atleads

[atleads]

The Showstopper: Most entertaining Arena moment

Winner: Everybody voting for Atlas to die

[atleads]

winterherself​:

Calypso regained her breath, and she laughed it all away until she couldn’t breathe again. It wasn’t false laughter. It was hysterical. “Sorry. That wasn’t even that funny,” she excused herself, teasingly, as she was clearing her throat. Maybe she truly was in a fragile place. Maybe it was the pressure, the near-death experiences, ready to succumb into actual death anytime soon. Should she kill Atlas? Should anything at all kill Atlas? There was nobody better suited for a victor, and she believed that without Rush’s naivety. He was the one to create this mess, he should be the one to dig the graves, too, and hold a candle at the funeral. If anyone should live to see the massacre, it should be him, with his endlessly cold eyes.

However, she shook it off, no longer romanticizing the life of a genuinely terrible person she somewhat found interesting. He was scary at best. The Gamemakers must have wanted him gone, too. There was virtually no way Atlas would safely return to the silken sheets of his mansion, remorseless most of the days and unscared. And he did this unspeakably terrible thing to so many of these children.

But she wasn’t a vigilante, seeking justice for lost souls, taking it into her hands to restore peace at the expense of her own innocence. She didn’t want him dead, or hurt, or anything at all. She didn’t even truly want him victorious, in the way she didn’t care to picture the end of the Games. Death would have long gone past her then, so it didn’t matter. The heat made it difficult to breathe through the thought train. Calypso fluttered her shirt, already glued with sweat to her skin.

“Well, Atlas… Maybe you should die, Atlas. It’d be the decent thing to do, Atlas, considering… you know. But I don’t think I should rob all the people lined up to slit your throat of the experience.” Calypso shrugged gently, and she clenched both hands on the paling. “I don’t think they should have their vengeance. The idiots did it to themselves, no one forced them to believe a fairy-tale… but, you see, Atlas… I don’t want to then have problems with them.”

She smiled. It was an honest, albeit envy-lit smile. “I think you’re the sort of person that inspires people to hunt down whoever wouldn’t let them be the ones to kill you, Atlas.”

she was laughing for a moment then, and atlas pulled this watery smile to go along with the sentiment. she was right, it wasn’t even funny. and in and of its own, wasn’t that fucking hysterical ?? her laughter hadn’t been invoked by humor of any kind, and atlas had chuckled along regardless, like these were the motions he was supposed to ghost at still. smile, he was on television, after all. maybe that was the irony of the whole situation, that he’d been so caught up in his mind that it hadn’t even occurred to him he was living a reality show now. that he was what people saw on their screens and mimicked like he had done before, and he wondered if the notion would grow hollower still. if someone would sit there watching this, and if they’d laugh along, and if their giggles would be even more devoid of humor. he wondered if it would be his mother to do so, or anyone he knew, or if this was an infection that spread regardless of connection.

the arena was falling apart before them. atlas had long expected it to crumble, there was an odd inevitability to the whole idea he could only see now it was laid out in front of him. these were the rules of the games, after all. he’d tried to dress it up before, this was beating life itself at whatever game it played. not even paradise, no. a purpose, rather. that there was some purpose to dying, that to have a purpose would make it worth it somehow. he was past the point of taking that into consideration. atlas gavinstar wasn’t dying for some greater good, greater evil, or botched legacy. he was simply dying. he knew that too. there wasn’t a greater purpose to his life, and there wouldn’t be one to his death either. maybe that was an irony that had been discovered far too late for a philosopher like himself with all the questions and no answers -- there wouldn’t be any answers. this wasn’t a game to be beaten when neither side of the board held no true value to it. children died every day. people who harmed other people did, too. he was another statistic to be lost in a sea of them, but he’d always been just that. coming here hadn’t changed that, staying away wouldn’t have either. the only difference was now he’d die with a sunburn, the only difference was now he’d die carrying around a fucking useless tent. this was stalemate, it always had been. he just looked a lot more pathetic arriving at the crossroads with his face covered in rainforest dirt and his tongue far too dry.

do you think you should kill me wasn’t a deep philosophical question anymore ( maybe the philosopher in him had died a while ago, and whatever hollowness was left now just needed to lie down and get it done with already ). it was asking calypso what the next step should be. because atlas didn’t know, but atlas could pretend, and atlas could ask nicely if she’d stab him, if she thought she should. and she said maybe he deserved to die, but it wasn’t her place, she didn’t want to have problems with anyone.

