the child abuse tw is sort of back. you can probably guess whose pov it's in. also, patricide!
Speakers crackle overhead. The rain stops, just for a moment. A voice rings throughout the Arena, echoing off of crumbled concrete and shattered glass.
"Attention, tributes of the One Hundred and Twenty-Fourth Hunger Games! As we near the final act of these Games, it would be my greatest pleasure to invite you all to a feast.
"You are all desperately in need of something, aren't you? Whether it's medical supplies, weapons, food… this is your one and only opportunity to claim what may save your life. Attendance is not required, but it is highly recommended. From this point forward, there will be no more sponsor gifts.
"The feast will commence at sundown today. Follow the light. And may the odds be ever in your favor."
They hesitate.
Guinevere can see it in their eyes, the way their hand trembles so high in the sky. A gust of wind could blow them over, and Akira would just… take it.
And… despite everything, Guinevere can't stand by and let that happen.
She stands, wind whipping through her curls, rain staining her face like tears. The knife falls from her hand, and Guinevere extends both of her hands as a peace offering. She doesn't miss the way Akira's lip quivers in response.
(Just let go just let it all burn to the ground don't you remember how beautiful it is? How beautiful it makes you? Don't you want to bury them all in ashes, to let fire eat away at their bones until there's nothing left at all? No one can hurt you anymore, not like this.)
Guinevere's mouth opens, and then closes. She wants to say she's sorry, that she never meant for this to happen, and while that's true… it doesn't change anything, does it? Nothing will withdraw her blade from the tender flesh of Akira's stomach or put the blood back in their body or right every wrong Guinevere has committed over these past few days, even the ones she doesn't know about.
Scarlet's frigid fingers encircle her wrist, a chain she's never been able to break. The cursed little girl never went away, she's right by Guinevere's side like she always has been, her touch so gentle and promising…
(She's still so afraid of dying. Of being alone. Of everyone remembering her as the cursed little girl who couldn't help anyone.
She looks at Akira, and she knows they feel similarly.)
(Guinevere searches for something, anything to say to make things better. A pretty lie is better than an ugly truth.)
When Guinevere finally speaks, her voice is raw, and the lie she tells doesn't feel like much of a lie, not really. There's some semblance of truth in it that even she can't wrap her mind around.
"I love you," Gwen calls softly, tenderly. The words hit Akira like a bullet, and their first instinct is to flinch away.
And then, as timidly as Gwen has ever seen them, Akira looks at her like she hung all the stars in the sky.
"You really love me?" Akira whispers, daring to hope. Her grip on the bomb loosens.
"Of course I do." Gwen kneels on the rooftop, knees digging into the concrete. If she's going to die here… so be it. The most she can do is make sure Akira doesn't die alone.
There's a flurry of movement, and then something hits Gwen in the chest, wraps around her body. Akira is weeping, and their blood stains the front of Gwen's dress, and Gwen thinks that she's crying, too. There's a boom from somewhere close by, and fire licks at the sky in Gwen's peripheral.
She knows she should be afraid. But in that moment, all Gwen can think is how beautiful the destruction is.
"Sagan!" Aleksei calls, desperately overturning rubble and coughing at the dust that stirs up. "S-Sagan, where-?"
His entire body is wracked by a coughing fit, and Aleksei doubles over from the exertion. Tears stream from his eyes unbidden; Aleksei leaves them to track down his face. He tried to wipe them away once already, but the dust on his hands just made his eyes sting even more.
"Sagan!" His voice cracks. Aleksei sees nothing but destruction in every direction. Buildings have crumbled, the streets are overrun by water, and the lights of the city have gone out. Wires hang from poles, with sparks spraying from the ends; every time they hit the water, they sizzle, and something curdles in Aleksei's stomach.
He knows he's supposed to be afraid of the Games. His siblings have always whispered about them and the horrors they're supposed to contain. Aleksei has never paid them any mind – after all, the Games have never exactly posed an imminent threat to him. And even when he got reaped, nothing registered to him as real. He was just going on a grand adventure, one that his siblings would be so jealous of when he got back. And then he met Sagan, and she's basically one of the coolest people he's ever met, so how bad could these Games really be if they led him to her? He's eaten better food than ever before, met so many people that he never would've back home, and… well, Aleksei has had fun.
But this…
Aleksei finds that he's trembling. He feels so very alone all of a sudden, which… without Sagan by his side, he supposes he is. He lost her, and she can't even see enough to find him, and he's basically abandoned her.
The thought shoots through him fast enough that Aleksei feels as if he's been struck. What if she's already dead?
He tries to call out for her again, but all that escapes his throat is a whimper. The tears flow from his eyes faster, faster, until Aleksei's vision goes foggy. He wishes he was home, even if that home consists of friendly faces and a bed wherever he can find one. He wishes Avana was here to stroke his hair, to tell him that everything was going to be okay. Even if that's a lie. Especially if it's a lie.
(Then, Aleksei thinks of his mother, of the fuzzy memories he has of her. Very few of them are good, but he swears he remembers the soft, raspy timbre of her voice singing him to sleep. It's a stark contrast to what she is now, the morphling leeching away every ounce of life in her.)
(He never asked if it hurts.
Maybe he can ask when he sees her again.)
Distantly, Aleksei hears someone's screams. A male voice, not one he can pick out on his own. But somewhere else nearby, the rubble shudders, stones clicking together and echoing across the Arena. Aleksei jumps at the noise, ready to bolt, but then-
"Sagan?" he croaks, stumbling closer. He didn't realize how bad everything hurts. It's sort of like his body is one giant bruise. "Sagan, are you there?"
A pale hand scratches at a chunk of concrete, leaving behind bloodied streaks. Aleksei has never been happier.
He bounds over to his friend, using every ounce of strength he possesses to shift rubble out of the way, apologizing profusely the whole time. When he finally manages to expose her face to the light, Sagan doesn't even blink. She holds up her bloodied hands, her nails practically in tatters from the way she's been scratching at the broken ground. Her unseeing eyes spill over with tears that don't seem to stop, not even when Aleksei flings his arms around her and hugs her tighter than ever before.
And his own tears become a little more real, a little more raw, when Sagan presses her bloodied hands against his back and sobs against his shoulder.
There's a sheen of sweat coating Thessaly's forehead that she can't seem to get rid of.
Ever since Saccharine, a strange numbness has consumed her whole body. She looks down at herself, sees the still-bloodied cuts and scratches, but it's like they don't even belong to her. The closest she gets to feeling her injuries is the way her leg sometimes threatens to give out under her weight.
