CHAPTER XXXIII: DAY THREE


Jillion Morgan • District Eleven Female

Mandalay Bay / July 10th, 5:19 AM


Jillion is sinking into an endless, black ocean.

Suffocating lethargy. Unrelenting vertigo. She's going somewhere, but she can't tell if it's up, down, or sideways. It's so dark that she can't make out her own body. There's the sensation of something rushing around her, primordial and frigid. The emanating blaze coming from the crown of her skull is the only way she can prove she's something that exists at all.

She attempts to wade through the smothering waters, thick as amber. It's as if oblivion is trying to press into her, trying to gently grind her into nothingness.

But Jillion can't let it, as soothing as it feels. She knows she still has something to do.

Something blooms to life behind her, spreading golden warmth against her burning skin. She whirls around and in the distance, she can make out a blinding pinprick of light — a mirage of a smiling man she recognizes, glowing stalks of wheat forming a halo around him. Primaries, yellow, blue, and red circle around each other like planets on tangential paths of orbit.

Jillion claws her way through the inky waters, trying to get to her father, but it's like swimming against a riptide. The closer she gets to the light, the farther her father feels. But strangely enough, the warmth grows hotter and hotter. It starts to reach a boiling point, a fever pitch.

Blinding brightness descends on her world, illuminating the black water to the bluest blue she's ever seen. The water is above her, around her, but it's not touching her. She finds herself on solid ground padded by white blankets, no longer falling through an infinite void. Her head pounds like a drum, every feverish stroke threatening to split her skull apart.

It hurts. It hurts so much.

Jillion has to force herself to reopen her eyes after each excruciating blink, fighting back the ten-ton weight of unconsciousness. They're as dry as sandpaper, scraping the underside of her eyelids. From somewhere around her, the sounds of murmurs flit to her ears.

"Y-you're s-s-sure?" one voice says.

"Map says the hospital's next to M… M—"

"MGM G-Grand."

An affirmative sound. "Mm."

The words are unfamiliar to Jillion. She can't tell what this means, and she can't tell who they are. Their faces are obscured, fuzzy and out-of-focus. But despite the pain, despite the strangeness, she feels unusually at ease and… safe. It's been a long, long time since she's felt this way. The last time was with…

"Pa…?" Jillion says with a hoarse whisper.

There's the sound of scrambling before a mousy-looking boy's face darts into her vision. Another boy quickly joins him, dark-haired and serious.

"J-Jillion?" the first boy stutters. "C-c-can you hear m-me?"

Ah, Jillion thinks. Not Pa. But still good. As good as it can be, given the circumstances.

Her mind slowly reassembles the pieces, one thing at a time. These boys aren't family, but they're not strangers, either — something in between. This place, in its alien blues, is not her home, which means something forced her to leave. She doesn't know where she is, but there's really only one reason she'd leave her father's side: the Games.

Flashing lights. Screaming. Breaking glass. Blood. It's the last thing she can recall, but even that's an incoherent jumble in her mind's eye. Jillion realizes something else — if she's awake right now, truly awake, then she's alive. These boys brought her with them. They didn't leave her behind. They didn't give up.

What was the point of putting themselves in danger to bring her long? An extra body to provide for, for someone who couldn't even provide back? And what if she never woke up?

Heat pricks between Jillion's eyes. Her heart squeezes painfully. They're stupid. Kind, determined, and stupid.

(Jillion's starting to realize that they might not be so different at all.)

It takes too long for her to register that the boys — Emilio and Lucifer, she remembers now — are still looking at her, awaiting an answer. She gives the best nod she can muster, a small acknowledgment that she can, in fact, hear them.

Emilio's face cracks in relief, so brightly that sunlight might just seep through. His eyes are shining, looking about moved to tears. Jillion is too dry to come up with any herself, but her lip trembles as she stubbornly turns her gaze away from his. Stupid.

Lucifer helps her into an upright position. There's an agonizing shock of pain when Lucifer places a hand underneath her scalp, supporting its weight. Her head feels awfully heavy, as if packed to the brim with dense metal floss. Her legs ache, surely mottled with bruises she's afraid to see. When Jillion breathes, something dizzyingly sharp pokes inside her chest.

With gentle hands, Emilio brings a cup of water to her lips. Jillion feels a brief flicker of aggravation at this before she realizes she's too weak to even pick her hands off the floor. Almost too scared to be self-conscious, she sips. The warm water slips through her cracked lips and down her throat, dry as a desert. It takes the rest of the cup to clear the cobwebs.

