windcranes

[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 15

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year’s Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

Tom had a gaze that felt too open and sincere to be permitted in a place like the Hunger Games. A part of me wondered whether he was aware that all but one of us was destined to die.

—-

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 14: [AO3]

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[windcranes]

The Coast of Maine

Rating: T Characters: Booker DeWitt, Elizabeth, Rosalind & Robert Lutece (AU) Warnings: Pacific Rim Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: “There are no heroes in the vale of tears. Only those who fight and those who have died fighting.”

The Maine Shatterdome was on its last legs. With Quantum Splice downed in its last battle and kaijus hatching one-by-one from a recently discovered egg cluster, the only thing standing between thousands of lives along the Atlantic and the daily kaiju onslaught was Songbird, one of the last analogue Mark 3's left.

Also available on AO3 

---

The creeping clouds and the vast blue sky; the space beyond once held so many secrets. Robert could feel it all, stretching before him and above, dripping onto his being, digging deep into his broken armour like coagulating kaiju blood. How long had it been? Five years? Ten? How long had passed since he and his sister exchanged stargazing for ranger training? How long had Father’s telescope idled in their storeroom before the entire mansion was engulfed in flames? How long had it been since the last human harboured wonder for the unknown?

He winced when he opened his eyes. The Sun was too bright.

Pain shot up his left shoulder like lightning, locking his arm in place. He dared not to move any further. Following the pain, numbness began to spread through his fingertips, engulfing his entire left side in cold, invisible flames. This was not good. The damage done had been far more severe than anticipated. And at the same time, it felt-- Odd… he didn’t quite recall injuring himself at all. Then again, it was expected given that his–

His recollections were cut short by a piercing headache.

It was happening again. Like clockwork now, reality had begun its downward shift as his hallucinations quickly returned, fuelled by the just as rapid infection growing in his veins.

Robert watched as the blue sky rotted away to a hellish crimson red. The iron-laden scent of spilt blood swept over his mouth like a wave, smothering him, drowning him. Any happy memory, any comfort, died before it could reach him.

And there he was again. Once more. With his family when it was still whole, when his home was still a home, before the seven day War. And there he was again: pitiful, helpless. His bones filled with concrete. No matter how frightened he was, no matter how loudly the beast’s footsteps echoed through the streets, no matter how every single cell in his body was screaming at him to move - just please, move.

He could not.

Then, screams pierced the thick air and fluttering ash clouded his vision. And as cruelly as it came, the nightmare melted away, bleeding into nothing.

Just like the motionless body lying by his side.

---

It would be weeks before he started responding to the doctors.

And months before he would be able to walk.

The attack had left him more damaged than most others; his internal circuitry spluttered to remain connected, memories with nowhere to go leaked into his dreams, the silences that hung in his bedroom were plagued with an orchestra of screeching metal only he was privy to. He felt his heart festering but nothing could take the rot away. There was nothing, no poison or narcotic that could grant him the relief he so desperately needed. He didn't need to forget, he didn't need forgiveness.

All he needed was to bring Rosalind back, and surely, surely the world would begin to correct itself.

“Robert…?” a voice called out from the darkness.

“Miss DeWitt,” he found himself releasing a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. A familiar face swirled into view. “Miss DeWitt,” he echoed, more composed this time, greeting her with underlying warmth

His reply had been so unnaturally quick, it stunned the nurse that had been lingering by his side. Elizabeth took no notice of her.

“I’ve told you before,” she smiled. “Just ‘Elizabeth’ is fine.”

“Elizabeth,” he amended in the exact same tone, though somehow it still felt incorrect. Was that really her name?

---

She sighed through a weak smile. At least he’s more responsive now. Though, the nurse’s reaction hinted that this was not a common occurrence. And surely enough, a second later, the articulate and polite man she once knew would leave again, folding back into the deep walls of his damaged psyche. He hummed soft lullabies with his gaze wandering to the sterile white walls past Elizabeth’s shoulder.

She reached forward to palm the back of his cold, trembling hand, the action more self-reassurance than anything. Her chest throbbed with a heavy weight as she kept her eyes trained on his now blank stare.

This was good, she reminded herself. This was progress.

Just days ago, Robert Lutece, her mentor, had been wheeled into the Shatterdome’s medical ward wholly catatonic, unreceptive to the point of not being able to eat. Up till now, he was nourished purely through the IV. At least, this was what she assumed. Elizabeth tried to avoid looking at his arm whenever she visited, barely glancing at it out of the the corner of her eye. Not because of the intrusive needles and tubes which painted him more android than human, but because of his wounds. His wounds never stopped bleeding.

It was a disheartening sight, even more so than his dementia. It wouldn’t matter whether his bandages had been changed five minutes or several hours ago, perpetually a halo of deep red flared against his dressing like a permanent scar. To buy time, his doctors had resorted to frequent blood transfusions as they scuttled about in their labs, taking tissue samples here and centrifuging fluids there. ‘Chemicals in the kaiju’s claw’ they said. 'Extraterrestrial corrosive enzymes’ another theorised. The more time they gave them, the more their theories began to sound less and less coherent and more and more splendorous. It was as if they were coming up with these patchwork diagnoses more to reassure themselves that they understood more than they did.

Rosalind would have never approved of this.

Elizabeth bit her lip as she recalled the stoic photograph, mournfully framed with flowers and candles the day before. She forced a swallow to ease her nerves.

Rosalind would never approve of her brother being subjected to empty tests and psychological 'experiments’ whose results only proved absence instead of presence. The doctors called it “narrowing down” the possibilities. She would have called it a waste of time.

But regardless of what bogus theories they had of his poisoning, there was one fact that remained clear:

Whatever was inside him was not only eating away at his arm.  

But also his mind.

---

They were giving him less than a month now.

A month.

Throughout the time Robert had been hospitalised, Booker hadn’t known what to expect. But it sure as hell hadn’t been this. Not so soon. Not when they still had so much to fight for. Not when kaiju sightings were rapidly rising in frequency and LOCCENT calls were threatening to come in faster than jaegers were being deployed. They had long ago abandoned refreshing the war clock, there was simply no point at this stage.

Heck, the big guys almost had to consider nuclear bombs to fight the onslaught.

No. His grip tensed on his glass. It should never amount to that. Not again.

All they needed was more manpower. They needed people who could compensate Robert’s precision, his intuition. In times like these where petty numbers and calculated predictions no longer mattered and kaijus were coming in with days or hours in-between, they needed the Luteces stationed by the city coast to know that people would be safe. Their brand of 'prediction’ had always been superior. They knew and reacted to a kaiju’s attack before it even had time to land it.

Sometimes he wondered whether they were even human.

“…up till last week, five Jaeger pilots were killed-in-acti…" 

Booker poured another shot of deep amber into his glass, trying to drown out the news report in the background.

”– breaching the Atlantic –“ the static continued.

”– no coast safe –“ 

“–death toll rising to –”

Fuck. The whole world was going to Hell.

He downed his glass.

Try as they may, they’ll need a miracle if they intend to keep this up. There was only so much that brute force and half-hour takedowns could do. The bastards were starting to get bigger and quicker, and if that hadn’t made matters worse, they recently found out that the ones that mowed down Mexico a few years back had left something behind. The little colony they left in Atlantic had already begun to hatch.

Humanity had been lucky that the little shits were waking up from their hibernation-gestation-whatever-the-fuck-it-was one by one but really, how long does dumb luck last?

It wasn’t any better that the Maine Shatterdome was being denied the backup it’ll definitely need. The bigshots had used words like 'statistics’ and 'Category I’s’ and 'low probabilities’ to keep more Rangers around the Pacific. Booker understood where they were coming from, really he gets what they’re trying to say. But hell, they had an actual living nursery down there. And they didn't just have Category I’s, the most recent one had been a decent Cat II. Booker was no scientist but it really didn’t take one to notice that they were getting bigger the more time they gave them. And there’s no telling whether the little shits would be keeping up this overly-polite queue.

Songbird wouldn’t last sixty seconds if two decided to appear side-by-side.

Booker poured another glass, the entire time glaring at the shelves behind the bartender’s back. A dozen or so polaroids stared back at him.

A long time ago, before the world had decided to end a second time, they had started tacking up photographs of fallen Rangers as a sign of respect. As remembrance.

Now the pictures did nothing but rub salt into their wounds.

But it was too late to stop tradition, no matter how painful it got. Booker guessed life was like that. We all had habits that did nothing but hurt. Elizabeth would probably relate the photo-cluttered wall to his drinking 'problem’. He side-eyed the half-finished bottle by his arm. He wouldn’t deny it.

The alcohol helped; the pain didn’t burn as much this way.

Booker’s eyes then fell upon Rosalind’s photograph, the newest on the wall.

The words “one month” echoed through his foggy mind, like it did before.

One month…

One month until Robert’s photo goes up as well…

With that thought, he downed his whiskey in one searing swallow.

Goddammit. God damn it all. 

He blinked back the tears from his eyes.

Though he wasn’t sure whether all of it had been from the alcohol. 

---

He was of sound mind regardless of what the doctors assumed.

It was just the way he conveyed it that seemed wrong.

He was fine, he was fine hewasfine hewasfine.

---

Booker’s fears were confirmed. 

The most recent call had been of a Category Three. Set up was without ceremony, the neural handshake at its usual 100%, the drop was uneventful.

But by the time they were within radius of the kaiju’s estimated location, their interface began to blare a sinister bright red. From the other side of the intercom, the DeWitts could hear the feedback of warning alarms ringing from their end and a dozen feet frantically scuttling on lacquer. Booker exchanged glances with his co-pilot before the speakers crackled with the voice of their marshal. The tremor in her voice was masked but undeniable.

“We’ve confirmed additional activity from the Nest.” She allowed herself a moment before she uttered, “Another Kaiju has emerged.”

For a moment, those words were allowed to sit there, stagnating in the shallow air of their compod. The shrill whistle of steam and analogue pierced the silence between them. The DeWitts allowed the sounds to pass by them and echo between the pipes lining the walls behind them.

Before the gravity of the news sent a sharp jolt through Booker’s spine. Two kaijus.  

“What Category? Would Songbird be able to take it?” Elizabeth was first to react, her voice dropping an octave with a tone he had never heard her use, in Drift or out. Even her stance seemed to radiate confidence, lithe arms at-ready and curled into fists. Booker had to hand it to her, she was a magnificent actor. Through the Drift, he could hear her fear ringing as clearly as she heard his.

“Another Category 3, a twin,” a bespectacled woman beside their commanding officer replied.

“ETA?”

“It’s entered a current and is coming straight at you. Estimated…” The whirring of machinery and keyboards cushioned their silence. “Ten minutes.”

Ten minutes.

They knew what it meant almost immediately.

Quantum Splice had been de-commissioned, leaving the DeWitts the only Jaeger team in the Maine Shatterdome. It would take at least an hour for backup to arrive from the nearest hub. One full hour. The kaijus would take exactly the same amount of time to get to coast, given that they provide sufficient hindrance. The city could still make it if LOCCENT worked fast.

But would Songbird?

“Ten minutes you say?” Booker spoke for the first time since the announcement. “Sounds like a new take-down record.”

“It’s doable,” Elizabeth reaffirmed.

“No. You two need to pull back, it’s,” their marshal paused, considering the thousands of lives she was referring to. “It’s too big of a risk.” To save all of them. They didn’t hear her say it but her body language spoke for her.

"The bigger risk would be to withdraw without slicing off a few limbs, Commander,” Booker retorted. “One can kill hundreds a mile into coast, imagine what two could do at full girth.”

“That’s too big of a gamble, DeWitt, how can we be certain that you woul–”

“You can’t,” he cut her off. “You can’t guarantee that sort of thing.”

“All the more reason–“

“It’s a risk we have to take,” Booker was adamant.

Elizabeth gave her father a heavy look.

"We’re taking up precious time, Marshal, leave this to us,” she assured, fingers gliding over arbitrary numbers on her keypad. The screen reflected neon blues and reds on the surface of her helmet. “Please evacuate as much of the city as you can. We’ll make it out alive… I’ve calculated our chances at seventy percent.”

With finality, she then pressed the “disconnect” button, severing their communication line and plunging Songbird waist-deep into the Atlantic. The cables of the overhanging helicopters whiplashed around them from the momentum and, as if on cue, they departed, homebound for the Shatterdome.

Booker was still stunned but accepted her neural prompts regardless as, in tuned, they navigated their jaeger deeper into kaiju territory.

That doesn’t look like a seventy percent, Liz, he whispered through the Drift.

Elizabeth’s eyes were still on her screen, the bright red 0% glaring back at her.

I know.

—

The plan was to tank it out until the other Jaeger team arrived. Defensive strategy, all shields up, only retaliate when wholly necessary, avoid directly striking, don’t give too many openings, strictly long-range weapons. Et cetera et cetera.

Looking back now, and then to their empty missile clips, Booker realised that it hadn’t been one of his best strategies, but when leading them away or provoking them into turning against each other hadn’t been successful, they were left with no other choice.

“Booker! Watch out!” out of Drift, Elizabeth’s voice penetrated the thick air.

A crash.

Booker couldn’t help but shout when a blinding shot through his nervous system, receptors erupting like fireworks in his lower abdomen. A quick glance to his left revealed Elizabeth bent-over as well, blindly clawing at her own invisible wound. The first Kaiju, which he had taken the liberty of naming One-Eye for ease of reference, had speared its tail right through five feet of solid titanium, penetrating through Songbird’s middle. Its namesake eyesocket bled bioluminescent fluids and missile shrapnel onto its appendage, digging deeper and deeper into their jaeger, until its tip emerged with a mind-numbing shatter through Songbird’s spine. Its pilots nearly passed out from shock.

With them weakened, the other kaiju – this one with both eyes intact – continued its onslaught, curved claws shredding mercilessly into their armour, prying away at their exoskeleton, unhindered by the blue flame of their elbow-rockets. The thick musk of burning flesh wafted into the sea breeze, a white column in the middle of the sea.

Deep in Songbird’s skull, a dozen alarms had begun to blare with deafening intensity. Bars on the screens rose and dropped with accelerating frequency. Pressure. Defences. Pain threshold. Their statistics could have been labelled anything at all and it wouldn’t have made any difference. Songbird was failing and the DeWitts were running dangerously low on time.

With a guttal cry, One-Eye snapped its tail out of the gaping wound, whiplashing through internal circuits and shorting out what little control they had on Songbird’s legs.

Its connection with its lower half completely severed, Songbird crumpled from the weight of its torso. The whole compod tilted, and then shook with such intensity as Elizabeth and Booker were plunged through the waves, determined claws sinking them deeper and deeper into the sea.

“Well fuck.”

---

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[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 14

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year's Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

It felt like I was being tortured.

---

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 13: [tumblr] [AO3]

It was midway through the night when I was woken up for guard duty.

Tom had been the one assigned before me. Through hazy curtains of sleep, I watched as his familiar lanky silhouette slowly formed at the base of my makeshift tent. He kept his gaze to the ground the entire time, wordlessly stoic and motionless to the wind. I then realised that this was the first time our shifts were allocated back-to-back. Up to this point, it had always been Sheer or Sairen directly before or after me. I wouldn't say I was pleased with this setting but who was I to complain.

I winced.

The night hadn't been kind to me.

Hastily, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes but even then, the nightmares of piling earth and suffocation remained flickering behind my eyelids. I drew in a sharp inhale to remind myself that I was here, above ground and safe, for now. But it was no use, the images had settled deep within me, heavy as lead and unmoving, with the dying screams of the tribute boy still ringing in my ears and the weight of the tainted rocks fresh in my sinews. I bit back another gasp as forcefully as I had restrained myself from tossing and turning the night before. I shouldn't appear to be affected by this; Careers, Gamemakers, sponsors, there's just too much to lose.

I have to stay strong. 

Forcing my breath to remain steady, I reached forward and allowed the reassuring feel of cold metal to brush against my hand. My fingers flinched around the ridged handle of my axe. I tried to concentrate on other things. Things that didn't involve yesterday's deaths or further bloodshed. It was a frail and hopeless notion but I tried nonetheless. For the sake of my sanity.

