#and fights to the death were NOT done here in that arena. yet this was one. no buts or ifs. and well

[gothamcityneedsme]

as of today i've played every persona game yayyy

[the-acid-pear]

The funniest even in L.L.'s life to this date is all the way back in japan when they straight up missed their lover fighting to the death (and winning) against one of their good pals because they spent the whole day just having gay sex w their main babygirl. Truly their best era.

[seresinhangmanjake]

Fluff for Feyd, reader tells him that she’s proud of him and it’s the first time someone’s said that to him genuinely 🩵

Feyd-Rautha x reader

All He Knew

Summary: Feyd deals with the emotional aftermath of protecting you from his uncle.

Notes/Warnings: mention of past abuse, mention of death, and vulnerability. It's fluffy-ish and angsty-ish, and slightly different, but I still kept in the main idea. Hopefully you still like it :)

Words: 1150

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag list

You knew the second your husband’s blade went through the Baron’s neck that his whole world would change. Everything inside of him would disconnect. The pieces of his inner self would scatter chaotically, and he would no longer know who to be. You knew because of the power his uncle held over him for the majority of his life. 

After Feyd killed his mother, the Baron was all he had. And how do you go from having the fullness of an overbearing presence on your shoulders—miserable as it was—to nothing? By killing the Baron, Feyd excised a part of himself, as if some creature had sauntered up to his side and taken a big bite out of his body. And now there’s a chunk missing that you fear cannot be filled, even by you. 

He cries when he thinks you’re asleep. And though you continue to feign unconsciousness as you roll over and drape your arm over his waist, it’s not always enough to stop the tears. Part of you knew it wouldn’t be, but you still hoped. You hoped that having you beside him would remind him why he did what he did. 

The Baron had ordered your execution because you were taking too long to provide an heir, and as you were dragged in front of the old man to answer for your ‘crime’, Feyd was nowhere near to protect you. The Baron was smart—he took you from the comfort of your bed in the early morning as your husband was training for another fight in the arena. The plan was simple, and Feyd wouldn’t know about your fate until it was too late. He wouldn’t be able to save you. 

But he did, somehow. Your best guess is that Feyd has a mole, or many, throughout the Harkonnen fortress to relay everyone’s movements, because Feyd was rushing into the room and thrusting his blade into squishy flesh just as the order to end your life was leaving the Baron’s lips. And in those quick seconds, your husband was changed. 

You don’t know how to bring him back to you. At least, you didn’t. You wrestled with it for days until it dawned on you that what he might need is not necessarily your touch or the reminder that he still has a wife, but instead, the words he deserves to hear. 

—

“Feyd, I’m proud of you.”

You’ve been watching him all morning, standing aside, not wanting to interrupt his process of slowly nipping away at a training dummy with his knife. There are holes of all sorts in the torso, both deep and shallow, and slashes across the inanimate face. It has lost both its legs. One arm hangs on by what would be a thin cord of skin were it human. When your words reach him from the other side of the room, he pauses mid-swing. 

“You did a hard thing,” you continue as his arm drops to his side and he straightens his stance from a fighters position. “You did a painful thing.”

His adam’s apple bobs. He sighs and stares down at the blade, the sharp point digging into his index finger as he twirls it. He has yet to look at you in the hour you’ve been here, and with the unpredictability of your husband, you don’t know what he’s going to do next. But you wait, patiently, because that is what you can do for him. 

“I wouldn’t let him take you from me,” he finally says. The blade stabs into the gut of the dummy. “He’s damaged me enough.”

That’s all he gives you. Your heart shatters for him and for the walls he’s been building between you since he killed his uncle; walls that took you ages to tear down after you married him. You’d done so well at getting him to trust and love you, and you hate to watch the bricks stacking as the minutes pass. 

“Since when are you proud when I kill?” he asks. 

And it’s a fair question. You’ve never been a fan of the death that wreaks through the halls of the Harkonnen fortress. You’ve never enjoyed his triumphs in the arena. But this is different, and so you must handle it differently, with a gentle hand and well-chosen words, despite what those words may bring.

He hasn’t often handled well certain topics that you’ve tried to bring up in the past. Risky topics, you learned. Topics that have usually left him drawing away from you until the next morning comes and he can pretend as if you never brought them up.

When you’ve asked about his parents, he gets fidgety; can’t stand still, can’t stop messing with his hands, can’t look you in the eye for more than a quarter of a second. He’s unlike the husband you know. When you’ve asked about his uncle, he’s worse. He’s more than just unlike your husband, he detaches himself from the moment completely. He becomes stiff as a board; a statue with a faraway gaze in his eyes. He offers few words. But those reactions are enough for you to assume the truth of his past without him giving you more than the little he has.

“Feyd, he was abusive,” you say, closing the distance between you. “You ended someone who had power over you for years. Of course I’m proud of you.”

“It’s not as if I did it for me; I did it to save you.”

“You did it,” you tell him. “You did it when you needed to protect us most. You didn’t let him hurt me and force you to accept his justifications for doing so. That's what matters.”

Long beats pass that grow longer with each one. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears so violently that they feel stuffed with cotton. You fear his reaction; a further pulling away from you—something you’re not sure you’ll be able to take. But then he drops the knife to the floor, turns to you, and tucks his head into the space where your neck meets your shoulder. 

His arms slowly snake around your waist and squeeze you tight, and you’re struggling to breathe properly, but you don’t care because the half-built brick wall just tumbled down. He needs you. 

His exhales shakily graze over your collarbone. A droplet forges a path down your chest, disappearing into your cleavage and leaving a chilled trail in its wake. You raise your hand to the back of his head and hold him against you, letting more droplets trickle down your body, letting your skin muffle sobs.

“I’m sorry it had to be like this,” you whisper.

He inhales, breathing you in, and then says, “There’s not a life where I wouldn’t have done it for you.”

“I know,” you tell him. 

“It shouldn’t hurt.”

“It’s allowed to hurt,” you say. “He’s all you knew.”

[ilguna]

☼ perfectly timed pt1 (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; when you figure out that the arena's a clock, Finnick promises that he'll be your bodyguard from then on, and he doesn't take that responsibility lightly.

warnings; swearing, death, death mention, murder, gore, blood.

wc; 10.7k

part two.

–

See, after you won your Games, you should’ve learned your lesson regarding how to properly wield a weapon in order to defend yourself. At the time, you’d decided that your effort would be wasted. You dipped your toes in the water when it came to combat techniques, and quickly discovered that you needed to have a little foundation of fighting experience in order for the new information to mean anything.

So, you spent your time learning other useful skills, ones that would help if you took a lighter approach. It had been done plenty of times before with the tributes that came from less fortunate districts. They hid the entirety of the Games, waited out every mutt attack, survived every storm, dodged tributes, and ended up being pronounced as the Victor when the other final tribute finally went down.

You went to all the stations that the gymnasium had to offer. How to identify berries, first aid, tying knots, making weapons and tools from nothing, how to build shelter, weave nets, starting fires, cleaning water, snares, fish hooks, sewing. It was an endless list that you eagerly spent your time going through.

Yet, it didn’t matter when it came down to you and the career girl from Two. She tracked you down, followed you from hiding spot to hiding spot, watching your routine. The one skill you needed to know was how to defend yourself in a fight, and you had no idea how to. It’s what almost got you killed.

And it’s what might get you killed this time around.

You made the same mistake, only worse. You didn’t learn anything during your three training days. They were spent trying to figure out what the hell was going on between the tributes. With Beetee not telling you anything, you were left to your own devices.

You caught on pretty quickly to the looks that were being shared, it was the districts that had you stumped. Four, Six, Seven, Eight and Eleven. As far as you knew at the beginning, you and Beetee weren’t involved at all. You’d find out later that he’d signed you up for the alliance, he was just letting you sort out the situation on your own, waiting for you to come to him.

In the meantime, you watched as the victors you’ve known for years attracted like magnets to the Twelve tributes. On the other hand, Katniss and Peeta didn’t seem to be owned by anybody. They dabbled in a little bit of everybody, which you figured was because they were trying to find who would be the greatest allies in the arena.

Katniss is a smart girl, you saw that when you briefly talked between her and Beetee at the fire starting station. Beyond that, you never spoke to her again. You knew that she was the center of the odd behavior.

When you’d had enough by the time the scores came around, you finally asked Beetee what was going on. He informed you that because of the possibility of a rebellion, some of the districts are coming together to become one big alliance for the sake of the Twelve tributes inside of the arena. It wasn’t until he told you that you were both invited into said alliance, did it all fall into place.

By then, you were too fixated on figuring out every detail you could before the arena came around. You’d missed your opportunity yet again on how to defend yourself with a weapon. The one good thing that came out of it was Katniss taking a liking to you and Beetee at the station, causing her to request for you two to be her allies.

Which has, for some odd reason, landed you right in the middle of an alliance with Johanna and Beetee. This is not something you would’ve chosen on your own, for several reasons. There’s a part of you that knows you should be grateful that you have them here, because they really are your only source of protection from the other tributes in the arena for the time being.

You’d offer up Beetee, except he can’t fight in the first place, and especially can’t now that he’s been stabbed in the back after he went into the Cornucopia during the bloodbath. He was seeking to find his wire, the one that he used to win his games. Luckily, he found it. Although, you’re not entirely sure what he’s going to use it for quite yet.

Anyway, the Seven tributes are a bitter pill to swallow when they’re making it extremely difficult for you to continue being an easy ally for them. They might have saved you from the Cornucopia, but the way they’re talking to you two is wearing on your patience. Between Blight’s judgemental looks and Johanna’s short and rude attitude, you’re about to run off with Beetee to find a better spot to hide and strategize on how to blow this arena wide open.

“I’m done.” Johanna finally says, throwing her axe down in the grass. “We can make shelter here and find water in the morning. I’m not going to run around for the rest of the night looking for it.”

You take in a breath, turning to look at the area she’s picked out. It’s clear enough for the four of you to stay in. Beetee sets his wire down on the ground next to a tree, and slowly lowers himself to sit down, wincing when his back hurts.

Blight nods, fixing his own axe in his hand. “I’ll go find something for us to eat.”

Your lips twitch, you bite down on your tongue, wanting to offer to go with, because you’re sure that your knowledge will help some. The words die in your mouth, deciding to leave it be. If he finds an animal or nuts, fine. If he doesn’t, then you’ll sit here and wait for him to ask for help. You’re tired of him brushing you off. Besides, you can go without food for a couple of days. It won’t kill you.

Blight walks off, disappearing into the large jungle. The trees are tall, easily stretching over thirty feet into the air. Not to mention, the leaves act as a canopy, hiding the sun in the daytime. It’s been an hour since sunset, meaning you’re left to the moonlight to help guide you. Which is impossible to see through the greenery, as well.

You wander around the small area, picking at the plastic on the belt around your waist. Beetee was the one that popped it open, the liquid inside working as a floatation device when in water. Whoever developed it and decided it would appear as a belt is brilliant. You had no need to use yours, you learned how to swim when you were young.

Speaking of water, there is none in the arena. You came to that conclusion fairly quickly. You’ve covered at least five wedges walking diagonally, looking for any sign of it. There isn’t a single running stream or the sound of a waterfall. The only water in this arena is in the middle, and it’s undrinkable. 

The Gamemakers could be wanting the sponsors to get more involved and branch out by helping more than their usual bets. In that case, water could never come. Unless they’re planning something else, like a great storm that’ll provide enough water for the next few days before it rains again.

It would make sense for them to engineer something like that. The humidity proves that, you think. Then again, this is one giant terrarium. They’ve got you under a glass bowl like you’re some sort of science project. That could be said about every arena, though. That’s not what’s special about this one.

It appears ordinary, with the last Quarter Quell, it was fairly obvious that there was something going on. You watched the recap for the first time on the train just a couple days ago. The arena was perfect, too perfect. A healthy green meadow, blue skies with fluffy white clouds, a thick forest to hide inside of, and in the distance, a snow-capped mountain.

It was too good to be true.

Here, all the cards seem to be laid out on the table. It’s miserable. The idea of victors fighting each other, the sun glaring down on you, the humidity making you sticky and irritated, the elevated jungle floor, and not a single sight of water or food the entirety of the climb. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that this is it. It can’t get any worse than this.

You know better, it’s the Capitol. You’re always waiting for the catch.

“Will you stop pacing?” Johanna asks.

You stop, pressing your lips together, looking at her. She’s got her eyes on you, leaned against a tree. She’s moved her axe to be against the tree, too. The handle in arm’s reach.

“Sure,” You say, annoyed. You can’t do anything with her. If you walk too loudly, she glares at you. If you try talking to Beetee, she hushes you. Now, you can’t even pace without her freaking out.

So, you turn to face away from her, staring off into the jungle, taking deep breaths to calm yourself. You hate working inside of a box that belongs to someone else. This is going to be a very long night.

—

A bright light appears from behind the jungle leaves. You squint, looking up to find the Capitol seal, the beginning notes of the anthem interrupting the silence. You push yourself up from where you’re resting next to Beetee, wanting to get a better look into the sky. 

You find a spot that allows you a clear view into the sky, right on time for the first face to appear: the man from District Five. This means that all the careers survived the bloodbath. Finnick Odair is out there somewhere with his mentor, and they will undoubtedly be tomorrow’s target to find. 

The next to show is the man from District Six, both Cecelia and Woof from Eight, both from Nine, the woman from Ten, and Seeder from Eleven. You pull on your fingers, eyes wandering off as the seal reppears and the music comes to an end, doing the math on how many allies are left.

With eight victors being dead, that leaves sixteen of you alive. Of those eight victors, four of them are allies. There’s still ten of you, more than half of the tributes left in the arena are part of the alliance. This leaves great odds still, nothing for you to worry about quite yet.

You wander back next to Beetee once the seal is gone.

“Finnick and Mags have to be around here somewhere.” Johanna mutters, her and Blight are gathered around a small fire. It’s not for warmth, but to cook the bird that was caught.

“We’ll run across them tomorrow. They’re looking for us, too.” Blight says to her.

At the very least, if you don’t find them tomorrow, you have the chance to find the other two allies that are left. The girl from Six, and Chaff from Eleven. As for Katniss and Peeta, you remember seeing Finnick get them out before you were attacked by Gloss. Johanna saved you seconds later.

You think that a meeting spot should’ve been established. You tried to suggest one, and you were drowned out by the many other ideas that were floating around in Haymitch’s head. If it had been up to you, you would’ve told him that you should all meet back at the Cornucopia on the second day. That way, you wouldn’t struggle with stupid directions. You’d just have to find your way back to the place you started.

Once the bird is ready, it’s split evenly between the four of you. You pick yours apart, down to the very last bone, not wasting a single piece of meat. You throw the bones over your shoulder, they land behind you somewhere in the bushes. At home, you’d boil the bones to make broth, here you don’t have any use to.

Beetee opts to lay down, tired. He keeps the spool of wire closeby, right between the two of you. He trusts that you’ll keep an eye on it, put your life on the line for it. You know better than anyone that he has a method to his madness, the same as you. If he believes that it’s important to have, who are you to say otherwise? You’ve listened to him for less.

“I’ll take first watch, Blight.” Johanna says, pulling the axe into her hand. “Go ahead and gather with Nuts and Volts.”

You press your lips together, glaring at Johanna. She catches this, giving you a taunting smile. Blight brings his axe with, creating a bed in the grass, and laying down a few feet from Beetee. You don’t move from where you sit.

If this bothers Johanna, she chooses not to mention it. She patrols, walking in a certain direction, and then turning around and going the other way without completing a full lap. It makes her moves unpredictable for the first fifteen minutes. A pattern develops, whether she intends it to or not.

You cross your arms, letting your head fall back against the tree, closing your eyes. The drowsiness doesn’t come immediately, leading you to believe that you’re too awake to fall asleep. In your Games, all you did was sleep, but that was because there wasn’t a constant threat hanging over your head the same way there is now. 

You’re in an arena full of experienced killers. The stakes are higher than they’ve ever been before.

Still, you fall asleep to the sound of Johanna shuffling through the underbrush.

And wake to the sound of a bell tolling. You jerk forward, face twisted as you work through the haziness. You count each one, the number growing higher, until it stops. There is no announcement that follows.

Twelve.

You look up from where you’re staring at the grass, to where Johanna had been walking around earlier. You see that she’s gathered with Blight, frozen and staring at the night sky, waiting. She must’ve just woken him up so he can take over. If you were paranoid, you’d say that they’re plotting to kill you in your sleep. Which you’re not worried about, at all. Johanna’s desperate to get Katniss to like her; you and Beetee are her only ticket. 

“Twelve.” Johanna echoes your thoughts. “Huh.”

“Could be signifying the end of the first day.” Blight theorizes, “It’s late, it has to be around midnight by now. They play the fallen right around eight.”

“Yeah, but why should we care that it’s the end of the first day?”

Blight shrugs. “Go ahead and sleep, I’ll take over from here.”

“Thanks.” She makes her way to where he made his bed, claiming it as her own now.

Blight could be onto something. It should be somewhere around midnight, meaning you’re officially in the second day of the arena. This could mean a number of things, but most importantly, the twelve bells can’t be a coincidence. The Capitol is far too smart to choose any random number, especially when it’s the exact amount of districts.

You almost stuff this in the back of your mind to go back to sleep, when a bright and strong bolt of electricity strikes a couple miles away. It continues into a lightning storm, shaking the ground and making it impossible for you to consider the idea of sleep.

You get to your feet, Blight whips around at the sound of movement. He lets out a loud sigh, “What are you doing?”

You walk right past him, ignoring him because you’re not really in the mood for what he has to say. You keep your eyes on the storm the best you can, trying to find a large enough clearing that’ll allow you to look at the sky. Blight calls after you, but you’re only twenty feet away when you stop.

The night sky is clear of any clouds. This means the lightning has to be engineered. Of course, you’ve seen storms with no clouds but for it to happen here, right after the twelve bells—it leads you to believe that this is far from a coincidence. This is just another piece of the puzzle.

Blight is waiting for you when you get back to camp. You shake your head, going back to where you’d been before with Beetee. You pick at your nails, watching Blight wander around the small area for a while. The storm doesn’t let up, persistent and angry.

With it carrying on for so long, you begin to relax next to the tree. Johanna and Beetee have no issue sleeping through it, so you should be able to sleep, too. You glance at Blight a final time, making sure that he’s still awake and moving, and then you rest the back of your head against the tree.

You don’t fall asleep, not fully. Too many ideas surface the moment your eyes have closed. Blight’s idea doesn’t sound too far off. It is something that the Gamemakers would do, but not without reason. For a second, you think that the twelve bells could be more than just for the amount of districts. It could be the number of allies in the alliance you’re in, minus two. 

Then again, you’re not entirely sure how the Gamemakers would’ve been able to figure that out on their own. Everyone has done their best to be subtle about who belongs inside of it, and with the stunt that you all pulled at the end of the interviews; holding hands, showing unification. It would lead them to believe that you’re in this together, until the beginning of the bloodbath, when all of it had been forgotten. 

Twelve.

It’s a specific number. The more you think, the more frustrated you get. There’s twelve sections in the arena, but you’re not sure how that helps. You picked up on that before you left the center rock with your allies. With two tributes to every wedge, it meant that there were twelve spokes.

That can be passed off as anything, though.

Right as you begin to think about how distracting the lightning is, and you can’t think straight, it ceases. The arena falls back into darkness, silence taking over the thunder. It’s eerily quiet for a few seconds, and then the nearby sound of gentle pattering against leaves begins.

You open your eyes.

It’s raining. For a long moment, you’re relieved; you have a chance at drinkable water, after all. And then you remember that there wasn’t a cloud in sight for the lightning. You press your lips together, eyebrows drawing in as you get to your feet for the third time tonight.

“Get Johanna up.” Blight orders, “We’ve got to catch the water with something.”

“Maybe a leaf?” You snark, walking right by a sleeping Johanna. 

He must take you for some type of moron if he thinks that you’re going to wake her up on your own. You’re on her bad side enough as it is, if you stick your face in hers, you’ll be lucky if you don’t get your head cut off in the process. She can wake on her own when she figures out that it’s raining, or Blight can do it himself.

You walk in the same direction you had for the lightning storm, tilting your head back to try and find any clouds. A droplet lands on your forehead, it’s warm, leaving you no hope that you’ll get a chance to cool down from the heat. Another drop lands on your cheek, running down your chin.

You’re surprised to see clouds, and even more so that they’re dark storm clouds, the type that should’ve accompanied the lightning. You watch, bewildered because you can almost see each individual drop of water coming down at you. They’re darker than the clouds they’re coming from.

The rain starts slow, mostly catching on the trees above, maybe a drop here or there on your skin and jumpsuit. It begins to pick up, growing intense, as the leaves above can’t even protect you from the assault. You watch as the water lands on your palms, darkening the color.

That’s not right.

You shake your head, starting back to camp. This too, is Gamemaker engineered. It’s perfectly planned, right after a storm to make it seem innocent enough. If they’re trying to trick you into a false sense of security, it worked.

In the time it takes for you to join the others, the rain has reached its peak. You’re drenched, hair sticking to your face, jumpsuit becoming a second layer of skin, shoes squishing with every step. And the smell is overwhelmingly familiar. You can’t place your finger on it immediately.

“It’s not water!” You hear Johanna shout, “Beetee, get up!”

You wipe the thick liquid from your eyes, struggling to see through it. Even with your vision being clear, it doesn’t help much. You can hardly see a few feet in front of you at a single time. You follow the voices of your allies, who are beginning to panic.

“Where’s (Y/n)?” Beetee asks.

“I’m here!” You tell them, struggling to stay upright. The greenery has grown slick from the wetness.

“It’s blood!” Johanna shouts at you. “It’s not water, it’s blood!”

That’s what that nauseating smell is. 

“We need to go, now!” Blight says.

You manage to stumble into the three of them, Johanna grabs a tight hold of you, dragging you to follow Blight. He heads uphill diagonally, you have to cover your eyes with your free hand in order to see him. With every swipe at your eyes, a stinging pain surfaces.

“Blight—?” Johanna calls, looking up. She gags a second later, stopping dead in her tracks to lean over and heave. She coughs out a mouthful of the blood. 

You decide very quickly that your lips will be sealed from this moment forward. Johanna continues to pull you and Beetee in the direction that Blight had gone. You’ve lost him completely. It’s almost ten minutes later when a cannon blasts, and another five when you find Blight’s body, face down in the grass, unmoving.

The Gamemakers haven’t collected him yet because you three are too close. Your eyes dart around the scene, trying to find the source of his death. You can’t see any outward injuries, which is even more difficult to identify with the amount of blood being dumped from the clouds.

He was climbing the incline like you are now. Where he’s lying isn’t that far from the top of the hill. In the daylight, you’d agreed not to go down into the valley, wanting to keep fairly close to the Cornucopia. That was assuming there was a valley to explore, but now that you’re looking at it…

You yank Johanna by her own grasp, almost throwing her from the amount of force behind the move. She stumbles a step or two, taking Beetee down to the ground. You shake your head at her quickly, eyes wide. 