Lucifer feeds her a cracker. She has to make a single-minded effort to move her jaw up and down. Her stomach's shriveled to the size of a rubber ball, and she can hardly hold the stale cracker down. It's exhausting but she knows she needs it, even if her body protests.

Emilio and Lucifer are quiet but patient. Jillion hasn't been taken care of like this since she was unbearably small.

She attempts to say something, embarrassed by the silence. "How long…"

She can't finish her question, but luckily, she doesn't need to. Lucifer silently holds up three fingers. Three days.

She closes her eyes, trying desperately to muster the strength to raise a hand to her scalp. Miraculously, she manages, registering the sensation of smooth cloth underneath her fingertips, with loose threads of string hanging from the edges. She quickly loses strength and her hands fall back against the ground.

Her vision has grown shades dimmer. The sound of black waves starts to roar in her ears again. Jillion knows she would feel terrified if she wasn't so overwhelmingly tired.

"What," she asks through shallow breaths, "happened?"

"A Career," Lucifer answers. "He hit you."

Emilio clenches his teeth. "Don't w-w-worry. W-we'll f-fix you," he tells her. "And th-then w-we're going to m-m-make ev-everything right."

Jillion doesn't even know what that means. But the dark, bitter undertones in his voice remind her of when Janna gets furious and reckless. She's seen it in her sister's eyes when she's talking back to a teacher, when she's glaring daggers at a Peacekeeper. Too angry and too unaware of the consequences.

"Don't… be dumb," Jillion mumbles through her lips. She's desperately trying to combat the heaviness in her eyelids. But the sound of the black ocean is deafening now, beckoning her back.

It's soon, it's too soon. But she's too weak to stay awake, too weak to resist the pull. She can't say anything as Emilio and Lucifer's faces fade out to impressions, then gray, then nothing.

Her body feels like a million-pound anchor, dropping back into the inky surf. The pounding pain in the back of her skull recedes under the sedative of slumber. The current rushes in and the black water submerges her once again, dragging her back to its tender depths.


Fioynder Itamor-Nilth • District Five Male

The Cromwell / July 10th, 9:40 AM


It's officially day three in beautiful Las Vegas!

Fioynder sits on the couch, munching on a delicious granola bar and a cup of OJ for breakfast. Reverie stands at the window, looking over the city strip as she bites into an apple. Jupiter's leaning against the wall, black coffee in hand. She's talking to Cassia, who's scarfing down a stack of pancakes. Kieran's in the back of the kitchen, fixing himself a bacon-egg sandwich.

Perks of being a Career; they never have to worry about when their next meal is coming in. The answer is anytime they want, as long as they have the poker chips to fork over!

He doesn't even want to imagine how those unlucky tributes without supplies are faring. Just kidding, yes he does! He imagines they're probably starving or dehydrating to death, too weak to move and therefore too weak to fight back, if, say, another tribute were to attack! Haha. Fioynder's glad to surely have the upper hand in a situation like that!

Loud footsteps thump against the wooden floor. The Careers turn to look at Sergeant, fresh out of the bathroom. "Everyone's had a bite to eat?"

He doesn't actually let anyone answer before clasping his hands together and continuing. "Cool. As you all know, it's day three. We've got sixteen tributes left in the Arena, including ourselves. Ten outside of our group. There haven't been any bodies since the bloodbath, which means we've gotta start making moves."

Fioynder's heart thrills. "Are we finally doing it? Are we finally going on a hunt?!"

"Yup," Sergeant answers, "but not all of us. I'm just sending two people out today."

Jupiter straightens up. "Who?"

The leader turns his gaze toward the District One Male, standing in the kitchen. "Kieran, you up for it?" he asks, but it sounds less like a question than an expectation.

Kieran chokes slightly on his sandwich, caught off-guard by the sudden attention. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," Sergeant confirms. "Thought you could use the chance to make up for the bloodbath."

"Sure," Kieran manages, after a few beats. "I can. I'll go."

"Who's going with Kieran?" Cassia says, sounding apprehensive.

That's a good question — a rarity from the Two girl, Fioynder thinks. One of the things that he finds the most interesting about the Hunger Games are the score politics in a Career pack. During a normal year, there are six Careers. When the group has to split for any reason, the most optimal divisions are an equal-leveled combination of the three higher-score and lower-score Careers.

1 3 6 / 2 4 5. [ In this case, that would be a split of Reverie, Kieran, Fioynder / Sergeant, Jupiter, Cassia. The second group is pretty good, but the first group would be a disaster. ]

1 4 5 / 2 3 6. [ Reverie, Jupiter, Cassia / Sergeant, Kieran, Fioynder. Gender segregation! Not as bad, though! ]

The illusion of Careers as an alliance of equals is only that — an illusion. There's a hierarchy, control at every level. It's what Fioynder's learned after obsessively studying every Games he could possibly find on tape. The aforementioned combinations were what Fioynder deduced as the most optimal and historically successful. That way, if a higher-score Career were to go rogue, the other two in the split-group were theoretically capable enough to restrain or dispatch them. And if a lower-score Career tried anything, well. They were just sorely outmatched!

