night or cemented itself in his clothes.

Theo's memories from yesterday are… fuzzy. He knows he killed that girl – Marri Esters – and he knows she caused a real fuss about it. Her actress was excellent, Theo will give her that. She just made everything seem so believable. Her screams rang through that hospital for what felt like hours, until all that was left was broken whimpers, and then silence. Theo couldn't tell how much time had passed by the end of it all. He just knew that his only company in that building was a fresh corpse.

He still remembers the guilty looks on his allies' faces when he returned, like they knew they fucked up. They both looked like they'd been through hell, sporting these cool ass injuries that would soon become even cooler ass battle scars. All Theo's got is that scratch in his eyebrow because Kodo's stupid little girlfriend threw something at him several days ago. Theo can't even come up with a lie about what happened, because it was broadcast to the entire world!

His life is honestly so unfair sometimes.

But it's cool. It's whatever. If there's one thing Theo's learned throughout his life, it's that he's far too sexy for a little inconvenience to get him down. So what if his allies abandoned him to get involved in what was essentially the mid-Games finale? Theo's totally not bitter. He would do the same if he, um, knew about it.

Still, Theo can't help but be jealous. If Saccharine was the twist villain of the alliance, why didn't she go after him at any point? Isn't that what she's supposed to do as the antagonist in his story?

Maybe she was saving him for last. Yeah, that totally makes sense. She was working up to Theo being her big, climactic finale, and then Thessaly fucked it all up by killing her too early. She should probably be reminded of her place pretty soon.

Theo side-eyes her for a moment. Thessaly walks pretty well, considering the state of her leg. There's an obvious limp, but he would be a fool to underestimate her even now. She got first place, after all. There has to be a reason he doesn't know about.

It does, however, bring Theo more than a little pleasure that her face is still fucked up. His scar gives him a cool, rugged look. Thessaly's makes it look like her skin is going to split in two at any given moment, like something monstrous is only moments away from crawling out of her.

(He'd believe it. Theo hasn't missed the way Ibai distances himself from his supposed best friend, the way he looks for someone that's no longer there. Whatever happened with Saccharine, following Saccharine… it changed things.

Theo can use this upheaval for his own purposes.)

They've taken a brief break for the day, hiding from the rain inside some abandoned storefront. It's mid-morning, Theo thinks, and his allies don't have the stamina they used to. They're making good time towards the tall city buildings, but Theo could certainly be there by now if he was making the trip by himself. At least this way he has company – even if his company isn't feeling particularly talkative.

Thessaly lounges on the ground, arms stretched over her head. With her eyes fluttered shut, it almost looks like she could be sleeping. It's the most peaceful Theo has seen her since Nerissa's death.

Ibai leans against the wall, shirt lifted to expose his stomach, the canvas of white bandages painted with blood. His expression is pained as he reaches for something in his bag.

"Let me," Thessaly says, her voice unusually brusque. Theo didn't even notice her getting up.

Without waiting for Ibai's reply, she snags a strip of fresh bandages and reaches for the old ones. She only stops when Ibai flinches, hard.

"What?" she snaps. "You can't do this yourself. Let me help."

"It's fine," Ibai manages through gritted teeth. "I managed it myself last night."

"Yeah, but you don't need to, because I'm offering to help."

"And I'm saying I don't need you!"

"Then why the hell did you stay with me when you could've gone with Zephyr?"

Damn. Theo didn't even know that was an option. He glances between the two of them, wondering when he's supposed to cut in. He's pretty sure he's still the leader, after all. Isn't that supposed to involve being the mediator in a conflict? Or something?

Ibai frowns. "You're my friend."

"So why didn't you let me kill them?"

The way Ibai's eyes shift away makes him look like a guilty dog. "They… they were my friend, too."

"Right." Thessaly's voice is icy. "Such great friends."

Interesting. Theo can see the clear hypocrisy at play, and he's sure Ibai does, too, but the other boy's lips stay sealed shut. Even more interesting.

"What about Nerissa?" Theo asks, stepping closer to the two of them.

Thessaly whirls around, ice turning to fire in an instant. "Don't fucking talk about her."

"It seems perfectly reasonable to bring her up if you're going to talk about Zephyr."

She trembles in place. "That was different."

Curiously, Theo cocks his head to the side. "Different how?"

"Ner, she was…"

Theo raises his voice a little to talk over her. "I mean, really, if anyone is going to feel betrayed about their allies' relationships, it should be me. I'm not sure if you remember, but I was left behind. I could've died, for all you cared."