It's bled through the bandages again. There's only one clean roll left, and Thessaly doesn't hesitate to use it. She does her best to avoid looking at the hot, open gash cutting down the front of her thigh, the strings from former stitches dangling pitifully where Saccharine severed them.
And even though deep down, Thessaly knows that's the injury that could kill her, it's not the one that bothers her most.
She avoids every reflective surface she can. She's almost pleased that that little fucker from Five – because who else could it be, really? – blew the glass out of every building she passes now. The shards glimmer in the dim light above, turning Thessaly's face into fractals of something that could still be beautiful.
It's not about vanity. Well – it is, a little. But it's more about how Thessaly sees her face and recognizes it as something else, something far worse. She doesn't know how she's supposed to go home like this and make her parents proud, and she certainly doesn't know why they crave the monster she's becoming over Euna. Kind, sweet, smart Euna who could do anything in the world if she only put her mind to it. It's so unfair that Thessaly showed up one day and won over her parents' affection just because she could win. Euna deserves that love, but Thessaly is the only one willing to give it to her.
(She really hopes Euna doesn't forget her, but Thessaly wouldn't blame her if she tried.)
Someone approaches her, and Thessaly feels her hackles raise in response. She's too open and exposed here, with her unbandaged leg on display to the world. She grits her teeth and looks up, and-
Ibai crouches in front of her, face and hands far too gentle for the likes of her. He studies her before offering a timid smile. "Does it hurt?"
It takes far too much effort for Thessaly to unclench her jaw. "Not yet." Unfortunately.
"Can I?" Ibai's hands are steady as he takes the clean bandages out of hers, and Thessaly surprises herself by letting him.
She doesn't know why he's doing this. Nothing ever lasts for Thessaly, not in a way that matters, and god knows Ibai has the sense to run far away from the disaster she always brings. Thessaly wishes she could warn him off, but when she opens her mouth, something far different comes out.
"Are we still friends?"
God, she hates how pathetic the question feels as it lingers in the air between them. It reminds her of being a little girl, before someone chose her. The only thing in the world that belonged to her was her name, and Thessaly went to bed every night praying someone would learn how to love her. She was six years old, and the only thing she knew for sure was that no one stuck around for her.
(She's always suspected there was a reason, that the other children and the potential families saw something in her that she could never find, something that made them collectively turn away. And now, bruised and bloodied and broken in ways Thessaly never has been before, she thinks she might finally understand.)
Ibai finishes tying off the bandage before he looks up at her. His little half-smile is still there, if a little more unsure than before. In classic Ibai fashion, he answers her question with a different question: "Do you want to be?"
And it's not a yes, but he doesn't flinch when Thessaly slings an arm around his shoulder, either. Something thrums inside her chest until she feels dizzy, and Thessaly just drops her head until it gently knocks against Ibai's. Under her palm, she feels him take in a slow, shuddering breath, and then he pats the top of her head.
(A part of her distantly remembers that only one of them can make it out of here alive.
(Ner's cold, dead eyes stare at her every time she blinks. )
For now, Thessaly only holds tighter.)
When Xander wakes up, his limbs are so heavy that all he wants is to go back to sleep.
And for a moment, Xander lets it happen. His eyes droop shut, and he just… drifts.
He has no idea how much time passes like this. He doesn't even know if he truly falls asleep or not. All he knows is that it's… nice. It's peaceful.
It's wrong.
A hand lands on Xander's shoulder, and when he tries to move away, he finds… he can't? His legs won't respond to him, won't carry him far away from whatever threat has found him. There's a strange buzzing in his head, and Xander looks around to see why, and-
Oh god.
Xander can't help it. He retches so violently that his entire body shudders from the effort to give up whatever lingers in his stomach, and his mind reels. He can't see his legs. He can't see them, can't feel them, and… and what? Xander doesn't think he's been completely cut in half, not yet, but the rubble piles high enough to cast a shadow covering him, and Xander knows deep in his chest that he'll never be able to get out.
"Oh my god," Zephyr is muttering, brushing dust and debris off Xander's back. "Oh my god, shit, I'm- I'm so sorry-"
And then they move to the side, and Xander feels something shift on top of him, and the pain that follows is so bad that he digs his nails into the ground and screams. It's like every nerve in his body has been set on fire, and Xander can't do anything but lay here and take it.
"Shit," Zephyr says again, moving back in front of Xander. They must've dropped whatever stone they were attempting to move, and the numbness that washes over Xander again is beautiful. "What's wrong, tell me what's wrong-"
There's something stuck in Xander's throat that feels frighteningly close to a sob. "I- my legs, I can't feel-"
"I can get you out," Zephyr reassures him. "I'll get you out, and we can-"
Xander shakes his head so hard that his neck twinges. "How long has it been?"
There's a beat of hesitation from Zephyr. "Uh… I don't know?"
"It's been too long," Xander whispers. "It's been too long, I'm going to…"
He's seen this before, in cases his father brought home. The victims of the bombing incident from months ago… fifteen minutes, and they were doomed. Shock overwhelmed their system, and they died without knowing how close the end was.
Zephyr slowly takes a knife out of his bag, the schnik of a blade making Xander's heart beat faster. He begins to cry, knowing exactly how much of a pathetic sight he makes right now. He can't bear to lift his head enough to look anyone in the eye. He's afraid he'll see his father there, as disappointed as always.
"I can help," Zephyr say, his voice frighteningly level. "It'll be quick and easy, I promise."
"No," Xander grits out. He sucks in a breath that makes his head spin. "No, please, I just… I just don't want it to hurt."
"Doesn't it hurt like this?"
Xander whimpers. "No, it's… it's nice. I could just… go right to sleep."
He swears he hears Zephyr sniffle. "Shit," they whisper again. "Shit, I can't even…"
Just listening to Zephyr drive themself in circles is enough to tire Xander out. His eyes blink shut once, twice, and then he's thinking about home again, and everything he never got to have. A shudder runs through his entire body, and at first Xander wonders if he's cold, and then he realizes that he's sobbing.
"I'm so sorry," Zephyr whispers, over and over again. "I'm so sorry, I- I don't know how to-"
"Stay," Xander practically begs. His hand shakes on the ground until another covers it, and the warmth is as much of a comfort as Xander is going to get. "You'll stay with me, right?"
The hand squeezes his gently, and Xander closes his eyes as Zephyr settles next to him, finally giving up. They clear their throat, but their voice is still hoarse when he speaks. "I'm not going anywhere."
From there, it's quick. Xander's head rests against the ground, pebbles biting into his cheek, and the barest hint of pain is almost a mercy for a time. And then that, too, fades, and when the darkness begins to swarm Xander, he falls into it eagerly.
When Theo awakens, his head aches like nothing he's ever felt before.
