W.h.a.t [is] there <left> .to. s e e?// Topaz/Nash

But don't lose me now,
Don't lose me now,
Though I know that I'm not useful anyhow,
just let me stick around?

Nash Harvey —

When Nash had left the previous day's fight, bloodied, a killer, and uncomfortably close to death, it was hard for her to think of anything aside from abandonment. It was obviously a better tactical call to leave an ally as wounded as she had been, rather than try to get them back to a less-useless state of health, so it made sense that Topaz — Career through and through, as Nash had noticed — would leave the District Two tribute to die. That was how she saw it. Nobody stuck with Nash for very long, even back at home.

So, after having scrambled away from what was left of the fight — that other tribute hadn't been worn down much at all by the fighting, and had that unfair advantage over the girl — it was a relief, in a way, for Nash to come back across her ally, not too far from the skirmish. The other girl seemed to be looking for her, but little was done or said between the time she showed up and the time Nash quickly fell asleep — or blacked out? She wasn't really sure.

Sleep had been a black abyss for the girl to regain some strength, what little she even possessed at full capacity. The lengthy respite**, however, did not prove to be sufficient enough to effectively cover the hurt that Nash had felt from being abandoned — or, left, anyhow. It had always seemed to her that nobody really wanted her around. Not her parents, not many of the people back in the District — half the time, it even seemed like the two voices in her head wished she'd leave them to bicker in peace. And, especially wounded as she was, she didn't want to be a burden to anyone, much less the other Career girl.

Therefore, it was something of a relief to be woken up to her ally's voice, even with the horrible sense of being a hinderance gnawing at her gut. It took awhile for her to muster the willpower, but eventually Nash forced herself upright with her one not-broken arm, and refastened the other's sling that had come dislodged sometime during the night, or perhaps even during the other day's fight. She'd have to actually tend to her injuries this morning, rather than just leave them with the rush job she'd done last night.

Without saying a word to Topaz — not because she was ignoring the girl, but simply because there was nothing she had to say, and she liked silence while she worked — she dug through her pack and withdrew one of her not-purified jugs of water and the iodine tablets, plus a spool of thread, the attached needle and a loose roll of bandages. She dropped a tablet into the water, waiting impatiently for it to be sufficiently purified, and drank the majority of it.

And if you're ever left with any doubt
What you live with and what you'll do without
I'm only sorry that
it took so long to figure out

Nash Harvey —

It would have been impossible for Nash to suppress the slight smile that appeared as Topaz gently brushed the hair off of her forehead, so as to bandage it. It was impossible for her to tell if the spots where the other girl's fingertips made contact with her forehead were impossibly warm or frigid — the sensation contradicted itself somewhere along the afferent and efferent neural pathways, or perhaps in the tribute's brain itself. It seemed to be the site of many discrepancies.

The tension set the District Two tribute on edge in what was, for the most part, with as positive a connotation as possible. Even so, the stagnation of the relationship between the two Career girls frustrated her. What had happened to "I actually like you kind of a lot" and its counterpart, "You've grown on me a lot more than either of them have, too," Nash had to wonder. They'd hardly even talked since that night, right before the shoes hit. Why it hadn't been addressed any more beyond what had been said was beyond her. But then, she'd never been particularly assertive or articulate about her emotions, especially in relation to other people.

She supposed that the Arena was an especially awkward place to try and initiate anything — chemistry or no, spark or no — given that the entire nation was watching. Only one person could make it alive, anyhow. Not even to mention the fights — maybe that was why the pair hadn't spoken much: they'd been constantly assailed by inanimate objects, or even other tributes. There hadn't been a single day-long break since entering the Arena, Nash realized with a hint of annoyance.

Annoyance? She was annoyed? Hardly the feeling one should have in regards to the Games. It should be more than annoyance, and more than just a hint of it, she decided. After all, the Games had a funny way of being a monumental, life-changing event for all parties involved, considering the fighting and the lack of food and supplies and the wounds. And the dying. But, somehow, in Nash's twisted scope of things, that was a minor detail.

She'd almost worked up the courage to say something, but before she determined what exactly it was she was going to, the other tribute had responded to her inquiry about the pumpkins, figuring, as Nash had, that whatever was contained inside them could fall either on the positive or negative end of the spectrum. Could be anything, could be nothing at all.