“i don’t think anyone’s gonna hunt you down, calypso. does that make it worse or does that make it better, to know that they wouldn’t ??” atlas muttered into the warm air. he hummed as though he could get used to the way it sat in his lungs then, a pathetic excuse for upcoming last breaths, it dried out his throat. it seemed he couldn’t even find salvation in that.

[atleads]

winterherself​:

Everything was melting under her feet. The wood was splitting like on fire, like in an earthquake. She was on fire, with the sun burning without mercy. She was in the middle of an earthquake too, as everything was falling apart. Calypso slipped all night, trying to get down. Trying to get to safety. She had scratches all over her arms, from holding on to the wood, not to fall into the nothingness. For someone who wanted to die, she surely clenched her fist on surviving the decaying arena. 

In the middle of it all, she spotted a familiar voice gasping, trying to hold on to a stable platform. Atlas was there. Without thinking, she stepped on an entirely broken platform, hoping it wouldn’t collapse until she got to her district partner. Her feet moved quickly, then she jumped, with a landing that granted her more bruises. Atlas’ platform was steady. Calypso breathed heavily, trying to regain her pulse. 

“You aren’t going to kill me, now, are you?”

@atleads​

he’d thought the arena purgatory, at best. if he didn’t believe in paradise and he didn’t believe in anything, he still thought the arena purgatory. but maybe this wasn’t a place for him and his sins, and liars like him would get smoked out. he stood on a platform and watched everything fall apart. everyone was dying and everything was falling apart. he didn’t remember the names of the people he’d dragged here, and he didn’t feel guilty, and he didn’t feel like hush should win despite having written down the boy’s name in the neat little box that required a winner. maybe they’d all already lost, but nothing he dragged here -- whether it be his own two feet or the culty kids ( something else would’ve gotten them if he hadn’t ) -- should be making it out alive. maybe these games wouldn’t have a victor. maybe they never really did.

there was calypso, though. and her name he remembered, even in the rising heat of the arena. because he looked her in the eye, and for a moment that was good, and for a moment, that almost felt hopeful, because she asked him a question and at least he could answer. his mind wasn’t something he could make sense of these days. he couldn’t remember the last time he ate. he still dragged a stupid tent with him, like it mattered.

“of course i’m not going to kill you,” he said, some shaky charisma to his tone. whenever it slipped, though, words sounded hollow in his dry mouth. “do you think you should kill me ??”

[atleads]

rush-knox​:

Rush looked at Atlas, waited for him to laugh, because even his parents didn’t order him around like this. When he didn’t, it only made him angrier. Everything as a lie, and Atlas didn’t care. He didn’t care that Rush was here, and he didn’t care if he lived or died, he didn’t care about anything. The whole reason Rush was here was for Atlas, and Atlas couldn’t give a damn. “I don’t want to, I’m making a fire” he said then, biting at his lip because Rush always did as he was told, yet here he was, saying no, answering back, and he felt so nervous about it he could cry on the spot.

he quirked a brow, looked up at rush then, actually looked at him. this was a deviation from a script he hadn’t written or observed, didn’t know his own lines in until they already rolled off his tongue, but atlas could still tell this wasn’t quite right. none of it was. he wondered how many deaths he could die, if whatever person he’d been in rush’s eyes before, he simply wasn’t anymore. “no,” atlas said then, sounded more decisive, a little more intense with the way he maintained eye contact. “if you’re making a fire, no one’s setting up the tent. you need to set up the tent.”