(No. That's not true. He's hurt exactly like this before, when Theo was a weak goddamn coward and deserved every beating he ever got. The buzz in his skull, the way his pulse thrums in his ears, the sting of his eyes like they're about to spill out of his head. Or like he's about to cry. Theo can never decide which one is worse.)
He groans and sits up, determinedly pushing those thoughts out of his mind. Theo is sure that something major just happened, and this isn't the time in the narrative for him to start spewing a tragic backstory. Theo doesn't need to do that! His audience has watched him the whole way through; there's no need to be reminded of the past, not when they saw it play out.
When Theo brings a hand to his forehead, his palm comes away bloody. The pounding in his skull intensifies, and Theo pushes away the urge to make another noise and embarrass himself further. Instead, he forces himself to his feet, ignoring the way his body sways back and forth unsteadily. He reaches for his bag – where did his bag go? – and eventually comes face-to-face with a scrap of metal that looks as if it's been ripped straight off the side of a building.
Entranced, Theo touches his face. There's a new gash running from temple to jaw, oozing fresh blood now that he's up and moving. Theo makes faces at his reflection, awed by the way he doesn't feel anything from the cut. Sure, his head hurts like a bitch, but Theo's immune to the sharper pain! So cool. For all he knows, he's basically invincible!
"Um- Pantheon?"
He snaps his head to the side, and- oh, there's the burn. Theo finds that he's still smiling. "Ibai?"
"Um." The Four boy's brows are pinched together in concern. "Are you-?"
"How long have you been awake?"
Ibai looks to the sky, squinting. "It's difficult to say for certain. An hour?"
"Where's Thessaly?"
"Around the corner."
"And you didn't wake me?"
Ibai winces. "We tried, but… you kept muttering to yourself. It seemed…"
He trails off, clearly not wishing to talk about whatever he heard. Which is fair. Theo doesn't want to know what he was saying, either. Not when Theo knows what he was dreaming about.
(Not all of Theo's dreams are bad. Some of them are almost frighteningly lovely. Theo gets lost in memories of Evander, and wakes up expecting the boy to be back in his bed, accompanied by the faint scent of roses.
How did it all go wrong? Theo did everything he was supposed to. He found the perfect romantic partner for the storyline his show wanted to follow, they spent over a year together culminating in one beautifully romantic night so that the audience could really see Theo's growth and maturity – he spent a lot of money on those rose petals – and then Theo told Evander everything. Or, well, not quite everything. It wouldn't be very main character of him to break the fourth wall so flagrantly. But Theo did finally tell someone about all the things his dad did to him over the years.
It had felt nice, for a moment. Evander was properly horrified, and Theo could almost convince himself that all of this was… real. That someone cared about him, and they weren't just another actor playing a designated role in Theo's life.
That's when Evander said it. Damn. Maybe you should just kill your dad.
And, well. That seemed like a good idea at the time. Until it very violently wasn't, and Theo was rather unceremoniously dumped for the crime of killing his own dad, because that was "insane behavior."
And… whatever. Fuck Evander, anyway – and not in the fun way! Theo would be so much more cool and sexy and desirable when he returned home as a bona fide Victor.
After all, that's how his story was meant to end.)
(... he hopes.)
"Um." Ibai is staring at him like Theo has grown an extra head. "Are you…?"
"Fine," Theo says gruffly, pushing past Ibai. "We need to get a plan together."
Nolan runs like his life depends on it.
Greenery flies by, a monotonous landscape that he can't even find comfort in. There's something restless shifting inside his chest, something heavy, a strange fluttering sense of guilt that Nolan can never escape. His body grows heavier with every step he takes, but his legs won't stop moving. He can't stop. The sky is bright and blue above him, and there's nothing but open fields and horizon as far as his eyes can see.
It's beautiful. Nolan swears he's never seen anything like this before. The colors are so vivid that he could be in a painting, everything around him a work of art. In the distance, a flock of birds takes flight, showing Nolan the way. He wants to raise his arms high into the sky, skim his fingers along the underside of their wings. Even as his chest tightens, Nolan can't help but smile. He feels… free.
Maybe that's what finally makes Nolan pause. The wrongness of it all, the way that his surroundings remind him of home instead of the Games, the way he doesn't feel sick anymore. His movements finally slow, and when they do, Nolan realizes something.
He's not alone anymore.
In any other circumstance, Nolan would rejoice at the sight of Ryker standing in front of him once more.
"No," Nolan whispers, eyes trained on the sun that will never rise for him again. "No, it can't be-"
"It is," Ryker says, smiling sadly at him. "It's too late to change anything."
The sun stays high in the sky, and Nolan cranes his head back to look at it, the sight so bright and blazing that it sears his eyes. He can't make himself look away.
"I didn't get to do anything good."
"I know."
"I didn't even get a chance."
"I know."
Tears well up in his eyes, and for the first time since Ryker, Nolan lets himself cry. "It's not fair."
There's a gentle brush of something against his cheek, and when Nolan looks up, Ryker is standing right in front of him. Close enough to touch. "It never is."
Though there's a million things Nolan wants to say, now that he's finally gotten the chance to again, all he can do is sob. He tries to remember where he was before this, but all that comes to mind is an open sky, a loud noise, something weighing on his chest…
And that's it. It was like falling asleep. Like he had a dream, so fleeting that he could only recall the details in the brief space between sleep and wake.
There, and then gone.
Bourbon's limp is more pronounced.
Kodo eyes her from behind, crouched in the bushes as they wait. They spent hours walking to this location, following the light in the sky as it led them to yet another park. And every step they took, Bourbon dragged a little more.
She must feel his gaze on the back of her head, because she looks back to give him a filthy glare. Kodo just purses his lips and tries to take in his surroundings – he expects to be the one gathering supplies while Bourbon makes sure no one stabs him from behind.
He can only assume the feast is supposed to take place in the structure in front of them. The tall, pristine white columns hold up a large roof, making for a simple but imposing pavilion. There's a similar structure to the left, but circular this time; the staggered steps leading up to it remind Kodo of an amphitheater, and he feels a sudden pang of homesickness.
They must be the first ones here. Kodo doesn't know how, but he also doesn't want to think about it. He hopes that they can get in and get out before anyone else shows up, but strangely, Kodo doesn't think they'll be that lucky.
They've had it easy for far too long. Kodo knows enough about theatrics to know that the attention they gained before the Arena can't carry them forever. There's a show waiting in front of them, one the gamemakers won't want them to miss.