Looking on with antici—
PATION! as the other girl hunted for a pumpkin to smash first, Nash vaguely wondered if she ought to ready her weapon for an attack. As they'd established, there was no telling what was inside the giant gourds, and while they were already violating Rule #1 of Arena Survival — don't be curious — it still didn't hurt to be at least a little bit prepared for the worst.

As the other tribute's foot delivered a nice sturdy kick to the gargantuan fruit, Nash gripping her knife with her non-broken arm, it became apparent that there was nothing inside at all. No grotesque mutts, no land mines, no metal spikes — but at the same time, there had been no additional supplies, no bits of armour, no weapons, and no food. She let herself ease up a little. That pumpkin was safe, anyhow. Would the rest of them be?

Her turn to smash one, then, wasn't it? She looked around at the enormous field of orange fruit — or were they vegetables? didn't matter — and tried to select one of moderate size and a somewhat more vivd shell. She readied her foot to deliver a solid blow to the gourd, when met by an interruption from the Two.

No, not that one! Yes, that one! Why are you so paranoid? I'm cautious. There's a difference. But that pumpkin is bad news, I'm telling you! You're mental. It's fine! Would it kill you to not argue with everything I say? In here? It actually might. That pumpkin is fine, go for it.

Dispelling her Two-induced hesitation, Nash went ahead and delivered a firm kick to the probably-dangerous gourd.

[[smashes pumpkin]]
[dice=8]
[Nothing]

Well, the point was fast
But it was too blunt to miss
Life handed us a paycheck and we said
"We worked harder than this"

Nash Harvey —

The odds that there would actually be anything in the pumpkins at that point were approaching zero, Nash realized. Maybe they really were just there for decoration. A red herring, designed to distract and frustrate tributes. There for the aesthetics of it. After all, the Arena was definitely following a theme this year, and pumpkins were the trademark of autumn, weren't they?

Giving up and sitting down on one of the orange gourds while her companion continued to smash the fruit, Nash announced, "Somehow, I don't think there's going to be anything else in there." She dug her knife in the side of the shell of the pumpkin she was using as a seat, not enough to damage the structural integrity of it, but enough to keep the blade from falling to the ground.

It was nice to take a break, even a little one. There had been so much fighting, so much running around recently that Nash had figured they'd probably be worn out to death before any of the other tributes had a chance to run them through with a sword. But in the cool autumn air, it was incredibly relaxing for Nash to have a seat on something that wasn't the ground, and just watch — admire, really — her ally smashing the aesthetic aspects of the Gamemakers' beautifully designed Arena.

It's looking like a limb torn off
Or altogether just taken apart
We're reeling through an endless fall
We are the ever-living ghost of what once was

Nash Harvey —

It was impossible for Nash to not grin in amusement at the other girl's stubborn resolve to keep smashing pumpkins — and to not raise an eyebrow when a deformed hat was actually located among the broken chunks of the fruit. Maybe the Gamemakers had decided that there needed to be some incentive to smash the gourds, as mindless stress-release could only be so interesting to watch for so long. Nash doubted that the rest of the Capitol would be as keen to watch the District One tribute break the pumpkins open for as long as Nash herself was content to, but with the actual thrill of contents, there was a new dimension to the activity.

Nash still didn't have the energy or motivation to get up off of her newly-claimed seat and rejoin her ally in demolishing the fruit, but had no trouble conceding that she had been incorrect. "Huh, would you look at that. I wouldn't have pegged the Capitol to be the —" she wanted to say 'giving type,' but it occurred to her that it wouldn't be taken too well. She was enjoying her day off, and didn't need it to be interrupted by any more mutant beasts. "— type to present anyone with such a misshapen hat. Aren't they supposed to be into high fashion and all that?" Crisis averted, probably. They wouldn't be looking into her tone of obvious contempt for the frivolities of Panem's governing city.

"Guess you were right, though," she encouraged. Nash got a feeling that her ally was the sort of Career who wasn't quite content in the Arena if she wasn't fighting. She didn't want her own personal disinterest in smashing the pumpkins — which, truthfully, stemmed more from her large number of wounds and lack of energy brought on by blood loss than from actual pacifism — to get in the way of whatever relaxation or comfort it may (or may not; this was all speculation) provide for the District One tribute."I wonder what's in the rest of them."