The temperature had finally dropped, aided by the rain. I was still alive. A number of tributes still remained. I was still alive. The Fallen count last night had been a lonely two - one by our hands and the other, by nature's.

There is a soft, watery tap and I'm snapped back to reality. A drop of rain had fallen onto the low-hanging tarp above my head, and I could see the trembling outlines of collected rainwater from the night before. I then wondered what would've happened  if Sairen hadn't found that spade. If Facet hadn't buried him. Would he be wading in the rising water, desperately and barely keeping his head afloat? Or would the Gamemakers have been merciful enough to prolong the storm and drown him completely? 

I stopped the unsettling train of thought at that point. There was nothing I could gain.

Without a glance to Tom, I crawled out of my pitiful tent - trusty axe in hand - and took my designated place in the middle of the sleeping Careers.

---

My eyes were playing tricks on me.

Surely it had been the fatigue, along with the ominous way the hybrid trees swayed in the soundless wind. Or the unnerving way leaves fell in masses from mangled, stubby branches even though - upon closer inspection - they were still bright green, plump and very much fresh. I was dead certain that all these anomalies, paired with the primal fear bubbling deep within me, were to blame of what else I saw in the forest that night.

There was no way. There was absolutely no way...

Even now as I lay safely inside my water-cusped tent, the fear remained like poison in my bones. I tried to concentrate instead on Sai's steady footsteps - made sluggish by sleep - but to no avail. The memory was fresh yet already distorted, fragmented to lessen the absolute fear I had been feeling only moments before.

Blood.

Bright red wounds, opened flesh.

I steadied my heavy breathing against the sleeve of my jacket and closed my eyes so the cameras wouldn't catch. But then I saw the maddened red gaze staring back at me and I had to force them open again.

Rain flickered onto my tent, missing the small pool in the middle by a few inches. 

Abruptly, I tore out a handful of the spindly grass that grew beside head. The roots dripped soil onto my neck and I focused on that, as I tried to erase the haunting memory from my mind. It was nothing, it was nothing but my hyperactive imagination and overworked brain, nothing but a vision brought about by guilt. Nothing else. It was nothing else because Sairen would've seen it as well. It was nothing, nothing at all.

But the rag of cloth hanging from its mangled limb had flapped in the wind. It made a sound. It made a sound and I heard the sound because the sound had emitted from whatever material that made the plastic-like sheen of the bright number 9 gleaming on its front.

It was hours before I was able to sleep. And even the sleep was an empty one, nothing but a mass of restlessness and cold, jet black.

--- 

The next morning, I awoke to a horrible sound.

It wasn't the heavy scuttling of half a dozen boots dangerously close to my ear. Nor was it the way Sheer had unknowingly – or knowingly, I could never be sure with the Career pack – kicked me in the side. Nor could it have been the ominously red sunlight peaking along the far-away horizon or the distorted tree branches fragmenting it like blood.

It had been a scream, a scream which still resounded through empty trees, as if maliciously intent on melding into the artificial forest. My vision fogged and focused and fogged again, and then I felt the heavy weight of the ground slam against side. I was struggling to sit up but my my entire right side had begun to pulsate with a numbing and excruciating ache. I gritted my teeth and pinched the muscle along my shoulder, only to find my wound from Cornucopia reopened and dripping wet with lymph. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. Another shrill scream erupted from the underbrush, brought forth by a sudden gust of particle-rich wind. All around me, chaos had unfolded. Tall, faraway trees swayed, everyone was scrambling to their feet. Something was coming. I turned towards the source of the scream. And found a knee-high wave of yellowing smoke approaching like a flood.

I reacted too late.

At first, I felt nothing, albeit submerged in vision-obstructing fog. And then I felt the acrid smoke boring holes into my eyes and chemicals digging into my lungs. My windpipe flared, my throat tightened and my gaping mouth was further assaulted by the burning smoke.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. And whenever I tried to scramble to my feet, my head pounded like someone was driving nails into my temples. Blindly, and with the steady bark of a nearby tree, I pulled myself to my knees. Screams, everyone was screaming around me and I envied them because I could barely even breathe. I try to keep my head up, estimating that my neck was at least above the suffocating smoke. I choke and wheeze and barely a full inhale gets through but it’s enough, it’s enough for now. I tried to open my eyes again despite the gritty sting, and I could see the branches above me glimmering, as if full of silver supplies.

Then the ground buckled and a cannon goes off to greet the newly dead. I rub at my prickling face feverishly, desperately trying to wipe away the residue from the fumes. But I only succeeded in agitating it further because my jaw and cheek had begun to flare. I looked down to my fog-drenched hand and saw a blurring mess of blood and dirt.

And then black.

No. 

“Run!!” Facet bellowed from somewhere above and beyond me. The last time I heard him scream like that had been on the first day, right before he dropped me from the tree. “Sheer! I SAID RUN!” 

“We can’t! Kye isn’t waking up!!” I blindly turned to the source of the desperate voice, cursing my eyes the entire time. I shouldn’t have looked down while the fog was thick, I shouldn't have.

From somewhere close, I could hear Sheer’s choked grunts and the characteristic rustling of a jacket and grass. In my mind’s eye, I imagined her shaking him awake, but to no avail.

I tried to force myself to my feet but found myself back on the ground, plunged beneath the smoke. Wind was knocked out of my already airless lungs and from behind my aching eyelids, stars were exploding, the black world was spinning, and the ground underneath me had begun to tilt.

Something was wrong with my balance.

“Leave him!” Facet’s yell was practically a roar, but it was immediately dwarfed by another cannon. My heart skipped a beat. They’ll leave me if I don't get up, I realised. They’ll leave me to die like how they’re doing to Kye and how they did to Loy. I clambered to my knees and choked in an inhale but gravity was still shifting and turning, like how my gut was doing right now.

"Leave him!" Facet repeated with rising urgency.

“He is an asset,” was Marka’s resolute command, hauntingly calm amidst the chaos, like cold iron. I hear her hiss in pain. The smoke must be eating at her as well. “Check if he’s breathing. If he is, bring him.”

Asset… I shuddered at the term. Not just a piece in the games now, but we’re being sorted between asset and liability.

“Go get Chris,” Marka’s voice spoke up again but she was further away now, muffled by the rustling of grass and leaves and… bells? 

I feel a hand on my arm, firm and determined. For a moment, I think it’s Facet and attempt to jerk free but then I hear him from a distance away, angry, pained grunts like a suffering bear. This causes me to falter and the grip I had on the… now I notice, slim wrist begins to loosen. I fall into a coughing fit and wince at the sharp needle-like aches in my tearducts. And then I realised that I had no tears. My eyes were dry and sandy and I had no tears to flush the toxic out.

What was in this smoke?

“We have to go. They’ll leave you.” I didn’t need him to speak, I knew who it was. I knew who was helping me.

And I hated him for it.

“No they won’t,” I found my hoarse voice muttering. “I’m an asset.” 

A pause. A cannon.

Had that been too cocky? I didn’t know and I didn’t care, all I wanted was to get out of this fog, but what was wrong with me, why was my balance so thrown off.

“What am I then?”

Suddenly the hand that gripped so tightly to my wrist began to dig into my flesh, piercing into my skin like a thin blade of ice. I screamed but the smoke was suffocating me again and from a distance away, I could hear the chorus of bells rising up to a rapidly cascading and fluctuating crescendo. I didn't understand, nothing was coherent and I was suddenly falling, falling helplessly into a black abyss of heat and ice and knives and...  

Fire.

And then, fire…

---

It felt like I was being tortured. As if someone had grabbed a hold of my head and was holding me underwater and no matter how much I struggled to break free, the vice-like grip never faltered. And just as I was about to succumb to whatever afterlife there was and just as I was about to inhale that lungful of water that would secure my fate and bring me to Luke, my head was then pulled above sea-level and that resolute, dying breath became the inhale that would keep me alive. And then I'm plunged into deep waters once more.

This time there is no comforting hand, no tender words whispered by overseeing beings of light. There is nothing but pain, raw and white and bloody, and the overhanging curtain of nausea that had no intention of leaving. 

I spent the entirety of the long, excruciating moment phasing between living and dying, with nothing to reassure me but the haunting sound of my own throbbing heart. And the deep, spiralling darkness.

---

When I resurface, my face is pressed against warm grass and my vision nothing but black. Ethereal bells still tolled within my ears but the ringing was starting to subside. But fading disembodied sounds was not strong enough of a prospect to reassure me of the horrifying realisation that I couldn't move my body. Even though I could feel the heat of a campfire behind me and the soft earth beneath my fingertips, I had been rendered motionless. Was I dead? Had I died and not realised it yet and I was still stuck in my body? That wasn't possible, my heart was still beating. But what if I was only imagining my heart beating? And what of my eyes, why couldn't I see? I winced as a whirlwind of sounds suddenly assaulted me all at once, threatening to drown me like the deep black sea I had barely escaped from.

“I can’t believe that happened," said a voice.

It echoed and sounded so far away, resonating into my very being.

“Sairen, of all times to-... and of all people t...”

The voice tapered off to a soft gurgle as the angry buzzing of a million tracker jackers began to fill my head. A heavy wave of unease washed over me as I imagined them, stingers ready, poised to embed venom-tipped needles into my skull. I would scream if I could but I couldn't, caged by my own unresponsive body.

The conversation continued regardless of the drone of the swarm. I strained to listen in hopes that changing my focus would chase the insects away.

It didn't. 

“...ook, we saw ... moss from th---.” 

“--ou could test- ...f all people, him?”

Suddenly, a loud crunching overwhelmed the buzzing, the echoing, the entire exchange. It sounded like bones being broken between the teeth of wild dogs or bloodied mouths dragging along splintering tree bark, and all of these mental images began to flood my mind's eye like a perverse display of everything grotesque and unnatural that ever was in the world and I was locked here, trapped and maddening, because I had as much control of these visions as I did of my body. But beneath all this, the soft gurgling and murmurings of whatever conversation there was continued, unhindered by the obscuring veils of pure sound and agony I was being subjected to.

"... I- ... he-..." 

I could no longer make out the words they were saying, the voices had descended many octaves lower, growing more and more distorted as they did. 

There was more rustling, more crunching, much louder now. The throbbing of my head had increased in speed and intensity, sending a wave of pain pulsating down my spine with each beat, the whole while accompanied by the inhumane sounds echoing from all corners.

This was too much to bear. Screams had joined the hellish chorus, dying screams, screams from the bloodbath. Nyssa's screams, Liam's screams. I was being suffocated, slowly and gradually; I couldn't even feel my chest or heartbeat any more and all these sounds--

But just as I was about to give in to the crescendo of screams, it all shattered.

The bells, the crunching, everything... 

As if the torture had been made of nothing but glass.

And the glass had contained nothing but more darkness.

---

Chapter 15: (coming soon!)

Please 'like' it if you liked it and/or send a comment my way. 

[windcranes]

Flower and the Bee

"You are deluding yourself," laughed the flower to the bee. To which the bee gave a laugh of his own. Perplexed, the flower pressed a tiny nudge. "My only delusion," Bee mused. "Was pretending it was painless being alone."

For awhile they remained wordless, the flower and the bee, Until the blossom finally found her words. "I have no qualms," she admitted lifting her head so she can see. "I too, am well aware, of how much loneliness hurts."

"Aren't we all lonely things," whispered bee to the flower. "Was it by Fate that we were destined to meet?" "Alas, my dear friend!" was her sudden loud cry. "I realise cannot journey for I have no feet."

"And so you have none," murmured bee to flower. Though he knew already this problem she'd face. And yet he only smiled and landed himself. "I suppose then, my friend, we'll never leave this place."

"But you have wings, you can escape!" retorted flower to the bee. "Yes I know, fret not, my journey does not end. "Because if it's anything I learned today, Is that loneliness is cured quickly when you have a friend."

"You would ground your wings to heal a brittle stem?" Whispered the tear-stricken flower to the bee. He replied, "Not brittle, not weak, not even second best, "Nothing but the most beautiful, the world will never see."

[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 13

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year's Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

Everything was silent.

---

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 12: [tumblr] [AO3]

Snow fell from the grey-tinged sky, drifting and twirling in the silent dawn breeze.

My boots sunk deeper into the white ground with each clumsy step. My entire body jerked forwards, struggling to keep itself balanced as I dodged the neverending stream of fragile stems in dying flowerfields. The drooping heads of once beautiful poppies occupied the seemingly endless space around me, closely accompanied by lung-stinging gusts of ice and wind. The sun peaked along the fragmented horizon, only to be swallowed by the looming clouds overhead. Everything was dead and cold and bore no sign of life, with only the swaying weed and fluttering snow offering what little reassurance they could. It was cold.

Everything was silent.

Then, there is the abrupt cry of a raven in mourning, which resounds crisp and clear through the field as if it was encased in glass. A pause follows, as Time waits for the creature to catch its breath and I find my own intruding gasps filling my ears, and then my thoughts, my muscles tensing as if ready to take flight.

Surely enough, the raven cries again and I turn towards the source of the sound, a jog rapidly blooming in my step. I run before thinking, religiously drawn towards it by some cosmic pull.

'I have to get there,' the thought does not invade my mind, but instead poisons my limbs, grabbing hold of my marrow and urging me like an impatient puppeteer. I passively comply. Frozen flowers shatter beneath my footsteps like skin-thin glass and the ice-laced soil is hard and unforgiving to my heels, and yet I continue to run, just as the raven continues to call to the wind without a single reply. If I hadn't been there, it would have been all alone. Alone in the white-tinged-black expanse of death and ice, the only bit of warm life as far as the eye can see.

I run and run and run - for miles or more, I've lost track - until I spot an irregularity in the field: a soft imprint of dark shadow in the thicket of flower corpses. I hasten my jog into a sprint but the scenery doesn't shift, as if I was simply flailing madly in thin air. It all felt surreal, as if time and space had lost meaning here, and - as my actions escalate in desperation - I find myself growing more and more unnerved by the constant raven cry.

Finally, my body comes close enough to the intruding object. Most of it was still shrouded in tall poppy stems but I just managed to make out a small blur of white from where I was... A few steps closer revealed it to be the blurred and bruised outline of... a hand.

I swallowed audibly, but even that began to feel muffled, unreal.

I freeze in mid-step and the heel of my boot skids a trench across the cold earth. I continue to stare at the white hand in the middle of the clearing, unable to turn away. And as much as I willed it to disappear, it remained where it was, a stark and grotesque stain upon the equally unnerving ground. The tops of many dead flowers frayed my vision and I was left guessing at what was on the other end of that hand. Each passing 'what-if' grew more unsettling and mangled than the one before.

Forcing back a windless shudder from my spine, I gathered enough gall to approach, urged onwards by the frantic raven cry. The mists of breath that drift onto my chest were shaky now, shuddering from the cold as well as nerves. And with each step that brought me close, like a puzzle coming together, more and more of the body was revealed to me.

The hand was - thankfully - still connected to an arm, which was sprawled beneath a black jacketed back. The colour and stitching was familiar to me but I forced myself to inspect other things, other things that would hopefully soften the impact once I discover who the body was. And from the way I continued to observe, it was obvious who I suspected it to be.

I saw bare, mud-crusted feet haphazardly strewn over the hard ground, which bore deep trenches from retaliation, or desperation, or torture. I saw frayed hair, reddened at the tips, splayed across like the wings of a wounded bird.

I swallowed before I stepped around the corpse.

Despite the black, swollen fingers; the mangled torso; and with frozen blood painting dark pools into the soil, I continued my slow deathlike stride, inch by inch... and found myself face-to-face with Nyssa's blank, teary gaze.

The bold blast of a cannon ruptures the scene and crudely drags me out of my nightmares.

Flickering sunlight shifted into focus, bringing along with it the light scent of grass and pine. To call me disoriented was an understatement. Everything was too bright, too clear, too much of a contrast to the fog and perpetual white of the empty world I just escaped from. And as piercingly as the warmth burns my face, the harsh inhales of sulphur-laced reality quickly begin to erode the ghosts lingering from my dreams. But I could still feel my fingertips trembling from the cold and I could still see her unforgiving glare. It had been so vivid, so haunting, so unforgettable to the point that it couldn't be anything but an ominous foreshadowing of what was to come.