There’s one more thing you found out during your training days, and it wasn’t anything about the tributes around you. It was about the Capitol, and how they found a much better way to hide things in plain sight. Beetee was the one to show it to you in the gymnasium, and it came with a warning.

Nothing is ever what it seems. 

Blight ran into a force field, the force field that surrounds the entire arena. If you had to guess now, it’s in the shape of a dome. There is no valley, the force field just gives the appearance that there is one to fool tributes into walking into it. That’s exactly what happened here, with Blight trying to lead you to safety.

“What the—” Johanna begins, gagging.

“Force field!” You manage to yell at her through the drumming noise of blood on leaves.

Beetee raises his head, squinting through his glasses to see what you mean.

Johanna throws her head back, eyes closed, unmoving. You watch the blood run down her neck, maybe she’s trying to compose herself. She suddenly yanks Beetee to his feet, pulling you back down the way you came.

You think she’s trying to lead you to the beach, but at the pace you’re going, it could take all night. You keep getting your foot caught in roots, branches appearing out of thin air to make tiny cuts in your skin.

Right when it’s beginning to get hard to breathe, the rain stops suddenly.

Johanna lets go of you, letting you stumble a few steps before collapsing. You lean over your knees, taking deep breaths to resist the urge to vomit in the grass. You wipe the blood from your face the best you can, gathering handfuls and flinging it into the trees.

“Fuck.” Johanna says, her fingers are laced, hands on top of her head. She looks between you and Beetee.

“We should go down to the beach.” You tell her.

She scoffs, “That’s not happening.” She shakes her head, walking a couple steps away. You’re able to see Beetee, he’s more concerned about the wire than himself. “If the careers are down there, I won’t be able to protect all three of us against the four of them. That’s a stupid idea.”

“It’s stupid to stay here, too.” You tell her, “The Gamemakers did this.”

“So?” Johanna asks.

“They did the lightning too. Who’s to say they won’t do another?”

She’s not listening to you anymore. “I’ll take watch.”

—

The sound of distant screaming stops the three of you momentarily, peering to the right, as if you’ll be able to see through the trees to find the danger. The ground begins to tremble, Johanna has to grab Beetee with both of her hands to keep him from sinking to the floor.

He grew worse overnight, nothing the beach could’ve helped. He needs to have the wound on his back cleaned out, the blood rain from early this morning could carry a number of nasty diseases. 

That’s why you’re heading there now. Johanna came to her senses, as soon as you woke up, she questioned you about your thoughts on the jungle versus the beach. You told her that the jungle offers concealment, of course, but no one’s going to be on the beach because everyone can see them, no matter where they stand.

And, once again, there’s a chance you could run across the other half of your allies on the beach. It’s worth the try.

“Come on, Volts.” Johanna grunts, jerking him. He follows her directions, but he’s dragging his feet. “I will drag you out of here by your feet.” She threatens.

“Don’t talk to him like that.” You snap at her. “He’s hurt, he can’t help it.”

“He wouldn’t be hurt if he didn’t go into the Cornucopia for that stupid wire.” She tells you, “So yes, he could help it. Either help me carry him or shut up.”

You glare at her, taking the other side of Beetee to help her bring him through the last bit of the jungle. You glance off to the right again, curious, and find a large wave cresting over the trees. Your heart skips a beat at the sight, wanting to turn and run in the other direction.

It doesn’t break its uniform shape, heading straight for the Cornucopia. You can kinda see the wave through the trees, joining the water in the center, and then skyrocketing. You throw your head back, watching it reach for the top of the dome, the force field, and then falling all at once.

“Gamemakers…” You murmur, eyebrows twitching in.

A cannon fires.

The beach is close enough for you to pick up the pace with Johanna, pulling Beetee with all the strength you have left. Once your feet hit the sand, it’s harder to pull him along. Beetee stops working with you altogether, falling forward, taking you and Johanna down with him.

Your hands and knees hit the sand, sticking to the bloody sweat on your hands. Johanna springs up, stomping her foot into the sand, letting out a frustrated scream through her teeth. You reach to touch Beetee’s temple, and find it warm.

“Johanna!” A voice shouts, you turn to look over your left shoulder, finding a figure running your way.

“Finnick!” Johanna laughs, relieved, “Finally!” She sends you a look, half a smile, “I guess you were right.”

You tilt your head. You want to tell her that you have a tendency to be right, but you decide to savor the moment. Maybe you and Johanna can end up being friends after this, no matter how unlikable her personality can be sometimes.

You get to your feet, brushing the sand from your knees. You take a step toward Beetee, prying the wire from his fingers to make it easier to flip him onto his back so he’s not breathing in the sand. 

“Johanna.” Finnick breathes. He’s in nothing but his underwear, trident in hand. “We didn’t recognize you at first, covered in…” He swipes his finger across the skin on her arm, face scrunching when he finds out that it’s not liquid, it’s dried. 

“It’s blood.” Johanna says, Finnick glances at you to see that you’re just as gross.

“Did you get into a fight?”

“No, it happened last night. We thought it was rain, you know, because of the lightning, and we were all so thirsty. But when it started coming down, turned out to be blood.” Johanna’s words are a blur, you didn’t realize she could talk so fast. “Thick, hot blood. You couldn’t see, you couldn’t speak without getting a mouthful. We just staggered around, trying to get out of it. That’s when Blight hit the force field.”

Katniss and Peeta have joined you, not dressed in anything but their underwear, either. Katniss is on guard with the bow in her hand, she must not feel threatened enough to need an arrow. You briefly meet Peeta’s eyes, he gives you a smile. The last time you talked to him was in the gymnasium, he came around while you were talking to the first aid specialist. He didn’t stay with you for long.

“I’m sorry, Johanna.” Finnick shakes his head.

“Yeah, well, he wasn’t much, but he was from home.” Her eyes land on you and Beetee. “And he left me alone with these two.” She nudges Beetee with the top of her shoe. “He got a knife in the back at the Cornucopia. And her—”

“Johanna.” You warn.

“She can’t stop talking about what happened with the twelve bongs last night.” She says, “Turns out that Nuts is nuts.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. You’re not going to respond to her, you’re not going to let her antagonize you. You turn away, grabbing Beetee’s wire to move it into the treeline.

“Lay off her.” Katniss snaps.

You pause, turning to find Johanna glaring at Katniss. “Lay off her?” She hisses, stepping forward and slapping Katniss. Your mouth opens, and before you can speak, “Who do you think got them out of that bleeding jungle for you? You—”

Finnick strides toward Johanna, picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder. She squirms, still calling Katniss names, even after Finnick’s dropped her in the water, dunking her repeatedly beneath the surface. 

“I’m sorry, Katniss.” You murmur, “She’s been on edge since Blight died last night.” 

“It’s not your fault.” She tells you.

“I’m um, I’m going to clean up.” 

You wade into the saltwater, watching the way it turns pink as the dried blood saturates. You dip your hands into the warm water, rubbing your hands free of the blood that you’ve had to deal with for the past couple of hours. The cuts on your hands begin to swing, but you don’t care.

You lower yourself into the water, using your nails to get it off better. It’s laid on so thickly in places, it comes off in chunks that you have to pick out. You scratch at your scalp, the blood turning into goop you squeeze out. Every time you think you come close to being done, you find more.

You pull off the purple belt, throwing it into the sand. You shed the jumpsuit, which has been stained from the blood as well. Here, you can see where the red is coming from. You rub the last of it off your skin, before making your way back to the beach. You’ll hang it up to dry.

You throw the jumpsuit onto a branch, and then turn around to see what the others are doing. Finnick and Johanna are still in the water, and it seems he’s managed to calm Johanna down. As for Katniss and Peeta, they’re bathing Beetee in the water, hopefully looking at his wound while they’re at it. 

You start back to the water to join them, but not to help. They’ve got it handled so far, all you’ll do is get in the way. What you want to do is pick their brains about the jungle and what they experienced last night.

Peeta looks at you as you approach, once more offering a smile. “He’s in good hands.”

“I know.” You say, stopping a few feet behind them. “You’d never hurt him. I’ve actually got a few questions.”

What you need is for them to confirm the theory that you’ve had working since last night. You said that there is no coincidence when it comes to the Gamemakers, and that got you thinking after the blood rain. A sequence of events like that last night, one after the other… it’s not something they usually do.

First, it was the twelve bells, Blight said it was the beginning of the second day. What if it was for something else, though? The Capitol never exhausts all their tricks so quickly, because they want to keep unpredictability on their side. And that’s what happened, you didn’t think that they’d cause the lightning, and then the blood rain, and then presumably another event after.

There was another death last night, you were awake to hear the cannon. If you had to make an estimated time on when it happened, you’d say an hour after Blight’s death. You could chalk that all up to coincidence, or maybe the careers found a tribute, but that’s not what you’re considering.

“Sure.” Peeta says, Katniss gives you an apprehensive look.

“You three had Mags, didn’t you?” You ask. “Did you lose her sometime during the night?”

Peeta nods, “Yeah, we lost her during the fog.”

Your eyebrows raise, “The fog? What time did that happen?”

He shakes his head, “I don’t know. It was after that first cannon.”

You look at Katniss, “Were you awake?”

“Yes, I was watching the trees.” 

You press your lips together, looking up and at the cornucopia. They’re not giving you much to work with. You clear your throat, “Katniss, how far away would you say you were to the lightning?” 

When you look down at her, she’s thinking.

You motion to one of the wedges. “One of these sections over, two…?”

“Two, I guess.”

“And did you hear rain?” 

Katniss nods, “Yeah, I was waiting for it to come to us, but it never did.”

“Did anything happen after the rain stopped?”

“The fog started.”

Your lips twitch, corners of your mouth turning up into a smile. You look up at the wedge you came from this afternoon, and then one over to the left to see the tree the lightning struck last night. 

Lightning, rain, fog. 

“The section you were just in, did anything happen?” You look between Katniss and Peeta.

“Monkey mutts.” Peeta says, “They appeared out of nowhere and kept multiplying. They um… they killed the woman from Six.”

You nod, backing away from them. “Thanks.”

The moment you have your back to them, you let out a quiet laugh. You’ve figured it out. It was fairly obvious last night, but with Katniss and Peeta’s help, it’s put the pieces together.

The arena works like a clock.

That’s the importance of the twelve, why the cornucopia is divided up so specifically. The bells last night were because it was midnight. The lightning started, lasted the entirety of the hour, and then the rain started. It didn’t reach you right away because it started off at the top of the hill and made its way down. When the hour was up, that’s when the fog started. And then the mutts in the section over when your allies successfully escaped the fog.

You should say something to them, but not before your suspicions are confirmed. If you’re right, then the lightning should happen again at noon. The tidal wave that killed the girl a few sections over wasn’t too long ago. It’s gotta be anywhere between ten to eleven right now. You have an hour to go.

You sit in the treeline next to Beetee’s wire, watching as Johanna and Finnick wade out, coming in your direction.

“Are you thirsty?” Finnick asks, “Hungry?”

“Sure.” You smile, “I’ll take some water, more than anything.”

“Not before me.” Johanna says, coming to sit nearby.

“I’ll be back.” Finnick laughs, heading down the beach.

When you officially agreed to join the alliance that Haymitch organized, you were surprised to find out that Finnick was part of it. In all honesty, you thought that he might have been more inclined to stay with Cashmere, Gloss, Enobaria and Brutus, considering they hold the same status.

They’re very popular victors. Well, not so much Brutus anymore, but the other three won a little more than ten years ago. With them being back-to-back career wins, it was easy to see why the Capitol took such a good liking to them. Finnick was probably the best victor to end that streak on, since he set a new record for the youngest tribute to ever win. That, and the trident he received in the arena was expensive.

In a way, though, Finnick has never been on the same page as Gloss and Enobaria. You picked up on it when you started mentoring for Wiress after your victory. At first glance, he seems like he fits in. He does go out with them to have drinks often, it just takes some convincing. 

You’ve heard him talk about his riches, how it started with clothes, gifts, gems, money, and turned into something more. He never elaborates beyond that point, leading you to believe that either there isn’t anything more, or it’s so important that he can’t afford to give it away.

It’s obvious that he prefers people that are more down to earth and sensible—like Johanna, his best friend.. Cashmere, Gloss and Enobaria feed into the Capitol, they wholeheartedly embrace every aspect of it. They let the Capitol change and shape them into the figure they want, because it’ll keep them in the spotlight longer.

As for Finnick, you think he’s been trying to escape it since they latched onto him. It’s hard for them to let go. They thought he was attractive when he was young, and he’s grown into his face over time. He’s a fly stuck in a spiderweb, he’ll be lucky if he wiggles out before his looks wear out.

This is why he joined the alliance, you’re sure. It’s the same conclusion you came to before. If there are no Hunger Games, there is no reason to return to the Capitol every summer, then that means he’s finally set free. It’s the same reason the rest of you were sucked in. It’s a shame that he had to lose his mentor in the process too, though.

Finnick comes back down the beach, bearing several items in his hands. He throws down a woven mat, which Katniss and Peeta immediately work to get Beetee onto to rest. He carefully works a metal object into a tree, and with gentle tweaking, it begins to pour water, which he collects into a bowl he seems to have made, too.

Johanna drinks two full bowls before allowing you to have one. The two of you split the rest of the shellfish, which Finnick insists for you to finish, because they’re done eating. When he can’t stand the silence any longer, he begins to tell you about the long night they experienced last night.

They woke up in the middle of the night, alarmed at Katniss’ tone. Finnick carried Mags down the hill most of the way. The fog was sweet smelling and corrosive, that’s why they don’t have jumpsuits anymore. When it touched their skin, it had a paralyzing effect. 

Finnick doesn’t explicitly say what happened to Mags, but you read between the lines, and Johanna doesn’t ask either. When he stops speaking about her, you catch on. Finnick and Katniss had to bring Peeta down the rest of the hill, because Peeta wasn’t at his best. He ran into the forcefield earlier in the day, and Finnick was able to bring him back.

Apparently, the fog corralled them to the bottom, where they tripped and tumbled down the rest of the way. They were sure the fog was going to kill them, until it stopped, creeping upward into the air, as if it had hit the wall.

“What do you mean?” You ask, sitting up.

Finnick shakes his head, Katniss speaks. “It was like we were out of reach.”

You hum.

This follows your theory; the threats have to stay within their wedges. If it goes out, then it breaks the rules that the Gamemakers created for the Quell. It wouldn’t work like a clock anymore. That’s why the wave an hour ago didn’t come in your direction, it hit the cornucopia and evenly dispersed into each section. Effectively resetting the beach.

Finnick goes on to tell you how the monkey mutts were orange, and didn’t seem to be worried about him and Katniss. However, the moment that Peeta made eye contact with one of them, they went berserk. They kept attacking, and appeared never-ending. They didn’t stop until the woman from Six got injured. Katniss and Peeta brought her out to the water, where they kept her company while she passed. 

Finnick tells you that the mutts vanished into the vines and bushes, like they were being pulled in. When he tried to investigate, he didn’t find any evidence that they were ever there. Just their weapons left behind.

“Interesting.” You murmur.

This makes you wonder if the blood from the rain last night is also gone.

“Interesting how?” Finnick asks, watching you carefully.

You meet his eyes, shaking your head. “Nothing.”

He squints at you, letting you know that he’s not going to forget. “Well, if any of you want to sleep, I can take watch.”

“Or I could.” Katniss says, “I’m rested.”

“Well, I’m not going to sleep.” Johanna says.

You and Peeta look at each other. He shrugs.

“I’ll sleep.” He says, moving to lay in the shade.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Finnick asks Katniss, she nods. “Then I guess I’ll sleep too. Wake me if either of you get tired.”

“What about you?” Johanna asks you.

You press your lips together, “I’m going to stay awake, I’ll just sit back here.”

“You should sleep.” Johanna tells you.

You get up, ignoring what she has to say. You find a place next to Finnick and Beetee, pluck a large leaf off of a fern, and begin to pick it apart. You all sit in silence, allowing Finnick and Peeta to settle enough to fall asleep. 

It’s got to be thirty minutes before Johanna turns her head to look at Finnick, and then back at Katniss. “How’d you lose Mags?”

“In the fog. Finnick had Peeta. I had Mags for a while. Then I couldn’t lift her. Finnick said he couldn’t take them both. She kissed him and walked right into the poison.” Katniss says.

“She was Finnick’s mentor, you know,” Johanna says.

“No, I didn’t.”

Johanna doesn’t say anything for a few moments, “She was half his family.”

When Katniss doesn’t respond, Johanna finally agrees to lay down to try and get herself some sleep. She picks the open spot between you and Finnick, and doesn’t speak another word. You can pinpoint the exact second she slips into unconsciousness, because her whole body relaxes and she lets out a content sigh.

“Did you sleep last night?” Katniss asks, looking over her shoulder slightly to see you.

“Some.” You murmur. 

“Aren’t you tired?”

“Not enough.”

She catches the hint with your short replies, not pushing it any further. Neither of you speak, watching the sun rise higher in the sky. You pick at your nails, unable to sit still while the anticipation builds. If you’re right, this could change everything. This will give you the advantage, a step in the right direction on how to get out of here.

And then, a flash of light as the lightning hits the same tree it repeatedly struck last night.

You get to your feet, a smile spreading over your face as you inch forward into the sun. You can’t contain the laughter that spills from your lips, hand covering your mouth to keep from being too loud.

“Twelve.” You say.

“What?” Katniss asks, “What are you laughing at?”

“It’s noon.” You giggle, turning around to look at her. “Get the others up, I have something to tell them.”

There must be something about your demeanor that keeps her from questioning you any further. She takes her time shaking Peeta, Finnick and Johanna awake. The entire time, you don’t move your eyes from the lightning tree. Your allies are not very happy when they wake and see that there’s no danger. 

You don’t care, turning to look at them. “I figured it out. I would’ve told you sooner, but I had to be sure.”

“Be sure about what?’ Peeta asks, rubbing the sand from his face.

“The arena,” you say, “It works like a clock.”

For the first few minutes, you’re met with skepticism, which you were heavily prepared for. As you meet their questions with answers and more information, they begin to open up to the idea.

“You told me all I needed to know.” You look between Katniss and Peeta. “I just had to be sure that the lightning struck again before I presented the facts.”

Finnick’s on his feet, collecting his belongings, “You are a genius, (Y/n). I would never have thought about that.”

“Well…”

“Seriously.” He says. “You got that all from a couple of hours? It could’ve taken us days.”

You press your lips together into a smile, “Thanks.”

“We have to move.” Katniss says, “If she’s right, then we’re way too close to the fog and monkeys. We should move further down the beach.”

“Works for me.” Peeta agrees.

While they make sure they have everything, you grab your jumpsuit down from the branch, finding that it's almost entirely dry by now. You pull it on, Finnick zips up the back. As for the belt, you offer it to Peeta, who has turned his attention to Beetee.

“He needs it more than I do in the water.”

“Are you sure?” Peeta asks, taking it from you.

“I can swim.”

You watch as Peeta tries to get Beetee up, but he objects. “Wire.”

Peeta looks over his shoulder, shaking his head at you, “I don’t…”

“Wire.” Beetee insists.

“Oh, I know what he wants,” Johanna says. She fishes the cylinder of wire out of the sand. It’s still covered in a thick layer of blood, no one has bothered to wash it since you got here. “This worthless thing. It’s some kind of wire or something. That’s how he got cut. Running up to the Cornucopia to get this. I don’t know what kind of weapon it’s supposed to be. I guess you could pull off a piece and use it as a garrote or something. But really, can you imagine Beetee garroting somebody?”

“He won his Games with wire. Setting up that electrical trap.” Peeta says. They must have done their research, trying to prepare ahead of time for the victor’s they’ll be facing. “It’s the best weapon he could have.”

Katniss turns her head to the side slightly. “Seems like you’d have that figured out,” she says, “Since you nicknamed him Volts and all.”

Johanna’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, that was really stupid of me, wasn’t it?” She asks, “I guess I must have been distracted by keeping your little friends alive. While you were… what, again? Getting Mags killed off?”

Katniss reaches for the knife on her belt.

“Go ahead. Try it. I don’t care if you are knocked up, I’ll rip your throat out.”

You shuffle away from them, sharing a look with Finnick. You clear your throat to speak, but he beats you to it. “Maybe we all had better be careful where we step.” Finnick looks at Katniss. He then takes the coil of wire and sets it on Beetee’s chest. “There’s your wire, Volts. Watch where you plug it.”

When Peeta goes to lift Beetee, he doesn’t resist. “Where to?”

“I’d like to go to the Cornucopia and watch. Just to make sure we’re right about the clock.” Finnick says. “No offense, of course, (Y/n).”

“Better safe than sorry.” You agree.

“Right. And that’s why I won’t be taking my eyes off of you, either,” He tells you, raising his eyebrows. “With Beetee being down, you’ve got to figure out a way to take out the careers. Are you up to it?”

You nod, pulling on the tips of your fingers. This shouldn’t be very hard. The four of them could put up a pretty good fight against the careers all on their own. Johanna and Finnick would want to play it closer to the safe side, to not put Katniss and Peeta directly in the path of the careers. You need the Twelve tributes to come out of this arena alive.

“I can see the gears turning already.” Finnick laughs.

Johanna starts her way down the beach and onto the nearest sand strip that’ll lead you to the Cornucopia. Finnick is the next to go up, insisting to stay in front of you in case the careers are hiding inside and haven’t shown themselves quite yet. Peeta and Katniss follow behind you.

“If you could figure this out, what other tricks do you have up your sleeve?” Finnick asks, glancing at you.

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “Not much.”

“I don’t believe that.” 

The golden Cornucopia shines brightly in the sun, as you get closer, you see that it provides a good amount of shade for you to rest in. It’s empty, no sign of the careers, or that they’ve been here recently. The weapons that lie around on the black rock are picked over, only the unusual ones are left. 

“Set me by the water, will you?” Beetee asks Peeta, “I’d like to clean it.”

As he begins to dunk the wire into the water to clear it of blood, you wander around the side of the Cornucopia. The lightning stopped almost an hour ago, which means that at any moment…

“What are you doing?” Finnick asks, appearing beside you.

“Looking for signs.” You tell him.

“What time do you think it is?” He asks, leaning over your shoulder. “Blood rain?”

You squint at him, “No, we’re past that. It should be fog.” You take a step away from him. “Do you always stand this close?”

“I can’t let you out of my sight.”

“I guess an arm’s length distance is too much to ask for?” You muse.

“Entirely.” He agrees.

You grind your teeth, trying to seem annoyed while you wait for the warmth to leave your face. It doesn’t help that he’s half-naked, like he was during the Tribute Parade this year. You’re sure the Capitol is enjoying every second of this, and he is too.

Your eyes find the jungle again, and you straighten, “There.”

This seems to catch the other’s attention. “Yes, look, (Y/n) is right. It’s two o’clock and the fog has started.” Katniss says.

“Like clockwork.” Peeta says, “You’re amazing to have figured that out, (Y/n).”

“It’s really—”

“No, he’s right.” Katniss agrees. 

Finnick nudges your shoulder.

“Oh, she’s more than smart.” Beetee says, pausing what he’s doing with the wire. “She’s intuitive. She can sense things before anyone else. Like a canary in one of your coal mines.”