[atleads]

rush-knox​:

Rush just gave up then, because Atlas clearly knew his name, just chose not to use it, just like he chose not to tell him he didn’t have to die until it might have been too late. 

He was proud of his fire, a little disappointed that Atlas didn’t praise him on it. Even father would have given him a clap on his shoulder for it. A tent. He nodded. He remembered hearing about them in training, that they were good for shelter. He stood up then, to take a look. “Are we going to try put it together?”

“you’re gonna put it together. i already tried. i’m not very good at these things, so you’re doing it,” atlas said, though it was hardly a confession to his lack of survival skills and instinct. if anything, it almost seemed like a brag. like he could still afford to put himself in situations like these, where he hadn’t the necessary skills or drive to survive, and solely relied on ideas to make things work for him. the idea now was that rush still believed him, that rush wanted nothing more than to set up this stupid tent for him, that atlas hadn’t given away his hand entirely the moment he told rush he didn’t have to die, that atlas still had some control here. atlas knelt near the fire then, warmed his hands on it as he’d seen it done in films before.

[atleads]

herelies-nvidia​:

His hand reached towards her and she did the most instinctual thing in stumbling backwards a step or two. She didn’t know if he was reaching to hurt her, or to touch her, or for what reason. Regardless, she didn’t want touched. Not by anyone else. And then he spoke. Not one of his? What on… But he kept talking and she thought about turning around right his instant to march in the opposite direction. But then he called it all nonsense and that peaked her interest. Did he really believe that? “If it’s nonsense why should I believe in it?” She questioned. “I don’t by the way. I’m not one of your insane followers Atlas and I am certainly not looking to join this… cult.” 

she stepped away. oh. well, if anything, that was poetic. if anything, it fit the trend. even with nowhere to go, surrounded by fog, people still managed to escape him. he almost wanted to muse on it, ponder the notion until the fog filled his lungs and he became it, and maybe then he’d find something that wouldn’t escape him. here was the thing, though -- he didn’t have time. because the girl spoke up and he answered, the fog leaving his lungs as a hum in his tone. “don’t we all want to believe there’s something nicer after this ?? how else do we deal with it ?? i’ll take a fake paradise if i have to, if there’s no true alternative and i’m dying anyway.”

[atleads]

herelies-nvidia​:

She had waited out the storm near and within the plane and then quickly receded. She has a few more things to fiddle around with, maybe even get the flashlight working again. If it was still at the tent… I’d she could find the tent. The food was certainly making that hard. She was going in the right direction, she thought, trying to tune out the first around her. She could barely see her hands outstretched before her, so when she came face to face with another tribute and within reaching distance, she jumped backwards. The sudden motion cause a groan as she leg protested, the wound painfully reminding her it was still there. But the other sounded harmless enough so she stepped closer again. “Uh… hi?” She peered through the fog, trying to see well enough to place a name to the voice.

“oh, hi.” he reached out then, perhaps far too fearlessly so, considering how little visibility the fog allowed him. it was alright, he could step closer. it was alright, he could be enveloped by the fog entirely and it wouldn’t be that different and it wouldn’t be that scary. “you’re not one of mine, are you ??” atlas said, as though he had any claim on the other tributes as part of his little group still, like everything wasn’t slowly falling apart around him ( he was surrounded by fog, he couldn’t see it, so he wouldn’t say it ). “would you like to be ?? paradise is for everyone, you know. anyone can join in if they actually believe in that nonsense.”

[atleads]

rush-knox​:

Rush jumped a little at Atlas’ voice, wasn’t expecting it. He turned, from his pathetic attempt at the fire and looked over at someone he used to worship. He wasn’t so sure now though, he guy couldn’t even be bothered to learn his name. “It’s Rush” he corrected, for the first time.

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding to the thing Atlas was holding, Rush had never seen one before, wondered if it was a very big blanket. “I was just about to make a fire” he said, getting back to it, a newfound energy to prove he could in fact do something.

