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

[eyepatchdate]

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.

[asvtrials]

I know you said you wanted ideas and I would love to enable the emperor brainrot. I’ve been wondering how Geta would react to women fighting in the games. I know the timing doesn’t quite work out (his father banned them from participating) but they used to, even high class women participated. The movies aren’t exactly right with the real history anyway. Just a thought I have. For someone so… bloodthirsty, I think it would be interesting…

Thank you for the suggestion, I LOVE THIS IDEA OMG! I can see him being so entranced by such a strong woman. I hope you like this <3

𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄

Emperor Geta x gladiator!fem!reader, minors dni! masterlist

summary: The moment the older Emperor laid eyes upon you, in the middle of the Arena, he was lost. You were encircled by corpses, every bit of your skin and clothing was coated by the red liquid of your enemies yet you looked divine, so divine that Geta wanted you for himself. warnings/tags: Gladiator reader, sub!Geta x dom!reader, ooc, power play, Geta wants to be topped and doesn't even know it lmao, p in v, choking, description of gore, death and blood

tags: @1950schick @longlivemyblues @reformedkingsmanagent @doodle-with-rhy @whimsicalittletrinkets @edsbug @jakesullyswhore @only4thefics @lillissleepmedicine @badbun5656 @cokepowder55 @idolofthewestcoast @www-interludeshadow-com @ellie-luvsfics @cosmorant @believeinthefireflies95 w/c: 3.7k English is not my first language and I'm not used to writing in present tense. Sorry for any mistakes I make.

── ୨ৎ

The moment he laid eyes on you, Geta knew he was done for.

You were breathtaking in every way he could think of, so much so that even Caracalla noticed his breath catching in his throat as they gazed below from their box.

He knew you weren’t meant for everyone’s eyes.

Your golden skin, dark curls, soft lips, and doe eyes were of such contrast to the tight grip you had on your sword and the redness that stained your clothes. It was all too intense to ignore so that same night he ordered your master to bring you to the palace.

He taps his foot against the marble floor the longer it takes for you to arrive and Caracalla's cackle echoes in the vast room at Geta’s boyish behavior. Geta sends him a warning glare but immediately turns when he hears Thraex’s voice.

“My Emperors!” He calls cheerfully as a servant leads him to the twin thrones. 

He almost forgets to regard Thraex as he searches for you but sends a tight-lipped smile before his eyes fall on your figure. You stand behind your owner, eyes refusing to look away from the floor.

“Thraex!” Caracalla welcomes, throwing his hands in childish delight. “Incredible performance today! You never fail to entertain us!”

“My Emperors I see you have been charmed by this beauty! I don't blame you it's not every day that we see female Gladiators.” He boasts, grabbing your face rather harshly and forcing you to face the Emperors.

Gods, you were even more mesmerizing up close. He didn’t appreciate how Thraex touched you thoughtlessly, his brow twitching at the sight of his dirty nails digging into your cheeks.

The Emperor steps forward and with one wave of his hand, Thraex quickly withdraws his hand and steps to the side. 

Geta doesn't even look at him, he is too lost in your confusing gaze. For once he doesn’t see any admiration or even fear in someone’s eyes. It is something different, so foreign and electrifying…

“How shall we call you, warrior?” He asks, his voice surprisingly stern despite his internal feverish excitement.

“Her name is—” Thraex begins but Geta raises his hand, silencing him immediately.

You remain quiet, unsure of what to do. You weren't told you'd have to speak. Honestly, you weren't given much information to begin with. They just hoarded you to the carriage and brought you here.

You give an uncertain glance to Thraex but your eyes snap back to the man before you when speaks again.

“Don't look at him.” Geta reprimands. “Look at your Emperor,” He says and you can practically feel the arrogance as the word ‘Emperor’ leaves his mouth.

“Emperors!” Caracalla yells from his throne but Geta ignores him.

“How shall we call you?” He repeats, dismissing his co-emperor.

“Y/n.” Your voice is strained when you speak but his lips twitch upwards at the sound.

“Y/n… Delightful.” He murmurs as he searches your eyes for something even he isn’t sure.

“Thank you, Thraex. The servants will lead you out.” He tells the older man who frowns. He wasn’t prepared to walk out without a slave this evening.

“My Emperor, um…” He stammers. “She is rather expensive and I-”

“I can see that.” He interrupts and his eyes run down your figure. His hungry gaze sends a shiver down your spine but you try to ignore it.

“She will stay in the Palatine until her next game, that is if she fights again.” He informs the man, finally turning to him, but not for long. His attention was back to you, his finger reaching for one of your curls. “I'll see how she'll do today and I'll inform you. Do not fret, You will be compensated.”

You narrow your eyes, the implication barely hidden between his words.

You didn't look away from him even when the maids hurried you out of the room. It wasn't out of attraction, although you have to admit he wasn't bad, it was because of fear. 

This felt like the beginning of a very dangerous game. Being faced with hungry predator, yet not being eaten. Waiting for the blow, yet never being hit…

Never sure when you’re going to be devoured, broken, and ruined completely until you're tossed to the side.

The maids lead you to the servants' bathrooms. Normally, you would feel revolted at how they touch you and scuff you, but getting clean after so many days silences any negative emotion.

It was painfully obvious that they were ordered to prepare you as fast as possible. The uncomfortable discovery of just how impatient the man was hangs above you as they dress you. As much as you want to pretend you can handle Geta he remained the Emperor of Rome. A spoiled, entitled Emperor who is used to getting his way…

The servants guide you to his chambers with hushed whispers that you don’t bother tuning to. You take a deep breath as you stand in front of the large doors of his bedroom, uncomfortable in the thin dress they put on you.

A servant gives you a light push resulting in you sending her a glare but you do comply. 

Softly, you give the heavy door a few knocks with your knuckles. You don’t wait much until a “Come in.” reaches your ears.

You enter the grand room and you have to pause for a minute to let it all in. The luxurious furnishing and decor of the bed chambers are a stark difference from the muddy cells they provided to you. It is beyond anything you’d seen before. Geta smirks at your astonishment.

“Come, my little warrior.” He orders, his voice honeyed despite his authority.

“What am I here for?” You ask as you approach him, disinterested in idle chit-chat. As much as the venom threatens to spill from your tone, you make a real effort to sound as polite.

Geta doesn't bother giving you an answer. He merely extends his hand, bringing the back of his hand close to your face, expecting you to comply with his every command.

You hate that he is right. As much as you want to spit on his face you want to keep your head, the promise of living long enough to win your freedom was such a flickering hopeful thought but it kept you from making foolish decisions like spitting on your Emperor’s face.

You eye his fingers, the rings that adorned almost all of them shine in the candlelight. Bitterly, your cold hand reaches for his, and the moment you feel his tender flesh against your lips you feel nauseous but he doesn’t seem to notice, or more accurately, care. His fingers twitch at the contact.

Tender and delicate.

If it isn’t clear by his behavior or extravagant attire that he knew nothing about work, pain, or how it felt to beg for a moldy piece of bread, the softness of his hands made it very clear.

He knows nothing about the suffering that he and his brother put everyone through. Gods, you want to rip him apart.

“What am I here for?” You repeat, dragging each word as if you're talking to a child.

“To entertain me. Aren't you an entertainer?” He answers with a small smirk threatening at the corner of his lips.

“I am a Gladiator.” You correct sharply.

“I see no difference.” He chuckles, stepping back to a table filled with food and wine.

He pours himself some wine, offering you some as well. Although you want to act cold and refuse the liquid looked too tasteful. You accept, bringing the cup to your lips without words. It is as delicious as it looks and you close your eyes for a moment to relish the taste.

“Divine isn't it?” He asks, a pleased smile playing on his lips. You snap your eyes open, mentally slapping yourself for giving him the satisfaction. You nod, setting the cup on the table.

Suddenly he steps forward, closing the gap between you. “You must already understand that I didn't call you here to drink.” He says, bringing his hand to sit on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing your collarbone.

“I am no whore.” You warned, pushing his hand away

His eyes darkened at your words “You are whatever I want you to be.” He says through gritted teeth.

As much as you tried, you couldn’t bite your tongue. “That is what you believe, huh?” You begin, a dry chuckle leaving your lips. “You think we are ants in your Empire?”

He tilts his head, eye twitching. He starts at you as if trying to figure out what he should do to you. The taste of defiance from someone like you was far beyond what he had anticipated for this meeting…He isn’t sure why but it left a sweet aftertaste. Intoxicating is the only word that comes to mind.

Soon enough he snaps out of this mind-fogging haze and grabs your arm harshly. You don’t even flinch, it couldn’t compare to the hardship you had gotten through in the arena.

“Have you forgotten who you’re speaking to?” He warns, voice breaking in a mix of surprise and fury.

Something compels you in that moment. Is it anger after seeing the lavish life he has while you were rotting away in a cell? Is it a surge of power after bashing the Emperor himself?

You grab his wrist, your grip tight and unforgiving. His eyes widen, glancing between your hand and eyes.

You can’t help the smirk that falls upon your lips when worry flashes in his eyes. It was only for a second but you have seen it too many times to miss it. You don’t miss the way he didn’t pull away either.

A small breath slithers past his lips as he stares down at you, the darkness in his eyes almost gone in the candlelight.

“You’ve brought me here to claim me…You think you can?” You tell him and his look alone was worth your possible execution.

“You dare underestimate me, you worthless—”

“I can snap your wrist like a twig” You interrupt him with a chuckle.

He raises an unconvinced brow.

You convince him just fine with a calculated press of your thumb against his bone. He hisses in pain but he doesn’t pull his hand back.

“But I think you would like that, My Emperor,” You tell him with a wicked smile. It is barely above a whisper but it’s enough to make Geta’s breath catch in his throat. “All you have to do is ask…” 

You can’t believe it. Emperor Geta, the ruthless and heartless Ceasar looking at you like he was about to kneel and kiss your feet if you let him, have his head if you wished for it.

“Can you—” He begins the words catching in his throat, shame catching up to him faster than his words could leave his mouth. “Join me tonight?” He finally manages to say, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Something warm spreads across your chest and your fingers twitch around his wrist before ultimately loosening your grip.

He lets you guide him to the bed without a word. He doesn’t even look back, his eyes already too foggy with desire. Once the back of his legs meet the edge of the bed, he lowers himself.

Geta’s breath fans your stomach, and the thin material of your cloth barely covers you and you shiver. His hands ich to reach for you, to wrap his hands around your waist and drag his lips all over your skin like a starved man but he restraines, looking up at you through his lashes.

Your smirk grows wider at his obedience. 

Your hand snakes up his arm and rests on his throat and he groans, a sound dangerously close to whimper. Shame washes over you when you find your thighs pressing together at such a pitiful sound. 

“My Emperor, did you know…” You begin and Geta forces himself back to reality at the sound of your voice. “That if you slice this little vein, right here—” You murmur while gently running your thumb on a prominent vein in his throat, your tone soothing completely unsuitable for your words. “Death will find you slow and painful…Such feeble beings we are…”

“Have you ever done it?” He asks, nearly innocently. “Given someone a slow and painful death?”

“You would’ve known.” You sneer, your mocking laugh making his cheeks burn.

So you have noticed him looking at you, even when the fight was long finished and you were resting against the burning sand, bodies gushing with blood surrounding you.

His hand creeps up your arm,  A silent plea for you to give him what he wants. So you do.

You squeeze your fingers around his throat making him gasp in surprise. The breathy moan that escaped his lips tell everything you need to know and you press your fingers tighter, your nails digging into his incredibly soft skin.

He throws his head back, gasping desperately. His hand slides down to his stomach but before he could move any further you grab his arm, pinning it against the mattress.

Has he ever felt this weak, this vulnerable? You hoped the answer was no. How could you imagine anyone else seeing him in such a state?

He snaps his eyes open, half-lidded eyes staring back at you with such desperation that you had to resist the urge to give up on whatever this little game was and just sink on his dick already.

“You are enjoying yourself, my Ceasar?” You mock but he doesn’t notice the ridicule in your voice, perhaps he is too used to his enjoyment being everyone’s concern. His answer comes in an eager nod.

Your gaze travels down his body, your eyes lingering on him longer than you would ever admit.

Your eyebrows shoot up when you notice the tent in his toga. 

You could see he likes it but not that much.

Without much thought you climb the bed, the mattress dipping under your knees as you cradle his lap. 

“Mmm…” You purse your lips to stop the sounds that threaten to spill from your lips when you feel his hardness press against your clothed core.

His mind is too far gone, too deprived of oxygen to understand much; he could only whimper softly at the friction.

His breaths come more shallow than before and his hand grips yours.

It would be so easy to just squeeze. He wouldn’t even scream, how would he when all the oxygen was stolen from his lungs?

Nonetheless, you release your grip no matter how tempting the idea is.

He gasps for air, his hand coming to rub his throat, throwing his head back with a long sigh, desperate to fill his lungs again.

Once he finally realizes the position that you've arranged yourself in, his other hand comes to your thing, squeezing lightly as if to ground himself.

You hate that you welcome the action, his warm hands feel begrudgingly pleasant on your skin.

You let him come back to reality, waiting until his chest moves slowly again. He wet his lips with his tongue as his eyes try to focus and for the first time, you notice the tears that sit on his lash line.

You want to taunt him, to call him every degrading name that sat on your tongue moments ago but you simply can’t. Not when he looks at you like he would break apart at any moment. No—when he looks at you like he wants you to break him apart.

So you do the next best thing you can think of, or more accurately, your body can think of. You roll your hips forward, earning a gasp from the both of you.

Both his hands fly to grasp your thighs tighter as you repeat the motion and again until he shakes under you, throwing his head back with a whine.

“I—I want you.” He rasps between soft moans, his voice soft and pleasing.

You pause contemplating for a moment if you should do it the easy way. You have to laugh because why would you?

“You want me?” You repeat with a taunting giggle, grabbing his jaw between your fingers, and forcing his gaze to meet yours.

“Yes.” The word comes out in a quick, desperate breath, so fast that it makes your mocking smirk falter for a moment.

“How pitiful. Imagine the Senate seeing you like this. Bet you'll lose what little respect they have for you.” You snicker, running your thumb over his cheek. His only response was digging his nails into the flesh of your thigh.

His reddened eyes blink rapidly but you can still notice the blown-out pupils when you untie his robes, deliberately taking your time. You suppress a smile as he shifts uncomfortably.

Once you finally unbit the belt of his luxurious robe, you toss it to the side completely bypassing the worth of the material. You try to ignore the sudden shake that took over your fingers as you carefully move away his robes, revealing his finely muscled body.

His leaking cock springs up, laying against his stomach and you felt even more self-conscious by simply looking.

A small prideful smile creeps to his lips. You send him a warning glare but he seems to gain his confidence rather quickly, not missing the opportunity to gloat over your little slip-up.

He sits up, the cheeky smile never leaving his lips. “Are you enjoying yourself, my little warrior?” He taunts your previous words.

You narrow your eyes, squeezing his face between your fingers in irritation but his smirk doesn’t falter until you move your hands to your own belt. His tongue runs across his bottom lip, nearly salivating at the thought of your naked body.

You pull your dress over your head hastily revealing your naked body to the man. His gaze explores you with a starving intensity. His hands quickly reach for your flush skin but you swat them away. 

Geta is about to send you an irritated look but you are quicker, grabbing a handful of his hair and yanking his head back. 

He groans and despite his momentary surge of confidence, he doesn’t do anything to stop you but rather bites his lip to stop any embarrassing sound from escaping. 

“So spoiled.” You spit out, pulling harder on his locks.

That little motion seems to break him apart completely as a breathy moan reaches your ears.