You can feel your face begin to grow warm again.

“What’s that?” Finnick asks Katniss.

“It’s a bird that we take down into the mines to warn us if there’s bad air.” 

“What’s it do, die?” Johanna asks.

“It stops singing first. That’s when you should get out. But if the air’s too bad, it dies, yes. And so do you.” Katniss says.

“So, you have been lying to me.” Finnick murmurs in your ear.

You push him off of you. “I’m not sure Beetee’s right. He’s just saying that.”

“Whatever you say.”

Johanna goes inside of the Cornucopia, throwing the axe that she’s been using since yesterday. Your eyebrows twitch, curious on why she’d abandon the one weapon that she knows like the back of her hand, until she emerges with a pair of better looking axes. The one she had before must’ve been nothing more than a hatchet. 

Finnick leaves your side to briefly join Katniss, who’s reloading on her stock of arrows, which is a good idea. Finnick goes all the way to the back, before coming out with a knife. He turns it in his hand, blade in his palm, handle in your direction.

“You need something to defend yourself with.” He motions for you to take it. You carefully pull it out of his hand. 

“I thought you were keeping a close eye on me.”

“In the case of an emergency.” He tells you.

While the rest of you have been wandering around, Peeta has begun to draw a map of the arena onto a large leaf from the jungle with his knife. In the center is the Cornucopia, with the twelve strips of sand branching out from it. There’s another outer circle representing the waterline, and a slightly bigger one indicating the edge of the jungle.

“Look how the Cornucopia’s positioned.” Peeta says to Katniss.

She examines the map to see what he means. “The tail points toward twelve o’clock.”

“Right, so this is the top of our clock.” He says, and then scratches the numbers one through twelve around the map in the order of a clock. “Twelve to one is the lightning zone.” He then goes on to write lightning in the corresponding wedge, working clockwise adding blood, fog, and monkeys in the appropriate sections.

“And ten to eleven is the wave.” Katniss says, he adds it.

Finnick and Johanna come to join the three of you, fully armed with tridents, axes and knives.

“Did you notice anything unusual in the others?” Katniss asks you and Johanna. You shake your head. “I guess they could hold anything.”

“I’m going to make the ones where we know the Gamemakers’ weapon follows us out past the jungle, so we’ll stay clear of those.” Peeta says, drawing diagonal lines on the fog and wave beaches. He then sits back. “Well, it’s a lot more than we knew this morning, anyway.”

You look up, going to check on Beetee to see if he’s made any progress on the wire. Your heart drops in your chest at the sight of a dripping-wet Gloss behind him, Beetee slipping out of his hands, his throat slit wide open.

Katniss sees this too, working quickly to kill him. The tip of her arrow lodges into his right temple.

“No!” You scream, jerking toward him.

A pair of arms grabs you from behind, turning and throwing you into the cornucopia, making you scratch the palms of your hands and your knees on the black rock. When you turn around, Johanna has buried an axe blade in Cashmere’s chest. Finnick has just blocked a spear from hitting Peeta, taking the knife that was aimed your way from Enobaria, into his thigh as well.

Three cannons sound, one after the other. The Two tributes have begun to retreat, realizing that half their alliance is dead. Katniss starts to run after them, not letting this go. Johanna follows after her, and you struggle to get to your feet.

The wire, you need it. You have an idea.

Finnick has turned his attention to the knife, letting you slip past him and begin to wobble to the edge of the island, when the ground suddenly moves to the right. You slam into the rock, as it begins to spin, slowly at first but picking up speed with no sign of slowing.

“(Y/n)!” Finnick shouts at you.

You stick your fingers and toes into the crevices in the rock, hiding your face in your shoulder as the sand on the island flies down from the top, to the water below. You grit your teeth, fighting the nausea that begins to arise.

The weapons are just starting to fly out of the Cornucopia, when the land slams to a stop without slowing. You lift your head, finding that Finnick has a tight grip on your wrist, wide-eyed.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, he helps you get to your feet. The knife that was in his thigh is now gone, and he’s bleeding. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it, limping to get Peeta to his feet, as well. Katniss is coughing, Johanna spitting the sand out of her mouth.

They sit to catch their breath, but you can’t. The bodies have been tossed into the water, and if that’s the case, the wire is out there too. Beetee might have it, or it might have sunk to the bottom already. 

“(Y/n), sit.” Finnick tells you.

“I need the wire.” Your eyes searching the water.

“Oh good, Beetee’s spirit lives on in Nuts.” Johanna mutters.

You find Beetee floating on his back, the wire sitting directly on his chest. You point at it, and when no one comes, you drop the knife that Finnick gave you, preparing to jump into the water.

“Stop.” Finnick pushes you back, “Stay here.”

The water begins to dip and spray, the two of you look up to see the hovercraft. Finnick drops the trident in his hand, racing down the strip of sand nearest to Beetee’s body. You watch as he dives, and cuts through the water in the matter of seconds. The claw has been released to collect his body, when Finnick pulls the wire from his hands.

Finnick swims back to the sand, and as he’s pulling himself up, the hovercraft is fading into thin air, blending in with the sky. He walks toward you, the spool of wire is as clean as it was yesterday, before the rain had come. You hold your hands out for the wire, and he drops it in your hands.

“Thank you.” You look at him.

He collects the trident and your knife from the rock. “I’m sorry about Beetee.”

You nod, “I am too.”

The two of you go back to the others, where Johanna gets to her feet almost instantly. “Let’s get off this stinking island.”

“Let me patch Finnick’s leg first.” You tell her, “And then we can go.”

You spend the next ten minutes looking through boxes with Peeta and Katniss, where you find limited supplies. It’s better than nothing, and Katniss offers her ointment for you to use.

You place Finnick on a box, while you crouch in front of him. His leg had been washed out from the seawater when he jumped in, you’re sure that had to hurt. You finger the ointment into the wound. He grunts, gripping onto the sides of the box, refusing to take his eyes off of you for a second. 

You place the bandage on top, having him lift his leg high enough for you to wrap it tightly to keep it from coming loose. It’s not your best work, but it’s what you had to work with.

“You should be good, now.” 

It’s decided that you’ll go to the beach at twelve, since that hour won’t come around again for a while. Peeta, Johanna and Finnick head off in three different directions.

“Twelve o’clock, right?” Peeta asks. “The tail points at twelve.”

“Before they spun us,” Finnick says. “I was judging by the sun.”

“The sun only tells you it’s going on four, Finnick.” Katniss tells him.

A few eyes slide onto you. You swallow, looking into the jungle. “I hate to say it, but there’s a good possibility they shifted the outer ring of the jungle, too. What’s stopping them?”

Katniss nods. “So any one of these paths could lead to twelve o’clock.”

They wander around the Cornucopia, trying to see if there’s anything that’s out of place. This is when you see that each section of the jungle has their own giant tree. Johanna suggests to follow the Two tribute’s tracks, except they have been blown or washed away. There is nothing to go off of anymore.

“Maybe we should’ve kept quiet about the clock.” Katniss says. “Now they’ve taken that advantage away.”

“Only temporarily.” You tell her. “At ten, we’ll see the wave again and be back on track.”

“Yes, they can’t redesign the whole arena.” Peeta agrees.

“It doesn’t matter,” Johanna sighs impatiently. “Nuts had to tell us or we never would have moved our camp in the first place, brainless.” She squints at you briefly. “Come on, I need water. Anyone have a good gut feeling?”

You let them randomly decide a path. You follow Finnick quietly, adjusting the spool in your hand, looking out into the water. Beetee must have had some idea with this, too. If only he had let you in on his thoughts, they were likely better than anything that you’re coming up with right now. 

The most obvious is that you use it the same way he had, by leading the careers to the center somehow and electrocuting them to death. The only way that would be possible is if the wire were wet on one end and the other had something to jumpstart it. There’s not many options for that, beside the metal plates you came up to the surface on. 

To get inside of those could take forever, and you’d be exposed. You’d have to get out into the water and on a plate to remove it. That’s assuming it’s possible and you don’t blow yourself sky-high. Then what? You’d have to lure the careers down to the beach, which still isn’t wet… you could use the explosives from the plates, but you don’t know how much damage that’d do anyway.

You guess you could just set a plate beneath the sand, and when the careers step on it, it’ll kill them. That’s if they step on it if they go for the trap, which would have to be the group of you, or better yet, Katniss and Peeta, because they’re the main concern after their scores.

It’d have to be timed perfectly, too. If you set the explosives up before ten, but the careers don’t fall for it until after, it’ll be set off by the tidal wave. Then the beach’s sand won’t be able to hide the plates because it’ll be wet…

You gasp.

“What?” Finnick asks, “You can’t just do that.”

“I have an idea.” You tell him. “I think I know how we can kill the Two tributes.”

Finnick grins, throwing his arm around your shoulders as soon as your feet hit the sandy beach. “I knew you’d figure something out!”

[verysanebsdfan]

Hiii!!

So I really loved your ciel , tokito, and killua x doll reader

So I was wondering if you could do one of a reader who is a absolute angel and looked like one but also has a blood manipulation nen so basically a demon nen and similar to the doll one she says some stories that sometimes disturb our lovely assassin

And also one where reader is very similar to misa misa from death note !! She's a famous model w kira as her nen and she joined the Hunter to try and see what else she could do!!

Ty!!

Hello!!

I assume only with Killua then?

Either way i made this two separate stories, after its done i will link it here too if i remember. Also my hxh oc from 2021 had blood manipulation nen...

You can find the second story here

Also to the nen, i imagine you could both make weapons and stuff (make it not liquid using the iron in blood or smth) and move the blood, idk how to explain it but, when the blood is circulating in your oponents body, you can move it (while its still circulating) and consequently move the body of your oponent.

✩ Okay so to start very uhh originally, you guys met at the hunter exam, so you travel with Gon and him.

✩ Maybe you met during the third phase since you fell into the same room as them

✩ Of course they didn't really trust you at first, since it is the hunter exam and they should be cautious, but when you got stuck in the room for 50 hours, you bonded, since you were the same age as Gon and Killua.

✩ Killua was really impressed by your fight from before, very much wondering how you did what you did. I mean, it was obvious your oponent wouldn't just jump from the platform by himself...

✩ Of course he asked you about it, but you just responded with a smile and a wink

✩ So, after the hunter exam and saving Killua from his creepy ahh family, you went to the Heavens arena and met Zushi and Wing. When Wing gave them the vague and quite incorrect description of nen, that is when it clicked, and he asked you about your abilities.

✩ And you just responded with your angelic smile. Why was he feeling all tingly tho? (¬ ͜ ͡¬)

✩ When you got onto the 200th floor, you actually stood through Hisokas nen, oopsies a mistake, and just went to sign up for a match since you were bored by all those weak people in lower floors.

✩ Now, when Killua and learned the basics of nen and stuff, he invaded your room and started asking questions...

"So i just can...even stop their heart and stuff...i mean, it will beat for a little bit but the blood wont circulate...and then they will pass out and die...If the blood and oxygen supply is cut off, muscle cells of the heart begin to suffer damage and start to die so..." "That's terrifying, you can kill anyone...but can you also, i dunno, help people who are about to bleed out" "I am working on it, but i cannot do miracles, i am not a god nor an angel (debatable)...If the blood gets on the ground as well and i were to put it back inside the persons body, i may very well just kill them...I have yet to learn how to separate blood and bacteria....i mean it is the same as taking out a toy from pool of blood, but just really small...then another problem is getting it into veins...and if i were to stop the bleeding, i might acidentally stop the whole blood circulation, im no doctor though"

✩ And you are just saying it as if you didnt kill people like that...however it is very respectable

✩ And then in Yorknew city he confesses yipee...and then you meet the Phantom troupe😍

✩ Now, Killua sually really worries about you, i mean, you are an angel basically...and people are pigs, predators...animals...but luckily you can protect yourself SO!!

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹

Idk what to say anymore...not happy with this at all

[peqachy]

Summary :

ror/snv characters reactions to you winning your first battle. Obviously, this is based off the characters I like most right now and who is alive in the time frame of the one shot. I know it may seem rushed but I thought id would be good practice for different character's perspectives.

Featured characters :

Thor, Buddha, Shiva, Jack, and Sasaki

Warning :

contains mentions of grief

Thor :

He wasn't paying attention at first because, lets be honest here, no even the other humans looked convinced that you would stand a chance, let alone win, but you proved them wrong. You did more than win, you kicked major ass. You sustained the least injuries out of all of the human fighters and put on quite the spectacle too. Explosions, gun shots that almost broke the laws of physics, and a victory that left him more than curious about you. How would you fair against him? Your style seems to be stealthily planned strikes so he would have to be on his toes. It makes him wonder if he would have done better than the poor weakling pinned against you.

Buddha :

He wasn't surprised in the slightest, impressed yes, but not surprised. He got to know you a little when you briefly crossed paths an hour ago. He could feel your resolve, even if you seemed concerned for the valkryie helping you to victory. You were kind and it showed to the very end as you reluctantly used a technique you swore you would never use again. So to see you use it when you were out of options and then sob over the god you killed as they faded away he knew you were hurting from a sadness only you could understand. For that, he pities you greatly.

Shiva :

He wasn't sure what to think. You were tiny, sure, but to see you fight was like watching himself fight. Your moves were like his dance and just as deadly, hence your victory, but he's sure if he were to meet you he would get along with you without a hitch. He can see a kindness in you. From how you sobbed over the death of your opponent to how you told the humans that you despised them for cheering at the death of a god. That senseless death that could have been avoided shouldn't be praised, but the humans did not hear you. They continued their cheers and you continued to cry. Such a kind heart from a cruel cruel world. He almost wishes you had met him in his prime, back when humanity admired gods for their strength and strived to enjoy the simple things. He believes you would have like a life like that better than the one you led.

Jack the Ripper :

He wasn't watching at the beginning, too busy tending to his wounds to be bothered to watch the tournament's latest brawl, but the silence of the stadium eventually catch his interest. He wasn't sure what he should expect when he entered on of the viewing rooms, but he sure wasn't expecting to see a giant fighting a child. At least, that's how it looked from where he was looking. He had his comments on it, of course, as he sipped his tea. he thought you would die, especially after you displayed his favorite color as you ran from the monster hot on your heels, but then your color changed to one that he's never seen so vibrantly before. Next thing he knew, you had won against the odds to display such an agonizing color. He's never seen someone shine with the color you had. It was so close to the color he loves, yet entirely different. He thought it curious when your valkryie had to guide you off the arena ground to the infirmary where he's positive you're still crying. What a sad existence you live, just like him.

Sasaki Kyojirou :

Oh boy. That was his first thought as the battle began with you volleying bullets at close quarters with your opponent. He wasn't sure if you were going to make it. As he's seen, gods can dodge bullets from a divine weapon if they're fast enough and it looked like your opponent was no different until you grazed him with a quick shot, one where it was obvious you didn't aim and had hit him by mere coincidence. However, even then, he noticed how your eyes never changed. You remained calm and enacted your plan perfectly. Though it wasn't enough, he could see you hadn't given up yet. Even when you ran away from your opponent you never surrendered. You kept pushing forward with a resolve that never wavered. He found himself admiring it. Then, with a last ditch effort, you won, but he found it strange that you began to cry. You had won. You should have been happy to be alive, so why were you so sad? He doesn't understand it.

----

I hope this was okay. ,:)

[moreespressoformydepresso]

Okay so to add to this post from yesterday:

I’m writing this right after posting that one so if somebody reblogs with something similar to this I promise I did not see it before writing this. I just wanted my full on fix it and this is how I managed to forcefully make it happen:

What if, just like in the book, the tributes didn’t have a bloodbath? If you wanna be very optimistic, what if none of the tributes had died yet but had been brought closer by the… unusual events surrounding their stay, and were just a little bit less enthused about the idea of killing each other? We’re ignoring the rabies. The tributes got close enough fast enough for them to save Reaper from getting bitten or that stupid bat was knocked out by slamming into the shaking sides of the cattle car before it could bite Jessup.

We all know Gaul’s a murderous piece of never before seen insanity, and it’s pretty clear (to me at least) that she was simply looking for an excuse to release the snakes. Well, what if she was just the teensiest bit too excited about that? When nobody has died in over a day because everyone is actively avoiding conflict (maybe Treech pulled a Peeta and convinced the pack to wait with attacking Lamina or something to piss Gaul off even further) she goes on the big screen to tell people she’ll nobly make sure the districts receive their punishment no matter how hard they try to rebel and sicks the snakes on them. Joke’s on her! They’re not stupid and once one person gets to higher ground everybody else follows. The tank is placed somewhere on flat ground so Lamina gets to stay on her beam and maybe Treech joins her so they can reconcile. Some older kids grab the younger ones to get the heck out of dodge so everyone’s in a safe spot.

As in my previous post, none of the tributes can be reached. Therefore, the snakes decide to get their share of flesh from the next closest thing: the peacekeepers. They don’t even have a chance to call for help, and there are no cameras that film their deaths so nobody even realizes nobody’s guarding the arena until it’s too late. Again, the cold night kills all of the snakes and provides the time frame that ends up causing the utter embarrassment to the Capitol that is the 10th Hunger Games.

This time, it’s Circ and Teslee, even the smart cookies, who notice the snakes all on the hunt towards the same spot and investigate. They immediately run back with their findings and the tributes spread the word from person to person in minutes. All strategizing is done in the cameras’ blindspots in a soft enough tone to not be caught by the microphones. Lamina hears that the only obstacle left is the lock when she “trades” with Reaper to buy everyone time and suggests going to Treech, since he knows how to pick locks. Teslee and Circ point out the camera near the entrance, so they decide that it’s better to be safe than sorry here and come up with a plan.

After some back and forth, Lucy Gray brings up that the games are all for entertainment, which gives Coral an idea (coralbaird alarm coralbaird alarm they are chaos gremlins). What if they have a few tributes fight? That would draw attention towards the fight and away from the entrance. They’ll do it early to prevent anyone from realizing the guards are dead. A few others will signal towards the cameras to try and convince their mentors to send supplies so they have some time to find a hideout and plan before food and water become pressing issues.

Panlo volunteers to be part of the fight, since his mentor is a dickhead. The chances of Gaius sending him anything substantial are so low they’re kissing the earth’s core. Reaper also volunteers, and Treech tries to before he’s reminded that he’s supposed to be picking the lock. So he instead volunteers to stay last with Lucy Gray since they had the most donations. Clearly the audience loves them, so they’ll perform together while everyone else gets out and then slip out of sight from the cameras. Teslee and Circ will hack the cameras from the outside and move them subtly while the distractions are happening so that the blind spots are big enough for the tributes to manoeuvre past. Wovey and Bobbin leave during the night, knowing their mentors won’t send them much. Someone needs to make sure that possible replacement guards don’t foil the plan by taking them out if necessary. They have the dead guards’ guns and no peacekeeper would expect to be shot, especially not from the outside of the arena.

In the end, it’s Panlo vs Reaper vs Sabyn vs Facet. None of them had mentors great enough to be likely to send food, but they’re all strong enough for a drawn out free for all fight without casualties to be believable. Once Treech whistles out the signal that he’s picked the lock successfully, they start retreating from the fight one by one, making it look like they just narrowly dodged a lethal blow and decided to cut their losses. The tributes collect their gifts and high tail it out of the arena while Lucy Gray and Treech “get stuck” conveniently close to a microphone. This is done by Coral acting out the angry Bad Guy she’d forced herself into once they entered the arena. Treech acts the meek spineless coward and books it away from the pack, who give chase just slow enough to believably lose track of him in the tunnels and give up. He meets Lucy Gray at the agreed upon location, one on each side of a door with a microphone above it. What a coincidence! And at a time where Jessup is outside to collect gifts too!

Lucy Gray makes just enough noise to pass as accidental while still being audible for both the mic and Treech, who says hello and sardonically asks her where her partner is. She replies that he should come in and check, to which he replies he’s not ready to get his skull bashed in quite yet. Then they talk. They share stories and sing together, both showing a more human side to the tributes while also expertly stalling for time by drawing attention. They’re performers, they understand what to do without needing to discuss it.

The last person to leave aside from them, Marcus, (because he gave the camera district 2 signs so Sejanus knows what’s up and waited for his mentor to empty out as much of his funds as possible without being suspicious) taps out the agreed upon signal with his footsteps, making sure they echo loud enough for the two to overhear, before getting out too. Treech swiftly ends the conversation by stating that he should probably get a move on before someone finds him. He perfectly acts out a teenager getting everything off his mind to someone he thinks he may never talk to again, complimenting Lucy Gray and wishing her luck. She does the same, and they part ways. Treech is surprised to find that Vipsania sent him quite a bit of food and water once he made it back to the main part of the arena, but he’s not complaining. Lucy Gray follows after him with enough time between their departures to be believable for two people who are supposed to be scared of each other.

And that’s that. All of them are out, regrouping outside of the gates and escaping the scene swiftly. It’s only the next day that anyone bothers to check out the lack of action, only to find the snakes’ rainbow venom pouring out of the guards’ corpses in front of a long empty amphitheater. Surprisingly, most mentors aren’t all that upset at losing their chance to win the Plinth Prize, which is now given out like it was in previous years. Secretly, they’re glad their tribute escaped alive, though they’ll never say that out loud.

Nor will a few of them explain why they suddenly go on a trip to the districts every now and again. Or why Gaul’s lab blew up with her inside it once the horrific symptoms of her snakes’ venom was released to the public.

Guess we’ll never know how that happened :)

[wheelsvoid]

SONGBIRDS ; LUCY GRAY

⇢ you and lucy gray survive the hunger games, and she takes on the roll as your older sister

masterlist

genre: platonic, angst with a happy ending

word count: 2,029

warnings: mentions of death, weapons, blood and fighting

request: “Would you be willing to write an angsty Lucy Gray from Hunger Games (if you write for her of course) where R is in the games, but young, and Lucy is protective of R (who is mute as well if ok?) they both survive the games, and she takes them in like a younger sibling figure? Up to you how it ends :)))”

absolutely, i love lucy gray so, so much. this is movie based, as i have yet to read that book (currently on catching fire, obsessed). and of course anything in this from the actual movie does not belong to me. rights go to suzanne collins, lionsgate films and everyone else involved mwah

I stood in the vast group of people, listening to the sounds of dread. The birds had stopped chirping, the breeze had gone, and so had the smiles of District 11.

Every year since I was 12 I’d stood here, praying that my name wasn’t called. If I went into the games, I’d never see my home again. District 11 was all I had, but there was a comfort in knowing I had no family to leave behind. At least I wouldn’t be worrying anyone while I died on a screen.

I didn’t listen to the woman on the stage, who seemed uncomfortably pleased with where she was. The safety of her position brought her confidence, and power.

Then, I watched as she held out a note. I held my breath. I was so nervous I hadn’t even seen her take it from the bowl.

“Y/N L/N.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. Everyone turned to me.

I may have been lonely, but I still made an effort to be kind to everyone. They knew who I was, and as I glanced around me, I could see varying emotions. Concern, relief, pity. No one said anything, and slowly, I walked forwards on my shaky legs.

My heart was beating rapidly in my chest. As I stared up at the woman, I hoped that I wouldn’t be forced to speak—because I couldn’t even if I tried.

