VI.

nocens — bad, wicked, injurious, culpable, evil

Aidan O'Daly, 18
Victor of the 101st Hunger Games

There is nothing evil about the President. Somehow, it's difficult to wrap his mind around, that she's just a person like everyone else. Unaffected eyes. A smile you could call pleasant.

The only evil Aidan has seen tonight, true evil, came in the form of watching himself on the recap while the audience around him sniffled and lamented as if they too had lost someone they loved. The entire time he dreams of running, foregoing the ground, disappearing entirely.

None of it is real. Those days in the arena, the visit with the President this morning. He can close his eyes and dream of something better.

Aidan resists the urge to yank the crown from his brow the moment the cheers begin to die off, feet nearly tangling together in his haste to remove himself from the stage. Nico is waiting just beyond the velvet curtain, hands held out flat—as soon as Aidan knows he's safely out of sight, he deposits the crown into her grasp. Better that than allowing him to throw it to the floor and let it clatter away, into the stationery feet of the few people who still remain.

Highest on his list of desires is forcing his way between them all and hiding upstairs, but Aidan forces himself to look up instead. First at Nico, the safest, even if he still doesn't have the proper words to describe how he feels about that note she sent him. Everus next, uncertain, but in less of a stupor than he usually is. No doubt Nico is to thank for that.

He steels himself before his eyes slip left, surprised to find a lack of hostility as his gaze locks with Kaleya's own. Avonlea has already left, according to the others—he's learning things about them already he never thought he'd have the chance to. She's the more unforgiving of the two. By this time next year the bitterness will have faded, Everus insists. If only that was enough to ward off the awkwardness.

Aidan forces a painful, weak smile when Kaleya grasps his hand in her own and congratulates him. He almost wishes she would rip it off. That would be the proper revenge for his actions.

She's gone not soon enough—Everus drifts after her, feet still unsteady. Nico shares a look with Cress, before turning her eyes back to him.

Can you handle this? the quick glance asks. He swallows. Nods. Aidan isn't sure he can handle anything right now, but there's nothing to do except buckle in and face it. Cress throws a hand up to him before she departs, something reluctant in her voice. "Welcome to the club, Six."

That leaves him alone with Ravi, the two newest additions, neither of whom look as if they want to be standing there. They can't even look each other in the eye. Maybe he was wrong in saying he could handle this.

Maybe he can at least try.

"Can I just say—"

"You don't have to say anything you don't mean," Ravi cuts in.

"But I do," he insists. "Mean it. It's… it's hard to wrap my brain around. I'm not sure I have the right words. I'm not sorry that I'm alive or that I get to go home but I am sorry—for them."

Intrinsically he knows that District Four will harbor less outright fury towards him—Bob had a chance. Bob fought back. One move differently and Aidan may not be the one standing here. It was different with the Twelves. Mady didn't even see it coming, and Albie never had a shot at escaping him. It was a proper round of hunting down his prey, pretending for a few moments like they were the furthest thing from human.

At the heart of it, they were just good kids. All three of them. None of them deserve what he did.

"Maybe next year I'll be able to explain it differently," Aidan continues. "Wishful thinking, I guess."

"Next year," Ravi says quietly, eyes downcast. He runs his fingers over the bracelet tied around his wrist as if it's something precious to him. "Next year things will be better. And you."

"How do you know?"

For the first time Ravi looks at him. His jaw works. "Because I… I am. A little bit, at least. I think. So you will be too."

Aidan gets the sense he hasn't said everything he truly wants to. He thinks of the President facing him this morning: trust that you will begin to hear many things in the coming weeks and months.

She also said the future would look different, but it was difficult for Aidan to believe that.

If Ravi is trying to believe it, though, someone who has been through hell a thousand times over, worse than anything Aidan could even imagine, then he has no right to refute it. "That's a relief, I guess."

A world in which he feels better is not one that sounds possible. Everus is a prime example—for all Aidan knows that is his fate, trying to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle rather than confront the realities of a clear, irrefutable world. But he thinks of the others, too. They're far from totally okay, still broken and irreparable in many ways, but on they go. Even if it's only for Cassara, Aidan has to try.