---

We spotted him from ten metres away.

It was a sweltering afternoon, with the sun at its apex over the vast arena. We had started our trek at high morning and had long passed the unmarked but obvious border that separated the pine from the unnatural hybrid trees. And despite the thick, fleshy branches which gave the impression of shade from the scorching rays, the temperature continued to rise unhindered.

It was frightening, unnatural, almost as if heat was coming from the ground itself. As if any moment, the earth under our feet would give way to veins and rivers of crimson lava. And the deeper we went into this artificial forest, the closer we were getting to the 'heart' of it all. And with temperatures so unbearable at the edge of the plane, the entity in the core had to be nothing but pure liquid flame. I berated myself for being so pessimistic, but my fears had foundation.

There was no thinking what the Gamemakers had planned for us. From years of watching the Games, I've come to learn that they possessed no qualms, no sense of guilt, and never held back. And knowing that, we should be more continue more cautiously, but something told us - well, told Marka at least - that we should proceed into the deadly forest despite the rising difficulty that came with each step.

Each breath, even each dry, bruising swallow came out strained, and it took us immense amounts of self-control not to gulp away what scarce amount of water we had left.

We had no idea when we would come across another source of clean water, or whether we would find one at all. We didn't know how far effects of the eruptions extended to. Were there gigantic Rifts stretched across other parts of the arena? If so how many? Was all the water poisoned by now? Did the scent of Death permeate from the ground in other areas as severely as it did in the pine forests? Was being here, slightly away from the stench, but somehow closer to Death, any better than being back there? What should we do now? Where were we even going?

The fourth day was filled with bubbling uncertainty, ready to boil over at any second.

And the burning hunger didn't make it any easier.

We were on our last ration of supplies and as much as Marka wanted to linger around the clearing where Loy was strung up, we had to prioritise our own survival before we could think of hunting anyone down.

Hours had passed since we packed up camp and began our scavenging trek and those hours were more than enough to sow doubt in Sheer and Facet, and anxiety in Marka.  

She wasn't the only one growing uneasy; near-delirious with heatstroke, I had begun imagine scenes of the earth underneath us splitting open and swallowing us whole, just as unforgivingly as it did to Loy. And from the looks of their faces, it was obvious that the rest had similar fears. We were all ready to navigate out of this wretched area, but each of us was just waiting for the other to say something, anything.

I mentally urged someone to step forward, and later take the blame when Marka regains her senses - preferably Tom. He seemed to be getting away with a lot, most probably because he had been unofficially voted most likely sponsor favourite. As much as we hated to admit, the bandages and burn medicine had been extremely helpful these past few days.

But patience was wearing thin and Kye's hand had begun to jitter. It didn't take much longer for someone to speak up and surprisingly it had been Facet who was the first to mutter a hasty "let's go", which was closely followed by a bitter "there's nothing here", to which everyone quickly agreed to, even Marka though unwillingly.

And just as we were about to pull out of the suffocating forest, he appeared from the corner of my eye.

He was small, wide-eyed and had a mop of hair with varying shades of singed brown. It was clear from the way he stumbled that he had spent the past few days without food, maybe even from the very first. The heat was taking a toll on him as well; from the way he looked, he must've been in the hybrid forest much longer than we have. His sunken eyes were dark and distant and his entire body was flushed red from burns or sunlight or both. And like a dog dying of thirst, his mouth hung open, agape with trembling gasps wheezing in and out of his lungs.

And for that horrifying split-second, he had just stared right at us, uncertain of how to react. His limbs tensed and froze despite his condition and I swore I could see the breath catching in his throat. 

And then there it was. The terrifying moment when a tribute realises that their untimely and brutal fate is near. I saw it snap like a dry twig engulfed in flames. Fear, pure and raw and strong, blooming across his features like blood on water. 

"Marka!" Sheer screeched alarmingly.

But she needn't scream because Marka's cold grey eyes were already upon him, focusing, aiming, like a hawk ready to kill.

I have never seen her smile so wide before.

---

Rain came down in unforgiving torrents that night, and slammed against the back of my neck like hardened icy shards. Amidst the enveloping hush of the shower against the leaves and the streams against rock, I could hear the hasty rustling of waterskins being fished out of sacks and Kye's thankful declarations of "It's safe to drink! It's safe to drink!". I remained where I was, unmoving, metres away from the edge of camp, the small of my back pressed flush against rough wood and tightly grasping the hilt of my axe. I know it's wrong of me to distance myself from the Career pack, especially now that they were in need of help - from what I could hear, Tom was adding wet wood into the campfire - but I just needed some time alone. 

No, please stop.

STOP. I'M BEGGING YOU TO STOP.

I can't-- breathe.

He dug holes in the ground. That was how he survived this whole time with only one rickety shovel scavenged from Cornucopia. By hiding underneath soil. I'm suspecting there were human-sized tunnels underground as well but probably not built by him; you'd remember where you dug a tunnel. Something important like that, something you spent hours and days working on, wouldn't just slip your mind. Or did the fear of dying shock his sense of direction so much, that hole he had chose to jump into was nothing more than a waterless well - deep and with no way out. A literal dead end.

Facet, look what I found...

Huge stones. From the white, rocky expanse I had spotted from the tribute circle on the first day. To see them there meant that we were close to another borderline, another dangerous section of the arena. The barest and driest area, with no sign of life and with heat waves rising from the ashen ground like steam from hot water; or like invisible fire over the raging infernos we had witnessed only days earlier. I had wondered what sort of stone the white rocks were but I never would've wanted to find out like this.

Chris, go help Facet.

Marka was still the leader, and she maintained that title despite the questionable choices she had made. With the addition of the poor shuddering boy in the deep, narrow hole, she was finally entitled to the sadistic triumph she once possessed. The triumph of having one less competitor in the game and being one step closer to becoming Victor.

The rocks were heavier than they appeared. A tribute from District Two would've been able to talk about densities and mass against volume and complex language like that but the only thing I could think of was how to make his death as quick and forgiving as possible. And to my disgust, I felt myself clamouring for the largest, sharpest and deadliest-looking rock, practically snatching it away from Facet's outstretched hand, to which I was rewarded with an impressed scoff and an approving pat on the shoulder. 

The sound of the boy's cracking skull would haunt the rest of my nightmares.

It was dull and yet there was a sharp and brisk crunch that masked over the bruised thud. I was too far up and the shadows cast by the burning sunlight were too dark to see the blood but I could see it clearly in my mind, pooling out of an irregular-shaped void at the side of his head, streaming down the entire column of his neck, and drenching his thick black jacket. And then slowly staining the whites of his eyes a deep and smeared red.

And as if to taunt him, Facet threw another rock.

No, please stop. 

His body had been built stronger than we expected. Despite the blow to the head he was still alive, though barely. In most cases it would've been a blessing, to be able to survive a wound like that would turn tides for him if he was one of the final two. But he wasn't in the final two right now, he was helpless and dying and faced with an entire Career pack. I remembered the nerves of my hand tensing and my teeth tentatively biting down onto my lip. 'You stupid boy,' I had thought. 'We would've stopped if you hadn't said anything. 

You would've been spared.'

STOP. I'M BEGGING YOU TO STOP.

But they didn't stop. They didn't stop until every single jagged and heavy rock within a radius had been thrown into the bloodied depths of the well. They didn't stop until he was beaten within an inch of his life and wailing for mercy. We didn't stop until we were sure that he was no more than ten minutes away from dying.

The shadows swallowed the stones before they made contact but the harsh and skin-piercing thuds reassured Facet and the rest that their efforts were fruitful. Marka had commanded everyone to participate in this mad, blind stoning - eager to finish him off as quickly as possible - and she would've had us torturing him into the night if it hadn't been for Sairen coming across the boy's well-hidden shovel.

I am still uncertain whether to be grateful that it was Facet who had snatched it from her hand.

I can't-- breathe. 

He was buried alive. Until his face was covered, until his screams were no longer coherent and until his lungs were slowly being filled with loose earth. And even then, we continued to pile the dirt, higher and higher until there was no voice, no trembling soil. And even then Facet continued to shovel fervently - even though the rest had already long stopped - burning up the euphoria of having brought another weaker foe down. I had my head hung low at this point, trying to occupy my thoughts with the stinging of my nails and the sight of jet black dirt wedged underneath them. As if doing so would erase whatever sin I committed with my burning guilt. As if doing so would make what came next any easier.

And yet I trembled when I heard it, echoing from its unseen fortress, the most painful, shattering sound ever to permeate the Games.

The cannon.

---

Chapter 14: [tumblr] [AO3]

Please 'like' it if you liked it and/or send a comment my way.

[windcranes]

Star Stuff [drabble]

Title: Star Stuff Characters: 12thDoctor!Tom and (mentions of) Companion!Chris Summary: Twelfth Doctor Tom re-emerges from Chameleon Arch.

--- 

"It's just an old, broken watch," Tom shrugged with a smile, but his left hand was thumbing the circular motifs almost nostalgically.

"Couldn't get it fixed?" Luke offered as he sipped his own coffee.

Tom pondered on the question as if it weighed tonnes.

"Come to think of it, I never tried..." he murmured in a faraway voice.

"Tom, I've been meaning to ask you about that pocketwatch..."

That was the sentence Luke greeted him with his morning coffee one day. He could remember the bold burst of the rickety heater and the warm roasty air, punctuated with the morning cafe buzz. Little florets of steam bloomed from the rim of his hot cup and the black surface rippled as he stirred in his sugar. At first, he hadn't thought of the question, instead occupying himself with the flimsy sachet of creamer, but his assistant's lingering gaze urged him to glance at aforementioned watch.

"It's just an old, broken watch," Tom shrugged with a smile, but his left hand was thumbing the circular motifs almost nostalgically.

"Couldn't get it fixed?" Luke offered as he sipped his own coffee.

Tom pondered on the question as if it weighed tonnes.

"Come to think of it, I never tried..." he murmured in a faraway voice.

"Let me see it--" Luke reached forward but his mirth wavers at Tom's sudden jerk of his hand, as if he had burned him. "Is the face cracked or something? Because it's alright, I won't cut myself."

"I've... never seen its face," Tom whispered in realisation.

"Then how do you know it's broken?" asked Luke apprehensively. "Or did you mean that the latch is broken? That's easily fixed you know."

But Tom didn't catch the last sentence because he had tentatively pressed down on the top button and the pocketwatch had clicked open with surprising, almost defying ease.

For a second, everything was still, like the stagnant waters of an ice cold pond.

Then the frost died and the pond was not a pond, but an ocean. 

And that's when he felt the weight on his shoulders. The spin of the Earth. The unbearable blow that sends him miles behind with his body still grounded. The desperate sensation of detachment. The determined gravitational pull of a rock holding onto fifty billion souls. Unimaginable numbers of galaxies and stars and planets and parallels. Memories. Tears. Laughter. Blood. Fire. Love. Pain. Day. Night. Life. The song of trillions of thoughts and dreams and futures all budding from each living being.

And in the epicentre of that mass of life.... Loneliness.

Stinging, bitter loneliness.

"Tom," Luke calls but he can no longer hear.

"Tom..." he tries again but to no avail. He doesn't know how to respond to that false identity anymore.

"Tom, are you alright? You're crying, you've got tears on your face." He doesn't realise that 'Tom' is lost, and that the vessel he sees in front of him has an extra heart and a different persona resonating from deep within. Not yet.

In his mind's eye, he sees tabloids, interviews, hours before the camera. He sees pictures of himself on centre-spreads of magazines and newspapers. He sees seas of people with cardboard signs of 'Tom' written all over them. He sees his hand repeating the same signature over and over and over again to the point it resembles a toddler's brush-stroke.  

This wasn't supposed to happen, he's attracted too much attention in this timeline. He's a celebrity for God's sake. He's had people know his name before but this is different. Much different. And much more dangerous.

And what of Chris? Why didn't he open the watch like he told him t--

Oh. He realises as he remembers. Chris isn't here.

He hadn't been 'here' for awhile.

And it's been ages since he last spoke to the real him.

Ages since the TARDIS crashed. Ages since the piercing bite of Chameleon Arch. Ages since everything.

But that's all about to change.

Because the Doctor is back.

And now there's nothing that can stop him.

---

(tbc?) 

[windcranes]

Sugar Pills - Chapter 3

Title: Sugar Pills Characters: Chris and Pseudo!Tom Summary: Chris awakens from cryogenic sleep after a cure to his otherwise terminal illness is found. It is the year 2192 and much has changed. To help assimilate into present-day society, the hospital commissions him an AI robot in the guise of his old companion, Tom. But blood runs thicker than ion fluid and 'companion' isn't a strong enough word for a person like Tom. 

---

Also found on AO3. 

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 2: [tumblr] [AO3]

Do you believe in angels?

That was the question he was faced with one day during counselling. The rain outside fell like a shimmering hush and blue sunlight poured into the dimly lit room. He had insisted on keeping the blaring fluorescents turned off this time; he never liked the way how white and painful and stark and white everything in the hospital was. His counsellor had kindly obliged. After all, who would refuse a dying man's request? No matter how menial it was.

"Does it matter?" he had answered in a similarly-toned shrug. "I'll die anyway... whether I do or not. What difference does it make?"

A tentative click resounded through the shadows and there was the dull scratch of a ballpoint against a clipboard. From the harsh taps it made at the beginning of each line, there was about one or two sheets of paper attached. Why so little? Had he been convinced that there wouldn't be much to note down? Or had he thought that there was no point?

"Mr Hemsworth--"

"Chris," he didn't approve of honorifics.

"Chris," his counsellor amended. A pause was allowed for chaste smiles to be exchanged; Chris felt himself doing so more out of obligation than anything. "What makes you happy?"

Well, that was a very vague question.

"Erm..." his voice felt like an incoherent vibration at his throat, foreign and far too loud. There was a high degree of self-consciousness which had asserted itself in the room, latching on to the way he crossed his ankles and toyed with his thumbs. The counsellor's - 'Dr Lewis', according to his well-polished plaque - gaze seemed to have picked this up because there was the sound of his scratchy pen again. Chris winced. The man had PhD's and Master's and papers across his wall, why in God's name was he using such a sucky pen?

"You mean that as in... what way?" asked Chris uncertainly. "'Warm walks on the beaches, chocolates and roses', that sort of stuff?" He allowed himself a bit of light-heartedness. Dr Lewis chuckled.  

"Interpret it however you like," he offered an equally vague answer.

India's laugh. That was the first thing that came into his mind. The corner of his lip perked upwards at the thought; more immediately followed. Elsa's voice. Tom's smile. A round of drinks with Liam and Luke. Summer barbecues by the poolside.

"My family," Chris answered finally.

Something was noted down on the clipboard.

"How have you been recently, Chris?" Dr Lewis asked. "The pain any better?"

It felt as if a gust of wind had pushed a heavy cloud closer because the weighty shower intensified to a full-blown storm, torrents of rain now splashing against the windowpane. A quick glance outside revealed a palm tree's head shakily pointing west.

"A lot better after morphine, yes," he murmured absentmindedly before turning back. "I've been feeling sicker though. I get dizzy whenever I move too much."

"That's a normal side-effect of your medication," his counsellor replied and Chris bit back an instinctive 'I know' so not to rub him the wrong way.

Wordlessness passed between them, with nothing else but the rain and Dr Lewis' scratchy pen. 

"How long do I have to be here?" he found himself restlessly blurting out.

"About an hour." It sounded and felt nonchalant, the way he said it, with his eyes cast downwards and pen still moving across the board.

"How many times do we have to do this?"

"Once a week," Dr Lewis answered calmly. "Are you uncomfortable with our meetings, Chris?"

"I'm not so much uncomfortable as just not knowing the point of it, Dr Lewis."

"'The point'?" he echoed.

"Yeah," Chris nodded. "Don't people who are dying usually get... time away from the hospital? You know, to spend time with their families... things like that. Isn't counselling something more used in rehabilitation?"

"Ah." Dr Lewis leant back on his headrest as if just coming to a grand realisation. "So they have not told you anything yet," he murmured under his breath.