My voice did not work. Even if I willed it to, it would only cause me pain. The accident that had happened seven years prior made sure of that.

As I looked out to the people of District 11, I could only hope that they would forgive me for their loss.

———

I knew the games to be cruel, but experiencing it myself brought me a different kind of rage. I didn’t like being kept in a zoo, and broadcasted on live television. I didn’t like being pushed and shoved, or poked at like some wild animal. I glared at every person from the Capitol, and let them know that even if I could not speak, they would never see me going down without a fight.

The only good thing to come out of the Hunger Games had been a songbird named Lucy Gray. She showed me kindness, and she spoke for me like it was second nature. The Games were changing this year, and tributes were getting sponsors—and Lucy understood that I could not speak for myself.

Lucy Gray helped me give the people of the Capitol a story worth listening to. Some sort of sob story of how I lost my voice, but it had worked, and the people liked me.

She told me that I was hard not to like.

Although, Coriolanus Snow, Lucy’s mentor, had hated what she’d done. He didn’t like how she was fighting for not only herself, but for me and District 12’s other tribute, Jessup.

I decided that I wasn’t a fan of Snow, either.

So now, as we stood in the ruins of what was to be the arena, with my heart racing in my chest, I could only hope that either me or Lucy would survive.

“5.”

I sucked in a deep breath.

“4. 3. 2.”

Lucy and I made eye contact for a brief moment. I had no intentions of running to the centre of the rubble to grab a weapon. I’d likely end up dead. I knew my strengths and weaknesses, and killing was no strength of mine.

“1.”

An alarm blared, and the Games were on.

I watched in horror as the teenagers screamed out, rushing towards the weapons in the middle. My eyes went back to Lucy Gray, who was now the closest to me. She ran up to me in an instant, but her eyes where wild.

“Where is Jessup?” I barely heard her over the screams and cries ahead of us. “Jessup! Jessup!”

I found myself searching for him, too. I didn’t know him, and I had only met him once, but he was important to Lucy.

Lucy started stumbling backwards as she watched the bodies start to fall. I gripped her arm tightly, my mind a haze. If I could scream and cry, I would.

The Capitol found this exciting? They found this fun?

I wondered if they’d cheer when my blood spilled to the floor, or if they’d cry. Their feelings had never made sense in my mind.

A boy with an axe came charging towards Lucy and I, and with a scream, Lucy pulled me down with her to avoid the hit. We watched as he ran crazily around the arena, finding another victim for his blade instead.

“Jessup!” Lucy called once more, but I had to pull her back as we got caught in the middle of another fight. We were not safe here. We had to leave.

As a girl impaled another boy with a trident, we hastily got to our feet and ran.

Time and time again, Lucy and I avoided the deadly blows sent our way. My mind was on autopilot, and I was reacting on instinct. Lucy made sure to never remove her firm grasp on my hand.

Then, her eyes landed on someone in the distance. “Jessup!” And with bravery I felt I’d never had, I followed her through the arena, dodging weapons and fists.

———

We’d been in the arena for days now, never leaving each other’s side. Lucy was determined to keep me alive, and I wondered what I’d done to make her adore me so much that she’d put me first even if it meant her death. I wondered if she knew I’d been doing the same.

There were very few tributes left, and I realized I’d barely known their names. I worried that if I’d been forced to kill, I’d feel more guilt if I knew who they were. But I was lucky to have Lucy. She did all of the difficult things.

When I’d offered to poison the water, because I was quiet, and quick, and smaller than she was, she refused. She’d kept me hidden as she’d done it herself.

The loss of Jessup had hit her hard, too. She felt the guilt of his death, even if it couldn’t have been her fault that he’d gotten rabies. He had been doomed before he’d even entered the arena.

Maybe that’s why she was working so hard on keeping me alive, now.

Lucy and I could do nothing but stare at the new obstacle to enter the arena. It had been put there only seconds ago, but we waited with slow breaths as if it would jump out at us in seconds.

It was a tall, glass container. From here, I couldn’t see what was in it. I was lost on ideas, too. I glanced at Lucy, but she looked as clueless as I was. She reached for my hand, held it tightly, and did not let go.

“Is it over?” I watched as a small girl walked towards the container, a small smile on her face. So innocent and young. “Can we go home now?”

“Wovey.” A boy in the distance called out. He was warning her. “Wovey.”

She continued to plead, as he continued to call for her to stop. My breath hitched when the glass container started to crack. And as it exploded, a sea of snakes filled the arena.

I gripped Lucy’s hand even tighter, and we ran.

One by one, tributes fell. Lucy and I found higher ground on the rubble, but it was useless. The snakes were climbing the concrete at a rapid rate.

Soon, it was just the two of us, and as the snakes slithered around my legs and up my torso, I could only watch as Lucy Gray sang in the haunted arena with tears streaming down her face.

———

I wasn’t supposed to be alive, and neither was Lucy Gray. I had learned that Dr. Gaul had originally planned on letting every tribute die, but Snow had found a way to save Lucy, and with Lucy there was also me. We were a package deal now.

There was little time we had left before we had to leave for our own Districts, to hopefully be welcomed back with open arms. As Lucy played a guitar in the small room the Capitol had provided for us, I listened.

She had a beautiful voice, and she played the guitar like it was as easy as breathing. She knew music like the back of her hand. I had no doubt that she was born to sing.

I was glad that Lucy had a voice, because when I heard her sing I forgot all about how I’d lost mine.

When the song ended, I looked at Lucy with a grin. I realized that for now, I was not alone, but I’d eventually have to return to my District without the only family I’d ever had.

She smiled sadly like she was thinking the same.

“Well, I think we’d ought to call it a day, don’t you?” She said. I nodded in agreement. The sun had been replaced by the moon hours ago, and neither of us had slept. I suppose we wanted to spend as much time with each other as we could.

As she put the guitar down gently, leaning it against the wall, she turned to me and brought me into a hug. She sighed softly, like she was happy to be alive and I was too.

“I know what you’re thinkin’.” She said softly. “But don’t you worry,” she pulled me away to look at me more closely. “I plan on seeing you again sometime soon.”

I pointed to the guitar across the room, and she grinned. I loved her smile. “Yes, I’ll sing you all your favourite songs when we get there.” I smiled widely.

She held her hands on my cheeks and tried not to bring sadness, or dread into the conversation. “When you go home, you celebrate. We’re very lucky to both still be here, I think. I’ll be celebrating in District 12.” She said, “singin’ my best songs with the covey.”

She talked about them a lot, and it brought me comfort that Lucy Gray had people to go home to. Even if, ironically, it wasn’t the home she was born in. She never came from District 12, she had simply travelled there to show the people her music, as she usually did. Only then, she had been forced to stay.

I wondered that if she was never forced into residing in District 12, if I would still be alive today. I owed her my life.

“You’re safe now, Y/N.” She said gently. “You go home and you go do what makes you happy, and when I see you next, you can tell me all about it.”

———

It had been two years since then, and Lucy Gray and I did indeed meet again. In the best way I could, I told her all about the friends I’d made in District 11, and how they treated me kindly despite my differences.

As Lucy and I travelled the border of Panem, she told me how she’d escaped Snow and went searching for me in District 11 without a second thought.

Now, two years later, we were free from our troubles with the Capitol and the Districts. We’d heard stories of how the 10th Hunger Games had been erased from existence, and how the people of the country were slowly beginning to forget.

My honorary sister and I were sure that within a decade, we’d be nothing but a whisper, and after that, we’d be nothing at all.

But here, outside of that horrid place, with only each other we were free. We weren’t lonely or scared anymore. I had her to see me through my hard days, and sing me songs, and she had me to make her small gifts and braid her hair when she needed the quietness of my presence to block out her wild thoughts.

We were all we needed, and I think that I was okay with that.

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter I || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter IX: There Can Only Be One

Rhysand remembered the name of every single child the Capitol ever murdered.

The same could not be said for them, of course. Their memory faded as quickly as the funds Panem’s elite poured into the Hunger Games—forgotten as soon as the bloodshed was over. Year after year, Rhys watched as history repeated itself, more innocent blood spilled as the sponsors learned how to get creative.

First, there was all the betting. If there was one thing the Capitol loved almost as much as watching its children die one after another, being right had to be one of them. The endless battle of wits, all done behind the arena’s bloody curtain where the Tributes were nothing but numbers, nothing but pawns the elites forced around their imaginary board. Rhysand had never seen so much money in his life—certainly not before his own Games started. He sometimes wondered just how much of it went out of the Capitol’s pocket just to get him through to the end—right behind that curtain. Right into their laps.

Some people called him lucky to have ended up here. Others—the Victors, mostly—preferred to call him names he’d rather not think about right now. Rhysand, though—he liked to call himself a strategist. Part of something bigger.

After the sponsors poured all their money down the drain, there came the worst part of it all—the waiting. Countless pairs of eyes glued to the holoscreen, either widening in shock as their favoured fell, or narrowing in smugness as they cut down yet another victim of the country sworn to protect them. Each time, Rhysand would etch the victim’s name into his memory, knowing it was already forgotten by their sponsor, the funds already moved to their executioner.

These, Rhysand learned far too late in his life, were the true Hunger Games. The Tributes, their families, their Districts—all meaningless, all mere pawns to satisfy those at the very top. To feed the Capitol, starving for entertainment.

There would come a time when they starved to their deaths—or, better yet, choked on their own greed. It was the only hope he held onto these days. The only thing that kept him going through the past decade.

So Rhysand waited, eyes focused on the holo as he began writing yet another name into the most shielded corner of his heart.

Nuan of District Three must have been one of the cleverest Tributes he’d ever seen. Even through the screen, he could practically hear the wheels of her mind turning. For someone so young, her intelligence and wit had already gained her a sponsor, determined to see the ceremonial crown placed atop her head—to see the gold reflected proudly in her black hair. The man had made sure she’d lasted through the winter day with a coat and the proper tools to light a fire—all proven useless in the end, though, with Nuan figuring out how to keep herself warm hours before the package was delivered. The freshly killed elk’s body heat and warm blood had not been a sight the sponsor particularly enjoyed, but Rhysand watched the entire spectacle with a smile on his face.

That smile was long gone now. Nuan was clever, yes, and she’d managed to make it to the final four—but it was not enough.

It was not nearly enough.

Rhysand, frankly, had no idea how the girl had learned about the coming storm. The sponsor couldn’t have told her—it was against the rules and closely monitored by the Gamemakers—which only meant more credit was due to Nuan’s skills. With the autumn day still around the corner and the spring and summer days seemingly following their old pattern, there were no signs of the coming changes. Only a handful of sponsors had been told of the Prime Gamemaker’s plans to “make things more interesting,” as Eris Vanserra had called it. The fire, he’d said, had been a spectacle, yes—but he hardly enjoyed watching the same show twice, a sentiment the sponsors certainly shared with the final hours of the Games approaching at last.

The wire, Rhys had to admit, was perhaps one of the most brilliant strategies he’d ever witnessed in his ten years of experience. He’d been confused about Nuan’s choice of weaponry ever since he saw her sprinting for it at the Cornucopia—armed only with the long, metal string and a short dagger, Rhys did not anticipate the girl to last this long.

She’d wrapped one end around the bark of an oak tree, the thin cord disappearing in the dried-up grass before dipping into the neighbouring river. It was the perfect trap—if timed correctly. The moment her victim’s foot stepped on the wire—and the lightning struck the tree—would be the moment they drew their last breath. The only thing left for Nuan to do was to hide in the bushes and wait for the storm to come.

It was already too late.

The camera zoomed in on the girl’s face, her gaze focused on the sky above. The sun was starting to come down, greyish clouds already shielding the arena from its light. Rhys could almost hear the thoughts churning in Nuan’s head—the storm is coming. But Nuan did not—could not—see what Rhys saw.

Brannagh was coming, too.

And she was a lot faster than the storm.

A smirk twisted Brannagh’s dirt-smeared face, unease curling in the pit of Rhys’s stomach at the sight. She looked more like an animal than a girl now, he thought, the urge to kill almost primal as it flashed in her eyes. A predator ready to dig her claws into her prey.

The live footage followed Brannagh’s every step, dreadfully quiet against the sun-scorched soil as she made way for the river. If Nuan stayed hidden well enough, perhaps Brannagh would’ve set up camp nearby—would’ve stayed until the rain started pouring.

But Nuan’s attention remained on the clouds high above, her expression tight with anticipation, and Brannagh…Brannagh moved too silently to make her presence known.

It would take a sound—a single crunch of a twig beneath Nuan’s feet, a rustle of the bushes wrapped around her slim body to let Brannagh know she was not alone in the clearing. Rhys’s heart picked up, thumping loudly against his ribs, as if to yell loud enough for Nuan to heed its warning. If only he could be there, somehow—or send a message, one of those silver parachutes to carry a weapon of more substance than the pathetic knife strapped to Nuan’s boot. The holoscreen separating them reminded Rhys that, just like any other Tribute in the past, Nuan was all on her own.

“Come on,” he murmured, chin propped up in his hand. “Look down.”

“Nervous, Rhysand?”

The voice snapped him back to reality so suddenly he nearly flinched—he certainly would have, had he not gotten used to hearing it almost every night. On the holo, Nuan fidgeted with the spare wire in her hands, as though she, too, heard the syrupy question.

Rhys turned to Amarantha with a lazy wave of his hand. “This has been dragging on too long,” he complained, motioning to the screen. “That District Two girl should just get on with it.”

She took her seat on the couch beside him, the deep maroon of her hair spilling over the back. “So bloodthirsty,” she purred, trailing a long, sharp nail down his shoulder. Before he could stop himself, Rhys shivered, and Amarantha smiled, clearly misinterpreting his reaction.“I’m surprised you’re so eager to see Brannagh move forward,” she added, her gaze flicking to the holo.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Rhys asked, letting his own mouth curl in a smile. “The sooner the Games are over, the sooner I have you all to myself again,” he teased, brushing a thumb over her pale hand.

Amarantha did not so much as look in his direction, her focus on Brannagh now as she kneeled by the stream. “That is not what I meant.”

Rhys’s smile faltered. “Oh?”

Her head angled an inch. “Brannagh seems to be awfully determined to get to a favourite of yours,” she mused quietly.

For a moment, Rhysand’s heart stopped beating.

Did she know?

She couldn’t have—she simply couldn’t. She’d shown no apprehension towards him in the lounge the other day—and certainly none in the night that followed—and he’d been so careful, lot more than in the past few years. There was no chance anyone had found out about his meeting with—

Rhysand composed himself quickly.

“Come now, Amarantha,” he hummed, pressing his lips to the cold hand on his arm, willing her eyes back on his own. “You’ve known me long enough now to know I don’t play favourites. Well,” he winked. “Except for one, I suppose.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she seemed to ease up a little, her lips pursing playfully as she countered, “I’ve known you long enough to know you’re a shameless flirt, Rhysand.” He chuckled, letting Amarantha study his face as she explained, “I meant Feyre Archeron, of course.”

She looked briefly to the live footage, where Nuan finally seemed to have taken notice of the Career a mere few feet away from her.

“Our shining Star of the Capitol,” Amarantha hummed absently.

Rhys forced his gaze away from her face, letting that trained boredom fill his own as he looked to the screen as well. “Feyre Archeron?” he asked, scrunching his nose slightly. “I thought she was already dead.”

The words soured in his throat, the strange sense of betrayal they carried making his stomach tighten painfully.

Amarantha hummed again. “Not yet.”

Rhys blinked. Somewhere, in a world far away from this one, Nuan began silently stepping out of the bushes, the wire clenched tightly in her palm as she crept up on the Career. Brannagh would be far gone before the storm even started—she must’ve decided to act now.

“What do you mean?” he asked somewhat breathlessly, her answer knocking nearly all the air from his lungs.

Amarantha blinked, too, her dark eyes flicking back to him as she explained quickly, “I’m only saying if you’re not even half as bloodthirsty as that dirty Career, our lovely Feyre is unlikely to hold her own against such…”

A loud scream sounded from the holo as Nuan fell to the ground, a knife deep in her throat, fresh blood staining the corners of her mouth. Brannagh hunched over the girl, breathing in an out sharply, hand pressed to her side—just below her liver, Rhys realised, where Nuan’s wire had managed to bury itself seconds before her death.

“…talent,” Amarantha finished.

Nuan coughed for the final time, blood gurgling out loud enough for the cameras to hear, before her eyes stilled, a glossy veil falling over her panicked gaze. The cannon boomed, marking the Tribute’s death.

Amarantha sighed, rising from the couch. “And then there were three.”

Rhys forced himself to look up at her and smile. “Shall we watch the finale back at my place?” he asked, his voice dipping suggestively.

She took his jaw in her hand, thumb brushing the crest of his bottom lip. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Amarantha teased. “No, I’m afraid I will be watching with Grandfather tonight.”

Rhys’s eyes widened. “Since when?” he blurted before he could really think the question through.

Her smile faded. “The President values my company, Rhysand.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He shifted in his seat. “Of course—that’s not what I—”

Amarantha laughed—a low, raspy sound. “I like watching you squirm,” she said. “Don’t worry, you’ll see me after the ceremony—you can be sure of that.”

Fuck!

He was an idiot—an utter fool for not keeping his cool when it mattered most. This was it—his chance to be there, to get her to take him with her, to finally get to a place where only one person before him had ever managed to get to. 

And Rhys ruined all of it.

She took him by surprise—she’d always stayed with him for the finale, with Hybern preferring his own company as the Games reached their climax. If he’d been smart, Rhys would’ve waited—would’ve fucked her senseless for it if need be, just as he’d done a thousand times before.

He missed his chance.

“I’ll miss you,” he threw in desperately, a pathetic attempt to gain what was already lost.

Amarantha leaned over the couch, the crimson of her lipstick flashing before she captured his mouth with her own, her tongue demanding immediate entry. He let her in, the way he’d always done, responding with the passion he knew would make her seek him out one way or another later—perhaps he’d manage to pull some information out of her, when she was tired and exhausted and naked in his bed.

Her teeth dug into his lip for the final time before she pulled back, a secretive smile playing on her pale features. “I’m sure you will,” Amarantha said. “Until next time.”

With that, she was gone, the door to his room closing with a light click.

Rhys vomited.

***

“Feyre.”

Feyre kept her gaze on the path ahead. She had no interest in stopping—not with the sun minutes away from setting, and certainly not with the fire sure to start within hours. She would not survive the autumn day again, that she was sure of. This—all of it—needed to end.

Now.

“Feyre,” Tamlin pressed behind her, his large hand reaching to capture her own. Even with the summer’s wet heat slipping away, his skin felt clammy against hers. Feyre ignored the feeling. It was nice to feel someone else’s touch, she realised. Especially since she might very well be dead in a matter of hours.

“Stop.”

She did, the new firmness in his tone halting her in her tracks. Tamlin’s face was hard as stone as she faced him, though the look his eyes was enough to betray exhaustion—they’d been walking for two hours now, moving from one corner of the arena to the other, guided by the river’s shimmering stream.

It had flushed out Tarquin’s blood within minutes, but even now, miles away from where they’d left his body, Feyre swore she could see red staining the water. Feyre knew the Capitol’s ship had probably picked him up soon after they’d left the clearing, and yet, she couldn’t shake the horrid image off her mind. Rotting flesh, slowly sinking into the mud or slipping into the river. Limbs caught up in the net—the net meant for her.

How many had already died so that Feyre might live?

She began counting them mentally, averting Tamlin’s searching gaze. The girl from Four, killed by a dagger seconds after they Games had begun—a dagger Ianthe aimed for Feyre’s throat. Devlon, terrible as he might’ve been, caught up in Brannagh’s bloodlust. Even Ianthe, whose bow now lay strapped to Feyre’s back.

Ressina.

Ressina, who would’ve lived had it not been for Feyre trying to play the Capitol’s game. She was good, her mind as sharp as her physical ability. Had it not been for the trap Feyre had set up, Ressina could’ve very well managed to survive until the very end. It could’ve been her friend now marching for the Cornucopia, ready to put an end to all of it.

Instead, it was Feyre, who only got this far because of sheer luck and whatever it was that Tamlin felt for her. She’d kissed him in that clearing, with Tarquin’s body as a witness. They’d barely spoken since then.

Perhaps, just as Feyre did, Tamlin was starting to realise they could not leave the arena the way they were now—hand in hand. Only one would survive.

And if they managed to kill the two Tributes left…

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Tamlin said quietly.

She slipped her hand out of his grasp.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Feyre looked up to meet that emerald gaze, now stern with conviction. “The sun is setting,” she explained.

“Yes,” Tamlin agreed.

Feyre sighed. Her answer, apparently, was not good enough. “I’m worried about the fire.” Not entirely a lie—she had been thinking about it just a moment ago.

Tamlin’s shoulders fell a little—as though in relief. “There’s nothing we can do about that now.”

“Yes, there is,” Feyre countered. “Once we reach the Cornucopia—”

“We don’t even know if the other Tributes are there,” Tamlin interrupted. “The Games will not end tonight, Feyre. We should find shelter for the night.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it in the past hour. Feyre’s lips thinned—no matter how many time she’d pressed, Tamlin simply refused to back down. As if he wanted to prolong the Games, for whatever reason. He’d have to kill her eventually, anyway.

Feyre certainly wasn’t going to kill him. She had enough blood on her hands to understand there was no going back.

She could never go home again. How could she? To face Elain, so kind and gentle and good, and expect her to love a murderer? To face Nesta, who valued loyalty above all else, knowing she had watched as Feyre killed the one friend who’d looked out for her? No. Her sisters were lost to her.

Tamlin, at least, would get to go back. It was the one consolation she had left. After everything she’d done, at least she could set things right with him. He protected her—had lied and killed for her out of nothing but the affection in his heart—and he would get to go home because of it. He deserved it. District Twelve deserved it.

If it came down to the two of them at the end, Feyre knew what she’d have to do.

And there was not a shred of regret in her heart because of it.

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s voice, deep and unwavering, sounded again.

“We are so close, Tamlin,” she said, something heavy building up in her chest. “So close.” You could be going home.

Tamlin sighed. “That’s what worries me.” He turned slightly, gaze sliding over the trees around them until they settled at some point far to their right—as though he could see something there. A bird nesting deep between the leaves, a stray squirrel, perhaps, or worse—Brannagh, her favourite dagger already in hand, ready to slice it through their throats.

A split second later, though, Tamlin seemed to relax, powerful shoulders relaxing a little as he reached for her hand, thumb gently swiping over the back of her palm. She couldn’t help but lean into the touch—just how many of them did she have left?

“Tamlin,” she admitted, her voice quieter than a breath lest the Capitol could hear. “I’m scared.”

He squeezed her tightly. “There’s nothing to be scared about,” he told her with a rare smile. “I’ll protect you.”

No, you won’t, Feyre thought, though the words remained silent in the back of her throat. I won’t give you that chance.

He must’ve seen it, then—the pained look twisting her face, the shadows clouding her stare—because his brows knitted slightly, and he straightened. “Feyre,” Tamlin started, “Why—”

His question died with the loud boom of a cannon, so close to the two of them it might as well have been their own deaths it marked.