Of course, that sort of thing has to be further disputed, depending on how well a pair of District partners perform. Putting, say, two people from District Two and one person from District Four together would put Four at a severe disadvantage. Sometimes it works out — not every year's Careers hold District solidarity to the same level of importance. But more oftentimes, it doesn't. And that betrayal factor can never be too overestimated.

Not that that's even relevant right now, because the Careers aren't splitting into halves — they're just sending out two! Arguably, that's even trickier. The ideal scenario would be to send out duos that are evenly matched in ability, but their current group's already at a severe limitation for viable hunting duos, as is.

Reverie's automatically ruled out because she's Kieran's District partner. Not that he thinks she'd suggest herself, anyway. Or maybe she would, so that she and Kieran could finally kill each other once and for all. Wouldn't that be something!

Jupiter speaks up. "I could—"

Sergeant cuts her off. "I don't think so, Fairhope."

Ha! As if! Jupiter can't even walk; skill issue. Fioynder watches as Jupiter's expression darkens, casting a bitter glance at her own broken ankle. Funny. The only real options for the hunt here are Cassia and Sergeant!

Wait — what's he thinking? Cassia and Sergeant aren't the only options — Fioynder's a player in this game, too!

"I'll go with Kieran!" Fioynder volunteers.

Sergeant blinks, and then his entire face morphs into a wolfish grin. "You know, that's actually a great fuckin' idea. You're in."

"LET'S GO!" Fioynder roars, pumping his chest. From the window, Reverie doesn't bother to hide her scowl.

"Are you kidding?" Jupiter scoffs. Cassia jumps slightly at the sound.

Kieran seems at a total loss for words. "I…"

"I've been thinking we need to let our MVP back into the ring," Sergeant says innocently. "Let him flex all those years of training."

Fioynder beams, nearly glowing with Sergeant's approval. "You won't regret this, sir!"

"Don't do this to me," Kieran insists, rubbing his temples for some reason. "I'm not babysitting him."

Sergeant looks at Fioynder. "You can hold your own, right?"

"Affirmative, sir!" Fioynder exclaims. "I'm sixteen years old, I can totally take care of myself, Sergeant sir!"

Sergeant snaps his fingers. "See?"

Kieran swears under his breath. "Sergeant—"

"Relax," Sergeant tells the District One Male, flashing him a reassuring smile. "I'll get him all up to speed for you, yeah? Don't worry your… little head."

Sergeant turns back to Fioynder, pointing his thumb back at the exit of the suite. "Let's go have a talk, kid. One-on-one."

Fioynder can feel the other Careers' seethingly jealous looks as they leave the suite and go into the hallway. A private conversation with the leader himself?! Surely a privilege no one else has been afforded yet!

"Ooh, you're taking me to a secondary location," Fioynder comments the further they walk down the swanky, scarlet corridor. "Kind of sketchy, but mostly really cool."

Sergeant abruptly stops in his tracks, deciding this is far enough from the suite. "Listen," he starts. "You're not gonna piss Kieran off while you're out there, you hear?"

He'd never do such a thing! "Loud and clear!"

"If he tells you to do something, you're gonna do it. No questions asked. He knows better than you in every way that matters — understood?"

Fioynder blinks. "…okay!"

Sergeant purses his lips. "I don't think this will happen, but if Kieran's in trouble, or you see someone sneaking up on him, just start… yelling and screaming, yeah?"

"Why?" Fioynder says, cocking his head.
"Oh, you know," Sergeant says, rather vaguely. " It's… very attention-grabbing? Kind of like an emergency alarm. Maybe one of us will hear it, and come, uh, help you. It's a very good Career tactic."

"I've never heard of it!"

"Well, that's some top-secret Academy knowledge, so just make sure to keep it in mind."

Huh. Fioynder's learning new things every day! "Understood, sir! What else do I need to know, sir!"

"That's it!" Sergeant says, with matched enthusiasm.

"Oh. Okay!"

"But there is something I wanted to ask you," Sergeant hums. "I never followed up on this, so I don't know if you remember. But you said something interesting the other day during training."

Fioynder snaps his fingers. "Was it about the District Eight girl from the 63rd Games that accidentally dropped her token during the countdown and blew herself up on the pedestal?"

