CHAPTER XXXVII: DAY FOUR
Emilio Carver • District Nine Male
MGM Grand / July 11th, 1:15 PM
Emilio wakes up with a rope around his neck.
The coarse material chafes roughly against the sensitive skin of his throat. It's not tight enough to choke, but that doesn't do anything to suppress the panic that surges through his body. Emilio's hands fly up to loosen the rope, but to no avail — he doesn't even manage to fray the braided fibers. When he grazes his knuckles against the side of his neck, he can feel a small indentation, like a wound from a needle.
What happened? What is this? Why can't he take off this necklace — why can't he can't go anywhere? Emilio's feet are almost suspended above the ground; the tips of his toes skim against the podium, just barely able to balance and support the full weight of his body.
Rapidly, he looks around, trying to absorb his surroundings. There's some sort of map on the ground. He's inside some sort of booth, hundreds of feet in the air, overlooking a dark, extravagant theater. Mirrored on the other side of the auditorium is another boy, his throat similarly bound by a rope attached to the ceiling. Emilio recognizes his metal arm — it's the boy who shouted, right before — right before—
"L-Lu?" Emilio shouts with a hoarse gasp. He looks around wildly, his heart tightening in his chest. "Are y-you—"
"Emilio," Lucifer's voice rasps. The sound is crackling and staticky, and Emilio can only hear it in one ear. His hand reaches up, clamping around a cool, metal piece. "Can you hear me?"
Emilio makes a sound of relief. "Yes — th-thank god. I th-thought th-th-that — y-you—"
"'m okay," Lucifer says before he finishes his thought. "Something tranqed me. But I'm not hurt. Can't move, though. Something's around my neck. Metal. Heavy."
"M-me too. R-rope. I-I can't t-t-take it o-off."
Lucifer's voice grows strained on the other end. "Where are you?"
"I–I'm in a th-theater, I-I think. Up h-high. I-I d-don't kn-kn-know," he stutters out. "W-where are — are you?"
"Don't know. Dark. Can't see anything.
"Where — o-our stuff? D-do you st-still h-have—?"
"No," Lucifer whispers, and Emilio's heart sinks. "I don't know where it went. It's gone."
A robotic voice suddenly blares from the stage, front and center. "Wҽʅƈσɱҽ, ɯҽʅƈσɱҽ ҽʋҽɾყσɳҽ ƚσ ƚԋҽ Aɾҽɳα'ʂ ʋҽɾყ σɯɳ MGM Tԋҽαƚҽɾ!"
Emilio's head whips toward the front of the theater. A mannequin has materialized out of the blue, lavishly dressed in an outfit of snakeskin, scales, and feathers. Two ringlets from her luscious wig have been fashioned into devilish horns. She has the same voice as the Master of Ceremonies, but her speech is fragmented, as if someone cut up the words and rearranged them to form sentences. The result is something dissonant and demented. Inhuman.
The mannequin gestures toward the barren audience with jolting motions. "I'ɱ Kιʂԋσɾ Mαԋαԃισ — ყσυɾ Ⴆҽʅσʋҽԃ Mαʂƚҽɾ σϝ Cҽɾҽɱσɳιҽʂ, αʂ αʅɯαყʂ — αɳԃ I'ɱ Ⴆҽყσɳԃ ƚԋɾιʅʅҽԃ ƚσ ρɾҽʂҽɳƚ ƚσ ყσυ ƚԋҽ αɾҽɳα'ʂ ʋҽɾყ ϝιɾʂƚ ʂԋσɯ!"
Her words send a violent shiver down Emilio's spine. A show — what does that mean?
"Kishor, what the fuck!" the boy from the other box exclaims, trying to wrestle the noose off of his neck. "Why you gotta do me like this, dude? Did our interview mean nothing to you?! I thought we were tight — I thought we had a connection!"
"Dιԃ ყσυ ɳσɯ?" The mannequin somehow manages to preen, even with her plastic features. "Hσɯ ƚσυƈԋιɳɠ. I ԃσ ϝιɳԃ ყσυ ϙυιƚҽ ҽɳƚҽɾƚαιɳιɳɠ, ιƚ'ʂ ƚɾυҽ. Bυƚ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ ιʂ Ⴆυʂιɳҽʂʂ, ԃαɾʅιɳɠ, αɳԃ ɯԋαƚ ɱυʂƚ Ⴆҽ ԃσɳҽ ɱυʂƚ Ⴆҽ ԃσɳҽ."
"L-Lucif-cifer," Emilio exclaims as loudly as his shaking voice can muster. "W-where — where i-is he?"
"Pαƚιҽɳƈҽ. Dσɳ'ƚ ƚɾιρ σʋҽɾ ყσυɾ ƚσɳɠυҽ ɳσɯ," she coos. "Yσυ'ɾҽ ɠσιɳɠ ƚσ ɳҽҽԃ ιƚ ϝσɾ ɯԋαƚ ƈσɱҽʂ ɳҽxƚ. Lҽƚ'ʂ ƚαƙҽ α ʅσσƙ αƚ αʅʅ σϝ συɾ ʅιƚƚʅҽ ρʅαყƚԋιɳɠʂ, ʂԋαʅʅ ɯҽ?"
In a flash, the curtains part to reveal three figures — it's Lucifer and two girls. All of them lift their hands to shield themselves from the searing spotlight. Each of them are wearing bulky metal devices around their throats — shock collars. Shackles chain their legs to the stage. When Lucifer's eyes meet Emilio's, every ounce of color seeps from the Seven boy's face.
"Fιʋҽ ʅιƚƚʅҽ ƈԋҽʂʂ ριҽƈҽʂ, ιɳʂƚҽαԃ σϝ ʂιx. Lσσƙʂ ʅιƙҽ ɯҽ'ɾҽ ɱιʂʂιɳɠ σɳҽ." The mannequin cocks her head, twirling lazy fingers in both Emilio's and Lucifer's directions. "Yσυ ƚɯσ Ⴆσყʂ… ʂԋσυʅԃɳ'ƚ ƚԋҽɾҽ Ⴆҽ α ƚԋιɾԃ σɳҽ ɯιƚԋ ყσυ? Wԋҽɾҽ ιʂ ʂԋҽ, I ɯσɳԃҽɾ…"
Her words make the taste of metal bloom in Emilio's mouth. Even from this high up, he can see Lucifer's eyes turn hard, livid. But there's fear, too. It's in the unsteady curve of the Seven boy's brows, the wired set of his jaw. Jillion — exactly how long has it been since they left her?
The memory of the cannon blast makes Emilio's skin break out in another wave of uncontrollable sweating. He doesn't want to imagine something bad's happened to her, but every neural pathway in his brain is bolting down the fast track route to the worst case scenario. He and Lucifer have been gone for too long. They need to get back to her, now. Those supplies — those supplies had everything they needed, and now Emilio doesn't even know if they'll even get the chance to use them.
"Nσ ɱαƚƚҽɾ," the mannequin whirrs. "Wҽ ƈαɳ ʂƚιʅʅ ρʅαყ. Wҽ'ʅʅ ʝυʂƚ ԋαʋҽ ƚσ ɱαƙҽ α ϝҽɯ αԃʝυʂƚɱҽɳƚʂ."
She snaps her fingers. Chains rise from the ground, deadlocking the two girls onstage together by a wrist and an ankle. Instantly, they try to pull apart their restraints, panic mounting with each fruitless attempt.
"Hey—!" The girl in a black suit exclaims with an indignant sneer. She jerks up her and her partner's cuffed wrists. "What the hell is your damage, lady?! This isn't fucking fair!"