Feyre’s heart stopped beating entirely, her blood chilling into ice.

“Brannagh?” she dared to ask, the question no more than a whisper.

Tamlin’s eyes widened. “We need to move,” he urged, tugging on the hand she forgot he’d been holding. “Now, Feyre.”

She did not object this time.

They ran back into the forest, far away from the path laid out by the stream, the trees offering shelter from the fading sun. Three—there were three of them left.

The Games were coming to an end.

Feyre could only pray—pray to whoever would listen—that the cannon had been set off for Brannagh, that the girl from Three had somehow managed to kill the Career hell-bent on coming after the two of them. The thought almost made her stumble over her own steps.

Feyre considered the prayer again. Then again. And again.

Perhaps…perhaps this was her solution.

She already knew she wasn’t making it out of here alive—not when Tamlin was still by her side, breathing and in perfect health. She also suspected that if it came down to the two of them, Tamlin would not let her sacrifice herself for him.

Brannagh, though…

Feyre was certain the District Two Tribute shared no such sentiment.

Tamlin could handle her on his own—Feyre had no doubt of that. And Brannagh…Brannagh could handle Feyre.

Feyre swallowed thickly.

Elain, Nesta. I’m so sorry.

“There’s a cave just ahead,” Tamlin said beside her, motioning to the pile of rocks hiding an entry just under an oak tree. “We can wait out the fire there.”

Feyre nodded.

The moment Tamlin fell asleep, she would be gone.

Just as the cave she’d hidden in before, the space was cold and dark, the wet soil clinging to the soles of her boots. Near the entrance, a plush patch of moss laid waiting, the grassy scent mixing with the pungent mud. Feyre coughed once, then twice, earning a concerned look from Tamlin. She shook her head.

“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “It’s just…the smell.”

Tamlin scrunched his nose—then shrugged. “It’ll have to do.”

“You should get some rest,” Feyre told him, willing strength into her voice. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Feyre,” Tamlin’s tone invited no argument. “I’m not sure if you’ve forgotten, but you almost died today. Died, Feyre.”

She huffed a bitter laugh. “Yeah, well, what else is new?”

Tamlin rolled his eyes. “Very funny. I’ll go out and try to find us some dinner. We’ll need something to hold us over during the fire, won’t we?”

Feyre chewed on her bottom lip. “I don’t think—”

She didn’t get to finish. Without warning, Tamlin pulled her in to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around her as his mouth crashed into her own.

The kiss, unlike the one they’d shared by the river, was quick and chaste—but it was enough for her body to slump a little, exhaustion hitting her all at once. She could wait a little, Feyre decided. The forest was still ripe with prey, and the sun had only just now set. She could sleep—for the final time.

“Wake me up when you’re back,” she told him when he finally pulled back.

Tamlin nodded. “I will.”

And just like that, he left.

***

Ressina’s laughter was warm even underground, the sound echoing through the training ring.

“I’m really trying,” Feyre grumbled.

“Oh, I can tell,” her friend teased, teeth flashing in a mocking smile. “You really showed that dummy, you know.”

Feyre followed her gaze to the back wall—right where the dummy stood proudly, untouched by what seemed like a hundred daggers at its feet.

She sighed deeply.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Ressina tried again, stepping in closer to Feyre’s side. “Your stance has improved, but the issue is in your grip. Here,” she instructed, long, slender fingers wrapping around Feyre’s wrist. “Loosen it up a little. Not that much,” she said when the dagger fell flat in Feyre’s hand. “You still need the strength to throw it—but its the flexibility of your wrist that will guide the knife to its aim.”

“Where did you learn all of that, anyway?” Feyre asked her absently, eyes narrowing on the target once again as she adjusted her stance.

“I’ve told you,” Ressina said. “Apple farms.”

Feyre gave her a look.

Ressina chuckled. “You’re clever, Feyre. More clever than you think. Oh, that’s a good thing,” she added at the sight of Feyre’s rising brows, then nodded to the knife in her hand. “Daggers can only get you so far.”

Feyre followed her gaze—then looked to the dummy once again. She made herself count to three, releasing a deep, deep breath with each second until her shoulders steadied, and the knife became as much as an extension of her own hand.

A moment later, the blade lodged itself right in the puppet’s heart.

Feyre turned to Ressina. “I don’t know about that.”

Ressina smiled.

***

Feyre’s eyes shot open.

Propped up on her elbow, she lifted herself off the cold ground, heart thumping loudly in her chest. The sound of Ressina’s laughter still rang somewhere in the corners of her mind, the memory, too, like a knife burying itself deep into Feyre’s heart.

She blinked the stinging sensation away, her vision adjusting to the darkness around her. She could just barely make out the moss growing at the cave’s entrance, ruffled slightly by the night’s gentle wind.

It was then that Feyre realised she was alone.

She jolted upright, hand nearly slipping on the wet ground. Just how long had she been asleep?

“Tamlin?” she dared to whisper. Perhaps he was simply keeping watch outside. But no—he’d promised to wake her when he returned. What if…

What if Tamlin was never meaning to come back?

He could’ve planned for his own death the same way she had—the cannon told them Brannagh wasn’t far, after all. What if Tamlin had left for his own death, hoping to spare her from having to kill him at the very end?

“Tamlin,” Feyre tried again, voice growing desperate. She had no doubt there were cameras in the cave somewhere—she didn’t care. Not right now, when she needed to go and find him—needed to try and—

A quiet jingle sounded outside, breaking out of her panic.

She recognised it almost immediately, rising to her feet to meet the parachute outside. Perhaps, for whatever reason, Rhysand had taken pity on her again, and was now sending her some sort of protection from the fire. Or maybe, just maybe, the parachute was meant for Tamlin—and, hearing its gentle call, he was already on his way back to her.

The moment Feyre stepped outside, the parachute landed right in her hands.

Not for Tamlin, then.

The package was smaller than her last—only a small box hung attached to the silver fabric, nearly invisible in the darkness. She couldn’t have been asleep for long, then—the sky seemed nowhere near clearing up, the few stars above her only light as she unscrewed the top.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting—a protective balm for her skin, maybe, anything to let her know the wild, ravaging fire would not be how she went out of this world.

Inside laid a neatly rolled piece of paper, the elegant, familiar handwriting no more than five words:

Don’t let the Hunger win.

Feyre read the message again. Then again—and again.

She gave up with the sixth time.

“What does that even mean?” she asked the stars, twinkling playfully in response. Feyre threw her arms up in exasperation.

“I don’t have time for this,” she grumbled, shoving Rhysand’s secretive message into her back pocket.

She needed to find Tamlin—and she needed to do it now.

***

“And you’re certain,” Rhysand said, his voice shaking slightly on the chill, underground air.

“Positive,” Nuala confirmed. “The parachute went out ten minutes ago.” 

He loosed a breath. “Did she already receive ours?” She nodded. “Good. How much until the other?”

She shifted on her feet—a rare sight, and it only made his stomach tighten. If anything went wrong…

“Cerridwen is monitoring the cameras,” Nuala said.

“No names,” Rhys hissed.

“Right,” she scrambled. “Right, of course. I—yes. Tamlin should receive it within minutes.”

Rhysand forced another, frigid breath. “Did she send it personally?”

“She’s not stupid. And, from what you told me, she is occupied.”

“Right.” He’d almost forgotten.

Silence fell, filled by nothing but darkness between the two of them. It seemed that the waning hours of the Games were getting to Rhys, too—and more than he’d anticipated.

“We warned her,” Nuala said quietly—a shred of comfort in a situation like this.

“She won’t understand until she sees what they sent him,” Rhys countered. “And even then—”

“And even then, you’ll have done everything in our power to keep her alive,” Nuala pressed. “The only thing left for us to do is wait.”

The waiting is the worst part, Rhys remembered.

Still, he had no other choice.

It was up to Feyre now.

He could only pray she’d understand.

***

She found Tamlin not even ten minutes later, crouched behind tall bushes, eyes fixed entirely on whatever they were hiding. A sob nearly shook through her body at the sight—he was still alive. He still had a chance.

Feyre approached him silently, her bow strapped securely to her back as she kneeled beside him. “Tam—”

A large hand clamped her mouth shut as Tamlin whipped toward her, his gaze shining with alarm. Feyre’s breath quickened—his reaction could only mean one thing.

They were not alone.

Slowly, Tamlin released her face from his hold, his own finger pressed to his lips tightly, urging her to keep quiet. It was then that Feyre noticed a glimmer of silver near his feet—a piece of familiar fabric abandoned on the grass. Her brow arched in question.

Tamlin shook his head. Fine—he’d tell her later. Whatever it was the sponsors had sent him, it could apparently wait.

Feyre moved in closer toward him, reaching for the thin branches shielding her vision from view. She suppressed a hiss as a sharp pain shot through her finger, tearing the skin open at the tip. Thorns.

Tamlin’s gaze remained focused on the path ahead as she tried again, quietly opening a gap between the leaves to reveal whatever it was that commanded Tamlin’s full attention.

Her heart nearly froze at the sight.

They’d reached the Cornucopia.

She hadn’t seethe horn-like structure since the Games had begun, made of the same metal as the boxes sent from the Capitol and gleaming with its own, humming light. Feyre had forgotten just how large it was—just how much it could hide.

It was Brannagh’s whines that gave her away.

She sat on the east of the horn, back resting against the hardened walls, each one of her breaths falling flat. Feyre’s eyes widened—even the bushes seemed to go lethally still at the sight of the injured Career.

Brannagh’s hand laid pressed to somewhere near her stomach, her clothes bloodied slightly, though Feyre knew her well enough by now to know there was no telling if the blood was truly her own. There was no denying she was injured, though—perhaps injured enough to kill with enough ease.

This ruined her plans a bit.

Tamlin’s hand on her thigh snapped her back to their hiding spot. “We have to kill her,” Tamlin whispered, the sound barely audible on the midnight wind.

Feyre’s heart reset, stumbling over a beat. “Tamlin,” she breathed, “No—wait—”

“There’s no time, Feyre,” he urged. “We have to end this now.”

“Tamlin,” Feyre said, panic rising in her voice, “if we kill Brannagh, we’ll be the only two Tributes left.” She couldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t.

Once again, Tamlin’s face became stone. “We’ll have to deal with that later.”

“No,” she pressed. In the distance, Brannagh whined again—as though in confirmation. Even the wind seemed to pick up, howling somewhere in the distance. Could Feyre truly kill her like this? “There is another way. There has to be,” she said, more to herself now than him. What if—what if they could all get out of there alive. If they stood against the Capitol

“Feyre—”

“We’re not killers, Tamlin,” she pleaded. “We have to try. We can’t let them win.”

Don’t let the hunger win. Was that what Rhysand meant?

Surely, if we all refused to kill each other…I doubt they’d keep us trapped in here forever. Those were her own words, weren’t they? Spoken to Ressina shortly before her death. Perhaps that was why she’d dreamt of her earlier—perhaps the dream was her friend’s final message, her final lesson to keep Feyre alive.

She’d written off her death so easily, Feyre thought, a new sense of guilt washing over her at the realisation. She’d promised Elain to survive—she’d promised Ressina to bring the Capitol down after she did.

And Feyre would. She would make the Capitol pay for this—for all of this.

But first, the three of them were getting out of here alive.

Feyre stood abruptly and marched straight for the Cornucopia.

“FEYRE!” Tamlin roared behind her. Too late.

Brannagh, to her credit, shot to her feet instantly, a hiss managing its way past her lips with the movement. Not even her injury, it seemed, managed to keep the cruel smile off her face.

“Twelve,” she greeted, rising to her full height. “I’ve been waiting.” A look past Feyre’s shoulder, where Tamlin’s hurried steps now sounded. “And you’ve brought the traitor, too.”

“How did you know I’d be coming?” Feyre asked, her tone calm to her own surprise.

Brannagh shrugged, face twisting painfully—wrong move. What had the girl from Three done to her? “You’re the Star of the Capitol, aren’t you?” A raspy laugh. “Of course you’d want to have your moment to shine. Sorry to disappoint,” she added, “but even in my state, I can kill you right where you stand.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Tamlin said behind her.

Brannagh’s eyes narrowed into thin slits. “Stay out of this, flower boy. This is between us girls.” A smile at Feyre. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to kill you,” Feyre told her.

Now that seemed to throw her off. “What?”

“We can get out of here, Brannagh,” she told her the same thing she’d said to Tamlin. “All three of us—we can go home.”

Brannagh looked as though she’d gone insane.

Still, Feyre continued, “Please—please just hear me out. I know you don’t want this—I know you wouldn’t be this if it weren’t for the Games. We can all get out. If we stand our ground—if we refuse—”

Brannagh erupted in laughter.

The sound quickly turned into a cough—a flat, shuddering sound, her arms wrapping tighter around her sides.

“They got her,” Tamlin murmured, now a mere step behind Feyre. “It’s her liver, I think. Look at her hand.”

“You dumb bitch,” Brannagh laughed, “I knew you were crazy, but this has got to top it all.” Her dark gaze, now clearer than ever before, settled directly on Feyre’s. “You think you have a chance here? You think any of us do? Open your eyes, Twelve,” she hissed. “Only one of us is getting out of here tonight. And that someone is going to be me.”

“You’re dying,” Tamlin pointed out quietly. Somewhere in the distance, the sky rumbled loudly—enough to make all three of them flinch, as if in confirmation of his words. Was that a storm coming? 

It couldn’t be, Feyre thought. Not with the fire a few hours away.

Brannagh tore her gaze off the sky to face them once more. “The Capitol will take care of me the moment you two are dead.”

“You’re a fool if you think the Capitol is ever going to take care of you, Brannagh,” Feyre said.

Brannagh’s eyes widened at that—and, for a split second, Feyre believed they had a chance.

If only.

“I’m no bigger fool than you,” she said, and attacked.

Feyre had no idea how Brannagh managed to launch for her this quickly—or when, exactly, the daggers appeared in her bloodied hands. She could only see the two flashes of silver as the Career swung, inches away from her neck.

Tamlin’s hands on her waist pulled her back with a force so strong Feyre gasped out in surprise. She swayed, heels digging into the ground as she tried to regain her balance, Tamlin’s own weapon already in his hand and charging for his enemy.

Brannagh ducked just in time to avoid his sword slicing her in half, but the move cost her—the strain on her wound made a sharp cry slip past her throat as she fell, back hitting the hard, solid ground. Her scream was cut off as she choked on her own breath, eyes threatening to fall out of their orbits at the impact. Brannagh grasped at the weeds around her, her hands weaponless now with her daggers abandoned from the fall, then choked again as she realised—it was over.

Feyre stepped in closer until her boots covered Brannagh’s blades—better safe than sorry, she told herself. Even disarmed, she was still dangerous.

Tamlin hovered above her, the tip of his own blade pointed at the defeated Career. Brannagh closed her eyes.

“Wait,” Feyre told him. Tamlin’s head whipped toward her.

“What?”

“Brannagh,” she urged, not daring another look at Tamlin. “Please. You have a chance here.”

Lightning tore through the darkness with her words—as if the night sky itself was in agreement.

With her remaining strength, Brannagh shook her head. “Y-you,” she wheezed, body convulsing with the effort, “You don’t mean that, Twelve.”

“We’re more than just numbers, Brannagh,” she told her. The sky rumbled again.

“Go…” Brannagh coughed, “…go fuck yourself.”

“That’s enough,” Tamlin said, hands wrapping tighter around the hilt.

Feyre’s vision flashed with alarm. “Tamlin, wait—”

Brannagh did not get to close her eyes again as Tamlin drove his sword deep into her throat.

Her body slumped against the grass, so small now that the soul was gone from it entirely. Feyre looked away from the blood—from what seemed like a sea of it pooling around her, turning the lush green into crimson—and yet, no matter how far she seemed to avert her gaze, the red found her still. She saw it everywhere now—the grass, the walls of the Cornucopia, the bark of the trees at the edge of the forest. Her own hands, marked by it forever.

The cannon sounded with the first rainfall.

Beside her, Tamlin was panting, those emerald eyes fixed on Brannagh’s dead body. Feyre could see the blood in them now, too. The water would wash it away, she realised, watching as the rain dotted her skin. It would wash it away and make space for more to be spilled.

“Tamlin,” Feyre whispered, the sound drowned out by the howling wind. The rain intensified, accompanied by more thunder, closer and closer with every roar. “Tamlin!”

“We need to take shelter!” he called to her, his hair already wet and clinging to his neck. He motioned to the Cornucopia—and took off.

Feyre had no choice but to run after him, Brannagh’s body discarded for the storm to claim.

“Tamlin,” she tried again once they stood under the silvery roof. Yet another cave of the Capitol’s making.

“The fire isn’t coming,” he said, as if that was the answer she was seeking. “I’m not sure which one of these is worse.”

“Tamlin.”

Finally, finally, Tamlin looked at her, something like a shadow clouding his expression. Feyre exhaled shakily. “What do we do?”

His jaw tightened. “We can’t get out of here. Likely for the next twenty-four hours.”

Feyre couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Tamlin, I’m not talking about—”

“When was the last time you’ve eaten?” he interrupted, something urgent in his eyes with the question. Something pleading.

He’d just killed Brannagh, Feyre understood. And, if they failed to oppose the Capitol…he’d have to kill her, too. 

She could give him one more minute.

“Okay,” Feyre breathed. “Okay.” She considered. “Since the spring day. But, like you said—we can’t go out.” Not with the storm raging by the minute.

Tamlin swallowed thickly. “I have food,” he said, then reached into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a shiny, silver box.

Feyre’s shoulders fell. It was decently sized that the two of them could share it, she supposed. “Is that what they’d sent you earlier?”

Tamlin nodded. “I’ve already had some before you found me—I’m sorry I didn’t go wake you. I thought she’d die on her own there.”

Feyre kept her eyes on the box. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Tamlin sighed. “No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he said, then opened the lid.

The box was filled to the brim with something—fruit, Feyre realised, making out their small, round shapes in the semi-darkness of the Cornucopia. Berries. It wasn’t meat, but it would be enough to hold them over for some time—especially if they’d been sent from—

Feyre blinked.

I had a sister once, you know, Tamlin said, not looking her in the eye as the city lights twinkled in the distance. She died when we were little.

Feyre remembered Tamlin from back home. Tamlin Rosethorn, the florist’s son. They’d never spoken, but ever since she was old enough to roam the District streets, she would see him around, clinging to his mother’s leg. She remembered his brothers, too—older, working their days in the mines or fighting each other in the streets whenever they got the chance.

But a sister…

Are you doubting yourself, Tamlin? Amarantha’s syrupy voice poured into her head.

No. But I do wish there was another solution.

That was the night she’d overheard them after training.

Her name was Dalia, Tamlin had told her minutes after, stumbling over his words. She was a lot like you, I think.

Feyre stopped breathing.

Poor Tamlin, Amarantha had crooned after the interviews. Young love can be so heartbreaking.

Be careful who you trust, Feyre, Rhysand had told her moments later.

One day, my sister was going back from the mines through the forest, Tamlin’s voice sounded again. And she picked up some nightlock berries.

Don’t let the hunger win.

Feyre swallowed. Hard.

“Tamlin,” she started slowly, looking up to meet his gaze. “What was your sister’s name?”

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just…tell me. Please.”

“I…” he hesitated, his stare dropping to the berries, then back to Feyre—then to the berries again. “Lila,” he said slowly. “Her name was Lila.”

Feyre’s chest tightened.

We all have to survive somehow. Her own words, said to Isaac shortly before her life fell apart.

This, apparently, had been Tamlin’s way.

“Wrong answer,” Feyre whispered.

Tamlin took a step back. Then another, until she realised he was not backing away—no, Tamlin was adopting his stance.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Feyre begged, even as she knew he was already lost to her.

Tamlin shook his head. “I really wish you had chosen the berries, Feyre.”

And with that, he reached for his sword.

“There can only be one.”

He betrayed her.

He’d been betraying her since the very beginning.

I’ll always protect you, Feyre. Lie, lie, lie.

She could protect herself.

Ressina’s dagger found its way into her hand naturally—like an extension of her wrist, part of her own flesh.

The world slowed down as Feyre made herself count to three, the rain outside blurry as her vision sharpened on one, singular target with a sword in his hand and pain in his eyes.

One.

Two.

“Three,” Feyre said, then plunged the dagger right into Tamlin’s heart.

***

Rhysand sat on the edge of his bed, unaware of the storm hurling at his windows.

He could only see the storm in the arena, clear on the holo as if it was happening right in front of him. Could only see as Tamlin swayed back into the wall of hardened rain with the knife buried in his chest to the hilt.

He looked at Feyre, mouth agape, as though he would say something—anything. None of it would matter.

His sword fell a second before Tamlin, his body hitting the ground with a loud thud.

He did not move again.

A few feet away, Feyre watched as the last Tribute stilled into nothingness.

And then, she blinked.

The determination Rhys had seen on her face moments prior faded instantly, replaced by a panic so palpable he swore he felt it in his own chest. Her blue-grey eyes went wide, freezing in terror as she waited for Tamlin to rise, to take another breath. Rhysand knew—he remembered. Tamlin was lost.

And Feyre was alone.

Slowly, Feyre took a staggering step forward, her face as though in a haze. Then, she took another—and one more, until she reached Tamlin’s side at last.

Rhysand stood, feet carrying him to the holo as if they could reach her, stopping only when he faced the shimmering blue screen.

The camera zoomed in on its star, close enough to capture the tremor that shook through her body, the wobble of her knees as she realised there was no going back. As she, too, understood, just how alone they were in this world.

Her legs gave out.

Feyre fell to her knees beside Tamlin’s dead body, looked up to the storm-torn sky, and screamed.

Rhysand’s palm found the screen. As if to brush the tears off her face.

I understand, he wanted to say. I understand.

For the first time in ten years, Rhys let himself cry.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase @foreverinelysian @rhysiedarling @msfeyredarling @itisiyourfemur @to-read-or-to-read @bookish-dream @darling-archeron

[ourtearsofrain]

The Barbarians (D.R.W/S.F.K) - Chapter 11

Pairings: Danny Wagner x Sam Kiszka

Genre: ANGST, hurt(literally)/comfort

Word Count: just over 6.4

Warnings: AU typical events/threats/violence, violent fighting/injuries/deaths, needles/syringe, thoughts of unaliving self

A/N: OOOOOO starting with Danny’s pov this ch I wonder whyyyy 🫣🫣🫣

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The Wounded Warrior on This Battleground

Danny

Thursday, July 14th

“Hey, kid, time to get up.” Danny nudges Daphne’s shoulder gently, still feeling guilty about waking her despite knowing they needed to leave the fire portion of the arena. Their plans to leave the day before and head for the water section had been abandoned as the pair had taken turns sleeping through the day, the physical and emotional stress of the games draining their bodies and minds. “We should head to water, can cut through the forest to hunt again since all we ate yesterday was the last two rabbits. We need to keep our energy up, and I really need to clean the bones and hides before they get too gross.”

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she squints up at him, the harsh afternoon light filtering through the opening in the ceiling. “I hate that you’re right.” Danny laughs as she sits up fully, taking in their surroundings to see how much they had to pack up before heading out. “Hey, did you catch the fallen announcement yesterday? I didn’t hear any cannons when I was awake, and I think I slept through that too.”