Chris kept silent and allowed the doctor to gather his thoughts. 

"You're not exactly 'dying', and this isn't really counselling."

Now things weren't making any sense. 

"You see, we're wondering if you would be interested in a new programme of ours, Chris," he continued. "It's not widely-available yet... or known to the public, but we're opening it to a few of those in need of it."

"If it's any experimental medication, I thought my doctor said there was none as of yet."

"It's not medication, it's more of... like I said, 'a programme' more than anything."

He took a moment to readjust his glasses and store away the scratchy pen.

"Now I'm sure you've heard of something called 'cryogenic sleep'..."

---

He dreams of ice cold waves and blood red berries. Of brown lines being etched into damp, crystalline sand. His nights are plagued by obscurity, his mornings by longing. And each morning by the time the Sun peaks upon mirror-like horizons, the vague, swirling seas of his mind give way to fragmented memories of Elsa and Indie.

Of Tom and his friends.

Of the fateful day he was told he could live, only to leave everyone else behind. Of countless nights spent arguing with himself, weighing out his choices, deciding that it wouldn't be worth it and then biting back waves of unbearable pain. Of the tender weight of India squirming in his arms and reaching out to grab at her daddy. Of realisation that he wouldn't see her grow up. Of Elsa reassuring him that sleeping wouldn't mean dying early, it would mean waking up to a cure. Of him apologising for being such a horrible, useless father. Of nights spent awake and unmoving. Of the pauses that lasted lifetimes when he broke the news to his parents.

He finds himself torn by the time he wakes.

And grows all the more torn by the familiar face in the room.

"Good morning," it greets.

"Morning," he mutters a reply and faces his back towards it, pulling his blanket all the way to his ear.

It hurts to look at him. It hurts too much to look at him and then be reminded that it wasn't really him. That Tom Hiddleston died decades ago and what stands before him was just a very expensive replica, a glorified training wheel that 'contained' characteristics of him in the form of ones and zeroes. A robot that couldn't feel.

Useless.

---

It doesn't rain here.

There was no need for it. There were no plants, no need for nourishment, no need for a ground made of soil. The hospital wasn't made of wards and surgical theatres, it was a self-sustaining fortress, filtering through only necessary aspects of the outside world for optimum healing. It was an incredibly clean and sterile belief. There were no empathetic notions that little things like fireflies and trees and flowers had any effect on the physical healing process. Those were just petty things painted on walls of the psychiatric wing. 

But that didn't mean that they completely disregarded the need for mental healing; that's what the androids were for.

Chris finds himself peering past ajar doors and glancing at other patients during his walks through the corridors on his floor. Just like him, there was the same distrusting look in their eyes when they faced their robot companion. The glare in response to a smile, the slight retreat when offered their meal. He only ever caught three other glimpses but those were more than enough to unnerve him.

He couldn't help but feel like a mental patient.

And that was the notion that spurred him to do what he did next.

"I want to be discharged from the hospital," he says firmly during his next check-up.

"I'm sorry?" Dr Lewis - the doctoring gene had transcended a number of generations apparently - responds. Chris doesn't repeat his request, he's sure he heard it the first time.

"With all due respect, Mr Hemsworth, you're not quite ready yet," he says after a pause.

"I don't have to jump straight into the city, isn't there somewhere at the outskirts where I can live?" Chris reasons. "Somewhere that's not the hospital, I mean. It doesn't even have to be too far away in case you still need to monitor me."

His doctor considers this for awhile.    

"I'll see what I can do."

Chris manages a smile. "Thank you."

It takes three whole days but a compromise was reached. There was a condominium-esque building a five-minute transit away from the hospital. Its previous function was a temporary living quarters for new doctors and surgeons who have yet to secure permanent accommodation  or for those involved in transfers for special cases. Now, most of the floors cater more to close friends and families of in-patients, though there are still a few hospital staff living on the higher floors. Chris was arranged to live in one of the larger apartments for the time being.

Unfortunately, it was to live with him as well.

---

They were on the way back from the wrap party, after two incredible years of working on Thor.

The journey back to the hotel was a blur, with nothing tangible but the stripes of neon colours from the signs they passed by. Chris had the window rolled down because it was "too stuffy", or something that rhymed with "too stuffy"; Tom wasn't too sure, his alcohol-laden drawl began to sound more and more like a different language with each moment that ticked by. And despite having Greek, French and a lick of Italian tucked under his belt, he could make neither heads or tails of his friend.

Not that he minded, he actually found it endearing.

The smile playing on his lips never left, not even when he volunteered himself as a human walking-stick for Chris to lean on. The struggle up the front-stairs, across concierge, and up to the well-polished elevator doors was challenging, but never a burden. Occasionally, Chris would breathe mumbles of the snow and 'how bright autumn leaves were' into his ear. Tom only laughed and nodded accordingly as his friend rambled on.

But there was one particular thing he had said that would stick with him for the rest of his life. Something that would transcend the years and whose impact would never waver, not even when translated into code only a machine could read.

"Tom," Chris murmured, his drunken drawl dropping an octave. "Tom. Tom," he insisted. 

"Yes, yes, what is it?"

"You're." An ungraceful hiccough interrupted him in mid-confession. He continued regardless.

"You're the only one who understands, mate."

--- 

[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 12

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year's Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

And then, caught as helplessly as Loy had been trapped in the Rift, I allowed myself to wonder:

Did I really have a chance at surviving the Games?

---

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 11: [tumblr] [AO3]

I could hear my own heartbeat.

It throbbed and pulsed beneath my flesh like a wild bird caught in flight. My fingers tense over where my neck connects with my shoulder, unnerved by how prominent it was, and surprised that the others couldn't taste the rising apprehension in each shuddering thump. I occupied my spinning head with these redundant thoughts, a feeble attempt to distract myself from the horrors that lay ahead.

It was midday by now. We trekked through the underbrush with tentative steps, as if the slightest displacement of fallen leaves would alert our prey.

Our prey.

We weren't referring to the meat we'd have to roast for lunch. This time, the word 'prey' brought along with it a more inhumane connotation. I didn't like the sound of it. I didn't like how easily it had slipped into my mind. I didn't like how the Careers so nonchalantly threw it about whilst Marka was hinting at the 'ingenious plan' she would reveal during noon.

They had returned to the campsite near dawn. Everyone else was asleep and I had been appointed as lookout for the three-hour interval, right after Tom. Startled by their stealthy approach, I recalled my hand instinctively taking hold of the hilt of my axe; I remembered the dead weight that clung onto the blade as I lifted it to defend myself. And I remembered the split second of doubt that had settled in my gut even before I had raised it all the way.

A split second large enough for retaliation. I could've been dead the next moment if it had been an enemy.

Upon seeing it was them, I lowered my weapon but the weight - the singular thought - remained. The stark droplet of blood upon blinding white snow. The taunting whisper at the back of my head. The reminder that killing was not a reflex for me. That despite whatever menial strength and accuracy I had shown during training, it would take immense effort for me to wound someone, foe or not.

And that made me weak.

And from years of watching the Games,

I knew what the Careers did to their weak. 

---

 "Marka..." I could hear Kye's throat constricting and the unease radiating from his murmur. "What is that?"

He pointed at it with the far end of his makeshift spear, the tapered tip trembling from the shudders running along his wrist. Whether they were caused by his sickness or from pure fear, I wasn't sure. But I couldn't blame him, no one could.

If the smell hadn't been warning enough, the sight of it would have driven away any unsuspecting passerby.

Suspended at least seven feet from the ground and swaying ominously from the highest pine tree, bright red, festering and dripping with blood, was a misshapen mound of fraying, blackstained meat. It resembled the old, diseased wild goat that had wandered into the District one day mid-October... after the butcher had gotten hold of it. The stench of death seemed to cascade downwards into an invisible, putrid pool in the centre of the clearing, erecting perimeters made of nerves that none of us dared to past.

We lingered at the edge, most of us awaiting explanation from Marka and her two District 1 lackeys, all of whom had cocky grins plastered to their faces.

Finally, one of them spoke, and I immediately wished they hadn't said a word. 

"That," Facet announced far too triumphantly. "Was Loy."

Those three words struck me to the core.

"W-What?" Kye's disgust rang clearly through the silent woods around us. I began to question the positioning of the corpse. Everything felt metallic and cold and dead in this part of the arena; why place something of this impact in a soundless place like this?

"What do you mean 'that was Loy'?!" Kye demanded. It was followed by a frail, airy squeak erupting from Sairen's throat. He placed a hand on her shoulder for comfort but kept his glare locked on Facet.

"Keep your voice down," Marka snapped, not bothering to hide her impatience.

"See? This is exactly why we were the ones who had to dig him out of that pit," Sheer snorted.

"Pit??"

"Yes, 'pit'," she grinned, pleased by the impact. "We found him caught at the very bottom of the Rift. Had his legs crushed between two rocks, cheeks cut open by the shards on the walls; from the way the cuts were stretched, he probably died screaming from the fumes."

The silence that followed was nerve-wracking and the unnerving mental image forming in my head sent cold shudders down my spine. I had gotten a whiff of the acrid Rift air during the eruptions. It burned my throat and brought tears to my eyes and my skin prickled as if I was being held over a fire. I couldn't even begin to imagine what it felt like for Loy... trapped, crippled and dying right in the heart of it all.

The visualisation grew all the more grotesque and I found myself revolted and unnerved by everything. The mangled corpse in the tree; Marka's wild, almost inane intentions; Sheer's perverse gloating in contrast to her smile; the way Facet kept his eyes on me, as if waiting for a moment's weakness, waiting for the one reason so he could cut me down. We had only been in the arena for three days and already the Careers were starting to go crazy. And then, caught as helplessly as Loy had been trapped in the Rift, I allowed myself to wonder:

Did I really have a chance at surviving the Games?

"Marka... I don't understand," Hiddleston's voice had transcended into a deep, solemn murmur almost uncharacteristic of him. A genuine, compassionate empathy lingered heavily in his tone, but who was it for? Loy?

If so, he was signing his own death warrant. Facet would have him dead by sundown.

"Of course you don't, idiot," Marka's words stung like thick acid. But Tom didn't flinch and his gaze didn't harden; in fact he no longer had any reaction at all. It was as if the sight of Loy's corpse had begun to rip away all other emotion from him. All but suffering. I bit my lip.

"Tell me, Hiddleston, have you seen any animals as of yet?" Marka's drawl was light and dangerous, like the razor-like blade she kept strapped to her belt.

Tom was silent for a moment. "I assume you're not talking about the fish," he muttered after awhile.

"The fish are all dead, we checked this morning," Facet smirked as if the food shortage had no impact on us. "Poisoned by the air and water."

"Then I'd have to say 'no'," Tom was forced to answer. "But what do the animals have anything to do with that?"

"It's bait," Marka stated simply.

"But you just said there were no animals," Hiddleston retorted, not understanding at all. I furrowed my brow; I don't either.

"Who said anything about this being for the animals?" Sheer's sing-song hint pierced through the thick air.

And all at once, it clicked into place. 

I saw Tom's grey eyes widen.

And I felt my own blood run cold. 

"You can't possibly think that--" Kye cut his panicked stutter in mid-sentence, unsure of how to continue. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he found his tongue. "You can't possibly think that the other tributes would resort to..." He trailed off, this time unwilling to say it, as if mentioning it would make it true.

"There was a psychological study we learnt in school once," Marka said coolly. "Of how humans would react in extreme conditions." From the corner of my eye, I saw Tom hang his head, probably from realisation of remembering the same lesson. What were they teaching the people in District 2? Unnervingly, Marka continued her nonchalant musing as if recalling a fond childhood memory, "There was one particularly interesting experiment that included deprivation and confinement...

"Don't worry, Malachite," she then smiled. "It's a proven fact."

I saw his Adam's apple tremble as he swallowed. She continued to speak nonetheless. 

"In due time, they will come, and when they do, we'll be waiting."

---

Night fell without a single cannon-fire.

Not even when we were made to split up, comb through the forest, and converge once more at the Rift, did we find another tribute. The pine-woods were empty, devoid of not only birds and fish, but all forms of life entirely. It was eerie, surreal almost. Treading through soft grass and fallen leaves, with nothing but the flickering sunlight and shifting shadows to keep you company.

Nothing else moved. The trees themselves seemed icily dead as well, artificial, as if they had backbones of steel.

Kye and I had manoeuvred through the same woods before, when dew was fresh and glistening and the air was cool and bright. Each breath I had taken in brought with it a faint nostalgia of District 7 mornings: warm pine-needle tea and journey into the forest for wood. That is until the arena-mountains began to spit fire and light.

But even after the eruptions subsided and even after the ground stilled, everything - right down to the breeze rustling through the leaves - suddenly felt so artificial.

And walking alone in the middle of it all, you're struck with blow after blow of mounting uncertainty. It builds up frantically, haphazardly, into a rickety crescendo, playing at doubts and fears and ever-bubbling paranoia.

Will we starve to death? What happened to the other tributes? What of Nyssa? How is she still surviving? Did she manage to find food? What would happen to Marka's plans if there was food? Did she just scrape together and assemble a fellow tribute in vain? What did the Capitol think of their promising Career team now? What did District 2 think? A maddening psychopath and a useless beanpole as glorious tributes.

What did District 7 think? Was I a traitor to them for joining the Career pack? Was Nyssa's mother cursing my name for not keeping her daughter safe? Were people placing bets or have they already lost faith in me... What did my family think? 

What did Liam think?

There must be some sort of commentary or Gamemaker plan brewing by now, ready to be launched at a moment's notice; everything has gone stagnant. Too stagnant for the Games.

Is Liam screaming at the television right now? Is he trying to warn me about the next wave, the next hurdle we would have to pass?

Was Liam able to sense my impending doom?

I recalled Luke's wide-eyed gaze meeting the cameras. The rustle of leaves. The crunch of bone. The spilling blood. The frightened birdcall.

The cannon. 

All these thoughts swirled through my head like a vicious whirlpool. 

And by the time I made it to the Rift with moments to spare, I had a mind to jump straight in to relieve myself of these suffocating thoughts. 

I had enough sense to hold back and I stood by the crumbling edge, watching the swirls of yellow-tinged smoke play in the ravine like leaves caught by the wind. The scent isn't as acidic and malignant as it was the day before, instead the poison seemed to coagulate into an unseen mass of decay at the bottom.

The thought was unnerving, but I wondered whether all of the birds and creatures had descended into the Rift and to their deaths. That would explain the smell and the Capitol had created viler abominations in their laboratories before. It was definitely within their power, childsplay almost, to achieve something like this.

But if so, why.

What would their achieve from this, other than starving us all?

I was thinking too much and asking too many questions.

And nothing but the silence of the woods answered my doubts.

---

Marka ventured into the woods again tonight, this time bringing along Malachite and Sairen.

At first, when Kye had been called, a momentary jolt of fear had stung me in the chest; I was afraid that they were bringing him into the forest for an execution for his earlier disagreement. It was certainly something not unheard of in the Games, occurring more often than naught. But when she brought along Sai and walked off without uttering a word to the District 1's, I slowly released the breath I had been holding in. A quick glance to Kye's face before he left told me that the a similar had passed though his mind as well.

But as their backs melted away from the firelight and deeper into the shadows, the realisation that they had left me with Sheer and Facet grew all the more stronger.

We weren't at Cornucopia tonight, instead having sought refuge in a tiny clearing right in the heart of the pine-forests. We were grouped together tight and with no giant tree to block each other from view. And the bright campfire they had instructed me to build burned brightly with thick pine-sap at its core, illuminating each of our faces as clearly as daylight. Not wanting to linger by the District 1's, I found myself reluctantly deviating closer and closer towards Hiddleston with each passing minute - whose back was turned towards the fire as he changed his bandages.

As he attempted to change his bandages.

"Having trouble?" I was compelled to ask when his glanced upwards, towards me.

He cast me one hard look before looking back down, and then back at me. "I don't know how Sairen did my bandages," he muttered almost embarrassedly. "I can't undo them."

"I'll help." My mouth moved before my brain had time to register what I said.