"You'll be okay," Ravi says, if only to hammer the words deeper. "Have a safe trip home."

There's a little bit of relief as he takes a step back, but Aidan can't help himself. It feels good to talk to someone who isn't doing all this damn pretending. "Hey, uh—thanks, you know. For that book. Nico said you left it for me. Haven't gotten around to reading it yet but I figure I'll have some time. Once I'm home."

He knew deep-down that mentioning all that school-work and reading in his interview was going to come back to paint him as some kind of scholarly dork, but to know that even one person was listening meant something. Not a random audience member, not one of his teachers or a classmate that sat beside him in third period. Someone who actually believed he had a future.

Ravi pauses. "You're welcome. I went out, anyway—was looking for some books for my sister. She's read basically everything in Twelve, so—"

"I didn't know you had a sister," he says quickly, something in him aching. He misses her, cannot so much as picture her face without feeling a lump grow in his throat. But he can get her back now; he has no choice.

Once again something shifts in Ravi's face. Aidan feels as if he's made a grave mistake, tripped his way into territory deemed too sensitive for two people who maybe, probably, definitely shouldn't be having this conversation. Aidan should have just let him go. He's relieved when the uncertainty disappears from Ravi's face, but he has the same feeling that he's had since this morning.

Something isn't right.

"Unfortunately I think there's a lot you don't know," Ravi settles on, finally, and Aidan can't help but feel that he's right.

Elide Ozkann, 24
Head Gamemaker

Some comfort arrives when the sun sinks below the horizon.

Elide didn't expect it, but she's not complaining. She hasn't felt right in days, not since the earth began spinning beneath her feet. If anyone in the world has the right to upend her entire being, most would say it should be the President.

She's not so certain on that front.

It's kept her awake night after night, wondering how to topple the mightiest power overlooking her. The only power, truth be told, and the only one that matters. If Catriona is truly so dead-set on ending the Games as it appears, they'll end.

And then what becomes of her?

She presses her head more firmly into the velveteen cushion, trying to ward away the near-constant throbbing that has persisted behind her temples. As soon as she comes up with a potential solution, she shoots down her own idea before it can take proper form. It doesn't help that the others seem to worry after her like a pack of nervous hens who don't believe she can get home safely at night.

She's made it this far, right? Even if it was by the skin of her teeth. She can chance a few more pushes, a few more questions.

Elide doesn't mean to flinch when she hears footsteps in the entryway—the door in this place doesn't so much as make a squeak, not like the old one. Thankfully she recognizes the cacophony of noise that filters through the hall.

"You really ought to lock this door," Theora comments. Her boots hit the floor—Elide can see them already, a haphazard pile that will remain as such until she shoves them back on her feet.

"I was starting to think you weren't coming," Elide says.

"And yet you left it open anyway."

Silence falls over them yet again, and Theora peers over the back of the couch at Elide's prone form. "You're sure looking chipper."

"Funny."

She doesn't make any effort to move when Theora rounds the couch, shoving at Elide's folded legs until she tucks them up, making proper space for Theora to take a seat, if not a rather small one. It's strange how much time can pass, how many movements and looks, and yet how clueless Elide can remain to who the two of them are. What they are. It's not easy, coming back from shattering someone's heart in all the ways that properly matter.

Theora will never love her like that again, but perhaps they can love each other in a different way, a new capacity.

Elide isn't sure how many delusions she's capable of fostering at once.

She props one socked foot over Theora's thigh. "You look distracted."

"Pot, meet kettle." Theora's look is downright withering. She's heard all the comments these past few days. You're trying to get yourself killed. You might as well be actively suicidal. What the hell is going on in your head, do you want to follow Ariston into the grave, is it really fucking worth it?

It is worth it.

"At least I'm trying to salvage this," she says decidedly. "It's better than just accepting it."

Theora kicks her feet away and stands, clutching tight to her phone. As if on cue it starts chiming, and though her eyes are elsewhere Elide can sense her laser-focus. "When you end up dead, you'll have no one to blame but yourself."