"No, that's not it. It—"

"What about what I said about engineering our own weapon-of-mass-destruction muttation?"

Sergeant stares at him. "Um, no. It was about—"

"No, no, I've got it! You're talking about the—"

Without warning, Sergeant grabs his face, effectively stopping Fioynder's mouth from moving. Fioynder stares at him wide-eyed, lips puckered out like a fish.

"It was about Reverie killing the assigned volunteer," Sergeant says slowly. "Can you tell me more about that?"

He lets go of his hold on Fioynder's face. Fioynder blinks a couple times, rubbing his cheek. Wow, that guy's hands are huge. No wonder he could repeatedly bash Crossland Vectra's face into that machine, no sweat. Great grip strength.

"Was it like, an accident?" Sergeant continues.

"Well, that was the official ruling in the Academy records," Fioynder answers. "But there was another incident before that."

"Another incident?" Sergeant echoes.

Fioynder shrugs. "That information was more encrypted, for some reason. Even the Capitolite forum users on couldn't find out what it was. Which is crazy, because my online friend — well, I think we're friends, anyway — CoriolanusHo can break through any firewall, and when I say any, I really mean any—"

"Fio, no offense, but I don't give a fuck about your geeky little hacker shit. Tell me the important stuff."

"So, there were two incidents. They both happened in a pretty short time span— about three months. But speculation around the first scandal was enough for a lot of the users on the forum to believe that what happened with prospective volunteer Callista Lantz wasn't a total accident."

"'Callista,'" Sergeant repeats slowly.

"Of the 99th cohort," Fioynder supplies, puffing out his chest a little. It feels so good to know things other people don't! "Same cohort as Kieran Locke's, of course. And one year above Reverie Berlusconi before the District One Female's promotion, doy."

"Were there any other casualties in that cohort?" Sergeant asks. "In the girls' section?"

Fioynder shakes his head. "Not within the last year, at least. The cohort gets so tiny during the third year." His eyes flash as he realizes something. "Whoa, what if Kieran and Callista knew each other? They probably would've had to, considering it was so tight. Wouldn't that be crazy, or what?"

Sergeant doesn't respond immediately, seeming really preoccupied. "Um, yeah," he mutters. "I've… gotta go do something, but thanks, buddy." He claps him on the shoulder, kind of like a coach. "Get ready, okay? You've got a huge task ahead of you in a few hours."

Fioynder nods firmly, and then holds out his fist expectantly.

A second passes. Two. Three, and then Sergeant finally relents, knocking his fist into Fioynder's with a grimace.

Fioynder, on the other hand, grins so hard his face might break open. "I won't let you down, sir!"

Sergeant gives him a stiff smile. "Good. Don't."


Keesha Cathode • District Five Female

New York-New York / July 10th, 2:23 PM


The fucking Gamemakers are cockblocking her — Keesha knows it.

They must've not liked her stunt with the slot machines on that first day. Well, if those things weren't meant to be robbed, maybe they shouldn't have made them so robbable. After busting like, twenty of them, Keesha's got the muscle memory down pat. Easy as breaking into a house — she could probably do it in her sleep.

Not that Keesha thinks the Gamemakers will ever give her the chance again. Now, every casino they crash is filled to the brim with those hologram Capitolites, who are allergic to minding their own business and gaggle around the three of them like animals in a zoo. Keesha wishes she could say that wasn't the kind of thing that would stop her, but she'd be lying. She's not really into committing crime under broad daylight, with a whole audience of spectators. Not her style.

Their luck at the casino was relatively good on the second day, but it's taken a sharp turn down the shitter today. Keesha hasn't stopped losing since she hit the tables, and it's driving her mad. Shaffa and Delano aren't having great luck either. Thankfully, they were cash cows for sponsors — it's the reason she liked having Delano on — so they at least could make back half of what they lost through donations. But at this point, they've kinda milked all of their sponsors of all the money they're willing to give. Which still leaves them a pretty penny in their pockets, but Keesha doesn't like that there's now a cap on what they have access to.

The layout at New York-New York's casino stresses Keesha out. Everything is way too visible, too far in between. It feels like there are eyes boring into her from some indistinguishable direction, sharp and penetrating, analyzing her every movement. She swears loudly when the dealer announces another loss, unable to do anything but watch as they sweep her prized chips under the table. Without another word, she steps away from the table to retrieve Shaffa and Delano from their corners of the casino.

She almost has to drag them out by the scruff of their necks like they're kittens. They're having entirely way too much fun yapping with the Capitolites, which is good in the sense that it keeps them in their pockets, but bad when it takes five eons to move from one place to the other. But eventually, their trio (Keesha refuses to call themselves "dicks" — ew) makes their way to the far less crowded and noisy part of the casino, where the cage cashiers are.