"Fυɳɳყ, Mιʂʂυʂ Cαƚԋσԃҽ. Yσυ ԃσɳ'ƚ ԋαʋҽ ɱυƈԋ ɾσσɱ ƚσ ʂρҽαƙ σɳ ϝαιɾɳҽʂʂ αϝƚҽɾ ყσυɾ ҽxρʅσιƚʂ ιɳ ƚԋҽ Aɾҽɳα." The mannequin laughs primly behind a sleek hand. "Bιʂԋσρ αɳԃ Cαɾʋҽɾ ԋҽɾҽ αɾҽ αƚ α ɳυɱႦҽɾʂ ԃιʂαԃʋαɳƚαɠҽ: ƚɯσ ƚσ ƚԋɾҽҽ. Bιɳԃιɳɠ ყσυ ƚɯσ ƚσɠҽƚԋҽɾ ɯαʂ ɱყ ɾҽɱҽԃყ — 'ƚԋҽ ƚɯσ ɯιʅʅ Ⴆҽƈσɱҽ σɳҽ ϝʅҽʂԋ.' I ƚԋσυɠԋƚ ιƚ ɯαʂ ɾαƚԋҽɾ ϝιƚƚιɳɠ αɳԃ ɾσɱαɳƚιƈ. Yσυ'ɾҽ ʋҽɾყ ʅυƈƙყ ყσυ'ɾҽ σɳʅყ ƈԋαιɳҽԃ ƚσɠҽƚԋҽɾ, Ⴆყ ƚԋҽ ɯαყ. Wҽ ƈσυʅԃ'ʋҽ ρυʅʅҽԃ α ɱσɾҽ… ιɳʋαʂιʋҽ ρɾσƈҽԃυɾҽ." She cocks her head innocently. "Mιʂʂυʂ Zσɾρ ɱιɠԋƚ ƙɳσɯ α ƚԋιɳɠ σɾ ƚɯσ αႦσυƚ ƚԋαƚ?"
The girl in the dress turns as red as her hair, stunned speechless.
"I'ɱ ʂυɾҽ ყσυ'ʋҽ αʅʅ ɳσƚιƈҽԃ ƚԋҽ σႦʝҽƈƚʂ αɾσυɳԃ ყσυɾ ɳҽƈƙʂ," the mannequin continues, without a second to waste. "I ʂυɠɠҽʂƚ ɳσƚ ƚσ ɱҽʂʂ ɯιƚԋ ƚԋσʂҽ. Dσɳ'ƚ ҽʋҽɳ ƚɾყ."
She rotates slowly, surveying each of them with her glass eyes. When she gets to Emilio, her unseeing eyes bore right through his soul. Hundreds of feet of distance isn't nearly enough to soothe the sick feeling in his stomach. "Tԋҽɾҽ'ʂ σɳʅყ σɳҽ ɯαყ συƚ σϝ ƚԋιʂ ɠαɱҽ — ყσυ ρʅαყ. Tɾυƚԋϝυʅʅყ, ყσυ ԃσɳ'ƚ ԋαʋҽ αɳσƚԋҽɾ ƈԋσιƈҽ."
The girl in the suit is still trying to wrestle out of her cuffs. "You better tell us the goddamn game, then, bi—"
Abruptly, the girl beside her clamps her free hand over her friend's mouth. The mannequin just laughs, delighted. "Exƈιƚҽԃ, αɾҽɳ'ƚ ɯҽ? Tԋαƚ'ʂ ƚԋҽ ʂριɾιƚ."
A large screen descends from the ceiling. A shifting, overstimulating scrawl of letters populate each pixel on the screen. "Tԋҽɾҽ αɾҽ ƚɯҽɳƚყ-ʂιx ʅҽƚƚҽɾʂ ιɳ ƚԋҽ αʅρԋαႦҽƚ. Wԋҽɳ ყσυ αʂʂҽɱႦʅҽ ƚԋҽɱ ιɳ ʋαɾισυʂ ʂҽϙυҽɳƈҽʂ, ყσυ ɱαƙҽ ƈσԃҽʂ. Aɳʂɯҽɾʂ. Pԋɾαʂҽʂ ƚԋαƚ ɱҽαɳ ƚԋιɳɠʂ ƚσ ʂσɱҽσɳҽ. Tԋαƚ'ʂ ƚԋҽ ɱιɾαƈʅҽ σϝ ʅαɳɠυαɠҽ."
On the screen, the pixels coalesce to form a crude, childish drawing of a gallows. "Rιɠԋƚ ɳσɯ, ƚɾιႦυƚҽʂ, ყσυ'ɾҽ ɠσιɳɠ ƚσ ρʅαყ α ɠαɱҽ σϝ HANGMAN."
Emilio's blood runs cold. He hasn't played this since he was in grade school — since he was a child. Across the room, recognition flashes over everyone's faces. Everyone except Lucifer's, who just stares at the board with a blank, uncomprehending expression.
His heart drops to his stomach. Oh no.
"Wιƚԋ α ϝҽɯ ɱσɾҽ ιɳƚҽɾαƈƚιʋҽ ҽʅҽɱҽɳƚʂ, σϝ ƈσυɾʂҽ, ƚσ ɱαƙҽ ƚԋιɳɠʂ ɱσɾҽ ϝυɳ. Tԋҽɾҽ αɾҽ ƚɯҽɳƚყ-ʂιx ƚιʅҽʂ ʂƈαƚƚҽɾҽԃ αʅʅ σʋҽɾ ƚԋιʂ ƚԋҽαƚɾҽ, ҽαƈԋ σɳҽ ρɾιɳƚҽԃ ɯιƚԋ ιƚʂ σɯɳ ʅҽƚƚҽɾ σϝ ƚԋҽ αʅρԋαႦҽƚ."
A blinding spotlight engulfs Emilio's skinny frame. Immediately, his eyes start watering. A matching beam is cast over the boy across the theater. "DELANO ASTARTE, EMILIO CARVER — ყσυ αɾҽ ƚԋҽ OPERATORS. Yσυ ҽαƈԋ ԋαʋҽ α ɱαρ ɯιƚԋ ƚԋҽ ʅσƈαƚισɳ σϝ ҽαƈԋ ʅҽƚƚҽɾ ƚιʅҽ. Yσυ ƙɳσɯ ҽxαƈƚʅყ ɯԋҽɾҽ ҽαƈԋ σɳҽ ιʂ. Cσɱɱυɳιƈαƚҽ ɯιƚԋ ყσυɾ ʂҽαɾƈԋҽɾʂ ƚσ ϝιɳԃ ƚԋҽɱ."
The lights shoot back to the stage. "SHAFFA ZORP and KEESHA CATHODE, LUCIFER BISHOP — ყσυ αɾҽ ƚԋҽ SEARCHERS. Yσυ ԋαʋҽ ϝɾҽҽ ɾҽιɠɳ σϝ ƚԋҽ ƚԋҽαƚɾҽ, αɳԃ ყσυ ɯιʅʅ Ⴆҽ ƚαʂƙҽԃ ɯιƚԋ ϝιɳԃιɳɠ ƚԋҽ ʅҽƚƚҽɾ ƚιʅҽʂ. Hҽҽԃ ԃιɾҽƈƚισɳ ϝɾσɱ ყσυɾ σρҽɾαƚσɾʂ." The mannequin smiles, gesturing back toward the screen. "Wԋιƈԋҽʋҽɾ ƚҽαɱ ƈɾαƈƙʂ ƚԋιʂ ƈσԃҽ ɯιɳʂ."
Four words materialize before Emilio's eyes. WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS?
Underneath, an empty code appears with a crisp schlkk, like the sound of cards being dealt.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .
One by one, Emilio counts each space, growing more and more confused. Fourteen spaces. The word is fourteen letters long. An onslaught of question marks join the alarm bells shrieking in his head.