Tom gave me another one of his looks, probably uncertain of the sincerity of my offer. I couldn't blame him; I was giving him mixed messages by doing this. Did I hate him? Did I like him? Have  I gotten over whatever agenda I had with him? The answer would be no to all of the above. I'm doing this so that I look occupied and wouldn't have to face whatever questions or remarks Sheer had in store. And to be honest, we had a pretty bad day today, which would most likely get worse come morning. A little show of kindness wouldn't kill me.

Or would it?

"That would be nice," Tom says and it took me awhile to realise what he was talking about. "Thank you," he murmured, relieved.

Without a word, I fall to my knees beside him and proceed to examine the criss-crossing folds on his extended arm. I then fiddled with the firm knot holding it all in place, careful not to pressure his skin too much in case the wounds were still raw. Hesitatingly, I undid the knot and slowly began to unravel the bandages.

With each bit of skin I exposed, I began to doubt whether Tom had even been wounded at all. The flesh underneath was perfect and almost scarless albeit flushed and tinged pink. But looking back, I was certain that just yesterday morning, he had been shuddering in pain as he scooped cold water onto his open, angry burns.

"It's amazing isn't it?" I heard him muse. "I was surprised when the pain went away but this... this is almost unbelievable."

"Capitol laboratories," I muttered almost enviously, my voice an octave lower.

"If only they spent the same amount of effort hosting the Games in making medicines like this more easily accessible to the other Districts."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me the thought has never occurred to you," Tom said, surprised.

I wanted to slap him upside the head for saying that and also for his recklessness. "Of course it has but there are just some things we don't say aloud." The last few words came out through gritted teeth as I attempted to keep my own voice down. I sincerely hope that the Gamemakers were able to cut that bit out in time or Tom's family would be facing serious consequences. What was he thinking?

"You're right, sorry."

Silence fell between us as I undid the rest of his bandages and redressed some still-healing wounds with fresh gauze and ointment. The only sounds that filled the air were the hushed whispers between Sheer and Facet and the slow, steady crackling of the nearby fire. Marka and the rest showed no signs of returning soon, just like the day before, and once I was done with Tom, I grabbed my jacket, chose a random direction, and started to walk into the woods.

Though the forest was still cold and devoid of life, I found it more comforting than being close to the Career pack. I'm sure Tom was uncomfortable as well but I was reluctant to ask him to join me. What if he said something else incredibly stupid? What then? It was better to leave him alone.

Keeping the campfire within view, I noisily trudged through the thick foliage with my heavy boots, eager to put as much distance between me and them. I would return when I hear them calling or when Marka comes back, whichever comes last.

A few more paces into the woods and I came across a wide-enough stone, all covered with moss. With a quick glance over my shoulder, I inspected the distance from here to camp. Once I decided there was sufficient enough space in between, I claimed the rock as my own.

I allowed the moments to pass as I counted the clover plants at my feet and the stars that lined up with one of the tree branches above my head. And for a moment, everything fell to a sort of makeshift serenity, like tea leaves settling down to the bottom of the cup. But things like calmness and peace are not real in the arena. Something has to happen for the Games to be a success, all at the expense of twenty-three lives. And I am not looking forward to what surprise they had planned for us next.

--- 

Chapter 13: [tumblr] [AO3]

Please 'like' it if you liked it and send a comment my way. =) 

[windcranes]

Ensemble

Characters: Loki, Thor, Sif, Fandral, wantstobelieve, black-nata, stereobone, westishere, under-base (Ric), silverlynxcat Summary: A compilation of the mini-fics I've done in response to panda-danna's ficlet where wantstobelieve is captured by Loki and Thor assembles a team of fandom writers/artists because he wants a mini-Avengers team made of fangirls he wants to be Nick Fury IDEK. Kinda blown out of proportion but that's how we like it in Asgard.

You can find the main post here.

This is why I shouldn't be allowed on the internet after a stressful Chemistry paper.

“Are you most certain of this?” was Thor’s low rumble of a whisper. “My brother’s lair is not the most pleasant of places.”

“I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” she replied, determination dripping with every word. Narrowing her eyes, she gave her new armour a fierce thump, the intricate markings of her silver chest plate gleaming in the sun. The bright stallions beside them neighed and stomped in anticipation of the upcoming battle. Nata allowed her hand to brush against the hilt of her sword, crafted from the glowing tail of a shooting star.

A small smile spread across the God of Thunder’s lips. “As you wish, Nata of Black,” he gave the Midgardian writer nod of acknowledgement, impressed by her warrior’s heart. “Keep close and be alert for we know not yet what lingers in the shadows of Loki’s abode.” He raised Mjolnir to the sky like a beacon of hope.

And in a flash of iridescent light, they were gone.

---

“They should be arriving soon,” Lady Sif whispered through tight lips and gritted teeth. She remained at the mouth of the cave, standing boldly against dead-winter winds; unyielding, defiant and with every fibre in her body filled with purpose. Her grip tightened around her shield, steely grey eyes transfixed upon a point in the distance.

Stereobone didn’t question her determination. “I just hope that they’ll arrive safely,” her uncertainties were greedily swallowed the moment they left her mouth. The ominous chasm around them was so devoid of voice, of echo, it appeared to feed off sound itself.

The artist beside her shuddered - from both the cold as well as the silence. “They will…” West murmured reassuringly. “They have to.”

“Ladies, ladies, fret not!” Fandral interjected with as much mirth as the situation allowed. “Even Loki’s magicks has limitations. We are safe as long as we remain within the vincity of these shadows; Thor knows that.”

“Let’s hope he remembers,” Sif said in a low undertone.

---

A flash of thunder sliced through the indigo sky, enshrouded by the veils and mist of magick-laced stormclouds. A lone figure emerged from the smoke, Mjolnir clutched tightly and eyes trained forwards. He strode through the dunes of ash and ice, draping tendrils of powder over each heavy footstep. Following suit, a smaller form materialised behind him, sword at ready and gaze burning with equal intensity. Thor and Nata were here.

For a moment, West and Stereo had allowed a wave of relief to wash over them; but just as quickly as it came, it dissipated the moment an arrow had planted itself to the earth, dangerously close to where Thor’s foot had once been.

“Come now, brother, you could not have possibly been more obvious,” a haunting drawl emitted from the depths of the ebony cavern. The warriors retaliated quickly by edging out of the cave and into the open. It had been Loki who had spoken, but it hadn’t been his voice.

“I was growing restless waiting for your arrival,” Loki spoke through another. The owner of this one had been the sharpshooter, who now revealed her form by leaping from the dead tree she had been perched upon. Sickly moonlight illuminated the emerald green of her robes, the menacing glint of her arrows and the pale blue sheen of her pupils. Ric.

“Late as always,” the voice from the shadows spoke up once more, the trickster god alternating between his two minions. “Tut tut. Tut tut.” They watched as Silverlynxcat stepped out of the darkness, a myriad of sharp knives tucked between her fingers.

The warriors drew their weapons but neither dared to attack.

They had not anticipated this.

[windcranes]

Infatuation

Characters: Tom (with mentions of Chris) Summary: A small Hiddlesworth drabble I had to get out of my system. [Warning: lightly peppered with angst]

It crept upon me, catching me unaware. Like sweet perfume of venomous flora, it ensnared me, drawing me deeper and deeper in. I teased the threadlike border between consciousness and intoxication, traced the fine outline of the fire of obsession and delved into the intangible shadows of the sea of his eyes.

It crept upon me, catching me unaware. Like sweet perfume of venomous flora, it ensnared me, drawing me deeper and deeper in. I teased the threadlike border between consciousness and intoxication, traced the fine outline of the fire of obsession and delved into the intangible shadows of the sea of his eyes. Everything I was, am and will be, all belongs to him now. My heart had been carved out of my very being and thoughtlessly placed into the palm of his hand.

But it hadn't been the emptiness of my chest that left me yearning and aching, it hadn't been the sleepless nights filled with anticipation nor had it been the lonely dinners in discreet restaurant corners. It had been his guiltless smile that had struck daggers into my soul; the calm and mirthful grin of a man without worry, without fear, without awareness that he held another's most tender essence within his gentle grasp.

It would be a lie to call this love "unrequited", but it would also be a lie to say that he loved me the same way I did.

And as he watches me laugh and joke and smile and live, I hide away the lost, depraved side of me that spirals lower and lower with every touch on my shoulder, every deep chuckle and every whisper into my ear.

He had me and he didn't even know.

[windcranes]

Star Light, Star Bright [drabble]

Rating: U Characters: Elsa, Chris, India, Tom Warnings: Fluff, fluff and more fluff Summary: The perfect end to a perfect day: out in the open, under the night sky and with the three people you love the most.

Because I'm filled with an illegal amount of fluff right now... and five-year-old India is too adorable for words.

---

The night was peaceful as they lay beneath the shimmering stars, with the light wind bringing forth the tender scent of pine and earth. Gaze trained on the distant horizon, Chris allows his eyes to trace over the intricate outline of uncontrolled nature; at the same time, a tentative hand reaches over to caress the curls out of Elsa's sleeping face. Her head lay tenderly on his shoulder, nestled between the slight curve of his collarbone and neck. Blonde hair, which shone a luminous silver beneath the moonlight, was splayed across his chest. Chris could vaguely detect the delicate, familiar scent of her favourite strawberry shampoo.

"Tell Uncle Tom to come closer," her voice was muffled as she spoke through the thick fabric. Chris couldn't help but smile.

"You heard her, mate," he called over to the lanky outline of a man, perched on a nearby rock. Squinting through the darkness, he watched as the silhouette pushed itself away from the boulder and slowly paced over to the thick blanket they were lying on.

"I don't know... there's not much room left on the blanket," Tom's concerned murmur was nonchalantly replied with Chris extending out his left arm and patting the little bit of space behind India. His right arm remained carefully wrapped around Elsa's shoulders and Tom couldn't help but cock an eyebrow in amusement.

"Lie down on Daddy like how Mummy's doing," India directed as if it was the most obvious thing in the world and her godfather couldn't help but let out a small "ehehehe" of a chuckle.

"Oh I couldn't.."

"Just do it, mate," Chris drawled from where he lay, a tired smirk playing on his lips. "Project Group Hug and all that."

It didn't take much more coaxing than that and a moment later, Tom's head was pressed against his shoulder, moving about as he tried to find a comfortable spot. India remained where she was, head above her daddy's heartbeat and tiny arms clutching at the fabric above his navel. They shifted around a bit more until - like finishing a jigsaw puzzle - they managed to fit on the singular blanket. 

"Look at how beautiful that is," Tom's words came out in a sigh, those baby blues of his widening in awe at the splash of glittering stars across the night sky. He reached out a curious hand, as if attempting to catch one of them, but grasped only the cold air between his fingertips.

"Oh, hi, Tom... nice of you to join us..." Elsa's sleepy mumble drifted into Chris' right ear.

"So sorry, Elsa," he murmured the apology almost instantly. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Hush and look at the stars," she brushed off with a smile, her nose brushing against her husband's neck as she scooted closer. India reached out a small hand to grab at her mother's outstretched fingers and anchored them to Chris' chest. The two of them, mother and child, yawned in unison and slowly drifted off to sleep.

A tender hand brushed against the back of Tom's neck teasingly. He snorted under his breath but made no move to swat it away. "Out in the starlight with my three girls..." Chris mused with a distant voice.

"Hush and look at the stars," Tom echoed Elsa's words before being slowly coaxed to sleep by the gentle fingertips brushing through his hair.

And that was how they remained until dawn, until the sunlight and birdsong eased them out of sweet and warm dreams, and they awoke to find themselves locked in the soft-hearted, tender embrace of their loved ones.

Everything was perfect.

---

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[windcranes]

Sugar Pills - Chapter 1

Title: Sugar Pills Characters: Chris and Pseudo!Tom Summary: Chris awakens from cryogenic sleep after a cure to his otherwise terminal illness is found. It is the year 2192 and much has changed. To help assimilate into present-day society, the hospital commissions him an AI robot in the guise of his old companion, Tom. But blood runs thicker than ion fluid and 'companion' isn't a strong enough word for a person like Tom. 

---

Also found on AO3. 

---

You don't know me but I have heard about you.

Of your struggles, of your accomplishments, your history... and your sadness.

You're very prone to sadness, I've realised that.

After all, it is my job to realise these things. You see, that was the reason I was made for.

...

Judging from your reaction, I assume I'm not making too much sense.

I apologise. It's a bit of a long story. Allow me to start from the beginning.

---

Morning light glimmers upon soap-slicked metal pots, the thick scent of floral and aerosol lingers in the air. A man sits by an uncurtained window with lines etched deep into his face. He watches the world continue to turn upon its axis, like an ambitious top that only just unwound. As it continues to spin, there will be a point when it will lose its balance, its momentum - and eventually, surely - fall. It is a known fact; everything has an end. But for now, it only spins.

It's been eighteen decades since he last felt it spin.

And in the deep tangle of fatigued synapses and white-blood-cell-rich vessels, tucked into the curved folds of his frontal cortex and past gradually-dying disease, lies the static and colours and smells of the last day of his life.

His daughter's tiny hand clasped over his thumb. Elsa's lower lip, held down with her teeth. The thick pungence of sanitising liquid and disinfectant. An overabundance of white. Parents at the bedside, brothers at the foot. The slow drip of IV and the syringe that will wipe away his consciousness.

Tears.

Many tears.

His mother's. His wife's. His own.

And tucked away in the corner of the room, through tears of his own, Tom offering him one last warm smile.

"See you in the morning, mate," he says. 

See you in the morning.

Chris tastes the words tenderly as he thumbs away at a piece of fraying cloth. And as the dawn's light touches upon the corner of the old 'for luck' handkerchief, a cold emptiness begins to swirl at the base of his throat.

It smells like nothing.

---

Next chapter: [tumblr] [AO3]

[windcranes]

Sugar Pills - Chapter 2

Title: Sugar Pills Characters: Chris and Pseudo!Tom Summary: Chris awakens from cryogenic sleep after a cure to his otherwise terminal illness is found. It is the year 2192 and much has changed. To help assimilate into present-day society, the hospital commissions him an AI robot in the guise of his old companion, Tom. But blood runs thicker than ion fluid and 'companion' isn't a strong enough word for a person like Tom. 

---

Also found on AO3. 

---

He was sitting by my bed with his head propped up on one hand. The sunlight was flickering across the back of his head and his blonde hair caught the rays like a fisherman’s net in mid-throw. Occasionally his eyelids would flutter and the corner of his mouth would perk upwards. No doubt he was having a pleasant dream; probably of bright beaches, German chocolates, exotic spices… He always spoke fondly of things like that.

And I spent the entirety of the dream just watching him sleep.

There was no conversation, no heartfelt “I missed you”s, and my vision was blurred, as if shrouded with gossamer white veils. And the stark awareness that I was asleep - that this was all unreal - punctuated each thick second, each muffled heartbeat like a dagger to my side.

But like waves beating upon rock, with each acidic breath came a relieving balmy swirl. The simple sight of Tom by my side, of him being only a tiny whisper, an armstretch away - untrue as it may be - filled me to the brim with an unbearable joy.

Which stung bittersweet like thorns on a rosebush.

And when the drugs roused me from my sleep and I turned to find the chair empty, the thorns then began to caress out an aching, dark quell from my chest.

And I felt soft, warm tears slowly dripping into my sheets.

---

You spend your evenings watching the sunset.

I once came across a book with a similar theme; it was a short one of a prince, a flower and a tiny planet. One particular quote rang loudly through me while I was observing you today:

"'You know— one love the sunset when one is so sad…'

"'Were you so sad, then?' I asked, 'on the day of the forty-four sunsets?'"

And that made me wonder. 

Would I ever be able to make you smile?

---

Next chapter: [tumblr] [AO3]

[windcranes]

Little India [drabble]

Rating: U Characters: India, Chris, Tom, Elsa Warnings: Tom being a ridiculous godfather. Adults being silly and India being adorable. Summary: A drabble of Tom visiting five-year-old India on her birthday. Raptor impressions ensue. Inspired by the fact that Tom is really a raptor in disguise, the joy which is Baby India and the fact that Tom has Australian barbecues at Chris' place. <3

---

"Daddy! Daddy! He's going to eat me!!" came the shrill, breathless squeal of his daughter from the corridor. Chris looked up from the countertop of zip-lock bags and marinated meat just in time to catch sight of India, out of breath and rosy-cheeked, just before she darted into the safety of the kitchen. "Lock the doors, Daddy! Lock them!!" she hopped on the spot a number of times before swinging the door shut herself.