"ℍ𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕠. ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕞𝕒𝕪 𝕀 𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕤𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕠𝕕𝕒𝕪?" the mannequin cage cashier monotones.

"24-pack of water, thanks," Keesha says breezily.

"𝕍𝕖𝕣𝕪 𝕨𝕖𝕝𝕝. 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕓𝕖 $𝟡𝟞𝟘."

Delano's eyes bug out of his head. "What the fuck?"

"That's so much more expensive than it was the first day!" Shaffa cries out.

"ℙ𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕤𝕦𝕓𝕛𝕖𝕔𝕥 𝕥𝕠 𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖 𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕥𝕠 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕤."

Shaffa turns to Keesha, a worried expression on her face. "How much did we pay the first day, Keesh?"

"It was like, $240." Keesha frowns. "This is… triple that."

The mannequin whirrs in confirmation. "𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕤 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕖𝕒𝕔𝕙 𝕕𝕒𝕪. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕕𝕒𝕪, 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕓𝕠𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕥 $𝟙𝟘. 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕖𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕕 𝕕𝕒𝕪, $𝟚𝟘. 𝕋𝕠𝕕𝕒𝕪, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕙𝕒𝕤 𝕣𝕚𝕤𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕠 $𝟜𝟘 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕓𝕠𝕥𝕥𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣."

Keesha scowls. "Even here, we still gotta deal with inflation?"

"Inflation?" Delano says, cracking a smile. "Like, the kink?"

"Like the economy, dumbass."

"𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕚𝕤 𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕣𝕖𝕔𝕥," the mannequin states. "𝕎𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕝𝕚𝕜𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕔𝕖𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕟𝕤𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟?"

Instead of a twenty-four pack, they just get twelve bottles — four for each of them. They hand over a lot of their smaller-value units, the $1 and $5 poker chips in order to make the teller's life as hard as possible. Not that it matters, because the counting system is automated and the teller isn't even alive to begin with. But it's the principle of it. And Keesha's a girl of many principles: mainly inconveniencing others, and sticking it to the feds.

They decide to make lunch their next priority. Shaffa finds a restaurant on the map — it's not far at all, deadass a four minute walk across the pedestrian bridge. They're sort of stealthy about it, but also kind of not. It's too fucking hot to be sneaky, and under the scorching sun, there are no shadows to stick to. Everything on the Strip is laid bare whether she likes it or not, open in plain sight.

It's weird, Keesha thinks. This Arena is lowkey small as fuck, yet they haven't run into any other tributes. Still, she can't escape the feeling of being watched, and she's not so sure it's just the cameras. It's this strange, prickly sensation, like eyes on the back of her neck. But when she turns, there's nothing there, nobody. It puts her on edge, despite knowing she could definitely outrun or outhide whoever — or whatever — it is. If it's anything at all.

Maybe it's just the Arena starting to get to her.

They make it to the restaurant with little trouble. There's a huge, upright guitar smacked on the front of the building, outlined in neon. Right over the sound hole thing, the sign reads—

"Rock Hard Cafe," Delano says. "Sweet."

"That says Hard Rock Cafe. Are you dyslexic?" Keesha deadpans.

Delano shoots a pair of finger guns at her. "Not one of my conditions, but good guess."

The three of them walk inside, wasting no time with their orders. Those mannequin chefs whip up their food in record time, shakes, steak burgers and fries that smell like heaven on earth. Keesha thinks she might start levitating like in those goofy ass cartoons.

"Speaking of conditions," Keesha asks Delano as they slide into their booth, "were you just born like that or what?"

Shaffa makes a scandalized sound, her metal tray clattering against the table. "You can't just ask someone that!" she exclaims.

"Car accident," Delano answers flatly.

Keesha makes an indifferent sound, chewing on a fry. "How the hell does that happen?"

"I'm so tired of explaining," the Eight boy groans. "I was chasing a ball across someone's driveway. Fell. Car doesn't see me and backs up." Delano then proceeds to make a really nasty sound with his mouth that Keesha supposes is the sound of his bones getting chopped up into a rubber and concrete smoothie, but it just sounds like he's choking on his own spit. Some of it flings on her cheek across the table. "Bam. Fatality."

Keesha grimaces, wiping her face. "Lame."

"Can't lie," Shaffa agrees.

"Man, that's just how it happened. I can't choose how I lost my arm."

"Skill issue," Keesha says with a mouth full of burger. "At the very least, you could lie about it. Make it interesting."

"That's exactly what my District partner said on the train ride here. She suggested a nuke. Or a shark attack."