Bourbon shifts her weight again. Kodo watches her cautiously. He doesn't recall either of them getting injured in the explosion, so maybe she's just worn out from the exertion of moving this far so fast. He almost wants to say something, but then he notices the tension in Bourbon's brows, and for once keeps his mouth shut.
(Neither of them want to be here. Kodo remembers seeing feasts play out in the past, and sometimes they're almost like a second bloodbath. Bourbon is the fighter between them, and Kodo is… Kodo. At the moment, they hardly stand a chance against any of the other tributes.
But… when half the Arena exploded, neither of them had a clue who could've caused that. It's something of a wakeup call: they've been on the outskirts for far too long. Kodo knows a thing or two about staying in the spotlight, and they've definitely strayed too much.)
(There's another reason, one that has gone unspoken thus far. With sponsor gifts cut off…)
"Shit," Bourbon breathes. "Still nothing. But we're not alone anymore."
There's a kid approaching the sidelines, all alone. Kodo vaguely remembers him and his loud mouth. He had a little friend with him all the time, but she's nowhere to be seen now. Something about the sight of this boy, all alone, makes Kodo feel sick. He's not sure how many of them are left. He's not sure what happened to them.
(Kodo doesn't like that soon, he could end up exactly like the rest. Forgotten and nameless, another number in a long, long list of deceased tributes.)
"What's the plan now?" Kodo asks.
"Dunno. But we're in trouble if the supplies don't arrive soon."
"They're probably waiting for the full cast to arrive. There's no use if it's not a sold out show."
Bourbon gives him a strange look. "Do you have to turn everything into a theatre reference?"
"That depends. Is it an applicable one?"
"Too soon to tell." Bourbon wrinkles her nose. "We need to stay away from the Careers."
"Even I could come up with that much."
"Then why didn't you say it?"
Kodo sniffs. "It was too obvious."
Bourbon mutters something that's probably unkind, and Kodo chooses to ignore it. She continues, "Six is manageable. So is his ally, if she's still around. The Eights might be tricky, but I don't think they'd be all that determined to get us, so we'd probably be able to run. Five… the boy is fine, the girl is questionable. I'd like to stay away from Eleven if possible. And the Careers… none of them are particularly inviting, but as long as we stay away from Two, we at least stand a chance."
He shudders. Kodo doesn't know why Two wanted him dead so badly, but he can certainly agree that Two is the tribute they should avoid most. He's not exactly looking forward to seeing how quickly he can get snapped in half.
(Bourbon is still watching the pavilion. The dying daylight softens her features, draws attention to the slope of her nose. Kodo doesn't know what he's supposed to feel about her anymore. He doesn't know what they're doing, or what they're going to do.
It's hard to imagine that within a few short days, they'll more than likely both be dead.)
"Bourbon-" Kodo gets out before he manages to clamp his mouth shut tight. He doesn't know what he was going to say. He's afraid of what that could mean.
But she's already turned to face him again, and there's a glimmer of something he recognizes in her eyes, something he never really thought he'd see from someone like Bourbon. Fear.
"Yeah?" Bourbon arches a brow, almost as if she's unaware that Kodo knows what she's feeling right now.
(Truthfully, Kodo has often craved the acting talent of those around him, like his sister. But before now, he's never been so jealous of the way Bourbon can so casually act as if she's never even felt fear before.)
His voice is still caught in his throat. Kodo swallows everything down, shoving it so deep that he can ignore the shake of his fingers. He wishes he had some sort of bravado to hide behind, but Kodo feels like he's been stripped raw and vulnerable for the whole world to see.
"Nothing," Kodo mumbles. He squeezes his hands together and prays this will all be over soon.
Panic claws at the back of Sagan's throat. She presses her back against the wall and hopes that Aleksei is right, that no one can see her. He said it so gently that Sagan feels sure he tried to offer her a reassuring smile, one she can't benefit from seeing.
Instinct drives every muscle in Sagan's body to tense, ready to propel her forward. Even though Sagan would have no sense of where she's going, even though it makes sense to stay here… how can she possibly trust that Aleksei will come back for her? How can she believe that no one else will stumble across her before then? How can she expect to know what's coming when she can barely hear over the sound of her own pulse roaring in her ears?
Sagan smothers her sob with a hand. God, she just wants to go home. In all fifteen years of her life, she's barely left her mother's side. She's kicked and scratched and pleaded to be left exactly where she was, knowing that to leave would mean to sentence her mother to some sort of death.
Sagan doesn't necessarily mean that literally. She's also been afraid that if her siblings were in charge, they'd drag her mother off to some sort of asylum, or leave her to the streets.
(She could never let that happen. Sagan's a good daughter – the best daughter. Mother tells her that often enough that it must be true.
Though she's also been known to say the opposite.)
(Sagan conveniently ignores that part.)
Damning Sagan means damning her mother. She's supposed to be at home fixing things, making sure everything holds together. Even if that means she's off working when she's not at school, or doing chores, or making sure the pantry is stocked. Her siblings were willing to abandon them in their moment of need. Sagan doesn't believe they'll suddenly step up now that she's gone.
Her chest squeezes tight. Sagan wishes Aleksei was back already. She wishes he never left. She doesn't understand why he's so different from everyone else she's ever known.
It's not like Sagan's never had a friend. She's just never needed a friend before. Sagan has never had the time to cultivate a relationship, or really pay attention to anyone besides her mother.
Is that it, then? Is it different because Sagan really cares? Is it that she believes he does, too?
A cannon goes off. Sagan flinches at the noise and huddles into her hiding spot even tighter. Aleksei will come back for her. He will. He has to.
(Sagan doesn't know what she'll do if he doesn't.)
Svelte has to half-drag Guinevere to the feast.
They don't have much of a choice. Thanks to Akira, all of their supplies are buried under feet of rubble. They've got a couple knives to split between them, but they're sorely lacking in every other resource.
To an extent, Svelte thinks he could be fine. This sort of situation isn't too different from what some of Monsieur Vaurien's punishments were like. A day of fasting, a night of exertion, and not nearly enough sleep. Twisting his ankle and being forced to practice despite his injury, just so Monsieur Vaurien can prove that Svelte can perform in any circumstance.
Guinevere, on the other hand… Svelte can't say much about what her life is like. She seems far more eager to return to it than he is, though, so he can assume she's happy. She twists that ring on her finger sometimes, and Svelte feels a strange pang resonate through him. He's forgotten what it was like to have someone be there for you. Vaurien made sure Svelte hasn't experienced that in years.
But every time she touches her threadbare ring, Guinevere looks a little more lost. Svelte doesn't know what occurred between her and Akira, but when the dust settled, she was holding Akira's barely-warm body across her lap, her face streaked with ash and tears. Svelte has never been one to know what to say even in the best of situations, so he couldn't summon any words of comfort. He's not even sure if he wants to. This… alliance with Guinevere still feels like one wrong move could lead to Svelte being the next broken body in her arms.