“Yep, only one death. Girl from 10 but no one else. Everyone must have done what we did yesterday, laying low and recharging or gathering resources.” He pulls himself off the ground as he gathers the sharpened wooden stakes from where he had left them around their fire, shoving all but two into his bag. “If you see a stream in the forest, tell me. We have a canteen in here, but I haven’t filled it since after the bloodbath on our way here, so we have maybe one sip left.”

“Will do.” Daphne joins him on her feet, taking the hunting knife and one of the stakes as he offers them to her. He slings the bag over his shoulders before picking up his axe in his right hand, keeping the other wooden stake in his left.

“Alright, kid, lead the way.” Danny extends his arm, gesturing towards the opening that led out of the cavern as he takes a step back to allow her to pass him. “You do have a better sense of direction than I do.”

She lets out a quiet laugh as she takes the lead, offering a glance back as she speaks, her tone light and amused. “I’m pretty sure it’s hard to miss an entire forest, Danny.”

“Yet somehow, I think I’d get lost in here anyway. Once I’m in the forest, I have an excellent sense of direction, but put me in any another terrain and I’m useless.” Danny trails behind her as she moves through the twists and turns of the path, both staying relatively quiet. They stop as the canyon walls around them drop off to nothing, the open expanse of flat lava rock separating them and the tree line. “Looks clear this way.”

“Over here too.”

“On 3.” Danny spares a glance down at Daphne to see her nod before his eyes dart back to the space before him, checking one last time that there truly were no other tributes. “1, 2, 3!”

The pair break into a sprint, and it isn’t long before they reach the forest, the cover of the trees giving them both a sense of safety. “Think we should make our way closer to the center of the arena and walk along the forest edge or cut through the center of the forest?”

“Center of the forest, that way we can hopefully find some water and hunt.” Danny explains. “We aren’t in too much of a rush to get to water, just as long as we get there before dark.”

They say nothing more as they walk, letting the familiarity of the forest comfort them for even just a moment.

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After around two hours of walking, they come across a stream, the water clear and sparkling under the soft rays of sunlight filtering through the foliage. “Wanna stop here for a bit? Try and find something to eat, clean up a little?”

“I’m fine with that, I could use a break. Wanna give me the canteen and I can fill it?” Danny does as she asks, handing it to her as they both temporarily set their weapons down. As Daphne fills the canteen, Danny moves slightly downstream, rinsing the remaining grime off his hands from the rabbits that he hasn’t been able to completely get off. “What’s your favorite color?” Danny looks up at Daphne, amusement passing over his features at the random, simple question and the seriousness on her face.

“What? Why?”

She shrugs, taking a drink of water before answering. “I don’t know, I realized I don’t know that much about you. Obviously, I know you have a little sister and that you’re 18 and stuff, but I don’t know the little stuff about you. I wanna know the important stuff and the things people might consider unimportant too.”

Danny thinks for a moment, having a hard time deciding between the answers floating around his mind. “I want to say dark green, but I feel that’d be too stereotypical. I love purple, now that I think about it. I guess that’s my favorite color. What about you, kid?”

“Red, like a dark, deep red. Alright, next question. What’s your favorite animal?”

Danny smiles as he unpacks his bag, taking the contents from the tarp before washing it off in the stream. He quickly moves on to the bones and hides, scrubbing the dried blood and leftover tendons from the material. “White tailed deer. I’ve come across so many in the forests that some of them that haven’t been hunted yet have started to recognize me and they aren’t afraid of me anymore.”

Daphne gasps in excitement, her eyes going wide. “Have you ever pet one??”

“Not yet, but I’m not giving up. I can see in their eyes that they’re beginning to trust me, so hopefully I’ll be able to get closer when I-” Danny cuts himself off quickly, realizing where he had been going with his sentence. When you what? When you win and go back to 7? That’s not happening. “What about you?”

“Brown bears. Or ermines, they’re like cute little weasels. I found a baby one in the forest a year or two ago and mama let me keep him. I named him Cyprus cause I found him under a Leyland cypress tree.” She pauses momentarily, a sad look passing over her face at the memory of her beloved pet. “I miss him… my 10 ½ year old sister Cassandra is taking care of him until I get back. He’s super sweet and playful, he likes to chase a small ball of yarn around like a cat.”

Danny smiles at her before a wave of sadness crashes over him, and he looks down so she can’t see the tears brimming at his lash line, beginning to re-pack the now clean hides and bones in his bag. I can let them dry later, we need to keep moving. And find some food, I’m getting hungry. “I’m sure he misses you too, but it sounds like he’s in good hands. You’ll see him soon, kid. Soon as these games are over you can go home to him and your family.”

“What about you? I haven’t forgotten that there can only be one victor. Don’t you want to go home to your sister?”

Before Danny can try to come up with a response, he hears a branch snap to their left, the sound too loud and heavy to have been caused by anything but a human. His eyes go wide as he shoves the rest of his supplies into his bag, including the canteen as Daphne has the same realization. Another tribute was near, and they were headed straight for them. “Let’s go.” Danny’s voice is serious as he zips the bag up, fear coursing through his body as he all but drags Daphne to a stand and starts in the opposite direction of the sound. “Make as little sound as possible and stick with me.”

They make it about 20 feet before the male from 4, Neptune if Danny was remembering correctly, drops down in front of them from a tree, blocking their path. Danny’s eyes go wide as he sees a large, very sharp trident in his hands. He immediately turns and begins to sprint in the opposite direction, pulling Daphne alongside him. “It’s ok, don’t look back. I’ll keep you safe.”

He spares a glance down at her to see tears beginning to roll down her cheeks, her eyes alight with terror as she clings to his hand. He looks forward again just in time to see the male from 2, Vanil, swinging a massive war hammer towards his face. His instincts immediately take over as he drops to the ground, narrowly missing the weapon as he rolls.

“Danny!”

“It’s ok, I’m ok, Daphne. Keep running.” Danny recovers quickly, stumbling back to his feet as he tries to find his pace again. Something large and heavy slams into the back of his left shoulder then, sending him back to the ground as he reels in confusion. As soon as he sees Vanil’s hammer disappear into the underbrush beside him, his brain processes what had happened as pain radiates through his shoulder, flowing into his neck and upper arm as his head spins.

He pushes his nausea to the side as he sees Neptune race towards him, his trident raised and pointed directly at him. Just as it’s about to strike him square in the face, Danny raises his axe with his right arm, lodging the handle between the tines as his left hand comes up to grasp the butt of the axe head. Neptune drops to his knees on the ground, straddling Danny’s abdomen as he puts his full body weight on the weapon, the points slowly inching towards his face. Pain radiates through Danny’s left shoulder at the strain, his vision going black momentarily from how excruciating it was, feeling as if shards of glass had been lodged within his shoulder and were only being pressed deeper and deeper by the second.

You can’t hold him off this way forever. Think, Danny, fucking think. Daphne could be in trouble. The thought sends adrenaline coursing through his system, numbing the pain temporarily as he comes up with a plan in a split second. He steers the points to the left of his head slowly before letting go of the axe head with his left hand. The second the points sink into the ground only centimeters from his ear, Danny’s hand finds the wooden stake he had dropped in his fall, sending it straight towards Neptune. The point imbeds itself in the side of his neck, sinking into his jugular as his eyes go wide with pain and surprise, his blood beginning to drip down onto Danny’s face.

As his hands move to clutch his neck, Danny uses the opportunity to shove the other tribute off him before standing and finding his axe quickly. His eyes dart around his surroundings, praying to see any sign of Daphne or Vanil.

“DANNY!” The scream echoes across the forest, sending Danny sprinting in the direction of Daphne’s cries. A cannon booms in the distance, but he can barely process that it must have been for Neptune as terror claws at his heart. Just as he’s about to yell for her, he stumbles upon a clearing, seeing Daphne no more than ten feet high in a tree as Vanil swings at her with a machete, the small lower branches snapped as if he had tried to follow but had been too heavy.

“Get the fuck away from her!” The words rip at Danny’s throat as he raises his axe, swinging it directly towards Vanil’s head.

Vanil turns at the last minute, stepping out of the way and causing the edge to imbed itself into the tree trunk. Danny ducks as Vanil arcs his blade at his neck, succeeding in dodging that but not the punch he quickly sends straight into his nose. He nearly collapses as pain spikes through his skull, feeling blood begin to pour from his nose as he tries to blink his vision straight.

Somehow, his hand lands on the handle of his axe, managing to pull it from the wood weakly. Seeing Vanil slice his blade through the air, heading directly for Danny, he tries to raise his arm to block the blow with the axe in his left hand. He’s too slow, having forgotten the state his shoulder was in, and he can barely raise it above his waist as pain radiates through his chest and neck.

He chokes on his breath as the blade slashes across his stomach, searing pain shooting through his abdomen as Vanil grins at him. Danny’s hands come to grip the gash that was quickly staining his hands and shirt a deep red, before Vanil places his hand on Danny’s shoulder and shoves him down to his knees, his axe dropping at his side.

“DANNY!” No. Dear god please no. Please just stay where you are. Please. With Vanil’s focus still on Danny, he doesn’t see Daphne throw herself at him until she lands on his back, knocking the machete from his hands as he immediately tries to shake her off.

“No!” Danny’s voice is hoarse as he watches in terror, his blurred vision and seizing muscles preventing him from moving. Just as Daphne’s knife finds his throat, Vanil throws her from him, her body hitting the ground hard as she cries out in pain.

Vanil brings his hand up to his neck, pulling it back down to see it slick with blood from the small gash in his skin she had managed to make. “You little bitch!” The second he lunges for Daphne, Danny forces himself off the ground, nausea coursing through him as he uses the handle of his axe to push himself up in his desperation. Vanil grabs Daphne by her hair, drawing another cry from her as he pulls her to her feet.

Danny summons his remaining strength as Vanil’s other hand comes up to her neck, launching the axe at his head, fueled by his rage. He hears a sickening crack as Vanil roughly twists her head to the side before the blade finds the center of his face.

Both drop silently. A single cannon fires in the distance. Only one cannon. She can’t- she isn’t- Tears flow freely down his cheeks as he finds Daphne’s side, collapsing beside her and pulling her limp body into his lap. “Daphne. Daphne c’mon, we need to go.” He shakes her, his sobs and pleas growing louder as she remains still. “Daphne please, please get up. We need to go. Daphne. Daphne? Please.”

Bringing his shaking hand to her neck, he desperately searches for a pulse. Relief floods him when he finds it before it’s instantly ripped from him. He moves his hand under her nose, feeling no air coming from it. He severed her spinal cord; she must be completely paralyzed. I’ve seen this happen to men in the woods in logging accidents; she doesn’t have control of her respiratory muscles, she can’t breathe. She’ll die slowly if she doesn’t get medical attention.

Despair claws at him, no longer caring if he attracted other tributes. He needed to save Daphne, that was all that mattered. “HELP!” Danny turns his face to the sky, his vocal cords burning as he prayed that anyone in The Garden would hear his pleas. “PLEASE GET HER OUT OF HERE! SAVE HER! FUCKING KILL ME, I DON’T CARE! JUST SAVE HER!”

Met with no response, his head drops, his tears dripping onto Daphne’s cheeks as his forehead finds hers. They’ll never send help. They don’t care about her. The longer she suffers, the longer I suffer, the better for them. His knee brushes something sharp, Daphne’s knife, and he picks it up silently. I know what I need to do. I hate- I hate that I need to do it.

“I’m so sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. You deserved so much more than this.” His voice breaks as he places a gentle kiss to her forehead before positioning the blade of the knife on the side of her neck, just above where he knew her jugular and carotid arteries were. “May you walk peacefully into the woods, sister.” He closes his eyes as he sinks the blade into her skin, cutting as deep as he could as he drags it across her neck.

His free hand blindly finds the other side of her neck, her pulse fading rapidly beneath his fingertips until it stops completely. He feels as if his heart has been broken into a million pieces as a cannon booms in the distance. The combination of the pain ripping through his stomach and shoulder mixed with the feeling of her blood seeping into his pants finally sends him off the edge, and he moves Daphne off his lap as gently as he can before scrambling over to a group of bushes. Having not eaten anything in over a day, he dry heaves until he finally vomits up what little water he had drank, each retch sending pain slicing through his stomach as if he were being cut by Vanil over and over again.

Finally, he collapses in his exhaustion, letting out an anguished cry as his tears flow once more. This is my fault. She got hurt because of me. She died because of me. I promised to protect her, but I killed her. I did this. I’m a monster. In his despair, he remembers the knife still clutched weakly in his fist. Now that she’s- she’s dead, I don’t have to keep anyone safe in here. I’m useless, unnecessary. I don’t need to play their game anymore. He drags himself to a sit, tears still flowing down his cheeks as he brings the knife to his own throat, pressing down hard enough to feel the sting.

It’s ok. It’ll be quick. Less painful than what I’m going through right now. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes as he prepares to drag the blade across his skin. That is until another thought pops into his head, causing his eyes to fly open as he freezes. Josie. I told her I would come back. She’ll be safe with Dave, but I can’t put her through losing the last family she has. I can’t do that to her, I have to try. The knife drops from his hand as he breaks down into tears once more, cradling his face in his hands weakly.

“I think I heard something over here.”

FUCK. Danny whips his head up, his eyes wide. He knew that voice; it was Samuel, no doubt about it. And if Samuel was here, his ally from 1 wouldn’t be far behind. As their footsteps grow closer, Daniel scrambles to shove the knife into his bag, taking up the axe and Vanil’s machete. He drops to his knees next to Daphne, placing one final kiss to her forehead as his last tears trail down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

With that, he scrambles to his feet, stumbling off in the opposite direction of the voices growing louder by the second. He breaks into a weak sprint, finding he had made a grave mistake as he feels as if his body was shutting down. Pain radiates through his stomach, shoulder, neck, and head as he trips, dropping to his knees as he feels as if he had been set on fire. The distant sound of the other tributes is replaced by the mechanical beep of a Sponsor Gift slowly floating down to him, his blurring vision making it hard for him to pin down its location as hope flares in his chest. Depending on what’s in there, I could be ok. It could help.

Hearing it hit the ground, his body protests as he crawls towards the sound. The second his fingers wrap around the cool metal, relief floods him momentarily before his body finally gives out, the pain and exhaustion he was experiencing finally sending him crashing to the ground. The last thing he remembers before drifting into the blissful nothing of unconsciousness is the sound of two tributes approaching him, their footsteps heavy and quick atop the underbrush of the forest.

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With No Pride to Call His Own

Sam

Thursday, July 14th

“We can’t sit around here waiting for something to happen. We’ll starve or run into the tributes from 4 eventually.”

“You’re being overdramatic. There’s fish in that sea, I know it. We just need to try harder.”

Sam contemplates killing Hazel then and there, her dismissal of his fears nearly his final straw. They had remained in the cave since finding it after the bloodbath, only leaving for fresh water or their pathetic attempts at catching food. He knew if they stayed where they were, they were bound to die within days. “Who are you kidding, Hazel?! We’ve been surviving off kelp that I’ve been gathering. The only reason we haven’t left yet is because we’ve been too exhausted from lack of nutrition. If you want to stay here, that’s fine with me, but I’m leaving by midday.”

Rolling her eyes, Hazel pushes herself off the ground begrudgingly, beginning to gather what little “belongings” she had. “Fine. So, what’s your plan since you’ve decided you’re the leader of this operation."

"Hold on, I haven’t decided jack shit, I’m just the only one actually trying to survive. You wanted to be in this arena with me so bad that you volunteered, so fucking act like it. Start pulling your weight or I’m leaving your ass here. And we’re going to the forested area, that’s bound to have game and we have a bow and arrow.”

“I’ll choose to ignore the first part of that for your sake.” Pretentious bitch. “I thought you were worried about that meathead from 7 being there, why go where he might be?”

He isn’t a meathead. “Because one, we’re desperate; and two, he could have left that part of the area by now, or he’s dead. We both missed the tribute death announcement yesterday because someone fell asleep when they were supposed to be keeping watch, so we don’t know if he’s alive or not.” Sam snaps as he shoves the tools he had used over the last day back into his bag, leaving out the small canteen he had been beyond grateful to find in the pack.

“You can’t just blame me for everything!” Hazel raises her voice, nearly shouting at Sam as he passes her on his exit from the cave.

“For that, I can. You were supposed to be keeping watch; I understand getting tired, but you should have woken me up to take over. That can’t happen again, Hazel. Just think about what could have happened if another tribute had found us both asleep.” Stooping to fill his canteen with water, he glances back to see if she had followed him, not knowing whether to feel relieved or disappointed that she had.

“I’m not apologizing if that’s what you want.”

“I’m not asking for an apology; I’m telling you that it won’t happen again.” His response is short as he stands, brushing past her in the direction of the trees towering in the distance. He doesn’t slow as he hears nothing but an annoyed huff from behind him, the crunch of her boots on the sand following him after a few moments. I swear to god, I’m killing her if she keeps this shit up. With how she’s acting, I’d be more successful alone than with her as an ally. I’m giving her 24 hours to pull her weight, after that if she still hasn’t, I need to get rid of her.

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“Can we please stop for the day?” Hazel whines the words out, dragging her feet through the underbrush dramatically.

“Not until we find good shelter. I already told you; we need food, shelter, and water.”

“Ugh, fine.” The only sound they can hear as they walk is the crunch of their boots against the twigs underfoot and the various bird calls drifting between the trees, both tributes saying nothing as they trek on.

After another 20 minutes, Sam freezes mid-step, his ears perking up at the sound of a cannon firing. He says nothing as he looks to Hazel, only to hear another cannon fire only minutes after. Their eyes go wide at the sound, both wondering who those cannons had been for and where those dead tributes were.

Another minute passes before Sam picks up distant yelling. “Stop.” It sounds like a man. Could it be-? What does it matter if it is?  “Do you hear that?”

Her eyebrows crease in confusion as she looks around them, yet still sees and hears nothing. “No? What are you talking about?”

“I thought I heard-” The sound of another cannon firing in the distance cuts him off, making eye contact with Hazel before he hears dry heaves coming from within the forest around them, setting off in the direction of the noise silently. “Is that- is that sobbing?”

“I can’t tell, I don’t know if I hear what you’re hearing, Samuel.”

“I think I heard something over here.” Just as he says the words, he hears faint rustling in the bushes before he catches a glimpse of something taking off into the trees. “Go! Follow them!”

Just as he takes the first step to sprint after whatever or whoever had made the noise, Hazel catches his arm, stopping him completely. “What if it’s a dangerous animal or tribute?”

“Then we kill them. It’s probably some weak tribute that’s hurt, I swore I heard sobbing.” The barely audible sound of a Sponsor Gift comes from the direction they had run in, and Sam’s eyes go wide. Neither of them had received a sponsor gift yet, so why was this tribute? “Now we definitely have to go. If it’s a weak tribute, we can kill them and take it for ourselves.”

“Fine. But if we die, it’s your fault.” Sam doesn’t respond, knowing better than to waste his breath on her as he quickly makes his way towards the mechanical chime until they finally come across the source.

Sam didn’t know what outcomes to expect of the situation; a weak tribute getting a pity gift, maybe even a trap to lure them towards a threat. But what he hadn’t expected to see was Daniel lying on his stomach alone, unconscious, and with a Sponsor Gift clutched in his hand. “What the fuck?” Sam approaches him cautiously, nudging his boot with his own as he waits for a response, thinking it could be a trap. When Daniel still doesn’t move or respond, he moves around the man, coming to a crouch by his side.

“What are you doing?” Hazel keeps her distance from them, eyeing the axe held loosely in his hand, a machete on the ground beside his other.

“Just checking something.” Sam brings his hand to Daniel’s right shoulder, pulling hard until he flips him to his back. He resists the urge to gasp at the sight before him. The shiny, dolled up pet of The Garden he had seen at the Parade and Interview was no more, now replaced with nothing but a broken man covered in grime.

“Holy fuck, that’s- that’s a lot of blood. Is he alive?”

Sam’s eyes roam over his body, from the gash across his stomach still bleeding, up to his left shoulder seemingly bent in an unnatural and extremely uncomfortable position. They finally stop on his face, blood not only covering the skin below his gorgeous nose and down his lips and chin, but also dripped across his face as if someone else had bled on him.

“I don’t know, let me check.” Bringing his fingertips to his neck gently, he feels for a pulse, nearly holding his breath as he waits. For some reason, relief floods him as Daniel’s heartbeat thuds weakly below his skin, finally seeing the light rise and fall of his chest the longer he stared. “He’s alive.”

“We should kill him.”

“What?” Sam whips his head towards Hazel, anger flashing across his features at the suggestion. “Are you kidding?”

“No. He’s dying, might as well put him out of his misery. And he’s a threat if he heals, we can’t risk him surviving out here and hunting us down.”

“What if we offer him ally-ship?”

Hazel deadpans at him, no amusement present on her features as she pointedly looks between Sam and Daniel. “Are you actually fucking insane?!”

“No. If we help him, he’d be in debt to us. He could be a powerful ally, you know how strong he is.”

“And how are we going to help him, Sam? He’s already on the brink of death and we don’t have any medicine.”

Sam’s heart drops before he remembers the gift, his eyes darting to the metal canister as he leans over Daniel to grab it. Inside, he finds a two syringes filled with a clear substance, a small jar of what appeared to be a cream of sorts, and a small piece of paper, messy words scrawled onto it as if they had been written in a rush. He slips the paper into his pocket before Hazel sees it, figuring he would read it alone when he got the chance. “With these. I would guess they’re medicine. His mentor did well getting people to love them.”

“Them.” Hazel repeats. “He had an ally, that girl. Where do you think she is?”

“I would guess that whoever did this,” Sam runs his fingers across the exposed skin around the slash on his stomach lightly, his fingertips drifting over the soft ridges of muscle beneath it. “Also did something to her. I think he’s alone, all his allies have been killed. He has no one else.”

“So what? You want to fill that hole for him? I think you just want him to fill yours.” She spits the last part of the sentence out, her cheeks tinging bright red in her embarrassment and anger.

“Excuse me?! What the fuck are you suggesting?” His blood boils as rage and panic courses through him, his cheeks burning as he rips his hand away from the other man’s skin. “I’m doing this for us. We suck ass at some survival skills, don’t deny it, he could help us stay alive. If he refuses our alliance or turns on us, I’ll kill him myself.”

“You know exactly what I mean… but fine. I’m holding you to that, though. Deal?”

Sam sets his jaw, the muscles twitching at the sheer force of it as he locks his steeled gaze on her. Who the fuck does she think she is, implying that like it’s nothing. She doesn’t know me, she doesn’t know him. I don’t know him. “Deal.”

Hazel looks around their surroundings, trying to find any place they could camp out for the night that wasn’t too far away, knowing that Sam likely couldn’t carry Daniel alone. “Alright well where do you suggest we take him? It’d be stupid to stay out in the open like this.”