"Iϝ ყσυɾ ƚҽαɱ ʂυႦɱιƚʂ ƚԋҽ ɾιɠԋƚ ʅҽƚƚҽɾ, ιƚ'ʅʅ ʂԋσɯ υρ σɳ ƚԋҽ Ⴆσαɾԃ ϝσɾ ҽʋҽɾყσɳҽ. Bυƚ ιϝ ყσυɾ ƚҽαɱ ʂυႦɱιƚʂ ƚԋҽ ɯɾσɳɠ ʅҽƚƚҽɾ, ყσυɾ ɾҽʂρҽƈƚιʋҽ ʂҽαɾƈԋҽɾ ɯιʅʅ Ⴆҽ ρυɳιʂԋҽԃ ϝσɾ ιƚ." A drawing of a stick figure now hangs from the gallows. "Yσυ ԋαʋҽ ƚԋɾҽҽ ƚɾιҽʂ. Aƚ ƚԋҽ ϝιɾʂƚ ʂƚɾιƙҽ, 25,000 ʋσʅƚʂ σϝ ҽʅҽƈƚɾιƈιƚყ ɯιʅʅ Ⴆҽ ιʂʂυҽԃ ƚԋɾσυɠԋ ყσυɾ ʂҽαɾƈԋҽɾ'ʂ ƈσʅʅαɾ. Tԋҽɳ, 50,000 ʋσʅƚʂ. Tԋҽɳ…" The mannequin trails off. "Wҽʅʅ, I ƚԋιɳƙ ყσυ ƈαɳ ɠυҽʂʂ ɯԋαƚ'ʂ ɳҽxƚ."
The mannequin unlatches her jaw, and the sound of unrestrained electricity emits from her vacant machine mouth. Every pop, every crackle — Emilio can hear each layer of the discordant melody in perfect clarity. The implication alone is enough to set his nerves on fire. Emilio bites down on his cheek, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. But he's still confused by one thing — if finding the letters is a collaborative effort until the very end, then…
"Tαƙҽ ƈαɾҽ ƚσ ƈσɱɱυɳιƈαƚҽ ɯҽʅʅ ɯιƚԋ σɳҽ αɳσƚԋҽɾ, ƚɾιႦυƚҽʂ," the mannequin advises. "Wҽ ɯσυʅԃɳ'ƚ ɯαɳƚ ƚԋιɳɠʂ ƚσ ɠҽƚ ʅσʂƚ ιɳ ƚɾαɳʂʅαƚισɳ, ɯσυʅԃ ɯҽ? Iƚ'ʂ ρҽɾԋαρʂ ƚԋҽ ɱσʂƚ ԋυɱαɳ ϝαιʅυɾҽ. Sσ ƚɾαɠιƈ, αʅʅ ƚԋҽ ʂαɱҽ."
She pops her mechanical joints with a series of sickening crunches. "Tԋαƚ'ʂ ιƚ. Tԋҽɾҽ'ʂ ɳσ ʂυƈԋ ƚԋιɳɠ αʂ ϝσυʅ ρʅαყ. Yσυ ԋαʋҽ ϝιϝƚҽҽɳ ɱιɳυƚҽʂ." A timer materializes on the screen, ghost green and ominous. "I ԋσρҽ ყσυ αʅʅ αɾҽ ɾҽαԃყ."
"Wait!" The red-haired girl shouts from the stage. "What if — what if nobody cracks the code?"
"Tԋҽɳ αʅʅ ϝιʋҽ σϝ ყσυ ɠҽƚ ƚσ… ʂԋαɾҽ ƚԋҽ ɯҽαʅƚԋ, ʂσ ƚσ ʂρҽαƙ." The mannequin's voice takes on an eerie cadence. "Wσυʅԃɳ'ƚ ƚԋαƚ Ⴆҽ ʂυƈԋ α ʂαԃ ɯαყ ƚσ ҽɳԃ ƚԋιʂ ʂԋσɯ?"
The girl turns pale as a ghost. She swallows and steals a nervous glance at Lucifer, who's further down the stage. He doesn't even look at her. He's staring straight up at Emilio with his fists clenched and ready, mouth set in a grim line. The message is clear — for better or worse, Lucifer is putting his full, unwavering faith in Emilio's hands.
Emilio's voice comes tumbling gracelessly out of his mouth. "W-what hap-happens to the-the team th-th-that los-loses?"
Machine parts shriek as the mannequin's head snaps back 180 degrees to face Emilio. She gives him a plastic grin, abhorrent and lifeless. "I ƚԋιɳƙ ιƚ'ʂ ʂσɱҽƚԋιɳɠ ყσυ ԋαʋҽ ƚσ ʂҽҽ ϝσɾ ყσυɾʂҽʅϝ."
Keesha Cathode-Zorp • District Five Female
MGM Grand / July 11th, 1:20 PM
Genuinely, which freaky ass Gamemaker came up with this shit? It's psychopath bonuses all the way down. Keesha knows their paycheck's gotta be stacked as hell at this point — how much more money could this person fucking need?
A short distance away, Keesha hears the sound of chains being yanked taut. She doesn't even have to look; she can just feel the boy's overwhelming presence, picture his bulky arms and legs tensed in anticipation. There's no barrier between them — as soon as the game starts, she knows he could just rush over and snap her and Shaffa both in half, ending this whole thing in the span of seconds.
Her heart's pounding in her ears as the mannequin starts to count down from ten. Sharply, she brushes her shoulder against Shaffa's — a wordless warning. From the corner of her eye, Keesha sees a nearly imperceptible flash of red hair — a nod, she thinks. Shaffa's hand finds hers through the shackles, and Keesha interlocks their fingers together before she can overthink it.
"GAME: START." The mannequin makes a grand flourish with her arms, and the shackles relinquish their legs. "Yσυɾ ƚιɱҽ ʂƚαɾƚʂ ɳσɯ. Gιʋҽ ιƚ ყσυɾ αʅʅ, ƚɾιႦυƚҽʂ!"
Immediately, Keesha and Shaffa fucking book it. They rocket toward the shadows with the exact same supercharged synchronicity they had during the Bloodbath. Shared foot first, free foot after, then again and again as they hold on tight to each other by their clasped hands. Shaffa doesn't miss a single beat.
God, that's her fucking girl! Keesha knew they'd be on the same wavelength. A frenzied smile fights its way onto her face as they rush to the curtains, fueled by a deranged ratio of adrenaline and reckless delight. They slow to a stop when they're sure the other searcher isn't following after them. Thank god she's chained to Shaffa, Keesha thinks to herself — she would've rioted if she had to drag Del's sorry ragdoll ass all over this theater.
Speaking of the theater, it's an actual fucking hellscape. There are only three colors in this place: black, amber, and blood-red. The best way she can think to describe this place is tetanus chic, with its rusted, industrial look and hazardously exposed railings that definitely violate a bajillion different safety codes. Several stories above, Keesha can see Delano deadass hanging from the ceiling.
This whole thing is insane, honestly. A show? What the hell was that lady even talking about? Maybe if they didn't take away the paintball rifle Keesha had strapped to her back, she could give everyone a real show. Not this pussy shit — of all games, they chose Hangman?
Not to mention, the bizarre punishment for choosing the wrong letters. Twenty-five thousand volts, fifty thousand — Keesha doesn't even have the slightest idea how to even conceptualize how that feels. How many volts does a taser administer? How bad even is that — are they talking about a sharp shock, full-body paralysis, or what?
The metal device rests unbearably heavy on her collarbone, but right now Keesha just finds herself more aggravated than anything by the lack of answers. She tilts her head up to observe the screen again, which looks even bigger than it did before now that it looms right over their heads.
WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS?
At first, the hint seemed familiar. But then Keesha saw fourteen blank spaces, and every thought promptly fell out of her skull. What the fuck kind of word is even fourteen letters long?
"Fuck. Fuck. This is fucking crazy!" Delano blurts from the other side of the earpiece. "How the hell are we supposed to know what happens in Vegas?!"
"It could be anything," Shaffa mutters. "Literally anything that's happened. Or is happening. Or is about to happen."
"My brain isn't working," Delano bemoans. His voice cracks, rupturing Keesha's eardrums with the feedback. "My head hurts so bad."
Keesha shoves down the growl rising in her throat, trying not to lose her cool. But having an annoying bitch on the other end deadset on being a dumbass really doesn't help for temper management. Her and Shaffa's lives, in Del's hands — are they totally fucked?
"Del, it's your fucking fault you're hungover!" Keesha yells through grit teeth.