“Do you really want me?” You murmur and he nods but that doesn't satisfy you. 

Why should it? You want to hear him beg and cry for you, swallow his pride completely under the promise of pleasure.

You yank his hair harder, making him huff in surprise louder. 

“Yes, I want you. I really want you.” He manages to say through rugged breaths. “...my lady.”

“Good.” You say and you can see something flicker in his eyes at the sudden praise. 

You let go of his hair and rest your hands on his shoulders. With a small push, you lift your bare body from his. Your hand finds his member, aligning it to your entrance and he chokes. You run his tip between your folds making both of you exhale at the feeling.

With a deep breath, you slowly sink down his length. No matter how much you try to keep quiet you simply can't. You can’t help the lewd moans at the burning sensation alongside Geta who hugs your waist, pressing his face between your breasts.

You should've pushed him away, you really tried to make yourself do it. But instead, you run your fingers through his unruly hair, the pleasure too mind-numbing for the both of you to keep up with this game. 

Geta doesn’t miss the opportunity to taste you, kissing and licking your skin hungrily. It started between your breasts, his teeth grazing your skin with every kiss.

His eagerness sends shivers down your spine and a loud moan leaves your mouth when his lips latch onto your nipple, catching it between his teeth and circling it with his tongue.

His hips buckle, drilling his cock deeper into your creamy folds. You moan loudly, grasping his shoulders.

He pauses for a moment, expecting punishment but when all you do is cry out in pleasure his lips curl, his smile mirroring one of a crazed man.

It is for the better that you don’t see the delight on his face. You would never forgive yourself after seeing the pleasure he took in seeing you like this.

Geta’s pace quickly deteriorates into something primal and desperate. Something so uncontrollable that even you couldn't stop. But even if you could, you doubt you would. 

Your nails rake his back with every forceful slam and you cry out when his tip grazes that spongy spot inside you, legs shaking in pleasure. 

“Oh! Oh— Gods!” You moan, sinking your nails into his back.

With a groan, he releases your nipple from his mouth and raises his head, his blown out eyes falling on your face.

You meet his hungry gaze but only for a second before your eyes travel to his spit-covered lips and without much thought, you grab his hair and pull him to you, slamming his lips on yours.

He doesn’t miss a beat and kisses you back with the same insatiable hunger that fills your chest.

You claw and bite and kiss him like he was your last meal. And he possibly is because once the fog of lust wears off he will surely command a public execution.

Your lips part in a silent moan, lost in bliss at the violent orgasm that just hit you harder than you’ve ever experienced. Your walls flutter around his twitching dick and he whines at the feeling. He comes with a loud moan, lips pressing against you as he spills his seed deep inside you. He pushes you close, pressing your chest against his face as you both breathe heavily.

He murmurs something against your skin but you ignore him. You will later find out that it was a quiet promise, not to you but to himself; to keep you as close as he could even if it meant stopping the following games altogether, even if it meant locking you somewhere only he could see you.

── ୨ৎ

a/n: This was a PAIN to write. I was left suffering. I hope you like it and i'm REALLY sorry for delaying this for so long! I think I had such a hard time because 1) sub!Geta feels so out of character and I tried to make this as in character for him and 2) I had no time to write cuz of all the family dinners.

[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.”

[lupinqs]

SAFE AND SOUND (2/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 13.2K

☆ ━ warnings: violence, death, angst

☆ ━ links: part one, part three, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: hiiii guys i’m so so sorry this took me so long to update but it’s here!! this was supposed to be only two parts and the next one and this were just gonna be combined but it was way too long so i split it. the next one’s not done so i think probably expect it within the next week or two ish. i love you all very much, sorry the wait 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

THE MOMENT the gong sounds, Azzi dives straight into the water, warm against her skin. The lake swallows her, and she kicks with everything she has, propelling herself toward the Cornucopia. Her strokes are powerful, but the distance is unforgiving, and already, she can sense that others are faster. The Careers are already ahead, closing in on the Cornucopia with quickly. Still, Azzi doesn’t stop; she has to get there, has to grab something. Anything.

As she reaches the edge of the rock path leading to the Cornucopia, she pulls herself out of the water, breathing hard. Just ahead, she catches a glimpse of the chaos already unfolding. The boy from District Two, already armed with a spear, drives it mercilessly into one of the smaller tributes—a younger boy, barely a teenager. The sight is jarring, but Azzi pushes down the rising bile in her throat. She can’t afford to care right now. Caring won’t keep her alive.

Her gaze darts to the girl from Four, who’s snatched up a pair of gleaming daggers—daggers Azzi had trained with, daggers she knows like the back of her hand. Cursing under her breath, she realizes getting those now is out of the question. The girl from Four is already twirling them with through her fingers, her sharp eyes scanning the scene for her next target.

Azzi whips her head back, weighing her options. It’s too dangerous to stay here, especially without a weapon. She makes a split-second decision and sprints across the slick rocks, her feet pounding against the stone as she veers toward the sandbank just beyond the Cornucopia’s reach.

There, half-buried in the sand, is a bag. She snatches it up, hoping it has at least a water canister, maybe something small she can use for defense. She pulls it onto her shoulder and glances around, her senses sharp, her body wired with tension.

And that’s when she spots Paige.

Just a dozen feet away, Paige stands on the sand, her face set in a fierce, determined expression. In her hand is a long, gleaming sword—a weapon Azzi has seen her handle in training. For a split second, their eyes meet, and Azzi feels her breath hitch. She expects Paige to charge at her, sword raised, like any tribute with a weapon would in this bloodbath. But Paige’s gaze doesn’t hold malice. Instead, it flickers with a strange intensity, almost as if she’s thinking.

Before Azzi can process it, Paige turns and bolts in the opposite direction, toward one of the jungle’s shadowed openings. She’s gone before Azzi can think twice, disappearing into the dense foliage with a swiftness that surprises her. Paige had every opportunity to attack, to strike her down in those tense seconds—but she didn’t.

Shoving that thought away, Azzi tightens her grip on the bag and bolts toward the jungle as well, but in the opposite direction, breaking away from the madness of the bloodbath. Behind her, the cries and screams of the other tributes echo through the arena, mingling with the blast of cannons signaling deaths. She pushes forward, her lungs burning as she sprints deeper into the undergrowth, her eyes sharp and her every sense alert.

The forest closes around her, humid and dark, each shadow concealing possible threats. As the sounds of the bloodbath fade into the distance, she feels her pulse slow just a fraction. Her body tingles with exhaustion and relief, but she can’t stop. Not yet. She glances around, trying to gauge her surroundings—massive, twisted trees tower above her, and the ground is a tangle of roots, ferns, and thick moss. Everything about this place feels alive, watching her.

She can’t shake the image of Paige, sword in hand, standing just close enough to strike yet choosing to walk away.

Azzi trudges deeper into the jungle, her feet dragging through the thick, damp undergrowth. The humid air clings to her, and sweat beads on her forehead, trickling down her neck. Every step feels heavier than the last, her muscles beginning to ache as she pushes forward. She slaps at bugs that swarm around her face, their buzzing grating on her nerves. The jungle is loud—chirps, rustles, calls of strange birds echo around her, each sound making her flinch, alert for any sign of movement nearby. It’s overwhelming, but she’s not going to stop. She has to keep moving, put as much distance between herself and the Cornucopia as possible.

As she walks, her mind begins to drift, unbidden, to thoughts of home. She thinks about her family—her mom, her dad, her brothers. She wonders if they’re watching, whether they can bear to. If it were her Jon or Jose out here instead of her, she knows she wouldn’t be able to stand it, the anxiety gnawing away at her, knowing they could be killed any second. She wonders if her parents are clinging to hope, desperately, like she is. She imagines them sitting together on the couch, her mom gripping her dad’s hand so tightly, eyes glued to the screen, barely able to breathe. She swallows, her throat dry. Her family’s belief in her is part of what’s gotten her this far, but in this place, the hope feels fragile, a thread barely holding her together.

The jungle around her begins to darken, the sun slipping behind the canopy of leaves, casting long shadows that twist and shift across the ground. She doesn’t want to push herself any further tonight. It’ll be dangerous enough to try to survive on her own without tiring herself out before it’s even necessary. She scans the area around her, searching for a suitable spot to hide, somewhere she can rest without being exposed. Her eyes land on a small patch of ground where thick leaves drape down from above, forming a kind of natural canopy. She ducks underneath it, assessing. The foliage is dense, and when she sits down, she realizes it’s actually a decent hiding spot. She’d blend in here easily—maybe even well enough to avoid detection from passing tributes.

Her throat feels parched, and she swallows, but it’s a dry, desperate motion, her mouth almost painfully empty. She tries to ignore it, breathing steadily, as she takes the bag from her shoulder and pulls it into her lap. She unzips it, peering inside, her heart beating a little faster as she rifles through the contents. There’s not much, but she wasn’t expecting a miracle.

Her fingers close around a few items: a small pouch of dried fruit, a nearly-empty canister of water, a thin roll of gauze for minor injuries, a length of rope, and, most importantly, a dagger. It’s smaller than what she’s trained with, its blade not much longer than her hand, but it’s sharp enough to get the job done if she needs it for self-defense. She lifts it, testing the weight in her hand, relieved to have something, anything, that could help her. The handle is sturdy, wrapped in a grip that feels almost familiar. It’s a strange sort of comfort—small but real.

Azzi allows herself to eat a pieces or two of the dried fruit, savoring the slight sweetness on her tongue. She takes a cautious sip from the water canister, careful not to drink too much. She doesn’t know when she’ll be able to refill it, and the taste of the water only makes her thirst worse. After another small sip, she caps it tightly and tucks it back into her bag, pressing her lips together, trying to ignore the dryness that still lingers.

The quiet of the jungle settles around her, the distant sounds of birds and rustling leaves becoming her only company. She leans back, the dagger held close to her side, her fingers lightly wrapped around its hilt. She’ll need sleep soon, even if it’s just a few restless hours.

But for now, she just sits there in the dimness, her breathing slowing as she listens to the jungle and feels the weight of everything she has to face in the days to come.

And then she hears it. Faint rustling, faint footsteps. The sounds break through the jungle, and she can tell they’re near her.

Azzi’s heart drops as the rustling grows closer. She freezes, holding her breath, her muscles tensed as she listens. Someone’s approaching—it has to be another tribute. The thought alone sends a jolt of adrenaline through her veins. Her fingers fumble for the dagger in her bag, the small blade she’d found earlier now her only defense. She grips it tightly, her knuckles white as the sound of movement grows louder, just on the other side of her leafy hiding spot.

The foliage shifts, and a figure ducks beneath the canopy. For a split second, Azzi considers lunging, striking first before the intruder can spot her. But then she sees who it is.

It’s the girl from District Four—Leah, if Azzi’s memory serves her correctly. She’s smaller than Azzi imagined up close, her sun-kissed hair pulled back in a loose braid, her face pale and glistening with sweat. Leah looks startled, her eyes wide as she spots Azzi crouched under the leaves. Her reaction isn’t what Azzi expects. Instead of reaching for a weapon, Leah freezes, her hands flying up in an immediate gesture of surrender.

“Shit—sorry—fuck—” Leah stammers, her voice shaking as much as her hands. She looks terrified, almost as if Azzi is the bigger threat here.

Azzi narrows her eyes, her grip on the dagger tightening as she crouches lower, keeping her back pressed against the rough bark of the tree behind her. She doesn’t say anything, her mind racing as she sizes Leah up. If this was a trap, Leah was doing a decent job of acting harmless.

Leah seems to notice Azzi’s skepticism, her expression softening as she stammers, “I—I didn’t realize someone was in here.” She swallows hard, licking her lips nervously before adding, “Azzi, right? From Nine?”

Azzi nods stiffly, not letting go of her weapon.

Leah exhales, almost as if relieved by the confirmation, and nods back. “Okay,” she says, though her voice trembles. She looks around briefly, as if making sure no one else is nearby, before continuing. “I lost my district partner—I don’t know where he went. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. I—fuck, this is all insane. I wanna go home. That fucking blood bath today—Jesus Christ—”

Azzi’s eyes flicker over Leah, taking in the way her shoulders tremble and her chest heaves with shallow breaths. She looks a lot less intimidating than she did during the bloodbath. But Azzi doesn’t let herself relax, not yet. Her mind flashes back to the memory of Leah standing at the Cornucopia earlier that day, her hands slick with blood as she drove a knife into another tribute’s chest. She thinks that might be what’s going through Leah’s mind right now, too, her eyes haunted.

For the first time, Azzi feels something besides suspicion—pity. She doesn’t want to feel it, but it creeps in anyway, worming its way into her chest. She knows what Leah’s feeling, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Azzi hadn’t killed anyone in the bloodbath, but she’d seen the first death. She remembers the way the spear pierced the boy’s chest, the way his body crumpled like a doll. She remembers the blood, bright and pooling on the rocks, and how she’d forced herself to look away.

Leah’s voice breaks the silence. “And clearly your district partner isn’t here either,” she says, glancing around the small clearing. “So, do you wanna, like, do this together? I don’t wanna be alone, and I know you’re not stupid. You actually scored really high, and you kinda scare me, but this whole place scares me more, so…”

Azzi stares at her, her expression unreadable. Her instincts scream at her not to trust anyone, but she knows that being alone in the arena is just as dangerous. Leah isn’t wrong—Azzi’s district partner, Kellan, is gone, probably dead. And even if Leah’s offer is genuine, she has those daggers. She’s dangerous, whether she’s scared or not.

“How do I know this isn’t just a ruse to kill me?” Azzi finally asks, her voice low and guarded. “I know you have all those daggers.”

Leah flinches at the accusation, her face twisting with something close to desperation. “It’s not, I swear,” she says quickly. “I can prove it to you—”

She moves slowly, pulling her backpack from her shoulder and setting it on the ground in front of her. Azzi tenses, her muscles coiling like a spring as she watches Leah unzip the bag. Her hand tightens around her dagger, ready to strike if Leah tries anything.

But Leah doesn’t attack. Instead, she reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the daggers. Azzi stiffens, her grip on her weapon tightening.

Leah holds the dagger out, hilt first, toward Azzi. Her hand shakes slightly, but her eyes are steady as she says, “You’re good with these, right? Can we call a truce? ‘Cause now you can kill me just as easily as I could kill you.”

Azzi stares at the dagger, her mind reeling. The offer feels surreal, too good to be true. But Leah’s trembling hand doesn’t waver, and for the first time, Azzi wonders if the girl in front of her is more scared than dangerous.

Slowly, cautiously, Azzi reaches out and takes the dagger. The hilt is cool in her hand, perfectly balanced. She weighs it for a moment before looking back at Leah.

“Truce,” Azzi says, her voice firm but cautious.

Leah exhales a shaky breath of relief and nods. For now, they’ve bought themselves a fragile peace, though Azzi knows it could shatter at any moment.

THE SUN rises sluggishly over the jungle, casting long shadows through the tangled branches. Azzi trudges through the humid undergrowth, her body aching with exhaustion. She hadn’t slept last night, her eyes darting between Leah and the jungle’s shifting darkness, her hand gripping the dagger Leah had given her. Trusting Leah felt foolish, even after their uneasy truce. Now, Azzi feels the toll of the sleepless night, the weight of every sound and shadow pressing on her chest.

Leah hadn’t slept either—not that Azzi saw. The girl had spent the night leaning against the rough bark of the tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her gaze fixed on the ground. Azzi isn’t sure how she feels about Leah. She doesn’t think she likes her, not in the way you’re supposed to like allies, but pity for her gnaws at the edges of her resolve.

More than that, Azzi feels something she hadn’t expected—relief. For better or worse, she isn’t alone.