Fuck. She’s right. We’re too exposed out here, and we don’t know what happened to the tribute that did this to him. Sam closes his eyes, taking a deep breath as he tries to think of any solution. With one sense gone, his others heighten slightly, the lack of visual input allowing him to notice the distant sound of running water. Opening his eyes again, he pinpoints the direction of it before looking back to Daniel and his belongings. “I think I hear a waterfall or something. Here, put his machete and axe in my bag blade down, then we can carry him over.”

“I’m gonna be so unbelievably mad if you’re wrong.” Despite her obvious reluctance, she does as he says before moving to stand at Daniel’s feet as Sam places himself at his head. “You take upper half and I take lower?”

“Yup.” Sam bends, looping his forearms under Daniel’s armpits as Hazel moves between his legs, picking each up at the knee as they hoist him into the air. “Alright, not too bad with the two of us. Let’s get moving.”

Rotating 180°, Sam takes the lead as he walks backwards, towards the sound of flowing water. The pair says nothing on their trek, not once making eye contact as Hazel makes her annoyance known through each huff and exaggerated grunt. Finally, after around 10 minutes, they stumble upon a small lake with a waterfall flowing into it, tall rocks surrounding the crystal-clear water. They set him down onto the river rock as both stretch from the strain of carrying him before Sam sees a small alcove cut into the rock towering over the water’s edge. “Hey, I know we just put him down, but over there is a little more hidden, less out in the open. Might be a little safer, y’know?”

“Fine. Let’s get this over with.” As Sam picks Daniel’s torso up gingerly, Hazel yanks his legs off the ground, already shuffling over towards the alcove as if she couldn’t get it over with fast enough, as if she had better things to do. “This is good enough.” Sam’s grateful that he had been the one to take Daniel’s top half as Hazel drops his legs, the extra weight now solely carried by him causing him to stumble. She rolls her eyes as she catches Sam’s irritated glare as he gently sets Daniel down, holding the back of his head as he lays him on the ground. “You’re lucky I even helped you drag him this far.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m going to go hunt. Stay here with him, don’t let him kill you when he wakes up. If he wakes up.” Sam doesn’t miss her smirk as she turns away from him, leaving the clearing without another word. Fucking bitch. He’ll wake up, she’ll see.

Sam tries not to let his thoughts wander as he carefully wrestles Daniel’s bag, jacket and shirt off, trying not to aggravate his shoulder or stomach too much. He sets in on cleaning him up immediately, folding his jacket neatly and placing it behind his head as a “pillow” before he takes the remains of his shirt and wets it at the edge of the small lake.

Kneeling by his side, Sam gently wipes away the blood covering his face, needing to scrub slightly as it had begun to dry. After rinsing off the shirt and getting it wet with clean water again, his hands move to Daniel’s stomach, his touch soft as he dabs at the edges of the large gash. I know I’ve wanted him dead for so long, I’ve wanted to be the one to kill him; but now that I see him like- like this, it hurts? I don’t know him, I won’t pretend to, but I would venture to guess he didn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this pain. Sam finds himself tearing up as he’s unable to take his eyes from the slash, hating the way it split the perfect, soft skin of his stomach.

Pull yourself together, Samuel. Jesus Christ, what’s gotten into you? He’s thankful that Hazel had left them as he feels a blush spread over his cheeks, sure that they were bright red even in the dying light of the day. Suddenly remembering the Sponsor Gift and note, he retrieves both, placing the syringes and jar on the ground as he unfolds the paper.

“Inject into your shoulder, it’ll heal the shattered bones. Put a generous amount of ointment on the cut on your stomach.

It’s not your fault, Danny. You did everything you could, and in the end, you did what you had to. I’m so sorry. Keep going for her.

-Luna”

“You did what you had to.” What does that mean? What did he do? Sam looks back to Daniel, his confusion only visible to him as the other man lay unconscious. Deciding to move on from the thought for the time being, he sets in on uncapping one of the two syringes, his hands shaking slightly as he tries to figure out where to inject the substance. Is it his collarbone or shoulder blade? ‘Luna’ said ‘bones’ plural, maybe it’s both? Which shoulder? His left one looks a little fucked up, maybe it’s that one? Here goes nothing… He takes a deep breath before plunging the needle into the front of Daniel’s left shoulder, injecting half of the substance into the skin before pulling the needle out. Slightly lifting his upper body to the side, he stabs the needle into the back of his shoulder, just below the bottom of the blade. Should be good, right?

His attention moves to the ointment next as he replaces the cap on the syringe and unscrews the jar lid, taking a small whiff of the cream within. Pine needles and cloves; weird. Hope this works. I don’t have anything to do stitches with, and if this splits open again, there’s no way Hazel will let him live. Sam scoops a large amount onto his fingers, hesitating slightly as he brings the substance to the open wound. Expecting him to flinch, Sam’s heartbeat skyrockets as Daniel stays motionless, not even the hint of a reaction on his features. With his hand not covered in the ointment, he brings his fingers to his neck, frantically searching for his pulse. Oh, thank god, he’s alive. Just very, very unconscious. He’s alive.

Sam tries to calm his racing heart with these words as he covers the gash with the cream, praying that they would help speed up his recovery. Figuring he had applied enough, he leaves Daniel only to rinse his hands in the lake, the residue washing off easily. I probably shouldn’t just leave him like this in case he gets violent... but I don’t want to hurt his shoulder by tying his hands behind his back. He thinks as he retrieves the rope from his bag, deciding on carefully tying his wrists together in front of him before securing the other end of the rope to the trunk of a tree beside him. Shouldn’t be so tight it hurts him, but not so loose he can slip out or make a grab for me if he wakes up- when, when he wakes up. He’ll wake up… I hope he wakes up.

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Taglist: @jake-whatthefisgoingon-kiszka @milojames16 @gretnavannfleet @aioba1503-sdm @sanguinebats @cheersdannyx2 @musicislove3389 @holdingup-fallingsky @freyjalw @Maddie-Rae

[mizzskelter]

Friendly Competition [Robin & Kylar + PC | 1420 Words]

Partner to this fanart I did

Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the sheer desperation in those moments that caused you to blurt both a challenge and reward. And unfortunately as owner to those in retrospect careless promises meant entangling yourself deep into their shit.

An incoming mess to dread if the faces of Kylar and, well, namely just Kylar doing what he does best, and a clueless yet eager Robin were anything to go by.

Earlier under the clear midday glow you dragged Robin by the arm towards glassy arcade doors rather than your usual haunts at the cinema or forest. “Something different could be fun,” you said smiling, with the arcade’s name alone having Robin perk up like a puppy to a treat.

And so there you were leading him past funky neon patterns, tokens rattling down slots and already manned machines to find one of your own. On the view of your arm he clutched, Robin pointed out titles he recognized and ooo’ed at the ones he didn't, yet each were games he didn’t have the time nor money to spend on.

What you didn’t expect on your quest to rectify that fact was to run into a familiar mop of dark hair and owlish eyes. They lit up in an instant at you. Then they shift over to Robin and you watched in real-time a tendril of suspicion snake and twist round within.

Kylar wasn’t supposed to be here. Fuck.

But for everyone’s sake you didn’t let your surprise slip. What came out of your mouth rather was a slew of pleasant bullshitery not at all aided by Robin’s attempt at small talk. A noble if in vain task when Kylar seemed deadset on cutting him off. You felt his palpable disdain pile on in layers from being near him as if tainting the two of you. 

Trying to save bad from dropping into hell, you pressed against an unoccupied cabinet. A small piece of you hoped suggesting a little friendly competition would sow some seeds of friendship or better yet awkward tolerance. They like games! There! Done. A bonding point already! It made sense!

The delusional ravings of someone in deep shit is what you'd call that piece of you.

Still met with uncertain faces you switched tactics and struck a coy smile, grabbing for both their hands. You leaned in close and let your reward of a kiss brush their ears. They shared a glance, Robin shrugging.

Soon a screen flares with the select stage—their arenas for all intents and purposes—of the fighting game of your choice as they reach for the controls. It'll be brutal and bitter, yet in regards to Kylar, a knife-free, ethical rarity considering the other ways he’s proven his love for you in the past. And thank god for at least that.

Where your participation as pseudo-host leads, you find as the first matches drag on to the next it’s going to be a slower, more real death than the ones meeting their pixelated campy ends on screen. You rest on the side of the nearest machine, and realize shortly after you’re not their lone spectator. 

Stray players wandering the arcade rows start crowding around, albeit at a distance after noticing Kylar if not outright leaving punctuated by an “Ew.” Their whispers and the plastic clacks of button mashing become your background noise as you wait, watching.

(1) Next

Dayglow bleeds to dusk. The crowd thins one by one with their attention drawn elsewhere–to other friends and games, while you’re still here as, unlike the crowd, neither of the two show signs of stopping. They are for better or worse your pair of hellbent, lovesick boys and that makes you responsible for the path of whatever the hell this was you just sent them on.

Embodied best by Kylar, with his lifeline now a cable hooked to the cabinet, taking to the versus matches as if everything hinges on one upping your childhood friend. You’re not sure the last time he blinked.

Robin, though, doesn’t seem to be one so easily outdone. His tongue pokes out as his character ducks, stuns, and pulls combos closer to victory or loss. A matter of pride you figure, but there’s a smile you can read shining through his eyes. He’s enjoying the challenge.

In round one Kylar took victory. Round four, Robin, with a last minute grab combo and far too much sportsmanship for his own good at the resulting glare. At round six, Kylar again who by then quit his gloating as a means to spit the fire in his system to burn Robin. Words weren’t needed when saving it as fuel for the seventh match sufficed. 

He darts the joystick towards “Rematch” before you herd them over to another fighting game altogether. The second they take their spots you resist sighing at them falling back to the same old rotation between smugness and scowls of completely and utterly different severities.

Godfuck you wish they at least talked.

As though to fill that void, the announcer whether starting a match or doling fanfare ingrained itself into your head, keeping the score you long since lost track of as much as the coin you spent on this silly tournament. And if you need enough reminding of their cock off competition you roped yourself into, the game’s voice lines and sound effects insist on following closely your drift into sleep.

Boredom may be the one fuzzing your mind, but you can’t deny the view of their backs also stirs a sense of security and fondness that lulls you in deeper and deeper, and further far away from the arcade's buzz. You can count on them at the very least as your eyes close to dare not leave you behind…

…

(1) Next

…At some unpinnable point in your limbo between wakefulness and dreaming, “I won!” pierces through the haze than the usual “Winner” and one-liner blend.

“Did you forget the last one was my win?” Kylar’s grumbling peters out as you nod off further. “…Getting late…are they okay?”

You’re shaken out your stupor by a pair of hands that are hastily swatted away by another. “So?” you yawn, reading on a nearby clock it’s 18:00. The arcade's din sounds emptier.

Robin rubs the back of his neck. “It was, well, we ended up in a draw.”

Looking over to Kylar he keeps his eyes to the floor while rocking on his heels.

(1) Kiss them both on the cheek | + Robin’s Love | + Kylar’s Love | + Jealousy | - Robin’s Confidence

You step forward and plant a kiss on Robin’s cheek. In the next beat you move past his now grinning face to give Kylar the same treatment before his pout grows too sour. Despite what it took to get these, you soak in the satisfaction of your handiwork: Kylar rubbing his blushing cheeks, stuttering his thanks, while the other has nothing but bright joy and admiration gleaming in his eyes.

“Best out of ten next time? If that’s okay with you?” Robin asks Kylar outside the arcade. He manages a half-smile, more than what Kylar deserves from him if you're honest.

Kylar regards him with a deep frown one would afford a particularly ugly stain on white before glancing at you, contemplation hardening his face further.

Just as you expect he’ll ignore him, he curtly nods. “Sure. You’re on,” he answers in arguably the friendliest tone—or least hostile, but little steps are little victories with him you suppose— directed at Robin all day. Or maybe since he started wedging himself between the two of you at school all that time ago.

Still his gaze though is fixated on you, and only you. “Goodbye. Today was…different.” An odd hint of conflict laces his voice, and he too seems surprised. 

He turns away without further explanation, leaving you stuck wondering why or before you act on a chance to pry. His walk is dotted by occasional glances thrown over his shoulder at you and Robin lingering by the arcade’s doors.

”You know, he’s not so bad to hang out with. Just…er, please make sure you’re in there with me again.” Robin laugh is genuine if nervous. “Ready to go home?”

You’d comment but you get the sense neither of you should move until the last sliver of him has disappeared completely behind that alley corner. But being unseen doesn't mean he won't be nearby of that you're sure.

Hell knowing him, you wonder who will sneak into your room first after today. To the true victor then goes the spoils.

[goattypegirl]

Hokay so I have reached the final boss of the dlc, I think. I say reached because I have not yet beaten it; I got to phase 2 once. This is going to be a doozy I can already tell. Super spoilers below.

First, the fight technically. First phase is like a schmixed Radahn; muscle memory is kind of helping but it might be placebo. It's probably placebo. Phase 2 reminds me of the twin princes, I can't say more than that because I got got approximately 2.3 seconds into phase 2. I think some people are going to be mad about the twin princes similarities, but I like how Fromsoft tends to iterate on ideas from previous games. I don't mean like overt stuff like patches or the moonlight greatsword, but like the guardian ape and the bloodletting beast, the lamenter and pinwheel, or leda and crew and gideon. Assuming I get to phase two sometime this calendar year, it'll be cool to see how they've built on the twin princes concept.

Story and lore wise, like I said in my other post, I knew the dlc was going to fill gaps but boy howdy I was not expecting them to be filled this way. So grain of salt, I'm not actually done with the damn game yet. My initial reaction was confusion, and I'll need to sit on it more, but I like it.

From what Ive gathered, ascending to godhood apparently requires a consort, a Warrior to the Thinker, the Red King to the White Queen, and so Miquella did something to Mohg's body to make it a suitable vessel for Radhan. (Maybe it's cause I'm a freak but I think it would have been cool to see that process. Who knows, maybe there's a cutscene into phase 3 where the body deteriorates back into Mohg.) Radahn 2 has a move where he casts bloodflame, and you can see horns peaking out of his cuffs and boots. Actually, whenever I've died he's spun around to face away from the camera. I wonder if that's intentional? In universe it's Radhan hiding his face because he knows something's wrong, out of universe the devs wanted you to notice the horns.

I know people are wondering why it isn't Malenia or Godwyn, and I think I can come up with some in and out of universe reasons why.

For in universe reasons why Godwyn isn't the final boss, maybe the night of the black knives killed his soul so badly it was unable to be retrieved, or because his body couldn't be killed. Maybe that's what castle sol and the eclipse thing was for, if it worked and Godwyn died a true death, he could be used as Miquella's consort. Honestly I didn't expect the dlc to feature Godwyn at all, the whole 'oh the scadutree is being choked by deathblight' thing felt like a reach, but there's something going on with Godwyn here. Don't think I didn't notice the two death knight fights have the Stormveil face in the back of the arena, or that their weapons reference a "surrogate corpse."

Out of universe Godwyn, the only thing I can think of is that Godwyns simultaneously an obscure character but also relevant to two game-spanning, ending-determining questlines, fia's and ranni's. Radhan meanwhile is a shardbearer in an area right next to the starting area. If you asked the average player who didnt really talk to NPCs or read item descriptions, they'll probably recognize Radhan and not Godwyn.

For in universe reasons why Malenia wasn't the final boss, it depends on how you view Miquella's character, but I think it's because he knew making a consort would require killing his sister, and he didn't want to do that. That's just my hunch right now working on incomplete information, and you could probably come up with a lot more uncharitable reasons why he didn't pick Malenia. (Side note. If Radhan was chosen as his consort early on, and therefore needed to die, thats yet another potential reason why Malenia battled Radhan.)

Out of universe, the devs probably didn't want to lock the dlc behind the base game's super boss, and they were probably wary of making Miquella's consort his literal twin sister.

The dlc recontextualizes a lot of stuff especially about Miquella's character, and I'll need more time to think on it, but I think if Miquella could have ever been called a "good guy", it was long before the events of the story. He probably had good intentions going in, but the dlc as a whole is showing how power necessitates corruption and compromise. One literally cannot become a god until you discard more and more of yourself, your doubts, your fears, and your love. The Miquella at the end of the game wouldn't have had qualms over killing his sister.

Something worth examining is that Miquella's an Empyrean. We still don't really know what that means* besides that they're candidates chosen by the Greater Will to replace Marika. And like. Isn't that what Miquella is doing? Like was the transition from Marika to Miquella supposed to require such chaos and bloodshed? Is Miquella following along the Greater Will's plan? Mohg's body had to be modified into something unrecognizable in order to be a proper host, a proper puppet. Is Miquella doing the same? If so, what exactly makes him any different than Marika?

*the watchful spirit item description vexes me. I think about it every night. What the hell do you mean Empyrean grandam.

As a final, very petty note. The 'Miquella is pure evil, he's literally Griffith!' and heccin wholesome chungus gigachad Radhan bros are going to be fucking insufferable.

[writing--whore]

The Art of Survival - Chapter One

Okay so I have written 5k of the Luis x Reader Hunger Games series (and I'm only like halfway/a quarter of the way through the plot that I have in mind) but before I go any further with the writing and editing, I wanna put the first 1k words to see if people actually like it. So here you go. Plz lmk what you think and if you want more :3

Pairing: Luis Serra x Reader

Summary: Luis is determined to survive the hunger games, which means he cannot allow himself to have a single weakness. And he had none. That was until he laid eyes on you.

Word count: 1k

Warnings: graphic depiction of violence (canon typical for Resident Evil 4 and also The Hunger Games). The violence is committed against you. Canon typical murder of children.

A/N: I re-watched the Hunger Games like a year ago and haven't seen it again since. I'm not going to follow the Hunger Games lore as if it were law. Because A) I don't want to and B) I can't remember it. Please don't come for me. Or do and I'll edit it.

Part One - Part Two

Throughout the whole ordeal - the training, the social events, the interviews - Luis kept his head down and didn’t speak a word to anyone. He didn’t want to think about his chances of getting out of here alive. And he certainly didn’t want to think about how he would have to murder all 23 other contestants if he wanted to live. He’d committed enough atrocities by creating la plagas. A part of him thought this was karma; he deserved to die after what he had done. And yet, when faced with the very real likelihood of death, he realised that he was much more selfish and cowardly than he’d originally thought. He realised that he wanted to live. 

He chose not to think about it. He didn’t want to face his ugly instinct to survive and what he would have to do if he wanted to return home. Which is why he didn’t want to have anything to do with anyone else. He didn’t want to humanise his opponents. 

But he had eyes and he had ears. No matter how much denied and ignored the situation, numerous pieces of information still infiltrated his brain. For instance, he noticed that Y/N was the weakest opponent. She was the smallest, she was the weakest and she didn’t even seem to possess one single skill that would be helpful in the arena. For as much as he tried to uproot it, a seed of sympathy had planted itself in his heart. None of this was fair. People like her should not be pitted against… well, people like him. 

He certainly wasn’t the strongest here but he was far from the weakest. He was decently tall, decently strong. He knew he had a great aim and that he was exceptionally bright. And after fighting the Los Illuminados, he thought he had a pretty good grasp on the act of survival. 

There was one final banquet where all the contestants dined together. He couldn’t handle it. Everyone was so fake, trying to make pleasant conversation when they knew a blood bath loomed on the horizon. He scoffed up his food and chose to take a walk instead. 

The cool air hit his face and he sighed with relief. The peace was short lived; his ears attuned to a nearby sound of crying. His feet trod silently along the gravel, following the sound until he spied the source. Someone was curled up behind a hedgerow, letting out helpless sobs. It was Y/N. 

His feet continued along the path. He buried the sympathy, he buried the shame. Those weren’t emotions he was capable of possessing anymore. 

So why then was he haunted by her face when he was trying to get to sleep that night? 

He recalled being forced to watch the footage of the other contestants getting reaped, and the way all of the colour drained from Y/N’s face when her name was called. He recalled seeing her taking great gulping breaths before the live interviews, each one shorter than the last like she was forgetting how to breathe. 

He groaned and wiped a hand across his face. She should not be here. She should not be fated to a certain and brutal execution. But more importantly, he should not be thinking about this. He had to focus on himself. It was the only way to win. 

That’s exactly what he did. As he stood in the arena, facing his contestants in a circle, he thought only of saving his own skin. This was it. The games were about to commence. His heart drilled against his chest. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, he had learnt to hone it, to sharpen his senses while forgoing any mindless panic. 

The contestants eyed each other up, trying to unnerve the other. Luis simply didn’t look. He focused on the cornucopia straight ahead. He knew he’d be able to run fast enough and he would be much better off if he could claim a weapon. 

So as the countdown hit zero, he legged it, shoulder barging others out of the way. A solid iron pipe caught his eye. It would keep his attackers at arms length and it would be skilled at wielding it. He snatched it and ran, holding it poised against his shoulder in a way that made others afraid to take their chances with him. 

He dived into the thick of the forest, picking a random direction and sprinting as fast as he could. No thoughts entered his mind besides the command to keep on running until he couldn’t run anymore. 

Laughter cut through the tree trunks a few feet ahead, followed by high pitched shrieks. His feet dug into the mud as he went to veer around the source of the noise. But through the leaves, he spotted Y/N. She was crawling through the leaves on her hands and knees but two kids from district 9 dragged her back into the clearing; two cats toying with their prey. 5 minutes into the games and these kids were already focused on sadism rather than survival. 

The district 9 boy easily flipped her onto her back and straddled her, ending her ability to struggle. His fist raised in the air and pounded her face. 

Adrenaline shot up Luis’ spine. He wasn’t even aware that he was emerging through the brush. Nor that his arms had sparked to life and were lifting the pipe over his head. It was an automatic, emotionless act, he told himself as he swung. 

A sickening crack echoed throughout the trees as the boy’s skull snapped open. Rivers of blood ran down the back of his head. 

The district 9 girl screamed - raw with grief - and took off running in the opposite direction. 

The boy fell to one side, half on top of Y/N. She propelled her legs, trying to scrabble away from the weight trapping her. Luis was reminded of a bunny caught in a fist.  