"Way cooler," Keesha nods. "She sounds wise."

"That's my bad. I'll take notes for next time."

They eat in relative quiet for a little, save for Shaffa's loud shake-slurping and the sound of Delano smacking his lips together. Keesha wishes it was acceptable to punt the Eight boy, but she thinks Shaffa would chew her out for it.

"I'm a little worried about the stuff in the casino, guys," Shaffa admits. "I didn't think it would happen so soon, but we're running kind of low."

Keesha frowns. "We should table how much we have left."

They count. It takes a while. The grand total comes to about $900 — less than a band.

Keesha dips her fries into her strawberry shake. "So, we're fucking broke, basically."

"Damn," Delano says. "We balled too close to the sun."

"How is that possible?" Shaffa exclaims. "We had so much that first night!"

Keesha levels a piercing glare at the Eight boy. "Well, someone keeps making stupidly huge bets and losing it all."

Delano laughs nervously, purposely evading her stare. "You think if we beg, they'll do an alliance discount for us?"

"I wish," Shaffa sighs. "Gosh, finances are hard. Who knew being alive was so expensive?"

"Real shit," Delano agrees. "I'm pretty sure my parents just shacked up for the tax benefits. But it's possible they actually do love each other or something gay like that."

Keesha snorts. "Who the fuck gets married for love anymore?"

"I don't know, I kind of like the idea of getting married," Shaffa admits with a noncommittal shrug. "Devoting yourself to one person forever. Promising you'll be by each other's side, no matter what. It's, y'know, romantic."

Keesha laughs out loud at this. "Well, there are like, a bajillion chapels here," she points out. "If you really wanted to, we could get it done right now."

Shaffa stares at her. "We…?"

Delano starts cackling on his other side of the booth, almost dropping his entire burger on himself. "Did you just fumble a proposal?"

"Pause," Keesha says, feeling weirdly sweaty. "That's not what I—"

"YOU DID, YOU TOTALLY DID!"

Keesha tries to find the words to explain what she actually meant — that they could all help get Shaffa married, somehow — but the longer she thinks about it, the less she thinks it's possible to salvage her words. Not to mention that it doesn't even make any sense, because Shaffa couldn't just get married by herself. And who the fuck else would she get married to?

Shit. That's incriminating, Keesha admits to herself, furrowing her eyebrows. Delano's still laughing at her, wheezing through his nose. She can't let him have the satisfaction of thinking she fumbled. Keesha Cathode doesn't fumble. She's chill, cool, and nonchalant — if she starts arguing with Delano, she'll look like the opposite of that. And dumb as fuck.

It looks like the only way for her to save face is to double down and play it off like that's what she meant the entire time — the only logical conclusion, of course.

"Fuck it," Keesha announces, turning toward the Three girl. "Let's get married, Shaffa."

"W-what?!" she sputters, turning as beet-red as her hair under Keesha's gaze. "Are you serious?"

Delano whistles, impressed. "I know I've only known you for like, twenty-four business hours, but I honestly didn't think you had the balls to get married, Keesha."

Keesha rolls her eyes, kind of miffed by the insinuation she didn't have the balls to do something as regular and mundane as marriage. "What does that mean?"

"Well, y'know. You just strike me as the hit-and-run, 'I got fifty baby mamas in Atlanta' sort of chick."

Shaffa lets out this breathy, uncomprehending laugh. "What the hell is 'Atlanta?'"

"Fuck if I know. That's just how the saying goes."

"I mean, I'm down to do anything once. And it's not like it has to be a big deal," Keesha says, attempting to keep her voice casual. "If you wanna get married, this might be the only chance you get. If we're all gonna die, then why not, right?"

Shaffa's still buffering, at a total loss for words. Keesha's own heart hammers behind her ribs, sparks of adrenaline shooting through her veins as she awaits Shaffa's response. It's so unlike the feeling of breaking into a lock, of pickpocketing a stranger; it's a different rush entirely.

Maybe this is the thrill Keesha's been searching for this entire time — the thrill that comes from totally, irrevocably committing to the bit.

"So what do you say?" Keesha murmurs, looking into her business partner's brown eyes. "I fuck with it if you fuck with it."

A beat. Two. The Three girl opens her mouth, taking a deep breath.

"I fuck with it," Shaffa beams at last, her eyes shining wetly. "I fuck with it heavy, Keesha Cathode."

Delano exaggeratedly blows his nose into his greasy burger wrapper. "Be who you are," he warbles, pretending to sound on the verge of tears. "For your pride…"

"Dope," Keesha grins, trying to suppress the growing warmth in her cheeks. "Then let's find a goddamn chapel, I guess."