Last night’s anthem confirmed what Azzi had already suspected. Kellan, her district partner, is gone. The Capitol’s cold, detached display of his face in the sky had solidified the hollow ache in her chest. She didn’t know Kellan well, but he’d been hers. Someone from her district, someone who shared a piece of her life before all of this. And he was so young. Now he’s gone.

Across from her, Leah had sighed in relief when the boy from District Four wasn’t among the dead. Azzi wondered then and wonders now how the two of them got separated in the first place.

Now, as the heat rises, the two girls trudge side by side through the suffocating jungle. The air is thick, sticky against their skin, and Azzi wipes a layer of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. Hunger gnaws at her stomach, but she doesn’t say anything. The dried fruit in her bag is a precious secret she has no intention of sharing. She knows she can’t survive on it forever, but it’s all she has.

“You’re quiet,” Leah says after a long silence, her voice cracking—probably from the thirst.

Azzi shrugs. “I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“Food,” Azzi admits. “And water.”

Leah laughs dryly, though there’s no humor in it. “Aren’t we all?”

They keep walking, the jungle pressing in closer. Azzi’s ears strain against the sounds of birds and the occasional rustle of leaves. Her dagger swings lightly in her hand, the cool metal reassuring against her clammy skin.

Then she hears it—a faint crack, like a branch snapping. Azzi freezes, holding out an arm to stop Leah.

“Did you hear that?” she whispers.

Leah glances around, frowning. “Uh… no?”

Azzi keeps scanning the area, her instincts prickling. But Leah shrugs and starts walking again, brushing past a tangle of vines.

Azzi follows, her heart hammering in her chest, when suddenly a shout cuts through the thick air. It’s a boy’s voice, shrill with pain and desperation. Azzi’s stomach twists. A moment later, a cannon booms overhead, its echo vibrating through the trees.

Azzi gulps, gripping her dagger tighter. “Stay alert,” she mutters to Leah, her voice steady despite the unease sifting in her gut.

Leah nods, her face pale as she pulls one of her own dagger from her bag. The two of them pick up the pace, their steps lighter now, every noise setting their nerves on edge.

They’ve barely gone another few yards when Leah stops abruptly, her eyes widening. “Holy shit,” she says, pointing ahead. “Is that fruit?”

Azzi follows her gaze to a cluster of low-hanging bushes. Tangled among the leaves are round, green fruits, something similar to watermelons but smaller. Azzi’s stomach clenches at the sight, hunger sharpening her senses.

“Looks like it,” Azzi says cautiously, scanning the area for any sign of danger.

Leah’s already moving toward the bushes, her dagger still clutched in one hand. Azzi follows more slowly, her eyes darting to the treetops and the undergrowth around them. She doesn’t trust anything about this arena—not the stillness, not the fruit, and certainly not the idea that they’re alone.

But hunger wins out over hesitation. Leah’s already grabbing one of the fruits at a bush as Azzi kneels beside a different one to inspect the fruit herself. Cautiously, she cuts into the fruit with her dagger, watching as what appears to be water spills out. She opens it further, not seeing any suspicious warning signs that they’d been taught in training. It really might just be fruit.

Deciding that she’s going out to take her chances on it, Azzi takes her dagger, her hands steady as she works to free the thick-skinned fruit from its vine. The knife slices cleanly through the stem, and she lets the fruit drop into her hand. It’s heavier than she expects, a weight that promises nourishment. She turns it over once, twice, and then slips it into her bag and moves to cut another.

Her body aches—muscles tight from dehydration and exhaustion—and the heat of the jungle presses against her like a smothering blanket. Sweat trickles down her back, and the persistent thirst gnaws at her focus. But she keeps her hands moving, the rhythmic task of cutting the fruit offering a brief reprieve from the overwhelming anxiety that’s been settled in her chest since the Games began.

Behind her, she hears Leah rustling through her own bush, likely doing the same thing. Azzi doesn’t look back to see.

Another fruit hits the bottom of her bag with a satisfying thud, and Azzi reaches for the next one, her movements quick and precise. She’s already calculating how much her bag can hold, how far this food can stretch her survival.

Then, it happens.

A faint whistling sound cuts through the air beside her, too quick to process. Azzi feels a sudden sting along her cheekbone, sharp and hot, followed by a gasp of pain—not her own. She freezes, her hand flying to her face. When she pulls it away, her palm is smeared with blood. Her cheek throbs, the cut deeper than she first thought.

Her head whips around, mind on overdrive, eyes scanning the ground until they land on a dagger embedded in the dirt, its blade glinting under the dappled sunlight. A few feet from where she’d been crouched.

One of Leah’s daggers.

Azzi’s pulse thunders in her ears as the realization sinks in. Leah had thrown it. She had tried to kill her.

Azzi spins on her heel, her own dagger clenched tight in her fist. She doesn’t hesitate. She’ll fight if she has to, kill if she has to, would strike first if necessary. Leah’s already made her move, and Azzi isn’t about to give her a second chance.

But the sight that greets her isn’t what she expects.

Leah’s there, facing Azzi, but her mouth is wide open, almost as if she’s in shock. Her eyes are clouded as they lock on Azzi, her hands hovering over her stomach—where the Fudd girl can see crimson beginning to spill out of. Leah’s breaths come in ragged gasps, each one more shallow than the last.

Behind the District Four girl stands Paige, yanking her sword free from Leah’s back with a sickening squelch. Blood drips from the blade, pooling at Paige’s feet. Her expression ks grim, her lips pressed into a thin line of disgust as she watches Leah collapse fully to the ground.

Azzi’s grip tightened on her dagger, her thoughts racing too fast to catch hold of any one of them. She takes an involuntary step back, her instincts screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something.

Paige turns, her gaze locking onto Azzi. Her eyes scan Azzi quickly, lingering on the blood still dripping from her cheek. “Are you alright?” she asks, her voice calm, almost indifferent, as if she didn’t just impale someone.

Azzi furrows her brows, her confusion mounting. She doesn’t say anything, her silence a shield.

Paige tilts her head, her focus narrowing in on Azzi’s cheek. “Your face,” she says, pointing. “She hit you. You’re bleeding.”

Azzi touches her cheek again, feeling the sting that seems sharper now that she‘a aware of it. She mutters, “Yes,” her voice cautious.

Paige takes a step forward, but Azzi immediately steps back, keeping her distance. Paige raises her hands slightly, a small gesture of peace. “Relax,” she says. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

Azzi isn’t so sure. “Then what are you here for?” she asks.

Paige sighs, wiping the blood from her sword onto a plant. “Leah and her district partner, Chris,” she begin, gesturing to the girl still writhing on the ground. “I think they must’ve been working together. Pretending to split up, making allies, then stabbing them in the back. Chris tried it with me. Clearly, he didn’t make it.”

Azzi’s mind flashes to the cannon they’d heard earlier, the scream that had preceded it. It makes sense now—it was from Chris. Paige killing Chris.

Paige gestures toward Leah’s bag, which she yanks off the girl’s shaking shoulder and slings onto her own. “She would’ve killed you if I hadn’t shown up. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Azzi frowns, her grip on her dagger loosening but not by much. She doesn’t know what to make of Paige, the girl’s casual demeanor both unsettling and oddly reassuring. “We should probably go,” the blonde says matter-of-factly.

“Why?” Azzi asks, voice sharper than she intended.

Paige looks at her, genuinely confused. “Why what?”

“Why would we go together?” Azzi clarifies, her voice edged with suspicion.

Paige raises an eyebrow, looking at Azzi like she’s just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Because we’re allies now.”

“Says who?” Azzi shoots back quickly. “I can’t trust you.”

Paige smirks faintly, a flicker of amusement crossing her face. “Well, I did just save your life, princess. The least you could do is say thank you.”

Azzi hesitates, torn between anger and begrudging gratitude. “Thank you,” she mutters eventually, her tone icy.

Paige shrugs, unbothered.

“Why’d you do it?” Azzi asks after a pause, voice quieter this time. “Save my life?”

Paige’s smirk softens just slightly, her expression unreadable. “I like you,” she says simply, meeting Azzi’s eyes. “Think I’d prefer you alive.”

The words send a strange jolt through Azzi, a mix of confusion and something else she can’t quite name. Paige doesn’t give her time to dwell on it.

She bends to pick up Azzi’s bag, now filled with fruit, and hands it to her. “C’mon,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Azzi stares at her for a moment before taking the bag, their fingers brushing briefly. Without another word, she bends to retrieve Leah’s dagger—the one that nearly killed her—and follows Paige into the jungle, her thoughts swirling with questions she isn’t sure she even wants answers to.

THE ALLIANCE between Azzi and Paige begins tentatively, held together by necessity and a threadbare sense of mutual benefit. Azzi doesn’t trust Paige—how could she?—but she follows her lead anyway, dagger in hand and mind constantly calculating the odds of betrayal. Paige doesn’t seem fazed by Azzi’s obvious suspicion. If anything, she seems entertained by it.

On the first night, the heat and humidity of the jungle drops drastically, as if it was never there in the first place. It’s chilly—too chilly for them to get by with just their suits provided to them—and so, despite the obvious risk of other tributes seeing the smoke, Paige starts a fire. Azzi watches her do it, arms crossed, one foot ready to bolt if need be. Paige doesn’t say anything, just works, gathering the driest leaves she can find and other little twigs, her movements swift and practiced. When the fire finally sparks to life, Paige leans back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.

“There,” she says, brushing her hands off. “Warmth. You’re welcome.”

Azzi doesn’t thank her this time, just sits down across from the flames, her bag clutched tightly in her lap. The warmth is welcome, but her grip on the bag doesn’t loosen. The firelight casts shadows across Paige’s face, drawing out the lines of her cheekbones and jaw, making her look older, harsher. Azzi doesn’t know how much of that is real and how much is her own paranoia.

Paige sets Leah’s pack down between them, beginning to rummage through it. She pulls out a handful of berries, some kind of dried meat, and a canteen of water. She tosses the berries in Azzi’s direction. “Split these,” she says, her tone casual, like they’re sharing snacks at home and not in the middle of the Hunger Games.

Azzi hesitates. The gesture feels… too friendly. Too easy. But she’s starving, and the berries are already in her lap. She picks out a few and eats them cautiously, her eyes never leaving Paige as the other girl tears into the dried meat.

By the second day, they’ve settled into an uneasy rhythm. Paige takes the lead, her sword strapped to her back, her eyes scanning the dense jungle for threats. Azzi lingers a few paces behind, a dagger at the ready. They don’t talk about what they’re doing or where they’re going. They just move, staying quiet, their footsteps muffled by the thick underbrush.

It’s strange, how well they work together. Paige has a hunter’s instinct, sharp and efficient. She knows how to find food, how to avoid the areas where other tributes might be lurking. Azzi’s no slouch, either. She’s quick and observant, spotting details Paige sometimes misses—a broken branch, a faint footprint in the mud.

They come across a stream in the early afternoon, the water clear and cold. Paige crouches by the edge, refilling their canteens while Azzi stands nearby, her dagger still in hand. She watches as Paige splashes her face with water, the sunlight catching on her cheekbones.

“You’re wasting it,” Azzi says sharply.

Paige looks up, water dripping from her face. She grins. “Relax, princess. There’s plenty.”

Azzi bristles at the nickname but doesn’t respond. She turns her attention back to the jungle, scanning for movement.

Despite everything, she can’t shake the feeling that Paige might turn on her at any moment. But the thing is—she doesn’t. She doesn’t even try. She doesn’t make any sudden moves, doesn’t say anything suspicious. She just… exists. And she’s good at this, Azzi realizes—surviving. It’s almost unsettling how calm she seems, as if the chaos of the Games hasn’t touched her.

That night, they set up camp under a large tree with low-hanging branches. Paige climbs up first, testing the sturdiness of the limbs, then gestures for Azzi to follow. They settle on opposite sides of the branch, Paige leans back against hers, one leg dangling, while Azzi stays perched, her back straight and her dagger balanced on her knee.

For a while, they sit in silence, the only sound that of crickets and their own heavy breathing. It’s hot and humid tonight, enough to make them both sweat, Azzi continuously wiping moisture from her forehead. The Gamemakers are very bipolar about the weather here, especially at night. They either freeze or burn—it’s very frustrating.

“Do you think anyone’s watching us right now?” Paige says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

Azzi frowns, looking over at her. “I mean, yeah. The cameras are everywhere.”

“I know, but d’you think they’re focused on us? Like, on the broadcast?”

“Why does it matter?” Azzi asks.

Paige shrugs. “It doesn’t. I’m just curious. And bored.” She sighs, twisting a lead in her hand. “I bet the Capitol loves you. All broody and mysterious. You’re probably a fan favorite.”

Azzi glares at her. “Probably the opposite, actually,” she corrects. “They prefer the happier, flashier tributes. Like you.”

Paige smirks but doesn’t say anything.

Over the next few days, Azzi finds herself watching Paige more closely. Not out of suspicion, though that’s part of it, but out of something else. Curiosity, maybe. Paige is hard to pin down. She’s unpredictable in a way that doesn’t feel dangerous—at least, not to Azzi.

They split everything now—food, water, even weapons when necessary. Azzi is surprised by how natural it feels, like they’ve always been a team. Paige doesn’t seem to expect anything in return, doesn’t try to take more than her share. It’s unsettling, the way she treats Azzi like an equal, like she genuinely wants her around.

Azzi still doesn’t trust her, but she wants to. And that wanting feels dangerous in its own way.

And, despite herself, Azzi starts to notice small things about Paige. Like how she hums under her breath when they’re walking, or how she always keeps her sword within reach, even when they’re resting. Paige has a way of making everything seem lighter, less oppressive. She cracks jokes sometimes—dry, sarcastic quips that catch Azzi off guard.

“You’re really bad at this whole ‘trust no one’ thing,” Paige says one afternoon as they’re eating a small meal by the stream.

Azzi frowns. “What are you talking about?”

Paige gestures vaguely. “The way you keep looking at me, like I’m about to stab you in the back. If I wanted to, I would’ve done it by now.”

Azzi doesn’t laugh, but she bites back a smile. Paige notices, though, and her smirk widens.

“See? You think I’m funny,” Paige teases.

“I don’t,” Azzi says flatly, though the corners of her mouth betray her.

It’s strange, the dynamic between them. Despite the obvious distrust, Azzi’s oddly grateful for when Paige tries to make her smile. In a place like this, where death feels like it’s waiting around every corner, those moments feel… important.

On the fourth day, they come across another tribute—a boy from District Five. He doesn’t see them, and Azzi tenses, waiting for Paige to make a move. Paige’s hand goes to her sword, but she hesitates, her eyes flicking to Azzi.

“What do you want to do?” Paige whispers.

The question catches Azzi off guard. Paige is deferring to her? She swallows hard, mind racing. She knows what they should do, knows the rules of the Games, but the boy doesn’t look like a threat. He looks scared, lost.

“Let him go,” Azzi says finally, her voice barely audible.

Paige studies her for a moment, then nods. She relaxes her grip on her sword, stepping back into the shadows. They watch as the boy disappears into the jungle, oblivious to how close he came to death.

Azzi doesn’t say anything, but something shifts in her chest. Paige listened to her. She could’ve ignored her, could’ve killed the boy and taken his supplies without a second thought, but she didn’t.

That night, as they sit in the dark, Azzi catches herself glancing at Paige, studying the way the firelight dances across her features. She’s still wary, still ready to run if she has to, but for the first time, she wonders if maybe—just maybe—Paige isn’t the monster she’s been bracing herself for.