Then they stuck you in machines,
You came so close to dying.
They should've listened;
They thought that you were lying.

Nash Harvey —

Heart pounding out pulses at two hundred and twenty beats per minute, Nash leapt up from where she sat on top of the pumpkin, ripping the knife out of the orange gourd's flesh where she'd buried it. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and all of the blood in her veins may well have been replaced with ice water or something just as chilling. She'd always averse to sudden loud noises, especially shrill ones like the bloodcurdling shriek that had been released when Topaz had smashed that last pumpkin.

In the Arena, the tribute found such unanticipated bursts of sound to be even more disagreeable. As would be expected of anyone, she'd been ill at ease for practically the entire duration of the Hunger Games, save for when she slept. Today had been their day off, a break from the combat, and a break from traipsing across the arena, much to the relief of Nash's protesting wounds, which were growing more numerous as the Games wore on.

It was a cruel trick played by the Gamemakers, jarring Nash's teeth and ripping her brutally from the false sense of security she'd been lulled into by the peace of the day. Even as she could detect no discernible danger from the pumpkin's shrill wail, her pulse refused to slow, and instead echoed in her ears like an blade being forged in a cave. It was hard to hear much else; her fingers bit deeper into the hilt of her hunting knife as she held on tight, the weapon the only thing she had for support.

Without really being aware of what she was doing, Nash took a few steps towards her ally — rather than the reflex to jump backwards that would have normally been activated with such a high dose of adrenaline. She felt as though she should say words, and she meant to, but it was impossible to think of anything over the combined noise of the relentless hammering of blood in her head and the horrible war that had been started between the Two in her head.

Go. Kill her. What!? You've already got the knife in your hand. Give the other tributes a better chance at life. You've got to be kidding me. It's the best way to ensure the least amount of death! She's the killing sort! So this is the complete 180º turn from 'don't kill anyone, kill yourself' now, is it? It has to be done. She has to die anyhow. Why not now? And what was it you were saying all of the other times, in all of the other fights?

Hypocrite. Do it.

One gonna heal my body
Another gonna heal my pain
One gonna settle me down
And bring me back up again

Nash Harvey —

With a startling suddenness, all of the noise in Nash Harvey's head stopped, leaving her feeling dizzy and lost within her brain. Or maybe that had been from the kiss. In her mostly-incoherent state of Two-induced conflict — violent conflict, no less — Nash was simultaneously brought into a stunning clarity and thrown deeper into confusion than she had been before. But at least the threat of her voices had passed.

Whether returning Nash to a state of relative internal balance had been Topaz's aim in the rather aggressive kiss — one that Nash had been too surprised by to attempt to return it — or not, it had worked. It had effectively silenced the voice that usually advocated pacifism — the one that had been egging the tribute on to murder her ally — as well as the voice whose questionable morals usually led to the justification of such acts — the one that had been pleading for the madniess to stop. And it left Nash somewhere in the middle, unsure of what exactly she was doing, but positive that she neither wanted to harm Topaz in any way nor trusted herself to have any sort of weapon at this point.

It wasn't that she doubted her ally's ability to incapacitate her if need be, whether it was by force or, as she just proved capable of doing, more unintentional and somewhat less direct. Nash preferred that it would never come to that again; it was a terrifying moment that she would rather not have to repeat over the few remaining days in her life. She so rarely lost control to the Two, but when she did, it truly frightened her.

What she was most worried about, however, was the reaction that her mostly-unwilling, self-foiled attempt to attack her ally would prompt. Judging by the kiss, Nash was probably not beyond redemption; but then, in the Arena, there had been plenty of instances of tributes pulling their victims in for a long kiss before ending up with a knife protruding from their neck, a sword in their stomach, or any other sort of weapon lodged in any sort of fatal position. If she'd bothered to think about it, Nash could have listed several cases from the previous year's Games alone; however, the many kisses of Carex Julian were hardly relevant, and certainly not at the forefront of her mind.