Wisteria Rose Peak • District Nine Female

Hard Rock Cafe / July 10th, 3:11 PM


When the group of three leaves the restaurant, Wisteria makes her move.

She's been trailing them for quite some time now. They're rather loud and messy, but it makes them easy to follow.

That first night, Wisteria left the bloodbath with nothing — no briefcases, no supplies. She didn't realize it at the time, but that was a death sentence. With nothing but liquor in the Arena to sustain herself, the only thing she could do was waste away.

Until yesterday, when she heard loud commotion and laughter coming from a group of three teens her age from the depths of Caesar's Palace. Since then, Wisteria's been following them and living on their leftover water and food, like a feral street animal dependent on the carelessness of humans.

She's realized that the only way to access any resources in this place is by purchasing them with poker chips. She had no idea how those other kids came up on such an overwhelming amount of them, but it's clear they weren't too worried about running out. They had the kind of financial security that made them negligent and sloppy with what they left behind.

Wisteria scurries into the restaurant and immediately catches sight of the table they must've been sitting at. She rushes up and fishes out the leftover pieces that they didn't finish: a bite of burger, oil and meat melting on her tongue. A handful of fries, still decently crispy. A strawberry shake, flooding her parched mouth with an artificial sweetness.

All of it sinks densely into her stomach, which growls back mutely. It's not really filling, but it's not like she was used to being full in District Nine, anyway. She always scraped every last grain of tessera from the bowl, her body still hankering for more. These leftovers are about how much she'd get during any given meal back home, maybe a little less. But beggars can't be choosers.

Wisteria can't imagine leaving so much food left behind, even if she had an abundance of resources at her disposal. Kids in urban Districts just don't understand what it's like to go without, don't know how to starve. But funnily, during a time like this, she's thankful for that.

She casts her eyes over her surroundings, soaking in the eerie isolation of the restaurant. Red, blue, and green light fixtures on the ceiling radiate the space with electric neons. Flat-screen televisions and speakers hang from glossy, dark wood columns. Several guitars are posed for display against ultramarine blue and chartreuse glass diamond appliques on the walls. There are framed posters all over the far walls, assembled in an eclectic yet cohesive mishmash of beer advertisements. Above the decor, block letters spell SAVE THE PLANET.

It feels like if a gritty dive bar got a polished makeover, encasing years of dust and grime underneath a shining resin veneer. Wisteria tries to imagine what sort of people would come here, before the Dark Days. Definitely someone with change to spare, someone who can afford to spend lavishly to indulge in a rough, dirty aesthetic.

A rockstar, maybe. Wisteria sort of likes that idea. She thinks that in another lifetime, she could've written songs instead of poems, trading fawns, lakes, and flowers for sawdust, kohl, and shredded fingernails. Drinking spirits and laughing raucously with band members after shows, ever the object of attention underneath both the spotlight and the social sphere.

But the daydream starts to fall flat the more she lingers on how impossibly lonely she is. No band members, no friends… nobody, really. The group she's been tailing, Emilio, Falo — everyone else seems to have somebody, except her. She thought she made her peace with that, but every reminder in this Arena serves to deepen the aching, worsen the wanting.

It's too hard to pretend anymore, pretend like Wisteria won't die the way she's lived most of her life — alone.

With her heart caught in her throat, Wisteria retrieves her journal from a satchel she stole from a store. She places it against the wooden surface of the table with painstaking gentleness, cracking it open to the last page.

The shaky, penciled impressions of her family members stare at Wisteria from the paper: her most recent attempt at leaving something worthwhile behind, before the Arena takes what it always takes.

Wisteria presses her hands against the faces of her sisters, smearing a slight trail of graphite on the pads of her fingers. The confident curve of Chrys's lips, the deep dimple on Lia's left cheek. She never saw her older or younger sister nearly as often as she should've. For a multitude of reasons, but all roads seem to lead to the most foolish one; Wisteria thought she'd have more time.

She drags her eyes to her mother's stern expression. Wisteria rarely ever saw her smile, which she knows is only her fault. She was her father's daughter with her mother's face. Every long spell spent away from home only further bolstered the association.

Her gaze finally settles on the face of father on the other side of the spread, separated from the rest by the binding of the journal. His face is even murkier than the others, lost to her in the recesses of her mind after years apart. She can't remember his exact features, can't replicate them with precision, but she thinks they had the same curls, the same stubborn set to their jaw.

Memory is fickle. But in a place where everything fades too fast, that's the only thing she has left.