(He could leave her. Maybe he should leave her. But there was something about the haunted look in her eyes that resonated with him, made Svelte remember his own beginnings.
A long time ago, Vaurien took pity on him in this way. Svelte doesn't like to think too much about the parallels between them.)
Guinevere pants beside him as they slow down. She tugs on his sleeve, trying to urge him to stop. "We need a plan."
His lip curls instinctively. Svelte doesn't want to be stuck relying on anyone else. "You get supplies. I'll cover you."
"You're more injured than I am."
Svelte arches a brow. "Would you prefer to switch, then? You can go up against whatever tribute decides we're easy prey."
Her response isn't immediate. Guinevere stares at something over Svelte's shoulder and swallows. "I'll… retrieve our supplies. Bail you out if you need."
He nods once. "We'll have to move fast. It's starting."
In the center of a rectangular pavilion, the ground begins to shift. A long table rises up, displaying two lines of backpacks in varying shapes and sizes. They're all a light grey, completely indistinguishable apart from size. Whatever they end up getting will more than likely be a complete gamble.
Will this be worth it? Svelte wonders to himself.
He doesn't have a chance to ponder the question more. A tribute streaks through the bushes, making for the line of supplies. It takes Svelte a breath to recognize Six, the boy nervously flirting his gaze to his surroundings every few seconds. He ends up picking two bags — one medium, one small — and tries to make a run for it.
Svelte only says tries because that's when every other tribute also decides to make a move, like they were all waiting to see who would be first. Svelte doesn't catch sight of everyone, but he notices that Seven is the first to move into the fray, and for good reason. Their shirt displays several prominent bloodstains, marking them either a threat as a good fighter, or a target because he's already wounded. Based on the way one of the Careers angles for them immediately, Svelte would guess the former.
Guinevere lies in wait, wasting precious seconds in her attempt to judge what path would prove to be least deadly. Svelte bites his tongue and jogs out of the bushes, slowing his movements to make himself a more tempting target for whoever may be nearby.
It doesn't take long for Svelte to find a friend.
"Hey there, little bird. Feeling talkative this time?"
Four looks significantly worse for wear since the last time Svelte saw her. Even ignoring the wounds she sports, there's this look in her eyes, like she's seen hell and decided to bring it with her. The last time they met, Svelte was forced to run and hope for the best. This time, he feels at least reasonably sure that he can distract her long enough to get away.
The hilt of his knife slides comfortably between his fingers. Svelte steels his expression and shifts his weight, just slightly, to prepare himself for the inevitable onslaught.
"Still not in the mood to chat?" Four's teeth flash as she settles into her own stance, with all the ease and practice of a dancer. "Good. Neither am I."
That's all the warning she gives. Despite her accumulation of injuries, Four is exactly as brutal as she was the last time Svelte ran into her. The only immediately noticeable difference is that she favors one leg over the other. She appears to be otherwise unhindered by her leg, but that might be attributed to adrenaline. If Svelte can manage to wear her out by keeping her on the move…
Far easier said than done. Svelte would never consider himself to be slow, but Four is fast. She flings something directly at his face, and he has to nearly drop to the ground to avoid it. In the mere seconds it takes him to maneuver himself back into a position of readiness, Four is behind him, and another blade whizzes past his ear. Svelte's breath catches as several strands of hair are shorn off, but he doesn't bleed. Not yet.
He doesn't intend to give her the chance.
Unlike other Careers he's seen fight over the years, Four holds herself similarly to Svelte; he initially compared her to a dancer, but an acrobat feels more applicable. Her balance changes on a dime, and her agility is unlike anything he's ever seen before. There's a certain flourish to Thessaly's movements that Svelte can tell is just for show.
So this is how she wants to play. Well, Svelte intends to give her exactly what she wants.
He's never performed with anyone before. Not in this sense. Other circus members may put on their own shows below, but Svelte has the high ground all to himself. His flips and spins are the centerpiece, the part that draws everyone's attention. Fighting against Four is like having to outmaneuver someone of his own caliber — he's outmatched in regards to fighting, certainly, but Four's theatricality is unpolished in a way that makes her impossible to look away from. She's impossible to predict, but primarily because Svelte doesn't even think she knows what her next move will be.
Svelte has largely been put on the defensive side of things, dodging projectiles left and right. He's not entirely sure where Four keeps all of them, or how she throws the stars so swiftly and accurately. He's forced to contort his body impossibly fast just to avoid her hitting anywhere lethal.
As they fight – or rather, as Svelte continues to dodge her relentless onslaught – there's a strange look crossing Four's face. It takes Svelte a while to realize that she's smiling, almost imperceptibly. He gets the feeling that she's doing nothing more than toying with him.
Svelte has no doubt in his mind that if a fight to the death was fully what Four sought, then he would already be dead. But for whatever reason, she craves something more. The one thing Svelte is able to give.
Svelte centers his weight on the balls of his feet, a stance that's even more familiar than his home. He spins a knife between his fingers, a needlessly flashy move that has Four baring her teeth. Her next attack comes in the form of a one-handed cartwheel, her spare hand sending a blade whizzing toward Svelte's throat. Instead of merely sidestepping, the way Svelte has been up until now, he fully ducks into a roll, popping up a few feet away from her.
Four's chest heaves, like she's even more exhausted than Svelte is. Sweat glues her hair to her face, and there's the finest tremble in her fingers. She swallows hard, but continues to look utterly delighted by Svelte's actions.
This time, when she attacks, she gives him room to be on the offense: carefully placed openings where she can spin out of the way in the nick of time or meet Svelte's blade with one of her own. The whole thing seems strangely choreographed, but as long as Svelte doesn't end up with a knife in his throat, he doesn't really care about the trajectory of the fight.
And then – there's a moment. Svelte lunges forward, and Four attempts to sidestep him, but it's as if her leg just… gives out. With eyes blown wide, Four crashes to the ground with a distinct lack of grace. There's a muffled cry of pain. She tries to get back to her feet, but in the space between heartbeats, Svelte aims his knife at the smooth skin of her throat.
"Ah," Four says, eyes bright and nearly wild. "You got me this time, didn't you? Gonna finish the job next, or are you going to look out for your little friend?"
Svelte can't help it – he looks, and doesn't find.
In the brief moment where his attention is diverted, attempting to seek out Guinevere, Four slips out from under him. As soon as Svelte realizes his mistake and attempts to cut her off, she's behind him, the cool steel of a blade pressed against his spine.