"Who the hell was going to kill you? That little girl you butchered?"

"There could've been mutts, or other tributes, or I might've never found you again at all. You didn't even come look for me, did you?"

Thessaly lifts her chin stubbornly. "No. I didn't. You can handle yourself just fine – and look! I was right."

"You couldn't guarantee that."

"No one can guarantee anything here," Thessaly hisses. "It's the Games. Grow the fuck up, get over it, or die."

She slams her shoulder into Theo's arm as she storms past, slamming the door to exit the building. Ibai and Theo both flinch at the noise, and in the following silence, it becomes hard to look at each other.

Theo isn't sure why he does it. There's no reason why he should care about one of his supporting actors, especially when this one is seemingly so determined not to have anything to do with him. But ever so slowly, he crouches on the ground and picks up the bandages Thessaly left behind. The distrust in Ibai's gaze is evident. Theo pretends not to notice. "Can I?"

The other boy wets his lips nervously. "You weren't supposed to do that," he whispers.

The hair on the back of Theo's neck stands up. He chuckles nervously. "What do you mean by that?"

Ibai's gaze is soft as he stares at the door, like he still wants to follow Thessaly outside. It's strange to witness. Why does he still care? Theo makes one mistake, and all the people in his life throw him aside. Shouldn't Ibai do the same?

"She's not the same," Ibai says, mirroring Theo's thoughts. He blinks, wondering if his producers have figured out some kind of mind reading technology. Does he need to figure out how to introduce a narrative voice to his own thoughts?

Outside the window, Theo catches a glimpse of Thessaly, restlessly pacing back and forth. She runs a hand through her hair furiously enough that Theo can only imagine she ripped out several strands in the process. Ibai watches her like he's already grieving, like he knows what's to come.

Theo looks between them, envisioning the bond keeping them together like a red string, binding them ever closer. The narrative plays out and the string tangles, frays, snaps. Theo can't let these two side characters overtake his own story, but he doesn't know how to stop them, either. The producers want him to be the focus, they want him to win. Otherwise, what was it all for?

(Unless all they wanted was to see him suffer. Theo's life could just be one sick joke played out on the silver screen for thousands of people to see. Every beating, every loss in training, every fumbled relationship… Theo's no one important. He's just some nobody, some kid who was chosen to be special. A random luck of the draw.

So if all Theo's done is suffer for these producers, isn't there a chance his suffering will only end when he's dead?)

"You still need new bandages," Theo reminds the other boy, threads digging into his hands from how harshly he's holding them.

"Right." Ibai's gaze darts up to his, and then away again. "You can… you can."

Theo tries not to smile too obviously. He can play nice for a little while, make sure every plot thread leads back to himself. He can make friends just as well as everyone else – better, even! He loves teamwork. He'll even let Ibai get a kill in just to be a good sport.

But Pantheon Lexicus will die before he lets someone steal his spotlight again.

When Guinevere wakes up, curled up on the concrete floor of an industrial building, she's all alone.

It's been years since she's had to deal with this sort of unceremonious awakening. Guinevere has gotten used to Shay's body heat beside her, the gentle sound of Akira's snores, the rustling of blankets as Svelte twitches in his sleep. When she looks around the room, silence ringing in her ears louder than any noise could, it's as if her allies have been spirited away in an instant.

There, in the corner – Svelte's bag and blanket, tossed haphazardly into a pile. The sight is rather unlike him, but what worries Guinevere more is the pile of wires and mechanics that Akira has left behind.

From there, curiosity takes over. Guinevere sifts through Akira's bag, searching for clues of any sort, but the only interesting thing she finds is a scrap of paper with VOIDSPIKERZ scrawled on it. Guinevere can't for the life of her figure out what that means, or, for that matter, where they got most of this stuff.

Svelte's belongings are next, but she can't find anything of interest in there. No note, no sponsor gift, nothing to direct Guinevere to her next location.

For all she knows, her allies could've abandoned her entirely, opting to leave behind their belongings rather than stay with her.

The thought is irrational, and Guinevere acknowledges it as such, storing it away without lingering for too long. She likes her allies, and as best as she can tell, they're rather fond of her company. Akira is as erratic as a child, irrational and attention-seeking and chaotic, but they're so loyal that it almost pains Guinevere. She gets the sense they would follow her through any fire, and Guinevere would only have to ask.