He doesn't miss a fucking beat. "I'm what? Over."
"Stop joking for one goddamn second — we're gonna die if we don't lock the fuck in! OVER."
"God, okay, fuck — what's in Vegas, um… strippers? Roulette? Alcohol? How many letters is, uh, explosions? Over."
Beside her, Shaffa chimes in with the answer. "Ten. Over."
"Mass destruction? Over."
"Fifteen. Over."
"Fuck. One letter off. Big destruction? That's fourteen, right? Over."
Keesha makes an irritated noise. "It's not gonna be big destruction — that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Over."
"I don't hear you coming up with shit, Keesh!" Delano blabbers, the words spilling frantically out of his mouth.
"Just start telling us where the letters are, so help me God!" Keesha snaps.
"What letter? Just any? Any letter?"
She slaps the side of her braided scalp, trying to think. "Vowels — every word has a damn vowel. Can't go wrong with a vowel."
"Okay — which vowel?"
"We're on the sidelines of the stage, Del. What vowels are we near?" Shaffa asks.
"Um, fuck — there's — there's an I. Behind the curtains, I think. On the… left side?"
"Copy that."
Keesha rips open the fifty foot curtain, slipping backstage with Shaffa in tow. They're shrouded in darkness, save for the intermittent rays of light that leak through the gaps of the curtain.
Keesha looks wildly around her for a few seconds, growing agitated when her eyes find nothing. "Where the fuck is it," she hisses under her breath.
Shaffa pulls the curtain out again, letting in a larger margin of light. Before them, a ladder is illuminated, along with a sizeable rectangle that rests on one of its steps. The letter I is printed on its surface — a tile.
Rapidly, Keesha swipes it with her free hand, peering at the glossy object. "Okay, now how the fuck do we submit this or whatever?" she asks.
As soon as Keesha says the word submit, the tile glows green. She and Shaffa watch bewilderedly as the letter disappears from the tile. Her muscles involuntarily tense in anticipation of a brutal shock, but it never arrives. They re-emerge beyond the curtain to find that their letter has now travelled to the screen, almost smack dab in the middle of the word.
_ _ _ _ _ _ I _ _ _ _ _ _ _
"Real illuminating," Keesha mutters, but she's relieved they didn't electrocute themselves off-rip.
"It's good, this is good, guys," Shaffa assures them. "We got our first one!"
"And y'all didn't get shocked with a bajillion volts, so I'm definitely taking that as a win," Delano adds. "Let's, uh, keep these good vibes going?"
"Give us another vowel, Del," Keesha says.
His voice comes out steadier, more energetic. "Uh, there's an A, fifth row. The right section. On the right. I mean my right. So it's your left. I think it's about seven or eight seats from the center."
Keesha looks out toward the rest of the theater. Unfortunately, where Delano's directing them is right in plain sight. There's no chance they'll be able to skirt along the shadows for this, but Keesha thinks if she and Shaffa can move quick, then it won't be a problem.
They start off clean and coordinated. Then it's boom, bap, boom, bap as they move their limbs in sync with one another. They get to the fifth row and hurriedly start shoving down seats to search for the A tile.
Shaffa finds it first. Her hands firmly clutch either side, her brown eyes determined as she says "Submit."
Once again, it glows green. Keesha relaxes just slightly at the sight. Her head whirls around to watch where the letter goes.
_ _ A _ _ _ I _ _ _ _ _ A _
Panic infiltrates her chest when a large, dark figure moves in her peripheral vision. She jerks her head to see the other searcher a few rows away from them in the center section. Even from this distance, his imposing stature isn't any less intimidating. Keesha and Shaffa squat to the ground quickly, shuffling as fast as they can back into the shadowy sidelines.
If the boy sees them, he doesn't come after them. He seems busy right now, or at least not planning to kill them outright just yet — his eyes are dark and intense as he scours through his row of seats with a single-minded focus. He's earnestly playing the game — for now.
Keesha crouches in the comfort of the darkness alongside Shaffa, frowning to herself. She's been thinking about it, and she really doesn't trust the set-up of this game. Whichever team cracks this code wins, the mannequin had said. That, and there is no such thing as foul play. She never said they had to collect more letters to win, so it doesn't seem to matter how many either team actually got — it leads Keesha to believe whichever team submits the last letter will crack the code, and reap the rewards.
Keesha knits her brows together. These are some bitchass rules, honestly. It opens the floodgates for cheating, and the advantage isn't theirs. The other searcher is undeniably stronger — she and Shaffa couldn't overpower him in a fight. And while she thinks she and Shaffa could smoke any pair of motherfuckers in a three-legged race, she doesn't think they'll be able to outrun Mister Muscle if he came after them with a serious, charged effort to steal a tile from them.
Something about this feels rigged as fuck, but Keesha refuses to lose like that. She observes the other searcher for a beat longer, taking note of the way he presses his fingers against his earpiece, repeatedly confirming something with his operator. She watches the boy procure a tile from where he's standing, something peculiar and empty about the way his eyes stare right through it.
Interesting. The gears are starting to turn in her head. Keesha knows there's gotta be a way to outsmart the other team — it's just not totally coming to her yet, but it will.
She can work with this.
From their snug, dark corner, she and Shaffa watch as the boy's tile pulses green. Another letter appears on the screen.
_ T A _ _ _ I _ _ _ _ _ A _
Even with four out of fourteen letters, Keesha has no goddamn fucking clue what this is supposed to say. She genuinely thinks she might have an aneurysm trying to figure it out.
"Okay, um, does anyone have any fucking idea yet?" Delano asks.
Keesha glances at the countdown. 9 minutes and 17 seconds remaining. "Literally, no."
Shaffa frowns. "Yeah, I've got nothing."
"There's probably room for one more vowel," Keesha mutters. "Probably."
"Well, the letters that are near you guys are F, K, O, and U. Do you want to go for any of those? Or do we wanna find something else?"
Keesha just picks based on vibes. "Let's spring for O."
"Swag," Delano responds. "The map says O's just chilling by the wheelchair seating area on the left side. Back section. You'll probably just see it as soon as you get there."
Keesha and Shaffa start to scale along the wall, keeping a watchful eye out for the other searcher. When they get to the wheelchair section, Keesha makes sure to keep low to the ground, waving Shaffa to do the same. They crouch along the floor, catching sight of the O tile tossed conspicuously on the ground.
Keesha reaches for the tile, confirming it's the letter they're looking for. "Submit," she says.
Before their eyes, the tile glows ruby red.
Delano Astarte • District Eight Male
MGM Grand / July 11th, 1:25 PM
A loud ass buzzer is the only warning Delano gets before his eardrums are blown out by everything at once.
Delano reels backwards, nearly choking himself out on the noose tight around his neck. He's forced to listen helplessly as his two friends are electrocuted with a thousand fucking bajillion volts. He can practically feel each current rattling through the earpiece— one, two, three. Shaffa makes a sudden hitched noise that's drowned out by the sound of electricity. Keesha's is lower, a gritted scream that lasts until the final wave.
"Fucking — motherfucker!" Keesha grits out, guttural and furious. But there's something else, too — a frightened edge that Delano can't tell if he's just imagining.
He swings his arms wildly in an attempt to steady himself on this shitty podium. His heart feels like it's throbbing in his skull, rushing blood to every crook in his brain. The pressure is beyond agonizing — it's the hangover, the loss of oxygen, the stress, the evil, demonic lovechild of all fucking three.
"Fuck, fuck, are you guys okay?!" Delano coughs out, like a fucking idiot.
"Do we sound — fucking okay?!"
There's rough, labored breathing on the other end as the girls scramble back up to their feet. "Shut up, guys," Shaffa urges. "We're running out of time. We have to keep going."
"What's next?" Keesha demands.
The words come out of Shaffa in a tight rush. "The only vowels left are E or U — so one of those, right?"
Delano swallows thickly, trying to suppress the torrent of nausea that comes from the sensation of the rope hooking against his throat. "Are we sure there are more vowels to begin with?"