THE NEXT DAY brings the worst heat Azzi’s ever felt in the arena. The air is thick and oppressive, a humid weight pressing down on everything. It’s as if the jungle is trying to choke them. Sweat clings to her skin, dripping down her back and soaking the fabric of her clothes until it feels like a second layer of skin. Her lungs fight for air that seems almost too hot to breathe. Paige trudges ahead, silent and focused, her sword bouncing slightly against her back with each step.

Azzi stays a few paces behind, a dagger loose in her hand, though her grip is slippery with sweat. She tries to keep her head clear, her eyes alert, but the dryness in her mouth is impossible to ignore. Every thought is punctuated by the same need: water. They’ve been out since yesterday afternoon, their canteens drained, their bodies aching for hydration.

The jungle shifts slightly as they move, the terrain growing rockier. Paige pressed forward without hesitation, her movements confident even in the uneven ground. Azzi tries to match her pace but finds her attention wandering. Her throat feels like sandpaper, and her head throbs faintly with every step.

She doesn’t hear the snap of a twig to her right. Not until it’s too late.

Something hard slams into the side of her face, and Azzi is on the ground before she realizes what’s happening. Pain explodes across her cheek, sharp and hot, and she instinctively presses her hand to it. When she pulls her fingers away, they’re slick with blood. Her stomach churns as she recognizes the dark red streaks, her mind sluggishly registering that Leah’s cut has reopened.

Her head spins, the light filtering through the canopy almost blinding. For a few seconds, all she can do is lie there, her breath shallow and rapid, her fingers digging into the dirt beneath her. Somewhere to her left, she hears movement—a grunt, the rustle of leaves, and then a muffled whimper.

Azzi forces her eyes open, squinting against the brightness. Her vision swims, the jungle tilting unnaturally, but she manages to focus just enough to see them: Paige, pinned to the ground beneath a boy. His face is twisted in a snarl, his muscles straining as he fights to keep her down.

It takes a moment for Azzi to recognize him: the boy from District Eleven. He’s big, muscular, and holding a machete that glints menacingly in the dappled light. Paige is fighting him, her hands pushing against his shoulders, her legs kicking out, muscles flexing. Against anyone else, she probably could’ve stopped them—she doesn’t look it, but she’s strong. Tall and strong. But it doesn’t matter now—it’s not enough. He’s got the bulk advantage over her, his weight pressing her into the ground.

“Fuck—get off!” Paige yells, her voice breaking with frustration and unmistakeable fear. She twists beneath him, trying to buck him off, but he grabs her throat, cutting off her words.

Azzi’s breath catches, her heart pounding in her chest. Paige’s face is flushed, her eyes wide, her hands scrabbling at his wrist as he chokes her.

For a moment, all she can think is that Paige is going to die. She can see it happening—the machete coming down, the boy choking the life out of her, Paige’s face going slack—and the thought fills her with something fierce and unrelenting.

She doesn’t want Paige to die. Not at all. Not even a little bit.

Her hands fumble at her side, searching for her dagger. Her head spins as she moves, her fingers brushing the hilt. She grabs it, tightens her grip, and throws it with a sharp flick of her wrist.

Catch and shoot. Just like basketball.

It’s not a perfect throw—her head is pounding too much for that—but it’s good enough. The blade buries itself in the boy’s neck, and he jerks back, his hands flying to the wound as blood spurts out in thick, dark streams. He falls to the side, his body hitting the ground with a dull thud. The machete slips from his grasp, clattering onto the rocks.

A cannon fires, the sound echoing through the jungle.

Azzi exhales shakily, her chest tight, her hands trembling. She pushes herself to her feet, swaying slightly as her head protests the movement. The world tilts dangerously, but she forces herself to move, stumbling toward Paige.

Paige is still lying on the ground, gasping for air. One hand hovers near her throat, where the boy’s grip has left an angry red imprint. Her other arm is pressed against her chest, blood dripping steadily from a gash that runs along her forearm.

“Are you okay?” Azzi asks, her voice hoarse. She’s not sure if it’s from the heat, the dehydration, or the raw surge of adrenaline.

Paige looks up at her, her chest heaving. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, just stares at Azzi with wide, stunned, crystal blue eyes. Then she murmurs, almost incredulously, “You saved my life.”

Azzi shakes her head, though the movement makes her vision blur. “Just returning the favor.”

She holds out a hand, and Paige hesitates for a fraction of a second before taking it. Her grip is warm and solid despite the faint tremor in her fingers as Azzi pulls her to her feet. Paige sways slightly, her balance off, and the younger girl steadies her instinctively. They end up leaning into each other, both unsteady and aching.

Paige stares at her for another long second as they don’t speak, just breathe heavily. There’s something in her clear eyes that makes Azzi anxious, some sort of soft, yet scared emotion that seems to be threading through both of them. And then, without warning, Paige lifts her hand and brushes Azzi’s cheek, featherlight yet still startling. The touch is soft, almost hesitant, and when Azzi glances at her, Paige is frowning faintly, her fingers coming away stained with blood.

“You’re bleeding,” Paige says, her voice almost stupidly soft.

“I’m good,” Azzi replies, even though her head is pounding so hard she can barely think. Azzi does her best to ignore the ache, her eyes sliding across Paige’s figure, giving her another once-over. The imprint on her neck, her bloodied up arm. “Are you sure you’re good?” she asks slowly, trying to mask the sudden, obvious concern that wants to lace its way into her tone.

Paige’s eyes linger on her for a moment longer before she seems to snap out of it. She pulls her hand back, clutching at the wound on her arm, which continues to pool with blood. “Yeah, I’m fine,” she says, though her voice is strained.

Azzi doesn’t believe her, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she mutters, “We gotta find water.”

Paige nods, her expression sobering some, though it’s still slightly dazed. And then they begin walking.

THE JUNGLE swallows them whole as they move forward, side by side now instead of their usual formation. Paige is no longer leading, and Azzi is no longer trailing behind, watching the girl’s back like some unwilling shadow. Instead, they lean into each other, a pair of battered survivors held up by sheer willpower and the fragile balance of their shared weight.

Azzi keeps one hand on her dagger, just in case, though the other grips Paige’s shoulder like a lifeline. Her legs ache, her skull throbs, and her throat is dry enough that every swallow feels like it’s scraping raw. The heat is unbearable, pressing down on her like an iron hand, and every step feels like wading through wet cement. She keeps going anyway. She doesn’t have a choice.

Her head pounds in relentless waves, and for the first time, a new kind of fear creeps in. She wonders if it’s more than just the heat and exhaustion. The boy had hit her hard—harder than she’d let herself admit at the time—and now her thoughts are sluggish, her balance unsteady. It could be something serious—an actual brain injury.

She shakes the thought away quickly, but it lingers in the edges of her mind, a shadow she can’t quite dispel. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, on the sound of Paige’s uneven breaths beside her, and on the way the jungle seems to stretch endlessly before them.

Paige hasn’t said a word.

It unnerves Azzi more than she wants to admit. Paige, for all her flaws and quirks, has been a constant stream of chatter since the two of them reluctantly teamed up. Whether it was dry sarcasm, idle complaints, or even rambling anecdotes about her life back in District Five, she’d filled the silence with words that Azzi didn’t always want but had grown used to. Now, there’s nothing. Just the sound of their labored breathing and the occasional crunch of leaves beneath their feet.

Azzi glances sideways at her. Paige is pale, her face slick with sweat, the blonde hair of her ponytail sticking to her neck in damp strands. Her forearm is still pressed tightly to her chest, blood seeping through the makeshift leaf bandage Azzi had tied around it earlier. It isn’t enough; Azzi knows that. But it’s all they have.

Her lips are cracked and dry, and every time she stumbles slightly, Azzi feels a jolt of worry she can’t suppress.

When had that started?

She doesn’t know when Paige stopped being just another competitor and started being something more. Something she’s not sure she can name. It’s terrifying, in its own way, the realization that she cares. If Paige had died back there—beneath that boy’s hands, choking on her own breath—Azzi doesn’t know what she would have done. The thought of it is enough to make her stomach churn.

Paige is a light here, Azzi realizes, her chest tightening. A bright, defiant force in a world that’s trying its hardest to crush them both. Azzi doesn’t know how someone like Paige exists in a place like this, but she’s glad she does. Even if she doesn’t want to be. Even if it’s dangerous to feel this way.

Cyrus would kill her if he knew.

The thought of her mentor brings a bitter taste to her mouth, though it’s hard to tell if that’s from the memory or just the dryness of her throat. He’d warned her against this—against forming attachments, against letting feelings get in the way of survival. “Emotions will get you killed,” he’d said, his voice sharp and unyielding. “You can’t afford to care about anyone but yourself.”

Azzi had nodded, agreed, and believed him. Until now.

The boy’s face flashes in her mind.

It’s quick, like the strike of a match, but it burns just the same. His body crumpling to the ground, the blood pooling beneath him, the light fading from his eyes. She’d killed him. Ended his life with a single throw of her dagger.

She tells herself it was necessary. That he was going to kill Paige, that it was him or them. She tells herself that this is what the Games are. That everyone here is fighting for the same thing: to survive. But the words feel hollow, even in her own mind.

He was just a kid. Hardly older than her.

Her grip on Paige’s shoulder tightens slightly, as if to anchor herself. Paige doesn’t react, her gaze fixed on the path ahead, but Azzi wonders if she notices.

The boy had wanted to live, just like they do. He’d fought for it, just like they’re fighting now. Azzi doesn’t blame him for that. She can’t. But she hates him for putting his hands on Paige. For pinning her down, for cutting her up, for choking her, for making Azzi do what she did.

Her thoughts circle back to Paige, as they often seem to recently. She glances at her again, taking in the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the sweat dripping down her temples, the way her lips are pressed into a thin, determined line. She wonders if Paige is thinking about the boy too, or if her mind is somewhere else entirely.

Azzi doesn’t ask. She doesn’t want to know.

Instead, she keeps walking, her feet dragging over the uneven ground, her thoughts a chaotic swirl of exhaustion, fear, and something else she can’t quite name. The jungle presses in around them, thick and suffocating, and the heat feels like it’s going to swallow her whole.

She needs water. She needs to sit down. She needs—

Paige stumbles, and Azzi’s hand shoots out instinctively to steady her. Paige mutters something under her breath, a faint “Thanks,” but her voice is weak, almost broken.

Azzi doesn’t respond. She just tightens her grip on Paige’s arm and keeps moving. They’re both too busted to trust themselves entirely, but they don’t have a choice. They can’t stop.

It feels like they’ve been walking for hours. Maybe they have. Azzi doesn’t know anymore. She’s too tired to care, her thoughts muddled by dehydration and pain.

And then, as if the universe finally takes pity on them, she hears it: the soft, unmistakable trickle of running water.

At first, she thinks she’s imagining it, a cruel trick of her exhausted mind. But then she catches sight of it—a narrow stream cutting through the dense foliage ahead, the sunlight glinting off its surface like a beacon. Relief washes over her so strongly that her knees almost give out.

“Water,” she croaks, barely recognizing her own voice.

Paige’s head snaps up, her eyes following Azzi’s gaze. She doesn’t say anything, just stumbles forward, almost tripping over her own feet in her haste. Azzi grabs her arm to steady her, and together they half-walk, half-fall toward the stream.

When they reach the edge, Azzi doesn’t even pause to take in the sight. She shrugs Paige’s bag off her back with shaking hands, digging through it until she finds their canteens. Her fingers fumble with the caps as she kneels by the water, filling both containers to the brim.

She shoves one into Paige’s hand, not waiting for a thank you before tipping the other to her lips. The water is cool, crisp, and it burns going down her dry throat, but she doesn’t care. She drinks until she’s out of breath, pulling the canteen away only to gasp for air before taking another gulp.

When she finally stops, her chest heaving, she glances over at Paige. The blonde is sitting, leant against a tree now, her back pressed to the rough bark, the canteen dangling limply in her hand. She looks awful—worse than awful. Her eyes are glassy, her lips cracked, and the blood on her arm hasn’t slowed. Azzi doesn’t know how she managed to get this far, if she’s honest.

Azzi sighs, hauling herself to her feet. Her legs tremble beneath her, but she pushes through it, crossing the short distance to Paige. “Let me see it,” she says, gesturing toward the arm Paige is still cradling.

Paige shakes her head, her lips curving into the ghost of a defiant smile. “I’m good,” she says, but her voice is weak, barely more than a whisper.

“No, you’re not,” Azzi counters, her tone sharper than she intends. She crouches in front of Paige, looking up at her with an intensity that makes the other girl falter. “Let me see.”

Paige hesitates, her gaze darting away as if she can avoid Azzi’s stare. But when she glances back, Azzi is still watching her, her expression unyielding. Slowly, reluctantly, Paige moves her arm, holding it out to Azzi.

Azzi takes her wrist gently, her fingers wrapping around the uninjured part of Paige’s arm. She can feel Paige’s eyes on her, burning into her face, but she doesn’t look up. She focuses on the makeshift bandage, peeling it back carefully.

The leaves come away slick with blood, and Azzi has to swallow hard to keep her stomach from turning. The cut beneath is worse than she thought—deep and jagged, the edges swollen and angry. Blood is still seeping from it, slow but steady, staining Paige’s pale skin a vivid red.

“Paige,” Azzi says quietly, the name heavy on her tongue. She doesn’t know what else to say.

Paige shakes her head again, biting her lip so hard that Azzi half-expects to see blood there too. “It’s fine,” she says, but her voice cracks on the last word, betraying her.

“It’s not fine,” Azzi says, her grip on Paige’s wrist tightening slightly. “He might’ve nicked a vein.”

“He didn’t,” Paige insists, but her voice is thin, almost desperate.

“Paige,” Azzi says again, her tone firmer this time.

She doesn’t wait for a response. She grabs her canteen, unscrewing the cap. “We need to clean it,” she says, not waiting for Paige’s agreement. “Hold still.”

Paige nods reluctantly, but Azzi catches the flicker of fear in her eyes. It makes something twist uncomfortably in her chest. She doesn’t want Paige to be scared. She doesn’t want her to be in pain. (She doesn’t know why.)

“Hey,” Azzi says softly, trying for a reassuring smile. It feels strange on her face, unfamiliar, but she hopes it works. “It’s okay.”

Paige doesn’t say anything, just watches Azzi with wide, wary eyes.

Azzi pours a small stream of water over the cut, wincing as Paige flinches. A soft whimper escapes the blonde’s lips, but she doesn’t pull away. Azzi works quickly, washing away the blood and dirt as carefully as she can, her movements slow and deliberate.

When she’s done, she sits back on her heels, surveying her work. The bleeding has slowed, but the cut still looks bad—too bad for her to handle with the limited supplies they have.

“We need to bandage it again,” Azzi says, her voice quieter now. She reaches into her own pack, pulling out a strip of fabric she tore from her shirt earlier. “This’ll have to do for now.”

Paige nods, her eyes glassy, and Azzi wraps the fabric around her arm as tightly as she dares. Her fingers brush against Paige’s skin as she ties the knot, and she can feel the faint tremor running through her.

“There,” she says, sitting back and meeting Paige’s gaze for the first time. “That should hold for now.”

Paige doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at Azzi, her expression unreadable. Then, finally, she mutters, “Thanks.”

Azzi nods, her throat too tight to speak. She doesn’t know why this moment feels so heavy, why the look in Paige’s eyes makes her chest ache. She just knows that, despite everything, she’s glad they’re both still here.

And she’s going to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

THE SKY above them is painted in deep oranges and purples now, the last vestiges of sunlight breaking through the canopy. It’s beautiful in a way that mocks Azzi—the world doesn’t care that they’re here, bleeding and broken. The stream continues its soft trickle nearby, an unrelenting reminder of their vulnerability. Water is the most sought for thing in this arena—and she and Paige are right next to a steady stream of it.