Svelte is… different. He doesn't trust, not like Akira, but he's still with them anyway. He's skittish – one wrong move could send him fleeing for his life. He's guarded and assumes the worst in everyone he meets. But he's never turned away Guinevere's outstretched hand; he's always come back for more.

Maybe it's that Guinevere resonates with both of them. She's always found herself drawn to those whom life has treated unfairly. They're broken and beaten down, but they keep getting back up regardless. They try, even when the world is hopelessly fucked and there's no reason to try anymore.

At best, two of them are going to die. Guinevere knows this, keeps it as close to her chest as a secret she's afraid of voicing aloud. She's sure the others are aware of it, though. She sees the way they look at each other when they think she's turned the other way. They don't like each other, don't place their faith in anyone but Guinevere.

She's not sure to fix that.

(How can she, anyway? Guinevere breaks everything she touches. Sooner or later, everything turns to dust in her grasp. She's been lucky to hold on for this long.)

Unease prickles at the back of Guinevere's neck. She feels eyes on her, but when she turns around, there's no one there. She clenches her hands into fists, sucks in a deep breath, snags her trusty knife. There was no weapon in Svelte's bag, no completed project in Akira's. Wherever they are, they could be getting themselves into trouble.

It's Guinevere's duty to follow them.

The bottom floor of this building has been completely gutted. When they arrived here late last night, soaked from the rain, no one had the energy to move to a higher floor. Guinevere assumes the only place her allies could go is up, and so when her search for a staircase reveals nothing, she reluctantly lets herself into the steel-grated elevator. Shutting the grate behind her feels almost as damning as being launched into the bloodbath.

The elevator lurches upwards at a snail's pace. Guinevere can't stand to stare at the concrete walls moving on the other side of the grate, but when she turns around, her view is far worse. The other three walls of the elevator are mirrored, each one reflecting Guinevere's own face right back at her.

Guinevere almost doesn't recognize herself. The curl of of her hair has dimmed over the last several days, and her face looks hopelessly pale in the lighting. Her black top is torn, her skirt is fraying, and she's… crying blood?

Her reflection's hand moves on its own, pressing against the glass. Guinevere presses herself against the steel grate, the cold metal biting into her fingers. Her heart thrums loudly in her chest as she stares at Scarlet, the girl's blue-tinged skin beginning to peel at the edges of her face. Scarlet sobs, the tears of blood flowing down her face, soaking into her shirt. Her hand slams against the mirror once, twice, and on the third time the glass cracks under her touch. Guinevere screams, recoiling from Scarlet's intrusive grasp, silently cursing Donovan for ever turning her into this.

And then… nothing.

The elevator stops. The gate behind her opens, and Guinevere slumps to the floor. Her hands are trembling as she looks up to the mirror, but she sees nothing at all. No fracture, no reaching hands, no… anything.

Guinevere laughs, wondering how insane she must look to everyone else. Cursed little Gwen, who's finally brought ruin to herself. Isn't that fitting?

(If she never admits she's afraid, can she feel that fear anyway?)

(Maybe it's like being haunted by something that doesn't even exist.)

"Are you okay?"

A hand lands on her shoulder, and Guinevere gasps. Just as quickly, the hand retreats, but now Guinevere can take in Svelte's concerned gaze leveled on her. He looks no worse for wear, which soothes her nerves, but then her eyes get caught on a loose braid thrown over one shoulder. Svelte's ears turn pink from the attention.

"I'm fine," Guinevere says quietly. "But- where's Akira?"

A strangely guilty look crosses his face. "I'm not sure," Svelte admits. "I woke up, and she was…"

Gone.

There's a pit in Guinevere's stomach, gnawing at her insides, crawling its way up her throat. She can't shake the feeling of dread that's overwhelmed her.

"And you haven't found them?"

Svelte shakes his head. He twirls a knife through his fingers. "I've been checking the other floors."

Guinevere steps out of the elevator, the wind rustling her hair making her realize that she's gone all the way up to the rooftop. The rain is merely a drizzle at the moment, but it's enough to make her shiver.

"I don't like this," she whispers.

"Neither do I."

Something metallic clatters to the ground, and Guinevere and Svelte jump apart from each other. The object rolls to a stop between them, and when Guinevere catches sight of it, a smiling face in neon pink paint stares up at her.

That's the last thing she remembers before the smoke pours out, and all Guinevere can see is grey.

She's not sure how much time passes after that. Guinevere opens her eyes to a patch of pale blue sky beyond the clouds. Her head aches, and when she sits up, she's all alone. She scrambles to her feet at the realization, trying to control her breathing. She isn't holding her knife anymore, and panic slices through her in an instant.