There's a heavy lump in Wisteria's throat as she thinks about all the time she didn't spend with her sisters. All the words that lingered between her and her mother, spoken and regretted. All the emptiness left behind by her father's absence. All of these things she thought she understood, and still couldn't make up for.

She squeezes her eyes shut before she can see the wet splatters on the page. It's too easy to accept the regret when she didn't try, and it's too late to be sorry for everything she didn't do enough to change. But she is, she is.

ꕤ ꕤ ꕤ

Wisteria was fourteen, and it was the last time she ever saw her father.

The lake glistened aquamarine under the radiant sunlight. Birds sang and trilled in the overhead branches of the willow tree. Father and daughter sat underneath its generous shade, soaking in the westward breeze. It was a beautiful day in the meadow, but Wisteria knew what was coming.

From the corner of her vision, she observed her father's tired eyes, his parted lips. He had his arm thrown over his knee in a careless, light-hearted sort of way, but the hike between his brows betrayed his lingering uneasiness.

It was foreign. It wasn't a look she liked to see on her father, who liked to dance during the rare times he made dinner, who always laughed like he'd never stop. This was a man who could make a song out of anything, who never failed to make her smile when she cried. But this is also a man who had crushed her mother's hopes, time and time again. A man incapable of keeping promises, and even more incapable of staying.

"I'm going, Wisty," her father told her, breaking the idle silence. "For good this time."

Wisteria took a shaky breath. She wasn't going to cry. She knew it had been a long time coming, years delayed. But knowing didn't really spare her from the oppressive emptiness in her heart. She said nothing, hugging her knees close to her chest.

"Margaret's a strong woman," her father murmured, but Wisteria couldn't tell if he was talking to her or himself. "She'd be better off without me."
"Yeah," Wisteria agrees. Not malicious, just honest.

The man beside her laughed, but the sound was dull, so far-removed from the chime-like mirth she associated with him. "I'm not the man I convinced her I was when we got married. Your mother and I, we both had expectations of each other that didn't match. We were just kids doing what we thought we were s'posed to do."

He sighed, and Wisteria watched as her father became years older, the lines on his face etching into hyperfocus. "At this point, we've both hurt each other too much to start over again."

Wisteria had seen it all. The love, the hurt. Love was the word on her parents' lips at the end of a long night. Love was the warmth of their home. Love was the trying, the failing, the disappointment, the suffering. Love was breaking each others' hearts on accident, over and over and again.

She wished she could say her parents didn't really love each other, but she couldn't. They did; it was just the wrong people, the wrong timing, the wrong mistakes, too much, too little. It wasn't good enough. She understood this was her father's last act of love — letting go.

"You don't need to say anything," Wisteria whispered. "I get it."

Her father gave her a wry smile through pained eyes. "You do, huh?"

"Isn't that why you're telling me?" she said. "Because you know I'm the only one that won't try to stop you?"

Her father didn't say anything.

"Chrys would chew you out like Mom, and Lia would beg and cry until you promised you'd stay. And then it'd happen all over again." Wisteria looked at her father. "Am I wrong?"

"I… I don't think so," her father admitted. "You've always been smarter than your mother and I gave you credit for."

"I know," Wisteria said.

"… I'm sorry, baby."

"I know that, too." And she left it at that.

The silence returned. Wisteria's shoulders felt heavy with the burden of what she'd have to tell her mother and sisters when she came back home by herself. At the same time, her limbs felt strangely light. Being transparent with her father — it was refreshing. She always thought of him as ever-transient, like a mirage. He never lingered long enough for an honest conversation, and she was always too scared to say something that would make him fly off. Until now — the very last time.

Wisteria watched as a butterfly fluttered between them, making spirals in the air before landing on the back of her father's hand. She allowed herself a bittersweet smile as she took in its frail insect body, its papery, sage-colored wings.

"I hope you don't think of me as a bad person," her father said at last. His voice was sorrowful, and it made Wisteria's chest ache.

Slowly, she just shook her head. "I think you're weak," she admitted. "But people can't really help that."

Her father sighed, and the butterfly on his finger flit away. "No," he agreed. "They can't."


a/n: i think i said it best in my syot verses channel on december 15th 1:56 PM EST: this chapter is my last gift.

our first split chapter is upon us! day 3 and STAGE ONE: CATALYST will end next chapter. every day from this point on will have two or more parts. gotta make 7 days in vegas count!

may the makers bless erik and logan and ama and special guest luke for looking over today's chapter! y'all are the realest…

today's title [ EYES IN THE SKY ] refers to the highly complex surveillance systems in casinos. places like that attract horrible vice, crime and violence; good thing the cameras are always watching and keeping us safe, right?

upcoming: night 3.

deuces,
baka