His daughter gave a tiny giggling shriek of fear and pressed herself against the door, putting all of her weight on it in hope that it would be enough to keep the monster out.

"Daddddyyyyyyy!!! Help me, He. Is. Going. To. Eat. Meeeee!!!" she emphasised matter-of-factly, punctuating each word with disbelief at seeing her father so calm and composed.

"I'm going to eat your children, Hemsworthhhhhh!!!" was the raspy evil whisper from the shut-off corridor. India jumped away as if the door had caught fire and darted to hide between her father's legs. "So you better make sure tonight's barbecue is satisfactory!"

"I assure you, mighty beast, it would satisfy kings," Chris boomed back with what India called his 'hero voice'. She laughed and tucked herself behind his knee and the cabinet, triumphant and proud of her brave, brave father.

"You better hope sooooooo!" There was the raptor call again.

"Hello, Tom," was the happily surprised voice from where the monster was.

"Tom? Who's Tom?" came the evil whisper.

"Nooooooo!!! Mummy, run away!!!!" India squealed, recognising the voice instantly, her face contorted in fear.

"What? Oh noooo! Nooooooo!!" Elsa let out a dramatic cry from the corridor, playing along with the ridiculous scene.

"Mummy!!!!"

A moment's silence passed by, with all three adults stifling the overwhelming urge to burst out laughing. India was left in tensed-up anticipation, clutching the fabric of Chris' pants leg tightly in her tiny fist. 

To her relief, the kitchen door swung open, revealing her mother, smiling and unharmed, and the tall giant of a man who was her godfather.

"Uncle Tom!" India smiled in gleeful surprise as if seeing him for the first time. "Did you beat the monster?"

"Yes, India, yes I did," he grinned at the little girl as she trotted over to him. In a fluid motion, he hooked his hands under her arms and hoisted her up for a hug. She giggled mirthfully. "Happy Birthday, darlin'."

"Thank you, Uncle Tom," she replied in a sing-song voice.

Chris could only smile as he returned his gaze to the cluttered countertop, giving India some time with her godfather. The smile only widened when the characteristic "ehehehe" drifted over from the living room, overlapping with the squeal-like giggles of his little girl. Elsa also joined in on the fun, calling out for them as they played an unfair game of hide-and-seek. As usual, India would always win.

Everything was perfect.

[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 11

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year’s Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

I considered offering to help but my guilt wasn't strong enough to voice it out. I still didn't trust him. I couldn't trust him.

---

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 10: [tumblr] [AO3]

It was as if the entire horizon had been painted with fire.

I watched as bright, brilliant red lines flared and spat along the mountains’ coarse edges. They flickered against the dark black with a sun-like intensity, inscribing ribbons of their blue ghosts deep into my retinas. I turned my gaze away, wincing and squinting through the light, but not before I caught sight of the menacing golden streams and blood crimson waterfalls... as well as the daylight sky being eaten away by a sickly earth-tinged hue.

But despite the poison drifting in the air and the fear bubbling in my gut, despite visions of forest fires and deep seas of molten rock, the urge to run did not strike me yet.

I was rooted to the spot, one foot half-submerged in mud and water and the other grinding shallow holes into wet earth. From the corner of my eye, I saw Malachite taking the opportunity to tug on his heavy boots but the thought to retrieve my own pair didn't even enter my mind.

Something didn't make sense. 

The mountains-- no, the volcanoes, though menacing as they were, were still so far away. Save for a mild shake of the earth and the occasional light shower of ash, the eruptions couldn't... shouldn't have much effect on us at the stream. Not just yet at least.

But that didn't explain the bright, angry marks littering Tom's skin. From the way he looked, it was as if he had stood at the very edge of one and taken a faceful of hot, acrid fumes. I furrowed my brow.

"What happened?" Kye demanded, stepping away from the stream and up towards the newly arrived group. I couldn't see his expression but judging from the immediate frown on Marka's face, I guessed it was anger. Why though? Did he think they started the eruptions? 

"There was a fissure," Sheer's voice pierced the sounds of shattering earth, which had only just begun to fade. "Near camp... We grabbed what we could." Looking near-delirious, she then took a quick look around, her ash-laden blonde hair swinging from a loose braid. It hadn't been fastened. She had probably been tying it when they were forced to run.

"Where's Loy?" she croaked. Loy? I assumed it was the name of the other Career recruit, the one from 9. 

"He went back for his jacket," was Facet's grunt of a reply. He was bent over, coughing and deeply inhaling the sulphur-laced air as if his life depended on it. The air must've been worse at camp. "Or something else. I couldn't hear."

A long moment of silence followed, with the same thought entering everyone's minds but with no one daring to voice it out.

Finally, it was Tom who had said it. "You don't think he could've... died, do you?" was his cautious murmur.

"Who knows," Marka snapped, stepping out of the underbrush. "If there were any cannons, I couldn't hear them." She then turned towards us, folding her arms across her chest. "We'll wait here. If he's not back within ten minutes, we move on."

It was a cruel order but everyone silently complied, giving the faintest hints of nods as they settled down around the stream. Somehow, sometime before this – while I was still unconscious, no doubt – Marka had filled the role as the unofficial ‘leader’ of the group. From the way Sheer and Facet heeded her words despite being at least three years older, there must've been something remarkable she had said or done to prove herself. It was never easy convincing District 1 Careers. I found myself both curious and fearful of what Marka had done exactly.

"Chris," she called over suddenly. She was standing by the stream now, accompanied and dwarfed by Hiddleston's tall, lanky figure. A large sack was clutched loosely in his hand.

As I approached them, I saw the burns along the side of her arm, tracing up to the nape of her neck, where the edge of a bloody gash peeped out of a makeshift bandage of leaves. Tom didn't look any better. From the seriousness of their wounds, they must've been closest to the fissure when the eruptions began.

"Tom managed to grab an axe for you," Marka explained briefly once I was close enough. She had said it so abruptly, I almost didn't catch any of it. "Use it carefully, it's the only one."

I looked over to Hiddleston, with his face stained with red and glossy arms seeming to ring with a sharp, plastic-like ache, as he cringingly fishes out a silver axe from the burlap sack. The blade was dull from layers of soot and some earth clung to the handle from being dragged across the ground, but a few rinses in the stream would easily fix that. I then watched as the bag was wordlessly bundled and tossed aside, and I assumed that was all he had been able to salvage from camp.

Tom didn't use an axe, and the fact that it was the first thing he had reached for sent a sharp stab of guilt to my gut.

"Thanks..." I muttered, to which he replied with a ginger nod of his head. He kept his gaze at my jacket zipper the entire time as the axe exchanged owners, as if afraid to look at me straight in the eye.

I then realised that this was the first time we were standing this close. Ever since the first day of training, I had made sure that there was always a ten-foot distance between us. But now, I was close enough to see the shadows of his curls on his forehead and the fading scar on his cheek. I cleared my throat, not liking how the sudden turn of events had resulted in this. I still hated him, I'm still angry. But he was making it increasingly hard to stay hateful and angry.

It was probably another ploy to earn my trust and I'm aware of that... but he's practically saving my life by giving me my weapon. And for that, I'm grateful.

"The water in the stream's cold..." I began hesitantly after clearing my throat one more time. "It could help with your burns." It was pitiful almost, my attempt at returning the favour, but I took his tight half-smile - feeble though it may be - as a sign of gratitude.

---

Loy didn't return.

Even after the additional five minutes Sairen had persuaded Marka to add on, there had been absolutely no sign of him in the smouldering forest. Facet volunteered to return to camp to check but Sheer argued that there was no need.

A tremble of a sigh seemed to have left Tom when we were ordered to move; I could feel it vibrating the air as I crouched beside him, our feet half-dipped in the rippling water. From the way his palms tentatively hovered over his skin whenever he tried to fold his arms, and from the soft groans he made when he had splashed water on his wounds, I could only imagine how much suffering the burns were giving him. I considered offering to help but my guilt wasn't strong enough to voice it out. I still didn't trust him. I couldn't trust him.

And so I had spent most of the fifteen minutes silently rinsing my axe, whose weight seemed to multiply with every layer of ash I washed off.

---

It was evening by the time we arrived at Cornucopia. Being from District 7 meant that I was more accustomed to navigating through thick forests, and so I had been assigned to aid Kye in leading the group back to the tribute circle. We couldn't go back the way we came due to the fissure having torn an extensive gash across the ground and I did my best at manoeuvering us around any eruption-prone areas, but to be honest, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

Sure, I've been around tall trees all my life but there was always a path to follow whenever we ventured into the forests. And when I had gone out with Liam, we always followed the exact same route. I knew as much about navigating through unfamiliar wilderness as Nyssa knew how to mine coal.

Fortunately, Kye understood the terrain more than I did and we found our way back just in time to see the sunset painting the rocky plains a brilliant orange gold.

The active volcanoes were quelled by now, the streams of fire reduced to tensed red-hot threads pulsing along with the breeze. Sairen - translated by Kye - had explained that the mountains surrounding the arena were all roughly the same distance from Cornucopia and that it would be safer for us to linger around the tree in case of any more eruptions.

And standing by the tribute plates once again, the Gamemakers' plan started to make sense. If we ventured too far in either direction, a stream of lava would ensure our quick demise. If we lingered in the forests for too long, fissures would tear apart our camp. The only answer was to remain at the centre of it all, amidst dormant landmines that could kill us at a moment's notice.

But where would be the fun in that?

If the all of the Careers were wiped out so early, that would leave the Gamemakers with no action, relying solely on nature and induced volcanoes to kill off the other tributes. Any Victor crowned from that wouldn't be seen as a genuine "champion" and the Games would be a failure.

Of course, I hadn't said any of this out loud - there were cameras and microphones all around us - but I was sure that Marka had been thinking the exact same thing when she suggested we return to Cornucopia. She was aware of our bargaining power against the Gamemakers. It was fact now, the tree would serve temporary shelter against any more volcanic eruptions.

But since this is all one big bargain, that something should be given in return.

As we unpacked what scarce resources we had left under the poisoned tree that had begun to shed its leaves, amidst the tense anticipation of what else the Capitol had in store for us, there was a certainty that lingered in everyone's minds.

Tomorrow, we would have to kill.

---

The anthem rose out of the ground, bringing with it a warning that came in the form of a mild earthshake. I could see Marka's steely glare piercing the empty westward horizon, carved like a silent challenge to the observing Gamemakers. A small dagger remained tightly clutched in her left hand, with her right index finger tracing along the spine as if meaning to sharpen it through will alone. Though her movements were small and though her intentions might seem harmless, I could tell that there was a sort of toned-down hatred she was harbouring deep inside her. Though it might not necessarily be aimed at the Capitol or the Gamemakers or the Games themselves, it was a loathing that seared violently through the night.

Unnervingly, we watched as the stoic, emotionless face of Loy was projected onto the night sky. Excluding the two others the Careers had hunted last night, he was neither proceeded nor followed by anyone else; he was the only death today.

Without further ceremony, the three faces then faded from view and we were enshrouded in darkness once more. I could feel the fury Marka was struggling to hold in. 

"No supplies, camp torn apart, Loy..." I heard her mutter the string of words acidly under her breath. "And the measly ones go free." The dagger in her hand was then roughly embedded up to the hilt in grass and soil.

No one said a word as she scrambled to her feet, abruptly slinging a small bag over her shoulder before storming off into the night. Neither of us questioned her. It was clear that things weren't going according to plan. Marka was most likely more angry of her strategies prematurely failing than actually distraught by Loy's death. It only made sense, she was the 'leader', the strategist. Failing the team too many times could result in her being killed.

A moment or so passed before Sheer uprooted her knife and followed after her, who was then closely followed by Facet. I considered going after them to help out with whatever new plan Marka had concocted but the thought of being in a dark, dense forest alongside Facet didn't seem too inviting.

---

It was around midnight, while Malachite was roasting the fish we caught over a campfire, when a tender glint of silver caught the golden light of the flames. I looked up from the axe in my hands and towards the night sky. The characteristic outline of a white parachute caused my heart to skip a beat. I took a quick look around. Tom was perched up against a boulder with his arm across his eyes and Sairen seemed overly preoccupied with the moss on the tree; Kye hadn't seen the sponsor gift either, his head bowed over a pile of nets, quietly mending any large holes in them.

Silently as I could, I stood up and closed the small distance between me and the sponsor gift, the entire time wondering what was in it and for whom it was for.

It couldn't be food, we have plenty for tonight and tomorrow afternoon. It couldn't be weapons, it looked far too small. So what was it?

I stood over it for a moment or so before I peeled a corner of the white cloth away, revealing the carved surface of a rectangular silver box. Tentatively, I picked it up, detaching the strings of the parachute as I did. It wasn't too small and was elaborately decorated, similar in dimension to the sofa pillows back at the Training Centre. It made little noise when I turned it over and was cold to the touch. Curiously, I fiddled with the hook-like metal clasp and the top open without a sound.

Bandages, swabs, bottled iodine, burn ointment.

It was a first aid kit.

I was almost disappointed; from the intricate carvings on the exterior, I naively hoped that it contained something extraordinary, or that at least the gift had been meant for me. I was wrong on both counts.

Maybe Linwood had given up on me after all.

Letting out a small sigh, I made my way back to camp, but not before I bundled the small parachute into my pocket. Who knows? It might come in handy one day.

"Sponsor gift," I announced without a hint of excitement. The crackling of the fire almost drowned out the drawl of my voice. "It's for Tom."

Hearing his name being called seemed to have shocked him because Tom had abruptly pushed himself up from his boulder and was now staring at me like I've grown a third head. Somewhat uncomfortably, I looked down at the box in my hands and held it out for him, but he didn't move an inch.

"What did you say?"

"You heard me, 'sponsor gift'," I repeated. 

"You're joking," he said in disbelief, reclining back against the rock. "I don't have sponsors."

"Well, apparently you do, because otherwise I wouldn't be holding this," I replied sardonically, starting to grow tired of holding it out if he's not going to take it. Also, it still stung that he's receiving a gift so early in the Games. People must really love him.

"Felsic hates me, he wouldn't--"

"Just take it," I snapped, grabbing hold of his wrist and pressing the box into his palm. I saw the wince cross his features and his hand immediately cradling where I had touched him but I pushed all of that aside, along with my budding guilt, and stormed off in the opposite direction.

---

I knew I was acting like a child.

I knew that somewhere out there, Liam was sighing at my obstinance and Tom-smittened Capitol citizens were shaking their fists at me. I could feel my loved-by-all reputation slowly being jeopardised, and my guilt and frustration of being indebted to Tom growing all the more stronger.

Somewhere in my head, a tiny voice asks, 'Is this really the right time to hold a grudge?' To which I answered, I wasn't holding a grudge, I'm just being cautious. Tributes from District 2 are incredibly conniving and untrustworthy and ruthless. He could be plotting to kill me just as Facet almost did.

As if to prove my point, I looked over my shoulder to reveal the bloodthirsty snake he was... only to find Tom struggling as he clumsily tried to bandage his right shoulder.

I frowned. 

Idiot, I thought, but I wasn't sure who I was referring to anymore.

---

Chapter 12: [tumblr] [AO3]

Please 'like' it if you liked it and send a comment my way. =)

[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 10

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year’s Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

But in a deep whisper, almost inaudible to everyone else, she added in a low undertone, "Gamemakers."

That seemed to have brought a leadlike silence to the clearing, equal in both weight as well as toxicity.

---

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 9: [tumblr] [AO3]

They told me the supplies were no longer in the tree.