"That was fun, wasn't it?" Four croons, digging in enough to draw blood. "You fight so prettily – it's a shame you won't get the chance again."
Before either of them can make a finishing move, something thuds into the side of Svelte's head. He staggers slightly from the shock, but the impact didn't have much effect on him. Four, meanwhile, has darted back a step, seeking out the origin of the projectile:
Guinevere. Hopping in place and only wearing one shoe.
She wields the other in her hand, and when it sails across the empty space between them, Four manages to step backwards far enough that the shoe hits low, striking her square in the thigh. She cries out, a stronger response than anything Svelte would've expected from the impact of a shoe, but he doesn't question it.
"We need to go," Guinevere hisses. Her hand grips Svelte's wrist, strong as steel, and he lets himself be pulled along.
Guinevere has one large bag slung over her shoulder, and within the span of a blink, a throwing star is embedded in it. When Svelte turns back to look, terrified that Four will be right on their heels, he's instead surprised to see she's crumpled to the ground, both hands braced around her leg.
(She looks like she's grieving.
Svelte almost feels sorry for her, a bird with a clipped wing. She may never be able to perform again.
And then he pushes her out of his mind entirely.)
Svelte instead looks to Guinevere, who has just saved his life for a second time, who led to the death of their other ally. He doesn't know what sort of omen she brings, nor does he want to find out.
Either way, he still doesn't trust her.
They stayed with Xander as long as they could.
All the way until the cannon went off. And after it. Zephyr could barely look at the fresh corpse next to him, but he stayed anyway. They owed it to Xander, somehow. In ways that were becoming increasingly hard for Zephyr to explain.
(Maybe it was just difficult for Zephyr to admit it to himself. Xander had gone out of his way to save their life, and they couldn't even return the favor. All Zephyr could do was sit there while Xander's breaths turned ragged, slowed, and then finally, agonizingly stopped.)
(And all the while, Zephyr thought of home. Of their sister. They wonder if Zaidra still thinks he's selfish. If that's all she'll remember them as.
Maybe he's starting to agree with her.)
Zephyr doesn't want to go to the feast. The threat of no supplies isn't enough of a compelling motivator to haul them to their feet, but as the hours wear on, and the distant light beckons brighter, Zephyr knows there isn't really a choice.
(They're rather familiar with the concept by now. Go, and risk death for the possibility to gain the edge that just might help you win. Don't, and you won't get so much as a scrap of help until the Games are over. Don't, and the audience will quickly become bored by your existence.)
It takes more than a little effort for Zephyr to haul himself to his feet and begin moving. The pain from the injuries they sustained from Thessaly and Saccharine have dulled, but the impact of the blast has made it feel like Zephyr's entire body is one giant bruise. It's difficult to tell where exactly his injuries are anymore, and Zephyr doesn't have the luxury to stop and inspect himself. They're not sure it would do much good, anyway. Any supplies that might've been able to help him are surely lost in the rubble.
(Not to mention Xander's the only one who knew how to use them.)
Before they leave, Zephyr kneels next to Xander's body. They didn't get the chance to do anything like this for Marri, so Zephyr takes advantage of the opportunity now.
They mutter a few words, some sort of old, half-forgotten prayer that his mother used to say. Zephyr never really understood what it meant, but right now his greatest shame is that he never learned how to say goodbye, and this is as close as he can get.
They sweep a hand through Xander's hair, cheeks damp. I'm sorry, Zephyr whispers.
He doesn't have the time to name all the people it's directed toward.
Carrying nothing more than twin blades on his person, Zephyr sets out for the feast like they're ready for the end. The world passes by in a blur, and Zephyr keeps their gaze locked on the horizon all the while. They wonder who they're going to see.
(Foolishly, he hopes Ibai is still around. But Zephyr knows it's better not to actually see him again.)
By the time they arrive, everything is already in place. The sun barely peeks over the horizon, sending flares of colors into the sky as far as Zephyr can see. There's a table bearing rows of backpacks – presumably, the supplies that they're in desperate need of. A few already appear to be missing, which doesn't ease the nerves fluttering in Zephyr's stomach. The sounds of a fight from nearby finally leak into their ears, and Zephyr knows they need to move fast.
They're all alone. There's no strategy to speak of anymore. Zephyr just runs, hoping that everyone else will be too distracted to notice him. The closer they get to the supplies, the more people they catch sight of – there's Thessaly, up against one of the Eights. Ibai, against the Nines. And then-
"Any last words?"
Fuck.
When Zephyr turns, Theo stands in front of him, as imposing as ever. The several inches of height and impressive muscle he has on Zephyr isn't lost on them. This is exactly the sort of fight Zephyr was hoping to avoid. He was lucky enough to escape the last one alive. They're certain their luck had to run out somewhere.
"Surely you don't think things will end so easily?" Zephyr quips, trying to throw a casual smirk on their face. "You want to give people a good show, don't you?"
There's a change in Theo's eyes – they darken to something more sinister, more predatory. "Do you really think you're able to give one?"
"From my perspective," Zephyr says slowly, "it looks like you sought me out. Maybe you're the one who should answer that question."
Zephyr's seen enough Games to know that provoking a Career is an easy way to throw them off, but it comes at a cost: in their rage, they could overpower you in an instant. But Zephyr knows he can't win against Theo in a fair fight. Especially not when the Two boy brings out a staff with curved blades on each end.
"Let's give them a real show," Theo says. His teeth glint, and Zephyr somberly remembers how they first met, and how long ago that was. How much has changed. "I hope you can keep up."
Ibai tracks the Six boy – Aleksei – with his eyes as he flits across the greenery, grabbing a bag at random before sprinting off again. The thought occurs to Ibai that he should follow, should seize an easy kill before his allies see how useless he truly is. But the mere idea of sinking his karambit into that boy's skin, of turning his eyes cold and dead like Dacre's, makes Ibai's own skin crawl.
He can't do it. Not like this, not yet. So he lets Aleksei run, wondering if the boy even knows that a set of eyes was watching him.
(He hopes they never find reason to meet again.)
That's one option down. Ibai searches the area for more, his eyes skipping over his allies and whoever their targets are. He feels like his breath is caught in his chest. Ibai could very well die here. He could also die after, if his allies aren't pleased with his performance. He doesn't know if Thessaly would be willing to stand up for him again.
He wouldn't blame her if she didn't. Even if she's the only friend Ibai's ever really had.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ibai spots movement in the bushes. He spins his karambit around his finger, and moves before he can think about it too much. It only takes seconds for Ibai to position himself directly in the path of the incoming tribute, and the girl stops short a few feet from him.