She lets the words settle in as Theora stalks off, disappearing into the kitchen. Her voice is short, clipped. Quiet. Elide can't quite make out the words or even decide who she could possibly be talking to at this hour.

It's been a tough job, convincing herself to give Theora space. In this she fails, this time at least, drifting after her into the kitchen like a specter. She's hunched over the counter, knuckles white around the flimsy plastic case. She never did look after things too carefully; maybe that's part of the reason Elide left her behind in the first place. Couldn't be trusted with the job.

"... ten minutes?" Theora is asking, nodding sharply towards the voice on the other end. She drops the phone to the counter as abruptly as she left the room in the first place.

Elide places a hand gently against the back of her shoulder, feeling her rigid back, every muscle coiled as if she's prepared to fight. "I'm going to figure this out," she insists. "Whatever it takes. If she wants to get rid of me, she can damn well try. I'm not going down so easily."

Theora laughs, low and bitter. "Are you sure?"

She turns. Elide expects disappointment, resignation, maybe even a twisted form of acceptance. But not venom.

Theora's face is unrecognizable.

And then comes the pain.

Elide stumbles back, a sudden shakiness to her legs that wasn't there before—but Theora comes with her. They're attached, held together, Theora's hand pressing tight to her abdomen and there's something slippery there, almost wet and why is she shaking—

"I loved you, once," Theora forces out, their faces a scant inch apart. She twists, and Elide feels her knuckles brush against her stomach "But you make it really fucking hard."

The pain explodes into a firework. She almost hears herself scream, feels it build in her throat, and there's a—

A knife, being ripped from her gut.

Her knees slacken without her permission. She's on the floor and her back slumps against the ivory cupboards and there's so much blood, her hands come away soaked with it when they flutter to her abdomen. Theora is the ghost now, hovering above her, flickering in and out.

"Y-You," she manages. "You can't—you—"

She feels blood in her throat. Tastes it, sharp and metallic.

Theora disappears, returning only a moment later, the phone to her ear once again. But she only has eyes for Elide. "I have, actually," she says. "In case you hadn't realized."

"They'll know." A piteous gasp escapes her throat, but there's no remorse on Theora's face, no hint of the infatuation they once shared. "They—"

There's the sound of the sink running, the gentle swish of a towel as Theora dries her hands and then carefully refolds it. Elide is not even sure she believes her own words, few as they are. Nobody is going to know, somehow. Theora is too smart for that, much too cunning.

Isn't that why Elide is dying on the floor?

She wants to reach out, but something in her is paralyzed. She fears her feet would slip in the blood on the tile if she even dare try to stand. Elide already knows she's lost this.

"Theora," she tries, voice trembling. "Please—"

"I said that to you once, remember?" Theora shoots back. "I'm sure you remember."

She does, of course. The day they left the Arcadia Institute, her and the seven others, the ones she had chosen to accompany her along to the previous team's execution, their crowning day. Theora's silhouette had been visible in the main doors leading out to the street, seeming a shadow of her former self. Frail in a way she never was, arms curled around her ribs, eternally confused. Please, Elide, she had said. Please.

And what had Elide done? Left. Got in the car. Didn't look back. It didn't matter now that she had eventually righted it, done what should have been from the start. It didn't matter at all.

Elide blinks. Theora is gone. She hears nothing, and then the familiar thump-thump of Theora sliding her boots back up her narrow legs. Elide still remembers the feel of them, pressed together as they were, the way they would coil around one another. Elide would sleep, and Theora would toss long into the night, thinking far too much. That was the way it was.

Now she was dying, and Theora was leaving. In a way, she had killed Theora once, too, turned away without a second thought. It was a terrifying, frigid reversal. It almost felt right.

She never heard the door close, but Elide knew it did.

A year in the making. Whoops. Let's just say I missed writing toxic yuri or whatever we're calling it these days.

Also don't get used to this whole updating twice a week thing. Outside of this fic I severely doubt I'm ever getting back to that. But hey, we can dream.

Thanks for all of the enthusiasm, support, joy, misery, etc. Even knowing that people have stuck around it's still nice to see it.

Until next time.