What the hell…?

Her knife is several feet off to the side, and Guinevere approaches it with caution. Once she's reasonably sure that picking her weapon back up won't cause her to pass out again, the weight of it in her hand is something of a comfort.

There's a noise coming from somewhere, so Guinevere strains to listen in. She hears a strange singing, and though she can't understand what any of the words are, the voice sounds… familiar?

"Akira?" Guinevere calls, following the edge of the rooftop. "Are you there?"

The singing gets louder. Guinevere nearly trips over a loose strand of wire, too dazed to properly take in her surroundings. Her heart thrums louder and louder with every step she takes, a vision of Scarlet's bloody footprints following her all the way.

In the corner of the roof, surrounded by cans of paint and broken bottles and wiring alike, is Akira, who is furiously working on something. It almost looks like they're not even thinking about their actions at all – Akira is going through the motions, seeking out an ending that only she understands.

"Akira?" Guinevere calls again.

"Gwenny!" Akira spins around, hands splayed high above her head. "I'm so glad you could join!"

Guinevere takes a cautious step forward, looking at the pieces surrounding Akira. They've cobbled together… something. Guinevere can't be sure what it is, but the restless pit in her stomach roils uncomfortably regardless.

Where's Svelte?

"What have I joined?" Guinevere asks cautiously. She's using her psychic voice, the one that's calm and level and makes her clients slightly drowsy. She hopes that there's a hypnotic lull to her tone, one that will make Akira…

(Make them what? Guinevere doesn't even know what they're doing up here, much less what she wants them to do instead. She needs answers, but for once in her life, Guinevere doesn't know how to get them.)

"I'm fixing things!" Akira chirps. She's far too chipper for… whatever is happening right now. Guinevere can only watch as Akira skips over to something crumpled on the ground, and-

Guinevere feels faint. "Akira? What have you done to Svelte?"

Her District Partner has his wrists bound together, and he's sporting an ugly lump on his forehead. There's a cord tied around one of his ankles, and Guinevere follows it to a steel pipe connected to the side of the building. He groans as Akira drags him a couple feet across the ground, closer to her working space.

"He's in the way," Akira explains, "and I don't like things being in my way."

"Wait, I don't-"

"Do you know what this is?" Akira whips something out, another contraption, with a smile. This one is blue, and has ears like a bunny.

"No?"

"I made them!" Akira offers eagerly. They place her creation on the ledge, and then give it a pat on the head. "Voidspikers! I left them as gifts all over the place."

Guinevere remembers that word from the paper earlier. She thinks even harder, back to that paint bomb Akira used at the reaping. The way everyone reacted to it as if she'd threatened to kill the entire square.

"Is this… the good stuff?"

"Yes," Akira breathes. Her smile is wide and full of teeth, like a predator. "People didn't like it when I used these back home, but here… my- Mads gave me what I needed! She wants me to use them!"

Horror builds in Guinevere's throat, so much that she can barely squeak out, "And what will they do?"

Akira uses her hands to mime an explosion, complete with sound effects and screams. They cackle when they're done, wiping away a false tear.

"I don't understand," Guinevere says. "Why are you doing this?"

Finally noticing that Guinevere doesn't share their excitement, Akira frowns. "I'm supposed to."

"Supposed to… blow up the whole Arena?"

"Not the whole thing, silly! Just here, and there, and maybe a few other places. But don't worry! I'll get us out of here safely."

Guinevere's eyes flicker to the way Svelte's body has been tied to this building, only a few feet away from Akira's bomb. "And Svelte?"

"He's as bad as Carina," Akira hisses.

"He hasn't done anything-"

Akira steps back as if she's been slapped. "Are you… defending him?"

"He's my ally, Akira, of course-"

Akira's face screws up into a pout. "You don't call me Kiki anymore."

"I'm sorry," Guinevere says automatically. "I haven't…"

"Haven't noticed?" Akira's face contorts into something uglier, something bitter. "I should've seen this coming."

"Akira-"

"Everyone forgets! It's always the jinx that's left behind, left to choke on the memories of everything that's gone. Everyone else gets to be happy, so why not me? Why can't I have anything that stays?"

"I am staying with you," Guinevere insists. She holds up a placating hand, holding her knife tightly in the other. "I haven't left, I'm still here with you. I came up here because I was worried about you when I didn't find you this morning."