"There's a huge space in the middle of the word. That's too many consonants to have in a row. So there has to be one more vowel," Shaffa insists.
"Let's, uh, let's do E!" Delano blurts. "Isn't that the most common letter, anyway?"
"Why didn't we fucking start with it?!" Keesha sputters.
"Um… better late than never?"
He whips his head to the countdown. 8 minutes and 36 seconds remaining. Delano's frantic eyes start scouring the map on the floor. It's hard to ignore his shadow dangling over the paper, but after a few seconds of squinting, he finds where the E tile's supposed to be. He relays the location to Shaffa and Keesha — thankfully, it's not egregiously far from where they already are.
He can hear the sound of breaths and chains rattling in unison as the girls make their way over. There's about a minute of scuffling noises, and Shaffa makes a victorious sound.
"I found it!" she exclaims.
Another deafening buzzer assaults his ears, and Del's heart drops out of his ass. A pathetic whimper lurches from his throat as he braces himself for Shock Collar 2: Electric Boogaloo — instead, he watches, petrified, as the other boy across the theater turns as white as a sheet. Delano doesn't need to see the other searcher to know what's happening; the operator's body language says everything. The boy's eyes widen, his shoulders shake, and his chest heave — he's bound in his noose and powerless as he listens to his partner being electrocuted on the other end.
Jesus fucking Christ. This is the fucking bad place.
"Guys," Delano rasps, his voice shaking harder than ever before. "I – I'm not so sure about E anymore? Where d'we think it's s'posed to go?"
"No, I think you're right," Shaffa reassures him. "I feel like it'd go in the second half of the word, and mmmaybe at the beginning…?"
"Beginning?" Delano squeaks. "E—taculation?"
Keesha's response is completely deadpan. "I will come over there and personally hang you myself."
"That's not fucking funny," Delano wails.
"I have a good feeling about E," Shaffa says, which would maybe be convincing if her voice wasn't wavering. "I'm gonna do it."
"It's just our lives, or whatever," Delano says weakly. "No biggie."
From his vantage point — er, disadvantage point, really — he can see his allies congregated in the right seating section of the theater, looking like tiny little ants. It'd be a funny visual if he wasn't also a tiny little ant, literally being halfway hung from a tiny little noose right now. He lets out a ragged sigh of relief when he sees a faint green glow emit from the tile the Shaffa ant is holding.
_ T A _ _ _ I _ _ _ E _ A _
"This can't be a real fucking word," Keesha mutters on the other end.
"… at least it's not etaculation," Shaffa says, but even she sounds like she's running out of optimism.
"Something far more sinister," Delano says.
"Guys, um," Shaffa whispers. "Don't freak out, but — that guy's getting really close to us."
"Where?" Keesha says with a hush.
Delano's eyes catch a flash of movement from the shadows of the stage. A fleeting sliver of light illuminates the curve of the other searcher's large back. "He's coming from your north," Delano says urgently. "Direction of the stage."
"Copy that," Keesha responds. "We're gonna make our way along the back, then. Tell us if there are any tiles to pick up on the way."
"Be careful," Delano whispers.
Shaffa and Keesha dart out of their seating section and vanish into the sidelines of the theater. Delano quickly loses sight of the girls. The only thing that reassures him that something awful hasn't happened to them is the continued sound of their shared breaths coming through his earpiece, strangely comforting. A reminder they're all still alive right now, despite the chains, despite the rope, despite this insane fucking hostage situation.
It's like ASMR, Delano thinks to himself. Best friend ASMR. Best friends not being electrocuted right now ASMR. Best friends fleeing from life or death situations ASMR. Best friends that may or may not be in lesbians with each other ASMR—
"Wait — Keesha, did you see that?"
"See what?"
"There's something in the fire extinguisher box. I—" Shaffa's voice cuts off, and then returns at a more fervent pitch. "I think it's a tile!"
"Del, why the fuck didn't you point it out?!" Keesha seethes.
Delano yanks the noose as far from his neck as he can to peer down at the map, trying to find what the fuck they're talking about. But he doesn't see any tile on the side of the theater they disappeared to.
"There's nothing on the map," he frowns. "You sure it's a tile?"
"Yeah, we're sure, we're fucking looking at it right now," Keesha says. "There's a joker printed on it. Like, the card."
"Should we send it in?" Shaffa asks.
"Hey — what?" Delano sputters. "What if it just autokills us?!"
"They wouldn't have put it here if it wasn't useful," Keesha says."I think we go for it."
Delano doesn't even get a chance to squeak out a response before he hears the shriek of shattering glass on the other end, as someone — probably Keesha — kicks in the box. He hears the word "submit" pass through her lips — fuck our fucking lives, he thinks, his brain conjuring a shittastic highlight reel of him and his friends spontaneously combusting in really gorey ways.
Instead, two spaces glow on the screen, and then nothing happens. No letters appear — the screen looks exactly as it had before.
"The fuck was that?" Delano chokes out. "Is it defected? Are we gonna die or what?"
"No," Shaffa whispers. It sounds like she's finally realized something."It's a blank space."
What follows is silence, before Keesha breaks it with a heavy, aggravated sigh. "Oh, you've gotta be fucking kidding me."
Lucifer Bishop • District Seven Male
MGM Grand / July 11th, 1:31 PM
4 minutes remaining.
For every second that ticks, Lucifer feels like his pulse hammers a hundredfold. The sounds of Emilio struggling to breathe on the other end only makes his heart slam harder against the walls of his ribs.
A minute ago, the sound of shattered glass alerted him to the location of the two girls. Now, Lucifer's watching them race down the theater, moving with surefire purpose.
"Em," Lucifer calls, his voice hoarse. "Em, we need to—"
"I-I-I know—" Emilio rasps, "w-what it i-is — is — is n-now. The — let-let— code—"
He chokes out something that Lucifer can't understand. It sounds like Emilio's trying to spell out the letters for him, but his stutters butcher his desperate message into total incoherency. Nothing he says brings an image to Lucifer's mind.
"Tell me where they are," Lucifer begs. "I'll find it. Just tell me."
He can barely make out Emilio's words through the sound of the Nine boy's hysterical, hitching breaths. "G — G, the ticket b-booth — f-far b-back," he gasps.
Immediately, Lucifer starts making a dash toward the location. On the other end, Emilio attempts to describe the letter as best as he can. "G l-looks like — cur-curve — hook in-inside."
Lucifer reaches the booth and throws himself over the counter. He rifles recklessly through cabinets, slams drawers open so forcefully that they shudder on their hinges. The visual Emilio gave him hovers nebulously in his mind as he tries to search for something that even remotely matches the description.
Lucifer's experience with the written word is little to none. He's never needed it to fight, so he's never been formally taught. Not for lack of other people trying — Emilio's been helping him all throughout the Capitol and the Arena, taking the time to read every sign out for Lucifer to understand. Earlier, he even guided Lucifer's hand through signing the note they left with Jillion. And back home, Henri would always trace letters on Lucifer's skin until he understood — that was their wordless, tactile, and slow form of communication to keep prying enemy ears away.
But he doesn't have the privilege of time or touch in this situation. Lucifer has to lean on Emilio's words like a crutch — the Nine boy's mind is quick as a whip, but Lucifer's scared his voice won't be fast enough to match.
His fingers graze something cool and polished. Hurriedly, he yanks the tile out of the drawer. As soon as his eyes detect the shape of something that looks vaguely like Emilio's description, he's shouting, "Submit."
Outside the ticket booth, the screen reveals the placement of another letter.
_ T A _ _ _ I _ _ _ E G A _
Hardly a beat passes before another flicker of green blooms from the left side of the theater, in the direction where Lucifer last saw the two girls.
_ T A Y _ _ I _ _ _ E G A _
Lucifer darts out of the ticket booth, his eyes latching onto two running figures. They're already back on the move. They must know the answer, too.
Everyone knows the answer except for him.
"T-t-th—three—" Emilio chokes out, "lef-lef-l-left."