Azzi’s head pounds, a rhythmic throb that matches her heartbeat, and her vision swims if she turns too fast. She presses a palm to her temple, trying to will it away, but nothing helps. She glances at Paige again—her breathing is shallow, her skin pale and waxy, the freckles dotting her nose stark against the pallor. Azzi doesn’t know much about medicine, but she knows blood loss when she sees it, and Paige is in trouble.

The bandage she’d rigged up is doing its best, but blood still seeps through the edges. It’s not enough to stop the bleeding, and Azzi feels a wave of helplessness crash over her. She’s supposed to be strong. She’s supposed to survive. But how can she survive when Paige is dying right next to her?

Their shoulders press together, grounding Azzi just enough to keep her panic at bay. Paige shifts slightly, her head lolling to the side, her eyes fluttering closed. Azzi doesn’t think—she just reacts, shaking Paige’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” Azzi says quickly. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Paige groans softly, a broken sound, but her eyes stay closed. “‘M tired,” she murmurs, her voice slurring. “Just… let me rest a minute.”

“No,” Azzi says, louder this time. Her chest tightens, her breath coming faster. She’s afraid, and it shows in her voice. “You can’t. If you fall sleep, you might…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but the both know what she means. If Paige falls asleep, there’s a good chance she might not wake up.

Paige doesn’t respond right away, her head tipping back against the tree. Her neck stretches, her throat exposed, her brows furrowing, and for a fleeting moment, Azzi catches herself staring. It’s a small, stupid thing to notice in the middle of all this, but Azzi can’t help it. Paige, even like this—especially like this—makes her heart stutter in ways she doesn’t fully understand. She shoves the thought away, disgusted with herself. Now is not the time.

“Talk to me,” Paige says suddenly, her voice soft and pleading. It takes Azzi a moment to realize Paige is serious. “About anything. I gotta stay awake, so just… say something.”

Azzi hesitates. She has no idea what to talk about. But Paige’s eyes are on her now, hazy but expectant, and Azzi doesn’t want to let her down. “Uh,” she starts awkwardly, her voice hoarse. “I like basketball. It’s my favorite thing to do. It’s, like, how I escape stuff. I guess I love it.”

Paige’s eyes open a little wider, a spark of recognition flickering there. A small, broken smile tugs at her lips, and it hits Azzi harder than it should. “You like basketball?” Paige asks, her voice faint but teasing.

Azzi nods, feeling her chest loosen just a little. “Yeah. It’s everything to me.”

Paige’s smile grows, just barely. “Me too,” she whispers. “It’s my whole life.”

The admission surprises Azzi. She’d known Paige was athletic, but this feels… different. Personal. “Really?” Azzi asks, leaning in slightly despite herself.

Paige nods, though the motion looks like it takes effort. “I was kinda hoping—stupidly, maybe—that if I won this thing, they’d let me play in the Capitol. Like, with the pros.”

The idea is so absurd, so painfully hopeful, that Azzi feels a pang of something sharp in her chest. She stares at Paige, her throat tightening. “I thought the same thing,” she admits quietly. “I mean, it’s a dream, right? But they’d never let us.”

Paige shakes her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Probably not.” She’s quiet for a moment, her gaze unfocused. Then, she says, almost wistfully, “You and me, we could’ve—”

She doesn’t finish. A sharp breath hisses through her teeth, her hand twitching toward her injured arm. Azzi watches in concern, brown eyes softening, and then reacts without thinking, gently taking Paige’s arm and resting it in her lap. She presses down on the bandage, trying to slow the bleeding, her movements careful but firm. Paige winces, a soft whimper escaping her, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Keep talking,” Azzi says, her voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside her. She doesn’t know why it matters so much, but it does. She needs Paige to keep her eyes open, to keep responding, to stay here with her.

Paige nods faintly, her eyes searching for something to focus on. They land on Azzi’s face, and Azzi feels her stomach flip under the intensity of that gaze. “We could’ve been teammates,” Paige murmurs, her voice barely audible. “It would’ve been fun.”

Azzi’s heart twists, a dull ache settling in her chest. She forces herself to smile, though it feels like it might crack her face. “Yeah,” she whispers. “It could’ve.”

Silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant gurgle of the stream. Azzi doesn’t let go of Paige’s arm, her thumb brushing lightly against the skin just above the bandage. She doesn’t know if it’s for Paige’s comfort or her own.

The night creeps closer, the colors in the sky fading to deep purples and blues. And as they do, things just continue to get worse. Paige’s shoulder is warm and sweaty against Azzi’s, but her weight is starting to sag, her head lolling more with each passing moment. Azzi feels every shift, every shallow breath, and it’s like a countdown ticking in her ear. Paige’s ponytail brushes against the side of her face every now and then, soft and teasing, and for a second Azzi’s brain latches onto it—onto how bizarrely comforting such a small, stupid thing can feel in a moment like this. But it’s fleeting. The ache in her head won’t let her hold onto anything for long.

It’s getting worse. The dull throb that started hours ago has grown into something monstrous, a pressure building behind her eyes and pushing at her temples like her skull might split open. The jungle spins when she glances to the side, her vision streaked with dark spots that pulse in time with the pain. She can barely focus on anything, but she forces herself to keep her eyes on Paige. Paige, who’s somehow still upright, even as her arm hangs limp in Azzi’s lap, her blood staining Azzi’s hand through the makeshift bandage. The bleeding has slowed, but still not stopped entirely, and Azzi knows that’s not good enough. She doesn’t know how much blood Paige has left to lose, and the thought tightens around her chest like a vice.

Azzi reaches her free hand up, and it shakes slightly as she moves it to rub circles at her temple. The pounding in her cerebrum is unbearable, each throb sending a wave of nausea and dizziness through her. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus, but the spinning in her peripheral only gets worse.

She feels Paige stir beside her, hears the faint hitch in Paige’s breath before the blonde whispers, “Does your head hurt?”

Azzi’s eyes flutter open, and she turns her head just enough to meet Paige’s gaze. Those blue eyes—crystal clear even in the fading light—are wide and worried, and for a moment, Azzi forgets how to breathe. It’s startling, how much concern Paige holds there, as if the pain in Azzi’s skull is more important than the gaping wound in her own arm. Azzi swallows hard, pushing down the lump forming in her throat, and forces a small, shaky smile. “Yeah, um, a little,” she lies, her voice cracking slightly on the words.

It’s a terrible lie, and Paige sees right through it. Before Azzi can pull away or deflect, Paige’s uninjured arm moves, her hand coming up to gently cup Azzi’s jaw. The touch is featherlight, hesitant but somehow steady, and it sends a shiver down Azzi’s spine. Her breath catches in her throat, and she freezes, unsure whether to lean into it or pull away. Her body decides for her, staying perfectly still, as if moving might break whatever fragile thing this moment has become.

Paige tilts Azzi’s head slightly, her fingers careful as they guide her. Azzi’s cheek tingles where Paige’s skin brushes hers, and she wonders, distantly, if Paige can feel the heat rising there. Paige’s thumb hovers near the bruise on the side of Azzi’s face, and Azzi feels her breath hitch again as Paige murmurs, “He hit you hard. God—your cheek is almost purple.”

Azzi blinks, her brain struggling to catch up. She hadn’t realized how bad it looked; the ache had been drowned out by everything else—the adrenaline, the fear, the focus on keeping Paige alive. Paige’s voice pulls her back, soft and hoarse, but heavy with something Azzi can’t quite make. Her fingers brush over the bruise, trailing so gently it almost feels like a ghost of a touch, and then they skim over the cut on Azzi’s cheekbone.

The sting catches her off guard, and she flinches, a sharp hiss slipping out before she can stop it. Paige jerks her hand back immediately, her brows knitting together in regret. “Sorry,” she says quickly, voice breaking slightly. “I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Azzi cuts her off softly. “Really. It’s fine.”

But it’s not fine. Not the pain in her brain, not the blood still trickling out of Paige, not the way Azzi’s heart stutters every time Paige so much as looks at her. None of it is fine. And yet, in this tiny, horrible moment, with death lurking in the shadows and exhaustion pulling at every fiber of her being, Azzi feels a flicker of something she hasn’t felt since she left home. Warmth. Connection.

It’s stupid. It’s dangerous. And it’s exactly what she can’t afford right now.

Paige settles back against the tree, her head lolling slightly, but her gaze stays fixed on Azzi. “You’re a bad liar,” she says after a moment, her lips twitching into a faint, teasing smile.

Azzi snorts softly, the sound dry and humorless. “Yeah, well… you’re stubborn.”

Paige’s smile falters, her eyes drifting closed for a second too long before she forces them open again. “Guess that makes us a good team,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible now.

Azzi’s chest tightens, the weight of those words settling heavily in her heart. She glances down at Paige’s arm, her vision blurry but still enough to make out the blood-soaked bandage that seems to mock her efforts, and then back up at Paige’s face. She looks fragile, too pale and too still, her breathing shallow and uneven. Azzi swallows hard, fighting back the wave of helplessness threatening to drown her, and shifts slightly, leaning more of her weight into Paige’s side.

“Don’t fall asleep,” Azzi says quietly, her voice firmer than she feels. “Stay with me, okay?”

Paige hums faintly, her head tipping to rest lightly against Azzi’s. “I’ll try,” she whispers.

It could be a minute or an hour between that and the start of the ticking. It’s faint, barely there, a soft, irregular beat that worms it’s way into Azzi’s consciousness through the relentless pounding in her skull. At first, she thinks it might be her own pulse, amplified by the migraine that’s been eating at her focus all day, but then it grows louder, unmistakably external. Her head tilts, almost unconsciously, toward the sound, the motion sending a fresh wave of nausea spiraling through her.

It takes a second for her to pinpoint it, her vision hazy and the world dimming in the creeping twilight, but then she sees it. A small box, dangling precariously from a flimsy parachute, drifting slowly through the humid, stagnant air until it lands in the underbrush just a few feet away. The silver fabric of the parachute glimmers faintly in the dwindling light, and for a moment, Azzi wonders if she’s hallucinating.

She blinks hard, her dry, stinging eyes struggling to focus. No, it’s real. It has to be.

“What is that?” Paige’s voice is groggy, slurred with exhaustion and pain. She doesn’t move, just tilts her head a fraction toward the clearing, her expression half-curious, half-disoriented.

Azzi doesn’t answer. She can’t. The words are lodged in her throat, tangled up with the sudden, desperate burst of hope that’s surging through her chest. Instead, she shifts carefully, so slowly it feels like her joints might creak from the effort. Paige’s arm is still draped across her lap, and Azzi tilts it gently, settling it back in Paige’s lap as if it’s something fragile and precious. “Stay here,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige gives her a bleary nod, her head falling back against the tree trunk, and Azzi takes a shaky breath as she pulls herself to her feet. Her legs feel like rubber beneath her, unsteady and unreliable, and the moment she straightens, the world tilts alarmingly. Her vision blurs, the dark shapes of the trees around them smearing together into a dizzying kaleidoscope, and her head pounds so viciously she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.

She stumbles but manages to catch herself on the rough bark of the tree. Her palm scrapes against it, a sharp sting that grounds her just enough to push forward. Each step is an act of will, her body screaming at her to stop, to sit, to let go. But she doesn’t. She can’t. Not when there’s a chance—no matter how slim—that what’s in that box might save them.

The small package sits nestled in the underbrush, it’s parachute caught on a low-hanging branch. Azzi crouches slowly, her balance wavering, and pulls it down with trembling hands. The rough fabric catches slightly on her fingers, and her head spins so violently she nearly collapses right there. Somehow, she makes it back to where Paige sits slumped against the tree, her eyes half-closed but still tracking Azzi’s movements.

Azzi drops to her knees in front of her, cradling the box in her lap like it’s something sacred. Her hands shake as she fumbles with the lid, her pulse pounding in her ears so loudly she can barely hear anything else. It takes a moment—too long, in her opinion—but eventually, the lid pops off, revealing the contents inside.

A tub of ointment, labeled in neat, blocky letters: for open wounds. Two small pills in a clear, sealed pouch, labeled simply: for the pain. And tucked into the corner, a folded piece of paper. Azzi snatches up the note first, her heart hammering as she unfolds it.

Keep it up. The Capitol loves you.

It’s signed by both Azzi and Paige’s mentors—a joint act.

Azzi’s chest tightens. Relief crashes over her, sharp and almost painful in its intensity, but it’s laced with something darker, something bitter. She’s grateful, of course she is, but the note is a cruel reminder of the game they’re playing—the performance they’re expected to give. Their survival isn’t just dependent on their own skill or willpower; it’s a spectacle, a source of entertainment for people who will never know what it feels like to bleed in the dirt, to fight for every breath, to endure the kind of pain that makes you wonder if it’s been worth it.

Azzi swallows hard, her throat tight, and turns the note toward Paige. Paige blinks at it, her eyes squinting as she tries to focus on the words. When she finally makes them out, a small, breathy laugh escapes her, soft and incredulous. She lets her head fall back against the tree, a faint, almost dazed smile tugging at her lips. “Oh my God,” she murmurs, her voice trembling slightly. It’s unclear whether she’s laughing out of relief or disbelief—or both.

The sound of Paige’s laugh, faint as it is, warms something deep in Azzi’s chest. It’s a reminder that they’re still here, still alive, still capable of finding something—anything—to hold on to. Before she can stop herself, she feels her own lips curve upward, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through the exhaustion and pain that’s been weighing down on her for what feels like forever.

It’s small at first, tentative, but it grows, soft and real, until her dimples poke out—a feature that hasn’t seen light since she left home. The warmth of the grin spreads across her face like a sunrise breaking through the clouds. It feels strange to smile like this here, in the arena, in the state they’re in, but it’s genuine, and it’s hers.

When she looks back at Paige, she finds the older girl staring at her. Paige’s blue eyes are hazy, rimmed with near agony, but there’s something else in them, something unspoken and undeniable as they trace over Azzi’s face. It’s a look that sends a flicker of warmth rushing through the brunette’s chest, even as her headache rages on.

And then, despite everything, Paige grins back. It’s slower, lazier, and nowhere near as bright as it would be if they weren’t half-dead in a jungle, but it’s real. And for a moment, just a moment, it feels like they’ve won something far more important than a sponsor’s gift.

But then Azzi snaps out of it, knowing they don’t have the luxury of wasting time. Every second feels stolen, borrowed against a future that’s far from guaranteed, and Paige is the priority right now. The thought flickers briefly in her mind—how strange it is to think of Paige as anything but her competition, how utterly backwards it is to put someone else before herself in a place like this. But the logic doesn’t stick. The part of her that knows better is drowned out by something deeper, something she can’t quite—or maybe just doesn’t want to—name. She shoves the thought away, as she has with so many others.

Her head throbs mercilessly, the ache radiating from her temple down to her jaw, making it hard to focus. The pills are calling to her, the promise of relief so tempting it makes her fingers twitch. But Azzi forces herself to look away, to lock in on Paige instead. Paige is the most pressing issue. Azzi can deal with her own head later, once the blonde isn’t bleeding anymore.

Azzi reaches for Paige’s arm carefully, the older girl watching her intensely as she does so. Those blue eyes, always so sharp and steady, are dulled, but they don’t wager as they track Azzi’s every move, as if she’s the exception to her exhaustion. It’s unnerving, almost too much, but Azzi doesn’t pull back.

Her fingers brush against Paige’s skin as she takes her injured arm, and she notices immediately how clammy it feels, how fragile. Paige doesn’t flinch, though, letting Azzi take the weight of it as she carefully unwraps the so-called bandage they’d thrown together earlier. The blood-soaked fabric peels away slowly, sticking in places, and Azzi’s stomach once again twists at the sight of the wound.