Akira shakes their head frantically, looking at something invisible off to the side. "You're lying- they say you're lying, because everyone always lies-"

"Who do you see, Kiki?"

"I- what?"

Their breathing is shallow and rapid, her gaze flicking around wildly. Akira reminds Guinevere of some cornered animal, one with claws too long and sharp for her own good.

(Akira reminds Guinevere of herself, many years ago. When the darkness of the orphanage was her only constant friend, when she was a freak that couldn't keep anyone around. Not forever.)

"Who do you see?" Guinevere repeats. She takes another step closer. "I see Scarlet, sometimes. She doesn't talk to me often, but she's always watching. In the mirror, around dark corners… sometimes I think she is me. You understand that, don't you? Because you have a ghost, too?"

Akira's lip trembles. "They were my friends."

"I know," Guinevere whispers, "I know, and I'm sorry. But I'm your friend now, right?"

A sniffle. "You like Svelte better than me. You want to be his friend more than me."

"That's not true. I like Svelte, yes. I want to be his friend, yes. But I don't have to choose between the two of you."

"That's not true! He doesn't like me – he never has! He already left because of me, and he'd do it again!" Akira picks up the voidspiker and waves it around frantically. Guinevere has to force herself to stay in place, to act like she isn't desperately afraid of whatever Akira is doing. "And next time, he'll take you with him! Away from me! Because that's what they always do."

Her head spins. "Akira, you're not making any sense-"

"I am not fucking crazy," Akira snaps. This time, her outstretched hand is pointed at Guinevere. It wavers in midair, and then drops. "You… you were supposed to understand."

"I do, understand, Kiki-"

"No you don't!" Akira shrieks. They back away from Guinevere, pacing madly. "Nobody does, not Mads not Stratus not anyone! You were supposed to be different, but you're just like the rest!"

Akira steps up onto the ledge, wind whistling around her. Guinevere's stomach drops at the sight, but Akira just laughs. "You're a good liar," Akira whispers. "You told me he wouldn't come back. Do you lie to all those people back home, too?"

Guinevere frowns. "I tell people what they want to hear. That isn't the same thing as lying."

"Isn't it? Tell me what I want to hear then, Gwenny. But I don't like lies, so only tell me the parts that are true."

She falters in response. There's a reason why Guinevere refused to do a reading on Akira days ago: while the truth is something the child craves more than everything, it's also what could hurt them more than anything. Guinevere knows how to use the truth as both a soothing salve and a harsh slap, but now, when it counts the most… why can't she come up with anything?

(Maybe it's because Guinevere is too used to telling the truth for her own purposes, too used to wrapping a lie around her words to make them sweet enough to swallow. She's not good at being open or honest, not when that's part of what people hated about her for so many years.)

Akira lifts their chin. "See?" she mutters, like they never expected anything else. "What did I tell you."

Heat burns at the corners of Guinevere's eyes. She reaches a hand towards Akira, open and ready, and hopes that the right words find her.

"I'm sorry," Guinevere pleads, "I didn't mean to push you away. You're just like me, surrounded by bad luck and lost people. I didn't mean for you to feel alone, because I know what that's like, and I hate it. Everything you do becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: you meet someone, you fuck it all up, they leave again. Trying leads to failing every time.

"And every time, it hurts." Guinevere laughs, blinks back tears. "It should be different one of these times, shouldn't it? But you've always been stronger than giving up, Kiki. That's why you made it this far, isn't it?"

Akira's lip trembles. "I don't know."

"I do," she insists. "We're the same, remember?"

"Like sisters," Akira whispers. They teeter on the ledge.

"I've never had a sister before," Guinevere admits, even as Scarlet's ghost flickers in her periphery. "I'd really like to be yours."

Akira's eyes fill with tears. "I'm scared."

"I know," Guinevere says, voice cracking, "so am I. But we're in this together, aren't we?"

"Sisters?"

"Sisters," Guinevere repeats.

Akira collapses with a sob, all of her weight sent tumbling to the ground. Guinevere acts faster than she can think – she has to catch them, has to keep them safe. Her free hand catches Akira's shirt, beckons them closer, and her other-

Guinevere is such a fool. She should've remembered.

A curse and a jinx can only bring about ruin.

The knife in her hand rips through flesh, and Guinevere's stomach drops. Akira chokes on a cry, her eyes full of betrayal as she looks at Guinevere. They dig one of their hands into Guinevere's skirt, struggling to get away, struggling to get closer. The hilt of the knife sticks out of their stomach, a river of blood flowing around it. Guinevere tries to hold pressure, tries to stop the bleeding, but Akira cries out in pain.