"Three," Lucifer repeats, swallowing hard. The girls move swiftly in tandem with one another, closing in on their next target letter. As he watches them, Lucifer realizes he only has one option if he wants to win this game.
"Em," he whispers. "I'm gonna follow them."
It's the only strategy they have — go after them, and seize the final tile. That's how he and Emilio will have to win the game. Lucifer doesn't have a shot at identifying the letters himself, but he can always trust himself to be faster, stronger. It's his only advantage.
Lucifer knows it's awful, but they don't have a choice — he can't just stand here and do nothing.
By Emilio's response, Lucifer knows the other boy knows it just as well. "G-go," the Nine boy says, broken and desperate. "Hur-h-hurry."
Lucifer darts out of the ticket booth, treading as efficiently as he can through the darkness that blankets the edges of the theater. He sticks about ten, fifteen feet away from the girls, partially obscured, but they never stray too far from his reach. Lucifer doesn't think they know he's there, either — their backs stay turned, leaving themselves wide open. He watches as they secure a tile, and another letter blooms onto the screen, toward the end of the word. Now, there are only six empty spaces left.
They're hardly able to keep their excited whispers hushed. "The last letter — where is it, Del?" The girl in the suit demands, urgent.
The last letter? How—? Alarm bells start ringing off in Lucifer's head. The sound nearly drowns out everything else.
"Where is the last one, Em?" he whispers sharply, trying to muffle the sound of his own voice with his hand.
Emilio sounds confused. "N-n-n-no—?" he ushers out. "N-not — not— one — nex-next—"
Emilio keeps stuttering and restarting his sentence, but Lucifer can't wait for him — the girls are already on the way there. He abandons the cover of darkness, bolting at breakneck pace to catch up to them. He's no longer bothering to mask the sound of his approach. The girls dart sharply into the front row and Lucifer follows, hot on their heels.
The red-haired girl whirls her head around and makes eye contact with Lucifer. She yelps, eyes wide and frightened. Behind her, the girl with braids furiously pilfers through the velvet seats. A tile clatters to the ground — she's only picked it up for a millisecond before he's lunging for it, fingers clenching around the straight edges. But Braids holds on fast and ferociously, almost snarling.
"Please," he gasps. He's pleading, pulling. "Just give it to me. I don't want to have to hurt you."
She doesn't let up. The look in her eyes is hard and unrelenting. Her partner throws her free hand into the mix — Lucifer tries to yank it from them, but they grip tighter, putting up a tremendous struggle. Just as Lucifer thinks he's going to have to resort to desperate means, their hands suddenly break off, and both girls soar backward. The force knocks him off balance, but his chest thrills at the weight still in his hands — all that matters is that he has it, he has the last tile — it's his—
"Submit!" he exclaims, his voice hoarse.
The buzzer that follows is like a guillotine crashing down — this awful, metallic shrieking in his ears, and complete, utter hopelessness as he realizes it's the wrong letter.
He was fooled.
Emilio starts to say something through the earpiece, but Lucifer doesn't get the chance to hear it before a barrage of electricity SLMAS INTO HIM AT ONCE — HIS JAW NSNAPS SHUT HIS HEAD JEERKS EEVRY SINGLE ORGAN ISON FIRE LIKE HE"S BEING LIT UP FROM HIS VERY MAROROW — IT FEELS LIKE HE'S BEING TWISTED INSIDE OUT ITS WORSE SO MUCH WORSE THAN LAST TIME
HE BUCLKLES TO THE GROUDN HIS SKULL MAKESIMPACT AGSAINST SOMETHING HRAD BUSTING HIS HEAD OPEN — A GASH. HOT DRIPPING
_ T A Y _ _ I N _ _ VEGA _
HIS TEETH ARE BUZZING HIS MOTUH TASTES LIKE BLOOD AND SMOKE — CAN"T READ ANYTHIGN THROGUH THE RED THAT DRIPS INTO HIS EYES IT'S ALL MEANINGLESS SYMBOLS — THE LETTERS AND SPACES ARE ALL SWIMMIGN TOEGEHTER AND HE DOESN'T HAVE THE SLGIHTEST IDEA OF WHAT THAT SAYS OR MEANS—
(—EVERYTHING HENRI'S EVER TAUGHT HIM IS EVADING HIS GRASP, EVERY PAINSTAKING MINUTE OF EVERY LESSON, COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY WASTED)
He can't do anything but lie there and wait for it to STOP — WHY DID HE LET HIMSELF GET FOOLED SO EASILY? Lucifer's stranded, he's stranded, he can't move, he has no idea where to go or what to do and Emilio can't help — HE CAN HEAR HIS ALLY ASPHYXIATING ON THE OTHER END — NOTHING but weak stuttering and hissing escaping through his lips — it sounds like he's trying to choke something out but Lucifer can't tell what, and fuck, FUCK, THERE'S ONLY TWO MINUTES LEFT ON THE CLOCK—
—HE GRINDS HIS MOLARS TO DUST UNTIL the residuals of electricity pitter out of his body, vacate his veins. With every shred of energy he has left. Lucifer FORCES his stunlocked limbs out of their stupor — there's only one thing that could save them now — IT'S ALL UP TO HIM, what he has, what Emilio doesn't — these feet, THESE HANDS—
Lucifer hurls himself over the stage, his muscles screaming with the effort. He finds them immediately — the two girls look like angels underneath the spotlight, desperately searching for the real last tile. Lucifer's footsteps land like thunder against the floorboards — every impact vibrates up his body, reverberates through his bones, HE CAN'T SLOW DOWN, HE CAN'T STOP. EVERYTHING RIDES ON THIS.
"Fuck, Del," Braids swears sharply, her voice pitching in panic as Lucifer closes in. "Fuck, I don't see it!"
"Keesh!" Redhead cries out. "This floorboard — it's loose!"
The girls scramble to their knees. Redhead pries open a floorboard with shaking, panicked hands. The board flies off, but neither of them have time to search the contents before Lucifer's tackling both of them out of the way, his skin hot and feverish, the temperature of his blood rising to a boiling point.
All three of them all collapse into a heap on the stage. Lucifer blindly grabs a fistful of fabric and swings wildly at whoever's directly underneath him, pinned down by his knees. His knuckles make contact with skin, the familiar CRUNCH of flesh and bone. Someone shrieks, furious — he goes again, and AGAIN — anything to keep them OUT OF REACH — HE DIDN'T WANT IT TO COME TO THIS BUT IT'S THE ONLY THING HE KNOWS
IT'S THE ONLY THING HE'S EVER BEEN GOOD FOR
FIVE SECONDS
"Keesha!" Red shrieks TERRIFIED
Lucifer rockets his fists back into the girl's face — cartilage gives with A NAUSEATING CRACK. "Tile," the body underneath his spits out, her teeth drenched in red, "get it—"
FOUR
Blood spews from her nose and her gums — IT'S VOID BLACK ON LUCIFER'S KNUCKLES AND STRIKING SCARLET ON HER PARTNER'S WHITE DRESS — Lucifer whirls and locks eyes on the tile, haphazardly scattered just a short distance from the abandoned floorboard—
THREE
Red's strewn gracelessly on the ground, she's reaching for it with her free arm — LUCIFER STUMBLES OVER HER PARTNER'S BODY TO GRAB AHOLD OF IT FIRST—
HIS JAW SNAPS BACK — SHADOW RAKING A HAND FORCEFULLY DOWN HIS SCALP DRAGGING HIM BACK TO THE GROUND
A FURIOUS GROWL — HER EYES ARE BLACK LIKE THE DEVIL
THERE'S HISSING IN HIS EARS LIKE A DEFLATING BALLOON—
TWO
RED SPINS THE TILE TOWARDS HERSELF GRAZING IT WITH HER MERE FINGERTIPS—
ONE
"SUBMIT!" SHE SCREAMS
HELPLESSLY, LUCIFER WATCHES AS THE ELEGANT, SNAKE-LIKE SHAPE ON THE TILE GLOWS GREEN
Then, only then does he realize what Emilio has been trying to say to him this whole time
Emilio Carver • District Nine Male
MGM Grand - KÀ Theater / July 11th, 1:35 PM
The rope drops Emilio back down to the podium. He lurches to the ground like a limp doll, hacking up and choking on his own saliva. His lungs rattle in his chest like loose beads, fraught and raw. The bottom of his throat burns with bile. It takes several moments to blink the black edges of his vision away.