The gods must have been behind him, because it sparked up properly then, and he leaned down to blow lightly, cause the flames to spread onto the small pile pf sticks and branches he’d gathered.

he frowned at that. not necessarily being corrected in and of its own, no, but that rush-hush-whatever had never tried to do that before. atlas had felt himself slipping more and more, losing his grip on whatever leadership and sense of reality he had left, and rush-hush-crush couldn’t call him out like this, because that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. “hush,” he said again, decisively.

he slowly dragged the tent towards rush then, even if it felt as though his feet were slowly sinking into the ground at the realisation rush didn’t know what the tent was, and neither of them would know how to pitch it. fucking great. next time he started a cult, he’d be sure to get some more survivalist types involved. “it’s a tent,” atlas said, dropped it in front of rush’s feet then, as though it would spur the boy into action somehow.

[atleads]

winterherself​:

Her eyes softened, fastened on a tall, tall tree she could still see in the dark. The compliments on winning made her feel inadequate, but they weren’t the worst thing to happen to her. It made her feel odd and she wanted it to stop, but a part of her was flattered. It was dumb, how at the bottom of her chest, something was starting to root for herself, caught in half a hope she couldn’t help but hang on to. She didn’t want to as much as consider it, and she didn’t want to talk out loud about it – because this is not what she came here to do – but underneath all her denying and death wishing, there was a definite part of her secretly, very privately hoping she’d be wrong and victorious.

But she didn’t want to talk about it, so she shook her head firmly and stayed silent for a little longer. Processing, weighing in. When she finally parted her lips, it was in a different tone than the one she would’ve expected. “Who would you be upset losing to, then?” She didn’t want to flatter herself anymore. In fact, she was convinced this was just Atlas’ way of fucking with her head too, making her think she was special the same way he sold the cult to everybody else. 

he shrugged. “i don’t know, maybe little grace from twelve. i think it’d be quite something to end up in the history books as the cult leader, untimely defeated by a thirteen year old. the gavinstar legacy can take many insults, but that might be a little too much,” he said, though he wasn’t exactly sold on it. in fact, the moments the words left his lips, he considered that maybe that should be all of him that should be left behind in writing, in books, in whatever people would see him become in here. he hummed. “i do realise i’m essentially asking you to kill a twelve year old. but, i don’t know, i suppose we all signed up for that anyway. should we go find little grace, calypso ?? just make quick work of it ??” the other option was staying here, just a little longer, and that felt as much of a comfort as it unsettled atlas -- he stared out into the treeline and still wondered what would happen if he inched forward, scooted off the platform. he wondered if he was brave for not doing it, or if there was some extra legacy he’d muster up on the way down. “we should get down from here. show’s over. we’re too easy to spot from here,” he said, as though he’d ever cared about that.

[atleads]

rush-knox​:

Rush had written Atlas’ name on the piece of paper under the DIE category and now he couldn’t sit still. It was dark, late, but he hadn’t a clue of the time. He had hid himself away since he had no luck finding Maia, knew he had to sleep at some point even though every time he closed his eyes he felt an overwhelming sense of anxiety about everything.

It was cold, at night, and it might have had to do with his clothes, damp from his own sweat caused by the heat earlier on. He thought maybe if he could warm himself up, he’d feel better, maybe he could finally fall asleep. So he found himself trying to start a fire, his weak bones making it difficult to swirl the stick against the rock to make it spark. He heard a rustling then, in the trees, looked up, but couldn’t see anything, assumed it might have been an animal so he got back to work. A spark or two lit, but blew out just as fast, and he sighed in frustration.