It’s still red and angry and oozing blood. The metallic tan got it fills the air, sharp and overwhelming. Azzi has to take a deep breath, steadying herself.

And then she’s dipping her fingers into the ointment, it’s texture slick and slightly sticky. Carefully, she begins to spread it over the gash. The instant it touches the raw skin, Paige hisses through her teeth, her body tensing beneath Azzi’s hands. Azzi freezes, her heart skipping a beat. “Sorry,” she murmurs, her voice low and soft, almost inaudible. She doesn’t want to hurt Paige, even if it’s necessary.

Paige’s lips press into a thin line, and after a moment, she nods. Her free hand gestures weakly for Azzi to continue. Azzi does, her fingers moving as gently as they can. She focuses on covering every inch of the wound, making sure the ointment is evenly spread, all the while hyper-aware of how close they are. She can feel Paige’s shallow breaths, can hear the faint catch in them every time her touch hits a particularly sensitive spot. It’s distracting, but Azzi forces herself to keep going.

When she finally finishes, she sits back slightly, her hands hovering uncertainty over Paige’s arm. Her fingers are smeared with leftover ointment and stained crimson, and the sight of the blood—Paige’s blood—sends a jolt of something sharp and unpleasant through her chest. She doesn’t let herself dwell on it.

Azzi reaches into the box, pulling out one of the pain relief pills from the small pouch. She hands it to Paige, her fingers brushing briefly against Paige’s palm as she passes it over. The contact is fleeting, but it feels significant somehow, like it leaves a mark.

“Take this,” Azzi says, her voice firmer now, though still edged with exhaustion. She grabs one of their canteens, unscrewing the cap and holding it out to Paige. Paige takes both the pill and the canteen without question, ripping her head back to swallow them. Azzi watches, relief flickering briefly in her chest as Paige’s throat bobs with the effort.

Once Paige finishes, Azzi moves to craft another makeshift bandage. She tears a strip of leaves, careful to pick ones she recognizes as cleaner, and secures them around Paige’s arm, tying them tightly enough to hold but not so tight that they’ll cut off circulation. The leaves feel flimsy, inadequate, but it’s better than leaving the wound exposed. The Capitol’s ointment might be effective, but Azzi isn’t willing to risk it.

Now that Paige is taken care of, Azzi finally lets herself acknowledge what her body has been screaming at her all along. She needs relief. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches for the second pain pill, plucking it out of the pouch. Her throat is dry and the motion of swallowing feels sharp, but she forces the pill down quickly, chasing it with a swig of water from the canteen. The hope that it might take the edge off her pounding skull is the only thing keeping her upright right now.

She picks up the tub of ointment, planning to stow it away safely in one of their bags, when Paige’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Wait.”

Azzi looks over, confused, brows furrowing as her gaze lands on Paige. “What?”

Paige gestures toward the ointment with a tired flick of her fingers. “Can I see it?”

The request doesn’t make much sense. Paige doesn’t need more of it, and her wound’s already been ‘bandaged’ back up. But Azzi doesn’t ask. She’s too drained to question it, and maybe, in the back of her mind, there’s a tiny piece of her that would hand over almost anything Paige asked for without hesitation (yes, she knows how bad it is). Wordlessly, she holds the tub out to the blonde, who takes it with a quiet look of determination.

Azzi watches as Paige unscrews the lid, dipping her thumb into the cool salve and scooping up a small amount. Then Paige’s eyes lift to meet Azzi’s, her gaze steady despite the exhaustion weighing her down. “C’mere,” Paige says softly.

Azzi hesitates, blinking at her. “Why? What—”

Paige rolls her eyes, exasperation creeping into her voice. “Your cheekbone, Azzi.”

Azzi blinks again, then lifts a hand to her face, fingertips brushing against the gash just below her eye. She’s half-forgotten about it, the pain of her pounding head and the worry over Paige drowning out the sharp sting of the cut. Her cheeks flush faintly, but she nods, leaning forward just enough to close the gap between them.

As Paige’s fingers reach for her jaw, Azzi stiffens slightly. The touch is careful, light, and steady, but it sends a ripple of tension through her that she struggles to suppress. Paige tilts her chin up, her thumb brushing the salve gently across the cut. Azzi can feel the coolness of it on her skin, a faint relief that’s overshadowed by the warmth radiating from Paige’s touch.

Paige is so close. Too close. Azzi can see every little mark, every faint line of exhaustion etched into Paige’s face. Azzi’s heart seems to be pounding harder than her head now, and she forces her gaze to dart away, focusing on the rough bark of the tree behind Paige instead of the curve of her lips or the cerulean of her eyes.

The moment drags out longer than it should, Paige’s hand lingering against Azzi’s cheek even after she’s finished. Then, finally, she leans back, handing the tub of ointment back to Azzi. “There. Now you can put it away,” she murmurs, her voice quiet, her lips curving faintly into something soft and fleeting.

Azzi swallows hard, taking the tub and stuffing it into one of the bags with more force than necessary, as though sealing it away might also lock up the strange swirl of feelings tightening in her chest.

When she finally settles back against the tree beside Paige, she sighs deeply, the weight of the day pressing down on her. The pain in her head still hasn’t faded, and she closes her eyes for a moment, leaning back against the rough bark, trying to center herself. But then Paige’s voice breaks the quiet again, soft but firm.

“You should actually lay down,” Paige says. “Your head definitely needs it.”

Azzi shakes her head without even opening her eyes. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“No, Azzi.” Paige’s voice is sharper now, another flash of concern cutting through her exhaustion. “You need to lay down.”

Azzi turns her head, meeting Paige’s gaze. There’s something there, something in the way Paige is looking at her—equal parts frustration and care and just pure fatigue—that makes Azzi’s stomach tumble. Paige doesn’t have to say anything else. Azzi knows exactly what she’s suggesting. Her face flushes hot, and she rubs her temple again, trying to come up with an excuse whilst simultaneously trying to ease the pain. “Paige…”

“Azzi,” the blonde interrupts, her voice matching Azzi’s tired tone with an almost perfect mimicry.

Azzi exhales heavily, the tension draining from her shoulders. She knows she should argue, but she doesn’t. Maybe it’s because the pain in her skull is still unrelenting, or maybe it’s because, deep down, she wants to be closer to Paige. Either way, she gives in, shifting her wright and carefully lowering herself until her head is resting on Paige’s lap.

The moment she settles against the older girl’s thighs, she feels relief. The position takes some of the pressure off her pounding head, and the warmth of Paige beneath her is oddly soothing. She exhales slowly, letting her body relax for the first time in hours.

Paige doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to. Her fingers move slowly, hesitating for a moment before they come to rest against Azzi’s hair. And then, as if testing the motion, she begins to rub small, smooth circles against Azzi’s scalp. The gentle pressure eases some of the ache in Azzi’s skull, and her eyelids grow heavier with each passing second.

Azzi’s hand, lying limply at her side, brushes agajnst Paige’s. It’s not intentional at first, just the natural shift of her body, but then her pinky moves, deliberately sliding closer until it touches Paige’s. She doesn’t interlock them, instead keeping the touch featherlight, just the barest connection. But it’s enough. It’s grounding. It’s more than she thought she’d ever have here.

Azzi lets her eyes fall shut, the ache in her head dulling slightly, and for the first time all day, she allows herself to truly breathe.



[mscresta]

Finnick x tribute reader?

First meeting.

Finnick x reader.

Sfw !

Cw// Reaping, mention of death, panic attacks, comfort, social anxiety.

As soon as you heard your name called at the reaping, everything started to blur. Your old life—your parents, your friends—faded into the background. The second your name was spoken, it no longer felt like it belonged to you.

On the train, you stared out the window, barely registering the scenery rushing by. You didn’t bother talking to the other tribute; the idea of forming any connection only added to the already unbearable weight in your chest.

You didn’t even notice your mentor enter the room until he sat down in front of you. “Hello there,” he said with a smile, as if this was all completely normal—as if, in just a few weeks, you wouldn’t be fighting for your life in an arena designed to kill you.

You were too nervous to respond. Your throat felt tight, and a heavy pressure pressed against your chest. It was like you were teetering on the edge of a panic attack. The walls of the train car felt closer with every passing second, and you couldn’t stop fidgeting or catch your breath.

“Breathe.” His voice cut through the haze, steady and calm. He placed a hand on your shoulder, grounding you. It was clear he’d seen this before—panic, fear, helplessness. “You’re safe right now. I promise you, by the time I’m done training you, you won’t have a single doubt in your mind that you can win.”

His words were soothing, but it wasn’t until you forced yourself to meet his gaze that something clicked. This was Finnick Odair. The man whose name was whispered like legend in District 4, the youngest victor in history.

Your stomach tightened, and your nerves surged again. What could you possibly say to someone like him?

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” you finally managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the hum of the train. “I’m not like you. I’m not… strong.”

Finnick leaned back, crossing his arms, his expression softening as he studied you. “Nobody thinks they’re strong when they start this. I didn’t either.” His voice lowered, almost conspiratorial, as though sharing a secret. “But strength isn’t just about muscles or weapons. It’s up here.” He tapped his temple. “Survival is about your mind, your instincts. And trust me, you’ve got more of that than you think.”

You wanted to believe him, but the lump in your throat remained. “How do you know?” you asked, your voice shaking.

“Because I’ve been where you are,” he said simply. “And I came out the other side.”

For a moment, the weight of his words silenced the storm in your mind. Finnick Odair had been you once—terrified, uncertain, thrown into a nightmare. And yet, he had survived.

“Here,” he said, pulling a small wooden trinket from his pocket. It looked like a tiny carved fish, smooth from years of handling. “This was given to me when I was in your shoes. It doesn’t have any magic powers, but it reminded me that someone believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself.” He handed it to you, his smile soft but earnest. “Keep it. You’ll need reminders of home.”

You took it hesitantly, running your thumb over its smooth surface. It wasn’t much, but somehow, it made the panic ebb just a little. For the first time since the reaping, you felt the smallest glimmer of something you hadn’t dared to hope for—hope. You turned the small carved fish over in your hand, feeling its smooth edges, the tiny grooves where someone had painstakingly etched out its details. It felt warm, like it carried a little bit of home with it. The thought stirred something deep in your chest, and you swallowed hard to keep the tears at bay.

“Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice still shaky but sincere. It was the first thing you’d said with any certainty since the reaping. Finnick smiled, not his earlier casual grin, but something softer, like he understood the weight of the moment.

“Don’t mention it,” he said, leaning back in his seat and stretching out his legs. He looked so calm, so unbothered, like he wasn’t sitting across from a tribute destined for the slaughter. “You’re stronger than you think,” he added after a moment, his tone lighter. “Besides, I have a feeling about you.”

You looked up at him, surprised. “A feeling?”

He shrugged. “Call it a mentor’s intuition.”

Before you could ask what that meant, the train slowed, and the intercom crackled to life. “Approaching Capitol Station,” a mechanical voice announced, cheerful and detached.

Your stomach twisted. The Capitol. It had always been this distant, almost mythical place—bright lights, extravagant people, larger-than-life screens showing the Games. But now, it was real, and you were being brought there like an offering.

Finnick must have noticed the shift in your expression because he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Look, I know it’s overwhelming. The Capitol is… a lot. The people, the cameras, the way they’ll treat you like you’re some shiny new toy. But you can’t let it break you.”

“How?” you asked, the word coming out sharper than you intended. “How am I supposed to pretend I’m okay with all this?”

“You don’t have to be okay with it,” Finnick said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You just have to play their game long enough to survive. They want a show, so give them one. Be memorable. Make them love you.”

The thought of standing in front of the Capitol’s citizens, smiling and pretending, made your skin crawl. But you knew he was right. If you wanted a chance—any chance—you’d have to play along.

The train came to a stop, and the doors hissed open. Finnick stood, smoothing out his shirt before glancing down at you. “Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “Time to meet your audience.”

You hesitated for only a moment before taking it. His grip was steady, grounding. As he helped you to your feet, you realized just how much taller he was, his presence both intimidating and reassuring.

The station was blinding, a whirlwind of lights, colors, and noise. Capitol citizens were gathered, their outlandish outfits glittering under the fluorescent lights as they clapped and cheered. Camera flashes erupted in quick bursts, and you instinctively shrank back.

“Stand tall,” Finnick murmured, his hand briefly brushing your shoulder. “They’ll smell fear if you let them.”

Drawing in a shaky breath, you straightened your spine, forcing yourself to lift your chin. You felt the weight of a hundred eyes on you, but Finnick’s steady presence at your side kept you from completely unraveling.

As you stepped off the train, you realized this was only the beginning. The Capitol, the Games, the fight for survival—it was all ahead of you. But for now, you focused on putting one foot in front of the other, the carved fish still clutched tightly in your hand.

reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!

Read part 2 here; https://www.tumblr.com/mscresta/770879367841759232/tribute-parade

[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

MASTERLIST!!

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

[dailymonraszkic]

Inlicitus desiderium -

2. Initium Amoris

Hanno’s grip tightened on the sword as he entered the training grounds, his heart beating with cold determination. The air was thick with sweat and the sharp tang of iron. Around him, gladiators of all shapes and sizes sparred, their grunts and the clash of weapons echoing in the open space. Hanno, however, was not here to train for sport. He was here to kill.

His thoughts briefly wandered to Arishat—the woman he had loved, the warrior who had fallen beside him in Numidia. Her death had torn something deep within him, and it was that same fury that kept him alive now. In the chaos of battle, he often thought he might join her in the afterlife, but not yet. He still had unfinished business.

“Numidian!” A voice rang out, cutting through his thoughts. Marcinus, draped in his gleaming red and gold robes, approached with his arms spread wide, his grin as false as his cheer. “I hear you’ve been putting on quite the show in training. Three gladiators down in a single session? Now that’s something impressive!”

Hanno ignored him, his eyes fixed on the other gladiators as they sparred. He didn’t need to answer Marcinus’s taunts. The man’s words were empty, designed only to provoke or flatter depending on his whims. Hanno had learned long ago not to trust anyone—especially men like Marcinus, who thrived on the suffering of others.

“You told me to train. I did,” Hanno said flatly, his voice low but resolute. “The rules are simple: kill or be killed.”

Marcinus laughed, clapping Hanno on the back in a mocking gesture. “Yes, yes. Here, we fight to survive, or we die so others can live. That’s the only rule. You’re getting it, I see.”

Without waiting for a response, Marcinus turned and walked away, his laughter still echoing in the yard. Hanno’s attention shifted back to two gladiators in the corner—a pair of tall, muscular men sparring with swords. He watched closely, waiting for the right moment.

The taller gladiator swung his sword in a wide, wild arc, missing his opponent by inches. The smaller fighter, faster on his feet, ducked low and brought his blade up, landing a punch to the first gladiator’s chest.

It was then that Hanno moved, swift as a shadow. The tall gladiator, still recovering from his missed swing, left himself open. Hanno closed the distance and brought the sword down hard across the man’s neck. The gladiator crumpled to the ground with a grunt, his body going limp.

The second gladiator, startled by the sudden attack, turned with his sword raised, but Hanno was already on him. With a brutal twist, he disarmed the man, sending the sword flying. The gladiator staggered back, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Please,” the man gasped, his hands raised in a silent plea for mercy.

Before he could finish his sentence, Hanno struck, flipping him onto his back with a well-executed maneuver. The gladiator’s breath caught, and he collapsed in the dirt, defeated.

For a moment, Hanno stood over him, watching as the fight drained from the gladiator’s eyes. He had done what needed to be done, but there was no satisfaction in the victory.