At first, caught off-guard with a mouthful of dry bread and the heavy weight of sleep creeping along my eyelids, I assumed I had misheard the statement. But when Marka's serious gaze, stone grey and bearing her perpetual hardness, flickered over to me, only then did the string of words begin to make sense in my head. Abruptly, I was made very aware of the hard sunflower seeds and the tart ribbon of berry jam weaving in the loaf, suddenly feeling as if they were ripping the moisture from my tongue, filling my throat with an unbearably dry – almost desiccated – thirst.

The supplies were no longer in the tree.

Repeated a second time, the gravity of the situation felt all the more real.

"What?" my tongue was pressed down by the bread as I said it, rending the word close to incoherent.

Marka paid no attention to my graceless interjection. "They must've taken them when no one was at Cornucopia,” she deduced, a cool air of nonchalance coating her sentence in frost.

"'They'? Who's 'they'?" Sheer snapped almost demandingly. "Don't tell me the other tributes cleaned out the tree?" Her sentence adopted a high pitch near the end, an undeniable fear of starvation constricting her words to a threadlike fineness. I remained silent, unable to do anything but. The air was tensed and the Careers agitated. It felt as if the slightest syllable I uttered would change their minds of keeping me alive. I was in a very dangerous situation and had to react accordingly.

"Clean out the whole tree and not drop dead from the poison? Highly unlikely," Marka brushed off with a scoff. But in a deep whisper, almost inaudible to everyone else, she added in a low undertone, "Gamemakers."

That seemed to have brought a leadlike silence to the clearing, equal in both weight as well as toxicity.

The crackling of dry wood in the campfire and the ominous hoot of faraway owls provided no comfort. The rest of the Careers took a moment to assess the situation, each one of them silently considering this new factor, gauging their chances of survival. Everyone had a grim look on their faces, Hiddleston included. I manoeuvred the wad of cardboard-like bread to the back of my mouth. It bruised my throat when I reluctantly swallowed.

"Well, what now?" Tom's calmness earned him a steely glare from his fellow Districter. Unfazed, he continued in an almost pressing tone, "They're apparently seem keen on starving us."

"It's just to lessen the odds," the District 4 boy spoke up. I realised then that I had not heard his voice up till now; it was a deep and rough drawl, betraying the youthful gleam of his sea green eyes. "They probably think there are too many tributes," he continued. "We made it out with adequate supplies, we have our weapons and we have each other, for now. It's not the end, we can still hunt." It was meant to reassure but the way he said 'for now' sent a knowing chill down my back, a stark reminder that once the tribute count had thinned, it's every man for himself.

"The Gamemakers wouldn't take away the excess supplies. Not without there being other food sources in the arena, close by," Sheer staggered her words, as if considering the idea just as it left her lips. She rolled it around her mouth, tasting it, a hint of a smirk spreading across her lips soon after. "We don’t have to split up yet." From the way they spoke, I assumed that one of the conditions of abandoning their truce was a lack in food. I frowned; there was still much that I didn’t know about being a Career.

There is a wordless croak from the District 4 girl and the boy watches her as she makes intangible signs with her fingers and her palm. I stared at the pair of them, at first clueless to what she was doing. When I finally understood, I adopted the same patient gaze that Tom seemed to have been giving her the entire time. I hadn’t even realised she was mute.

"She says there's a stream due south," the District 4 boy translates. "There might be fish there."

Marka considers this.

"We'll inspect it first thing in the morning."

---

When the sun began to bud at the horizon, like an orange-laden brush being dipped into clear blue water, the boy from District 4 roused from his sleep. The transition had been so fluid, how he switched from deep slumber to meaningful awareness, that at first I merely watched him as he gathered his things. He grabbed a large, empty brown bag; half a dozen wooden poles from Cornucopia, the ends white and sharpened with a knife; and the bundle of nets Tom had been helping the girl weave last night.

Before leaving camp, he had taken one quick look around - probably to survey the woods - and his gaze fell upon me midway. He showed no signs of distaste when I stood up, and he wordlessly allowed me to take half of the poles and one of the nets. From that, I assumed he was alright with me following him to wherever he was going.

And we departed without so much as a ‘good morning’ to each other.

---

The distance between us was filled with white exhales and the sound of heavy boots upon dew-laced foliage. Morning mist shrouded everything and anything beyond six trees in each direction. My chest was bubbling with unanswered questions and unquelled doubts but it didn't feel like it was the right time or the right person to voice them out to. So we spent the long moment of dim morning light in silence, trekking through the dense forest, knowing virtually nothing about each other but the number of our Districts.

After a few dozen metres of silently staring at his back, my mind began to tune out the crunch of leaves and twigs and flickered back to earlier that morning. I recalled my nightmares of being executed, of Tom wielding the club that would bash my skull in and of Nyssa joining in, snatching a sharp knife from Marka’s belt and proceeding to skin me alive. For hours, I had slipped in and out of consciousness, desperately trying to avoid the dreams, only to fall back into them once fatigue got a tight enough hold. I lost count of the many times I jolted myself awake and I no longer remember what it was like to be well-rested. The pounding in my head hadn’t lessened a bit and my right arm still throbbed like it was on fire, but none of that seemed to matter with images of death flickering behind my eyes. It reminded me of the night I decided to go to the roof for the first time, how unbearably sleepless it was. So, when I heard the District 4 boy stirring from his sleep, it only made sense for me to follow him.

I began to wonder. Waking up early, was this something he did every day? Was it something embedded into his being, something automatic, clockwork, like what chopping a tree down was like for me? We didn’t learn much about fishing or other Districts in school but I knew fish were easier to catch during dawn. Did he wake up early every morning to provide for his family? Did he watch the Games with the same dread like I did? What sort of thoughts fill his mind during the day? What sort of nightmares plagued his night?

I then found myself struggling to remember which stations he frequented during our training, as well as what his name was. It was an extravagant name, I vaguely recall, an old, outdated one, like mine. It probably carried a deep meaning to it, as well as the hopes and dreams of his parents. You can tell by the brightness of his eyes and the depth of the lines along his mouth that he was loved. That most of his life had been filled with smiles. I almost envied him.

Almost.

During my long walk alongside him, I noticed something odd about him, a sort of disability that he had. Abruptly, without warning, his hands would start shaking. The first time I saw this, I recall, was at the training centre on the very first day; but at the time I assumed it had been purely nerves that spurred it. But I realise now that it was a reoccurring thing, sporadic, irregular, as if suddenly a gust of winter wind had blown by and he was the only one that felt it.

Along with the muteness of the girl tribute, I understood the reasons behind their low private training scores.

I didn't feel like it was appropriate to ask him about it, his shaking, like how it seemed almost taboo to mention anything about the bloodbath to the Careers. After the Fallen had been shown and after two more cannonfires, Marka and the rest had returned from their hunt, lightly smeared in blood. At first, I had been frightened, certain they planned on making a huge show of killing me, but they did nothing. They treated me as if nothing happened, passed me my ration of food and didn't mention the bloodbath at all. It was incredibly unnerving. I found myself actually grateful of the glares Facet was sending me; they reassured me that at least most of my memories were real. That I had angered him at one point, enough for him to hold a grudge, but the wound at his temple had mysteriously disappeared.

I groaned inwardly. The whole of Panem had probably seen the entire spectacle of a bloodbath; I began to worry how much of an idiot they saw me as now. Surely the sponsors would be having second thoughts of this disgrace of a tribute. Lived his life as a lumberjack and knocks himself out falling from a tree. I imagined Linwood in his emerald green suit, trying desperately to schmooze the betters but silently cursing me in his thoughts. Or maybe he had given up entirely, instead focusing on the only other sane tribute from District 7.

Nyssa.

She was out there. Somewhere. I wondered whether she had managed to find shelter. Whether her wound would heal without proper medication now that the supplies were gone. Was there even a wound at all? I didn’t know.

"We're here," the District 4 boy murmured, snapping me out of my pointless reverie.

The calm babbling of a pebble-lined stream drifted in the breeze.

---

I’ve seen the tributes from the fishermen district before. On the Hunger Game replays, they never failed to impress me with their dexterity and ability to survive. When made to fish, they wove nets, sharpened branches, and could craft fishhooks out of anything they got their hands on. Of course, the Capitol cuts out the actual making of their tools, but regardless it's close to amazing how easy it is for them to find food. For us in District 7, most scavenging result in tree bark tea or soups spiced with pine needles. Not that I'm complaining, but it's admittedly a few steps down from the fresh, meaty fish the District 4 tributes seem to gather with ease.

“What’s your name again?” he spoke up, punctuating his question by driving a pole into the riverbank. He then proceeded to peel off his jacket and roll up the legs of his trousers, tossing the former onto the low branch of a nearby tree.

“Chris,” I murmured, somewhat relieved he had asked. At least I didn’t have to feel too guilty of forgetting his. “You?”

“Kye,” he answered, kicking off his shoes and pulling off his socks. He then stretched his arm towards me expectantly, palm up and fingertips trembling.

I handed him the bundle of nets slung over my shoulder, in doing so, releasing my hold of the wooden poles. They clattered loudly as they fell onto the smooth rocks but “Kye” didn’t seem disturbed by the sound. I paused.

“Huh... I could’ve sworn it was longer,” I mused uncertainly, referring to his name. It was definitely longer, a mouthful even.

“It’s short for Malachite.”

“Ah, yeah, that’s what it was,” I said as the name struck some familiarity. Without a word, he turned his back towards me and returned to the stream, the nets sloshing along with his footsteps. Following suit, I tugged off my jacket and rolled up my pants legs, eager to help. With slight difficulty, I unlaced my boots and kicked them off, letting them thud onto the soft earth beside the river. “It’s a nice name.”

“Thanks,” he returned absentmindedly, feeling around the bottom of the stream with the soles of his feet. “Yours too.”

The gurgle of the water provided a soft cushion for our chaste exchanges to land on, which I was grateful for. It made the situation all the more calmer, as if I was having this conversation with a classmate, instead of a boy who’d kill me when given the chance. “What about the other tribute?” I asked, picking up another pole when he pointed to it. “The girl from your District.”

“Her name’s Sai,” he answered simply. I cocked an eyebrow, briefly wondering whether all parents in District 4 gave their children rhyming nicknames. Kye didn’t seem to notice my reaction. “It’s short for Sairen.”

“Like the alarm?” I queried, recalling the broken-down watchtowers back in my district, with their faulty wires and rusty machinery.

“More like the myth,” Malachite replied, knotting a corner of the net to the pole. I stepped into the river, the icy bite immediately chasing away the fog of sleep from my head.

“Myth?” I echoed, unfamiliar with the word. Coming from my lips, it seemed all the more alien.

“They’re stories adults tell the children. To scare them from going out to the beach at night,” he explained, embedding another pole into the water. He was wading close to the middle of the stream now, the water coming up to his waist. “If you follow the siren’s voice, you’ll only find despair,” he quoted as if reading from a book. Said with the soft sounds of moving water in the background, it sounded almost eerie. It made me wonder what sort of despair the sirens would bring if I did follow them. He casts me an inquisitive look. “Don’t have any of those where you live?”

I thought for a moment.

“We usually just say ‘don’t go out at night’,” I said, which perked a grin at the corners of his mouth.

After about two minutes of more knotting and more spearing, and once he was satisfied with the fish-traps he made, Kye picked up one of the two remaining spears – the wall of ice between us melting – and said, “C’mon, Chris, I’ll teach you how to fish.”

---

It was later in the morning, when the sun began to beat down upon the stream in hot waves, that the woods around us began to rustle all at once. I had been tying up the tails of the fish we've caught when an unbearable wind blew across the underbrush. It smelt of factories and carried with it a sharp and acidic pungency which burned my throat when I breathed. I rose from my knees, feeling as if I was coughing out thorns, trying my best to manoeuvre the pendulums of fish swinging from my shoulder. Through tear-fazed eyes, I found Kye clambering out of the stream, a spear held at bay as he bundled the bag and nets into his free arm. His hands were shaking.

He looked at me once, an alarmed and knowing gleam in his eyes. I on the other hand, had no idea what was going on, relying solely on Kye’s frightened gaze to tell me something incredibly bad was about to happen.

That fear seemed to only be secured when Tom came stumbling out of the forest, the ends of his curls curtained with smoke. His cheeks were flushed and his sleeve was smouldering, but what drew my attention the most was how the entire expanse of his exposed skin was bathed in a bright shade of pink. It looked painful and had a glassy sheen to it, reminding me of sunburn.

A deep rumble ran through the earth and a number of cannons seemed to go off in response to a series of tribute deaths. But for some reason, the cannons themselves sounded different; they gurgled and spluttered, as if dispelling some sort of noxious fluid. They were nothing like the sharp, ringing bursts that peppered yesterday’s bloodbath. These ones seemed menacing, sickly almost, just wrong. The trees shuddered once more, raining a blanket of fresh green leaves onto the ground. Something moved in the shadows and I squinted into the forest behind Tom. I watched as the vague outline of Marka formed in the dusty fog; I could see the points of her elbows swinging rapidly as she ran. She was accompanied by the bold apparitions of Sheer and Facet, their own faces red from heat. They’re yelling at us, trying to tell us something but the cannons were too loud for me to hear.

Finally, Sairen bursts out of the bushes and clings tightly onto my arm. Her free hand opened and closed desperately in front of my face, a stream of empty coughs erupting from her gaping mouth. I couldn’t understand the signing nor the mouthing and noticing this, she shot me a harsh glare. She then pointed to the tops of the pinewood trees, her shoulders trembling from exhaustion.

I then realised that I had been right; the sounds I heard before hadn’t been cannons.

They were the sounds of active volcanoes.

---

Chapter 11: [tumblr] [AO3]

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[windcranes]

Penance [Hunger Games Hiddlesworth] - Chapter 9

Rating: T Characters: Chris & Tom (AU) Warnings: Hunger Games Alternate Universe. Potential angst minefield Summary: Tom Hiddleston and Chris Hemsworth, the two volunteer tributes that will make this year’s Hunger Games one of the most emotionally involving and heart-wrenching events in the history of Panem.

This was not the time to show weakness, I reminded myself. The whole of Panem is watching.

I keep my eyes forward, locked onto the goal. My only goal.

The tree, I have to get to the tree.

---

Chapter 1: [tumblr] [AO3] Chapter 8: [tumblr] [AO3]

I’m running.

The moment the gong sounded, I had broken into a feverish sprint towards the glimmering tree. I found myself moving on instinct alone, pure gut-feeling, with the burn of adrenaline coursing through my veins and a cold numbness blooming in my skull. My breaths come out bated and shallow, bringing a menthol chill cascading down my throat. The crunch and thump of my boots against the ground thundered in my ears like a thousand falling redwood trees. For a moment, everything else had melted away, ceased to exist, dissipating into the intangible backdrop of green and pine. And I was left in a formless world, whose only horizon bore the black, chalky outline of a monstrous tree with branches of stars.

A sharp, pained shriek from my right pierces me like a spear, jolting the ground beneath my feet.

I stumble but quickly regain balance.

There is another scream but I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. I was sure that, no, I knew I would hesitate at the sight. The sight of the first kill. And that wouldn’t be good for the sponsors; no one wanted to see a tribute go soft. I force out a cough to distract myself and to ease the tension in my frost-laced throat.

This was not the time to show weakness, I reminded myself. The whole of Panem is watching.

I keep my eyes forward, locked onto the goal. My only goal.

The tree, I have to get to the tree.

The sound of a cannon ruptures my mantra, cruelly catching me unaware. I find myself wholly slammed into the real world, where the ground is made of soil and the birdcall is full of fright.

My footsteps falter. I'm suddenly extremely aware of the pain budding in my knees. I try to ignore it and force myself to speed up again, but the newly-sparked unease didn't waver. This wasn’t right, I thought. This wasn’t right. It's the first day. The Gamemakers only sound the cannons in the afternoon on the first day, when the bloodbath died down and the fatally wounded had succumbed to their injuries. When all who could’ve been saved weren’t and the death toll was concrete.

For the cannon to go off at each death now, it can only mean one thing: most of the tributes had taken their chances with nature and decided to flee Cornucopia. That one minute on the tribute plates would've given them enough time to weigh out their choices. They were probably halfway through the pineforests now, running towards momentary safety. Smart, I thought. At least they’re sharp enough to realise how impossible it was to grab anything from the tree and survive the climb down.