At the moment, she was entertaining the possibility of fleeing. It would be easier than sticking around to accept whatever fate was headed to her. She didn't want to see Topaz angry at her almost-attack, repulsed by her lack of control, or any sort of frustrated with her choice of the most useless ally left in the Arena, but it had to be coming. Nash was certain that taking off on her one injured leg, weaponless and without supplies, would be preferable to having to wait around and find out just how aggravated the other tribute would be with her.

But fortunately, she wasn't anchored to the spot, exactly, but simply unable to force her muscles to cooperate, paralyzed by either fear, mental exhaustion, or a simple inability to process any new data or commands floating through her brain. She allowed herself to be lead somewhat forcefully away from the spot for whatever reason — to escape the scene of the almost-crime, perhaps — to a place where the other tribute seated herself on a pumpkin and demanded an explanation.

Had it been naïve of Nash to assume that she would be able to make it to her death without having to mention the Two to anyone, that she could just die and be gone and nobody would know? She hadn't thought so when she'd accepted her place as a tribute; but then, she hadn't planned to make allies of any sort, or even live much longer past the bloodbath. She hadn't anticipated being drawn to Topaz in the way that she was, hadn't anticipated being joined by Takeba and Anani as well, hadn't anticipated being in the company of anyone aside from the Two for the rest of her life. But it had happened, and it wasn't something she'd like to go back on.

She tried to think of why she'd even accepted her place as her district's tribute; surely, there would have been any number of overly-competitive Careers girls that would have jumped at the opportunity to come to this very Arena and die. That was the way that District Two was. That was the sort of teenager that her mother wanted her to be. Her mother. That was it, that was the reason why Nash had agreed to spend a week or so in the autumn-themed colosseum, accumulating wound upon wound until she eventually died. Had it really been more spite than anything? To take revenge on the mother that had taken to pretending that her imperfect, schizophrenic daughter was dead rather than just living away from home because she couldn't stand it there?

Like a child who'd been caught getting into some sort of mischief, Nash unintentionally avoided locking eyes with the other girl, certain that she'd be unable to explain anything if she was trying to search Topaz's face for a reaction of some kind, or just for the sake of looking. She took a deep breath, but didn't think she'd be able to say much of anything, anyhow. "They did," she started, trying to express the Two in a language that neither made her seem incredibly crazy — partially crazy would suffice — or incoherent. It was hard to put them into words for someone who didn't really know, and although Nash had tried to rationalize them before to the normal people, it had been an utter failure.

But she was older now, and while her grip on everyone else's reality had improved very little since she was fourteen, she did have more experience with the two voices she'd had in her head, and more experience sharing them with at least one other person. She tried again. "I'm, uh…" For some reason, it was hard to say out loud, although she'd always tried to tell herself that it shouldn't be. "I've got these voices, you see, and —"

She dug her toe into the ground in frustration. "…usually they're not too — but —" Cursing the lack of eloquence that she'd inherited from her father, Nash stopped trying to explain the Two as she knew them, and instead used the eight syllables that the various specialists back in her home district had assigned to them. "Paranoid schizophrenia," she announced, bluntly finishing one of the most inarticulate sentences ever uttered, even for her — no small feat.

Figuring that the psychiatric jargon would be lost on someone whose district specialty was something other than medicine, Nash tried to reword her explanation so that it made a small amount of sense, but talking about the Two had always been so hard for her, since daddy was an asshole, he fucked you up being dragged to various head doctors for months by her parents, being scolded by, sworn at, and then altogether ignored by the mother that was too embarrassed to own up to her daughter that had somehow ended up imperfect, regardless of the source of the flaw being non-isolated, but completely separate from conscious choice or upbringing.

"I've… got two voices in my head," she started again, already on track for a more coherent explanation than the one she'd previously tried to formulate, though still lacking the ability to make eye contact with her ally. "And they tell me to do things. Usually it's something I can tune out. But sometimes they're too loud. And sometimes they almost kick me out of my head altogether. And they — or, one of them — wanted me to…" she trailed off, unwilling to finish. "But I don't think I could have."

Warily, she slowly cast her gaze back at Topaz, praying to whatever deity she could think of that the other tribute accepted the statement — or, at least, would humor her as so few of those who had heard her explain had been willing to do in the past. She rounded it out with a general "Sorry," which was meant to cover the whole spectrum of disappointment that she knew she was.