The yard fell silent. Hanno wiped the blood from his face and turned away without a word. Marcinus’s eyes followed him, but Hanno didn’t look back.

“Impressive,” Marcinus finally called out, his voice tinged with a mix of admiration and amusement. “You’re as ruthless as they say. A true champion.”

Hanno didn’t reply. The champions he respected were those who had fallen in battle, like Arishat—not men like Marcinus, who profited from the bloodshed of others.

With one last glance at the fallen gladiators, Hanno left the field, his mind already focused on the next fight. The arena would come soon enough, and when it did, he would be ready.

Later that evening, after the sun dipped below the horizon, the gladiators were locked in their cells. Hanno sat on his bed, his eyes closed and breathing steady. To the casual observer, he seemed asleep, but he was waiting. Florian, a fisherman from his childhood, had taught him patience. The Informa he had sent to the general would soon return to him, and then he could proceed with his plan. His mother, meanwhile, thrived in Rome, enjoying her life as the wife of the Emperor and sister to the other Emperor, while Hanno fought for survival.

As the night deepened, footsteps echoed down the corridor. They were soft, deliberate, careful not to draw attention. Hanno opened his eyes just enough to see a figure standing outside his cell, a hooded cloak obscuring much of their features. Instantly, his senses sharpened.

The figure stepped forward, and Hanno’s gaze fixed on him. It was Acacius, the ever-watchful former general who had become a shadow in this brutal world.

"I trust you’re ready for what’s next?" Acacius asked, his voice low, laced with subtle menace. He leaned against the bars of the cell, glancing at Hanno with an unsettling calm.

Hanno said nothing at first. He studied Acacius with narrowed eyes. The man wasn’t here for small talk. He had a purpose, and Hanno suspected it had something to do with his next move.

"Is it Prince Lucius you’re after?" Hanno growled. "Or redemption for Rome?"

Acacius raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a thin smile. “Lucius. So you know more than you let on.”

Hanno hesitated. “I’ve heard rumors,” he said slowly. “That he might be hiding near the southern border. I don’t know more than that. But you’re not here for rumors, are you?”

Acacius chuckled softly. “No. I’m here to get the truth.” He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “Lucius is a threat to Emperor Commodus. But I believe you know where he is.”

Hanno straightened, his voice colder now. “I’ve been looking for him for my own reasons. I don’t know where he is. But if you’re asking for help, you should know one thing.” His lips curled into a predatory smile. “If the boy’s still alive, he’s probably become a possession of some rich man.”

Acacius paused, his eyes narrowing. He was used to men who thought they knew everything, especially someone like Hanno—a gladiator, a pawn in the deadly game of power. But there was something about this man that intrigued him. Hanno had fire that couldn’t be easily extinguished.

“I see,” Acacius replied, his voice calm again. “You want revenge. Fair enough. But you’re in no position to negotiate. You’re a gladiator. Your options are limited.”

Hanno’s eyes narrowed. “And yet, you’re still here, talking to me. So, it seems I do have something you want. You can’t just kill me or throw me in a pit. Not yet.”

Acacius straightened, his smile faltering into a cold stare. “True. You are useful—for now. If you help me find Lucius, we may find a way to get you out of this place. Maybe even give you the means to exact your revenge.”

Hanno’s heart quickened at the mention of revenge—of Arishat. He had nothing left to lose.

“Fine,” Hanno murmured. “But if you lie to me, Acacius, I will make you regret it.”

Acacius inclined his head slightly. “I never lie, Hanno. I only bend the truth when it suits me.”

Before Hanno could respond, the guards’ footsteps echoed down the hall. Acacius gave a final glance at Hanno. “Remember, time is not on our side. We’ll speak again soon.”

With that, Acacius disappeared into the shadows, leaving Hanno to wrestle with the decision he had just made. A flicker of doubt crossed his mind, but it was quickly overshadowed by the burning need for revenge. Lucius would pay for Arishat’s death and whatever role he had played in Hanno’s fall from grace.

The game was about to change.

As the sun rose over Rome, its golden rays bathed the city, casting a gentle glow on the ancient stones and guiding Acacius through the lively streets. The sounds of merchants peddling their goods mingled with the laughter of children, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing in his chest. With each step, the weight of his mission grew heavier, the stakes clearer: the hope of a mother, the legacy of an empire, and the ambition-laden shadows that hung over Rome.

The Senate loomed ahead, its grandeur commanding Acacius’ attention. It symbolized power, authority—but also danger. He was well aware that the political landscape was shifting under Commodus’ reign. His motives remained shrouded in mystery, and whispers of paranoia and secrecy tainted the air. Acacius needed to tread carefully; in such an environment, an ally could quickly become an enemy.

Inside the Senate hall, murmurs echoed against the marble columns, creating an undercurrent of unease. Senators huddled in small groups, their expressions betraying their concern. The recent victory over the Numidians had done little to unite the factions; instead, it had reignited old rivalries and ambitions. Acacius's eyes fell on Senator Gaius, a man renowned for his wisdom and tactical insight.

"Marcus," Gaius greeted him in a low voice, guiding him to a secluded corner. "I heard you visited the Colosseum. What did you uncover?"

Acacius paused before replying, careful with his words. "A gladiator mentioned Lucius. It seems there’s a chance he survived the attack on his village and went into hiding. But we must act quickly—before Commodus catches wind of our inquiry."

Gaius’ brow furrowed. "You know as well as I that Commodus will not tolerate anyone probing into the truth of his rival, especially one who might be a potential heir. He sees enemies where there are none."

"Then perhaps we should create our own light," Acacius replied, his resolve firming. "If we confirm Lucius's survival, we could use that knowledge to challenge Commodus. Rome needs a symbol of hope to rally behind."

Later that day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in a warm glow, Acacius found himself in a darker part of Rome—its air thick with smoke and the stench of the streets. He approached a tavern known for being a hub of information and a gathering place for mercenaries.

Inside, the atmosphere was tense, filled with rough laughter and the clink of mugs. Acacius spotted a familiar face—a former soldier turned mercenary, Lucan. This was a man who had seen the darkest sides of war and lived to tell the tale.

"Excuse me, is this the way to Lucan’s room?" Acacius asked, his voice steady as he made his way through the room.

Lucan looked up, surprise flashing in his eyes before recognition set in. "General Acacius," he said, leaning back in his chair, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "I didn’t expect a visit from you. A man of your stature doesn’t frequent places like this without a purpose."

"Information," Acacius replied, his tone serious. "I need to know about the clan that attacked the village where Lucius Verus Aurelius was hidden. I need to find him."

Lucan raised an eyebrow. "Ah, the lost prince. That’s a dangerous pursuit. The clan you're after is not to be taken lightly. They've made enemies of many—including some of my old comrades. But for the right price, I might be able to help."

Acacius nodded. The mercenary’s smile was enough of an answer.

Later, Acacius met with Senator Faunus. As soon as Acacius entered, the senator dismissed his staff and locked the door behind them, checking twice for any sign of eavesdropping. They both knew the stakes were high.

Faunus gave a brief, affirmative nod. "I can try to rally support among the Senate. With the right backing, we might challenge Commodus. But we’ll need to be discreet."

Acacius' thoughts briefly wandered to Senator Gaius, who was conspicuously absent. He suspected that Gaius would be informed of their plan soon enough. His own absence, however, was concerning—Commodus often sought private meetings to test the loyalty of his senators.

As Acacius prepared to leave, his thoughts turned to the gladiator’s words. The mention of soldiers searching for the prince was too important to ignore. Lucius’s survival seemed increasingly likely, but he would have to dig deeper—into the more shadowed corners of Rome—to find those who could help him locate the lost prince.

Just as Acacius was about to turn into the street leading to the barracks to check on his legion, he froze. Standing near the medicus' house were Marcinus and Hanno. The gladiator had his right hand bandaged, his face contorted in pain. Acacius narrowed his eyes at the sight of Hanno—no other injuries, but his pride seemed wounded. Marcinus was scowling, though his expression softened as he spotted Acacius.

"General Acacius, the hero of Rome," Marcinus greeted with a poisonous smile. "Not our first meeting, I believe."

"I’m here to discuss the chief of the Numidians," Acacius said evenly, his gaze fixed on the gladiator. "We talked with his men about the future of their city after Rome takes charge."

"The chief didn’t do well in the arena, did he?" Acacius continued, his voice pleasant but cutting. "First to die, I believe."

Hanno’s eyes narrowed, the anger bubbling just below the surface. Acacius could see the tension in his clenched, bandaged hand.

Marcinus’s smile faltered before returning, though it lacked its former confidence. "Not everyone is suited for the games, General. Some are better suited for strategy."

"Perhaps," Acacius replied sharply, "but those who send others to fight their battles rarely have the same appetite for combat themselves."

Acacius's gaze flicked to Hanno's bandaged hand. His voice grew colder. "Funny. The chief, also injured, didn’t survive. I can’t help but wonder if the same fate is intended for Hanno."

Marcinus's face reddened, but he quickly masked it with a tight smirk. "I trust my medicus knows what he’s doing."

"I hope so," Acacius said icily, then turned on his heel. "After all, they’re part of Rome now. It is also surprising he was not seen by Ravi, he usually can handle such injuries in no time - even far better than any medicus I had unfortunate pleasure of seeing."

Hanno did not say a word out loud but his quiet chuckle and smirk on his face told Acacius enough - Marcinus did not take him to Ravi because Ravi by law needed to report the injury.

That night, as the city slept, Acacius slipped through the quiet corridors of the gladiators’ quarters. His steps were deliberate, his mind focused on the path ahead. He reached Hanno's cell and knocked softly. The door creaked open, and Hanno appeared, his expression a mixture of surprise and unease.

"General," Hanno said cautiously. "This is unexpected."

"I need to speak with you," Acacius replied quietly, his tone firm yet low. "Away from prying eyes."

Hanno crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. "Is this about Marcinius? Or your endless search for Prince Lucius?"

Acacius's face hardened. "Both. Marcinius is reckless. He puts lives at risk, and I won’t stand by while he undermines Rome’s strength."

Hanno raised an eyebrow. "And the prince?"

The General's voice dropped slightly. "The prince remains my mission. But sometimes I wonder if I’m chasing shadows. You know more about him than you’re letting on."

Hanno’s expression remained guarded, his eyes narrowing. "Perhaps I do. Or perhaps I’m just a gladiator trying to survive."

"Surviving doesn’t mean staying silent," Acacius pressed, stepping closer. "If you know something, anything about Lucius, you owe it to Rome to speak."

"To Rome?" Hanno’s voice was sharp. "Or to you?"

The silence stretched between them, thick with tension. Finally, Hanno spoke again, his tone softer but still guarded. "What if the prince doesn’t want to be found? What if he’s seen enough of Rome’s ‘glory’ to know he’s better off lost?"

Acacius’s jaw tightened. "Then he’s denying his duty. His family needs him. Rome needs him."

Hanno looked away, his hand flexing involuntarily. "Duty isn’t always enough to heal old wounds," he murmured. "Sometimes it’s the reason they’re still bleeding."

Acacius watched him closely, his resolve wavering for a moment. "If you were the prince," he asked slowly, "what would you do?"

Hanno’s gaze met his, unreadable. "I’d make sure Rome understood what it truly needed. And I’d make damn sure I was the one to decide when and how I’d return."

Acacius nodded, respect growing for the gladiator, though his suspicions deepened. "Fair enough," he said quietly. "But know this—if you ever need someone to trust, someone to stand by you… I’m here."

Hanno’s lips twitched into a faint, rueful smile. "I’ll keep that in mind, General."

As Acacius turned to leave, the dim light from the oil lamp cast long shadows on the stone walls. Hanno watched him go, lost in thought.

The general the entire Rome loves. He heard about someone like that once. His father whom he knew for only seven weeks before he was sent away. His mother told him tales about his father’s bravery and goodness of heart. He believed that man to be Lucius Verus, his mother’s husband. After his eleventh birthday, he started to pay attention to the rumours that surrounded his mother’s marriage. Apparently Lucius Verus was never seen in female company - therefore he couldn’t father a child, even by Emperor’s order.

“You speak fluently in our language, know the history, and have astonishingly anti-critical views of life in an Empire,” a deep voice from the shadows made Hanno turn around quickly, his guard up.

An older man stepped closer to the cell bars and watched Hanno with interest in his dark eyes.

“You’re the warrior Acacius spoke about,” the man continued. “But you do not come from Numidia. The accent, the knowledge—not even a Roman captain could know the things you know or have thought the way you speak of. Where is your home, and what is your name?”

Hanno blinked and watched the man as he spoke. He held himself in high regard; that much was evident by the way he stood—his shoulders straight, his eyes focused. He had slightly longer hair, dark eyes, and a stoic face that revealed little of his thoughts.

“As the general once summarized—I am a part of Rome now.”

The guard standing behind the man suddenly took a step forward from the line.

“My Emperor, we should go back.”

Hanno froze, his gaze snapping back to the man. His eyes narrowed as he studied the face before him.

“Well then,” the Emperor said, his tone quiet but cutting, his gaze lingering on Hanno. “We shall see you fight, Numidian. I have learned that the thirst for revenge often makes the best gladiators in the area.”

The sight of Commodus—a face etched from his childhood and the darker tales whispered in exile—sent a cascade of emotions crashing through Hanno's mind. Bitterness, long dormant but never extinguished, flared as he saw the man who now sat atop the empire that had razed his city and stolen his future. Commodus’ features were older now, heavier with the weight of years and decadence, yet still carried that self-assured cruelty. But beneath the seething hatred, a strange unease slithered in. This was his uncle, the brother of the mother he had barely known, and whatever bond of blood they shared felt both a mockery and a shadow of something he could never claim. Was this reunion a mere spectacle or fate’s twisted humour? Could it be that Commodus, in his own self-serving way, cared to seek him out? The nephew he had lost due to his own nature? The thought disgusted Hanno more than it consoled him. He clung to his hatred like a shield, though doubt gnawed at the edges of his resolve.

And then there was Acacius.

The General’s piercing eyes had lingered in Hanno's thoughts far longer than he cared to admit. How could he feel this stirring of... something for the man who had wielded the sword of Rome against his people, who had followed orders to destroy what he once called home? Who gave the order that killed his beloved wife, the only family he had? And yet, Acacius' strength, his resolute demeanour, held a gravity that Hanno could not deny.

It was maddening. Was it simply curiosity, some twisted fascination with the man who sought to unravel his identity, or something more dangerous—a yearning for connection in a life bereft of it? The contradict

[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 :)

[whumpninja]

The Angel of Death, Part Four: House Call

CONTENT WARNING: If you still had your seatbelts buckled from last chapter, this one is, somehow, messier.

Featuring: blood, gore, the really nasty side of vampire regeneration, severed limb, not entirely accurate medical care, did I say gore already because this is gory

Keola's phone rang at 8:42 on Sunday morning. Mr. Moody was on the other end, of course. Angel's leg was worse than he'd thought, the kick he'd withstood in the arena doing more damage to the already-broken bone. Mr. Moody had done what he could, but he could use Keola's expertise to make sure it would heal as fast as possible. Could she get to the Colosseum Club by nine thirty?

Keola hung up without answering and mumbled several words into her hands that would have made her mother lecture her for at least forty minutes. Why did I agree to do this? She was sure last night’s Bloody Mary had at least something to do with it.

Reluctantly, she got dressed, called a cab and ignored the strange look she received from the driver when she asked them to take her to the Colosseum Club. And also ignored the strange looks directed at her umbrella- the day was sunshiney. Sunshine wouldn't hurt Keola as much as a full vampire, but it wouldn't be pleasant. So she carried an umbrella, gritted her teeth, and resolved to tell anyone who asked that she had a highly contagious skin condition.