But I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved by the less severe bloodbath, or to dread the increased “hunting” I would be forced to do. As a Career.

A Career.

The word still stung.

BLAM! Another cannon rang out, sending flocks of birds squawking into the air.

With a deep exhale, I reach the base of the monstrous tree and immediately begin to grapple the giant, apple-sized warts littered across the surface. They filled my hand perfectly, like handholds. I found this peculiar; it was almost as if the tree was made to be climbed... I wouldn't be surprised if it was. It wouldn't be the first time the Gamemakers introduced one of their laboratory experiments to the Games. It was probably the only place they could show off how clever they were.

I hoist myself upwards along the trunk, gingerly fighting back the urge to wince. The bark digs sharply into my fingers and grazes across my palms but I push on, fuelled by the rustling of tributes behind me. I guessed there were still a few who prioritised the weapons high enough to attempt climbing the tree. I shouldn’t let my guard down. These were the desperate ones. One good tug and one wrong slip and my neck’s as good as broken.

Another cannon blares into my ears, and when the ringing in my head subsides, I hear the screams.

Even though my heart was still pounding feverishly against my eardrums, the unfolding chaos beneath me is unmistakeable. I swallow and try to block out the characteristic sounds of the bloodbath. I bitterly remembered the brutal Day 1 replays the Capitol made us watch. But those playbacks were nothing compared to this. This year was different. It sounded, it felt different.

The grotesque chorus of pleas and thuds and cracks could only be described as “torture”. I bite my lip as one particular boy started to cry as he yelled, sounding almost deranged as he begged for death. A shudder ran down my spine as I realised what was happening. The shortage of prey would have spurred the other Careers to make the few kills as slow and interesting as possible.

This was all for the Capitol’s enjoyment. The Games are only good if the deaths were entertaining. An anguished scream vibrated from right underneath me, tapering off to a muffled gurgle.

My grip falters and my hand slips along a patch of red moss.

And I’m falling.

The cannon sounds off just as a sturdy branch knocks the wind out of my lungs. A pillar of fire licks bruises across my back and the slime on my palm is unnervingly akin to blood, but I’m thankful I hadn’t fallen all the way down. I didn’t want to admit it, but my fingers were trembling. That was close… That was very close… I thought as I coaxed myself to inhale. I’m alive and nothing seems to be broken. I still have a chance. I still have a chance. It takes me a few seconds to distinguish the stars in my head from the glinting of weapons in the higher branches. As my eyes start to focus, I make out the dark, flickering backs of a few non-Careers as they scaled higher up the tree. Thankfully none of them took my fall as an invitation for a fight. I wasn’t too keen on the idea of a scuffle in the leaves and branches, suspended a dangerous few metres above the ground.

A loud rustling from the branch below tells me someone else is on their way.

“What’s wrong, spitfire?” Facet sneered cockily as he climbs past with disgusting ease. “Slipped and fell? Poor baby…” I have a mind to kick his shin as a thanks for his concern but I’m more focused on the bloodied dagger he’s holding in his hand… and the familiar head of long, straight hair he’s closely shadowing.

Nyssa.

No, no no, no, my mind retorts. It’s too soon. Too soon. My body is still petrified from the fall and my breaths are a stream of gasps and coughs but I heave myself from the branch. I try to choke out a shout, a warning, anything, but nothing past a grimy whisper leaves my gaping mouth.

I’m caught between fear and anger. Why hadn’t she run away? How did she think she can survive this bloodbath? The questions roll through my mind as I grapple the knobs again, shakily climbing after them. Even if she could outclimb the Careers, how is she going to get down without being killed? “Ny-Nyssa!” I rasped but it’s overpowered by the screams that now freely radiate from the chaos below.

Facet’s closing in and Nyssa's still unaware.

And I’m too far away to stop what is about to happen.

He grabs her by the hair and wrenches a fearful cry from her lips. From where I am, I see her trembling hands holding onto the branches above her head for dear life. Facet jerks his grip, trying to drag her down but she doesn’t yield, instead trying to reach for something a small distance away. I squint my eyes. It was blocked by a cluster of leaves, whatever it was, I couldn't see it. A weapon perhaps, to defend herself? Or something to throw at him?

It doesn’t matter; from the look on her face, it’s probably too far away.

I’m climbing as if my life depended on it, ignoring the stinging on my hands that’s starting to burn like fire. I think I’ve cut my palm but I can’t tell whether it’s blood on my palms or more liquefying red moss. Worries of it being poisonous leak out of my mind as I desperately scramble towards Facet’s ankle.

Another cannon practically breaks my eardrums and I’m fearing that the next one would be for Nyssa.

“CHRIS! What are you doing?!” someone’s screaming at me but I pay them no heed. I’m getting closer now, very close, almost close enough to sabotage Facet’s kill; but the dagger is just as dangerous, being drawn higher and higher, poised for the fatal blow. He’s balancing his feet on two branches. Whoever was calling me is screaming something intangible. The pain in my hands is leaking into the hollow of my wrists. Nyssa’s being reeled in by her hair and she’s a second away from entering the knife’s range. It’s swinging up now… and then down.

I curl my hand into a fist and promptly slam it into the back of Facet’s knee.

There’s a groan. Another scream. The thud of wood. The rustle of leaves. A pain in my shoulder. Bright, bright red. Gurgles. The shuddering handle of an embedded dagger. My breath in my throat. Desperation. Shattered hope. The wind whistling through the branches. A tear. Facet’s angry glare. Blood.

A cannon.

---

There's the sickening sound of my skull making contact with solid wood. My vision is filled with clear discs of light and green, shifting feverishly right before my eyes. I try to sit up but a large fist on my diaphragm sends me back down to the branch. It twists and jerks deeper and sends an explosion of stars flickering before my eyes. I gasp and try to make sense of everything, my hands grappling at the intruding fist. My cheek is throbbing and there's a salty tang pooling in my mouth. It takes me a second of staring at what I assume is Facet's other hand to realise he’s punched me. I cough and try to push him off but there are three of them now and none of them are keeping still. Everything’s starting to spin and there’s an unwavering, disdained throb at my throat. Nyssa... Nyssa was gone...

The hand moves from my gut, to my shoulder and I was held up before I'm slammed against the branch again. He’s pulling at my fringe and forcing me to look at him and I watch as the two Facets slowly meld into one. His lips were moving the whole time but I hadn't heard anything. I'm regaining consciousness now and along with it, a deep pang of dread as I realise the consequence of my actions.

Facet's glaring down at me, his eyes narrowed and his pupils full of pitch black anger. A line of blood streaks along the side of his face, stemming from a fresh wound at his temple. Did he hit himself when I punched his leg? Or was that already there before?

“WHAT was THAT?!” My ears started to work again and I'm greeted by his deafening roar. He swung his fist down to my other cheek and I move aside, narrowing dodging the blow. His knuckle brushed roughly against my ear before colliding with hard, solid wood. I felt the branch shudder beneath me and his loud cry of pain pierced my eardrums.

“FACET! LET. HIM. GO!” someone’s yelling from the ground and it’s the same person who was screaming at me before. I recognise the voice as Marka's but I’m not relieved; she sounds equally angry. Fear begins to bubble in my gut. Did they consider me a traitor now? Had I just thrown away my biggest chance of surviving the Games? Am I a target now instead of an ally? Should I run? Would I survive if I did? I’m so high up in the tree, it would be easy for Facet to just kick me off.

“HE. HIT ME!”

“You’re not five years old, Facet! Let. Him. GO!” 

I saw a vein throb at his neck as Marka said that. “So you’re siding with him now?! Is that it?!!”

“I’m not siding with anyone, just let him go!"

Facet’s seething with anger, probably not used to being ordered around. I don’t know what Marka’s planning to but I’m relieved that it’s at least prolonging my life. I begin to worm out of Facet’s grip when he sends a furious glare right at me. He grabs my throat and I start to panic from how easily he’s cutting off my air flow. I try to push him off with my wrist like how I do when I wrestle with Liam. But those fights were good-natured and Liam is much smaller. So it only makes sense that when doing the same to a trained killer that it takes a lot more effort.

But it’s taking too much effort and darkness is beginning to cloud my vision.

Marka’s screaming again but it sounds like she’s miles away. I’m kicking at Facet now, trying to land a solid blow on his gut but all I hit is air. My grunts aren't making it out my mouth. They get caught in my neck, throbbing right underneath his vice-like grip. The starry flickering from the weapons in the tree start to dull and I’m struggling for breath that never enters my lungs. Just as I think that it's all over and I'm about to die, just as I start to drown in the vacuum of my shadows, I'm suddenly freed and oxygen fills my throat.

The last thing I see is Facet’s satisfied smirk as he lets go.

And the last thing I feel is my body falling through the branches.

---

Luke is shaking at his head at me and I know that can’t be a good thing.

“Really, Chris? Really?” he’s trying to sound authoritative but I can hear the amusement glimmering in his voice. I hold back a laugh. “Hiding red dye in the Willand’s wash basin?”

“It was Liam’s idea!” I retorted and there’s a prompt “It wasn’t me!” from somewhere by the fireplace.

“Well, who’s going to take responsibility then?” asked Luke as he folded his arms across his chest. He had a grin on his face now, hidden from the concerned adults crowding behind him, and his blue eyes twinkled in the amber light.

“You are!” Liam and I answered in unison and he tackles us both to the hearth, tickling us until our stomachs started to hurt. In giddy desperation, Liam fesses up to our prank, yelling out “I am! I am! It’s all my fault!” but I don’t yield as easily, keeping up my strong front despite the unsuppressable hiccoughs and laughter.

“Luke, you should really discipline them properly!” our mother says disapprovingly from the doorway.

“Aww they’re just boys, mam,” he brushes off, defending us. He always did that. “I’m sure I was just as bad when I was six.” He flicks me in the ear as he says this and I obstinately stick out my tongue.

“They’ll be the death of me but I love them all the same.”

I wake up with a jolt, as if I had only just made contact with the ground. Almost immediately, my body responds, streams of white hot pain shooting up across my back and along my right arm. I groan and curl up on my side, cradling my shoulder and squeezing it to relieve the ache. I could feel my pulse underneath my fingertips, strong and fleeting like the wings of a frightened bird. “Relax,” someone tells me but I just can’t. My head’s spinning and it feels like there’s a gigantic  lump stuck in my throat. My gag reflex is telling me to barf but there’s nothing in my stomach to choke out. It's a frustrating sensation, as if you’re slowly being robbed of all self-control and it's taking me the last of mine to stop myself from whimpering. “Relax,” the voice repeats, closer now. “It’s the poison, it’s in your bloodstream.”

Poison? What poison? My eyes try to focus on whoever's speaking but all I see is a milky white shadow.

“The poison from the tree,” the voice answers. I didn't even realise I had spoken out loud.

The tree? I try to recall. My memory is a hazy mess. I fell from the tree. How am I alive?

“The branches cushioned your fall.” Whoever it was that’s speaking… is being very patient with me, I realised.

But then, a sharp pain assaults my left hand and my fragmented vision is engulfed by black.

---

The next time I come to, I hear an owl coaxing me out of my feverish sleep.

Everything’s dark now and all I can make out are the bold, black streaks of pinetrees stretching up towards a glimmering night sky. My eyelids are heavy and so is my chest, as if someone had piled rocks into my ribcage while I was unconscious. A soft crackling at my left ear causes me to jerk from the ground I was lying upon, nerves tensed and shoulders knitted. Immediately, I’m filled with regret and I fall back to the cushy bundle of cloth, tightly gripping my pounding head—Wait. Cloth?

I brush my fingers along the mound of balled-up fabric that forms my makeshift pillow. The soft rustle it makes tells me it’s the same material as the jackets the Gamemakers provided us with. But that didn’t make any sense because I was still wearing mine... I stiffen. Don’t tell me they were harvested off the bloodbath corpses before the hovercrafts took them away? The idea was unnerving.

“Ouch,” came a small whisper from my left, the same direction as the crackling.

Gingerly, I turn my body, slowly shifting my weight so that I was on my side. A small tinge of deja vu throbs along my temple with the pain but I brush it off. As I suspected, there was a small campfire beside me, and from the thickness of the firewood bark, it had just been made recently. Two figures were on the other side, hunched over by the light of the flames. The shadows hid their faces from view but from the blurry outline, I knew they were Careers. The other tributes were far too small. They seemed to be engrossed in something in their hands. From the way their fingers moved, I figured that they were knotting something... or weaving, I wasn’t sure.

One of them glanced up and looked straight at me, as if they had been told to periodically check that I was still there.

This only secured my impending dread. I knew it; I was a prisoner now. That stunt at the tree cost me their trust and my life. They were going to kill me. But... why was I still alive?

I looked at my captors questioningly and the one who had looked up - a solemn-looking sixteen year old I recognised as the girl from District 4 - lightly tugged the sleeve of the person next to her. Where were the others? I couldn’t help but think. Were they out hunting?

To my mild surprise, Tom was the other one who had been assigned to keep watch. He gave me an expressionless glance before looking back down at whatever was in his hands. The girl from 4 seemed taken aback by this and mutely pulled at his jacket again. I raised an eyebrow. Were there predators in the woods? Why were they so keen on keeping quiet? 

“You’re awake,” he murmured with disinterest, as if obliged to speak.

“... Yeah,” I replied uncertainly. I wasn’t sure what sort of answer he expected for a comment like that. To my mild surprise, he didn’t press further, instead continuing with his work. When the uneasy silence threatened to fall again, I asked. “Where are the others?”

“The others?”

“The Careers,” I amended.

“Hunting.”

He had said it so nonchalantly, so offhandishly, it plucked at a nerve. I bit my lip. “Didn’t expect you of all people to say so little...” I mutter bitterly under my breath.

Tom cocked an eyebrow.

“You know, since you’re always so keen on talking and so full of sayings,” it sounded harsher than I had intended but I didn’t care. He deserved it after all. “‘Say it from the rooftops’ and all that.”

The quietness that followed and the sincere confusion in his grey eyes began to alarm me.

“What?”

“You said that,” I accused, not liking how stupid he was making me sound. The District 4 girl had the same perplexed look on her face. “Last night... when we were on the roof.”

The Capitol anthem blared from all around us, clear and crisp as if an orchestra had been lurking in the shadows, playing the ominous tune between the pinetrees. There was the sharp clatter of wings as a flock of birds took flight. I gave Tom a glare that said ‘We’re not done yet’ before the gaunt, solemn faces of the Fallen lit up the night sky. A deep sense of dread bubbled in my gut, eating away at my chest. I was not ready for this. My fingers tensed around the jackets under my head. I was not ready to see Nyssa’s face again. The hologram in the sky would be the photograph they took of us before the Games, but I was sure all I’d see is her anger. Her silent anger and her betrayed, accusing glare, like the one she had shot me with during our training. ‘Why didn’t you save me?’ she’d demand. ‘Why didn’t you save me?’

I took in a deep breath and noted the deaths.

Both tributes from 3 were gone. I remembered their faces from Training; small and frail and bespectacled. They had probably been the first to fall.

District 5 lost both their tributes as well. This meant that all the Careers survived, as expected. 

The girl from 6. She looked so little, it stung to imagine her being tortured to death.

The boy from 10.

Wait. They're already at District 10.

That can’t be right, I saw her die.

I saw Facet swing the knife down and the blood splatter across the bark. I saw her body go limp and the life slowly fade out of her eyes. I saw everything, right down to the single, silver tear running down her face.

I saw her die, I was sure of it. 

My breaths were shallow and I glared down at my bandaged palms. I looked back up to the sky and then at Tom, whose nonchalance unnerved me the most. Didn't he see her die? Wasn't he there as well? He hadn't climbed the tree but surely, her body would have fallen to the ground. I didn't understand.

As if sensing that I was staring at him, his gaze fell on me and I recoiled, no longer sure what was real.

And who wasn’t.

---

Chapter 10: [tumblr] [AO3]

Please 'like' it if you like it and send me a comment. c:

Also, incredible news: Penance has been translated into Italian by the lovely balthazarstolethetardis! I shall make an official post later but here are the links to the translated Chapter 1 and Chapter 2.