@atleads

atlas had a tent now. it was a recent development, a sponsor gift from someone who wouldn’t even dare name themselves as one of atlas’s supporters, and it would’ve been a great gift if it wasn’t for the fact that atlas had no idea how to pitch a tent. instead, he dragged it with him, and it was a hindrance more than it was useful, but it was his tent and he wasn’t leaving it behind now. he only realised there must’ve been some higher purpose to it, or a significant stroke of luck he’d never quite experienced before, when he ran into rush trying to make a fire, and suddenly, this was a camping trip. well, it would’ve been, if atlas had been able to set up a tent and rush had been able to start a fire.

here was the funny thing, rush might’ve been able to start that fire finally if it wasn’t for the way atlas emerged from the greenery. he brought with him the smallest flare of wind, just from the movement of the leaves, that meant the spark or two rush had started were gone before they could grow into something bigger. atlas wondered if it was poetic, but to see it laid out in front of him so clearly made him want to abandon the thought.

“i hope you’re ready for our camping trip, hush.”

[atleads]

winterherself​:

“I think I heard a quote once that was what you were saying, but I can’t remember it now.” And she likely would never remember it. It was something great to say, that would have made things slightly easier to swallow. Instead, things were heavy and hard to swallow, and her ugly smiling made it slightly-slightly worse, if anything. But, in lack of anything else, she smiled anyway. Not quite looking at him, because now she had something to think about as she stared into the distance of the deep greens before her. 

The comment about Dale made her loosen up, huff a genuine laughter. Granted, she didn’t care about Dale. He only somewhat scared her and put the sort of pressure on her that shouldn’t exist to begin with, because the plan and the goal have never been to get out alive. However, she waved excitedly at the mention of Dale, even if it was slightly false enthusiasm. “You have a point, but it’s stupid you don’t think anyone at all could and would annoy Dale Winter. It’s not exactly a difficult job, I’m sure. But we’ll see? Wouldn’t it be fitting if I were the stupid person who somehow managed to survive?” A bitter laughter stung in her throat. For the first time, it was a scenario in her mind. 

Did she want it? No, she wanted out. That was the whole point of it all. But somewhere on the road towards letting go and jumping for the void, hesitation got in the way. Weirdly, she wanted to stick around a little longer, even if it meant suffering through a little more. She was curious and a sore loser. She couldn’t refuse the opportunity of making a little further before closing business with life. “I think winning is overrated and pinning us against each other. We should all be nicer to each other, sharing the same trauma.” 

“maybe you should find it. it’ll be in a book somewhere, i’m sure,” atlas offered up, as though he ever held the solutions to any of life’s problems. it was easier to see through now it was something this mundane, a simple ‘i haven’t a clue either’ that didn’t speak of life or death or what happened after. atlas had a library at home and he wouldn’t see it again, but it held books that answered these things and it was the only thing he could point calypso towards now he was slowly realising he hadn’t memorised all of it. he turned to her, and she smiled, and it wasn’t at him, and that was a comfort. it felt more truthful than smiling at him, at least, even if he wasn’t sure if the smile itself held any honesty to it.

the laughter, however, nearly caught him off guard. that did feel genuine, like an act escaping her, him too, because he smiled and it wasn’t at her, but it was honest. like pulling back a curtain of sorts was anything to laugh at, everything on stage was an act and the back of whatever theatre he performed in was hollow, but he could stare at a wall and laugh, and laugh genuinely, because it was absurd. it was absolutely absurd that he’d think of dale winter, and it was absolutely absurd to think he couldn’t be replaced as the greatest annoyance in the man’s life. “i think maybe you should be the stupid person to survive, calypso. i don’t think anyone could do it quite like me, i’ll allow myself that indulgence for now, but maybe you should go and prove me wrong. i wouldn’t be upset losing to you.”

he’d been nice, he wanted to say. he’d been nothing but nice and misguided, because that was what some rich boys were for lack of better tragedy. he was nice and misguided and he’d done horrible things not even singing some happy songs around a campfire with whatever scraps of tributes were left was going to fix. “it’s not winning, calypso, not really. it’s just living. it’s just that only one of us can do that now.”