"Mads," they whimper, looking beyond Guinevere. "Mads, I'm sorry I did it again, I'm sorry I-"

"No, no, no," Guinevere whispers, staring at what she's done in mystified horror. "Svelte! Svelte, come help-"

Then something hits Guinevere square in the nose, and she reels back, eyes watering. She can't see through the pain, but she feels as Akira moves out of reach, away from her grasp. She blindly reaches a hand out, trying desperately not to let everything fall through her fingers like sand, but by the time she opens her eyes…

Akira clutches her voidspiker close to her chest, the object drenched in blood. Their eyes are wild, feral, full of hate. They laugh, long and loud, and hold the device high above their head.

Akira flashes their teeth at Guinevere, a sick sort of thrill shooting through them. The tears and the pain and the anger, they all go hand-in-hand, and Akira knows that better than anyone. She wants to tear this Arena apart, destroy everything inside it.

(Nevermind the fact that she's scared. Nevermind the fact that Akira thinks they're dying. Nevermind the fact that all she really wants is to say she's sorry, to hug Gwenny or even Mads and feel like the world can be safe for people like them.

It's not. And if Akira has to burn it all to show them the truth, then that's what she'll do.)

wheel of fortune

All throughout the Arena, there are moments lost amidst the excitement of the day. Most tributes simply experience the calm before the storm, unaware that the Games are rapidly approaching their end.

Aleksei takes great care to patch Sagan's face, his hands clumsy but tender. Daylight does not appear to help their new situation – Sagan's eyes are just as unseeing as they were the night before. She may be able to feel the warmth on her face, but she can't distinguish shadow from light. If she had the luxury of time, this new development would be an inconvenience at worst, something she had to learn to adapt to.

Instead, it weighs on Sagan like a death sentence. Who would possibly stay with her now?

(If she would only ask aloud, Aleksei would have a question of his own for her. Who wouldn't?)

Grief hangs heavy on Nolan the way it always does. He mourns Ryker, though he's never been closer to reuniting with his lover. He mourns the life he could've had, the one he lost long ago. He mourns himself. How did he fall so far? Every time he killed up until now, he swore it was an accident. He wasn't thinking. And now…

He meant to kill that girl in the bloodbath. And he wanted to kill Jasmine. There's no way for him to hide behind his actions, say that his mind intended for a different outcome and his body didn't listen.

And then the young girl…

Dizziness overwhelms him again, and Nolan retches into the nearest bush.

Xander can't believe he's made it this far. He can only assume that something close to luck has allowed him to scrape past the claws of death on multiple occasions, but that doesn't mean he feels particularly lucky. Every day that passes only further cements his general ineptitude. Even if he was to make it out of here alive, what would he do? Who would he be?

Would he finally find a version of himself that he likes? One he's brave enough to meet the gaze of in the mirror?

Zephyr falls in and out of sleep, awakening only to move a few blocks closer to the city. Every movement sends pain shooting through his entire body, but they have to keep going. They have to, if they want any shot of getting home.

In the brief moments between sleep and wake, Zephyr thinks of home. He thinks of his mother and how much this will kill her. They didn't want to leave her, not after everything, but… but if he wins, maybe she'll have a chance at a future.

And then Zaidra…

They were so close as children. Zephyr knew what she was thinking practically before she did. Now, after everything, she feels like a stranger. They can only imagine she feels the same in return. Does she understand? Will she ever try?

Will she die hating them?

(Does Zephyr deserve her forgiveness anyway?)

Hidden alongside every bomb, there's a note addressed simply to sister. The contents are haphazard at best, an amalgamation of thoughts that rarely saw the light of day – at least, not in a way anyone could make sense of them. This way, they would be memorialized forever, contained to a scrap of paper to be scrutinized into oblivion by the intended recipient.

Sister, they begin in a nearly incomprehensible scrawl.

Then explosions rock the Arena, flames licking high into the sky and sizzling against the rain. The notes crumble to ash, and the ash melts in the rain, gets blown away by the wind.

A lone figure sits in the mentor lounge, hand tracing the screen in front of her, following the trail of ashes as long as she can. When the screen finally goes dark, all she can do is sob.

... yeah i don't really have anything to say for myself rn. any sense of reprieve is over. what has now been started cannot be stopped.

hope to see y'all by the end of the month.

~de laney is out