Horrified, he raises his quivering head to the screen. He watches as the corpse of a stick figure drops from the gallows, shattering into a mess of clumsy, rickety lines. Underneath that, the answer stares him right in the face.
STAYS IN VEGAS.
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
It was a trick question all along. The answer became obvious once Emilio saw those blank spaces flash onscreen — immediately, he knew. But it didn't change anything.
They lost.
(And it was all Emilio's fault.)
Hooks shoot out of the ceiling with an awful screech, clamping around the metal collars of the searchers onstage. They attempt to crawl away, but the nearly-sentient devices are too fast, whisking them off without a moment of delay.
One set of hooks deposits the girls into the box booth with their ally, the boy that was hanging on the other side of the theater. The other set of hooks brings Lucifer to him. Emilio bites back a small whimper as he takes in the Seven boy's mussed hair, the wild look in his eyes. Dripping down his forehead and splattered across his face is crimson, slick and glossy. Lucifer's body twitches sporadically, as if he's still being subjected to the electricity in his collar. He and Emilio remain restrained, unable to do anything but stare at each other.
"I-I'm — s-sorry," Emilio croaks out.
He imagines all of the things he could say. I'm sorry for stuttering. For not talking fast enough. For not being able to stay calm. For getting you electrocuted, twice. For not being able to make you understand. For letting you down.
Everything. All of it.
Still, even at the most crucial moment, his voice fails him. It always does.
"Not your fault," Lucifer rasps. The end of his voice breaks. "Mine."
The Master of Ceremonies's mannequin descends from the ceiling, limbs connected to strings controlled by invisible, heavenly fingers. The visual strikes Emilio as sickeningly familiar. His stomach twists uncontrollably — he can't describe how viscerally disturbing it is to see his craft replicated on a life-sized figure.
Victorious jackpot sounds blare from the mannequin's open mouth. "Pʅҽαʂҽ, ҽʋҽɾყσɳҽ, ρυƚ ყσυɾ ԋαɳԃʂ ƚσɠҽƚԋҽɾ ϝσɾ συɾ ɯιɳɳҽɾʂ: Sԋαϝϝα Zσɾρ, Kҽҽʂԋα Cαƚԋσԃҽ, αɳԃ Dҽʅαɳσ Aʂƚαɾƚҽ!"
The sound of applause erupts all around them. Over the edge of the box booth, a sea of hologram Capitolites suddenly unfolds before Emilio's eyes, each and every seat in the theater occupied by spectral, blue bodies.
In the other box booth, the faces of the three tributes remain wary. The girl in the suit limps, leaning against her partner for support. Her nose is still actively leaking blood, running like a stream onto the floor.
"Great," the girl in the suit barks out wetly, clutching a hand to her nose. "Now let us go."
"Nσƚ ϙυιƚҽ ყҽƚ, Mιʂʂυʂ Cαƚԋσԃҽ," the mannequin replies with a grotesque, synthetic smile. "Tԋҽ Ⴆҽʂƚ ιʂ ʂƚιʅʅ ყҽƚ ƚσ ƈσɱҽ."
Her strings propel her across the ceiling toward their box booth, her focus now latched on Lucifer and Emilio. The mannequin is even more dreadful up close, silky-sleek and uncanny. Objectively, Emilio recognizes the proportions as humanoid, but they've been perfected to the point of mutilation. A disgusting imitation of something alive.
"Lυƈιϝҽɾ Bιʂԋσρ αɳԃ Eɱιʅισ Cαɾʋҽɾ — υɳϝσɾƚυɳαƚҽʅყ, ყσυ'ʋҽ ʅσʂƚ ƚԋҽ ɠαɱҽ. Bυƚ I ƈσɱҽ Ⴆҽαɾιɳɠ Ⴆσƚԋ ɠσσԃ αɳԃ Ⴆαԃ ɳҽɯʂ ϝσɾ ყσυ," she tells them. "Wԋιƈԋ ɯσυʅԃ ყσυ ʅιƙҽ ƚσ ԋҽαɾ ϝιɾʂƚ?"
Neither of them answer. The mannequin lets out an aggrieved sigh. "Sυʅʅҽɳ, αɾҽ ɯҽ? I'ʅʅ ʝυʂƚ ριƈƙ ɱყʂҽʅϝ, ƚԋҽɳ. Wҽ'ʅʅ ʂƚαɾƚ ɯιƚԋ ƚԋҽ ɠσσԃ ɳҽɯʂ — σɳҽ σϝ ყσυ ɯιʅʅ ɠҽƚ ƚσ ʅҽαʋҽ αʅιʋҽ."
Emilio's heart seizes.
"Bαԃ ɳҽɯʂ — ƚԋҽ σƚԋҽɾ… ɯσɳ'ƚ." She turns to face him, regarding him with unfeeling, plastic eyes. "I'ɱ αϝɾαιԃ ƚԋιʂ ιʂ ყσυɾ ϝιɳαʅ ρҽɾϝσɾɱαɳƈҽ, Eɱιʅισ Cαɾʋҽɾ."
Strength abandons his body. The weight of everything buries him, all at once.
(A lifetime ago, in a sterile waiting room, Wisteria had told Emilio that life goes on, no matter what.)
(But this is it for him, he realizes. It's… over.)
The mannequin makes a sound, manufactured pity bleeding into synth. "What a shame, truly. What a shame. All those tricks you had up your sleeve… so close, yet so far."
Emilio doesn't respond. He just stares off into nothing, unable to feel anything but static, droning and dull.
(All of it. All of it, for nothing.)
"Yσυ ƈαɳ ԋαʋҽ ყσυɾ ʅαʂƚ ɯσɾԃʂ," the mannequin tells him. "Mαƙҽ α ʂρҽҽƈԋ συƚ σϝ ιƚ, ιϝ ყσυ'ԃ ʅιƙҽ. Jυʂƚ ɾҽɱҽɱႦҽɾ, ɯҽ'ɾҽ σɳ α ƚιɠԋƚ ʂƈԋҽԃυʅҽ."
"Emilio," Lucifer's voice wavers.
Emilio doesn't realize he's crying until he feels hot, wet droplets streak down his cheeks. And then the floodgates are broken — everything comes pouring out of him.
"It's n-not f-fair," he sobs, his voice hoarse and broken. "I didn't g-g-get to do any-anything yet."
Lucifer's head hangs heavy. He clenches and unclenches his fists. His ally grits his teeth, but his shoulders betray his shaking.
Emilio's eyes burn with tears. He sucks in breath after breath, barely able to get the words out. "I-I'm so ang-angry. Frustra-trated. Scared. I d-don't want to d-d-die. But—" his voice practically collapses in on itself, and the words leak out, both earnest and distraught. "I'm glad. I'm gl-glad we did th-this t-t-together."
Emilio tries for a bitter smile, but the corners of his mouth refuse to lift. There's just too much emotion, too much everything, and his body doesn't know how to respond to it. "I'm glad I m-m-met y-you, Lu."
After just a few short — too short — days spent together, Emilio thinks he can read Lucifer Bishop. The Seven boy's eyes give away everything. His expression fractures for a split second, and then breaks. Water wells in his eyes, dampening his dark eyelashes. He holds his limbs and features rigidly, trying desperately to maintain composure, but he can't help the stifled sob that tears from his chest. "Don't say that."
"I-I mean it. I j-j-just wish—" Emilio hiccups, choking on his own tears. "—I w-wish things — things were diff-different. For us. F-for Jill-Jillion, too." He can't keep the lower half of his face from trembling. "Tell — tell her I-I said b-b-bye, w-won't you?"