Bourbon. Ibai remembers the name of every tribute like it's carved into his heart. He doesn't want to forget any of them, even if it means that years later, he wakes up in the middle of the night to feverishly research everything about a young life he cut short.
There's a boy behind her, too. The one Theo doesn't like – Kodo. He stays half hidden behind Bourbon until she jerks her head to the side, and then he warily moves around her, far out of Ibai's reach. Ibai just keeps his eyes steadily on Bourbon. For whatever reason, this just makes her sneer.
Ibai tightens his grip on his weapons as she lunges at him, taking advantage of his momentary pause to try to turn the tides in her favor. Ibai sidesteps her easily, and notices that she stumbles when she doesn't meet any resistance, favoring one of her legs over the other.
Interesting.
[Each swipe of the staff drives Zephyr farther and farther back. He's losing ground rapidly, and has no way of regaining it. It's only by sheer luck that Theo hasn't managed to get in a good hit yet. The blades whizz by Zephyr's ears, their hair, their chest, and each time they feel a little closer to death.
They can't give up. Not yet. Not when home still feels just out of reach.]
Ibai knows what he's supposed to do, and his entire body goes on autopilot. He moves towards Bourbon, slicing with his karambits like he's going in for the kill. She must notice his sudden ferocity, because she drops to the ground and kicks at one of his ankles.
Ibai just looks at her, unimpressed. He gets the feeling that she's been in her fair share of scraps back home, and that move might have worked on them, but it's nothing more than a nuisance to him now. She notices this and rallies back to her feet, eyeing him with a newfound determination.
The girl is better than Ibai thought she would be; though Ibai leads each attack, Bourbon manages to twist out of his reach just in time. But her movements are growing increasingly clumsy. She can't keep this up forever.
[He can't keep this up forever.
As soon as Zephyr has the thought, Theo's staff sinks deep into one of their shoulders, and they scream in pain. The noise only seems to spur Theo on. He grins, a dark madness alight in his eyes, and rips the blade back out. Zephyr's eyes nearly roll back, and it takes every ounce of strength for them to stay on their feet, to move back several steps.
Even though they know it's useless, Zephyr has to keep fighting. They have to be able to say they gave it their all.
Theo closes in on them like he smells the blood in the water, and Zephyr readies himself as best he can.
Not that it will matter.]
The longer the fight drags on, the more Ibai notices Bourbon getting distracted. Her gaze darts over his shoulder, presumably searching for Kodo. Ibai knows better than to look, but his spine still prickles like it did following his duel with Dacre. He angles them, just slightly, so that the feast table is within his line of vision.
Kodo is too far away to make a difference. And Ibai can't let a chance pass him up again.
Ibai readies himself for the kill. He knows exactly how it'll happen, too. The whole scene plays out in his mind, a careful dissection of everything he's learned from this fight so far. Bourbon doesn't have the training to defend on all sides, not in the way Ibai can, and a simple bait will leave one of her sides completely exposed. He consoles himself with the reasoning that Ibai can at least make it easy for her, that it won't hurt. He knows exactly where to aim his karambits – one quick slice and she'll be gone.
It won't be like Dacre. Not again.
[Zephyr's lagging. And every time they falter, Theo grows even more relentless. He's bleeding from surface wounds on his arms, his legs, their face. It feels like Theo is just toying with them, like Zephyr's prolonged suffering is just a game.
It's a miracle that they're still on their feet – and it's one that doesn't last long. In an attempt to dodge the sweep of Theo's staff, Zephyr stumbles over the ground and lands hard in a patch of tall grass, one arm sinking into a pool of water. He blinks in surprise – when did that get so close? – and then screams, long and loud, as Theo thrusts his blade all the way through Zephyr's stomach.]
By the time Ibai realizes he can't do it, it's already too late.
His karambit is half-buried in Bourbon's side. Another inch, and she'll be gone. Maybe it's the way her eyes have gone wide in shock, or maybe it's the way Ibai can't really see her as a threat he has to put down, or maybe it's the familiar scream from several feet away. All Ibai can do is rip his karambit back out and watch as blood pours like a river into Bourbon's hands.
I'm sorry, he tries to say, but nothing comes out. Instead, Ibai runs.
(Something he's always been very good at.)
It's Zephyr. Of course it's Zephyr, pinned to the ground by Theo's dual-bladed staff. Ibai's stomach roils in protest as Theo just stands there, refusing to let things be over; Zephyr's babbling something mostly incoherent, but Theo just preens like he's got a crowd of people watching him.
When Ibai gets close enough to hear Zephyr's words, he knows what he has to do.
"I'm sorry," Zephyr is whispering over and over again. Their eyes lock on Ibai's, like they're using him to deliver a message. "Z-Zaidra, I'm sorry, I l-love you I never should've left-"
Ibai doesn't let Zephyr continue tormenting himself. He swoops in just as Theo realizes he's not alone anymore, his karambit aiming for Zephyr's bared throat. There's a spray of blood, and something like a sigh that escapes from Zephyr, and then-
Boom.
The relief in Zephyr's eyes is nothing like the anger and fear in Dacre's. Ibai can't help but feel guilty anyway.
A fist slams into the side of his head, and Ibai is sent reeling. He's barely reoriented himself when Theo is in his face, and Ibai feels a distant flash of fear.
"What the fuck is your problem," Theo snarls, fisting a hand in Ibai's collar. "That was my kill-"
"He was suffering-"
"He abandoned me! They deserved to suffer, to die wondering if anyone would-"
Theo cuts himself off as something sharp presses into the side of his neck. He seems surprised by the fact that Ibai is so openly threatening him, despite Ibai's shaky stance and clear hesitation.
(Ibai is surprised, too. But he can't let Theo know that.)
"You wouldn't," Theo whispers. Fear flickers in his eyes, but he's left himself weaponless. It doesn't help that he would have to practically break Ibai's hands just to pry the karambits out of them.
Ibai lifts his chin in defiance. "Try me."
It takes far too long for Theo to back down. Ibai fears he'll have to call his own bluff. But finally, Theo steps back, allows Ibai to withdraw, and they don't come to blows.
In spite of that, Ibai already knows, based on the twisting of his own stomach, that he'll pay for this yet.
[This audio recording is taken from a bug outside the mentor lounge. The two subjects, later identified to be Levisay and Allard, appear to be mid conversation as they step out of the room.]
Shit, fuck, I'm- you shouldn't have done that, you know? Why did you do that? Now all that money… who knows how much longer they have? You should've kept it-
Hey-
-for yourself, used it for your own kid. Why didn't you? You can't bullshit me with excuses, not now-
Bastian-
-when we have these… these consequences? Did you know this could happen? Did you do it anyway? God, nothing about you makes any sense-
Hey- Sebastian.