[atleads]

maybe atlas feared nothing these days, as though it was the only divinity he’d reach. something beyond the most human a person could be, he wandered the arena with no idea when he’d last had a meal or a drink, just that he must’ve had both at some point, because his legs weren’t giving out just yet. there was a storm, it had come and gone. there was fog, it was still there. and atlas kept walking and walking and walking. and if there was some god out there, perhaps they should be thanked for all the interest atlas had managed to gather before, because everyone wanted him dead and he could hardly be judged exciting enough to stay alive now. he still walked, wandered, took no note of the noises of the rainforest growing more intense, scary if that was a thought he’d let invade his mind. maybe he was somewhere inbetween already, running on reserves, maybe that was what the fog was. but when he saw another person, he forced out the last bit of curiosity he could muster up. he turned his head, he smiled, because encountering someone in the fog seemed as incidental as all the other misfortunes in his life, and he waved.

“oh, hi.”

[atleads]

winterherself​:

“Are you real?” she inquired, instead of condoning the emptiness, worried she might not have the strength to match it. Those were all thoughts in her mind, thoughts she hated, about how all these people, herself included, were dead meat anyway. Atlas and his fake paradise only came up with a catchy soundtrack for the tragedy to happen to. And he wasn’t wrong, as vile as he was. “Sometimes I worry you’re just a made-up thing from my head. Probably because you’re saying all this shit,” she breathed out, genuinely questioning Atlas, as an actual person.

They weren’t alike. He wasn’t some mirror, some double of herself. It was more that he was a transparent vessel of the sort of thoughts she wanted to run away from, never quite agreeing with them, never quite liking them. Most of the time, she dreaded that she could agree with him. Did she make up Atlas Gavinstar in her mind? Was all of the cult just a strange fever dream that gave her whatever drop of courage needed to go on with the Hunger Games? Maybe none of it was real. Maybe she’d been hallucinating for days. 

His second question brought even more chills, in waves, down her spine. The genuine answer, she hated. Forgotten was the goal, though, wasn’t it? She wanted to drift into nothingness and stay there, clenched fists, forever. That was the plan. However, in front of Atlas, the plan embarrassed her. She didn’t want to be remembered, but she craved his newly found fame, the one that was going to bring him immortality. There was no way for a boring girl like her to have that. Girls like her drowned, with people refusing to as much as look at their faces. Girls like her had forgettable noses, and bland personalities, and no story to last. She couldn’t match him even if she tried. She was always bound to be an inadequate face in the crowd. “I don’t think anyone paid attention to me.” The confession sounded so pure, so resigned. For a second, she was proud of her line delivery.

Then, she listened to him expressionlessly, feeling the tired invade her too. It’s always been there, even if a little softer. In lack of something better to say, she just shrugged. Where she was, it was worse than on the verge of tears. She was in the void of her mind, shoved in there by Atlas’ words. “You’re asking the wrong person. I think I’m tired, too. And it would be a punishment to bury everyone in this fucked up chain of tragedies you made happen.”

“i don’t know. it’s.. the basic of it all, isn’t it, calypso ?? i think, therefore i am. but i don’t know if you think and are real, or if you’re just something my brain made up,” atlas hummed as a response, hardly seemed thrown off by his existence being questioned to his face, mostly because it was something that sat in the back of his mind anyway. something in the back of his throat that made him feel sick, and he didn’t know whether he feared it being true, or if he feared that it wasn’t. that maybe all of this was some elaborate scheme he’d set up himself to fill the emptiness, or that maybe all of this was some elaborate scheme he’d set up himself to fill the emptiness. “we’re not.. gonna get answers to these questions, calypso.” the sigh that escaped him as he said it was probably the biggest sign of defeat he’d shown, the acceptance of life, if only temporarily so, as something that wasn’t worth questioning anymore.