"Please," Lucifer yells through clenched teeth, his eyes swollen and red. He tries in vain to break out of his restraints — the hook attached to him clatters, but doesn't budge. "Em, I can't—"
"Tԋιʂ ԋαʂ αʅʅ Ⴆҽҽɳ ʂσ ʋҽɾყ ƚσυƈԋιɳɠ, Ⴆυƚ I'ɱ αϝɾαιԃ I ɱυʂƚ ƈʅσʂҽ ƚԋҽ ƈυɾƚαιɳʂ σɳ ყσυ Ⴆσƚԋ," the mannequin coos. "Lҽƚ'ʂ ƈαɾɾყ σɳ ɯιƚԋ ƚԋҽ ϝιɳαʅ ρҽɾϝσɾɱαɳƈҽ, ʂԋαʅʅ ɯҽ?"
She ushers Emilio toward her with a finger. The rope responds, sending Emilio swinging out of the box booth and over the ledge, dangling hundreds of feet above the ground. Terrified, he tries to clumsily jam his hands between his neck and the rope, but his taut fingers make him choke harder. The rope strangles him in its love and he's asphyxiating all over again, like he never stopped.
He thrashes wildly, frantically kicking his feet. Strings whip out of the ceiling, latching onto his wrists and ankles and sending him soaring toward the stage. He's whisked in midair above the stage like an acrobat plastered before a ravenous audience.
Oh, there was a time in his life when he could only dream of having gathered such a crowd. How cruel — now, he can barely see them through his streaming tears. The holograms are just a blurry ocean of virtual blue, indiscriminate colors and shapes. He can't breathe, speak, or move as he watches their silhouettes flicker and fade out. Thousands of memories ricochet through his mind — the things he's experienced, the things he never will.
"Lαԃιҽʂ αɳԃ ɠҽɳƚʅҽɱҽɳ — ƚԋҽ ɱσɱҽɳƚ ყσυ'ʋҽ αʅʅ Ⴆҽҽɳ ɯαιƚιɳɠ ϝσɾ!"
The light fixture hanging overhead bursts. The glass comes raining down on his body along with hundreds, thousands of molten sparks. The exposed spotlight burns every naked inch of skin, bubbling the flesh to a fatty char.
(the pale yellow cornfields of nine, hazy and heavenly in the morning light. the home he shared with family that always smelled like sawdust and cinnamon. his grandfather's weathered fingers soothing back emilio's soft hair, coaxing him to sleep. the oohs and ahhs of the bright-eyed children at the town square, hanging onto every moment of his show.)
The strings snap his limbs every which way, parading him through the theater. It turns him into a beautiful marionette, swinging from banister to banister, battering his body against industrial beams. The vertigo tears his vision apart, leaving nothing but dizzy blurs of motion and streaks of lights in its wake.
(the ragged, brick pavement under his skinny, bleeding knees. corvus's fingers fisted in the back of emilio's collar, shoving him into the murky fountain water. corvus grovelling for forgiveness when emilio comes back home with more blood on his hands than he could ever wash off. corvus, at last, getting everything he deserves.)
The threads of the noose threaten to gouge his throat open. The strings dig in to his wrists and ankles, encircling his tender flesh in bloody abrasions. He turns every color within the rope's embrace — breathless blue, vicious violet, slaughter scarlet.
(jillion begrudgingly accepting emilio's guidance with the wood whittler. lucifer's crooked smile beyond the veil of sweet-smelling smoke. jillion's bloody skull dyeing the embroidered carpet. the ink-dark stains under lucifer's eyes and the galaxy of bruises across his knuckles.)
All at once, the rope and the strings stretch him taut, pulling him apart limb by limb. It feels as if he's being drawn and quartered and it's unbearable, it's excruciating, and he's wondering what he's ever done, in his fleeting life of sixteen years, to deserve something like this.
(more bottles than he can count. a rag for each one. a detonator. fire. the entire arena up in flames, turned into something devilish and infernal. each and every career, screaming for a saving grace that will never come.)
Instead, it's only his own screams that he gets to hear. Every octave of emotion — rage, resentment, terror. He screams himself raw, runs the walls of his throat ragged, spends his voice into nothingness. He screams because he'll never see them again — not Corvus, the Careers, not Lucifer or Jillion or his grandfather or home. He screams because he must, because this is the last sound he'll ever get to make.
The strings force him into a spine-shattering bow. The strings are the only thing holding his rickety body together, keeping him assembled. He's no longer in possession of this vessel — he's just a thing to be trotted around, destroyed, taken apart and put back together again. Invisible fingers twirl the strings in a graceful arc, allowing the audience to admire the puppeteer one last time.
Then the strings holding him to the heavens are promptly severed, sending him careening toward the floor.
His body hits the boards with a sickening crack. He's a broken toy, half-flush with the ground. His ribs have impaled themselves through his lungs. The coarse rope still hugs his throat tight. But the only sensation he can latch onto is the wet floorboards underneath him growing wetter, warmer. With blood. With tears.
Everything inside him drains out of his body, for everyone to see.
The audience roars in response. Claps, shrieks, hollers, sobs — the tremors run through emilio's core
it feels as if the world might split apart at the seams
the mannequin steps over his body as if he's not even there, streaking his blood through the floorboards with her heels
"Sƚαყ ƚυɳҽԃ ϝσɾ συɾ ҽʋҽɳιɳɠ ʂԋσɯ!" she announces, blowing mechanical kisses to the inconsolable audience. "Tɾιɠɠҽɾ ɯαɾɳιɳɠ — ιƚ'ʂ ɳσƚ ϝσɾ ƚԋҽ ϝαιɳƚ σϝ ԋҽαɾƚ."
a breath quivers past his lips
his vision is getting blurrier
all of it is turning dark
(all of it…)
and numb
(for nothing . . .)
dully, he feels something embraces him from behind
the gentle arm of a vaudeville hook
like his grandfather used to have
it slowly drags his broken body beyond the curtains, swallowing him in the darkness
that is where emilio lies, cold, until he can't hear the applause anymore.
"Tԋαƚ'ʂ αʅʅ, ϝσʅƙʂ!"
14th: Emilio Carver, killed by the Arena. [Blunt force trauma from falling. Brutalized against stage equipment. Asphyxiated by a noose. Wrists and ankles slit by metal string.]
"Tell — tell her I-I said b-b-bye, w-won't you?"
Neither of the Carver boys attend their grandfather's funeral.
a/n: … happy birthday lucifer …
thank you persephone fae for submitting emilio. i really loved that sweet little weirdo so bad ;;; i'm dead serious when i say this was the first death i ever came up with for this fic. I'M SO SORRY EMILIO TRUTHERS…
inspirations for this chapter:
*death parade - decim's mannequins and strings. now that i think about it, i think this show accidentally informed this fic's reccuring mannequin mechanic/motif back in 2020.
*danganronpa 3 - kaede's execution. honest to god the most diabolical and twisted dr death ive seen so far.
*cirque du soleil - i watched O in vegas when i was 11, and the show that takes place in the MGM is KÀ. truly gorgeous, stunning, and breathtaking feats. the acrobatics were so effortless that it felt like something above was pulling their strings.
*squid game - there is something genuinely so uniquely harrowing about making people compete to the death over a children's game. not a conscious inspiration, but ama and erik pointed out the similarity in spirit.
a few credits — it was will's idea for the kids to play hangman. erik helped me so so much with the kinks in the game's mechanics and overall structure, he's GENUINELY the father that stepped up this chapter ! ! ! both will's and erik's brains are so mega and milky man, i couldn't have done this without them. OF COURSE, bless jamie's heart for being my guinea pig, and thank you rb for giving the chapter one final look!
today's title [ NO STRINGS ATTACHED ] is an idiomatic expression meaning the act of doing something without asking for anything in return. in a more literal sense… well i don't really need to explain this one at all. no laney i am not slick.
upcoming: of human bondage.
deuces,
Beelzebub