A goon she hadn't met yet greeted her at the door. "Ronnie, Lonnie- let me guess," Keola said to him. "You're Johnnie."

"I'm Ray."

"My mistake." All right, so the sarcasm was a little much, but she'd been dragged out of bed on a Sunday. Her one day off.

Ray, looking as if he was slightly confused and slightly more frightened by the petite woman attempting to guess his name, led her inside the building. "I've got it from here, tough guy," she told him, and made her own way to Mr. Moody's office.

To her surprise, he was actually there, pacing back and forth in front of the window. He looked relieved when she knocked on the open door. "Hey, Doc! Wasn't sure you'd come."

"You're paying me for this," Keola said by way of a greeting. "Extra."

"Not a problem." Mr. Moody actually wiped a hand across his forehead. He was sweating, almost nervously, and as he came out into the hallway Keola noticed that his khaki pants were splattered with something dark.

Vampire blood. He was soaked in it; she could smell it on him like alcohol on a drunken man. It made her stomach turn. And he barely seemed to notice it was there.

What's he been doing? That couldn't be Angel's blood- broken legs usually didn't bleed. One of the other poor prisoners kept here as bait for Mr. Moody's monster?

"I hope you can help, Doc. I'm not so good with first aid. Did what I could, but Angel needs a real doctor." Mr. Moody shook his head, wiping his forehead again. "I got a fight coming up this weekend. I need him. If there's any way you can make that leg heal up quicker-"

"What happened, exactly?" Keola asked curtly as Mr. Moody escorted her from the office to the underground holding area beneath the arena.

"That damn little mosquito Angel was tussling with on Saturday. The kick it got in busted Angel's leg up all over again. Me and the boys got it pretty well handled, but now there's a whole new mess to clean up. Anything you can do to get him to heal up faster, I'll be grateful."

Keola sighed. "I'll do my best, Mr. Moody. But I told you, I work with animals, not people. I'm not trained to treat vampires."

"As long as you can stop the bleeding and get him to start healing, Doc, I don't care."

Wait. "Bleeding? There shouldn't be any bleeding unless the bone broke the skin, in which case get me down there now."

Mr. Moody let her go first down the tunnels. They still smelled overwhelmingly like vampire blood, but without an active fight going above her head, she could stand it better.

They passed one of the little depressions in the wall that seemed to serve as cells, and Keola paused, frowning. Something lay in the corner- a sludgy pile of what looked like raw, shredded meat and haphazard bones, leaking tarry blood onto the concrete. She could make out a single staring eye at the edge of the mass.

Keola didn't have to be told what- who- it was. She'd never seen a vampire regenerate from such a state, and she'd certainly never been through it herself, but she knew it was a long and painful process. Poor Marcus. And when the mess Angel had made of him did knit itself back together, he'd be ripped apart all over again.

Keola hurried to catch up with Mr. Moody, who apparently hadn't noticed that she'd stopped. Her canines had sprung their sharp little points, and she could feel the red heat in the backs of her eyes. This was all him. His fault. He was the one who kept Angel starved and drugged and desperate enough to tear his own kind to pieces, and he was the one who kept the remains around so it could happen again and again. He was the one using vampires to make himself rich.

And, Keola learned as soon as they got to the room where Angel was kept, he was not above doing much worse.

"Why does it smell like blood in there?" Keola demanded.

Mr. Moody rubbed the back of his neck. "I tried, Doc. I ain't so good with medical stuff."

"Tried what?"

"Well-"

Keola didn't wait for him to finish. She set her jaw and pushed past him around the corner.

Her vet bag fell with a thud to the cement floor. Her hand drifted up to cover her mouth. She meant to yell, to shout in Moody's face.

But all that came out was a whisper. "What did you do?"

There was blood everywhere. Sprayed over the walls, splashed onto the floor, splattered across Angel's near-motionless body. The vampire lay on his side in the corner, apparently barely conscious. If it hadn't been for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Keola would have thought he was dead.

She knew now why Mr. Moody was covered with Angel's blood.

Angel's injured leg rested on the rim of a bucket- what was left of his leg. Most of it was gone, severed just above the knee. The ragged stump leaked a slow drip of blood into the waiting bucket.

"You said six weeks for the bone to heal." Mr. Moody edged his way into the room. "Figured he'd regrow the leg in less than half that."

"You cut it off?" Keola still couldn't get her voice above whisper pitch.

"One of the boys found a saw in the back-"

"Stop. Just- stop." Keola closed her eyes, sickness roaring in the pit of her stomach. "What, exactly, do you want me to do?"

"Stop the bleeding? Bandage it? Whatever it'll take to get him to regrow it faster."

Keola nodded stiffly. She didn't trust herself to speak anymore. It was hard enough keeping the heat out of her eyes.

She crouched down beside Angel, her stomach clenching. She'd seen a lot of horrible injuries in her line of work, but this hit her in a way few things did. Mr. Moody and his men hadn't been careful. The wound had a raggedness at the edges that told her they'd only been interested in getting the leg off as fast as possible, not in making sure the cut was clean. The bone had been stubborn, snapping off at some point instead of being cut clean through. She could see the bone, the muscle, the tissue they had sliced through, a horrible cross-section like in her old anatomy textbooks.

Angel watched her through slitted eyes. This time he wasn't fighting or thrashing to get away from her touch. He'd been fighting, she could tell- one of the chains bolted to the wall had been ripped clean out of it, coiled uselessly on the floor. But he didn't try to lash out the way he had before. He just lay still, his hands cuffed behind him, occasional tremors rippling through his body. Was he- trembling?

Keola sat back on her heels next to the monstrous creature she'd seen tear apart one of their own kind only the night before. She'd hated him for a moment, watching from the stands. But now all she felt was pity.

There was no anger in him now, no feral bloodlust, no wild rage.

Angel was afraid. Terrified. Every line of his body vibrated with pure animal fear. In his drugged stupor, Angel didn't know why he was missing half his leg. He hadn't known why it was being cut off. He didn't know that it would regenerate. All he knew was that it hurt, and he was afraid of more hurting.

Keola carefully slipped the bucket out from under the remains of Angel's leg. He flinched, hard, at her touch, but didn't try to attack the way he had before. "I know, I know it hurts," she murmured.

Her skillful fingers brushed as gently as she could over the wound, finding the edges. She couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like there had already been the slightest bit of regeneration. The bone would grow back first, and the rest would wrap around it as it did. A well-fed, healthy vampire in their prime could regenerate a limb within a week. But for Angel, starved and drugged, it would take longer.

"I can't use bandages," she said, her voice clipped, fishing in her bag for a little white canister. "Best I can do is styptic powder to get the bleeding under control."

"Why no bandages?" Mr. Moody frowned.

Keola found the jar and unscrewed the top. "They'd block the regrowth. I assume. I told you I'm not trained for this." She shook her head. "This stuff isn't designed for severe wounds. It's not going to do much, but it might help something." Carefully, she set the powder to the wound. Angel shuddered, his breaths coming quicker as she applied a steady pressure. She hadn't expected it to help much, and it didn't, but the bleeding tapered off at least slightly.

After that, Keola lost herself in the work. She murmured gentle things to the feral vampire trembling underneath her hands, and ignored the human standing behind her, and kept her own rising anger in strict check. A careful balance of business and bedside manner, as she cleaned the terrible injury as best she could.

At some point she sent Mr. Moody out of the room. She didn't know why, she just suddenly couldn't stand to have him there. It shocked her that he listened- after much protesting on his part, yes, but he did eventually go. "If he attacks you, scream," he told her, clearly reluctant to leave her alone with Angel.

"You're not going to attack me," Keola said to Angel as soon as she was reasonably sure that Moody had gone. "Maybe before. But you know I'm trying to help, don't you?"

Angel's eyes were brown. She'd noticed that at some point. Whether it was the drugs wearing off or just that he wasn't currently forced into a rage, his eyes no longer glowed their savage red. He watched every movement she made.

"That's about all I can do for your leg, I think," Keola said. She unrolled a length of gauze from the roll she kept in her bag, folded it up into a thick square. "Believe it or not, Moody had the right idea about this. Elevation will help slow the bleeding down." She replaced the bucket under the stump of his leg, slipping the gauze underneath so the hard plastic wasn't biting into his skin.

Angel kept his gaze on her, like an animal in a trap wondering why the hunter hasn't killed it yet. Keola studied his face, realizing for the first time how young he looked when he wasn't snarling in a drug-induced fury. Vampires aged far more slowly than humans, so it was almost impossible to know how old he really was. But she'd put him at about the equivalent of twenty-five, if she had to guess.

Suddenly it all seemed so much more wrong. Angel, chained in this underground prison, his leg crudely amputated, drugged to the gills, and splattered all over with his own blood. Andrew Moody, you utter bastard.

Keola fumbled in her bag and found a cloth and the spray bottle she kept for casts. She wet the cloth with a few thorough sprays and then took a deep breath. "All right, koa," she said firmly. "I'm going to get some of that blood off you, and I need you to not try to kill me, yes?" She wasn't really sure why she used that name for him. It just seemed to jump out of her mouth. Koa. Warrior. Brave one.

Angel tensed when she brought the cloth up to his bare chest, but he didn't resist her. Gently, she wiped the flecks of dark blood from his brown skin. She didn't get close to his face- she had a feeling he wouldn't react well. But she could at least clean him up where she could. Was it her imagination, or did his eyes slip closed briefly at one point before he snapped them back open to stare at her again?

"There, that's better, isn't it?" she asked, rocking back onto her heels when she'd finished. "I'd give you sleep meds if I could, but I don't want to put anything else in your system with whatever you've got in there already."

There was a noise at the door, and she turned. Mr. Moody had come back, looking uncertain. "Are you okay, Doc? All good?"

"I'm in one piece," Keola replied, fitting her supplies back in her bag. "He...will be in one piece, in about two weeks."

Mr. Moody frowned deeply. "That long? Can't you get it regrown any faster?"

Keola took a long breath in through her nose, her patience all but spent. "No, I can't. And what's more, you have to feed him. I don't just mean a couple drops, I mean you have to give him a real meal."

Mr. Moody shook his head at that. "No can do, Doc. I told you, he gets unruly if I give him too much."

"If you want Angel to heal, he needs to eat," Keola said firmly, crossing her arms. "You can't have it both ways, Mr. Moody. You can't starve him and expect him to regenerate fast enough."

Mr. Moody looked abashed. "I don't- I don't starve him, Doc, he just gets a little wild if he's too strong. And if he makes the fights too easy, folks start to complain, y'know?"

"Let me tell you something, Mr. Moody." Keola beckoned the man closer, raising her voice enough that he flinched. "I don't care. He is missing half his leg because you didn't want to wait for a break to heal. He is barely cognizant of his surroundings because you drugged him. He is barely strong enough to move because you think giving him a few drops of blood at a time is going to cut it. And now you expect him to regenerate a limb faster than most vampires could regenerate a finger." She jabbed her own finger into Mr. Moody's chest for emphasis. "So you are going to give him blood, as much as he can drink. And you are going to do it right damn now even if you have to cut open your own arm to get it. Am I clear?"

For a moment they stood there, head-to-head. Mr. Moody's eyes flashed with anger. Keola prayed hers didn't.

Then, abruptly, he pulled back, sighing. "All right, Doc. Guess I can't have it both ways, can I? But only until that leg heals. I need him strong enough to fight without being strong enough to fight me, you get it?"

"Oh, I get it, Mr. Moody. But for now, feed him. And if that leg looks like it's getting infected, call me."

Mr. Moody nodded. "I sure will, Doc. You been a real help with Angel." He chuckled. "You're bossy, but you help."

Keola didn't return the laugh, meeting him instead with a cold stare. "I'm coming back to check on him Tuesday," she said. "No charge, but if his leg isn't at least partially regrown, you and I are going to have words."

She let Moody walk her out. "Keep him off it, keep it elevated, and feed him. Got it? He needs to eat and rest."

Mr. Moody nodded. "I'll look after him, Doc. You have my word."

"I surely hope I do."

Clouds had overshadowed the sky by the time Keola left the Colosseum Club. She called another cab, curling up on the seat and staring out the window. Her thoughts kept straying back to the dingy concrete room where Angel lay with the stump of his leg bleeding into a bucket, to the wet mass of flesh and meat that would eventually knit itself back together into Marcus, to the dark blood splattered across Mr. Moody’s clothes and hands.

Keola had seen a lot of hard things in her career. But this was the one that made her feel the most like crying.

——————————————————————————

Taglist: @i-eat-worlds @softvampirewhump @scoundrelwithboba @rainbowsandwhumperflies @octopus-reactivated @whumperfultime @pigeonwhumps @handsinmotion @starfields08000 @fleur-a-whump @worstcasescenariolullaby @what-if-i-just-did

Masterlist

[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.

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[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.

[moonlight-eternal]

// spoilers for the final boss of dark souls 1

[A video is attached of what appears to be video game footage of Dark Souls 1. The player character, a woman with dark blonde hair tied back in a ponytail wearing the Thief set of armor, performs the Wave gesture at the camera before passing through the fog wall to enter the boss arena for the final boss of the game.

A health bar comes up: Gwyn, Lord of Cinder.

The boss himself stands in the center of the arena, a hollowed husk of who he might have been before—but a hollowed husk who, nevertheless, can fight and fight well. Gwyn charges in. Pepper's character dodge rolls out of the way of his first strike, then parries the second with a shield recognizable to players as the Grass Crest Shield, and charges in with a riposte attack from a sword recognizable as Quelaag's Furysword.

Gwyn, unsurprisingly, does not seem particularly fond of being stabbed. It doesn't take much off of his health bar, but it takes a pretty visible chunk off of it. Pepper keeps her character's shield up, circling Gwyn in a clearly practiced manner, never attacking herself—though it seems pretty clear that she could, if she wanted to.

She does not want to. She wants to parry that man to death. Which is precisely what she does. Every time Gwyn lunges in, whether it's with a barrage of slashes, a great thrust of his blade, or (on one memorable occasion) attempting to kick her shield away, Pepper either parries it and goes in for a riposte, or dodges to the side.

This works out on some occasions better than others. Her attempt at chugging some estus to heal when Gwyn is at about an eighth of his health nearly gets her killed. But she clearly knows what she's doing, and in the end, Gwyn goes down and Pepper's character doesn't.

At which point Pepper's character performs the Praise the Sun gesture, spreading both arms wide over her head, and the video ends.]

hi. this took me more tries than I thought it would but I got him in the end :) arc ng+ is hard. worth it though.

(ng+ is short for new game plus which is... basically after you beat the game - so, beating up gwyn here - you start back over from the beginning in the undead asylum, but you still have most of your stuff and sometimes characters say slightly different things. this is like... my third time fighting him on this particular save, I think)

(@has-the-gogoat-burned-yet)

So that is what he looked like when the first Undead set foot in the Kiln... or his echo, anyway, formed of ash and embers, as Gwyn himself was long since dead. No lightning, that is an interesting choice for this world's simulation of such a battle, but then the Chosen Undead never truly fight their predecessors, only a guardian the First Flame createth as embodiment.

Masterfully done, Pepper – he is, as thou didst say, quite parryable. An embarrassing defeat for one of his stature. If only centuries of transphobic abuse could be deflected with such ease...

Thy sword appeareth familiar, as well. I do believe one of my sisters doth wield one similar. I know not how faithful the game representation of Lordran may be to reality, but, were I to attempt translation of the world I know into a story... perhaps one might find a cure to Quelathi's ailment – I wish I knew such a cure – and then Quelaag might give away her sword as thanks before the two of them leave together for better lands?

In any case, my thanks for the video. It was quite enjoyable.