“i don’t think anyone paid attention to me either, not really. not even if they put me down in the history books as crazy and successful, but mostly crazy. maybe i am. i must be. but it doesn’t.. feel like me. none of this does. none of this is a true description of me, but for the life of me, i couldn’t explain myself to you. i think i only exist as whatever other people think of me. no amount of attention paid to me is going to uncover something real,” he said, and it wasn’t exactly lamenting anything. no, he stared up at the sky and saw his name showing up as the one everyone wanted dead, and perhaps that made him dead already, and maybe that was why he was asking calypso to do the winning for him. it wasn’t a flaw in his plan, not really, to realise that maybe he was never meant to be a victor. atlas’s stint in the arena, everything before it, was as incidental as it was planned out. he didn’t know where he was going next, just that there was an end in sight for him, somewhere out there. and he could grasp at the edges of it and see that it wasn’t a warm welcome from his mother after a week on this tropical holiday, that maybe he was never meant for that.

he straightened up then, took a deep breath as though it could pull him back together, into a person. into something he never really was. even if his thoughts confirmed it for him, he thought, therefore he was, except he still wasn’t. he wouldn’t bother calypso with that, though. not when she felt the tiredness too, when she was right on the money when she said it would be a fucking punishment to bury the bodies he’d leave behind. he looked at her, though, and maybe she was more real than he’d ever been. “but calypso, if neither of us make it out of here, then who’s going to annoy dale winter ??”

[atleads]

havealittlefcith​:

she screamed when she was pushed in, although it was more delight than actual fear. she knew there was nothing in the water. it was safe, wasn’t it? to swim in? she opened her eyes, under the surface, and grinned around her, letting her breath bubble up. oh, her braid was going to be a mess after this. but iit was already a mess, and this was the coolest she’d felt in days. it was so cool, for a moment or so.

and then it hit her. she didn’t know how to swim.

“ATLAS!” she screamed, panicked, as she fought to keep her head above the river’s water. it was still, it wasn’t moving, but her movements were more than erratic. “I!!! I can’t!!!” her face went under again, and she held her breath for as long as she could, kicking herself frantically until she was okay to stand up again. “I can’t swim!” she said, accusatorially, when she was finally standing near the bank. the whole river really got deep fast, didn’t it?

see, the river had felt nice for a moment, even if it had been unexpected, unwanted even. it was cool in a way that nothing else had been until then ( why did they give him an arena this warm ?? if he’d get the chance to, he’d have to complain to someone about it. his hair was either a frizzy mess or stuck to his forehead, and this was his final stint on tv, he couldn’t have that be the case. he couldn’t go out like this ). but as soon as he let the waves of water crash over him like it was relief itself, he was interrupted by a scream and he rolled his eyes unnoticeably, underwater still.

he would’ve let her drown if she hadn’t found her own way to the edge of the river then. he might’ve been kind of disappointed she didn’t drown, even if drowning in and of itself hadn’t been his intent when he shoved her into the water. still, it seemed even an attempted drowning couldn’t shut the girl up.

“i thought the plan was we die in here ?? why didn’t you drown ??” atlas asked, almost sounding offended.

[atleads]

A silver parachute drifts slowly to the ground. A large container is attached with no note. Inside is a tent.

[atleads]

winterherself​:

Did Atlas ruin these kids, even if a little? Calyspo hated the obvious reason, mostly because she wasn’t in the mood to be the voice of reason. She bit inside her cheek before bursting into laughter. “Yeah, you quite clearly ruined the lives of these poor, deluded, very uneducated and gullible kids,” she spoke softly, trying to however lean more towards nonchalance than sentimentalism. She couldn’t cry for these people. No one would stop and cry for her, either, so what was the point?

She didn’t want to shame Atlas. It was all facts. “Be proud. I’ve never heard of anyone to do something even remotely as crazy and successful as what you did.” President after president struggled to give the Districts hope, as false as it was, and it only took a smart, empty kid from the Capitol to fool so many into a suicide mission. Nobody else quite managed to make the Games so desirable, so easy to accept. The ridiculousness of the situation was palpable. Calypso burst into a silent snicker, showing her teeth. If she could see herself on some screen, she would have hated the view. Suddenly, a stupid wave of envy washed over her, knowing she’d never be as interesting and complex as he was. She, for a change, just had Atlas’ taste for ridiculous.