[There's a beat of silence, presumably due to shock. Then there's a snort.] What the hell?
It's your name, isn't it?
What, are you full naming me now? Like I'm in trouble?
No. Like I wanted to say it.
Oh.
And it got you to stop talking. I'll have to keep this in mind for next time.
Oh, fuck off. I just… no one calls me that anymore.
Any particular reason why?
I… tell you later?
Sure. [A beat.] Can I talk now, or do you still need a minute?
[Snorts.] You could just tell me to shut the fuck up if you really wanted. But yeah, go ahead.
They've never cut off sponsors like that. Never. They jack the prices up so high that no one but me can pay for much more than a cracker, and that's when Maddox cuts off my funding anyway. So no, I didn't know.
… But?
What makes you think there's a but? [Another silence persists, likely due to some sort of exchange of looks.] Alright. But, even if I knew, I would do it again.
Why?
Does it matter?
It does. To me. [His voice cracks, but neither of them acknowledge it.] Callan, you can't… you can't keep doing this-
[A door slams, and the conversation is abruptly over. A third person appears in the hallway, but through their hysterics it's difficult to tell who the new presence is. The following commotion is too difficult to track any one person's speech, but any person still following the Games will easily understand what has just transpired.]
Fuck, everything hurts.
That fuckass curved blade cut deep into Bourbon's side, so deep that she swears it only would've taken another centimeter before her guts spilled out. Even now, as she stumbles blindly through the park, stupidly following Kodo's lead, Bourbon still feels like her intestines are about to pool into her hands.
There's a certain helplessness to how Bourbon feels now, something she hasn't experienced in a long, long while. Maybe it's the literal gaping wound in her side, and maybe it's the way she's stuck letting Kodo of all people help her, and maybe it's just that she's still thinking about earlier.
No more sponsors.
No more reason for her and Kodo to stick together. They only got this far because of a ploy for sponsors, and if that doesn't matter anymore…
(She's injured. Bourbon is more of a burden than ever. She can't leverage anything against Kodo, not now. She's thoroughly lost the upper hand, and the only way to gain it back is to-)
(... she can't do that, can she?)
Her back hits something hard, and Bourbon stifles a groan of pain. There's a mutter of something apologetic from Kodo, but she's trying not to listen to him right now. Bourbon sinks down to the ground, rough bark against her back and tangled roots under her feet. When she manages to focus her gaze on her surroundings, she's under one of the largest trees she's ever seen, with long, arching branches and some sort of moss dripping from every limb. They can't have gotten too far from the feast, but this area at least feels… sheltered. Not safe, but separate. It will have to do for now.
Kodo's trying not to appear too out of breath. Bourbon is almost amused by how hard he's trying. The strangest urge to laugh bubbles up in her chest, but Bourbon has to force it back. She's afraid that laughing right now will hurt, that she'll quickly tip over the edge into hysterics, and she can't let anyone see her like that.
Shit – her siblings. Bourbon bets around now they're doing interviews back home, and Bia and Scotch are being interrogated by some Capitol fuck eager to pry into every detail of Bourbon's life. They'll want to know why she volunteered. Her siblings won't have a satisfactory answer for that.
God, they'll want to see her siblings' reactions to everything that's happened so far. Bourbon cuddling up to this stupid rich boy out of nowhere, getting engaged, killing a boy, getting trapped in a tomb, nearly dying… She feels this strange desperation overwhelm her. Bourbon can take care of herself a hundred times over, but she can't protect her siblings anymore, not from this. The best she can do is get home to them and make things right, no matter the cost.
She has to be ready.
"Are you okay?"
And damn him, Kodo looks worried. Bourbon doesn't let herself believe for a second that he's actually worried about her, just that he has no idea what to do without her. And without sponsors, Bourbon isn't obligated to stay.
(Then again, neither is he.)
"Fine," Bourbon whispers, half breathless. "Just a scratch."
His brows furrow, like he doesn't really believe her. "You're still bleeding. It looks like a lot more than a scratch."
"I just need to rest," she lies.
(Hidden by her skirts, Bourbon searches for one of her knives. Her fingers curl around the hilt, strangely cool and damp in her hand. Maybe it's that her palms are clammy, like she's… afraid?)
"Bourbon," Kodo starts, and then pauses. She suddenly hates the way her full name sounds in his mouth. Some strange part of her wishes he'd use one of those stupid nicknames for her. Maybe that would feel less personal.
"Kiss me," she says abruptly. She can't bear to hear him speak any more. "Kiss me, Kodo."
Something shutters in his eyes, and Bourbon is glad to see the facade back. She doesn't think she can look at Kodo, not like that. It's a relief when he dips down to her level, one hand wavering against the side of her face. Bourbon's the one that closes the distance between them, eyes fluttering shut as she steels herself.
(It'll be so easy, won't it? Bourbon has done this before, sank her blade into the tender flesh of that boy so many days ago. It doesn't matter that it feels like lifetimes have passed since then – this is Kodo, and Bourbon has been looking forward to the day she could do something like this. Now that she finally has her chance…
She wants this, doesn't she?)
The world slows around her. Pain blossoms in her chest, and Bourbon yanks herself back in surprise. Blood pours down her dress anew, and her mouth tastes of copper.
It doesn't make any sense. Not until Bourbon catches sight of the bloody knife in Kodo's shaking hand.
"You fucking coward," she hisses, trying to force herself to her feet. The entire world sways around her, and Bourbon can't get her body to listen to her. Her voice cracks. "Just had to finish the job yourself, didn't you? How far do you think you're going to get on your own, without me? You're useless."
She hears the hypocrisy in her own words, and knows that Kodo does, too. But for once, he's completely silent. Bourbon can't even take satisfaction in his sudden silence.
"Fuck you, fuck you," Bourbon spits. She's spurred on by nothing more than the desperation to see Kodo's facade crack, to see him hurt. He stands just barely out of her reach, eyes wide and so pathetically frightened. He still won't even fucking say anything. "You're just as bad, you know? You selfish asshole, you're just as bad as-"
Boom.
13. Akira Hinode, killed by Guinevere Solomon.
You really love me?
12. Nolan Okorie, killed by Akira Hinode.
…
11. Xander Luman, killed by Akira Hinode.
You'll stay with me, right?
10. Zephyr Vitale, killed by Ibai Zubizarreta.
Z-Zaidra, I'm sorry, I l-love you I never should've left-
9. Bourbon Jaque, killed by Kodo Hotakim.
You selfish asshole, you're just as bad as-
f8 interviews next. get to praying. the end is very very near.
~de laney is out