Horror flashed in her eyes when she caught him watching her. Blood had sprayed across his cheek, painting him as a killer. It gave her the fuel she needed; one more kick and she was free. She scurried away, kicking up fallen leaves and very nearly tripping over her own feet.

~~~

He dreamt of her that night. He dreamt that he was a ghostly spectator, floating around the clearing as the district 9 kids took it in turns to beat her. They didn’t let up. His heart tore itself to sheds to hear her cries as her face was marred with deep black bruises. There was nothing left of his heart when her cries turned to silent defeat. She wasn’t going to get out of this. And no one was coming to help her. 

Their punches didn’t let up even as her face turned into an unrecognisable pulp. 

“Stop!” He wanted to call out but had no voice.

He wanted to break their hands, claw out their eyes. But he could not act.

[dalekofchaos]

Mortal Kombat Koncept: Li Mei by Jack Meng Kirkman

Story:

Shao Kahn chooses only the best Li Mei, it is unbecoming of you to deny such an opportunity.

Shao cares not for his fighters, just that they win. Li Mei scowled

It is for the glory of outworld my child

And the damnation for all others…

Be careful how you speak of the Kahn and his conquest Li Mei. In my presence you are safe, but there are many less tolerant.

Thanks for your concern, Mi Zhang. I will try to remember. Li Mei said, nearly biting on her tongue.

Well, your training is complete for today, I suggest you get ample rest. Li Mei bowed and began leaving the small dojo. “You know Shao won’t give me a choice, don’t you?”. Mi Zhang said nothing.

“FIGHT!” That was the last word Li Mei heard before she threw yet another bout. This time it was to Earthrealm’s Sonya Blade. She was fierier than most and just as brutal. She woke up in her resting chamber. She remembered being near death. Her bones snapped, her blood painted the arena. Only by the hands of Outworld’s best healers was she saved. Shao Khan would not let such a prospective warrior off so easily. She rose slowly, still recovering from the damage Sonya had done a month prior. Her eyes fell on a hooded figure in dark robes standing at the foot of her bed, back turned. They were not one of her healers. “Can I help you?”, she said. though she was tired, she was focused and collected

“Perhaps…” The figure’s voice was eerie and slow. “But first I must help you”. The figure turned around, their features were obscured and it was dark out. They held their hands calmly together, showing no sign of aggression or ill intent.

“I have healers, thank you. Whatever your services, they are not required.” Li Mei said sternly. The figure made her uneasy.

“Don’t be so sure, Champion”

“I am no champion”

“But you could be”. Li Mei hesitated for a moment. “Without Bo’ Rai Cho here to guide me, I’m afraid I am too weak.”. A high-pitched laugh escaped the figure. “Bo’ Rai Cho is a vestigial appendage of history. But you… You Li Mei are the future. You are the legacy of the White Lotus, the Champion of Outworld!”

“Stop calling me that!” The figure stood in silence for a moment before Li Mei broke through once more. “Who are you? How do you know who I am? And why do you profess to aid me?

“I am a humble cleric from a distant land. Where I am from we listen to the universe. We let prophecy be our guide. And I have seen a great prophecy written in blood. A warrior as swift as the current, as ferocious as a tsunami, as inexorable as the tide. Now, only two warriors embody that prophecy, but… as I let the blood run, it spoke to me… ‘She must win!’. This leaves only you, Li Mei.

There was a pause, as Li Mei ruminated on the words.

“You fight like a wave. You are both the calm and the crash. You are like water my friend…”

“Take your poetry and leave, before I break your bones.”

The figure laughed manically. Uncontrollably. Breaking their collected demeanour. They unfolded their hands and grabbed their arm and with an echoing *snap* forced their arm in the wrong direction. Li Mei winced in disgust and recoiled from the figure. A low laughter rung out again. “A rather empty threat I’m afraid”

“What do you want from me” Li Mei asked coldly now, her patience with this cleric was running thin

ºAll I want is to unleash your potential. You confine yourself like a cove, when you could be the ocean!” The words seemed to stretch for an eternity.

“If I win, Shao Khan will lord over all realms”

“That is not written”

“Damn your prophecies!”

“All I know, is that if you betray this prophecy. If you betray your true nature. The realms will suffer something worse.”

“Like what?”

“That is not written…”

“Leave me”

“Of course… But before I go, I will leave you with a demonstration of the truth. Should you continue on your current path, your next fight will finish you. I will be there when it happens and only I have the means to save you. When we meet again, I hope you will reconsider my words”

“If I die, they can’t force me to win. I will not live as a slave again!”

“Surely Bo’ Rai Cho and Shujinko taught you to fight for something greater?” The cleric turned and left the chamber

Li Mei’s next fight was against Kung Lao. She thought once more about her death. It would be an end to all the suffering, not just for herself, but she would no longer have to bear witness to it. “If I must die… so be it”, she thought. She entered the arena for what she thought would be the last time. The breath was drawn out of her as the first punch landed to her gut. As she searched for air in a seeming void, words of the cleric came to her.

“If you betray your true nature. The realms will suffer something worse.” Then a barrage of punches were thrown her way. Breathlessly she edged backwards, parrying the blows. Kung Lao gave her a curt nod of recognition, but realizing she was out of gas, unleashed a powerful side kick once again to her stomach. She crashed into the ground and inhaled with the might of Fujin.

“I will not live as a slave again!” she heard her say in her mind. The boot of Kung Lao stomped down towards her, she rolled out of the way and swept his legs on the way up. She dashed backwards, trying desperately to regain her composure. Then she heard, “You won’t be living at all…”, her thoughts, but in the eerie drawl of the cleric. Kung Lao gave her no reprieve, he turned heel and rushed towards her, once again unleashing a flurry of strikes. She blocked, ducked and weaved out of his line of fire. He spun around to face her once more, not giving her his back. “Bo’ Rai Cho speaks highly of you Li Mei. Its an honour to meet you in Kombat”. Li Mei was still trying to level her breathing and used the time Kung Lao was wasting. He smiled and then with lightning speed, threw his bladed hat at her throat. Its arc through the air changed unnaturally and Li Mei barely dodged the edge, but it still sheered the side of her neck. She turned quickly to face Kung Lao, but he had vanished, then a whirlwind of air picked up from behind her, before she could turn around, she felt his heel bury deep into her spine. She let out a sharp yelp as she fell to the floor once more. She rolled over, only to see the guillotine hat spinning towards her through the air. She quickly reached for her chain whip, “Long Wei” (Dragontail) and snapped the chain taught in front of her. The hat hit the chain and spun violently, sparks went flying in all directions, but it would not break through, after all the hat’s blade and her chain were made out of the same powerful metal. Time slowed as the sparks flew by her face and she caught a glimpse of the cleric in the crowd, hands together buried in long billowing sleeves still hooded and obscured by the crowd, but there was no mistaking the presence. The hat recalled from her and Kung Lao ran towards her once more. He tore off the hat as he approached and began using it as a weapon. She deflected over and over. “Bo’ Rai Cho always called you Wave Breaker. A fierce aggressor, but all I see is you hiding behind your defenses. Show me something!” Kung Lao taunted. For a moment, Li Mei was transported back to a time where Bo’ Rai Cho stood with Outworld. War was on the horizon, as it ever was and Li Mei could see the disillusion in her master’s eyes, though he would never speak of it. Her thoughts were suddenly shattered, “Again Wave Breaker! Your technique is lacking today. Watch carefully. Your arm and fingers must be nebulous, formless, as indecisive as water ever is, HAH! But when you strike, you must be as a breaking wave. Transfer your energy like so”, Bo’ Rai Cho struck with his arm which seemed to be floating and wandering while explaining, but the impact of his fist shook the pillar of the arch above them, sending waves of force through the entire structure. He exhaled a long deep breath and closed his eyes. Then opened them calmly to her. “Again”. With lightning speed, Li Mei’s fist shot forward and like the chain of Long Wei, snapped tight. She hit Kung Lao clean in the ribs and sent him flying backwards. He winced in pain and breathed heavily, as he straightened, he doubled over. It was clear something was wrong. She took this as a sign to advance. But as she did so, Kung Lao threw his hat once more, she dived under it, only to meet Kung Lao rolling in close to her, as he came up, he brought his knee into her chest. She lost her breath again, but compressed her body and let loose a powerful uppercut. Kung Lao had not expected it and it hit him clean in the jaw. “Why are you fighting”, she whispered in her head. The hat returned and slashed into her back, before it returned to Kung Lao, she grabbed it and slashed at his arm with expert precision. A twisted look of confusion and strange jealousy took his face. He side kicked again, but this time she caught his leg with the inside of the hat, then dropped his leg and spun with the hat, slashing his tunic and chest. Kung Lao retreated for a moment. “Who taught you that!” he panted. “Shujinko” she responded coldly. he nodded and the held his hand out and called the hat to him. Li Mei, chased the hat towards Kung Lao. The moment he caught it she leapt at him, smashing her fist into his face once more. “If you win, the Kahn will reign”. She heard in her mind. Kung Lao spun around from the impact, but then a whirlwind of energy picked up around him and Li Mei was sent flying into the air. Kung Lao appeared above her and then crashed down onto her with a flying kick. As she stumbled to her feet, she heard once more, “She must win”. “Stop!!” She screamed in her mind. Her mind was addled with a confusion that denied her, her usual battle fervor. Kung Lao had closed the distance again and as she was regaining her stance, palmed her in the chest. The strike wasn’t hard but it interrupted her balance. Then his leg swept her leg up, breaking her stance. He grabbed her leg and positioned his body under her, then with a wide arching palm, swept her other leg up. While she was flung into the air, he drove a powerful palm into her body sending her crashing into the ground below. As she laid there, the cleric spoke once more, “Surely Bo’ Rai Cho and Shujinko taught you to fight for something greater?” Another memory flashed through her mind. It was some time into her training with Master Shujinko. Bo’ Rai Cho had defected, and for the most part, the White Lotus had been quashed in Outworld. Outworld were defeating Earthrealm time and time again in the Mortal Kombat Tournament and it looked like Shao Kahn would have all he desired and Li Mei had been an instrument in his victories. But she lamented to Shujinko about her position in life. What suffering her skill would bring on others. She had begun to fear her strength. Shujinko sat down beside her and let out a low sigh. “I know your pain, Li Mei. It is why I train you. I too was made a slave. I devoted my life to a terrible deception. I was a fool… But I now realize my folly. All my life I fought for others. I sought glory and praise. I wished to be a hero. But what is a hero without the people you save to tell you. I can teach you the Lin Kuei’s ‘Cold Shoulder’, the Shirai Ryu’s ‘Flaming Fist’. But my greatest lesson is this… you must fight for yourself. Li Mei thought she had understood at the time, those simple words of Shujinko. But only now laying here in the arena, her death prophesized, her bones broken to protect others from a fate she could not entirely foresee, did she truly understand his lesson. She got up to face Kung Lao, she would fight her fight, her way. Unfortunately for Li Mei, the cleric’s prophecy would come to pass. Too much damage had already been done and her mind, though resolute, still toyed with her. But she went out with no punches pulled. The medics had taken her away under the arena, but they could see that nothing could be done for her. The best they could do was numb her pain and walk away. Then the cleric emerged from the shadow. They stood over her. Her body was twisted and broken, but she looked into their eyes for the first time. “If you want to live, just give me a sign…” spoke the cleric. Li Mei, with a tear, nodded her head slowly, straining through shuddering pain. The last thing she saw, was the cleric summoning blood from the ether. Then a scarlet veil washed over her eyes.

She awoke in a darkened room. Her eyes darted around, her body felt fast and light. She leapt up from the table and held a defensive stance. She hadn’t felt this limber in a long time. She saw open tubes with teal liquid that led to strange glass containers which seemed to be drained of the same fluid. Then her eyes rested on a dark figure standing in the corner, arms folded as they always were. “Where are we” Li Mei said.

“Shang Tsung’s flesh pits. They’ve been abandoned for some time.” Murmured the cleric

“How did you save me? Why could it be only you? I feel better than I’ve ever felt with healers. What have you done to me?”

“Questions, questions. My methods my own, they are secret and I ask that you respect that. All that matters is that you are free now.

“Free? From what?”

“Your life is your own, champion”

Li Mei gritted her teeth at the word. “What about the tournaments. Outworlds invasion, they will come looking for me again.”

“But you died Li Mei… Kung Lao dealt the fatal blow”

“But…”

“Another secret Li Mei”

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“I am not here to guide you, just to set you free.”

She searched for the words for a while, she was overwhelmed with everything that had transpired, was this death? “Th-thank you”, she said with an endearing, but cautious tone.

“The pleasure is all mine… Now, take these. The cleric handed her desert robes and hoods. These will aid you in your travels. I must retire now, helping you has taken its toll on me”

“I-I’m sorry”

“It is no issue. I will recover. In time”

Time is a tricky thing. Li Mei had seen the death of Shao Kahn at the hands of the Elder Gods themselves, then Shinnok’s rise and fall, the return of Shao Kahn, Sindel and many others long passed. Then the defeat of the Titan of Time herself. Realm altering events had come and gone and to her it all felt like it passed in an instant. She had not aged and in fact, even felt lighter on the soul. As if Kronika’s defeat returned a little piece of time to all creatures in the universe. It was a time of relative peace. No one was certain what happened to the hourglass. Some said it was destroyed with Kronika. Others, that it transported to an inaccessible realm and some claimed that a new champion controlled it. None of that mattered to Li Mei, the dust and hellfire and settled and she could finally set out in search of her old masters. Their lessons burned ever deeper into her during the trials of the conquerors, gods and titans.

She would find them in time and they and the white lotus welcomed her with open arms. Most now thought Li Mei an artifact of the time merger, but she told them the truth. The truth of her struggle and how she never left this timeline, the truth of how she was saved and set free by a mysterious cleric from a distant land. as she said the words, Shujinko raised a brow and looked to Bo’ Rai Cho. Bo’ Rai Cho looked equally perplexed. “Do you think?”

“It cannot be mistaken”, Shujinko said, a look of concern washing over his face

“Why the concern?” Li Mei asked impatiently.

“I too met a cleric from a distant realm a lifetime ago” SHujinko said, staring long into the ground of crushed leaves. “His name was Havik and he was a denizen of Chaosrealm. There were a few like him, but he showed more… Ambition”

“Chaosrealmers are often directionless, Havik seems to differ to their proclivities.” Bo’ Rai Cho added

“I learned the ways of chaos from him” Shujinko continued “And shared this knowledge with a select few, Bo’ Rai Cho being one of them”

“Our water style comes from Chaosrealm, Li Mei” Bo’ Rai Cho said, also pondering the return of this mysterious figure

“Do you think that’s why this ‘Havik’ has interest in me” Li Mei said

“It is uncertain…” Shujinko thought for a moment. “You must find him in Chaosrealm, Shang Tsung claims he resides there once more. His ways are unpredictable, but it is unlike him to refuse a conversation. Talk to him, find the truth behind his motives. He is a master of language and will try to weave a net of words to entrap you or deter you. You must be direct with him. But you must also flow with him.”

“I’m plenty direct”

“HAHA, that’s the Wavebreaker I know!” Bo’ Rai Cho exclaimed with a hearty laugh. “But Wavebreaker, the Havik we know could not accomplish such a feat of healing, how did he come to revive you in such a state?”

“I cannot remember the details, only that he drew on blood, but blood magic is a rare gift, has he always wielded that?”

“No”, Shujinko said sternly. “Unless he has hidden this gift for generations it probably has something to do with his meeting with Nitara. If she allies herself with him, you must be careful when you visit. She is pure power”

“But she is a pure soul as well” Li Mei interjected. “When I knew her, she only cared for the freedom of her people and every step she took was for their liberation. They too were slaves”, she looked at Shujinko. Shujinko sighed.

“Nothing is certain when it comes to Havik. Just be vigilant.”

Li Mei would journey to Chaosrealm and track down this Cleric of Chaos, Havik. Her journey led her to a ruined temple of order, reclaimed by the shattered wastes of Chaosrealm. There she found three figures in the throes of kombat. Sub-zero, the grandmaster of the Lin Kuei fighting alongside a woman dressed in black and red with a white streak through her raven black hair, she wielded a kama and a strange gauntlet blade. Together they fought against one woman dressed in pearlescent white and gold a wide brimmed hat with a ghostly veil adorned her head. She carried a ghastly pit lantern with trapped soul magic and a kris blade in a soul infused demon arm. Li Mei stopped for a moment assessing the situation, but her eyes kept being drawn to the kris. Nitara had once described a weapon of similar design to her, but she could not remember the details. She glanced around for the vampire, but she could not be seen. But in the shadows, she saw the familiar eyes of the cleric, slowly slinking away. She bolted forward to chase him, but a burst of soul magic blocked her path. Li Mei froze in fear, she had not seen so many damned souls since… Since her people were enslaved. A shout from behind drowned out the screaming souls. “If you’re here to help, then help!” The woman in red and black came running up to her. Li Mei looked around once more. She knew of Sub-zero. He was an ally of Earthrealm and a great hero to their people. If she helped them, he would probably aid her in return. Li Mei nodded.

“Well, strength in numbers, huh Kuai Liang!” Shouted the woman in black over the souls of the lantern.

The woman in white laughed under her breath. “That’s just what we were thinking”, she pointed the kris at the three warriors and a torrent of souldiers burst from the lantern, fallen white lotus fighters, Lin Kuei and Netherrealm assassins, screaming and charging headstrong.

“We are many, you are… Nothing!”

[morosecloud]

i wanna talk about this scene in queen’s shadow that perfectly mirrors padmé’s funeral

“Padmé Amidala was completely still.

The brown halo of her hair spread out around her, softened here and there by white blossoms that had blown through the air to find their rest amongst her curls. Her skin was pale and perfect. Her face was peaceful. Her eyes were closed and her hands were clasped across her stomach as she floated. Naboo carried on without her.

Even now, at the end, she was watched.

It was no more than was to be expected. Ever since she'd entered the arena of planetary politics, her audience had been unceasing. First they had commented on her interests and ideals, then later on her election to queen. Many had doubted her strength in the face of an invasion, when the lives and well-being of her people would be held ransom against her-hers to save if only she would give up her signature-and she had proven them all wrong. She had ruled well. She had grown in wisdom and experience, and had done both rapidly. She had faced the trials of her position unflinching and unafraid. And now, her time was ended.

A small disturbance, the barest movement through the otherwise peaceful water, was Padmé's only warning before her attacker struck.

An arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her down into the clear shallows, holding her there just long enough to let her know that she had been bested.

The Queen of Naboo surfaced, sputtering water in the sunlight as her handmaidens—her friends—laughed around her.”

so clearly there’s a connection between the ends of an era, both for the world/galaxy as a whole and for padmé herself. this scene takes place on padmé’s last day as queen of naboo.

in this scene she’s peaceful by choice; she’s relaxing and waiting for the election results. but then why compare it to her death?

padmé’s funeral is like a marker for the end of the republic as a whole. by the end of the clone wars i’m pretty sure she was one of the only people who still had unwavering faith in the republic that she refused to give up, despite what she’d seen. the jedi were wary, most coruscant citizens were wary, and even though the separatists were losing they had a lot of systems on their side. several clones had either uncovered secrets or deserted, etc etc. so padmé’s funeral is like symbolism for the death of democracy.

and this is especially interesting because after padmé’s term as queen ends, the next queen is someone padmé and all of her friends and bodyguards did NOT vote for and were not happy to see on the throne.

it’s also the death of one version of padmé—the queen— and the birth of the senator. queen’s shadow goes on and on about how different and confusing the senate is and how much padmé has to change and all the political turmoil she gets involved in. the most interesting to me is how upon becoming senator, she was ridiculed by news outlets, ridiculed by fellow senators, mistrusted by bail organs and mon mothma, and made out to be a little, foolish girl under someone else’s control. much of the same as when she was queen! but as we see in clone wars, padmé builds a reputation for herself and is among the most trusted of all senators.

so why was this change represented with a parallel to her death?

i’m guessing it can be interpreted two ways. upon dying, padmé was laid to rest with recall to the most peaceful she’d ever been; no longer a queen, and not yet a senator; just at peace, with the people she trusted most. the scene abruptly ends with one of her handmaidens pulling her under. it’s calling us out of the connection and reminding us she still has a long way to go before she can really have peace. the other is that taking on the role of senator, of joining the republic when it was so clearly dying, was a way of killing padmé in and of itself. to fight for something that will fall in the end would slowly kill her.

anyways. i love padmé and i believe she made the right choices again and again, but she, just like everyone else, was doomed from the beginning

[slate-skylar]

vox veritatis; self-para

Cress had fallen asleep. The labor had not been terribly difficult or complicated, would probably have been handled just fine at home, but Slate was glad they were in the hospital, as every time Cress had gasped in a particular way, or looked at him with fear, he had asked the nurses if something was wrong, if Cress and the baby were okay. The nurses, for their part, had been kind enough, as kind as Capitolites could be. The doctor who had delivered Kya was also kind, and she'd offered Slate the opportunity to cut the cord, which he had declined as he had no feeling in either of his hands at that point thanks to the death clutch that Cress had had on them throughout the labor.

It was over now, though; Kyanite had been born, whisked away to be measured, weighed, cleaned, and returned to them in a little hat and a blanket. She was impossibly tiny, and now Cress slept and Slate sat in the chair next to the bed, his arms stiff as he held her just so, the way he had been shown by Hestia the very first time he'd held one of his siblings. He was afraid of jostling her, breathing on her, doing anything at all that might wake her and bring her to the screaming she'd been born with, her voice a match for her mother's and father's already. She'd wake Cress, but she'd also break this moment apart, end it, and he didn't want it to end.

It was just them for a moment. At peace. The world was still, the child was still, and sober, completely sober for the first time in months, Slate was remembering.

Cress backstage. Him, in his costume. Interview. Her spitting, scathing: "You’d rather die with your pride than fight for the chance to meet them."

Bramble on the beach. Dying. Too late to save her. “I hope, someday, you’ll forgive me.”

And Nettle, running toward the edge of the ship; Mercuria, high in the air, flying, flying—

Bramble's voice again. “I hope you get to meet her. And I hope she understands, someday, why we did…what we did. Will you tell her about us? Me, and Nettle, and Merc?”

Slate's fingers traced Kya's face. Tiny, too tiny to tell whose nose she had, whose cheeks. The skin fresh and strange. And him, safe. Lip trembling. Heart having been emptied of its contents, filling up again now.

Bramble's voice wouldn't leave. Echoing still, him hearing as if through the ear that was gone: "You still have a purpose. Meta Morphic, Skylar, Flint- you're the product of all of them, Slate. You're Vox Veritatis. The voice of truth."

Slate looked up, eyes scanning the room. He wasn't safe to speak here, not aloud, not to Kya or Cress. He couldn't say anything real or true, in fact hadn't said anything real or true in six months. Not since the beach. Not since the Arena. That voice of truth had been swept away with the tide, and he closed his eyes now, bowed his head.

What had it been for? All of it? He'd never been convinced in some larger truth or purpose to everything, didn't think there was a hand of fate controlling everyone, and yet, it had to have been for something. Mercuria's faith and resolve. Nettle's love and certainty. Bramble's wisdom and passion. You still have a purpose.

The purpose: to protect Kya? She slept peacefully. She would be in a reaping bowl, one which Snow was still in charge of. They could do what they could: be mouthpieces, be good, well-behaved. But the names would still be printed; they would still be placed into bowls; hers would be among them, each time. Each and every time. And she was too small, too good. She was brand new, and what had he done to clear the world she was being born into of its horrors?

Long time ago -- he'd published a zine. He'd written words. Long time. He'd burned it all. It was still going, in the hands of others, the voices of others. But his had faded. Now his voice spoke of the Arena and the power of the Games in a new way -- patriot, good boy. Kya slept in his arms and he felt, suddenly, purely, like the traitor he had become.

Traitor not to Panem, no. Traitor to the children.

To her, to all of them. The other ones being born right now in places far worse than this. Wrapped in blankets not nearly as nice or as clean. Sucking for nourishment from a breast that wouldn't come, starting their life as they would spend it: hungry.

And what had he done?

Long time ago: he had written some words.

Long time ago.

"You still have a purpose."

Vox Veritatis, sitting in the hospital chair, holding his child. May her world be better than mine. He cleared his throat.