She let the other votes slide before them. The sky showed Atlas a little too much, and every time it did, without fail, Calypso stretched out her arm and pointed at the sky, as if for the first time. When it was over, she rushed to answer his question. “I think you’ve won, by far. You’re very popular, Atlas. Don’t worry, Atlas. People will remember you so well for so long. You’ve made it into the history books. Even if this is all just a plan for you to eventually be last standing.” She looked at him. “I kind of wish it is. Tell me you’re at least going to win this.” 

Calypso could only imagine how his victory would play out. He’d soon be Panem’s most hated, if he wasn’t already. Now that would have been a show.

“maybe their lives were ruined anyway,” atlas offered up as an alternative. it wasn’t to soothe his own guilt, he wasn’t even sure if he could feel that anymore, his chest felt awfully hollow these days, no heart to tug at. rather, it was just another hypothetical added to the list of hypotheticals atlas liked to live in, as though they were as easy to discuss as the weather. “if it wasn’t me, someone else would’ve convinced them to do something stupid. if it wasn’t them, some other kids would be tricked or forced into the games. if it wasn’t this, something else would’ve gotten these kids. maybe some things are inevitable like that.”

“i think crazy and successful wouldn’t be the worst way to go down in history,” he hummed, indulged something with that notion, wasn’t sure if it was just her train of thought or his empty search for something meaningful still, a title to cling onto. he wondered if she was looking for something like that, too. for other people to create meaning of these things. “what do you think they’ll say about you, calypso ??” he asked, though he imagined he already knew the answer, on some level. there wasn’t much to be filled in here, hadn’t they talked about it before ?? atlas was always going to outshine her by the sheer notion of being a little bit more outward with his lies. he didn’t pity her as much as he wondered if it would be different if he wasn’t here, if she saw herself differently now she was the star of her very own reality show.

atlas sighed. he sighed this long, deep sigh at the idea he should be making it out of here, still. maybe that was what people kept getting wrong about him anyway, he hadn’t a plan beyond coming here. he hadn’t a plan beyond the notion of getting into a history book, and it had slowly started to scare him to realise he didn’t even know how he wanted to be remembered. that he was as terrified of being forgotten as he was of however he could be written down. he was a villain now, he was sure. more than that, though -- “i’m tired. we’re the same age, aren’t we ?? how on earth am i so awfully tired ??” atlas sighed, and it was a multi-layered tragedy, if anything. he’d never been prepared for an arena, his legs hurt and his hands shook and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drink. he’d never been prepared to be the leader of whatever tiny revolution he’d mustered up, walking straight for death. he’d never been prepared for much of anything, and lived in ideas because hypotheticals weren’t thrones to fall from, it was safer, until these things were real and he sat on a platform in the arena. he wondered how far he’d fall if he were to move forward now, his legs dangled over the edge still. “can’t you win for me, would you ??”

[atleads]

havealittlefcith​:

“yes.” she responded, moving over so he could sit next to her. “i’ve been splashing for awhile.” she said, by way of explination. “if you get bitten, i think that’s because it was looking for you.” which seemed unlikely. his name sure had shown up a lot in the ratings, but at this point faith was pretty sure that didn’t mean anything.

“i reckon whatever’s in there might be looking for me, i’ve been watching my back all night,” atlas said, who decisively hadn’t been more careful since it came to light -- literally, in the sky -- that half the arena wanted him dead. he couldn’t remember if faith had or hadn’t, it didn’t matter much anyway. whatever leader he’d been, there’d been a coup. it was like he was just waiting for the aftershocks, whoever would get him first. maybe he was a little paranoid about the water then, still constantly flicking between wanting this over with and wanting to stay alive. he looked at faith then, frowned. found that same sense of contrast in his next words, something between amusement and annoyance. “whatever’s after me in that river might get you first, though,” he said, pushed her into the water, only to immediately lose his balance and follow after her, land into the river with a loud splash.